“What was that for?” she asked, slightly out of breath.
“For not holding my foolish pride against me,” he said.
“Oh, don’t get it fucked up. I have every intention on letting you make it up to me, but we can talk about that later. Now, Cowboy won’t be easy to kill, so I know you’ve got a plan?”
He smirked. “Don’t I always? Let me run it down to you, boo.”
SEVENTEEN
Duce found the burdens of his vow suddenly weighing very heavy on him. When he had pieced his plan together, he’d gone through every possible outcome, or so he’d thought. Running into Frankie hadn’t been part of the equation. He had intended to look her up after his business with Cowboy was concluded but discovering she was a member of his crew as well as his lover added an unexpected twist.
Just thinking about them together made Duce mad as hell. He couldn’t shake the images flashing through his mind of them being together. Did she do the things to Cowboy that she used to do to him?, Duce wondered. Another thing that Duce had been trying not to think of was how far could he trust Frankie? They had been lovers once, but five years is a long time to be away and time tends to change people. What if she had taken his plan to Cowboy and they were laying a trap for him. Without the element of surprise, his chances of killing Cowboy were slim to nil. He could see them now laughing together over his ruined corpse.
Duce took a deep breath and tried to clear his head of the images. Back in the days, he and Frankie had banged out side by side, but now she was standing on the other side of the fence which could complicate things considerably. He might be too focused on Frankie to handle his business with Cowboy. Duce was a seasoned killer, but men like Cowboy were not to be taken lightly. Still, his brother’s killers had to be dealt with, and if he had to go through Frankie to get it done then so be it.
The constant, falling snow had made navigating through the large cemetery quite the task. He had to trek across the grass to keep from busting his ass on the icy cobble stones. A few yards ahead of him he could see the top of the tombstone. Even if he hadn’t gotten directions from the ground’s keeper, he would’ve been able to find the grave. The headstone was made from black marble and stood easily four feet off the ground. Perched atop the stone was a sculpted angel with its arms stretched to the heavens. Duce had commissioned the design from a talented young prison artist, and Reggie did the leg work on the streets to get it done. It was a parting gift to Knowledge.
Duce knelt on the snow-covered grass, soaking his jeans and sending a chill through his knees. He ignored the biting cold as he wiped the clumps of snow from the headstone. The words ‘God’s Favorite’ were engraved into the marble, just above his brother’s name, birth and death dates. It had been five years since his brother had been murdered, but it seemed like just yesterday they were getting high and cracking jokes. Those were the good times and in the blink of an eye, Cowboy had ensured that there would be no more.
“What da deal, son?” Duce said to the grave. “I know you’re probably pissed that it took me five years to visit you but, incase you haven’t heard, I’ve been indisposed,” Duce chuckled. “Man, this shit feels weird, me talking to you like this. I always thought that it would be the other way around with someone laying me down. I guess the good really do die young. I ain’t gonna get all emotional on you cause that’s not how we do, but a nigga miss you, big bro.” Only when Duce felt something warm splash onto his hand did he realize that he was crying.
“Look at me, out here bawling like a damn baby. I guess being overly emotional is just one more of my shortcomings. Don’t even trip though, cause them niggaz that brought all this shit down on us are history. That snake bitch Marsha is outta here and that bitch ass nigga Scott. I’m knocking Butch out the box this morning. I’ll bet his ass ain’t expecting what I got for him when he wakes up all happy and shit this morning,” Duce laughed. “The last piece of the puzzle is Cowboy. I’ve got a nice Christmas present for him.” Duce got up from the grave and brushed his knees off. “Big brother, it’s gonna be a while, if ever, before I can come back and visit you. You know I gotta fly the coop after I push these niggas’ shit back. I ain’t trying to stick around for the fall out. But you know what, I don’t need to come all the way out here to talk with you…because I’ll always have you in my heart,” he pounded his chest. “Take care of yourself my nigga, and hold a place for me up there,” he looked to the sky. Duce lowered his head and walked away.
