Reese was chewing the breakfast meat when he said, “Man, he didn’t even trip about the shit, just told me to handle it.” He took a swallow of his beer. “You know that shit fucked me up.”
Shaun tried to see some reasoning for Slim not to be upset. He then told Reese, “You know you’re like an under boss and shit. So maybe he’s seeing if you can handle shit.” Shaun decided to get a beer for himself. Usually he didn’t drink during the day, but he had shit on his mind.
Reese said, “I thought my guy was going to trip, and I bet he would have if it wasn’t for the chick he had over at his spot. I heard her talking to him, and his ass sounded all in. I think it’s that one chick who works at that one strip club.”
“He’s fuckin’ with a stripper?”
“Nah. The bitch serves drinks, but my guy was all in over this broad. I mean, she’s a dime piece. Remember the one that was serving us that look like she’s black and Mexican or Rican. I don’t know, but the bitch is exotic.
“Yeah, I remember,” Shaun said not wanting to talk negative about Slim because he welcomed him into the crew with open arms after he saved Tesha and Chantel’s life. But he knew what Reese was thinking to be true. If Slim decided to shut down shop and get out the game, they would be hung out to dry. True, they could hustle, but it was the reputation Lucky built over the years of being smart, fair and no nonsense. Along with Slim’s street savvy and ruthlessness helped their crew to keep one step ahead of the others. They were built to lead, and good leaders lasted.
Reese downed his beer. “Man, I even heard some Jill Scott type shit playing in the background. Man, after that shit happened last night, I was thinking about how niggas in our crew are getting soft,” Reese griped.
“What up, my nigga?”
“You know what I’m sayin’. Me and that nigga, Slim, go back like bottles and pacifiers, but this is all I know. I ain’t tryin’ to do shit else,” Reese said as he opened the refrigerator and helped himself to another beer.
Shaun sipped as he stared at Reese. He was trying to read the man. Trying to see if Reese was thinking what he assumed he was. Reese caught his look, sipped and with a straight face he said, “Yeah, nigga. That’s what I’m saying. I need to find out who is gonna be down. If Slim wants to get out the game, that’s cool by me, because I’m sure he’s going to give me the keys to the car. I’m just in the process of finding out who is going to go on that ride with me. Who is going to be down?” Reese’s brow furrowed.
Shaun knew what he was asking so he told him, “Make me the right hand man, and I’m in. That only if Slim gets out. I’m not going to be part of a third country revolution type shit where we try to overthrow the government.”
“Fo sho. I don’t have no thoughts of no slick take over shit. I’m just saying if he gets out the game, I don’t think the crew should shut down shop. We can keep on moving.” He held up his bottle.
They toasted.
Shaun said, “Now on that other thing. When you want Feet to handle it?”
“As soon as possible.”
Shaun said, “I’m all for that, but I will give you one piece of advice.”
“And what’s that?” Reese asked, wondering if he was questioning his decision.
“Since that nigga, Parker, is working with the police, we have to make sure Feet murks that nigga in a way that it doesn’t come back on the crew.
Reese rubbed his thick chin then said, “Your smart thinking ass just might work as an under boss. Now let’s get on some best out of three in Madden. I got the Steelers.”
6
“Shit had to be done.”—REESE
Feet and Red were at a crap house on Avalon Street. They had been there for about an hour, and Feet had lost about nine hundred dollars, which pissed him off. He only went to the spot because he and Red were hanging and had time to kill before they picked up a couple of young women to kick it with, and Red, who was a gambler, wanted to blow and roll the dice. Feet was amazed how Red was fading everyone in the joint. His young ass was blowing the dice, talking shit and picking up the paper. He must have come up about four thousand, and Feet was ready to go, but part of the ’hood rules were you couldn’t just shake, roll, take money and just jet out the spot after only being there for a moment, so Feet understood.
“You ain’t fading shit?” A heavy-set Puerto Rican asked Feet.
“Nah, y’all niggas done got me for my pocket change. I’m here just here to watch my partna clean y’all asses out,” Feet said with a hint of laughter in his voice.
