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

by Sanyika Shakur

  “From?” asked Sekou quizzically. Not overstanding how Lapeace meant it.

  “Yeah, who you with. What set you claim?” Lapeace asked, talking into the ivy.

  “I’m from Oakland. We just moved down here. I ain’t in no gang.”

  “Aight, then. Come on over,” Lapeace said and stumbled back a pace or two. Sekou scaled the fence and landed on the other side awkwardly. Lapeace handed the bottle to him and he tipped it to his lips. Sekou took a big gulp and felt the powerful liquid burn all the way down to his belly.

  “Ahhh,” he said, handing the bottle back to Lapeace. “Whew! That’s some mean shit!”

  “Yeah, this gangsta shit,” said Lapeace and took a long swig. They sat there behind Aunt Pearl’s garage, between the boxes and the fence, and talked and drank. Postured, posed, profiled, and drank. When Aunt Pearl, worried as to where Lapeace might be, wandered into the yard, she found both Sekou and Lapeace laid out asleep. The bottle of Beefeater on its side, empty.

  “Who you gonna hit up first?” Sekou asked, wheeling the Ford Explorer around the corner on Slauson Avenue and Western heading south.

  “Let’s go straight to the south side and try to catch Sam. Then we’ll double back and holler at Ghost. Didn’t you say that he was showing the video?”

  “Yeah, that’s what C-Dog said.”

  “I wonder if he made a copy of the damn thing?That would be foul, huh?”

  “Yeah, but it ain’t like it was copyrighted or nothin’. It ain’t on Ghost.”

  “Naw, I know that,” answered Lapeace, reading the writing on a graffiti-packed MTA bus. “But he could at least have some discretion about showing it. He knows what happened up there. And if one time got wind of that tape, they gonna raid the whole hood looking for it.”

  “Yeah, you right about that. Shima still taken Sanai’s death hard?”

  “Not as much as she did at first, but still kinda buggin’. Eh, check these muthafuckas out,” Lapeace said, indicating the adjacent car, an AMC Pacer packed with Mexicans playing loud mariachi music.The driver was sporting a big ten-gallon hat and had a mouthful of silver teeth.

  “What’s that question Mr. Marshall asked ’bout the hood?” asked Sekou.

  “Oh, when did the neighborhood become just the hood?”

  “Yeah. Well, there it is,” Sekou said, pointing at the Pacer. “When we stopped knowing our neighbors.”

  “No shit. And you know what else?”

  “What?”

  “If homies don’t start clearing these hat dancers out, our hood’s gonna fuck around and become their varrio. And that’s real!”

  “You ain’t lyin’ ’bout that.” They came to a smooth stop outside of Sam’s house on 79th Street and sat momentarily while Sekou retrieved his weapon from its spot. Then they exited the truck out into the warm evening air. At the door they were met by Sam’s sister Pat, whom they once called “Big Butt Pat,” but she’d not been called that in years. Pat had been smoking crack for three years straight and her emaciated body was pitiful. Her face was sunken in so much that her jaws were almost touching. The remaining teeth she had were yellow and green with rot and decay. They were concealed by dark purple lips so dry and chapped that whenever she spoke they bled from little splits.

  “Y’all lookin’ fo’ Sam?” she asked coming out of the filthy screen door onto the porch.

  “Yeah,” answered Lapeace. “How you doin’ Pat?”

  “Bad,” she answered quickly. “I’m tryin’ to get some money to get my hair did.” And when they looked at her hair they knew she was lying. For she had hair only on the top. The sides had long since broken off.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Sekou, looking at her head, “I can see you need it done. You also need your head replaced.”

  “Ah, fuck you bastard. Hold on, let me go get Sam, fo’ I have to whup Sekou ass out here.”

  “Yeah, you go do that, ’cause you ain’t whuppin’ shit here.”

  “Whatever.” And she disappeared into the house. When Sam came to the door he was shirtless. The first noticeable thing about Sam with his shirt off was the huge block EIGHT TRAY tattooed across his chest. It was shadowed in against his light complexion, evenly and dark green. He had on a pair of gray cutoff khakis, which hung off his ass revealing blue cotton boxers, white tube socks, and corduroy house shoes. His hair was covered by a Jheri curl bag, which almost concealed his boyish face. His eyes were bright and intelligent.

  “What up, cuz?” Sam asked in a greeting tone.

