by Foye, K'wan
“Why don’t you cool the fuck out?” Biz tried to scramble away, but the chain that bound his right wrist to the table made sure he didn’t get too far.
The detective grabbed Biz by his nuts and snatched him to his feet. “I’ll cool out when you stop playing and tell me what I need to know.”
“I keep telling you I don’t know shit!” Biz’s voice went up two octaves.
Detective Brown glared at Biz as if he wanted to kill him. “Okay.” He released Biz and allowed him to fall back into the chair. “I see that’s your story and you’re sticking to it. I can respect the G-code. Let’s see how much good that code does you when the judge hits your dumb ass with a football number.”
Biz tried to hold his game face but couldn’t help the nervous twitch in his eye. “You bluffing, duke. Y’all caught me with scraps. The most you can push for is a probation violation and maybe a li’l time on top of that.”
Detective Brown laughed. It was a hearty laugh, and he slapped the table top for emphasis. “You simple bastard, you think I’m talking about drugs? Fuck them drugs. I’m trying to hang a few of these murders on you. Hell, I might even hang ’em all on you if we can get them to stick.”
Biz felt his bowels shift. He looked at the detective to see if he was just trying to spook him, but the man’s eyes said he was dead serious. “I didn’t kill anybody. You said so yourself,” he protested.
“I sure did,” Detective Brown agreed, “but I ain’t gotta prove you did it, Biz. All I gotta prove is that you had knowledge of it. If you have knowledge of a crime and do nothing to stop it or report it, that makes you coconspirator.”
“Co-what?” Biz was confused.
Detective Brown shook his head at the man’s ignorance. “It means that I can charge you with conspiracy and tie you into all this bullshit.”
“You can’t do that,” Biz said nervously. For as many years as he had been on the streets hustling, he had the same Achilles heel that most young hustlers suffered from. They were unclear of the law and their rights.
“I can do whatever the fuck I want. Would you like to know why?” Detective Brown reached across the table and slapped fire out of Biz. “Because I’m the po-lice, and you ain’t shit but a case number at the back of somebody’s filing cabinet.”
Biz looked at the detective with sad eyes. “You dirty, man. Stone dirty.”
“Nah, I ain’t dirty, but let me paint a picture of dirty for you, buddy. I can promise you that you’ll get at least a dime with the violation of probation and the conspiracy charge, but I’m gonna whisper in the DA’s ear and see if I can get it knocked down to five or so. Then I’m gonna get in the streets and start raising questions about how a piece of shit like you managed to get such a sweet deal. Word is already out that you got pinched with product on you, so you can bet your sweet ass that there’s somebody having a conversation about whether you’ll stand tall on this charge and what to do if you don’t, so this will be an easy sell, Biz. You’re fucked either way, and I’m offering you a way to make it consensual instead of rape.” He leaned in to whisper to Biz. “You can either sing,” he slid him a sheet of paper and a pencil, “or swing.” He slid him the manila folder with the pictures in it. “Pick your poison.”
“I can’t believe you gonna do me like this over some drugs, man,” Biz said in a defeated tone.
“Biz, I could care less about the drugs. I wanna stop these murders. We know there’s a war going on between the Clarks and a new player on the chessboard. Now, we’ve got an idea of who the new player is but we just need somebody to connect the dots. All I need is a name and you can walk outta here tonight like none of this ever happened.”
Biz looked back and forth between the folder and the blank sheet of paper. The more he thought about it the more he began to understand how dire his situation was. He could chuck it up and take his chances with the charges, but he figured, why gamble if he didn’t have to. “King James,” Biz blurted out before he could change his mind.
THIRTY-ONE
THE MOMENT KING JAMES STEPPED OUT OF the taxi in front of the projects he felt the butterflies in his stomach. It was the same queasy feeling he’d gotten when he first came home from his bid and laid eyes on the tall brown buildings for the first time after so many years. Those butterflies were stirred by joy, but these were stirred by guilt.
