Blood of a Boss II: The Streets Is Watching

by Askari

  At the sight of the .38, Heemy stopped in his tracks.

  “Oh, so, it’s like dat? You gon’ pull ya lil’ hamma out on me? Yo, I knew you was a bitch ass nigga!” He smiled and shook his head from side to side. “Try’na walk around on the hood wit’ dat fake ass husky shit. Nigga, you’s a pussy!”

  Pooky was hot. “Oh, so I’ma pussy now?”

  “Yeah you’s a pussy,” Heemy repeated. “And if you put that ratchet down, I’ma knock you the fuck out.”

  Pooky couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. At 6’3” and 240 pounds, he was two inches taller and seventy pounds heavier than Heemy. Yet and still the young man appeared to have no fear. He knew the reason that Heemy was mad, and because of that, he decided to give the young man a proposition.

  “A’ight young bul, I’ll tell you what. I know you feel some type of way about me servin’ ya mom, and hustlin’ out y’all crib,” Pooky smiled at him. He refused to take the young man seriously. “If you want me stop, then you gotta show me that you’re man enough to make me stop. If you’re not man enough,” he shrugged his shoulders and smiled mischievously, “then I get to do whatever I want around this mutha’fucka.”

  “A’ight,” Heemy nodded his head. “But only if I get to keep my bat.”

  “Nigga, I don’t give a fuck about no goddamned bat!” Pooky shouted, attempting to intimidate his young opponent. “I just did eighteen years upstate! I was knockin’ out niggas wit’ swords in they mutha’fuckin’ hands! What the fuck I care about a…”

  Crack!

  The tip of the baseball bat crashed into the side of his head, knocking him backwards. As he fought to regain his balance, Heemy took another swing, but missed his head by centimeters. Pooky reached out with both hands and gripped him up by the neck. He hoisted his lanky body in the air, and yelled at him.

  “You lil’ bitch! You gon’ hit me while I wasn’t even ready!”

  Again, Heemy swung the bat, but due to the close proximity between Pooky and himself, he was unable to land a solid blow. After another failed attempt, he dropped the bat, and desperately tried to pry Pooky’s hands away from his neck.

  “Get off me, pussy! Lemme go!”

  “Naw, fuck that!” Pooky growled at him. “Ya lil’ ass wanna act like grown fuckin’ man, so now I’ma treat you like one!” He slammed Heemy to the soiled carpet, and released his right hand from around his neck. He balled his hand into a fist, and then cocked his arm back. “Nigga, I oughta break ya fuckin’ face!”

  Heemy struggled to free himself from Pooky’s grasp, but Pooky was too strong. Damn, he thought to himself, realizing that he’d lost any chance of winning this battle. Fuck it! I ain’t goin’ out like a bitch! Instead of giving his enemy the satisfaction of hearing him beg for mercy, he conjured up a thick wad of phlegm in the back of his throat, and then spat in Pooky’s face.

  When the slimy mucus splashed against Pooky’s forehead, he wiped it off with the back of his hand, and then returned a lougie of his own. The snotty saliva landed in Heemy’s mouth, and he went ballistic.

  “Agh! Pussy I’ma kill you!” he screamed. He bucked so hard that he nearly escaped Pooky’s strength.

  “What the fuck is y’all doin’ down there?” Treesha, Heemy’s mother, yelled from the top of the steps. “I’m up here try’na get my groove on, and y’all mutha’fuckas is down there makin’ all that mutha’fuckin’ noise!” she continued yelling while descending the stairs.

  When she entered the living room in her four sizes too big T-shirt, she was sweating profusely. A can of Natural Ice beer was clutched in her left hand, and a crooked Newport 100 dangled from the corner of her mouth. Her worn out weave was sticking out the bottom of her oily headscarf, and she was so skinny that her gray tights looked like parachute pants. “What? Y’all mutha’fuckas ain’t heard what the fuck I just said? What the fuck is y’all doin’ down here?”

  “Treesha, you better get ya son ‘fore I fuck his ass up!” Pooky warned. He was still choking Heemy with his left hand, and his right fist was still cocked in the air.

  Treesha looked at Heemy, and gritted her teeth. “Boy, get ya ass off of that goddamned floor.”

  “I can’t!” Heemy yelled at her. “Don’t you see he’s got me pinned down?”

