Section 8

by K'wan

  Sharon sucked her teeth. “I’m going to bed.” She abandoned her bowl and stormed off.

  “You do that,” Reese called after her. “And I hope you dream about some of the things we talked about so it will finally sink into that thick-ass head of yours.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Bobo kicked back on the project bench, surrounded by his team and telling war stories to some of the local hood rats. The stories weren’t that interesting, but they stuck around because Bobo had damn near an unlimited supply of haze and they’d already gone through two bottles of Grey Goose, all on Bobo.

  “Yo, B, what was that shit I heard earlier about some nigga coming through here pressing you?” Happy asked. They called him Happy because his overbite and high, chubby cheeks always made him look like he was smiling. He was a jovial-looking man with a large round head and a potbelly that didn’t quite fit with his average build. But for as harmless as he looked, he was anything but. Happy was slicker than an oiled pig in a mudslide and played just as dirty. Happy had an uncanny ability to get weaker-minded people to take the risk while he reaped all the benefits. Though he wasn’t a power player in the underworld, he was said to be handling.

  “Just some nigga talking shit; you know everybody wanna sit next to the king,” Bobo boasted. A fiend walking up interrupted their conversation. Bobo nodded to his little man on the next bench and the fiend went to get served.

  “Man, you ass stay on fire, Bobo,” Happy said, getting off the bench. The sale was his cue to make a move, because he had enough heat on him as it was, without Bobo’s recklessness adding to it. “I’m gone from it, daddy. You gonna be sitting here all night trying to catch a case or what?”

  “You know the candy store never closes.” Bobo fixed himself and the girl closer to him another drink. “But fuck all that, Hap; what up with them AKs you was telling me about?”

  Happy snickered, making himself look more rodentlike. “You know my MO.” He looked suspiciously at everyone sitting on the bench. One thing Happy didn’t do was talk business in front of people he didn’t know. “When you get rid of that little candy bag and your company, come on and see me, I got everything you need.” Happy spun off.

  “That nigga be extra P-noid,” the kid who made the sale said, when Happy was out of earshot.

  “That muthafucka always acting like somebody is out to get him,” one of the girls said, adding her two cents.

  “He’s just scared that somebody is gonna run up and rob his ass for some of that cake he sitting on.” This was another of Bobo’s people. He was a Spanish kid who wore his hair in a Miami Vice ponytail.

  “Y’all fuck with that kid if you want to. Happy might not be the hardest nigga out here, but he will kill you over his paper,” Bobo said, laughing.

  “I hear that hot shit,” Ponytail mumbled, still watching Happy walk down the street.

  “Yo, yo,” said a squeaky voice, drawing all their attention. A young boy who looked barely out of junior high school was staggering toward the benches with a half-empty bottle of Hennessy dangling from his hand.

  “Who that, son?” Bobo squinted his eyes.

  “Y’all niggaz got that piff?” The kid continued his shamble.

  “Shorty, what the fuck is you talking about? Ain’t nobody got no drugs over here.” This was the kid who had made the sale. He stood up and met the kid halfway.

  “Be easy, my nigga. I just came though to cop some smoke. I got a bitch waiting for me upstairs,” the kid said goofily.

  “A what? Little nigga, you better take your ass on somewhere; you don’t know shit about no pussy.” The dude who had made the sale laughed and turned to his boss. “Bobo, you hear this little dude?” There was suddenly a rush of wind, and the dude who had made the sale felt a light stinging against his face. He didn’t even realize that he’d been cut until he turned back and saw Ashanti holding the bloody razor.

  When he opened his mouth to scream, Ashanti cracked him in the mouth with the bottle. Before the kid could right himself, the razor caught him once more, this time separating the soft flesh of his neck. The dude with the ponytail went for his gun, but Brasco stepped from the side of the building and hit him in the chest with the bulldog. The blast took him off his feet, over the railing, and into the grass. Brasco turned his hammer on Bobo and fired two quick shots. Bobo threw himself behind the bench, dragging one of the girls with him. He clumsily climbed to his feet, holding the girl in front of him like a shield.

