by K'wan
GANGLAND
A LOVE STORY
K’WAN
GANGLAND
Copyright © 2010 by K’wan Foye
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Edited by: Kenya Moses for Efficient Edits
For info contact:
K’wan
Black Dawn, Inc.
P.O. Box 32605
Midtown Station
Newark, N.J. 07102
[email protected]
www.blackdawnbooks.net
The Beginning
“Lou-Loc,” a female voice boomed from the other side of the door. “Lou-Loc, don’t even try to play like you don’t hear me. St. Louis Alexander, are you awake?”
Lou-Loc slowly pulled his head from under the pillow and tried to get his bearings. It took almost a minute for him to get his equilibrium right to sit up. Running his hands cross his face he pushed back his long wild hair and wiped the sleep from his eyes, as he heard his name being called again. The first word that popped into his mind was drama. Whenever Martina called him by his government name it meant drama, and he wasn’t up for it. His head was still throbbing from the party the night before. He knew that he would be no match for Martina in an argument, especially in his drunken condition.
All the home boys and girls from the hood got together and threw a welcome home party for Pop Top, a respected older homie who rolled with a small crew called The Park Avenue Crips or P.A.C for short. They were a rowdy, but small bunch, but their numbers swelled when they consolidated under Harlem Crip. As Pop Top had been locked up when Lou-Loc first arrived on the scene they didn’t know each other that well, but had met in passing when Pop Top visited Cali a few years prior. Each knew how the other got down so there was always a mutual respect between them. Lou-Loc had originally considered skipping the party, but thought better of it. He knew that attending the party would be looked upon favorably by Pop Top and having the wild gunslinger on his side would only help to solidify Lou-Loc’s already stronghold on the hood. Lou-Loc was a master strategist and understood that a general was only as strong as his army.
A lot of people thought Pop Top got his name from the fifty cent sodas he was always drinking, but it had really come from his ill temper. Pop Top was one of those cats that could be calm and reserved one minute and on a murderous rampage the next, and it was this mentality that kept him knee deep in bullshit.
The day Pop Top managed to get himself sent to prison was one the hood talked about for a while. He had only been in court on a steering charge, which would’ve been thrown out because he was clean when they picked him up, but things were never that simple. The lawyer tried to explain to Pop Top that because of his criminal record it would’ve been wise for him to plead out to a year of probation, but Pop Top wasn’t trying to hear that. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he knew a bit about law and knew that the cops didn’t have anything on him. The legal aid ignored Pop Top’s decision and pled him out to it anyhow, which turned out to be a painful mistake.
In front of the judge and everyone else watching, Pop Top lost it. He hit the lawyer in the face so hard that everybody in the courtroom heard his jaw snap. It took three bailiffs, the D.A., and Top’s sister to pull him off of the legal aid. The judge wanted to throw the book at Top, but because he had a history of mental illness, the next Legal Aid assigned to him was able to use that to soften the blow. Pop Top did a little over a year on Riker’s Island, where he stabbed a Blood over a cookie, but the bulk of his bid was done in various mental institutions around New York State.
Lou-Loc rolled his sleepy eyes over the digital clock and tried to focus on the numbers. When he realized that it was only ten thirty in the morning and she had broken his rest he wanted to go up top on her, but that would only succeeded in prolonging the argument and he’d never be able to get any rest. His best offense was good defense, so he would listen to what she had to say and not argue back.
Martina burst into the room like a raging tornado. Her long black hair was wrapped around her head and held in place with colorful pins. A deep scowl had her luscious pink lips twisted and there was no sparkle in her rich brown eyes. “Damn, fool I’ve been screaming your name so fucking long that the neighbors probably know it. You got a phone call,” she tossed him the phone, “and tell your stupid ass friends to have some respect when they call my house, cuz,” she slammed the door.
“Bitch,” Lou-Loc mumbled under his breath. He loved Martina, but she was a pain in the ass. How he had ended up with her was a mystery, but why he stayed with her was an even bigger brainteaser.
