by Noire
Gutta was already two steps ahead of his comrade. In his mind he was already in Texas puttin’ in work. He knew they were gonna have to do some scoping in order to find out where Mink’s family lived and how they moved. Gutta was gonna use every tool that predators in prison used to manipulate people and situations and to exploit any weaknesses they might have. He had spent enough time in the joint to know how to get up close on a target with a smile and a handshake, just to shank ’em in the back as soon as they lowered their defenses.
“Don’t worry ’bout it. I got this. We gonna make something happen, son,” Gutta said confidently to his young soldier. “We gonna go down there and show these niggas how Harlem get it in. Once I put the murder or the kidnap game down on Mink and her coward-ass fam, they gonna be begging me to take their money and get the fuck up outta Texas.”
Shy was about to ask another question when some mangy-looking white woman approached them pulling a shopping cart loaded with junk. She bore all the classic signs of a drug fiend. Her dirty hair was matted to her scalp and her clothes were ripped and raggedy.
“Hey fellas, how ya’ll doing,” she walked right up on them and greeted them. “Umm, I don’t mean to bother you guys but I was wondering if you . . . umm . . . if you know where I can cop a little bit of scag.”
Shy started to answer her but Gutta cut him off.
“What the hell is scag?” Gutta snapped, knowing damn well the bum-fiend wanted some heroin. “Yo, do I look like a fucking drug dealer to you?” he demanded, pretending to be mad. “I’m fucking offended, lady! It’s junkies like you that lower the value of our great city.”
Gutta took an aggressive step toward the woman and raised the intensity in his voice.
“Yo, why don’t you go ask your fuckin’ cop-buddies over there chewing on them dirty franks where you can get you some scag! Niggas over there tryna act like they ain’t been scoping me out for the last damn hour,” Gutta said as he pointed at the two undercover agents who were standing near the hot dog vendor eyeing him. “Miss Officer,” he said to the dirty white woman, “your shit is very sloppy. Next time tell those muffuckas to stop stuffing that mystery meat down their throats while they’re on the job, you fucking rookies!”
The white woman’s face turned Kool-Aid red with anger as she got busted out in front of the entire bus station. She was definitely a cop trying to make a buy and bust, but Gutta had just shot her cover straight outta the water so she turned around and grabbed her raggedy cart and jetted out of the terminal. People started laughing and clapping and finger-pointing like crazy. The undercovers at the hot dog stand had no choice but to pack it up and get the hell out too.
“Yo, you peeped the fuck outta that shit, son!” Shy grinned at his manz in amazement. “How the fuck did you know ol’ girl was a fucking cop? I was just about to serve that bitch!”
“You gotta be observant, my nigga,” Gutta told his young partna. “Remember that shit when we get to Texas. Keep ya eyes open when we get down there and learn to scope everything around you. Not just the obvious shit in front of you. Ya dig?”
A half hour later Gutta and Shy were on their way. The bus wasn’t too crowded yet so Shy got up and went to the bathroom. Gutta sat in the aisle seat with his headphones on rapping loudly to the music on his iPod. Soon, the unmistakable scent of Sweet Grand Daddy Purp was floating all throughout the bus. An old black lady and two middle-aged Hispanic women complained to the bus driver that someone was smoking in the bathroom so the driver pulled over.
“Ayo,” Gutta said, snatching his headphones from his ears as the bus came to a halt on the edge of the road and the driver stood up. “What you stopping for old man? I need to be somewhere on time and you holding us up.”
“Somebody is smoking weed back there and I ain’t having that type of shit on my bus,” the heavyset black man responded as he headed down the aisle. “Whoever is in that bathroom better come the hell on out right now!”
A few moments later the door squeaked open. Shy came out with a thick cloud of smoke trailing behind him with his red eyes looking like he was part Chinese. Gutta looked at his boy and shook his head. That nigga was higher than a light bill after Christmas.
“I’m going to need you to exit my bus, young man,” the driver said as he huffed and puffed his old chest out. He pointed toward a red and white billboard overhead. “Smoking is strictly prohibited on this bus, can’t you fucking read the signs?”
