“What?” Travon shouted. The news had taken him by surprise.
The opportunity was just too good for Marcus to pass up. He leaned forward and stared at Dejuan.
“I thought that all of y’all was Wheatley Courts, and that y’all stick together like family?” Marcus shifted his gaze toward Big Mike. “I’m glad that Bloods don’t kill each other like that.”
Dejuan ignored Marcus, keeping his attention on Travon. “Shit, the hood is divided, and we takin’ it to each other right now. Ain’t nobody makin’ no money or nothing.”
“What did y’all get into it for?” Travon asked.
“Shit, you ain’t heard?” Dejuan asked incredulously. “Them fools killed T-Stew.”
“What?” Travon asked in shock. “Who?”
“Man, Quentin, Tech Nine, Lil Texas, and Dupriest,” Dejuan told him. “They say that Quentin shot him, but Lil Texas and Dupriest finished him off. That boy had twenty-nine holes in him, from four different guns. That shit pissed me off. And it was all behind a bitch too. T-Stew was supposedly fuckin’ Quentin’s baby’s momma. Me, Act One, Baby T, Lil C, and PayDay, T-Stew’s brother, is taking it to them niggaz. Shit, really, everybody in the Courts done chose sides. Last night, Dre shot Heavy G in the neck. They don’t know if that fool gone live or not.”
“What?” Travon repeated.
“Fuck!” slipped from Marcus’s mouth.
Travon shook his head. “Man, y’all niggaz is crazy. I’m glad that I got the fuck outta there.”
“Niggaz is getting shot every day in the Courts, or by the Courts. That shit is hectic.” Dejuan turned to Big Mike and smiled, and then turned back to Travon. “Anyway, trick that shit. How you living? I got something for you.”
He reached beneath the seat and pulled out a small paper sack. When Marcus saw what it was, he released the grip on his weapon.
“Here, it’s five OZs in here, just for you.” Dejuan handed Travon the paper bag. “When you get through with it, call me. My number’s inside the bag also. Just bring me back two Gs, lil homie.”
The power window on the big German sedan glided back up, and the Mercedes slowly eased off.
Later That Evening
Travon was lying in bed when someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Travon called without looking up from his book.
Darius entered, followed by Marcus.
“What’s up?” Travon asked. He closed his book, and sat up.
“Nothin.’” Darius shook his head nonchalantly. “Just came to holler at you about a few things.”
Travon became suspicious. “What?”
Darius bit down on his bottom lip. “Well, Marcus told me about what happened today. About y’all hollerin’ at Dejuan. He said that Dejuan put you down with some yea-yo.”
Travon nodded. “Yeah, but I don’t know if I’m gonna do it. I ain’t made up my mind yet.”
Darius sat on the edge of the bed. “Say, T. You’re my cousin, and I’m a look out for you, always. Let me let you in on a few things. First, Dejuan is a user. That’s all he does is use people. He used Too-Low, and now he’s trying to use you. I used to tell Too-Low all the time, to quit fuckin’ with them niggaz. Think about it, Tre. How many people do you know that ride around with bags of dope with their cell phone numbers in them, ready to be passed out? Dejuan was looking for you. He don’t care about you, he don’t care about nobody but Dejuan, and how much money you can make him. It’s all about money to them dudes. They whole clique is all about makin’ money, and their only loyalty is to the dollar.”
Pointing toward the window, Darius continued, “They are at war with each other in the Courts. Can’t nobody sell shit, because one-time is all over the place, because of the bodies. Geekers and niggaz is afraid to go out there and buy anything, so Dejuan ain’t makin’ no money. His boys can’t sell his shit out in the Courts for him, and they damn sure can’t come out here, or go in the Terrace, so he finds you. Don’t be stupid, Tre. Dejuan doesn’t really give a fuck about you. That muthafucka is just trying to move his dope. Game peeps game. He’s probably also tryin’ to pull you into his clique, because right about now, I imagine he’s in desperate need for a new triggaman.”
