Sha-Sha didn’t know why he was so fucked-up-it was just the way he was. It was probably the reason why he got so fat. Whenever he got down about his life and shit, he’d go for the menus, order in a whole mess of food. Then he’d get on the scale, see he’d gained another ten, fifteen pounds, and he’d feel so bad about it, he’d go out and shoot somebody. Then he’d feel bad about how fucked up all that shit was and he’d start with burgers and pizzas again. It was like his life was going round and round in circles and there was no way out.
When he saw he’d passed four hundred pounds he was all ready to say, Fuck it, and go out and start killing people, and kill himself while he was at it. Didn’t make no damn difference anyway and, besides, how long before the cops got off their asses and busted him? They’d already had him in for questioning three times for killing three different motherfuckers. Yeah, he’d been away, but never on a murder rap, and his fat ass wasn’t gonna be doing no thirty-to-life upstate. Them niggas loved big boys and he wasn’t gonna be gettin’ jammed like a pin cushion for no thirty years.
Then Felicia, his ho cousin, showed up at his crib. She was looking fine too, with that big ghetto ass, but what she’d do to her titties? Every time he saw her they got bigger and bigger; now it looked like they was ready to explode.
He went to hug her, was ready to push her head down so she could start sucking on his dick like when they was kids, but she pushed him away, started dissing him about his weight and shit. Man, he was ready to smoke that ho, then she hit him with some big i-dea. Shit didn’t seem so bad neither-get some cash and product off some white people and dealers from down south and shit. Twenty grand was bullshit, but maybe they could get forty for the product. That made sixty grand and that wasn’t too bad. It got Sha-Sha thinking, anyway-maybe he didn’t have to go out, start killing people after all. Sixty grand, shit, he could use that-start up his own crew with his boy Troit. They could be the ones ordering all ’em niggas around and shit. Yeah, Sha-Sha saw his whole life changing. He’d go on the Slim Fast and Lean Cuisine, drop a couple hundred pounds, be able to get up out of his water bed without feeling all that shame and shit.
So when Felicia talking, Sha-Sha kept saying Yeah, yeah, let’s do it, let’s take the white man’s money. Stupid ho thought she was gonna get twenty grand, meanwhile she wasn’t gonna get a damn cent. Then he fucked her good and sent her ass back to Manhattan.
A few days later, she called him, told him she knew where the drug deal was at. But she was acting all smart and shit-said she wasn’t gonna tell him nothing over the phone, that she had to be in the car with him and Troit and then she’d tell them where it was at. Yeah, she was smart all right. Soon she was gonna be dead too.
Felicia came back to Brooklyn the day before. In the elevator going down, Sha-Sha pulled stop and made Felicia blow him before they went to pick up Troit. Sha-Sha had hooked up with Troit up at Sing-Sing. Troit looked the opposite of Sha-Sha, bone thin, no meat on his whole body, but he was just as fucked up in the head. They called him Troit, cause he was from Dee-troit. Rumor had it he’d killed so many brothers over there he had to come to Brooklyn to cool down. Most times when niggas started going on about all the people they popped, Sha-Sha knew that was bullshit talking. But he’d seen Troit in action and the boy was stupid-crazy. Sometimes after Sha-Sha killed somebody he felt bad and started eating and shit. But Troit, man, he didn’t give a shit.
So they was all three in a jacked BMW-Sha-Sha driving with Troit up front next to him, and Felicia in the back seat. She was all excited and shit, talking about the twenty grand she was never gonna get. She even had a damn suitcase, said she was gonna leave New York tonight, get on a bus to St. Louis and open a beauty salon or some stupid shit like that. She still wouldn’t tell Sha-Sha where the deal was at-just kept on with the “Make a left here, make a right there” bullshit, like she was Miss Shadow Traffic. Man, Sha-Sha was sick of taking orders, specially from his ho-ass cousin.
They took the Belt Parkway, round to the BQE. Looked to Sha-Sha like they was heading to Queens someplace. Sha-Sha and Troit just wanted to listen to jazz, have some peace and quiet in the car, before they had to go start killing everybody. But Felicia kept going on and on, givin’ more mouth. She was talking about Sha-Sha’s body again, saying how he was too damn fat, and should go for one of them operations where he could get his stomach sewn up or cut off or some shit. Then she started getting into it with Troit, telling the man he was too thin, that he looked like a skeleton. Sha-Sha couldn’t believe it. Didn’t the ho know who she was talking to?
Troit couldn’t take any more and turned round and said, “Bitch, you better learn how to shut up.”
Felicia still couldn’t keep her mouth shut, said, “You better stop callin’ me bitch. I gotta listen to that shit all day long from Max, and I sure as hell ain’t takin’ that shit from y’all niggas.”
Sha-Sha saw Troit’s hand go for his piece, knew what was gonna happen next. And he couldn’t let that shit happen-not till they knew where the drug deal was at anyway. Sha-Sha turned to Troit, gave him a look that said, Later, man, and Troit put the piece down.
Felicia didn’t shut up the rest of the ride.
One point Troit said to Sha-Sha, “Later, yo, she mine.”
Felicia, all bitchy, went, “What he say?”
Sha-Sha, smiling, went, “Nothin’.”
Thirteen
I would have killed more but I was out of ammunition and I was afraid to buy more.
To get cash for New York, Angela and Slide ran a series of fast guerrilla hits. Went like this: Angela would go into a bar, lure some sucker, checking out his wallet first, and then bring him outside where Slide got up close and personal. They did seven of these stunts in two days, knowing the Guards would be on them fast. Three paid real fine dividends and the others, well fook it, they were a bust, what can you do?
Still, they had their stake and Angela booked Continental direct to New York.
They ditched the shack they lived in and the car, well, you couldn’t give the frigging thing away, so Slide stripped the plates, left it at the airport.
He was like a kid, excited at his dream coming true. Annoying the goddamn shite out of her with the endless questions: Can we go to a Yankees game? Can we live in Tribeca? Can we buy a Chevrolet? Can we go to Niagara Falls? Can we, can we, can we, till she roared, “Can we give it a fucking rest?”
He bought a new suit. It was June and she told him it was going to be hot, hotter than a motherfucker, so he bought a linen job, and was pissed when it creased on the plane. And, yeah, he bought a fedora, in white, looking like a poor relation of Truman Capote, and new shades-the real deal, Ray-Ban aviators. When the flight attendant came by with the beverage cart he ordered a Tom Collins and when that wasn’t available, he went Bogey, snapped, “Gimme bourbon, rocks, Bud chaser.”
To hear this in an Irish accent is to have lived a little beyond yer sell-by date.
Angela had a large vodka, hold the mixer. She wanted that raw burn of alcohol in her gut and she got it all right.
The in-flight movie had Tom Cruise in it and Slide went, “I love the Cruiser. Maybe we should become Scientologists, there’s serious wedge with those dudes.”