by Tranay Adams
Pavielle called Vayda the next night and they had an in depth conversation that lasted three hours. He found out some interesting things about Vayda. For instance, she was Creole, left handed and spoke three different languages: Spanish, French and German. She was quite the artist and had moved from Oakland to Los Angeles not long ago.She filled him in on being shuffled through the foster care system, living from pillar to post, and her relationship with Buddy. She gave him the rundown and didn’t leave anything out. The way she figured he was going to accept her or he was going to move the fuck on. She’d rather put everything out in the open.
After there conversation they made plans to go out the next night. Instead of the traditional dinner and a movie outing, Pavielle decided to switch things up and take Vayda to an African American Heritage Museum at the coliseum. Afterwards they went go-kart racing, played the arcade and ate at a restaurant called the Fish and Grill in Gardena. At the end of the night, Pavielle laid a blanket on the roof of his ‘96 Chevy Impala SS and they spent the remainder of the night staring up at the moon and scattered stars. From that day forth the pair was inseparable.
*** “Damn, I must really look good.” Vayda said, approaching Pavielle and closing his bottom jaw to his top one.
“Oh, you’re all of that and a bag of uncut dope.” Gangsta took her hand and kissed it.
“Why thank you Gangsta,” Vayda blushed and took him in,“You don’t clean up too bad yourself.”
“Are you ready to go?”
“I’m ready when you are.”
With that said, Pavielle snapped out of his daze and rose to his feet.
Gangsta embraced his youngest nephew as if he was on his way to prison and was saying his last goodbyes. “Don’t worry, nephew,” He whispered into his ear. “I won’t fuck her. At least not tonight I won’t.” He pecked Pavielle on the cheek and laughed, smacking him on the back. Seeing that he wasn’t feeling his sense of humor took the jovial expression off of his face. “Ah, I’m fucking with you, nigga. Redbone is in good hands,” He assured him before hooking his arm with Vayda’s. “I’ll take care of her.”
“I’ma hold you to that, old nigga.” Pavielle said seriously.
“Shall we?” Gangsta asked Vayda.
“Yes, we shall.” She replied. After closing the door behind Gangsta and Vayda, Pavielle grabbed everything he needed to break down both pounds of Kush. He took the digital scale from the top dresser drawer along with the sandwich bags. He then got the food-tray stand from out of the closet and set it up beside the bed. Sitting behind the food-tray stand, he dumped the contents of the first Ziploc of Kush onto the tray and proceeded to break it down.
Working for their uncle, Pavielle and Gouch hustled everything from hash to crack cocaine. Gangsta showed them the ropes when they were coming up so they knew how to cook, cut, and rock the product up. While Gouch could hustle he wasn’t as good as his baby brother. Pavielle could tell how much the product was worth just from looking at it. He was what you would call a natural born hustler. Back in grade school he would sell the kids candy, bubblegum, potato chips, sodas and cookies and by the end of the day he’d leave with one hundred and fifty dollars profit. He’d sneak Gangsta’s old dirty magazines from home and charge his friends at school a dollar a peek. And when Wrestle Mania came around, he’d charge the neighborhood kids two dollars a head to watch it on the big screen television in his grandmother’s den. The hustle was definitely in the young nigga’z blood, some would even argue that he was even better at it than Gangsta.
Working for his uncle was cool and the money was straight,but he couldn’t see himself under his uncle’s wing for the rest of his life, he had bigger aspirations. He wanted to be the man someday, too. He wanted to be more than just the neighborhood dope man; he wanted to hold the title of kingpin.
Chapter Three
A young man sat duct-taped to an iron chair inside of a dark basement. The chain linked light bulb dangling from above, illuminated a light that exposed the damages of the brutal beating he’d taken. He had a golf ball size knot on his forehead, an eye that was swollen shut and a broken nose that had doubled in size. His face was bruised black and blue. A series of tiny cuts littered his face, and their bleeding had run down his neck and stained the chest of his wife beater pink. He looked around at his four captors with trembling legs, piss dripping from the edge of his chair and making a small puddle at his feet.
