T.H.U.G. L.I.F.E.

by Sanyika Shakur

  “Yeah,” the lookie lous told him, “I saw that nigga on the ’Shaw last Sunday clownin’ mothafuckas. Sounds, fresh paint, hydraulics, the whole shit.”

  “That ain’t that nigga car,” Anyhow protested.

  “Shiiiit, I seen a North Star plaque on the back window,” insisted the lookie lou. Anyhow was mad. And that night he himself caught a glimpse of Lapeace dipping down Gage Avenue locked up stagecoach style. He’d been left at the previous stage of the competition and he knew Lapeace knew he was back there. Anyhow tried to regain some clout by busting with a ’63 Chevy on some gold Daytons, but by that time Lapeace had grown tired of lowriding and had aquired a black SS Monte Carlo.

  Then, out of the night like a meteorite bringing light to the darkness, there erupted the gun battle that changed the competition. Like the natural order of developing opposites, increasingly becoming antagonistic, Lapeace and Anyhow were headed for a climactic collision since they set the stage for the next round of the struggle. The only way ever to end the struggle is the elimination of one of the opponents. But, like nature itself, doing its thing regardless of what else is going on, the changes thrust themselves upon the contenders without either of them really being prepared for it.

  In Los Angeles on Sunday evenings, the young and in-crowd folks cruised Crenshaw Boulevard. Crenshaw, a main thoroughfare running north and south, is a wide, four-lane street fronted on both sides by commercial businesses, assorted apartment complexes, and foreign-owned motels. On the weekdays the ’Shaw is a bustling boulevard of business, tranquillity, and common sense. Working class folks used the vast artery as a way to cut through South Central. However, on the weekends—though especially on Sundays—the youth fell out on the ’Shaw en masse.

  The whole atmosphere of the ’Shaw changed literally overnight. Parking lots normally reserved for patrons of the various commercial businesses were flooded with rowdy youth who’d come out to socialize and watch the cars. There’d be lowrider hopping contests to see which car could bounce the highest with the use of hydraulics. Muscle cars would pair off for street-racing matches. Most squeezed nitrous oxide—watered-down rocket fuel—to boost their speed.

  The ’Shaw usually saw its fair amount of violence. Most of those who actually cruised the boulevard were not bangers at all. They lived in hoods, but only as residences and not as members of any gangs. Civilians still traversed the thoroughfare while the street scene raged. An odd mix of culture, sometimes manifested on the ’Shaw as civilian motorists simply using the street as a means to an end, were caught in a slow-moving parade of lolos or trucks on display. This would normally lead to a horn-blowing match and not more than a little bit of road rage.

  The Burger King at Jefferson and Crenshaw was the best spot to post up at. The parking lot was huge. It was enclosed by a cyclone fence. The lot fronted the corner across Jefferson from the AM/PM station. The whole four-corner intersection was visible from the Burger King lot. Car and truck clubs jockeyed for the spot. But not on this night.

  Cool was the night, a Sunday evening, and Crenshaw Boulevard was packed with lolos, trucks, motorcycles, and expensive foreign cars. Music flooded the street from every passing car. The ’Shaw was a montage of sounds—subbing bass lines threatening to shatter rear windows and high tweeters wreaking havoc on passengers’ nerve endings. An almost bumper to bumper roll from Adams to Florence could be detailed by rear and front headlights in both directions. Beautifully made-up women sat perched in sublime vehicles as if they were queens being paraded through the streets of their village. Finger waves, braids, perms, and elaborately sculptured feathers were en vogue and on display as sistas rode alongside their men in vintage cars remade to fit this weekly ritual called flossin’. The men operating the cars wore baseball caps with team insignias on the front, set names stenciled on the sides. Some had braids, parted in big blocks, one on each side, one in the back, one on top, and one hanging down in their face. Bald heads, jheri curls, and cornrows were out as well. Car clubs moved slowly along the densely parked street like tribal floats in ceremonial regalia. Mafia IV Life, Individuals, Majestics, Street Life, Stylistics, South Side, North Star, and Du-Low placques hung prominently in their rear windows as they crept past. Rag tops, hard tops, t-tops, moon roofs, and chop tops were represented. Hip-hop and oldies bellowed from everywhere and indo smoke created an endless stream of mint aroma up and down the ’Shaw. North Star had niched itself a place in the Burger King parking lot. All sixteen of the club’s cars were backed into position diagonally. Stagalee had the loudest music so he could serenade the lot. “Gangsta Gansgsta” by N.W.A. was the theme music for the gathering. Lapeace, who had ceased to lowride but still lent his support to the club, hadn’t arrived yet. So the Northerners stood around and rapped, smoked pot, and filmed themselves with Ghost’s camcorder. Lil’ Slow Foe had suggested that they start filming their exploits on the ’Shaw, or wherever, ’cause if they were dumped on, jacked, or harassed by one time, they’d have some footage to use when it came time to exact revenge. Ghost and Lil Slow Foe were some smart young cats.

