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

by Sanyika Shakur

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And then when I said my name, my whole name, he seemed to change a bit. Almost like I’d hit a nerve.”

  “Hmm,” Aunt Pearl sighed, nervously busying herself with her plate and silverware, and she wouldn’t make eye contact with Lapeace.

  “Yeah, and then, as if nothing or no one else mattered he focused his attention on me and then—and check this out Aunt Pearl—he asked me who my people were. And, really, I didn’t know what he meant. I mean, I was standin’ there with Sekou and another homie of mine, who, to me, were my people, you know?”

  “Uh-huh,” Aunt Pearl acknowledged but still refused to look at Lapeace, who by now in his narrative was standing up and getting excited.

  “So then . . . well, he asked me who my bloodline was. That’s what he was askin’. And I just told him about Mom and Dad, you know, about the things you’ve taught me about their affiliation with politics, Black Panthers and stuff. I told him . . . and all this tumbled out, that Dad was BLA, Moms was a Panther. Dad died while a prisoner of war. Moms died during my birth. And I told him about what I knew of his bloodline. I don’t know . . .” He trailed off.

  “What is it, Lapi?” Aunt Pearl questioned.

  “Well, it’s just when he, at the end, he . . . he called me ‘Shakur.’ It felt different. Not like when a teacher in school or even a police in the street would say my name. I felt a connection with him, Aunt Pearl. I felt, like . . .”

  “You belonged to something deep?” said Aunt Pearl looking up into Lapeace’s brown eyes and holding his stare.

  “Yeah, Aunt Pearl, just like that. At the same time, I felt lost in a sea of mystery and a spiritual . . . hole. I mean, it’s hard to explain. It’s just a feelin’ I know, but it felt strange and exciting and—”

  “Scary?” she offered.

  “Oh, you felt this way before?” he asked Aunt Pearl. His eyes were pleading for acknowledgment. He needed to be consoled and in some way confirmed. He was speaking now from his heart.

  “Lately in my . . . my condition, yes I feel like that all the time, Lapi. And I’m so sorry that you are experiencing this, baby.” Aunt Pearl’s eyes began to water and overflow.

  “But it’s not a sad feeling to me. It’s a need to know sort of feeling. Like a piece of me is missing. Aunt Pearl,” Lapeace turned his chair backward, sat down near Aunt Pearl, and leaned toward her, “I need you to help me on this. Teach me what I am supposed to know . . . please?”

  “Your legacy, you mean?”

  “All that. I need to know, please.”

  “Why don’t we go into the living room where we can sit comfortably,” offered Tashima while scooping up the plates and moving them to the side of the sink.

  “Shakur . . . ,” began Aunt Pearl, seated comfortably on the couch, a cup of hot coffee balanced on her thigh, “means ‘the thankful.’The line begins with Baba Shakur, who was blind. He lived in New York. The name came from the East Coast.”

  “What language is it?” asked Lapeace on the edge of his seat.

  “It is of Arabic origin, but has Afrikan roots.The Arabs, no great friends of ours, usually spell theirs S-H-A-K-O-O-R. Baba Shakur had two sons, Lumumba and Zayd, who started the New York Panthers. They took in as a family member Mutulu.”

  “Askari’s stepfather?”

  “Yes.When the civil rights movement gave way to the Black Liberation movement, Lumumba, Zayd, and Mutulu were leading figures. Black Panther Party members first and then fighters in the clandestine ranks of the Amistad collective of the Black Liberation Army.

  “Mutulu dated Amira and she became a Shakur. Zayd was with Assata and she became Shakur. Mutulu begot Sekina and Mooreme. And Askari, whose father was a non-Panther named Gaisi, became a Shakur. Zayd was killed in action during a police action in 1973. Assata and Sundiata Acoli were also there and were captured. Assata Shakur was liberated from a New Jersey prison by Mutulu and his Revolutionary Armed Task Force on November 2, 1979.”

  “Damn, they was puttin’ it down, huh?”

  “Baby, you don’t know the half,” said Aunt Pearl with a wave of her hand and a roll of her eyes. Shima too, was amazed at the pedigree.

  “Your father, Tafuta, was a fierce combatant too. He and your mother, Asali, became Shakurs through me.” Aunt Pearl took a deep sip of coffee.

