The Last Street Novel

by Omar Tyree

  When the car came to another stop in front of the hotel, they all leaned forward to get a better look.

  SHAREEF CLIMBED OUT of Jurrell’s Lexus and said, “Thanks, man. We had a good day today.”

  “Yeah, let’s do this shit again,” Jurrell told him. Then his black cell phone went off. He said, “Be safe, man. And call me back once you in there good.”

  “Aw’ight, I’ll do that,” Shareef responded and closed the door.

  “YO, THAT’S HIM,” the triggerman responded from inside the parked sedan. The ringleader wasted no time before he jumped out. He tossed his still-lit cigarette to the sidewalk, and hustled up the block to catch up to his mark.

  “Yo, Shareef?” he hollered as he approached him. He hadn’t done anything to the man as of yet, so there was no reason to play it like a hardened enemy. He only wanted to talk to the writer, and he told him so.

  “Yo, I just wanna talk to you, man, that’s all.”

  SHAREEF RECOGNIZED the man from the previous night jogging toward him on the sidewalk before he reached the entrance of the hotel. He looked to make sure the man was unarmed before he stopped and thought about it.

  I can run and irritate him more, or I can stand my fuckin’ ground and get to the bottom of this, he pondered. I’m already tired, but fuck it. I’ll sleep a lot better when I get this over with…if I’m still alive.

  He took the brave approach anyway and stopped in front of the hotel entrance to talk. There was still a security guard inside the door to report a murder attempt if it happened. But what would that do if the man succeeded in shooting or stabbing him fatally? Nevertheless, Shareef was ready to hear him out and ask some questions of his own.

  “Aw’ight, so what’s this all about, man? What’s really good?” Shareef opened up and asked him with some Harlem slang attached.

  The man said, “All I want to know is everything he said to you in jail, and please don’t leave nothing out.”

  Shareef eyed him and grimaced. He said, “Come on, man, I’m not a fuckin’ tape recorder. I was in there one time for a few hours, and all we talked about was how we would tell his story of growing up on the west side of Harlem.”

  He said, “Now, if anybody got a problem with Michael Springfield trying to snitch on some shit, well, you can put that to rest. He didn’t talk about nothing but himself, and if you heard the news on the streets, somebody killed him this morning in jail anyway, so he can’t tell me shit now even if he wanted to.”

  The man looked confused. He said, “Somebody killed him this morning? I heard he was transferred.”

  After that, Shareef was confused. “Transferred? Who told you that?”

  “Who told you he was killed?”

  Shareef said, “Everybody on the streets know that by now.”

  “Everybody like who? Who did you talk to today, somebody on Michael Springfield’s side? That don’t mean shit. That’s game,” the man argued.

  Shareef thought about it and had to admit that his information was one-sided. He had been told about the prison hit through Cynthia alone. And she hadn’t called him back all day.

  Shareef shook it off and said, “Nah, it sound like your shit is game. So you check your sources and I’ll check mine.”

  The man said, “Aw’ight, go ahead and call ’em then.”

  “Call who?”

  “Whoever told you he was murdered in jail this morning. ’Cause that ain’t what I heard.”

  Shareef thought fast and said, “Well, where did you get your information from? Are you gonna call him?”

  The man pulled out his cell phone immediately. “Let’s do it then,” he challenged. “You call yours, I’ll call mine.”

  Shareef thought it over and said, “Aw’ight.” He pulled out his cell phone and found Cynthia’s home number to redial. When her phone began to ring, Shareef looked back at his stalker to make sure he was doing the same, and he was. In fact, his informant came on the line first.

  “Yo, man, I’m standing out here with this kid Shareef Crawford right now, and you know what he tried to tell me? He’s trying to tell me that somebody told him Michael Springfield got killed in prison this morning. You believe that shit? He got transferred, right?”