“Man, go sit ya old ass back down and drive this bus.” Shy waved him off lazily as he got back in his seat. “I ain’t getting offa shit!”
The driver frowned and nodded. “Okay then, smart-ass. Have it your way, but this bus won’t move until you get to stepping,” he said defiantly. “Now you can take that shit up with all these other passengers and see what they say. I’ma get paid either way, mothafucka.”
The passengers started getting real rowdy and cursing at Shy to get off the bus. One tall, light-skinned dude sitting across from Gutta got out of his seat and confronted Shy directly.
“Yo, you gotta get the fuck off the bus, homey,” the dude said in a real brolic voice. “I gotta go see my goddamn son and you holding us the hell up.”
Shy was high as shit and found the whole scene funny as he grinned from ear to ear.
“Man, fuck you light-bright!” Shy laughed. “You gotta problem come handle it.”
Before the tall nigga could react a swift hand of lightning came down and struck him across his face.
Whackkkk!!
The monumental force of the slap dropped him perfectly back into his chair and he slumped over with his forehead leaning on the seat in front of him. That nigga was asleep just that fast. All he needed was a pillow.
It got so damn quiet that you could hear a pin drop on the bus. Folks were wide-eyed and silent as Gutta stood over the sleeping guy and grilled the rest of the passengers.
“All ya’ll shut the fuck up and stop that bitching and moaning,” he barked, putting the entire bus in check. “The next mothafucka who got something to say is going straight to sleep just like this clown right here!”
Gutta turned his murderous attention to the driver.
“Nigga if you don’t get this bus moving right now I will body yo old ass, stuff you in the back of that dirty-ass bathroom, and then drive this bitch myself to where I gots to go. You feel me?”
The driver looked horrified at the huge brolic nigga with fire in his eyes, knowing he meant every word he had uttered. He needed that paycheck he got every two weeks, but Greyhound didn’t pay him nearly enough to handle these types of problems.
“Y-y-yes sir,” the driver stuttered as he headed his ass back down the aisle to his seat. “We’re out of here right now, sir. No problem at all.”
“Now.” Gutta turned to the frightened passengers again. “If anybody else got some smart shit to say I can make ya’ll asses go night-night too. My right hand is better than Nyquil, dammit! I will put you smooth the fuck out, free of charge.”
Nobody even looked in Gutta’s direction as the bus cranked back up and everything got back in motion.
“Fuck you, nigga!” a tiny voice came from the back of the bus. “Ain’t nobody scared of yo’ big head Incredible Hulk–lookin’ ass!”
Gutta whirled around ready to kill a mothafucka and then he saw Shy cheesin’ his ass off. Gutta’s scowl melted into a smile as he laughed at his homeboy and shook his head.
“Don’t be playin with me like that, man,” Gutta said, cracking up. “All this was yo dumb-ass fault anyway! You got me on the Greyhound wildin’ out and shit, nigga!”
“We Harlem, baby,” Shy said, still cheesing from the weed. “We do what the fuck we wanna do. It’s a Harlem world.”
“We’ve got a small problem,” Bob Easton said the moment Viceroy stepped into the executive boardroom at Dominion Oil. He was sitting in Viceroy’s chair with his feet up on the desk. The rest of the crew sat randomly around the conference table. They were an informal b
unch today, this Gang of Five. They sat around in their shirtsleeves with their collars unbuttoned, smoking Havana cigars and pondering the political futures of the candidates like a think tank full of vicious sharks.
“What’s up?” Viceroy asked as he walked past the white man lounging in his chair and took a seat in the middle of the pack. When he stood at the head of the table and conducted board meetings and dictated company policy he was the HNIC. The oil business was his specialty, but the arena of big-time politics belonged to the elder white men in the room, and today Viceroy knew to stay in his place.
“It’s Ruddman. He’s running against you, Viceroy. He filed his paperwork ten minutes before the deadline, and now he’s in the race.”
“That greasy bastard!” Viceroy sneered. “That fat-head fuck!”
“Now, now.” Bob held up his hand calmly. “There’s no need for all of that. This isn’t a game of emotions, Viceroy. It’s a game of cunning and skill, and obviously Ruddman is using a bit of both.”
