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

by Sanyika Shakur

  They exchanged kites most of the week, Lapeace writing furiously regarding his case. With each kite and response he grew more bold and comfortable. And Bennie feigned greater ignorance, thus inspiring Lapeace to venture more clarity, rendering greater exposure. Bennie reveled in his manipulative ability. He was a hater of the highest degree. A festering fool trapped by a seething hate for himself and anyone who looked like him. Though he was well camouflaged by the cultural trappings of “blackness,” he wore dreadlocks and prefaced his sentences with “brother” and delighted in disrespecting Amerikan people on television. It was all a play and front. The man was poison.

  The following week, after an army of communication was exchanged between the two, Bennie made his call to Sweeney. He and Mendoza rushed down to the jail. Bennie, under the guise of an attorney visit, went out to give them Lapeace’s thoughts, questions, and fears. None of the other prisoners ever stopped to question the contradiction of him going to an “attorney visit” when he’d gone pro-per on his case. He acted as his own attorney. He had no counsel. But this was the level of preoccupation with their own cases, drugs, and a protective layer of desensitization that most prisoners wore like a thick layer of fat. “Ain’t got nothing to do with me.” An informant anywhere is a threat to criminality everywhere. Still, ignorance is as ignorance does, and Bennie walked out of 1750 with a pocket full of damage.

  Sekou pulled his truck into the parking lot of Saint Andrew’s park and scoped the scene. Over seventy-five members of the Eight Tray gangstas were in attendance. It was a Sunday and while it wasn’t a “hood meeting” in the strict sense, it was a hopeful gathering of young men and women who shared a particular worldview. They stood around in clusters, trios, quads, and groups of fives, but never six. The Eight Trays triangulated on the “three.”While some sets rotated on the “zero,” the “five,” or the “deuce,” gangstas kept it on the three, or the third. Blue and gray, the gangsta colors, were draped on most in some way or another. Beer, hard liquor, and weed were passed around with all the abandonment of cigarettes. As Sekou walked up to a trio of youths he was quickly entertained by a lively conversation.

  “Naw, I’m a tell y’all like this,” bragged one tall youth to his homies, who listened with rapt attention. “I don’t wanna get old. Fuck that, nigga, I’m real gangsta. On my C-Day after fifty-nine, fool, I’m a stand on the Tray line and blow my own brains out so I won’t turn sixty. Fuck sixty.”

  “On me,” came the response in unison from the two listening. Sekou gave his greetings and pushed to another group where another animated conversation was in progress.

  “We all know why the sky is blue, homie.”

  “Why is that?” asked a young home girl.

  “Fool, cause God is a Crip! Dang, you ain’t know that?”

  “I guess I do now.” She looked down bashfully, ashamed for not knowing common knowledge.

  Seeing who he came to speak with, Sekou scattered his love and respect and strolled over to Tiny Monster, who sat in a triangle with Flip and Baby Hunchy. When they saw Sekou coming their way they ceased their conversation and gave shakes, greetings, and hugs all around. He congratulated Flip on the bowling championship he’d just won and Baby Hunchy on the college degree he’d just earned. Not to be outdone, Tiny Monster wanted his props on winning ten stacks (thousand) at the casino the night before.

  “Yeah, you got that TM. Congratulations, homie.”

  “Well, damn. It’s about time. I mean, it was only ten thousand dollars!” TM said, mimicking Thurston Howell III on Gilligan’s Island. Everyone laughed and patted him reassuringly on the back. Sekou, knowing he was in the company of the trustful, breached the subject.

  “Monster, was you with Lazy the night of the fight?” Sekou asked, putting his Chuck Taylor’d foot up on the bench.

  “Yeah, we watched the fight at my spot on the big screen,” TM said easily.

  “Was y’all in his car or . . .”

  “Naw, we was in my Lex. Cuz shit was parked in his yard,” TM answered.

  “Why?” asked Flip, always sharp on his feet. “What’s crackin’ with cuz?”

  “No shit,” chimed in Baby Hunch, curious as to the line of questioning. “What’s up?”

  “Lazy got cracked the next mornin’ with a burner,” Sekou told the trio.

  “Naw, that ain’t true,” responded TM. “I spoke with him Friday. The day Askari died.”

