Gutter

by K'wan

  “You ladies, okay?” Pop Top stuck his head out the sliding glass doors. He and Hollywood had arrived that morning.

  “We’re good, Pop Top, thank you,” Sharell told him.

  “A’ight, let me know if you need anything.” He smiled and disappeared back into the house. Gutter had sent him to relieve Anwar and his men from guard duty. The young Prince offered to leave some of his soldiers at the house, but Pop Top assured him that he and Hollywood would be okay without them.

  “That one gives me the creeps,” Satin told Sharell, thinking how every time he smiled it reminded her of a crocodile before it yanked some unsuspecting prey under the water.

  “Pop Top is kind of crazy, but he’s a loyal soldier. If he wasn’t Gutter wouldn’t have even sent him.”

  “Speaking of which, when is he due back?”

  Sharell looked at her watch. “Sometime tonight. He, Danny, and his nephew are supposed to be flying back after the funeral but they might have to catch a later flight because something else came up.” She thought back to the conversation she’d had with Gutter a few hours prior when he notified her that Rahkim had been murdered. He didn’t offer any details, but Sharell had an idea of what had happened.

  “That man has been through so much, I don’t know how he holds up under it all,” Satin voiced.

  “Gutter is a warrior. For as many times as I thought the Lord was going to call him home he’s still with me.”

  “That’s love.”

  “Not love so much, Satin, as God’s will. For as fucked-up a person as Gutter may seem to be, he’s here for a purpose, this I’m sure of. It’s gonna take some time, but he’ll find his way. We’re gonna see to that because we’re family and family looks out for family, right?”

  Satin smiled. “Right.”

  “Now, let me go in here and see what we’re gonna have for dinner. If we leave it up to Pop Top or Hollywood we’ll be eating from the cat kitchen.” Sharell got up and went into the house, leaving Satin to contemplate the rest of her new life.

  “EVERYTHING A’IGHT?” Hollywood asked Pop Top, who had just come in from checking on the ladies.

  “Yeah, they having a tea party or some shit.” He flopped on the couch. “You got any more of that purp on you?”

  “You know that, fam. I stopped through five-six before I shot out.” Hollywood produced a White Owl from his pants pocket and a fifty sack. He tossed the cigar to Pop Top and proceeded to break the sticky weed up on a magazine.

  “Fuck is up wit you and these White Owls, you don’t smoke Dutches no more?” Pop Top teased him.

  “Man, you know the proper way to smoke piff is in a White Owl,” Hollywood informed him. “Say man, when are the rest of the homeys getting here?”

  “I don’t know, sometime this afternoon. What, you scared or something?” Pop Top joked.

  “Never that, but I thought this was the rally point? Ain’t too much of a rally if it’s just us two.”

  “Young Wood, you don’t need no army to win a war. All you need is two or three niggaz down to ride and a few of these.” He held up a chrome pistol. “Now hurry up wit the bud, I’m ready to get high.” Pop Top reclined in the chair, cracking the blunt over a paper bag. There would be a rally in Long Island, but not the kind Hollywood’s bitch ass was expecting.

  THAT MORNING was a slow one in Harlem. The normally active streets of Harlem were still and quiet. Between the police and the escalating gang feud, people had made themselves scarce. Bruticus was dead, along with Young Rob and China. C-style was nowhere to be found and Pop Top had disappeared to Long Island. He’d tried to persuade High Side to come along, but he wasn’t trying to hear it. Being that there was no one on the streets they were wide-open for him. At his usual post, on a crate in front of the bodega on 142nd and Lenox, High Side watched the traffic for a potential sale and the ever-present police.

  “Young Side, what it is?” Don B. asked, ambling up to the corner. Don B. was a former hustler who had turned rapper-CEO. Back then, before the events in Hood Rat, Still Hood, or Section 8, Big Dawg Entertainment was still a fledgling company with Don B. as its only act. But little did either of them know at the time that Big Dawg would not only grow into a multimillion-dollar label, but it would be in the center of a controversy surrounding several murders.

