Gutter

by K'wan

  Rob was the hardheaded son of a square mother, but he was like a little brother to most of the members assembled. The group filed out of the emergency room, each lost in his or her own thoughts about what would come of Rob’s beating and the seemingly endless war with their sworn enemies. B. T.’s cell going off caused him to slow up. When he looked at the caller ID he hung back a bit from the group. Only when he was sure the crew was out of earshot did he pick up the phone.

  “Yo?” he answered.

  “Sup, son?” the voice on the other end taunted.

  “Man, I can’t talk right now I got something on the ball.” B. T. tried to rush the caller.

  “Well, yo shit is gonna have to wait cause I need to get up with you, now,” the caller insisted.

  “Loc, I told you I’m in the middle of something. I can’t just dip off to come meet you.”

  “Nigga, you can either come meet me or I can come to you. Imagine how it’s gonna look to your homeys to see me and you chopping it up like old friends. You know the deal, son,” the caller shot back.

  B. T. was so angered by the threat that he could’ve roared. He had been doing side business with the caller for the last few months without anyone finding out, and now that was threatened because his partner wanted to flex his power. He made a mental note to address the issue once he was in a better position. Before he could utter a response, he heard footsteps behind him.

  “Nigga, what you doing?” China approached.

  “Ah, nothing,” B. T. stuttered. “Just taking care of something. Look,” he said into the phone, “I’ll be there.” He ended the call.

  “Man, why you look all irritated?” China questioned.

  “These hoes getting on my last nerve.” B. T. gave a fake chuckle.

  “You need to be more like Hollywood. He’s got his hoes in check,” China pointed out. “Now, let’s hit the block so we can get to the bottom of this Rob shit.”

  “I can’t,” B. T. blurted out. “I mean, I got some shit I gotta handle.”

  “What’s more important than handling business for the crew?” China raised his eyebrow.

  “Stop being so nosey, slant-eyed muthafucka. Man, I’ll hook up with you later.”

  B. T. strode from the emergency room exit, while China looked on. There was something about B. T.’s behavior that didn’t sit right with him. B. T. was always a shifty-acting cat, but something was different this time. China decided he would keep an eye on his comrade and see what he could discover before taking his suspicions to the crew.

  B. T. STOOD in the parking lot of Western Beef, chain-smoking. Every time he heard a car, or saw a group of people, his body tensed up. The last thing he needed was for someone to spot him and report it back to the homeys. He had been a Crip for a long time, since even before Lou-Loc and Gutter came to New York. In those days, he was a respected member, and even had his own territory. The Cali native had changed that.

  Lou-Loc had not only whipped his ass in front of his friends, but he had also stripped him of all rank and title. B. T. was reduced to nothing more than a soldier, trying to keep his head above water. When the opposing team had come to him, he was skeptical about the whole idea. He was a Crip, but what had it gotten him so far? He gave them loyalty, and was rewarded with disrespect. His plan was to work with the Bloods until he got what he wanted, then set out a piece of the pie for his comrades. He never planned for anyone to get hurt in the process, but he reasoned that you had to break a few eggs to make an omelet. What he was doing was beyond fucked-up, but the fact that no one from his gang respected him was his motive.

  B. T. spotted the car he was waiting for, and tried to pull himself together. The red Taurus pulled into the lot and parked a few cars from where he was standing. There weren’t many cars in the lot at that hour, but they found two to hide between. Tito came walking in his direction, followed by Miguel, Eddie, and a man he didn’t know. His antennas screamed danger, but he brushed it off and stepped out to meet his partners.

  “Sup, Big Time.” Tito extended his hand.

  “Cut that small talk, Tito. What you want, man?” B. T. looked around.

  “Damn, you niggaz is antisocial ’round this bitch,” Major commented.

  “Fuck is this nigga?” B. T. looked him up and down.

  “This is the cat I called you out here to meet,” Tito explained. “Major”-Tito turned to him-“this is our inside man. B. T.”

  Major Blood studied B. T. momentarily before speaking again. “So, you the turncoat muthafucka that’s willing to sell his crew down the river?”