A muscular built brotha, who looked to be in his late thirties, threw two fifty dollar bills to the floor to fade Red. When the money hit the ground he said, “I got your young ass faded, Red.”
Red blew on the dice.
A young thug with corn rolls, who had lost close to two grand, barked, “You need to quit blowing on the fucking dice you high yellow ass nigga!”
Red, who everyone knew to be laid back, simply blew the dice again, not paying attention to what the man was saying then rolled them.
“Uh, good girl!” Red spoke to the dice then picked up the stack of cash from the floor.
The men wanted some get back so they didn’t want Red to leave, but he was hotter than fish grease so they really wouldn’t have minded if he just took his winnings and left.
Red was ready to roll again when he heard someone say, “My nigga, Parker. What your ass doing here?”
“Shit, just here to get y’all fools’ money!” Parker laughed then noticed Feet and Red. He wasn’t expecting to see them at the spot and was caught off guard by their presence. “What’s up, Feet?” Parker said as he walked over to Feet with his hand extended.
They gave some dap, and Feet could tell that his gesture was fake.
Feet said, “What’s up with you? I see you must have a little extra cash to burn.” Feet knew he shouldn’t have said that especially after Shaun told him not to make a move on Parker until told. So the best thing to do was act as if everything was everything. The problem was that Feet hated Parker even before he found out the man was working with the police.
Not liking the tone in Feet’s voice, Parker said, “Yeah, nigga. And you too, huh?”
“What’s up, Parker?” Red said as he stood and gave him a fist pound also. He knew Feet wanted to kill Parker, but this was not the time or the place.
Keeping his eyes locked on Feet, Parker said, “Nothing much, just trying to get some of these nigga’s money.”
The gangster with the braids said, “Fuck! Y’all having a family reunion or y’all gonna roll the dice?”
Parker grinned slyly at Feet then yelled, “I’m fading whatever!” He had his .45 pistol on him and the steel always made him feel confident and strong. He was a punk like that. It was the reason why Greg put Feet in charge of a crew and not him.
The dice game went on for about thirty minutes, and Feet told Red he was going out to the car to smoke a blunt. Feet usually wouldn’t have left his partner alone in an environment like the one they were in, but Red was used to coming to the spot by himself so Feet went to get his head right with some of the sticky.
Feet was parked on the grass of the vacant lot next to the crap house. He was inside his Monte Carlo talking on his cell and taking the last few puffs of his blunt. He told the hood rat on the other end that he’d be at her place about eleven, even though he knew it would be more like two or three. That is, if he didn’t get lucky at the club.
Red came walking out of the crap house, and he was smiling. Right behind him was Parker, and he looked pissed.
“My nigga must’ve cleaned that fool out already, serves his punk ass right,” Feet muttered. He yelled out the window, “Where we spending that nigga’s money at?”
Parker was pissed at losing his money to the men in the house, and barked at Feet, “Fuck you, little nigga.” He paused then said what he knew would get Feet out of the car, “Bitch!”
Feet’s blood pressure rose, and he yelled, “What m
othafucka?” In an instant he was out of the car rushing toward Parker.
Red jumped in front of Parker not wanting anything to go down. Especially, at the crap spot because anyone who fought, shot or anything wasn’t welcomed back by the old heads, who had pull in the city, and ran the place.
“Out of the way, Red. This shit’s been a long time coming!” Feet fumed.
“Fuck you gonna do, little nigga?” Parker barked.
A rather large heavy-set old head rose from the lawn chair on the back porch. Hidden behind the railing was a shotgun. “Y’all youngin’s take that shit from ’round here.”
The young men paused at the sound of the man’s voice, but Feet, who was a hothead, spat, “Fucking snitch ass bitch! I’ll catch your ass around the way.” He turned to walk to his car when Parker pulled his pistol.
Parker barked, “What nigga, what you wanna do?”
The old head on the porch grabbed the shotgun, a pump that held six buck shots. “Put away the piece, Parker. Take that bullshit away from our spot!” his bass more prevalent.
Parker held his pistol trained on Feet who showed no fear.