Martina was a typical hood rat; no job, didn’t finish school and really didn’t aspire to do anything except make it through to the next day, but for as fucked up as she was character wise, she was one of the baddest chicks Lou-Loc had ever seen. Martina was a honey colored Dominican girl who was born, educated and turned out on 149th between Broadway and Amsterdam. She stood five-foot-five, well curved and an angelic quality about her that made you stare even when you didn’t want to. Even at six months pregnant her body was still tight enough to hold her own with any video model on their best day. Looking at Martina, you could hardly tell she was pregnant, let alone had two more kids at home. Yeah, Martina was an absolute pain in the ass, but she was his pain and that was how fate had written it.
Lou-Loc cradled the cordless phone and croaked, “What’s cracking?”
“Brims, blunts, and bottles,” replied the voice on the other end.
“My nigga Gutter, what it be like cuz?” Lou-Loc immediately recognized his comrade’s voice.
Lou-Loc and Gutter grew up and threw up together on the mean streets Los Angeles. From slanging, ganging and hanging they had done it together and over the years had become like brothers. When things got hectic on the west and Lou-Loc made his way east, his crime partner made the move with him. They rested there heads in a few spots along the way, but it was New York where they eventually settled. In New York Lou-Loc saw a place where he could shed his gang affiliation and pursue his true dream, which was to become a writer, but Gutter had other plans. All a new city meant to him was more territory to conquer and compared to L.A. New York was wide open. The streets of New York weren’t prepared for a man like Gutter and the brand of ignorance he brought with him. They would either crown Gutter king or sadist, but New York would definitely feel his passing.
When Lou-Loc and Gutter settled in New York they realized they had been blessed and jinxed. New York was overrun with Bloods, but there was also a good number of Crips who seemed dedicated enough to the cause, but they really didn’t know too much about being Crips. They had the basic rules and foundation, but there was no passion in their movement and it showed in the fact that all of the small sets were disorganized and without real direction. Lou-Loc and Gutter had gone out to the scattered Crip sets and passed on the word as it had been given to them in L.A., the true word. Within a few months the word spread to the ears of other Crips around the city and who all came to listen to what Lou-Loc and Gutter were kicking. The two L.A. refugees had convinced nearly eighty percent of the Crips in New York City to come together under one banner…HARLEM CRIP.
Everything is blue, home boy.” Gutter replied.
“What you on today?” Gutter asked.
Lou-Loc paused to light his Newport, “Can’t call it fool, how bout you?”
“Glad you asked. I gotta go see the boy Roc out in Brooklyn and I was gonna holla at you to roll wit a nigga cuz.”
“I don’t know, Gutter. I got a mean hangover, and I had just planned on kicking it on the local side of things.” Gutt
er bust up laughing at Lou-Loc’s reply. “What the hell is so funny?”
“Ain’t nothing,” Gutter said trying to catch his breath, “I’ll understand if Martina won’t let you out. I’m your boy; you ain’t got to lie to me.”
“Man, fuck you crab,” Lou-Loc shot back. “I’m a grown ass man, fool. I do what I want when I want. Just because Sharell be kicking yo punk ass don’t try to get me twisted!”
The two friends enjoyed a laugh.
“Nah,” Gutter said a little more serious, “I need you to watch my back. You know how these New York niggaz is, especially in Brooklyn. Shit, they worst than them fools in Compton. I’d end up having to blast one of them fools for trying to jack me.”
“Ok,” Lou-Loc moaned finally having enough of Gutters snow job. “I’ll roll with you G. Pick me up in two hours Gutter, not one hour, not one and a half. Two hours, Gutter, you hear me?”
“Yeah, cuz,” Gutter repeated the instructions, and hung up the phone.
Lou-Loc slid out of the bed and onto his feet. As he stretched various bones cracked and corrected themselves. “Rough night,” he thought to himself, as he put on his slippers and shuffled to the mirror. Lou-Loc looked at his handsome brown face and smiled at the youthful image staring back at him. He had lived quite a hard life to be only twenty-five, but for as hard and as fast as he lived, he still maintained his boyish features. He was dark, but not as dark as Gutter, more of a rich chocolate. With perfect white teeth and bowed full lips, Lou-Loc looked more like a pretty boy than a gangster, but those that knew him knew that a monster lurked behind that pretty smile.
