Lickin' License Read online

  CHAPTER THREE

  RICH

  He was born Jamel Thomas in 1975 at Bronx Lebanon Hospital. But the thirty-five-year old had earned the name Rich as a kid who ran drugs for Rich Porter—a legendary Harlem hustler who was murdered in 1990. Rich had studied the game and learned from the mistakes of others, especially his dead mentor.

  Unlike the average hustler, he was an investor. Instead of opening barbershops, grocery stores and other businesses like many drug dealers, Rich purchased stock in companies like Microsoft, McDonald's and Wal-Mart. These were blue chip stocks—stocks that were essential to the American economy and had a long history of generating money. His smallest investment was in his uncle’s company, which rented luxury cars. Rich worked in the company’s promotions department. It was virtually a no-show job that made him a tax-paying citizen with free access to any car he wanted. So the spotless BMWs, Bentleys and other cars he was praised for in the streets were not his. That was a secret Rich used to his benefit. He knew the importance of image and he capitalized off of it every opportunity he had. It was a tactic he learned from Free, a squeaky clean co-worker of his who often attracted women of the strength of Rich’s street credibility.

  Rich walked through the door to the roof of the Polo Grounds Housing Project in Harlem. Two of the young goons who worked at one of his dope spots had a man hemmed up. Another of Rich's goons stood by observing. The man's wrists were tied behind his back with duct tape and his head was covered with a filthy pillowcase. Rich slipped on his Versace shades as the sun beat down on the gravel-covered roof. He stepped over and snatched the pillowcase off the man's head. He smiled, looking into the teary eyes of the stickup kid who had robbed one of his spots weeks earlier. Rich ripped the duct tape from the man's mouth.

  “Yo, Rich. I ain't have nothing to do with this shit,” the man pleaded.

  Rich grinned. “You know the streets is always talking and my ears stay open.”

  “Shit, the streets be lying. Dudes got this shit all wrong.”

  “I thought you would've came up with something better than that.”

  “Huh?” the man mumbled, his lips quivering.

  “Your life is on the line and you can't even think of an excuse to save it?”

  “That's word to my dead grandmother, I'm telling the truth.”

  “That's fucked up.”

  “What?”

  “You lying on your dead grandmother, knowing you about to go see her.” Rich pointed to the ledge of the roof.

  “Come on, Rich. This shit ain't gotta go down like this.” The man begged, struggling to free himself from Rich's goons, as they dragged him to the edge of the building.

  Rich followed them, along with his third goon. The fearful robber stood frozen in front of the ledge, as the two goons backed away. Rich winked his eye and flashed an evil grin at the third goon, who pulled a .44-caliber automatic from his waist. He pointed the huge blue steel handgun at the man.

  “Mouthpiece,” Rich ordered.

  Instantly, Rich's goon jammed the semi-automatic into the robber's mouth, breaking a tooth, before squeezing a single round. The back of the man's head exploded. Rich peeped over to the ledge and viewed the brain tissue and skin dropping twenty-four stories down, followed by the lifeless body that added to the list of murder victims who had felt Rich’s wrath. As he watched the man's body fall, it seemed to get smaller and smaller.

  Rich was growing tired of the drama that came with the game. But he knew it was an inevitable part of fast money and the streets. He liked fast money more than he liked life itself. It gave him a high that was as potent as the product he pushed throughout Harlem. Yet, he had been thinking about making his exit and entering the legal world. But there was always something pulling him back in.

  * * *

  Later that night, Rich pulled into the garage of his penthouse and parked next to a midnight blue BMW 650 Coup. He exited the Bentley Continental GT and hopped inside the BMW. He adjusted the mirror and pulled off, driving down Lennox Avenue until he double parked next to a black Mercedes.

  The tinted window of the Mercedes slid down. “What's good?” said Chase, as his hand gripped the wheel. Chase was a stocky roughneck who had left a trail of blood and bullet shells throughout Harlem before his 18th birthday. He served five years for manslaughter after he disarmed and shot a man to death, a man who had attempted to kill Rich. Chase slipped past 25 to life, because of a slick-talking lawyer that Rich hired with money he and Chase generated from their dope spot in Wyandanch, Long Island. By the time Chase came home, Rich had expanded their operation to every borough in New York City. Neither Rich nor Chase ever had any more legal trouble. Part of their success came from their decision to never sell drugs in Harlem, where they lived, and never show their faces at any of their dope spots.