“But if he’s running against me then that could split some of the votes. Folks who are against Larry Dawkins and want him out will now have to choose between a rich black man and another rich black man!”
“That’s the whole idea,” Bob said, nodding. “Ruddman’s being smart and strategic. He’s got some top-notch advisors who are setting him up for big-time success.”
Viceroy balked. “So if his cats are setting him up for success, what the hell are you guys setting me up for?”
“A killing,” Bob said quietly. “We’re not just setting you up to win, we’re setting you up to conquer and annihilate! When we get done throwing rocks in Ruddman’s campaign he’ll go crawling back into his cave at the Omni and never come out again.”
“So how are we gonna do that? What’s our plan?”
Bob smirked and waved his hand. “Plans are for the weak and vulnerable. What we’ve come up with is a scheme. Watch this.”
Bob picked up a small remote and clicked it, and a film began to roll on the conference room’s back wall. Viceroy watched as a political advertisement for the support of undocumented workers filled the screen, showcasing none other than the CEO of Ruddman Energy himself.
“Undocumented workers are not your enemy,” Ruddman spoke into the camera. “They are the lifeblood of this great country, the backbone of our industry. They do the jobs that ordinary Americans do not want to do, and they provide reliable services and resources at every level of American life.” Big color photos of Mexican fruit pickers, bus-boys, child care providers, and elderly companions flashed by on the screen.
Ruddman smiled, then drove his message home strongly by saying in Spanish, “Here at Ruddman Energy we respect and support our undocumented workers. We will ensure their jobs remain safe.”
When the sixty-second spot went off, Viceroy turned his glare on Bob expectantly. “That bastard doesn’t speak a word of español, but he’s probably just pulled in a major hunk of the Latino vote with that one. How the hell am I supposed to fight that?”
Bob was ready. “By hiring a few undocumented workers on your staff and making your own video,” he said. “And,” he added quietly, “by showcasing your new houseguest. The cross-dresser. As distasteful as I find his lifestyle he can get you a shitload of votes that Ruddman could never touch.”
“Who you talking about? Peaches?” Viceroy balked with his lip curled down in disgust. “But I thought you told me to get rid of him and now you’re telling me to shoot a commercial and go on the air with that skirt-wearing, perfume-stanking, makeup-sporting, sissified-drag-nasty-go-rilla muthafuckin’ fa—”
“Transvestite!” Bob cut in. “Yes, we want you to go on the air in support of Peaches and show the world that just because you’re a Republican who believes in small government and fiscal responsibility, it doesn’t mean you’re a heartless cad who would turn his own family member away just because he happens to have a different lifestyle.”
“Peaches ain’t none of my goddamn family!” Viceroy exploded. “He’s a gorilla freak from New York City! There ain’t none of that funny stuff going on in my family tree!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Bob said firmly. “Ruddman has bitten into the Hispanic vote and now we’ve got to take a major bite of the gay and lesbian vote and force ourselves to chew it. I’ve arranged some studio time for you to shoot the ad spot tomorrow morning. Your speech is being written up as we speak, and I’m sure it’ll say something about how you respect and support all members of your Republican constituency, even if they are gay cross-dressers like your favorite nephew.”
“Nephew? I already told you, that fruitcake ain’t no kin to me!”
“Well, if you want to win this election you’d better start acting like he’s one of your kin. Your initial polling numbers are way down, Viceroy. Perhaps you should start treating him like he’s your son.”
“Shit!” Viceroy whined with his face screwed up. “The next damn thing you’ll be telling me is to let some fools come up in my house to shoot that damn reality show!”
“You’re exactly right.” Bob nodded firmly. “That’s precisely what I was planning to tell you. One reason your poll numbers are so low is because people don’t know enough about you. A reality show might be just what the doctor ordered, especially if they can air it right away. It’s time to stop hiding behind your walls. Go ahead and give America an up-close-and-personal look at what your life is really like, Viceroy. Let them see your frailties and your faults. Everybody loves to watch a good train wreck. Let’s see how close you can get to the edge of the tracks without jumping off.”
