That nigga is a fucked up driver, Lil’ Long repeated on the way to the elevator. He dragged himself to 8G. There he found his mother, Lorene Lowe, getting dress.
“Ma, where you going?”
“I have a face-to-face at the welfare office,” the beautiful woman said. It was hard to believe this genteel, youthful woman was the mother of a thug. Friends teased him by saying he was adopted. As a young boy, he stuttered. When the kids taunted him with, “Is tha’choo, mammy?”
“N-n-no,” Lil’ Long would stutter. “I’m her Lil’ man.” He felt badly about this. Even though he knew it was only a game, it would hurt. Lil’ Long often wound up fighting because of his stutter. He could control the stutter now, except when he lost his temper.
The door slammed, shaking Lil’ Long out of his recollections.
“Did ya feed da snake, Mom?” he yelled, but the only answer was the click of Ms. Lowe’s heels.
Fuck it. I’ll feed that bitch later. Hope that muthafucka don’t crawl out and hunt my ass for food.
Lil’ Long showered quickly and emerged wearing a blue robe. He lay back on the soft, plush, baby-blue sofa, remote control in hand. Channel surfing, he caught a music video. Still buzzing, the video seized what remained of his senses. Ooh, that bitch is bad. Work it, work it.
The television blared the latest video by the Chop Shop Crew. “Say, Silky Black is gonna blow da spot up. I say Silky Black is gonna blow da spot up...” The TV blared on. Lil’ Long drifted in and out of sleep.
Was it that easy to make ten grand? Where was that stuttering kid? His own mother had called him Lil’ Love. He evolved into Lil’ Long once he hit the streets. The transformation was tough in the beginning, but in time Lil’ Long earned big money by doing some of the dirt and taking out the garbage. He was a look-out at first. Then he dealt drugs and guns. Soon he was selling protection for drug turf and received rewards from the small-time pushers. For the big pushers, he kept the small-timers in specific territories.
Each territory was defined by its own graffiti markings. When a dealer crossed the border, Lil’ Long sent him back. If it became a problem, Lil’ Long would settle the border dispute. He thought of himself as a realtor. The nine-millimeter enforced the contract. Sometimes disputes were settled with guns, leaving mutilated bodies.
He had met Vulcha while doing his first and only bid in an Upstate jail. Lil’ Long, fifteen years old, had been sentenced to a correctional facility for juveniles. His stay was supposed to be three years. The judge had wanted “to teach this young animal a lesson in humanity.”
The system taught Lil’ Long nothing except improving his skills in the areas of chess and video games. It gave him props and confirmed him as a criminal. When Lil’ Long and Vulcha joined forces, they wreaked havoc.
In lock-up, Vulcha was well-known for his violence. The other inmates left him alone. He became Lil’ Long’s bodyguard and brother. Outside prison, Lil’ Long threw some of the street business his way, and they became partners.
Their business ventures included shaking down dealers, pimping prostitutes, car jacking and murder. However, they took the greatest pride in the hit-man service. Like the street fighter in video games, Lil’ Long ripped through his targets with the ease of a semi-automatic pistol-cum-joystick. The price was ten thousand dollars a body. The bosses were like deft video-players with time on their hands and bags of money. Lil’ Long and Vulcha were street fighters. The outcome was hit after hit, body after body.
Two people were dead after the last hit made by Lil’ Long and Vulcha. They knew nothing about the ramifications, and they didn’t care. The street fighters never read newspapers or watched the news. Families whose lives were destroyed were not known. Lil’ Long and Vulcha would collect ten thousand dollars for the slain Deja.
The girl’s family would have to pull together and mourn. They would be completely ignorant of exactly what role Bebop was playing at the time of her death. Days later, the police would discover her bullet-ridden carcass rotting in the drug dealer’s expensive apartment. Wrong place, wrong time, Bebop paid the ultimate price.
The television blared as the phone rang off the hook. Lil’ Long snored. Then, in a pause between music videos, the ringing penetrated. Lil’ Long groggily reached for the phone and brought it to his ear.
“Who dis?”
“It’s me, nigga,” a girl voice said.
“Me, who?”
“Tina. Whatcha doing?”
“Trying to sleep,” Lil’ Long replied. “What da hell you want, bitch?”
“I’m coming over to get some money and give you a taste of chocolate loving.”
