“Where to?” asked Sekou starting up the truck and stashing the heat.
“Take me back to Shima’s.”
8
When Sekou’s Explorer entered Shima’s drive, she was already out on the porch. Her dark skin blended perfectly with the night. As did the black attire she wore. Black sweatpants made of thick terry cloth over which she had on a matching sweatshirt. Her braids were pulled back into a bun and fastened with a tie. Her tennies were black Nike Air. She was pacing to and fro along the length of the porch. Disappearing now and then behind one of the two wooden pillars that supported the structure. Her arms were folded snugly across her breasts. Lapeace had phoned from the vehicle to announce their arrival.
“Damn,” said Sekou as he manipulated the stick into neutral, “like that?”
“Like what?”
“I mean, one call and you got baby on the porch waiting for you?”
“Well, you know,” said Lapeace, exaggerating his body movements and blowing on his fingernails, “what can I say? I’m a boss playa.”
“Killa. Now you best get your ass out there to her ’cause she stopped moving and is just standing there tapping her foot.”
“Aight, love one, I’m out then. But watch yourself. Hit me off tomorrow, huh?”
“Yeah, I got ’cha.”
“So, who you got on the fight tomorrow?”
“Um,” Sekou said, as if really contemplating the opponents, “I might roll with Golden.”
“Man, fuck you. Tyson’s gonna smash old boy with the swiftness. But if you serious, we can put a slight wager on it? Say, this truck for my bike?”
“You wiggin’.”
“Let me know it then.”
“You know, we should bail out there to the fight. It’s in Vegas, ain’t it?”
“Yep, but I ain’t trying to be around all that. I’ll watch it on cable.”
“Aight, then, Loco Love, I’m outta this area.”
“I’ll hit you tomorrow,” Lapeace said and closed the Explorer’s door. Sekou gave one sound of his horn and was gone. Lapeace stepped up onto the porch and into the awaiting embrace of Shima’s warmth. In the house, seated comfortably on the sofa, Shima began to tell Lapeace of the connections she’d made regarding the counterpublicity sure to erupt around the Crenshaw shooting. Lapeace sat lazily and listened to the endless list of names associated with this organization and that, one newspaper and another. Shima carried on excitedly. Once she exhausted herself they moved to the kitchen where she began to dish out portions of the hearty meal she’d prepared. Stuffed bell peppers, angel hair pasta, hot-water cornbread, and for desert she’d made peach cobbler. Lapeace gathered the glasses for the beverages from the cupboard. The kitchen was a cozy affair. Replaced tile of chessboard black and white covered the floor. The wide Admiral refrigerator was packed thick with magnets of miniature replicas of appliances, fruit, and people, etc. Shima had been introduced to them by Sanai and became obsessed with them and their attainment. Above the table spun a Tiffany ceiling fan with four flowered light fixtures appended to its belly. The necessary amenities for contemporary kitchen use were strategically placed around the counters. These included a microwave, blender, food processor, and toaster. The window above the sink was covered by yellow curtains trimmed in white lace. The double sink was spotless, as was the rest of the kitchen. Lapeace retrieved the Sunny Delight from the fridge and poured their glasses full. Shima brought out the napkins and they sat down to eat. Moving with a start, Shima quickly excused herself and went to the service area. When she returned, Kody was in tow. She was so enormous, even at her young age, that she seemed to fill up the room.
“I’d almost forgotten about my baby,” said Shima standing at the cupboard, looking for an appropriate bowl. Kody sat attentive on her haunches licking her chops.
“She sure bounced back from that Parvo, didn’t she?” asked Lapeace, looking down at the big rottweiler’s shiny black coat.
“Yeah, thank God. I didn’t know what to do. They said it was like AIDS for dogs and that rottweilers were especially prone to getting it.” She reached under the sink and to the left to retrieve a big bag of Milkchuck dog food, mixing this with a big bag of Kennel Train. She bounced about on her feet as Kody grew impatient and began to whimper.
“Yeah, that’s heavy. Maybe we should let Kody meet Ramona. They’d probably get along, huh?”
