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

by Sanyika Shakur

  “Cool.”

  “P-funkin’.”

  A chorus of responses, handshakes, and hugs came all around. Death Row and the Pirus were there in force. Fancying themselves a mafia-style organization, they sported an assortment of gold, platinum, and diamonds. Versace, Hilfiger, Kani, and Fubu. Red, black, white, and burgundy clothing in various stages of cut and floss hung impressively from the bangers as they stood about in conversations. Curious onlookers passed and gawked at the gathering as Simon and Askari preened and posed for pictures and autographs. Even passing Crips not locked into immediate war with Compton’s Piru mob, Death Row, or L.A. Brims stopped to holler at Askari or greet one of the Bloods they knew from another time and place. Everything was cordial and on a respectful level. New Afrikans out doing their thing. Cats from the zones out on the town—out of town, mingling in a deadly atmosphere of domestic respect and wishes of well-being.

  The gathering broke apart as the main event was announced. The Death Row entourage went along to their seats in a pack. It seemed as if they’d bought out the whole section of seats near the ring. They flooded the arena like locusts. Across the aisle and slightly to the back, Bingo and the Brims took their seats. Behind them, just a few rows back, sat a quadrant of Crips from Compton’s south side: Lil Al, Lil Too Too, Dre, and Baby Lane. All four were infamous gunfighters who lived on the fringes of life and death. Each of them in his own way had come up on a major amount of money: robbing armored cars, dope dealing, stealing cars, and gambling. You name the activity, they had a hand in it. All were highly successful at their crafts.

  “Baby Lane,” spoke Lil Al, in recognition of the group of Pirus seating themselves. “Ain’t that them ’Ru niggas over there?”

  “Where at?” asked Baby Lane excitedly, looking around the audience wildly before being directed by Lil Al.

  “Down there, near the ring. Look.”

  Baby Lane, tall and dark with an uncanny resemblance to Askari, followed the direction of Lil Al’s point. And there, without a doubt, sat and stood a sight to behold. No less than twenty Pirus and their affiliates of Death Row Records gathered around in a nonchalant, very casual way. As if they had no enemies.

  “Yeah boy,” spoke Baby Lane, the young urban gunfighter, “that’s them awright. Ain’t that something,” he added while rubbing his hands together and licking his full lips as if in line for a delicious treat.

  “Ooh, they deep, too,” said Dre, scoping the band of enemigos.

  “Look, there go Heron, Neck Bone . . . that nigga Simon. Damn . . . ,” Lil Too Too said.

  “Sit down, y’all,” Baby Lane ordered. “We ain’t tryin’ to let them see us first. Fuck them niggas. Let’s watch this squabble. We’ll see what’s crackin’ later on, you know?”

  “Right, right,” answered Dre. They settled back to watch the fight.

  In reality, there was no fight at all. Mike Tyson made quick work of Golden. Tyson knocked his contender out cold. It was, in true Tyson fashion, a climactic letdown. One hundred and nine seconds of the first round and Golden was finished.

  People didn’t leave the makeshift arena quickly. They stood around and talked and flaunted their wares. Men got at women, women at men—and quiet as kept, men got at men and women at women. It was the usual exchanges of sexual undertones that accompany each such event. For Tyson fights proved to be so smashingly fast and over so quickly that folks tended to just hang out afterward to get their money’s worth, in one way or another.

  In clusters, people spoke in animated suggestions of Tyson’s skills. People slugged the air or threw sets of punches, complete with flutters of uppercuts, in remembrance of the magic they’d just seen.

  Lapeace, too, was caught up in the jousting with Sekou as he was bumped up against harshly by a passerby in the aisle. The pedestrian, Baby Lane from South Side Compton, kept walking.

  “Eh,” said Lapeace, catching his balance. “Eh, homeboy, you ain’t gonna say nothin’—you just gon’ run me over?”

  With Baby Lane was Dre, Lil Al, and Lil Too Too. When Baby Lane stopped to respond, his homies did too. Sekou and Maniac stepped up to the aisle as the South Sides came to a menacing halt and turned in their direction.

  “What’s that?” asked Baby Lane. He stood exactly eye to eye with Lapeace. They were the same height.

  “You pushed by and bumped all into me and just pushed on. What, you didn’t feel that?” Lapeace’s hands were out away from his body, palms open. Baby Lane looked Lapeace over and then took in Sekou and Maniac.

