Cairo - The Kat Trap

I stared the drunk nigga down, then turned my attention to him. “And he’s about to get really fucked up ’cause he done came at the wrong bitch.”

“Yo, y’all take this dumb nigga outta here,” he said to two of his boys. They snatched his ass up real quick and got him the fuck away from me before I put a slug in his skull.

“Don’t no nigga talk slick and think shit’s sweet.”

“I hear you. That was some real foul shit. I apologize for how he came at you, but I’ma check him on it.”

“Yeah, you do that. But, please be clear. If I run into that crab-ass nigga again, he had better be in a position to apologize for how he came at me, otherwise you and the rest of ya crew gonna be goin’ to a funeral.”

“I feel you, ma. So, I guess tryna get ya number is definitely out now?” he asked, flashin’ me a beautiful smile.

“You got that right,” I said, leavin’ him starin’ at my ass.

Oh my God! It was live and poppin’ in Vegas that weekend and every fuckin’ night the strip was filled to capacity with niggas and bitches tryna shine in their wears. Even the white bitches were tryna get it in. But none of them pasty, weave-wearin’, frontin’-ass tramps could rock with me. And I was slayin’ them hoes every night at every damn party in all the ill shit. Long story short, I ran into this nigga in the airport, and wouldn’t you know he stepped to me, holdin’ open his BlackBerry, ready for me to program my number into his phone. And the nigga has been callin’ me ever since. Now I wish I woulda gave his ass a wrong number.

Anyway, I had to pull the phone from my ear for a minute. I swear I don’t know why I gave this nigga my fuckin’ number, I thought, rollin’ my eyes. “Nigga, you must be smokin’ dust or eatin’ mufuckin’ paint chips to come at me like that. I don’t know you like that. And to answer ya question, never. Now do me a favor and delete my number ’cause I ain’t feelin’ ya ass like that.”

He laughed. “Damn, ma, why you gotta be so hard on a brotha. I’m only fucking with ya sexy ass. I know you ain’t that type of chick.”

I sucked my teeth. “Whatever. You still might as well delete my number ’cause I ain’t givin’ you no pussy.” The Kat line started ringin’ off the hook. And I was glad. “Listen, I gotta go. Don’t call me anymore.”

“Yeah, aiight. I’ma keep callin’ ’til you stop answerin’,” he said. “There’s somethin’ ’bout ya evil ass that turns me the fuck on.”

Click . I hung up on his ass, pressin’ the TALK button on my other cell. “Yeah.”

“We still beefin’?” Cash asked, soundin’ like Barry White.

“Nah,” I said, “we straight.” For now, muhfucka , I thought, rollin’ my eyes.

“Good. I got some gigs for you. You wit’ it?”

“When?” I asked, ploppin’ down on my bed. I ran my hand through my ultra-silky hair, then twirled the ends through my fingers. “And where?”

“Everything needs to be wrapped up within a week.”

I let out a sigh of relief. I was glad I had a few days to chill. “Where?” I asked.

“Atlanta and Chicago,” he stated.

“Give me two days.”

“I’ll have everything ready for you.”

“Cool. Oh, and don’t try that shit you pulled on that last gig. I want seventy-five percent of my paper before I start.”

“Now, you know how we do. Half now, the rest later.”

“No,” I stated flatly. “That’s how we used to do up until you tried to stunt me.”

“Come on, ma. Why you tryna bust a nigga’s balls?”

“’Cause a nigga can’t be trusted,” I replied. “And, besides, I like it when I got a handful of balls in my hands, squeezin’ the nut outta it. Now, like I said, I want seventy-five percent now and the rest when I touch down.” My mental calculator started churnin’ in my head. That meant a hundred-and-fifty thousand for the price of two bodies upfront. I smiled.

“I got you,” he said, soundin’ real tight. I didn’t give a fuck. Play me, get played, sucka! He musta read my mind because he said, “You know I’d never game you.”

“Yeah, that’s what your mouth says,” I said, hangin’ up.

Later on that evenin’, I was in my kitchen heatin’ up some leftovers from the Cheesecake Factory, smokin’ a blunt, with the stereo blarin’ Nas’s Hip Hop Is Dead CD throughout the house. And I had the flat-screen TV on with the volume down. I wasn’t big on watchin’ TV ’n shit, but every now and then a bitch liked to peep the news to stay up on the comin’s and goin’s of the crazy-ass niggas and silly bitches in this fucked-up world. So while the six o’clock CBS news was on, I was just standin’ in the middle of my kitchen waitin’ for the microwave to stop, listenin’ to Nas spit his lyrics and gazin’ at the TV when a special news report flashed across the screen. I ain’t gonna front, a bitch got real curious when this Asian-lookin’ reporter chick was standin’ in front of the Delano Hotel in South Beach. The same fuckin’ spot I was a few weeks ago. And when the face of the nigga I bodied appeared, I almost fainted. I ran across the kitchen to grab the stereo remote to turn that shit down. I caught what the chick was sayin’ in mid-sentence.

“…Prominent criminal defense attorney Lyndon Blair Holmes was last seen at this world-class urban resort nestled here in the heart of South Beach three and a half weeks ago. Although the details regarding his disappearance are sketchy, hotel staff state the multimillionaire had been served at the Rose Bar around nine p.m., and was sitting alone. At ten-thirty that evening, he called housekeeping from his room for fresh towels. No one has seen or heard from him since. All of his personal items were still in his suite and his 2006 Lamborghini remained in the parking garage. His wife alerted authorities when she had not heard from her husband in two days, and he hadn’t returned any of her calls. Authorities urge potential witnesses to come forward. A one-million-dollar reward is being offered by the family to anyone with information that will lead investigators to his whereabouts. Currently there are no leads…”

’Cause his ass is dead, bitch!

His wife, a cute brown-skinned chick dipped in jewels, was sobbin’ and talkin’ into the camera. I turned that shit off. I wasn’t beat to hear her beggin’ and pleadin’ for his safe return home. I didn’t wanna hear jack ’bout her missin’ him, and how much she loved him, especially when the bitch probably had somethin’ to do with his ass bein’ slumped. A bitch was through. I put my food on a plate, then took my ass downstairs into my theater room to spark a Dutch, eat, and watch Perfect Stranger with Halle Berry.

At nine p.m. my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID, then picked up. It was my girl Chanel. “Whaddup, ho?”

“Hey, hooker, what’s good?”

“Shit,” I said, holdin’ the phone in the crook of my neck while I spun the chamber of my revolver, making sure it was packed with a full load of heat. I placed the safety latch on it, then laid it back in its case and closed the drawer. “What’s poppin’ tonight?”

“This baller nigga, from Newark, Thug Gee, is havin’ a party tonight at Studio 9. Word has it it’s gonna be packed with long dollars and thick dick.”

“Hmmph,” I grunted. “And a bunch of dick-thirsty Wal-Mart bitches,” I said, rollin’ my eyes up in my head. I really wasn’t in the mood for bein’ around a bunch of hatin’-ass hoes, especially them Jersey bitches, ’cause I already knew that the first one who eyeballed me recklessly or said somethin’ slick outta the side of her neck, I’d have to slide her ass. But I also knew them bitches didn’t really want it.