"Look who turned the fuck back up."

"Well, damn, where the hell you been?"

"Whaddup, Naeema."

"I thought you quit, shit."

"We was 'bout to do a APB on this bitch!"

Naeema sat down in the chair, swiveling back and forth as she removed her clippers from the book bag. "Come on, that's all y'all got? Y'all had a whole week to get y'all shit together. For real," she teased, crossing her legs as she waved her fingers to beckon more of the teasing.

"Don't let these negroes fool you. They missed you."

She twirled in the chair and looked up at the owner, Derek Majors, standing on the second level outside his glass office. He motioned with two fingers for Naeema to come upstairs, then turned before he could even see if she agreed and walked back in his office.

The men turned their conversation off Naeema's sudden reappearance while she stood up and made her way to the back of the shop to jog up the stairs.

"Look, I wouldn't give a damn how long it takes or how effed up the website was at first. I wanted in on Obamacare and my black, uninsured, sick of running up high-ass emergency room bills and fucking up my credit 'cause I don't pay those ER bills self, was patient as a motherfucker. Ya heard me?" one of the barbers said from behind her.

Naeema glanced back over her shoulder as the men, barbers and customers alike, all threw their opinions in the mix.

"Obama should have made sure there was a smooth roll-out-he gave the Republicans all the bullshit they needed to complain," someone said.

"Oh man, your ass. Y'all know damn well them Republicans paid somebody to mess that website up. Don't be a dumb-ass your whole life."

The voices rose up again.

Naeema laughed at the ruckus and knocked on the black door, which was already cracked open. She left it that way when she walked in. Derek was an ex-dope dealer turned legit businessman in his mid-thirties. He was married but he kept enough random women streaming in and out of the barber shop, liquor store, and hair care store he operated in the mini-mall that Naeema didn't trust his ass at all.

Especially since they'd fucked before.

It was years ago. He wasn't married yet or completely out of the dope game. She was just an eighteen-year-old self-taught barber cutting hair for the fellas in the neighborhood in between living life to the fullest. Her boyfriend at the time, a dude named Romeo, had talked her into getting her barber's license so she could eventually work in a shop and make more money than she got doing bootleg cuts. Derek had come to the school to recruit new barbers and she'd caught his wandering eye. When she peeped his whip and his fly gear, she forgot how ugly he was or that she had a boyfriend when he offered her a job as an apprentice . . . if she let him smash.

That was over ten years ago and she hated that she had a memory of how rough he fucked. Dick too big and thrusts too hard for that shit to be any good. Maybe he had finessed his sex game since then? Naeema didn't give a fuck either way.

"Hey, Derek."

He gave her a once-over before he dropped the pen he held onto his desk that was straight out of the 1990s. "Welcome back, Na," he said, leaning back in his chair.

His looks were hard to define. He straddled the line between ugly and cute. It all depended on where you stood when you looked at him and if your eyes were squinted. Like the old folks used to say: he was so ugly he was cute.

What earned him all the pussy was his money, his popularity in the hood, and his style. He stayed dressed nice, hair cut, jewelry in place, swagger in a thousand, and smelling good. The women-especially the young ones-loved it.

"Thanks . . . but you know only my husband calls me Na," she said.

He smiled. "Word on the street y'all not together," he said. "My bad."

She smiled too. "It's still his. Matter of fact he just got it last night," she said.

Derek's eyes dipped down to her pussy print in the leggings. "Damn," he swore under his breath in obvious envy.

They had an odd vibe. She knew he wanted to fuck. He knew she wasn't having it. In all the years since she worked at A Cut Above he never brought up that night she let him hit it from behind right in his office on the floor, before he even had a desk. Still, she knew he never forgot and wouldn't turn it down if she offered it to him funky. She also knew he kept her around because she was eye candy for the customers and she had a steady clientele of dudes wanting her to cut their hair. And probably give 'em some cut.

Again, not ego, just knowledge of the allure of a big ass for a black man.

"If you need that much time off again just let me know something first," he said, picking up his pen and giving his attention to the papers on his desk.

"You're right, Derek, I shoulda handled that better. I apologize," she said, then turned and left his office.

She gave him that respect because he gave her the respect of not telling any of the fellas in the shop that she had fucked to get put on. Even if it was so long ago, the knuckleheads wouldn't let it ride. Once a woman was classified as a ho there wasn't a damn thing she could do to change it.

