He didn’t know why he was so sure that it would be a crack baby. He just knew. It fit the profile. He also didn’t know why he was so positive that it would happen in Philly, in G-town, but over the centuries he’d gotten good at predicting these things. He recognized the patterns, the subtle nuances in the chain of cause and effect that inevitably led to His coming. He was in the right place, at the right time, and he was going to crucify that little fucker again, and again and again. Every time He reappeared, Scratch would be waiting to send Him back to his maker. He’d get him. He always had, always would, and that uppity little nigger, Snap, was going to help him. This time, he wouldn’t even get his hands dirty.
“But where the fuck is the baby!” he shouted as he slammed his fists into the cherry wood-grain dashboard.
Any day now members of the Junior Black Gangsta Lords would be coming for him, to avenge their leader’s murder, and as long as that baby was safe in its mother’s womb Scratch was vulnerable. Once the little bastard was dead Scratch would be almost invincible. It wouldn’t matter how many times he was killed. He’d just keep coming back. Dr. Yaccub had made certain of that. The infernal energy that animated his flesh was eternal. He wasn’t a devil or a demon, but he was the next best thing.
— | — | —
Chapter 17
“Pass me the gat. I gotta stay strapped. I ain’t goin’ out on my muthafuckin’ back!”
—Brand Nubians, “Pass Me the Gat”
««—»»
“Yo, Snap? Yeah, dog. This is Scratch.”
“Da fuck do you want?”
“Look, brother, I’m sorry about Tank.”
“I ain’t your fuckin’ brother, white boy. Now, fuck do you want?”
“I’ve got a favor to ask you.”
“I’m out Scratch. I’m done with this shit.”
“You’re what?”
“I ain’t stutter, muthafucka! I’m out this shit! Your ass is on your own from now on.”
The chuckle that came from the other end of the phone was like a witch’s cackle.
“You trippin’, Snap. You so deep in this shit you can’t never get out.”
“Yeah? And who tha fuck gonna keep me in? Your punk ass?”
“I don’t have to keep you in, Snap. The streets ain’t gonna let you walk away from this. You think you can just body the leader of a major drug crew and then walk the streets unprotected? If you ain’t part of my crew then you all alone and that makes you an easy mark. All the blood you done splashed on these streets? Black folks got long memories, Snap. You may try to ignore what you are, to put it out of your mind and act like a regular citizen, but those same citizens that you want to be like won’t let you forget. You know how the game is. If you ain’t a playa then you gets played. If you ain’t a gangsta then you gets ganked, and if you ain’t a killer—you feel me? There’s only one way out of this game. The same way Tank got out.”
“You threatenin’ me? Well, you can save it ’cause you don’t put no fear in my heart. All that voodoo Satanic shit don’t mean nothin’ to me. You can get smoked like anybody else. Test me.”
“You know I wouldn’t try to threaten you, Snap. I know you’s a real gangsta. Just do this last little favor for me and I won’t bother you for shit else. You want to be a civilian then more power to you. But you can’t just leave me hangin’.”
“You want me to spill some more blood then it’s gonna cost you another ten thousand.”
“Ten thousand? You crazy! I ain’t talkin’ about killin’ nobody on the level of Jah Warrior.”
“Then handle it yourself.”
“I can’t go no higher than five.”
My lip curled up in a snarl.
“This ain’t no muthafuckin’ negotiation! You want me to do this then the price is ten muthafuckin’ gees!”
Scratch’s voice came thundering through the phone. Something about it sounded more powerful and threatening than the man had ever sounded in person. It reminded me of the way Scratch had sounded years ago just before he’d blown that Jamaican’s head apart.
“Fuck that! You owe me!”
“Owe you? How you get that notion in your head? You ain’t never did shit for me. Many niggas as I done put to sleep for you for bullshit chump change! I don’t owe you shit and I don’t need shit from you!”
Scratch hissed into the phone and it was like the warning before a cobra’s strike. Rage boiled off him in waves. I could feel his anger like a physical force radiating through the phone, burning into me. I refused to be moved. Fuck him. His voice softened and that con-man smoothness slithered back into his words.
“Alright, bro. You got your ten fuckin’ gees.”
“Then I’m down. Should I come heavy or light?”
“This is light work. I’ll pick you up in about a half.”
I hung up the phone and stared at the yellowing white walls trying to dispel the ominous feeling of dread that had come down on me after agreeing to go on yet another hit. This had to be the last one. If I kept this up I’d never get out. I shouldn’t have even taken this last job, but the lure of money was too strong. I turned and looked across the room at the mirror on the bathroom door. It had been a long time since I’d looked in that mirror and saw the boy I was meant to be instead of the killer I had become. I wondered if I’d ever be a kid again. I wondered if I’d ever be able to hug my mother without the blood on my hands forming a barrier between us. I lifted the holster with the loaded Beretta still inside out of a pile of dirty laundry and hooked it onto my belt. I slipped a box of 9mm. Black Talons into my pocket along with an extra clip just as my mother called up to me from the kitchen.
“Are you going out or are you gonna stay and eat dinner with your Momma for a change?”
It was her none-too-subtle way of saying that she was lonely and wanted company.
“I’ll eat, but I have to bounce pretty soon though.”
“Come down here, boy.”
“Okay, but no arguments, alright?”
“Boy, I ain’t got the strength to argue with you.”
I slipped on my Kevlar vest and pulled a sweat shirt on over top of it before I walked down the narrow staircase into the dining room. It had been a long time since my mother and I sat at the same table together and had a meal without arguing. I was looking forward to it. It somehow made what I had to do tonight seem less horrible.
The table was set with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and homemade biscuits. My stomach growled. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.
“Before you eat any of this food you’ve got to make me a promise.”
My eyes narrowed in suspicion. What the hell was she trying to pull now?
“What kind of promise?”
“Promise me you won’t get yourself killed or kill anybody else tonight.”
Her eyes filled with tears and when the first one fell the rest came like a torrential downpour racking her slender body. I ran to her and held her against me as she wept. Her hands slid down my back to my waste, to my belt. I felt her trying to lift my gun from its holster. I wrenched myself free from her.
“What are you doing?” I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling and flung my arms down at my sides in exasperation.
“Promise me, Malik! Promise me! You don’t know the dreams I’ve been having lately. And your grandmother’s been having them too. Dreams about that evil White boy you work for. I saw him sitting on his throne in hell and he was calling you to him. You were trying to resist him, but he was too powerful and he brought you down to hell with him only you weren’t on no throne. You were being tortured down there. Demons were ripping you apart, skinning you alive, and you were screaming for me, but it was too late for me to save you. They threw your broken body in the lake of fire. All your skin had been ripped away and your eyes had been gouged out and…and they’d castrated you and left you there, burning and screaming. That White boy was just watching it all and laughing at you. He’s evil, Malik. Just stay away from him. Promise me!” Her eyes were wild and desperate, bloodshot with tears.