Lou-Loc shuffled over to the closet to find something to wear. When people were lucky enough to get a glimpse inside of the huge walk in closet that he had built for Martina, they couldn’t help but to be impressed. Each side of the closet held three rows of hanging bars, like the ones you might see in a dry cleaner. Each row was filled to the brim with designer clothes from all over the world. There was Roc-a-wear, Sean John, Prada, Dolce, Gucci, and quite a few designers that people had yet to hear about.
On Martina’s side, she had minks, and leather jackets in just about every cut and color. She had dresses that wouldn’t be available to the public for a few years yet to come. And shoes? Forget about it. She had every designer shoe you could think of. Lou-Loc liked to spoil his boo. His homeys used to joke and call him a trick, but it wasn’t tricking if you had it to blow, and Lou-Loc was sitting on bread.
Lou-Loc’s side of the closet was a little different. He had some fly pieces for when he felt like stepping out, such as shoes made from different kinds of animals, Dobbs-Fifty hats and scores of button-up shirts, but it wasn’t really his thing. He was a street nigga, so he mostly dressed accordingly, but even in that department he was holding. He always got the newest sneakers at least a year or so before they hit the street countless football and basketball jerseys with the matching fitted caps and leather jackets in every color of the rainbow. When it came to stunting most dudes couldn’t see Lou-Loc, but he was humble about it, unless it was a special occasion. For those events he went to the big guns, and one of his most prized possessions. It was a full length electric blue mink coat, with a matching mink baseball cap, with the cap being the real showstopper, engraved with the letter C on the front covered in real diamonds.
After a few minutes of debating he selected an outfit for the day, a pair of black Dickey pants, a blue Dodgers jersey and blue Dodgers fitted cap. Since it was a business trip he didn’t see the need to go heavy on the jewels so he kept it simple with a white gold crucifix and a blue faced Timex watch. To complete his outfit he reached under his pillow and retrieved his nickel plated nine. Chrome matched pretty much anything.
With the outfit straight it was time to handle the grooming phase. As Lou-Loc made his way to the bathroom, he was stopped in the hallway by Martina’s son Carlo. The boy was the spitting image of his mother, except his features were more masculine. Even though Carlo wasn’t Lou-Loc’s biological son, he still showed the boy love.
Carlo put on his best mean mug and greeted Lou-Loc. “What up, O.G. Lou-Loc, what that Crip like? We rolling today or what?”
Lou-Loc smiled and slapped the boy five, “Nah, Lil player. I got some things to do. Ain’t you got no where to be this morning?”
“A’ight, that’s blue homie. We’ll kick it on the later side, Crip,” Carlo flashed a gang sign just as Martina was coming around the corner.
“Carlo, what the hell did I tell you about that shit?” She snapped, grabbing him roughly by the arm. “When you’re eighteen and out of my house you can engage in all the fool shit you want, but while you’re little ass is under my roof you will be a child and not a damn thug,” she slapped him in the back of the head and shoved him down the hall. “And you,” she turned to Lou-Loc, “how many times I gotta check you about bringing that shit around my kids?”
“Martina...”
“Martina my ass,” she cut him off. “Look, if you and Gutter want to run around making asses of yourselves, you’re grown and entitled to do so, but don’t when it comes to my kids I ain’t trying to hear it. I don’t want gang banging around them or the lil one I’ve got cooking in here,” she rubbed her stomach.
Lou-Loc sighed in frustration. “Look Martina, you know what I am and what I’m about so don’t get all anti-gang on me now, especially when it was this hood shit that opened your nose on me, remember?” He pulled up his T-shirt exposing the tattoo on his stomach which read Crip or Die. “That’s who I am, a mutha fucking gangsta, born in the slums and baptized by fire. Where I come from we ain’t got a lot of choice, its either bang or get banged on, ya heard? They start recruiting at thirteen, you know that? They snatch the babies and turn them into killing tools. It ain’t like New York where niggaz started banging because rappers say it’s cool to do it; this is our way of life in L.A. Martina, I’m a beast and that’s my cross to bear, but I would never poison yours or anyone else’s kid with this, but I can’t deny who or what I am. I’m going to be a Crip until they put me in the ground. I can’t change that but the burden is mine to carry.”