CHAPTER 14
Rodney Ruddman wasn’t above a good-old-fashioned ass-fucking. Especially if he was the one supplying the stiff meat.
“Mr. Washington has arrived, sir,” his longtime secretary at Ruddman Energy poked her head in the door and informed him in a hushed tone.
Rodney glanced at his watch and nodded. The young man was exactly five minutes early and that was a good sign.
“Make him wait a half hour and then send him in,” he instructed his secretary, and then opened a folder on his desk that was labeled Confidential in big black letters.
A slick smile of satisfaction played along Rodney’s lips as he thumbed through the photocopied documents inside. It had taken some arm-twisting and a nice chunk of change to get his hands on this folder, and now that he had it he was gonna use it to his full advantage.
Rodney shook his head as he read through the documents. That Viceroy was a bad mothafucka and as shrewd and crafty as they came. As much as he despised his ass, Ruddman had to admit if you were gonna dog-fuck your friend, then this was definitely the way to do it. His arch-enemy had earned his full respect for this particular ploy because only a cold-blooded bastard would lie, cheat, and swindle a homey the way Viceroy Dominion had done.
“It’s been thirty minutes,” his secretary said softly as she opened his office door once again. “Shall I send him in?”
Rodney glanced down at the eight-by-eleven photo of Earl Washington, Viceroy’s former business partner. He wondered if the son’s balls were any tinier than the father’s had been, or if the young man had been cut from a thornier tree. Either way, he was about to find out. “Send him in,” Ruddman said with a cold, calculating grin. “Yes, send young Mr. Washington right on in.”
Zeke Washington sat back in the soft leather chair with his mind in moolah heaven. A pretty white escort from Ruddman Energy had led him over to a private elevator and used a card key to access the skylight suite on the top floor. He’d given the secretary the box of his father’s papers and told her that he had an appointment with Rodney Ruddman, and in return she’d given him an iPad that had been loaded with all the latest movies and had all the best games available on it as well.
She left him in the lounge area for a good minute, but waiting around didn’t mean a damn thing to him. He was unemployed and the clocked ticked the same way for him every single day. He was busy playing
Call of Duty and making loud action noises with his mouth as he slayed muthafuckas left and right when he glanced up and realized the secretary was standing over him, calling his name.
“Mr. Washington?” she said with a small smile. “Sorry to interrupt you but Mr. Ruddman is available to see you now.”
Zeke flashed her a big smile and tossed the iPad carelessly down on a chair. “Oh, yeah?” he joked. “That’s cool, because I’m ready to see him now too.”
Following the secretary down a long hall, Zeke smoothed down his cornrows and hiked his baggy jeans up by the belt loops. His bop was full of confidence as his Timbs sank into the plush carpet that felt like soft cotton under his feet. The smell of big-time money was in the air as he added a little dip to his gait and a masculine swing to his arms.
At the end of the hall they entered an office that was nearly five times the size of the U-Store-It shed that Zeke rented for a hundred and twenty-five dollars a month and crashed on a cot in every night. The office hollered “pure money” loud and clear, and the desk was so damn big he had to look twice to find the little round dude who was sitting behind it.
“Zeke Washington,” Rodney Ruddman boomed, his voice filled with power and authority. His snake eyes swept over the young man as he studied him intently. He was from the streets. A handsome and fit young man with an athletic build. He was a two-bit criminal too, Ruddman knew. He had already pulled up the boy’s rap sheet and it was longer than his dick.
Dressed in the trappings of cultural poverty, Zeke sported what Ruddman referred to as “corner clothes” and while his gear screamed BROKE AS SHIT, the look in his eyes said, HUNGRY AND AMBITIOUS.
“It’s good to see you. You look just like your father.”
“Is that right?” the young man replied smoothly. “What? You used to run with my pops back in the day or something?”
“Yes, I knew your father well,” Ruddman lied. “Or at least well enough to be pissed off when he caught that raw deal. I called him up and offered to have my attorney help him out, you know. But unfortunately he died before we could put something together. Have a seat,” he said, nodding at a leather chair on the other side of his desk. “I’ve ordered up some lunch for us. Make yourself comfortable until it arrives.”