  “You still wanna hit Club Dream?” Rich asked Chase.

  “Yeah. Free coming?”

  “He said he'll meet us there.”

  Chase ran his hand over his bald head and down to his goatee. “All right.”

  “Hold on,” Rich said, answering his cell phone. His face grew solemn. Through clenched teeth, he spoke in an assertive low tone. “We not gonna keep going through this!” He hung up the phone and shook his head, then let out a deep breath.”

  “Danella?” Chase asked.

  Rich nodded.

  Danella was a high-class model who had been stalking Rich since he dumped her two months earlier. She was looking for love; all Rich ever knew was lust.

  “Chicks like Danella ain't used to gettin' shitted on,” Chase said. “Ain't too many dudes from the 'hood can even bag her. And you probably the only dude around that kicked a chick to the curb, knowing she one of the only black chicks that’s been on the cover of Sports Illustrated. I would've kept her just off the strength of how she looked in that swimsuit.”

  “That's the difference between me and ninety-nine-point-nine-percent of dudes in the world. Anyway, what you doing here?”

  “Waiting for this broad to bring down my chain. I left it on her dresser.”

  Rich's eyebrows arched. “What broad?”

  “Some little ho I bagged at the Knicks game last night.”

  “Yeah? But on some real shit, I took care of that.”

  “What's that?” Chase asked.

  Rich replayed the incident that happened earlier on the roof.

  “I'm glad that shit is out the way,” Chase said. “Always gotta make examples out of heads, no matter how long we been in the game.”

  “You only as good as the last person you killed,” Rich said.

  * * *

  It was almost midnight when Rich and Chase pulled up in front of Manhattan's Club Dream. There were two long lines extending the length of the long city block—one for women and one for men. Rich and Chase exited their rides and exchanged hugs and pounds with the valet, before handing him their keys. Chase pulled up his droopy Red Monkey jeans and twisted his fitted Yankees cap backwards.

  Rich looked at Chase's Nike ACGs, and then his own ostrich shoes and grinned. He and Chase had always dressed opposite. Rich was usually in designer or tailored suits and hardbottoms, but occasionally he sported slacks and moccasins or gum soles. Chase was famous for urban fashion—Timberlands, sneakers, jeans, sweat suits and any other garments or accessories made famous by latest hip hop videos.

  The bouncers greeted Rich and Chase, ushering them inside as if they were artists set to perform. A TI song flowed throughout the club, as Rich took in the scenery. He and Chase stopped at the coat check room. A young white guy gave Rich a pound and hug. They exchanged a few words and then the guy handed Rich three VIP passes. Rich and Chase stepped off.

  “There go Free,” Chase said, pointing at a light-skinned pretty boy seated at the bar, kicking it to a thin white woman with auburn hair.

  “Yeah, that's him,” Rich added, stepping toward the bar. Free was short for Dexter Freedman. He was a silver spoon fed baby from Jamaica Estates in Queen
s. He had never been arrested, never been in beef, never sold drugs and had no idea what it felt like to have a gun tucked beneath his belt on his waistline. Blood money was foreign to him, but he knew all about making legal money. That's where he and Rich saw eye-to-eye. Rich used Free to get himself and Chase into doors that were closed to thugs with rap sheets and street credibility. Virtually every lawyer, accountant and investor with ties to Rich and Chase met them through Free.

  Rich and Chase nodded at Free as they walked past. They sat a few stools away. Rich ordered a gin and tonic and Chase ordered a bottle of Cristal.

  Rich shook his head, resting his hands on the marble bar counter. “Can't take the 'hood out you.”

  “Last time I checked, they ain't make Cristal in Harlem,” Chase said.

  “No Kool-Aid and quarter waters either. And that's classic ghetto shit.”

  Free walked over and gave Rich and Chase some dap. “What's going on, fellas?”

