Montega

by Keon Smith

  “Oh shitttt!” someone shouted.

  Montega wheeled up in an all-black Banshee with quiet stock pipes, holding a fifty-shot Kalashnikov AK-47 and wearing a phantom mask over his face.

  Seeing this, the hustlers came to a halt and tried to run for the opening, but Lil’ Man popped up on a loud, black and red Banshee with chrome T5 pipes, wearing a stocking cap over his face. Removing the AK strap from around his neck, he aimed the weapon at the group of panicking hustlers. Watching from a short distance, Kev reached for the gear and tried to drive off, but Ski-Mask spotted him and stuck the barrel of the gun inside the window to his head.

  “Get out, Dickey, ‘fore I blow your damn brains all over your interior.”

  Not wanting to get popped, Kev did as he was told. He got out with his hands in the air, but Lil’ Man grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to the wet ground. Nobody would ever expect to get robbed on the avenue, especially when there were close to fifteen trap stars on the block, plus a lookout who also got snatched up. Kev was waiting for the cops to spin around the block any minute, but no one came. His clothes were soaking wet, and it was pouring non-stop.

  “Aight, everybody, stay the fuck on the ground!” Ski-Mask barked. “You talk, you die! You try to run, you die! You be a hero, you die! All me want y’all to do is lay on your bellies, break bread, or play dead!”

  Once the guys were all face-down, Montega searched them for anything of value. Ski-Mask removed the book bag he had on and tossed it to Montega, while Lil’ Man took guard from a distance just in case someone wanted to be brave. As Montega collected the money, along with the jewelry, weapons, and cell phones, TJ slowly reached for the gun that was tucked by his hip. He was scared, but he knew he had to be the one to represent South Philly. If all went well, he would be the talk of the hood for years to come. Shug would move him up the ranks as one of his brave lieutenants.

  As his hand touched the butt of his gun, he heard splashing footsteps closing in on his side. Lil’ Man was standing over him with the barrel of the AK pointed at the back of his head. He pulled the trigger without hesitation. A rapid burst caused a line of shells to discharge from the chamber.

  The explosive sound had everyone jumping as if they were the ones being shot. Kev and his boys damn near shit themselves when they saw TJ get his brains blown out. Even Montega was looking at Lil’ Man like he was crazy.

  Lil’ Man shrugged. Montega sighed before he turned to Kev and searched his pockets. While doing so, Kev saw the skull head tattoo on his right forearm. It appeared to be gaged by a bandanna and wore a crown over its head.

  Across the street, shooters were creeping out of the projects with rain jackets and guns in hand. They took notice of the four-wheelers parked out in the street. A streak of lightning flashed across the sky.

  After taking the keys to Kev’s car, Montega searched the Infiniti and hit the jackpot when he looked in the armrest and found three bricks of cash. Kev was grateful he put the re-up in his stash spot. The money that Montega found was just penny ante gambling money to Kev. However, Montega also came out with a customized gold-plated tiger stripe .50 caliber Desert Eagle semi-automatic, which he quickly tucked into his waistband. Kev clenched his teeth because that was his favorite gun. He had bought it from a Mexican he met in Cali. The gun had cost him a fortune. Now it was being taken.

  Montega quickly handed the backpack to Ski-Mask. By that time, five shooters were lined up on the other side of the street, squatting down with guns ready. One of the shooters peaked up and saw Ski-Mask putting on the book bag. He took a deep breath as the rain dripped from his black hoodie. He peaked again and saw the phantom-masked man and rose to his feet, aimed, and fired. Montega turned and took a straight shot to the chest and fell back onto his ass. He scrambled to his feet in shock just as fast as he fell. Gunshots rained in their direction from across the street. Montega raised the AK and sprayed back at the shooters behind the parked cars. Lil-Man and Ski-Mask joined in.

  The drug dealers on the ground covered their heads as shells bounced around them. The cars across the street were decorated with bullets almost simultaneously. Five men quickly subtracted to one. That one ducked behind a mangled parked car with his back to the door. He was breathing heavy. He held his gun to his forehead like a holy cross in prayer.

