by Askari
“Rocko,” Sonny smiled, knowing damn well she was referring to something else.
“And who else?”
“I don’t know,” he smiled. “Who?”
“Ya pussy lubs you,” she whispered is his ear, and then gently bit down on his earlobe.
It was times like this that made him appreciate life. He had a beautiful family, a beautiful home, a loyal team, and more money then he’d ever imagined. Most of all, he had a hustle inside of him that just wouldn’t quit. He truly loved his life, and aside from what happened to Riri and their unborn child he held no regrets.
As he turned to kiss Daphney on the lips, Dayshon and Rocko entered the master bedroom, and Keyonti went into a frenzy. She absolutely adored her big brother, and anytime he was in her vicinity, she lit up like a Christmas tree.
“D-Day! D-Day!” She pointed toward him. “Look, dada it’s D-Day!” She wiggled away from Sonny's grasp, and crawled to the edge of the king sized mattress. “Up, up, D-Day! Up, up!” she demanded with her arms stretched out.
Dayshon picked her up and hoisted her small body in the air. “Fat-Fat, you so pwetty!” he said in a baby’s voice. He spun her around, and she laughed uncontrollably. Feeling left out, Rocko hopped up on the bed and nestled his muscular body next to Sonny’s feet.
“Rocko!” Daphney shouted at the large Rottweiler. “If you don’t get ya ass off my goddamn bed!”
Defiantly, he looked at her, and then shifted his gaze to Sonny. “Ahn ahn, don’t be lookin’ at Sontino!” she continued shouting. “You heard what I said!”
Rocko pouted, and then hopped off the bed and laid down on the carpet. Keyonti noticed that her second best friend was sad, and she demanded that Dayshon put her down. “Down down, D-Day. I want Wacko!”
He sat her down on the carpet, and she cuddled up beside the large K-9. In turn, he rubbed his nose against her face, and licked her left cheek as if it were a chocolate ice cream cone. She giggled and wrapped her arms around his massive neck. “Fat-Fat lub Wacko.”
Roof!
Dayshon laughed at the odd couple, and then sat down beside Sonny on the bed. Sonny placed him in a headlock and gave him a light noogie. “What’s poppin’ lil’ homie? You good?”
“Yeah I’m good,” the little boy smiled. “I’m hungry, though. Can you make us some cheese eggs and turkey bacon?”
“I wish I could, but I ain’t got the time.” He looked at Daphney and smiled before throwing her under the bus. “But your mom does.”
She playfully scowled at him, and then threw a barrage of punches at his chest and shoulders.
“Agh shit!” He laughed, and then curled up in a ball. “Come on Daph stop playing! I got a lot of stuff to do this morning!”
She climbed off the bed, and then leaned forward to pick up Keyonti. “Come on y’all. Let’s go downstairs so mommy can make y’all something to eat.”
As they left the room, Sonny’s iPhone vibrated on the nightstand. He picked it up and saw that the caller was Pooky.
“Yo bul.”
“Sonny, what’s up wit’ it? It’s about that time, you dig.”
“Yeah,” Sonny sighed. “It’s definitely about that time, and I need to holla at you about some serious shit.”
“What’s good?” Pooky quickly replied. “Holla at me now.”
“Nizzaw, you know I don’t fuck wit’ these phones like that. Just meet me on Delhi Street around 5 o’clock, and I’ma holla at you then.”
Click!
He laid the phone back down, and then grabbed the pack of Newports that were lying beside his alarm clock. He removed one from the pack, and then searched around for his lighter.
“Damn, what the fuck I do wit’ dat jawn?”
He looked on the side of his nightstand and spotted the lighter on the floor. Directly beside it, a white envelope was lying face down. He snatched up both of the items and instantly realized that the envelope was a letter addressed to him from Daphney’s father. He got up from the bed and walked toward the intercom box that was positioned on the wall beside to the door. He pressed the kitchen button, and asked Daphney about the letter.
“Yo Daph, why you ain’t tell me I got a letter from ya pop?”
“Damn, that’s right. It came in the mail yesterday, and I forgot to tell you. What’s he talking ‘bout?”
“I don’t know,” he replied while eyeing the envelope. “I didn’t read it yet.”
“Well open it, and find out what’s up wit’ him.”