“Ahight. Don’t wake me. Use your keys. See ya.”
He hung up, uninterested in the proposition. All she wants is money, money, he thought, and went back to sleep.
Tina smiled at the sight of Lil’ Long, laid out and snoring loudly. She found the remote and reduced the volume. She intended to do the same with his cash.
She kissed his parted lips, his drool touching her chin. Tina wiped her face on his robe. Lil’ Long remained fast asleep. She removed her silk Versace shirt, exposing her matching silk bra and tattoos. Her hand slid down Lil’ Long’s inner thigh, seeking his penis. She ran her nails lightly along the shaft, but it didn’t respond to her usual petting. She swooped down, mouth open wide. She gently sucked his penis. Lil’ Long stirred. With half opened eyes he peeked down at Tina.
“Oh, so you had some already, mo’fucka?” She asked between slurps.
“What is your ass talkin’ bout?” Lil’ Long asked now groggy.
“You know, cuz I know,” Tina replied. She kept on sucking. “Cuz you should be hard already.” Tina checked for rigidity with the tip of her tongue. Lil’ Long began to rise to the teasing occasion. She spat all over his head then licked the head again. He could feel the feeling building inside as she rubbed his dick up and down.
“Oh yeah,” Lil’ Long said. “See, see. That’s what your ass should’ve been doing from jump.”
Lil’ Long savored Tina’s lip service. Now he was hard and ready. She wiggled out of her Von Dutch jeans and climbed out of her black, silk underwear. Mounting him easily, she slid up and down, slowly at first. Lil’ Long, fully aroused, laid back with his hands clasped behind his small Afro. He watched her tattoos adjust with her riding actions. There was a tattoo of an angel which was interestingly done. There were tattoos on her ass and breasts. This bitch was into being pierced and tattoos, Lil’ Long thought. He enjoyed the fact that her actions were enticing enough to bring a smile to his face.
“Yeah, yeah, baby. Shake that shit.” After some minutes of continuous sliding action, Lil’ Long climaxed.
“Oh, oh, oh yeah,” he screamed. Tina remained perched on his dick. She laid her head on his chest. He kissed her hair and face.
“Baby-baby, I need a G for shopping, and…”
“A fucking G?” Lil’ Long asked in disbelief.
“Well, if you’d let me finish, you’d see why.” She put her face directly in front of his. Her hazel eyes recorded the strained contortions of his facial muscles. Her vagina still gripped his erect member. She flexed her muscles around his erection and squeezed harder. She had his attention.
“See, I wanna get this dress, Sweetheart, and you know I just gotta get the shoes to go. And my hair, it’s gotta get done.” Tina kept her eyes on his facial reactions. She continued alternately flexing and relaxing her vaginal muscles. Now she rotated her rear end.
“Well, Baby? Baby,” she asked softly, “do you agree?” Lil’ Long thrust hard. “Well, Baby?” Tina realized the decision was going her way. “Well?”
“Huh uh, hmm. Ah, yeah, yeah.”
“You agree? You’re not gonna change your mind, are you?”
“Yeah... Yeah... Yeah...” He writhed. His body shook violently. “Ooh. Ah.”
“Do you have the G, or not?” Tina stood up and looked down at the helpless street-fighter.
“Yea
h. Check over by the video collection, in da Mack video case. Just take da Hamiltons and da Jacksons. And don’t take more than a G.”
He knew exactly how much cash was in each video cassette case. He had chosen them carefully. Tina went to his bedroom where he stored sixteen of his favorite old movies. The movies’ colorful jackets bespoke fame. Pam Grier, “Sheba,” shown in her glory, had in its jacket twenty-five thousand dollars in five-hundred-dollar bills. “The Mack,” Julian Bond, displayed the elegance of fur and a fedora. Within was three thousand tax-free dollars. It once held five thousand five hundred. He had spent the rest partying and shopping. “Enter the Dragon,” on which Bruce Lee’s ripped skin dripped blood, held an extra nine-millimeter and a thousand. Tina emerged, smiling.
“What’s da time?” Lil’ Long asked.
“It’s four, Babe.” She kissed him and retrieved her clothes from the floor. Tina began dressing and checked her reflection in the huge mirror on the wall. “I’m out, Babe.”
“Oh, yeah. Do one more thing for me before you be out.”
“What, nigga?”
