Tales from da Hood

by Nikki Turner

  “You got any more of that dog food?” Ali asked as he settled into the backseat.

  “Yeah, I'm straight,” Rah Rah responded as he waited for the light to turn from red to green. “But I don't like to be riding through the city, sniffing with all of us strapped. Wait till we get on the highway or till we get in front of the building.”

  Ali was sniffing the last corner out of the $10 bag when Rah Rah eased his car into the parking lot behind building twelve.

  “Let me get that last bag fo we go up,” Ali said as he adjusted his pistol in his waist and waited, with an annoyed dope fiend grin on his face, for Rah Rah's slow-ass cousin to hand him the last bag of P.

  “Hand him that last bag,” Rah Rah told Antwan, who reached in his pocket and began to pass the blow over the seat. As Ali reached for a blow of the P, Rah slid a gun from under the armrest and raised it. Ali Mu stared in disbelief and groped for his nine, but before he could reach it, Rah Rah fired at point-blank range into Ali's face.

  NOBODY was particularly shocked when Ali Mu came up murdered. Although nobody had any idea who did the work, the general consensus was that it could have been anybody. At Sensations Disco a group of cats, all former victims of Ali's at one time or another, hosted a “Thank God, he's dead!” celebration in the back of the club. As word of his death began to spread like an electric current through the club, most niggas felt that Ali Mu getting killed was like the chickens coming home to roost. He lived by the gun, most reasoned, so evidently it was his fate to die by the gun.

  Most everyone shook their heads and went on about their business. Everybody, that is, but Furquan. Furquan was scared shitless. Ali Mu had been his back, his spine, and his trigger nigga. Ali Mu never asked why when there was work to be put in, he only asked who. Now that Ali Mu was gone, Furquan knew that he had to be extra careful. Plus, there was still that open beef he was having with Big Farook. Furquan decided it was time to pull back.

  As a result, he seldom left his home in South Orange, and when he had to go to the projects to collect his money, he rarely even got out of his car. But like most people, Furquan had a weakness. Furquan was in love with a nineteen-year-old chickenhead named Shanaynay.

  Shanaynay was coming out of building 178 when Rah Rah spotted her. She was walking fast, heading toward Furquan's car, which was idling at the curb.

  “Yo, Antwan, check it. Ain't that that nigga Furquan's burgundy Benz Shanaynay just hopped in?” Rah Rah asked, sitting up straight in the driver's seat.

  “Yeah, that that nigga,” Antwan stated, taking off his sunglasses as he put out his blunt in the ashtray.

  As soon as Shanaynay closed the passenger door, Furquan pulled away from the curb, driving to the corner where he turned left.

  “Follow his ass, Rah,” Antwan said. “He's probably taking that bird home. Somebody said he bought her a condo in Metuchen or down the shore.”

  Furquan got on the parkway heading south.

  “You're too close,” Antwan told Rah Rah. “Stay at least four lengths behind him, man, so that he don't make the car. Then come off the exit with him.”

  After fifteen minutes on the parkway, Furquan put on his turn signal, pulled into the right lane, and drove up the exit ramp at the Metuchen exit. Then Furquan drove eight or nine blocks and turned left in front of an apartment complex that read Tree Top Village.

  “Don't follow him in there. Just keep driving straight,” Antwan told Rah Rah as Furquan pulled into the complex entrance. “We can slide back and ride through the parking lots after he's gone into the house.”

  “That's money,” Rah Rah responded as he watched Furquan's car go about thirty or forty yards and then turn right.

  Antwan and Rah Rah drove to the parking lot of a 7-Eleven convenience store three blocks from Tree Top Village and strategized a plan for getting at Furquan.

  “He don't know what neither one of us look like,” Rah Rah said, passing the forty-ounce bottle of Red Bull to Antwan. “We could go to the door, ring the bell, and say we have a special delivery. When they open the door, we pull our burners and down the fool.”

  “The shit might work, Rah, and it might not. But you know if we do it that way we gon’ hafta down his bitch, too, and for real— for real I ain't wit’ killing no innocent muthafucka if I don't have to. Plus Rah, you know Little Man is ol’ girl's baby daddy. And that little muthafucka gon’ be heated,” Antwan said, rarely taking a breath. “Shit, we might have to end up blasting his ass if we dump her when we take care of her nigga.”