  “Ain’t nothin’, just bailin’ through the hood, thought we’d come check you out,” said Sekou.

  “Eh, you wanna move wit us?”

  “Where y’all goin’?”

  “On the North, we’ll bring you back,” replied Lapeace.

  “Yeah, I’ll move wit y’all. Hold up, let me get my shirt on.”

  Lapeace and Sekou waited until Sam had come back with his shirt before the trio stepped off the porch and headed out to the truck. On the sidewalk they all paused as a brown Cutlass came to a menacing stop in front of them and the driver’s-side window was lowered.

  “Where y’all from?” asked the passenger across the driver’s stare.

  “Where you from?” asked Sekou, easing his hand toward his weapon. Feeling his adrenaline level rise immediately.

  “Hoova Criminal,” answered the passenger with a now what? type of tone.

  “Fuck Hoova!” Sam shouted and was immediately answered with a burst of gunfire from within the car. The trio split. Sam rolled leftward and came up firing with a nine millimeter. Sekou dove behind his truck, came up on one knee, and started dumping into the body of the Cutlass. Lapeace followed Sekou behind the truck. Another short burst of what sounded like a Mini-14 was let off from the car before it sped off full of holes.

  “Come on,” shouted Sekou, running around to get in the truck without looking back, “let’s get them niggas.”

  “Hold up,” said Lapeace, seeing what Sekou hadn’t. “Sam is hit. He’s down.”

  “Damn!” Sam lay on his side, statuesque in his stillness, weapon still clutched in his hand—dead. Blood pooled around his body in an oval on the sidewalk and ran off into the grass thickly. His eyes were open still but the bright intelligence was gone. Lapeace was down on one knee staring at Sam’s lifeless body when Sam’s mother came running out.

  “Oh, no,” his mother said screaming and holding both sides of her face. “Not my baby! No, not my Samuel! Nooo ...” She fell to her knees next to his lifeless body, pushing Lapeace roughly aside. She was busying herself with picking the debris from Sam’s hair and brushing off the accumulated dust and dirt when Pat tried to loose the weapon from his clenched fist. And in the most chilling tone imaginable, Sam’s mother looked up at Pat and said through clenched teeth, “You leave that goddamn gun in his hand. He will be buried with it.” Pat eased away from mother and son, clearly knowing that the time to protest was not now. “And you two,” she turned directing her glare at Sekou and Lapeace, “I think you’ve done enough. You may as well leave us alone! And unless you are going to get buried with that one, you’d best put it away.”

  Sekou put his weapon in his right pocket, wearing it like a cowboy. He looked over at Lapeace who had a menacing look on his face and thought a few years back and a dozen homies before, when he would have been all over the ground crying, pacing, and swearing. But he had seen too much death, caused too much death, and had known firsthand the acute pinch of suffering emotional trauma to take each death personal anymore. Lapeace knew what war was about. They stood their ground for a minute or two and listened to Sam’s mother hum the melody to “Mama’s Little Baby Loves Shortnin’ Bread” and then they left.

  “What you wanna do, Lapeace?” asked Sekou as they drove east on 79th toward Normandie Avenue.

  “You know what I wanna do, Sekou,” answered Lapeace, staring out of the window with a fixed scowl on his face, his brow furrowed tightly.

  “Damn, the homies trippin’
with this Hoova-Gangsta war. Man!” added Lapeace trying desperately to overstand how their toughest ally had become their latest nemesis. “I’m gonna tell you now, Sekou. I ain’t bustin’ on no Hoovas. Fuck that, we should leave that shit to the baby locs. Matter of fact, let’s go over to the Bacc West and alert them lil niggas now. Damn, man, Sam was dumpin’, too wasn’t he?” asked Lapeace looking over at Sekou.

  “Yeah, after fool ’nem dumped, Sam got off ’bout fo’, five shots. That’s fucked up.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I feel you on not wanting to bust on no Hoovas, but damn ... them niggas killed Sam. Shit, they killed Baby Evil too.They shot—”

  “Aight, aight Sekou, I hear you shit. I know what they’ve done. It ain’t like the hood ain’t dropped none of them.”

  “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know man. It’s just hard seeing the lil homies go through this shit—young, losing their clique members just like us in the early eighties.”

  “That wasn’t us, our clique. We was too young then. Shit, that was Monster and Crazy De ’nem.”