  “Fuck you. Dead rag-ass nigga,” B. T. spat. “You don’t know me.”

  “You’re right. I don’t know you, and don’t wanna know you. These niggaz said you could help further our cause, and that’s the only reason I’m here. Don’t flatter yourself, young’n.”

  “Yo, Tito,” B. T. addressed his contact, “I ain’t come all the way out this bitch to be insulted by this chump. If you got some business, let’s talk about it. If not, I’m out.”

  “Everybody be cool,” Tito said, trying to defuse the situation. “We’re all on the same side. Major Blood is from the West Coast, so his style is a little different. He ain’t mean nothing by it.”

  “Whatever. So, what y’all need?”

  “What we need is information,” Major cut in. “They say you know the ins and outs of Gutter’s operation, so spill. I need names and addresses, starting with that Bible-toting bitch of his.”

  “Sharell? I really can’t say. I know he moved her out of Harlem. Brooklyn, I think,” B. T. replied.

  “Where in Brooklyn?”

  “Didn’t I just say I don’t know?”

  “Okay. What about a mistress?”

  “Gutter fucks with bitches here and there, but nobody he really gives a fuck about.”

  “What about his routines.” Major tried a different angle. “Where does he hang out? What restaurants does he take his broads to?”

  “He ain’t got no set patterns. Mostly he just bounces in and out of the hood. Beyond that, I don’t know.” B. T. shrugged.

  “Tito, I thought you said this nigga was useful?” Major Blood asked over his shoulder.

  “Yo, you got a lot of sideways shit with you, fam,” B. T. said angrily.

  “B. T.,” Tito cut in, “Major Blood is here to help us knock Gutter off his high horse. Now, if I remember correctly, that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but that don’t mean I gotta listen to this faggot pop shit. Besides, I don’t think Gutter is gonna take too kindly to you niggaz doing his young boy like that. You might wanna watch ya back,” B. T. said smugly.

  Major Blood laughed at that. “You let me worry about Gutter, homey. I’ll deal with King Crip when the time comes, but right now he ain’t an issue. Dismantling your fag-ass set is the order of business, so play your fucking position, crab.”

  B. T.’s eyes flashed rage, and he thought about taking a swing at the stranger, but the coward in him stayed his hand. “Check this shit out, cuz, I’ve been helping y’all niggaz take out key players, and I think that counts for something, so you might wanna stop talking all crazy to me. When I get some more info, I’ll float it to you.”

  “Fair enough.” Tito nodded. “If Blood ain’t got no more questions for you, we out.”

  “Actually, I do have a question,” Major spoke up. “Why?”

  “Why what?” B. T. asked, confused.

  “Why cross yo peoples like this? I know they’ve done some greasy shit, but you’re still a Crip. How can you set your own up to be slaughtered?”

  “Gutter ain’t mine. Him and his faggot-ass man came out here acting like they running shit. It’s about time somebody checked his ass. Besides, this shit ain’t personal. It’s strictly business.”

  “Strictly business.” Major laughed. “I’ll be sure they put that on your tombstone.” Out of nowhere, Major Blood hit B. T. with a left. He staggered from the blow, but it was the rig
ht hook that put him on his ass. He lay on the ground, dazed and leaking from his nose.

  “I never could stand a rat.” Major Blood shook his head while kneeling over B. T. The turncoat suddenly found it very difficult to focus his eyes, but he caught flashes of Major Blood taking something out of his pocket. B. T. tried to say something, but all that came out was a wet, gurgling sound as Major Blood cut his throat.

  chapter 14

  “GOTDAMN, MAJOR, we could’ve used that nigga!” Tito fumed.

  “For what? Man, I wouldn’t use that snake-bitch to wipe the shit off my shoes,” Major Blood spat. “I came here to put in work, not play muthafucking I Spy, nigga! Fuck B. T. and fuck Harlem. What you need to do is spin Harlem so I can get a line on this monkey muthafucka, Pop Top. As far as everything else, I got this nigga.”

  “I hope so, Blood,” Miguel mumbled.

