“Somebody gotta know something,” Kookie says.
I flip through the pages of one of these old-ass magazines, but then I get this weird sense that everyone is looking at me. I freeze and wait, but the hairs on my arms and on the back of my neck start rising, and I decide to sneak a quick peek over the magazine. Sure enough, Kookie and Pit Bull are looking dead in my face.
Oh, shit. They know. A lump suddenly materializes in my throat, and all the swallowing in the world isn’t getting that muthafucka to budge.
“Well?” Kookie asks.
“Well what?” My gaze shifts around.
Slowly, everyone else picks up on the growing tension.
“Surely you heard something. Isn’t Ta’Shara like your main girl?”
I frown. “Whoa. We don’t get down like that.”
“Ain’t nobody saying that y’all bump uglies or nothing—just that you two hang and shit,” Pit Bull says.
The music is turned down, and heads start coming out from under the dryers. Ms. Anna needs to change the name of this salon to Nosy R Us.
I keep trying to swallow this huge lump, but I think this muthafucka is getting bigger not smaller. Same goes for my eyes.
“Damn, small fry. Whatchu looking all scared for? We asked your ass a simple question. Are you friends with LeShelle’s sister or not?”
“Y-yeah.” I shrug. “We’re cool.”
Kookie and Pit Bull share a look.
“Just cool?” Kookie asks. “You ain’t been down to the hospital to check up on her or nothing? Her or that lil Vice nigga she was fucking around with? I mean, let all the lil Queen Gs tell it, you two are thick as thieves.”
“Yeah. That means that you knew those two were gettin’ it in waaay before anyone else did. Right?”
I force myself to be calm—well, to look calm anyway. “Nah. I was surprised like everybody else.”
They call me a liar, though their lips don’t move. It’s all in their eyes and in the swivel of their necks. Instead of engaging in a staring contest that I know I’ll lose, I lower my head and pretend that this is the most fascinating shit I’ve ever read, but these bitches’ gazes remain locked on me. When I hear them get up from their chairs and walk over to me, I damn near have a heart attack.
Aw. Fuck. Am I about to get my ass beat?
Pit Bull sits to my right, while Kookie plops down on my left.
I look up and catch Cleo’s worried gaze, and for a brief moment I wonder if she even has my back. The way other muthafuckas’ families have been acting, I think I have good reason to be concerned.
“Whatchu reading?” Pit Bull asks, snatching the magazine out of my hands. She doesn’t even bother to take a look at it before tossing it over her shoulder.
“What do you want?” I ask with attitude, which could get my head knocked off my shoulders.
“Why don’t you come outside with us and let us holler at you for a minute?” Kookie says.
“For what?”
Her face twists. “I guess you’ll find out once we get outside, won’t you?” She stands.
Pit Bull stands up, too.
I look up at them, torn between telling them to kiss my ass and bawling like a fucking baby. I knew this shit was going to fall back on me.
Cleo climbs out of her chair, her hair wet and dripping down her back as she walks over to where I’m sitting. “Is there a problem?”
“Nah. There ain’t no problem. We just want to holler at Essence outside for a minute.”
Cleo plants her feet and folds her arms across her chest. “For what?”
The two Queen Gs flanking my sides turn their hard gazes toward her, but to Cleo’s credit, she doesn’t flinch and she doesn’t budge.
“It’s a personal matter,” Pit Bull says, rocking her head.
“You ain’t got personal business with my lil sister. Anything that you want to talk to her about, you can say in front of me,” she tells them.
“No offense, Cleo. I respect what you’re doing and all, but this shit doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
Cleo’s face gets harder by the second. It’s her angry face, a look I know well since she’d been known to go off on me more than a fair amount of time growing up. “Like I said, anything you have to say to my baby sister, you can say in front of me. We’re all Queen Gs. Family is family, but blood is blood. You feel me?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud to have Cleo as my sister than I am right now. This is how family is supposed to act. At least I know now that if there is some shit about to pop off, she’ll most definitely have my back.
