Twisted Page 3

  Beneath the Surface

  Ishmael Wright set the flowers down on his sister’s grave and stepped back. He looked at her tombstone and shook his head. What a waste, he thought. Tangela had been several years older than he but far less intelligent in her decision making. From the moment she became an adolescent, Ishmael had watched her throw herself at guys and do whatever it took to get and keep their attention. She had been promiscuous at an early age, sneaking out of the home she and Ishmael shared with their aunt. Their mother had committed suicide when Ishmael was seven years old. Ishmael’s father had walked out on her and the pain of being abandoned by the man she loved was more than she could stand. On a sweltering August afternoon, while Ishmael and Tangela played in the park across the street from their building, their mother had shot herself in the mouth with the same gun their father had given her for protection. Tangela had been the one to discover their mother’s body when she went upstairs to get a quarter-water. The scene Tangela witnessed was traumatic for her, to say the least, and it took countless sessions with child psychologists and trauma counselors to get her back to some semblance of normalcy.

  After their mother’s funeral, Tangela and Ishmael had moved in with their aunt Mary. Mary was a lovely dark chocolate—hued woman with no children of her own and a revolving bedroom door. Aunt Mary partied and drank herself into oblivion just about every night of the week, leaving little time for her to be concerned with her niece and nephew and the trouble they were getting into. Not that she didn’t love them. Aunt Mary kept the house clean and the refrigerator stocked. But she depended on them to supervise themselves and to be independent as far as preparing their own meals and staying on track with school.

  The trouble was that by the time the kids reached middle school, they figured out that no one was double-checking to ensure that they were doing the right thing. Tangela rebelled first, cutting school, hanging out with boys, and smoking cigarettes. Ishmael wasn’t far behind. His problem, though, wasn’t adolescent rebellion. He was eleven years old, trying desperately to keep his fifteen-year-old sister from fucking up her life. If he caught her smoking cigarettes he would threaten to tell Aunt Mary.

  “Tell her, then.” Tangela would shrug. “She ain’t my mama.”

  Ishmael did tell on his sister in an attempt to curb her behavior. But Aunt Mary had merely laughed in her drunken haze and patted Ishmael patronizingly on the head.

  “If cigarettes is all she’s smoking, then that’s not such a big deal, baby. Tangela is a teenager now. You just keep being good and do the right thing. You can be an example for your sister, believe it or not.” Ishmael watched his aunt slip her feet into her heels and head out for another night on the town with another man. And he knew that he was going to have to be solely responsible for Tangela’s well-being.

  It was no easy task. Ishmael tried taking his aunt’s advice to be a good role model for his older sister. The trouble was that Tangela had a mind of her own. It didn’t matter to her that her brother was getting straight As in school and receiving perfect-attendance awards. All she cared about was guys. As he looked down at her grave, Ishmael wondered whether that dependency on male attention had come from their mother, their aunt Mary, or both. It didn’t matter, he reasoned. The bottom line was that Tangela’s thirst for male attention would prove to be her undoing.

  The trouble with Tangela Wright was that she gave too much of herself to men. She would fuck, suck, and work magic in order to keep a man she’d set her sights on. It worked. She had her pick of all the guys in their neighborhood and she always managed to get them wrapped around her finger. Young Ishmael would watch as his sister plotted, planned, and schemed to get some unsuspecting sucker in her clutches before she sucked the life out of him skillfully. Tangela was hungry for money and power, and as she got older she sought out guys who had these things. Turned out that the dudes who had the money, power, and respect in the hood were the ones who were hustling on a very large scale. Tangela dated these guys and enjoyed the status that came along with being their wifey. She manipulated them with her explosive sex and she got everything she wanted.

  One of the guys she dated was called KC. He had a reputation for ruthlessness and was more feared than respected in their Brooklyn neighborhood. When Tangela was with him, Ishmael was concerned because for the first time he genuinely feared his sister’s man. Ishmael had just turned thirteen and he was feeling like a man. His voice had deepened, his shoulders were broader, and he had begun to sprout hair from his face to his private parts. He was almost taller than his sister but nowhere near as tall as KC, who stood a staggering six feet, four inches tall. Ishmael knew that he could never protect Tangela from her boyfriend if shit hit the fan. But Ishmael had no reason to worry. KC loved Tangela with all of his heart. He spent money on her, trusted her with his secrets, and slowly but surely gained the trust of her little brother.

