I was in shock. It may sound stupid now…I mean human beings are human beings…but I would have never imagined that Tank worried about this kind of shit. He always seemed to be so unaffected by everything. Tank was human. My whole perception of reality changed with that one realization.
But if he was human how could he kill so casually?
The thought kept coming back to me as I sat there guzzling the last of my forty and wiping tears from my eyes. How could Tank spray a guy with that big ugly AK and then go get a cheesesteak hoagie and laugh and joke with the hoes up on the Ave.? How could he be so nonchalant about it? Then again, how often did I really sit and think about the fools I smoked? Tank said he still thought about Meech and I hadn’t thought about him in years. He had been a stepping stone and I had stepped over his corpse and forgotten him.
What was wrong with me?
“Man, I know. I felt the same way. You think I wouldn’t have sprayed this whole damn neighborhood for a new pair of Adidas? Shit, you ain’t got to think because that’s just what the fuck we’ve done. I got cops following me all the time, raiding my house, harassing my Mom and Grandmom. I got to watch my back all the time, scared some nigga’s relative that I smoked might creep up on me and try to get revenge. Did you ever stop and think about how many bodies we got between us? We out there droppin’ fools like flies and half of them don’t even deserve to get bodied. I’m sayin’, it’s like Scratch be havin’ us kill somebody every damn month like he’s got a fuckin’ quota to fill. I think he does it just to keep muthafuckas scared so they don’t fuck with him. We’re endin’ muthafucka’s lives just to build that White boy’s rep.”
Tank nodded in agreement.
“I know what you sayin’, dog. Shit, half the time I think he just be havin’ us body muthafuckas to keep us busy so we don’t turn on him. He’s one paranoid muthafucka and that shit worries me too. He might start thinkin’ we out to get him too and get us done one day. But man, we don’t need to be thinkin’ about all this shit. We in this now ’til the end. We can talk this shit, but ain’t neither of us goin’ back. You tryin’ to go back to bein’ nuthin’? I don’t think so. So why even sweat this shit? I be thinkin’ about quittin’ all the time, but we both done got too used to bein’ paid. Ain’t neither of us givin’ this up. So let’s stop trippin’ on all this depressin’ shit. It’s blowin’ my high.”
“That’s the problem, Tank. I can’t forget. This shit is eatin’ me up. I be thinkin’ I see ghosts and shit at night like followin’ me around and shit. And I ain’t talkin’ about when I’m asleep and dreamin’ neither. I mean I’ll be drivin’ around in my car and I think I see people that we smoked up and walkin’ around like they stalkin’ my ass.”
“Dog, you trippin’. That weed is fuckin’ with your head, Snap. Maybe this shit is too strong for you. What you trippin’ on all this shit for anyway? Was it what Huey said earlier? Forget that nigga! He so damned conscious, but he a killer his damned self. He was out there bodyin’ fools before any of us. Let somebody call him White boy or a half-breed and see if they don’t get smoked. Shit, he killed your fuckin’ Dad! I ain’t sayin that muthafucka didn’t deserve it. I’m just sayin’ that Huey ain’t got no room to be comin’ down on us about shit.”
“Yeah, it’s Huey, but it’s something else too.”
“What is it, man?”
“I know what our next job is.”
“What?”
“You know. I know you knew it was comin’ too. The whole neighborhood knows it’s comin’.”
“You mean Warlock?” Tank asked.
“Yeah man, everybody knows that he’s the one that cut up those dealers up on Duval Street. He gave them fools ear to ear grins. Fuckin’ stupid too. He might as well have autographed his work. Everybody knows he’s the only fool still runnin’ around with a blade instead of a gun. Everybody else got gats except for crackheads and hoes. And as clean as that cut was it wasn’t just some crazy crackheads or nothin’. That shit was professional.”
“Fuck would he do that shit for though?”
“I don’t know man. That fool ain’t been right for years. He’s probably trippin’ ’cause his little brotha Nikky just had a heart attack from hittin’ the pipe and he probably figured those was the fools who sold it to him. Shit, Nikky got the shit from watchin’ him smoke. But niggas can’t take responsibility for they own fuck ups. They always got to blame somebody else.”
“Damn, Snap. Didn’t you and Nikky used to play together when ya’ll was little?”
“Yeah, and Warlock too. He was like a big brother to me. He’s the reason I wanted to get in the game to begin with. He wasn’t all fucked up then like he is now. He used to be clean as fuck, a straight hustler. You remember how he used to cruise around in that big ass Lincoln dressed like a pimp and shit? He showed everybody ’round here what it meant to be a playa. I got all my game from him. He used to shoot dice, steal cars, he even sold dope. His main thing was pimpin’ hoes though and he had some fine ones too. I never knew where he got them from, but he had white ones, black ones. He even had a couple Puerto Ricans once. Then his dumb ass started usin’ and he fell the fuck off like all the rest of them junkies. He kicked heroin and went straight to crack and fell in love. He ain’t been right since.”
“That’s fucked up, playa. You really gonna do him?”
“The trigga has no heart my brotha. I ain’t gonna do him, but this nine millimeter damn sure will.”
“That’s pretty cold, man.”