“Sun, I suggest you tell us where our money is before level two of this interrogation begins, and believe me, if you’ve seen what these eyes have seen Supa do to cats with his torture methods…Let’s not take it that far. Let’s end this now. What did you do with the money you stole?” Casanova asked him, sounding calm and sincere. He was damn near convincing. Casanova, or Double O.G Cas, as he was called was the oldest homie present at sixty-two. He had a thick crop of salt & pepper dreadlocks that hung over his shoulders and back and a matching beard. His neck was thick and his body was rippled with muscles. Casanova was a member of the Eastside Crips as well as the Five Percenters.
The young man looked to Supacrip who was removing the bloody brassknuckles that he’d just finished using on him. He had put on some goggles and was pulling on yellow dishwashing gloves. Only God knew what he had in store for the youth. He wore an evil smile as he tried to decide what power tool to use on his capture.
“Man, this nigga ain’t gone talk, Cuz.” Nike said looking at the number Supacrip had done on the young man duct-taped to the chair. Nike was a short, muscular cat that wore his hair short and wavy. He’d gotten his name from the Nike logo scar under his right-eye. Killing was his hobby and slinging crack was his habit. He was slowly churning out a resume that was as lengthy and brutal as some of the notorious gangsters his hood had the misfortune of producing.
“Nah, this bitch ass nigga go ne tell me where my money is,” C-note exclaimed with a Belizean accent. He was a caramel complexion brother with a crown of naturally curly hair he wore in a taper-fade. He screwed the cap off a bottle of rubbing alcohol and splashed it on the capture’s wounds. The young man whipped his head back and forth, screaming in agony and thrashing around in the chair. “Shit feels like acid when it hits them open wounds and shit, don’t it? Well, it’s gone get a hell of a lot worse before we’re done.” He harped up spit and spat on the young man before throwing the bottle at his head. “Fuck is your cousin, Nike?” He whipped around to the shorter man yelling with clenched fists.
Nike shrugged. “ Cuz, said he was on his way like fifteen minutes ago.” He glanced at his watch and pulled out his cell. “I’ma bout to call him again,” He began punching a number on the digital screen of his cell.
“No need, I’m already here,” Nightmare said as he ascended the staircase with a pit bull on a chain leading the way. He was a tall dark skinned dude with a face that belonged on the F.B.I’s most wanted poster. His rap sheet boasted everything from robbery to attempted murder. He had a blue bandana tied around his head Aunty Jemima style and a blue button-down shirt with a bandana print.
Nightmare slapped hands with his homies before turning around to the young man. “Soooooo this is the lil’ nigga that cleaned us outta mill, huh?”
“Yep, that’s him, he ain’t talking but he will be in a sec,” Supacrip opened and closed the hedge clippers rapidly, making the sharp metal blades cling. He threatening eyes bored into those of his victim’s, sending volts of fear throughout his body. “One of y’all niggaz unzip his pants and pull out his dick.”
“Ah , nah, Cuz,y’all gone cut off my shit?” The young man’s head darted around at the faces surrounding him. “Please, man, don’t cut off my dick. Oh,God! Help! Help!”
“Shut cho ho ass up,” Nike point ed his pistol at the youth’s head, putting him on mute and causing him to whimper.
“I’m not touching his dick,” C-note frowned.
“I’m not doing it either.” Cas said.
Supacrip looked to Nike. “Cuz, I don’t know why you’re look
ing this way.”
“I’m doing all the torturing and shit, the least y’all could do is pull the nigga’z wang out.” Supacrip said. “That’s right; you’re doing all of the torturing so you pull his thang out. This is your part of the game, sun.” Cas told him.
“Fuck it, I’ll do it. Hold these,” Supacrip passed the hedge clippers to Nike. He started over in the young man’s direction but Nightmare stopped him.
“Chill, no need to get that bloody, I’ll find out w here the nigga stashed our shit.” Nightmare chained his pit to a pillar in the basement and approached the young man. He looked to be relieved that he wasn’t about to have his penis severed.
“Nightmare, thank God you’re here, Cuz. They…” the young man’s words died in his throat as Nightmare brought his palm back and forth across his face.