Darius rose from the bed and faced his cousin. “That’s what Too-Low was for him. So who better to replace Too-Low than his little brother? Your brother put in all the work for them niggaz, while they got rich.” Darius shook his head and looked down. “I loved my cousin to death, but he wasn’t exactly the brightest thing in the world. Did Too-Low ever tell you about some of the things he did? Do you remember the time that all of those Colombians got killed in that motel on Austin Highway?”
Travon tilted his head to the side and frowned. “Yeah?”
“Well, Dejuan set that up, and Too-Low did the killin’. They won for six keys and sixty Gs. How do you think Dejuan came up? Off of your brother. People were scared of Dejuan, because they was scared of Too-Low. Without Too-Low, Tech Nine, Quentin, and Dupriest, WCG ain’t shit!”
Travon swallowed hard to try and clear away the lump that had formed in his throat, as he digested what Darius had just told him about his brother. His stomach began to churn; deep down, he wondered whether all the rumors that he had heard about his brother just might have been true.
Too-Low, the person he had looked up to, and loved more than life itself, might have been a stone-cold fuckin’g murderer. His brother, the person who took care of him, helped raise him, and made sure that he always did well in school, might have been a monster. It was too much for him to even begin to digest.
“Say, y’all, I’m a think about this shit, and I’ll let you know what’s up tomorrow,” Travon told them.
Marcus noticed the look on Travon’s face and realized he hadn’t known about the things Too-Low had done. Darius, who had been too busy talking, had missed it.
“All right, kinfolk. But if you need me to, I’ll show you the game,” Darius replied. “I’ll teach you how to cook it, cut it up, and sell it. I’ll even stay down with you while you get your feet wet. We gotta get you a strap too. Remind me tomorrow.”
Travon nodded. “Later,” he told them, swallowing hard again, and forcing a smile across his face.
“Later,” Marcus replied.
“Later,” Darius said.
They walked out, closing the door behind them. Just as quickly as it had closed, the bedroom door reopened, and Darius stuck his head back through the door.
“Tre, you not paying that muthafucka back shit, either. Not one fuckin’ dime!” Darius shook his head and smiled. “Old Dejuan is just gonna have to charge them Os to the game.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Travon tossed and turned in bed as he dreamt of his brother. Too-Low’s words barraged him, bits and pieces of their last conversation replayed inside of his head.
“Tre, you better not ever join a gang.”
“I do this shit so that you don’t have to!”
“If I ever catch you with any kind of dope, I’m a put a foot in your ass!”
“Do you hear me, Tre?”
“Tre!”
“Tre!”
“Take this money and put it in Momma’s purse.”
“Put the rest under my mattress.”
“Mattress, mattress, mattress.”
Travon bolted up from his sleep. “Mattress,” he muttered to himself. Slowly, his thoughts became cohesive, and he remembered his last conversation with Darius: “We got to get you a strap.”
Travon smiled to himself. “I already got a strap,” he declared to the moonlit shadows dancing across his bedroom walls. “I got my brother’s.”
Sleep did not come easy the rest of the night.
Eight-Thirty a.m.
Travon was dressed and heading out the back door. Vera appeared at the kitchen door.
“Travon, where do you think you’re going?” she asked him.
“I’ll be right back, Aunt V,” Travon lied. “I’ve gotta run around the cor
ner real quick.”
Travon hurried out and jumped on his bike. He’d made it into the front yard when he suddenly remembered something. He dropped the bike on the ground, bolted back inside the house, and ran upstairs to his room.
“Where is it?” he asked no one in particular, frantically rummaging through his closet. He pulled several items from the closet before pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts. Then it came to him.
“I know where you are!” Travon fell to his knees, reached beneath his bed, and pulled out his old backpack. Now that he had found what he was looking for, it took him only seconds to bolt from his room, down the stairs, and out the front door. Without looking back, he mounted his bicycle with a running start, and was off.