  Shareef didn’t hear the answer, but the question surely didn’t seem objective. The man was obviously biased toward his side of the story. So by the time Cynthia answered her phone, Shareef realized that it was a mistake. They wouldn’t get anywhere by calling each other’s sources. That would be similar to a plaintiff and a defense agreeing to the other person’s story in a court of law. It was not going to happen. Admitting to fault in a courtroom was not the American way.

  “Hey, Shareef, you’re not still in Harlem, are you?” she asked him. She sounded calm and relaxed, and she was assuming that he had left already. Or at least had relocated in the Times Square area.

  Shareef went right to business. He said, “Yo, man, you told me Michael Springfield was murdered in prison this morning, right? ’Cause I’m standing out here with this guy who says that he was transferred.”

  Cynthia responded, “What? Who said that?”

  “I don’t fuckin’ know his name, man. He showed up at my hotel asking me shit last night about it, too,” Shareef hinted. He wanted the conversation to sound like he was talking to a guy. At the same time, he was giving Cynthia the information she needed to assess what was going on.

  She said, “Oh, my God. He’s standing out there in front of you right now? So, you are still in Harlem.”

  “That’s what I just said,” he told her. “Now what’s the deal with this transfer shit? Who got their information wrong?”

  He was allowing Cynthia plenty of room to solidify her side of the story. And she followed his lead like a seasoned pro.

  She took a breath and said, “Of course that ma-fucka’s gon’ say something else. He’s lying.”

  Shareef cut her off and said, “Yeah, that’s what I figured, too.”

  Then she continued to help him out. She said, “Now why would they up and transfer him out of the blue? He ain’t do shit wrong. Do they know something we don’t know. Ask him that shit?”

  But before Shareef could say it, she added, “They’re trying to set you up, Shareef. They’re trying to set you up,” and her voice began to break.

  “Get the fuck out of there, man,” she broke down and told him. “Shareef, get the fuck out of there. I told you to leave.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that. Cynthia was losing her poise. That wasn’t part of the script. So he told her, “Aw’ight, I’ma call you back in a minute then.”

  He quickly ended the call and faced his stalker with full zeal.

  “Aw’ight, this shit ain’t goin’ nowhere, man. My guy is sticking by his story, and your guy is sticking by his. So let’s cut the bullshit. I’m too tired for this. Just tell me what you need to know. ’Cause that’s all this shit is, a seek and find mission, and I don’t have shit for you. So, what do you need?”

  The man seemed stuck for a minute. And he was actually still on the phone.

  “Hold up, I’ma call you right back,” he told his informant. He ended the call and looked at Shareef with fire his eyes.

  He said, “First of all, you don’t fuckin’ disrespect me like that, son. I was still on the fuckin’ phone. Now I don’t know who you deal with on the regular like that, or if you scream on your women like some kind of pimp or some shit, but I ain’t no fuckin’ ho, and you don’t talk to me like that. That’s first of all.”

  As the man got irate on the sidewalk, Shareef noticed another black man step out of a car parked down the block and begin to walk quickly in their direction.

  Oh, shit! This is it! Shareef panicked. I shouldn’t have said that shit to him. I should have kept my cool. I should’ve kept my cool, he repeated to himself.

  But it was too late for regrets. It was time for reaction. He wondered how quickly he could run into the hotel, while hoping they wouldn’t try and sho
ot him in the back through the glass.

  Do I push him away from me first to give myself more room to slip inside the doorway? I gotta move fast, he thought.

  Realizing he had to create space for himself to get away, Shareef charged out like a football player and pushed the man with his extended arms. But the man reacted quickly enough to grab him and pull him forward as he fell backward. Shareef kept his balance and shoved him to the pavement, but by the time he turned to get away, the second man was moving fast up the sidewalk with a gun out in plain view.

  “Shit!” Shareef cursed himself. Trying to make it back to the hotel doorway didn’t appear to be safe anymore. There wasn’t enough time to rush inside without becoming a sitting duck for bullets. So Shareef went to plan B and ran out into the middle of the street.

  “Aw’ight, kill that nigga!” the man on the ground hollered to his helper.