  Everyone looked at Sekou for some clarity. Both Flip and Baby Hunchy had seen Lazy since his supposed arrest.

  “One time found a burner taped to his wheel well on Thursday morning. Took him to jail, two detectives, then the same day he was seen in the turf. Tiny Outlaw saw cuz being arrested. Saw Bob Hope find the strap, too.”

  “Damn . . . ,” pondered Flip, “that ain’t gangsta right there. Ain’t nobody gettin’ caught with a heat and gettin’ out the same day. Eh Monster, ain’t cuz on probation already fo’ a strap?”

  “Yep,”™ answered, recollecting that Thursday morning. “Matter of fact, we was supposed to go to breakfast that Thursday at the Serving Spoon, but he never showed up. He called and said he was on his way, but I ain’t seen him yet.” Tiny Monster spoke looking around the park as if expecting to see Lazy. But he was also thinking about that night. About what Sekou said about a gun taped to the wheel well.

  “Hold up, homie. I remember the night of the fight. I was bringin’ Lazy back home. We pull up into his driveway and out from the back, on the side of the house where cuz car is, Lil Huck came out.”

  “What?” everyone said at the same time in disbelief.

  “Yeah,”Tiny Monster continued. “It was crazy. We pull up, right? And I got my lights on when we turn up in the driveway. All of a sudden, there go cuz, lookin’ all suspicious and shit. Lazy went off, jumps out, runs up on him, and checks him hard. Cuz say he there to see Lazy. But earlier, before the fight, he walked right past us and barely spoke. Nigga know we don’t fuck with him like that. That shit was sideways,”™ concluded with finality. Sekou cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Well, here’s the thing. Y’all see Lil Huck and Lazy gets caught up, an arrest warrant gets issued on Peace, and his face is all over the news. What that sound like?”

  “Sound sideways all around to me, Sekou,” Flip acknowledged.

  “Me, too,” confirmed Baby Hunchy.

  “Now Lapeace is sittin’ in the funky-ass county jail fighting for his life. While these paper-thin-ass niggas runnin’ round out here doin’ one-and-a-half backflips for Bob Hope!” Sekou hissed in anger.

  “That’s real,” howled Tiny Monster,

  “Keep this between just us, cuz. Y’all let me know whenever y’all see Lazy. Call me on my cell. I need to get to the bottom of this fo’ my nigga. Shit ain’t gangsta.”

  “Fo’ sho,” they acknowledged and Sekou pushed off and out of the park. He left his homies as he’d found them, gathered around discussing, promoting, and confirming their worldview and way of life.

  Tashima sat behind her huge desk in her office doing absolutely nothing. She went over a few contracts and talked with her VP of A & R. Now she sat watching the clock. Her life with Lapeace, gone, was a prison within itself. She sat alone most of the time and watched the clock like a prisoner would. Her days revolved around Lapeace’s calls. It was this time that her heart would feel light and whole and she’d get that warm, gooey feeling of real love. The calls were always too short, too monitored, and too far apart. Fifteen minutes every other day, always at a different time. Then it would be so much noise in the background and he’d be so distracted by whatever was going on there he could hardly concentrate on their conversations. It was a mess. The visits, twice a week, were for a pitiful twenty minutes behind some old scratched-up, dirty-ass Plexi-glas window. The conversations, even then, were clipped, tore in parts, jagged, and stilted innuendo helped along by hand signs and facial expressions. It was so hard for Tashima to see Lapeace locked up like that. He’d lost all of his natu
ral, sun-given color and was an almost sickly looking gray. His eyes had sunken somewhat into their sockets and taken on a vacant look that tended to mystify Tashima. She’d have to tear herself away from his gaze when the deputies came to chain him up and haul him back to his cell. Each would hold a hand over the other’s in lieu of a hug and she’d just die inside twice a week seeing him so subdued. She was doing time too.

  Of course, Lapeace could not see that. He couldn’t overstand it. He felt that only he was locked up, that he alone was in a steel cage, under surveillance, and facing the death penalty. He had no way of actually feeling that Tashima, too, was under hatches, the caught, the pained. Her love was so complete, deep, and pure that it wasn’t a waking minute she didn’t feel his pain. She’d slacked in the running of her company and her employees were beginning to chafe under her attitude and snaps. Tension was at an all-time high at RapLife. The boss, it was whispered, was on the rag—heavy.

