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

by Sanyika Shakur

  “’Cause Sam was going around runnin’ his mouf ’bout the tape. Braggin’ on the homies and shit.”

  “Uh-huh. Listen, Robert. Can you tell me more about that tape?”

  “Naw, all I know is what I told you. A tape exist of the shooting that shows Lapeace clearly.”

  “And that Ghost—Kevin Madison—has it, right?”

  “Last I heard, yeah.”

  “Hey, how can I help you? You’ve been a tremendous help to us.”

  “Well, you could do what you did for me that one time, ’member?”

  “Yeah,” said Sweeney and reached over to turn off the recorder. “Uh-huh, I know what you mean Robert.”

  “This time, since I helped you out so much, you could make the package bigger. Say, a whole kilo?”

  “That’s a bit much to be moving, but I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you half of that. You know I’ve got others to take care of, right?”

  “Yeah, I know that. Awright man. When can you get it to me? I’m doin’ hella bad. Muthafuckas over here ain’t given up no work.”

  “Um, I can come to our designated spot at say four o’clock. How’s that?”

  “Today?”

  “Yep. Unless tomorrow is better?”

  “Naw, that’s straight.”

  “Good, good. Okay, now go through this with me will ya?”

  “Awright.”

  Sweeney leaned his hulking body over the desk and switched back on the recorder. He cleared his throat and said, “Robert, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “I asked what it was I could do for you?”

  “Just keep those streets clean as you been doing and I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, buddy, you’ve got it. Good-bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Sweeney hung up the phone and slapped the desktop loudly, causing several detectives to look up startled from their work. “There is a God,” he said boisterously, “and he has a hard-on for cops!” He stood and pulled his pants up farther around his sagging belly, wiped his head clean of sweat, and went to the captain’s office to relay the info he’d gotten from Lil Huck. The captain was a gruff man, with an agitated scowl permanently affixed to his face. He appeared always to be either in pain or in the declining stages of a migraine headache. These looks, however, betrayed his jovial personality. Yet he used his looks to ward off unnecessary conversations with those below him. He and Sweeney now sat listening to the tape of Lil Huck. Mendoza walked in during the last portion of it.

  “Okay, here is how you proceed with this. Get warrants to search the Madison residence, including the garage and his vehicle . . .”

  “Excuse me, sir,” interjected Sweeney respectfully. “Shakur lives in an apartment and, um, his vehicle was taken in a murder-robbery some weeks ago.”

  “Hmmm, I see. Well, the apartment will do. Perhaps we should attach some sort of surveillance to him?”

  “No one claims to have seen him, sir. And from what the landlady of the apartment complex says, he’s not been home for some time.”

  “Is he wise to our investigation?” asked the captain.

  “It’s possible, sir.”

  “Well, then use extreme caution. We’ll use a surveillance unit to pick him up in hopes of our warrant causing him to try and move the tape. And we’ll just use his activities with others to glean more of who’s who.”

  “Okay then, I’ll get these warrants signed and we’ll move first thing in the morning.”

  “Fine, fine,” said the captain, both hands on his small waistline. “Incidentally, this guy wouldn’t be related to that gangster rapper boy Askari would he?”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” answered Sweeney.

  “Same tribe, probably, sir,” added Mendoza with a humor-less chuckle.

  “Yeah, right,” the captain said. He closed the door behind the exiting detectives.

  When Sweeney returned to his desk his line was ringing. He answered it to find Nurse Richter sounding rather impatient and a bit peeved. She said someone had been calling asking about the health of Alvin Harper. First saying they were family, then calling again to say they were with law enforcement. When neither yielded the information sought, due to a lack of proper identification, she’d hung up and called him. Harper, she’d also called to convey, suffered a massive stroke as a result of the amount of blood lost during his suicide attempt. He could no longer speak and was paralyzed on the whole of his right side. He was not in control of his bodily functions and would more than likely be a vegetable for the remainder of his life. Sweeney’s luck had never been greater. He no longer needed Anyhow as a witness. His statement, perhaps a last dying testament, coupled with the tape would be more than enough to seal Lapeace’s fate and close the books on the Crenshaw massacre case. He thanked Nurse Richter for her diligence and returned the phone to its cradle. Life was great.

