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

by Sanyika Shakur

  “Well, that’s a relief to know. At least we had iron with us. ’Cause I seen ol’ bog in the back, behind that midget nigga with the mouth, he had a burner in his waist. I was on his ass, though. Soon as it would have jumped off I’d have smashed that fool. That’s on the gang,” exclaimed Sekou with animated exaggeration. He paced now in rapid motion in front of the window.

  “That’s gangsta,” confirmed Maniac, joining now in the revelry.

  “Man, I couldn’t even believe that nigga Askari. Death Row M-O-B. Fuck Death Row! I mean, damn, this ain’t New York or even Oakland. L.A. is the Crip and Blood capital of the world. Niggas can’t come out here and swing it like us. This red and blue shit a nigga gotta grow up in, can’t come out here and choose a side. That’s how foreign niggas get smoked, cuz. This on the land, nigga, if we had run across them three niggas anywhere else other than this janky-ass desert hotel, I’d have blazed on ’em,” Sekou announced, getting fired up now.

  “On me!” chimed in Maniac. He, too, stood now and began to Crip-walk around the room. Hands held up the turf, head held high, rhythm on time to a beat in his memory no one else could hear. Maniac did the war dance to a time resplendent with soul. He was one of the best C-walkers in his turf.

  “You know what?” sighed Lapeace, tired of the chest thumping—though really he had no doubts about either’s seriousness. “That would have been something to see. Since neither one of y’all was burnin’. I had the only heater.”

  “Oh, oh,” jived Sekou now in a boisterous imitation of Askari. “All right then Shakur.”

  And then Maniac joined him as Lapeace’s voice “Okay then Shakur.” And then they both doubled over in laughter.Then Sekou added in a mock Martin Luther King Jr. voice. “I have a dream that one day little Red Shakurs and Little Blue Shakurs will join hands and sing ‘We Shall Come Over, We Shall Come Over.’ ”

  Maniac was on the floor, now bawling with hysterical laughter. His knees were drawn up to his chest in convulsive coughs of comical laughter. Sekou was leaned up against the wall laughing with his head down. Lapeace sat calmly looking from one to the other pathetically, not in the least enjoying the little charades being played. He got up from his chair, took the burner from his waist, and laid it upon the bureau top. Its heavy metal to wood sound ended the laughter in a hurry. Both Sekou and Maniac were now quiet and attentive. Lapeace took his long-strided walk toward his room.

  “You niggas is twisted and sick. I ain’t fuckin’ with y’all.”

  “Aw, come on, Peace,” responded Sekou in an attempt to sooth Lapeace’s inflamed pride, “I was just bullshittin’, man. Damn. Oh, now you workin’ with feelins’, huh?”

  “Ain’t got time to play with you, Sekou. It’s time we got dressed for the fight.” At that Lapeace closed the door to his room and began to shed his clothes.

  “He’ll be all right,” Sekou said to Maniac, looking at the closed door. “He’s just a little touchy right now. But that shit was funny, huh?”

  “Hell yeah,” Maniac said, standing up to mimic Sekou. “You killed that shit. ‘Little Red Shakurs’ . . . On me, you kilt that, loc.”

  “Right, right,” Sekou said accepting the compliment graciously as he turned to go into his room to get dressed. Maniac took his cue and went over to his new clothing and began to pull out his gear for the evening.

  13

  Sweeney took Vermont south to Manchester, passing through some of the most volatile terrain South Central had to offer. At Manchester he broke right and headed west. At Harvard Boulevard, after waiting forever for the light to change, he banked left and then left again on 87th Street. There he floated to an easy stop. Not three minutes later Robert’s van came to a halting stop behind the white Bronco. Robert ambled over to the passenger side and climbed up into the truck.

  “Hello, Robert.”

  “Hey, Sweeney. Look, we gotta make this quick ’cause the fight fin’ to be on, you know? So what’s up?” Robert asked across the expanse of the leather seats.

  “You know, we hit Shakur’s and Ghost’s this morning, huh?”

  “Yeah, I heard ’bout it, so?”

  “So,” said Sweeney incredulously, “welp, you see, buddy—we came up on zilch, nothing.”

  “No?” Robert said.

  “No. Now, we are back at square one. No evidence, no corroboration, no fucking Lapeace.”

