by Cash
I stepped through the door rocking a ski mask with my dreads tucked inside. Clad in all black I was packing a Glock .50. Kamora was on my heels, ski masked and in all black attire, too. She held a nine at her side, locked, loaded, and ready to slay anything that moved.
A pretty woman with a jet-black complexion was asleep on the couch. I gestured with my head for Kamora to handle ol’ girl while I followed a noise that came from inside the kitchen. As soon as I stepped into the spacious kitchen, which was equipped with an island, I saw a big ass nigga leaning on the counter with his back to me. “Blood, turn around real slow and let me see your hands,” I commanded.
When he didn’t move fast enough I growled, “If I have to repeat myself I’ma empty this clip in your head then I’ma do your bitch real dirty.”
That got his attention. He turned slowly to face me. For real, the nigga was about 6’6” and 280 pounds. “You a huge muthafucka, bruh, but I’ll smash your ass if you try some monkey shit. Ya heard me?”
“Yeah, I heard you.” His voice was gruff.
Boc! I shot him in the stomach and he crumpled to the floor whining. I walked over to where he lay and pointed the banger down at his head. “You tryna intimidate me, nigga? You want me to body your muthafuckin’ ass?” I fired a shot into the floor only inches from his head.
“Please don’t kill me,” he cried and I noticed that he had pissed himself.
“If you don’t wanna die you better tell me where all your shit is at.”
“Okay, I will,” he whimpered.
I made him roll over onto his stomach so I could cuff his hands behind his back. Then I put the banger to the back of his head. “I’m listening. And you know what’s gonna happen if I find anything that you didn’t tell me about,” I warned.
Fifteen minutes later, Kamora and I left out of the house with a backpack full of money and a knapsack full of blocks. Heading to the car, I saw someone creeping up on us. “Watch out, baby girl!” I yelled and shoved Kamora down just in time to avoid a burst of gunfire.
I dropped the blocks and my banger came alive, spitting rapidly as I shot back at the niggas coming at us. It was now three of them. I caught a slug in the chest and it knocked me back, but I stayed on my feet, thankful that I was wearing a bulletproof vest. I reached down to help Kamora up and dragged her to the car. Both of our bangers were going the fuck off. We were in a desperate gun battle for our lives.
Somehow, we made it inside the car without getting shot. I jumped behind the wheel and backed all the way down the street so we wouldn’t have to drive past our pursuers. “Bitch ass muthafucka!” I said when we were out of danger. I didn’t have to elaborate. Kamora knew who I was referring to.
“It’s okay, bae. I held on to the money,” she reported. That didn’t nullify me though. We had gotten jacked for at least twenty-five kilos of cocaine.
I didn’t even respond. I just continued on to the house in silence. I already had my mind made up on what I would do next.
“I took care of that little business we had together,” I said the next morning when I reached DeMario on his cell.
“Yo, hold up. Let me walk outside so my people not all up in my business.” The line went quiet for a minute. “Trouble, man, what happened over there last night? I’m hearing all type of wild stories,” DeMario asked, talking in a frantic tone.
“I’ll tell you about it when I pull up on you. I’m not about to talk myself into the penitentiary on no cell phone. Meet me at Krystal’s on Cleveland Ave at 7:30 tonight and I’ll bring those ducats to you.”
“That’ll work.”
Since there were still seven hours before my meeting with DeMario, I drove out to Buckhead and checked out some car lots. I was contemplating copping a new whip. Nothing really caught my eye, so I hit the mall and spent three bands on some new gear. A few shawdies were all on my nut sac, but stray pussy was the last thing on my mind.
“Hey lil daddy,” a sweet voice from behind me said as I was leaving Foot Locker.
I turned and saw a cute, caramel skinned shawdy. She was about 5’5” with ass for days. Next to her stood a darker chick who was just as thick as her friend. They both looked to be about twenty-two years old. “What’s poppin’ with y’all?” I asked, looking them up and down.
“Nothing much. We’re here from Tampa just trying to find something to get into,” the darker one replied.
