by Tranay Adams
“There still ain’t no word on Lil’ Gangsta?” “Nah, ain’t no word on that fuck -nigga, all the homies saying he fled the hood,” Gouch informed him. “And if he’s smart, the rat bastard will stay gone.”
“I told unc I didn’t like that lil’ nigga, man, it was always something about him. But you can’t tell Gangsta shit. That nigga stubborn than a mothafucka.” Gouch laughed “What the fuck is so funny?”
“Look who’s talking.” Pavielle gave Gouch the finger, just then, his cell phone rang. Pavielle picked the burn-out up from his lap and looked at the caller ID. He didn’t recognize the number displayed but he assumed it was his uncle. “I think this is him.” He sat up on the couch, pressed talk and brought the phone to his ear.
Gouch plopped down on the couch beside Pavielle.
“Hello?” Pavielle spoke into the burn-out.
“What’s up, Booby?” Gangsta said into the cellular.
“Ain’t shit, out here handling your business, how are you, though?”
“I’m alright, taking it one day at a time, nephew. How are mommy and Gucci doing?”
“They’re straight. Momma is at dialysis and Gucci is right here, you wanna speak to him?”
“Nah, I can rap with Gucci later, I wanted to talk to you.”
“What’s on your mind?” “I think it’s time I pass the torch, it isn’t like I can do shit with it locked up in here. Besides, one monkey don’t stop no show, right?”
“You’re talking brazy right now, unc? You’ll be home in a hot minute. We got Goldberg on your case. He ain’t ever lost a case for us. That old Jew is the D.A’s worst nightmare.”
“Still, Booby, shit is not looking so good. The young boy running off at the mouth and they’re saying they gotta murder weapon. I don’t know, man. We’ll see, though. This shit is in God’s hands.”
“Amen!” “Besides, it isn’t like the shit isn’t in your blood. Niggaz been saying you were an even better hustler than me. And with Gucci to back you with the muscle, that’s a deadly combination; brains and brawn. I’ve already talked with the plug, it’s a go. I’ma give you the keys, all you gotta do is walk through the door.”
“Alright, how are we going to do this?”
“You’ll get a call in the next couple of days, so keep your ears open.”
“Bool, we’re going to bring momma up there to see you Friday.”
“Alright, Booby, y’all stay up. I love y’all.”
“We love you, too, unc.” “Twenty minutes.” He hung up.
Elsewhere
Bullet shook his head at the bad news that had just been laid on him; he wiped his mouth with a dinner cloth and cleared his throat.
“How much time is he looking at?” he asked Black Jesus, who was sitting at the opposite end of the dining room table.
“Life.” he replied, pouring h imself a glass of red wine. “I’m really disappointed with Charles; he wasn’t supposed to get his hands dirty. Guys like us have clean-up crews on our payrolls to handle matters like this. Shooting in the middle of the ghetto like some common thug is not how you handle business.”
“What are you talking about, bro? Gangsta brought it to those fools how a gangster is supposed to.” “Gangster?” Black Jesus stopped his glass at his lips. “There’s nothing gangster about spending the rest of your life behind the wall, or being gassed like some diseased rodent. You’ve got a lot to learn about life, little brother.” He took a swallow of wine.
Bullet nodded his head in agreement, his big brother made a good point. There wasn’t anything “Gangster” about spending the rest of your life in prison, or being sentenced to death. But if he had a choice in the matter, he’d rather take the short walk to his execution, than rot behind a barbwire fence.
“So, what exterminator should we hire?” Bullet inquired. “I was thinking about Tito.” He took a bite of salmon.
“Definitely not, Tito’s family,” Black Jesus told him. “We don’t want this thing being traced back to us. It’s bad enough the cops are sniffing around. The last thing I want to do is give them a reason to come prying further in my affairs. We’ll get some outside assistance for our little vermin.”
“Who did you have in mind?” The drug lord held up his fork, as he chewed his food and then he swallowed. “The Ghost,” he went back to cutting up his salmon.
“The Ghost?”
“Unh huh,” Black Jesus said, munching on salmon.
