by Guy Franks
He guessed right. Papi’s motorcycle, a purple-chromed Harley Davidson, sat parked next to the back door. Hank rapped on the door. He heard rumblings and swearing behind the door and the doorknob twisted, shook, twisted again, and flew open with a kick. Papi Stallworth lurched out the door. At 6’-2”, three hundred and twenty pounds, he was wide in both directions, almost spherical, with a pronounced gut on him like one of those offensive linemen you see in the NFL. His black head was shaved but he wore a thick black beard that was sprinkled with snowflakes of white hair.
Papi squinted up at the sun and looked away, cleared his throat with a mighty hawking noise, and rested his bleary eyes on Hank. “Wat up?” he said
Hank grinned and shook his head at his friend. He got a kick out of Papi. Easily in his fifties, the old jelly-belly with his purple hog was a wannabe gangster who dealt in dank, drank, and cookies (marijuana, codeine, and crack cocaine). He did not deal brown (heroin) because, he claimed, it was “tore-down shit” that put you in with too many “crazy-ass niggas.” Papi hooked Hank up with his smoke but also quickly took him under his wing. The big man knew his baseball, knew who Hank was, and made him his homie and together they kept up a line of friendly trash talk that the others around them couldn’t match.
Papi’s belt was loose and he fumbled to pull his pants up fully so he could tuck in his flowing shirt. He was obviously suffering from a hangover.
Papi
Wat time’s it?
Hank
Why you care wat time’s it? Yo wasted, man. King Cobra’s bit u-again. Can’t even keep yo pants up. Wat u-do, find some chickenhead last night to polish ur-knob? Wat-ju care ’bout time, nigga, less it’s time for a ho or score some white or chug down one of them gawd-awful malt-lickers of ’urs that taste like moto-oil? Ur an ol’ G-n, man. Wat-ju care wat time’s it?
Papi
Now u-talkin, dawg. Playas like us do our biz-ness at night, unda the moon an’ stars, not the sun. Wat we care ’bout time. So wat up, Sweetness? Though I doin think I’ll call-u ‘Sweetness.’ You got none.
Hank
None?
Papi
No, not ev’n nuff to sweetin’ a bowl a’ Wheaties.
Hank
Not ev’n if my pitchurs ona box a’ Wheaties.
Papi
When that day come, we’ll call ya king. King Hank. Hammer’d Hank, King a’ Smoke. An’ when that day come, Sweetness, yo’ll make me a rich man. Yo’ll hook me up wid-yo big time bros an’ make me a for-chune sellin’ ’em butta an’ chewies. Then lady luck be on my side. I be-on toppa the world.
Hank
If’n you was on toppa the world you’d crush it like a grape. Naw loosin dat belt fo’ you busta gut. Wen’s the last time ya saw ur shoes?
Papi
Wat I need-ta see my shoes fo? They can take care of dem-selves. They loafers… Hell-be-gone I gotta hang-over. Feelin’ lowdown. Wat-ju want anyhow, Sweetness?
Hank
Blunt.
Papi
Ta blunt yo senses, ha dawg. Got scratch? No, nev’a a penny to yo name, ha nigga. You’a big bonus baby but nev’a got a dead prezdent to yo name. Yo lucky u-know me an’ I like-u, cause I keep coverin’ yo ass. U-got credit wid Quick’s, credit wid Busta, credit with me. Yo a credit to yo race.
(Papi rummages behind a box, pulls out a half full bottle of King Cobra, and takes a long drink.)
Hank
Yo the one wid bills all o’vr town, bubba. You owe ev’rybody, foo, even-yor skanky-ass ho’s.
Papi
True enuf, nigga. I like-ta keep my money to myself where’s safe. But as fo my skanky-ass ho’s, I don’ see-u sayin no-ta pussy. Did’en-u bus-a-nut on that buttahead LaShundra the otha’ night? Sho-u did and-u paid her in full, am I right? So keep it real, homie. As fo me, I ne’vr pay fo it. They’s grateful fo my biz-ness. Don’t laugh, nigga. They’s grateful fo a real man… Sheet, I’m hungry. Let’s git sumthin to eat. How ’bout Denny’s? Moon o’vr my hammies. Wat-u say, dawg?
Hank
Already ate. Cum-on, Fats Domino, I gotta go. Gotta game t’day. If I stood ‘round all day watchin u-eat an’ drink I’d grow old an’ die.