  “Y’all niggaz stop acting like faggots and show some nuts,” Major barked. “Now pay attention while I put that little info you gave me to some good use, Tito.” Major Blood pulled out his cell and punched in a few numbers. After a brief pause someone picked up on the other line, but didn’t say anything, not that Major needed him to. “Sup, Blood?” Major greeted his watchdog.

  THE MAN known as B-High was a piece of shit even by a piece of shit’s standards. Born in Compton and raised on different Blood sets throughout the surrounding area, all he knew was gang-banging and his love for his hood ran deeper than the love he had for his own mother. To him there was nothing outside of the set.

  Major Blood had originally come across the wild young man barely into his fifteenth year and had no problem turning him out. The seeds had already been planted in B-High so all Major Blood had to do was add a little water. Of all the young Bs he had under him, B-High was the most down to ride, which is why he was now on the East Coast living like a fugitive.

  When Major had finally reached O.G. status he decided it was time to deal with his mother’s murderer. It was public knowledge that Big Gunn from Hoover had killed his mother, so he found himself stumped that when he’d approached the governing body about laying Gunn they had denied him justice. Some of the old heads felt him on wanting to ride for his old bird, but there were two in particular who fought him tooth and nail on the matter, Swoop from the Jungle, and Bad Ass who represented the 900s. They spit a bunch of political shit about letting old beefs die and Gunn’s status, but Major didn’t even listen. In his mind, if you weren’t for him then you were against him and you had to go, Blood or not. It was that night after the meeting that he plotted Swoop’s and Bad Ass’s deaths.

  Major knew he would be under the magnifying glass, because of the ruling and his reputation of having a hot temper, so he had to seek help elsewhere and this is where B-High came in. He loved Major Blood as if he had been the one to push him from the womb. All it took was the spiel of crabs killing Major’s parents and Bad Ass and Swoop trying to protect them. B-High was a powder keg and Major Blood lit the fuse.

  Three nights after Major Blood and B-High’s meeting Swoop was found shot to death in the parking lot of his apartment complex. Bad Ass got roasted the next evening. He was found at an hourly motel in Hollywood sporting a bullet hole in his left cheek. The whore he had been with took one in the back, but unfortunately she lived. Five minutes after scrolling through the LAPD’s gang file, she had fingered B-High and made him not only a fugitive from justice, but with his name crossed out on every wall in the hood. The set had marked him for death.

  Major Blood knew that he would have to get rid of anything that could’ve tied him to the murders, but he had a soft spot for B-High. Instead of murking him he put B-High on the first thing smoking to Florida. B-High was supposed to lay low until things had cooled off, but of course he couldn’t. He went from selling coke on South Beach to sniffing and taking contract hits for short paper in Miami, and finally a fugitive from both ports. Now he made his home in New York, living off the occasional bone Major Blood threw him and his wits.

  He was thoroughly surprised when he’d heard from his old mentor, Major Blood. Every so often Major would throw him a piece of business, but that was always done by phone or coded letters. They hadn’t actually seen each other in almost a year, so he wondered what his intentions really were for coming to New York? His first thought was that Major had finally confessed and bartered B-High’s life for his, but when he mentioned Gutter his fears were put to rest.

  Gutter had been notorious in California, but he was becoming a street legend in New York. He had brought to the Big Apple what hadn’t been seen in L.A. for almost ten years, banging… full frontal murder over turf. His gangsta wasn’t to be tested, but it was his ability to unify the sets that made him dangerous. Could you imagine a man like Gutter with ten thousand troops? No, it made perfect sense for Major Blood to be put on his ass. Use a sociopath to kill a sociopath, how ironic was that?

  The nation must’ve been pissed with Gutter, considering Major’s rep and the fact that he hated every Soladine. But the logic behind it, nor Gutter, were B-High’s concerns at the moment. What his mind was focused on was the fact that Major had promised him thirty grand for this assignment. Fifteen up front and fifteen when the job was done. B-High took the money, went and bought a quarter-piece of white, and had been getting blasted and sitting on Sharell ever since.