  9

  Sekou rolled out of his bed, as he did every morning, and did fifty ten-count burpies straight. Then he sat down in his favorite corner chair and prepared his morning blunt while watching the morning news. The usual shit was happening, some irate commuter was shooting folks on the freeways; the presidential mudslinging was getting dirtier. But the big news was the Tyson-Golden fight scheduled for tonight. He’d decided that he was going to drive over to Vegas and watch the fight. He’d probably swing by 662 and chill for a while, spend the night, and double back to L.A. Sunday afternoon. He needed to get the truck washed, waxed, and detailed too. He picked up the phone and dialed a number that was answered by a female.

  “Can I speak to Maniac?”

  “Hold on . . . Maniac? Here he is.”

  “Hello?” asked Maniac.

  “What up, Ridah?”

  “Oh, what’s up Sekou. I thought you was Peanut. Been waiting for cuz to hit me back ’bout some work.”

  “Eh, you wanna bail up to Vegas with me to see the fight?”

  “Cuz, my chips ain’t right. Shit, I’m waiting on this nigga Peanut,” Maniac said disappointedly.

  “Don’t sweat no chips, it’s on me. You got someone to handle your biz?”

  “Yeah, baby here. Shit, hell yeah homie, I’m with the bail.”

  “Aight then, check it. I’m gonna get the hoop detailed and then I’ll come through, huh?”

  “I’ll be posted up waitin’ loc.”

  “Aight den.”

  “Aight, cuz.”

  “I’m out.” Sekou put the phone down and went to take a shower. Having completed his hygienic care he sparked up the blunt and chose his gear. The summer had not yet gone so it would be a hot day. Vegas would be even hotter. For his day wear, he slipped on a white cotton Stafford T-shirt and a pair of sea blue three-quarter-length menace shorts, white baby tube socks, and Grant Hill Filas. Watch, one pinky ring, three gold loop earrings, and a linx chain. Hit himself three times with the Obsession and chose his gear for the fight. Having completed this, he banked out to the truck. On Florence Avenue he flirted with a sista in a green coupe on Dayton’s. Her man’s car, no doubt. She’d better return it or find herself walking, he thought, or worse. He pulled to a stop on Manchester and McKinley in front of Big Jack’s Detail Shop and blew his horn three times. Big Jack came lumbering out dressed in old blue khakis, a dingy light blue denim shirt, and worn combat boots. His mass was evident even under the loose shirt. Jack was an original East Side Crip and formerly Tookie’s roommate. Now he owned his own detail shop and a few other things. Sekou and Lapeace had been knowing Big Jack for years and always came to see him and patronized his business. Jack instructed Sekou to bring the truck up into the lot where Squeeky, Jack’s assistant, took control of the detailing. Jack and Sekou went into the shop’s air-conditioned office.

  In the briefing room for detectives, which had come to be known as the “war room,” Sweeney stood behind a utilitarian wooden table, atop which were heavily armored flak jackets, helmets, P-24 batons, a battering rig, and a Plexiglas shield. On the chalkboard be
hind him were crudely drawn layouts of both Ghost’s and Lapeace’s residences. He’d briefed his men on the possible dangers of both raids and the significance of finding the tape. Out in front of him, situated in a cul-de-sac-like semicircle, were eight other homicide detectives listening closely to what he was saying.

  “And so gentlemen, it will be in our interest,” added Sweeney, head glistening with a high gloss, “to take into custody everyVHS, BETA, and adaptable tape we find. I needn’t continuously tell you the seriousness of these guys we are serving these warrants on.”

  “Are these actual arrest warrants or evidentiary warrants?” asked Detective Rupert.

  “We are in search of evidence which could possibly nail these bastards to the wall. Again, a CI brought to my attention that there exists a videotape of the Cren mass. Madison has been showing the tape and Shakur is the shooter. And men, these are Eight Tray gangsters, I needn’t tell you of their pedigree. Any questions?”

  “Yeah, um, who should we anticipate encountering at these residences?” asked Rupert.

  “At the Shakur residence, no one. Though our surveillance units have seen an elderly woman there as of late. She is believed to be an aunt, Shakur’s guardian.”

  “And the other?”

