“A couple of guys. I don’t know them.”
“Where’d it happen? Here?”
Tak closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, man. I was on 18th Street, coming from the bus terminal.”
As Tak iced his eye, Poppy looked around the small apartment that so many people had found safe harbor in during his time there. He didn’t want to run. He hailed from a family of runners, fleeing captors, family, and responsibility. Oakland felt like home—warm and nurturing, the way a home should feel. This raggedy apartment was the first stable house he’d had since leaving his family. As he studied his friend’s battered face and eased him out of his bloodied shirt, Poppy Martens decided he wasn’t going to run anymore. This shit stops now.
With Tak watching in silence, Poppy disemboweled the apartment. From the seams of curtains, from the bottoms of cupboards, from the rotting floorboards behind the toilet, from an envelope pinned to the back of the couch, Poppy Martens pulled all the money he had in the world. Money that had come all the way from Buffalo.
“What the hell is that?” It was the most excited Tak had sounded in years.
Poppy counted the loot, considered moving it, considered giving it to Tak so he could be safe and away from whatever hell was coming, considered asking one of the hop-heads he knew in Cypress Court to dispatch Coopersmith and have this cat-and-mouse routine done once and for all.
He went to his typewriter instead and scrolled in sheet after sheet of white paper, hammering furiously on the keys. Then, on an envelope he wrote, Open in Case of Emergency or Tragedy, and slipped the folded pages inside. He waved it at Tak who stood nearby, watching. Poppy placed the envelope on the table. He wrote out a letter in longhand and put it and some cash in another envelope addressed to his wife. This he placed in the breast pocket of his overcoat. He forked over enough bills to Tak to keep him in high cotton for quite awhile. He smiled, feeling as though he was making tithes at St. Francis de Sales.
“Where the hell did you get all this cash?” Tak wanted to know. “What have you been up to?”
“It’s from a long time ago. Before California. My rainy day money,” Poppy said.
“Is it raining now?”
“Once I drop these letters off, it’ll be pouring. You best be ready, my friend.”
From the tiny closet Poppy took a leather satchel he’d always been too self-conscious to carry. Though he bought it second hand, it screamed prosperity. In it he put a letter, wrapped five hundred dollars in the funny papers as if it were catfish, and carefully tied the bundle of bills together with twine. He snapped the case shut and handed it to Tak.
“I want you to take this to the courthouse when you’re feeling better. Ask for the district attorney.” Poppy saw the doubtful look on Tak’s face. “Of course, they won’t let you see him, but tell whoever’s guarding his door that the satchel is for him and him alone. Make a fuss if you have to. But make sure you put it in his hands.”
“Why me? Why can’t you do it?”
“Poetic justice.”
Tak didn’t have to navigate a gauntlet of underlings at the courthouse. That very evening Poppy and Tak found the district attorney’s car parked outside the courthouse and placed the satchel on the passenger seat. In it was an unsigned letter, implicating Coopersmith in the Japanese property scandal that had cost his colleague his career.
It was no bloody knife, Poppy realized, but it would serve.
THE STREETS Don’t LOVE NOBODY
by Harry Louis Williams II
Brookfield Village
A fat roach trekked silently across his bloody brown hand. It flicked its antennae as it waddled across fingernails caked thick and black with dirt. Outside, the piercing howl of sirens racing down 98th Avenue collided with the heavy pounding of hip-hop beats from the fifteen-inch speakers in a passing car.
A moan came from the dark couch rank with old beer stains. Super Blast was startled to find that it had emanated out from deep within his own parched throat. Anticipating the call, his homeboy Lyle stepped over to the couch where Super Blast lay sprawled. Lyle bent over and rested the open end of a plastic water bottle on his bottom lip. Then he untied the fat laces on the brand-new Jordans before slipping them off Super Blast’s feet.
A damp crimson blotch spread out across the chest of Super Blast’s once-white Raiders T-shirt. Lyle had tried to stop the bleeding, to no avail. The .44 slug had hit Super Blast in the center of his chest, sending bone fragments scrambling toward his heart and lungs. It had hit so hard and with such fury that it had actually set his shirt on fire. It scalded his belly and shredded his breastbone.
“Am I . . . going to die?” Super Blast asked.
Lyle chuckled, “Fool, you too rich to die. You got ’em, dude. Don’t you remember?”
Yes, he did remember. Super Blast had slipped through an open bedroom window in one of the Black Christmas Mob’s trap houses. He had cracked open the safe in the bedroom with an ax. There were two kilos of raw cocaine packed in clear plastic packages, along with three fat stacks of folded money tied with red rubber bands. Super Blast chucked the kis and the dough into a duffel bag. He was home free until he heard someone holler, “Hey, did you hear that? Somebody’s in the bedroom!”
