I Can Touch the Bottom Read online

  Opening the desk drawer, she rambled through it until she found one of the unmarked flash drives to replace the one she had just taken out. Pleased with herself, she wiped the computer down with an old, dirty-looking, grease-filled rag the day shift manager kept hanging in the office. She also wiped anything else she thought she may have touched. Before leaving, Tangy opened a bottle of water that was amongst many stored by the side of the door. To give herself extra insurance that the system would be tripping, she poured water across the keyboard and directly into the back of the computer. Leaving the bottle tipped over on the system as if the midnight manager had accidentally spilled it, Tangy exited the office.

  Swiftly returning to the front, she cautiously came from behind the bulletproof glass. Glad that no more customers had come in, she had time to creep over to the window. Turning up her nose at what used to be a part of Devin’s brains sliding down the window, she could only shake her head how Stackz had flipped the script on not one, but three dummies who wanted to go for bad.

  “Yo, Sam. Go make some hot bleach water so you can mop up this crap,” Tangy yelled back over her shoulder. Taking a quick survey, she saw a motionless Devin sprawled out near the doorway, Mickey still hiding by the Dumpster, as well as Rank, wide-eyed, seemingly in shock. Tangy knew the police would be coming at any time now because an injured Mickey was yelling into his cell phone for help; no doubt, 911. Unlike Devin, who at least went out like a real street player, and Rank, who couldn’t manage to speak, believing the head wound he was suffering from was far worse than it truly was, Mickey was crying like a real little pussy. Tangy knew right then and there Rank might boss up and handle shit in the streets. Mickey, on the other hand, would be the weak link when it came down to it; code name: snitch bitch.

  * * *

  T. L. turned his kitted Charger up into the restaurant parking lot. Smooth enough to have never been caught up or directly linked with any of the drama he’d brought to residents of Metro Detroit and the surrounding areas, T. L. had his CPL. Carrying his firearm, legal or not, T. L. was like Stackz and Gee; he feared no man. So rolling down his window, T. L. had no problem worrying who might have been lurking, attempting to try him like they had his manz, or even the police showing up, wanting to frisk him for just being black. He was ready and legal for whatever. Surveying the scene, he couldn’t help but to be elated at his fam’s handiwork.

  Damn, my guy, this is how you leave a buster and put that shit down! Laid flat the fuck out leaking from the head. Ho-ass bitches can’t fade a real gangster rocking out from our set; impossible.

  T. L. could clearly see inside the restaurant through the huge, and what appeared to be, blood-splattered window. His homegirl Tangy stood behind the counter casually filing her fingernails as if her workplace was not a bloody mess and the slow-moving response time, short-staffed cops were not on their way. As if she sensed him outside, Tangy looked up from what she was doing and easily recognized T. L.’s car. With a quickness, she perked up, fixing her hair and knocking off any crumbs that were possibly on her T-shirt and apron.

  Unlocking the otherwise secured door once more, Tangy then headed back out in the dining area. Careful not to step on the mess on the floor she was about to have the cook mop up, she yelled to her coworker, “I’ll be right back! And dang, yo, come clean this bullshit up before the police come they asses in here asking us all types of unnecessary garbage about shit you or me don’t wanna be a part of.”

  Exiting the dining area in a hurry, Tangy ran outside. Stepping over Devin as if he wasn’t even there, head held high, she grinned, thinking it’s all fun and games with these lames until a real-life gangster falls through and up that gun.

  T. L. was smooth as always. Licking his lips, he smoked Tangy over as she slow strolled, approaching his ride.

  Crazy as ever, she was, of course, all smiles, acting as if she hadn’t just stepped over a dead body in the middle of the parking lot. “Man, where you been hiding at? I tried to get at you, but I ain’t got your number. You change that mug every few minutes.”

  T. L. didn’t know what her nonchalant deal was where the slumped body was concerned and didn’t have time to investigate. He had to get what he came to get and get the hell out of Dodge. “Girl, you know what it is. I’m out of here in these streets. You either keep up or catch up with a nigga; you feel me? But on another note, I need you to do me a solid.”

