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.
“He went around the corner!”
I spun the Impala into a sharp turn and lit up Tulpehocken Street with my fog lights. Warlock ducked into the playground in back of the pre-school in the middle of the block. We knew he was going to jump that fence and keep going into the junkyard next door where there would be plenty of shadows and shit to hide behind for an ambush. A shiver crawled up my spine, raked its icy claws over my shoulder, and wrapped its fingers around my neck to strangle the breath from me at the thought of following him into that death trap. Tank had already grabbed the AK and had the door half open as I pulled to a stop in front of the big mango-colored pre-school.
“Come on! Lets get this muthafucka!” Tank said and was out of the car without a hesitation.
Warlock ain’t shit but another crackhead, I told myself, but the thought of that blade sliding between my ribs brought fresh shivers up my spine.
I looked around the playground, but I knew that Warlock wasn’t there. He had already gone into the junkyard next door and was probably waiting to ambush our asses.
“Yo, Tank! Don’t get too far ahead of me, man!”
“Just hurry and catch up before we lose this slippery son of a bitch!”
Tank’s voice came from no more than five yards ahead of me, but it was so dark in that junkyard that he was completely invisible. I jumped the fence into the junkyard. My feet came down on what was probably a paint bucket and I went sprawling face first into the dirt.
“Shit! Where you at, Tank?”
“Right here.” His voice echoed off the piles of trash and seemed to come from everywhere at once.
“Where, man? I can’t see shit in this muthafucka!” I was starting to panic. This wasn’t a cool situation at all. Alone in the dark with a knife-wielding homicidal crack-fiend.
“Fuck looking for me. Go find that crazy son of a bitch!”
I could hear Tank’s heavy footfalls moving quickly, increasing the distance between us.
“Wait! Let’s stick together on this. We don’t know where this muthafucka could be.”
“Stop worryin’ and handle your business, Snap!”
I cursed to myself as I heard Tank moving further off into the night. It would’ve made me feel a hell of a lot better to have Tank beside me with the AK. Normally that’s how we played it, but that night it was like Tank had something to prove. Maybe getting Darlene’s phone number had gone to his head and boosted up his testosterone? Whatever his problem was, that type of ego shit was dangerous.
Slowly my eyes started to adjust to the darkness. The rusted hulks of ancient pimp-rides loomed in front of me stripped of all their splendor. Somewhere among that graveyard of crumbling Detroit steel was the man I had to kill, undoubtedly just as intent on killing me. Off to my left I heard scuffling, the sounds of a struggle, and then the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the dirt. I’d heard it too many times not to recognize it. I looked through the windshield of an old Buick and saw Warlock’s afro silhouetted by the moonlight as if the clouds had parted just to illuminate that scene and give me a clear shot. As always, I fired reflexively, without taking time to aim, and as always I hit my target. I ran around to the front of the car where Warlock’s body had fallen. I practically tripped over him.
Warlock was doing St. Vitus’ dance, flopping on his back like a cockroach in a cloud of Raid, with a fist-sized hole in his chest. Beside him, lay Tank with his eyes fixed and dilated, staring skyward. His mouth hung open in an agonized scream that never made it past his lips. He had been nearly decapitated. Pink muscle fiber stretched like used bubblegum across the chasm between where Tank’s head had been joined to his neck. Pearlescent bone shined ghastly white through the slash in his flesh where the knife had sawed through to his cervical vertebrae. The foot-long switchblade, still clutched in Warlock’s hand, dripped with inky black blood that glistened in the moonlight. My stomach imploded, collapsing inward until it touched the back of my spine, sending out an avalanche of half-digested food. Tank was gone, dead, because of me. Warlock had been in the process of butchering him just before I shot the crazy bastard. Somehow Warlock had surprised Tank and took him out before he could fire a single shot.