  “You?” asked Lapeace, confounded, eyes wide open.

  “Hell yes, me. What you thought, Lapi? I was always like . . . like this?”

  “Well . . . I just never thought you were a Shakur. I always saw Jackson on the mail. On school papers and stuff.”

  “That’s my slave name. But baby I am a Shakur. I ain’t have to go to no Amerikan court to ask them if I can change my name. Ask them if I can be Afrikan. They didn’t ask us if we wanted to be a Jackson or Williams, you hear me?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty slick.”

  “Not slick—right. A birthright. It is a human right.”

  “Go on, Aunt Pearl!” Tashima coached.

  “No, I’m serious, Amerikans got their nerve on this name thing, really.”

  “Aunt Pearl, do you have a first name, too?”

  “No, my mother named me Pearl and I’m satisfied with that. Anyway, in 1981 Lumumba was assassinated in New Orleans. Assata went to Cuba in 1986 and Mutulu was captured here in L.A. by the Joint Terrorist Task Force. He was given sixty years for a one-point-six-million-dollar Brinks expropriation in Nyack, New York. And the liberation of Assata. Things got real hot for the movement around this time. But the Shakurs continued to prosper. Talib, Abdul, Sanyika, and Askari all out and about writing, rapping, moving, and shaking. But without a movement our young soldiers are swimming against the current in blood alley.”

  “Oh, hold on,” said Tashima turning up the television.

  “. . . has undergone an operation to remove a lung and is currently on a respirator to aid his breathing. It is being reported at this hour that a vigil is being held around Shakur’s bedside as he struggles to hold on to his life. Reporting live, I’m Gina Gideon.”

  “Poor baby. This is so sad. I don’t know what the hell to think about any of this.”

  “It’s gonna be all right, Aunt Pearl. Finish telling me about . . . us,” Lapeace said quickly, anxious to hear connecting historical threads about his bloodline.

  Sweeney and Mendoza sat in familiar seats in front of Captain Killingsworth. He was leaning back in his chair, both hands clasped behind his bald head, eyes glued to the ceiling. They were listening to Lazy’s taped conversation.

  “Yep, that’s the truth. I seen it.”

  “And what did you see on the tape?”

  “I saw the whole thing. Lapeace shootin’ at Anyhow and Anyhow shootin’ at Lapeace.”

  “Is either one of the shooters’ faces clear on the tape?”

  “Both of ’em. I could see both clearly.”

  “Do you recognize anyone on this six-pack photo lineup?”

  “Number four is Lapeace.”

  “And on this one here?”

  “Number two is Anyhow.”

  “You are pointing at Alvin Harper, number two?”

  “Yes.”

  Sweeney switched off the recorder. Captain Killingsworth leaned up to the desk, the chair squeaking in protest.

  “You two think this Dawson character is reliable?”

  “Well, he has substantiated the existence of the tape. Has, unlike the other CI, seen the tape. He claims to be able to actually identify Shakur and Harper on the tape. Sir, this is a corroborating direct link. This is an actual eyewitness.”

  “Hmmm.” Captain Killingsworth pondered. “Okay, bring this dirtbag in. We’ll hold a press conference at four should your efforts prove futile. Well, go on out there and round him up,” Killingsworth said while shooing Sweeney and Mendoza out of his office.

  “Oh and Sweeney, Mendoza?” he called in afterthought.

  “Yeah captain,” they said in unison.

  “Good job.”


  “Thank you sir,” they responded in unison again.

  From Century Boulevard to 66th Street, from Van Ness to Vermont, the entire Eight Tray Gangster hood was saturated with patrol units combing the streets for Lapeace. Black-and-white unmarked cars, homicide and CRASH. Anyone on the streets within this radius was stopped, shown a picture of Lapeace, and asked a series of questions. All movement was either harassed or suppressed.

  With this sort of heat on the hood it didn’t take long for Lapeace’s pager to go off. Having learned the police were looking for him, he immediately called his attorney Safi. He was instructed to lay low until he could find out what the situation was. Lapeace took a call from Sekou, who was distraught over the prowling police. Lapeace replaced the phone and fell back onto the couch. He’d have to tell Aunt Pearl about the situation eventually. He’d just learned of his legacy, was just brought up to speed on his folks, and now this. He decided to ask Shima her advice. Just yesterday he had no warrant; today he was a wanted man. Fuck.

