The Fix 3

by K'wan

  The first thing Droopy had to do was find a payphone, which was easier said than done. With the growing popularity of cell phones, payphones were becoming extinct. He had to walk nearly six blocks to find one that worked, cursing himself the whole time for not investing in a cell when he started hustling. He dropped some change in the phone and dialed one of the few numbers he knew by heart: Li’l Monk’s. He had tried to call him from the payphone on the block earlier, but kept getting the voicemail. To his surprise, someone picked up, but it wasn’t Li’l Monk.

  “Hello?” a female voice answered.

  “Who is this?” Droopy asked.

  “Nigga, you called my phone,” the girl said with an attitude.

  “Shorty, you know damn well that ain’t your phone. It belongs to a friend of mine. Stop playing games and tell me where Li’l Monk is. I need to speak to him,” Droopy demanded.

  “Look, you disrespectful li’l nigga, I don’t know nobody named Li’l Monk. I found this phone near the park so it’s mine now. Possession is nine tenths of the law,” she said and hung up.

  “Fucking bitch,” Droopy said to the empty line and slammed the phone down. He was about to call her back and demand she turn Li’l Monk’s phone over to him when her words came back to him and hit him like a ton of bricks. With nervous hands he retrieved the newspaper from his back pocket and began flipping through the pages. He stopped when he came across the article about the shooting. The picture was blurry, and the car was mangled but it was the right make and color. Dropping the paper, he took off running as fast as he could.

  Big Monk sat on his living room couch in an almost comatose state. Every few seconds he would reach up and touch his face with his fingertips because he could no longer feel it. He had been snorting high-grade cocaine and drinking whiskey all morning, courtesy of a liquor store he had robbed the night before. Hunting had been slow in the streets and he needed some quick cash to get high before the sickness set in. He found an out-of-the-way liquor store that seemed to be an easy enough mark . . . or so he thought.

  The two Puerto Ricans working in the store put up one hell of a fight. They gave him so much of a run that Monk had to kill them both in order to keep them from killing him. He couldn’t understand why the men were willing to die over the $1,500, but as he was raiding the refrigerator where they kept the wine it all became clear. The liquor store was a front for a cocaine spot. All told Monk made off with six ounces of white, and a case of whiskey for his troubles. Monk had planned on hitting the streets to try and sell off most of the cocaine, but he hadn’t managed to pull himself off the couch yet.

  From behind his ear Monk pulled a McDonald’s straw, which was sliced in half to make it shorter. He didn’t even bother to separate lines from the mound of cocaine on the table; he just jammed one end of the straw into his nose, the other end into the pile, and went for broke. His head snapped back, one nostril clogged with cocaine and his eyes as wide as if someone had just stuck him with a live wire. He was just about to treat his other nostril when he heard banging.

  Moving off pure reflex, Monk was on his feet with his shotgun in his hands. His eyes whipped around the room nervously like there was someone else in the apartment with him. The banging continued and only then did he realize it was coming from the front door. He stalked across the living room, trying to get his legs to cooperate. The cocaine had him so charged that it felt like all his muscles contorted at one time. His movements felt awkward and almost robotic, but his trigger finger was fluid. Monk aimed the shotgun at the center of the door and leaned in to check the peephole. When he saw who was standing on the other side, he frowned. He undid the locks, snatched the door open, and buried his shotgun into the intruder’s chest.

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t lullaby your little ass,” Monk demanded.

  Droopy swallowed hard, looking down the barrel of the shotgun. “It’s about Li’l Monk!”

  CHAPTER 33

  The sun had barely set and Li’l Monk was in the streets. Kunta had advised him to wait until he was feeling a little stronger, but time was a luxury Li’l Monk didn’t have. The plan was for them to split. Li’l Monk needed Kunta to hit the streets to do some reconnaissance for his preemptive strike. Li’l Monk’s enemies would see him coming from a mile away, but nobody knew Kunta’s face. Kunta didn’t like the idea of separating, but Li’l Monk wasn’t in a negotiating mood. While Kunta was off playing spy, Li’l Monk had to go home to retrieve some of the things he would need.

