Eviction Notice, page 13
Porsha looked at the money as if it were a steaming pile of shit. “You got me fucked up. I tried to tell you nicely, but let me say it to you in a language that maybe your drunk ass will understand: I wouldn’t fuck you for ten stacks, let alone one, so why don’t you save that fake baller-ass game for one of these other bitches because I ain’t beat.” She jerked her arm away.
The young man’s friends burst into laughter, which infuriated him. “Bitch, you better act like you know.” He lunged at Porsha.
She tried to move out of his reach but her heels affected her balance and he managed to grab a fistful of her hair. Porsha dipped under the smack he tried to deliver and left him holding nothing but her wig. Before he could try to swing on her again, Porsha came up holding the razor she’d had stashed in her purse and opened a gash in his forearm. The young man howled in pain as blood sprayed all over the table.
“I got your bitch right here, you lowlife muthafucka.” Porsha swung the razor again. The young man managed to move back in time to save his face but she caught him across the chest. The young man was now as sober as a judge as he watched his blood spill all over the place. Porsha kicked the chair out of the way and charged him, with the razor angled for his throat, but luckily one of the bouncers grabbed her arm before she could connect. While Porsha was being restrained, the young man reached around the bouncer and punched her in the side of the head so hard that she almost blacked out. Before he could swing again, the rest of the bouncers were on him and his crew and proceeded to open up a can of whip ass.
“Oh no, this nigga didn’t just steal on me.” Porsha checked her head to make sure it wasn’t bleeding. She lunged for the young man again, but the bouncer was still holding the hand wielding the razor; however, her legs were still free. Porsha waited until she got a clear shot at his face and drove one of her stiletto heels into his cheek.
“Porsha, chill the fuck out.” The bouncer picked her up by the waist and carried her away from the scuffle.
“Fuck that, he punched me. Let me get mine.” She struggled against him. Her head was throbbing but her rage made her immune to the pain. She was so mad that she tried to turn the razor on the bouncer, which only made the situation worse.
A stripper named Kat, who knew Porsha, rushed to her side. She was a tall brown-skinned chick whose body was almost completely covered in tattoos. “Let her go, I got her,” Kat told the bouncer while trying to break his grip on Porsha’s waist.
By now a crowd had gathered to see what was going on, including the owner, Vinny, and he wasn’t pleased by the mess they had made of his club. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped at Porsha.
“Vinny, chill, it wasn’t her fault,” Kat tried to explain.
“I don’t see anybody else holding a razor and acting like a crazy person,” Vinny said. “Porsha, get your shit. You’re done here.”
“But, Vinny, he tried to swing on her; how you gonna fire Porsha?” Kat snapped.
“Since you wanna be her lawyer, then you can leave with her. Both of you bitches get dressed and get the fuck outta my spot!”
“Fuck you and this whore-shack!” Porsha screamed.
“Don’t argue with that bitch-ass nigga, we got too much class for this joint anyhow.” Kat pulled her by the arm to the dressing rooms.
“This is some bullshit.” Porsha punched one of the lockers in the dressing room.
“Breaking your hand on the locker ain’t gonna change shit, Porsha, just let it go,” Kat said while pulling her bag from the locker on the other side and digging out her street clothes.
“I am so sick of these hole-in-the-wall clubs.” Porsha flopped on the bench and buried her face in her hands.
“Me too, baby girl. When I danced at my brother Marcus’s club Shooters, we didn’t have these kinds of problems.”
“Why’d you stop?” Porsha asked.
Kat shrugged. “When he squared up and married his shorty he shut it down. My brother loved that club, but he loved Billy more.”
“Must be nice.” Porsha sighed.
“What, dancing at Shooters?”
“No, finding love … real love.”
Kat laughed. “That shit is overrated, take it from somebody who knows.”
“This shit is blowing mine. I was depending on the money I make in here to take care of some things I got going on. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”
“Porsha, you ain’t no stranger to the circuit. In a week you’ll be shaking your ass somewhere else,” Kat assured her.
