Trust No Man 3

by Cash

  “It ain’t that, Big Ma. It ain’t even got nothing to do with her kicking me out when I was thirteen. But what she did to my pop is unforgivable,” Lil T told Poochie. She never offered a comeback because there was none, except to pray that he would allow God to change his heart. She knew that he could be stubborn as hell.

  “Big Ma, I’ma see you later. You need anything?” Lil T pulled out a stack.

  “No, I’m fine. The Lord always makes a way for me.”

  Shan reached for the money. “I need something,” she said.

  Lil T grilled her and stuffed the stack back inside his pants pocket. As he tried to walk out of the door, Shan grabbed the chain around his neck and yanked it. It broke and the urn fell to the floor. Poochie’s mouth flew open; she knew what the urn contained, as did Shan. Lil T bit his lip, fighting back the urge to go off on her. He bent down and scooped the urn up. “You’re lucky none of the ashes spilled out,” he said. In one of the last conversations he had with his pops, Youngblood had stressed to him, “Your mother brought you in this world; it’s your duty to love and respect her. Promise me you’ll always do that.”

  Lil T was still a shorty then, but he had adamantly refused to make his pop that promise. “Nope, she told on you,” he replied. And to this day, he believed his pop had understood.

  “Nigga, you don’t scare me,” Shan said.

  Lil T looked at the broken chain. He wanted to snap his mother’s neck but restrained himself. He glared at her once again and then walked out the door with his chest heaving.

  Driving away from Poochie’s house, Lil T pushed the beef with his mother to the back of his mind and tried to recall if he’d ever seen the faces of the two dudes he and Kamora had murked. The two faces suddenly became crystal clear in his mind. They had been outside the trap house the day Kamora met Saadiq. Zeke had probably sent them to avenge Saadiq’s death. “Niggas think it’s a game; I’m ‘bout to show ‘em why they call me Trouble,” he said as he drove on Highway I-85, going home to check on Kamora.

  CHAPTER 5

  Yep, that’s exactly what it is, and this is how it’s poppin’ off—niggas wanna see me, I’m not hard to find! I don’t fear no muthafuckas! I was born to die anyways, and I’ve been on a date with death er’ since my pops got executed. It’s nothing! Let me take you back.

  Six years ago, the grimy woman that gave birth to me kicked me out in the cold, thinking that because I was only thirteen at the time, I wouldn’t make it. My grandmother, Poochie took me in to keep me out of the streets, but I quickly bumped heads with her new husband, The Good Reverend. She wasn’t about to choose any man over her grandson, so when The Good Reverend issued an ultimatum, she quickly showed his ass the door. Eventually, I took to the streets anyway, but Poochie loved me just the same. But as I looked down at my feet, I realized what I had always known: Shan had it twisted about my survival in the streets. I’m nineteen years old now and a young G is still standing. With the blood of a true street legend running through my veins, I’m setting the ‘A’ on fiyah. Any nigga that’s not trained to go, better fall back or I’ma leave ‘em leaking.

  I slumped my first nigga three months after I got kicked out of Shan’s house. He was a trap star and I needed to eat. I snatched the lame up, took his trap, and left him in need of some pallbearers. Er’ since then, I’ve been a dope boy’s worst nightmare. I prey on those marks just like they prey on fiends. But don’t get it twisted, I’m far from a hater. Pushin’ work is their hustle. Robbing niggas and pushing scalps back is mine. Same toilet, different shit.

  I’m Lil T, the son you knew would grow up and walk in his father’s footsteps. They don’t call me Little Youngblood no more, like they did when I was younger. I deaded that shit because Youngblood was one of a kind. The streets nicknamed me Trouble. That, I don’t have to explain. I don’t fuck with niggas because they’re not to be trusted. Instead, I got my thorough bitch riding shot gun with me as I avenge my pop and put the city under siege.

  This is my story and I’ma tell it as gutter as I live it. If you ain’t built for this gutter shit, now is the time to bounce because trust, this ain’t no story of me tryna get out the streets. Fuck that, I am the streets. And I fully expect to die there. But before I do, I’ma stack bodies so high you’ll need to ride an escalator to reach the top of the pile. Follow me while I take you on a journey you’ll never forget.