  At 3:57 p.m., her office phone rang.

  “This is AT and T with a collect call from Lapeace. If you wish to accept this call press three. If you wish to deny this call press six.”

  Elated, Tashima quickly pressed three.

  “Thank you for using AT and T.”

  “Hey, Babes, how you doing?” Lapeace said into the phone.

  “I’m fine,” Tashima lied, not wanting to put a damper on the conversation, “waiting for you to call.”

  They spoke for their allotted fifteen minutes and then sadly, as always, Lapeace had to go. He’d called to tell her that Thursday he’d not be allowed a visit because he had court. He wanted to be sure that she’d attend. Of course she would, his court appearances were hers, too. Their lives were inextricably bound by love, hate, and Amerikan law. They hung up and againTashima sat alone in her office. She looked around and she mourned. She needed her some Lapeace—bad.

  Damn, she cursed the day she met Lapeace. Her feelings, her reasoning rebelled against the pain and wished it wasn’t real. But who was she fooling? Like a heroin addict cursing the use of its magic poison while it coursed lovingly through the body, her addiction was little different. She was a full-blown addict.

  Working on a call from Tiny Monster, Sekou cornered Lazy at the spot on 80th. He and the homie Baby Stagalee rushed him into a waiting van. From there they took him to a safe house and rustled him inside. He struggled against the ties that bound him, but it was no use.

  Inside the house they lodged him roughly in a vacant room. He was thrown violently onto the carpeted floor. A burlap bag was tied around his neck, covering his head. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back by a plastic tie. His legs were tied at the knees and at the ankles. Sekou, calm as ever, stood over the wiggling body. He had little sympathy for Lazy. He’d lost his road dog to this rat-ass bastard. Fuck that. Fool gotta come clean and then he gotta pay.

  Sekou went and retrieved the butcher knife. But before leaving the kitchen, he laid it on a burner on the stove. He allowed it to heat until it was red hot. Without the wooden handle, he’d not have been able to even hold the knife. Back in the room, Baby Stag had sat Lazy up into a chair and tied him to it.

  “Lazy,” began Sekou, “I need some information from you. I am not in the mood to play. I don’t have any patience or love for you. I want you to know this off the top. So to show my seriousness, I’m taking a finger now!”

  At that Sekou sliced off Lazy’s baby finger. He screamed like a woman in labor.

  “Now,” Sekou began again, “I’m goin’ to ask you some questions. You got nineteen more fingers and toes to tell me the truth. Every time you lie you lose one. Now, were you arrested Thursday?”

  “No, man, I don’t know what you talkin’ bout,” Lazy lied against Sekou’s threat. “Please, no, I was not arrested.”

  Sekou reached down and sliced off Lazy’s ring finger. Lazy howled with pain and struggled against his ties. All to no avail.

  “You can lie all you want, Lazy. But I already know the answers to the questions I’m asking.”

  “Who are you? Who’s that?” Lazy demanded through his tears and pain.

  “Were you arrested Thursday?” Sekou asked, poised to cut off his middle digit.

  “Yes,” Lazy consented. “Yes, okay, I was arrested.” He sounded defeated, resigned, hopeless.

  “Who arrested you?” demanded Sekou.

  “Two detectives,” squealed Lazy, crying now against the interrogation.

  “Names. What were their names?”

  “I don’t know. I . . . ahh, okay, okay,” Lazy cried. Another finger hit the floor.

  Sekou had sliced off the middle finger. He wasn’t up for no shit. He had no time for games.

  “Names, nigga, names,” threatened Sekou.

  “Aight,” gasped Lazy, realizing now he had no more choices. “Sweeney and a Mex named Mendoza.”

  “You tell on Lapeace?” Baby Stag asked with menace stepping up to Lazy.

  “What?” Lazy asked in disbelief. “Ahhh!”

  Sekou sliced off Lazy’s index finger.

  “Aight, please, just stop,” Lazy begged. “Okay.Yes, they asked me about Lapeace. They asked if I was on Crenshaw on August third. I said yes. They asked what happened. I said I saw Lapeace and Anyhow shootin’ it out. Told ’em I saw the tape. That’s it, I swear. Please, that’s it. Please let me go, please!” he whimpered.