  “What you waiting for?” Ashanti shouted at Brasco.

  “I ain’t trying to hit the bitch,” Brasco said, moving to try to get a better angle on Bobo.

  Ashanti sucked his teeth and unexpectedly snatched the gun from Brasco. “Fuck all this shit,” he said before pulling the trigger. It had to be the adrenaline, because the frail girl shook Bobo off her and got out of the way before the bullet could make contact. Unbalanced and uncovered, Bobo was a sitting duck for Ashanti. Ashanti was so excited that his next shot went wild and struck Bobo in the hip, instead of the heart, where he’d been aiming. Bobo spun and made an awkward dash for the building, with Ashanti and Brasco hot on his heels.

  Bobo rounded the short fence so quickly that he slammed into the heavy metal door. He tried to jerk the door and found that housing had picked that day of any to finally fix the lock. Frantically Bobo banged on the door and shouted for help. God was merciful: a young man was just coming out. With a concerned look on his face, he quickly opened the door for Bobo and pulled it closed behind him.

  “Oh God, thank you so much,” Bobo gasped, while leaning on the man for support.

  “You’re bleeding. Are you okay?” the kid asked Bobo, noticing his bloody leg.

  “They’re trying to kill me! You’ve gotta call the police!” Bobo pleaded.

  “A’ight, let me get my cell phone.” The kid reached into his pocket, but instead of pulling out a phone, he pulled out a gun. Bobo’s eyes grew as he looked into the face of the wild-haired young man. Though he’d never met him personally, he knew just who he was. When Animal saw the light of recognition in Bobo’s eyes, he pulled the trigger and put his brains on the mailboxes.

  “Let’s go, let’s go!” Nefertiti hopped around nervously behind the wheel of the Dodge. Ashanti was in a full sprint, while Brasco jogged behind him. Animal brought up the rear at a brisk walk. The car doors weren’t even closed completely before Nefertiti peeled into the street like a wild man.

  “Nigga, slow down before you get us knocked with these hammers!” Brasco warned from the backseat. He was trying to be cool, but couldn’t help giving occasional nervous glances out the back window.

  “You think anybody seen us?” Nefertiti asked.

  “Us? Fool, they might’ve seen me or Brasco, but how the fuck you gonna get spotted when your scary ass wouldn’t even get out of the car?” Ashanti clowned Nefertiti.

  “Man, fuck your little midget ass. Somebody had to be the getaway driver.”

  “Well, see if you can get your ass away from here without getting us knocked,” Animal said. “What happened out there?” he addressed Ashanti and Brasco.

  “Mother Teresa over here caught a case of good conscience.” Ashanti thumbed at Brasco.

  “You’re damn right. I wasn’t about to shoot that broad!” Brasco shot back.

  “And you did right,” Animal told him. “Ashanti, you can’t be getting at no civilians like that, little one. We play this game so we accept the rules, but this,” he raised his gun, “ain’t for them; the worlds are never to cross. Think about how you would feel if somebody did it to your mother or maybe one of your sisters?”

  Ashanti looked at Animal seriously. “Man, my mama gave me away when I was a kid and I ain’t seen my sister in eight years. I ain’t got nobody but my gang and my gun.”

  “That’s gangsta,” Nefertiti said.

  “And how the fuck would you know?” Animal turned his cold eyes on him. “Nef, you been on some real flaky shit lately, and I don’t know how I
’m feeling about it.”

  “You have been carrying yaself kinda bitchlike,” Brasco half joked.

  “Real talk, all you niggaz know that ain’t no weak links in this pack; we live and move as one. Now, if one of us ain’t moving with the wave, how is that gonna affect everybody else?” Animal questioned.

  “It ain’t like that,” Nefertiti said just above a whisper.

  “So I see,” Animal replied. “Drop me off at the spot so I can clean up. I’m trying to see what that listening party is like now that the business is out of the way.”

  “What time you want me to come back and scoop you?” Nefertiti asked.

  “Don’t even bother. I’m flying solo.”

  “Hold up, blood. I thought we was in there together?” Nefertiti was almost pleading. He had been looking forward to the party all week.

