Brooklyn Bombshells: Part 2

“So, we good, right?”

“Oh, we good. You stay focused and we all stay gettin’ paid.”

“No doubt.”

The two ladies shared a blunt together, but Mona couldn’t stay long. She had a job to do and a murder to solve. She left Charlie’s place after an hour.

***

Charlie shut herself inside her apartment for days, moping. She had no one. She had no man. Her parents were still giving her the cold shoulder, she hated her only living sibling, she had no friends with Claire dead, and even her frenemies were long gone. Thinking that the fresh air would pull her out of her funk, she decided to drive to her old neighborhood to conduct a drug transaction with a local dealer. He had requested two kilos from her, cash on delivery. Charlie came through, made the transaction with the dealer, and got her money, but she decided not to leave the hood right away. Near her old stomping grounds, she saw a few dudes she knew shooting dice on the side block, near the bodega. One of the men shooting dice was a fine brother named Daquan, and she’d

had her eyes on him for a minute.

Charlie drove up to the dice game in her Benz and got out looking extra sexy in her tight jeans, stilettos, and reddish hair. For a moment, all eyes were on her.

“My niggas, what’s poppin’?” Charlie asked, walking toward the group.

“Nuthin’ poppin’, Charlie. Just tryin’ to get this money out here,” Daquan replied.

“I see that,” she replied, “and I’m tryin’ to get money wit’ y’all niggas.”

She pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills to buy in to the dice game with the goons, but the mood toward her was aloof. She picked up on their unfriendly attitudes right away—especially Daquan’s. She was ready to fuck him if he wanted the pussy, but he didn’t even look at her.

“What the fuck is wrong? Y’all got beef wit’ me?” she asked with roughness in her voice.

“Nah. We good, Charlie. Ain’t no beef wit’ you,” a young goon named Smack replied.

“I’m sayin’, y’all niggas actin’ all funny and shit, like y’all don’t want me around.” She stared at Daquan, because he was the main one who looked like he had a problem with her.

“Look, we just out here minding our business, Charlie. That’s it,” said Daquan.

Knowing Charlie’s reputation, at first no one wanted to tell her what the streets were saying. But Charlie was adamant in finding out.

“Nah, fuck that. If y’all muthafuckas got a problem wit’ me, then spit it the fuck out and don’t be pussy about it. I see that shit on y’all fuckin’ faces,” Charlie griped.

“Look, the streets are talkin’, Charlie,” a hustler named Dope blurted out.

“Talkin’? Talkin’ ’bout what? I ain’t no fuckin’ snitch.”

Daquan finally looked her in the eye. “It ain’t ’bout you being no snitch, Charlie. It’s about you being cursed,” he said.

“Cursed?” Charlie repeated. “What the fuck you mean, I’m cursed?”

“Look, I’m gonna keep real wit’ you, Charlie. The streets are talkin’, and they calling you ‘suicide pussy,’” Daquan informed her.

“Suicide pussy? What the fuck y’all niggas talkin’ bout?”

“Three niggas that you used to fuck wit’ are now dead—God, KB, and that fuckin’ cop,” Daquan said.

Charlie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Suicide pussy? She scowled at the disrespect to her name.

“Look, I ain’t mean no disrespect to you, Charlie. I’m just the messenger,” Daquan added.

“Fuck you and fuck all y’all muthafuckas! See if all y’all make another fuckin’ dime on these streets again,” she shouted.

“C’mon, Charlie. It ain’t even like that,” said Dope.

“It’s just like that, Dope. Y’all don’t want me around and don’t wanna fuck wit’ me, then fuck it—suffer the fuckin’ consequences, cuz I’m the head bitch in charge out here,” she continued to shout.