  Montega and Lil’ Man continued to fire short bursts as they advanced to their four-wheelers. Montega threw the strap over his shoulder and let his rifle hang from his back. Lil’ Man did the same. He kicked on the four-wheeler’s 360 engine as more shooters came running out of the projects. Lil’ Man let off another round and made them all dive for cover.

  Ski-Mask backed him, shooting his way to Montega and his four-wheeler. He climbed on back with one hand holding onto Montega, the other firing at the men hiding.

  “That’s good lookin’ out, Dickey. Blow on y’all tonight!” he teased while Montega popped the clutch and sped off. The hustlers on the ground sprang to their feet to grab their stashed guns, but by the time they got to them, the four-wheelers were long gone.

  Broken Promises

  “Whoever robbed the projects must have had some big balls.”

  DETECTIVE GARY WHITEHEAD

  The bright color of red and blue lights painted the damp crime scene of Tasker Street. Police cars and ambulances sat neck and neck. The commissioner and all his men stood around in disgust. The rain had stopped, but death was still in the air. Whitehead and Lucca approached the guy taking photos of the dead bodies for the autopsy report.

  “This city if turning into a goddamn war zone, Whitehead,” said Lucca. “Three masked men on ATV’s robbed the local corner boys, kills two in the process, and injures a third.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ve had a word with a few neighbors. They told me that one of the robbers had two handguns. The other two were armed with AK-47s. They rolled right up to the corner boys on four-wheelers.”

  “That’s a goddamn shame. Somebody mind explaining to me how in the hell these punks weren’t noticed by any patrol cars?” Lucca asked.

  Whitehead shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you, Tony. But hey, let’s look at the bright side of things. It could have been worse… a lot worse. Besides, these are just drug dealers we’re talking about. It’s not like our usual senseless murders over a purse or a wallet.”

  Whitehead squatted down by the body. He put on a pair of latex gloves, picked up an AK shell casing with a small pair of tongs, inspected it, then pulled out a plastic bag and put the shell inside. A forensic officer stepped up to him.

  “Send this to the lab, will ya,” he said, handing it to the officer. “Give me a call if anything comes up.” He then stood and removed his gloves.

  “You’re wasting your time with that, ya know. These criminals are getting smarter—”

  “No, we’re getting lazier,” Whitehead replied.

  A short distance away, a black Range Rover rode up to the corner. The driver watched the detectives stand around with the rest of the police force. The Range Rover’s windows were tinted black, which made it almost impossible for anyone to see the four bodies inside, especially at night.

  “Look at this shit here,” Gee said from behind the wheel.

  Gee was a dark-skinned guy with a low haircut and a goatee. He had eyes as brown as timber and a piglet nose. He kept a toothpick in his mouth and talked slick as oil.

  In the passenger’s seat was a dread-headed guy dressed in cargo pants, boots, and a leather jacket. He too had a goatee with hazel eyes and brows that looked as if he were always mad. His dreads had gold at the tips, and he went by the name of Maniac.

  In the back seat, Shug sat quietly behind Louis Vuitton shades. His big belly rose and fell as he watched the crime scene. His black beard was full and thick, his thick lips pursed with anger. He sat beside his shorty, Tee-Tee—a fine redbone with shiny, long, dark hair highlighted with blue streaks. She had a body one would think was too curvy to be petite, but she was. Her perk
y breasts complemented a flat stomach and a bubble butt. She crossed her legs that were painted with Fendi thigh-highs, and played in her nails, carefree of what was going on outside.

  “Somebody got a lot of balls, pulling some shit like this,” Gee said. “Aye, Shug, I don’t think dudes respect your hand out here. You might have to make an example out of one of ’em, cuz.” Gee shook his head with a weak smirk. “How the fuck Kev let this go down? All them dudes out there; Chubs, Vito, Homietime. Somebody besides TJ should have been strapped.”

  “How much Kev have on him?” Maniac asked.

  Gee shrugged. “I don’t know, like—”

  “Pull off, Gee,” Shug said calmly.