  “He wasn’t there, I guess?”

  “Hell no he wasn’t there. We got nothing, Robert. What do you make of that, huh?”

  “I can’t call it. But if—” spoke Robert but was cut off.

  “No, you see, this is not how it works, Robert.” Sweeney was showing anger now and his bald head began to glisten.

  “I mean—” Robert began again to finish his point but was cut off again.

  “This is not, I repeat not, how it works. I gave you what you wanted. I came through for you. Got you your ‘work.’ And you said what you had for me was surefire. But we know now that this wasn’t surefire, was it Robert?” Sweeney’s eyes were beginning to bulge. His voice was elevated.

  “Man, Sweeney, I gave you what I was told. Sam ain’t had no reason to lie. It’s what he said. Said he seen it, man. You know I ain’t into lying to you. You been straight with me, Sweeney.” Robert was starting to plead now. He felt a bit unnerved at Sweeney’s suggestion that he’d given him bunk information. The cab of the Bronco began to feel smaller and definitely warmer. He felt distressed and a little desperate. He scanned his memory for something useful. Anything juicy enough to keep Sweeney’s mania in check. He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and focused on a tan van a few parked cars up the street.

  “So what’s up, Robert? I need something. I need another link to finding this tape. You’ve made me look like a damn fool in front of my boss, man.”

  “I’m thinking . . . ,” said Robert defensively. Though his brain was working overtime looking for links to Lapeace, his thoughts came to rest upon one individual. He’d been one of Lapeace’s crew members and a leading figure in the North Star Car Club and thus probably more than likely there the night the shoot-out went down.

  “Aight, look,” said Robert in relief and resignation at having found for Sweeney a possible connecting fiber, “check out Greg Dawson. He goes by the name—”

  “Lazy,” Sweeney said before Robert could. He knew the name well. He investigated him before when as a CRASH officer he’d conducted a traffic stop on a blue-and-gray ’68 Chevy Impala and found Greg “Lazy” Dawson in possession of a semiautomatic MAC-10, .45 caliber. He’d taken Lazy to the 77th, but no sooner had the booking process been completed than Dawson was bailed out. Fighting the gun possession from the streets he was able to draw the case out over a whole year and resolve it with a sentence of five weekends in the county jail and a one-year probation. To Sweeney’s knowledge he was no longer on paper.

  “Yeah,” Robert said, looking over at Sweeney in surprise, “you know him, huh?”

  “Yeah, I know him. Lives on Seventieth, huh?”

  “Right. Between Halldale and Denker,” added Robert, feeling a bit better for himself and Sweeney.

  “You think he’ll have a line on this thing?” Sweeney asked Robert while all along trying to work out an advantage point in his mind that could be used against Lazy in order to make him talk.

  “Yeah, well he’s in Lapeace’s crew and he’s in the North Star Car Club. He was more than likely there that night. Hold up,” said Robert, thinking hard now. “He was there ’cause one of the homegirls told me his car was shot up. And all the North Stars cars were shot up by the Brims that night. So, yeah, he was there, I’m sure.”

  “Okay, look then,” consulted Sweeney, raising his right leg to the seat, drawing the small semi out of its holster. “I’ll need you to take this weapon and tape it under the front left fender—the wheel well—of his everyday car. What kind is he driving now?” Sweeney had placed the gun between himself and Robert on the seat. He’d carefully wiped it of any of his
prints.

  “He pushes a green Acura. It’s a newer model. He leaves it on the street so it’ll be easy to do.”

  “Good. I’ll have a patrol unit pull him over tomorrow and alert me. I’ll take him into custody on the weapons charges and grill his ass. But Robert, listen, I’ll need you to keep your ears to the pavement on this. Help me out buddy.”

  “Naw, I got you, Sweeney. Don’t trip.”

  “All right, buddy. You go on and do that taping job for me. And wear gloves, will you? No prints,” Sweeney demanded with a wink, a wipe of his sweating head, and a click of his tongue.

  “Got it. Don’t worry, I got this. Now, I gotta go handle this and watch the fight.”

  “Okay, be safe buddy,” said Sweeney, starting up the truck and putting it into drive. Robert closed his door and the truck pulled off and turned left on Normandie Avenue and disappeared into the night.