“A’ight.” He lit the tip of his cigarette and accessed the situation. Daphney’s father was a legend on the streets of Philly. In the late eighties and early nineties, he was the boss of the infamous Young Black Mafia. His crew of young drug dealers were known for terrorizing the city, and they made millions of dollars in the process. Their drug of choice was cocaine, and their marketing strategy was simple. Either you did business with the YBM or you didn’t do business at all. Unfortunately, a questionable chain of events landed him in prison with a life sentence, and after spending the past 23 years in SCI Graterford his chances of seeing the light of day were slim to none. Damn, Sonny thought himself. I wonder what this nigga’s up to.
This was the first time that Alvin had ever written him a letter, and aside from him and Daphney taking the kids to visit him every month, their relationship was cordial at best. He opened the envelope and began reading the letter.
Dear Sontino,
First and foremost I salute you young brother, and I hope and pray that this letter reaches you in the best of health. I’ve never been the type to beat around the bush so I’ma make a fat girl skinny. It’s imperative that I speak to you in person. I need you to visit me as soon as possible, and please do not bring Daph and the kids.
Respect, Loyalty, and Love,
Alvin Rines
PS. In the absence of humility, a man is destined for failure.
After reading the letter, his iPhone vibrated on the nightstand and the LED screen indicated that the caller was Easy.
“What’s up, pops?”
“I was just callin’ to let you know that everything turned out as expected, and I’m ready to get things rollin’,” Easy informed him. He was referring to the shipment of cocaine.
“A’ight, just get everybody together, and meet me at Donkees. We got some important shit to talk about.”
“What about Pooky?” Easy asked. “You want him there too?”
“Naw,” Sonny quickly replied. “I’ma holla at dude later on today. Dig though, I just got a letter from Alvin sayin’ that he needs to talk to me about somethin’ important, and that he wants me to visit him as soon as possible.”
“Oh yeah, I wonder what that’s about,” Easy stated, wondering what Alvin had up his sleeve.
“I don’t know pops, but I’ma definitely find out,” said Sonny.
“Yeah, you make sure you do that. Alvin was a stand up nigga, but at the same time, that’s a crafty mutha’fucka. I ain’t sayin’ he on some other shit or nothin’ like that, but be careful what you say to him. Information is power, and you never wanna give a nigga like Alvin more than what’s needed.”
Sonny nodded his head. “I feel you pops. Look, I gotta make an important phone call, so I’ma holla at you later.”
“Say no more,” Easy replied. “Tell Daph and the kids that I send my love.”
“I got you,” Sonny assured him. He disconnected the call, and then scrolled down his call log until he reached Savino’s number. He pressed the call button, and held the phone to his ear.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
“Hello,” Savino answered.
“Mario, what’s up? It’s Sontino.”
“Sontino, what’s up? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah everything’s straight. I’m callin’ because I need you to holla at your private investigators. I need to have somebody located.”
“That’s not a problem,” Savino assured him. “Just give me a name and a possible location?”
“Roberto Alverez a.k.a. Mexican Bobby. He’s originally from Mexico, but he’s livin’ somewhere in Philly.”
“Is he a citizen or an illegal immigrant?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you know what kind of car he drives?”
“Yeah,” Sonny confirmed. “A blue Lamborghini.”
“Consider it done,” Savino assured him as he wrote down the details.
“And Mario, I need to know his whereabouts by tonight.”
Savino chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. This is the reason you pay me the big bucks. Trust me, I’m all over this shit.”
***
Later That Day...
When Sonny pulled up on the corner of Delhi and Cumberland, he couldn’t believe what he saw. Mar-Mar was standing in the middle of the street aiming his gun at Beaver Bushnut. He killed the ignition, and then hopped out the Escalade.
“Yo, Mar-Mar, what the fuck is you doin’?” he shouted while walking toward the chubby, dark skinned young man.
When Mar-Mar glanced over his left shoulder and saw that the voice belonged to Sonny, he almost shit in his cargos. “Naw Sonny, it’s just a BB gun,” he quickly explained. “Bushnut ain’t have no money so he said that I could shoot him wit’ my BB gun if I gave him a free blast.”
Sonny ice grilled him. This was hands down the dumbest shit that he’d ever heard in his life, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. He fixed his scowl on Beaver Bushnut, who at one point in time was considered to be the sharpest pimp and con man in the city. “Hey yo Bushnut, what the fuck is up witchu ol’ head?”
