Candice took a long gulp from her lemonade, feeling nauseous as well.
“The funeral is supposed to be this Friday. Of course, Broady and I will be hosting the after-funeral food and shit at our house. Razor’s family is type broke, and his baby mother ain’t got shit but whatever Razor was giving her. This shit is going to definitely be off the fuckin’ chain.”
“I bet it is,” Candice commented, ideas whizzing through her mind like cars at the Indy 500.
Tuck and Junior sat across from Phil and Dray, their uptown equivalents in the drug game. Phil lifted his glass of Cîroc and Coke and sipped the liquid relief. He’d heard Junior out, but now it was his turn. Slamming his glass down, Phil looked at Junior quizzically.
“Really, bee? Do you hear yourself? Y’all motherfuckers got it fucked up. You think a nigga like me”—Phil placed an open palm on his chest and hit himself gently—“at my level, would actually kidnap your mans and fuck him over like that?”
“I’m sayin’, son, we just don’t know who else would go in on a nigga like that for no-ass reason at all.”
Phil cocked his huge, misshapen rock head to the side and furrowed his eyebrows, trying to figure out what exactly he was being accused of. He leaned all the way back in his chair, as if he didn’t even want to be in the same breathing space as Junior.
Phil’s right-hand man intervened before things got out of hand. “C’mon, Junior, man, we ain’t on it like that, bee. We ain’t got no fuckin’ beef over territory. That shit don’t even sound right. I’m sayin’, your brother damn near slapped Phil’s wife in the fuckin’ face, and as bad as we wanted to get at that nigga, we let that shit ride off the strength of the peace shit we been on after we split up Easy’s pie. We coulda brought that shit to that nigga straight up. You know fuckin’ with a nigga’s family, especially his woman, hands down, is a sure way to die out here in these streets.” Dray punched the palm of his left hand with his right fist to emphasize his point. “We laid low on it and didn’t get on some ol’ bullshit. Feel me? This was weeks ago. Why the fuck would we start buggin’ out of nowhere now?” Spittle flew from Dray’s mouth like sparks of fire while he made his point. “Trust, we definitely ain’t no delayed-reaction-type niggas. Feel me?”
Junior’s face paled, and his lips curled downwards. He thought his ears were deceiving him. He shifted in his chair and furtively balled his fists under the table. Dray’s words felt like a powerful slap in his face. His right eye immediately started twitching, and a huge green vein emerged through his high-yellow skin and throbbed fiercely at his temple.
Tuck interjected when he noticed Junior was at a real loss for words, “Wait. Whatchu mean?” This little nugget of information made Tuck’s heart rate speed up just as much as Junior’s.
“Oh, what? Y’all niggas gon’ try da act like y’all ain’t know about that shit?” Dray asked, his eyebrows arched high with surprise.
Junior wanted to just push his chair back from the small card table and storm out of Phil’s makeshift office, but he still had to pass through Phil’s barbershop to get out of the building, so the embarrassment would’ve been even more evident if he tried to run from the situation.
Junior had little choice but to be honest now. He cleared the lump that sat at the back of his throat. “I was out of town. I don’t think my brother mentioned it to me.”
“Yeah, that nigga Broady and his little posse of fake-ass thugs was up here partying with some knucklehead uptown niggas that we don’t even fuck with. Ba’y bro’ was way the fuck out of his league up here, kno’ mean, bee? My wife told me he tried to holla at her.” Phil’s voice rose an octave. “Grabbed up on her and shit.”
“I’m sayin’, how she know it was Broady?” Junior interjected in a last-ditch effort to clear his brother’s name.
“C’mon, bee. Ain’t too many people that don’t know Broady. Plus, my lady recognized him from that function of yours we attended last summer in the Hamptons. And she don’t never forget a face. I’m sayin’, who wouldn’t recognize that big, loud, rowdy-ass nigga?” Phil said, making a point to slip his insult in, putting Junior on the defensive. “Like I was sayin’, bee. He touched up on her and shit, and when she refused him, he put his hands in her face and mushed her real hard. One of them threw a drink on her and shit too. My peoples around the way told me the hit almost knocked her to the ground. That’s how my shawty described it to me too. When she bucked on that nigga, his dude—the one you sayin’ is dead now—got all up in her grill. She was outmanned by two faggot-ass niggas in my book. When she told me, I started to buck on a nigga, kno’ mean, but out of respect for you, the little peace shit we been on since Easy got murked, I let it ride.” Phil’s baritone voice was booming.
