Whodunit

Chapter 1

Every good 'hood had a candy lady. The best candy ladies had everything the neighborhood corner store had like Frooties and Hot Cheeto nachos but for half the price. The even better candy ladies offered Kool-Aid, freeze cups, Black & Mild singles for 50 cents, and other goodies you couldn't get just anywhere. Yet, the realest candy ladies sold more than kiddie snacks off the front porch.

"Who is it?" Pelican Quarter's very own candy lady, Miss Tamalyn "Tammy" Jackson, barked as someone banged on her metal, screen door like the DEA coming to search her house with a fresh warrant. Pounding as if they were going to knock down the door whether she let them in or not.

"Bugsy," a voice not even strong enough to startle a shy puppy replied. "You got that yeah?"

"What's the secret code?" Tammy asked.

"Man—"

"Code or leave."

Bugsy's sigh passed through the screen and the wooden door behind it into Tammy's living room. The television was muted on The Steve Wilkos Show—an episode she'd seen before, and she hated reruns. Plus, this episode had to do with family predators, something she knew about all too well, and she'd rather not face the music. Reminders dug deep into emotions her mind forbade.

"Candy lady, candy lady, candy lady, candy lady, candy lady."

Tammy smirked at the floor, still amused by the fact that the neighborhood youngsters actually put up with her silly rule for buying drugs. The idea of being a local villainous akin to the murderous Candyman, gave her the aggression and confidence she needed to brave selling drugs in an area where violent gangbangers thrived. New Orleans was her home, but that didn't stop her from being afraid of living there. People didn't live in New Orleans. They survived in New Orleans. Over her thirty-four years, she'd learned to think home is where the heart and the gun is. Though if you were smart, your gun stay strapped on you at all times.

Tammy stood from the plastic covered sofa, holding her cracking back as she did, and walked over to open the door in what she called her pimp robe. The long, purple fabric reminded her of royalty and the fur trim around the collar, sleeves, and train resembled the style of someone who demanded respect. She usually sported a black, body-hugging slip dress underneath with fur slippers to match.

Through the metal door, she examined the boy as he held up his sagging pants and tugged on the bandana tied around his wrist. "What you want?"

"Give me a gram and a couple percs," he rushed, holding out a twenty-dollar bill.

Tammy folded her arms and pursed her blackened lips before snatching the cash. "Boy, what you need percs for?"

Bugsy winced and looked to the shattered flowerpot near the door. "Got jumped the other day. Been hurting ever since."

Tammy visibly held back a laugh and turned to grab his requests. "Better soak in some Epsom salt and a ice bath!" she screamed back at him, her creole accent thick with unhinged delight.

She rumbled through her stash and popped a couple of Percocets out of a pill bottle into a small, Ziploc bag. Then, she measured out a gram of marijuana with her used and abused scale that barely grasped on to life and always measured a few milligrams off, but she'd never admit that to her customers. She'd be a dead woman talking.

She slid the marijuana into a separate bag and sealed it tight.

"Here," she said as she finally propped open the screen door with her foot, letting the Mississippi River's evening breeze interrupt the cozy warmth her old-school, gas heater had crafted.

Tammy didn't even want to know where Bugsy stashed the drugs as he reached around in the worn-out, basketball shorts under his drooping jeans.

"Appreciate it, Tammy. You a O.G." he grinned with his fist hanging midair, waiting for her to dap it up.