“If you ain’t about to pull a gun from under there then you better take your hand out. That’s how fools get killed.”
Drew smirked and flashed me the little silver .22 tucked in his waistband. I turned to look at the guards who had managed to calm down the other troublemakers and were starting to move the line into the gym. I turned back to the mob barely suppressing my anger.
“Get the fuck over here and put that shit away. All you fools get over here! This is Tyrone and Jerome’s big day and you niggas is about to fuck it up by startin’ a riot in this bitch? Now, I’m gonna tell ya’ll muthafuckas what’s gonna happen and I don’t want no shit or I swear to God I’ll fly a muthafucka’s head right here and now. Ya’ll take them guns and whatever the fuck else ya’ll got and put them back in your cars. Let them guards do they fuckin’ jobs and act like ya’ll got some sense once you get up in there. Just can’t stand to see brothas makin’ something of they selves can ya’ll? Always gotta fuck shit up for everybody.”
They all stood back, looking at me like I was crazy as I snarled at them in disgust.
“Nigga, I ain’t putting my gat nowhere. Fuck you and them twins!”
I was just about to pull out my own gat when someone stepped in front of me and punched Drew in the gut, doubling him over. He slumped to the ground with his eyes full of tears as his wind exploded from his lungs. When Tank pulled his fist out of Drew’s stomach he was clutching the little .22 in his hand.
“If you ain’t got no respect for nobody then your bitch ass shouldn’t be here. Now, you’ll get this back when the shit is over and if you got anymore problems we can discuss it then. We got any problems?”
“Nuh-naw, Tank. We cool,” Drew wheezed as he struggled back up to his feet, still wincing in pain.
“How about the rest of ya’ll?”
Both Tank and Huey were now standing shoulder to shoulder with me glaring out over what seemed to be half the brothas and sistas in the neighborhood.
“It’s all good, Bro.”
“Yeah, it ain’t nothin’ but a thang.”
“You know we cool, Snap.”
They started walking off toward their cars draining their forties and getting last hits off their blunts. Huey and Tank walked with me to my car.
“That nigga Drew is gettin’ out of control. He’s startin’ to believe his own bullshit. If ya’ll hadn’t shown up I was about to split his wig.”
Huey turned his flat dead eyes toward me and smiled. As I watched, the smile turned to a scowl and then both expressions faded entirely leaving a lifeless mask.
“Yeah, I bet you would have.”
The twins lit up the court. Tyrone scored twenty-four points with ten rebounds and six assists. Jerome scored eighteen points. No rebounds. No assists. Temple still lost though with scores of one eighteen to one eleven to the Georgetown Hoyas. Darlene and Tina were there and I thought Tank was gonna faint when Darlene asked him out on a date.
“I know you like me, nigga. So why come you never asked me out?”
“Uh-um.”
“Fuck that! You takin’ me out this weekend.”
She smiled sweetly, winking coyly, one hand on her luscious hips, the other reaching out to carress Tank’s nervously twitching cheek.
“And make sure you take me someplace nice. I don’t play that Mickey D shit.”
She walked off switching her perfectly sculpted, perfectly round, exquisitely muscled ass. My dick got hard and I don’t even like the bitch. Tank was probably bustin a nut in his pants. Right after she left, Scratch showed up.
“That was some game, huh? Them niggas sure can ball.”
“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, white boy! I should bust your fuckin’ grille for that shit!” Huey growled, pushing his face up into Scratch’s pasty mug. Tank dragged Huey away from Scratch before they could lock horns.
“Look, Snap, I just stopped by to tell you I need that business taken care of tonight, alright?”
“Then it’s done. Now get the fuck out of here before Huey caps your ass.”
I was tempted to ask Tank to let me do this job on my own. That would have been the sentimental thing to do, but Warlock was a crafty muthafucka with that blade and I had seen brothas get gutted with shanks in juvie. The idea of having my belly ripped open by a six-inch stiletto and seeing my steaming innards come boiling out of my stomach or of having my throat cut and drowning in my own blood, chilled me deeper than the idea of catching a bullet or just about any other way of dying. I took Tank along just in case. If that sneaky little nigga got the jump on me I would want Tank backing me up with the AK. Warlock was no ordinary crackhead and I was feeling more than a little guilt over the idea of killing him, not to mention my guilt over the death of his brother who had once been a close friend.
Just like any other teenagers we thought we were invincible. That doesn’t mean we didn’t take all the proper precautions. It just meant that we thought we could out fight, out shoot, or out smart, anyone we came across. It never occurred to us that there may be some situations we couldn’t handle. The only way we thought we could die is if we fucked up and got caught slippin’. It never occurred to us that we could plan and execute everything perfectly and still get killed. It never occurred to us that people died in this game no matter how strong or cunning they were. That bullets really don’t have any one’s name on them. No matter how many innocent children we saw gunned down in drivebys, no matter how many times we saw our homeboys torn apart as we stood mere inches away by bullets meant for us, no matter how many funerals or public service announcements we saw, it never occurred to us that we could be next. Not because we were careless, but just because we were in the game, and that’s as careless as you need to be to get your ass taken out.
I was nervous as a muthafucka when we rolled down G-town Ave, looking for Warlock. Tank sat in my big old Impala with a turkey and cheese hoagie between his legs right next to the AK. If a cop had drove by he would have seen that big ass assault rifle immediately, but of course Tank was giving less than a fuck. If cops had rolled on us Tank would have held court in the street and I would have thrown down right beside him. Some cop might have been given a parade for being shot in the line of duty, but the two of us would certainly have wound up as just two more sorry-ass dead niggas bleeding on the sidewalk. I threw my jacket over the AK, which drew a slight chuckle from Tank. I was sure that his lackadaisical attitude would bury us both some day.
“Yo, there’s that muthafucka now!”
Tank grabbed the AK and swung the barrel out the window. I grabbed the rifle and pulled it back inside. Warlock, who was just passing a local bar called the Starlight Lounge, caught the motion and bolted down the street.
“Man, fuck did you grab me like that for? We could have had that nigga!”
“Yeah, and started a big muthafuckin’ drug war in the process! You can’t just go sprayin’ up the Ave like that. We ain’t the only killers in the world you know.”
Those two blocks of Germantown Avenue between Washington Lane and Walnut Lane were where all the players hung out, both young and old. You could buy anything here: weed, heroin, crack, powder, guns, pussy, anything. The most dangerous thugs in the G kicked it on this stretch of avenue and it was no place to go unloading an assault rifle.
I floored the Impala’s big four hundred and fifty two horsepower V8 engine and sped off after Warlock while Tank’s eyes scanned the vast array of hardened gangstas he’d almost unloaded into. Buttaman, the tall inky black skeleton who singlehandedly controlled all the horse on the West side of G-town, glared murderously at our car as we drove past. His hand was shoved deep into the pocket of his trench coat and probably gripped around the handle of the big forty-four Colt revolver everyone knew he carried there. His soulless eyes looked through us without seeing two of the hardest niggas in the game as we thought of ourselves, but a couple of dumb-ass trigger-happy amateurs who probably wouldn’t live to see half of his forty years. He slid his hand out of his coat, sneered, and waved us off. I felt like I had just passed through a ghost. Even Tank let out a long staggering breath. Buttaman was a dead aim with that forty-four. If he had decided to pull it out we would both be dead. There was not even a question about it. We were alive because he didn’t feel we were worth wasting the bullets. He was from a different time when people didn’t kill each other over shit like that, or at least that’s what they told us. For a split second, looking into Buttaman’s eyes, I felt the fear my own victims must feel when they see me coming. It was a feeling I hoped I’d never have again.