The trip to his mother’s apartment in the Courts took only twenty-five minutes. He had pedaled fast, and traffic had been agreeable today. Travon carefully laid his mountain bike on the ground in front of his mother’s apartment, and cautiously surveyed the area to make sure that no one was watching him. Once he was certain that no one was, he searched the door sill for the key that his mother kept there. It was gone.
Travon lifted the cheap, tattered, woven straw welcome mat; the key was not there either. This left him with only one other option. It was the option that he had wished to avoid, but no longer could. He walked to the window where his brother’s room used to be, and stared up at it. It was a room he had not been inside since the day his brother died.
Travon shrugged, sighed, uttered a quick prayer, and began to climb the large oak tree that stood just in front of his brother’s window. It was a climb that he and Too-Low had made many a time, when their mother had restricted them from going outside to hang out with their friends. His heart wished that he could be climbing the tree for such a reason today.
Once Travon reached the point on the tree that roughly ran parallel to his brother’s window, he uttered another quick prayer, and then reached over and gave the shut window a tug. It slid open.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, climbing through the old metal-framed window.
Inside, Travon examined his surroundings. His mother, who was not yet ready to let go of her oldest son, had touched nothing.
He walked softly to the dresser, where a stereo sat collecting dust. There was a shirt lying on top of the stereo, crumpled, waiting to be re-worn or washed. Travon lifted the shirt to his nose and inhaled deeply. He could still smell the faint scent of his brother on the T-shirt. It brought tears to his eyes.
Travon reverently sat the shirt back on top of the stereo, and walked to his brother’s bed, where he lifted up the top mattress. Lying exactly where he left it so many months ago was his brother’s gun. Next to it was one thousand dollars.
“Yes!” he exclaimed again. He had forgotten all about the money. He grabbed both.
Travon next turned his attention to his brother’s closet. First he searched his brother’s clothing, which hung neatly on hangers, never to be worn again. Nothing. His attention was then drawn to Too-Low’s neatly arranged pairs of shoes.
Travon stuck his hand inside them, checking each carefully. The first and second shoes were empty. The third shoe, however, yielded treasure. Travon’s hand would not go all the way into the tennis shoe, so he banged it against the floor to dislodge whatever was inside. A wad of rolled-up bills slid to the rear of the shoe. A smile slowly crept across Travon’s face.
Travon grabbed the next shoe and repeated the procedure. The next three pairs of shoes yielded an equally handsome sum. The fourth pair yielded a treasure of a different sort. There was one quarter of a kilogram of cocaine in each shoe.
Meticulously, Travon continued to check the rest of Too-Low’s shoes, but nothing else was to be found. He gathered up his newfound treasure and placed it into his backpack, along with the handgun and the other money. He then rearranged the closet, putting everything back the way it was prior to his arrival. When this was done, he walked to his brother’s bed, and seated himself upon the edge of it. His lack of sleep, the early morning hour, and his fast-paced bike pedaling to get there, all took their toll on him. Content with the success of his mission, he lay back on his brother’s bed and fell sound asleep.
Two-Thirty P.M.
Travon awoke suddenly. The unfamiliarity of his surroundings caused his heart to beat rapidly at first, and then he remembered where he was. Travon shifted his gaze top the clock on the stereo, but it was an hour behind. His brother had not been alive to spring forward.
Travon quickly deduced the correct time; it was late in the afternoon, and he had slept way too long. He rose from the comfort of his brother’s bed, straightened it back up, and that was when the thought hit him. Travon immediately dropped to his knees and began searching beneath the bed.
There were several boxes. Some were large, some were not. All were covered with a thin film of dust from neglect. Travon pulled the boxes out one by one, and then opened them in the same fashion.
Inside the first box were several photo albums and loose pictures. Pictures of his brother and people from the neighborhood. Some were dead; many were in prison, others were just long gone. Many were pictures of women, and there were quite a few pictures of people who were still in the Courts. Travon tossed the photos back, and then turned his attention to the next box. More pictures, and lots of obituaries of Too-Low’s lost friends. Travon closed the two boxes and slid them back underneath the bed. He then pulled close another box and opened it.