Smack! Smack! Nightmare viciously smacked the youth across the face until he drew blood. He then wiped his hand off on the young man’s stained wife beater.
“Where the fuck is the money, nigga? I’m not gonna ask your ass again.” Nightmare swore. Seeing its master agitated caused the pit bull to go wild barking and struggling to get off the chain.
“Nightmare, why are you doing me like this, fam? You know…” again he was put to silence by Nightmare vicious backhand slaps. The O.G crip’s open palm felt like punches from all of his years of pumping iron. The blows had left the youth dazed and barely conscious. Nightmare leaned in close to him so no one could hear him. “Did y’all put the loot up where I told you to?” the young man mumbled some jargon he couldn’t understand. Nightmare grabbed him by his jaw and looked him in the eyes, a mixture of blood and saliva oozed down his hand. “Come on now. I’m tryna get chu outta here, but chu gotta let me know where you stashed that paper. Did it make it to the spot where we agreed to meet?”
“Yeah… yeah, man. We stashed it under the floorboardsinside of the living…room.” “Alright, good,” Nightmare gently patted him on the cheek and turned around to his comrades, pulling a chrome Desert Eagle from his waistband.
Blam! “Ahhh,” Irv yelled out in agony as a bullet tore through his small intestine and dropped him to the basement floor. He’d been lurking in the shadows of the basement the whole time. He was so quiet that everyone had forgotten that he was there except the young man ducttaped to the chair. He’d been snarling and giving him the evil eye warning him not to say anything about the money they’d stole from one of the stash houses.
“Fuck you shoot Irv for, Cuz?” Nike’s face balled up. “He was with Dizzy when he robbed us, said it was all his idea.” Nightmare informed him. “Where’s our money, Irv?”
“You know where the fuck it’s at, don’t play stupid.” He spat blood on the ground. Nightmare blew a hole through Irv’s hand and he hollered out in excruciation, cradling his mitt. “You got some more smart shit to say, tough guy?”
“Yeah, suck my dick, bitch!” Irv roared back defiantly. That was the last words he’d ever speak, a bullet through the skull guaranteed that. Irv hit the floor bug eyed, leaving a splatter that was a combination of blood and brain matter scattered over the floor.
Nightmare pulled a gold Desert Eagle from his waistband and turned around to the young man duct-taped to the chair. Seeing the gleam of something shiny and gold caused the youth to snap out of his daze. He was about to plead his case when a bullet sent him to a place where it’s always hot.
“What the fuck, man!” C-note bellowed. “How are we going to find our money now?” “That’s what I wanna know.” Cas added, you could tell he was pissed but he was trying to hide it. He was normally a man who kept a cool and calm head.
“Dizzy told me they used the loot to pay a debt to some Haitians before I slept him.” Nightmare lied. “I just asked Irv to see if he’d lied.”
“You couldn’t have left one of them alive to tell us where to find these cock suckas, man?” C-Note asked. “What chu plan on doing? Putting the love on the dreads, fam?” Cas inquired.
“You damn right, don’t nobody take nothing of mine, ‘cause if they do they’ll have the devil on their heels.” “Think, young brotha,” Cas pointed a finger to his temple. “A war is only gone cost us more paper…maybe more than we’ve already lost.”
“We’re not about to take another loss, fuck that!” C- note said.
“We’re not,” Nightmare said to Cnote. “But you are.”
“How you figure, nigga?” “Before we started this union we all agreed that we’d be responsible for whoever we brought onto thefold. If my memory serves me correct, it was you that brought Dizzy and Irv on.”
“True,” Cas nodded.
“Them are your boys, fam.” Nike added. C-Note looked around at all of the faces in the basement; everyone seemed to agree. “Alright, fuck it, y’all got that. I’ll have Crow bring y’all that paper tomorrow evening.” C-Note hated to take the blame but it was true they all agreed on that very ruling. “That ain’t nothing but a lil’ short paper anyway.”
“Spoken like a true boss,” Cas smiled and patted his shoulder. “Cool,” Nightmare tucked his Desert Eagles in his waistband. “Nike, Supa, y’all get rid of these bodies. I got some place I gotta be.”