I began kicking Warlock�
�s dying body, trying to crush every bone in him, to pulverize him the way I’d watched Huey do that peckerwood kid. He shuddered one last time and lay still, yet I continued to stomp and kick his corpse. The sound of his bones snapping was a soothing noise to drown out the whirlwind in my head. The tears came without relent as the reality of Tank’s death took hold. My foot sank into the hole in Warlock’s chest and came out sopping with blood with bits of his internal organs stuck to my sole. I slammed my foot back down into it and began jumping up and down imagining that I was stomping on the bastard’s heart.
It was the sirens that snapped me out of it. I ran across the yard and jumped the fence into a neighboring backyard and then from one yard to the next until I wound up in an alleyway that led out onto Washington Lane. I was only a few blocks from home, but didn’t want to face my mother dripping in blood. My first instinct was to go to Huey’s house, but I was afraid he’d take his brother’s death out on me. I knew Huey believed that Tank was only involved with Scratch because I was. And even though I knew that Tank would have still been down even if I wasn’t, he probably wouldn’t have been out running around a junkyard chasing a lunatic if I hadn’t asked him to come with me. I wasn’t in the mood to confront either Huey’s rage or my own guilt. I decided to go back to Yolanda’s house.
The police were probably celebrating Tank’s death at this very moment and since they knew he and I were a team, they would be coming after me next, hoping to take me down for Warlock’s murder and get all three of us out of the game in one evening. I knew they’d be kicking down my Grandmom’s door any minute now looking for me. Hopefully they wouldn’t think to look for me at Yolanda’s.
There were sirens everywhere. The police were combing the streets. I knew I had to get inside somewhere before they picked me up. Yolanda’s house was only two blocks away, but it seemed like miles. I couldn’t get to it by running through alleys and hopping fences. I would have to cross Washington Lane, one of the busiest streets in our neighborhood and one that was now filthy with law enforcement. I watched patrol cars speed back and forth as I hugged the shadow of a large Evergreen tree in a yard that bordered Washington Lane and McCallum Street. As soon as the police sirens began to trail off I made a dash across the street and kept running until I was at Yolanda’s front door.
She had a man in there with her. I could tell by the way she answered the door—wrapped in a sheet The disheveled look of her hair and make-up, even her smell, was that of someone who’d just been fucked.
“Hey, baby. I didn’t think you’d be back tonight. It’s not really a good time right now.” She glanced over her shoulder into the house and then turned back to me and smiled shamelessly. I ain’t never been the jealous type, but right then I wasn’t in the mood to wait outside while some other stud got his dick wet in my pussy. I tried to push the door open and walk past her. She held the door closed as I shoved against it.
“Bitch, who you fuckin’ in there? Open this mutherfuckin’ door ’fore I kick it off the hinges and smoke both ya’ll asses!”
“Nigga, don’t come around here tossin’ threats cause you know I ain’t impressed and you know damn well you don’t own this pussy!”
“Bitch, I don’t give a fuck about your old, used up, dug out pu…pus…pussy.“
My voice seized up and tears flooded my eyes.
“Tank’s dead.” I finally managed to squeak out.
Yolanda’s eyes widened with shock. Her hand flew to her mouth and she cast another quick look behind her into the house. There was sorrow and surprise in her face, but there was something else. Fear.
“What did you say, boy?” she whispered.
“I said, Tank was just killed.”
“Oh my God!”
When she opened the door it was Huey standing behind her with murder in his eyes. He had obviously just finished fucking Yolanda and hadn’t even bothered to put his clothes or underwear back on. He stood in the doorway butt-naked. The whole scene would have been hysterical if it wasn’t for the hatred twisting his features, directed at me. He grabbed me by the front of my shirt and flipped me over his shoulder. I tumbled into the hallway, landing hard on the tiled floor.
“It wasn’t my fault, Huey! It wasn’t my fault!”
Huey pulled his Sig Sauer out of his jacket pocket as he passed the coat rack. He jacked a round into the chamber, walking toward me in long determined strides like some unstoppable naked juggernaut. Yolanda had started screaming and was trying to hold him back.
