Tales from da Hood

by Nikki Turner

  “Don't cover the dice no more, Duke. This the second time you done pull that shit,” Cojack warned.

  “Nigga, you crazy,” Duke replied, lying as usual. Everyone who gambled with him was aware of his slickness when it came to dice. It was just a matter of time before he did something to piss off his opponent. The stranger, whose name was Stan, told the men to stop arguing. “C'mon, baby, let's gamble,” he said.

  They continued and shot hard for another thirty minutes until Duke did it again. An argument erupted. Mason had to intervene by stepping between his homeboy and Dukey before a punch could be thrown. It had gotten so out of hand that Mason snapped.

  “Y'all niggas wanna argue? Tell you what,” he said, scooping the dice up and throwing them into the dark night. “Ain't no muthafuckin’ body gamblin’ then!”

  Dukey and Stan looked at him, surprised, while Cojack simply laughed. He knew when his man was mad and so did Dukey. As for Stan, he grinned and said, “I got some more, baby. Don't worry.” He was slurring, his head kept rolling, and his eyelids were getting heavy, making it obvious that the heroin had him feeling nice. Mason's eyes lit up as Stan pulled out a box of dice. Stan took three out and shook them in his hand before letting them fall to the sidewalk. “One monkey don't stop no show,” he stated, telling his two players to come on.

  In one fluid motion, Mason pulled a chrome “four pound” from his waist and cocked it, catching everyone by surprise, including Cojack.

  “Whoa, whoa. Playa, what's this about?” Stan stood, scared shitless.

  “Nigga, didn't I tell you the game is over?” Mason growled, aiming his weapon. Stan looked at Dukey for some type of assistance only to receive a dumbfounded look.

  “Get the fuck from around here, muthafucka!” Mason threatened.

  “A'ight, man. Please, I'm leavin'. I don't want no problems.” Stan was so nervous that he stuttered out every word. Duke stood silently, zoning as if he were living a nightmare.

  “You ain't moving fast enough, nigga,” Mason yelled.

  Boom! Mason fired a slug at Stan, causing him to fall against a nearby car.

  “Please!” Stan screamed, clutching his wounded leg. “Don't kill me. Please don't,” he hollered, moving swiftly, half walking and half limping. Dudes at the corner observed the action and quickly cleared the block, knowing the police were on their way. Mason laughed and fired off three more rounds. Stan grunted, catching another in his left biceps. He kept stepping in an effort to make it out alive. When Stan was out of sight, Mason turned his attention to Duke.

  “You started this shit, so go ahead and blame yourself for what just happened,” Mason said.

  The old head didn't respond, scared that he'd say something to get himself killed. He knew Mason was half crazy and, if provoked, wouldn't think twice of offing him.

  Just two years earlier Mason had slumped a cop for running up on him at the wrong time. He'd just left Cojack and had two kilos in a bag in the backseat. Luckily, he was stopped on a backstreet a couple blocks over from Midlothian Village. As soon as the cop walked up to the car, Mason just unloaded his entire clip, giving him several head shots to make sure he was dead.

  Cojack cursed him the whole walk to the car for cappin’ Stan. They drove away from the projects and Mason snickered as they passed the wounded man sitting on a porch across from the projects.

  “You's a fuckin’ nutcase, cuz,” Cojack said as he made a right turn on Jefferson Davis. When they stopped at a red light, he looked over at Mason and asked, “Why you do that crazy shit, man?”

  “He disrespected me,” Mason replied. “Who the fuck is he to pull out some dice? Nigga ain't even from round here. He lucky I ain't merk his ass. You know I could've.”

  Cojack sighed and shook his head. “Now we gotta worry about this nigga comin’ back. Or even worse, sending the police at us. You ain't think about that, did you?”

  “Damn,” Mason muttered, realizing that Cojack had a point.

  “And you know Dukey. He ain't nothing but a snake. Now we gotta look out for this nigga, too.” Cojack had to take a deep breath to calm his growing anger. He continued, “How the hell you expect to get money and be gangsta at the same time? You tryin’ to live up to that maniac shit for real, ain't chu?”

  Mason laughed and replied, “I feel you, man. But for real, for real, I done seen plenty gangsta niggas get money.”