  “Then it looks like we gon’ just hafta wait on his bitch ass and get at the nigga another time,” Rah Rah snapped as he reached for the forty.

  “Fuck that, Rah. We been stalking this nigga forever, and this is the first time in over a month that we even spotted his ass. I'm not passing this nigga up,” Antwan shouted.

  “Listen, Antwan,” Rah Rah retorted, raising his voice to match Antwan's. “If we ain't going in the house to get at him, and he sho ain't gon’ come to us, how the fuck you think we gon’ take care of this shit tonight? We sho can't use the same move we used on Malik 'cause this ain't that kinda neighborhood. It's bright as shit in front of that nigga's house. Plus all the muthafuckas out here keep they fucking porch lights on.”

  Antwan was silent for a moment. He just stared out the window in thought. When he finally turned from the window and looked at Rah Rah, he was smiling.

  “I think I got an idea, Rah. It might sound like some cowboy shit, but Rah,” Antwan said, his smile now disappearing, “I want this muthafucka so bad that I can taste his bitch ass.”

  “I'm feeling you on that, Antwan, but what's up?”

  “You know Furquan is married,” Antwan began. “But he's been knocking that ho he wit’ now boots for over a year now. Her cousin says that the nigga never spends the night. He goes home every night. That means that the nigga gon’ be leaving out of there before the morning.”

  “And,” Rah Rah said, picking up on Antwan's idea but still a bit perplexed, “what the fuck does that get us? What we gon’ do? Follow the nigga home then camp out there?”

  “Nah, nothin’ like that,” Antwan said. “We just wait until it gets dark, then around eleven or twelve o'clock, we'll drive back around to the complex and pull up next to his car. His parking space is down from his town house. When we get there, pop the trunk, and I'm gonna get the jack out of the trunk. I'm gonna act like I'm bending down to change the tire on his car but I'm gonna loose the lug nuts on both his front tires. When the nigga comes out we gon’ follow him. It'll still be dark out and there shouldn't be too many folks out there on the road. By the time that nigga gets on the parkway, one, maybe both, them tires gon’ fall off. When the nigga gets out the car to see what the fuck happened, all we gotta do is ride by and wet his ass up.”

  “Nigga, you talking about a fuckin’ drive by. I'm a muthafuckin’ professional. I don't do that wack-ass California kinda shit,” Rah Rah spat.

  “Well, nigga, you ain't got to spray,” Antwan retorted heatedly.

  “I do my own work. Just drive.”

  “If we gon’ ride, nigga, we rides together. I ain't on no fake shit. I'm down, my nigga, from the womb to the tomb. But you know how I like to rock a nigga to sleep then slump his ass, but if this is how the shit gotta go down, then fuck it! I'm down for whatever.”

  AT FOUR in the morning, Furquan pulled out of his parking space to start his thirty-five-minute drive from his and Shanaynay's spot to his home in South Orange. Furquan hadn't been driving ten minutes when he noticed a hard shimmy coming from the front of his car. The car began to shimmy even more, forcing Furquan to wrestle with the steering wheel. Before he could slow down, the car fell hard to one side as his right front wheel popped off and the car skidded to the side of the road.

  “What the fuck!” Furquan shouted as his car plunked down loudly, cracking the chassis. Furquan put his flashing lights on and stepped out of the car. Seconds afterward a car pulled alongside him.

>   “Yo, old head, you alright?” a young kid asked.

  “Yeah, I'm alright. I think I just—” Furquan was about to tell the kid that he thought he had broke his chassis when the kid suddenly ducked down. Furquan was suddenly looking at the driver of the car. And the driver looked vaguely familiar, like maybe he knew him from off the block. In that instant Furquan noticed that the driver of the car was pointing a gun at him. Furquan turned to run or at least duck back into his car, but the driver in the car fired quickly and the impact of the bullet from his Glock pushed Furquan up against the side of the car.

  “What the fuck!” Furquan screamed before four more bullets fired in rapid succession hit him, the last one slamming into his throat and ripping apart his larynx.

  Rah Rah punched hard on the accelerator and was thirty or forty yards down the highway before he heard Antwan hollering for him to stop and back up.

  “Back up, Rah. Back up for a minute,” Antwan screamed. Rah turned in the seat and looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.