  “Where y’all from?” he asked in his best confrontational voice, a mixture of threat and curiosity.

  “Eight Tray Gangsta Crip,” stressed Lapeace, expanding his chest, holding in his stomach, and feeling his nuts draw up tight to his body in preparation for a struggle. His fists began to clench.

  “That’s right, cuz,” said Baby Lane. “My apologies, Crip. We up out the Hub. South Side Compton Crip Gang. We see y’all.”

  “True that, homie. This Sekou,” Lapeace said by way of introduction and relief. “I’m Lapeace and this is my young homie Maniac.”

  Baby Lane did his intro and handshakes and hugs were done all around.

  “Where y’all stayin’ at?” asked Dre.

  “We at the Luxor,” Sekou answered.

  “Right.”

  “Askari and a couple of them ’Ru cats over there, too,” Sekou added. And then thought to remind them, “We got into it a little with them earlier.”

  “Yeah?” asked Lil Too Too.

  “Yeah, that little nigga . . .”

  “Who, Flame?” asked Baby Lane, “or Lil Tray? ’Cause if it is Lil Tray he a busta. We took his Death Row chain at the Lake-wood mall.”

  “Naw,” said Maniac. “Fool never said his name. But you probably right. One of them two.”

  “Fuck all them slob-ass niggas,” said Lil Too Too, throwing up a big chunky Crip sign as a throng of giggling females passed by.

  “I know that’s right, cuz,” chimed in Sekou and Maniac. Lapeace nodded his approval.

  “Awright then gangstas, we fin to bounce. Y’all keep y’all heads up. And watch them dead niggas, they up here thick,” said Baby Lane turning into the aisle to leave. He was joined by Dre, Lil Too Too, and Lil Al in tow.

  Lapeace, Sekou, and Maniac stood for about three minutes talking before they filed out into MGM’s lobby. It was in the lobby, as they walked out toward their waiting limo, that mutual sight and hateful recognition was made by Sekou, Lapeace, and Maniac with Bingo, Blister, and Blain. It was a slow-motion death reflection that flooded the space between them like raging water forced through a tube. Every movement was a lethargic and labored exertion as time, in decade-sized blocks, tumbled out between the fanned-out trios.

  Anyhow and Lapeace, ever the rivals, were but the center, or the primary contenders, in the contradiction that made up the dialectical reality of the struggle in which this tragedy was being played out. The cast of characters on both sides of the competing forces grappling for supremacy were many and varied. But here, in the state of Nevada, in the city of Las Vegas, on the Strip, in the lobby of the MGM hotel, on September 20, 1996, the contradiction was again about to burst open and create a synthesis leading to a new union and thus another struggle.

  Bingo looked at Lapeace and thought of his homies Lapeace had gunned down, beat up, or banged on. He looked at Sekou and thought likewise. Here were two bonafide blood killers who, by all accounts, were high-ranking members of an enemy set. He flashed on the struggle Anyhow had raged against Lapeace as not only an enemy but a personal foe. Of how Anyhow lay at that moment in a terminal slumber due in no small part to strife caused against this man and his comrades not thirty feet away. Blain, too, was locked on to Lapeace, Sekou, and Maniac.

  He knew Lapeace and Sekou intimately. He’d been acquainted with both through the mutual medium of exchange, most expressed by bangers in South Central: violence. He’d caught Lapeace dipping through his turf in a jet black 454
Chevy truck and lit him up with an M1 rifle, filling the truck with holes. He’d surmised it was Lapeace and his homies who walked through Harvard Park that same night bustin’ on everything moving. One of his homies was mortally wounded and two others were shot up and critically injured. He’d met Sekou in a hand-to-hand altercation inside the Slauson swap meet, when he and two of his homies were swarmed by no less than eight gangstas and pummeled to the ground and ceremoniously stomped until they were unconscious.

  Blister was recognized by Maniac as a personal antagonist from youth authority where they often clashed over age-old red and blue rivalries.

  Lapeace, ever vigilant, zeroed in quickly on the brown trio. He focused on Bingo, who’d gone to prison, he knew, for killing a Crip from Five One Trouble gangstas. He knew that more than likely it was Bingo now calling the shots over the Brims. He contemplated Anyhow, his archenemy, now causing him so much peril bringing his name up in the Crenshaw shoot-out. Bingo, leader, a G and a Crip killer, besides. And then in his company was Blain. A Blood par excellence. And no doubt a gunner on several missions launched by Brims against his set. Rumor had it that it was Blain who’d filled his truck full of holes one Saturday night as Lapeace crept into Brim hood on a late-night booty call. Son of a bitch, he thought, damn near killed me. The other young Damu Lapeace didn’t know. But by association alone he was guilty.