  Everything was gucci with Kamora. We just chilled for a few days and tried to figure out how those niggas found her. After thinking it over, I realized that Zeke had any number of niggas under his thumb who he could send at us. “We’re just riding on anybody on his team,” I told Kamora.

  “I was thinking the same thing, bae,” she replied. That’s what I loved most about baby girl, she was always ready to ride.

  We went inside Chili’s in Riverdale where we were meeting Inez for lunch. Already seated at a table when we got inside, she had the Jada Cheng model-look perfected—the straight brown hair with blonde highlighted streaks, thinly arched eyebrows and a buttery complexion. The soft white cotton pantsuit presented her well. Oversized sunglasses rested atop her head, holding her hair back from her face.

  In her mid-thirties, Inez was still dimed up.

  Pop was gettin’ it in. I smiled. “What’s poppin’?” I asked as she stood up to hug me.

  “Not much at all,” responded Inez. “Hi Kamora. Are you keeping him in check?”

  “Hmph. I’m trying,” my shawdy said. The two of them were close, but it had taken a while for Inez to warm up to her. I was glad when she finally did approve of Kamora, because I trusted Inez’s opinion like no other. The way she repped for my pop forever earned my respect.

  Two years ago when Inez came home from doing a seven year bid, she didn’t get brand new; she was still as real as ever. She could tell that I was on some real shit too, and she didn’t try to preach to a nigga. All she did was remind me to stay on point. “You read all about how a nigga your father trusted and loved like a brother flipped on him,” she constantly stressed.

  In the presence of Kamora, she said, “It’s the one you trust most who’ll end up betraying you. No disrespect to your girl, but how can you be sure she’s built to last? Built to withstand the pressure if y’all get cased up?”

  I was about to answer when I felt Kamora’s hand on my arm. “Nawl bae, I can speak for myself.” She looked Inez dead in the eyes. “Miss Inez, I’ve heard all about you, and I know that you’re one hundred. I respect you to the utmost, I really do. You chose to do a bid rather than flip on your man—that’s what a real woman does. But I’ll do you one better, I’ll die by my nigga’s side.”

  Inez wasn’t impressed and her bland expression told Kamora so. “Everybody is a rider until those steel bracelets get put around their wrists.”

  “Shawdy is official,” I cut in to defend my boo. “Remember that nigga who shot my pop? The one that Swag was gonna get, but my daddy told him to let it go?”

  “I recall who you’re talking about.” Inez nodded. The dude had been one of few men who violated my pop and lived to brag about it. Swag had told me the nigga’s name, and I tracked him down through a couple of old heads.

  “What about him?” asked Inez.

  “Kamora ended his story. She rocked that ass to sleep like Keisha did Rich Kid. But she slumped him all by herself. All I did was point the nigga out to her. Shawdy ain’t just a pretty face, she pop them hammers.”

  “Lonnie was a killa, too, until they put him in cuffs. Then the bitch came out of him.”

  “I’m not a snitch! And I don’t appreciate you mentioning my name in the same sentence with one.” Kamora had snapped, and her light brown eyes darkened a bit.

  Inez wasn’t ruffled. She calmly replied, “Maybe you’re not a snitch. Maybe you’re as real as Lil T thinks you are—only time will tell. In the meantime, understand that I love that boy as if he was my own. If you betray him, I promise that I’m going back to prison for life. You can write tha
t shit in ink.”

  Since that conversation two years ago, Kamora and I had gotten arrested for suspicion of murder in an unrelated case. We remained in jail sixty-three days while the detective tried to build a strong case against us. When they couldn’t come up with enough concrete evidence to take us to trial, they offered to release Kamora if she would testify against me. Shawdy laughed at them and told them to kick rocks.

  With scant evidence against us and unable to make Kamora flip, the authorities had no other choice than to release us. The ordeal had earned Kamora Inez’s trust, so now Inez spoke freely in front of her.