“Y’all must be getting into some trouble.”
“Nooo. Why you say that?” She laughed.
“Because that’s what they call me. Anyway, I see how y’all sweating my swag, but believe me this shit ain’t what y’all want.”
“Why are you so arrogant?” asked the darker chick.
“I’m not, shawdy. I’m just saying that this ain’t what y’all want. For real, don’t let nobody send y’all on a mission that will end with your funerals. This right here ain’t sweet.” I lifted my shirt a little to show them the bangers on my waist, and then I pushed on.
It could’ve been just my paranoia, but I wasn’t falling for the oldest trick in the book. If Zeke or somebody was plotting, it was gonna take something more clever than some pussy to catch me slipping.
I left out the mall with my hand in my waist and my eyes alert for trouble. Nothing popped off and I didn’t spot anyone trying to follow me as I left the mall and merged into traffic. I put my earpiece in and hit Kamora up. “Hey bae,” she answered.
I told her the business, and then checked with DeMario so that he knew to be on time. Cleveland Avenue was too hot for me to be waiting around dirty. “I’ll be there at 7:30 like we agreed,” he assured me.
“A’ight, one.” I checked my watch. I had about an hour to kill.
The time was 7:25 p.m. when I spotted DeMario’s red ’79 Chevy Caprice pull into the parking lot of Krystal’s. The spring sun bounced off the glossed paint of his whip, which was sitting on thirty-inch red rims. He parked, got out, and pretended to be checking the air in his tires. Like the reckless gang banger he was, DeMario was flagging. His fitted was red, as was his shirt, khakis and sneakers. He rocked so much red he looked like he was on fire.
I scanned the area for trouble before driving across to where he was parked. “’Sup, Blood,” he greeted me, slipping into the passenger seat.
“I’m good. Let’s do this and be out before po-po roll by and your gear draws heat on us.”
“Fuck APD. Nigga, you ain’t know … Suuu-Wooo,” he chanted his set’s call.
“If that’s how you feel. Anyway, I had to pop one in your brother-in-law to get him to cooperate. For real, I didn’t realize how huge that muthafucka was until I was right up on him. Bruh’s a muthafuckin’ giant. But size don’t mean shit to a gun. I made that big ass nigga piss on himself like a little bitty baby.”
“You’re bullshittin’! I knew that nigga was soft.” He chuckled. “Blood always talking about he would never bitch up if a nigga jacked him.”
“Yeah, a lot of niggas say that shit until that banger is in their face. Then it’s the same old thing with everyone. ‘Please don’t kill me,’ they all cry.”
“Niggas be frontin’. Anyway, what’s this I’m hearing about niggas pulling up on you as you was leaving out the house?” asked DeMario.
I wondered how he had heard about it, but I just downplayed it. “Yeah, bruh, some niggas jumped out on me when I was coming out of your people’s spot. They got the work from me, but I got away with the ducats, so the whole lick wasn’t lost. Fuck it! You don’t miss what you ain’t ever had. Feel me?”
“I feel you, dog.”
“I got your half right here.” I kept an eye on him as I reached over into the backseat, thinking that don’t nothing beat the double cross but the triple cross. I handed him a backpack full of dough.
He opened the bag and peered inside. A big ass grin came across his face. “This is why I fucks with you.” He beamed.
“Stay away from the strip clubs or you’ll end up sponsoring some bitch a
new whip,” I joked.
“Shit! Blood, you can’t take it with you when you die, so you might as well enjoy it.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” I conceded with a knowing smirk.
“It ain’t trickin’ if you got it,” he rapped.
Then we touched fists and he slid out of the car. He kept his eye on me as he walked back to his flamed up Chevy, but I wasn’t the one who presented danger.
Boc! Boc!
His body dropped and began twitching.
Boc!
One more to the head made it impossible for him to ever get up again.
Kamora hurried to the car and hopped in, tossing the backpack on the backseat as I peeled off. She was a stone cold killa in a skirt, but I hadn’t turned her out. By the time we hooked up, she had already slumped three people.
