Both kids are/ good to Mom. Blood’s/ Thicker than the mud,/it’s a family affair. It’s a family affair.
The big, ten-passenger limo floated along the 60 freeway east on its way to Vegas. Its occupants busied themselves with the art of splitting, breaking down, and folding up blunts. They drank and smoked and drank and smoked all along the four-hour ride to Sin City. Everybody had money on Iron Mike.
When Sekou brought his shiny black Ford Explorer to a stop on the strip where it was crossed by Tropicana, he felt exhausted. He was a bit overwhelmed by the amount of people packed on both sides of the street and cars were bumper to bumper along the fabulously lit strip. Lapeace shook himself out of his slumber and pulled his reclined seat to an upright position. He rolled his tongue inside and around his mouth and pulled down the overhead visor to scope his face. Maniac was still laid out along the backseat asleep. Closing the visor, Lapeace looked over at Sekou and, seeing his gaze, followed his vision out into the throng of people traversing the strip.
“Gang of folks, huh, homie?” Lapeace said as Sekou blinked and pulled out into the intersection and across Tropicana. The Explorer was crawling at a snail’s pace, bumper to bumper.
“Man,” exclaimed Sekou with a huff of frustration, “too many mothafuckas if you ask me. Shit, I wasn’t even trippin’ about it being this many folks. We should have drove up yesterday.”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“Or flew up to this bitch. Man, I hate all this. Lapeace, get Maniac ass up. Let him suffer with us.”
Lapeace reached back and roused Maniac out of his slumber. He stretched and yawned his way to a sitting position.
“Cuz, is we up in this bitch or what?”
“Damn nigga, can’t you tell?” quizzed Sekou with irritation.
“Yac, you ain’t never been here?” Lapeace asked turning almost around in his seat.
“Nope. Was gonna move out here with Big C Wack a few months ago but I got a violation and was on lock. I heard we got some troops out here, though.”
“Yep,” Sekou confirmed while maneuvering the SUV into the valet parking drive of the Luxor Hotel. “We got homies out here, but unless we see ’em at the fight we probably won’t see ’em at all.”
“How come, loc?” asked Maniac, holding on to the back of Sekou’s and Lapeace’s seats, looking from one to the other like a child.
“’Cause, nigga, we ain’t up here to get caught up. Them the homies, but it ain’t gangsta to drop in on cats unannounced.We’ll bounce back this way in due time. We up here to see Tyson smash this nigga Golden, gamble a little, and let Lapeace get some space. So it’s like more business then pleasure.”
“Cool, I’m just glad to be up out the hood for a minute. So, whatever.”
“That’s right.”
They coasted to a stop and were approached by valets and hotel bellhops. Before getting out Sekou popped the back latch and it slowly raised. The three lumbered out of the truck and into the sweltering Las Vegas heat. Sekou retrieved his suitcase and let the bellhop roll it along as they entered the luxuriously air-conditioned lobby of the Luxor Hotel. Luckily the three had dressed down for the occasion because the lobby appeared to be peopled by nothing but youth in hip-hop gear, gold chains, medallions, and hundred-dollar tennis shoes.They were boppin’ around in a school of giggles and horseplaying. Some sat on love seats and grand couches that made up the decorative layout of the gold and glass lobby. As the three swept the crowd visually, none appeared to be bangers so they kept their pace toward the front desk.
Sekou gave his name to the receptionist. She checked in the computer for the reservation and checked it against his identification.
“Your room key, sir,” said the Amerikan woman with a bright smile, “please have a nice stay at the Luxor.”
“We will, thank you,” Sekou responded and was directed by the bellhop to a bank of elevators.They were lodged in suite 2027. The suite was a large two-bedroom affair. One entire wall, facing out, was a tinted window that afforded them a vast view of the strip facing east. After setting in and blowing two blunts, they ventured out to find a department store where Lapeace and Maniac could find them some fresh gear to wear. Sekou alone had brought a bag with a fresh change of clothes. He was meticulously fashion-conscious. Which is not to say that Lapeace wasn’t, but Sekou tended to be a bit more concerned than most.