  “Well, we could encounter anyone from Mad Bone to Monster Kody there. It is a hanging spot for them. So use caution, please. Okay, with me to the Shakur residence is Mendoza, Rupert, Schnell, and Stuart. Baker, Lance, Lucero, and Decker will hit the Madison residence. We’ll be on tac two gentlemen. Let’s do it.”

  They each picked up their vest and baton, and Sweeney, as the lead of his team, grabbed one battering rig and a shield. Decker grabbed the other as lead of his. Then they filed out into the parking lot. The morning air was fresh and the sun was heating up the city.

  “Hey,” asked Lucero, the youngest detective of the nine, “are these guys out of jail? I mean, could we really encounter Monster Kody and Mad Bone?”

  “Hell no,” answered Lance. “Both of them are under someone’s jail. I’m sure. Sweeney meant that as a watch-your-ass type of thing.”

  They mounted up and rolled out of the parking lot bumper to bumper, all unmarked cars. Sweeney relayed to dispatch for additional black-and-white coverage to meet them at the respective residences. Estimated time of arrival, ten minutes.

  For some reason Lapeace felt the need to talk to Aunt Pearl. He’d not called his apartment in three weeks, and he thought that the phone might be tapped. So he had Shima retrieve his messages from a pay phone as she traversed from work nightly. He’d gotten his motorcycle out of the shop and had it stored in Shima’s garage and handled some other business transactions through his accountant, but for the most part he stayed close to Shima’s house. He’d even taken to having Sekou park his truck all the way in the back when he came over to avoid any possible surveillance with he, Sekou, and Shima. This morning, however, he wanted to hear his aunt’s voice and tell her he loved her. He also wanted to see how Ramona had been holding up. He missed her too. He picked up the phone and dialed his number. The phone was answered on the third ring by his answering machine. The music of Randy Crawford singing “Rio de Janeiro Blues” played as Lapeace instructed the caller to leave a name and number. He sounded sort of foreign to himself. He was no longer the same man he was when he’d made that recording, but still he had no idea what he was becoming or who. He could, however, feel Shima working on him, healing him from some injured past of broken hearts and twisted dreams.

  “Aunt Pearl, pick up the phone. It’s me, Lapi.”

  Silence.

  “Aunt Pearl, if you’re there pick up.”

  Silence.

  He knew that if she didn’t pick up soon, the machine would cut him off and he’d have to call back. He hoped she wasn’t in a drunken stupor this early.

  “Aunt Pearl if—”

  “Hello?”

  “Aunt Pearl, it’s me Lapi. How ya doing?”

  “I’m fine, baby. How are you?” answered Aunt Pearl crisply.

  “I’m good.”

  “That’s great. It’s about time you called. I was beginning to worry for you,” said Aunt Pearl, her voice sharp and clear. No sign of an alcohol slur or drag.

  “Well, I’ve been outta town a couple of days,” Lapeace lied.

  “But I’m straight, though. I miss you Aunt Pearl. I hope to see you soon.”

  “When? Is everything all right with you? Why don’t you come home Lapi?”

  “I am soon. Just gotta tie up some loose ends. Hey, how is Ramona?”

  “She os round here crazy as a bedbug in boiling water. She misses you Lapi—we both do. Now you make it here as soon as you can, you hear?” she demanded with a sternness Lapeace hadn’t heard for years. A sternness that made him think of his youth.

  “Yes ma’am. I just have to pull some things together.”

  “You said that. Now I’d wish you’d stop pussyfooting around and come on home.” Ramona had begun to bark wildly, twisting and growling at the front door.

  “It won’t be—” his answer was cut short by Aunt Pearl, who’d begun to shout.

  “Lapi,” shouted Aunt Pearl, straining to be heard over Ramona’s hysteria, “call me back after I’ve taken this dog out for a walk. I can’t hear you over her barks.”

  “Okay, Aunt Pearl. I love you.”

  “Me too. Bye now, baby.”

  “Bye.”

  When Ghost reached for the phone, which seemed to be ringing in surround sound, he caught a glimpse of the digital clock displaying red numbers illuminated brightly against the darkness of the bedroom. Seven-forty-five, a.m. Who’s calling at this hour? he wondered through a foggy consciousness reaching for the antagonizing phone. Next to him lay his lady friend Sandra in a deep sleep. Lank strands of her ultra-blue hair streaked her soft face. Both were in the nude. The sun had begun to intrude slightly through openings in the miniblinds on the window above the queen-size bed. It played pinpoint light bright upon spreads, waves, and ruffles.

