A familiar, feminine voice chimed through the open telecommunication line. "Our late-arriving guess just crashed through. In a nice Camry too. Bottles being popped, they real ghetto celebs."
“Gotcha."
“Just be careful."
KT hung up the phone then glared at Dynamo. "Why the fuck you just standing there looking like a newly freed slave! Get dressed so we can meet up with the OG-loc."
I ask you to judge me by the enemies I have made
-Franklin Delano Roosevelt
CHAPTER 16
I do not have to forgive my enemies. I have had them all shot
-Ramon' Maria Narvaez 1800-1868
Norfolk, Va.
90 minutes later
A burgundy Dodge Stratus was parked near the Riverside Drive/Wakefield Avenue residential intersection. One with the early morning night, gloved hands held onto the steering wheel. Behind the light, 35% tinted windows, Dynamo wiped his sweaty. He tensed, watching Meatball & Ski-Beau finally exit Yolanda's slow dissipating house party.
KT, occupying the front passenger seat, incensed how the intoxicated men staggered towards a green Toyota Camry—seemingly without a care in the world. He wrote down the license plate and said. "Fam, the fact they able to come to Yolanda's house-party, why outside of you and her, I say the hell with every muthafucka out here. That rep yo hood shit a false love. When the chips down, if the hood had to choose, they'll rather see us pine boxed than on top."
Dynamo nodded.
The Toyota Camry pulled away from the curb. Once the vehicle made a distant left onto Ingleside Road, he pulled the Dodge Stratus away from the Riverside Drive curb. Dynamo, tracking the distant taillights, broke the brief silence. “Ace, I was way outta pocket going at Maxine like that. I got so caught up... I don't know what I was thinking.”
KT waved off the apology. " You apologizing to the wrong you.”
“You can't talk to her for me?"
“I could, but real talk, that's something only you can square with her. Squaring it with Yolanda might be a lil more difficult. So, I'll talk to her."
Silence fell.
The men lost within their thoughts kept a safe, inconspicuous distance. For nearly an hour, the men surveillance the Toyota Camry around the city, seemingly on a course to nowhere in particular. After another twenty minutes, the vehicle turned into the Coleman Place, Norfolk area—a mere quarter mile from the Fox Hall Quarters Apartment. Traveling down Azalea Garden Road, the Toyota Camry made a left onto Cape Henry Avenue. Twenty seconds later, Dynamo made the turn. Sighing with frustration, he spat. “We can't keep this up. So, let’s just take care of this bizness now."
KT replied. "Stay patient Ace, they drunk asses bound to call it a night soon."
“Them fuckas right there! I say we get to it while we still can!"
“We need to hit all the shot-callers, all at once. How can we do that unless we learn everything about them two? Especially Ski-Beau." Pleased by his friend's silence, KT continued. "Once we catch em at home, we can make em call an IGC meeting. Then we body the whole top tier. Not to mention the cash and other shit we know they holding. We win for winning.”
Dynamo looked around the dark landscape. Small roadside ditches were on both sides of the two-lane street. Middle-class homes were to his immediate right. Railroad tracks and a wooded tree line to his left, he floored the accelerator.
KT snapped. “Ace, slow this bitch down before they catch on.”
“Fuck em and that dumb ass plan!”
“Think about what the fuck you doing!"
"I am." Dynamo, rocketing towards the Toyota Camry, activated his Dodge Stratus high beams.
KT tossed his pen & pad set aside. From underneath his passenger seat, he retrieved a US Ingram Mach-11 Yolanda left him. He engaged the action bolt, chambering the first of forty-two rounds. He pulled a Nylon mask over his face then lowered the passenger window.
Dynamo’s speedometer topping 75 mph, he veered into the opposite westbound lane.
KT, thoughts bombarded by the earlier 42nd Street incident, envisioned another violent car accident. Their Dodge Stratus, quickly approaching the Toyota Camry rear-end, he leaned out of the passenger window. His right hand gripping the Mach-11 extended magazine clip, his left index finger caressed the trigger. Through his nylon-cloaked eyes, KT peered into Meatball's recognizing awe.
Thunder roared gloriously as fully automatic submachine gun hellfire ripped into the night. The Toyota Camry driver window exploding, Meatball’s face was devoured by a 9mm hollowpoint barrage. KT sprayed the vehicle’s interior with his merciless barrage.
