Hood Rat

by K'wan

  “Nah, I don’t think Yoshi get down.”

  “Baby, I don’t put nothing past nobody. You know Yoshi be at them clubs around all that pussy. All them stripper bitches be dyke’n.”

  Rhonda and Reese continued walking down Third Avenue, window shopping and slowly making their way to the electronics store to meet their friends. Halfway down the hill, they spotted their counterparts coming across the busy street. Rhonda was the first one to smile and wave them to their location.

  “Hey, bitches!” Rhonda said, hugging Yoshi, then Billy.

  “What’s up, Rhonda? What took y’all so damn long?” Yoshi asked, looking at her watch.

  “Shit, I had to stop and pick up a few things.”

  “I thought the idea was that we were supposed to be shopping together?” Billy interjected.

  “Y’all bitches shop at them skinny women stores. I gotta go where they cater to blessed women,” Rhonda said, cupping her breasts.

  “Well, me and Billy already got what we needed,” Yoshi said, raising her multiple bags.

  “Billy, what could you possibly need from a women’s clothing store?” Rhonda asked sarcastically.

  Billy sucked her teeth and cut her eyes. “Don’t be funny, Rhonda.”

  “Talk that shit now, but when y’all see my girl in her dress, you’re going to be all on her shit,” Yoshi cut in.

  Reese and Rhonda exchanged suspicious glances.

  “What the fuck is that all about?” Billy asked.

  “Bitch, stop being so paranoid,” Rhonda said. “Y’all ready to go back to the city? I wanna get high.”

  “All you ever think about is weed,” Yoshi said.

  “And dick,” Billy mumbled.

  “At least I’m getting some,” Rhonda shot back.

  “Why don’t y’all two knock it off? I wanna check one last store before we head back.”

  “Well, let’s hurry up and do it, then. I still got shit to do before we head out.” Rhonda brushed between Yoshi and Billy and started across the street. Billy gave Rhonda a disgusted look that Reese mistook for something else. As Rhonda’s earlier accusations replayed in her head, she made it a point to walk behind Billy.

  16

  Slick was a man in his midthirties, but could still pass for twenty-something. He wore his hair in a short afro and you could never find him with a hair out of place. From his expensive clothes to his jewels, Slick was a man who prided himself on being fly. Everyone in the St. Nicholas projects knew him, but his weeded-out brain and supersize ego told him that he was an international nigga.

  He was a nobody who always wanted to be somebody. Being that his uncles had been heavy hitters, he tried to build a rep off their name. Slick had established himself as a respectable hustler, but in essence he wasn’t really built like that. Still, he was the nephew of two killers, so niggaz let him live, and eventually found a friendly respect for him.

  Slick had never been a very good hustler, fucking up more money than he made. This all changed about two years back when fate finally swung in his favor. His uncles, with a friend of theirs, had robbed these white cats out of Long Island for some dope. They thought they were just putting the gorilla on some lame white boys, but one of them happened to be the son-in-law of a Mafia capo. The Italians tracked the brothers to where they were hiding in Connecticut and executed them. They searched high and low for the dope, but there was only one person outside the brothers who knew where it was stashed. When Slick hit the block, the fiends were falling out off his shit. Everyone in the hood wanted to fuck with Slick and his dope, but he only let select people into his circle, mostly his closest friends and members of his uncles’ old crew. He had halfway gotten his weight up, but still didn’t have the common sense to know how to really capitalize on his good fortune. His saving grace was the fact that he had steady clientele. No matter how much of a knucklehead he might’ve been, no one could deny the fact that he had good dope, and good dope always equaled profit.

  On that warm summer afternoon, he found himself strolling through the projects, or his kingdom, as he liked to call it, chatting on his cell and flanked by his right-hand man, Keith, and a girl he had met earlier that day. He glanced at her long brown legs for the umpteenth time and licked his full lips. He was going to enjoy that sweet pussy, but he had arrangements to make first.