  “Yeah, you right. I’m a tell you though, them Hoovas can’t win against us. You know why? ’Cause they ain’t no real combat hood.They ain’t really killed no Nine-0s, One Elevens, or Bloccs. The Hoovas is too big, got too many chapters to win against us. Our hood been in mortal combat with the Sixties for what, seventeen years now? And as much as I hate them niggas, I gotta give ’em props for being killas.”

  Lapeace looked over curiously at Sekou because he’d not said one word as he was talking. Usually he’d butt in. “What’s up, Sekou?”

  “Eh, Peace,” sounded Sekou staring straight ahead, “let’s go kill some Hoovas.”

  “Man . . . ain’t you heard nuttin’ I said?” Lapeace said in exasperation.

  “Yeah, I heard everything you said. But did you trip on Sam’s moms? Huh?”

  “Yeah, she was trippin’.”

  “She went crazy right there, Lapeace. Mrs. Jones ain’t gonna never be right. She gon’ be like Twinky moms—just gon’.”

  “Fuck it . . .”

  “But you know what I’m sayin’ homie?”

  “I feel you, Sekou.”

  “But did you feel Sam’s moms? Man, she was like out there. She was like ‘My baby . . .’”

  “Sekou—”

  “ ‘... noooo, not my Samuel . . . ’” said Sekou, mimicking her voice.

  “Sekou . . .” Lapeace tried to stop him.

  “. . . I mean, she was like . . .”

  “Hey! Aight, man, aight. Let’s go get some Hoovas, fuck!” Lapeace exclaimed and slapped the dashboard hard. The little Sony television came on and they looked at each other and laughed. It was a tension-breaking, long-overdue laugh. One that kept them from crying. They made one stop on the Bacc West, then began their foray into Hoova hood.

  “You know how I wanna go out Lapeace?”

  “Naw, how’s that?” answered Lapeace through applications of saliva to the blunt paper now heavily packed with chronic.

  “Aight, dig this . . . Damn, look at her ass, shit!” They sat idle at a red light on 79th and Vermont Avenue watching a stacked woman sway her lower half into a liquor store.

  “Just drive. We on a mission ’member,” Lapeace quipped.

  “Okay, I ain’t gonna live to be old, I know that. So when I get killed . . .”

  “‘Bury you smilin’, wit g’s in your pocket, have a party at your funeral, let every rapper rock it, let the . . .’ some ol’ Tupac shit, right?”

  “Hell naw, this some real shit. Check it, hold up, is that them niggas there?”They both eyed the throng of youth intently.

  “Naw them fools is kids. Keep drivin’, I know where they be. Go on 81st.”

  “Okay, now listen. I wanna be cremated. Right? And then have my ashes stuffed into shotgun shells, and then I wanna be shot into some muthafucka’s chest.”

  “You are just outta your damn mind, ain’t you? You sick, Sekou.”

  “But tell the truth, don’t that shit sound phat? Come on, give me my props. And you know, I don’t care which enemy I end up in, just as long as niggas don’t miss. Can you see to that, Lapeace?”

  “I might go before you. Then what?” Lapeace was putting fire to the blunt.

  “I’ll shoot you into a muthafucka . . .”

  “Naw, shit naw. Just bury me like everyone else.There they go! How many you count?” Lapeace choked off his cough and fanned away the smoke.

  “One, two, three . . .”

  “Just circle the block and park. We gonna lure they stupid asses.” Once they circled the lively block, which was bustling with people traversing to and fro, they stopped the truck in the middle of the block on 82nd Street, walked as if they were going into an apartment complex, and scaled the rear fence. Sekou stayed put in the back of the long drive serving the olive green duplex apartments. Lapeace strolled out front onto 81st Street. Once out on the sidewalk, he waited until he’d found a Hoovalette passing and asked her if this was Hoova hood? She replied yeah that it was and then inquired as to his set affiliation. To which Lapeace replied none of her Snoover-ass business. She couldn’t run away quick enough to tell her homies. Within a short breath, a clump of Hoovas began to walk briskly toward Lapeace, who feigned fright and began his descent into the driveway from which he’d come. As they picked up speed so too did Lapeace until his silhouette was one with the darkness at the end of the drive. He jumped up and onto the parking fence and then paused momentarily. Just long enough to lure them closer. And closer they came. Threats and all. “Now!” he shouted and Sekou stood up with his weapon steady, trained on the charging throng. A shift of light crossed the shaded passway through a naked window and highlighted a square of cinder block. As soon as the first pursuer entered the light, Sekou squeezed off two rounds. Both shots hit him center mass and propelled him into the others, who had no time to react. The nine’s flash created a strobe-light show of surprise and pain. With each round, illuminated by the muzzle flash, the Hoovas were caught in different stages of decline. Once the strobe light stopped and the barking nine was quiet, Sekou joined Lapeace on the other side of the fence and they walked nonchalantly to the truck.