  Tangy stared him directly in the eyes with her hands planted firmly on her hips. “Tell me I got the best pussy in the world.”

  “Huh? Say what, now?” T. L. was completely thrown off by her wild and out-of-the-blue question.

  “You heard me. I said, tell me I was the best pussy you ever had in life. Tell me I’m the shit!”

  Once again, T. L. had a flashback to why he stopped fooling with her. Tangy was a 100 percent plum Negro nuts. Knowing he had to play her game to ensure he could quickly get what he needed from her, he did just that. “Come on now, Tangy, you know how we used to do what we do when we did what we did.” He reached his arm outside of his car, tugging at the upper rim of her leggings, bringing her body toward him. “Now, seriously, I need you to hurry up and do something for me.”

  “Hey, love, I’m already on it.” Seductively, she pulled out the flash drive of the made-for-TV shootout from her bra. Making sure T. L. got a good look at her double Ds, she leaned over inside the vehicle.

  Not blind, he definitely got a good long look as he licked his lips, mimicking LL Cool J. Feeling a hard-on developing, he grabbed down at his dick. “Damn, baby, you a rider, for real!”

  Tangy, not only crazy but a true freak to her heart, immediately got a glimpse of his bulging dick and wanted to taste it once more, just for old time’s sake. “Listen, love, you know I always got your best interest at heart. I knew when I seen your people come in the restaurant, it was gonna be my lucky night. I got to finally catch up with your big dick having ass. So, what’s up for when a bitch get off? We fucking or what? What’s the deal?”

  Taking the flash drive out her hand, he had to laugh as he spoke. “You see, that’s why I fucks with you! You a real stand-up bitch! Down for whatever, and a nigga ain’t gotta tell you what to do or how to do it. You stay on point.”

  “Yeah, fuck them busters! They had that shit coming. Especially fat boy lying over there with all the mouth! Coming all out here like he superbad! He should of just stay down when he got laid down; dummy!”

  T. L. licked his lips once more. “Damn, I dig your gangster ass! You keeps it real, fo’sho!”

  “Okay, that’s what I’m talking about, daddy. So what you got for me? When I’m getting some more of that hard pipe you be laying down?”

  T. L. saw that Tangy was being relentless about them hooking up again and didn’t wanna run the risk of offending her before the cops got there and she scornfully ratted Stackz out. “Dig this, my baby. I got something for you better than this dick!”

  “Better than your dick, nigga? What in the entire world could be better than your dick?” She stood up, shifting all her weight on her right hip.

  T. L. was appreciative of the compliment paid to his python, and under any other normal circumstances, he might have broken Tangy off some dick, but here and now, he had to be out and meet up with Stackz. “You right, ain’t shit better than this motherfucker right here, but this might come in a close second.” Reaching under his seat, T. L. pulled out a small wad of cash wrapped in red and beige-colored rubber bands. “Here, this is for you. A little something something for being my rider and having my people’s back.”

  Tangy practically snatched the dough out of his hands before he could change his mind. “For real, for me?”

  “Yeah; for you. And, hey, make sure dude good in there too that’s moping. I know he needs to be looked out for.”

  “Don’t worry about him, love. I’ll take care of him personally, even if I got to throw him some of this cheese or put this fat pussy on his face.”

  T. L. pe
ered through the restaurant window and turned his attitude back on grim. “Okay, now, bae! ’Cause you know, I don’t mind putting that motherfucking sand nigga’s ten toes up.”

  “Boy, you know, I know, you don’t give two rotten shits about putting work. I ain’t just meet your crazy ass. That’s why we need to be together!”

  “Aye, girl, before I bounce, put my number in your phone.”

  Smiling hard, Tangy quickly pulled out her MetroPCS from her back pocket. Making sure she wasn’t making any mistakes, she then began punching the digits in her cell as T. L. called off his number. He told her to call him and keep him posted on any developments. Hearing sirens off in the far distance, Tangy knew them boys were on their way and stepped back away from T. L.’s whip as he put it in gear to pull off. Driving by the building, he looked over at the mayhem left behind by Stackz one more time.