Super Blast zipped up the duffel and tossed it through the open window. His mistake was instinctive: turning to see who was coming through the door. And they came in blasting. The first slug hit him before he could jump on the chair to leap over the window ledge. He heard seven shots in all before he fell down into the tall grass outside. For a moment he lay there in the dark, twisting like a snake, waiting for death to come. Somehow, he summoned the will to stand. This feat achieved, he grabbed the duffel bag and ran for his car.
The front door of the trap house opened. Super Blast ducked between parked cars, running with his head down. Bullets whizzed overhead. A Corvette’s rear window exploded, showering glass all over him. It wasn’t until he’d made it two blocks that the adrenaline rush subsided. He dashed to the Jetta that he’d stashed at the corner of East 106th and San Leandro Boulevard. He started the engine, veered into traffic, and raced in the direction of Sobrante Park in East Oakland. He couldn’t go home—War Thug had seen his face, so they’d be looking for him. He took a right on 105th Avenue at Edes, sped past Scotty’s Liquor, zoomed across the railroad tracks, and took a left into the stony heart of Brookfield Village.
Super Blast was headed for Lyle’s crib. Lyle was the one person he felt he could trust. Once people learned he had those kis, they’d be trying to take everything away from him. But not Lyle. Lyle was his crime protégé; Super Blast had introduced Lyle to the game.
He parked the car around the corner and limped up to the tiny brown wood-frame house at the center of the cul-de-sac. It took Lyle forever to get the door. He was laughing into his cell phone when it swung open. The pain in Super Blast’s chest was nearly unbearable; white flashes of light blinked in his skull. His shirt was soaked in blood and the duffel bag dangled from his fingertips. Lyle’s eyes settled on the bag and rested there.
“What’s up, my dude?” Lyle asked.
“What it look like, playa? Let me in.”
Super Blast stumbled through the doorway right into Lyle’s awaiting arms. Lyle draped his right arm across his shoulders, then half-carried, half-dragged him into the living room area. He let Super Blast down slowly onto the couch. Finally, he noticed the bleeding chest.
“Damn, man! How is you still alive? What happened?”
Super Black gargled and spit out a mouthful of blood. “War Thug got me.”
“War Thug? That Black Christmas Mob capo?
Super Blast nodded. For the moment it was all he could manage.
“Why he do this to you, bruh?”
“Look in the bag.” Super Blast thrust it in Lyle’s direction, never letting go of the handle.
Lyle unzipped it, peered inside, and grabbed his own chest. “Holy! . . . Man, that’s two kis in there. How much money is th
at?”
Super Blast’s smile broke into a laugh but he cut it short. Hurt too much. “C’mon, dude. You know how I get down in these streets.”
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.”
“Chump, you halfway to death’s door and you still want to play me?” Drama turned to the thugs behind him. “Get him up on his feet.”
And the truth hit Super Blast like a cement block falling from the sky. “Lyle! You stole that bag! When I passed out, you came and took the duffel. And you took the bullets outta my gun!”
“Get your story straight, Blast! First, you says you dropped a duffel bag when you were on the run. Then you say it’s under the couch. Now you saying I got it? Player, it looks like your run is over. A gangsta who can’t keep his alibis straight—I don’t know what’s to be said for you.”
“Let’s go,” Drama ordered. “I see we gonna have to torture your ass to get my money back.”
The goons scooped up Super Blast by his armpits; he was too weak to fight.
“Lyle, don’t do this to me! Tell this man something.”
“I don’t know what I can tell, Blast. But I can tell you like you told me: The streets don’t love nobody.”
Drama wrapped Super Blast’s mouth with duct tape, then pulled a ski mask over his head so he couldn’t be recognized.
Before they left, Drama said, “You done good, Lyle. Letting me know this fool was still here when I hit you on the cell. Otherwise he and his deadbeat mama might’ve got out of town. Come see me at the spot tomorrow—I’ll hit you off somethin’ proper, just like I promised.” Drama was known to be a man of his word, and generous to boot.
Super Blast twisted his head back, his eyes begging. As he was led out, he saw his protégé smile and say, “Have a lovely evening, gentlemen.”
BULLETPROOF
by Carolyn Alexander
McClymonds
I thought I loved you!
Just like I thought I was alive.
Like I wasn’t the zombie Phantom of the Opera
Like this hurt I feel didn’t slit my throat
Like I didn’t bleed out on my favorite outfit
Like these words even matter to you.
Lisa and Leon didn’t know each other, but they both felt the same way.
Oakland Noir Page 9