  “Let him up, Pooky,” she lowered her voice a few octaves.

  “A’ight,” Pooky nodded his head. “But I’m tellin’ you right now, if I let him go and his lil’ ass gets crazy, I’m fuckin’ up both of y’all.”

  He released his grasp from Heemy’s neck, and they both jumped to their feet.

  Treesha looked at Heemy and sucked her teeth. “Boy, bring ya ass over here,” she demanded.

  “Come over there for what?” Heemy retorted.

  “Don’t be askin’ me no mutha’fuckin’ questions,” she spat, and then pointed at the carpet directly in front of her. “I said bring ya ass here!”

  He shook his head, and reluctantly walked toward her. The second he came within arms distance, she cocked back and slapped him across the face.

  Whack!

  “The next time you call ya’self disrespectin’ my man I’ma fuck that ass up myself! You got that?”

  A demonic raged spread throughout his body. He was tired of coming second to the man who fed her drug addiction and treated her like shit. His hands began to tremble and warm tears fell from his eyes. He wanted to smack her face off, but he didn’t. Instead, he darted out the front door and swore that he would never return as long as Pooky was still in the picture.

  ***

  Donkees Sports Bar was in full swing when Kev strolled through the front door. The patrons were enjoying a college football game between LSU and Michigan State, and scantily dressed waitresses and bartenders were serving food and drinks. The jukebox was playing Rico Love’s, They Don’t Know, and despite the law that prohibited people from smoking in public places, weed and cigar smoke hung in the air.

  As he glanced around the bar’s interior, the only thing he could do was shake his head in disbelief.

  “Damn, this nigga’s on that Blood shit fa’real!” He said to himself.

  He was referring to the red and black colors that decorated the bar. The walls were painted in the image of a red bandana, and aside from the red tables and black chairs, four pool tables were positioned throughout the bar. Each had a black frame and a bloody red canvass with a black five point star in the center.

  He walked over to the bar and took a seat. The bartender was a thick, Puerto Rican mami. She had a short haircut and a light brown complexion. Her face was that of an angel’s, and everything about her was sexy. She was wearing a black T-shirt that was cut just below her breast, and her red booty shorts revealed the fat camel toe that was wedged in between her thick thighs. The Donkees logo was printed across the back of her shorts in black letters, and across her shirt in red letters.

  She looked at Kev, smiled, and then asked, “Can I get you somethin’ papi?”

  “Yeah,” he smiled back and licked his lips seductively. “Lemme get a shot of Henny and a Corona wit’ lemon.”

  “Cool papi, I gotchu.”

  After reaching under the bar to grab a shot glass, she spun around and grabbed a bottle of Hennessey from the liquor shelf.

  Damn, mami bad as shit, he thought to himself as he admired her body from head to toe.

  “Yo, what’s ya name, mami?”

  Before she had the chance to respond, a deep masculine voice spoke up from behind him.

  “Bianca and she’s already spoken for.”

  Kev spun around to face the voice, and when he discovered that it belonged to Sonny, a huge smile spread across his brown skinned face.

  “My fuckin’ boy! What it do, Ike?” He greeted him in his Pittsburgh accent. He extended his right hand, and Sonny accepted the gesture.

  “Ain’t shit Kev. I ain’t seen you in a while, my nigga. Whatchu been up to?

  “Aww man, I’m wearing cashmere from last year that ain’t com
in’ out ‘til next year, you feel me? Trips to Vegas wit’ my bitch just to gamble at the Palazzo. Give the bitch a hunnid racks so she can tear up Blvgari while I’m tearing up the craps table. After that, we on the third floor eating cannoli’s at Carlos’.”

  Sonny burst out laughing. “Yeah, I hear you nigga, talk dat shit.” He reached out and grabbed the iced out lion’s head that hung from Kev’s necklace. “I see you shinin’, but you ain’t never holla at me. What’s up wit’ that?”

  “Shit nigga, you tell me!” Kev shot back, stretching out his arms for emphasis. “I called you the day we was supposed to link up, but ya phone was disconnected. Then I holla’d at Diamondz, and he told me about the situation wit’ ya girl. I just assumed you was fallin’ back.”

  Refusing to talk about Riri, Sonny changed the subject. “Yo, speakin’ of Diamondz, I heard that him and Shiz got booked for a body out in Cincinnati. What happened?”