  Shareef was already hustling up the street toward 124th when the second man started to shoot at him.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  “Shit!” he continued to curse as he ran and ducked bullets. Where were the police when you needed them?

  Shareef zigzagged and cut away from the street, slipping in between cars and headed back to the sidewalk to his right. He wasn’t brainless enough to run straight down the block with shooters after him. All it took was one straight bullet to hit him.

  As he made it to 124th Street with the two shooters still in hot pursuit, three to four more men with guns, all dressed in black, jumped out of a car coming from the opposite direction.

  What the fuck? Shareef panicked. He had planned to make it to 125th and turn right, putting him in the middle of Harlem’s busiest traffic and police. He figured the shooters would have held back on 125th. But when he spotted the second team of triggermen in front of him, Shareef made a quick right turn down 124th Street and picked up speed.

  These motherfuckers are gonna have to catch me to kill me. Fuck that! he told himself. So I’ll just hit Adam Clayton Powell and turn up to 125th Street then.

  Making it to 125th Street was the goal. Shareef was sure there would be police out and a thick enough crowd to make the killers pull back, unless they wanted him that damn bad, which he doubted. So he continued to run for his life while looking back to see where the shooters were and zigzagged across the street in between cars again.

  Pop, pop, pop-pop-pop, pop, pop!

  It sounded like the fourth of July behind him. People were screaming, yelling, and running every which way to avoid the bullets. But at the same time, it didn’t seem like any of the bullets were headed in his direction anymore.

  They’re shooting at each other, Shareef told himself. So he pulled up from running, ducked behind a car, and watched for a minute.

  The new shooters in black were obviously not after him, and they looked to have superior numbers.

  “Who the fuck are they?” He wondered. He was confused, while his heart continued to beat through his chest.

  Then he spotted a black Chrysler 300 that turned violently onto 124th Street and raced down the block toward him.

  He hesitated before running again.

  Is that car for me?

  He studied the oversized grill and headlights, while not wanting to waste energy trying to outrun a car that had nothing to do with him. But when the car slowed down for no reason, that was all he needed to see. Whoever was inside was looking for something.

  Fuck! Shareef continued to curse. There was only one way for him to go. So he took a deep breath as the car got closer to where he hid.

  I could just hide under this car for a minute, he pondered. With all the shooting they were doing, he figured the police were bound to show up eventually. Then again, all it took was one stray bullet to hit him while he was trapped under a car, and the police could do nothing to save him. So Shareef thought about his life as a young athlete and repeated, Fuck it. They gon’ have to catch me to kill me. And he took off running again.

  Sure enough, the car sped up the block behind him.

  Motherfucker! Now I gotta outrun a car. I should have just kept running, Shareef mused as he sprinted full speed down the block.

  He thought, I would have been at Adam Clayton Powell already. And he couldn’t zigzag in the street anymore with a car chasing after him.

  “Yo, Shareef, it’s cool, we got you!” someone hollered from the window of the car.

  Shareef slowed up and looked back to see if he could see who was inside. He didn’t notice the driver. Or did he?

  This guy look familiar, but I don’t know the motherfucker.

  Then he looked to the passenger seat window behind the driver.

  “Yo, I know you feel a little crazy right now with niggas shooting at you and everything, but it’s cool, man, we the good guys.”

  Shareef recognized the young, charismatic Harlemite, Baby G, sitting in the back passenger seat and he froze.

  Baby G raised his empty hands outside the window and said, “I’m not after you, player. I just want to meet you and get you out of this obvious shit your in.”

  “Meet me for what?” Shareef asked him.

  “We ain’t got a lot of time for this Q and A shit right now, but like I said, you good. We just want to get you out of here.”

  Shareef said, “Aw’ight, well, let me walk to the end of the block, and I’m good. I don’t need no ride. My legs work just fine.”

  Baby G smiled and said, “Yeah, I can see that. I saw them moves you made on them niggas back there. You looked like Curtis Martin from the Jets or some shit, breaking out for a touchdown.”

