by K'wan
“A’ight,” True said as Eight closed the door.
* * *
The man watching True from the truck was a big-lipped kid, with a slightly receding hairline. The whole time that True rounded his car to get into the driver’s seat, he kept his eyes glued to him. Since becoming semifamous, True was used to cats staring at him, but there was something in the kid’s eyes that he didn’t like. Right after Crazy Eight had gone he placed his .40 cal on his lap as he started the engine.
In the rearview mirror, True saw the big-lipped kid get out of the truck and head in his direction. True’s heart began to pound in anticipation of what was about to pop off. He didn’t know the kid’s face, so he was pretty sure he had never crossed him, or given him reason to want to harm him, but with hating-ass niggaz operating the way they did, a reason wasn’t necessary. As the kid drew nearer the driver’s side window, True checked to make sure there was one in the chamber of the Glock.
Von clenched and unclenched his fists as he approached the car. Whoever the kid was who was hugged up on Rhonda was about to get himself checked. Von was sure the kid saw him approaching in the rearview, yet he didn’t move. Von figured that he was probably shitting his pants, which only made him feel even bolder. He opened his mouth to say something smart, but the words got stuck in his throat when he saw the hammer resting on True’s lap.
“Can I help you?” True glared up at Von.
For a minute Von just stared, dumbfounded, until eventually he was able to find his voice. “Oh, my fault, yo. I just wanted to say ya new video is dope.”
True just nodded and repressed the urge to laugh at Von’s cowardice. “Thanks. Cop that album, son,” True said, putting the car in gear and peeling off on Von, who stood there looking like a clown.
* * *
Von must’ve raised hell for almost a half hour. He pressed Rhonda with questions as to who the cat in the Beamer was, and made accusations and threats about what he would do to him. Rhonda knew how True rocked, so she saw right through Von’s lie. He was trying to make it seem like he was the one who was pulling the G moves and not the other way around.
She insisted that he was just a friend from the block, but was careful not to divulge his name. Rhonda mock-pleaded with Von not to kill her childhood friend, knowing damn well if he went looking for True, he’d likely be out of her hair forever. Though it was tempting, she didn’t want to be the cause of Von getting murdered, or True going to prison. After whispering lies about how she respected his gangsta too much to play him dirty, Von eventually calmed down.
After jetting upstairs to check on the kids, Rhonda came back down and got in the truck with Von. They hit a few spots in Harlem so he could check on a few things and see some people he knew. Rhonda didn’t mind, because the longer they stayed cruising, the less likely he was to ask for some pussy. As if reading her mind, Von suggested they get a room.
“Von, you know I can’t leave my kids in the house by themselves. I’ve been gone long enough,” she protested.
“Come on, baby. A nigga is backed up,” he pleaded.
Rhonda saw the thirst in Von’s eyes and decided to play on it. “Nah, Von. We can’t do that. I’ve got to cook dinner for the kids and I gotta meet somebody later on.”
“Who you gotta meet?” he asked.
“Nobody,” she replied.
“Rhonda, don’t fucking play with me. Its bad enough I come around and find you hugged up with some supposed friend, now you got a date and shit.”
“It’s not a date, Von.”
“Then what is it?”
Rhonda didn’t respond. Instead, she busied herself looking out the passenger’s window. Through reflective glass, she could see the insecurity in his face. She let a few dramatic seconds pass, then turned to face Von. “Listen, daddy, if I tell you where I’m going, you have to promise not to get mad.”
“Stop playing and tell me,” he demanded.
“Okay, this is the deal. Welfare is supposed to have been paying part of my rent, but I got a letter in the mail saying they fell behind with the payments. I’ve tried calling my worker, but keep getting the voicemail. If I don’t come up with the balance, they’re gonna try and put me and my kids out.”
Von’s eyes got wide. “What? Why didn’t you tell me you needed some bread?”
“Von, you know I don’t like to come to you like that. You do enough for me as it is.”
“So what’s up with this person you’re supposed to meet?”
“Well, I know a guy who works at this strip club. He says he’ll let me tend bar there a couple of nights a week so I can make a few dollars. The thing is … I have to tend bar topless.”