  “Tashima,” Lapeace called down the hall.

  “Yeah love,” she answered, fastening the last rubber band on Aunt Pearl’s hair. “Come up here a minute, will you?”

  “Here I come.”

  Lapeace led her to the black sofa. She knew something was wrong by the pinched look on his face.

  “I need to tell Aunt Pearl the deal on this case, Shima.”

  “Why you calling it a ‘case’ now? You acting like . . .” She faltered in her speech. She’d stumbled because in his eyes she could see it. His pupils had turned to bars.

  “Noooo,” she said and turned away. “Not this, Lapeace. Not now.”

  “They all in the hood showing my picture, jackin’ everything movin.’ I talked to Safi and he’s going to get back to me when he sees what’s up.”

  “This ain’t right, Babes. Hey, why don’t you go to Cuba like Assata? I can settle my business affairs and join you later. We could live free over there. I didn’t want to leave before but now we may have to.”

  “Naw, remember what Aunt Pearl said, Assata is a political exile. She was in an organized formation, which was at war with the U.S. government. My shit is criminal. Fidel ain’t gonna let no criminals come over there. That’s dead. Besides, I ain’t tryin’ to run. I was defending myself.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I just can’t stand the thought of you being in jail. Have you ever even been in jail?”

  “A few times. Just the county, then I bailed out. I ain’t no jailbird, though. What time is it?”

  “Two-forty-seven, why?” Shima asked.

  “Just wanna keep up on the time.”

  Shima’s phone rang again and it was Sekou. He gave Lapeace a number of a little homie who wanted Lapeace to call him. It was important, the homie had said. So Lapeace took the number and found it was to Tiny Outlaw, one of his favorite little North Side soldiers.

  “What’s up, Outlaw, how you doin’ homie?”

  “I’m straight, cuz. Thanks for callin’.”

  “No doubt. What’s crackin’?”

  “Eh look, I know you know they on you, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m up.”

  “Well, I don’t know if this is anything, but early this mornin’ me, Lil Sodi, and Nutt Case was movin’ on foot through the North and saw one time pull over the homie Lazy, who live on Seventieth, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And we just laid in the cut and watched.Well after CRASH had him fo’ a minute, another one time pull up, a narc car, like homicide or some shit.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hell yeah, but check it: they then pull cuz out the hoop, cuff him, and begin to search the hoop.”

  “Which car, the lolo?”

  “Naw, the green AC. Anyway, cuz, one time the detective, a bald-headed fat-ass white boy and I think a hat dancer, lookin’ all through cuz shit, but find nothing. Then, the hat dancer fool reach under the front fender and, cuz, on me, pull out a burner cuz ...”

  “Like that?” Lapeace asked.

  “Like that! Pulled it out of the part where the wheel at. Look like that bitch was taped up under there. Anyway, the homie see that shit, cuz, and try to rush the white boy detective, but the CRASH fool slam the homie on the ground.”

  “Damn, that’s crazy. But Outlaw, why you telling me this? I mean, what this gotta do with me?”

  “Well, here’s the thing. Cuz ain’t see us, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And we seen the burner and the detectives. Seen cuz go to jail. Now the one time looking for you and guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I just seen that nigga Lazy mashin’ through the turf in the green Acura!”

  “No shit?” Lapeace asked incredulously.

  “On me, homie! So I’m just lettin’ you know the business, cuz. Shit don’t seem right to me.”

  “Hell naw and that’s good lookin’ out, Outlaw. I appreciate that.”

  “You know how we do it, big homie.”

  “Look, swing by Sekou’s, he got a stack for you, homie.”

  “That’s gangsta, Peace. Thanks.”

  “No problem, Crip. Keep it movin’.”

  Lapeace depressed the phone button and called Sekou. He conveyed the info and Sekou swore to get on top of it. “Also,” Lapeace advised, “slide the homie Outlaw—T.T.—a grand for me. I’ll tighten you up when you swing by for the truck.”

  “I got that, don’t trip.”

  “Thanks.”