  “Cuz,” someone among the crowd said, “there go Lapeace at that light.” Everyone turned toward the corner of Jefferson and Crenshaw. Sure enough there sat Lapeace’s SS Monte Carlo, idling muscularly, waiting for the light to change. Lapeace sat cooling at the light, ten mm Glock in his lap, half a blunt hanging from his lips. He was twisted. He sat in the center lane, the Monte “C” on gloss. Next to him rolled up a green Grand National on some Lorenzo rims jamming “Piru Love.” He looked over and locked eyes with Anyhow, whose face was fixed in an agitated scowl. They burned holes into each other. Since the sixth grade shoot-out, not one word had been spoken face to face to either. All their exchanges were rumors, innuendo, or, in most cases, lies fueled by back biters’ jealousy of them both. Lapeace clicked off his safety as he stared. Anyhow never had his heat on safety. In his lap was an Israeli .44 Desert Eagle. The stares continued. The two muscle cars rumbled low under the music, rocking silently from the powerful explosions from under their hoods. When the light turned green neither car moved forward. Horns from cars behind them began to blow and this alerted Ghost to the problem.

  “Stag,” asked Ghost, one eye zooming in with the camcorder, the other squenching, “ain’t that that slob nigga Anyhow’s car next to Lapeace?”

  “Hell yeah, cuz, that’s him.” Just then a caravan of lowriders came through the alley behind Burger King, serving the North Stars with rapid fire.

  “Cuz . . .” was all that was heard and then the avalanche of gunfire. The Brims, with their Du-Low plaques exposed, were dumping with some heavy shit—tearing up every car in the parking lot. The North Stars ducked behind their vehicles as the Brims had their way. Ghost slid down next to his gray coupe, which was first, parked out toward Crenshaw, and kept filming the Grand National and the Monte Carlo. Bullets, however, kept ripping through steel and glass so Ghost went down on his belly, momentarily losing sight of Anyhow and Lapeace. Once he’d righted hisself he trained the camera back on the two. Both Lapeace and Anyhow raised their weapons at the same time and started firing. The muzzle flashes illuminated the dark interiors of both cars continuously and it looked as if they were welding inside. The ’Shaw was in rapid motion now, people running, screaming, jumping into their cars. Screeching tires and gunshots were everywhere. When Lapeace began to shoot he lowered his head, his strap angled sideways, blunt smoke in the air. Anyhow too had ducked when he started firing. Glass shattered and fell onto Ghost as he was filming—the Brims to the back were still shooting. The Grand National and the Monte Carlo began to roll forward slowly, still giving off the welding-like flashes.