Ski-Beau screaming agonizingly, from his passenger seat, fought to keep the steering wheel steady. Blood & gore splashing throughout, his left shoulder was shredded. His right knee met the same fate. An incredible force slammed into his stomach; another grazed his neck. Ski-Beau cried as the Toyota Camry slammed into the right roadside ditch.
The bullet-riddled, debris-spewing sedan tumbled through a front yard fence then come to a spinning, upside-down halt. Dynamo brought the Dodge Stratus to a screeching halt.
KT quickly replaced his empty magazine clip then leaped from the vehicle. He re-engaged the action bolt. He aimed at the wrecked Toyota Camry and unleashed the full power of his US Ingram Mach-11 submachine gun. The bullet-destroyed sedan burst into flames. KT leaped back into the Dodge Stratus.
Dynamo, flooring the accelerator, raced out of the death-soiled Coleman Place, Norfolk area. Soon after, the now field stripped submachine gun, KT’s nylon mask and both men's clothing sank to the bottom of the murky waters underneath Norfolk's Grandby Street Bridge.
∗
Fox Hall Quarters
East Princess Anne Road, Norfolk, Va.
30 minutes later
KT forced the door open and stormed into their marijuana establishment. He scoffed at the half-naked, high yellow beauty sleeping on the sofa. He snatched her by the arm onto her groggy, unsteady legs. "You need to get the fuck out."
A befuddled Candace replied. "I was waiting for Dy. He said it was okay if__" She was snatched by her hair and slung against the living room wall. "KT, what I do!"
“Make me tell you again before I throw yo ass through a fucking window, yo face going through one of these walls!"
Dynamo gave her the keys to his Lincoln Navigator. Once she dressed, he led her to the door. "Wait for me in the truck." Once she closed the door on her departure, he eyed KT sternly. "The same way you want me to apologize to Maxine, you doing the same to her."
KT slammed him against the wall with enough force to leave an indentation. "Fuck them bitches, you know what this about!"
“Fam, calm down, cause you just put yo hands on me. That shit can't happen again."
“Be glad I don’t break yo muthafucking jaw!" KT, pacing the floor, his brow was so tight his forehead ached. He took several long, much-needed deep breaths. "Why go through all this trouble smoking they asses out if yo ass just gone do what you wanna do?"
Dynamo replied. "All that scheming and plotting ain't do shit but waste time."
"So yo ass didn't need time to heal?"
“We had to make a move to show the streets we bout our ratchet bizness too."
“Who the fuck is the streets, IGC! Yo stupid ass didn't show shit but our hand. All we had to do was find out where they lounge. The rest was a cakewalk." KT argued.
“Ski-Beau and Meatball wanted blood. We gave it to em."
“What good is bodying them when the actual shooters still in circulation. Now we don't even know who liable to come gunning for us, or from where, or when. Ski-Beau was OG-loc out our hood. What about the generals from other hoods? Did you ass think about that?"
“We play the same concerned childhood friend shit they pulled on us.” Dynamo laid forth.
“Yo ass, see how well that turned out for them. Yo ass want us to walk that same path?”
"IGC gone hit somebody for this shit. If not us, some Bloods probably g
et dealt with. So, we'll know soon enough."
“You talk like you’on give a fuck about shit.”
“Cause I don’t. Something needed to be done.”
“Ace, sometimes you can be a fucking, stupid ass egg sandwich. Ski-Beau IGC, Sea Breeze, Bounty Hunter Blood... they FUCKING COUSINS! Cousins we saw talking. That shit doesn’t happen if those gang sects really at war. So that beef was a lie from jump street, and we still don’t know why Ski-Beau threw the Bloods into the mix.” KT explained. “Now, what about the muthafuckas who saw us outside Yolanda's house party? AFTER, we already peeled in yo Navigator. That shit suspect as hell. We might as well did the shit in front of them."
Dynamo countered. "You feel that way. Why you dump the Mach-11?"
“Cause if I didn't, thanks to yo stupid ass, Ski-Beau and Meatball would've known what we were up to." KT shrugged off any further discussion. He took a much-needed shower.
