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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Crazy bitch shoulda stayed in ’er lane…tryna set it off wit’ a bitch like me…ho shoulda opened ’er eyes…she woulda known a bitch don’t take lightly to threats…don’t live wit’ a buncha regrets…trick bitch…welcome to ya demise…
“Detective Samuels, speaking.”
I clear my throat. “Detective Samuels, this is Katrina Rivera. I’m callin’ regardin’ my mother, Juanita Rivera. She’s the pregnant woman who was beaten up, and is on life support.”
“Yes, I know who she is,” he says wit’ a lil’ too much ’tude for my likin’. But I let it slide. “How can I help you?”
“Well, it’s my understandin’ you’re one’a the detectives assigned to the case.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I was wonderin’ if you have any leads yet.”
“Not at the moment. However, there is the boyfriend that we are still trying to locate.”
“Is he a suspsect?”
“No, but he is definitely someone of interest we’d like to bring in for questioning.”
“Well, have you at least been able to track down his whereabouts?”
There’s a moment of silence, then rustlin’ of papers or some other shit. “We’re still search—”
“So basically that means ya’ll muhfuckas ain’t doin’ shit, but sittin’ on ya asses,” I interrupt, lookin’ outta my bedroom window. I peep a big-ass U-Haul truck ’cross the street, movin’ someone in.
“Miss Rivera, I understand your—”
I disconnect the call, hopin’ I get at that snake-ass muhfucka before they locate his ass. I see someone called and left a message while I was on the phone. I check the voicemail, shakin’ my head.
“Watch ya back, bitch. I’m outta jail, ho. You knock my fuckin’ teeth out. Break my nose. Lie to them muhfuckas talkin’ ’bout I threw a brick through ya window. Bitch, you know you did that shit. Then you have me arrested. Bitch, I’m gonna gut ya face. You think I give’a fuck ’bout a muthafuckin’ restrainin’ order, or goin’ to jail. Bitch, I’m from da streets. You really crossed da god-damn line this time, ho, disrespectin’ ’n threatenin’ my mutha and comin’ at me all reckless. So watch ya face ’cause when I’m finished wit’ ya ass, da only thing you gonna be good for is da circus.” I save the message, decidin’ to be finished wit’ this bitch for good. I’m done fuckin’ ’round wit’ this crack-head bitch.
I walk ova to my handbag and pull out my other phone. I turn it on, then press open the call history. I place the call. Wait for the nigga to answer. “Yo.”
“I need’a hire a crew,” I tell ’im, wishin’ I didn’t have’ta call this fat-nasty muhfucka, again. But’a bitch done worked my last nerve, and—aunt or no fuckin’ aunt, I need ’er ass handled. I know I promised myself I would never body a muhfucka for personal reasons unless they were tryna play me. And I definitely said I would neva body children or chicks. But, I ain’t the one pullin’ the trigga, so it’s whateva. Rosa has got ta go. I need this bitch outta ’er misery and outta my damn space. The sooner, the betta. She’s the type’a bitch who’ll try ’n bring it e’ery chance she gets. One or two times, cool. But that ho will fight to the death. So I need’a take ‘er down, and keep ’er down—swiftly.
“Damn, you really know how’ta make a nigga’s dick brick. Two calls in da same week, I think I’ma nut on myself.”
I suck my teeth. “Muhfucka, get a grip. Ain’t nobody tryna hear that dumb shit. I got more pressin’ shit ta do.”
“Yo, chill out. I’m only fuckin’ wit’ you, ma.”
“Well, take that shit ova to da next bitch. I need sum work put in.”
The nigga changes his tone. “Aiight, what kinda work order you need done?”
“I need’a jack gone bad,” I tell ’im, sittin’ on the edge of my bed. It’s the code for makin’ a murder look like a robbery gone wrong.
“Aiight, cool-cool.”
“How much?”
“It’ll be on da house,” he says.
This crusty muhfucka thinks he’s slick, tellin’ me some shit like that. He’d be turnin’ ’round tryna stress a bitch for some extra shit. And I ain’t havin’ it. “Nah, nigga, I know you. How much?”
He starts laughin’. “Nah, baby girl, I got you. No extras. You my peoples. So if sumthin’s gotta be mopped up, then it’s done; no questions asked. That’s on e’erything I love, ma.”