  Lapeace’s first three shots went through Any’s car; one struck the bumper kit of a gold coupe in the AM/PM parking lot, another hit a woman in the back, severing her spinal cord and paralyzing her instantly. The third shot hit a gas pump and the spark ignited an explosion. The explosion killed a number of people getting gas. Any’s first four
shots shattered the windows of the stores across the street, doing damage to nothing but property. The firing continued as they slowly rolled out into the intersection.The wailing of fire engines and other emergency vehicles could be heard in the distance. Two helicopters could be seen making their way across the night sky toward the havoc. In the intersection Anyhow’s reckless firing ended the lives of two pedestrians waiting at the light. The firing continued. Wrecks were happening now as people panicked in their haste to leave the area and still the Brims were shooting. Lapeace’s shots were now tearing holes in the body of Any’s Grand National; two, three, four holes appeared magically in the money green exterior of the Buick. Any fired back with his last five shots: one blew out a chunk of Lapeace’s Nardi steering wheel, another knocked a softball-sized hole in the driver’s side door from inside out, and the others went who knows where. Lapeace kept dumpin’, hand up head down. Out of shells, Any had to turn off, but he’d missed Jefferson, so he jumped the curb and began barreling down the sidewalk. He ran over two women, killing one instantly. Lapeace gave chase as best he could but the street was a mess. Any jumped back out onto the street on Adams and disappeared into the night. Lapeace, realizing that the area was being cordoned off, righted his car and slipped away. The Brims had torn up every North Star car in the parking lot but had hurt no Eight Trays. Every car had produced a shooter who’d emptied his weapon into the parked cars. Tires and windows were shot out completely and the bodies had gaping holes in them.

  Across the street, in the AM/PM parking lot, chaos reigned supreme. The gas pump explosion was seen for miles around and now two helicopters illuminated the area and turned it into daytime. Fire trucks, ambulances, and hazmat vehicles dominated the intersection. Then came the media. Their first report had been “A shooting between feuding lowrider factions.”Then, the next morning, it was “A clash between the Crips and the Bloods,” and by the six o’clock news that evening it was “The carnage set in motion by the 6-Duce Brim gang and the Eight Tray Gangsters; at least one suspect is being sought for questioning.” Lapeace watched every news broadcast from CNN to Good Day L.A. His car had not been identified. Who was that suspect? Lapeace wondered. Safi broke through his thoughts with a question.

  “When you started shooting were you actually aiming, consciously aiming?”

  “No, man,” Lapeace answered, a bit agitated. “Like I said, when fool raised his strap, I raised mine. When I started dumpin’, my head was down in the seat.”

  “Uh-huh,” sounded Safi, writing rapidly in shorthand while Lapeace spoke.

  “Do you know if your friend Ghost still has that tape, Lapeace?” asked Safi, putting down the gold-tipped kalamu from Saudi Arabia and leaning back in his chair.

  “I got it. Took it and put it in a safe deposit box in Mississippi.”

  “Good, good. We’ll need to retrieve it soon and view it. Perhaps we’ll be able to use it in court for a—”

  “Court? Wha’cha mean court?” Lapeace exploded, standing up wide-legged, hands clenching and unclenching.

  “Calm down, brother. Control yourself,” cautioned Safi sternly from behind the massive desk.

  “Eh Safi, I was protecting my life, man. Dude was trying to kill me,” Lapeace reasoned, easing back down into the soft leather chair.

  “Yes, I realize that, but in the process of your defense and his assault eight innocent people were killed. Someone is going to have to be held accountable for those killings. Now we know Alvin is cooperating with authorities. He, as you probably already know, is allegedly the Westside Night Bandit . . .”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “Yes, well he is, from what I’ve been able to gather, using his knowledge of the Crenshaw killings to lessen the impact of the serial burglary charges.”

  “And?”

  “And?” responded Safi as if to say You don’t know? “Well, it’s only a matter of time before your face and name are on every news channel in the country. We need to start building our defense now.”

  Lapeace ran one sweaty palm over his face in an attempt to wipe away the stress building on both sides of his temple. He really needed a blunt now.

  “We still need to discuss this custody battle thing too.”

  “Man, fuck that bitch. I ain’t even trippin’ on that no mo’. Shit, Safi, the custody battle I’m most interested in is the one between me and the authorities, you know?”

  “Yes, of course. Well, then, I’ll move to postpone on the grounds that you are out of the country.”

  “That’s straight, man. Eh, you got an address on her?”

  “There is a P.O. box she uses in Ontario and you know she was staying with her cousin in Upland . . . the only address I do have is in Houston, Texas, where the boys are.”

  “Eight-three-oh-two?”

  “Yes, I believe that’s it.”

  “Awright, Safi, I’ll get the tape. Any other suggestions, bro?” Lapeace asked, calmer now.