  “Oh yeah, and how long they last?” Cojack asked.

  “Not long,” Mason answered, gazing out of the window. “But see, most of them dudes didn't know what the hell they was doing.”

  “And you do?” Cojack said.

  Mason nodded and said, “A lot of niggas just be out there in the way. It ain't what you do, Jack, but how you do it.”

  “Look, cuz, all I'm saying is we coulda handled the shit another way.” Cojack paused for a second. “You don't think, man. You just act and I'm telling you now, shit like that is what brings heat. Fuck the stupid shit. I'm tryin’ to get this paper.”

  “Yeah, you right, man,” Mason agreed. They rode in silence listening to Jay-Z's Reasonable Doubt. Cojack dropped Mason off at his Village Green apartment and then hit the highway and headed home.

  Despite his long-standing loyalty, Cojack was beginning to question Mason and he wondered if Mason's actions would eventually impact his paper.

  SEVEN

  A WEEK LATER, Cojack pulled into a busy Southside Plaza on a balmy Friday evening. Light drizzles were whizzing through a cloudless sky as he parked and hurried up to buy some liquor before the weekend. As he approached the store, Nation of Islam members were posted outside selling bean pies and the Final Call newsletter. As usual he was greeted with a smile; then a brother waved a newspaper at him.

  “I got you, brotha,” Cojack said. “Let me run in here right quick.” No matter where he bumped into these distinguished brothas, whether at functions or in the middle of traffic, he always supported their cause.

  He was in and out of the liquor store in no time. After purchasing three pies and a Final Call, he made his way over toward his car. The champagne-colored Maxima parked beside his Lexus instantly caught his attention. The female behind the wheel stared at him. Damn, he thought, shorty girl is fine as hell. She was alone. At least it appeared that way. Cojack glanced around as he approached his ride and opened the door.

  “Hey, is your name Cojack?” she asked. Cojack shot her a puzzled look as he turned around.

  “I don't know, who is you?” he curiously inquired.

  She blushed, then answered, “April.”

  Cojack put the bag inside the car and walked over to her ride. “I don't believe I know you, do I?”

  “No, you don't know me,” April said, before drawing a long sigh. “Look, Cojack, I'm here for my cousin Kenya.”

  “Kenya?” he uttered. “Kenya who?” He was totally lost. She flashed a timid smile that only puzzled him even more.

  “Kenya used to see your friend Mason.”

  “Oh, that Kenya,” Cojack said, recalling the female. “What the hell goin’ on?” Cojack's whole demeanor changed. This was the same chick that crossed his man up. At least that's how Cojack saw it. How else did her baby daddy get inside the apartment? April claimed that her cousin needed to speak to him. What the hell could she possibly have to say? Was she trying to save her kid's father? Did she think he could change Mason's mind? Baby girl had another thing coming.

  “Tell Kenya I don't have nothing to do with that,” Cojack said. He turned on his heel, got in his car, and drove away. The moment he left the Plaza, he picked up his cell phone and tried to contact Mason but wasn't successful.

  Darkness had covered the sky by the time he reached the projects. By now, Cojack had forgotten all about telling Mason about Kenya sending her cousin to holler at him. Cojack went on about his usual business.

  The block was wide open as usual. A group of girls stood on the corner puffing ganja. They all hollered simultaneously as the Lexus whipped around the co
rner. Cojack honked the horn and kept it moving. There was so much going on that Cojack quickly parked directly behind an Acura Legend. Three or four flatfooters trying to come up was pushing crack through the window of a white pickup truck that they had surrounded. Cojack stood chatting with one of the baseheads when he noticed several of his partners standing in a cut in front of Pearl's bootleg spot. There was a lot of commotion, whooping, and hollering. Immediately, Cojack sensed a bad vibe. It was a bunch of them gathered together. The whole scene just seemed strange. Cojack told the fiend he'd see him later and started over toward the group.

  Cojack reflected back on his strange encounter with the chick at the Plaza. He wondered what Kenya had to say. Did it have something to do with Mason? Where was he anyway? Everyone was there except him. Cojack was within thirty feet of the clique when Fisher turned and looked at him. His eyes were tiny dark beads. His expression startled Cojack so bad that he paused in his tracks. What the hell happened? Then everyone looked his way and had the same face. It was then that he realized they were all crying. They had drinks in their hands. Tupac's CD was blasting from Pearl's stereo. Where the hell was Mason? Cojack felt his insides shift as intense pressure began to build up. Was it a coincidence that a stranger approached him about Kenya?