Fifteen minutes later, he adorns one of his spare outfits. He uncorked a bottle of Hennessey Privilege' and filled two glasses. He gave one to Dynamo. “Forcing the issue left too many variables to chance. Eyewitnesses around Cape Henry Avenue, the people at Yolanda's house party. Anything can happen now. One thing for sure, our alibi better be titanium solid cause Poe-9 is going to look at us at some point, if not already. So, get ready for Detective Swanson bitch ass.”
Dynamo took a stress-relieving sip of his drink. "Meatball and Ski-Beau got us shot-up and ran us from the hood. It was time we wiped the floor with their asses."
“They didn't run us from nowhere. Don't forget, we already talked about switching to the Kush full-time."
“The streets don't know that. We look like weak-ass squares. I don’t know about you, but muthafuckas ain't looking at me like that."
“That cowboy shit gone fuck around and get us a life sentence. How many dudes we know doing linebacker numbers cause they dump slugs on some gun-ho shit?" KT challenged him. "Whatever you trying to prove, don't forget... whoever you trying to prove it to, don't give a damn about you. If they did, you wouldn't have to prove yourself."
The front door creaking open, Candace cautiously stuck her head inside the apartment. "Is it okay for me to come in?"
KT held the door open. Raising her slouched chin, he gazed into her bright, uncertain eyes. "I had no business snapping on you like I did. Now, what is it going to take for you to accept my apology?"
Candace fished through his jeans pockets. Procuring a wad of cash, she stuffed a $20 bill back inside his pocket. Candance stuffed the rest in her bosom. Filling the room with her warmth emitting smile, she said. "Snap more often, so a girl can get paid."
Dynamo, watching KT close the door on his departure, sat Candace down beside him. His hands coursed her legs, between her thighs. "You gave my pussy away earlier tonight?"
"Never Dy..." She refused his kiss. "When a woman lays down with best friends then chooses one over the other, she starts seeing things the friends never see until it’s too late."
Whoever is faced with the paradoxical exposes himself to reality
-Friedrich Durrenmatt 1921-1990
CHAPTER 17
Even in the valley of the shadow of death,
two and two do not make six
-Leo Tolstoy 1828-1910
DePaul Medical Center
Grandby Street, Norfolk
8 am six days later
Detective Swanson was provided the requested room number. His loafers clicking against the tile, he sauntered into the DePaul Medical Center's Intensive Care Ward. Quietly breaching the room door, Detective Swanson smiled in appreciation of the electronic monitors situated about. Approaching the unconscious, sedated man sprawled on top of the hospital bed, he took a moment to appreciate the man's heavily bandaged left shoulder. Several staples were clamped upon the gash to his left cheek. His neck was bandaged. Cuts & scrapes were plastered across his face. His eyes were blackened, nearly swollen shut. Thick padding pressed against the patient's gray paper gown. An entire cast adorns his broken right leg.
Detective Swanson checked his watch. Occupying the lone chair, he waited.
Sometime later, the patient rived agonizingly. The blood pressure monitor chiming, an elderly nurse rushed into the room. She was ready to administer another sedative when Detective Swanson intervened. Apprehensive, the woman conceded to the purlish law enforcer's unethical request.
The patient made out the elderly nurse leaving the room when he noticed a blue polyester-suited white man sitting nearby. "Who... are you?"
"Detective Swanson, Norfolk Police homicide division... Shaun Butler, you have some explaining to do."
Ski-Beau winced agonizingly. "I need sum-thin for the pain."
"An Insane Gangster Crip original gangster should be able to withstand a little distress." He examined the patient's medical chart. "Broken bones, torn ligaments, punctured everything. Bullet wounds, contusions, you name it, you’re suffering from it...Now, do you agree we both know why?" His notepad open, Detective Swanson privy the critically wounded gang-leader to his ongoing investigation.
He was assigned to the Ingleside, Norfolk shooting, where Devon Wallace and Khalid Nikita Garrison were wounded. Insane Gangsta Crip were the prime suspects in the still-unsolved crime. Though the investigative pieces were in place, a lack of cooperation from the victims and potential eyewitnesses hinders moving the investigation into the prosecutorial phase.
Detective Swanson offered him a Virginia Slim cigarette. "I know you smoke. I know everything about you."
"You know what’ll happen if I had a burner right now?" Ski-Beau retorted.