  The whole hood was buzzing about Bad Blood’s performance at Exit that night. They had performed at the spot before, but that was on the strength of Don B. and only short freestyles. This would be their first time performing at Exit since the release of their single. The club was sure to be lined with wall-to-wall pussy and Slick intended to be there.

  He was yakking away on the cell with a chick he used to fuck with named Sondra. She had the good fortune of being the assistant to Don B.’s publicist. It wasn’t the most high-profile position in his growing organization, but the perks were excellent. For an empty promise and a few dollars, she had agreed to get Slick into the VIP section after the performance. Of course, when he got there he was going to front like he got in on the strength of his own credibility. His spirits were high when she agreed to the favor, but suddenly that all changed when he spotted two dudes beating the hell out of one of his workers.

  * * *

  Ralph was a small-time hustler trying to make his way up the syndicate ladder. At five-eight and just over a hundred and fifty pounds, he wasn’t a very intimidating sight, but let him tell it, he was gangsta with his. Ralph was a consummate schemer determined to blow up, but he didn’t have the nuts or the smarts to really make a name for himself. The lack of these qualities didn’t stop him from trying, though. His latest venture was going hand to hand for a cat named Slick, who moved dope in the projects. He wasn’t making kingpin money, but dope proved to be far more profitable than crack.

  “Hey, baby,” Ralph called to a young lady who was wearing a pair of denim shorts that almost exposed her entire ass. When she ignored him, he got indignant. “Word, you can’t stop? Well, fuck you then, bitch!”

  “That ain’t no way to talk to a lady,” a voice called from behind him. Ralph turned around with intentions on getting fly with his mouth, but the words froze in his throat when he saw Jah and Spooky approaching.

  “What’s good, my dude?” Ralph extended his hand and mustered a fake smile. Jah looked at Ralph’s hand, but didn’t shake it.

  “You,” Jah replied, giving him an equally fake smile. “You got that for me?”

  “Damn, I meant to hit you and let you know what happened, Jah. Don’t you know, ya boy got a ticket for pissing in the street. Fucking police made me pay a hundred-and-fifty-dollar fine for that shit, son. I was tight.”

  “Word?” Jah said, clearly not believing a word Ralph said. “I know how these dicks can be wit’ them tickets, fam, but ya ticket ain’t got nothing to do with what I asked you.”

  “I’m gonna pay you, but I ain’t got it right now. That ticket put me behind.”

  “Come on, Ralph, a buck fifty ain’t nothing to a baller like you. My nigga out here getting money,” Spooky added.

  Ralph shot Spooky a contemptuous look, but didn’t say anything. “Yo, as soon as I finish my shift, I’m gonna come see you with that,” he said to Jah.

  “Ralph, you told me the same thing when you ass betted me for the hundred dollars in the first place, then I didn’t see you for two weeks. I ain’t got time to chase you, duke. Just give me mine so I can get up outta here.”

  Over Jah’s shoulder, Ralph spotted Slick approaching. Seeing his employer helped to build his confidence and changed the whole way he was coming at Jah. “Fam, I told you I ain’t got it right now. I’ll bring ya bread through later. Why you stressing me over a little hundred cash anyway?”

  Jah looked over at Spooky, who was wearing the same puzzled look that he was. When he spoke to Ralph, his words were calm and even, but the fire that burned in his eyes made Ralph cringe. “Dawg, I’m not really feeling the way you’re coming at me right now. Y
ou trying to be tough or something?”

  Ralph sucked his teeth before answering. “Yo, come on, man, I ain’t trying to get into it with you over no petty-ass hundred dollars. I’m on my grind right now, so I’ll drop it to you later.”

  Jah’s face suddenly became very peaceful. “Okay, I’ll see you later then.”

  Ralph let go of the breath he was holding, thinking how fortunate he was to dodge the chaos that was sure to come his way. He opened his mouth to invite Jah to smoke a blunt with him, but never got the chance. Jah caught him with a right cross, immediately dropping Ralph. Jah followed with a kick to the face and a stomp in the gut, putting Ralph in a world he had no idea existed. In a swift motion he tore both the pockets off Ralph’s jeans, sending loose change and a cell phone scattering on the ground. In Jah’s fist, he now held several hundred dollars in crumbled bills of multiple denominations. The take was more than what Ralph owed Jah, but the rest would go for the “pain and suffering” incurred collecting the debt.