Papi
Eatin’ an’ drinkin’ is wat I do best—an’ fuckin’. Can’t fo-get dat. Eatin’, drinkin’, fuckin’ an hangin’ out with my homeboys. Wat-u got ’gainst that, Sweetness? If-yo ’gainst eatin’, drinkin’, fuckin’ an’ hangin’ out with yo homies then-u ’gainst the whole world. Even the jakes eat, drink an’ whore—which re-mines me. There wassa off-duty pope in Quick’s las-nite. Knew ’bout-ju.
Hank
’Bout wat?
Papi
’Bout you. But wat’s worse than a black cop? Nuthin—can’t think a’ wat’s worse with this hangover but I’ll cum-up with sump-in. Anyhow, he knows who-u are and says yo-hangin’ with the wrong people, gettin’ a bad rep. He know’ed ’bout-u hangin’ ‘round Quick’s with Fo-Five an’ Busta. I said he’s right—they’s bad people and I’d do my best ta-look out fo-u. I’m ’ficially lookin’ out fo-yo ass, Sweetness. I’m yo personal cop.
Hank
Gawd help us. You a cop? You’d let ev’ryone go. It’d be chaos.
Papi
Nah, nah, nah. Jus’ the ho’s an’ dope-dealers ’cause they’s fillin’ a need. But if you thieve—steal a’ man’s prop’ty—then boom I’d hang yo ass. Do a drive-by—boom—hang yo ass. Beat up yo baby mama—boom—hang yo ass. I’d be one mutha-fuckin, badass hangman. Then I’d do mo hangin’—hangin’ with my homies like you to keep you outta trouble.
Hank
That’s like havin’ the devil look out fo-me. ‘And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one.’
Papi
There now, u-got a wick’d talent for quotin’ scrip-ture on my ass. Shame on you. You could co’rupt a saint. I use-ta-be innecent befo-u came along. Now I’m a sinner who’s lost his way. But I’m gonna change all that. I’ve seen the light. I’m not gonna let sum sweet-talkin’ bonus baby lead me inta damnation. I seen the light.
Hank
De-only light you’ve ev’r seen is the Bic in front of yo blunt. Speakin’ a-which.
Papi
Tru-nuff, Sweetness. I’m gonna hook you up, jus-a-sec. But say, dawg, I gotta big score lined up fo’ t’night. Some Yalies are in town an’ they’re lookin fo-sum buku buddha and I got ’em covered. I’m talkin’ Yalies, homie. Yalies! With their Cosby haircuts and fat wallets. Ya-gotta come with me, homes. We’ll have a good laugh.
Hank
Yo trippin’, man. An’ that wassa quick conversion from sinnerman to seein’ the light an’ back to sinnerman again.
Papi
It’s my callin’. It’s no sin to follow ur-callin’. Here’s yo blunt, ur-highness. Jus’ the way you like it.
(Enter Busta)
Busta
Wassup?
Hank
Yo, Busta. Wassup?
Busta
Hey, Sweetness. Wat’s with ol’ man Stallworth here. Hungova’ huh? Wat up, Chief? Looks like u-sold yo soul las’ night fo King Cobra an’ a piece’a ass.
Hank
That’s wat I told ’em. He gave da devil his due.
Papi
Keep the devil outta this. He’s got e’nuff problems. We got’sa big score t’night. Tell ’em, Busta. Tell him to come with. He wone listen ta-me.
Busta
Mutha-fuckin’ Yalies.
Papi
Tha’s right. An’ I’m thinkin’ ’bout goin’ gangsta on their asses. Scare ’em shitless. Take all their money and keep the buddha. It’ll be dope, bro. Garren-teed killa’ hoot. Tell ’em. Tell ’em to come with.
Busta
Come with.
Hank
Yo both tr
ippin’ No way. I ain’t no dealer.
Papi
Show us some balls, Sweetness. Show us yor-a Prince… Wat? Hold on a sec.
Busta
Ansa’ yo page, Chief. Let me talk to ’em.
Papi finally found the beeping pager in his coat pocket and read the number. He tied off the white bandana around his head that he normally wore when riding or doing business. It was white because white was a neutral color and he didn’t want to incite any gangbangers to take a shot at him. He was fully dressed now in baggy pants that were bloused above gold high-tops, with a flowing shirt open at his neck to show off his bling, and a navy pea coat with a worn-out Chief Petty Officer insignia on the left sleeve. Among the many things he claimed to have been was a Chief Petty Officer in the U.S. Navy. Hank didn’t believe it at first but others attested to it and passed on the many rumors that he’d been court-martialed for dealing dope, or had left for the good of the service after nailing the C.O.’s wife and bragging about it, or had deserted, gone AWOL, after receiving his orders to deploy overseas (and was still on the run). Only one of those was true. Nevertheless, that’s why some called him “Chief” which seemed to fit his blustering demeanor. All in all, his bark was worse than his bite.
