Though he couldn’t remember her name, he knew who she was. She had lost about 40 pounds since he’d last seen her but for the most part her features were the same. The woman in question was as thin as a rail and sporting a short afro that looked like it hadn’t been combed in days. Back when Duce and his brother ran through the projects she was lacing her blunts with cocaine, but now she was just a base head. Smoker or not, a base head was still the best source for information in any hood.
“Yo, ma, let me holla at you for a minute,” Duce called after her. She stopped and glared at him suspiciously, but didn’t come any closer.
“Fuck is you the police?” she snaked her thin neck.
Duce laughed as she was still as feisty as ever. “Nah, I ain’t no roller, sis. I used to pump around here with Knowledge. I’m fresh home from a bid and trying to get a pack. You don’t remember me?” Duce asked, hoping she didn’t.
The crack head took a few steps towards him, squinting. “Can’t say that I do, but if you looking for Knowledge then you might wanna try Rose Hill Cemetery. Somebody blew his brains out a few years back.”
“Damn, I didn’t know that,” Duce lied. “Who I gotta see to get right?”
“Do I look like the damn information clerk at Macy’s? My time is precious, sweetie,” she said, scratching her neck and looking around nervously. It was obvious her monkey was clawing its way up her back.
Knowing what time it was, Duce pulled a $20 from his pocket and dangled it in front of her. “Ain’t no need for the attitude, ma, I’m out here chasing a dollar like everybody else.”
“I’ll bet,” she said, snatching the bill and stuffing it into her dingy bra. “Since you’ve been gone I know you probably ain’t up on it, but Butch is running the show now.”
Duce’s jaw tightened. Back in the days Butch had been a part of their crew. The seasoned hustler had been fresh home from prison and Knowledge didn’t hesitate to put him in position. The old head was one of Knowledge’s most trusted lieutenants back then. He was the left hand while Duce was the right. He had sent Duce letters from time to time while he was away, but six months into his bid the letters stopped coming. The next thing you knew Duce was hearing stories about how Butch was the nigga to see on the East Side, and how he was bragging about taking what Knowledge once held. Duce was never sure exactly what Butch’s role in Knowledge’s murder had been, but he would catch it like the rest of them.
“Sis, I got another dub for you if you can point me to him,” Duce offered.
The crack head looked at Duce as if he had insulted her. “Baby, 40 funky ass dollars couldn’t get you that type of information, even if I did know where he was. Butch don’t come around here much. He does all his business through Scott these days.”
Just hearing Scott’s name made Duce want to go ballistic. Scott was a soldier in his brother’s organization. Duce remembered him as a loud mouth little bastard that was in a rush to die. On the day he took his fall, it was Scott who had placed the phone call telling him that the spot was being robbed.
“Little Scott still running round out here?” Duce asked in an easy tone.
“He ain’t little no more. Since Butch took over, Scott’s been running around here like he was Ivan the Terrible. It’s a miracle ain’t nobody killed or locked his ass up yet,” she told him.
“Man, I ain’t seen my nigga Scott in years, he around now?”
“Nah, I ain’t seen the little fucker in a few days. He’ll probably be poking his head out sooner or later to come see his baby mama Marsha.”
At that statement Duce felt like all the wind had been sucked out of him. At the time of Knowledge’s death, Marsha had been his shorty. The more the crack head spoke the thicker the plot got.
“Damn, Marsha still lives in the projects?” he asked almost innocently.
“Sure do. You’d think with all the shit her man sling he’d have moved her out, but the bitch is still up on the eleventh floor. She came through here not too long ago, swinging that fake ass weave.”
Duce handed the crack head two more twenties. “Good looking out, ma.”
“For what, I ain’t did shit?” she asked, confused.
“Love, you did more than you know,” he said, before leaving her standing there in a state of confusion.
SIX
“Yo, I wanna thank you for finally trusting me enough to get some money wit you, Poppy. I was trying to get wit you for a minute, yo,” Rico said excitedly.
“No doubt,” Cowboy mumbled, never taking his eyes off the front of the bodega. He thumbed the handle of his gat and found it came away moist with sweat. He was nervous, but wouldn’t allow Rico to see it.
“For real, yo, you’ve been like my idol since back in the days. Yo, you like the black Jesse James, B. Word to my dead moms I cant wait to go up in there and take these Spanish niggas’ shit!” he continued to babble.
The more Rico talked the more annoyed Cowboy seemed to become. Frankie backing out at the last minute had almost led to Cowboy aborting the mission, but once he had his mind set to do something, nothing short of death or paralysis could deter him. He could’ve called on Cos or Thor, but they would’ve more than likely tried to talk him out of the foolish caper. El Pogo was a beast and was known throughout the underworld for his connections and brutality. To rob him was just as good as slitting your own throat, unless you were lucky enough to get away with it, which Cowboy felt he was. For as cunning and ruthless as Cowboy was, he knew he couldn’t pull the caper off alone. He needed someone to watch his back while he cleaned the place out; this is where Rico came in.
Rico was a young knucklehead from the neighborhood who was determined to make a name for himself in the game. Though Rico wasn’t the most seasoned criminal, he would follow directions and kill on command. He had been hounding Cowboy to put him in position for the longest, but Cowboy kept a close circle and was hesitant to let outsiders in, especially those who weren’t proven or didn’t come with a damn good reference. Frankie’s bullshit move had backed him into a corner and forced his hand, which was the only reason Rico was sitting in the passenger seat of the mini van.
Finally, having enough of the young man’s constant chatter, Cowboy addressed him. “Rico shut up and listen. These ain’t no fucking chumps we about to ride on, so calm the tough talk. You fuck up and El Pogo will make a necklace outta your balls, make no mistake about that. All you gotta do is follow my lead and let’s get this money.” Without waiting for a response Cowboy got out of the van and headed towards the bodega.
The little bell over the front door of the bodega was drowned out by the sounds of Latin music coming from the wall mounted speakers. Cowboy headed towards the counter while Rico went behind the shelf towards the beers. “Hurry up, my dude, them hos ain’t gonna wait forever,” Cowboy shouted to Rico.
A Hispanic woman who looked to be about in her forties manned the register while a slightly younger man made sandwiches. The woman gave Cowboy the once over as he approached.
“Mommy,” he addressed the woman behind the register, “let me get a pack of Newports and two Dutch Masters,” Cowboy said, digging in his coat pocket like he was looking for his money.
“Regular or one hundreds?” she asked, reaching above the counter to the cigarette rack.
“Both bitch!” Cowboy said, pulling a nine out of his coat pocket and shoving it in her face.
“Take it easy, Poppy, I give you the money,” the woman said nervously.
“Fuck what you got in the drawer, I want the real money. And while you’re at it, set out that yay.” Cowboy said. When the woman didn’t move, Cowboy did. Using his free hand, he grabbed her by the front of her floral blouse and pulled her roughly over to his side of the counter. “Don’t make me push your shit back, ma. Just set the coke and the dough out and I’m on my way.”