Lyle’s face darkened. “Yeah, and I know how they get down too. Drama probably got a whole platoon out in those streets right now looking for this... and you.”
“Drama don’t scare me. He ain’t nuthin’ but a sucker.” Super Blast put up his middle finger. “I got this for Drama.”
“I hear you talking, Super Blast. But it’s only a minute ’fore they come through here looking for you.”
“I know that.”
“So then you know you can’t stay here. ’Cause they’ll kill us both.”
“Now that’s where you wrong, Lyle.”
“’Scuse me?”
“Lyle, go pick up my mama. Tell her to come here and get me.”
Lyle scratched his scalp. “Why don’t we just call her?”
“Mama ain’t got no phone. You gots to go get her.” Super Blast pulled a car key from his pocket and thrust it in Lyle’s direction.
“Blast, that’s crazy. They gon’ be looking for that car. I pull out in traffic and those fools will start knocking at the light.”
Super Blast sucked his teeth, then raised his voice. “Fool, Mama ain’t got no phone. If you too ’fraid to drive my car, that only leave you one choice.”
Lyle held up his hand. “No, don’t even think about it.”
“Yes, youngster. You gon’ have to walk it to Mama’s house.”
Lyle’s phone rang.
A nervous tick caused Super Blast’s jaw to pulsate. “Who trying to hit you? Cut it off.”
“This is my cell. I ain’t cutting it off.”
“I said cut it off. You forget who I am, fool?”
For a second, a bolt of hatred made Lyle’s eyes glow in the dark. No, he hadn’t forgotten. It was Super Blast who had turned him out, took him on his first drive-by, made him a lookout on his burglary team. There were a dozen or more licks, but Lyle always seemed to come out on the short end of the split. Once, they were driving down International Boulevard near East 83rd when blue lights started flashing behind them. Super Blast said, “I got a .22 in the glove box. If they turn this car upside down, it’s your gun. I’m on parole.” That was the first time Lyle ever had to do jail time. Now he had a record.
“Where your sister at, man?” Super Blast suddenly said.
“She ain’t home.”
“Call her.”
“I ain’t doing that.”
“You really feeling yourself tonight, huh, lil’ homie?”
Suddenly, Super Blast grabbed his chest and fell back on the couch. To Lyle he appeared asleep, eternally so.
Seconds later, Super Blast’s eyes opened. He felt a shadow and smelled Listerine breath. “Fool, why you leaning over me?”
“What you mean?” Lyle said.
“Second ago you was on the other side of the room — now you all over me like a damn vulture.”
“You trippin’, OG.”
Super Blast reached beneath the couch and felt for the duffel bag. Still there. “Now, what was we talking about,” Super Blast asked. He propped himself up on his elbows.
“My sister Tanya, ’member?”
Despite his pain, a lewd grin crawled across Super Blast’s face. “Yeah, so what’s up with old Tanya?”
“You know Tanya got the herpes, right?”
“How would I know that?”
“’Cause she got it from you.”
Super Blast smirked and diverted his eyes momentarily, almost displaying a tinge of embarrassment. Then he was right back to his old self. “The herpes ain’t nuthin’.”
“Ain’t nuthin’? My sister started breaking out all over her private parts with these blisters. The doctor say that disease don’t never go away. Never.”
Super Blast turned slowly on his side to face Lyle. “Tanya want to be my ride-or-die chick. She want to share my glory, she got to share my pain. We all got a price to pay in this world.”
“She asked you to wear a condom, man. Why din’t you?”
“Didn’t want to take away the feeling.”
“Blast, why you feel like you can just do people any kind of way you want? You use people, that ain’t right.”
“Ain’t you caught on yet, my dude? The streets don’t love nobody. You can’t understand that, you’ll never understand a man like me. I bred you from a pup, but I must’ve done something wrong ’cause you weak. You soft, my dude. You ain’t nuthin’ but a follower. Sure, I used your sister, and I ain’t ready to stop there. Is your mama home? ’Cause she can get it too.”
“Mama’s at church.”
Lyle’s cell phone rang again.
“Fool, I told you to turn that thing off!”
“Just a second.” Lyle looked at the number and then lifted the phone to his mouth. “Can’t talk now, I got company.” He ended the call.
“Who was that?”
“Telemarketer. Now, let me call a cab so I can get over to your mama’s crib.”
“Fool, you ain’t calling no cab so they can see who’s up in this house. Hell naw! You walking.”
The phone rang once more.
Before Super Blast could say anything, Lyle picked up the cell and hollered into it, “Don’t call here no more! I got company!”
“Who was that, Lyle?”
“Same damn call.”
“Fool, why you tell a telemarketer you got company?”
“Only way to get rid of ’em. Law says they can’t call you back if you say you got company.”
“For real? I never heard of no law like that.”
“It’s new.”
Super Blast sucked his teeth. “Damn, I hate telemarketers.” He began to shiver, his teeth chattering. He moaned, “I’m so cold,” then gripped his pistol close to his chest as though it were a baby’s blanket.
“Try and relax,” Lyle said. “Let me go get your mama, now.”
Super Blast grunted his approval before slipping into unconsciousness.
He heard the back door open. How long had he been out? No way of telling. It was all good, Mama was here now and she would get him to a doctor. Maybe they’d have to make a run for it. They had family in New Orleans. The money would give them a fresh start, they’d get a nice apartment and a new car. He’d break those kilos down and then cook the rest into rocks. He’d make a killing.
“Mama, I’m in here!” Super Blast cried out.
“Mama? I ain’t your mama, fool!”
It was a man’s voice: cold, angry, ruthless. Super Blast recognized it and almost screamed. He aimed his pistol toward the voice.
Nothing. Just two clicks.
The lights went on. And there he was: the hood god, Drama himself, and two of his goons. Lyle stood behind them.
“Lyle, I told you to go get my mama,” Super Blast said.
“Is that what you said? Huh. I thought you said go get Drama.”
Even Drama laughed. His trademark ponytail jumped on his back as his head bobbed up and down.
Super Blast winced as the pain shot through his spine. “Judas, you set me up.”
“I ain’t Judas, because in this scenario that would make you Jesus Christ, and you far from that.”
“I hate to break up all this good church talk,” Drama cut in. “But Super Blast — where my merchandise at?”
“I ain’t got nuthin’, Drama. Five-O ran up on me and I dropped the bag.”
Drama cursed, then crossed the room and stood over Super Blast. “Where my stuff at, fool?”
“I ain’t got—”
Drama slapped Super Blast in the forehead with his pistol. Blood gushed out.
“I can do this all night, player. Do not make me ask you again — where my yay and my money?” Drama’s right hand reared back.
“Okay, okay! It’s under the couch.”
“Give it to me.”
A tear slipped from Super Blast’s eye as he reached for the duffel bag. A puzzled look came over his face. His hand slid back down and started feeling around under the couch once again, frantically. “It’s gone.”