  KC spent a lot of time in Aunt Mary’s household. He greased her palms with rent and grocery money and she never complained that he spent the night with her niece, locked in her bedroom with the radio blasting to drown out the sound of their lovemaking. When he wasn’t digging Tangela’s back out, KC talked to Ishmael about life, women, being a man, and getting involved in the drug game. Their discussions began innocently enough. KC would comment on some show that Ishmael was watching on TV or some song that was playing on the radio. Once he saw that KC wasn’t the venomous monster in their house that he was in the streets, Ishmael began to relax around him more. Soon Ishmael found himself asking KC’s advice on everything from what sneakers to wear with a particular outfit to what to say to a girl he liked in school. Slowly but surely, KC became a mentor to the young man.

  The conversation about drug dealing began when Ishmael and KC were watching TV together. Tangela was asleep and Aunt Mary was out in the streets doing what she did best. Ishmael sat on the tan sofa with his legs stretched out on the coffee table in front of him. As he often did when he was getting comfortable in their house, KC took his gun off his waist and laid it on the end table beside him. He then laid a stack of dollar bills as wide as his fist next to it. Ishmael wasn’t immediately impressed, since he could see that the cash was mostly one-dollar bills wrapped in a large rubber band. Still, he surmised that it must be at least a hundred dollars, since the stack was thick. He also figured that while one hundred dollars wasn’t necessarily a lot of money, KC was lavishing Tangela with gold jewelry and expensive clothes and sneakers. He was paying Aunt Mary’s rent and driving an Acura when not many dudes in the hood were living that large. Ishmael was curious and decided to ask some questions.

  “What’s it like to sell drugs?” he asked.

  KC sat forward in his seat and looked at the young teen before him. He smiled. “It’s crazy,” he explained. “These muthafuckas will do anything for these drugs, Ish. I mean anything. Word.” KC shook his head as if he was still amazed at the lows people would sink to in order to get high. “It’s easy money. The shit sells itself. Any fool could stand out there and make enough money to dress nice and eat right.” He lit a Newport and exhaled. “But that’s all fools want. They hustle to eat Chinese food when they want and cop the new sneakers when they come out. But the true hustlers are the ones who drive hot cars and live in hot cribs. We’re the ones with enough money to support our family so that nobody has to want for nothing: Trust me. If you ever want to get in the game, make sure you do it big. You should never risk your freedom for crumbs off someone else’s plate. For the amount of time you’ll get if you get caught, you better be out there making major figures. Seriously.”

  Ishmael liked the way that KC talked to him. KC didn’t lecture him or talk down to him like he was a little kid. When KC spoke to Ishmael he gave it to him straight. KC cursed, he spoke freely, and this endeared him to Ishmael. It made him feel like a man who could think for himself and decide which direction his life would go. Ishmael grew to have tremendous respect for the guy.

  Tangela, meanwhile, had
her eyes on the prize. She knew that KC was a good man, and she did care for him. But she cared for herself more than she ever cared for anyone else. Tangela was selfish and could be cold at times. She played her position with KC well, though, mindful of the fact that he was one of the top players in his class. She didn’t want to fuck up the good thing she had going on. So she did whatever it took to keep him. She even professed her love for him when, in fact, all she loved was his money and his status.

  About a year after she began dating him, KC was locked up on federal charges and was sentenced to eight to ten years in prison. Tangela was devastated, and she wasn’t the only one. Aunt Mary had grown accustomed to having the rent and phone bill paid and to having spending money every week to go out and do as she pleased. Faced with the prospect of having to make ends meet on her own, she had no idea where to begin. She couldn’t go back to the welfare agency for assistance as she’d done years ago when she first took custody of her sister’s children. Now—because of KC’s money and influence in their neighborhood—Aunt Mary could never swallow her pride enough to ask for a handout. What would her girlfriends think? The same girlfriends she had bragged to and flossed in front of would now surely laugh at her.

