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

by Sanyika Shakur

  Lil Huck got into his van and sat down in an exhausted heap behind the wheel. He closed his eyes and laid his head back on the rest. His repose and relaxation was disrupted by a tapping on the passenger window. A female with a hoodie sweatshirt was staring from behind a pair of thick bifocal glasses.

  “Excuse me,” she was tapping and mouthing. “Excuse me.”

  “What’s up?” Lil Huck mouthed while expressing his question with his hands.

  She did the roll your window down simulation with her hands while asking why not? with a slight lean of her head.

  Lil Huck sighed and rolled down his window.

  “What’s up?”

  “What you doin’?” she asked, looking up into the cab on her tiptoes.

  “What you want?” Lil Huck asked.

  “Got any dope?” asked the soliciting female.

  “Yeah, what you need?”

  “I want a dime, but I only got seven-fifty. Can I get one with that?”

  “Damn bitch, you can’t be comin’ short like this. Next time I ain’t gonna let you on. You hear me?”

  “Yeah, I hear you,” said the female sullenly. “Can I hit in your van?”

  “You done lost your damn mind. Hell no you can’t smoke in my van,” Lil Huck said in instant anger. Once their transaction was over Lil Huck pulled away from the block and out of the hood.

  14

  In their suite Lapeace, Sekou, and Maniac changed clothes from their fight attire to casual wear. They rolled up and smoked four blunts, one apiece and one together. They contemplated their evening.

  “We going to six-six-two or what?” asked Sekou to Lapeace.

  “Hell,” Lapeace said, rubbing his eyes, “I ain’t feelin’ it. What ’bout you, Yac?”

  “On me, I feel like it. I want to get at them ’Ru niggas. And I want somethin’ to fuck up in. Shit, a nigga horny,” said Maniac, grabbing on his dick through his pants.

  “Sheet,” Lapeace said in remembrance of the evening activities. “Them South Side cats probably gon’ heat that muthafucka up. We don’t need to even be out there, really.”

  “Well,” began Maniac, “let’s at least go down to the lobby and fuck around. It’ll beat being stuck up in this joint.”

  “I’m with that,” said Sekou. Lapeace consented too and they gave themselves the once-over and started out the suite to the lobby. Having forgotten his pager, Lapeace doubled back to retrieve it. It was then he noticed the number encoded on its face: 14-1-23 (no arrest warrant).

  He clipped it to his belt and joined Sekou and Maniac at the elevator. They had to wait only a moment before the golden doors opened with a muffled ring. They boarded and rode down in silence, straightening and prepping their gear.

  At the lobby they fell out into a crowd of mostly female fans surrounding Askari. He’d changed as well and was wearing an Orlando Magic jersey and jeans. He looked small and vulnerable. He was flanked by two men neither Lapeace nor Sekou nor Maniac knew. Perhaps, thought Lapeace, they were his security.

  “Look, there go that fool Askari,” Sekou pointed out as they passed the crowd of adoring fans. “What y’all want to do, serve him or what?”

  “Sekou,” said Lapeace pointedly, “you still on that bullshit? We already hollered about that, let it ride, homie.”

  “I mean, damn, nigga standin’ right there. We could just reach out and touch him with a little something, Peace.”

  “Sekou, you ain’t stupid, homie. Why you acting like that? Cuz, you killin’ me. Let’s just post over here and watch the show.”

  “I’m a start callin’ you Old Man Shakur, Peace,” joked Sekou.

  “Fuck you, Kou.”

  “Naw,” Sekou said, rushing his sentence out. “Fo’ real. ’Cause yo’ ass done got too politically correct, serious. It’s not very gangsterish of you, homie, really.”

  Sitting down in one of the overstuffed plush lobby sofas, Lapeace answered, “Call me what you want loc, but you’ll never get to call me stupid. Let that man live and breathe. Besides, I thought you was the total Askari fan, Kou?”

  “You know what, Lapeace,” stated Sekou, sitting on the end of the sofa facing Lapeace over a glass coffee table, “you got me altogether twisted homie.”

  “Oh?” answered Lapeace with a raised eyebrow.

