“Assalaam Alaikum, Lapeace,” spoke Safi over the phone.
“Walakum assalaam, Safi. Listen, I won’t say too much over this horn, but your client’s residence was raided this morning and he needs to know the status.”
“Hmmm,” pondered Safi, “I see. And my client, is he in Allah’s hands?”
“Firmly.”
“Good. Keep him thus until which time the matter can be investigated. Is that clear?”
“No doubt.”
“Good, may peace be upon you, brother.”
“And you too. Later.”
Lapeace cradled the mobile and stared out the SUV’s tinted windows across the desert.
“Lapeace, man, I didn’t know you was Muslim . . .”
“I ain’t,” answered Lapeace. “I’m a gangsta.”
“Well,” began Maniac, putting down his Sega control that he’d been playing from the backseat, “why you say them words that they say?”
“That’s just a greeting. It means peace be with you.”
“Yeah? So, you ain’t gotta be no Muslim to say it?”
“Naw, not really. My attorney is a Muslim cat. So when he greets me in peace I greet him back the same. It’s like a custom, dig?”
“Yeah,” piped in Sekou while maneuvering the Explorer around a slow-moving Camry. “Like when we say ‘Gangsta’s Movin’—that’s a custom, right Lapeace?”
“Not exactly. See ‘Gangsta’s Movin’ is our slogan. It’s our way of promotin’ our set. A custom would be like as Crips, we say ‘cuz,’ see?” instructed Lapeace, ever the alpha.
“Yeah, yeah,” agreed Sekou, “that’s it.You’re right, Lapeace.”
Maniac sat back in thought and contemplated the exchange. It wasn’t every day that he was exposed to conversations like this. He always enjoyed being around both Sekou and Lapeace. And they’d always been generous to him. He sat now with two thousand dollars in his pocket. One from Sekou and another from Lapeace. And he wasn’t expected to pay it back unless, of course, he won big at gambling. Then out of gratitude and respect he’d be obligated to return the money. He wouldn’t have made two thousand dollars sitting at home selling dope, for sure. He’d perhaps have made $800 and that’s only if the spot was poppin’. He’d have taken $500 of that and reupped with a zone, putting the $300 away as profit and coupling it with the first $300 to get two zones and thus working toward a seven-hundred-dollar profit to be reinvested and flipped. All this against the backdrop of constant drama and danger. And still he had to pay bills, eat, dress, and rep the turf. Notwithstanding having to dodge one time, jackers, and a legion of haters.
So this brief reprieve of aVegas trip, to watch theTyson fight, no less, was certainly a welcomed opportunity. Maniac was a young homie who had lived in the hood since elementary school. He’d come up through the rigorous ranks of the set with guns blazing. Ever the trooper, he’d come into the favor of the upper echelons of his set by a daring daylight duel with a rival opponent that left the enemy assailant down and out—weapon in hand. Those who witnessed the exchange said Maniac had terminated his nemesis with extreme prejudice without so much as a blink of his eye. He was, without question, a bona fide gunfighter.
Standing a solid five feet, eleven inches, Maniac was menacingly muscular. He’d done his obligatory stint in youth authority where he weight-trained like a mad Russian. His complexion was light brown, as were his eyes. His hair was long and cornrolled. He was a skilled fighter and would regularly demonstrate his ability when it was determined that someone needed to be disciplined. Both Lapeace and Sekou thought highly of him. They moved along the interstate at a steady clip. Soon to be in Sin City.
11
Tashima hung up the phone and pushed back in her recliner satisfied with her latest acquisition. Her A & R had brought her a demo disc of a new hip-hop group known as Fear None. West Coast battle rappers with a gangsta edge. She’d listened with trained ears to four songs on the CD. The lyrics were good, metaphorically insightful, and their production wasn’t that bad. It was not up to Dr. Dre standards, of course, but it wasn’t that bad. By signing Fear None to RapLife Music, they’d be in a financial position to work with a broader array of producers. So on that point their songs could only sound better.