  Gee looked at Maniac then shook his head and pulled off. The reflection of the crime scene flashed off of Shug’s sunglasses as the Range Rover sped away quickly.

  Later on that night, in the dimly lit bar in West Philadelphia, where all the correctional officers and government officials hung out, it reeked of beer and cigarettes as customers sat around the counter, drinking their troubles away while they listened to the oldies on the digital jukebox. Whitehead and Lucca sat at the far end, watching the 76ers play the New York Knicks. The bartender had just finished pouring them both triple shots of Courvoisier, but by the time she walked away, their glasses were empty.

  When Lucca looked over at his partner, who was talking on his cell phone, he saw that something was wrong. After Whitehead got off the phone, he said, “Can you believe this shit? That was Detective Peterson over in South Philly. Tony, I tell ya, these kids are getting really outta hand.”

  “Did anyone give a full description of the perps?” Lucca asked.

  “They said they were wearing masks, remember. They say one in particular, though, had on a mask that looked like a phantom,” Whitehead mentioned.

  “Wait a minute. You don’t think this could be our guy, do you?” Lucca asked.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him, but to tell you the truth, this guy didn’t come off as being a robber, but then again, we are talking about Tasker projects. From the stories we hear daily, whoever robbed the projects must have had some big balls,” Whitehead stated.

  “Or no brains at all. You know the stories about this Phantom character. He’s a stone-cold killer,” Lucca added.

  When Whitehead looked over at his partner, a pretty woman in her early forties walked into the bar just as Marvin Gaye’s “After the Dance” played on the jukebox. Whitehead may have been highly devoted to upholding the law, but even superman had a weakness, and Whitehead was no different. There was no doubt that he loved his wife, but there was just something about sleeping with another woman that always got him excited. Whitehead got up from his stool and fixed himself up. “I think I’m gonna be a little late getting home tonight, Tony. I’m gonna need an alibi,” he said before approaching the woman.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, go ahead and have fun, you lucky son-of-a-bitch. Remember to use a condom this time,” Lucca said before sipping his beer. He then mumbled, “It’s bad enough you had a baby on your wife and she doesn’t know about it.”

  In the wee hours of the morning when Whitehead got home, it was close to 3 a.m. The first thing he did was take a shower. Once he finished, he walked into his bedroom to see his wife, Maria, sleeping on her side. He then climbed into bed and put his arm around her as if he hadn’t just fucked some other woman an hour ago. He might have been forty-eight years old, but he moved like he was twenty-five and believed that he was indestructible.

  “Where have you been all day?” his wife asked with a yawn.

  “I’ve been working late on a few homicides,” he said.

  “You know you were supposed to take Aminah to see about a car this evening. You promised her. Oh, and Shabree called over a hundred times looking for you. It seems like you’ve been forgetting a lot of things lately,” Maria retorted.

  “Look. I’m sorry, okay? I’ll make it up to them. I’ve just been swamped with so many cases,” Whitehead said with some phony frustration.

  “Yeah, well, I hope you don’t forget about Aminah’s graduation. She worked so hard to please you by becoming a registered nurse instead of a stylist like her big sister, so please don’t let her down. She needs all the love and encouragement she can get.”

  “Look, honey. You don’t have to worry about that. There’s nothing and nobody that can keep me away from seeing my daughter’s greatest achievement—put that on our marriage.”

  Blood Money

  “People tend to live longer when they keep their mouth shut…”

  MONTEGA

  The dining room was small and dark from the old chandelier that bore two missing lightbulbs. Lil’ Man sat at the table, counting the pile of money in front of him. The guns that were used for the robbery lay as peaceful as they had ever been in front of him. The Dutch burned from the ashtray not too far from Lil’ Man’s grasp.

  Faith sat on the couch in the living room, watching the news. The Mexican cartels were at each other’s neck, and the big talk about the election seemed to be on every channel. The sound of giggling came from the table where Montega had Juicy on his lap. He was shirtless and in pain. Juicy stroked is bruise that marked his chest as Ski-Mask walked by, still carrying a gun in his hand.