Junior knew Phil wasn’t lying to him.
“Trust, I wanted to send you that nigga in a body bag, Junior, but I got respect for you and this game. War ain’t on my agenda.” Phil was breaking eye contact with Junior, letting him know the meeting was over.
Junior had come there with the intention of shutting Phil down, but Phil put him in his place.
“A’ight, man. Don’t take it no way. I’m good with your word that you ain’t reach out and touch Razor. I’ma talk to my brother too.” Junior stood up from the table.
As if given a stage cue, all of the men stood up too. Tuck reached out and fist-bumped Dray, then Phil.
Junior reluctantly did the same. He hated to feel powerless in any situation. His insides roiled. He couldn’t wait to lay hands on his baby brother.
“Yeah, man. Just talk to your li’l dude Broady and shit.” Phil placed his hand on Junior’s shoulder.
Junior felt like Phil was trying to school him in the game, and didn’t like it one bit.
As they exited Phil’s little office space and started through the barbershop, a tall, lanky boy bounded toward them, interrupting their fast stride.
“Whoa, whoa, little nigga! Slow down,” Phil said, putting his hands in front of him.
The boy stopped but impatiently bounced on the balls of his feet, appearing to be in a feverish rush. “Phil, can I have two hun’ed dollars? I got a hun’ed myself... and those new Pradas came out today.”
“Mello, you are twelve. What the hell you need with three-hun’ed-dollar sneakers?” Phil asked, laughing because he knew he was about to dig deep and give his little brother whatever he asked for.
As mad as he was, Junior smiled at the conversation. He could remember when Broady was younger and begging him for money for new Jordans or the latest gaming system. Junior always hooked his brother up because he knew his mother wouldn’t do it. He felt a pang of jealousy at Phil’s relationship with his little brother. He missed the days when Broady was a teenage boy interested in only girls, basketball, and clothes. He realized he had turned his brother into a monster by allowing him to get involved in the game.
“A’ight, son. Sorry again about the misunderstanding. Handle your business with li’l man right here,” Junior said to Phil, smiling at Phil’s little brother.
“Thanks, bee.” Phil chuckled. “You know how it is. These li’l niggas gotta always be stylin’.”
Junior nodded.
Phil said to Junior, “And listen . . . don’t even worry about the misunderstanding and shit. I’ll even send flowers to that nigga Razor’s funeral.”
With that, Junior crossed the threshold of the barbershop and headed toward his whip.
“Stay up,” Tuck commented as he exited the barbershop behind Junior. Tuck’s mind whizzed like a motherfucker now. If Phil didn’t order Razor’s murder, who did?
* * *
Rock sat at the table with all of his armorer’s tools laid out in order of smallest to largest. Sweat caused his reading glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose. He carefully picked up one small steel piece, held it close to his eyes, examined the end of it, and fitted it with another piece of steel that he held like a fragile piece of crystal.
Rock was careful and deliberat
e, like an artist or sculptor working on his next great piece of work. He had been at the table for several hours already. His back ached, and he had endured at least three coughing attacks. Nothing could interrupt his concentration when he was working like this. Not even his burning insides.
A few more pieces and he’d be done. He picked up a spongy piece of cloth and rubbed the metal until it shined.
When Rock’s masterpiece was finished, he lifted it with the palms open, like a pastor would hold a baby being offered to God during a blessing. He rubbed his hands up and down the metal prize and whistled at its beauty.
The mere act of sucking in air to whistle caused him to immediately start coughing. Rock cursed in frustration. He hated the coughing and feeling-weak shit. For the last few weeks, Rock had been dosing up on the medicine from his doctor and had noticed a slight improvement in his condition, with little to no blood coming up when he coughed.