  “Killa—yeah, you do. See, homie, I’m no ‘fan’ as you seem to think. I’m an admirer of his lyrics and the way he can put our lifestyle, trials, and tribulations into the art form of rap, but I’m no fan. I’m not caught up on him, or infatuated by his lifestyle. Why should I be, it’s obvious from his lyrics that we are going through the same struggles. Why would I want to be infatuated with someone like me? Ah, Peace, you ain’t even hearing what I’m saying.”

  “No, no,” cautioned Lapeace with his hand raised, index finger extended, “I am. I just never heard it put like that. Which says a lot. I can both feel and appreciate that, homie.”

  “Well, that’s how I feel. I dig the way he expresses our situations, being young, black, male, outlaws, and grinders in the west. He paints the clearest picture of our plight, to me. That’s my connection. I could care less who speaks the truth, I want to hear it.”

  “Awright, awright,” Maniac butted in to quake the politics, “y’all gettin’ too deep into this shit. Nigga just make good music. That’s it, really. Besides, the debate is over, ol’ boy just walked out. Probably on his way to get some pussy, which is where we should be,” he added in frustration.

  “I got pussy in the land and can wait to get some,” said Lapeace stubbornly, not liking to be interrupted nor having missed another opportunity to speak with Askari. He perhaps could have turned him on to some Panthers who knew his parents and could have taught him about their lives prior to their deaths. Goodness knew he wasn’t getting that information from Aunt Pearl. And he felt a real void there in his life. He felt the emptiness there and craved some knowledge on his bloodline. This he told no one, but lived with the void daily, monthly, yearly. He felt a kindred spirit with Askari as a Shakur and he had to admit it felt good being acknowledged by him as one. It was, after all, an exclusive, almost esoteric club. A spiritual and cultural union of those women and men, boys and girls who are supposed to be totally down for fundamental social change. But he’d missed his opportunity to even get a number on Askari. For these two Shakurs had fallen, indeed been duped, into an abstract struggle that pitted one against the other for reasons so vague and inexplicable that the mere thought of why brought a screaming headache.

  “Well, I got pussy in the land too,” said Sekou getting up from his seat, “but I’m tryin’ to score some in Vegas too. So I’ll be back.”

  Sekou left, followed by Maniac, as Lapeace sat and thought over the numbers he’d observed on his pager. The numbers 14- 1-23. A simple enough combination of numbers but a loaded set no less. These numbers had great significance to Lapeace. He caught up with Sekou and borrowed his cell phone. He called Tashima. She answered on the third ring.

  “Hey, sexy woman.”

  “Hello sexy man, how are you?”

  “I’m straight. Just thought I call to tell you I love you. And to relay a few other things. Like—”

  “I saw the fight,” interrupted Tashima. “So if that’s it . . .”

  “Nooo,” cooed Lapeace, “that’s not it.”

  “Oh well, excuse me,” Shima said with feigned indignity.

  “I heard from Safi about the concert,” said Lapeace softly and with a sense of confidentiality.

  “Uh-huh,” Shima uttered in hopes of some good news. She even crossed her fingers.

  “No arrest warrant was the news. That’s it, that’s all.”

  “Well, Mr. Sexy, that is the best news I’ve heard all day. I am relieved to hear it. I truly am.” Tashima sighed her relief.

  “Yeah, me too. Maybe our luck is changing. We could use it. Oh, I know what else. I met Askari—well, briefly and under less than desirable circumstances.”

  “Oh?Wha
t happened? Did Sekou rush up on him and start flowin’ his rhymes?”

  “No, nothin’ of the sort. You know how I am about these phones. I’ll run it all down to you tomorrow when we get back. How’s A.P.?”

  “Fine, laying up here asleep. She and I had a big meal of pizza from Domino’s and watched the fight. I was looking for you in the audience.”

  “Didn’t see me, huh?”

  “Nope. Saw Simon, Wazuri, Askari, and a few others. But not you. And you should know I was breakin’ my neck.”

  “We were in the cut. Good seats but obviously not like Death Row.”

  “Well, you had front-row seats in that section had you taken these tickets I have.”

  “I know, but we left in sort of a rush, you know?”

  “Don’t I! I barely got a kiss. But seriously, I miss you and will be glad when you are here again.”

  “Tomorrow, aight?”

  “Aight Babes. I’ll see you then, ’kay?”

  “Yep. Good night, love.”

  “Good night.”