  “Handle that,” Sekou nodded his head toward Lazy. Baby Stag stepped up with no hesitation and put a .25 automatic beside Lazy’s head and squeezed the trigger. The poof sound was a quick snap and then there was silence.

  “Get some trustworthy North Siders to help you clean this mess up, huh?”

  “Fo’ sho, homie,” Baby Stag acknowledged.

  Sekou had one more fish to fry. One more rat to capture. He left but in motion he called Shima and through codes told her what to tell Lapeace.

  He then called the Big Homie to let him know the score.

  Across the city, in a plush four-bedroom house, laid deep in the cut like germs, sat Sista Monster and Poppa North. They sat stoically on either side of a magnificently made chess set pondering their next moves. Well, actually, it was Sista Monster, with her brow knitted tight, who contemplated the next move. Poppa North, ever the strategist, considered his moves two, three moves ahead. She was a good chess player, but against Poppa North she had little chance. They played to strengthen her game. And not just at chess. He was also teaching her patience, perseverance, and offensive and defensive strategy. The skill of the setup, the layout, and the takedown. What Poppa North taught Sista Monster was the philosophy of Thick Face, Black Heart. Watch all pieces in the game ’cause everyone is a potential threat. The cell phone used for interhood communication rang and broke Sista Monster’s concentration. She reached across her plate of salad and picked up the phone.

  “Yeah?” Her voice was familiar, but Sekou couldn’t pin it down.

  “Who’s this?”

  “You called this number and you wanna know who this is? Come again.”

  “Sista Monster?” Sekou ventured.

  “Maybe, who wants to know?” she said slowly.

  “This is Sekou. Let me holla at Poppa North.”The phone was passed.

  “What’s up?”

  “Done dada on one, in search of the other.” Sekou spoke the code fluently. “The G’s are strong, the world is weak. All day.”

  “Good lookin,’ third. Keep me abreast of how you movin’.”

  “Aight, G.”

  “Movin’,” Poppa North said and broke the connection. Sista Monster swung her knight up and over into Poppa North’s bishop. Poppa North stared across the expansive board at Sista Monster. She was satisfied with her move. A look of triumph on her pretty face. She pursed her lips and sat back taking her eyes off the board. Poppa North, ever the drama king, rubbed his jeweled hands together. He then ran his queen from the back field straight up into her bishop, killed him, and smothered the king.

  “Checkmate, homie.”
/>   Lil Huck parked his van on Raymond Avenue. He walked around the block and onto 71st. He posted up against his better judgment in front of a vacant house. He had a few cocaine rocks left that he needed to get off in order to recoup. He quickly sold a few and began to feel better. Against the nagging rumors about his collusion with the police, he soldiered on with some reserve. He tried to reason as he went about his days along the line that Sweeney had once told him: No one knows everything about any of us. If anyone knew everything about us, no one would talk to anyone.

  The night had fallen and 71st Street, being the low end, was also a hangout spot for gangstas. Lil Huck knew this but still pressed his luck. He’d felt the vibe for over a month but still stubbornly clung to the notion that no one knew. Or better yet, because he was big Huck’s brother, no one would push up on him. No one would actually take his wind.

  A few homies pulled up—youngsters: Baby China, Sista Sodi, andTray Star I-Rocc.They greeted Lil Huck, smoked some weed, shot the shit, and moved on. Lil Huck was down to his last two stones, milling around, watching the block.

  From between the houses, behind his back, crept a silent assailant in a dark-hooded sweatshirt, black pants, and black shoes. His face was shaded over by the enormous size of the hoodie. His steps were slow and measured, both hands buried into the pocket of the dark hoodie. Coming to a standstill in the middle of the driveway, the assailant scanned the street. When he looked left, a pair of parking lights came on from half a block away.

  Lil Huck saw the lights activate but brushed it off as insignificant. When the lights went out the assailant stepped forward with two long strides and filled Lil Huck’s head full of holes. Four direct shots found their mark and extinguished his life in an instant. Stepping over the lifeless body, the assailant was met at the curb by a black Suburban from down the street. They pulled off from the curb at a normal pace. A night’s work well done.