  Going home was risky because Li’l Monk wasn’t exactly sure where he stood. Ramses had given the green light to have him killed, and knowing Ramses this wasn’t an impulse decision. Killing Li’l Monk was a big move that couldn’t have been made without support and preparation. Li’l Monk had no way of knowing who else was in on it and until he could find out there was no one he could trust, not even Omega.

  Thankfully his block was quiet when Li’l Monk appeared. Aside from a few random stragglers, nobody who knew him was around. He slipped into the building and bounded up the stairs to his apartment. Before putting his key in the door he took a second to listen. He wasn’t too worried about any surprises waiting for him inside his apartment because most knew his dad was crazy as hell and always armed, but after narrowly escaping the Italian hit men he didn’t want to take any chances. Once he was sure nothing was fishy he went inside.

  Big Monk wasn’t at home, but from the looks of things he had left in a hurry. There was cocaine all over the table and a half-empty whiskey bottle. His father was a careless man about life, but never when it came to his drugs. If he had left his stash out in the open like that then whatever he had rushed off to do must’ve been extremely important. He just hoped that his father came back soon because he needed him to link up with Kunta. With any luck, whatever message Face had sent could help to put an end the deadly game Li’l Monk found himself forced to play.

  When Li’l Monk was passing the kitchen he noticed the answering machine light blinking on his house phone. Normally he didn’t check it, because only bill collectors called the house phone, but he was in dire need of information and thought there might be something on the answering machine that he could use. The first four messages were from bill collectors, as he had expected. He was about to abandon the answering machine when he heard Sophie’s voice come over the speaker.

  “Hey, Li’l Monk, it’s me again. I’ve been trying to call your cell phone since you stood me up last night, but haven’t been able to reach you. Standing me up was not cool and your ass had better either be dead or in jail or I’m fucking you up. And while I’m venting, who is the light-skinned bitch I saw on the block asking about you earlier? Bitch kept giving me dirty looks like she had something to tell me. I’m telling you, if I find out you been out here in the streets fucking with these dirty-ass groupie hoes you better stay missing because I plan on killing you!”

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know who Sophie was talking about: Tiffany. In light of everything going on the last thing Li’l Monk needed in his life was women troubles. He had no idea why Omega would’ve had Tiffany on the block, especially after what had happened, but he planned on checking him about it when he saw him. Li’l Monk continued listening to Sophie’s rant, trying to figure out what he was going to say to her when he saw her. Toward the end of her message she said something that shook him to the core.

  “And what’s up with your boy Ramses? He pulled up on me while I was chilling in front of my building and started asking me all kinds of questions about you. You and I both know that Ramses has barely ever said two words to me and now he wants to chop it up like we’re all friendly. I might be paranoid, but it didn’t feel right. Li’l Monk, all this stuff is starting to make me nervous. You need to get with me and let me know what’s going on before I draw my own conclusions.”

  Li’l Monk’s hands shook with rage as he listened to Sophie’s message for a second time. He was a soldier and had made his choices in life, but So
phie was a civilian and therefore off-limits. Ramses had crossed the line when he tried to press Sophie. The fact that Ramses had approached Sophie himself meant that by now he realized the Italians had botched the job and he was getting desperate. Desperate men were unpredictable. It was now clear to Li’l Monk that bartering for his life was out of the question. Ramses and Pharaoh had to die.

  Li’l Monk went into his bedroom and stripped off his soiled clothes, changing into some fresh ones. He grabbed a pair of black jeans, black boots, and a black T-shirt. Stealth would be important, but not as important as his accessories. From the back of his closet he grabbed an old police-issued bulletproof vest he’d scored from a crackhead and strapped it on before donning his black T-shirt. He’d lost his Desert Eagle in the car crash so he’d need another weapon and knew just where he could get one.