  Tiny Monster stood leaning against his pearl white 300 SC Lexus. He was talking with Baby C-Dog out in front of Lazy’s house. A few more homies were across the street on the sidewalk laughing and bullshitting. Lazy came out from behind the chain-link fence and walked over to where Tiny Monster and Baby C-Dog were standing. They were locked in a debate when Lil Huck turned the corner.The conversations stopped as everyone got on guard. Tight discretion was the watchword around Lil Huck as everybody was only waiting for the word. Lil Huck got out of his van and instead of coming up to Tiny Monster, C-Dog, and Lazy he threw up a salute and went over to where the other homies were standing. He greeted them all in turn and lukewarm salutations were returned.

  “Cuz,” spoke Tiny Monster, “that nigga is foul! Why he keep comin’ round here? He know niggas ain’t feelin’ him.”

  “You know the business on fool, TM. It’s just a matter of time,” Baby C-Dog said, digging into the top pocket of his work shirt to retrieve his pager and check the time.

  “Whatever, cuz,” responded Tiny Monster and added, “Niggas need to serve him and keep it movin’.”

  “On me,” said Lazy. He looked at Tiny Monster and said, “You ready to bounce?”

  “Yep, we out of here Baby Dog. I’ll holler tomorrow. We gon watch the brawl on the big screen.”Tiny Monster and Lazy then climbed into the Lexus.

  “Aight gangstas,” C-Dog said in farewell, “reach at me tomorrow.”

  “Fo’ sho—three minutes,” came the double salute from inside the fresh Lexus and they skirted out. Baby C-Dog saluted the others from across the street, got into his car, and left as well. Lil Huck acted as if he, too, was leaving by getting into his van and pulling off down the street.

  He parked far up the block across Denker and watched the throng of homies, hoping they’d leave, too. But they stayed posted. He waited for twenty minutes in silence and contemplation for them to find another loitering spot, but nothing doing. He watched them posing, laughing, doubling over, and bullshitting. He could tell who was leading the war story and who was the group clown, but they still wouldn’t move. He couldn’t very well plant the weapon while they stood as sentries across the street. He knew that was no good.

  No, he’d have to risk it on a late-night creep. ’Cause, to him, this shit wasn’t as important as watching the Tyson fight. So later, he reasoned, starting up the van, he’d come back and do what he’d been ordered to do. No sweat, he thought, he’d get it done.

  Tashima sat cross-legged on the sofa watching the prefight hoopla as she went over a few details of a recording contract she was going to offer an alternative rock group that had caught her ear by way of a close girlfriend.

  She contemplated her current circumstances and coupled them with the conversation she’d had with Cora Roach earlier. She was certainly in love with Lapeace and was going to support him with her all. She needed him and was sure he needed her. She put down the sheet of papers and rubbed her fingers along Kody’s healthy black coat. Kody in return slowly batted her eyes in a lazy, sleepy way. She was curled up on the sofa next to Shima totally relaxed. It was the ringing of the phone that broke both Kody’s and Tashima’s trains of blissful thought.

  It was Aunt Pearl calling to tell Tashima about the early-morning raid. Tashima, aghast at the news, offered to come and retrieve Aunt Pearl from Mrs. Delaney’s house, where she’d been all day. As she readied herself for the drive across town the phone rang.

  “Hello?” answeredTashima while lacing her Reebok tennies.

  “May I speak to the sexiest lady in Los Angeles?” spoke Lapeace with his husky baritone.

  “Yeees,” preened and purred Tashima into the phone while not trying to hide the pleasure in her voice, “this is she. At your service your highness.”

  “How are you this evening Babes?”

  “I’m good. Just on my way out to scoop up Aunt Pearl. She been at a neighbor’s all day. You know why I take it?”

  “Yeah I was laced by the same neighbor you are going to get A.P. from.They also had a get-together at another spot in the land. I didn’t know where or how A.P. was so I called the neighbor and was told she missed the bus. So, what, she called you?”

  “Yeah, Babes. Not ten minutes ago. So I’m going to scoop her and let her kick it over here with me.”

  “That’s cool. I appreciate it, Shima.” Lapeace was watching out of the window of the limo at the masses of people traversing up and down the strip. Sekou and Maniac were huddled along the jump seats whispering.