“Nah ahn, Sonny Money!” The shabby light skinned man began his protest. “Me and the youngin’ done already struck us a deal so you gon’ have to fall back and let ol’ Bushnut do what the fuck he gotta do!” he continued in his raspy voice. A huge smile spread across his face, he began to do the Cabbage Patch dance in the middle of the street. “The youngin’ gon’ gimmie a bazoomski,” he bopped from side to side, “for every time I let him shoot me wit’ dat dere BB gun.” He spun around, did a split, and then came back up like James Brown. “Now, think about it Sonny Money, that ain’t shit to a nigga like Bushnut.” He wiped the sweat from his dusty brow, and continued pleading his case. “Bushnut done been shot, stabbed, set on fire, ran up in the church, and stuck up the choir,” he bragged. “Now, Bushnut know you’s a stone cold killah. He know it. But you gon’ let ol’ Bushnut get his paws on dem dere bazoomskis!”
Sonny looked at him like he was crazy, and then burst out laughing. He hadn’t dealt with a crack head in over two years, and he forgot how obnoxious they could be. Especially when it came to getting a free blast. He looked at Mar-Mar and shrugged his shoulders. “Fuck it, if that’s what he wants, give it to him.”
A mischievous grin spread across Mar-Mar’s chubby face as he aimed the BB gun and squeezed the trigger.
Put! Put! Put!
“Awww mutha’fucka goddamn!” Beaver Bushnut shouted as he hopped up and down, clutching his right ear. “You done shot ol’ Bushnut in the goddamned ear!”
Sonny and Mar-Mar burst out laughing. As bad as Sonny wanted to conceal his amusement, he couldn’t help it. The shit was just too funny.
“Now just what in the fuck is y’all laughin’ at? This shit ain’t funny!” Beaver Bushnut snapped on Sonny and Mar-Mar, making them laugh even harder. He walked up to Mar-Mar and held out his hand. “You done shot ol’ Bushnut three times so now you owe him three dimes, and if I was you, I’d be payin’ up! ‘Cause if you don’t,” he raised his right knee and held up his arms like the Karate Kid. “Shit gon’ get ca-razy out this summa-muh-bitch!”
Mar-Mar handed over the three bags of crack, and Sonny questioned him about Pooky’s whereabouts.
“Yo where this nigga at? He was supposed to meet me out here.”
Mar-Mar nodded toward the trap house. “That nigga upstairs wit’ SMD.”
“SMD?” Sonny asked, not familiar with the name. “Who the fuck is that?”
“Oh, that’s the lil’ bitch that be runnin’ around wit’ Bushnut,” Mar-Mar informed him. “We call her SMD. It’s short for Sucka Mean Dick,” he laughed. “No bullshit Sonny, this bitch can suck a jar of peanut butter through a Twizzler. She be suckin’ us off and lettin’ us fuck for five dimes and a pack of Newports.”
“Yo, hold the fuck up,” Sonny screwed up his face. “You mean to tell me that Pooky’s in there right now trickin’ a smokah?”
“Hell yeah!” Mar-Mar bragged. “And I hope he hurry the fuck up! I’m try’na get my shit off too!”
Sonny shook his head in disbelief, and then headed toward the house. When he walked through the front door, the smell of cat piss and dog shit invaded his nostrils, causing him to gag. He glanced around the cluttered living room, and couldn’t believe his eyes. The soiled carpet was littered with dog shit and on top of the coffee table, a congregation of cockroaches were spilling out of a Chinese food carton. Yo these triflin’ mutha’fuckas is outta pocket! he thought to himself as he stood there with his left hand covering his nose and mouth.
He looked in the dining room where two women were sitting at a picnic table smoking crack from a glass stem. “Yo Treesha,” he addressed the woman who owned the house. “Where Pooky at?”
She attempted to answer his question, but was too geeked out to speak. Her eyes were as big as golf balls, and her bottom jaw was sporadically moving from side to side. He looked at the other woman and reiterated his question.
“He—He upstairs,” she managed to mumble, and then pointed toward the stairs.