“You sure you wanna use this guy? I mean, he charges an arm and a leg.” “ Fifty thousand dollars to be exact, but who gives a shit? I have more money than I know what to do with. I spend fifty thousand dollars a year on socks and drawers alone. What the fuck do I care?” Black Jesus was about to take another bite of salmon until he noticed how uptight Bullet was at the mention of hiring the infamous hit-man. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think old Ghost had you spooked.”
“Who me?” his brows furrowed as he pointed his thumb at his chest, “Not the kid, my heart don’t pump no KoolAid, you know my resume.” He took a sip of red wine.
Bullet was full of shit; the hit-man gave him the creeps. As a kid he was told stories about the assassin as if he were The Boogie Man. If you don’t behave then The Ghost will come and chop your head off, his big brother use to tell him late nights when they were the only ones home.
Black Jesus clapped his hands sporadically and the maid emerged in the dining room with a pearl and gold antique telephone on a golden platter. It was time to make a very important phone call.
That night
A milk white stretch Mercedes Benz pulled up on 124th and Compton Avenue. The chauffeur slid out from behind its wheel, popped its trunk, and removed a wheelchair. He sat the wheelchair on the ground, closed the trunk, and proceeded around to the back passenger door. He then opened the back door of the stretch hog and helped Black Jesus into the confines of the wheelchair. Tango exited the limo from the opposite side and made his way over to his boss. He took his wheelchair by the handles and rolled him upon the sidewalk. Rolling Black Jesus through the black iron-gate of the house, he gave the creepy looking place a once over and could have sworn he saw a dark figure move past the openings of one of its boarded up windows.
Tango knocked on the chipped wood door of the old house and paint chips floated into the crisp, cold night air. For a moment there was silence, and then they heard what sounded like ten locks coming undid. The front-door swung inward and Tango and Black Jesus’ nasal passages were assaulted by an odor so foul that it made them gag. The stench was a combination of blood, sweat, urine and feces. Tango and Black Jesus brandished their handkerchiefs and covered their noses; as they proceeded over the threshold the front door slammed shut behind them, locking itself. Startled, Tango pulled his pistol and stepped in front of his boss to shield him from any danger. He pointed his piece and turned his head in every direction a threat might present itself.
Black Jesus looked around the living room; its hardwood floors were dirty and wore gaping holes. Its walls and ceiling was filthy and covered in green mole from water damage.
“Hello? My name is Jesus Arturo!” He yelled. “I’m looking for the one they call The Ghost!” he spoke loud enough for anyone to hear that may be listening.
“Come down into the basement!” A voice came from the dirty, spider webbed intercom on the wall. The voice was deep with a heavy bass to it. If you were to close your eyes you could assume that it belonged to the Lord himself. Tango and Black Jesus’ eyes darted all around the living room trying to figure out where the voice had come from. Giving up, they moved in on the basement door. Tango twisted the door knob and pushed in on it with his shoulder but it wouldn’t budge. He then tackled the door twice, which caused debris to fall from the ceiling. Giving it another try, he took a few steps back, ran forth and threw his whole body toward the door. Before the door and his 200 lb frame could meet, it swung open and he went tumbling down a flight of steps. The Dominican body guard hit the basement
floor and his pistol went skidding into the wall.
Black Jesus rolled into the doorway and looked down the flight of steps that lead into the basement. The steps were dusty and looked weak,as if they’d give under the slightest amount of pressure.
“Tango, are you okay?” Black Jesus yelled down to him.
“Yeah,” Tango responded, rubbing the lump forming on his head and surveying the basement.
“Who’s down there?” “No one,” he answered, picking up his pistol from against the wall. “It’s hot as hell, though. There’s a burning furnace down here!”
“Alright, I’m going to try to come down!” With that said, the wooden steps converted into a ramp, easily accessible for a wheelchair. “Was that you who did that?!”
“No!” Tango said, looking around the basement with his pistol out stretched, ready to open fire on anyone posing a threat.
“Alright, I’m coming down!” the drug lord rolled himself down the ramp and onto the basement floor beside his bodyguard. Standing side by side, they looked over the basement; it was clean as a whistle.