  He crept into his father’s room, which was a mess of dirty clothes and empty liquor bottles as always, and headed for his closet. After moving several piles of dirty laundry out of his way, Li’l Monk searched the floor until he found what he was looking for: a small notch carved into the wood. He gave it a gentle tug, exposing the trap door beneath that hid his father’s treasure chest. Over the years Big Monk had sold off most of his hidden arsenal to help feed his drug habit, but there were still a few toys left that would help. He selected a chrome P89 with a black rubber grip, a shotgun that looked like it had seen better days, and a small .38. As an afterthought he also took a large hunting knife. It would come in handy if he found himself in close quarters. Now armed to the teeth he was ready to go to war.

  When Li’l Monk opened the door to leave he was surprised to find someone standing on the other side. His hand instinctively went to his gun, but he paused when he realized it was Neighborhood. The old fiend’s eyes got as wide as saucers when he saw Li’l Monk.

  “Damn, nigga, you look like you just seen a ghost,” Li’l Monk said.

  “I did, baby boy, I did.” Neighborhood pulled him in for a hug. “I’m glad to see you’re okay. I been hearing some real bad stuff in these streets about you.”

  “Well you’re about to hear some worse shit before the night is over,” Li’l Monk told him. “What’re you doing here? You looking for my pops?”

  “Technically yes, but it’s about you. Can I come inside for a minute? These walls got ears and what I got to say might get me killed.” Neighborhood looked around nervously.

  Li’l Monk didn’t feel like entertaining Neighborhood right then but he’d piqued his curiosity. He stepped to the side and let Neighborhood into the apartment. “Say what you gotta say and make it quick. I got shit to do.”

  “I’ll bet, especially with that price on your head,” Neighborhood told him.

  “And what do you know about it?” Li’l Monk asked suspiciously.

  “Not too much, man. Only what the streets are saying. I hear you’re on Ramses’s shit list.”

  “I’m gonna be on more than his shit list when I catch him.”

  “Li’l Monk, I know you’re built Ford tough, but taking on Ramses is a tall order. Maybe it’s best you get low until all this blows over,” Neighborhood suggested.

  “You know better than that. Monks don’t run from no fights; we finish them. Now if you’ve come to tell me what I already know, which is Ramses is trying to have me killed, you’re wasting my time.” Li’l Monk opened the door, letting Neighborhood know it was time for him to leave.

  “I can dig it, Li’l Monk. You gotta do what you gotta do, but let me ask you something: how much is it worth to you to know the name of the next person they’re gonna send at you?” Neighborhood rubbed his hands together greedily.

  Li’l Monk thought on it for a few seconds before pulling his gun and putting it to Neighborhood’s head. “I’d say it’s worth your life. Stop fucking with me, old man, and start talking.”

  Neighborhood smiled nervously. “Well since you put it that way, this bit of information is on the house.”

  CHAPTER 34

  “So what you gonna do with your part of the money?” Blue asked. He was hunched over a small glass coffee table, sifting through a pile of cocaine with two playing cards.

  “I would buy a phat-ass chain and a car!” Paulie said, lighting the weed.

  Dre looked up from his position at the dining room table where he was chopping big rocks into smaller ones. “You sound dumb as hell. The bounty is only ten stacks, and we splitting that three ways. What kinda car you gonna get with thirty-three hundred dollars?”

  “A beat-up-ass hooptie.” Blue snickered.

  Paulie took a deep pull off the L and let out the smoke. “Fuck the both of y’all. If I catch him and get the drop, I ain’t gotta split shit.”

  Dre laughed, shoveling small bags of crack into a Ziploc. “Nigga, stop acting like you wouldn’t shit your pants if you bumped into him in a dark alley.”

  Paulie stood up and began strutting around the living room with his chest poked out. “Broad day or in the dark, if I run into him it’s on.” He pulled a .22 from his pocket and flashed it.

  “Man, quit lying and pass the weed.” Blue snatched the blunt from him.

  “Yo, at least wash your hands before you hit that. I don’t need no coke on the end of the blunt.” Dre reminded him of the cocaine residue still on his hands.