Standing in the walkway were Ashanti and Fatima. She was clearly upset and Ashanti consoled her as best he could. King felt a tinge of jealously watching Ashanti brush the tears from Fatima’s cheeks gently. It wasn’t that Ashanti was stepping on toes because King and Fatima weren’t an item; it was just that he was used to her always fawning over him so to see her giving her attentions to one of his underlings bruised his ego. Ashanti nodded when he saw King approaching, but Fatima’s mood only seemed to darken at the sight of him. She said something to Ashanti before walking off toward the building, leaving him standing there with a bewildered expression on his face. King knew she was still tight over the argument, but the things going on in the organization at the time were bigger than their argument. She would either get over it or get gone. He didn’t have time to worry about it.
As instructed, the most trusted members of King James’s crew gathered in the courtyard for the emergency meeting he had called. Their eyes lit up when they saw him, and he could see expressions of grief and anger painted on their faces. He would address them soon enough, but there was someone else he needed to speak with first. Moving up the walkway he could see Lakim standing near the entrance to the park speaking in hushed tones with Zo-Pound and Dee. All of the men’s faces were solemn, but they tried to look alive when they saw King James.
“Peace to the God.” Lakim embraced his friend.
“Peace Allah,” King replied. He gave Alonzo dap, then turned his attention to Dee, who looked an emotional wreck. “How you?”
Dee shrugged. “I’m alive, so I can’t complain too much, which is more than I can say for Meek.”
“This shit is twisted.” King ran his hand over his beard and sighed.
“Word-life, my nigga. I can’t believe they laid Meek to rest,” Lakim said. “That’s a’ight, though, cuz we about to roll on them niggaz like Tonka trucks. As soon as you give the word, niggaz is dead!”
“We’ll speak of retaliation later,” he told Lakim. “She home, Dee?”
“Yeah, she up there, but she ain’t doing too good. You sure you wanna do this now?” Dee asked.
“Stalling ain’t gonna make it no easier. Might as well get it out of the way now,” King told him and walked toward the building. Lakim, Alonzo, and Dee fell in step behind him.
There was a small crowd gathered in front of the building and everyone looked sad. In the corner was a homemade mural that sat inside a cardboard box to protect it from the weather. People from the neighborhood were huddled around the mural, speaking of what had happened the night before and what would surely come of it. When they saw the quartet approach, they moved out of the way so they could pass. King stopped briefly and looked at the picture of Meek that sat among the candles in the mural. His heart always felt heavy when he lost a member of the team, but losing Meek hit him especially hard because he was so young.
“Rest easy, my nigga,” King whispered to the picture before disappearing inside the building.
When King and his team got off the elevator on the third floor they were greeted by a sea of faces, some familiar and some not. King, Lakim, and Zo played the background and let Dee lead the way through the crowd to the apartment down the hall. The door was open, but Dee knocked anyway. A rough-looking dude wearing a white T-shirt and baggy jeans snatched the door open. It was an uncle of Meek’s named Rodney, who had recently come home from a bid. Rodney scowled at King and the rest, but his face softened when he noticed Dee. The two men embraced each other, and Dee whispered something to him. Rodney was animatedly opposed to what Dee was proposing, but after some convincing he stepped aside and allowed Dee and his friends
to enter.
Meek’s mother sat behind the dining-room table, surrounded by some of her relatives. She was a known smoker in the hood, but that day she looked surprisingly sober. She was dressed only in a housecoat wearing a head scarf and a pair of furry slippers. A cigarette burned in the ashtray amid dozens of pictures that were spread out across the table. They were photos of Meek at different points in his short life. She looked up from her reminiscing and her red-rimmed eyes landed on King. She continued to glare at him until Dee came and placed a hand on her shoulder. He kissed her cheek and whispered something in her ear that made her eye twitch. After some prodding by Dee, Meek’s mother got up and came to stand before King.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry for your loss,” King began in a sincere tone. “Meek was like my little brother, so you don’t have to worry about anything, I’m going to take care of whatever the funeral expenses are.”