“I’d hope so since we got it goin’ on. So really they got no choice.” Shima put the bowl down and Kody began immediately to chomp away. After washing her hands, Shima sat down to eat. “You know,” she said in between forkfuls of bell peppers, “I got front-row seats to the Tyson fight. Do you wanna go?”
“You know, Sekou just asked me the same thing. Truthfully, it ain’t my scene, but if you really want me to roll, I’ll go with you.”
“Well, I didn’t pay for the tickets, they were sent by Simon as a gift. We try to stay in touch. So really it’s not like I’ve made a specific engagement. I got cable, we can watch it right here.”
“Yeah, that’s cool,” answered Lapeace, moving to clear the table. After the meal Lapeace washed the dishes while Shima dried. He swept the floor and Shima mopped it. Then they made their way to the living room where they selected a movie on video to watch. They watched The Spook Who Sat by the Door. Lapeace rolled the blunt and Shima retrieved and poured the Alizé.
Brims, dressed out in full gear, stood in the shadows of the massive concrete gym at Harvard Park. There were ten to twelve of them huddled closely together around an awkwardly built man who had, by his commanding voice, their full attention. Night had long since descended upon the City of Angels, which seemed, in this area, a signal for demons to surface. The tennis courts were deserted and their gates locked with muscular chains. So too was the rest of the modest little park that had always been the Brims’ domain. The gym was a relatively new feature of the park, but it too was locked after nightfall. The Brims weren’t concerned with locked gates or doors.Their job was to patrol the park, be visible—represent their reality. And that, of course, they did. Roving over the empty park until the wee hours of the morning like ghosts, as it were, through an abandoned cemetery, accosting trespassers and spooking nonbelievers. Harvard Park had a pool, the only pool in the area except for Jesse Owens. But that park was occupied by Crips. Great success in recruiting potentials happened as a direct consequence of the pools. For in the summer’s sweltering heat, all the neighborhood children flocked to the pools. Then the Brims would put on gala festivals of pageantry—a miniature Nuremberg. Flags, loud music, posture, and poses. All to impress the youth into an alliance with them. Those standing now in the huddled conclave listened with rapt attention as the uncomfortably built man spoke with quick flicks of his tongue and sharp hand gestures.
“I was there in the room with him. I know who he is and I know what he said. Listen,” said the man, pausing momentarily to scan the youthful faces looking upon him. “When one time came up in there, it was that fat bald-headed white boy who used to work around here. Swanson, Swade . . .”
“Sweeney,” interjected one of the Bloods.
“... Yeah, yeah, that’s him,” continued the man. “He was poking his finger into brotha man’s bullet hole and stuff, telling him to talk about the shootin’. Man, listen, fool, the white boy. And he had a Mexican pig with him—went mad on brotha man torturing him. It was wild.”
“But what happened, doe?” asked a Blood who’d grown tired of the generals and wanted the particulars.
“What happened? Man, brotha man told everything he knew and then some.”
“Nigga you lyin’. Anyhow ain’t no rat!” shouted the impatient Blood. The small gathering shifted wildly and unpredictably as mumbles were exchanged in the dark. The man in the center could see only silhouettes against the backdrop of a street-light across the way. And even then hats, caps, and beanies disguised anything substantial. He grew frightened.
“I ain’t lyin’, man. And then, right
after the police left, just like in The Godfather, brotha man cut his wrist!”The man was looking desperately from one unfriendly face to another in search of some solace, comprehension, and overstanding in the reality that he was but a conveyor of the news. He was old enough to know the ravishes caused by an informant. Now in his capacity as a bringer of what he believed to be good news, the Brims were turning hostile and getting agitated. Within the gathering of youth, with their strong sturdy-built bodies, he’d be hard-pressed trying to break through and, even if he did, he couldn’t run as fast as them. Especially since he’d been mauled by the K-9 unit. And besides, he lived in their neighborhood.
“Hey, brothas, I ain’t gonna come out here and lie to y’all. Come on, man. I’m only trying to help y’all out. This is crazy. Hey, hey, all right,” said the man, trying a different approach. “I remember when this area was all Black Panthers. Man, it was a good time for black people. That nut J. Edgar Hoover had them feds runnin’ all through here. Informants was everywhere, but we got ’em out and fast . . .”