“Fuck is going on here?” Tango asked. “Where is your hitman?” “Ghost,” Black Jesus called out. “Hola, mi amigo, I’ve come to talk business!” He rolled his wheelchair an inch forward and a wild German shepherd shot from out of the dark corner of the basement. The huge dog leapt forward and tried to bite the Mexican druglord’s face off, but it was snagged in mid air by the chain attached to the collar around its neck. The German shepherd snarled and barked at Tango and Black Jesus. Tango raised his weapon and was just about to fire on the dog, when he heard a voice from the darkness.
“Hank,” The voice boomed from the confines of the shadows. “Sit your ass down!” An albino man oozed from the shadows of the basement. He had dark menacing eyes and long blonde hair that lay over his broad shoulders. His 6 foot 2 frame was lean and mean, with just the right amount of muscle. He was in a black long brim hat, a cape and needle pointed boots. The Ghost bit into a juicy peach as he ascended on the drug lord and his body guard. He seemed to more so float over than walk. This was just one of the attributes to which why he was christened, The Ghost.
The Ghost was so tall that his shadow gave his guests shade. Tango’s eyes crept up from his boots and settled into the cold eyes of the pale skinned assassin. The Dominican was intimidated by the killer but he wouldn’t let it show. He had a reputation made of Teflon and he refused to relinquish any dents to it.
The Ghost’s eyes wandered from Tango’s and rested on Black Jesus’. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “So, talk,” before taking another bite of his peach.
“Right,” Black Jesus said, popping the locks on his briefcase. He raised the lid and revealed rows of crisps $5,000 stacks. On top of the bills was a black & white photograph ofLil’ Gangsta. He removed the photograph from the briefcase and handed it over to the hit-man.
“His government, alias and current address a re on the back,” Black Jesus informed him “Though I doubt you’ll find him there.”
The Ghost tossed his half eaten peach high over his shoulder. Hank leapt into the air like a dolphin, snagged it and gobbled it down. The assassin sucked the juices of the ripe fruit from his fingers as he studied the information on the back of the photograph.
“Is that my money?” he asked, pointing to the briefcase full ofmoney on the drug lord’s lap. “Yes, it’s all here, fifty thousanddollars,” Black Jesus told him. The Ghost closed the briefcase and pulled it from Black Jesus’ lap by its handle. He didn’t even bother to check the dollar amount. “Don’t you want to make sure the money is all there?”
“Oh, it’s all there.” The Ghost said with confidence.
“How can you be so sure?” a line indented his forehead. “Because no one has ever been stupid enough to cross The Ghost,” He spoke of himself in third person. Tango was about to make a move on the assassin for his comment, but his boss waved him off.
“Down boy,” The Ghost flashed the bodyguard a devilish grin, showcasing the fang like teeth inside of his mouth. He then looked to Black Jesus. “How do you want’em,” he held up the photograph of Lil’ Gangsta “Open or closed casket?”
“Do as you please. Just as long as you put him out of his misery,” he told him. “I trust that you still have my number.”
“No more phones, I’ll be contacting you directly.” “Don’t run off with that money and make me come looking for you.” Tango warned the assassin, as he rolled his boss over to the ramp. The Ghost laughed at his threat; he knew the bodyguard was no match for his talents. The albino was a proficient killer and was in incredible shape. He would make short work of the old gangster if they were to bump heads.
“Don’t tempt me.” The Ghost smiled wickedly.
“You think this clown is going to come through?” Tango asked his employer as he rolled him up the ramp. “Oh, he’ll deliver,” Black Jesus told him, lighting up a cigar and blowing out smoke. “There’s no doubt in my mind.”
You can take that to the bank, he thought.
Chapter Seven
Fat Travon was p osted up in front of Ace’s mini market curb serving. He had both of his hands in his jacket; in one pocket he held onto a .32 and in the other he grasped a fist full of dime rocks. Paranoid, every five seconds he found himself looking over his shoulders, checking his surroundings. He knew he had no business hustling on Adams; it had been made clear that this was Big Gangsta’s territory. Therefore, the small piece of land was off limits to any homies who weren’t under the shot caller’s employ. But things had changed since Gangsta had gotten locked up and gave his nephew the imaginary deed to the property. It was no longer Gangsta’s land he was slinging on, but O.G Booby Loc’s. And to him the differences were considerable.