  “I thought we were in a lot of shit together, but I’m beginning to see otherwise.”

  “But, Animal . . .”

  “Nigga, fuck all that shit,” Animal snapped. “Like I said, your actions have been suspect, so you can officially consider your ass on notice.”

  CHAPTER 12

  When they finally reached the Broad Street exit off 21-north in Newark, New Jersey, the passengers in the car breathed a sigh of relief. Letting Silk drive on the highway was like staying on the Medusa ride at Six Flags for a half hour. Whenever she got behind the wheel she acted like she was racing the devil, and if you complained about it, she only drove more erratically. Granted, she had yet to get them into an accident, but neither Tech nor China wanted to be in the car when the speedster finally did hit something.

  The girls had thrown it on that night. China wore a tight-fitting black dress that looked poured on, with needle-point heels that made her a good three inches taller. The red shrug not only kept the chill off her shoulders, but the lining concealed the Gemstar razors she had taken the time to glue in. She reasoned that if she couldn’t get to the .380, which was firmly taped to her inner thigh, she’d need a backup plan. L’il Silk had on a black gangster suit and red fedora. Tech hadn’t missed the fact that they’d chosen to fly his colors, which only made him appreciate them more. They would live and die with whatever he believed in, which is why he was glad he’d bought them along.

  The ride down Broad Street was a quiet one, unless you counted Plies, who was trying his best to push Silk over the edge. She bumped him when she was about to ride on something and he’d been in rotation for the entire ride. China sat in the passenger seat, staring dreamily at the approaching lights of Market Street. The diamond necklace slung around her neck matched her cold blue eyes—eyes that were filled with worry. The girls were on edge, and with good reason, considering they were about to walk into a room full of the most dangerous men in the Tri-State area.

  “Y’all good?” Tech broke the silence.

  “Yeah, man, I’m ready to do this,” Silk said. She tried to appear cool, but Tech knew her well enough to know when she was on edge. “I could go for a shot of something. I hope they serve Hennessy in this muthafucka.”

  “Not tonight, Silky. I need your mind sharp. You can get as faded as you want when the business is concluded.”

  “That some bullshit, man. You know I shoot just as straight when I’m drunk as when I’m sober,” Silk boasted.

  “Yeah, that’s just what we need—your drunk ass shooting up the place,” China chimed in.

  “Fuck the both of y’all.” Silk gave them the finger.

  Silk made an illegal right at the corner of Broad and Market and blew through a red light on Mulberry, where they’d built the new Devils stadium. It, like most of Market Street, was lit up like an early Christmas. The tourists frequented the shopping area like it was Thirty-fourth Street, marveling at the gentrification process that the city had undergone. In between trying to throw their mayor under the bus, they’d managed to reconstruct a good portion of the city. They’d done a wonderful job with downtown Newark, but on the other side of town, the war between minorities and the establishment continued.

  By the time the cleared the underpass at Penn Station, the scenery had changed and so had the language. They’d crossed into the Ironbound district, which was predominately Latino and slightly quieter, which was why Tech had suggested it. Along that section of Ferry Street, people kept to their own business, and it was outside the red zones in the city.

  “Why the fuck we gotta meet these niggaz all the way out here?” Silk asked, busting a sharp left into the parking lot of Iberia.

  Tech paid the parking attendant before even acknowledging her. “Because this is the one spot where everybody feels comfortable. It’s neutral turf, so nobody has the up.”

  Silk sucked her teeth. “Man, we thousandaires and them niggaz is millionaires; it ain’t about nothing for them to get some killers to off us. For all we know, this Secret Squirrel shit could be a setup.”

  “Silky.” He leaned up so that he could see her. “You know I’d never lead you into the fire without making the necessary preparations. If they get funny, then I got jokes, too.”

  “So you do think it’s funny business?” China rekindled an old argument. She’d been against meeting them like this from the start.

  “It’s always funny business when you’re dealing with niggaz of a bygone era,” Tech told her. “No worries, ma. We’re gonna go in there so they can speak their piece and be done with it.”