  After counting up the profit, the three robbers ended up with a total of $63,000, seven handguns (including the big and shiny Desert Eagle), a few diamond-face Rolex watches, and an iced-out chain. As Lil’ Man divided the money three ways, Montega watched calmly, while Ski-Mask paced the floor behind them with a Glock still clutched in his palm. He was in need of a line of coke but wouldn’t snort until he got his cut of the profit. Money came before pleasure.

  “That’s twenty grand right there, cabrón,” Lil’ Man said, shoving the money across the table at Montega. “For that type of cash, Juicy should be kissing you where the sun don’t shine.”

  Juicy squinted her eyes and flipped Lil’ Man the bird.

  Lil’ Man ignored her as always. He picked up the Dutch of Wet and pulled the smoke into his lungs. The PCP was stimulating as it was good. He exhaled and said, “Can you believe those fools, keeping all that money on them? I don’t know about you, but sixty-three grand is a whole fucking lot of bread for one corner. What you think, Kenny?”

  “I don’t think it was the hustlers who had all that bread. It was bol in the Infiniti. Main-man was caked up.”

  “Probably was about to re-up.” Lil’ Man shook his head. “I know he pissed right about now.”

  Ski-Mask played with his nose. “Pissed ain’t the word. That fool shittin’ bricks. See, Dickey, Ski-Mask told y’all. Ski-Mask told y’all this would work.” Ski-Mask blocked the view of the TV. “If you want to get money the fast way, you gotta do it…” He placed his shirt collar over his mouth and said, “Ski-Mask-Way!”

  “Skeeter, could you move out of my way, boy? I’m trying to watch the news,” Faith said.

  Ski-Mask looked nothing like his brother or sister, because he was mixed with African American. His complexion was the same as Montega’s, only he was taller and thinner with short, curly hair and a goatee. He also had a long neck that was slightly bowed. Unlike Lil’ Man, who had no guidance growing up, Ski-Mask was raised by wolves. His father was the best there ever was. He robbed, conned, and killed to bring in money to feed his girl and only son. But it all came to an end one night in an alleyway in the Badlands.

  On that night, Ski-Mask witnessed his father being forced to his knees to suck another man’s penis right before he was shot in the head. It was the night Skeeter became Ski-Mask.

  That night, after a whole lot of fucking and sucking, Montega lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling, with Juicy laying on his chest, exploring his body with her hands.

  “Why are you always so quiet?” she asked.

  “People tend to live a lot longer when they keep their mouth shut,” Montega replied.

  “Oh, really?” she asked, lifting her head up and resting her
chin on his chest. “You’re sure as hell taking a gamble, robbing drug blocks with Beto and Skeeter. You don’t seem to care that much about life. You ain’t bulletproof, papi.”

  “Who ever said I was?”

  “You don’t have to say it. The shit you pulled tonight is living proof. South Philly though? You’re taking one hell of a gamble.”

  “I need money to survive, don’t I? This is the hand I was dealt. And since life is a gamble, I gotta play it with a poker face.” He touched her soft skin and said, “One thing for sure though; death doesn’t scare me. That’s the easy part. Life, on the other hand, is a struggle.”

  Juicy took his hand and kissed it before she laid her head back on his chest.

  “If you’re not scared of death, then what do you fear?”

  “Nothing.”

  Juicy sucked her teeth. “Yes you do,” she said, unconvinced.

  “Oh yeah? You must know something I don’t.”

  “I do,” she said, lifting her head again. “I know you’re afraid of love.”

  Montega stared at her for a moment then reverted his eyes to the ceiling.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Juicy nodded. “I hit it right on the mark, didn’t I? Look, papi. I’m not asking you to love me. I know I ain’t your girl. Besides, you can’t love me until you learn to love yourself. And this right here…” Juicy pressed her finger firmly against Montega’s bruise. He groaned in pain. “This ain’t love.”

  Montega gripped Juicy up by the wrist. They both sat up. “Fuck is you doing?” he asked, upset. He released her and got out of bed to put on his boxers. “You really trippin’, shorty. I ain’t got time for—”