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most expensive suite at the Magnificent Mile’s most lavish hotel, yet somehow Kisha managed to keep me entranced more than the room’s panoramic views. Her sensuous walk held me spellbound. She sauntered the way I imagined an angel would, a perfectly imperfect angel of African descent.
    Needl ess to say, I struggled with an early morning erection while devouring the warm breakfast. Suddenly I was glad that I had gotten away with the cash and drugs. Kisha had started dancing at Arnie’s shortly before that horrible day last week, and thanks to the money, she hadn’t danced there since; which was indeed good because I hated having a stripper girlfriend. I wanted to be the provider, the man, the pants-wearing bread-winner. And now I was just that.
    I finished eating, took a shower, and put on the black Tom Ford suit Kisha had rented for me to wear to the funeral. She had my blunt ready and my tie in hand when I stepped out of the bathroom.
    “Scrilla and his cousin Rose just got here with Shay,” she said, slinging the black silk tie around my neck. “Rose wants a whole brick this time, and I think your brother said he wants another one.”
    “Fuck you mean you think he said that?”
    “I couldn’t really hear him with his lips glued to Shay’s neck. They probably ran a train on her last night.” Kisha twisted her face in disgust as she pushed the blunt between my lips. “No more threesomes with her. Ugh.”
    I smiled and filled my palms with her soft derriere. “You love me?” I asked, gazing into her sweet brown eyes as she lit the blunt.
    “I’ll love you when I get a ring,” she retorted. “Till then, I’ll only like you sometimes. Is that good enough?”
    “As long as till then you keep bringin’ me some new pussy sometimes, I ain’t got no issue with that.”
    “You tryna get slapped?”
    “I love you, Kisha.”
    “That ain’t what I asked—” she started, but I lifted her by the waist and playfully tossed her onto the large white-blanketed bed. She giggled merrily, and for a moment I contemplated getting a taste of her juicy womanhood. But then Scrilla and Rose walked in.
    Unlike Scrilla, who was brown-skinned, short and a little chubby, Rose was dark and taller, with an athletic frame and an ice cube chilling behind each of his eyeballs. They were swagged out in True Religion blue jeans and Gucci everything else. Scrilla had a big white McDonald’s bag folded over in one hand.
    “Why y’all ain’t dressed for the funeral?” I asked as I crossed the room to a white easy chair. My Mauri shoes were standing atop my two thousand dollar Louis Vuitton suitcase next to the chair. Kisha’s black Valentino dress was draped over the arm of the chair beneath my box of Gucci cologne.
    On the seat of the chair was my new 9mm Glock, fully-equipped with red laser sighting and a 50-round SGM drum magazine.
    “Nigga, we is dressed,” Scrilla said. “I’m goin’ G’d up to folks’ funeral.”
    “Straight up, G-ball,” Rose added, typing something on his iPhone 5.
    Simultaneously, I picked up the Glock, lit the blunt, and threw Kisha her dress. She caught it and put it on quickly… and I caught Scrilla and Rose staring at her as she shimmied into the dress.
    “You should wear something respectable for the old man,” I said to Scrilla. I sat down in the chair and put the Glock on my lap, studying Scrilla and Rose’s expressions.
    I sensed bad news.
    Scrilla opened the McDonald’s bag and canted it toward me. It was filled with rubber-banded stacks of cash.
    “You bring the slabs?” He asked.
    “I told you last night I had ‘em with me. Is that sixty racks?” I sucked in a bunch of smoke. Kisha squatted in front of me and started stuffing my feet into the gator-skin Mauris.
    “Yeah, it’s sixty. Counted it twice,” Scrilla said. He laid the bag on the foot of the bed and sighed. “Man, lil bruh… we don’t think you should go to the funeral. Shit might pop off if some Vice Lords