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

by Sanyika Shakur

  On Highway 15, the fastest way west to California from Nevada, Sekou drove at a moderate pace, not wanting to be pulled over by Highway Patrol officers who often lay in the cut along seemingly deserted stretches of roads hoping to catch speeders. They had Tupac on at full blast. Mirrors were vibrating both inside and out of Sekou’s truck.

  “Now that I’m lost and I’m weary, so many tears, I’m suicidal so don’t stand near me, my every move is a calculated step to bring me closer to embrace an early death. Now there’s nothin’ left. There was no mercy on the streets, I couldn’t rest, I’m barely standin’ ’bout to go to pieces screamin’ peace.”

  Tupac’s phenomenal lyrics rained through the cab of the truck like deep gospel in a southern church at midmorning on a Sunday. No one spoke. Each let themselves be enveloped by the word. They banged the whole Me Against the World CD and then began All Eyez on Me just past Whiskey Pete’s, which signaled the borderline between Cali and Nevada. Sekou could see, off to the right a half mile ahead, a pair of hazard lights blinking.

  Sekou kept his same speed as the hazard lights became brighter and more pronounced. Two people were standing out behind the vehicle and one was waving his arms in an attempt to flag down some passing motorist. Their truck had a flat and on top of that the driver had locked the keys inside. Sekou slowed a bit as they passed. One of the stranded men then lit a cigarette and Sekou saw his face as clear as day, Blister from Brim.

  “Whoa,” Sekou said and lowered the music by remote. This broke Lapeace’s and Maniac’s spiritual trance. Sekou pulled over to a stop. He said nothing to either Lapeace or Maniac. He popped the stash spot, retrieved the burner, and told Lapeace and Maniac to “sit tight.”

  Sekou trotted back to the red Navigator with the burner held behind his right leg, finger on the trigger. Lil Flame and Blister, not knowing Sekou’s truck, thanked their blessing for some help out there on that desert highway. They began to walk along the side of the road on the passenger side of the truck. Sekou met them just as they came around the front, uttering their thanks.

  Neither knew what hit them as Sekou dumped them out with skill and a prejudice borne only in war. Having terminated their existence Sekou jogged back to his truck, put it in drive, and slowly pulled back out onto the two-lane highway.

  “What the fuck?” questioned Lapeace, looking back over the seat, not knowing the deal.

  “Blister, the Brim nigga with Bingo earlier, and that midget Piru fool, Lil Flame. Popped the Blister, blew out the Flame. Gangsta’s movin’, end of story.”

  “Oh shit!” shouted Maniac in total amazement and elevated excitement. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout, nigga. Handle that shit, fool. You did that, homie.”

  “Right, right,” acknowledged Sekou, accepting his compliment from the young homie.

  “Man,” said Lapeace, eyeing Sekou with a mixture of admiration and envy. “Why you ain’t let me get one, Kou?”

  “Sorry, boss,” feigned Sekou, “only one gun. Plus, I saw them first. Ahh, I feel so much better now.” He sighed and turned the Tupac back up.

  “How many brothas fell victim to the streets, rest in peace young nigga, there’s a heaven for a G, be a lie if I told you that I never thought of death. My nigga we the last ones left but life goes on.”

  They came into the L.A. city limits at 2:45 a.m. The streets were all but deserted as they pushed up Manchester Avenue toward Denker. They made their right and took Denker to 71st and dropped off Maniac. He promised to holler at them the following morning. Sekou insisted that Lapeace drop him off since they were already in the hood, keep his truck, and scoop him up the following morning. Having done that, Lapeace pushed his way up to Tashima’s and pulled the Explorer all the way to the back just behind her Lexus.

  Hearing the truck, Tashima rushed out onto the porch in her robe and hugged Lapeace fiercely when he stepped up to her. He held her firmly too and put his head into her tangle of braids and breathed her scent in deeply.

  “Damn, I’m so relieved you all right.”

  “Yeah,” sighed Lapeace, “me too, Babes. Me, too.”

  “Let’s get our asses inside before we freeze to death.”