  Sekou knitted his brow and computed the trio of detractors among the damned. He knew Blain and Bingo as top-shelf Bloods and sworn enemies of all Crips, serious contenders in the guerrilla wars raging across the inner city of South Central. He’d seen Blain up close and personal but couldn’t quite remember just where the encounter took place. He did know, however, that the exchange was in his favor.

  As recognition set in among all the combatants, their strides came to a parade rest and instinctively they fanned out in battle stances and strike poses. The lobby of the MGM turned suddenly dark and foreboding. The die had been cast and the lead, no doubt, was about to fly when the loud and boisterous Death Row mob Piru crew came into the lobby. Their attention was momentarily broken by a fleeting image of Askari rushing across the lobby and running up on Baby Lane, the Compton Crip that Lapeace and his homies had just met, and knocking him to the floor with a pounding right hook. So stunned were all that, in the brief moment of indecision in which their minds tried to catch up to what their eyes were seeing, the entire Death Row mob Piru entourage was upon Baby Lane, stomping him out.

  The melee brought an immediate response from MGM security and local police, which put an instantaneous damper on the brewing battle between the Lapeace and Bingo camps.

  Lapeace avoided the clutches of a manic security guard by inches before spinning leftward out of the front doors and into the back of a young New Afrikan female who was also striding to evade the emerging stampede. Security guards and police were attempting to grab and take into custody any young New Afrikans who looked remotely to be involved or were potential witnesses. Most, however, escaped their net.

  Lapeace, Sekou, and Maniac made it safely to their limo, as did the Brims. Inside, Lapeace spoke first.

  “Man, can y’all believe that shit?”

  “I told you, Peace. That nigga Askari is a Piru. Now you believe me?” Sekou asked in a demanding voice.

  “Yeah, Peace, come on now,” Maniac insisted, “you seen him rush up on cuz from South.”

  Lapeace was looking dejected. His brow had beads of sweat accumulated on it and his stare was fixed upon the liquor display. He was contemplating not wanting to rush his answer because this would stick. He chose his words wisely.

  “What I seen was Askari rush up on Baby Lane and bomb. That don’t necessarily mean he’s a Piru. I don’t know, and neither do y’all, what went on between them before that shit. So, me, I ain’t gonna just mark him as a ’Ru. From what I hear that fat-ass nigga Simon ain’t even a Piru.”

  Sekou and Maniac looked at Lapeace incredulously. “Oh come on with the bullshit Peace. Why can’t you call it like you seen it?” wondered Sekou aloud.

  “’Cause you should know as well as I do that it ain’t that damn simple, Sekou. What did we just hear from the homie baby GC?”

  “What?” Sekou asked dumbfounded.

  “Baby GC told us yesterday, or was it the day before, that some cats from the South were doing some bodyguard work for Bad Boy or Biggie or some shit. That could have come out of that. We don’t know, is what I’m saying.”

  “Naw,” disagreed Maniac. “I don’t think that was it, homie.”

  “Hold up, Yac,” said Lapeace. “You ain’t knowin’ about this.”

  “Yeah, I remember that shit now. And really, on the strength of keepin’ it gangsta, I’m a say you right homie. But on the same strength of keepin’ it Crip, I’m a say fuck Death Row and Mob Piru!” Sekou tossed his head back in a jest of finality and reached for the dark liquor.

  “I’m feelin’ that,” said Lapeace, “and fuck Brim too!”

  “On the gang!” added Maniac, accepting both his and Lapeace’s drink.

  “Here’s a toast to meetin’ up to them Damu niggas again,” Lapeace boasted, raising his glass.

  “And,” toasted Sekou, raising his glass to Lapeace’s, “our victory over them bitch-ass slobs.”

  “Hold up,” Maniac spoke, raising his in turn. “To all the G’s on lock and in that lean!”

  “Gangstas movin’! ” they shouted in unison and clinked their glasses and threw back the XO cognac.