  They all chuckled inside the car as if Shareef’s life was a joke. He wondered how many young guys were inside.

  “Come on, man, I just want to meet you,” Baby G insisted. “I mean, you a writer, right? I got some stories to tell you.”

  Another car pulled up behind their Chrysler in the street, while they held up traffic.

  Baby G persisted, “Look, I’m not gon’ hurt you, man. Stop acting like that. Everybody know me. I mean, I know you saw me at the game yesterday. My young buck said he spoke to you and got your autograph for his girl.”

  Shareef remembered that. And he had spotted Baby G at the game, and at the party on Wednesday night at Zip Code. The young charmer had snatched the California girl away from him. Shareef still wondered if he had slept with her that night. But he was still hesitant to trust the young guy.

  “Yo, show him your face, man,” he said to someone else in the front seat of the car.

  Shareef watched as the same pleasant, young man he had signed an autograph for at the Kingdome Tournament stood outside of the car with his empty palms out.

  “Yo, Shareef, he just wants to talk to you, man. That’s on my grave. And I’m too young to die.”

  Shareef heard the young man out and didn’t budge.

  These motherfuckers are clever, he told himself. He wondered if Baby G had told his follower what to say.

  The young general continued to stare at Shareef through the opened window. He remained patient and poised. He said, “Come on, man, writers are supposed to be brave. Y’all ’sposed to be the first ones to investigate shit. I don’t let people ride with me every day like this, man. Consider this a privilege.”

  The cars behind them began to blow their horns. Baby G didn’t respond to them. He was still waiting for Shareef. He had a quiet reserve about him that was unusual for thug types. Nothing seemed to faze him, not even the gun battle less than a block away.

  Shareef took a long breath and made his final decision. He told himself, I’m a fucking asshole. I deserve to die. And he began to walk toward the car.

  Baby G opened the door for him to get in and slid over in his seat. There was another young man who hopped out of the car on the other side to make room.

  “Y’all know how to get home from here. Just call me up when you make it back in safe. Me and this man got some talking to do,” Baby G told both of the younger men who stood outside of the c
ar.

  They nodded, “Yes, sir,” and moved on.

  That left Shareef alone inside the car with Baby G and his driver as they zoomed down 124th Street.

  Shareef had no idea what to expect from the man. He didn’t even know what to say to him.

  “Aw’ight, so you met me, now what?”

  Baby G looked at him and nodded himself. He calmly extended his right hand and said, “Shareef Crawford, my government name is Greggory Taylor. But the streets call me Baby G. And I don’t know what it is, but ever since I was a kid, whenever I spoke, people liked to listen to me. They felt like I was an old soul out here, you know. So once I figured that shit out, I just told myself, ‘Well, since people love listening to me like that, let me make sure I always got something for them to do. And after that, all my uncles, cousins, and the old-timers on the block started calling me the Baby Gangsta. You feel me? That’s how I ended up who I am.”

  He said, “But what about you, man? How’d you become a writer?”

  Shareef shook his hand and was more concerned about where they were driving him. They headed straight down 124th Street with no turnoff.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  Baby G told him immediately. “Downtown. I don’t want you being nervous up here in Harlem, thinking I’m gon’ kill you or nothing. So if we ride downtown, maybe you’ll feel safer.” He said, “We need to get away from all this heat you just caused up here anyway,” and chuckled.

  His thick driver smiled at it, too.

  Shareef asked him, “You spend much time downtown?” He doubted if the young man spent much time downtown at all. Going downtown wasn’t a Harlem thing to do.

  Baby G shook it off and answered, “I don’t. You know better than that. Harlem and Manhattan is like two different places. Did you go downtown when you lived in Harlem? And I’m not talking about for plays and concerts and shit. I’m just saying to hang out down there.”

  “Nah,” Shareef told him. “We were too proud of Harlem to go downtown.”

  Baby G nodded and said, “Exactly. Now downtown is coming back up to us. They know what time it is. Harlem is what’s up.”