“In a week it’ll be too late. I need to come up on some paper now!”
Kat could see how stressed out Porsha was and she felt bad for her. “Look, I was gonna keep this li’l bit of info to myself so I could do my thing, but I know a place where you could come up right quick.”
“Kat, I ain’t selling my ass, so if that’s what you’re about to suggest you can forget about it,” Porsha told her.
Kat laughed. “Slow down, Porsha, I ain’t talking about you selling pussy, I’m talking about dancing. There’s a spot that’s having its grand opening tonight and it’s supposed to be a big turnout. The tip out is like a hundred dollars, but from the type of money that’s gonna be floating around in there, that ain’t shit. Besides, you know them Jersey bitches can’t hold a candle to us New York hos.”
“True.” Porsha gave her a high five. “So what’s the name of this spot?”
“It’s called Brick City. Now let me give you the rundown.” Kat proceeded to tell Porsha all about the Brick City grand opening. By the time she was done, Porsha was convinced that that was the place she needed to be.
“Okay, I’m in, but how do I get out there by train?” Porsha asked.
“Ma, you ain’t gotta take the train. My brother Marcus is driving me out there and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind picking you up along the way as long as we kick in for gas and tolls.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Porsha assured her.
“A’ight, so I’ll pick you up about eight o’clock. Just make sure you’re ready because I ain’t trying to miss out on none of this paper.”
“Me either,” Porsha cosigned. “And thanks, Kat. I really appreciate you looking out.”
“It’s all good, Porsha. Maybe one day you’ll be able to do something for me.” Kat looked her up and down seductively. It was no secret among the girls that Kat loved pussy just as much as she did dick, if not more so. “I’m outta here, Porsha. See you tonight.” Kat winked and left.
Porsha sat there and finished dressing in silence, lost in her own thoughts. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, her head began pounding where the dude had hit her. She looked around the cramped, musty dressing room and wondered what the fuck she was doing there. She decided right then and there that if she was going to continue dancing it would only be at upscale spots, because the hood jump-offs were for the birds. As she put the last of her stuff in her bag and prepared to leave, she wondered if Frankie and Sahara were making better progress than she was in trying to solve their problem.
CHAPTER 19
The hike to Debbie’s building was a short one as only six blocks separated the projects from her Central Park West high-rise. The tall building sat on the corner of 110th Street overlooking the park and the newly gentrified Harlem. It was considered prime real estate, but like most of the older buildings that had been renovated with the rest of Manhattan they had to allow a certain number of rent-controlled apartments that they gave away in lotteries or through city-controlled programs. The waiting list for the building was five years, but Debbie had managed to pull it off in under a year. She had been a home attendant for a woman who lived in the building and one day the woman had mysteriously died of a heart attack and Debbie had taken over the apartment. The building’s board of directors tried to challenge it, but strangely enough, before the woman died she had added the name of Debbie’s oldest daughter, Josephine, to her lease. There was some speculation that Debbie had forged the document but no one could prove it, so they had to let Josephine, and by extension Debbie, stay.
Frankie led the charge, swinging open the glass doors of the building as if she were about to announce the arrival of the president. With her cornrows swinging and her face twisted into a gangsta-ass scowl, Frankie drew quite a few stares as she stormed through the lobby. The doorman raised his hand for Frankie to stop but she ignored him and kept walking to the elevator. Frankie managed to catch the elevator doors just as one of the tenants, who had been watching them, tried to shut the doors in her face.
“Thanks for holding the door,” Frankie said sarcastically, looking him up and down. He was an older white guy with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and a beet-red tan. At the end of the studded lavender leash that hung limply around his wrist was a stocky white pit bull with a pink ribbon tied around a tuft of its hair. The dog glared up at Frankie maliciously as she held the door for Sahara. The low growl coming from the pit made Frankie and Sahara back into the far corner.