  “Amped up!” he said with certainty as he reached for his cell. “Now that’s how you leave lames; that’s on some ho shit,” he laughed out loud hitting the gas, skirting out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

  * * *

  As T. L. sped through the dark, burned-out, once-vibrant city blocks of Detroit, he held his cell phone in one hand. Hitting speed dial, Stackz’s cell phone was connecting to his. On the third ring he answered.

  “Speak! Like only bosses can do.”

  T. L. spoke one word. “Done!”

  “You got it? We good?” Stackz anxiously inquired.

  “No doubt, I got it,” T. L. confidently replied proud of himself for handling what was needed of him. “I got the footage and dig this! Homegirl lifted the shit and deleted all traces of that minidisaster you laid down. She put another drive in to cover her tracks. Nigga, you a straight ghost!”

  “Oh yeah,” Stackz nodded, glad it had worked out in his favor.

  “Plus, I gave her a few of them big faces. Bitch said if the cook doesn’t play right she’ll dead his ass herself, personally. I even told her to keep me updated. So you good, bro-bro. I ain’t never gonna let down the hand that blessed me.”

  T. L. loved to hear the O.G. spit that boss shit. It made him feel like their entire crew was untouchable. “In real life, fam, that’s real talk. Blood in, blood out; you know how we do. Say no more. Well, keep that in a safe place, and we’ll meet up tomorrow. I straight appreciate you, T.”

  “Well, hit me up later when you get situated. And be careful out here in these Detroit streets, boss. You already know these thirsty niggas on the come up don’t give a fuck about nobody.”

  “No doubt.” Stackz hated he was riding without his favorite pistol, but knew he had to leave it where he did. “But you best believe I’m about to handle a few more things and call it a night.”

  “All right then, Stackz, I’m about to pull up at my crib. A nigga left one of my hoes up in my shit playing like she was sleep. And you know how nosey bitches get when they by themselves too long in a dude’s spot; they get to rambling; playing detective and shit.”

  “Hell, yeah, I already know how these jump offs get down,” Stackz laughed, agreeing with his boy.

  “Little momma fine as hell, but I’d hate to have to put a plastic bag over her fucking head.”

  He and Stackz laughed hard because they had no issues with killing nosey bitches. After gathering themselves from their good laugh, they both said “one,” then disconnected the phone line.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  After hanging up his phone from talking to T. L., Stackz jumped onto the expressway. Dialing a number he had memorized in his head, he knew what had to come next in his plan to stay prison free. It was in the early hours of the a.m., but, the Detroit underworld never slept. Just like he knew the guy he was calling never slept and would answer by the second ring.

  “Yeah, who dis?”

  “Me, nigga; Stackz!”

  “Oh, okay. What’s good, fam? What’s the deal?”

  “A whole lot right now. I need to come through like ASAP. So I’m about to pull up on you in about ten or fifteen minutes tops.”

  “Come on. We working now. You know our doors open twenty-four-seven. Only time they’re not held up in this sweatbox motherfucker is when them boys turn the heat up on this side of the city. Then we go dark.”

  Switching from the middle lane to the right-hand lane to exit the expressway, Stackz slowed his bullet-riddled Jeep down. There wasn’t much going on at 4:45 in the morning, other than the normal crackheads shuffling about, lurking to come up on whatever change they could to get their next rock, so navigating to his destination was easy. Stackz just wanted to avoid any contact with the police, knowing there was no way in hell he could explain his window being shot out or the many slugs that were probably now housed in the body of his vehicle.

  Stackz made a right on Canton Street and the boulevard. He was now in the heart of the Old Historic Packer District that once fed the city’s hardworking people that were trying to make a living. Filled with abandoned houses, vacant lots, and dead bodies found in the run-down empty warehouses, no regular person not doing dirt ventured that way. Finally reaching his destination, a warehouse that used to be a semitruck repair shop, Stackz pulled up and cut his lights. Inching his shot up Jeep Commander in front of the laser sensor garage door big enough for eighteen-wheelers to drive through, he sighed in relief he’d made it clear across town, police-contact free. Looking up at a small, inconspicuous camera located on the high upper side of the graffiti-covered building, Stackz stuck his head out the window, throwing his hands up.