  Lapeace looked in on Aunt Pearl and Ramona, who was lodged in the service porch area. He and Tashima then retired to her room and he filled her in on all the Las Vegas activity. That is, with the exception of the roadside assistance that was provided on the way back.

  They made serious, desperate love with every limb and appendage of their bodies. It was a needed remedy against a reality now fraught with so much uncertainty that each moment seemed borrowed against bad credit. Time seemed a stalking reaper.

  It was 8:15 a.m. Thursday morning when Lazy pulled out of his yard and came to a halt at the corner of 70th and Denker. He looked both ways and pushed across 70th and up to Harvard and turned left. There, in the middle of the block, he saw Tiny Outlaw, Nutt Case, and Lil Sodici. They were walking at a brisk pace toward Florence Avenue. He blew his horn three times in acknowledgment and kept it moving. The black-and-white CRASH unit patrol car came down 71st and made a right turn directly behind Lazy’s Acura. Seeing the action, he swore to himself but felt no immediate threat since he wasn’t riding dirty. He was on his way, actually, to Tiny Monster’s house so they could go to breakfast. He had nothing on him but cash.

  The patrol officers lit him up with their flashers beckoning him to pull over. He pushed across Florence and came to rest just before an alleyway backing a vacant lot. He sat idle while they did their usual thing. One approached the car on the driver’s side while his partner hung back on the passenger side, hand on his service weapon, eyes watching the driver.

  “What’s happening?” the lead officer spoke to Lazy. He acted as if the stop was nothing more than a routine attitude check.

  “What you stop me for?” asked Lazy in an offended tone, knowing his registration, insurance, and license were all current and up to par. No dope, no burner, no warrants. Not even another gangster in the car with him. They had to treat him like a normal citizen.

  “Let me see your license and registration, please, sir.”

  “Yeah, I got all that,” Lazy said while reaching for his wallet and taking out his license. “But why was I pulled over?”

  “Registration, please,” said the Amerikan without answering Lazy’s question.

  “Thank you,” the CRASH cop said when Lazy handed him the registration. The registration was not really needed since before they’d come to a complete stop they’d already run his plates. They even knew that he had a current license.

  “Sir, it’ll just be a minute while I run your name for wants and warrants. Relax and I’ll be back in a minute.” At that the officer walked back to his patrol unit and sat behind the wheel. Instead of punching in Lazy’s info on the unit computer, the officer dialed Sweeney’s cell number from his own.

  “We got your boy over here on Florence and Harvard. Southwest corner. What’s your ETA?”

  “Good. Um, seven minutes, I’m en route,” said Sweeney, clicking his tongue and winking over at Mendoza.

  “We’re on our way to a traffic stop on Florence. They’ve stopped a member of the Eight Trays and this same guy, I was given a tip about, who they’ve stopped, is supposed to be armed,” Sweeney spoke while speeding up Florence Avenue westward.

  “I don’t get it, though, John. Why are we going to a traffic stop for an ordinary armed banger?” asked Mendoza while beginning his left-side tug on his mustache.

  “Help,” said Sweeney. “This same guy is supposed to have pertinent information on the Cren mass. He’s supposed to be one of the few who’s actually seen the tape.”

  “Oh yeah?” asked Mendoza, a bit perplexed about the perfect fitting of circumstances.

  “Yep,” Sweeney gloated, “here we are.” Sweeney maneuvered the Crown Victoria up behind the patrol unit.

  “Let’s see what we got,” said Mendoza as they exited their vehicle. The lead patrol officer greeted
the pair, gave Sweeney Lazy’s license and registration, and told them he was clean.

  “Have you conducted a vehicle search?” asked Sweeney, peering at Lazy watching them in his side rearview.

  “No. Stopped him, ran him—which as I stated was clean—and called you as I was ordered.”

  “Good. We’ll need your backup as we conduct a search of the vehicle.”

  “But sir,” objected the CRASH officer. “We actually have no probable cause to do a search of the vehicle.”

  “This guy is a known gang member, right?” asked Sweeney, a bit perturbed by the patrolman’s line of questioning.

  “Yeah, right. He is in Cal-Gangs index,” answered the patrolman.

