Gets No Love Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Gets no love

  A Nal Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2004 by Eric Pete

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 0-7865-5384-7

  A NAL BOOK®

  Nal Books first published by The Nal Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  NAL and the “N” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: November, 2004

  To my Uncle John . . . “Slim,” the closest thing I had to a father while growing up.

  Thanks.

  I know you’re driving around up there in your green

  Buick LeSabre listening to “I Heard It Through the

  Grapevine” on your 8-track. Drive on, man. Drive on.

  Through the good times and bad, know that you are loved and won’t be forgotten.

  1926–2004

  Acknowledgments

  God, we’ve been through a lot. Thanks for sticking by me and granting me the strength, imagination, and inspiration to do this.

  To Marsha and Chelsea, the reasons for the late hours and insane schedule I keep. The candles I burn on both ends, I burn for you, but know that you two are the lights atop them.

  To my mother, Edna, your baby boy is so happy to know you’re as proud of him as he is of you. I love you.

  To my agent Elaine Koster, thanks for helping me take things to the next level and, most important, thanks for the time and devotion. Kara Cesare (always enjoy our talks), Kara Welsh, Rose Hilliard, and the rest of the family at Penguin/NAL, thanks for welcoming me with open arms and for actually valuing my input. Now, let’s do this!

  To all my readers, old and new, who’ve been there with me from Real for Me and Someone’s in the Kitchen to this novel you hold in your hand today. I feel ya. Thanks for allowing me to share these wild, wacky stories. Also, thank you for showing up at those book signings, e-mailing me with your thoughts, or simply telling a friend about me.

  To my dear family and friends, especially those who’ve given this weary traveler shelter or assisted me on the road: Max Lallemand, Fabion Wilson, Norlin and Bernice Evans, Natalie Sparkman, John (Cochise) Jackson, Corey and Dana Streams, Dee and Raymond (Buh) Mitchel, Jerome and Kim Labbe’, Tommy Lemelle, Sherry and David Evans, Troy Rondeno, Angela Gandy, and my father, Earl (the man I get my middle name from). A man never knows how truly rich he is until he opens his eyes and looks around. Thank you.

  To the ghost readers, Shontea, Jacqueline, Carmel, Jamie, Jackie, Natalie, Tommy, and Nicole. I know you have busy schedules, but appreciate your taking the time to read and provide me with feedback and critiques.

  To my friends and fellow authors who have provided me with so much support and encouragement through the ups and downs we go through in this business: Karen E. Quinones Miller, Kim Roby, Earl Sewell, William Fredrick Cooper, Dwayne S. Joseph, Brenda L. Thomas, Victoria Christopher Murray, Trisha R. Thomas, Vincent Alexandria, Victor McGlothin, C. Kelly Robinson, Eric Jerome Dickey, Michael Baisden, Cherlyn Michaels, Alexus Rhone, Dionne Character, Lynn Emery, Nancey Flowers, and Timmothy B. McCann.

  Special thanks to: Lisa R. Cross, Tee C. Royal, Pam Walker-Williams, Mary Jones, Jan Emanuel, L. Peggy Hicks and the entire Tri-Com staff, my fellow Nubian Newsers, Cross The Network (Thanks for the incredible Web site!), JWP Studio (Awesome work, James!), Shonell Bacon, Lauretta Pierce, Cydney Rax, Kim Grant-Skinner, Sherri Sonnier, and Jaeyel Imes.

  To those in the media who gave my voice wings over the airwaves and in print: Monica Pierre, Lebron Joseph (LBJ), Kelder Summers, Harold Clark Jr., Wali Muhammad, Jackie Simien, Cynthia Arceneaux, Sheletta Smith, Jawn Murray, Gail Norris, Glenn Townes, Maxine Thompson, Donald Lee, Paul Turner, Justine Love, Janine Haydel, Don Tracy, Edmund W. Lewis, Alvin Romer, Thais Mills, Jose S. Gutierrez Jr., and Vernon Estes III.