  His cell phone vibrated, tearing his eyes off the entrance of Sharell’s building. He started to let it ring until he saw that it was Major. His mentor told him that it was time to go to phase two, which brought a smile to B-High’s face. He needed the cash, but he was lazy as hell, preferring to sit in his tiny apartment, playing Madden or sniffing with one of the hood rats off his block. Laziness aside, B-High enjoyed putting in work and the heavy paper Major was gonna drop only got him more excited.

  WHEN SHARELL felt the faint throbbing in her temples, she knew a headache would be coming soon after. It was bad enough that the baby was sucking all the calcium out of her, causing god-awful toothaches, but the strongest thing she could take was Tylenol… regular strength at that.

  Between the kung fu master in her stomach, who felt the need to kick her every time she tried to doze off, Satin being pregnant, and her man on a suicide mission, Sharell found that her nerves were quite frayed. “French onion dip,” she said aloud. The draining sound that emitted from her stomach said that the baby agreed. Rolling off the couch, which she had been lounging on all morning, Sharell decided to take a walk to the store.

  She didn’t bother with any sort of primping, opting to just jump in her sweatpants and slip on an overcoat. She could only imagine how she looked with her frayed ponytail and no makeup, but she didn’t really give a damn. She was fat, her feet hurt, and she felt like she would need chiropractic therapy for months by the time she gave birth. How someone felt about the way she looked going to the store was the furthest thing from her mind.

  The weather was decent, but the wind was in full effect, whipping at her overcoat. She was able to button the coat at the neck and chest, but after that it was a wrap. When she had bought the form-fitting coat she was a size nine or ten, but the baby had her pushing a fourteen. She knew she truly loved that man when she allowed him to move her up four dress sizes.

  Across the street she saw the dome light go on in Mohammad’s car. With a practiced hand gesture she motioned for him to stay put. She was only going to the store and doubted that some wayward assassin would be waiting for her among the throng of upper-class whites that lived in her neighborhood, especially in broad daylight.

  Sharell trekked the short distance to the grocery store on Remsen, which was the only one for blocks. Something else she hated about living in Brooklyn. Granted, it was a beautiful neighborhood, but it lacked the convenience of her beloved Harlem. Uptown you had a store on damn near every corner, and most of them were open twenty-four hours. Still, it was a relatively safe neighborhood and that’s what mattered most in light of everything that was going on in her life.

&n
bsp; She was going through the freezer of the store, trying to find a pint of Ben & Jerry’s banana nut ice cream to go with her chips and dip, when the bell over the store’s entrance jingled. The young man who strode into the store looked totally out of place in the neighborhood. He was wearing oversized jeans and a red sweatshirt that looked a little stretched at the collar under a bulky leather jacket. The Korean couple behind the counter glared at him suspiciously, while the few white shoppers in the market did their best to move out of his way. Sharell sucked her teeth at the way the people reacted to the young man when he came in the store. She wondered if they looked at her the same way when her back was turned. Trying not to tell them about themselves, Sharell decided to grab her stuff and get out of the store. She told herself that she would have to track down another market somewhere in the neighborhood because she didn’t know how she felt about giving them her money anymore.

  She happened to be coming out of an aisle when the young man was coming in. He gave her a smile as she passed, showing off his badly stained teeth. Sharell gave him a weak smile of her own and kept on to the counter.

  Sharell stood in line behind a woman who had decided to pay for her purchase with change, rubbing a coin across a Scratch-Off, when she felt a presence behind her. The young man was looking at her strangely, holding a forty ounce in his wiry mitt. It wasn’t a threatening look, but something about it still made Sharell uneasy. Slowly, he unscrewed the top of his beer and took a long swig, never taking his eyes off Sharell. When she got to the counter she was in such a rush to get out of the store that she almost forgot her change. Only when she was outside did her heartbeat start to slow down.

  “Excuse me!” a voice called from behind her.

  Sharell turned around and saw it was the young man from the store. He was slowly bopping toward her, with his free hand tucked deep into the pocket of his jacket. Sharell’s had dipped into her bag and landed on the small.22 Gutter insisted she carry at all times. She’d been against it at first, but it seemed like it would come in handy. By the time he was within spitting distance of her, Sharell’s hand was on its way out of the purse with the pistol.