“Pow!” The man saw only a quick movement and then felt the surging pain shoot up all over his face. “Crack!” And then he felt himself losing consciousness as his head and face were drenched with warm blood. Luckily for him he was unconscious when he hit the ground because there began the traditional L.A. stomp. His teeth were kicked out with chunks of gum still attached. His nose was kicked to one side and lay almost flat against his right cheek. After the Brims had satisfied their thirst for blood, leaving their victim in a fetal position mortally still with his head swollen beyond the size of a basketball, they lifted up and left the area walking east. At Normandie Avenue and 61st, they crossed to a brown stucco dwelling. In through the front and out the back where they each in turn rinsed off their steel-toed boots. Blood and small pieces of skin washed off into the thick crabgrass easily. One held the hose for another. Back inside the small house, which was a Blood commune paid for by collective proceeds from drug deals, they sat stoically around the huge oak dining table that monopolized the front room. Ben Dog went to the kitchen and brought back three forty-ounce bottles of Olde English. The 4-0 on the label was ripped off per gang rules—the Brims were mortal enemies with the Rollin’ 40s.
“Blood,” began Stack, leaning back in the chair on two legs, “I can’t believe that shit about Any. Damn.”
“Yeah,” said Ben Dog after a thick guzzle of the charcoal-flavored liquor, “that’s real. That nigga ain’t no rat. Shit, as much shit as we done did with Blood, naw. I ’member when Kurt Dog and Big Bruno put boy on the hood. Blood ain’t no rat, I’m tellin’ you.”
“How do we explain the extent of what dude knew about him?” asked Bingo, an OG Brim who’d recently been released from Pelican Bay State Prison after serving eight years for killing a Crip. He was, no doubt, the most educated of the bunch.
“Aw, Blood, that wasn’t no extent. Anybody could have knew that. All you gotta do is call the hospital, they’ll give up the drawings,” said Crazy Be.
“Well,” countered Bingo, in his slow, thoughtful manner, “in any event we’ll need to follow this up. Me, personally, I feel that dude had some weight behind his words. And what’s frightening is, if dude made it up, why? Or if he did just call up the hospital how could he have known about the one time’s name and that he cut his wrist?”
“Yeah,” chimed Blister, from a corner seat. “We didn’t even know ’bout that. Plus, did y’all see blood’s face and hands? Fool had dog bite marks all over his ass. So he could’ve been in the hospital with Any.”
“Was old boy a smoker?” asked Bingo.
“Naw, he just came out of nowhere and started talking to me about the homie. He ain’t no smoker that I know.”
“Ben, call Any’s house and ask his moms how he’s doing.”
“Bingo, now you know how that nigga mama is. Shit, I’d get a better talk outta Hillary Clinton ’bout Chelsea’s big booty-ass than her. I ain’t callin her. Besides, it’s damn near tramp in the mo’nin’,” Ben completed his thoughts and took a swig of the beer.
“We gotta get some hard copy info on blood’s health, physical and otherwise. This ain’t no way to be. Sittin’ here in limbo and shit. And I’m a tell y’all niggas now, if any of dis shit real, ’bout Any and that fat cracka Sweeney, on da Blood Nation, they both gotta die.”
“Be down den Blood-B-Dog fo’ life! And when we get to hell, we gonna be straight. Why?”
“Because Satan is a Blood!” answered RedFace forcefully.
“Nigga, how can I tell?” asked Bingo.
“Because we pray to the big homie for strength and guidance.”
“And?”
“And because we send him nasty souls to feed on daily.”
“And?”
“And because as Bloods our flames burn bright in honor of our lord and redeemer, the ultimate flame, Lucifer—the red light bearer, king of the dark side.”
“Well den, let us pray to our redeemer for our bloody souls,” added Bingo.
The three empty beer bottles were placed on the floor and out came a black ruglike cloth over the wooden table. In its center was a circle with a pentagram in it. A fat red candle was placed in its center and lit. The Brims then donned black robes with hoods and held hands around the table. Bingo led the prayer.