Inside were two guns, and lots of ammunition. Travon pulled one of the weapons from the box, turned it on its side, and read the print stamped into it. The weapon was an Israeli Military Industries’ Desert Eagle. It was a very large and extremely heavy handgun; the caliber on the weapon read fifty magnum, and its color was a cold, empty, death black. Travon tossed it onto the bed and grabbed the second weapon.
This one read Israeli Military Industries also. It was an Uzi semiautomatic pistol, nine-millimeter; like the other weapon, it too was a cold, dull black. He tossed this one onto the bed as well, and slid the large box to the side.
The next box contained a portion of Too-Low’s comic book collection. The idea of his brother collecting comic books made Travon smile. He could imagine his brother looking down on him from above and going ballistic because he was messing around in his comic books. He would give anything to have his brother be able to yell at him again.
Travon reverently placed the comic books back in their box and slid the box back beneath the bed. He opened the next box. More comics. Travon closed it, slid it back underneath the bed, and grabbed the last box. This one was extremely long; he had to pull the box all the way out from beneath the bed. Travon tilted the long box slightly upward, and found himself staring down into the barrel of a rifle.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed. “My brother was planning to take on an entire army.”
He reached down into the box and felt a second weapon. Carefully, he pulled both of them out. The second weapon was short and stubby, with an odd shape. The weapon had a large, round cylinder in the center of it, and the cylinder itself contained several large chambers. It looked very much like a gigantic revolver, with two large handles at the bottom. The weapon also had a short folding stock at the rear and a long black nylon strap at the top, for ease of carrying. Travon turned the weapon on its side and read the stampings:
12 GAUGE STRYKER 12 ARMSCOR REPUBLIC OF SOUTH AFRICA
Travon, not being very familiar with weapons, did not understand that he was holding what was more commonly known as a Street Sweeper.
He placed the weapon back in the box, and lifted the other, longer one. It was an assault rifle. This one read, .308 GALIL, ISRAELI MILITARY INDUSTRIES. Travon took the rifle and attempted to slide it back, but it would not go all the way. Something was impeding its progress.
Travon made several attempts to replace the weapon, all to no avail. Finally, he lifted the box and tilted it forward. Out slid the Street Sweeper and three live hand grenades.
“Oh, fuck!” he yelled, once he realized what the objects were. His heart skipped a beat, but then began to make up for it by pounding hard and fast inside his chest.
Travon lifted the rifle, and placed it back inside the box. He followed the rifle with the Street Sweeper, and finally but very carefully, with the hand grenades. He slid the box back underneath the bed, and then removed several packs of ammunition from one of the previous boxes. He placed the ammunition into his backpack, along with the two guns he had tossed onto the bed. Travon then turned his attention to his brother’s chest of drawers.
Rummaging around, he found Too-Low’s jewelry, wallet, and pagers amongst the clothing. He stuck these items in his backpack as well, and then grabbed Too-Low’s T-shirt. It was getting late, and he had to hurry up and get back to Aunt V’s house, or else she’d be worried. Travon examined the bedroom, and then straightened out whatever needed to be straightened. Once satisfied that the room looked undisturbed, he climbed out of the window, closed it, and then made his descent from the tree.
On the ground, Travon shrugged off the backpack and sat it on the ground. He opened the pack, and removed from it his brother’s Beretta pistol. He stuck the handgun inside his waistband and pulled his shirt down over it to conceal it. Although he would be pedaling as fast as he could out of the Courts, it was no longer morning, and the guys he wanted to avoid would definitely be awake now. It was definitely better to be safe than sorry. Especially when sorry meant death.
Travon lifted his backpack, tossed it onto his shoulders, and mounted his bicycle with a running start. It was a long way back to the Heights, and Aunt Vera was probably already sending out Darius and Marcus to look for him. Plus, he had told her that he was only going around the corner real quick. Damn! He had already caused his aunts and his mother enough worry.
Travon turned the corner at full speed and slammed into a group of boys walking through the Courts. He and several of the boys tumbled to the ground.
Eastside Page 5