Fear None was the fourth group she’d signed since June. Her roster held five active, on-the-radio groups. She had a steady presence on Billboard’s top ten in hip-hop. Three of the five acts had gone platinum plus and the other two were beyond certified gold. They’d broken the East, South, and the Midwest markets with stunning success. She had been named as one of the ten CEO’s to watch in the next five years by Entertainment Weekly magazine. Tashima was a keen and competitive businesswoman. She was bold and always outspoken.
The two weeks that had passed since Sanai’s funeral and Lapeace’s revelation of his involvement in the Crenshaw shooting had definitely taken their toll. She felt drained and strained against the weight. She reclined to the max of the chair’s ability and massaged her temples. Ignorance, she thought for the briefest moment, is indeed bliss. Had she not been told about Lapeace’s predicament she would be better off, she reasoned. But then, she knew, had she not been told and found out by another source she’d have blown a gasket and never trusted Lapeace again. And even now, now that she’d fallen in love with this man, what was she doing? Although she’d always been attracted to the roughneck thuglike man, she wasn’t attracted to the criminal type. But was Lapeace actually a criminal? He’d explained his position in life: in his neighborhood he’d once been an active banger but had grown up and mostly—for the most part—out of that.
He didn’t hang out, sell, or use drugs. Never even had a nickname. He was a doting father, a once-married young black man. But still and against all that he was responsible for the deaths of at least eight people. And soon the whole country will know this. Dang, she mused, I’m stuck between love and a murder charge. But I’d rather go blind than to see him walk away from me.
Tashima was interrupted in thought by a soft knock on the half-closed office door. It was Cora Roach, Tashima’s personal secretary. A capable woman and all around troubleshooter, Cor had been hired by Tashima immediately after they’d met at a Soul Train Music Awards after party where Tashima had gotten into a row with a particularly obnoxious employee of Violator Management who had insisted that RapLife owed Violator some credit for the success of Makanation, which had won three Soul Train Music Awards that evening.
Cora Roach had stepped in and shouted down the Violator employee and all but killed him with natural thugee. It was a sight to behold. And unlike Shima, who knew next to nothing about Cora Roach, the recipient of her rage was well versed in her aggression and backed off immediately. He skulked away with his head hung low. From that day forward, Cora Roach had been Tashima’s personal secretary and bulldog.
“Yeah, Cora, come on in.”
“Oh, sorry if I interrupted you napping, girl.”
“Naw,” Shima said swiveling around in the chair and leaning up into a regular sitting position. “I was just brainstorming. What’s up?”
“I have these category A and B forms that need your signature and a sample clearance signature on some loops that Makanation is using. You aight?”
“Yeah . . . well, um, look Cora, let me ask you a few questions.”
“Sure, Shima, shoot,” Cora invited in her sisterly, soothing way.
“You ever been in love?” asked Shima, staring Cora straight into the eyes.
“Love?Well, I thought I was once.You know, I felt all mushy and warm toward him. I tingled at his touch and lusted after his scent. I thought always of him in some abstract kind of fairy-tale way. Yeah, I think it was love. But I came home early one day, girl, and found this nigga in a pair of my panties posing in the mirror.”
“Oh, shit!” Shima said, holding her manicured hand over her mouth to surpress a laugh.
“Oh shit is right! And it wasn’t even the fact about my underwear—goodness knows
he looked better in them than I ever could—but he was sneaking doing it. This brought down all kinds of thoughts, doubts, and questions. I just thought I knew him! You know? I felt betrayed since I thought we were a true team. Me and him against the world. But after I learned about his little fetish I felt it was him against me and the world, you know?”
“Yeah . . .” Shima said absently, having drifted off to another train of thought.
“You ain’t even listening to me, Shima,” Cora pointed out with an edge of pain in her voice.
“No, no I am listening, Cora. It’s just that the discloser of secrets or being honest is not one of the problems I’m facing. Actually it’s the opposite. Nothing as freaky as cross-dressing, mind you. But still scary. I know I love this man and I am a committed person. But damn, we are headed for some rough waters. And, well, I’m just not used to being in such choppy waters. I mean, this music business ain’t no walk in the park . . .”