  “Don, what da deal my nigga.” High Side slapped him five. “I’m surprised to see you on the streets of Harlem. I thought you moved to Switzerland or some shit since you a rapper now,” High Side teased him.

  Don B. wiped his nose with his thumb. “Switzerland is my summer home, young’n, Harlem is my kingdom. Speaking of niggaz getting ghost, I’m surprised to see you out here.”

  “I’m on my grind, fam, you know how I do.”

  “I hear that, but the way I hear it Harlem has been having some problems. They say that Gutter is done and it’s about to be a new day.” Don B. said smugly. He had never had much love for Gutter or his blue-clad soldiers.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, Don. Harlem is still as strong as ever. But fuck the socializing, what you need?”

  Don B. smiled, knowing that he had plucked High Side’s nerves. “I need an ounce of that Barney.”

  “Is that right? What’s the matter, them Spanish niggaz up the hill ain’t taking your money no more?” High Side asked.

  “Son, my money is universal but my man ain’t around right now, so I gotta settle for the shit y’all slinging.”

  “I hear that hot shit, cuz.”

  “Watch that cuz shit, High Side. You already know I ride under the five.”

  “But yo ass is spending money under the six,” High Side pointed out.

  “Whatever, duke. You got what I need or what?”

  “We always got that, but you gotta give me few ticks for an ounce, homey,” High Side told him, pulling out his cell to bleep his man.

  “Fuck kinda drug dealer is you where the customers gotta wait? Nigga, when I was out here we had it clicking twenty-four seven.”

  “Well, you ain’t on the block no more. Lou-Loc and them niggaz ran all the tampons outta Harlem.” High Side said it in a joking manner, but there was a taunting undertone to his voice. Don B. was a Blood, but that wasn’t the reason High Side hated him; he hated Don B. because he’d managed to put the hood behind him and make something of himself. In Don B. he saw two things that he would never become: legitimate and successful.

  In a rare show of anger Don B. removed his sunglasses and glared down at High Side. “First of all, little nigga, can’t nobody run me outta nowhere. And second of all, before Lou-Loc and Gutter came on the scene, you and Pop Top was two bum-ass niggaz begging for somebody to give you a pack to pump. Don’t try to play me, son.”

  “Times have changed, baby boy, and a nigga all grown up.” High Side flashed his burner.

  Don B. wasn’t a sucker, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew how cats like High Side were on it. A hating muthafucka didn’t need much of a reason to try and kill you. “I hear you talking, fam. Tell you what, why don’t I come back in about twenty minutes to pick that up.”

  “Yeah, why don’t you do that,” High Side said as he watched Don B. walk away. He knew good and well that Don B. wasn’t coming back and he didn’t care. He might’ve passed up five hundred dollars on the sale, but at least he got to chump Don B. He couldn’t wait to tell the homeys.

  High Side’s attention was drawn from Don B. when a Black Lincoln rolled to the curb. The Senegalese taxi driver kept his eyes straight ahead while the tinted back window rolled down a bit. High Side was about to go for his gun until he saw the pretty Latino girl’s face in the back. “How do we get to Harlem Hospital?” she asked in deep, yet sultry voice.

  He smiled and got off the crate to get a better look at the girl, neglecting to pick up his gun. “Yeah, baby. Just keep going down Lenox and you’ll run right into it.” When High Side raised his arm to point, he saw a swift movement behind the girl. By the time he realized what was about to go down
the bullet had passed through his armpit and out his shoulder. Soon the pain would come, but right then the fear and adrenaline made him numb. Spinning on his heels, High Side took off down Lenox Avenue.

  “Move, bitch!” Major Blood snarled, crawling over the Spanish girl’s lap and spilling awkwardly to the sidewalk. High Side had a good head start, but he was a wounded animal with a predator on his trail.

  High Side could have won the hundred-yard dash for the way he bolted down Lenox. He had made it to 140th before the cigarettes and the damage to his arm kicked in. He went from a full-out sprint to a jog, seeming to get slower every few yards. Normally there was always a police presence uptown, but when he needed them they were nowhere to be found. As he darted out into the street and a car put him in orbit he wished he’d listened to Pop Top and had went to Long Island. By that time his arm had gone completely numb so when he landed on it he didn’t feel much, but when his head bounced off the concrete the world swam.