The first body to her credit was that of her stepfather. Dude beat her mother to death in a jealous rage when Kamora was seven years old. She had just turned fifteen when he was released from prison. On the next anniversary of her mother’s death, she turned his lights out. The second person she gave a dirt nap was her biological pops. “I took his ass out cuz he never acknowledged me as his child,” she explained. And the third person was a girlfriend of Kamora’s. They had robbed a couple of ballers, and then old girl started acting all nervous. So she figured it was best to end the problem before it blew up in her face.
Kamora was definitely gangsta. We had grown up across the dirt from each other in the projects, both of us were Englewood born and bred. I looked over at Kamora in the passenger seat and knew without a doubt that she was official.
CHAPTER 11
We had gotten two hundred and fifteen bands from the lick on DeMario’s people. I went over to Inez’s house and gave her half of the money to put towards my grandmother’s care at a better facility because at Georgia Regional her condition was worsening.
“I found a reputable hospital in South Carolina and they have an available bed. I’ll make the necessary arrangements when I get back in town Monday. Swag is flying me down to Texas to catch him in concert with Beyoncé,” announced Inez.
“Damn, Jay-Z better watch out. Swag might steal BK from him,” I said.
“He just might.” Inez laughed.
“You wouldn’t be mad, would you?”
“Of course not. Why would I care?”
“Well, Swag be doing a lot for you and you might have caught some feelings for him.”
I felt the stinging sensation on my face before I realized that Inez had slapped me. “Don’t you dare insinuate that I would disrespect your father’s memory by fooling around with someone who was his friend. I’m a woman not a bird,” she seethed.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re much better than that. I shouldn’t have ever let those words come out of my mouth because I know you keep it one hundred,” I said.
“I always have and I always will,” she replied and then gave me a hug.
Just then, Bianca, Inez’s oldest daughter and Tamia came through the door. Bianca was carrying a lone shopping bag; Tamia had three. I nodded a greeting to Bianca and she nodded back. Our relationship wasn’t very close because I despised Fat Stan, her father.
“What’s up, mini diva?” I said to Tamia.
“Hey Trouble,” she replied while setting her bags down.
I checked her out from head to toe. She was rocking skinny jeans and a tight fitting T-shirt, white and blue Lady Air Max’s, and she was bejeweled. I shook my head in amusement. At thirteen years old, she was already high maintenance. In a few years, somebody’s son was going to prison trying to take care of Tamia. “Have you been keeping those nasty little boys out of your face like I told you?” I questioned as I sat down on the couch.
“Yep, sure have.” She plopped down next to me on the sofa and rested her head on my shoulder.
“Oh boy, why do I get the feeling my pockets are about to get lighter?”
“Because you love me.” She snickered.
“You got that right,” I admitted with a smile.
Inez just stood there shaking her head; she knew that I could not deny Tamia anything.
“Will you buy me a new cell phone?” asked Tamia.
“No. Lil T, she just got a new cell phone two months ago.” Inez jumped in.
“It’s all good. My baby sister can get a new cell every week if that’s what she wants,” I said, kissing Tamia on the forehead.
I pulled out a band and gave it to Tamia. “Give half to Bianca,” I whispered because had I not, Bianca would have refused the money.
“You spoil that child too much,” Inez complained.
“I’m just doing what my pops would have done.”
“No boyfriends,” I reminded Tamia.
“Until I’m sixteen, right?”
“I might change that to until you’re twenty-one.”
“Nooooo!” she pleaded, causing me to laugh.
“I’m playing. Let me see what all you have in these bags.”
While showing me her new outfits, Tamia whined that Inez was going to see Swag and Beyoncé in concert and she wasn’t taking her along. “I didn’t know you were big on Beyoncé like that,” I said to Inez.
“I’m not. I really want to see Swag. Besides Lil’ Wayne, he is my favorite rapper.”
“What about our pop?” I couldn’t let her forget him.
“Oh, he was the best.”