“Who you telling?” Cora interjected.
“. . . but still it’s not life or death, freedom or jail.”
“Hold up, girl. What are you talkin’ ’bout? You in some kind of trouble? ’Cause if so, I know some headbangers who are with whatever in a major way . . .” Cora was now standing with her hands on Shima’s glass desktop. She was leaning over into Shima’s face.
“No, I don’t need no headbangers, Cora. Lawd knows I have enough of them around me now. No, it’s just I’ve been seeing this guy . . .”
“Black?” questioned Cora.
“No, fool, green. Come on now.”
“Just checking.”
“And, well, I’m in love with this man. He’s who I’ve been looking for. A perfect fit. But he’s coming with some baggage. Not really issues but baggage. You know what I means?”
“What’s the difference between issues and baggage? Shoot, I thought they were one in the same.”
“Nope,” quipped Shima, leaning back into her recliner. “Issues are like long-term, almost psychological defects, which cause a relationship to be always strained.”
“Like what?”
“Well, um, like for instance if he has an underlying hate for women, like if he resents his mother. Or was always beat up by his older sister or . . .”
“If he wants to wear my drawers?”
“Well, um, yes I guess that’s an issue.”
“And baggage?”
“Baggage,” began Shima, “is some burden that’s carried around like a suitcase or something. It’s not as deep as an issue, to me. It’s some circumstance imposed from without, I mean onto an individual. An issue is inside an individual and becomes a part of their character, I think.”
“Go on,” encouraged Cora, “you’re making sense.”
“To me, my man hasn’t got issues. He’s as mentally healthy as any black male could be growing up in the inner cities of Amerika. I mean this with all that this entails. So it’s not issues. My man is saddled with a situation I describe as baggage.”
“How so? And do you mind if I sit down?”
“No, of course not girl. Sit down.”
Shima told Cora the whole situation. After swearing her to silence, Cora listened intently, showing her friend concern, feeling the hurt in her voice, hearing the stress caused by even having to convey the circumstances surrounding Lapeace. Shima left nothing out—she needed to exorcise her thoughts; these new demons had begun to tear her soul asunder. She was grateful for an unbiased ear and a comforting shoulder.
“So what do you think?” questioned Shima in an exhausted manner.
“I’ll tell you this much: it makes my panty issue seem like nothing!” Cora spoke in a joking manner, which made Shima chuckle a little before admonishing her to “Be serious, girl.”
“I mean . . . it wasn’t his fault, really. The other guy was trying to kill him. What was he to do? Is he wrong for being alive? For defending himself? I don’t think so,” Cora added quickly, answering her own questions.
“I feel the same and just needed to sound this off of somebody. I appreciate you, Cora. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Though you could show it, say, with a few zeroes on my paycheck.”
“Yeah, right. Girl, give me those papers to sign and get on out of my face with that foolishness,” chided Shima in banter with Cora.
“Oh, aight then,” Cora said and left the room.
12
Bingo sat alone in the spot cleaning an arsenal of handguns. He’d field-stripped each and laid them out on a dark green oilcloth. He was meticulous in his application of gun oil as he handled every weapon with genuine care. In the background, Parliament’s Greatest Hits beat at a respectable level. And the cleaning, reassembly, locking, and loading went on until every weapon, twelve in total, was ready to go. This was Bingo’s therapy. It was while he field-stripped and cleaned his weapons that he felt most relaxed and did his best thinking.
The hood was hot. On fire. Every few minutes patrol cars could be seen crawling at a snail’s pace through the residential area of the Brims. Bingo had warned his homies to lay low. Stay clear of the LAPD’s dragnet. Though he knew all too well that he was spitting in the wind. For all too often bangers who were not bound by any organized contractual agreement to a designated leader would do as they very well pleased. This was both a burden and a relief. The burden, of course, allowed for deep penetration of sets by law enforcement who’d often catch numerous members in various acts of lawbreaking and turn them during interviews where the average banger was ill-equipped mentally to handle the barrage of questions and interrogation. This brought raids, arrests, convictions, and, inevitably, prison sentences.