  Lapeace needed to go on and let Aunt Pearl in on the goings-on. She’d not asked him nothing. Which was not inordinate. Aunt Pearl was like that.

  “What is it?” asked Shima still sitting there, which caused Lapeace to be slightly startled.

  “Oh shit, I forgot you was sitting here. You heard all that, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Shima said sadly, “I heard all of that. Now what?”

  “Wait on Safi. See what the situation is.”

  “Hey, Peace?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m in love with you. I want you to know that. I’ll never let you go. No matter what.”

  “Come here you incredibly sexy specimen, you.” Lapeace engulfed Shima in his powerful arms and hugged her to his body tightly. She stepped up on his feet and he danced her around like that for a few circles. Shima laid her head against his chest and closed her eyes, never wanting to lose this loving feeling. Lapeace held her to him and they swayed to a rhythm only their hearts could hear and feel. It was peaceful.

  They were interrupted by the screaming of the phone. It was Safi. Shima sighed heavily before giving him the phone. She braced herself for the bad news.

  Lapeace listened intently, eyes darting around the room, foot tapping lightly on the carpet. Shima studied him closely, hands under her chin, propping up her head like a child.

  “I’ll have to think about that, Safi. I’ll let you know one way or another tomorrow. Okay, man, I really appreciate your work. Yeah, I’ll call you tomorrow. Sure. Later.”

  Lapeace hung up the phone and looked at Shima.

  “Should I get Aunt Pearl, Babes?” Shima asked sadly.

  “Yeah, I think that’ll be best. At four o’clock they’re having a press conference on me.”

  “Did Safi tell you that?”

  “Yeah.” Lapeace walked to the window.

  The press conference was being set up in front of Parker Center, the Los Angeles Police Department’s headquarters. A desk was set up with a bank of microphones representing all television, electronic, and print media in L.A. and their affiliates across the nation. News reporters of every stripe stood fanned out from the podium and desk with recorders and stenopads ready. Camera crews were set up from network vans, trucks, and mobile homes. The entire lawn and cement walkways in front of Parker Center were densely packed with curious onlookers and media hounds.

  On cue at 4:00 p.m. sharp the chief of police Willie Williams wobbled his girth out into the L.A. sunlight in a dark blue Brooks Brothe
rs suit. He was flanked by associate chiefs, captains, and a lesser degree of lieutenants. Sweeney and Mendoza were some paces behind him but nevertheless there.

  The microphone closest to the chief bled a piercing scream until it was adjusted just so by a minion of the chief. That having been done, the chief cleared his throat and spoke to the barrage of cameras.

  “Thank you all for coming. I am happy to announce today a break in the horrific case that we’ve all come to know as the Crenshaw massacre. The terrible circumstances, which caused the deaths of eight innocent people on the evening of August third, have crystallized under the highly specialized investigative services of LAPD personnel. To give you our findings to date is Detective John Sweeney.”

  Chief Williams moved his mass aside to allow for Sweeney to stand in front of the podium.

  “Thank you, Chief Williams. As the chief said, we’ve been able to make a break in this horrendous case. We now know who both gunmen are. This is a good day for law enforcement. Next to me here is a chart showing the death flow as it occurred.”

  Sweeney took the cloth off the chart. At the top there were the words CRENSHAW MASSACRE. Under that were two pictures.

  “The picture to the left there is of suspect Alvin Harper. He is also known as Anyhow, a known gang member of the Bloods gang. He is in custody. The second photo here to the right is the second suspect, Lapeace Shakur. He is a known Crips gang member. Mr. Shakur, we have determined, is the principal shooter who is responsible for the melee on Crenshaw last month. Mr. Shakur is being sought as we speak and is believed to be here in the Los Angeles area. We are asking for the community’s help in apprehending this suspect. Please take a good look at his picture. Be advised he is considered armed and very dangerous.That is all for now, thank you.”

  Sweeney and Mendoza shook hands with the chief and his entourage and then left the crowd. They went through headquarters and down the elevator to the parking garage. Once inside the car Mendoza spoke frankly to Sweeney.

  “You know, John. As I’m pondering things I’m beginning to smell a rat here.”

  “Oh yeah,” answered Sweeney, maneuvering the powerful Crown Vic through the congested downtown traffic. “What’s that supposed to mean?”