Instead of thanking him, Meek’s mother hauled off and slapped fire out of King. “There is no amount of money that you could offer me that would compensate for what you took from me.”
“Chill, sis, you bugging.” Lakim stepped forward and was immediately met by Rodney. In his hand was a long black gun.
“Back the fuck up,” Rodney barked, standing between Meek’s mother and King’s crew.
Meek’s mother patted Rodney’s arm, letting him know everything was okay, then moved to stand before King James. “James,” she addressed him by his government name, “I’ve known your family since y’all was kids. Your mother was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met, so I could never figure out how her kids turned out so rotten. I thought when they took you off to prison it would scare you into making something of your life, but all it did was steal what little bit of good you had left in you. The worst part about it is that now you’re out here corrupting other people’s kids with that bullshit.”
King had finally had enough of her insults. “Sis, I’m sorry for your loss . . . I truly am, but don’t stand on your soapbox wagging your finger at me when you spend as much time as anyone in the streets.”
His words stung, and it was clear in her eyes.
“You’re right. If I had spent as much time being a mother as I have being a crackhead, then Meek might still be here. I’ll wear that, King James, but that don’t excuse you from being the reason my son is dead.”
“I didn’t kill Meek,” he pointed out.
“You may not have shot him, but you put him on that corner. They say the worst pain in the world is a mother laying their child to rest, and I would like to thank you, King James, for letting me know just what that feels like.” She broke down.
“Maybe we should go,” Alonzo suggested.
“I think that would be best,” Meek’s mother agreed. She walked back over to the table and allowed Rodney help her back into her chair. “And Dee,” she addressed the other young man, “if you ever bring him here again, then you will no longer be welcomed either, do you understand?”
Dee lowered his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You heard her, nigga. Get the fuck out!” Rodney shouted.
King felt his fists instinctively tighten. He caught himself in time to keep from knocking all Rodney’s teeth down his throat. There was a time and a place for everything, and this was neither the time nor the place. “Again, you have my condolences.” He tossed a brick of money on the table and left the apartment.
King pushed open the lobby doors and welcomed the rush of warm air that washed over his face. Though he would never admit it, Meek’s mother’s accusations had cut him terribly deep. Every member of King’s crew came into the fold of their own free will. He didn’t force any of them to hustle or break the law, but he showed them how to do it and not get caught. He showed his team love by letting them get money with him, but his love was also putting them in harm’s way. He would have to wear Meek’s death, that went without saying, but he vowed that he wouldn’t be the only one with a heavy heart that night. With this in mind he addressed his crew in the courtyard.
“Peace, peace, peace,” King greeted his soldiers. “Y’all already know what it is so we gonna keep it short and to the point. Niggaz came through last night and laid the homie Meek out so now it’s time to make that right. Word to me, niggaz is gonna feel it behind this one. Yo, Dee,” he called the young man forward. “You sure about what you told me, as far as who the shooter was?”
“Yeah, man. I told you that I was so why you keep asking me?” Dee said with attitude.
King grabbed Dee by the shoulders and turned him around to face him. “Because I need to be one thousand percent before I make this move. Once we cross that line, we can’t come back.”
“He ain’t bullshitting.” Ashanti stepped up in Dee’s defense. “It was Shai’s boy Holiday. I saw him with my own eyes. I tried to tear his head off, but the bitch-ass nigga ran.”
King believed Dee when he first told him, but hearing it out of Ashanti’s mouth sealed the deal. An icy ball formed in his stomach as he thought about the corner he had been painted into. “That’s what it is then.” King nodded. “Blood will prevail where words failed. I want Holiday dead by the end of the week. Anybody else gets clipped in the process is a bonus.”
“You know this will be considered an act of war, right?” Alonzo asked him.
King James looked at the young man who he had known since he was in Pampers, and his glare was as if they were meeting for the first time. “That still don’t change what I said. Holiday dies. Period. I got fifty stacks for the nigga who brings me his kufi.”