“O baphomet, illuminated king of our lives, anointed bearer of our bloody existence, we offer to you our meager lives in hope of you finding a useful task for their existence. Our bodies, but first our hearts and minds, belong to you for purposes not yet known to us. Please, O baphomet, do with us what you will. All praise be to you O baphomet, we are your humble servants.”
“Damu! ” shouted Bingo.
“Insogani!” answered the collective.
“Damu!”
“Insogani!”
The following day Lil Huck sat comfortable in the big leather recliner chair fully extended in proverbial lazy boy fashion. In his lap was a big Tupperware bowl half emptied of salted and thickly buttered popcorn. He was watching All My Children. The den was empty except for him. His wife and her parents were at work. He’d had his own apartment for a couple of months but had no steady income other than his wife Stella’s. Which wasn’t enough to keep them housed. There was a flood of money at first coming from the crack he was selling. But when word got out that he was a possible snitch, his homies killed the supply. He resented them for this. However, he wasn’t wise as to why they’d stemmed the flow. All he knew was that he was being shook. Whenever Mary was paged, so he could re-up, she’d never return his calls. When by chance he’d see her rolling, she’d say she was in traffic and keep going. No one else would give him work either. His closed future was the best-kept secret in the hood. Of course in his own mind his cooperation with the authorities was justified by his love for his family. He’d been shot in the hand by some of his own homies as they were summarily executing yet another homie accused of being a snitch. Irony is as irony does—it turned out that the executed one was acquitted posthumously of being an informant. Yet when Lil Huck went to the hospital for his hand injury and the authorities were called to report on the gunshot wound, and questioned him about the murder, he spilled his guts. People went to jail and then to prison for extraordinary lengths of time. And still others found themselves jailed in lieu of a confidential informant, inexorably heading to an upstate prison. His days were numbered and the designated hitters had long since been set upon him. They were, in fact, his closest companions—he played dominoes with death daily.
The telephone rang and broke his concentration on Palmer’s scheming, yet even as he reached absentmindedly for the phone he kept his attention on the television.
“Hello?”
“Robert?” asked the caller who sounded familiar in a nonthreatening way.
“Yeah, Sweeney?
“Uh-huh. What’s up buddy?”
“Nothin’, just watchin’ my soaps. Eatin’ some stale-ass popcorn.”
“Hey,
man,” joked Sweeney, “those two in combination will make you senile. You’d better regulate your intake.”
“Who you telling shit, if I could stop I would, but this shit is tha bomb.”
“Yeah, the bomb, kapoom—your fucking heart!”
“Never that.”
“Hey, listen, I called to see if you’d gathered any info on Lapeace. Shit, the guy seems to be squeaky clean, but his name is all over this damn Crenshaw shit.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I did some snooping just like you asked me to. And you are right, he is squeaky clean. But you know what—and you ain’t gonna believe this—there is a videotape of the whole thing!”
“You gotta be shitting me?” asked Sweeney excitedly, not believing his good fortune.
“Naw, people done already seen it. And you remember . . .”
“Hold on, you mean to tell me that Lapeace is showing people the tape?”
“Nooo,” crooned Lil Huck. “Ghost was showing it to people right after it happened.”
“Ghost?” Sweeney asked more to himself than to Lil Huck. “Ghost, Ghost, Ghost,” Sweeney was saying to himself trying to remember the given name. “Kevin . . .”
“Madison,” Lil Huck said finishing the name. “And you know what else?”
“What’s that?” asked Sweeney, checking the tape on the recorder he always attached to the phone whenever speaking to Lil Huck.
“’Member when Samuel Jones . . .”
“Sam Dog.”
“. . . Right. Well, he got killed the other day and Lapeace and Sekou—Sekou Higgins was with him.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, now, what I believe is that they was comin’ to kill Sam they self, but the Hoovas came up instead and did it for them. Not really for them, but you know?”
“Yeah, yeah. But why would they want Sam Dog dead?”
T.H.U.G. L.I.F.E. Page 12