  To my “neighbors” whom I’ve had the pleasure to work and play beside, thank you. Special thanks to Joe McGhee, Bob Finley, Jhay Davis, Yvette Richards, Walter Ennis, Clarence Bertrand, Grady Faucheaux, Tyrone James, Michelle Augillard, Dana Walter, Ron Williamson, Wayne Hill, and Charlene Hill.

  To all the book clubs that have given my books a home and to whom I owe so much for my success, thank you. Here are but a few: The Sistah Circle Book Club Inc., RAW Sistaz, Souls of Sisterhood, Sister-Friends, The G.R.I.T.S., Sistahs on the Reading Edge, APOOO, The Good Book Club, Circle of Friends, Voices Beyond the Pages, Sister to Sister, Mahogany Book Club, Lady Godiva Book Club, Sister Circle, Sirens, Black Women with Book (BWB), Sisters Sippin’ Tea, Barnes & Noble AA Book Club—Harvey, Louisiana. Also, I can’t forget the various clubs I met at the first annual National Book Club Conference. Wish I could mention each and every one of you, but know that you are all appreciated. Special shout-out to my “Fifth Amendment Crew.”

  To all the bookstores and booksellers, including but not limited to these: Black Images Book Bazaar, Afro-American Book-stop, Community Book Center, Nu-World of Books, Karibu Books, Zahra’s Books ’n Things, Montsho, Heritage Bookstore & More, Books for Thought, Pyramid Books, Medu Bookstore, Nubian Bookstore, CushCity.Com, TheBlackLibrary.com, Nubian Heritage, Janice Doctor, Shrine of the Black Madonna, Culture Plus, and A&B Books. I can’t leave off all the Borders bookstores that carried my novel Someone’s in the Kitchen from coast to coast as well as every Waldenbooks, B. Dalton, and Barnes & Noble that has welcomed me to do signings around the country.

  Of course, to all the beauty and barber shops that talked about my works and helped spread word of them, thanks. Lawd, if I could hear some of those conversations! Rhonda Mullins, Sean Lewis, Zelika Russell, Sharon Jarvis, Lisha Vining, Linda Crosby, and Lisa Jones—you know I have to give it up to all of you.

  If I missed anyone, it wasn’t intentional. Now it’s time to get back to work on my next creation. Shhhh. Quiet. Mad scientist at work.

  “Can’t stop. Won’t stop. Believe that.”—Eric

  1

  Now

  The smell of gunpowder burned my nostrils while I tried to stop the bleeding. “Shhhh. Don’t worry. I got you,” I whispered as tears streamed down my face. I didn’t know if my words were being heard, but it didn’t matter. Saying them was all I could do to make myself feel sane at the moment. The sirens were getting closer, but the screams from everyone in the park drowned them out as the reality of what had just occurred set in. Some people wouldn’t be going home from today’s picnic. A Saturday, of all days.

  “Nooooooo! Please, Lord! No! Not another one!” It was Mrs. Dumas’ familiar, crackly voice screaming frantically. I pulled myself out from my haze to watch her slowly inch herself out from under the large limp body that draped her.

  “Lance?” The woman I held gasped. Her voice was faint.

  “Yeah. I’m here.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  “No,” I replied, looking down into her vacant eyes and at my shaking bloodstained hands. “I
won’t let it happen.”

  “Y-you can’t always save everyone, Lance.”

  “I know,” I said, glancing around at my many failures. One, in particular, would go down as my greatest failure. His eyes, finally at peace, were still open and boring into my soul as Mrs. Dumas cradled him to her bosom.

  “Rest in peace, dear friend,” I mouthed silently.

  2

  Then

  “Your shot, Negro,” Akhet said while tapping the table with his stick. I had been deep in thought and had missed my boy blowing a chance to take my money again. Akhet is always a better shot at pool, but I still continue to humor him and try to put up a fight.

  “I know.” I had solids and all but one of my balls were still on the table.

  “Still thinking about Valerie, huh?”

  “Nope.”

  “Boy, why you always lyin’ when it comes to that chickenhead? You need to getcha mind right.”