As he carefully made his way up the stairs, desperately trying to avoid piles of dog shit, the sounds of moaning and groaning made his stomach turn. “Yo, this dirty dick ass nigga is really up here fuckin’ a crack head!” he said to himself as he reached the second floor. He approached the room where the sounds were coming from, and banged on the door.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
“Pooky its Sonny! Open the door!”
On the other side of the door, the woman continued moaning, and Pooky continued grunting.
“Hey yo, Pooky!”
“Hold up dawg! I’ma be done in a minute!” Pooky shouted back.
“What?” Sonny snarled. “Nigga, open this fuckin’ door!”
The woman stopped moaning, and a couple of seconds later the door creaked open. Pooky stuck his sweat covered face through the crack in the door, and the egregious odor of what seemed to be cat piss and corn syrup smacked Sonny dead in the face. The odor was so strong that he coughed a couple of times, and then hurled up his lunch. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand he looked at Pooky. “Yo what type of freak shit is you into?”
Pooky looked at him with an irritated expression. “Sonny, what the fuck is you talking ‘bout?”
“What I’m talking ‘bout? Nigga, you up in this triflin ass house, fuckin’ a crack head!”
Pooky gritted his teeth. “Yo, why you up in my business Sonny? I’ma grown ass man. You ain’t got nothin’ to do wit’ the way I’m handlin’ mines.”
“Pussy, I’m up in ya business ‘cause you a reflection of my mutha’fuckin’ team!” Sonny shot back. “And ya nut ass got the nerve to be runnin’ around the city sellin’ niggas fucked up work, and now I’m the one that gotta make shit right! I swear to Blood if it wasn’t for Sheed—”
“If it wasn’t for Sheed what?” Pooky interrupted him. He snatched the door wide open, and then got up in Sonny’s face. “Nigga, you ain’t the only one that put in work! I get my mutha’fuckin’ hands dirty too!”
In the blink of an eye, Sonny whipped out his FNH and pressed the barrel against Pooky’s abdomen. “So what the fuck is you sayin’ then nigga?”
Before Pooky had the chance to react the woman who was inside of the room shouted, “Sontino, don’t do it! He ain’t worth it!”
Sonny looked over Pooky’s shoulder, and when he realized who the voice belonged to, it felt like he’d be
en stabbed in the heart with a dagger. It was his little sister, Nahfisah. The wear and tear on her body was evident. . Her once shapely frame was now a bag of bones, and although her beautiful face was still intact, her skin was covered with acne.
“Nahfisah?” he asked in a shaky voice. “What the fuck is you doin’ in here?”
Pooky smirked, completely unware that Nahfisah was his sister. “Nigga, what you think? She in here suckin’ and fuckin’ for a rock!”
Sonny scowled at him, and then hit him in the nose with a short left hook that folded him like an envelope. He placed the FNH back in its holster, and then returned his focus to Nahfisah.
In a compassionate voice he said, “Yo Nah, what the fuck is you doin’?”
Embarrassed, she shamefully lowered her head.
“Yo, put some clothes on. I’m gettin’ you outta here.”
Reluctantly, she got up from the pissy mattress and did as he instructed. Her hands were trembling and tears were falling from her blue eyes.
When they emerged from the house, they were immediately greeted by the horrific sounds of Beaver Bushnut’s voice. He was standing in front of the stoop doing his best rendition of Bobby Womack’s, If You Think You’re Lonely Now. He was singing into an empty can of Natural Ice beer as if it were a microphone, and slowly bopping from side to side. Just as he was about to begin the second verse he noticed that Nahfisah was following Sonny toward his Escalade.
“Ahn ahn bitch! Just where in the fuck you think you goin’?” He pulled a switchblade from his trench coat pocket, and flipped it open. “Don’t you know Bushnut a carve yo’ mutha’fuckin’ ass up! I’ma mutha’fuckin’ pimp, goddamnit! I don’t play that shit!”
He ran toward her, but stopped in his tracks when Sonny pulled out his gun. He scowled at the young hustler. “Sonny Money, this ain’t got nothin’ to do wit you youngin’. This is between Bushnut and that funky lil’ bitch right there,” he pointed the blade at Nahfisah.
The thought of Beaver Bushnut pimping and violating his little sister infuriated Sonny. Although him and Nahfisah were raised without knowing that they were siblings, the bond they shared couldn’t have been any closer. He aimed his FNH about an inch away from Bushnut’s head, and let off a shot.
