The Banks Sisters 3 Read online

  Damn. She’d been so focus on finishing up the car that she’d almost forgotten that it was Sunday morning.

  “Hello, Mom.”

  “Praise the Lord, doll baby. This is the Lord’s day, so let’s be happy and rejoice in it.”

  Every Sunday morning Rydah had breakfast with her parents and faithfully attended her father’s church. She said, “God is good.”

  “I’m making your favorite for breakfast, strawberry pancakes with that special whipped cream you like.”

  “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best,” Rydah said as she shut the hood on the car. It went down louder than she would have liked it to.

  “Baby, are you still at that shop working on that car?”

  “Busted. But I’m just about done with it now. I have a few more little things to do that will take no more than an hour.”

  “Well, baby, this is the Lord’s day, and you need to be praising and thanking Him that it was only the car that was hit and not you. You know God is such a faithful God.”

  “I know, Mom.” She respectfully changed the subject before the sermon began. “I’ll be out the door in a second. I’m going to run home to take a shower and grab some clothes, and I’ll be there by the time you finish making breakfast. I can do my hair, makeup, and get dressed for church over there.”

  “Sounds divine,” her mother said. “I’ll see you shortly then, sweetheart.”

  Rydah was the only God-begotten child of Evangelist Amanda and Pastor Maestro Banks, and they thanked the Lord every day for blessing them with her. Amanda and Maestro married 48 years ago. For nearly the first two decades, they had tried to give birth to a child, but it just wasn’t to be. What a struggle it was for them, as people of such strong faith, to stand before the church and tell the people of God that they can have all the desires of their heart if they just ask God. Well, God knows they had been asking, and yet they kept witnessing the gospel and standing steadfast of God’s promises. Then, on their twentieth anniversary, God blessed them with Rydah. Maestro loved the testimony.

  “God doesn’t always give you what you want when you want it, but he’s always on time,” her father would say. He’d been preaching the gospel for years, talking to his congregation about trusting God and asking and seeking to receive the desires of the heart. All the while God had yet to bless him and Amanda with a child. Back then, his faith had been tested and was getting weary. But Maestro knew that he and his wife had to be steadfast in God’s words and trust him.

  Miraculously, on the morning of their 20th anniversary—which happened to be on Easter Sunday—the phone rang. Maestro’s mother was on the other end. His mother, Gladys, explained that her sister’s daughter Deidra was en route to the hospital to give birth to a bastard baby that she couldn’t take care of. Gladys said that Deidra would allow them to have the baby for $10,000.

  Maestro was skeptical. He was desperate to be a father, but he didn’t want to do anything that would put his faith in question. He asked, “Will my name be on the birth certificate?”

  Gladys said, “If you hurry.”

  Maestro drove his 1988 Bentley to the Miami International Airport, and three hours after the phone call, he and Amanda were on a flight from the Sunshine State to Richtown, VA. The entire time, Maestro, who was a man’s man, secretly asked God for a boy, but as long as the child was healthy, he swore that he would be grateful. He got the latter, a healthy baby girl.

  Deidra was not only an unfit mother, but she was also an opportunist. When she saw how well-to-do Maestro and Amanda seemed to be, she had a whole new set of demands: “I want twenty thousand for my baby. Twenty thousand. Not an iron dime less. And I get to name her,” she said. “Or no deal.”

  It was two times the amount they had agreed upon. Maestro had no problem coming up with the extra cash, but he was set on giving the child a biblical name. “We’ve been thinking about the name Hannah,” he said.

  Amanda, soft-spoken with warm eyes, said, “It’s from the Bible.” In case Deidra didn’t know.

  Deidra nearly exploded. She yelled from the hospital bed, “Hell no! Fuck no! No goddamn Bible fucking names for my seed! I suppose you want to turn the child into a fucking nun, too.”

  Gladys, Maestro’s mother, felt badly about the confusion Deidra was causing. As a compromise, she said, “What about Madison?” Madison was a nice wholesome name, and it wasn’t from the Bible.