  Bingo, Blain, and Blister never went back to the Luxor.They went over to a home of one of the Pirus they’d met after they’d followed them out of the MGM’s lobby once the stomping of Baby Lane had ceased. Askari entertained all with his wild antics and hyped-up demeanor. Flossing around the mansion macking on chicks and exchanging anecdotes with fellow Bloods. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It was just another night living the thug life. Treated as confederates they enjoyed wine, women, and song until at last they’d decided to caravan in their limo along with fourteen or so other luxury cars packed with Pirus and Death Row members to Club 662. The club was operated, indeed owned, in some part by Death Row Records CEO, Simon Knowles. So the limo carrying Bingo, Blain, and Blister fell in tow on Flamingo behind the red Lincoln Navigator carrying Lil Flame and four other gun-toting mob Pirus.

  Blain sparked a blunt, Blister popped two ecstasy pills, and Bingo checked the slide on the burner. No one was paying attention to the sights when the limo slowed to a floating halt. No one paid any attention to the white Cadillac coupe as it crept up along the luxury caravan of Bloods in the gutter lane.

  At the crossroads of Koval and Flamingo the white coupe came to a deadly stop. The passenger, a familiar face, peered out in stark recognition and naked aggression. Simultaneously a young female, an adoring fan, who was standing at the corner of the intersection waiting for the light to change beamed seductively at Askari over the hood of the white caddie. She could have sworn Askari was looking right at her. The woman raised her hand to wave when the first barrage of deadly bullets slammed into Askari’s chest. It all happened so breathtakingly fast, yet so menacingly slow and all too clear. Askari was pounded unsympathetically against the leather seat while at the same time he attempted to shield his chest from the shots. Simon, she could see, ducked as much as his girth allowed and gunned the Beemer forward. The shots continued. The last she saw of Askari he’d either been thrown into the backseat by the force of the gunfire or attempted to climb back there to escape the rain of bullets. The Beemer limped out into the intersection smoking and resembling a wounded rhino. Both passenger-side tires were flat, the body destroyed by offending holes. She ran forward toward the car but was almost struck by the accelerating white Cadillac.

  Reaching the passenger side of the car, peering in, too shocked to sense danger, she saw Askari laid out between the two front seats, torso twisted at an impossible angle on the backseat, his blood all over the beige interior. She didn’t actually begin to scream until she saw that one of his fingers had been blown off. The white Cadillac turned right and disappeared into the Las Vegas night.

  “What the fuck?” said Bingo, looking around in surprise.

  “Somebody gettin’ off !” Blain shouted in excitement. Bingo, strap in hand, stood up out of the sunroof and scanned the scene. He noticed Simon’s black BMW with a flat tire on the opposite side of the street smoking badly.

  “Blood, it’s the homies, come on!” Bingo leaped from the limo and, followed by Blain, Blister, and a great many others, ran up to the corner. By then, as if on cue, police on bikes and undercover agents were on the scene. Askari lay in the car shot up and bleeding badly. He was unconscious as Simon began to take off his jewelry. Innocent bystanders and fans were wailing. Pirus and Bloods alike were distraught and issuing threats against the shooters—who they immediately said was Baby Lane and the South Side Compton Crips. Everyone was stunned. Soon the ambulance came and took Askari and Simon to the hospital. The caravan followed dutifully.The night’s festivities celebrating Tyson’s victory over Golden came to an abrupt end.

  Lapeace was sitting alone in the lobby because Sekou and Maniac had scored two females and were in the suite presumably getting some, when a trio of young females came in sobbing loudly and mumbling uncontrollably about Askari just having been “shot to pieces” up the street.

  Lapeace, not being able to believe what the hysterical females were babbling about, ran out of the hotel lobby and into the valet’s square. There he was met by many more people who conveyed the gist of what they believed to be the shooting to pieces of Askari. His heart raced and his blood boiled so hotly his ears were flooded with the sounds of the ocean. He’d begun to trot to where the crowds seemed to be coming from. But the tide of the sentiment had grown a bit ugly as people began to utter about the Crips, that Askari and Simon had been gunned down by Crips on a drive-by. After hearing this several times and remembering that melee at the MGM, Lapeace turned back and headed for the Luxor.