She made her way back to her station, her eyes instantly glancing out the window to make sure her motorcycle was okay. Not that anybody would dare mess with it. There were too many fellas hanging outside the shop for one, and second, there wasn't too many fools looking to set Tank on their heels. He was well respected and well feared.

Tell him.

She stood behind the leather barber chair and rested her head in her hand as she peered out the window but didn't even notice the heavy traffic flowing back and forth up Hawthorne Avenue. She had no doubt in her mind that Tank could straight find out more info on Brandon's death than she could. But she also knew he didn't respect liars and she couldn't reveal to him that she kept such a huge part of her past a secret. Plus, she wanted to be the one to put in the work. It was her homage to her son.

No, I gotta do this on my own.

"Yo, Naeema. Check this out, right."

She released a heavy breath and turned to find Mone, one of the original barbers in the shop, handing her his iPhone 5s. Mone was tall, skinny, and high yellow. When he irked her nerves she was the first to tell him to get his banana-looking ass out of her face. "What's this?' she asked, taking the phone and reaching for a cloth to wipe away some of the sweat marks and crusty residue from the touch screen.

"Me and this little honey dip was tryna to do a little somethin' at her spot, right, and handlin' my BI. I look down and see this foul shit," he said, tapping his long slender fingers against the screen. "Was I wrong to bust one and jet?"

Naeema frowned and leaned back a little at the sight of her woman's ass covered with spots like she just sat there all day and busted blackheads on it.

"Ex-act-ly," Mone said at the sight of her face. "Fuck her. I got me and got the hell on."

The voices rose up. Another debate raged on. Barbershop politicking.

Naeema handed him the phone back. "She wrong . . . but you dead wrong for posing mid-stroke to take a picture of her ass. That's so disrespectful, Mone," she chastised him.

"Nah, those spots on her ass is mad disrespectful," he said, handing the phone to one of the customers sitting in the black leather chairs lining the front wall.

The dude nodded. "Yo, this is some disrespectful shit right here," he said.

"Ex-act-ly," Mone emphasized again.

"'Til Mone saw that shit he was in that nanni like 'Ooh . . . ooh kill 'em. Ooh,'" joked Fatz, a heavyset brown-skinned dude who'd just started cutting hair at the shop last year.

Naeema tossed the towel she still held at Fatz as he raised his arm and did the Cousin Terio dance. The entire shop broke out laughing.

"Please leave that shit in 2013," she said.

Damn near all the fellas jumped to their feet.

"Oooh, kill 'em," they said in unison as they did the dance.

Naeema started to get on them about it, but on the television she spotted the image of the bank the Make Money Crew robbed yesterday. "Turn that up," she said, her palms starting to sweat.

One of the customers stood up and turned up the volume.

"Police are still investigating the robbery of a South Orange bank early yesterday morning, but there are currently no leads. If you have any information leading to the identification of the four masked men pictured here, please contact Crimewatchers . . ."

Naeema's heart was racing like crazy and she felt like she might pee her damn self. There were moments in the last twenty-four hours that she got so comfortable, she forgot she'd helped robbed a bank. She ain't never been a snitch bitch, but the MMC would get no loyalty. The very first time the police rang her bell it was on.

"Yo, the cops always catch bank robbers. That's Fed time. You can't fuck with the Feds, everybody know that."

Naeema focused on the convo going down about the robbery as her stomach started to bubble with nerves.

"You only hear about the ones they catch. You think they bragging about the ones that got away?" one of the customers said.

"True," someone agreed.

Bas told them to lay low until he reached out to them but Naeema reached in her purse for her burner cell and called Vivica's phone number as she walked outside.

It went straight to voice mail.

"This Viv. Do what you do."

Naeema turned her back on the crowd of fellas lounging in front of the liquor store, some with paper bagcovered bottles of Hennessey and blunts already blazing in their hands.

"Hey, Vivica, this Queen," she said, changing her voice like she was chewing a piece of gum. "I see you called me yesterday but I . . . didn't know my phone was on silent. Hit me up when you get dis."

Ending the call and making sure her phone was closed, Naeema headed to the liquor store for a bag of pork rinds and a grape soda to feed her hunger before walking back to the shop. She motioned for one of the walk-ins to sit in her chair as she set the phone and her snack on the counter of her station.

Before she could dig into her rinds or even get the drape around her client's shoulders, the cell phone sounded off. She dug it out of her bag and rushed back outside. "Hell-o," she said.