The relief, conversely, was that because there was no organized central structure of L.A. street gangs none could be theoretically saddled with R.I.C.O. (Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization) status under federal crime laws.
The contradiction served its purpose in an ironic way. Bingo hated the ignorance but enjoyed the freedom it brought with it. After having served eight straight years on an eleven-year manslaughter conviction in which he shot a rampaging Crip inside the Slauson swap meet, Bingo came home to a set in shambles. The Brims were the premier black street gang in Los Angeles after the demise of the Black Panther Party. It was the emergence of the Black Panther Party in L.A. that had super-ceded the older black street gangs. These gangs, like the Slausons, Gladiators, Businessmen, and the Farmers, had come together, in 1965, under the color of a truce, to do battle with the LAPD and National Guard during the Watts riot.
By 1968, when the Black Panther Party came to L.A., the older gangs were incorporated into either the party or their rival, the United Slaves. The Brims came out of the smoldering wreckage of the Panthers and United Slaves. Wayward youth without leadership pounded the pavement in frustration and confusion. In L.A. these young folks wore stingy brim hats and thus became known as the Brims. The Brims evolved into Bloods, the Bloods became enemies of the new street gang, the Crips, and voilà—decades of mortal combat.
Bingo locked and loaded the last burner and began to move them all to a steel footlocker he kept secured by a heavy-duty padlock. No one had the key but him and Bruno, another trusted member and longtime friend. Two burners, both SIG-Sauer P228 nine millimeters, he left out before locking the chest. He dragged the footlocker to the back bedroom and put it into the closet. He showered and chose his gear: brown Armani pinstripe suit, white silk shirt, brown Bostonian shoes, and of course a brown stingy brim. He hustled along as he knew his ride would be there shortly. No sooner had he collected his watch and hit himself with a cloud of Aramis cologne did a horn sound and draw his attention toward the front of the house.
Bingo drew back the heavy curtains and spied the stretch limo idling in front of the spot. Made one full swoop of the house, making sure the windows and back door were locked before scooping up the two-inch-thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from the coffee table. He made his way out to the waiting limo and was let in by the Amerikan chauf
feur. Inside he was greeted by his fellow Bloods, Blister and Blain. They, too, were dressed to the nines in brown suits. Bingo exchanged greetings and daps with his people and the limo pulled off from the curb and floated into the stream of traffic.
“B, did you bring my hammer?” Blain asked as he made a drink for himself. Blister busied himself with the remote for the CD player.
“Yeah, here you go, dawg.” Bingo came out with one of the SIGs and handed it to Blain. “I just cleaned it and everything so you good to go.”
“Asante,” said Blain, using the equivalence of “thank you” in Ki-Swahili. Like Bingo, Blain was a veteran of California prisons.
“Sikitu,” Bingo acknowledged as Blain pulled back the slide and popped out the clip. He checked the breach, pushed back in the clip, and put the burner on safety. He laid it on the black-carpeted floor.
“What about Blood?” Blain was indicating Blister, who was still preoccupied with the remote. “He gifted too?”
“Naw, just you and me, homie.”
“Aight then.” Blain finally took the remote from Blister and programmed the CD player. Blister noticed the SIG on the floor through the ceiling mirror as he sat back into the comfortable leather seat.
“Oh, you heated, huh, Blain?” Blister asked genuinely curious.
“Hell yeah. Ain’t no telling who gon’ be up in Vegas at the fight. Shit, I’d rather be judged by twelve than carried by six. You feel me?”
“Hell yeah. And I appreciate y’all allowing me to bail too.”
“Ain’t no thang, Blood. I love your life, homie.”
“Yeah,” smiled Blister in appreciation of the adoration. “Homie, I’m feeling you.”
Blain looked over at Bingo, who was otherwise occupied by his own thoughts while gazing out of the window. His train of thought was broken by the thump of music flooding the limo. They rode in silence while Sly and the Family Stone sung “It’s a Family Affair.”
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