With each step he took in the soft snow, his hate for Cowboy intensified. He had failed his brother once, but it wouldn’t happen again. He would either kill Cowboy or die trying.
“What it is brother? I know you gotta task for me today. I’m trying to get a bottle and I’m two dollars short?” old man Jim capped as Butch stepped into the barbershop. Jim was an old wine head who did odd jobs for everybody in the neighborhood. He was a pain in the ass, but he was always willing to work for his pennies.
Butch gave him a toothy grin. “Jim, since today is such a special day, I’m gonna lay a $20 on you for five minutes of your time.”
“Talk about it, boss,” Jim rubbed his hands together.
Butch dug in his pocket and handed Jim a crisp $50 dollar bill. “I want you to run up the street and grab me a dozen roses.”
“Aw shit, let me find out you got a new tender you about to break in. Is she sweet, boss?”
“I wouldn’t know, mutha fucka. The flowers are for my daughter. She’s auditioning at LaGuardia today.”
“My bad Butch, you know I didn’t mean no disrespect to ya, brother,” Jim shrank a bit. “Wow, little Penny was always good on them keys, I hope she makes it!” Jim said over his shoulder as he shuffled down the street.
Butch’s baby brother, Harvey, stood a few feet away, eyes nervously scanning the street. He’d have been more comfortable cooking and cutting drugs than playing Butch’s bodyguard for the morning, but it was a last minute decision. Butch’s wife, Liz, was adamant about him not bringing his usual goon squad to their daughter’s audition, as not to give off the wrong idea. After what had gone down with young Scotty, there was no way Butch was rolling to the event alone. Harvey was a chicken shit, but even he should be able to handle the security detail at a little girl’s recital for a few hours.
He’d gotten the wire about Scotty getting smoked, couldn’t say he was surprised. Scotty had been abusing and burning people left and right since Butch put him in pocket. He’d warned him time and again to slow down, but Scotty did what he pleased. They said that he got laid near Willie’s which disappointed Butch further. He’d stressed to Scotty the importance of not developing a routine, and the fact that he was now dead was just the reason why.
“What’s popping, Jessie,” Butch lowered himself into the first chair. “I ain’t got time for the whole cut, just give me a shave and a line up so I can make a move. I got a special appointment, so I need you to make my line extra sharp, feel me?”
“You know how I do it,” Jessie assured him, draping the smock around his neck. “So, your little girl’s got something going on?” he asked, using a brush to whip the shaving cream in a small bowl. Most barbers did their shaves with clippers, but Jessie was old school.
“Yeah man, they’re giving her a second chance to audition. She won’t be able to attend until next year, when she’s a sophomore, but I could give a damn so long as she gets in. That’s one hell of a school,” Butch settled back in the chair.
“I know what you mean, man. LaGuardia is supposed to be one of the best for music and art,” Jessie began applying the shaving cream to Butch’s face and neck.
Butch closed his eyes and spoke through slightly parted lips. “And that’s why I’m pushing so hard to get her in there. My baby is smart and talented as hell, but you can never have too many edges when those colleges call.”
“So, you think the colleges pick solely based on what high school them kids came out?” Jessie began dragging the razor smoothly across Butch’
s face.
“I know it to be true, Jessie. You take a regular kid from let’s say, high school A and compare it against a kid from LaGuardia. The kid from high school A might have better grades, but the kid from LaGuardia comes from better credentials, so he stands a better chance. Most times it ain’t what you know…it’s who you’re with.”
“You sure as shit ain’t lying about that,” Jessie chuckled. Butch’s eyes were still closed so he couldn’t see the slack look that had come over Jessie’s face. He’d never heard the door open, or the foot steps when the man crossed the short distance between the bar and the first chair and pressed a pistol against Jessie’s neck. Jessie, careful not to move a muscle, looked to the right and found himself staring into a pair of dead eyes. Slumped in one of the folding chairs was Harvey. He had one hand halfway to his gun and his neck was bent at a funny angle. Upon closer inspection, Jessie noticed the Timberland string tied around his neck. The poor bastard never stood a chance. The young man raised his hands to his lips and motioned for silence as he plucked the razor from Jessie’s trembling hand and nodded for him to back away. Seeing what he was capable of, Jessie did the wise thing and complied.