The fight between Mike Tyson and Golden was a big-ticket showdown that drew thousands to the gleaming desert that never slept. Unbeknownst to any, there would be over thirty street gangs from Los Angeles represented by numerous members, some numbering as many as twenty-seven soldiers, others no more than four. It would be an adrenaline-packed powder keg of danger. Most combatants drove to the sports event and brought their weapons. And there’d be no shortage of them.
John Sweeney pulled into his driveway and turned off the engine on his white 1993 Ford Bronco. It was called an “O.J. Special” by his fellow officers. No matter that it was the same year and same color as the one owned and driven by O. J. Simpson during his low-speed chase along L.A. freeways last year. No matter; it served him well and he was content with it.
He climbed down out of the cab and pulled his tote bag along the front seat. Inside his house he checked his mail—junk and bills. He showered quickly and laid out naked across his bed. He stared up into the ceiling and thought for the millionth time how he could get the goods on Lapeace Shakur. The case had begun to disrupt his peace. He was becoming obsessed with it, especially now that the searches had uncovered nothing. Shit, he cursed in his mind, gotta get some fuckin’ headway on this. He rolled over to his nightstand and pulled open the drawer. There he retrieved a pack of Camel nonfilters and pulled one from the pack. He studied it for a long moment before taking it into his mouth and lighting it. He inhaled the strong Turkish and domestic blended tobacco and closed his eyes and relaxed.
His head beat hard until it hurt. A headache overtook his thoughts until he could concentrate no more. He sat up on the end of the bed, put out the butt of his cigarette, and began to dress. He had to pursue his ideas and needed to work this out. If his informant said there was a tape of the Cren mass then he very well believed it. He’d need only to prove it now. This may call for some extralegal methods of investigation, but that hardly wrinkled any feathers of his. He’d learned to employ such methods from his pals out at the rampart division. A wild bunch of cowboys, to be sure. They always got what was required when needed.
Sweeney put his nine-millimeter Beretta service weapon onto his hip by clip and belt loop. He then strapped a black leather holster to his right ankle. In it was a .380 Smith &Wesson automatic. It was an unregistered, untraceable “throwaway”—that is, a gun that could be used in a confrontation and thrown away or planted on a perp. This was standard operating procedure for most officers who’d worked in the CRASH units that did their tours of duty in the zones. Sweeney felt it necessary to call on his ol’ friend Frank Beton, who worked out of the Rampart CRASH unit. Frank had basically taught Sweeney every dirty trick in the book. He felt now that after he employed his upcoming pony trick he’d seek Frank’s counsel. First, however, he’d have to call and make an appointment.
“Hey, Frank,” Sweeney spoke, easing out of his front door, holding his head against his shoulder while cradling the phone.
“Yeah, this is Frank. What’s happening?” said Frank, on guard.
“Listen, this is John, John Sweeney. From the Seventy-seventh.”
“Oh, hell yeah, what’s doing, partner?” Frank spoke, unguarded now.
“Well, I got an issue I’d like to run by you if I can get near you this evening.”
“Well, um,” Frank said, hesitantly in contemplation, “you see . . . oh, what the hell. Come out to the house. Me and some of my unit guys are gonna watch the Tyson fight. If you don’t mind any of that?”
“No, no, that’ll be good. I’m going to make a stop now and then I’ll boogie on out, huh?”
“Sure
thing, buddy. See you then.”
“Good.” Sweeney broke the connect and backed on out of his driveway. But instead of driving north to Simi Valley where Frank Beton lived, he drove south to the 10 freeway and drove it to the Harbor 110 south—heading the way he’d go to work. The way, that is, to South Central. The windows on the Bronco were limousine tents and were virtually impossible to see through. Around his back license plate were the alphabets KMA and the numbers 639. Unbeknownst to pedestrians and civilians this code identified the driver or registered owner as a law enforcement-related employee. The vehicle would be seldom, if ever, pulled over.
The sun was just beginning its descent from the sky and into the Pacific Ocean. From daylight hours to dusk there were about two hours left. He hoped to get in and out before the sun extinguished itself.