“You do know, Garrison and Wallace were brought to his very same hospital. Both were very talkative, I might add. Now here you are, looking like a wrecked go-cart, while those two are somewhere completely healed from their injuries while yours are just getting started."
Ski-Beau asked. "My partner... is?"
"Who Chris Lyons, aka Meatball... afraid we found him gas grill, charcoal crispy. The funeral was yesterday. The service was quite exceptional, a closed casket, of course. Sorry, you had to miss it." Detective Swanson laid forth sardonically. Ball-point pen set to his notepad, he continued. "Tell me what took place along Cape Henry Avenue and what led up to the shooting.”
Ski-Beau, willing away the agony of every breath taken, privy the homicide detective to the house-party thrown on Ingleside, Norfolk's Riverside drive. The free-flowing liquor and low-priced blueberry Kush cannabis being sold.
Detective Swanson interrupted him. "We'll revisit the marijuana later."
Ski-Beau was enjoying the filled house-party. When his heavily intoxicated friend arrived. Given Meatball's anti-social behavior, he knew this rare appearance had a purpose.
Detective Swanson asked. "What did he want?"
"Sum-thin bout this Bounty Hunter Blood slob Sea Breeze. The slob got bodied in P- Town (Portsmouth, Virginia) a few weeks back. Word is, some chicks got him, and his man hit up.” He explained, electing to forego his and Sea Breeze’s family ties.
“Connect those dots to this incident."
“Dude, a flip-flopper." Ski-Beau, acknowledging the homicide detective's confusion, clarified his last statement. "The slob doesn't mind dealing with Crips or any other gang if it serves a purpose. Usually bread."
He spoke about Meatball receiving word one of the women suspected of conspiring against Sea Breeze was an Ingleside, Norfolk native. Unsure of the woman's identity, Ski-Beau assured Meatball that wasn't the case. Reiterating whoever supplied the misinformation did just that dis so to ignite a gang war.
An hour or so later, the men climbed into Meatball's newly purchased Toyota Camry. Into the early morning night, they smoked week and drove around searching for ladies of the night. Sometime later, a crimson-like colored sedan pulled alongside them. Next, gunfire erupted.
Detective Swanson again interrupted him. “We already know how you were able to survive. Your friend and gang affiliate, Chris 'Meatball' Lyons
, might have survived. Had the bulletproof vest been over his head instead of his upper body. Either way, somebody made sure his casket stayed closed.”
Ski-Beau, eternally weakened, sucked his teeth. "I'm cooperating, and ya spit on my dawg like that."
Disoriented, mortally wounded, Ski-Beau crawled from the wreckage just as the Toyota Camry burst into flames. He asked the detective. “You think the shooters Blood?”
“That's what my investigation will uncover. Forensics found sixty-one shell casings all of the same caliber, all down the street. That tells us a submachine gun was fired from a moving vehicle. Hence, one shooter. Reinforced by the fully automatic gunfire, homeowners claim to have heard. We also found tire tracks. So, it’s only a matter of time before we make an arrest."
Detective Swanson unveiled a Norfolk City police department evidence log receipt. The item logged into evidence... one bullet-riddled, Kevlar bulletproof vest and one twenty-five caliber Smith & Wesson semi-automatic handgun. “Mr. Butler, paramedics removed said evidence from your person. A two-time convicted felon fresh home from a rather extensive prison stint. Need we address the ramifications if this material is turned over to the local commonwealth's attorney's office?"
Ski-Beau had sixteen years of supervised probation hanging in the balance. On top of the five years, Project Exile mandatory minimum for illegal gun possession. "I figured if I help ya, ya help me."
“We understand each other. Now..." Detective Swanson revisited the previous Ingleside, Norfolk shooting.
He acknowledged that Khalid Nikita Garrison & Devon Wallace being shot were subsequently taken out of the neighborhood crack distribution equation. Every other crack dealer was either affiliated or paying taxes to Insane Gangsta Crip. This leaves Insane Gangsta Crip the sole, unchallenged distributor. "Don't worry, Butler, I'm homicide, not vice narcotics. All I'm trying to do is close several open cases. And you're in a perfect position to make that happen. The question is, do you trade the evidence I have of your illegal firearm and body armor possession for evidence in these crimes. One way or another, an arrest will be made. You decide whose names go on the arrest warrants."
One Hustler's World Page 16