  Finally, he was there, standing before fifteen or twenty of his people. Their eyes were bloodshot red and he could see murder in them. He almost didn't want to ask, but he had to.

  “What the hell is goin’ on?” he asked, looking at all the faces around him.

  “They killed him, man,” Davo cried out.

  “What? Who?” Cojack said. “Where?”

  “Tupac, man,” Fisher interjected. “Mutherfuckas just announced on the radio that he died.” At this point Mason appeared in Pearl's doorway and Cojack exhaled a little. He had never felt so happy to see this muthafucka in his life. Then it hit him.

  “Tupac died?” Cojack asked as if he hadn't heard it the first time. Cojack suddenly felt empty inside. No one there knew this guy personally, yet these cats were shedding tears and pouring out liquor as if a real homey had died. Who was this man? This shit was not a game. These dudes were not squares. They were real life hustlers and killers ready to go all out.

  Now that Tupac was gone, who would be their spokesperson? Man, it was a sad day. Someone great had just departed this life. Co-jack went and grabbed his liquor from the car, got some cups, and set out in front of Pearl's door while Tupac's voice trailed through the night.

  EIGHT

  IT WAS APPROXIMATELY 7:30 A.M. as Cojack got off the expressway ramp on the Chippenham Parkway exit coming to a complete stop at a red light. He breezed through the light traffic on his GSX-R1100 turning left toward Town & Country Apartments, where Mason lived.

  Mason's apartment was laid. The floor was covered with wall-to-wall carpet and triangle mirrors hung on the walls. An oak wood coffee table with built-in glass holders sat in front of a black circular leather couch with matching armchairs. The sixty-inch flat screen was the best part. Mason's girl practically had to drag him to bed because he'd sit in front of the TV until he fell asleep.

  As Mason trotted down the stairs, he looked like a child who'd just been awakened for school. “Wake your ass up, cuz. Ain't nothin’ gon’ come to a sleeper but a dream,” Cojack said.

  “Damn, nigga. You up early as shit,” Mason said, sprawling across from him on his cozy long couch.

  “Yeah, cuz. This how I been doing it for the past few days. I know you gon’ think I'm tripping, but I swear to God I can't sleep worth a damn anymore. And my back is aching. I been feeling bad, but going to bed don't help.”

  Mason just shook his head.

  “Jack, you need to leave that dope alone, man. How much of that shit you been sniffing?”

  “Nothing for a few days.”

  “You dope sick,” Mason said. “Got a little bitty habit going.”

  “That ain't it,” Cojack said. He knew he hadn't been that stupid. Their conversation came to a halt when Trina appeared at the top of the stairs fully dressed in her work attire. She sauntered down and kissed her man, not speaking to Cojack on her way out. As the door slammed behind her, Mason chuckled. “Shorty in her feelings.”

  “Yeah, I could tell she was mad when she opened the door,” Co-jack said.

  “She'll be a'ight, though. I usually hit her off before she go to work.” Mason smirked. “When you gon’ settle down with something?”

  “No time soon,” Cojack answered. “I got ninety-nine problems, and a bitch ain't one. I rather stick and move, playa.”

  “That dope enough problems,” Mason said, and shook his head.

  “Shorty musta put something real tough on you to make you start sniffing that shit.” Cojack gave him the “I've heard this sermon before” face. “You ain't trying to hear that though, are you? You the one used to tell me not to fuck with it.” Mason met his gaze. “Remember what you said, fucking with dope ain't but one route a nigga can go and that's down!” Mason reminded him.

  Cojack took a long drag off his cigar and released a cloud of smoke. “You finish yet, playa? I ain't come over here for that. I'm up early in the morning, taking care of business. Do it look like I'm slackin'?” Cojack flashed a perfect smile. “I'm on toppa my game.”

  “It's yo world, cuz,” Mason admitted.