  “Nah dawg, that shit happened in Cleveland. I brought them niggas out Pittsburgh wit’ me, and somehow they linked up wit’ these Cleveland niggas. Long story short, they went out Cleveland to set up shop, shit got crazy, and from what I’m hearing, they spanked a nigga,” Kev explained. “Matter of fact, I went to visit them niggas a couple of weeks ago, and they both sayin’ they gon’ beat the case. Hopefully they do, ‘cause the time they givin’ niggas for bodies these days—”

  “Yo, I need they info so I can reach out to ‘em, and see if I can help,” Sonny said in a somber voice. “Especially Dia. Me and that nigga been rockin’ wit’ each other since we was young buls.”

  Kev nodded his head. “I got you. I should be back in Philly in a couple of weeks to holla at my connect. After I handle my business and get right, I can meet up witchu, and make sure you got all the info you need.”

  “Your connect?” Sonny looked at him like he was crazy. “You mean to tell me that you been comin’ to Philly to grab work, and you ain’t holla’d at ya boy?”

  Kev shrugged his shoulders, and then gulped down his Henny. “I’m sayin’ though, I ain’t have no way to get in touch witchu. Plus, the Italians in South Philly been holdin’ a nigga down somethin’ crazy.”

  “The Italians!” Sonny scrunched up his face. “Who you talking ‘bout, Carmine and them fake ass mob niggas? Come on dawg, you know them spaghetti eating mutha’fuckas ain’t try’na show a nigga no love. What they chargin’ you?”

  “$42,000.”

  “$42,000?” Sonny chuckled. “For some shit that’s been stepped on more times than a crack house floor? Nigga my shit’s raw, straight from Columbia to Mexico to me,” he bragged, giving up way too much information. “I’ll tell you what,” he rubbed his hands together, blinding Kev with the sparkle of his 5 carat pinky ring. “All you gotta do is grab at least 10, and I’ll let em’ go for $35,000 a whop.”

  Kev perked up and subconsciously fiddled with his iced out lion’s head. “Shit nigga, you got a deal! I just wish I woulda ran into you sooner. I just finished copping off them niggas, and I ain’t gon’ be ready for at least another two weeks.”

  Sonny waved him off.

  “Yo, don’t even worry about that shit, fam. Whenever you ready to get right, just holla at me.” He reached inside of his Calvin Klein slacks and pulled out a business card. “Here,” he handed him the card.

  Kev examined the black and red card, and noticed the Donkees logo.

  “Damn Ike, I ain’t know this was ya bar! This mutha’fucka’s off the hook! Especially these lil’ bitches you got workin’ up in here!”

  “It’s a’ight,” Sonny replied in a nonchalant manner. “But as far as these bitches go, which one you feelin’ the most?”

  Kev looked at Bianca, and then turned his attention to the two Brazilian waitresses, Toya and Gabby. He then, fixed his gaze on Kelly, the thick brown skinned waitress who was leaned over the first pool table, preparing to knock the 8 Ball in the right corner pocket. Just as he was about to select the brown skinned beauty, a petite, Black and Korean woman emerged from the door that led to Sonny’s office. She was dressed in a black Valentino business suit, and a pair of black Cavalli pumps. Her silky black hair was pinned into a bun, and her slanted eyes were tucked behind black Donna Karan frames. A suede Bottega Veneta handbag was strapped over her right shoulder, and her sexy walk was full of attitude.

  “Damn Ike,” Kev whispered in his Pittsburgh accent. “Who the fuck is that?”

  Sonny smiled. “That’s Suelyn, my accountant.”

  “Oh yeah,” Kev replied while licking his lips. “I’m try’na see what’s up wit’ her.”

  Sonny shrugged his shoulders because he doubted that Suelyn would give him any play, but he called her over anyway. “Hey Sue, come here real quick. I wanna introduce you to somebody.”

  Chapter Five

  Later That Night...

  Grip was relaxing in his home theater. He was sipping on green tea, and his eyes were glued to CNN. News stations from all over the country were covering the latest events out of Ferguson, Missouri, and it was just announced that the grand jury had declined to issue an indictment in the Michael Brown case. The City of Ferguson was in an uproar. Large crowds of protesters were looting and setting the city ablaze, and the local police were trying to slow them down with rubber bullets and tear gas.