  “Back up for what? Nigga, are you fuckin’ crazy?” Rah Rah shouted as he slowed the car down.

  “Man, back up,” Antwan said more evenly.

  Rah Rah threw the car into reverse and backed down the empty strip of highway. When the car pulled even with Furquan's Benz, Antwan hopped out, ran over to where Furquan lay slumped against the wheel of his car, bent over Furquan's lifeless body and emptied the clip of his 9mm into Furquan's face. Then he hopped back into the car and Rah Rah pulled off.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” Rah Rah asked, exasperated. “The nigga was already dead.”

  “That was about my brother,” Antwan replied, staring off into space as they sped down the highway. “That was about my brother.”

  FIVE

  DUJUANNA WAS in the Golden Comb Beauty Salon having her hair French permed when Sherrie, from the Little Brick projects, came though the door.

  “Baby, did you hear about Furquan?” Sherrie asked no one in particular, but loud enough for everybody in the salon to hear her.

  “Uhn-uh, girl. What Furquan and his fine ass done did now?”

  Nette asked, taking the rollers from her tray and starting to curl DuJuanna's hair.

  “Girl, that nigga ain't fine no mo. Somebody smoked his ass two days ago down by Shanaynay's house in Metuchen. Perry's got his body. His funeral s'pose to be Friday.”

  “Get the fuck outta here. I know that bitch Shanaynay bout to pull her muthafuckin’ weave out worrying bout how the fuck she gon’ pay the rent on that house now. Her stupid ass gonna hafta move back to the projects 'cause that bitch sho can't afford to pay the rent on that fuckin’ town house,” Nette smirked, slapping five with the stylist in the station next to her.

  “Somebody said that Furquan was s'pose to have paid for that house cash,” Naderia said, as she rinsed out a customer's hair in the sink.

  “Oh,” Nette said, disappointed. Then she suddenly brightened.

  “Shit, but if Fu's wife finds out about that house and it's in Fu's name, she gon’ get that shit from Nay's dumb ass.”

  DuJuanna heard very little of what any of the girls said after Sherrie said that Furquan had gotten killed. Her stomach was suddenly queasy, and for some reason she was feeling real nervous. When Malik had gotten killed, she had marked his death up to chance. After all, Malik was a deacon in the church. Some muthafucka was probably trying to rob him and Malik must have bucked. But Malik and then Furquan back to back was looking less like a coincidence and more like a pattern. Still, she attempted to reason with herself. She was probably just being silly and paranoid. That shit was almost fifteen years ago. Besides, now everybody but her that was either part of the robbery gone bad was dead.

  Then she thought about the little boy she had seen under the quilt with the big, pretty but sad eyes and a quiver ran through her body. How old would he be now, she thought as Nette put the last roller in her hair and pointed her toward the line of dryers along the wall. Shit, fifteen years ago, DuJuanna mused as she set under the dryer and Nette snapped on the hood. Damn, he might be eighteen years old by now, and I don't even know what the fuck he looks like.

  Twenty minutes later, Nette tapped DuJuanna and DuJuanna jumped.

  “What the fuck's wrong with you?” Nette asked. “Your ass jumped like you been hit by a car.”

  “Nothin'. I'm straight,” DuJuanna said, trying to regain her composure. “I'm just tired of Newark and all this killing and kidnapping shit. I'm seriously thinking about moving to New York with my sister.”

  DURING THE NEXT six months, between some wet work for Big Farook, Antwan and Rah Rah opened a crackhouse in the Seth Boyden projects and looked intermittently for DuJuanna. Nobody seemed to know where she lived in New Jersey. However, those that did know her were in agreement about one thing, the bitch hadn't aged since she was a teenager. She was still fine as hell, her beauty bolstered by her green eyes and a small beauty mark on her chin. She also had an ass like a Budweiser Clydesdale and lips that appeared able to suck a golf ball through a water hose. With such a detailed description, Antwan was sure he'd know her when he saw her. That and the fact that the vision of her was embedded in his head.

  DUJUANNA LOOKED at herself in the full-length mirror behind her bedroom door when her sister Katrina walked past and looked in. Six years older and perhaps thirty pounds heavier than her younger sister, Katrina was a beautiful woman, too. Katrina never regretted moving from Newark to Strivers Row, so when her baby sister had called her up and said she wanted to stay with her for a little while, Katrina welcomed her. And even though the little while had now turned into six months, Katrina cherished every day of them living together. Katrina paused, looking at her for several minutes, and DuJuanna suddenly looked up and smiled.