“That all sounds good, but I can’t see it. You and that fucking asshole Kenyatta, or Gutter, or what ever you want to call him, are always into something. Every time I turn around its Lou-Loc did this, or Gutter shot that one, what the fuck!”
Lou-Loc paused to gather himself before answering. “Martina, you must be crazy if you think I’m going to be hustling all my days. Yo man got a plan, boo.”
“And what plan might that be?” She twisted her lips.
“I’m going to be a writer,” Lou-Loc said seriously. “My name is gonna be bigger than Donald Goines, K’wan, and all the rest of them niggaz they checking for in the bookstores, you watch and see.”
Martina gave a throaty laugh. “Nigga please, whose gonna buy anything you criminal ass writes? Established writers have agents and publishers behind them.
Who you got behind you them besides fool ass niggaz from Harlem? What you need to do is keep your mind on the money that’s feeding us and stop day dreaming about this writer shit. I got kids to feed and we can’t eat no paper and ink, Lou-Loc,” she capped and walked back into the kitchen.
Lou-Loc was so angry at Martina for shooting down his dream that he wanted to follow her into the kitchen and choke the shit out of her, but he had a more pressing issue which was the sudden bubbling in his gut from last night’s liquor. He darted into the bedroom to get a few things he needed and rushed to the bathroom.
When Lou-Loc got into the bathroom he stripped naked and plopped on the toilet just in time to pass the first wave of waste that was kicking up in his stomach. He felt a little better, but the battle wasn’t over yet. While he relieved himself he removed some rolling papers and a bag of weed from the box he’d gotten from the bedroom, and started twisting a joint. Once the joint was rolled, he lit an incense and proceeded to get blazed while going over the things he had to do that day in his head.
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He’d initially planned on spending the day in the house with the family and taking care of a few things, but his homie needed him and he couldn’t leave him hanging, especially hearing the urgency in Gutter’s voice. For as long as he had known Gutter he had never seen him show fear or uncertainty about anything, but the Brooklyn cats made him nervous, with good reason. The black gangsters in Brooklyn were bad, but these Middle Eastern dudes took it to another level. From what Lou-Loc had heard of Roc and his people they were a deadly lot who were suspicious of outsiders, especially Americans.
It was a good thing that he was riding with Gutter, that way he would be free to think instead of concentrating on the road. But the way Gutter drove, he would probably have to watch the road anyhow. That was one of the setbacks of not driving your own whip.
It’s wasn’t that Lou-Loc didn’t own a car, in fact he had two of them in New York. One was silver 2000 Camry that sat on chrome twenty-fours, and the other was his pride and joy, a 1979 Cadillac Sedan De Ville that he had imported from L.A. The body was a forest green, while the tires were pearl white, with gold twenty-eight inch hundred spoke rims. He had even had his boy Wiz fit it with bulletproof plating in the doors, roof and windows. When he had first busted it out in New York it drew the attention of everyone who was out that day. They looked at Lou-Loc as if he was riding in a spaceship when he threw the car up on three wheels and dipped it down Seventh Avenue.
When Lou-Loc was halfway through his joint, and his dump, he noticed a manila envelopes sticking out of the bathroom waste basket. Upon closer inspection he noticed that it had come from the Borough of Manhattan Community College and was addressed to him. Some time back Lou-Loc had decided to finish his education and try to receive his degree. He had taken some courses at LBCC, but because of everything that was going on in the streets he had never had the opportunity to finish, so he intended to pick up where he’d left off when he got to New York. It had always been his dream to become a writer, so he planned to pursue a degree in journalism. He had been waiting to hear back from the school for weeks and wondered why he hadn’t heard back yet. At first he couldn’t figure out how it found its way into the trash, but as he thought about it he knew just how it got there.