“Hit Vulcha up for me.” Lil’ Long said and sat back. Tina gave him a look of surprise. “Not like that, bitch. On his two-way, bitch.” He said and retrieved the remote then began channel surfing.
Tina dialed the number. “I’ll hit you off, later. Be good, nigga,” she said, blowing him a kiss then leaving.
The phone rang. Lil’ Long grabbed the receiver.
“Who dis?” he asked, shouting into the receiver.
“Someone beeped my ass, muthafucka,” Vulcha said.
“It’s me, muthafucka. Who else gonna beep your ugly ass?”
“Well muthafucka, how is I supposed to know it’s you? I ain’t seen your code. It could be your girl or sump’n, beeping my ass.”
“Whatever, nigga. Yo, don’t get too technical on da shit, muthafucka. Jest come git my ass, nigga. We need to collect this dough.”
“Ahight sun, I’ll be there in a flash. Slow it down.”
Lil’ Long put the receiver down. He went into the bathroom, smoking a cigarette. Soon after, he emerged in oversized blue Akdmks jeans and a blue and white striped button down shirt. He shoved a Glock nine-millimeter in his waistband, using the shirt to cover it, and adding a black, RocaWear denim jacket for complete concealment. He partially laced his black Timberland boots and strode out.
In front of the building, a bus stopped. Some kids from the apartment building hopped onto the back of the bus. Vulcha parked behind the bus. Lil’ Long swung into the Navigator. They brandished fists in greeting. Lil’ Long hit Vulcha’s fist hard—definitely not a regular handshake. As the bus drove off, Lil’ Long’s attention was diverted.
“Yo, yo, pull up next to that bus,” Lil’ Long commanded. Vulcha took a look and knew he was very serious.
“Whazzup?” Vulcha asked. He gained on the bus. “You want me to go around it? You saw some big-ass honey on it? Whazzup? Tell me, nig.”
Vulcha saw Lil’ Long’s expression change. He guided the SUV closer.
“Yo, shorties, all y’all need to git da fuck off da back of da bus! And don’t be trying to jump back on when I’m gone, cuz I’m coming back and sneak up on y’all.”
The kids jumped off the bus, momentum propelling them forward. The Navigator swerved as Vulcha tried desperately to avoid them.
“Easy nigga, watch out for them kids,” Lil’ Long cautioned.
“Them fucking kids need to git da fuck off da streets,” Vulcha said.
“Pull over and stop blaming da kids for your non-driving ass, mo’fucka.” The smile returned to Lil’ Long’s face. He hopped out of the vehicle and stood with the kids, who edged away from him.
“Y’all should be careful. Nah mean? Life is precious. It giveth and it taketh…Here.” He pulled out some money and handed each kid a five. Skulking kids quickly came out of their hiding places for their share.
“Each o’ y’all got some money, so now y’all gotta wise up and spend it right. And don’t spend it all on video games.” The eight kids gazed in awe at Lil’ Long, as if hypnotized by the huge platinum cross swinging from his neck like a pendulum.
“Thanks Lil’ Long,” they chorused. “You’re cool. We down wid you, ‘nuff-‘nuff respect.” They ran off to the neighborhood video hang-out.
“Remember, don’t spend it all in da same place,” Lil’ Long turned and hollered as he strutted back to the Navigator. Vulcha had waited impatiently, tapping both thumbs on the wheel to the beat of the street.
“Yo, muthafucka, you on some community service type shit, man?”
“Nah, nah. Them kids are our future. Somebody gotta look out. Know wha’ I’m saying? When I wuz that age, no one really looked out for me. I had to look out for self, know wha’ I mean?”
“Yeah, yeah. I hear you, boo. I got your back, mo’fucka,” Vulcha said.
“No question.”
Vulcha started the SUV, then struggled with its bucking motion.
“Plus, your non-driving ass might’ve ran into the back of the bus and killed ‘em, anyway,” Lil’ Long said. “I need those shorties around. Them lil’ mo’fuckas are da ones who’ll be wearing T-shirts with my face on da shits.”
“You’ll be like a mo’fucking role model and shit,” Vulcha said.
“Know wha’ I’m saying, kid?” Lil’ Long said giving dap. “Let’s get paid, kid.” He said and pumped the volume on the Chop Shop Crew: Blow up, blow up, thump, thump the chorus.