  “What's up, Trina?” DuJuanna asked as she stepped into a hip-hugging micro-miniskirt that matched her black knee-length boots and black, calfskin waist-length North Beach leather jacket.

  “Nothin', D. Where you going in your skintight ‘fuck me’ outfit?” Katrina asked, smiling.

  “Probably down to the Garage Club,” DuJuanna replied as she took a bottle of White Shoulders perfume and sprayed it liberally over her arms and dabbed a little behind her ears. “Somebody said that Missy Elliot is supposed to be there to celebrate the release of her new album. The shit is s'pose to be off the hook, girl, so you know I gotta be there.”

  DuJuanna took one last glance at her profile in the mirror.

  “Just be careful,” her sister warned her. “It's crazy out there. Have fun. Just be careful.”

  RAH RAH AND ANTWAN decided to close their dope spot for the rest of the night. Fridays generally were the fastest day of the week. Fiends couldn't seem to get enough. The spot generally did four or five ounces of dope easy, but tonight traffic was slow as hell. It wasn't just 5-0 and the usual jump-outs that had thinned the crowd out. Since Furquan had gotten smoked, homicide had been stopping niggas at random as they came out of the building, trying to shake loose some information from some of the crackheads or dope fiends.

  “Yo, Rah, we might as well close this shit down for today,”

  Antwan said as he counted a small stack of bills in front of him. “It's eleven o'clock, and this here ain't even fifteen hundred.”

  “Bet that,” Rah Rah replied as he walked to the back of the cluttered apartment to give $50 and a few rocks to the crackhead woman who rented the apartment. “When I went downstairs earlier to get something to eat off the truck,” Rah Rah continued as he stepped back into the small living room, “I saw two homicide detectives coming out of two-twelve. Them muthafuckas had me 'noid as shit.”

  “All right, let's raise,” Antwan said, tucking the small stack of cheddar into his pants pocket. “What you gon’ do, Rah?”

  “I think I'm going over to baby momma's house and catch the Tyson fight tonight on Pay-Per-View. Why? What's up?” Rah Rah asked as he picked up his nine off the table and stuck it in his belt.

&nbs
p; “Why don't you let me use the car, man? I don't feel like going in. I think I want to go over to New York to the Garage. Missy Elliot s'pose to be having a promotional party there for her joint that bout to drop. Anyhow the shit is s'pose to be off the hizzy,” Antwan said.

  “Alright,” Rah Rah agreed. “Sounds like you gon’ kick it. Should be a night to remember.”

  THE GARAGE WAS jam-packed, and as usual, there were as many people outside the club hanging out, slinging E pills, reefer, and coke, as there seemed to be inside partying. Beemers, Benzes, and a few Bentleys were double-parked in front of the club. Most of the owners of the exotic automobiles were sitting in their cars smoking blunts and trying to cruise themselves up on a one-night flava of the night.

  Inside, DMX's joint, “What You Want,” boomed from the gigantic speakers. Antwan had been in the club for a little over an hour, dancing off and on with three chickenheads from uptown, when he excused himself and started walking toward the men's room. As he walked past the bar, he heard a girl standing in front of him call out a name that made his heart nearly stop in his chest.

  “DuJuanna, you done sweated your fuckin’ hair out,” she said, talking to a girl walking off the dance floor.

  As Antwan turned to see who the girl's remark was directed to, he looked into the face that had haunted his dreams and nightmares for the last fifteen years. The face hadn't changed much since he last saw it from beneath the quilt on that fateful night. There were a few laugh lines now and the hair was different, but it was the same bitch—the bitch who had stood over his father and pumped four bullets into him while his mother lay handcuffed and his brother's lifeless body lay in a pool of blood.

  “DuJuanna, don't look now, but there is a fine young nigga staring at you, girl. His ass is hypnotized,” the other girl said.

  “Bitch, where at?” DuJuanna asked, laughing and turning in the wrong direction.

  “Not over there, bitch,” she said, pointing slightly with her head to the left. When DuJuanna turned she was staring at Antwan.