He slowed the Bronco to a stop on the run-down corner of Gage and Hoover. The area was, of course, a gang-infested, depressed, and dilapidated community of vice and graft. On the northwest corner sat a minuscule caricature of a park, though it was barely big enough for a swing set and a bite-size merry-go-round. Across from it was a gas station of a foreign name that was cluttered with crack heads eager to do whatever for some change. Some had squeegees and others had crudely made signs.They harassed every driver that came into the lot. Across Hoover Street from the gas station sat a liquor store. Gang members in full dress stood post in its lot hawking their drugs as if they had a license. On the opposite corner stood two obvious prostitutes in tight hoochie mama spandex and obnoxious colors. Wigs resembling unkempt poodles were haphazardly piled upon their heads. And they stood stilted upon platform shoes too humongous to be practical. Their shapely hips were thrown out seductively for passersby to glimpse for shopping. One worked a wad of gum as furiously as a major league pitcher in a World Series game. The other looked sullen and evil. No children played in the park. A homeless bag lady sat on one of the swings.
The light changed and Sweeney pushed the Bronco around the curve on Gage leading to Vermont. Once across Vermont he punched in a series of numbers on his cell phone.
“Yeah,” said the recipient. “What’s crackin’?”
“Robert,” spoke Sweeney, coming to a California stop at Normandie and taking it south. “I’m in your area and I really need to see you. ‘No’ is not an option.”
“Aight,” Lil Huck said. “I’m around. Where?”
“Our usual place. But make it snappy. I’m almost there already and I’m in my personal vehicle.”
“Aight, I’m coming now.”
At 4:55 p.m., the continental limo eased on to the Las Vegas strip with Bingo, Blain, and Blister loaded inside. It crawled through traffic at a shooters’ pace while its occupants blazed their last blunt of the ride. Bingo called ahead to the hotel to confirm their reservations as Blain tucked his burner in his waistband and combed his thick mustache with a palm comb. Blister took in the crowds with a predator’s beam. There was a reason that Bingo didn’t want Blister heated. Blister was an infamous jacker. He’d rob anything, anybody, anywhere, though his m.o. wasn’t strong arm. It was armed robbery. Thus with him it was simply a matter of keeping him unarmed. Not that he wasn’t a fighter or that he didn’t have heart. No, it was just that Blister was a gunfighter. His allegiance was to arms. He preferred them because he had to say little to get someone’s attention. He’d draw and take what he wanted.
Because of this, however, certain homies of his would keep him gunless when they had bigger fish to fry. And while this sporting event wasn’t a mission per se, it presented too many options for a serial jacker like Blister to be armed, especially since they were out of state. Being OT—out of town—gave people, though especially bangers and criminals, a false sense of freedom by not being known to the native inhabitants or the local constituency and they tended to believe they could commit any outlandish act and get away. But in Las Vegas—especially on or around the strip—cameras could very well spell an assailant’s demise. No chances could be taken under conditions as these. Burners would be used as a last resort, not a first.
They’d rented the limo service for twenty-four hours at an enormous rate, which included lodging for the driver as well. No sweat, because both Blain and Bingo were paper’d up. They’d grown ghetto rich by hangin’ crack. To rent a limo for a twenty-four-hour period was as easy as batting an eye.
Lapeace, Sekou, and Maniac exited the elevator at the twelfth floor. They were immediately confronted by three men, one of whom was Askari, the world famous hip-hop artist.
“What that Mob Piru like?” asked the darkest of the trio. His hands were thrown out to his sides in a relaxed cross. His tone was probing but also menacing. The other fell back against the wall and posed in a strike-first position. Askari, in a gold Versace suit, black silk shirt, big gold medallion, and black shoes, smiled sinisterly. His eyes were almost closed from the bomb weed he’d been smoking.
“It don’t Piru like nothin’ here. This gangsta Crip,” Maniac responded with venom.
The little Piru and Maniac began to advance on each other. Askari and Lapeace stepped up simultaneously between them, Lapeace’s hand on Maniac’s shoulder, Askari’s on Lil Flame’s chest.
“Hold up, players,” said Askari, looking at Sekou and Maniac. “We don’t need all that.”
“Naw, really we don’t,” responded Lapeace. “It is what it is.”
“Yeah,” Askari said through a toothy smile. “We recognize you, potna.”
“Eh Askari, what, you a Piru now, or what?” Sekou asked.