  Once in the lobby he used the in-house phone to call the suite. He told Sekou they had a G-3 code, meaning drop everything, and that he’d be up in a minute. Sekou, ever the faithful, rushed the females out against Maniac’s youthful protests and got dressed. By the time Lapeace reached the suite Sekou was pacing the floor in anticipation.

  Sekou let Lapeace in. Lapeace pushed past him and went straight to the remote.

  “Gotta turn the news on,” he said, fumbling with the buttons and surfing the channels but finding nothing.

  “Why, what’s up—what’s the G-3?” Sekou screamed in confusion. Maniac was just coming out of Lapeace’s room.

  “Askari and Simon got shot up just now!” Lapeace blurted out and stunned Sekou into silence.

  “You bullshittin’? How . . . I mean—Did you do it?” stammered Maniac.

  “Hell naw, fool. They say some Crips did it, though.”

  “Oh shit,” acknowledged Maniac. “Them Compton fools musta got back. Is they dead?”

  “I don’t know, Yac. That’s why I wanted to see if it was on the news. Man, it’s people all out front, up and down the streets. It’s crazy.”

  “Man,” spoke Sekou finally, as if through a fog, “is Askari dead, Lapeace? Tell me the truth.”

  “Sekou, you are buggin’ third. I just said I don’t know nothin’ but what I heard in the—”

  “Here it go, right here!” Maniac shouted, pointing at the news.

  “We are learning some sketchy details coming in now about the drive-by ambush of Death Row CEO Simon Knowles and the well-known rapper Askari Shakur. It is being reported at this hour that Mr. Knowles has been wounded in the head and is in stable condition. Mr. Shakur, however, is in very critical condition and is undergoing surgery right now in an all-out attempt to save his life. Again, this is all we know at this hour and will update you as we get the details. This is Shannon Wright reporting . . .”

  “Wow, this is a trip, huh?” Maniac said, staring at the screen. He’d turned the volume down but couldn’t tear his eyes away. They were showing the scene.

  “Yeah, really, though. I mean damn . . .” Sekou mumbled while looking into his hands in a state of near shock. His thoughts ran zigzag in no order as he attempted to organize some perspective. It was futile. He let his thoughts run wild.

  “I wanna go to the hospital, Sekou.”

  Sekou turned and looked at Lapeace for a long moment. He was trying to mea
sure his sanity.

  “Peace, are you mad? Have you forgotten that Eight Tray Gangstas are a chapter of the Crips? Can you imagine what it—”

  “I am a Shakur! ” Lapeace blurted out, cutting off Sekou and again stunning his road dog into silence. Lapeace himself stood reeling from his outburst and didn’t know which way to turn.

  “Well, I think we should bail back to the land tonight. We should bail out as soon as possible. Them Brim cats know we in town. Them cats flame and that other dude, know we in this hotel, on this floor. We only got one gun. Think about what I’m saying, Peace!” Sekou was using a calm soothing voice.

  Lapeace paced and contemplated the situation. His heart ached in a mysterious way. It hurt as it did in the late 1980s, when death was new to him. When he didn’t really know how to channel the pain and frustration of having a friend, a teammate, shot up. His only recourse then, as he saw it, was revenge: my misery, he remembered, loves company.

  “Okay, Kou, let’s move back to the land. While I’m feeling a certain way, I know in my heart of hearts that what you are sayin’ is right. With emotions of everyone like mines, we’d get mopped at that hospital. So let’s get up out this bitch and get back on dry land.”

  “Now that’s gangsta. Besides, we can do whatever better from our own turf, feel me?” Sekou said while moving toward his room to gather his belongings.

  “Come on, Yac. Get your shit and let’s move,” Lapeace coaxed. Now that the choice had been made he was pushing the line to make it a reality. Within twenty minutes they were leaving the hotel and heading toward Cali. But in terms of exit strategies they were not alone. Lil Flame, driving the red Navigator, was ordered to leave the scene immediately and head back to Compton in order to organize a riding party against the South Side Crips. Along with him was sent Blister. Bingo lent Blister to the cause on behalf of the Brims in a show of unity. Besides, they didn’t want him running around in Las Vegas on a jacking spree, especially since his energy could be better utilized in killing Crips. They’d left Las Vegas an hour before Lapeace, Sekou, and Maniac.