  “What you think they gonna say?”

  “I’d be lying if I told you I knew for sure, but whatever they say, they’re gonna say it respectfully,” Tech assured her. What he neglected to tell China and Silk was that he had called in a favor from a friend of a friend who had a little clout in the town. The fix was already in, so if the old heads decided to flex their muscle, Tech would flex his cunning.

  Tech and his ladies stepped inside the restaurant to be greeted by a short Hispanic host wearing a tuxedo. He smiled pleasantly when he received them, but the nervousness in his eyes was apparent to anyone who knew what to look for. The short man led them into an adjoining room that was usually reserved for private gatherings, only to find their party already seated and waiting, as Tech had expected. He had purposely arrived late to the meeting as a show of defiance to the respected men. They might’ve controlled the movement of the streets, but Tech was his own man. This was the new Commission, as they’d taken to calling themselves. Separately, they were all heavyweights, but together they were the most powerful organization on the East Coast. They all stared, but nobody said a word until after Tech and his ladies took their respective seats at the far end of the table.

  “Glad you could make it.” This was Bear, a hulk of a man in his early forties who oversaw the drug trade in Mount Vernon and the majority of Westchester County. To his right was his brother, Little Bear, who was at least thirty pounds lighter, but twice as mean. He was an upstart cat who was making a strong push for the Bronx.

  Tech greeted him with an easy smile. “Traffic was a little heavy getting out here, you know how it is.”

  A tall, thin waiter, also wearing a tuxedo, came around and refilled all the water glasses on the table. Even if you didn’t notice his hands were trembling so badly he almost dropped the water pitcher, you could smell the fear coming off him. He filled the glasses and made a beeline out of the room, never once making eye contact with any member of the party.

  “Well, I don’t know how it is, poppy. I no appreciate you wasting my time like this,” said the man sitting to the right of Silk in a heavy accent. His beady black eyes bore holes into Tech and his ladies. Rico was a hotheaded Spanish kid who rocked Broadway from 116th Street to 225th. He had little to no patience, and was quick to violence, which is why he was called to group meetings only when absolutely necessary. Rico was unpredictable, which made him a very dangerous foe.

  “Nice to see you again, too, Rico,” Tech said easily. He knew Rico was trying to bait him, as he always did, but he wouldn’t bite.

  “Fuck you, m
uthafucka. Don’t act like we friends. It’s only because of my respect for these men here that I haven’t put you in the ground already.”

  He and Tech had been at odds since Tech and Jah had robbed and murdered one of Rico’s cousins back in the days. Rico had tried to get at them several times for the killing, but none of his shooters ever came back. It had been a joint decision made by the Commission to call a truce for the betterment of their businesses when Tech was made an associate of their group. Neither of them liked it, but neither of them was stupid enough to outright defy the governing body of the streets.

  “Okay, okay, we can measure dicks when the business is concluded.” This came from the man sitting at the head of the table. He had soft brown skin and didn’t appear to be much older than Tech, save for the thin goatee that he was trying to grow. But, for as young as he was, he was the single most powerful man in the city. He was Shai Clark, the boss of bosses and the head of the Commission. Sitting on either side of him were his best friends and most trusted advisers, Swann and Angelo. During Shai’s transition it had been Angelo and Swann who kept the streets in a choke hold and dispatched any- and everyone who spoke out against the former boss’s youngest son.

  “Shai is right, I’m trying to get this shit over with and get back to the hood,” Danny Boy said. Unlike everyone else, who was either dressed in a suit or a button-up, he was sporting a pair of jeans and a white thermal shirt. Tied around his neck was the flag of his army, Harlem Crip. When his mentor, Gutter, was murdered, the set was thrown into a civil war, with everyone vying for his vacated position. It was Danny Boy who rallied those who were still loyal to the fallen Crips general and his cause and ended the infighting. Though he had rescinded the death sentence, Gutter had passed on the Bloods in New York; the two groups were still at odds, which is what got him the occasional dirty look from the Bloods representative at the table, Apple, who was a five-star general who held a good amount of influence in Brooklyn.