After Papi disappeared back into the bar to find a phone, Busta took Hank into his confidence. They all planned to prank Chief Stallworth at the drug deal that night. First they were going to hide his Harley, then after the deal went down with the Yale students, they were going to jump him and take his money. “Jump him” meant jump out disguised in hoodies, brandish toy guns, and watch the fat man drop the money and run. It would take him awhile to find his Harley, enough time for them to get back to Quick’s, and then they’d wait for him to show up and tell his story which promised to be hilarious.
Hank laughed just thinking about the story Papi would make up. He was only worried about one thing—Fo-Five. He knew that the old man never packed—maybe a knife but never a gun—but he knew Fo-Five packed for sure, that he wasn’t quite right in the head, and that Fo-Five was going to be with Papi at the drug deal. Busta assured him that Fo-Five was in on the prank and planned to run off when they jumped out in their disguises. It was all good. Hank thought about it. It was down by the river at midnight so there was no conflict with his game. He couldn’t pass up the fun. Soon enough he’d have to pass on the fun and get serious, but not yet. He was in.
“Where’s my mutha-fuckin hawg!” hissed Papi. It was dark and Papi turned to the figure next to him. “I park’d it right here! Fo-Five, right here, right.”
Fo-Five shrugged his shoulders. “I don’ ‘member. It’s too dark.”
“Son of ‘a mutha-fuckin’ bitch. Right here. It was right here!”
“Maybe fatha’ down.”
The big man stood silent for a moment and looked up at the stars. “Maybe,” he said. “Com-on!”
Hank and Busta hid behind bushes nearby trying to stifle their laughter. So far everything had gone off without a hitch. Busta had told Papi that he couldn’t talk Hank into coming with. Busta also couldn’t make it because he had to go bail his brother out of jail. That just left Papi and Fo-Five to do the deal. They followed Papi and Fo-Five in Busta’s car and parked it up by the main road and snuck down towards the river in their black hooded sweatshirts. They came upon Papi’s Harley and rolled it down the gravel road and hid it behind a dumpster next to a park station then ran back and hid behind some bushes. The deal was for fifty dubs of marijuana, which meant Papi would be carrying $1000 in cash.
Papi and Fo-Five approached them in the darkness and Hank took his toy gun out of his sweater pocket. It was a black BB gun that looked real enough. Busta took hold of his gun and they both jumped out of the bushes.
“Freeze, mutha-fuckas!” yelled Busta.
As planned, Fo-Five yelped and ran off into the darkness causing Papi to curse after him: “Wat the hell! Git back here, nigga! Coward!”
“Shut the fuck up, fatso! Give us the scratch now or-yo a dead man!”
Papi backed up and reached into his pea coat. They knew he didn’t pack so Hank and Busta expected him to pull out the dough. Instead he pulled out a knife.
“Come get-it, sucka,” said Papi, waving his knife.
“This is fo’ real, ol’ man!” shouted Busta as he turned his gun sideways and pointed it at Papi’s chest. “I’ll pop a cap in yo’ fat ass. Now! Or I keel yo ass!”
The big man, who looked like a large goblin in the darkness, wavered slightly but held his ground. At that, Busta raised his piece and fired it into the sky. The loaded forty-five roared out in the night and Hank hit the ground. Papi threw down his knife, a purse of money, and ran towards the river. Busta tucked his gun away and grabbed the knife and purse.
“Com-on, Sweetness. Let’s git outta here,” he said grabbing Hank’s arm.
“Wha the fuck!” cried Hank jumping up. “You said fake guns!” But he didn’t wait for an answer as they were off running towards the car. Thoughts raced through Hank’s head: He couldn’t be caught. A shooting. A drug deal. He couldn’t be caught. He’d lose everything.
He ran harder, cursing himself for his stupidity. They reached the car and jumped in where Fo-Five was waiting for them.
“Tha’ was purfec’, man. Purfec’,” chirped Fo-Five. “Git the cash?”
“Got it all.”
“Wha the fuck, Busta,” said Hank. “You said fake guns.”
“Chill out, Sweetness,” replied Busta, putting the car in gear.
“The po-leece will be all ov’r this.”