They pulled up to the downtown waterfront drop site. A beautiful woman in a white pants suit walked casually up to the Navigator. Vulcha got out. Lil’ Long fingered his Glock and watched from the passenger side. The woman tossed a brown envelope to Vulcha, then walked away, as casually as she came. No words were exchanged. Vulcha walked to the vehicle and threw the envelope in Lil’ Long’s lap.
“Yo, you count da shit, Vulch? Don’t be trusting that bitch cuz she look fly. She’ll take your shit the same.”
“I glanced, muthafucka. You count da shit. I’m busy driving,” Vulcha said. He took the vehicle through the bucking routine, and finally got it moving.
“Yo, here’s your half. You should get less, mo’fucka,” Lil’ Long joked. “It was only da bitch’s body you took. I took da bitch-ass, drug-dealing nigga. That was a service to da fucking community.”
Vulcha drove the SUV uptown. Lil’ Long negotiated on the phone.
“Yeah, it’s all here... No, that bitch’s body was for free man ... Yeah, we always deliver... No bullshit... Yeah later.” He clicked the off button and turned to Vulcha.
“Another hit, another job well done, dogs. They’ll be in touch wid da details Friday. We’ll be big soon. They’ll never forget me.”
A smile covered Vulcha’s face. He stayed focused on driving, eyes staring intently ahead, nodding his head in agreement with the offer.
“They didn’t say why? Drugs? A birdie?” Vulcha asked.
“Since when you wanna know shit, nigga? You just hit da muthafucka. Some husband wants his bitch on da side done up.” Lil’ Long grinned.
“Right up your alley, mo’fucka.”
Lil’ Long’s laughter ricocheted off the windshield and drowned the blare of the CD. Then Vulcha joined in and the Navigator swerved out of control. He braked so hard that the vehicle jerked wildly to a stop, barely avoiding another car.
“You better invest some of da loot in driving lessons, mo’fucka. You gonna kill our ass.” Lil’ Long clutched the dashboard. “You are a fucking endorsement for the use of seatbelts. Buckle up Vulcha is on the road.” Lil’ Long laughed.
“Chill, chill. Whatever, nigga. I got things under control, nig. Let’s go get some lobster.”
“Yeah, yeah, kid. Let’s go by da fish spot. Lobster! Yeah ni-nigga, I could feel it.” Lil’ Long was so excited he stuttered. “Oh, they said that nigga had five G’s in his place,” Lil’ Long said.
“Which nigga?” Vulcha asked.
“That
drug-dealing mo’fucka from last night.” Lil’ Long was annoyed. “You be sleeping, mo’fucka?”
“Nah. That nigga had about five hundred and change on him, and all the works. Crack and some coke. That’s it? Five Gs?” Vulcha concluded in disbelief.
“Yeah, mo’fucka. Could have an extra five G’s.” Lil’ Long said.
“Well, fuck it. We would’ve had to stay around and search. Fuck that. We did what we were in there for, an’ got da other shits in a flash,” Vulcha said.
“But five G’s is five G’s,” Lil’ Long persisted.
“Ahight, five G’s is five G’s. Don’t beat me in da head wid it.”
They arrived at the fish place, grabbed trays and headed for the lobster section. The hunger for seafood had taken hold. They craved satisfaction.
There was no gratification for the caller to 911. He had reported hearing gun shots in the building where the duo of death had performed their execution. The caller was unsure which floor or apartment number. A patrol car within the sector was alerted and dispatched to the area.
NINE
Deedee returned to school after a week. Da Crew saw her head for the building that housed the actors’ workshop. They watched the green van drive off.
“Isn’t that Eric Ascot?” Josephine asked. Danielle nodded.
“Si, Señoritas,” Danielle said. “That’s Eric Ascot and Sophia.”
The girls separated, heading for their classes.
“Rehearsal later,” they shouted in unison. It was like a battle cry echoing through the empty halls.
Coco wondered how Deedee felt, but she had other things to worry over. Bebop was missing, and her parents had dogged Coco constantly for the past five days.
“Have you seen or heard from my daughter?” they would ask.
How am I gonna be seeing Bebop? I have to look out for my mom. They wouldn’t understand, thought Coco. She sat in class, replaying memories of the street. She realized the problems of the world made calculus seem like child’s play. Eventually calculus claimed Coco’s attention. She was all ears.
Ghetto Girls Page 13