  High Side found himself in a pretty place. The prettiest green buds sprouted from the streetlights, which had become giant Dutch Masters. He was admiring a cognac waterfall, contemplating a drink, when another sharp blow brought him back to the real world. When his vision cleared he found himself staring at what looked like a yellow-skinned devil.

  Major Blood yanked High Side to his feet by the front of his shirt. “Y’all should’ve listened when I told you to shut it down.”

  High Side swayed like a rag doll in Major Blood’s grasp. “Fuck you, chili bean. Pop Top is gonna smoke your ass for this!” he spat.

  Major Blood sneered at him. “How the fuck do you think I knew where to find you?” he lied.

  Hearing of his friend’s betrayal gave High Side renewed strength. He thrashed about, trying to shake Major Blood off, and only when he was slapped viciously across the face did he go still again. “I’ll see you in hell!” High Side literally spat at Major Blood. A line of bloody phlegm ran down the side of Major’s face, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “More than likely,” Major admitted, shoving High Side roughly to the ground. On that once quiet morning, on the corner of 140th and Lenox Avenue, Major Blood divorced High Side’s brain from his skull.

  LATER THAT afternoon the police responded to a report about a car that had been stripped and left on 96th between West End and Broadway, partially blocking a bus stop. When they opened the trunk they discovered the remains of an immigrant cab driver and a pretty Latino girl. Both wore bullet holes over their eyes.

  chapter 40

  BY THE time Gutter, Danny, and Tears made it back to Torrance Bit was mid-morning. The normally blue California sky was gray and threatening to storm. There was a line of cars parked in front of the house, while homeys were posted on the porch, all waiting to roll to the ceremony for Big Gunn. Among them was Snake Eyes, who had a worried expression his face.

  “What’s good, homey?” Gutter greeted his longtime friend.

  “Yo.” Snake Eyes tossed him a folded newspaper. “Y’all fools made the morning news.”

  Gutter flipped the paper open and was shocked to see a picture of the bullet-riddled Drayton home on the front page. The two-page write-up told of how an alleged gang member-drug dealer and his girlfriend were executed in their Compton home, in front of their infant son. Initially, the police believed it was a drug deal gone wrong because they found large quantities of cocaine in the basement, but an unnamed source, who was said to have heavy ties in the gang community, claimed it was a revenge killing. The young couple was dead when the police got there, but the boy was taken to a local hospital where he was treated for cuts and bruises, and was now in the custody of social services. Gutter didn’t need to read anymore, because he’d already seen that movie.

  “Police are crawling all over the hood,” Snake Eyes continued. “They already rushed the house on Hoover and came by my office on Central. Malika told them that I was away on family business and couldn’t be reached, but she doesn’t think they bought it,” he said, thinking of the conversation with Lou-Loc’s baby sister, who was home on break from college and working in the law office. “Shit is getting real hot, real fast.”

  Gutter shook his head, just before tossing the paper into the trash. “Growing up in the hood,” he quoted. If Gutter noticed the look Snake Eyes was giving him he gave no indication of it. “Where’s everybody at?”

  “Gutter!” Lil Gunn yelled, running down the porch steps. He threw his arms around his cousin and squeezed. “I knew you wouldn’t let it ride,” he whispered into Gutter’s chest.

  “That can’t be that fool-hearted nephew of mine could it?” Rahshida appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a long black dress, which tickled her ankles and a head covering. “The devil is not welcomed into my brother’s house!” she snarled, taking measured steps down the porch. Gutter had seen his aunt angry before, but the fire that burned in her eyes that morning made him take a step back.

  “Auntie-” he began, but a vicious slap cut his words off.

  “There is nothing you can say to me right now, Kenyatta, that will calm my rage,” she almost hissed. “Eighteen and twenty, Kenyatta, that’s how old they were. Babies with a baby.”

  “Auntie, they were enemies,” Gutter whispered.