“Fine,” Kookie spits. “Let’s take this shit outside.”
“A’ight,” Cleo agrees, and then shifts her hard stare at me. “C’mon, let’s go, E.”
I climb up onto my wobbly legs, and these muthafuckas feel like they’re filled with Jell-O as we walk across the shop toward the front door, with every eye following us. One person who looks relieved is Ms. Anna. I know she’s tired of bitches fighting up in her shop.
Cleo and I follow Kookie and Pit Bull to the side of the building. When we stop, I make sure that I’m standing close to my sister, with my hand stretched into my jacket and locked around my gat. After my run-in with Lucifer, I vowed that it was going to be the last time a bitch caught me slipping.
Pit Bull snickers like she knows what’s going on in my pocket. “Slow your roll, lil momma. Ain’t no reason for bullets to start flying . . . yet.”
Cleo glances over at me. If she’s surprised that my ass is strapped, it doesn’t show on her face.
“Like I said, we just came out here to talk,” Kookie says.
“About what?” Cleo asks, folding her arms again.
“About Ta’Shara and Profit,” Kookie tells her. “Le Shelle wants to know if your lil sister has any new information. That’s all. She’s concerned.”
“Humph!” I roll my eyes.
“What?” Pit Bull says, shrugging. “Ain’t she got a right to be concerned about her own blood?”
Not if she’s the one who landed her in the hospital in the first place. Everyone’s eyes land on me again. “I ain’t got nothing to tell you.”
“You haven’t been to see her or nothing?” Kookie presses.
I shake my head but then wonder if I’m about to walk into a trap. What if someone had seen me there—seen me talking to Lucifer? My stomach twists into knots. If that shit got out, would Cleo switch sides then? “I didn’t talk to her,” I hedge, trying to buy time.
“But you can go see her, right?” Pit Bull says. “Her foster parents will let you talk to her, right?”
Kookie adds, “Yeah . . . and maybe you can get in to see what’s going on with her boyfriend. Find out if that nigga gonna pull through. Is he gonna wake up, or is he gonna be a vegetable or some shit.”
“Wait,” Cleo jumps in. “That place gotta be crawling with Vice.”
LeShelle’s girls bounce their shoulders. “So? Her rolling up to the hospital is legit. She can see Ta’Shara—maybe she can tell what’s going on. If not, she can always claim that she’s friends with that nigga as well. It’s worth a shot.”
“So you want her to play snitch?” Cleo says, trying to make sure she understands what they’re saying.
I’m already a snitch. My gaze drops for a second, but I pick it back up in case they read guilt on my face.
“So? She ain’t snitching to no cop or nothing. She’s tryna get some information for LeShelle—our queen. Damn. Muthafuckas do covert operational shit all the time in the GD family. Why are you sweating this lil bullshit?” Pit Bull barks.
“She a kid,” Cleo says. “And you’re talking about sending her ass into the lion’s den with those Vice niggas. With all that’s gone down these past few days, these niggas gotta be jumpy as fuck. They’ll probably shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Bitch, please. We got niggas much younger than her neck-deep in dirt and wallowing in that muthafucka without compla
int. Fam is fam. We’re all sisters in these streets. If the head queen asks for a favor, what’s with all this negotiating shit?”
Cleo rolls her eyes. “Please. This ain’t street shit. This is family shit. Ain’t nothing more dangerous than niggas getting in the middle of family shit. Ask Tyga. He tried to help Datwon and Python bridge some family bullshit, and the muthafucka took a bullet to the skull while Datwon got fed to Python’s pet snake Damien. If LeShelle wants to see about her sister, why can’t she roll over there and see her for herself?”
Kookie and Pit Bull look at each other while amused grins stretch across their faces.
“Uh-huh.” Cleo bobs her head. “So it’s true, then. She’s the damn reason her sister’s up in that bitch in the first place, ain’t she?”