“Yeah, Jessie, I got big plans for that girl,” Butch continued. “I spent years on the block getting it up so that my little girl wouldn’t have to want for anything. She ain’t gonna be no lump on the street like we were, trying to get by on our wits.”
“Because wits don’t always prevail,” Duce whispered into Butch’s ear. Butch’s eyes popped open and when he saw the man sneering at him in the mirror, he almost shit his pants. If it weren’t for the razor pressed into his jugular, he would have surely fainted.
Duce slid the razor up a bit, but didn’t apply enough pressure to draw blood. “Come on, Butchy. You don’t remember my name no more?”
“D… D-Murder,” Butch trembled just getting the name out.
“So, the liar has found its tongue,” Duce tapped Butch on his shoulder with the barrel of his gun. “I hear you’re doing big things in the world, Butch. You got that pot money? ‘No matter what we make, ten percent goes in the pot for the family so every nigga on our team can have lawyer money or be buried properly’. Remember that, son?”
“Derrick, what’s this shit all about, man?” Butch tried to add some bass to his voice, but it kept cracking.
“Oh, I think you know what it’s all about, fam. My brother rests with the lord and you’re out here rubbing shoulders with his murderers. How do you think that shit was looking to the brothers on the tier? Let me answer that for you,” he moved the blade so quickly that Butch didn’t feel the stinging until Duce was standing in front of him. “It sounds like you’re a cock sucking piece of shit that would sell his mother down the drain for a street corner.”
“Nigga is you crazy?” Butch clasped his neck. He tried to hop out of the chair, but Duce kicked him back down.
“Nah, I ain’t crazy brother,” Duce slashed him across his protruding gut. “Just vindictive. Take your medicine with pride,” Duce advanced on Butch with the razor, but Butch rolled out of the chair and landed on all fours.
“You’re making a mistake,” Butch pleaded from his knees, damn near groveling.
“I’m not making a mistake,” Duce snatched Butch roughly to his feet by his jowls. “I’m correcting one,” he drew back for the killing blow, but Butch had a parting question.
“Wait…I can’t go out like this, what about my little girl!”
Duce hesitated as if he were about to change his mind before a chill crept into his eyes. “Shit, what about her?” he asked before opening Butch up. The man flapped around on the floor like a wounded fish for almost five minutes before he finally lost the battle. Duce turned to the old barber and leveled his pistol.
Jessie backed up with his hands held high. “Come on, Derrick, don’t do me like this. I’ve been cutting you and your brother’s heads since back when you were little boys, you know me, man.”
Duce nodded in satisfaction and lowered his gun. “Yeah, I know you Mr. Jessie, so I know you gonna keep your mouth shut about what happened here, right?”
“I did ten years in the joint and ain’t never let any nigga’s name but mine roll off my tongue,” Jessie said proudly.
Duce reached into his pocket and handed Jessie a wad of bills. The old barber was too scared to count it. “Sorry about the mess I made,” Duce headed for the door. As an afterthought he added, “Does your daughter still live down on ninety-something street in those projects?” Jessie’s dark skull suddenly became very pale. He thought he might be suffering a mild heart attack until Duce gave him that little boy smile. “I’m just playing with you, Mr. Jessie.” And just like that,
D-Murder was gone.
EIGHTEEN
Frankie moved as silently as the grave through the streets of Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. Night had fallen hours ago and there wasn’t much of anyone on the streets other than the dealers and stick-up kids. Frankie wasn’t worried about the latter because she was armed with a Desert Eagle. Even if it weren’t for the large pistol, the trained eye could see the shadow of death looming over her like a protective shield.