  “Why, because those fools’ ass-rags, or because the street signs say so? Kenyatta, you didn’t just kill enemies last night, you killed children… black children.”

  “I didn’t think-” he began but she cut him off again, this time with words.

  “Y’all never do, Kenyatta. I’m from the turf too, so I know full well what this war is about, but it’s still bullshit. Since we’ve been in this country you and my fool-ass brothers have forgotten that this is not how we were raised. Life is the most precious of gifts, but you don’t honor it, you abuse and take it. Let a little black girl get killed across the ocean and y’all quiet, but if somebody get killed in the hood and y’all out for blood. Don’t any of you fool-ass boys get it? The war y’all are fighting ain’t ours.” She gestured at everyone assembled.

  “Kenyatta”-she touched his face lovingly-“when Gunn is laid to rest, I want you out of California.” Gutter tried to speak, but she raised her hand for silence. “It’s not that you’re not welcomed here, Ken. This is your home and you know that, but the longer you stay the worse it’s gonna get. Y’all killed people while there was a baby in the house. If the Brims don’t kill you, the police sure as hell will!”

  “I’m a soldier, Rahshida, you know that. For every one of mine they take, I’ll take three of theirs.” Gutter wasn’t boasting, just stating a fact.

  “See, that’s the foolishness I’m talking about. Y’all kill them and they kill y’all, it’s a never-ending cycle. In less than a week I’ve lost both of my brothers and almost my faith, because of this thing going on in the streets and I don’t want that for you, or Tariq.” She draped her arm around Lil Gunn.

  “It ain’t, Auntie,” he said.

  She tried to smile, but didn’t have the strength. “Go home and be the man my brother raised you to be. Be a good father to your child and a mentor to Tariq. We’re all we have left, Ken, the last surviving members of a once proud clan.”

  “Rahshida, the limo is ready to go,” Monifa interrupted. Rahshida hugged her nephews and made her way to the black stretch Escalade. Monifa lingered momentarily, casting cold eyes on Gutter.

  “What?” he asked, matching her glare.

  “Nothing, I’m just trying to figure out where it all went wrong, Gutter?” she told him. “As I stand here looking into your eyes, the eyes that were always so beautiful to me, I find myself wondering where the life has gone? What happened to the boy I used to love?”

  “He grew up to become the man that America hates,” he said. His tone was sharp, but not quite hostile. “I’ve been to the grave and back Monifa and even on the other side we’re still niggers. This world ain’t got a lot of love for me, and I ain’t big on it. Whatever happens happens.”

&n
bsp; She shook her head. “That sounds real intelligent for somebody that’s about to be a father. What you trying to say, that it don’t matter if you’re here for your child or not?”

  “Girl, you tripping, me blasting on muthafuckas ain’t gonna affect my seed. I’m always gonna be around for mine and can’t nobody change that,” he said proudly.

  “I’m sure Reckless said the same thing before y’all killed him,” she pointed out. “You know, when you used to talk about being a Crip, you did so with such a sense of passion that people couldn’t help but to follow you. But as I got older I began to see it for what it was. Gutter, you ain’t no great liberator of the Crip movement, you’re a killer like the rest of them.”

  “You got some fucking nerve, coming out here trying to drop jewels on me, Mo, real talk. Yeah, I’m a killer and I accept that. But how many bodies you got under your belt?”

  “I’ve never killed anybody, Gutter,” she defended herself.

  “Is that right?” He raised an eyebrow. “You sitting here tripping off me blasting muthafuckas, but how many of them pistols have you loaded for me?” She was silent so he continued, “So you see, I ain’t the only one with blood on their hands.” It was a low blow, but she cast the first stone.

  “Fuck you, Gutter, I don’t know what I ever saw in you!” she hissed, breaking her promise to herself as the first tears hit her cheeks.

  “You saw greatness,” he continued. “You saw a nigga from the ghetto that was determined to make it out of the ghetto, by any means necessary.”

  “You’re a fraud, Kenyatta Soladine. You let the set corrupt everything we… you used to stand for.” She tried to walk away, but he grabbed her arm. He leaned in so close that she could see spittle flying as he spoke.