  Tangela, too, was in a panic. She had depended on KC to keep her living the lifestyle she had become accustomed to. She visited him in jail and he sensed her fear and her concern for her and her family’s well-being. KC loved Tangela. So he told her where his money was, told her who to talk to in order to get what she needed to keep her and her family afloat. And Tangela thanked him, assured him that she loved him and would be there waiting for him when he came home, and when the visit was over she walked out of the jailhouse and never looked back.

  Ishmael began to dislike his sister. He couldn’t understand how she could be cold enough to not write, visit, or accept the collect calls of a man who had single-handedly lifted her and her family out of poverty. He couldn’t fathom how a man could love a woman and give her the world, only to have that woman turn around and give that man her ass to kiss. Aunt Mary, too, had seemingly forgotten about KC. Once, when Tangela wasn’t home, Ishmael had accepted a collect call from KC. Ishmael tried to rationalize his sister’s behavior by making empty excuses for her—maybe she was feeling a lot of pressure or perhaps she didn’t visit because she didn’t want to see her man encaged like that. He tried to say something that sounded like a suitable reason to turn your back on the person who helped you most. But as he was talking to KC, Aunt Mary came in.

  “Boy, who are you talking to on my phone?” she’d asked.

  “KC,” Ishmael answered her.

  The look on Aunt Mary’s face had vacillated from surprise to anger and then outrage. “Hang that phone up!” she demanded. “Tangela don’t want to talk to him.”

  Aunt Mary marched over to the phone and hit the button to end the phone call. KC called back, but Ishmael didn’t dare answer. From that day on, he didn’t look at women the same. He had learned that you could give them the world and they would seldom appreciate it.

  After that day, it wasn’t long before KC’s stash money ran out. Within months, they were struggling to make ends meet and keep a roof over their head. Neither Ishmael’s aunt nor his sister was willing to get a job, so Ishmael did what came naturally. He started to hustle. Taking the advice that KC had imparted to him about the drug game, he and his friend Raheem “Rah-lo” Henderson started a crew and together they hit the block, eager for a slice of the pie. When Raheem moved to Staten Island with his mom, Ishmael feared that he would be left on his own to get money. But instead of their operation shutting down, it simply expanded. On Staten Island, Rah-lo scouted out some young men who were anxious to get involved in the game as well. Soon, Ishmael and Rah-lo were joined by Harry, Pappy, and J-Shawn, and together they got money in Brooklyn and in Staten Island.

  Aunt Mary happily accepted Ishmael’s illegal money and allowed him to take over all the bills. But his success on the streets wasn’t enough to keep Tangela from seeking out her next sponsor. She was done with KC and his money was spent. Tangela wanted status as well as riches. And even though Ishmael tried to give her enough money to keep her from fucking for it, she moved on to the next big-time hustler in Brooklyn. His name was Biz, and he would be the next sucker for love that Tangela sank her claws into.

  Tangela and Biz had gotten involved with each other almost a year after KC was incarcerated. Knowing that it would be at least another several years before KC saw the light of day, Tangela had sought out the next bailer. At the time, Biz was the man in their hood and Tangela was eager for a new sponsor. Biz became her man, and she was once again living the lifestyle she had become accustomed to. When she turned eighteen, Tangela moved in with Biz and he took care of her. She was one of the first in the hood to drive a Lexus and most of the chicks around the way hated her. But that hate only fueled Tangela’s ego. She reasoned that as long as she had haters, she was doing something right. Biz wanted children, and Tangela refused, claiming that she had no desire to be a mother—yet. She assured him that eventually she would have his child, and Biz believed her. The truth was, Tangela never wanted children. She was too selfish to be a parent, and she knew that. And she really wasn’t in love with Biz. She cared for him because of the things that he did for her. But there was no love on her part. Still, she strung him along and enjoyed her status in the hood as Biz’s wifey and Ishmael’s sister. Both were bailers and she was the recipient of the fruits of their labor. Years passed this way, and everyone forgot all about KC.