“I didn’t make this world, Tank. I just have to live in it. If I had a choice shit wouldn’t be like this. But it is what it is. Warlock is crazy anyway. He might come up and slit my throat next or yours. Who knows what he’s trippin’ on now. We’re just as responsible for bringing drugs into the hood as those two dealers. We’re Scratch’s enforcers and he knows that shit.”
“Yeah, whatever. That shit is still cold.”
“Alright, so you’ve got a fuckin’ conscience now. Well, keep that shit to your damned self. Since when did you start givin’ a fuck anyway?”
Tank just smirked, raised one eyebrow, and tilted up the last forty, draining it dry.
“I don’t give a fuck if you don’t. You goin’ to that game tonight?”
“What game?”
“The basketball game at the college?”
“Jerome and Ty playing?”
“Why tha fuck else would I be askin’? Me and Huey gonna hook up and go.”
“Ya’ll need a ride or something?”
“Naw, we straight. I was just seein’ if you gonna be there to support ya dogs?”
“Of course I’m gonna support ’em. They my dogs. I’m gonna be there.”
The twins were having their first basketball game at the college level. After years of taking fools to school on playground courts and high school gymnasiums they had both received athletic scholarships to Temple University. Tyrone had even been offered a scholarship to run track. He could sprint like a gazelle, but hoops were his passion. He could leap from the foul line like Dr. J and execute a perfect two handed slam-dunk while twisting in mid-air. They called him Jr. Jordan and he tried his best to live up to the hype. He still played the neighborhood courts on the weekends just to keep his skills sharp, even after practicing all week long at college. Basketball was his guarantee that he’d never have to do the things we were doing for cash. Seeing us fighting and struggling, slangin’ and bangin’, was enough to instill him with a fanatical drive to escape the legacy of his roots.
His brother Jerome wasn’t quite as dramatic. He came back to the neighborhood to hang out, smoke weed, drink forties, and get his nut off in the gaggle of willing hoodrat skeezers that flocked to him because of his amateur stardom. He hated college. The politics of his fellow classmates seemed naïve and ridiculous to him. They were all concerned with feminism, animal rights, gay rights, pacifism, conservation, wildlife preservation, recycling, and he could have given a fuck about all that. All Jero
me was interested in was making dollars. He believed in the golden rule. Who ever has the most gold makes the rules. In his mind if you wanted to change the world you had to start by acquiring wealth. Only the wealthy truly had the power to affect change in today’s world. All us poor mutherfuckers could do is beg them for their help. He wasn’t into begging. He was into taking.
“Ya’ll mutherfuckers are wastin’ your time with all this activism shit. Don’t you know might makes right? Don’t no rights exist without the ability to defend them. How you goin’ to say you have the right to walk down the street without getting’ mugged when fools are rollin’ your ass for your ends every time you leave the house? Sayin’ you have the right don’t mean shit. Those are just words. They don’t mean shit until you bust a cap in the next fool who runs up on you tryin’ to take yours. That’s how rights are established. What would our constitutional rights be without a military and police force that defended them? Get some power, some fuckin’ cash, and then you can change all the shit you want.”
This viewpoint did not endear him with the intellectual establishment. Overnight he was branded a fascist. He didn’t care. He despised the idealism of the sheltered eggheads who attended this school, who had never experienced a real challenge to their personal rights. He wished he could just play basketball and be left alone.
Jerome’s problems weren’t over when he reached the ball courts either. Being a twin meant constant comparisons to his brother and his style of play was completely different. He wasn’t a flashy showman like Ty. His forte was hitting jumpers and three-pointers. He couldn’t run the ball down court to save his life. He didn’t have any fancy fakes and dribbles. His ball handling skills were woeful and his defensive skills were non-existent. He was always getting the ball picked from him. He covered it up by refusing to dribble the ball and just shooting it from wherever he was at on the court. Seven out of ten times he’d send that rock sailing through the net, which was just often enough to get him full tuition.
The twins were both college freshman now while the rest of us were still in high school and some of us had already dropped out. This made them sort of local heroes. I didn’t know shit about college ball. I didn’t even watch the pros unless the Sixers were playin’, but this game was gonna be a reunion of sorts. Brothas I hadn’t hung out with since Jr. High were going to be there. I didn’t even know who Temple was playing.
When we showed up there were already about a dozen niggas from around the way hangin’ out in front of the building. Every one of them was clutching a bottle of Colt .45 with a blunt tucked behind their ears. They were arguing with security. Fat Greg was there and I could see the outline of an Uzi beneath his oversized sweatshirt. As I looked around I could see other suspicious bulges beneath the rest of their clothing. A bunch of guys I didn’t know had joined the argument and it looked only seconds away from becoming a full-scale riot.
“Fuck is goin’ on?” I yelled and everyone turned to look at me. Those fools who didn’t know me turned back around and kept arguing with the security guards who had now been joined by reinforcements. My homies stopped and waited for me to walk over.
“Yo, Snap! These fools won’t let us up in here—wantin’ to frisk us and shit—they took Drew’s beer and poured it out on the ground!”
Everyone was looking at me now. They may not have known my face, but they all knew my name and my rep. I looked over at Drew and he had his hand under his jacket like he was reaching for a weapon. His face was swollen with indignation. I doubted that he was strapped though.
“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.
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