  “Jungle Fever in the air,” Rich said.

  “That's what's going on.” Chase grinned.

  “I'm blind,” Free said. “All I do is smell pussy and hit it.”

  “I hear you. But a brother like me got a sweet tooth and a taste for chocolate,” said Rich. “As a matter of fact, I see a nice little chocolate bunny I wanna get to know.”

  Chase's eyes followed Rich's. “Yeah, she bad.”

  “That's the truth,” Free said.

  The thick woman in stiletto heels and a mini skirt sat two stools away from Rich.

  “Excuse me, gentleman.” Rich handed two VIP passes to Chase and Free. “That young lady is hungry and I got all the meat she need.”

  With that, he walked over and sat beside the woman, getting a close-up of her full lips and round eyes. She was sipping a margarita. “Excuse me, Miss. I don't mean to invade your space, but I like what I see. And when I see something I like, I go for it.”

  She turned her body toward Rich, her thick thighs showing as she crossed them. “So you like what you see?” she said, seductively gazing into Rich's eyes.

  His pupils veered down between her legs, then back to her eyes. “I want what I see.”

  “Sometimes people bite off more than they can chew.”

  “Listen, baby,” Rich eased his arm between himself and the woman, looking at his Rolex. “Every minute I waste, I'm losing money and getting older. And we're both adults. So let's skip the preliminaries and get to the main event.”

  He stood and held his hand out. When the woman grabbed it. Rich helped her from the stool.

  * * *

  Minutes later, Rich and the woman were inside a stall in the club's unisex bathroom. His blazer was slung over the wall of the stall. He had just slipped on a condom, pinned the woman against the wall and pressed his dick against her round butt. As she pulled up her short skirt, a plump cheek popped out. Rich moved her thong to the side and slid into her.

  She grunted.

  Rich grabbed her shoulders and thrust himself in and out of her with forceful strokes. Her cheeks began a rhythmic clapping. They grew louder as Rich dug deeper into her with each plunge. He lifted her leg. “Put your foot on the toilet.”

  “Huh?”

  “The toilet!” he barked.

  She complied and stepped her right foot on the toilet. Rich placed his foot behind hers. Then he grabbed her left shoulder with both hands and rammed deep inside of her on an upward angle.

  “Shhhiit!” the woman's voice rose.

  Rich was literally jumping inside of her with each stroke. “This what you want, right?”

  “Yeah. Like that.” She reached her hands up as high as she could, as if she was trying to climb the wall to escape Rich's plunging. Suddenly her leg slipped. She and Rich fell from the toilet. She turned around and asked, “You okay?”

  Rich nodded. He backed up and grabbed her skirt, lifting it all the way up in front. He tore her thong apart and tossed it in the toilet.

  She smiled and grabbed his dick. “Put it in.”

  “Calm the fuck down.” Rich paused a second. “Take them shoes off.”

  “Huh?” She frowned, looking confused.

  “Just do what I say.”

  She smiled and removed her heels. Rich stepped forward, slipping into her. He grabbed her butt with both hands and lifted her up, pressing her back against the wall. “Put your feet against the wall behind me.” Her feet hit the wall behind him. Her knees were bent in the cramped stall, as Rich stood between them, pumping. She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him.

  “Yeah, take this dick,” Rich said.

  She clutched him tighter, shifting herself into his strokes. “Give it to me.”

  “Yeah, come on.” Rich sped up, as her tightness pulled him into a climax. He slowly caught his breath and stopped stroking. He let her down from the wall. Backing up, he removed the condom and tossed it into the toilet, before grabbing some tissue and wiping his dick. He adjusted his tie and carefully put on his blazer. Rich grabbed the handle of the stall.

  “You ain't gonna give me your name, number, nothing?” the woman asked.

  “I gave you enough for the night.” Rich grinned before making his way to the sink. He washed his hands and face. Seconds later, he was strolling out of the bathroom.

  Rich hit the bar and bought two bottles of Krug Rosé on a bucket of ice. As he turned around, a thin extremely light-skinned woman in a tight miniskirt strutted toward him. Her almond-shaped eyes beamed at Rich. She held a virtually empty champagne flute in one of her hands.