“Oh, hell nah,” Von almost shouted. “You say you can’t come to me, but you’d go to a pimp for the money?”
“He’s not a pimp, Von. He manages a club.”
“Same shit, Rhonda. Listen, boo, I’m getting too much bread in Virginia to have my shorty shaking her ass at a club. How far behind in the rent are you?”
Rhonda tingled with excitement. She hadn’t intended on hitting Von in the head again so soon, but he had put himself out there. She didn’t allow other men to just pop up on her, and he sure as hell wasn’t an exception to the rule. She had to teach him a lesson, so she blurted out, “Twenty-five hundred.”
Von winced when she said the figure. He had just spent a grip on her entertainment system, now the bitch needed another two grand to pay her back rent. Rhonda was turning out to be the most expensive lay he ever had. He couldn’t blame anyone but himself, though. He wanted to play the roll for the young Harlem chick, so he had to play it to the end. Reaching in the glove box, he pulled out a roll of bills and handed them to Rhonda.
“Pay ya rent, and use the rest to buy you and the kids something,” he said.
“Oh, thank you, daddy.” She hugged him.
“It’s a small thing, boo.”
Rhonda smiled devilishly. “You know what, daddy? Since you’ve been so good to me, I’m gonna be good to you.”
“Oh yeah? What you got in mind?”
“Don’t worry about it, just drive.”
Von pulled out into the afternoon traffic wondering what the hell Rhonda had up her sleeve. Three blocks later, he found out as she pulled out his small, fat penis and put it in her mouth. Von leaned his head back against the headrest and moaned as Rhonda took him to another world.
11
Yoshi stepped from the cab on the corner of 147th and Convent with the grace of a jungle cat, meaty thighs pressing against the fabric of her capris pants. She wore a tan hat with a wide brim, to try and protect her from the ever merciless sun, letting her dark hair low from beneath it. All eyes were on her as she headed up the block.
As she entered the walk-up apartment building, she literally bumped into Jah. When she braced her hands against his chest, she could feel the heavy vest strapped to him. Jah looked like he was about to reach for something until he realized who it was. Letting his hand fall easily back to his side, he smiled at Yoshi.
“Damn, nigga, where’re you going in such a hurry?” Yoshi asked.
“My fault, Yoshi,” Jah said. “I had to see my man, and I ain’t wanna be on this block like that dirty. Jumpouts all up and down this shit. What you doing over here?”
“Gotta go check my grandmother.”
“Word, I ain’t know you had family on this block.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” She gave him a seductive wink.
Jah moved closer, invading her space. “Then you need to let a nigga find out.”
“Cut it out, Jah.” She pushed him back to a comfortable distance. “What am I supposed to do with your young ass?”
He smirked, as if he had been waiting for her to ask that very question. “Let me show you how a real man treats a lady.”
Yoshi sucked her teeth. “Oh, so you’re a real man?”
“Let me tell you something, Yoshi,” Jah said, becoming serious. “I might be y
oung, but I’m a young dude with purpose. I’m gonna blow up or throw up out here, ma. Think on that one and get back with me.” Jah winked at her and hotfooted it down the block.
Yoshi waited until he was a good distance away to smile. Yoshi had spent more time around Paul because he was Rhonda’s baby daddy and closer to her age, but she had known Jah since forever. She watched him grow from a bad-ass li’l nigga on the block to a young cat on the come-up. Jah was known as a nigga who was down to do whatever. It didn’t matter if it was slinging stones or hitting a nigga up, if there was paper involved, he was with it.
“Thug-ass nigga,” Yoshi said, and laughed before heading into the building.
* * *
Jah hit the block feeling like he was on top of the world. The sun was shining and he had a hundred sack of Sour Diesel stuffed in his sock. When his man from uptown had called and told him he had come up on some Diesel, Jah wasted no time coming to see him. A lot of cats claimed to have the rare buds, but only a few had the real deal. His man was one of those few.