  “Hello,” gruffled Ghost into the receiver. He’d propped himself up onto his right elbow. Instinctively his eyes scanned the night table for cigarettes. Finding them he reached out, but then stopped abruptly. He strained hard with his ear to hear into the phone. His senses were on alert. He’d gotten no reply to his answer and yet there was an eerie silence that belied a twist.

  “Hello,” he said once more and then the connection was broken. In one fluid motion he swung back the covers, hung up the phone, and opened the drawer on the nightstand and retrieved the nickel-plated ten mm Glock. He ran up the hallway naked toward the living room in semidarkness and stumbled forward over the sleeping bodies of Lil Opie and his girlfriend Kimba. Lil Opie, startled by the sudden abrasion and the swift movement, reached to his left and gabbed up his weapon, a Taurus PT nine mm. He sat up ready to shoot.

  “Cuz, it’s me Ghost.”

  “Damn, nigga,” said Lil Opie straining for adjustment in the semidarkness. “What you doing?”

  “I think one time fin’ to hit us,” exclaimed Ghost, leaning over the couch and peering through the blinds toward the street, his eyes taking in every car he could see, looking for unfamiliar models. Trees, bushes, and fences he stared at until he was certain there were no people behind them. “Get these niggas up and get ’em ready.”

  Ghost trotted back down the hall paying little attention to his own nakedness.Then in the room he began to rustle Sandra from her sleep. Meanwhile, Lil Opie awakened Kimba, who sat up rubbing her eyes clear of sleep, her firm young breasts exposed to the morning chill. She rubbed her eyes into focus and noticed Lil Opie with his gun in hand waking up the others. She scooped up her sweatshirt, stood, and wiggled into her Levi’s and then took control of her own gun. Up now were Lil Stagalee, his companion Tray Girl, Baby Diamond and his girl Zion, Lil Hit Man and the home girl, Lil Sista Monster. Weapons were in the hands of all. And stern thoughts of combat and resistance were in their minds.

  Gh
ost pulled on his khakis, sweatshirt, and Converse All Stars while Sandra busied herself with her gear. Other than quick trips to the bathroom, the house stayed eerily quiet. Everyone was posted at designated windows watching and waiting.

  “Say y’all,” asked Lil Stag around the room. “What we gon’ do, just wait for Bob Hope to run up in here on us? Or are we gon’ bail up out this bitch?”

  “The call,” answered Diamond, “is on Lil Ghost. It’s cuz’s house. So if he don’t want us to hold it down, we bail. If he say post up, well, then we shoot it out with Bob Hope.”

  “To me, it don’t matter,” whispered Zion while peeking through the olive green drapes, her gun on her lap. “’Cause whichever way it falls we gon’ still have to deal with Bob Hope one day.”

  “And that’s on the gang,” confirmed Lil Sista Monster.

  These bangers had grown fed up with police tactics of intimidation, false arrests, no-knock raids, and summary executions that always seemed to accompany their public “protect and serve” image. They had made a pact to stand and fight when confronted without an escape route. It’s not that they wanted to die—or necessarily wanted to kill. Most felt their meager existence was but a living death anyway. A sinister pre-hell sort of purgatory. And so to die on the trigger was just a consummation of a slow-motion death already lived. And while they were not trapped without a means to escape they were a determined young band of urban guerrillas.

  “Los Angeles Police Department. We have a warrant—open up!”

  The command was answered by silence as each officer looked tentatively at the other. They stood huddled at the door, adrenaline coursing heavily through their bodies, piquing excitement and fear.

  “It’s the police department, open up, we have a search warrant.”

  Still, despite the knocks and the assertive commands, there was only silence: the closed and locked door. A collective shift in stance was done: a steel-toed boot was put forcibly into the door, which shook only slightly. On the second attempt to jar the door a handheld battering rig was swung by Officer Stuart at the doorjamb, which gave way easily. The officers entered the dwelling as if sucked through a vacuum tube. Guns leveled and aimed in anticipation of an occupant. Through each room they burst only to find emptiness and silence.