“I’m Death Row M-O-B,” Askari focused on Sekou and answered in his husky tone heard always in his records. “It is what it is, know what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah, well, whatever. Look, I’m Lapeace Shakur. We gangstas. We ain’t up here to rumble with you cats. We come to see Tyson smash ol’ boy. But if y’all bring it, we will respond like gangstas.”
“Yeah whatever,” said Lil Flame. “This P-funk nigga, all day.”
“Wait, hold up. You are Lapeace who?” asked Askari incredulously.
“Shakur,” said Lapeace facing Askari but towering over him. “I’m a Shakur man, just like you.”
“Who’s your folks?” quizzed Askari, one eyebrow raised higher than the other.
“My folks?”
“Yeah, your folks—your bloodline. How you become a Shakur?”
All the others had now fanned out to watch the exchange between Askari and Lapeace. A most fascinating confrontation to be sure.
“My mother, rest in peace, was Asali Shakur of the L.A. Black Panther Party. She died when I was born. My father, rest in peace, was Tafuta Shakur, of the Amistad Collective of the Black Liberation Army. He was a prisoner of war and died while a prisoner. I’m a Shakur by birth.”
“Yeah,” Askari said, looking now at Lapeace with a renewed interest. “I’ve heard of your folks through my moms who was—”
“A New York Panther and a part of the Panther Twenty-one case in 1969,” Lapeace said, interrupting Askari and finishing his mother’s legacy.
“Yep . . . so you know that, huh?”
“Of course. And your stepdad is doctor Mutulu Shakur, who is a prisoner of war and a comrade of my father’s. Am I right?”
“Right again, player,” said Askari. “I’m feeling you. So y’all going to the fight, huh?”
“Yeah, that’s what we up here for,” said Sekou.
“Well, after the fight, which shouldn’t last too long, why don’t y’all swing by six-six-two and party with us? It’s gonna be a gang of bitches over there,” offered Askari, pressing the elevator button.
“We might just do that,” answered Lapeace.
“Aight then, Shakur,” Askari said to Lapeace and issued his troops onto the elevator. They boarded orderly.
Sekou and Maniac turned to leave and Lapeace was still standing there watching as the elevator doors began to close.
“Okay, then, Shakur,” Lapeace said excitedly acknowledging he and Askari
’s tribal connections.
Sekou seemed to be perturbed by the confrontation. He stalked off to the room in a huff ahead of Maniac and Lapeace. Maniac and Lapeace entered after Sekou who, by their entrance, was pacing in front of the glass wall-window with one arm folded across his chest and his other hand pulling thoughtfully on his chin. Eyebrows connected, humming an indistinguishable tune under his breath.
Lapeace went to the bathroom. Maniac sat on a lounge chair and grabbed the remote.
“Hold on before you turn that on homie. I wanna get at you and Peace for a second.”
“Oh, aight then.” Maniac put down the remote and eased back into his seat. He crossed his legs and laid his head back on the soft upholstery of the headrest.
Lapeace exited the bathroom and walked into the silent vacuumed atmosphere projected by Sekou’s tension. He looked quickly from Maniac to Sekou.
“Hey Peace,” Sekou asked, “my question is this: what just happened out there? I mean, was we banged on by some Pirus and Askari?”
“Cuz,” spoke up Maniac in defense of himself, “hell naw, we wasn’t banged on. If anything we banged on them. And that nigga Askari . . . man, it’s so obvious now where he at. I mean, they banged they shit and we banged ours. We could have did whatever. And Askari ain’t said he was a Piru. He said he was Death Row, M-O-B. Sekou, you know as well as I do that they claim that shit means money over bitches. Them other niggas was RU’s. But, shit, them niggas didn’t want none of this.”
“Was we heated?” asked Sekou, looking over at Lapeace with a hard stare and a frown. Maniac, too, looked up at Lapeace for an answer.
Lapeace looked from one to the other as if to say Are you crazy? and raised up his white T-shirt revealing the fat butt of the semiautomatic nine millimeter.
“What, you thought, Kou? Huh, a nigga wasn’t burnin’? Miss me, homie. You of all cats should know my steez, Kou.” Lapeace put his shirt down and walked over to the bureau and pulled out a seat. He eased down into it and put his elbows on his knees and eyed Sekou.
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