"Whaddup, bitch," Vivica said.

"Nothin'. Whaddup with you?"

"Bored as hell. Red just left and I'm just sitting around here chillin'," she said with both a loud television and bass-driven music booming in the background. "Ride over here."

Naeema bit her lip and looked up as she pulled a lie from her ass. "I can't right now. I'm gettin' my hair done . . . in Bridgewater," she added in case Vivica tried to invite herself. She didn't have a car and the hour-long drive was not an option for her.

"Bridgewater?" she said. "Damn, black people really spreadin' out, huh?"

"Yup." Naeema turned and spotted her customer about to get up from the chair. "I gotta go but let's go out tonight."

"A'ight, call me when you leave there."

"A'ight." She hung up the phone before she rushed inside.

"I'm sorry, I had an emergency, but I'm ready now," she said, walking over to lightly press her hands against his shoulders and guide him back into the chair.

She forced herself to focus on the dude's fade and not on her schemes to flesh out her son's killer and to make sure no one was acting sheisty like they was about to rat out on the bank robbery. There wasn't a damn thing she could do to Brandon's killer from behind bars.

5.

"Queen, I think Red is cheating on me."

Naeema took a sip of her Crown Royal and Red Bull as she looked at Vivica over the rim of her glass at the bar of Club 973 in Newark. Not knowing what to say, she took another deep sip before she set her glass down. "What makes you think that?" she leaned in to ask as Kirko Bangz's "Drank in My Cup" played loudly around them in the dark club.

"He don't wanna fuck like he used to no more," Vivica said without any hesitation in telling all of her personal business.

Naeema wasn't a selfish and coldhearted chick but her goal in befriending Vivica was not to be the bearer of all her troubles . . . especially whether Red's crime-ridden ass was dipping out on her or not. She seriously could not give less of a fuck. Fighting not to roll her eyes and say as much, Naeema took another sip. "Girl, you trippin', Red loves your ass," she said, standing up. "Let's go dance and forget about all that crazy shit you dreamin' up."

But Vivica didn't rise. Instead she reached into her rhinestone-covered purse and pulled out her cell phone. She flipped her waist-length pink braids back over her shoulder before she pressed the phone to her ear.

Going forward with the eye roll, Naeema smoothed her hands over the skintight jeans she was wearing with sky-high bright pink heels and a white tank with FUN written in neon colors. Her Pocahontas wig was synthetic and making her scalp sweat and itch. She was more irritated than a motherfucker.

Reaching into her the small heart-shaped neon green chain bag, she pulled out her cell phone and checked the time with a swipe of the thumb across the screen. 12:30 a.m.

Shit, it's still early and she ain't talking 'bout shit I want to hear.

"You wanna leave now and go home to Red?" she asked, motioning for the bartender. If I'm gonna sit and listen to her ass whine all night, I have got to be fucked up.

"He somewhere with Bas." Vivica twirled the ends of one of her braids around her finger.

"I thought he say to lay low for a while?" Naeema asked, pretending to still be nonchalant.

"Not them two. They thick as thieves," Vivica said.

As Beyonce's "Drunk in Love" filled the air and women began singing along with the music, Naeema ordered two more Crown Royals and Red Bulls, sliding one in front of Vivica as she sipped from hers. She thought about her next words, trying not to trip up and say the wrong thing. "Bas wouldn't pull him away from you if it wasn't mad important," she said, meaning to sound gullible.

Vivica just shrugged. "Me, Bas, and Red go way back. He wouldn't do shit to hurt me," she said, then started to sway to the music as she raised one hand in the air.

Vivica was another loyal soldier in the Bas army.

"We woke up in the kitchen saying, 'How the hell did this shit happen' oh baby," she sang, motioning with her hands and dancing in her seat.

"You always been the only girl 'round them?" Naeema asked, trying to get her attention back.

Vivica nodded and took a sip of her drink. "Bas ain't fucking shit but that powder and his thug dreams . . . Hammer got way too many girlfriends, side-chicks, babymamas, and tricks to even think about picking one to chill. Nelson can't pull shit, let alone a bitch cute enough to bring around and not get clowned on. Brandon died before they even knew 'bout Brianna."

Naeema's heart pounded in her chest almost as loudly as the bass of the music around them. Brianna? She didn't remember that name anywhere in the file.

"How come you knew her and nobody else did?" she asked, raising her hand to tap her fingernail against her teeth as her mind worked a dozen different possibilities.