Feet said, “Nigga, you better kill me.”
The old head yelled, “Red, get your boy, and get the fuck up outta here! Last time I’m tellin’ y’all!”
Red ran the short distance to Feet keeping himself in between the two so Parker wouldn’t shoot. Red whispered, “Remember what Greg said. Not now, bruh. You can’t do nothing to him until Greg and Reese says.”
Feet, who was pissed, came to his senses. He couldn’t take a chance on fucking things up for Greg, so he decided to get his feelings in check by stepping in his car. Once he was inside, Red hurried to the passenger’s side of the two door sports car and got in.
As the two were driving off, Parker barked, “Punk ass bitches!”
As Parker opened the car door to his Chrysler 300, the old head in his gruff voice yelled from the porch, “Hey, Parker.”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Don’t bring your ass ’round here no mo’.”
“Big Billy, you’re just security. You’re not running shit.”
Billy spit some of the tobacco he was chewing on the ground. He smiled then said, “I know you’re related to that cop, Styles. Now I heard that boy say words on you about snitching. Like I said, don’t come around here no mo’.”
Parker said nothing, but thought about how he should call his older cousin, Detective Styles, and put him on the crap house. Parker was thinking on emotion because there was no way Styles would have dealt with something as trivial as a crap house unless it had drugs in it.
Feet was pulling into the lot of Harold’s Chicken. Red said, “I got it. Shit, the way I licked them fool’s asses. What you want?”
“Let’s get at least two dozen, half hot, half barbecue and some fries,” Feet told him as he watched Red count his loot. Red put three hundred in his pocket then stuffed the over four grand in the center console.
“Watch that shit for me nigga, we gon kick it with them bitches tonight!” he said as he stepped out of the car and went inside Harold’s Chicken.
It was Saturday night, and the famous chicken shack was packed. Feet’s stomach was growling, and he couldn’t wait to dig into some of the bird. His cell rang, and he checked the number. It was the young woman he was supposed to hook up with and was about to answer when a red 300M pulled up beside him, and when he saw the car with tinted windows, he immediately got pissed. Parker stepped out of his car and slyly smiled at Feet.
Parker walked in front of his vehicle towards Harold’s. He nodded at Feet.
Feet spat, “Mothafucka, you following me?”
Parker, who had done a couple of lines of cocaine when he left the crap house, was feeling strong. He walked up to the driver’s side of Feet’s car and said, “I ain’t never been the one to follow bitches. That’s why I have a problem with Greg having me working for your ass, nigga.” As he turned to walk away he mumbled, “But that shit won’t be for long. Your time is limited, that’s fo sho.”
Feet’s body became extremely hot, and his hands began to shake. “Fuck this shit!” he muttered as he reached into his waistband and grabbed his pistol. He stepped out of his car and yelled, “Ay yo, Parker.”
“What bitch…oh shit,” Parker said as he turned and saw the weapon pointed at him. He made a move for his pistol that was under his long t-shirt, but his arm barely moved up before Feet hit him with a shot to his chest.
Parker fell backwards, and his white t began to pool with blood. People screamed, and Red saw Feet walking toward Parker. “Shit!” Red yelled. He was about to head out of the carry-out when Feet looked up at him and shook his head. None of the patrons caught it, they were too busy ducking and hiding.
Feet stood over Parker and asked, “What you have to say now, bitch? This is for the crew, you snitch.”
Feet pointed his weapon at Parker’s face.
“No, man, no!” Parker begged. There was a bright light, and then it was all over. Feet had put two rounds into Parker’s head.
Feet jumped into his car and sped out of the lot leaving Red to flee on his own. Feet left Red because after putting the first round into Parker, he knew he’d made a mistake. He had killed the man where there were witnesses, and he didn’t need to get Red caught with him in the car. He’d let his emotions get the best of him. He had orders to leave Parker alone until he was given the word, so now with killing Parker, he was going to have a problem with the police and the crew.
