Gutter

by K'wan

  After purchasing a twenty of haze, he headed to the store for a forty and some Dutch Masters. On his way out of the store, a passing group of young ladies caught his attention. They had on tight shorts that exposed a good portion of their asses. Rob was so caught up in trying to be cool, that he never saw the two young men run up on him.

  When Rob turned around, the first of the young men smashed a fist into his face. Rob tried to fall, but was held up by a second young man, who punched him in the stomach. They gave him a few more good blows, before dragging him to the curb where a green Ford was waiting. The men tossed him roughly into the backseat then climbed in behind him. Before anyone knew what was going on, the car was gone.

  In the backseat of the car, the two thugs took turns slapping Rob across the face. The world began to spin but Rob still managed to stay conscious. The beating had stopped and his vision was finally beginning to clear. He looked up and saw a pie-faced man staring down at him.

  “Don’t pass out on me now, nigga.” Major Blood poked him with the barrel of his gun. “We got some things to discuss.”

  “YOU KNOW who I am?” Major asked, pacing the parking lot.

  “A fucking dead rag!” Rob spat.

  “Wrong.” Major Blood punched him in the face. “I’m a fucking headache. Look, lil nigga, I know youz a nobody in the organization, so you get to keep your life… at least for today. I’ve got a special job for you my friend. You get to play the go-between for me and your set.”

  “I ain’t doing shit for you, nigga!”

  “Wrong again.” Major punched Rob in the stomach, but held him by the jaw so he couldn’t fall. “You’re gonna do just what I tell you for two very simple reasons.” He pulled his gun and placed it to Rob’s head. “For one, you’re a smart kid. For two, you don’t wanna die.”

  At the sight of the gun and the cold glare in his captor’s eyes, Rob’s knees began to involuntarily shake. For as hard as he might’ve tried to come across, he was still a child. He felt the water begin to form in the corners of his eyes and prayed the tears would spare him the humiliation.

  “You scared?” Major whispered. “Tell me you scared.” He rubbed the gun against Rob’s sweat-covered temple. “Yeah, you scared muthafucka. Fake-ass gangsta. You think wearing that flag makes you a true banger?” He pressed the barrel of his gun deeper into Rob’s temple. “Boy, youz a pussy in wolf’s clothing,” he slapped Rob with his free hand.

  Rob’s head snapped back, causing him to lose his balance. He was so hurt and embarrassed that he could no longer keep the tears at bay. If he’d had a gun, he’d have emptied it into his tormentor, but he was unarmed. Moisture ran down his cheeks, but he continued to glare at Major.

  “I know that look.” Major leaned in close enough for Rob to feel his breath on his face. “You’re probably thinking how much you’d like to blow my brains out, but you can’t. You got caught without your strap, if you even own one. First rule of thumb in the gang-banging handbook; never get caught without a weapon.” He tapped the barrel against Rob’s skull for emphasis.

  “This nigga is a mess,” Tito said, stepping from the shadows. “He’s probably shitted his pants. Faggot-ass crab!” Tito hit him in the ribs.

  Rob doubled over in pain. Every time he tried to breathe his ribs throbbed. He knew that he had no wins against the odds, so he didn’t bother to try and scrap back. He did study all the faces and commit them to memory. If he survived the ordeal, they would all answer for what they’d done.

  “We should just kill this fool and get it over with.” Miguel cocked the Beretta he was carrying.

  “Nah, it’s like I said. He’s gonna be my messenger. Hey”-Major slapped Rob and held him upright-“you listening?” Rob nodded. “Tell your boys that it’s a wrap for Harlem.” Without warning, Major hit him in the face.

  Rob collapsed where he stood. The force of his face hitting the ground shook his brain. Spots flashed before his eyes as sweet blackness engulfed him. The last thing he saw was the booted feet of his attackers disappear into the night.

  chapter 10

  MONIFA WAS a five feet nine brown goddess who oozed sex appeal without even trying. She had long dark hair, with flakes of gold scattered throughout it. The lime sundress she wore hugged her hips and plentiful breasts. Her full lips looked as if they couldn’t decide whether to smile or cry at the arrival of the guests. Caramel eyes swept over the trio, but lingered on Gutter.