  Deidra sucked her teeth. “’Manda, Maestro, and Madison. Oh, what a happy fucking family that will be.” There was brief silence, and before anyone else could speak, Deidra said, “I think fuckingggg not!”

  Deidra’s mother was also in the hospital. Me-Ma was a God-fearing woman herself and never really saw eye to eye with Deidra, but it was her only daughter. Deidra’s behavior at the hospital embarrassed Me-Ma. She’d always tried to be understanding and loving of Deidra, but there was no way to understand Deidra’s outlandish actions and inexcusable behavior. Deidra continued to show that the only thing the two had in common was their blood. And if Me-Ma hadn’t pushed the heifer out herself, she would have questioned that. But for the sake of her sister Gladys and her nephew, Maestro, Me-Ma tried to intervene.

  “Deidra, honey, it’s bad enough that you are insisting that our own flesh and blood pay you for taking on a child that you spread your legs to have, and now don’t want, but now—”

  Deidra was like a child spawned from Satan himself. She cut her mother off with a harsh look before she could verbalize the rest of her thoughts. “You have nothing to do with this, Mother. None whatsoever! This is my business and my decision.” To Maestro, Deidra said, “It’s my way or no way and you can hit the highway.”

  Amanda and Maestro looked at each other. Maestro’s eyes were saying What should I do? while Amanda’s eyes conveyed the message, You better not fuck this up. Do whatever she says. Let’s just get our baby and get the fuck outta here.

  It took almost everything Maestro had in him to swallow his pride. He told Deidra, “Okay. We’ll do this on your terms. What name did you have in mind?”

  “That’s what I fucking thought,” Deidra stated arrogantly. She didn’t have an ounce of humility in her selfish body. She didn’t even know what the word meant. “Tell me, where did you guys come from?”

  Maestro thought: What does that have to do with anything? But he answered, “Hollywood. Hollywood, Florida.”

  No one said anything for at least five minutes.

  Then Deidra pierced the bubble. “Her name will be Rydah.” No one had a clue as to how she came up with the name Rider, but no one dared question it. “Spell it: R-Y-D-A-H.”

  Maestro said nothing, though he thought it was a ridiculous name. He quietly prayed that God would let this blessing of their baby go through.

  Amanda, not wanting to rock this crazy lady’s boat anymore than it was already, said, “Oh my goodness. I love it.”

  Deidra took a sip of water, piercing her eyes at Amanda, knowing good and well that Amanda couldn’t love it.

  “What a beautiful Rydah she will be,” Amanda said.

  “Don’t play mind games with me, you fucking homely church lady.”

  Had it been years ago, Amanda would’ve mopped the floor with Deidra, but God had her heart and conscience these days. “Honey, I love the name, and I know this little beautiful girl will be a trailblazer and such a blessing to us. We thank you and appreciate you,” Amanda said, as nobly and humbly as she could.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “Now give me my motherfucking cash and take the little bitch with you before I change my mind.”

  “Oh, my!” Maestro’s mother said.

  Amanda shot her mother-in-law a look that said, Please don’t piss this girl off. Nobody wanted a child more than Amanda.

  When Maestro wrote the check, Amanda saw demons and dollar signs in Deidra’s eyes, and he took full advantage. He signed the check and looked up. “Let us first pray, and then get this birth certificate signed.”

  Deidra st
arted to spit some disrespectful venom out of her mouth, but she realized that the check wasn’t yet in her hand. “Make this prayer bullshit quick,” she said under her breath.

  Maestro let God lead him in a long prayer.

  Not a second after the Amen came, Deidra said, “Okay, enough of all this bullshit. Run me my motherfucking money, because all of this prayer and Saviour bullshit going to seriously make me change my motherfucking mind.”

  After Maestro and Amanda took the baby, the first second they were alone with their bundle of joy, they prayed the blood of Jesus over her. Regardless of how they’d gotten her, they both knew that Rydah belonged to them.

  * * *

  This morning, church was wonderful, and Rydah enjoyed spending this time with her parents. It was their family ritual; she’d always eat breakfast with them on Sunday morning, attend church, and then have an early dinner. And no matter how old she got—she was 28 now—her parents still felt blessed to have Rydah as their daughter.