  “You cool with this, then?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m straight with it and, again, thank you.”

  “Mister man,” said Shima in a mock voice, “you know you got it like that. And you know A.P. gots it like that.” Tashima was smiling.

  “Cool in the gang, then. I just called to tell you I love you and that I’m missing you out here.”

  “Well, that’s a big ol’ boomerang on the love. But we are going to have to do something ’bout these . . . these folks. I mean, are they trying to put the warrior on ice?” She learned quickly to use other words in a roundabout way.

  “I called Safi but have yet to hear back. I’m telling War to take it as they are. Has there been anything on the news?”

  “No. But then again I’ve been on the prefight stuff. But I’ll notify you if anything comes on tonight. Call me after the fight, aight?”

  “Yeah, fo’ sho. I love you, Shima.”

  “Me, too. Talk to you tonight, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  They broke the connect as the limo pulled into the valet parking square at the MGM Grand. Sekou, Maniac, and Lapeace exited the limo and were ushered into the hotel lobby by their driver. The trio moved like royalty through the crowds, heads held high, eyes on alert. Gangstas movin.’

  People dressed elegantly in tuxedoes and elaborate gowns were standing around chatting noisily with others dressed out in hip-hop’s finest gear. Gold chains and white gold bracelets screamed their existence against dark skin and darker cloth. Diamonds of various sizes, cuts, and karats were on display in generous amounts. People gleamed and glammed and sparkled and blinged from earlobes to toe rings, from pinky rings to teeth. Lapeace spotted Askari with his entourage.

  Of Pirus standing near the main floor entrance, Lil Flame was spotted too. Lapeace, Sekou, and Maniac kept it moving as their path was cut by their muscle-bound driver. It had been Lapeace’s idea to go right to their seats as opposed to idling around in the midst of unnecessary confrontation. The idea was to come up here to get away from the zone and relax, not to bring the zone here and continue the business as usual. Shit, Lapeace mused, if that was the case I could just heat up that whole section over there and slump all them fools.

  He changed his course of thinking when they made it to their seats. Lapeace scanned the seating section and felt comfortable in their positioning. He tipped the limo driver a hundred and sat down.

  Bingo, Blister, and Blain’s limo floated to an easy stop in the valet’s square and they bailed out of the back like bloodhounds in search of prison-break suspects. Bingo in his
brown Armani, red silk scarf on display just so in his top pocket, stood head and shoulders above both Blain and Blister. His gaze was beaming with a fixed scowl, which tended to discourage most. Standing at the rear of the limo he adjusted his tie and cocked his brim at a forty-five-degree angle—right-sidedly, of course. Seeing this, Blain did likewise, while Blister shuffled out a few feet and ogled the massive fight-goers’ jewelry like a starving man at a buffet.

  “Dawg,” barked Bingo at Blister, “control yourself.”

  “Naw, naw,” responded Blister, not looking over at Bingo but still feasting his eyes on those standing and moving into the hotel lobby. “ I got this, Blood, don’t even trip.”

  Bingo stepped quickly over to Blister and all but blocked his view of the fabulously dressed people. No doubt there to floss but also to watch and cheer Tyson on.

  “Blood,” Bingo began, staring down into Blister’s sparkling, lust-filled eyes. “I ain’t fin to end up in no Vegas prison for some dumb shit done by you. So control yourself, homie.”

  “B, what you woofin’ ’bout, homie? I’m straight. Aight?” Blister had disengaged his sights and was now looking up into Bingo’s hazel green eyes. He held no fear of Bingo nor of Blain. But as his big homies he respected them to the fullest.

  “Aight, homie,” Bingo sighed. “Let’s bail upon this bitch.”

  At that their driver led a path through the crowd and into the posh lobby of the MGM Grand. Once inside Blain immediately recognized Lil Tray from Compton’s MOB Piru and Lil Flame. He guided Bingo’s attention over to the band of Pirus. Blain gave Bingo a look of why not? At once they cut a b-line toward the right entrance and over to the Pirus.

  “What’s up Lil Tray, Lil Flame,” greeted Blain jovially and shook hands with both young Pirus. He then saw Askari, Simon, and Lip Dog. “Oh, what up Askari, Simon, Lip Dog, how y’all be?”

  “We straight.”