  The waitress took our orders and bounced. I told Inez about the latest two niggas to catch bullets from me and shawdy’s guns. She remarked, “Lil T, you gotta be careful. Those crackers downtown won’t ever forget that y’all slipped out of their grasp. If they ever get solid evidence against you they’ll nail you to the cross. They know who your daddy was.”

  “I want ‘em to know.”

  “That’s the same arrogance your father had,” she replied with a smile.

  “Fuck po-po,” I said.

  “Lil T, your name is blazing in the streets. You have niggas afraid, and that’s dangerous because there’s no way to predict what a scared person will do. Maybe you should fall back for a while. I talked to Swag the other day, and he wants you to go on tour with him. His new record label is doing well. He can give you an A&R position.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m not an industry nigga. I’m a in da streets nigga. Tell Swag I’m good.”

  “Okay, just be careful. You know Tamia would be tore up if something happened to you.

  “My lil sis ain’t no lame. She know that any day could be my last day.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “I’m just keepin’ it one hunnid’. Anyway, niggas don’t wanna see me. I go hard in the muthafuckin’ paint. But fuck all that.” I could talk gutter and not offend Inez. “I got some good news. Byron is about to get touched.”

  Inez’s eyes lit up. “Do you mean Byron as in Delina’s son?”

  “True,” I muttered as the waitress returned with our food. The aroma of the chicken fingers and pasta made my stomach growl.

  Inez was quiet until the waitress walked off again. Then she said, “Make him suffer for what his mother and her weak ass nigga did to my boo. She didn’t spare your father, so don’t spare her son.”

  “An eye for an eye.” I raked food off the platter onto my plate.

  “What about the other boy? That bitch has two sons,” she inquired.

  “I can’t locate him. The word is that he joined the army.”

  “I’d give anything to get my hands on Delina. I would wax the floor with that bitch.” Inez fumed.

  I laughed, imagining Inez throwing fists. She was gangsta, but she looked like a diva. “The bitch’s ass you need to kick is Juanita’s.”

  “Hmph! Please don’t mention that uppity bitch, or you’ll make me fly out to Nevada to mop the streets with that ass.”

  I could see the anger flash in her eyes. Juanita had pretended to be so down for my pop, but since his death the mask had come off and she had shown her true colors. “I would’ve been dealt with her fake ass if I didn’t think that would be against my pop’s wishes,” I said.

  Just thinking about that bitch got me dumb heated. Most of the money my pop had taken from niggas during robberies and all of his royalties from his CDs were left to Juanita to share with all of his children. So far, none of us had received a dime from her.

  “When you graduate from college you’ll receive an inheritance,” she told me one day, like she didn’t realize that college wasn’t in my plans. School had been a wrap for me after eighth grade when I dropped out and picked up that banger and a ski mask.

  “That’s the one thing I remain mad at your father about.” Inez huffed. “He trusted that bougie ass bitch more than he trusted me.” She frowned.

  “I don’t think so.” I tried to soothe her, but she waved off my attempt and bit into a chicken finger.

  “Yes he did, but he’ll forever be my heart.” Just like that, her eyes brightened and a smile replaced the frown. I looked at Kamora and wondered if she loved me that deeply as the three of us began to eat.

  We chopped it up with Inez for another hour, and then it was time for Kamora to go hook up with lil mama who fucked with Byron. As for me, I had three things on my agenda: get some Kush so I could get chinky-eyed, collect my street taxes, and leave some niggas pants shitty, as a reminder to the streets that I was not to be fucked with.

  CHAPTER 6

  I put my ear to the door of the apartment and detected several loud voices. That meant Ladell, the weed man, was at home playing some game or another on his X-box with a couple of friends. I knocked a few times. “Who is it?” he answered, and was probably looking through the peephole.

  I stuck my face up close to the door and smiled maniacally like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. “Here’s Johnny,” I said. “Open the door, nigga. You know who it is.” I gritted.

  The door swung open. “What’s good, fam’?” He greeted me with a phony smile and extended his fist for a pound. Ignoring his fist, I invited myself inside. I saw two other niggas in the living room in front of the big screen television playing NBA Live.

