Margaret Sexton - A Kind of Freedom

Why would Tiger fuck with Spud though? she’d want to know. He’s not stupid, he knows how crazy that nigga is about his money. And T.C. would shrug. He had no idea, though it would explain why Tiger was so eager to get him started again, why he was so resistant to T.C. stopping even now. It would explain why he wanted a middleman, why he was so paranoid all the goddamn time, insisting he lock up the place, posting up at the window, hearing voices that weren’t there.

That mothafucka played me, he might say to Licia. And she would tell him to calm down, he didn’t know that for sure.

And he didn’t. He didn’t, and he learned in jail not to jump to conclusions, but damn sure he was going to ask Tiger straight up if he owed Spud money, if he had rigged all this, put T.C.’s life at risk for a little more pocket change. Either way, T.C. felt stupid, stupid and afraid all of a sudden as though he was closer to jail than he had been on his way out, standing in the parking lot with Tiger next to him. He texted his aunt right then and there. When she wrote back, her message full of exclamation points and emoji her interns must have taught her, he showed the phone to Licia. She reached over and kissed him on the cheek.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too.”

He would borrow Licia’s car, confront Tiger tonight, see if he could make some sense out of the whole mess. Either way he had only a pound left. He could sell that himself if he needed to. He had done it before.

There was a black Grand Prix in front of Tiger’s house but T.C. didn’t pay it any mind. Probably one of the dealers for the crackhouses across the street. From the front porch, T.C. could have sworn he heard Tiger talking to somebody, somebody else’s voice. Damn he was getting paranoid too. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He didn’t walk two feet before he heard that voice again. He was sure someone else was in here now. He walked back to the front door, kept one hand on the doorknob while he listened. He could hear at least two different men talking. One of them was Tiger, that he knew. He couldn’t tell what either man was saying, but it was obvious they were shouting.

He opened the door again. He didn’t need to stick around for this, whatever it was. No, he’d catch Tiger later; anyway the conversation he was going to have with him was of a private nature. He felt a hand on his shoulder before he stepped out onto the porch.

“Whoa,” the voice said. “Lemme holla at you for a second.”

T.C. glanced behind him at the hand, fat puffy fingers squeezed through four gold rings. He didn’t have a choice but to step backward inside. When he turned around, he saw Spud staring back at him. He told himself to calm down; it was probably like in jail when mothafuckas would start shit — most of the time they were just trying to front. Most of the time.

“Come on in,” Spud repeated. “Make yourself at home.” He was holding a duffel bag, and his Glock poked out of his waistband. “Don’t mind that,” he said, catching T.C.’s glance. “I was thinking about using it, but your friend is straightening some shit out for me, and”—he pulled his pants up and adjusted his shirt back over his belt—“so I don’t think we’re going to have any need for that. Are we, Tiger?” He was a big man and he walked wide-legged into Tiger’s room.

T.C. followed him, listening to his own breathing accelerate as he walked, all the while debating turning around, sprinting out the front door, jumping into his car. He couldn’t do that to Tiger though. And anyway, Spud just said everything had been straightened out.

Spud had reached the room by now, but T.C. dragged the walk along, listening to him talk.

“Your friend Tiger the type of nigga think he could get over on everybody, that’s his problem. But that’s my fault for not seeing it. See, a good middleman is content to just be moving your shit. They don’t get big fanciful dreams in their head about turning out larger numbers doing it their own way. Tiger one of them niggas too smart for his own good,” he chuckled, “but then again he not smart enough either. He sort of in between. ’Cause you didn’t end up making more than I do, did you Tiger?”

T.C. had reached the bedroom by now. Tiger sat on the mattress. A huge dude knelt behind him holding a burner to his head. The man looked up when T.C. walked in. The first thing T.C. recognized was the color of his eyes, that unnatural sparkling green.

“Yo, Spud, I know that nigga,” the green-eyed man jumped up. “I know that nigga,” he repeated. “That’s that mothafucka I told you was fuckin’ with Natalia. I tried to slice him up when I caught him, you know I did, but bitch’s mama came out with a 19 pointed in my face.” The man looked up at Spud as if he were asking him for permission to finish the job now.

T.C. just stared at Tiger, whose head hung between his legs.

“You was fuckin with his bitch?” Spud walked up to T.C., rested his hand on the top of his own piece, but he was smirking.

T.C. shook his head.

“You calling me a liar, nigga?” The green-eyed man was in T.C.’s face now. “I remember your ass. How I’ma forget a giant-ass nigga like that? Mothafucka had to duck to get in here.”

Spud cut his head back and laughed. “Yeah, I don’t believe he confusing you with somebody else.”

“Nah, it was me,” T.C. started, “it was me, but I didn’t know she had somebody, I swear I didn’t, and since I found out, I never hit it.” When he was done he felt as if he had been talking for hours, as if he had delivered the “I Have a Dream” speech, and he just hoped his message had come out clear, but he was worried that his nerves mixed his words up, clashing them together so they lost their individual meanings.

“You never hit it that day?”

“I never hit it that day,” he lied.

The man seemed to be thinking about whether or not that was good enough consolation.

“You still with that girl?” Spud asked the green-eyed man.

“Aww, hell nah, we been beefed out. Plus she one of them bitches just lay there. I could rub myself off for all that. You know I can’t get down like that.”

“Like that bitch I used to fuck with in Metairie,” Tiger cut in from the mattress.

The green-eyed man walked back over to Tiger, knocked the burner into his temple. “Shut the fuck up. Nobody talking to you, nigga.”

Spud turned to T.C., reached inside his bag, and pulled out T.C.’s weed.

“Your boy was just showing me what a talented nigga you are. Real talented. I couldn’t grow shit like this if I tried. Of course, considering the circumstances, it’s mine now.” He let out his deep belly laugh that seemed as if it might shake the whole house down.

“You lucky nigga, if you didn’t have this—”

T.C. wondered if he should say thank you but decided against it, just gulped, kept one eye on the green-eyed man who still held the burner at Tiger’s temple but who stared T.C. down.

“And why the fuck you even talking about some Betsy friend you don’t even fuck with no mo’? She got your kid?” Spud was shouting at the green-eyed man now.

“Hell nah.”

“Well, then, why you even mentioned her? You tryna get me caught up over some bitch in your rearview, didn’t even have no good pussy. Come on, nigga.”

The green-eyed man stood up and walked over to Spud. “That’s it?” the green-eyed man asked.

“Yeah, that’s it, for now.” Spud smacked his friend in the back of his head as they walked to the door.

T.C. listened for the front door slamming, then the car’s, but even once the sounds had registered, he couldn’t find relief. He stayed in his spot, still staring at Tiger.