“Old man, you ain’t killing nothing and you ain’t letting nothing die,” Duce teased him, while pouring two shots of Jack Daniels.
“I got your old man,” Smitty said, brandishing his .44. It was one of the few kinds of guns that he would use. “Man, I didn’t even expect you to be here. Ain’t you on work release or something?”
“Work release is for niggaz on parole, Smitty. I’m a free man.” Duce said, handing him his drink. “Thanks to you. I owe you, big time.”
“You don’t owe me shit, D. That little bit of work I put in to help spring you could never balance the scales for what you did for me. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of her, or see her in Rachel’s face. Nah, I owe you.” The cold fire in Smitty’s eyes seemed to burn away the tears that surely wanted to fall.
Duce placed a hand over Smitty’s and looked him square in the eyes. “One of the first things you taught me was that there are no debts between true friends.” Smitty didn’t speak, he just nodded his head. “Speaking of Rachel how is she?”
This got Smitty to smile. “Smelling her ass. Ever since she hit thirteen she thinks that qualifies her as a woman.”
“Damn, Rachel is thirteen?” Duce said, still thinking of her as the sassy eight year old he’d left.
“Yeah, man. Even got little tits and shit,” he laughed. “I had to chase a lil nigga from round my house the other day.”
Now, it was Duce’s turn to laugh. “I hear you, but at least living out in Long Island, she ain’t gotta deal with the same shit we was going through coming up.”
“Duce, we live in a great neighborhood and Rachel goes to a mostly white school, but in every city there’s a ghetto. I mean, I try to keep her from around that bullshit, but I know she slips away from time to time. I guess she got it honest, because me and Monica used to tear the streets up something awful.”
“Fuck yeah. I remember when that girl slapped me on 115th street. I was gonna stomp the bitch out, but Monica talked me out of it. She said a real man doesn’t hit a lady, right before she stomped that bitch damn near into a coma!”
“Yeah, my girl could throw them thangs,” Smitty agreed, with a far off look in his eyes.
Duce felt his pain like there was a wire connecting them. “Smitty, I didn’t mean to bring her up. Man I…”
“It’s cool, man. It’s been a long time since I was close enough to anyone to reminisce on her. A lot of times it’s the same thing that’s hurting you that helps build immunity to it. I’ll never forget Monica, but I know I can’t live for the dead. Rachel needs me, so I gotta keep it together,” Smitty paused for a minute to gather himself. “Enough about this square shit, D-Murder you ready to come out and play?”
“Ready? Shit he made a grand appearance last night. I went to holla at…”
Smitty raised his hand for silence. “Don’t say another word, Duce. You keep that shit between you, God and the devil,” Smitty reminded him. Smitty used to always preach the importance of keeping your dirt to yourself. Anybody who could possibly jam you had to go. Duce took Smitty’s words as gospel and it was what kept him in the game for so long.
“Yeah, I’m definitely on my job,” Duce nodded. “I got some leads to follow up on, but in a hot minute, D-Murder gonna drop the curtain on these faggots.”
“Well, I’m ready to boogie when you are. It’s been a while since this old dog has tasted blood,” Smitty told him.
Duce gave him an affectionate look. “Dawg, as much as I appreciate the offer I can’t take you to hell with me. You got a kid and a square life, and I couldn’t disrupt that. I’m gonna put all my brother’s affairs in order and that’s that.”
Smitty wanted to protest, but he knew Duce was right. He loved Knowledge and would lie anything down for him, but he had Rachel to think about. He couldn’t risk fucking her life up on a five year old vendetta.
“Okay,” Smitty nodded. “So you gonna take over Knowledge’s old operation after you lay these suckers?”
Duce thought on it for a minute. “Nah, I ain’t fucking wit it. After I pull this last joint, I’m out.”
“One more lick, huh?” Smitty smiled.
“Yep, one more lick and I’m out of here.”
“I can dig it, D. Oh, your ride is downstairs.”
This changed Duce’s whole demeanor. “Aw shit, you brought my baby!” Duce said excitedly, grabbing his coat off the recliner, where he had thrown it the night before. “I hope my shit ain’t all dented up!” he said, leaving the apartment with Smitty in tow.
Duce felt like a kid at Christmas as he took the steps two at a time. The leftover snow that soaked his socks through his slippers didn’t even seem to bother him when he sloshed through it coming out of the building. For the last five years the only transportation he had experienced was prison buses. The broad smile on his face melted away when he spotted his ride.
The truck looked nothing like what Duce remembered. Though the Explorer was forest green, it looked more like brown beneath the dust and grime. The tires were still fresh, but looked horrible against the dirt covered rims. He turned his irritated gaze from the truck to Smitty. “You can’t be serious?” he folded his arms.
Smitty shrugged. “You asked me to store it, not clean it.”
NINE
When the brute known as Thor stepped from the Escalade, you could almost hear the shocks give a prayer of thanks. Standing well over six feet and built like an offensive lineman, Thor was an intimidating sight with a sadistic streak adding credibility to his rep. The puffy North Face he wore served in concealing the .357 holstered under his arm, but was barely able to cover the handle of his trademark sledge hammer. The four foot combination of steel and wood had put in almost as much work as his massive hands.
Next to step from the vehicle was Cos, or the Colonel as he was sometimes referred to. He had a squared face, which always seemed to be half smiling, but the eyes of a man who had spent most of his life behind the concrete walls of New York State’s finest correctional facilities. The full length wool coat and khaki pants gave him the appearance of a business man, and the Mac-11 slung across his chest satisfied all curiosities as to what kind of business he was in. These two men served as Cowboy’s enforcers, and when needed, executioners.
Cowboy stepped from the truck decked out in a black turtle neck and black leather jacket. His skull cap was cocked to the side and pulled to the edge of his blacked-out sun glasses. In one hand he held a chrome briefcase and in the other he held a Blackberry, which he couldn’t seem to stop fumbling with. Cowboy was still a novice at working the phone, but he felt it made him look intellectual.
Bringing up the rear was Frankie Five Fingers, the avenging angel. As Cowboy suggested, she was dressed seductively, with a low cut burgundy blouse that showed her ample cleavage and skin-tight jeans tucked into a pair of burgundy riding boots. Her hair hung loose, crowning her face, with the bang tickling the tops of her cranberry Gucci shades. Adjusting the fashionable leather knapsack, she did her model strut over to her man.
“Picture perfect,” Cowboy said, kissing her cranberry painted lips, careful not to smear the lipstick.
“Not in front of the help,” she teased, running her tongue over Cowboy’s lips. She nicked his bottom lip to let him know all was not forgiven from their argument.
“I got your fucking help,” Thor grumbled.
“You know I love you, baby,” Frankie stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
“Enough of that,” Cowboy pulled her closer to him. “Get your own bitch, nigga, and keep ya mitts off mine,” he said playfully to Thor. “Look, y’all be on point. We gonna go in here and handle business with the fat man then we out, dig it?”