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“I wonder where the hell he was at to have all these singles anyhow.”
    “Probably the strip club,” Jada commented.
    “And speaking of whereabouts, where have you been?” Ms. Pat looked at Jada over the rims of her bifocals.
    “Oh, I told you me and the girls were going out for drinks,” Jada said innocently.
    Ms. Pat stopped her ironing and looked at her granddaughter seriously. “Girl, that was two days ago, so don’t come in here calling yourself being cute. Now I’ve been in here chasing behind your bad-ass kids and I done missed out on I don’t know how much money because your wayward ass is hindering my movements.”
    “Sorry, Grandma.”
    “Sorry is a dog with three broken legs trying to crawl to a cool drink of water on a hot day. You’re just trifling.” Ms. Pat waggled the iron in her direction as she spoke. “Now you done had your fun so I think you best tend to your business before you try to pull another disappearing act.” Ms. Pat went back to ironing the damp bill.
    “Grandma, why don’t you stop acting like that, you know I be making moves,” Jada said, pulling the wrapper off another lollipop and sticking it in her mouth.
    “Moves, my ass, I hope that lollipop was the only thing you were sucking on while you were out in them streets.” Ms. Pat thought on it for a second. “As a matter of fact, don’t even answer that. And while you’re in the move-making mood, why don’t you move your ass around the house and clean up after them kids of yours?”
    “A’ight, Grandma.” Jada waved her off.
    There was a soft knocking on the door, two quick taps then a dead slap. Ms. Pat expelled the smoke through her nose and twistedher lips. Mumbling under her breath she put the iron down and shuffled to the door, pausing to check the small derringer she kept in the pocket of her floral duster. Pushing her glasses up on her forehead she peered through the peephole to see who it was before undoing the multiple locks on the door. Ms. Pat snatched the door open and immediately tore into the young man standing on the other side.
    “What you knocking on this door for, lil nigga?” She tapped her foot impatiently waiting for him to answer.
    “Ah, how you doing, Ms. Pat? I . . . ah,” the boy stammered.
    “What is that some new slang that y’all kicking these days? Speak English, boy. What the hell you want?”
    The boy looked around cautiously before whispering, “I came to get some smoke.”
    Ms. Pat’s eyes went wide. She peered down the hallways in both directions before snatching the boy by the front of his jacket and pulling him into the apartment. Ms. Pat shoved him against the wall and began patting the frightened boy down while Jada looked on in amusement. “You the police or something?” She ran her hands along his thighs, grazing his testicles one time too many.
    “No, ma’am,” the boy said, looking at Ms. Pat as if she’d lost it.
    “Well, if you ain’t the police then you must be a fool because everybody knows Ms. Pat don’t sell weed, I sell advice. I got
kind words
for five dollars,
sound advice
for ten, and a
good talking to
for twenty. Now if you’re really in need of help then you may be interested in the Ms. Pat special, where every half hour starts at fifty dollars.” Ms. Pat was talking so fast that the boy looked baffled. “What are you special? What you need, boy?”
    “Ah, I’ll take some sound advice,” he said, holding out a twenty-dollar bill.
    “Bet.” Ms. Pat snatched the money from him. She reached into her duster and gave the boy a ten-dollar bag of weed and a five-dollar bag. “Check it out, young’n, since I’m just opening up shop, I’ll giveyou some sound advice, throw in that kind word and a box of slow death for the twenty and we square,” she offered.
    “That works,” the boy said eagerly. He’d only intended on spending ten dollars with Ms. Pat, but with cigarettes being almost ten dollars in the store he couldn’t pass up the