“Never forget that, Tamia. Our pop was a beast on the mic, and his swag was turned all the way up. Plus, he was a real nigga who did all the things that these other niggas just rap about.”
“I wish I could have gotten a chance to know him, but I don’t remember him,” she said.
“You were too small to remember him when he went away,” Inez said.
“Mama, tell me some more stories about him,” said Tamia.
For the next two hours, Inez held our attention with reflections of our pop. I knew that she was leaving out the stories of Pop putting his murder game down, for the benefit of Tamia. Still, we were enraptured by the tales.
By the time I said goodbye to them, the respect I held for my pop was even greater, and I was even angrier at those who had betrayed him.
I whipped over to Shan’s crib, parked, and honked my horn three times. My sister Laquanda came out and got into the car with me. I asked how she was doing in school.
“Good. I made straight A’s again,” she stated proudly.
“Keep it up and you’ll be a doctor.”
“Yes.” She smiled, showing teeth that reminded me of her father, Shotgun Pete. I never liked the nigga, but I didn’t hold it against my sister. I held it against my mother.
I asked Laquanda if there was food in the house. “A pack of hotdogs and some Ramen noodles,” she informed me.
“That’s a fuckin’ shame! Your mama need her ass whooped.”
“She’s your mother, too.”
“Not in my eyes.”
I gave her money for groceries and made her promise not to give it to Shan for drugs.
When I left, I snapped back into G mode. I had another target in sight.
CHAPTER 12
The next nigga on my radar had not betrayed my pop. This nigga caught my attention because he was feasting off the streets and flossing real hard. Another reason I wanted to snatch him up is because he was from New Orleans. I had a real dislike for out of state niggas coming to the ‘A’ and tryna run something.
I walked into the club with Kamora on my arm looking like she had just stepped off a video set. Her hair was long and flat ironed and damn near reached her ass. The black DK dress that she wore could’ve passed for body paint. Her jewels cost a couple hundred bands, but they had been bought with our bangers and the blood of our victims. I was rocking True Religion, a hundred thousand dollar platinum Jacob’s watch, diamonds in both ears, and of course, the chain and urn that contained my pop’s ashes.
My dreads had been freshly washed and oiled earlier in the day, an
d my light trace of a mustache was neatly trimmed. I looked nothing like the young beast that I was.
Kamora and I found a vacant table and parked there. Soon, a waiter appeared and took our order for Patron. The club filled up quickly because over in VIP, Solo, the nigga I was there to stalk was having a party for some rapper he was backing on his new indie label. I observed their party through the glass windows that enclosed VIP.
Solo had half the bitches in the room jockeying for his attention. He was a tall, skinny, ugly nigga with a wide spread nose and beady eyes. But because he was the next coming of Big Meech, hoes were all on his dick. Niggas were too.
“He’s going to be real hard to touch, bae. He has so many niggas around him.” Kamora observed the scene.
“Yeah, but hard ain’t impossible. Besides, we’re not gonna rush this. We got other licks to pull off while we plan this one. I’m really just here to get an idea how the nigga roll.”
“You want me to go in VIP and slide up under Solo or one of his mans?”
“No, shawdy, we’re just watching tonight.”
A half hour later, a familiar face popped up in the crowd. It was Criminal, a young nigga from Zone 6 in the city who had gotten five minutes of fame when he spat a verse on one of Swag’s tracks. Criminal’s style reminded many of Beanie Seagal. Swag had signed him to a record deal, but Criminal was so deep in the streets Swag had chosen to cut ties with him. Niggas in the city whispered that Criminal was a fool for throwing away the opportunity to bubble in the rap game, but I understood his choice. He was a true street nigga like me.
Criminal saw me and pushed through a throng of groupie bitches to make his way to my table. “What it do, bruh-bruh?” he said, taking a seat.
“I’m good, fam’. What about you?”
“I’m making it do what it do. ‘Sup, Kamora? You got ya sexy going on real strong tonight, don’t you?”
“You know I try to stay looking good for my man,” she replied, rubbing my arm.