Free Life Without Hope by Leo Sullivan Page A

then he spit out a tooth, smiled gleefully
    through swollen lips and took off into a trot, only the trot resem-
    bled a hobble like he had just been hit by an eighteen wheeler.
    I recognized the woman they called Nina Brown. The other
    cats were checking me out now, especially them youngsters. I
    played it off and called Nina Brown’s name like I knew her all my
    life. “Yo Nina! I got eighteen dollars.” I patted my pockets.
    “ Where can I get a dime bag of weed at?” Actually, I was letting
    52

 
    L i f e
    niggas know, I ain’t got no money. As Nina entered the store she
    shot me a look like she was trying to figure out where she knew
    me from. The air conditioning in the old run down place felt cool
    on my face. My shirt was sticking to my back. The tile floor
    cracked under my feet. I noticed a nice looking pecan woman
    with breasts so large they made me smile. She was older than me.
    Something about her hair reminded me of a straightening comb,
    it shined like the little girls’ hair that I used to see when I was in
    grade school. I requested a quart of beer, Olde English 800 and a
    pack of Newport cigarettes.
    Nina Brown counted her money and watched me. She had a
    Bulls cap on her head cocked to the side. Her skin was dark. I
    guessed her age to be anywhere between twenty-nine and forty-
    nine. As hot as it was, she had on a black jacket with what looked
    like a hundred zippers on it. She walked right up to me, smelling
    like a small mountain goat. From the look of her weary, blood
    cracked eyes, she had been up for days, possibly weeks. She craned
    her neck at me, popped her lips, a prologue to speak. For some
    strange reason almost all rock stars do this.
    “ Whoisyou?” she asked, frowning at me. I took a step back
    and tried not to smile. Rock stars have this thing they do with
    their necks. It’s sort of like a curious rooster.
    “ They call me L,” I said as I smirked at her.
    “ How did you know my name?” she asked, placing some
    crumbled bills in her worn out jeans.
    “ Hi, Nina Brown,” the cashier said, passing me my change.
    “ Hi, Ms. Atkins,” Nina Brown responded politely.
    The bell above the door chimed, as a runt of a woman walked
    in. She looked to be about 22 years old or so. She wore a hair
    weave that looked like she had cut it off of some poor poodle dog,
    and red lipstick that would have shamed a clown. The woman
    looked like a misfit, which is something ver y hard to do in the
    ghetto.
    She walked right up to Nina and star ted whispering in con-
    spiratorial tones. I eavesdropped.
    53

 
    L i f e
    The girl’s name was Shannon. She was known in the hood as
    what is called a Regulator. They are hustlers that can skillfully
    break down a cocaine rock to its lowest form if need be, to make
    a profit. They hang around junkies religiously, like a vulture that
    waits on its dying prey. No matter how much dope you give them
    they’ll find a way to go bad. Get them in the back of a police car,
    and somebody is going to jail, and it won’t be them.
    “ Ain’t nobody got none,” Shannon was saying, panic stricken,
    like she was going to cry. Nina thought for a minute at whatever
    the riddle was.
    “ Tell them to go around the block, I think I know where we
    can find some at.” That’s why Regulators like to hang around rock
    stars. In theor y, a rock star was a genius, at least at plotting to get
    money and finding a cot in jail. Nina Brown still commanded
    authority. You have some rock stars like that. Always a reflection
    of their former selves, the last thing an unsuspecting victim should
    do is listen to them talk. A real junkie can talk a star ved cat off a
    fish truck if that’s what he has to do to get high.
    She turned to me. Looked me in the eye with a “man don’t lie
    to me” expression.
    “ You got some dope?” she asked.
    “ I don’t sell dope.” I lied.
    Her experienced eyes were looking at my two hundred dollar
    pair of Jordans. She sized me up.
    “