  Rydah felt the same way about them. Although they weren’t her biological parents, she inherited parts of each of them. Rydah learned to appreciate nice things and everything about being a lady from Amanda. Amanda sometimes wished that Rydah was a little more conservative, but she loved the fact that her daughter was more edgy than she ever dared to be, with a twist of class and pizazz.

  Growing up, her father took her everywhere with him. Fishing. Ball games. But she especially liked spending time in the garage with her dad, where he tinkered with his cars and built things. That’s where she got her passion for rebuilding cars.

  Her parents poured every ounce of love they had into her and, in her own way, she made them proud.

  Amanda, in her late sixties now, had aged well. If she was the example, the saying was true: “Black don’t crack.” She was a silver fox.

  The lecture that her mother was giving fell on deaf ears, but she pretended like she heard them, and she knew what she had to say to shut her mother up.

  “Mommy, I know you disapprove of me going to the club and hanging out, but God protects me. He always has me in His keeping care. And though I wish it were, my work isn’t in the church. It’s in the streets, and it’s in the trenches. I’m looking for the lost, the hurt, the confused, the broken-hearted. And some are, but most of the lost souls are not in the church already. The bewildered in the wilderness.”

  “Come on now, tell it, baby.” Her father egged her on like the members of his congregation did to him. Though her way of doing God’s work was unconventional, he was proud that she was there for the young people who didn’t know their way to God to point them in the right the direction.

  “Those are the ones who need me, and it’s up to me to be in these streets and trenches to lead and bring them to church, and then it’s up to you all in the church to welcome them with open arms and to save them.” Then she looked up at her mother. “Mommy, sorry I’m just not the traditional preacher’s kid, that I don’t dress like them or pretend to be something I’m not, but one thing’s for sure: This heart of mine is pure.”

  Rydah’s speech made her father smile. “That’s right, baby.”

  “God sees all and knows my heart.”

  Amanda heard her daughter and knew she was preaching the truth. “Well, I just want you to be careful, and Pastor, let’s pray over our baby girl for protection and wisdom while she’s out in the trenches doing God’s work and to save his people.”

  After praying with her parents, it was time for her to head home to chill out, get some rest, and get ready for work in the morning. Her parents walked her outside to a beautiful purple custom El Camino. Of course, Rydah had done all the work herself.

  “Baby girl, this right here is your God-given talent.” Her father shook his head in admiration. “What year is it?” he asked, walking around the beautifully crated piece of machinery. “Lord, have mercy. Umph, umph, umph.” Maestro and his daughter shared the same deep passion and love for cars.

  Rydah, proud of her handiwork, said, “It’s an eighty-eight.”

  Even if he tried, Maestro wouldn’t have been able to keep the smile out of his eyes as he nodded his approval. “Is there a particular reason you chose an eighty-eight to restore?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Eighty-eight was the best year,” Rydah said. Finding one had been a lot of work, almost as difficult as rebuilding it.

  “You got that right,” Maestro agreed.

  “That’s the year God delivered you to us,” Amanda said, intervening into the subliminal car chat of the two people she loved most in the world. “A blessed year indeed.” Amanda gave her only daughter a hug. Rydah squeezed her back.

  Like she did every single Sunday, her mother gave her a reusable grocery bag filled with plastic containers—more food than Rydah could consume alone. Thank God she didn’t have to. Wolfe always stopped by on Sundays for some of her mother’s “gourmet leftovers,” as Wolfe called them. Rydah was no stranger in the kitchen, but there was no way she could compete with her mom in that arena. She didn’t even attempt to try.

  “Amen to that.” Rydah tossed the keys to the El Camino to her father to crank it. The engine roared to life. Vrrrooommm!

  “Music to my ears,” he said. “Where’s the Lamborghini?”

  “I’m not finished touching up the paint,” she said. “Couldn’t miss our Sunday ritual, so I will finish it up tomorrow after work.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes. She never cared for the expensive yellow sports car. She thought it was too flashy. Besides, the car had a bad omen about it, she thought. One week, the electrical systems went out on her for no apparent reason. The police stopped her for no reason. And then she was side-swiped by a runaway tank driven by a woman high off of pig’s feet.