“Huey, listen. It was Warlock who did him. We were tracking him through the junkyard and he must have snuck up on him. I got him though. I took that nigga out for Tank. He was like a brother to me. You know I’d have died for that nigga. I’d have died for him!”
“Here’s your chance,” Huey said, raising the gun until it was pointed directly at my skull.
Tears were streaming down my face in torrents. It hadn’t even occurred to me to go for my own weapon. If Huey was going to kill me then I was going to die and that was all there was to it. I stared into Huey’s eyes and I could see my own death in them. I saw his finger tighten on the trigger and I closed my eyes and waited, wondering if I would hear the gunshot before oblivion. Then Huey’s shoulders slumped and he uncocked the pistol. Tears were streaming down his face now, but his eyes didn’t soften or stray from my own. He didn’t look weak or vulnerable at all when he cried. He looked focused, determined, and pissed-da-fuck-off.
“Yeah, you right. It wasn’t your fault. You just as lost as he was, and it wasn’t Warlock’s fault either. It was that white devil you work for. It was his fault and he’s gonna pay for this shit. I owe him some pain now.”
That night I sent Yolanda to bury my gun in the woods in Wissahickon Park so the cops wouldn’t be able to pin Warlock’s murder on me. Huey stayed with me at Yolanda’s, but didn’t say a word. I jumped in the shower to wash off the gun powder residue while my clothes went into the washer. I was in the shower for maybe five-minutes when the police broke down the door and dragged me out. By the time they dragged my Black ass, soaking wet, kicking, and screaming, out of the shower they already had Huey in handcuffs. They allowed me to get dressed and I made sure to put on a pair of old clothes I had left there previously just in case they got smart and decided to test the clothes for gunpowder or blood splatter. Those fools would have nothing on me.
They placed Huey and I in separate cars so they could work on us individually and try to make us turn on each other. I played deaf mute and just stared out the window.
“You know Huey’s gonna give you up, don’t you? You got his brother killed. He told me he wants to see you rot in prison for that. He hopes you wind up on death row. He’s in the next car giving a full statement right now.”
I continued to stare out the window as we rolled through the neighborhood. The cop’s voices were just white noise in the background. When the old burly black cop reached over and punched me in the head I slumped down in my seat to avoid further blows and continued to stare out the window, secretly wondering if this was the same house-nigger that held Huey’s mom down eighteen years ago while that white cop raped her.
They put both of us in a cell together down at the fourteenth precinct. It was a big concrete room with one glass wall two-inches thick that faced out into the squad room. Outside the temperature was sixty degrees. Inside that room the temperature was ninety and rising. Police officers walked by and glared at us trying to make us nervous. We laughed at them, grabbed our dicks, and waved our middle fingers. I started singing “Fuck Da Police” by NWA at the top of my lungs and Huey joined me. An inmate in the cell next door began pounding a beat on the concrete wall that divided us. Other inmates joined in on the chorus and soon we had a full scale party going on. The officers started cursing and threatening us, pounding their fists on the desks like they wanted to come in there and start some shit. So we changed the tune to Ice T’s “Cop Killer.” That seemed to agitate them enough to make them come in and talk to
us. Huey was livid over being arrested. If the cops weren’t wearing guns I think he would have tried to take them on.
“You guys settle down and cut out all that noise.”
“Fuck you got us locked up for? We ain’t been fingerprinted. Nobody read us our rights. We haven’t been allowed to make a phone call. My brother gets murdered and you muthafuckas are harassing us? Fuck you bitches!”
“Just calm down a minute. We just want to ask you guys some questions.”
The cop looked like a younger, fatter, uglier Rodney Dangerfield. He had livid red and purple liver spots all over his face, a big hooked nose with a wart on it, and big bubbly eyes that appeared blood-shot from lack of sleep and too much alcohol. His partner looked like a runway model. His hair was spiked with mousse and his eyelashes looked like he’d brushed them with mascara. He was obviously gay.
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