“So, I don’t recall seeing either of you sign the guest’s book when you came in.” The man looked them up and down as if they had just blown in with the trash.
“That’s because we didn’t.” Sahara rolled her eyes.
“All guests are supposed to sign the book when they’re visiting someone in the building.”
“That’s for the guests who are visiting on pleasure; we’re here on business,” Frankie told him while tapping the button for Debbie’s floor.
“Judging by the floor you’re going to, I can only imagine what kind of business it must be.” He smirked.
“I don’t know what kind of business you think it is, but I can tell you what it ain’t and that’s none of your business.” Frankie laughed and gave Sahara a high five. Their laughter turned into shrieks when the pit bull started barking at them.
“You’d better restrain that mutt or else,” Sahara warned from behind Frankie, where she was cowering.
“Or else what?” The man placed a hand on his hip and looked them up and down. “Holly and I are residents and you two are trespassing, so if she decides to take a chunk out of those sweet little asses, the law will be on our side.”
“You might have the law on your side, but I’ve got this on mine.” Frankie uncapped her pepper spray and shook the can. “Fuck around if you want to and I’ll blind this bitch.” She aimed the pepper spray at the dog’s face.
“Don’t you touch my Holly!” The man jumped in front of his dog. “You would think that for as much as we pay for these apartments we would be able to live without fear of these Harlem bitches terrorizing us night in and night out.”
“Bitch”—Sahara looked around the elevator, confused—“I don’t see ya mama in here.”
“Fuck you, you broke-ass Lil’ Kim,” the man spat at Sahara and Holly began to bark again.
“Gimmie the spray, Frankie.” Sahara grabbed for the can but Frankie held it out of arm’s reach. The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Frankie pushed Sahara out and then backed out slowly, keeping the pepper spray aimed at Holly and her owner.
“This isn’t over,” the man threatened, staring hatefully at the two girls. “You’re all going to burn for this, and that includes that high-yellow bitch you’re going to visit. You think management doesn’t know what’s going on in that apartment? As soon as I get upstairs I’m calling the police and you’re all going down!”
“Well then I might as well give them a reason to take us,” Frankie said before blasting the dog in the snout with a stream of pepper spray. Holly let out a bloodcurdling howl as she flapped about, scraping her muzzle across the carpet to get the pepper spray off.
“Holly!” the man yelled before throwing himself on top of the dog as if he were about to take a bullet for her. “Leave us alone, you, third-world savages.”
When he opened his mouth this time, Frankie blasted him with the pepper spray, too. Frankie kept her finger on the trigger of the can until the doors finally closed and all that was left of the man and his dog were their painful shrieks, which could be heard throughout the building.
“Elton John–looking muthafucka trying to play us.” Frankie gave Sahara dap and they shared a laugh.
“Frankie, that was so foul, but funny as hell. You know he gonna call the police though, right?” Sahara pointed out.
“Please, hopefully by the time he can see well enough to even get into his apartment we’ll be long gone. Besides, if Debbie don’t have something good to tell us, then they’re gonna need some serious police presence in this muthafucka.”
The farther down the hall they got, the more potent the smell of weed became. Whoever was smoking tried to mask it with dollar-store incense but the cheap, perfume-heavy sticks only made it worse. When they reached Debbie’s door it was obvious where the smell was coming from, not just because that end of the hall reeked of it but because you could almost see the smoke seeping from under the door. It was a wonder that no one had called the fire department on them.
“Damn, they getting blazed in there,” Sahara said.
“Curve that shit, pookie, we ain’t here on a social call,” Frankie reminded her before ringing the doorbell. They waited for a few seconds, and when no one came to the door Frankie rang the bell again. When there was still no answer she knocked aggressively.