Kookie shakes her head, but her grin refuses to falter. “Look, Cleo, we ain’t out here to discuss all that. We’re asking nicely for Essence to go in and try to get the four-one-one. Surely you’ll want to deal with us than LeShelle. Muthafuckas tend not to like how her ass asks for a favor. You feel me?”
“Yeah. She’s a rude bitch,” Pit Bull cosigns.
For the first time, Cleo hesitates. And it’s not like I can blame her. Shit. LeShelle’s name might make Freddy Krueger pause.
“Okay,” I say.
Everyone’s head swivels back in my direction.
“I’ll go to the hospital and see what I can find out.” Of course, I have no intention of telling LeShelle anything remotely resembling the truth. But with LeShelle and Lucifer allowing me to float in and out of the hospital, I can stop sneaking and keep tabs on my girl. LeShelle has another thing coming if she thinks I’m going to help her do a damn thing. If anything, I’m going to do all I can to help bring that bitch down.
22
Lucifer
Mason looks fucked up.
By the time Dr. Cleveland had finished digging and stitching our leader up, there were eight bloody bullets sitting in the bottom of a silver pan. I had hoped by the time I returned today to check on Mason that he would’ve had a hell of a lot more color than he’s showing right now—or at least be awake. My disappointment must show on my face because Bishop takes one look at me and then walks over to try and relieve my fears.
“He’s going to be all right,” Bishop says, curling up a half smile. “This nigga is like the Teflon Don. You ought to know that shit better than anybody.”
I reluctantly pull my gaze away from Mason’s still form to look my brother dead in the eye. “Maybe.”
“I’m betting every dime I got on it.” He throws a light punch against my shoulder. “Now cheer the fuck up before you get all mushy on my ass.”
I roll my eyes. “You wish.”
“Yeah. Probably. The day your ass sheds a tear, it will likely usher in those ‘end of days’ that Momma preaches about.”
“Ha-ha.”
“So what did you find out down at the hospital? Profit awake yet?”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “Doctors down there don’t sound too fucking optimistic about his ass waking up anytime soon either. Hell, they’re still trying to figure out how the muthafucka is still breathing.”
Bishop laughs. “It’s because him and our nigga here got the same blood rushing through their veins.”
“Did the doctor say how long it would be before Mason wakes up?”
“Could be any minute.”
“And it could be never,” I inject pessimistically. Fuck. I can’t help it. It’s who the fuck I am. Life has never given me much to be optimistic about.
Bishop twists his face up at me. “I done told you my man is going to pull through this shit, so squash it.”
I toss up my hands and back the hell up. I can tell by looking at him that he doesn’t even want to consider the possibility of us losing our boy. That shit is odd, given the nature of our business. Niggas fall every day—and there’s always another nigga to take their place. It’s the cycle of the street life. There’s no pension or retirement plans out here. We live by a bullet and the odds are we’re gonna die beneath a hail of them. The only questions are, when, and are we going to have the guts to hold our heads up?
Right now, I’m uncomfortable about how still and colorless Fat Ace is. It’s too easy to picture his ass lying in a casket like so many other street soldiers before him—my daddy included . . .
Three days after my father was gunned down in our front yard, Momma, Juvon, and I stood huddled together under a lone umbrella while one sobbing person after another stood in front of the closed black and chrome casket and told how my father, the Dough Man, as they called him, either helped pay a light bill or put food on the table when a soldier was either dead or serving a bid. My father was a great man, they said over and over again. The newspapers had it wrong.
“A gangsta? A drug lord? A criminal?” Smokestack thundered in a rising baritone. “These are labels society tries to shackle us with every day. The white man ain’t happy unless he keeps us chained down. And trust and believe that it’s by any means possible.”
A chorus of agreement ensued, despite the few nervous glances we made toward a line of police officers who also stood watch. Momma said they were there for additional police protection, but we trusted the police about as much as we trusted the Gangster Disciples.
“Darcell Washington was the very definition of a man. He was a husband, a father, a brother, and a son. Above all that, he was a good lieutenant with the Peoples Nation. He was a friend when you needed a friend. A brother when you needed a brother.”