  * * *

  Inside the well lit warehouse, a skinny, dark skinned mouse of a man was preoccupied grubbing on a leftover piece of Popeye’s he’d just warmed up. Seeing the red light blink on and off twice, he knew it was business on the floor. Pushing himself away from his any-and-everything-covered desk, he tossed the half-eaten drumstick on a stack of old newspapers. Standing up, he walked over to a shelf that held a nice-size colored security monitor. Getting a closer look at the image, a sense of urgency came over him as he recognized Stackz. Reaching down on his thick leather belt, he grabbed hold of the two-way walkie-talkie on his hip he ruled his lucrative illegal kingdom with.

  “Hey, open up the main door. Let my people in and hurry up,” he ordered, heading toward the main area of the building.

  * * *

  Stackz put his head back inside of his whip. As the huge door began to slowly move upward, he put his truck back in gear. All he saw at first were lights and legs, inch by inch. One would never know a major chop shop was operating inside unless he or she was plugged into Detroit’s criminal underworld like Stackz, of course, was. Careful not to run over any of the many guys that were running around doing this and that, he steered in with ease.

  A dingy, light skinned mechanic directed him in like an airport traffic controller on the clock. “Come on, come on. That’s it; you gotta pull it up right here.”

  Stackz thought to himself Derrick had come a long way from his mama’s garage chopping up cars, tagging them, getting petty money. Now he was dealing in the major league. From what Stackz could tell, there was at least a team of fifteen men that were taking parts off the vehicles and removing serial numbers or had blowtorches in hand. Stackz looked back over his shoulder at his Jeep and got prepared to say his final good-byes.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his homeboy coming down a set of stairs that he knew led from the upper office. Stackz walked toward his childhood friend that also had a baby by his first cousin. When Stackz reached Derrick, the pair gave each other some dap.

  “Yeah, what’sup, my nigga, Pissy,” Stackz mocked, calling Derrick by his nickname the kids had cruelly given him growing up. The now headman in the city making vehicles go poof never wanted to stop playing outside as a child and go use the bathroom, thinking he would miss out on the fun. So while they all played, Derrick would piss on himself, as if the other kids couldn’t smell him.

  “Yo, guy, don’t be calling me fucking Pissy! That shit was
so damn long ago.” Derrick muffled his voice as he looked around the chop shop feeling embarrassed.

  “So you say, Pissy. My cousin told me you still used to pee in the bed when y’all was still fucking around.”

  Derrick laughed, acting as if he was gonna swing on Stackz. “Whatever, guy, but on the real . . .” He headed toward the Jeep that had extremely visible bullet holes throughout the body. “What’s the deal, fam; who the fuck tried to take your ass out of the game? This shit’s crazy.” He stuck his finger in a few holes, surveying the damage.

  “Look, guy, I need this truck to disappear off the face of the earth like magic. I need you to do some old 1, 2, 3, David Copperfield on this bitch. Make it ghost, you feel me?”

  “Yeah, dawg, ain’t no thang. I’m on you. I can do that, no problem.” Derrick rubbed his hands together, seeing nothing but more money on the near horizon.

  Stackz saw the greedy gleam in Derrick’s face and wasted no time setting him straight on what exactly had to be done. “Look here, motherfucker, I see them damn money signs dancing in them ugly eyes, and I ain’t trying to entertain the bullshit. Now, I need this bitch ghost for real. Not no black market tagging, transplant situation. That’s not what needs to pop off,” he demanded as he walked up, evading Derrick’s personal space to make sure he clearly understood the words that were coming out of his mouth. “I need this Jeep gone; gone. All the way melted down, rebirthed into some fancy overpriced bedrails on sale on the West Coast; you feel me? Gone! Now, what’s really good?”

  Damn, this a gang of money he want me to just throw away. Shaking his head, Derrick was more than disappointed none of the highly sought-after parts could at least be harvested and resold for cash. He hadn’t grown so big in the chop shop not going beyond the call of duty. He’d resale, retag, or double sell his own mother’s ride if he thought there was a slight profit in it. “Oh, you want the total breakdown. Well, you know it’s gonna be a ticket on that.”