  Jah brought the heel of his sneaker down across Ralph’s nose, breaking it. “Don’t never play your fucking self.” Jah kicked him again. “I’m a gorilla on these streets!” Charging footsteps from behind caused Jah to spin around. Before he even looked to see who it was, he had his hammer drawn, freezing Slick midstride.

  Slick had intended on rolling up and getting on some G shit, but seeing the angry young man with a big gun softened his approach. “Fuck is going on over here?”

  “Be easy, my nigga. This ain’t got nothing to do with you,” Jah told him. He had taken the gun out of Slick’s face, but still kept it pointed at him.

  “You beating up one of my workers in my hood,” Slick said, trying to keep his voice calm.

  “Your worker shouldn’t be ass betting niggaz,” Jah shot back.

  Slick looked from Jah over at Ralph, who was on the ground bleeding all over the ramp to the building. He knew that if Ralph had ass betted the young man, then he deserved what he had gotten, but he had to make some kind of showing in front of his man and the girl.

  “I feel you, but that’s my money you’re taking, not his,” Slick tried to reason.

  “Listen, fam, possession is nine-tenths of the law. Nothing personal.” Jah crammed the bills in his pocket and started backing out of the projects, flanked by Spooky.

  Slick watched helplessly as the two young men backed out of the projects. When they were safely outside the black gates, Jah and Spooky took off running. They cut through the back of Lionel Hampton and disappeared up St. Nicholas Avenue.

  Slick was fuming. Not only did the two men take off with only God knew how much of his work money, but they had made him look bad. Slick always boasted about how he was such a big man, but two young kids had snatched food right out of his mouth. Had he been alone, he might’ve let it go and just fucked Ralph up for bringing that kind of drama to his doorstep, but they’d done it in front of people. To save face, Slick would have to react.

  * * *

  “Yo,” Larry answered his phone.

  “What’s up, lard ass?” Jah said playfully.

  “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

  “No, but I kiss your girl with it,” Jah replied.

  “Okay, did you call me to snap or did you want something?” Larry finally asked.

  “Yeah, I got some more bread to put with what we already got. Is shorty still gonna do it?” Jah asked.

  “She said she was, but I’ll know for sure later on tonight. I’m about to start getting ready for the party, so I ain’t gonna have time to pick the money up from you.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll hold on to it until like tomorrow or something.”

  “Don’t spend it on weed and guns,” Larry joked.

  “Fuck you.” Jah hung up the phone.

  A part of Larry felt guilty for sneaking behind Paul’s back, but it had to be done. The less he knew for the moment, the easier it would be for Larry and Jah to do what they had to do. Besides, if all went well, Paul was going to cake off lovely.

  * * *

  Pain stepped out of the taxi on 169th and Amsterdam Avenue. He gave the cabdriver thirty dollars and was halfway across the street before the cabbie could even peel off his change. Keeping his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes peeled for trouble, he darted around the corner and up the steps of a brownstone. A young Hispanic boy who had been sitting on the stoop nodded at Pain in greeting and moved to the side to let him in the building.

  Pain bounded up the three flights of stairs and knocked on a thin-brown door. There was some shuffling and words whispered in Spanish before the door was finally opened. A dark-skinned boy with dark curls stood behind the door, with a baseball bat clutched in his hand. Pain stepped in and submitted himself to a search before he was given the green light to proceed. He passed several doors on his way down the hall on the way to the living room. He had no idea what was in the closed-off rooms, nor did he have a desire to find out. His thoughts were purely focused on the reason he had come.

  When Pain rounded the corner to the living room, there were several men present. The three men seated around the table he was familiar with, but the fourth man wearing the baseball cap was a new face. He glanced over his shoulder at Pain briefly, but kept his eyes on the several bundles of cocaine stacked on the table in front of him. After a brief exchange of words, the bundles of cocaine disappeared into a Macy’s shopping bag and the man in the baseball cap got up to leave. His eyes lingered on Pain for a minute, trying to place his face, but he didn’t stare. Nodding, the man in the baseball cap brushed past Pain and made his exit.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the big rap star.” The smallest man at the table smiled.

