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“I bet it was slippery,” LaTisha said. “How much is my cut this time?”
“Absolutely nothing happened in there that did not occur strictly in the course of business—and if it did, I didn’t enjoy it!” Sharpetta huffed.
“I don’t know if you can solve a case as good as Shaft, but you sho’ is some kinda sex machine.”
Sharpetta sputtered, then both of them broke down laughing so hard she had to pull the car over.
Sharpetta Kensington was a pistol! A real hard-boiled dick! Tough! Brassy! Bo-fucking-dacious! She’d shag a snake in a sandstorm—but fucking was her way to solve the case. If not an excuse, it was a saving grace! Maybe, LaTisha thought, if she had been more like Sharpetta, her marriage wouldn’t be on the rocks.
Maybe if she had taken care of business rather than only being about business—
But what woman can make a home, keep her front up, bring home the bacon, and fuck like a rabbit every night to boot? Shit!
“So, what did you find out?” LaTisha finally asked. “I know she told you everything.”
“Not everything,” Sharpetta said.
“I bet you know where she buys those panties.”
“Frederick’s,” Sharpetta answered. “But I don’t know what she pays for them.”
Sharpetta recounted Delilah’s story.
“He didn’t say where he was heading when he left, but she gave me a list of probable locations.”
“Lead on then, Holmes.”
“Elementary, my dear Watson.”
Why do black men cheat?
They asked the salesclerk at the Booty Sto’ where Sam copped hot movies.
“It’s genetic,” he explained, adjusting his clunky black horn-rimmed glasses. “Mother Nature has hardwired the male brain to pursue more partners than seem necessary to ensure the propagation of species Homo sapiens. ”
“I’ll homo your sapiens,” Sharpetta cracked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Let’s go,” LaTisha said.
“Excuse me,” said the clerk. “What are you going to do about this bill for late rentals Mr. Jenkins owes?”
“File a claim in divorce court, Poindexter,” Sharpetta said. “Until then, don’t leave town!”
They asked the owner of the Peter Meter, where Sam bought his fuck books.
“Here’s a story they tell about President George Bush the First,” he replied. “Him and Mrs. Bush visited a farm one day. The farmer pointed out a rooster and said that it sometimes fucked thirty times a day. ‘Would you please tell that to Mr. Bush?’ Mrs. Bush said. ‘I say, Mr. Farmer,’ President Bush said, ‘does that rooster fuck the same hen every time?’ ‘Nope,’ said the farmer, ‘different hen, every time.’ ‘Would you please tell that to Mrs. Bush?’ he said.’”
When the women didn’t laugh, the guy repeated it. Rolling their eyes, they headed for the door.
“Hey, what about all these books Sam ordered?” the man asked.
“I’m sure you can make good use of them,” Sharpetta stated with much sarcasm.
On the car radio they heard a male caller tell Brass Balls, the host of Testosterone Talk, that he blamed slavery for the brothers’ cheatin’ ways.
“Would you believe I had a case where a white boy tried to use that one?” Sharpetta cracked.