  Lil Huck crept in stealth, enveloped in fear, along Halldale Avenue toward the corner of 70th Street. He’d made the block once in his van and was relieved to see no one hanging out in front of Lazy’s house. And he was likewise consoled to see Lazy’s vehicle still parked in the yard. He must still be with Tiny Monster. But now that the fight was over they could very well be on their way. He needed to perform his task with alacrity.

  Lil Huck walked easily up the driveway as if going to the door to ask for Lazy. Once he was near the porch he quickly veered left and darted down the drive along the side of the house and the passenger side of the green Acura. Seeing no lights come on in either Lazy’s or the house next door, he bent down around the front of the car and duck-walked to the driver’s wheel well. Withdrawing the heat he laid it on the cement and pulled the duct tape from his jacket pocket. The pistol he had wrapped in a blue rag and now handled it delicately while keeping his ear peeled for sounds. He taped the weapon to the underside of the fender and replaced the tape and rag in his pocket. As he got up to leave a car turned up into the driveway. He was momentarily blinded by the headlights of the idling car.The lights shone brightly into his eyes and he shielded his vision against the glare in a futile attempt to see who it was putting him on blast.

  One of the car doors opened and a detached voice spoke through the brilliant light.

  “Cuz, what the fuck you doin’ up in my yard, nigga?”

  It was Lazy spewing hostility and venom. He’d rushed up on Lil Huck, who being no coward stood his ground.

  He wasn’t sure that Lazy was not going to hit him so he braced himself for a squabble.

  “I came lookin’ for you,” Lil Huck lied. It was then that the other car door opened and Tiny Monster got out. Though he left the lights on, which illuminated the yard, the scene had an almost dreamlike feel with all the light against the deadly suspicious darkness.

  “What up, Lazy?” asked Tiny Monster. “Nigga tryin’ to break up in your house or what?” He was cracking his knuckles as he ambled up the drive and into the flood of lights.

  “Come on, Monster, you know me better than that. I was lookin’ for cuz.”

  “Don’t come over here without callin’, Huck. Ain’t nothin’ crackin’,” said Lazy in a totally unwelcoming tone of voice, which in no uncertain way meant leave now.

  “Aight then, cuz,” said Lil Huck in a low disappointed drawl. “I’ll catch you another time. I’m out.”

  “Yeah, that’s best, dude,” said Ti
ny Monster while rubbing one knuckle into the palm of his left hand as if warming it up.

  At that and under the hateful stares of Lazy and Tiny Monster, Lil Huck lumbered down the drive and started up the street.

  “Eh, Huck,” called Lazy after Tiny Monster had whispered something at him. “Where’s your ride, how you get over here?”

  “I parked on Halldale. Didn’t want one time sweatin’ my hoop,” he half hollered back while keeping his steps steady in the opposite direction.

  “That fool is shady, homie,” Tiny Monster said, “better check your spot for a break-in, cameras, listenin’ devices, and whatever else. Nigga foul.”

  “No shit,” said Lazy while fumbling in his pocket for his house keys and scurrying up the steps to the door.

  Lil Huck, having completed his mission and with an arrogant sense of vanity, called Sweeney from his flip phone.

  “Hey, buddy,” spoke Sweeney amid a wall of noise on his end, “how’s it going?”

  “It’s all good,” he said, confirming their agreed-upon code for successful completion of the mission at hand.

  “Oh, that’s marvelous, buddy,” Sweeney spoke in an obviously inebriated drawl, “just what I needed.”

  “Aight then, I’m gonna go.You sound like you are on a good one.”

  “Oh,” said Sweeney, “it’s more than a good one I’m on, buddy. Much more, really. Did ya see the fight, Robert?”

  “Yeah, I seen it.”

  “Now that was a lesson, my friend, in pugilism. Pure and simple. Tyson is a master pugilist. You hear me, buddy?”

  “Yep,” said Lil Huck, not feeling the happiness that Sweeney felt. He had almost been caught and possibly killed minutes earlier and here this fuckin’ dude was celebrating the Tyson fight at what sounded like a party. Talking about the master of pugilism.

  “Now listen,” Sweeney fumbled, “when he threw those—”

  “Hey, hey buddy, I’m cool on all that. Just do what you gotta do, huh?” said Lil Huck in a blue mood, just wanting to go home and lie down.

  “Oh,” recognized Sweeney, “okay then, Robert.” And with that he lowered the phone to its face and broke the line. He sat momentarily and thought about what was irking Robert. After telling himself it was nothing he could fix from his distance he went on back to the fight party.