  Rich sighed. Danella. Here she comes with her bullshit.

  “It's not nice to hang up on people,” she said, stopping in from of Rich and smiling. “Especially someone who loves you.”

  “Love can make people do crazy things, and for every action there's an equal and opposite reaction.”

  Danella smiled. “The laws of physics according to Sir Isaac Newton. Your intellect has always been a turn on for me. You're so much more than the average guy from the 'hood.”

  “So much more than you deserve.” Rich chuckled. “Baby, it's the type of bourgeois shit you just said that's stoppin' you from staking your claim in the wonderful world of Rich.”

  “You don't really mean that.”

  “Baby, Rich always mean what he say.” He walked away without another word.

  “Richhh!” Danella screamed over the music in the club and slammed her champagne glass on the floor.

  Rich turned around, spotting the crowd of people gathering to watch Danella's antics.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are!” she yelled, storming toward Rich.

  After a few steps, a bouncer snatched her. Her legs were swinging wildly, as the huge bouncer picked her off her feet with one arm while she screamed every curse word imaginable. The bouncer, who had known Rich for years, turned to him and said, “What do you want me to do with her?”

  “I think she's had too much to drink and she's ready to go home.”

  The bouncer nodded at Rich, then carried Danella off toward the front door.

  Rich noticed the looks in the eyes of the people who crowded the scene. Some foreign eyes projected disgust for Rich. Familiar eyes displayed astonishment. Rich assumed these people, who knew his status, expected more of a man with such a smooth demeanor and reputation that prevented people from challenging him. Rich now questioned whether Danella had left a chink in his armor. Although he had not overreacted to the situation, people were aware that he had a situation. That in itself was a problem for a discrete man who had mastered the art of keeping his personal life private. Danella's status as a famous model increased the probability of Rich's problem being publicized. This shit ain't good. I can't have no freaks playin' me in public.

  Rich neared the VIP area, surprised to see the women from Candy's Shop. While he watched Leah filling glasses with champagne, he recalled that days earlier in the shop he had heard Leah mention that she was treating the women to a ladies’ night out. The women were sea
ted with Chase and Free on a large U-shaped couch that surrounded a table. Rich gazed at Candy. Perfectly good piece of pussy going to waste. She was sitting beside Vanessa. But she always stood out, because she was tall. Even in the dim VIP lounge, her long yellow legs seemed to light up the area.

  “What's up, Rich?” the VIP bouncer asked.

  “My stock, hopefully.” Rich gave the short Dominican man in front of him a pound. Rich flashed his VIP pass. The man removed the velvet rope, allowing Rich admittance to the large area.

  He walked toward Vanessa, who was seated closest to him. He adjusted his tie, a little nervous that his bathroom fling minutes earlier may be visible from his disorderly clothes.

  “Hi, Rich,” Vanessa greeted him with a smile.

  “Can you please stand up for a second?” Rich gently

  grabbed her hand, helping her up. “Umph, umph, umph. You looked so good sitting down, I just needed to see you in totality.”

  Vanessa giggled. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you.” Rich kissed her hand and then sat her down. He greeted everyone else, before sitting next to Vanessa. He placed the bucket of ice and champagne on the table, before filling an empty glass.

  “Yo, Rich, how was that?” Chase asked with a smirk, obviously referring to Rich's fling with the woman.

  “Yeah, what's up?” Free added.

  “In and out,” Rich responded. “Just an appetizer. I'm waiting on the main course.” He nodded discretely toward Vanessa, who was talking to Candy.

  “I hear you.” Chase flashed a smile.

  Rich grabbed a bottle of champagne and turned to Vanessa and Candy and then offered them some. Candy grabbed a flute and Rich filled her glass. “How 'bout you, Vanessa?”

  She smiled. “No thank you.”

  “You sure?”

  “I don't drink.”

  “Oh, excuse me. Didn't mean to infringe,” Rich said.

  “Not a problem.”

  As Free sparked up a conversation with Candy, Rich made his move on Vanessa. “You mind if I inquire why you don't drink?”