  “Sup,” he said, breaking the silence.

  “Same ol.” She stared down at her airbrushed toes, peeking through her sandals. “Heard you took a few?”

  “Shit happens.”

  Another uncomfortable silence.

  “So, you just gonna stand there, or show me some love?” She spread her arms.

  Gutter hesitated at first then moved in to accept her embrace. Monifa’s skin was warm against his. When her hair brushed against his face, he could smell the faint traces of jasmine. During the embrace, age-old feelings rushed to the surface.

  Monifa and Gutter had been lovers when California was still his state of residence. More accurately, they had been a couple. She lived on 101st and Hoover, not far from Gunn. Though she never officially joined the set, she was a firm supporter of the Crip movement.

  During the early days you could always find her at Gutter’s side, rallying the troops and helping him plot on his enemies. Monifa’s little brother, Half, was also a Crip who ran with Harlem. Not long after joining, he was killed in a drive-by shooting. After her brother’s death Monifa began to change. Her love for Gutter was unwavering, but her attitude toward the movement had soured. She was beginning to wonder if the banging was as senseless as her mother always warned her.

  The more detached Monifa got from banging, the more entrenched Gutter became. He and Lou-Loc were so intent on coming up through the ranks that gang-banging consumed their every waking thought. If he wasn’t committing murders, he was planning the take over of enemy territory.

  The change in personalities put a serious strain on their relationship. Monifa had gotten tired of playing second fiddle to the set, and demanded that he change. Being from California, she understood that he couldn’t just walk away from the gang, but she also knew that he had already proven himself to be a G. It was no longer necessary for him to ride every night. Gutter promised to change, but never really did. The relationship became more and more frayed, but they stayed together. Each knew the other was doing their thing on the side, but publicly they still professed their unity. Then came the murder.

  She never really got the full story, but from what she gathered he was being sought for questioning in the murders of two Los Angeles detectives. The whole set was tight lipped about the incident, only telling her that all would be taken care of. One day Gutter and Lou-Loc up and disappeared.

  For a while he would send her letters letting her know he was all right. She could never pinpoint his location because the postmarks came from various points on the Midwest and East Coast. Eventually the letters stopped coming and she lost contact with him. About a year ago, she learned from a friend that he had relocated to New York City. She thought about contacting him, but never did. In time she learned not to hate him, but the resentment still lingered. He had left her with a broken heart.

  “You look good.” He smiled.

  “I’m a’ight,” she said flatly.

  “Monifa… I wanted to call you, but-”

  “Save it”-she cut him off-“we can discuss our past another time. Right now, your family needs you. Everyone is in the living room.”

  He was a little stung by her sharp tone, but he couldn’t blame her. He just nodded and stepped through the doorway.

  The living room was packed. Friends and relatives were crammed into the tiny space, talking in hushed tones or praying. Some people lingered near the kitchen area, while others hung out in the back, smoking weed and cigarettes. Though they tried to carry on normal conversations, they couldn’t hide the grim faces they all
wore.

  “Kenyatta,” his aunt Rahshida called from the corner. She was a short woman with dark skin and their family’s trademark green eyes. She wore street clothes, but kept her head covered by a silk wrap.

  “Auntie.” He hugged her. “How’s he doing?”

  “Up and down.” She wiped her eyes. “Thanks for getting here so quickly.”

  “That’s my fam. You know I’m gonna be here in his time of need.”

  “Young Gutter!” a voice called over his shoulder. A short man, who was shaped like a building, came through the crowd. He was clean-shaven, wearing a white mock neck and blue slacks. His blue Stacy Adamses glided across the carpet to where Gutter was talking to his aunt. He gave them his too-big grin and slapped Gutter on the back.

  “Blue Bird, what it is, cuz?” Gutter returned the gesture.

  Blue Bird was an older homey, claiming 9-4 Hoover; a close ally of Gunn’s set 107. He was about the same age as Gunn, but carried himself like a teenager. Blue Bird enjoyed putting in work almost as much as he enjoyed convincing other people to do it for him. He was loud, ignorant, and disrespectful, but more important he was a straight-up G. Blue Bird was an old head of the old codes, where human life meant nothing.