  “Typical American bullshit,” Grip said to himself.

  He knocked down the last of his green tea, and then sparked up a Cohiba cigar. After taking a slow drag and releasing a cloud of smoke, he lounged back in his chair and closed his eyes. He massaged his temples and thought about a day that he’d never forget.

  August 25th, 1964

  It was the civil rights era, and just like the majority of the inner cities throughout America, Philadelphia was a racial ticking time bomb. The blacks in the city were sick and tired of being oppressed by the police, and their response was a three day riot that plagued the streets of North Philly.

  It was during this time that the blacks in the city were beginning to recognize The Moreno Crime Family as The Black Mafia. They admired Grip for standing up against the Italians in an all out war, and in some ways this was the motivation behind their revolution. No longer were they afraid of the white powers that be, and they were determined to make city hall feel their power.

  When the word traveled to South Philly that the blacks in North Philly were tearing up Columbia Avenue, Grip wanted to see it for himself. He stopped by The Reynolds Wrap Lounge on 18th and South Street, and gathered up two of his captains, Eddie Kyle and Russell Fitzgerald. The two men climbed inside of his Cadillac Deville, and they headed up 18th Street towards North Philly. When they reached the corner of 18th and Columbia, they couldn’t believe their eyes. The Philadelphia Police Department, under the order of Mayor Rizzo was out in full force. Their mission was to put an end to the vandalism and destruction of the white owned businesses in the area. They were savagely attacking the blacks with service batons, water hoses, and K-9s. The blacks, however, fought back. In a fit of rage, they defended themselves with pocketknives, broken bottles, and anything else that they could use as a weapon.

  After making a right turn, the steel gray Caddy cruised down the block at a calm 5 m.p.h. When they approached the corner of 17th and Columbia, Grip spotted a white street cop, who unbeknownst to Eddie and Russell was on his payroll. The skinny white man was accompanied by another cop. The two of them were inconspicuously tucked behind a large dumpster and viciously attacking a young black man. After easing the Caddy to a halt, Grip threw the transmission in park, and then hopped out the driver’s side door.

  “Yo Johnny, what the fuck are you doing?” he shouted while jogging toward the two police officers.

  Johnathan Ferraci, a ten year veteran on the force was just about to land a devastating blow to the back of the young man’s head when he heard Grip’s voice. He looked to his left, and as sure as the sky was blue, the Black Mafia don was standing there in a white linen dress shirt, gray slacks, and a black pair gators.
His wide brimmed Stetson was slightly cocked to the left, and a red feather was stuffed inside of the band.

  “Grip,” Officer Ferraci nervously replied. “Look at what these son of a bitches are doin’ to their own friggin’ neighborhood,” he complained in a thick Italian accident.

  His partner, Vincent Marco, was disgusted. He stopped kicking the young man, and then looked at Ferraci as if he were crazy. “Hey yo Johnny, am I friggin’ missin’ somethin’ ova here? Since when did we start explainin’ ourselves to moulies?”

  Officer Ferraci looked at his partner with pleading eyes. He tried to tell him to take it easy, but before he could utter a single word, Grip removed the .357 that was tucked in the small of his back and fired a single round.

  Boom!

  The bullet struck Officer Marco in his right eye, and he tornadoed to the ground.

  Eddie ran up on Ferraci and held a switchblade to the side of his neck. “Lemme do him Grip!”

  Ferraci pissed in his pants and began to tremble. He glanced from right to left, praying that amidst the chaos one of his fellow officers would look behind the dumpster and come to his rescue. Terrified, he looked at Grip and pleaded for his life. “Don’t kill me Grip. Please.”

  “Naw Grip,” Eddie said in a cold voice. “Lemme do us all a favor and put this honky out his misery.” He gripped Ferraci’s hair with his free hand, and then applied pressure to the switchblade. “You know what I’m talking ‘bout? Carve his punk ass up somethin’ nice!”

  Grip shook his head from side to side. “Naw Eddie, drop the blade.” He looked to his left where Russell was helping the bloodied young man to his feet. “Say youngblood, you ever killed a mutha’fucka?”

  “N—N—Naw suh,” the young man answered in a southern drawl.

  “That’s good ‘cause I ain’t want you to kill him no way.” He looked at Ferraci and flexed his jaw muscles. “I will, however, insist that you shoot this honky in his funky white ass!”