Crossing 145th and Lenox, he spotted young Tech posted up in front of the bar with some cats. The bar usually didn’t open until after dark, but something must’ve been going on that day. The owners were known to adjust their hours, depending on what was happening and who made the request. Jah knew most of the faces, but one he didn’t recognize right off. The dark-skinned man, sporting a bald head and a bunch of tiny gold chains, had a familiar face, but Jah couldn’t seem to place it. As Jah approached, the cat’s eyes locked on him and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was someone he may have wronged along his travels. If that was the case, he was glad he brought his .40 out with him.
“What’s good, Jah?” Tech beamed. Tech was a few years younger than Jah and headed down the same path. At age fifteen, he was already building up a lengthy rap sheet. Tech was always down to put in work, whether it be pulling a heist or going hand to hand on the streets. He had visions of being the next Nino Brown, but at the rate he was going he’d most likely be dead before he hit drinking age.
“Jah? Is that li’l-ass Jahlil?” the stranger asked in a voice that sounded like he smoked way too many cigarettes. As soon as he opened his mouth, Jah placed his face.
“What up, Dollar?” Jah asked very unenthusiastically. Dollar was a former money getter from 144th and Seventh. Back in the day he had the streets on smash, but it all fell apart because he couldn’t keep from dipping into the poison he was selling. About eight years prior, he had gotten knocked in one of his crack houses. Dollar was so high at the time of his arrest that he didn’t even realize he was in jail until his arraignment three days later. After almost a dime behind the wall, he was back on the streets.
“Man, I ain’t seen you in what, eight or nine years?” Dollar slapped him five.
“Eight,” Jah reminded him. “When did you touch down?”
“Two or three days ago. I’m just coming through, making sure everything was how I left it,” Dollar said with a grin, showing off his gold teeth.
“Same shit, different day. It was good seeing you, Dollar, but I gotta bounce,” Jah said, trying to walk off.
“Hold on, man.” Dollar grabbed Jah by the arm, ignoring the murderous look the young man was giving him. “We was about to go inside and have a drink on some welcome home shit. I know you got time to drink wit’ ya nigga?”
“Dawg, it’s a little too early to be drinking. Maybe later.”
“Oh, you done got too big to break bread wit’ a cat?” Dollar asked in a challenging tone.
“Dollar, you know this li’l nigga ain’t old enough to drink,” Booby said mockingly. He was a local shit bird who jumped on the dick of anyone who he thought was holding a few dollars.
“Bullshit. My li’l homey is good wherever I say he is. Come on, Jah,” he said, throwing his arm around the youngster’s shoulder. “Just have one with me and you can go back to snatching purses or whatever the hell it is you’re up to these days.” Dollar steered him toward the bar and Jah grudgingly allowed it.
Even in the middle of the day, the interior of the bar was pitch black. A withered old man wearing a gangsta suit stood behind the bar cleaning glasses. When he noticed the men enter, he gave a half smile and waved them to the seats with a crooked finger. Booby took a seat at the end, leaving a stool available on either side of Jah. Tech took the right, while Dollar plopped on the left, inches from his .40.
“Jackson, give us a round of my usual shit. For the next hour I don’t wanna see a dry glass in the room!” Dollar barked. There wasn’t a damn soul in the bar other than the five of them, but Dollar said it like it was a packed house.
“You got it, Big D,” Jackson said, pulling a large bottle of Jack Daniel’s from beneath the bar. He raised the bottle, but stopped short, zeroing in on Tech. “Hold on, man. You boys are good, but I ain’t serving the kid.” He thumbed at Tech.
“Come on, yo, I can hold my liquor. Why you acting like that?” Tech protested.
“I don’t give a good goddamn what you can hold, I ain’t losing my license over some wet-behind-the-balls teenybopper,” Jackson said, squinting at Tech.
“All right, give the young boy a soda then, and set that fire out for the rest of us,” Dollar said, patting the bar top. “So Jah, I hear you’re out here on your real thug shit?” He turned to the young man.
“You can’t believe everything you hear,” Jah told him.