  Akhet has been my best friend since our stupid years in and out of juvi together. I was just another hardhead growing up in the Ninth Ward section of town and always breaking into something or getting popped for possession of stolen merchandise. Akhet was a little harder. Being the baller he wanted to be, Akhet didn’t get his life on track until going through a little boot camp program the city of New Orleans had set up. Akhet kept his edge though when he got out, but now had some focus in his life. No more drug dealing for him. From the days of rappers like Rakim, my boy always had some rhyming skills, so he watched the trend being set by brothers in the N.O. like DJ Jubilee, Gregory D., Manny Fresh, and, later, Master P., and decided to try that life for a change. Akhet, or AK as his fans knew him, was on the come-up. AK’s six-three, built-like-a-tank frame, high yellow complexion, and thug appeal had pantydroppers from legal to illegal age lining up to hear him spit that fire.

  “Watch your mouth, AK,” I said in a stern voice. “That’s my—”

  “Your what?” he laughed. “I know you weren’t going to say ‘fiancée.’ She’s the one who called the wedding off, remember? You know how much I shelled out for that tux, bruh? Man, she hurt me and you that day.”

  “You don’t know when to stop, huh?” I chuckled.

  “Nope. Can’t stop. Won’t stop. Believe that.” He smiled back before giving me a pound across the pool table. Akhet’s familiar RIP tattoo on his forearm jumped out in its dark markings.

  “Any new tats?”

  “No. The last ones I got on my belly hurt like hell. Why? You ready to quit being a virgin and go down to Willie’s for yours?”

  “Nah, bruh,” I answered as I knocked the green ball in the left corner pocket.

  “Oh. I forgot. You livin’ the clean life now ’n shit. How come you never got one back in the day?”

  I replied, as I knocked another solid ball down, “ ’Cause my momma would’ve kicked my ass even more than she did for my regular fuck-ups.”

  “Fo’ sho, fo’ sho!” Akhet laughed in his usual burly manner.

  I did my share of dirt back in my time, but my mother was always there to try to guide me right. The same as many sisters in New Orleans these days, she had me too young, so she didn’t have all the answers, but she wasn’t afraid to try to get them. Hell, I didn’t even find out how I got my name until one of my last convictions. I was fifteen.

  While off the streets, I had turned to reading to pass the time and found that I loved it. It was during one of my library runs that I found a book on King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. See, there was this dude in there named Lancelot. He was like the most noble and pure of all the knights . . . and he could kick ass. My mother didn’t read the book, but she did see the movie one night while pregnant with me. She had such high hopes for me before I came into the world and all I had been doing was pissing it all away. I never told anybody my full name, but did try to live up to it and my mother’s vision for me once I was released.

  I went to school at night and earned my GED while working odd jobs for HANO, the Housing Authority of New Orleans, during the day. I distanced myself from my so-called friends who still wanted that fast, shoot-’em-up life, and I continued reading and expanding my horizons beyond the limits my environment tried to place on me. A knight wouldn’t settle for less.

  It looked like I was going to win some of my money back, as I was on a roll this night. Just the eight ball was left for me to sink. Akhet tried to act nonchalant as he blew cigarette smoke out his mouth and back into his nose, but he hated to lose. I was moving the pool cue back and setting up.

  “Take me home, Lance.”

  “Shit!” The white ball hopped across the table and almost fell to the floor.

  “Ha! Ha! Yeah, nigga!” AK laughed as I missed my shot. “Time to finish this shit.”

  Right in front of my view, and just behind the eight ball, had stepped trouble on two of the finest legs to ever walk this planet.

  “Did you hear me, Lance?” she asked in an indignant tone.

  “Damn, girl! You know you just cost me the game.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Kyne,” Akhet snickered as he killed his shot and took my money once again. “My boy’s mind wasn’t on the game anyway.”