Rock placed his latest creation in the cushiony case, which he’d also handcrafted. He immediately thought about Candice. She was probably the only person in his life that would appreciate the powerful beauty that lay before him. Which reminded him, he needed to see her.
As he went to stand up, the buzzing of his cell phone startled him. He hated that thing. Candice had all but twisted his arm to purchase a cell phone, which he still didn’t know how to use entirely. Aside from a singular, straight-dialed phone call, Rock couldn’t make the pesky TracFone device do much else.
He let the phone go to voice mail as he hastily folded up the nubuck blanket his tools rested on. He had somewhere he needed to be, and now that he was assured the company of his new work of art, he wasn’t too concerned with his weakened physical state.
Rock slid on his customary black skullcap and grabbed a pair of black gloves out of his box of gloves. Hefting the black, hard-shelled plastic case off the table, he headed out the door. Rock hoped things would go smoothly. He certainly wasn’t much in the mood for bullshit these days.
* * *
Broady stood beside his parked car and let his eyes rove the parking lot of the deserted gas station.
Broady was feeling the effects of the Kush he’d smoked on his drive over. Naturally paranoid, and with heightened senses, he kept his eyes peeled on his surroundings. There wasn’t a soul in sight. He checked his Breitling and sucked his bottom lip. “This motherfucker late,” he said to himself in a harsh whisper.
He usually didn’t get out of his car when he was making these sorts of transactions alone, but his legs ached from the long-ass drive.
Frustrated with waiting, Broady bent into the car and grabbed the prepaid cell phone he’d purchased just for this meeting and dialed the number. When he heard the line pick up, he curled his face into a scowl and began yelling.
“Nigga, you late! I don’t do business like this! This is why I don’t get recommendations from so-called thug niggas. You lucky I didn’t say fuck it and fuck you!” Broady boomed, throwing his usual tantrum.
Within a few minutes of his rant, Broady started to ease his tone and relax the death grip he had on the small cellular phone. Broady was big on ass-kissing, and the person on the other end was obviously doing a good job at it.
“A’ight, you ain’t got to apologize again, man,” Broady said calmly. “Just get the fuck here. I wouldn’t even be fuckin’ with this if I didn’t need a clean ratchet right now.”
Broady leaned his head against the frame of the car and closed his eyes contentedly.
His peace was quickly shattered when an old beater eased into the parking lot. He swallowed hard. This wasn’t the vehicle or the driver he was expecting.
Chapter 6
Avon rushed into his apartment and unlocked his safe. He snatched up his undercover cell phone and dialed Brad Brubaker’s phone number. He only had limited time before Razor’s funeral services began, and he was expected back. Avon needed to set up a meet with Brubaker stat to let him know about the new developments regarding Razor’s death. He had been alarmed to learn that it hadn’t been the rival drug dealers that mutilated and murdered Razor. Given these developments, he felt he needed to have a surveillance team standing by.
Avon rubbed his chin and wiped sweat from his brow as he anxiously waited for Brubaker to pick up the phone. The other end of the line just rang and eventually went to voice mail. “This motherfucker!” Avon spat, slamming the cell phone down, causing the battery to jump out of the back of the device. “Fuckin’ bastard! You don’t know what the fuck I want!” Avon growled out loud, as if his words would somehow telepathically reach Brubaker’s ears. He could have been lying in the gutter, his cover could have been blown and his life in danger, and Brubaker wasn’t answering his calls.
Avon suddenly got an overwhelming, paranoid urge to call his house. He hesitated midway through dialing the phone number, not sure if he wanted to hear who would answer on the other end. He felt a stabbing pang of resentment. “Fuck all of them!” he growled, deciding against calling his home today.
Avon tossed his undercover cell phone into his nightstand drawer, along with his wire. He reached down and picked up his long platinum and diamond chain with its big diamond-encrusted cross and slid it over his head. The sparkly piece of jewelry showed up against his all-black outfit like a splash of paint on a white canvas. Avon was now officially back to being Tuck. He smiled as he headed to his fallen comrade’s funeral, to be with the only family he had right now.