  “Shiiiit,” said Sekou proudly as they exited Hoova hood, “this gangsta fo’ life!”

  Lapeace added, “Not fo’ protection!”They slapped a high five.

  “ ‘Nuttin’ but a gangsta party. It ain’t nuttin’ but a muthafuckin gangsta party ...’ ” Sekou sang. Lapeace sparked up the blunt as they traveled west on 83rd Street. At Normandie they turned right until they’d made their way to Ghost’s house. As usual a pack of young homies was standing out in front. Some were slanging, others were drinking beer and talking loud, clowning. The vomit green dwelling was adjacent to an alley off Florence Avenue facing east. The porch was packed with males and females who propped themselves up on the stucco banner and listened to music through the opened door. In the darkness, cherries on the tips of blunts, joints, and cigarettes burned brightly, looking from a distance like infrared beams. Ghost had long since repaired his gray coupe and it sat on the street. Sekou brought the Explorer to a stop across from it. Lapeace retrieved the blunt from Sekou and he pushed in a fresh clip for the nine. “Aight, now, what we here to do?” asked Sekou, looking from the gathering to Lapeace, nine in his lap.

  “Pull Ghost up ’bout showing that damn tape. See if he’s got a copy and get to it.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s do this and then get off the street. ’Cause shit might heat up.” And with that they left the truck and stepped quickly across the street. Once in the yard the pack of youth shifted and gravitated toward Sekou and Lapeace. They explained about Sam Dog, but the lil homies had already heard and in fact had sent three cars into the Hoova’s hood right before Lapeace and Sekou drove up.

  “We surprised y’all didn’t see ’em,” said Shady Macc. And, of course, they hadn’t. Lapeace asked where Ghost was and was told he was in the house. They pushed on through the cr
owd and went into the house. Ghost sat on a long playpen couch hugged up with his girl. When he saw Lapeace and Sekou, he broke into a wide smile, gapped teeth shining brightly through the dimness.

  “What up, cuz?” greeted Ghost jovially.

  “You,” shot back Lapeace, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “With your handsome ass,” added Sekou. Easing down on the arm of the couch, offering the blunt to Ghost.

  “There you go,” answered Ghost in a self-deprecating tone.

  “We need to holler at you, loc.”

  “Right.” And Ghost disengaged himself from his woman’s grip and motioned the homies to follow him. They walked down a short hallway and into the back room. Ghost closed the door behind them and sat on an old bed that sagged in the middle.

  “Ghost, who-all you show that tape to?” Lapeace asked.

  “Uh,” Ghost began, brooding over the question as he inhaled the pot, “shit, ’bout five or six of the homies. But that was fo’ you scooped it up.”

  “Did Lil Huck see it?” asked Sekou.

  “Fuck naw! I wouldn’t show that rat-ass nigga shit.”

  “Before I scooped it up, did you dub it?”

  “No, homie,” said Ghost as he handed the small blunt to Sekou, “I didn’t.”

  “Cool.”

  “Well, you know, that fool Anyhow workin’ with Bob Hope tryin’ to get some other shit off him.”

  “Naw?”

  “Yep, nigga straight snitchin’. But he ain’t knowing nuttin’ ’bout the tape is he?” asked Ghost.

  “Naw, but Sam Dog, rest in peace, slipped and mentioned the tape to Lil Huck . . .”

  “Which means before long, Bob Hope gonna know ’bout it and then gonna start tearin’ up the hood.”

  “So we needed to know if you dubbed it or not.”

  “Naw, cuz, on the hood, I didn’t,” swore Ghost.

  “Good, good. And eh, tell the homies you showed it to, to keep that shit on the D.L., aight?” Lapeace said looking Ghost straight in his dark eyes.

  “I got ’cha cuz.”

  “Oh, and you might wanna clear the spot out ’cause we knocked on the Hoovas befo’ we came here,” added Sekou over his shoulder as the trio made their way up the dark hallway. In the front yard they clasped as many hands as possible in passing before reaching Sekou’s truck.