  Kyne Wiltz was back in town and chose a poor moment to announce it to me. The five-four product of a Puerto Rican mom from the Bronx and a Creole dad from New Orleans was hated by most women. She didn’t particularly care. Her dark hair, which matched her black knee-length dress, was cut short this time and hugged the crisp lines of her face and almost-Asian eyes. Around her neck was a gold Nefertiti pendant, her favorite charm.

  “You didn’t drive here?” I asked, trying to ignore how good she looked.

  “If I did . . . I wouldn’t be asking you to take me home, now would I?”

  “No ‘Hello, Lance. How ya doin’, Lance’?”

  “Hello. Now take me home.”

  For what seemed like an eternity, I looked into those eyes, trying to figure out my friend Kyne this evening. When we first met on a weekend flight to Atlanta years ago, something just clicked. We were both single at the time and playing the field. I was on my way to meet a ladyfriend and she was on her own personal creep. We met up again at the terminal on the return flight and chatted over some bad airport food. There was some chemistry, but more than that there was a feeling of mutual respect. Things stayed less complicated with Kyne than with most women I encountered, so it worked.

  “Better listen to the lady, bruh. You don’t want to lose any more money tonight.” Akhet waved the wad of twenties in my face for emphasis.

  “It’s been a long day,” I sighed. “Holler at me tomorrow?”

  “Fo’ sho, fo’ sho.” Akhet was already looking through the smoke-filled place for his next victim at the table. “Bye y’all!”

  I escorted the overdressed Kyne past the pool tables in back and through the crowd of people that was moving toward the dance floor in the center of the small bar that we affectionately called The Hole. Hips were gyrating and bodies were swaying to “Happy Feelings” by New Orleans’ adopted sons Frankie Beverly and Maze, and I wanted to be right out there along with those bodies. I looked back when I thought I heard somebody call out to me over the music, but I didn’t know the cat.

  The night air had turned chilly and I could see Kyne’s nipples poking out from under her dress like two cherries on tasty scoops of ice cream.

  “Damn,” I said unintentionally.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It turned cold quick, s’all.”

  “Where’s your car at?”

  “Right there,” I replied, pointing to my Honda Accord parked next to the sidewalk.

  “What happened to your Cutlass?”

  “It died on me last year. If you’d been around, you’d know.”

  “I knew you missed me,” she giggled as I opened her door for her. I hated it when she was right.

  “Leavin’ in a hurry, ain’t ya, son?”

  “Son?” I answered, as I spun around
in one move. My instincts were still of the street. The guy who had hollered at me inside was now outside. His smile showed a trace of gold from beneath his curled lip.

  “Angie, why you leavin’ so soon?” Oh, now he wanted to just ignore my ass and look through me to Kyne.

  “Who’s Angie?” I asked her, already knowing the answer, while keeping my eye on trouble.

  “I told him that was my name,” she whispered in my ear from behind me. The sweet warmth of her breath felt good.

  “Look, whatever her name is. Your friend owes me for the drink I bought.”

  “No one made you buy that drink!” Kyne snapped. “I told you I didn’t want to be bothered anyway.”

  “Bruh,” I said, cutting her off, “why don’t you go back inside and have a good time. Alright?”

  “I ain’t your brother,” he said coldly, as he slipped into his less cordial true self. I was looking at myself ten years ago, but with more bad turns. “And that bitch ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  I was about to beat his young ass down when Kyne whispered, “Behind you.”

  The steps gave him away. I moved Kyne behind me and turned sideways so I could see both of them. His friend was bigger and uglier. Something was wrapped around his hand.

  “Get in the car,” I said to Kyne without moving my mouth. She began to slowly open the car door and slide herself in. The big guy charged first on his friend’s cue, just like I thought he would. He was the first one to go down. The leader of the two was on me before I could get my balance and slammed me back against my car. I could hear Kyne inside shriek at the impact. My kidneys banged into the car door mirror, causing me to cringe in pain. I got an elbow free and hit him upside his head, slowing him down enough for me to punch him square in his eye. I was already winded and regretted giving up my morning jogs. I had to split my attention to kick the big one right as he was getting back up. When I tried to turn back this time, I was staring down the muzzle of a gun.