There was a small ring of “amens” while I sucked in a deep breath and wished that this whole thing would be over soon, but Smokestack was just getting started.
“All I’m saying is that the world outside has forfeited their rights to judge us—how we put food on our table, how we keep the lights on, or how we look out for one another.”
“Aww, this nigga gonna start preachin’ now,” someone said from behind us.
“Well all right now!” Aunt Nicky held up her right hand to Jesus and started waving it around.
Smokestack smiled. “It’s important now more than ever that we who have been blessed into the Nation have to stick together and hold the line—even against brothers and sisters who look like us but want to snatch the food out of our mouths—out of your baby’s mouth. Those slobs shed Darcell’s blood in front of his house—in front of his children.” He gestured toward me and Juvon.
I dropped my head lower and prayed that he’d hurry the hell up. I don’t want to stand out here all damn day in the rain. I twisted around to see who all came, and it looked like the whole Vice Lord family turned out. I guess I should feel good about that, but so far I still feel nothing. I don’t’t know what it is, but I feel like a huge part of me died when the lights went out of my daddy’s eyes.
For the past twenty-four hours, everyone kept telling me that it’s okay for me to grieve—like I was waiting around for permission or something. Frankly, all the waterworks was rocking my nerves. All those fucking tears weren’t’t going to suddenly help my daddy rise up from the dead. If they could, then maybe I would’ve managed to squeeze a few. Meanwhile, it seemed that everyone was putting on a show and I was waiting for the credits to roll.
I started to turn back around when my gaze cut across to Mason Lewis. At first I’m stunned to see him in something other than saggy jeans, a fresh white T, and the latest pair of Jordans he done jacked from the mall. Barely nine years old, the chubby hustler was already a menace to society.
After staring at him for so long, he bucked his head back in his signature, “ ’sup, B?” greeting.
For the first time in three days, I actually felt something. There was a tightening in my chest, a flutter in my stomach—but that was the usual when Mason came around. Now, it bothered me that I could still feel that but could feel nothing for the man I’ve loved my whole life, lying in a cushioned casket.
Maybe there really was something wrong with me. I turned bac
k and faced Smokestack.
“We all know who sanctioned this shit—and you got my word that the Black Gangster Disciples are going to feel the heat of my nine, especially that head nigga, King Isaac.” His top lip curled in disgust. “Time to knock that nigga off his make-believe throne. Y’all feel me?”
There was a roar of agreement, and a few niggas even lifted their guns in the air as if somehow asking the good Lord to bless their piece.
But it was Aunt Nicky who hollered out the loudest and waved her hand in the air. “Amen, amen.”
She wasn’t fooling nobody. While everybody else in the family was dressed in black, she was standing next to Momma in a red dress so tight that no one understood how she could even breathe in the damn thing. That was Aunt Nicky—always on the hunt for a new man. Sometimes when she couldn’t find an available one, she borrowed someone else’s. Judging by the way she was looking at Smokestack, he was her next target.
Fuck his white girl, Barbara.
It was funny that for all of Smokestack’s militant talk, he always had this white bitch sniffing shit out of the crack of his ass. At least that’s how my momma put it every time she saw the blue-eyed junkie.
The kids around the block called his wifey Dribbles—mainly because most of the time she was huddled in the back of someone’s house or gas station with a dirty needle in her arm, her head held back while a long string of spittle dribbled out the corner of her mouth. When she was like that, it was just a matter of time before a bunch of niggas came around and started putting they hands all up her skirt. Once I even saw her put her mouth on this man’s’s dirty dick outside in broad daylight, but then she got mad when he took off running instead of letting her hold five dollars. She raised so much hell out there, screaming and cursing his ass out that I gave her five dollars out of my allowance to shut her the hell up.
Mason always got mad and embarrassed when that shit got back to him, seeing how she was his momma and all. Now, nobody really believed her lily-white ass was his real momma.
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