* * *
Candice looked down at her watch impatiently. It wasn’t like Uncle Rock to be late for a meeting. She’d promised Shana she would attend Razor’s wake and funeral later on that evening. I shoulda went to his house and left with him, she thought. Candice sighed, looking at her watch again. She wanted to attend Razor’s funeral, just to add insult to injury. She also wanted to be there for Shana, who was an emotional wreck the last time they were together.
After another fifteen minutes, she saw Uncle Rock’s old-ass car pulling into the parking lot of the Black Hawk Ridge Arsenal range. She purposely put a scowl on her face to let him know she wasn’t happy with his late arrival.
Uncle Rock struggled out of the low driver’s seat of his classic Cutlass.
Attitude aside, Candice walked over to help him. “You’re very late,” she scolded in the usual spoiled brat tone she used with Uncle Rock.
“Yeah, I know, but I had to put the finishing touches on this beauty I’m about to show you,” he said, wheezing slightly.
Candice noticed that her uncle Rock was still not 100 percent, but he did look slightly better than the last time she’d seen him. Once he got all of his stuff out of the car, they began walking side by side just like old times.
“We haven’t done this in a long time. I miss it,” Candice confessed, softening her voice.
Candice remembered the very first time uncle Rock had taken her to the gun range.
The first time she had stepped up to the firing line at the range, she was only fifteen. The adrenaline that coursed through her veins caused her knees to knock and stomach to churn. Uncle Rock had told her to relax and focus on the task. He stepped up behind her and instructed her to pick up the first gun she’d ever held—a .40-caliber Glock 22. Candice thought it would be heavier than it actually was. The rough handle felt good against the palms of her hand.
“Grip and trigger pull are the most important aspects to shooting, Candy.” Uncle Rock placed her hands in the correct position and let her dry fire the weapon. When she did it the first time, she jerked the trigger.
“You’re anticipating the shot. Let every shot be a surprise,” he urged, trying to ease her nervousness. Finally, when he thought she was ready, he inserted the magazine into the weapon. “It’s your time to shine, Candy Cane,” Uncle Rock had said like a proud father.
With his words of encouragement, Candice’s first five shots were dead center of mass.
* * *
Approaching the range doors, Candice realized just how much she and Uncle
Rock had drifted apart since she’d moved out of his apartment. When Uncle Rock had handed over her father’s money to her, she’d gotten a bit carried away, thinking she was too grown to be around him. Guilt washed over her at her arrogance and naiveté.
“It’ll be worth it. You wait and see,” Uncle Rock said excitedly, breaking up her reverie. He emitted a small cough. It was the excitement, he told himself. He was feeling like he did when Candice was younger and dependent on him to take care of her. It saddened him that she was older and living her own life. He just wanted to always protect her and keep her safe.
“You okay?” she asked when she noticed Uncle Rock staring at her absentmindedly.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go on in.” Uncle Rock placed his hand at her back and propelled her forward.
His gesture reminded her that he was the closest thing to a family that she had left.
Inside the range, Candice and Uncle Rock walked through the store portion and gazed at all of the newest guns to hit the market.
“Look at this baby. I’d drop a few stacks on this beast right here,” Candice commented, leaning over the glass-encased counter to ogle a chrome .50-caliber Desert Eagle with a large tritium night sight with a laser dot mounted on the slide.
“That is a nice one, but wait till you see what I put together here for you,” Uncle Rock said, patting the black case he held on to with a death grip. He began coughing again.
Candice and the store clerk looked at him with concern.
Once the fit passed, Uncle Rock slid his membership card across the glass and informed the man behind the counter that they would need one lane.
“Any ear or eye protection?” the clerk asked.
“Got our own,” Uncle Rock told him, a consummate professional.
Uncle Rock and Candice proceeded to a large, heavy metal door, where they were buzzed in. Uncle Rock tugged roughly on the heavy door, but it wouldn’t budge.
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