* * *
Greg was getting dressed. He was at a condo in Dolton he was purchasing. It was his low-key spot no one knew about. Greg was a smart hustler who liked to dress in fine clothes, dine at nice restaurants and enjoyed the company of pretty women—women who weren’t from the hood. He usually picked up on women from poetry sets, and college hang-outs. At the age of twenty-eight he had done well for himself. During the recession when the housing market crashed, he was taking classes at Chicago State and when he asked a business professor what would be the best thing for a person with about fifty to one hundred thousand to invest his money in, the professor told him, real estate. Greg looked into it and came to the conclusion that he needed more money. About a month later, he was over to a lady friend’s house, and she was changing the channels to the television. When she stopped at the HG station, Greg was intrigued by what he saw. It was a show called ‘Flip this House’ and during the thirty minute program, he learned a lot and decided that is what he was going to do with his money. He was on the road to being legit and told himself that when he hit his mark of one million, he’d stop selling drugs. It was a slow process since he was laundering the money through his houses, but it was going to be worth the wait. He only hoped that he didn’t hit any bumps in the road that the drug game brought—death or incarceration.
He slipped on his Kenneth Cole shoes and then his Movado watch. He looked himself over in the mirror and thought about how a lot of dealers liked to wear nice jewelry and clothes—but it was always attire that spelled drug dealer.
His cell began to ring. He saw the name and answered.
The man’s voice on the other end was one of panic when he said, “Uncle, I need your help. I just did a nigga.”
Greg thinking quickly said, “Hang up, and I’ll call you right back!”
Feet did as told, and Greg ran to his bedroom to grab his throwaway cell. He dialed and Feet answered on the first ring. “Unk?”
Feet never called Greg uncle. Actually, no one knew that Greg was his uncle. They knew they were related, with them being so close in age everyone figured they were cousins.
“Yeah, Feet, where are you? What happened?”
“Man, that nigga, Parker. We got—”
“Look, let me know where you’re at, and I’ll come get you, then you can tell me what time it is.”
“At my girl’s spot—”
“She there?”
“Nah, she’s out of town this w
eekend, but I need to get out of here.”
“I’m on my way, and don’t call nobody or talk to nobody. You hear me?”
“I got ya.”
Greg hung the phone up and yelled, “Fuck!”
He grabbed his pistol and a change of clothes for Feet in case he needed them. Greg figured he’d bring Feet back to his spot until he knew exactly what went down. He got in his SUV and drove off. As he drove his Suburban, he thought about how Feet could be a hothead, and Greg knew that he’d fucked up. That Feet didn’t get along with Parker and couldn’t wait to slump him, but he hadn’t been given the green light. Now Greg had the hard task of bringing this drama to Reese who would in turn relay it to Slim. Either way, Feet was in serious trouble.
* * *
It was Sunday afternoon, and Slim was walking out of St. Michael’s Catholic Church. He hadn’t been inside a church in a while, but the feeling he had was one that he couldn’t explain. He remembered having the same feeling the last time he was inside a house of worship. He was raised Baptist, but didn’t feel uncomfortable one bit while the Priest conducted Mass, when they knelt for prayer or when people took communion.
As Slim and Trish walked down the street to his car she said, “Marcellus, you seemed comfortable. I thought you were going to be nervous.”
Trish had told Slim that she didn’t like calling him by his street name. That she didn’t see him that way so she had asked if it was okay to call him by the name his mother had given him. Slim didn’t mind. As a matter-of-fact, he liked the way she said it. The way the syllables rolled off her tongue. Usually Slim would have never let anyone call him by his first name. Hell, the only people in the streets and in their crew who knew his given name was Lucky and Reese—two people who have known him since he was a child.
Slim said, “I went to a Catholic school for one year.”
“But you’re not Catholic, are you?”
They arrived at his Cadillac. He opened her door for Trish, and she got in. Once in the driver’s seat, he told her, “My uncle, rest his soul, raised me for a little while. My mom, she was a good woman, but she was out there. In the streets, I mean. Her brother was gangster, but he took time with me. I guess it was because he never had a son. Played ball with me, took me fishing and did stuff I didn’t understand, like putting me in Catholic school for a year.”
The Corner III (No Way Out) Page 10