  “’Sup, Trouble?” they said in chorus.

  I didn’t recognize either of them, but they obviously knew who I was. Good. That meant that they more than likely respected my G. “Ladell, I need some of that good Kush to get my lungs out of pawn,” I said.

  “I got you, homie.”

  My hand was in my waist while he walked over to the end table and returned with some Kush in a Ziploc bag. It appeared to be about an ounce. When he tried to hand it to me, I slapped it out of his hand and it spilled out on the floor.

  “Don’t insult me, nigga!”

  “Dog, I’m leaking,” Ladell whined like a bitch. “That nigga Ghost came through and robbed me the other day.”

  Ghost was an older dude notorious for sticking up niggas. I shook my head in disgust because Ladell was straight pussy; he needed to man up or get out of the game.

  “A’ight, I’ma deal with Ghost for you because he’s stepping on my toes. But don’t try to play me like you gave him your whole trap. Nigga, I know you keep two stashed, so go get me what I came for,” I demanded.

  “A’ight fam’, just don’t take all my shit. I gotta eat just like you do.”

  “Man, if I was on that kinda time, I wouldn’t allow all this woo woo woo. Just give me a pound of that lime green and ya weekly taxes and I’m out.”

  He walked to the back of the apartment and returned with what looked like a whole pound. I accepted it without complaint. “See dog, I ain’t no greedy nigga. Just feed me and we’re good.” I gave him some dap, then walked over to the X box and turned it off. His comrades looked bewildered.

  “What’s on y’all minds?” I challenged.

  “Nothing, just staying in my own lane,” volunteered one.

  “Me too,” mumbled the other. He was a light-skinned nigga with a face full of freckles.

  I looked down at them and thought, Birds of a feather. “Well, let me tell y’all what’s on my mind.” I toyed with them. I could tell that, like Ladell, they weren’t killas. “I think as soon as I leave y’all gonna clown Ladell. Ain’t no way I would let that nigga press me; he ain’t bulletproof. That’s the shit y’all gonna talk when I bounce, but y’all frontin’.” I put my strap against freckle face’s forehead. “Break ya self.” He emptied his pockets.

  Whap!

  I slapped the nigga beside him across the nose with the chrome, drawing blood.

  “You too, Bernie Mac lookin’ ass nigga. And you bet’ not get no blood on that trap.”

  He produced a band. I snatched it, and then advised Ladell, “Surround ya self with a killa or two.”

  On the way to the whip, I passed by a group of baby goons who were standing in
a circle battle rapping, prolly dreaming of becoming the next Jeezy or the next Swag. I gave them a handful of Kush and bounced. I collected taxes from a half dozen other spots, making my way over to the Westside where I stopped to politic with a Blood named DeMario.

  DeMario and I burned three or four blunts while discussing a lick. I listened as he tried to justify crossing his sister’s dude. “The nigga be chumpin’ me off, charging me mafia prices for the work I get from him. Plus, he be doing my sister dirty.”

  “All that don’t matter to me, big dog. As long as you assure me that he’ll have a trap up in his house worth me going after, I’ll be there. Remember, I don’t put on my ski mask unless the lick is fiddy bands or more,” I stated my ground rules.

  “Oh, it’ll be much more than fifty gees up in there. But, Trouble, you can’t kill him or my sister will lose her mind. The nigga foul, but she love his ass.”

  “He bet’ not do nothing stupid then!”

  “He won’t. Their lil shorty will be there.”

  “A’ight. Just get me up in there and I’ll handle the rest. One question though. Why you ask me to do this instead of one of your Piru homies?”

  DeMario smiled. “’Cause he’s Blood, too.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  When I got home, Kamora was still out. I counted the taxes I collected and added forty-five bands to my stash. I now had a little over a quarter-mil. Sneaker money, I thought. I wanted to be able to spend that much on a vacation. I also had three sisters to look out for. It was time to step up my game. The plan was to be a multi-millionaire by the time I turned twenty-one. I had eighteen months to reach my goal, which meant that a lot of mothers were about to have to bury their sons.