  “Man, we all fucked up about what happened to Gunn,” he said, sipping his can of Budweiser. “Them slobs don’t respect nothing, man. That’s okay though. We gonna ride on them fools for Gunn. That’s on the nine!”

  “Why don’t you sit your drunk ass down!” Rahshida snapped. “My brother is back there fighting for his life and you’re still talking that who-ride foolishness. More violence is not what’s needed right now.”

  “Rah, ain’t mean no disrespect. I’m just trying to let nephew know the hood is with him.”

  “I appreciate that, cousin. Gimme some time with my fam and we’ll rap,” Gutter suggested, trying to defuse the situation.

  Blue Bird nodded, and made his way back through the crowd. As he passed the homeys he notified them all of Gutter’s return. Soon Gutter was swamped with old friends and new faces welcoming him back to the set. It seemed as if all at once everyone in the room was either trying to pass Gutter a blunt or inquire about life in New York. The homeys were just trying to show love, but Rahshida was clearly getting frustrated. After shaking a few hands and assuring them that they’d all be addressed promptly, he managed to disperse the crowd.

  “Damn fools. Every one of them.” Rahshida folded her arms.

  “Don’t trip, Auntie.” He patted her back. “You know they don’t mean no harm.”

  “Sup, Rah.” Tears approached, followed by Danny.

  “Trying to get these rowdy fools to show some respect. They need to take they asses home.”

  “Yeah, it is a gang of muthafuckas up in here,” he said as he observed the crowd. “Any word?”

  “Same thing,” she said in a defeated tone. “Blocks from all over been tripping on Bloods, but nobody saying who the shooter was. Bloods blame it on the Mexicans, and vice versa. Hoover been tripping on both sides. I heard they even blasted on some Sixties who were rumored to have something to do with it.”

  “Sixties didn’t do this,” Gutter disagreed. “Gunn had homeys from that side. When that shit popped off with them and the Treys, he didn’t get in it.”

  “That’s possible,” Tears agreed. “Gunn wasn’t never for that Crip-on-Crip shit.”

  “Crips bang on Crips out here?” Danny asked, shocked.

  “Please believe it.” Tears faced him. “It started because of this kid getting killed for his jacket years ago. The next thing you know muthafuckas started choosing sides and a civil war jumped off between the sets. Shit got real ugly,” Tears recalled. “Personally, I never got involved with it because I feel like the homey Gunn did. At the end of the day we’re all Crips, so it seemed backward for us to be taking each other out. It ain’t as bad as it used to be, but some of these stupid muthafuckas just can’t let it go.”

  “That’s some crazy shit.”

  “More like genocide,” Rahshida added. “I don’t know when y’all are gonna learn about playing in them streets.”

  “Come on, Auntie, don’t start wit that,” Gutter said.

  “Kenyatta, please, don’t tell me what to say out my mouth, I’m your aunt, not one of your little hood rat friends. Besides, I’m only telling you the truth. You see what happened to your uncle and he wasn’t even in the streets anymore. You gotta pay it all forward one day, Kenyatta.”

  “Can I see him, Rah?” Gutter asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Yeah, come on.” She headed toward the back rooms. Gutter followed, while the rest remained behind.

  The hallway was narrow, but had high ceilings. There were pictures on the wall of Gunn and other home boys who had come and gone over the years. This was no doubt one of many safe houses Gunn had access to. The fresh paint and hardly worn carpet suggested that this one was new. At least Gunn hadn’t owned it when Gutter was still living in L.A.

  Sitting outside the door at the end of the hall was a man lounging on a wooden chair. He had his long legs stretched and crossed, rotating one of his white Chuck Taylors. A wool skully was pulled over his head and ears, stopping at the beginning of his thick beard. His dark face twisted into a mask of disgust at the intrusion, but softened when he recognized his nephew.

  “Oh, shit.” He leapt to his feet. “Little Kenyatta!”

  “What up, Uncle Rah.” Gutter hugged him.