  “That there, buddy, is quite enough. Gang members are known to carry guns and drugs. Plus—”

  “Sir, this man has a valid driver’s license and was not—”

  “Look here you damn softy,” threatened Sweeney through clenched teeth. “Whose fucking side are you on mister? I don’t give a fuck if he has a note from Chief Willie Williams. You pull him out of that damn car and put him in cuffs while my partner and I conduct a fucking search. Is that clear?”

  “Okay,” sighed the patrolman. He turned to leave and added, “your balls in court, not mine.”

  “Can you believe this guy?” Sweeney asked Mendoza, who chose not to answer at that point. The patrolman asked Lazy to exit the vehicle. He did so with some profane protests and some deadly eye contact with Sweeney and Mendoza.

  First they searched the interior, which turned up zilch. The patrolman looked on at the odd spectacle of two gold shield homicide detectives conducting a vehicle search during an ordinary traffic stop, which itself was questionable. Then they popped the trunk and found nothing but athletic equipment, including a basketball and an athletic supporter.

  Having come up empty, which began to irritate Mendoza, Sweeney suggested they search under the car. He’d take the passenger side and Mendoza would take the driver’s side.They began at the rear, down on their knees. Lazy stood in cuffs on the sidewalk and looked on in mild amusement as they crawled their way along the undercarriage of his car. He knew he wasn’t burning, so why sweat it. He just watched their antics.

  “Hey, partner,” said Sweeney. “I got nothing over here.” He was standing up, brushing off his clothes.

  “Holy shit,” exclaimed Mendoza. “Gun!”Things flew into motion then. Mendoza bent farther to retrieve the gun. Lazy rushed forward in an attempt to kick Sweeney but the patrolman next to him grabbed his cuffs in one hand and the back of his neck in one swift motion and slammed Lazy hard to the concrete.

  “Man, hell naw,” he protested through blood and pain, “that ain’t my muthafuckin’ gun. Fuck y’all. Y’all set me up.”

  “You shut the fuck up, Dawson,” Sweeney threatened, standing over Lazy proudly. “We got your ass now. What’s this, your third strike?”

  “Fuck you racist-ass dogs. You set me up.”

  Mendoza showed the weapon to the others and then cleared the chamber, locked back the slide, and stuck a pencil in the breach. He then secured the pistol in the trunk of his car and helped Sweeney to load the prisoner into the unmarked Crown Victoria. Seeing that he’d be transported to 77th Division in the detective’s car, Lazy ceased to protest. He figured that if they’d set him up with a heat they’d very well conduct a way to kill him. He held his tongue.

  “Have the vehicle impounded and held for investigation,” ordered Sweeney before climbing into the driver’s side.

  “Sure thing,” said the patrolman and then more to himself, “fuckin’ asshole.”

  Sweeney and Mendoza said nothing to Lazy as they traversed northward on Western Avenue to the makeshift trailers that served as their station house while the new, fortresslike 77th Division station prison was being constructed on the original site. They pulled into the lot and unloaded the prisoner.

  15

  Lazy sat cuffed to a chair in the interview room. Corked paneling decorated the walls on all sides. This was used as soundproofing against the possible beating of unruly or uncooperative prisoners. He pretty much knew the drill. Fuckin’pigs, he thought looking around, set me up.

  In walked Sweeney and Mendoza, holding notepads and steaming coffee in Styrofoam cups.

  “Hey Lazy, can we get you anything?” asked Mendoza.

  “Naw, I’m straight,” mumbled Lazy with a “fuck you” attitude.

  “Oh, is that right? Well, by the time you’re released you may be gay,” said Sweeney disrespectfully.

  “Man,” responded Lazy, “I ain’t trying to hear that ol’ shit.”

  “Okay then,” Mendoza interviewed, playing the good cop, “let’s see . . . Well, you know your situation. I mean you are aware of the charge. It’s a firearms possession charge. And with your record, it’s likely that you won’t be able to bargain your way out of this one.”

  “Where’s my car?” asked Lazy.

  “We are holding it for investigation. It’s here at the station,” noted Mendoza.

  “Man that’s bullshit and y’all know it. What kind of fool carries a gun taped under the wheel well?”