  Pain detested the little man, but still managed to muster a smile. “How you doing, Paco?”

  Paco was a big-head Dominican cat getting money uptown. He was born into a family of career criminals and cocaine dealers and carried himself as such. Paco was a vicious man who would kill or order murders on a whim and respected nothing other than a dollar. He was a loathed and feared man all throughout Harlem and, unfortunately, the remedy to Pain’s problem.

  “I assume you’ve come here today because you have my money?” Paco asked, leaning forward on his elbows.

  “Paco, you know you’re my nigga and I’d never shit on you.” Pain smiled, trying to keep his hands from wringing together in anticipation.

  “So where’s my bread?”

  Pain looked at the ground. “I ain’t got it right now, Paco. But that’s my word, I’m gonna have it to you within a week or two. I need you to look out for me this one last time, and I’ll hit you wit’ that. We about to get our first royalties from the single.”

  Paco closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The two gorillas sitting at his sides tensed up, but didn’t move. “Pain, how long have you been telling me this shit? I don’t wanna hear about your fucking royalties!”

  Pain felt the chill of fear grip his heart, but tried to maintain his gangsta façade. “Stop acting like that, man. You act like I don’t spend money with you.”

  In a flash, Paco was on his feet and in Pain’s face. “Don’t come in here telling me what the fuck you spend, little nigga. I get money up in this bitch twenty-four seven. You think that little punk-ass couple of hundred dollars you spend every so often means something to me? Don’t be fucking funny, kid.”

  Pain wanted to knock Paco on his ass, but he was sure the bodyguards would cut him down for it. He had to play it cool until he got what he needed. “Paco, you know me and you too cool to be beefing over some short paper. I’ll tell you what, hook a nigga up and when I get paid for this show I’m doing tonight, I’ll come drop that bread off to you.”

  Paco was still breathing heavily in Pain’s face, but some of the anger in his eyes had drained away. He motioned to one of the bodyguards, who tossed him a large Baggie. “Pain,” he said, holding the Baggie between his fingers, “I’m gonna do this for you, but I want my money
tomorrow. Not the day after, not when you get your royalties. I want it tomorrow.”

  “I got you.” Pain reached for the bag, but Paco snatched it away.

  “I’m not fucking around with you, man. You’re deep enough in debt to me as it is, and I’m not comfortable with it. Pretty soon everyone is gonna think they can shit on me.” Paco extended the bag and snatched it back again. “You take this package and the clock starts ticking, we clear on that?”

  Pain looked at the bag hungrily and could almost feel the icy burn of the cocaine in his nostrils and throat. His rational mind told him not to take it, but the runny nose and hot flashes were telling him otherwise. Thinking of nothing but getting the monkey off his back, Pain took the package. “Yeah, we’re clear.”

  * * *

  “Dawg, you gotta roll,” Larry urged Paul.

  “I don’t think so, man. I might just chill with Marlene tonight,” Paul said.

  “Come on with that shit, Paul, you can chill with Marlene tomorrow night. You need to be at this spot.”

  “Larry, you know I really don’t do the club like that. All it’s gonna be is a bunch of niggaz trying to holla at these chickenhead-ass broads. I don’t feel like getting caught up in that.”

  Larry looked at Paul as if he didn’t have a clue. “See, any other night you might be right, but tonight is different. Bad Blood is performing at the joint, kid. You know how many bitches is gonna be piled up in that joint?”

  “Bad Blood? You mean them li’l niggaz that hang on Forty-second?” Paul asked. Paul knew of the group, but couldn’t profess to know them very well. He had seen Jah with True a few times, but his own relationship with the young cat didn’t go any deeper than an occasional “what’s up.” From what he remembered of them, the whole clique was composed of young knuckleheads throwing stones at the penitentiary.