“Come on, Jah. You ain’t gotta front for me, yo. I ran into a couple of heads from ’round the way while I was locked down. They say you out here doing ya one-two.”
Jah shrugged. “I’m just trying to see tomorrow, kid.”
“You hear this nigga?” Dollar asked Booby, who just shrugged. “Spoken like a real made nigga,” Dollar said sarcastically.
“Yo, niggaz know what time it is wit’ my dude out here,” Tech said, supporting Jah’s notoriety.
“Shut yo young ass up!” Booby shouted from his perch.
“Damn, Jah, you even got cheerleaders?” Dollar elbowed him. “You came a long way from the shorty I knew, snatching chains for bread.”
“I don’t snatch chains anymore,” Jah said easily as he sipped his Jack. He cut his eyes to the door as two young women came in, escorted by a dude wearing rhinestone-studded sunglasses.
“So it seems.” Dollar sneered. “Say, do you remember when we used to run you up outta the game room? Shit, you were always trying to hang around the big boys and pop your li’l cherry. I used to give you dollars for going to the store for me,” he said loud enough for the new trio to hear. Booby slapped the bar laughing, only making the situation worse.
“Times have changed,” Jah said with a chill in his voice. “I don’t go to the store for dollars.”
“I can respect it with you being all grown up.” Dollar downed his drink. Fishing around in his pocket, he pulled out a five-dollar bill. “So why don’t you take this and go get me a pack of cigarettes!” Dollar roared as if he had made the funniest joke of the century.
By the time Dollar had turned to tell Jah he was just joking, a glass was being broken against his face. Jah followed with a left hook, staggering Dollar. The older man tried to right himself, but the knee Jah slammed into his gut doubled him over. With the wind knocked out of him, Dollar crumpled to the ground. Booby slid off the bar, but Jah already had the drop on him with his .40.
“Booby, that’s my word, if you try me I’m gonna paint that fucking jukebox behind you,” Jah warned him. Booby thought about it and sat back down. “Look at me,” Jah said, lifting Dollar by the front of his shirt. “I know you’ve been away for a while, so maybe you haven’t gotten the wire. I’m a beast on these fucking streets, son. The next time you come at me like that, you better be ready to murder something, faggot!”
Everyone in the bar was silent, waiting to see what Dollar’s fate was to be. Jah dropped him back to the ground and looked around cautiously. “What happened?” Jah asked Jackson, pointing the .40 in his direct
ion.
Jackson raised his hands in surrender. “Shit, not a damn thing, blood!”
Jah backed out of the bar, keeping his pistol down, but ready. He kept looking from the front door to the people assembled in the bar, ready to pop off at the first sign of trouble. Booby was shooting him a murderous look, but he knew better than to challenge Jah. Dollar had been getting him high all day, but they weren’t cool enough for him to go against a hammer.
* * *
When Yoshi got to the fifth floor, the first thing she heard was the blare of music. Daddy Yankee’s “Gasolina” vibrated through the walls of apartment 5F. Yoshi let herself in and immediately smelled the pungent odor of marijuana. At the end of the hall she could see her cousin Selma ass popping in front of the living room mirror.
Selma was fifteen years old and dying to catch an STD. Like Yoshi, she was a mix of Latin and black. The difference was Yoshi’s father was Puerto Rican, while Selma’s was Salvadorian. They both had long dark hair, but where Yoshi stood five foot five, Selma was only five feet even.
Selma was the type of impressionable young girl who believed what she saw in rap videos. Yoshi or one of her cousins were always chasing Selma from one set or another, trying to keep her from the wicked things that lurked there. It was said that a few niggaz had tasted her fruit, but she wasn’t totally out there. Selma had G to be so young, but without guidance, she would be carrion to the vultures who stalked the New York underbelly.
Selma was standing in the middle of the living room, going through a series of moves she had picked up somewhere. The denim shorts she wore barely covered her tight little ass, letting just a hint of cheek show. On the front of her tight T-shirt was a quote from the Pussy Cat Dolls: Don’t you wish your girl was a freak like me?
“Look at you,” Yoshi said, coming into the living room. “This is what you do with your free time?”