“Hold on a damn minute,” a deep voice came from behind the door. There were a few more muffled curses before the locks came undone and the door was snatched open, bathing Frankie and Sahara in a cloud of smoke. When their vision finally cleared they were greeted by Debbie’s youngest child, Valentino. Valentino looked like a darker version of his mother with his high cheeks and big brown eyes. He was wearing a pair of black Dickies that sagged off his ass and a pair of Scooby-Doo slippers with a blue bandanna tied around his head Aunt Jemima–style. Valentino was barely out of grade school but already looked like a top prospect in the next prison draft. “Oh shit, what’s hood, li’l mama? I knew you’d get off that bullshit and come see about a nigga,” Valentino cracked, looking at Frankie like she was the last porterhouse steak on the planet.
Frankie rocked back on her heels and looked down at the brown-skinned boy. “First of all, watch ya mouth, and second of all, where’s ya mama?”
Valentino sucked his teeth. “She in the back putting in that twirk. Come on in.” Valentino stepped back so they could enter. As Frankie passed, he reached out to touch her ass, but she caught his hand in midair.
“If I gotta tell you about these pervert-ass hands of yours one more time, I’m gonna take them from you, feel me?” Frankie said seriously.
“Stop acting like that, ma. Every man wants to test-drive the car before he buys it,” he said in a sly tone.
“Valentino, it’ll be years before you even come close to being on the radar of a thorough bitch, and even then you’ll still be just a li’l nigga trying to play grown-up.” Frankie shoved him out of the way.
“Frankie, you’re cold as hell.” Valentino laughed.
“Valentino, who the fuck did you just let in my house?” Debbie shouted from the back of the apartment. Now that they were inside, they heard what sounded like a large machine running.
“It ain’t for me, so why don’t you come find out instead of yelling like a crazy person,” Valentino shot back and walked off into the kitchen.
“Yo, that’s on my moms if you don’t stop playing with me I’m gonna bust your shit,” Debbie barked as she came down the hall. She looked like a mad scientist, dressed in a white lab coat and latex gloves. She was a big girl, standing around six feet tall and weighting a little over two hundred pounds. When she saw Frankie and Sahara, her eyes went wide, making her look like the cat that had swallowed the canary. “Oh, what’s good, y’all?” Debbie quickly pulled the gloves off and stuffed them into the pocket of the lab coat.
“You tell us,” Frankie shot back.
“Ain’t shit, I was just in here cleaning up a little bit,” Debbie lied.
“In a lab coat?” Sahara questioned.
“Oh, that’s just to keep that Ajax from getting in my clothes.” Debbie brushed the phantom dust from the lab coat.
“That looks like ink, not Ajax,” Frankie said upon closer examination.
“There you go on your pet detective shit.” Debbie tried to laugh it off as she slipped out of the lab coat and stuffed it into a laundry basket in the hallway. “Come in the living room, I was just about to light an L.”
“We ain’t really trying to stay, we just came to holla at you about something right quick,” Frankie told her as she and Sahara followed Debbie into the living room. The living room was plush, from the peach carpet to the flat-screen television to the imported suede sofas and the stained-glass lamps in each corner.
Debbie flopped in the high-back chair under one of the lamps and lit the half of a blunt that was resting in the ashtray. “So what’s going on?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. We got home today and found an eviction notice taped to the apartment door,” Sahara explained.
“Say word.” Debbie’s eyes went wide with shock. She was so good at what she did that it almost passed as genuine.
“Word,” Frankie picked up. “The notice says that we’re behind on our rent and I know that’s impossible because we’ve been paying you every month since we subleased the joint from you last year. So we figured you may be able to help us solve this li’l mystery.”
Debbie exhaled a stream of smoke and shrugged. “I don’t know, B. When y’all kick me the rent I kick it to Housing, so I don’t see what the problem could be.”
“Well, have they contacted you about anything?” Sahara asked.
Debbie thought about it for a few minutes and then snapped her fingers as if she had suddenly had an epiphany. “You know what—I did get a budget-adjustment letter in the mail a few months back. They were talking some shit about going up on the rent, but they can’t because I get public assistance. I sent them proof of income and all the rest of the shit they asked for to straighten it out. I gave it to Valentino to mail off for me.”