  “I think you should get rid of that car,” said Amanda. “It’s just not good for you.”

  “I’m going to get out of here and get ready for work.” Rydah knew exactly where this was going, and she wasn’t going to in that direction with her mother.

  Though Amanda believed in God, she still had always been superstitious about “signs,” and Rydah had learned long ago not to argue with her when they disagreed with one of her omens, auspicious or otherwise.

  “Get rid of that car, baby girl. I know you could get good money for it.”

  “Call you once I get home, Mommy! I love you, Daddy!”

  Chapter 4

  Wheels Up, Guns Down

  Miami

  Li’l Kim’s epic “Not Tonight” blared from the newly installed 1,300-watt stereo that included two shallow 10-inch subwoofers and a complimentary compact class-D amp neatly installed in the bulkhead behind the seats. It was a tight fit, but Rydah fabricated the installation herself. She’d done a total modification of the stock factory system in.

  Tell him I’ll be back, go fuck with some other cats

  Flirtin’, gettin’ numbers in the summer ho hop

  Raw top in my man’s drop . . .

  Bass hit like a rhythmic explosion as Rydah, along with an army of bikers and hot rods, maneuvered through the holiday-weekend traffic. It was epic.

  The Fox Channel 7 news helicopter hovered above the swarm of bikers, broadcasting live. They’d come from all over the country for this: Cali, Baltimore, Richmond, and D.C. were just the tip of the iceberg. The visual could have easily been mistaken for a scene from a summer box-office action movie. For some, the MLK ride was a beautiful sight to behold, while others thought the bikers were a menace to the public roads. Perspective was determined by position. But there was one thing that everyone agreed on: the scene was buck wild.

  There was nothing that the police could do about it. The law was clear. Law enforcement weren’t allowed to chase the riders through the streets of Miami, and the riders weren’t inclined to stop and talk. They came to ride, and that’s what they did.

  Two of Rydah’s cousins, Ronnie and Floyd, flew in from Baltimore to participate in the festivities. They paid a friend to dri
ve their bikes down a day in advance on an enclosed trailer. They would’ve driven the trailer themselves, but Ronnie, the younger and the flashier of the two, was a self-proclaimed boss and, according to him, “bosses must floss.”

  The event was billed to promote non-violence and was cleverly coined “Wheels Up, Guns Down.” No one was sure exactly who came up with the slogan, but it stuck like cheese grits to a hot skillet.

  This was Rydah’s type of hype. Her toys were up to par and, if faced with a choice, Rydah preferred breathing the exhaust of a finely tuned engine than smoking a blunt. Any day. The decision wouldn’t have been close. Having the opportunity to share the fun with her cousins, who she hadn’t seen since they were kids, made it all the more fun. She was down like four flat tires.

  Rydah popped the Lamborghini’s clutch, dropped the leather gearshift into place, and mashed the gas pedal. Seamlessly, the transmission of the Italian-crafted machinery slipped into third gear, spinning the wheels and snapping her head back as it rocketed forward. She weaved in and out of the traffic like a seasoned pro as bikers among bikers were popping no-hand wheelies, spinning doughnuts, standing on the seats, and at least a dozen other dangerous stunts. She stopped the ongoing traffic so that the three hundred street motorbikes and four-wheelers could have the space to show off.

  With the eye in the sky watching down on them, it was open season. Cousin Ronnie threw the front wheel of his Ducati in the air. One foot was on the seat, while the other was on the handlebars. He nailed the trick for two blocks before putting it down.

  Damn. Rydah had no idea that her little cousin could ride so well. She was impressed with his skills.

  Watching the bikers brazenly display their talents, risking life and limb, got Rydah’s juices flowing. Her need for speed and love of motor vehicles ran deep, and the countless crazy colors and engine sizes of the bikes zipping around got her wet between the legs. Rydah was in her element. She was where she loved and wanted to be.