Travon knew of Booby and his older brother Gouch’s reputations. But he didn’t care, he had a family to support and neither O.G Booby nor his brother was going to put food in his babies’ mouths. He had rent for two houses, two car notes, five kids, three baby mommas and his mother’s medical bills to take care of.
The Adams block was the best strip for a D-boy to get his hustle on; the block was a gold mine for corner hustlers. You could always catch a few fiends sniffing around for a fix. Travon had only been posted up for an hour and had clocked $300 dollars already. The hell if he was going to pack it up and move somewhere else to hustle just because Bobby said so. Fuck that, he was strapped; he was going to hold his little corner down and go to war behind it if necessary. If shit got too hot he had a couple of riders he could call to bear arms alongside him.
A Beach Cruiser skidded to a stop beside Fat Travon, the stubby man spun around and tried to pull his piece but it got snagged in the inside of his jacket’s pocket. After the slip up, he was expecting to feel the sizzling bullets of his assailant’s weapon, but instead he got laughter.
“Blood, you slow than a mothafucka! If I was a crab, or one of the Mexicans, I would have floored you already!” Big Head threw his head back laughing.
“Well, nigga you’re not!” Fat Travon shot back, annoyed.
“What chu doing out here this early anyway, fool?” he switched subjects, seeing his homeboy was on one. “What does it look like? The early bird catches the worm. I’m tryna get it.” He replied like he should have known, serving a butch smoker two dime rocks. The exchange was so smooth that it looked like the two of them were just smacking each other five.
“I ain’t mad at chu, B lood, but chu do know this the bighomie’s shit, right?” Big Head asked, knowing damn well Travon knew who corner he was hustling on; all the homies from the hood knew that O.G Booby Loc was running Gangsta’s operation now.
“Man, fuck Booby!” Fat Travon spat angrily. “Blood might be y’all niggaz daddy but he ain’t mine.”
“So what chu saying, my nigga?” he frowned up. “What I’m saying is, Booby can eat a bowl of hot dicks and you can, too!” He stepped into the little nigga’z face, drawing his .32 pistol.
“Tha
t’s how you feel?” Big Head mad dogged him, wanting to fire on his ass. He was so close he could smell the leftover liver and onions on his breath.
“Yeah, nigga, that’s how I feel!” Fat Travon spat , his finger curling around the trigger of the small gun. “Now run and tell your daddy that?” his head jumped from side to side as he talked that shit.
Big Head was pissed off; he clenched his jaws so tight that you could see the veins pulsating in his neck. He cursed himself for forgetting his strap at home, because if he hadn’t he would have left fat boy belly up and leaking where he stood.
“Alright, my nigga,” Big Head rode off on his Beach Cruiser. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, pussy! Kick rocks!” Fat Travon flexed, feeling himself. He harped up some phlegm and spat it on the curb, watching the little nigga’z back as he rode off down the street.
Meanwhile
Pavielle and Gouch were in the front yard of their grandmother’s house going body. Gouch took two solid punches to the chest from his baby brother. The blows stung like hell but he ignored the pain and moved in for some get back. He set Pavielle up throwing weak jabs, which he easily swatted away. He then countered with two solid punches to his sibling’s rib cage and a hard right into his gut. Pavielle staggered back, wincing in pain from the devastating combination. The well placed punches nearly dropped him but he quickly re-established his equilibrium. Panting out of breath, but refusing to lose to his big brother, he tucked his chin to his chest and balled his fists as tight as he could.
“You done had enough, nigga, huh?!” Gouch asked.
“Fuck that shit, Blood! You’re gone come up outta my mothafucking Dickies!” Both of the brothers were exhausted from going from the shoulders with each other, but neither of them was going to throw in the towel any time soon. They were both stubborn, so their squabbling usually ended with both of them scrawled out on the lawn from exhaustion.