  “Here,” Cojack said, pulling a package from his book bag and passing it to him. “It's a bird. This gon’ be it for a minute. I talked to my man and he saying it might be a month or two before he be back on. I'ma break the rest of this shit I got down. The price still the same for you but I'm gon’ tax the rest of them niggas.”

  “It's all good 'cause I'ma get me an extra quarter key off this shit.” Mason snickered. “Yeah, I'ma blow this shit right on up.”

  Cojack rose to his feet, securing his backpack over his shoulder.

  “I'ma be runnin’ all day. Let everybody know I'll be through when it gets dark.”

  It was nearly six P.M. when Cojack left the barbershop. The sun was down and night was approaching. He planned to stop by Willie's Record Store and pick up a few CDs, but he was interrupted by two pages from his mother. Already an hour late from dropping her off some cash for the light bill, he hopped on his motorcycle and headed straight across town.

  For Cojack, a kid was the furthest thing from his mind. He didn't have a steady girlfriend. At twenty-six years old, he lived by the motto “Never get attached to anything you can't leave when it's time to go.” Cojack had plenty of females he enjoyed being around but hadn't found that special one who could make his heart skip a beat.

  As he turned into his neighborhood he beeped his horn at Keisha, a cutie he'd knocked off a few times. He drove up the hill and parked behind his mother's Ford Explorer, which he had purchased just last year for her birthday. On his way to the door he stopped beside the truck, noticing it could use a wash, then hollered at Killer in the backyard, who was standing on top of his doghouse having a fit at the mere sight of his owner.

  The house was soundless, which was very odd. He yelled for his mother, “Ma,” but received no response.

  “Hell she at?” he mumbled, calling for her again. “Ma!” Still no answer. Strange, he thought as he tossed his bag and helmet on the living room chair. Cojack paused for a moment trying to think of where his mother could be with her truck still here. Just twenty-five minutes ago he received two pages. Then it dawned on him, she was over Ms. Penny's crib across the street, probably running her mouth. With them two together, it was no telling how long she'd be gone.

  Cojack proceeded into the den. That's when everything began to go in slow motion. First, the turned-over end of the couch got his attention. Then his heart fell to the floor as his mother came into view in the corner of the room. Her mouth and hands were duct-taped and her feet tied together. Panic gripped his entire being as he bolted toward her only to be struck over the head.

  “Get the fuck up!” a strong voice demanded from above. Coj
ack's vision began to blur from the incredible blow as he struggled to his feet. Suddenly, another figure came into view. Dressed in all black with a ski mask, he aimed the .40-caliber gun at Cojack's mother's head.

  “Please, man, don't hurt her,” Cojack pleaded, tears clouding his eyes. His heart ached as he gazed at her horror-stricken face. “Just tell me what you want,” he said to the man holding him at gunpoint.

  “Shut the fuck up. You talk when I tell you to, you dig?” Crack! The tall gunman leveled the butt of his pistol across Cojack's head. Blood leaked into his eyes as he clutched at the throbbing pain. Was this all a bad dream? Please God let it be, he prayed to himself.

  “Where the money at, nigga?” the gunman said. Nope, it wasn't a dream. “Don't play with us, muthafucka!” The man's voice was full of hostility as he pressed the cold barrel against Cojack's cheek. “I'ma ask you one more time.”

  “Homeboy,” the man called across the room to his partner. “If he don't give us what we came for, I want you to blow that bitch's brains out, you hear?” His man nodded toward Cojack's mother and cocked his burner.

  “Wait! Please. I got it upstairs,” Cojack said. He couldn't believe this was happening. He tried desperately to place the voice but couldn't. “Don't hurt her. God, please don't. That's my mama, man. It's over two hundred thousand dollars upstairs. It's yours, every dime, just don't hurt her.” Cojack was trembling and didn't really care about nothing but protecting his earth. How could this be? The woman who gave him life sat there duct-taped as if she was nothing but an old box.

  As the gunman pushed Cojack up the stairs, keeping the pistol in his back, Cojack turned to catch a glimpse of his mother. Their eyes connected for what seemed an eternity. Was this the last time he would see her alive? Would they take the money and kill them both? Damn! Where did I go wrong? he wondered.

  “He not gon’ hurt her, is he?” Cojack asked.