  “Yeah, you shouldn’t go home to your neighborhood or drive any of your vehicles until we’ve built up an adequate defense. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, I understand. You mean I should go underground?”

  “Doctor’s orders,” answered Safi with a wink and a click of his tongue. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Yeah, you got my digits. Hit me on the hip,” he said, standing and tapping the side where his pager was.

  “Will do.”

  5

  The notepad Mendoza began writing Anyhow’s statement in was two pages from the end—back and front he’d written in quick, barely legible script—trying to keep up with Any’s sometimes erratic narration. Their entire eight-hour shift had been spent beside his bed. The city council, pressured by the mayor’s office, wanted this case solved. L.A. had suffered too many high-profile losses recently and needed a solid victory to restore faith in the city with its ability to police and prosecute criminals. There was the L.A. Four’s victory, O. J. Simpson’s acquittal, two hung Menendez juries, and Snoop Dogg’s verdict of not guilty. So the district attorney’s office was definitely out for blood on this one. They’d discussed the balance of things among themselves that would bring the most relief politically to the D.A.’s office—the prosecution of Alvin Harper as the Westside Night Bandit or using him as a participating state’s witness in the “Crenshaw Massacre” case, as it had been named?

  “Well,” reasoned Garcetti, L.A. district attorney, “we certainly would gain the political, not to mention the ethical, backing of the West L.A. community by prosecuting the Night Bandit. Greater Los Angeles has been held in a grip of fear for over nine months by his invasions.”

  “Yes,” countered Barker, a New Afrikan deputy district attorney, “but eight lives and thirteen injuries, seven of which are critical, occurred in the Cren mass. And we’ve got one of the shooters. Certainly lives take precedence over property.”

  “Possession,” piped in the D.A.’s male secretary, “let me remind you, is nine-tenths of the law.” Barker couldn’t believe it, that they were going after a burglary conviction over a multiple-murder conviction—no doubt because the property was white and the bodies were black—the Amerikan way.

  “What if we prosecute for both?” asked Barker. But the Amerikan prosecutors had begun to talk among themselves this time. It was Barker’s call to the city council that changed the course of pursuit in the case. Anyhow would be offered immunity for the Night Bandit burglaries if he agreed to testify against the second gunman in the Crenshaw Massacre case. For it had been discovered by the ballistics experts that the ten mm had definitely done the most damage. Of course Any’s statement reflected a biased slant, which painted him as being under attack by Lapeace—“A mad Crip who’d kill anyone.” Mendoza wrote as a final note in his pad:Suspect fully cooperative

  Sweeney stared across the space of the hospital room and thought of historical bitter rivalries that had caused for so many an endless stream of struggle and strife. This feud, like those, had developed from p
ersonal conflicts and snowballed into polemics that could last for generation after generation.

  “Why don’t you like Lapeace Shakur, Alvin?” Sweeney had asked him earlier in the interview.

  “Shit, I don’t know man,” Any had replied sulkily. “I just don’t like that nigga.” And that was that. Anyhow attached his own logic to those words and for him he’d pretty much explained himself about it. He’d now be moved from General Hospital and housed on the 8000 floor of Los Angeles County jail. It would serve as both a hospital ward and a protective custody module. Anyhow had entered a new phase in his young life—that of a police informant and a state’s witness. He laid back on his bed after Sweeney and Mendoza had left and stewed in the decision he’d made. Damn, he thought, I’m a rat. A snitch—no good. What will my homies think? My girl, will she stay with me? Good Lawd, what have I done? A solitary tear rolled down his face as he reached over and took control of the Bic razor on the bedstand. Breaking its top, the blade fell onto his chest, shimmering in fluorescent glare. He moved robotlike, motivated by sheer disgust, with his right hand until it came to rest with the blade against his left wrist. With six rapid moves he cut deep into his dark skin. He grimaced and bit back a painful cry. The blood flowed quickly, warmly, plentiful. He laid back and waited.

  At that same moment Lapeace was knocking on Shima’s door. Hoping she’d answer before someone drove by and recognized him. On his third knock a female voice asked from behind the bars, “Who is it?”