  Rahkim was Rahshida’s twin. The whole Soladine clan was gangsta, but Rahkim was a triple O.G. Much like Gutter and Gunn, Rahkim rebelled against the responsibility of being a Soladine as well as the teachings of Islam. He fell in with the street gangs, right after Gunn did. Though he was younger, his name had more horror stories attached to it than any of them. Rah had been catching bodies since he was eleven years old, only taking an occasional break to do time in someone’s prison. The majority of his cases had been as a minor, so there was only so much time he could do, but his most recent had proved to be his undoing.

  Rah and some of his click had gotten high off PCP, and decided they were going to go ride on some Bloods. After appropriating a car, or stealing depending on who you asked, they drove deep into enemy territory. While sitting outside a bowling alley that was rumored to now be under the sway of the rival gang, Rah and his troop spotted a group of people coming out of the alley. They were all wearing red shirts, and walking in the direction of two more men, who had already been confirmed as the enemy.

  Getting out of the car, Rah and four other men crept across the parking lot. The two enemies were sitting on the car with their backs to them, so they never saw the approach. Rah got low, dangling his.45-long at his side. The other three men played leapfrog between shadows and parked cars. When the group dressed in red got close to the two men, Rah raised his pistol and dumped.

  The shots sounded like thunder splitting the quiet of the night. The first of the enemies never even saw it coming when the bullet entered through his back and exited his chest. The other enemy tried to raise his own gun, only to have one of Rah’s men cut him down with an Uzi. The group tried to scatter, or plead, but Rahkim had given orders that no prisoners would be taken.

  When it was all said and done, there were seven wounded, and five dead. As it turned out there were only two real enemies. The red-clad group was a part of a bowling league that held a tournament that night. The cashier at the bowling alley had identified the car carrying the shooters when the police arrived. Rah and his people were so high off the sherm that they were still sitting in their car, parked across the street and laughing hysterically when the cops found them. For his roll in the caper, the judge handed Rahkim a lengthy sentence.

  “Damn, nigga, you trying to get swoll on me.” Rah gave him the once-over.

  “You know how it is.” Gutter flexed. “Say, when you come home, man?”

  “About three weeks ago.”

  “You gonna stay out this time?”


  “Nephew, I just did a dime flat. My days of going to the pen are long over,” Rahkim said seriously.

  “I know that’s right.” Gutter gave him dap. “Look, I’m ’bout to go in here and see what’s up with your brother.”

  “Prepare yourself, cuz. He’s in a bad way. I almost broke down when I seen him.”

  “Uncle Rah, I done been to hell and back this year. Can’t nothing I see in there make me feel in no way.” With that being said, Gutter followed his aunt through the door.

  When Gutter entered the room, his heart sank. It was a large space with various machines plugged into every outlet. Gunn’s hulking frame was laid out on the bed, with tubes running into just about every hole imaginable. His entire body, including part of his face was covered by blood-caked bandages. Gutter almost faltered as memories of his own assault rushed back to him. There were three nurses in the room. One who monitored his vitals and two more to attend to his daily needs.

  Gutter moved timidly across the room and slid a wooden chair to Gunn’s bedside. He hesitated for a long moment, staring. Gunn’s body was as huge as it had ever been, but he didn’t seem the same. The Gunn Gutter remembered was animated and alive. The man before him seemed anything but that. Finally Gutter took the chair.

  “Gunn,” he whispered. “It’s Kenyatta, can you hear me?” Gutter placed his hand over Gunn’s.

  Gunn opened the eye that wasn’t covered, and blinked. He tried to speak, but winced against the pain of the breathing tube. Gunn nodded at Gutter and drifted off again.

  “I see them slobs tried to put you down. They should know they can’t stop the unstoppable.” Gutter paused again, trying to find the right words. He wanted to tell Gunn that it would be okay, but in all honesty he didn’t look good. Gutter counted at least five holes, and only God knew how much lead he still had floating around inside him. He knew firsthand what kind of damage a bullet could do, bouncing around in your organs. “Don’t trip, family. Ya nephew gone ride for you, that’s on the turf.” He patted Gunn’s hand.