  Blue looked at his fingers, which had stained the end of the blunt with white powder. He shrugged before placing the blunt between his lips and hitting it anyway. “In the mouth or up the nose, a high is a high.”

  Paulie looked from one bickering friend to the other and shook his head. “I should’ve known I couldn’t talk to you two clowns about no real nigga shit. There’s a nigga running around disrespecting our team and y’all act like smoking weed is more important than taking this fool’s life!”

  “Allegedly,” Dre said. All eyes in the room turned to him for an explanation. “I been hearing some things lately, like maybe this situation ain’t what certain people are trying to make it out to be.”

  “Like a setup or something?” Blue asked.

  Dre shrugged. “Dawg, I don’t know, but something about it doesn’t feel right.”

  “Dawg, you killing me with this conspiracy theory shit.” Paulie waved him off. “We’re being offered a nice piece of change and a seat at the table for this job, so ain’t nothing to debate about. All I need to know is that the boss wants him dead and he’s willing to pay for it. Who he is and what he’s done is irrelevant. Fuck Li’l Monk!”

  At that moment something heavy slammed against the door. By the time any of the young men realized what was going on, the second kick had landed and the door came off the hinges. Now standing in their foyer, wearing a trench coat that until that moment concealed the shotgun he was carrying, was the topic of their discussion.

  “Fuck me? Nah, nigga, fuck you!” Li’l Monk barked and opened fire.

  Blue had made it halfway to his feet when the spray of buckshot knocked off his Dodger cap, as well as half of his dome. Dre made a break for the kitchen, but didn’t get far. Li’l Monk jerked the trigger again and peppered the back of his leg with the shotgun, dropping him just between the kitchen and the living room. When he turned toward Paulie, he took a slug from the .22 high in the chest, knocking him to the ground and dislodging the shotgun.

  Paulie advanced on Li’l Monk, holding his gun sideways like they did in the movies. His prey was wounded and at his mercy, so he was trying to savor it. Had he been a seasoned killer, he’d have picked Li’l Monk off from deep with the gun, but he was a novice. As soon as Paulie was close enough, Li’l Monk came up holding the P89 he’d borrowed from his dad. Paulie with the braids opened his mouth to say something and Li’l Monk put a bullet in his throat.

  Li’l Monk tore his black T-shirt down the middle, exposing the vest he was wearing beneath it and the ruined .22 slug lodged in the chest plate. “Stupid muthafucka,” he mumbled, ripping the slug free and tossing it. He stalked into the living room, gun sweeping back and
forth while on point for surprises. Blue was right where Li’l Monk had dropped him, but Dre was gone. It wasn’t hard to track him down, because his ruined leg had left a bloody trail.

  Li’l Monk found him crawling through the kitchen, trying with all his might to get to the kitchen counter and the gun resting on it. His outstretched fingers had just grazed the butt of the gun when Li’l Monk pulled him back.

  “Not so fast.” Li’l Monk dragged him by his ruined leg back into the living room.

  “Please, don’t kill me, Li’l Monk,” Dre begged.

  “I’m sure somebody will punch your ticket one of these days, but that honor won’t go to me.” Li’l Monk picked him up by the front of his shirt and held him against the refrigerator. “Lucky for your maggot ass I need you to live, at least until I get what I want.” He pressed his gun against his forehead. “I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to give me some answers. If you think about lying, I’m going to give you a headache that aspirin won’t be able to help you with.” He tapped the gun against the kid’s forehead. “Who else was in on this little plan to take my life?”

  “I don’t know, man. We got the word from Ramses. He said if we knocked you out the box then we could have your spot,” Dre confessed.

  “Pussy nigga, you couldn’t hold my dick let alone my spot!” Li’l Monk snapped. “But that’s beside the point. Did Omega know about all this?”

  “If he did know, he never said nothing to us. If you plan on shooting him too, you can find him in the ICU at some hospital in Westchester,” Dre confessed.