“I could use that bread.” Lakim rubbed his hands together greedily.
“This ain’t for you, God. Yo, Ashanti,” King called out. Ashanti stepped up and looked King James in the eyes. King searched for traces of fear but found none. “You ready to earn ya stripes, li’l nigga?”
THIRTY-TWO
AS EXPECTED, HOLIDAY’S BIRTHDAY BASH WAS SOMETHING like a gangsta party. Hustlers from all over the city came out to help him celebrate his born day. The location he picked was a strip club in the Bronx called Sin City, where he was a regular. All the managers knew Holiday was a big spender and would attract more ballers, so they pretty much gave him the run of the club. There was food, drinks, and plenty of strippers to entertain Holiday and his guests.
Shai, Angelo, and Swann decided not to attend, but the rest of the team came out. Even Baby Doc, who was underage, was up in the spot making it rain on the girls. Swann and Angelo tried to get Holiday to cancel the party because of everything that was going on in the streets, but he wasn’t trying to hear it. He had been planning the party for months and nothing was going to stop his fun, even an impending war. Holiday couldn’t understand the thinking of Shai and his inner circle. They were the most powerful crew in the city, but at the first signs of trouble, everyone went to ground like gophers, but not Holiday. He reasoned that everyone bled the same and any man could be killed, so long as he saw his enemies before they saw him he would always have the upper hand.
“What’s up, li’l nigga? You having a good time or what?” Holiday pulled up a seat next to Baby Doc, who was sitting in front of the stage with his eyes transfixed on a girl’s gyrating crotch. A half-empty bottle of Moët was clutched in his hand.
“Hell, yeah, I’m having a blast,” Baby Doc said excitedly, never taking his eyes off the girl.
“See, I tried to tell Swann and them to come out, but them niggaz was fronting like they scared,” Holiday said, slightly slurring his words. He was borderline drunk and trying his best to get all the way there.
“I don’t think it’s about being scared. I think it’s more about them wanting to maintain low profiles with all this stuff going on with King James. I heard somebody killed one of their young boys the other night and them cats are screaming for blood,” Baby Doc told him. He had no idea that Holiday had been the one who killed one of King James’s soldiers.
Holiday laughed. “Yeah, somebody pushed their young boy’s shit back prett
y damn good.” He recalled the look of fear in Meek’s eyes before he put a bullet between them. “Man, fuck all that low-profile shit. A nigga would have to be out of his mind to get at a member of the Clark family. We’re untouchable, B.”
“My dad always told me that nobody is untouchable and to assume so could get you killed,” Baby Doc repeated one of the lessons his father Big Doc had taught him.
“Big Doc is a wise old dude, but he still thinks this is 1988. Him, Shai, and the rest of the old heads need to step into the millennium. This is a new age we live in, and strong crews can’t be maintained with outdated rules,” Holiday said.
“I dunno, Holiday. Those rules were put in place for a reason. Shai says—”
“Shai says, Shai says,” Holiday cut him off. “That’s all Shai ever does is say. We out here in the streets getting it in while he’s safe in his big house giving orders. Shai is the boss of this thing in name, but it’s the niggaz who are in the streets who really run shit. Niggaz like me and you.”
“Me?” Baby Doc asked curiously.
“Yes, you. Baby Doc, you still young, but you my li’l man and one of the few niggaz who I trust completely. You’re the voice of reason when I be off my dumb shit.”
“I never knew that, Holiday. Most times you treat me like a kid and act like you don’t wanna be bothered,” Baby Doc admitted.
“Nah, dawg. That’s just me giving you a hard time so you’ll be tough enough to handle it when it’s your turn to start calling shots,” Holiday told him.
“I can’t see myself calling no shots. My dad says he wants me to finish school and live a normal life.”
“That’s what he says, but if he really meant it, why would he have you around us so much?” Holiday asked. “Big Doc ain’t gonna come out and tell you to take it to the streets. He wants you to be man enough to choose your own destiny.”
“You think so?” Baby Doc weighed Holiday’s words.