Free A Hood Legend by Victor L. Martin

slightly wet platinum Benz glimmered even more under the moonlight. Menage knew Tanita was down after excusing herself and going to the ladies room at the club, only to return with her silky thong balled up in her fist. “I have a birthmark I want you see,” she had whispered in his ear. They stopped at the Waffle House and Menage then followed her to her hotel room. He wanted to do more than just see her birthmark. Just another day, he figured, as he stood at her hotel door, rubbing his fingers over the ribbed condom in his pocket. Safe sex it would be ... no doubt.

Chapter 3
    Fillin’ Clips
    Sunday
    11:48 a.m.
    Â 
    â€œFirst, ask me do I give a fuck! Then look me in the face to see if I care!” Menage said over his cell phone as he sat behind his desk at the body shop. “No . . . since you can’t see me, listen really hard to see if I give a fuck. You done wrecked two cars, Rico—two! Now this is the last time I’ma work wit’ yo’ ass and your sister won’t change my mind. And by the way, where she at?” Rico had called and said that he had crashed the forty-thousand-dollar Chevy SSR that he had stolen. After lending his sister’s services to Menage, he promised that he’d have another SSR the following week. Menage already had a buyer willing to drop twenty thousand tax-free greenbacks for the SSR, and he told Rico to make it happen. Since his cars commanded the biggest checks once they were tagged, his name was gold to those that knew his hustle. Why pay top dollar for a nice ride when you could cop one from Menage for less than half price with less than eight hundred miles? After dealing with Rico, he went back to the garage where the DB-7 Vantage Volante sat covered, sitting next to a fortieth anniversary Ford Mustang GT. His workers would be in about two, so for now he was alone. He glanced at this Bulova and figured it would be best to try to call DJ later. He was heated and was itching to talk. DJ knew the rules and he knew Felix was telling the truth about the DB-7 being from L.A.
    The five-car garage was dark and smelled of oil and leather.
    Menage walked toward a blood red Cadillac XLR with gold twenty-inch rims. It had been stolen from Tampa straight off the lot. A simple solo test drive and a trip to a parked van with a key copier had made a key. In less than thirty minutes the XLR was returned and it was stolen a week later. Rico just walked on the lot around midnight, got into the vehicle and drove off like it was nothing. The XLR would bring Menage a huge profit. He knew it was possible to move five cars a day and bring in crazy, stupid money, but he refused to be sucked in by greed and speedballing was out of the question. The game had rules—like not using your own product if you sold dope. Although Menage followed a set of rules, he looked at buying cars as some looked at buying a new pair of Air Ones; to him it was just an everyday thing.
    The scratches Tanita had left on his back were becoming irritated by his bulletproof vest, so he took it off, but planned to put it back on later. When his workers started to show up he changed his clothes and went to work on some cars that were in his shop for legitimate repairs. He got dirty just like everybody else.
    He grew restless as the hours passed and he began working under the hood of a Dodge Ram SRT-10, amazed with its 500hp engine. “I gotta get me one of these,” he said when he found out that the pick-up could reach 150 miles per hour and reach sixty in five seconds. Once things were generally taken care of at the shop, he changed, washed up, and headed to his mansion. Halfway home, he realized that he had left his vest at the shop, but he didn’t sweat it. Home was safe and today would be a good day, he told himself.
    DJ sped through traffic with one hand on the wheel and his phone in the other. His meeting with Mr. Marchetti wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be and he