  “Okay,” said Sweeney, writing on his pad. “So, you did know where the gun was, huh?”

  “I saw him,” indicating Mendoza, “bring it from there.”

  “Look,” said Sweeney, putting his pen down, “we could care less about a rat-ass gun charge, really. You can help yourself, really, by helping us. We need some information and no one has to know it came from you. It’s just something we need corroborated. We can make this little gun charge disappear. You can be back on the street today.”

  “Man, you’re not telling me the truth,” Lazy prodded.

  “No, we are. But you see, the deal is this.You’ll have to agree to help us before we tell you what it is. It’s sort of like a blind trust thing. You see, we don’t want it to get out about what we’re working on. So the choice is yours. Three strikes or a hot meal at home tonight. Sleeping in your own bed tonight or on the floor in county intake. What’s it going to be?”

  “That’s not my gun, man.Y’all know that, too,” Lazy pleaded, trying to hold on to his last vestiges of strength, but he felt himself giving way. A dead bang gun charge was a definite three strikes.

  “Fuck man . . . ,” Lazy said, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Aight, man, what is it?”

  “Do we have a deal? You help us, we make your problems go away. Deal?” Sweeney asked.

  “I said yes, man, yes,” exerted Lazy, but his steam was losing pressure fast.

  “Here’s the thing. We are investigating the big shooting last month on Crenshaw. We believe we know the principal players but we need some substantiation. We were lead to believe that you were there.”

  “There, how? I ain’t do no shootin’, if that’s what you heard?”

  “No, that’s not what we are saying we heard. We believe you were there with your car club. Is that right?” Mendoza asked.

  “Yep, that’s right. So?”

  “Well, did anything happen?” Sweeney asked, poised to write.

  “Our cars were shot up by them bitch-ass Brims, that’s what.”

  “Anything else . . . something of greater importance?”

  “Oh, that shit between Anyhow and Lapeace?”

  Sweeney almost dropped his pen. Beads of sweat formed immediately over the top of his head. Mendoza tugged with abandon on his mustache.

  “Hold on a minute, Greg. I’m going to tape this. All right, go ahead,” cajoled Sweeney, turning the tape recorder toward Lazy.

  “Well, I mean, everybody saw it. They both came up in the muscle cars. Lapeace was in his black SS Monte Carlo. Anyhow—”

  “You’re talking about Alvin Harper, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Lapeace is Lapeace Shakur. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go on,” coached Sweeney, “you’re doing good.”

  “Anyhow was in
a green Grand National. They started bustin’ at each other. And then all hell broke loose. Explosions and shit.”

  “Okay, now we have been led to believe that there is some sort of tape showing some people?” Mendoza asked anxiously.

  “Yep, that’s the truth. I seen it.”

  Lapeace, Aunt Pearl, and Tashima sat at the kitchen table enjoying a late breakfast. The news was on and inadvertent pieces of info were being transmitted about the medical condition of Askari. Various speculations as to who may have been responsible peppered most broadcasts. Each time an update came on Lapeace was especially attentive. He sat stoically through the reporters’ comments and speculations.

  “You want more eggs, Babes?” Tashima asked, seeing he’d demolished his pile of scrambled eggs.

  “No, love,” Lapeace answered, “I’m good, thank you.”

  “Aunt Pearl, can I get you anthing?”

  Lapeace looked across the table at Aunt Pearl and hoped she wasn’t going to ask for a drink. She looked up from her plate and into the eyes of Lapeace.

  “Yes, thank you darling, I’ll have some more orange juice. I’ve forgotten how good it tastes straight.” She smiled coyly across at Lapeace. He smiled broadly back at her. Tashima felt the moment and smiled down into her plate.

  “Aunt Pearl,” Lapeace began polishing off his potatoes, “I met Askari while I was up there in Vegas yesterday.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. He asked me a curious thing when I told him my name. Well, at first there was a bit of static . . .”

  “What do you mean by static? ” Aunt Pearl asked probingly.

  “Aw, nothin’ much,” Lapeace began evasively. “You know, some young black male stuff.”

  “Confusion, you mean?”

  “Pretty much. Well, it wasn’t goin’ too good, right?”