  When KC was released from jail and came back to the hood, he was a man on a mission. All of his money had been spent, and throughout years of incarceration Tangela had abandoned him. No letters, no visits, and she had changed her phone number so that he couldn’t call. To make matters worse, the word on the street was that she had moved on to another hustler and was living lavishly, flaunting her wealth and status while KC had to start over from scratch. It was more than he could bear. He waited for her outside of Aunt Mary’s apartment building one day and sat perched on top of her car eager to confront her. Tangela had emerged from the building, spotted KC, and scowled at him in disgust.

  She strolled over to her car and looked at him. “Excuse me,” she said. “Can you get off my car?”

  KC smirked. “That nigga bought this for you?” he asked.

  Tangela frowned and waved her hand, dismissing him. “Don’t worry about all that. You didn’t buy it.”

  KC felt his blood boiling. “I must have bought you something with all that money you took from me.”

  She laughed. “You gave me that money. Don’t twist the shit around now to make yourself sound like a fucking victim.”

  KC nodded. “Okay, okay,” he said. “So why couldn’t you visit a nigga? Send a letter or a food package—something? Why’d you leave me out there by myself like that after everything I did for you?”

  Tangela shrugged coldly. “Nobody told you to go to jail. I’m not putting my life on hold for nobody.” She hit the alarm button on her key chain and unlocked her car. “Can you excuse me? I got shit to do.”

  KC sat there and stared at her for a long while. He didn’t budge. He was hurt and he couldn’t believe that she was being so cold toward him after all that he had done for her.

  Tangela was losing patience. “Okay, now you’re acting like a fucking deaf mute! Move off of my car, muthafucka! It’s over! You’re broke, you lost your spot in the hood, and you’re nobody now. Don’t be mad at me!”

  KC stood and towered over her. “I should kill your trifling ass right here,” he threatened.

  She smirked at him. “And you still wouldn’t be shit!” she hissed. She reasoned that with Biz and Ishmael having her back, KC would never have the balls to harm a hair on her head. She was wrong.

  He pulled a Taurus nine-millimeter from his jacket and shot her in the face twice. Then he took her car keys, jumped into her Lexus, and sped away. Tangela died immediately and KC fled
town, knowing that he was a wanted man. Ishmael was devastated. And so was Biz, since the autopsy uncovered the fact that Tangela had finally gotten pregnant with his child.

  Ishmael had always taken it as his responsibility to look after his sister. In his heart he felt that he had failed miserably. He and his boys hunted for KC, eager to settle the score. But the authorities caught up with him first and arrested him in Baltimore. They brought him back to New York to face murder charges as Ishmael buried his sister.

  As he looked down at her grave now, he couldn’t help feeling guilty. Not just because he had failed to protect Tangela from an untimely death, but also because a part of him didn’t blame KC. Part of Ishmael understood why the man had done what he did. In Ishmael’s heart, he was happy that the cops had caught up with KC before he did. KC was serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole. Ishmael was satisfied with that. Tangela had played KC and she had been remorseless. Ishmael did miss his sister, and it broke his heart that she had died such a horrible death. Still, the way that Tangela had treated KC, the way Aunt Mary used men to get what she wanted, these things changed Ishmael’s perception of women. In his mind, most of them were manipulative and self-serving. He didn’t trust most of them and got real joy out of toying with their emotions before they had the chance to toy with his.

  He looked down at his sister’s tombstone and smirked. Tangela had taught him valuable lessons about females. Today would have been her thirty-fifth birthday. Instead, she lay six feet beneath the surface. Again, he shook his head.

  “Happy birthday, Sis.” He laid the flowers on her grave and coldly turned and walked away. Once he climbed behind the steering wheel of his SUV, Ishmael let out a deep sigh. He put his key in the ignition and prepared to head home but was interrupted by his ringing cell phone. “Hello?” he answered.

  “Where are you, Ish?” Nina asked.

  Ishmael frowned, confused. “Why? Wassup?” He didn’t feel like explaining his whereabouts to Nina. He hadn’t shared all the details of his relationship with his sister, so Nina had no clue as to how profoundly Tangela’s life—and her death—had affected Ishmael. He hadn’t even bothered to tell Nina that today was his sister’s birthday, let alone the fact that he was visiting her grave.