She was dressed in black jeans and a skully, with a black Woolrich coat that almost swallowed her. The soft, but filthy, snow crunched under her feet as she walked. The hood of her coat was pulled halfway around her head, enough so that she could fight off some of the chill, but not too much as to obscure her vision. Frankie wasn’t one to be caught slipping.
Frankie passed a group of young men who were loitering in front of the bodega on Throop and Hancock. One of them said something to her as she passed, but she ignored the comment and kept her stride. Not having anything better to do, the boys fell in step behind her. They whistled and made cat calls, but Frankie didn’t respond. She wanted to turn around and slap fire out of the boys, but didn’t. She was trying to keep a low profile and getting into a fist fight in the middle of the street might draw unwanted attention to her. Cowboy had eyes everywhere.
Tiring of the cat and mouse game, one of the boys pressed his luck and grabbed Frankie by the arm. Spinning, she clocked him with a left to the side of the head and followed with a right to the jaw, knocking him down but not out. The boy snarled and struggled to his feet but before he could reach Frankie, she had drawn her weapon and was pointing it at his head.
“You got frog in you?” she asked, pulling the slide back on the gun with her free hand. “Go ahead, I dare you.”
“We don’t want no problems, miss,” one of the boys said.
“Oh, ain’t no fun fighting a girl that might fight back, huh?” she mocked, sweeping the gun over all of them. “You niggaz beat your feet before I get stupid out here.” The boys made hurried steps in the other direction, clearly wanting no parts of the young lady holding the big gun.
She moved down Jefferson Avenue taking note of, but not making eye contact with any of the locals. The less they remembered about her, the better. A brown-skinned dread with a heavy accent came at her trying to push up and sell her some weed at the same time. All it took was a look from Frankie and he backed off. Near the end of the block, she found the building she was looking for and ducked inside.
The interior of the building was just as shabby as the exterior. Empty cigarette boxes and cigar fillings littered the floor of the lobby, turning into a damp mess from the snow that had been tracked from the outside. Frankie jogged up the dilapidated stairs, praying they wouldn’t collapse under her weight. When she got to the top floor, she knocked on a brown door in a rhythm and waited. There was the sound of bolts being slid free and the door opened. Duce stood there to greet her with open arms.
“Damn, I was beginning to worry about you,” he said, hugging her. “None of these niggaz give you any grief did they?”
“Baby, you know Frankie hold her own,” she pulled the Desert Eagle halfway out of her coat pocket so Duce could see the butt.
“Bring your crazy ass in here,” he stepped back so
she could enter.
Frankie was thoroughly surprised when she stepped into the apartment. The building looked like it would fall over under a strong enough gust of wind, but the apartment itself was plush. The place had soft, lavender carpet stretching from one end to the other and high ceilings. He escorted her into the living room where he had a nice leather sectional and an entertainment system that housed a 42 inch television. Attached to the television were a Play Station 3 and an X-Box 360. Typical of a dude, she thought to herself. Duce motioned for her to have a seat and disappeared into the bedroom. He came back out a few seconds later with a blunt between his lips.
Frankie slipped her coat off and took a seat on the sofa. “I see you still love the Mary Jane,” she nodded at the blunt.
He lit the blunt and took two deep pulls. “Some things never change,” he said, exhaling the smoke. Duce flopped on the sofa next to Frankie and grabbed the remote off the coffee table. He clicked on the CD player and switched the disc to track number two. Lyfe Jennings’ Stick Up Kid came softly through the speakers.
“That’s my shit,” Frankie said, humming along with the song.
“You know, I used to lie in my cell and think about you whenever I heard this song,” he told her, tipping the ash into the ashtray before handing Frankie the blunt.
“Stop trying to gas me up,” she giggled and took a baby pull off the blunt. Frankie immediately started coughing and handed it back to Duce.
“Better be careful with that, this ain’t no back yard boogie,” he teased her.
“Shut up,” she slapped him playfully on the leg, sending a warm sensation through Duce. “The only time you probably thought about me was when you were beating your dick!”
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