Brooklyn Bombshells: Part 2

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that there was some chemistry building between the two of them. Yes, Pyro and Mateo were drug dealers, but they were also smart young men and shrewd investors who wanted to build a legitimate emp

ire.

“Listen, I need to use the bathroom before we leave,” Chanel chimed.

She turned and went back into the eatery, giving Pyro and Mecca some time alone. When she returned, it was time for them to leave. Mecca and Chanel both promised to speak more. Hugs were exchanged.

Pyro and Chanel climbed into his Benz, but before they pulled off, Mecca said to Chanel, “Call me.” They left for home, while Mecca headed back to the university, knowing she was going to be late for class. It was worth it.

Chapter Ten

Bacardi sat by the kitchen window staring down at the street below her, watching the interactions of drug dealers and drug fiends on the block, along with the comings and goings of residents from her building. She liked some of them, but there were a whole lot of people she wanted to slap. It was no secret about what happened to Chanel and who was responsible for it. The gossip was spreading rapidly from block to block like an airborne disease.

Bacardi sipped on her glass of spiced rum with a heavy mind. She and Butch were dead broke and rent was due next week. With their three breadwinners out of the apartment and the both of them not working, money was nonexistent. She needed to do something.

It took everything in her not to call Chanel to see if she had any money to lend them. She definitely wasn’t calling the two bitches who had the nerve to put their hands on her—especially that sneaky bitch Claire. Bacardi never expected that from Claire. Charlie wore who she was on her sleeve, as did Chanel. But Bacardi believed Claire to be a sneaky-ass Scorpio, and she still fumed about Claire hiding what she knew about the assault. She itched to jump on her crazy-ass daughter for that shit.

She downed the spiced rum and poured herself another glass. Butch sat at the kitchen table looking gloomy himself. It looked like he had aged a decade in the past few weeks.

“What we gon’ do, Bernice?”

“I don’t know, Butch. I’m still tryin’ to come up wit’ something. Shit!”

“It needs to be quick. We broke.”

She picked up her glass and slammed it back down on the table. “You think I don’t fuckin’ know that? Muthafucka, I’m sittin’ in the same fuckin’ apartment as you, goin’ through the same muthafuckin’ problems.”

“What about them clothes in the closet?”

“What about them?”

“They gotta be worth something, right?”

Bacardi scowled at the thought of it. She wanted them for herself. She thought she would wake up one day fifty pounds lighter and twenty years younger and be able to wear it all.

Butch pleaded with her to do the right thing. “Our only option is to start selling them clothes, Bernice. Our hands are tied.”

She knew he was right. The clothing she kept would most likely pay their rent for a year and then some.

“Fuck it. I’ll sell ’em off,” she relented.

Bacardi got on her cell phone and called one of Charlie’s old friends, Wanda. She was a pickpocket and a booster, and Bacardi told her about the items she had for sale. Wanda told her that she would be over there on the first thing smoking. She knew that Bacardi calling her meant two things were true—she had some expensive shit and then there was some dirt to hear.

It was early evening when Wanda knocked on the apartment door. Bacardi swung it open and smiled at Charlie’s friend.

“I brought some gifts,” said Wanda, holding up two blunts.

“My kind of bitch,” replied Bacardi with a grin.

The two sat in the living room smoking and drinking, and business was put on hold as they talked, got high, and sipped on brown juice. Wanda told her about the rumors she had heard floating around about Charlie and Chanel. Even high, Bacardi didn’t want to talk about it. She made a mental note to beat that little white bitch Landy down for spreading gossip about her family.

As the two were finishing off the bottle of Hennessy, Wanda continued to press the issue about Chanel and Charlie. She wanted the inside scoop. She had gotten comfortable with Bacardi, calling her Momma B, and she stayed for hours. Finally, Bacardi opened up and started to spill the beans about what happened.

“Charlie’s a foul fuckin’ bitch,” she muttered.

“That bitch is,” Wanda agreed.

“Everything is fuckin’ true, Wanda. My own daughters are fucked up, and now God was killed by some bitch. I got fuckin’ detectives comin’ to my door with questions about his murder and gonna want me and Butch to identify that muthafucka’s body. Dem fools must be crazy, after what he did to our daughter,” Bacardi slurred.