*** Nightmare pressed his ear against the dusty wood floorboards and listened for an area that wasn’t shallow as he knocked around on it with a crowbar. Finding an area that wasn’t shallow he smiled wickedly and drove the crowbar into the slight openings between the boards. One by one he popped the boards up and removed them until he revealed a dingy beige sack beneath them. He opened up the sack and found it loaded with wrinkled rubber-band stacks of cash. He smiled like The Grinch that stole Christmas.
Nightmare was one of the sleaziest and cleverest sons of bitch’s to have ever breathed air. He’d gotten Irv and Dizzy to rob the spot where the money was collected at the end of the month from crack sales with promises that they could split $500 grand two ways while he kept the other five for himself. The deal sounded too sweet for the knuckleheads to pass up so they went through with it not knowing they were dealing with the devil reincarnated. Nightmare had always planned to walk off with the money, only he was going to off the twosome back at the condemned house. When Nike ran back the surveillance footage in the spot he found that it was Dizzy that robbed them, it threw a wrench in Nightmare’s plan but he still managed to turn the table in his favor.
“You find it, daddy?” Bobby Blue turned around from where she was peering through the boarded up window, gripping a Russian Ruger.
“Yeah, take this to the car,” Nightmare sat the sack aside. Bobby Blue’s leopard print red bottom Christian Louboutin’s echoed on the wood floorboards as she approached Nightmare, blowing pink bubbles out of her Bubble Yum. She was in a leopard print spandex shirt and matching skirt that hugged her body.
Bobby B lue was Nightmare’s ride or die chick; his numbre uno. She had been with him since she was fourteen and he was eighteen. While other whores had come and gone old Bobby Blue was still around holding the gangster crip down.
She was quite the vision with her long, wavy hair, smooth coco skin and light brown eyes, all of which were compliments of her Ethiopian heritage. The dimples in her cheeks and chin were the perfect marriage to her baby face. Her balloon breasts and shapely round ass was all natural, though most swore she had some work done. Standing at five ten, she was one Amazon of a woman.
Bobby’s father named her after the lead singer in the jazz band he played with back home. Ms. Bobby Latoya Blue died of a heroin over dose. Her band mates found her in the back bathroom of the club they were performing at that night dead. She was slumped upon the commode with a syringe needle in her arm.
While Nightmare began putting the floorboards back in place, Bobby picked up the sack and carried it out towards the backdoor. Most men would have been leery about having their woman go off with so much money, but Nightmare had complete faith in his game. He’d trained Bobby well and knew she’d be loyal to him without a fault.
Prese
nt
Nightmare lay in bed taking pulls of a blunt with Bobby asleep beside him. The lights were out and the blue glow of the flat-screen was reflecting on his face. The Honey Moonerswere on but he wasn’t paying the show any mind; his conversation over the telephone had his sole attention.
“Not hing, ma, I been good.” he blew smoke up into the air and licked his lips. “Oh yeah, where’s Shantell and Lil’ Tay? That boy getting big than a mug, he’s gone be taller than me in a minute. Who? Oh, Bobby,” he glanced at her and she grunted and smacked her lips, rearranging herself in bed. “She’s knocked out. I’ll tell her you said hey. I’ll slide through there later on tomorrow. Okilla, cool, I love you, too.” He disconnected the call and sat the cell phone down on the nightstand. Having wrapped up the phone call, Nightmare went to light the end of his blunt again and found that the lighter wouldn’t strike a flame. He shook it up and tried it once more but it still didn’t work. Pulling open the top dresser drawer, he fished around inside until he found another lighter. He’d just pulled it out when he saw something that caused his forehead to indent. Sitting the lighter aside on the dresser, he picked up an old photo of him and his father.
The man known as David Grant Sr. looked to be about twenty-one years old and holding a four year old Nightmare by his hand, while standing beside an old Cadillac Deville. The gangsta crip cracked a grin remenising as he took casual pulls from the roach end of his L, eyelids narrowing. His thoughts drifted off to his father and the day that he had lost him. He’d been murdered in cold blood right in front of his eyes and he’d never forget how it all went down in a million years.