“Nah, stop worrin’. I know’d he wasn’ gonna budge less’en I motivaded ’em. So I motivaded ’em.”
“The po-leece will be all ov’r this.”
“Ya said that. Chill out, Sweetness. It’s all good.”
“Yeah,” added Fo-Five. “Chill out, nigga.”
Hank looked at both them. They were smiling and their teeth gleamed white inside the darkness of the car. He sat back and rolled down the window to listen for sirens. There were none. They obeyed all traffic laws on the drive back, and by the time they rolled into Quick’s parking lot Hank was feeling better.
They went around back and smoked a jay while they waited for Papi to show. Over a half hour later they heard his Harley coming up the street and Fo-Five hid behind some boxes. Another friend of theirs—LaRon, who was also in on the prank— stood in the back doorway of the bar. Papi got off, flipped down his kickstand with a flourish, and eyed the three of them.
“The clap on o’ cowards!” he bellowed. As his curse hung in the air, he demanded a drink and ordered La-Ron to get him one—a King Cobra, and ice cold. When La-Ron didn’t jump, Papi turned his wrath on him yelling, “Don-jus stand there grinning like Unca’ Reemus. Git me a drink, cuzz. Now!” La-Ron grudgingly disappeared back into the bar and Papi, satisfied that his orders were being carried out, repeated his curse on all the cowards of the world, adding, in a mock plea, that they put him in a rocking chair and leave him to die because there was no honesty left in the world.
“Wat up, Chief?” asked Hank innocently. “You look like a tub of melted butta. Wha’ happened? How’d the deal go?”
Papi gathered up his immense girth, along with his outrage and victimhood, and vented his self-righteous frustration. He’d been “ganked”—ganked in his own hood. The world was a “mutha-fuckin’ fuck’d up place” and he was the only honest man left in it. He stopped his rant briefly to accept a King Cobra from La-Ron, and took a swig before continuing. “Jus’ let me grow old and die,” he declared in his wounded pride, repeating his curse on the world and on all the cowards in it.
“Yo’all got jumped? Where’s the money?” asked Hank.
“Gone, bro. Gone with the wind,” he replied sorrowfully.
Busta wanted to know how many had jumped him and Papi told them “eight or mo’ an’ packi
n heat,” but as the tale progressed the number grew from eight to ten or more. He’d gone after all of them with his knife, maybe killed a couple (he wasn’t sure, he couldn’t see in the dark), and had them on the run before they started shooting. “You must’a heard the shots?” he asked, showing them a hole in his coat as proof he’d been shot at. But the robbers had finally overcome him with sheer numbers and taken his knife and money.
“Yo lucky to be alive,” said Hank, catching the eyes of those standing around Papi.
Papi agreed whole-heartedly and figured that the only reason they hadn’t killed him—instead they had knocked him down and kicked him around like a laundry basket—was because they knew who he was “an’ didn’t want gangbangers comin’ afta’ them fo’ revenge an’ shit.” His reputation had saved him.
“I never knew u-was such a badass, Chief,” declared Hank. Both Busta and La-Ron agreed, stifling a laugh, and added that it was lucky for those fools that Papi hadn’t been “packin’ cause there would’a been a bloodbath.” But where was Fo-Five, they all wanted to know.
At that question, Papi’s pious outrage returned in full force. Fo-Five? That “jive-ass nigga” had lit out as soon as they got jumped. If he ever saw Fo-Five again he was “gonnna stomp his slip’ry Bendic’ Arnald-ass into the ground.” And with that threat he added his curse on all cowards of the world.
Busta wanted to know if Papi would tell that to Fo-Five’s face. “Dat an’ mo’,” replied Papi, standing up to his full height. Busta was skeptical and kept it up, but each time Papi vowed he’d get justice out of Fo-Five. Finally Fo-Five, who didn’t like being called a coward even if it was a game, popped out from behind the boxes.
“Callin’ me a coward?” Fo-Five demanded to know.
“Where u-been, nigga? Hidin’ in the alley?” shot back Papi.
“Callin me a coward?” repeated Fo-Five in a cold voice.
Hank could see the dead look in Fo-Five’s eyes (the bro wasn’t right in the head), and he put his hand on Fo-Five’s shoulder and told him to “chill out.” Fo-Five shrugged the hand off and continued to stare down Papi. But Papi knew better than anyone how to handle Fo-Five. He shrugged at Fo-Five’s question and said, “Me? No. I ain’t callin you no coward. Gawd strike me dead if I’m callin’ you a coward. I jus wish I could run as-fast-as you.”