Brooklyn Bombshells: Part 2

After she removed her two suitcases from the backseat and paid the driver his fare, Charlie strolled toward the front door and knocked. The front door opened, and the first thing that stood out on Mona was the NYPD badge attached to her hip along with her holstered weapon—a Glock 19. She smiled at Charlie and invited her inside.

“So what you got for me?” Mona asked, ready to get down to business.

“Shit that’s gonna have muthafuckas envious of you,” replied Charlie.

Charlie took a quick survey of Mona’s place, and the woman had the best that money could buy. In Mona’s living room was one of the largest flat screen TV’s Charlie had ever seen—an 80-inch. The décor in the living room was topnotch with a leather sectional, a distinguished coffee table, a pricey area rug, and modern artwork. Lying on the sectional was some shirtless thug—probably some nigga Mona was fucking. It wasn’t Charlie’s business.

Mona was a detective at the 77th Precinct in Brooklyn. She was in her late thirties and grew up in the Gowanus Houses in Brooklyn. Mona was a tough and streetwise woman who had seen it all and been through it all. She had two sons who were being raised by her mother in the Bronx, and she had just finished recovering from a fat transfer to her ass and a tummy tuck. Her waist was now snatched and you could balance a bottle on her round, protruding ass. She called it her mommy makeover. Her peers at the precinct called it a mid-life crisis, but the hustlers and thugs called Mona their Serena Williams. Though she was a cop, her friends were boosters, cokeheads, thugs, and some of the grimiest niggas from the streets. She was known around the way to be a down-ass bitch for a cop. Mona had a thing for bad boys, and those same niggas loved that she had a badge.

“You got time, right?” asked Charlie.

“Bitch, I wouldn’t have told you to come over if I didn’t,” Mona said.

Charlie placed the two suitcases on the floor near Mona’s feet and unzipped them both. Mona’s eyes lit up with delight. “Damn, bitch! Who you robbed, Kim Kardashian?”

“Damn near,” Charlie joked.

Mona started going through the items like a fat kid in a candy factory. She already knew that she wanted it all. She loved fashion and what Charlie presented was high-quality shit.

“Fuck it, how much for everything?” asked Mona.

“For real, you want it all?”

“Bitch, didn’t I just ask you that?” she mocked.

“I got you. For everything, give me seventy-two hundred.”

“Good.”

Charlie beamed. Mona never disappointed. She remained in the living room while Mona disappeared into another room. So far, Charlie was turning her tragedy into a profit. She was a natural-born hustler and she wanted to pat herself on the back. There weren’t too many people who could get grimy with it and survive by any means necessary like she could.

Mona came back into the room and handed Charlie a wad of cash, mostly hundreds and fifties. While Charlie counted it, Mona started to remove everything from the suitcases, but Charlie said to her, “Yo, you can keep the suitcases, too.”

Charlie wasn’t about to drag back any empty suitcases to the city.

Accomplished is what Charlie felt after the transaction with Mona. She was $7,200 richer. She felt unstoppable. She briefly thought how Mona’s place would be the perfect lick if she ever became desperate. Charlie subtly took an inventory and it was a pretty penny. But it wouldn’t be easy, though. Mona was a tough, cautious, and shrewd bitch, and she kept either a .357 or a .45 at arm’s length, plus her holstered Glock. Mona was one of a small few that Charlie knew not to even think about fucking with.

Climbing into the backseat of the Uber, Charlie wondered where Mona was coming up with so much cash, especially being on a cop’s salary.

***

Charlie walked into the hotel room carrying Chinese takeout and feeling like a million bucks. She realized that Claire hadn’t eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours, and if her sister didn’t eat, she was going to die.

Claire looked comatose on the bed. It looked like she was spaced out and didn’t care to live at all. Charlie had grown annoyed about her sister’s behavior. She had seen enough. She marched toward Claire scowling and angrily pulled away the covers from her body.

“Claire, this shit needs to stop right now. What the fuck is wrong wit’ you?”

“You know what’s wrong with me!” Claire snapped back.

“She was nobody to you—nothing! That bitch looked down on us, and you lying here feeling sorry for her.”

“What did we do, Charlie? What did we do?”

“We got paid! That’s what we did,” Charlie shouted. “Shit, we were getting our asses kicked out there. I did something about it. And besides, we ain’t do shit but get kicked out an apartment. So don’t start running your mouth off ’bout sumthin’ that ain’t happened.”

Claire’s expressionless gaze lingered on her sister. “You believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes. I believe it. She’s not dead, Claire.”