Kendrick opened the confusingly thin folder labeled TONY CHRISTIAN for what seemed like the thousandth time studying it cover to cover. “I don’t understand this. It shows he has less than an intensive record for minor narcotics violations and a juvenile record that’s been sealed, but other than that he doesn’t have a violent background or even a speeding ticket!”
“Don’t be fooled by the good treatment we get when we’re at his club,” Malloy noted. “If he and that lunatic brother of his knew we were investigating them all that VIP treatment would be out the window.”
“I know. I was just trying to find out what makes his mind tick.”
“Come on, Kendrick. Leave all that for the head shrink in the prison we about to send him to.”
Payback . . .
Storm and O.T. jumped into the car and sped off toward Boz’s house on the far west side of town. As the radio bumped kicking out some old Tupac, a distracted Storm couldn’t take it anymore. Reaching over turning the volume down, he cleared his throat.
“Listen, bro. I know I told you to look out for ol’ girl, but it seem like y’all a couple and shit.”
“Huh?” O.T. was thrown off by the statement. “What you mean a couple? We just be chillin’, that’s all.”
“Nigga, I done seen you just chill with females and it ain’t nothing like what I just walked in on.”
“Damn!” O.T. pounded his fist inside his hand. “I don’t know what in the fuck you think you walked in on, but it wasn’t shit going on! A nigga can’t win for losing with you. First you beg me to stay at the room with her, now you telling me to do what? Act like she ain’t there?”
“Naw, dude, that ain’t what I’m saying.”
“Then what the fuck is you saying?” O.T. was confused as to what direction his older brother was really coming from. “’Cause you got me all twisted!”
Storm felt like a fool but he’d opened this can of worms and had to get the bullshit off his chest. “It’s just y’all two looked a little bit too cozy that’s all. Shit, I ain’t ever seen you and Paris that damned in tuned with each other.”
“Dang, guy, first of all, you wasn’t never really around me and Paris like that. And second . . .” O.T. leaned back in the passenger seat. “You bugging all the way out acting like London’s your woman. I know her and Kenya look the hell alike, but you do know the difference don’t you? Or is you still on that ‘you was too drunk to tell’ line?”
“I know she ain’t my woman, but that’s still my seed she carrying.” Storm protested as he bent the corner speeding down on the freeway entrance ramp. “And naw, I don’t want no nigga, you included, running up in that until my baby is born.”
“Come on, bro, you think I’d be that grimy with it? Me and her just be watching old flicks! Is it a law against that?”
Storm realized his brother was absolutely right. He was behaving like London was his girl. As he glanced up in the rearview mirror, taking a quick look at himself, he hoped Kenya hadn’t noticed how he’d changed his behavior. Damn, no wonder she’s been heated with me.
Putting their talk on hold as they pulled into Boz’s driveway and saw him step out onto the front porch kissing his wife good-bye, Storm got serious.
“What up, fellas?”
“What up, Boz?” O.T. hung out the window before opening the door. “You dressed like you ready to roll.”
“For sure.” Boz, wearing triple black from head to toe, approached the car and jumped in the back seat. “Them faggots ain’t gonna know what hit ’em.”
Parking the car in a mall lot and switching to an old school Regal, the guys headed toward one of the hideout houses that a chick tipped off O.T. about. If all went as planned Royce and some of his crew would get ambushed and paid back for shooting a couple of Storm’s employees as they were leaving Alley Cats. They were considered civilians and off-limits to the ongoing war. All they were trying to do was go to work, make a living, and go home to their families. Instead they got some hot lead in their body and a quick trip to emergency.
“There’s the house.” O.T. read the numbers on the raggedy mailbox as they passed. “8087.”
“All the lights are off upstairs. Drive around the block so we can check out the back part of the crib.” Boz slid two 9 mms out his vest gripping up on the handles.
“Yeah.” O.T. was in agreement. “That’s where my homegirl said they be coming in and out from.”
“All right.” Storm bent the corner of the first side street he got to and tried for them not to appear so conspicuous as they scoped out the area.
Scouting out what the trio needed to see in the rear, then counting the number of vehicles parked near the house that were linked to Royce, they decided it was time to make their move. Storm was covering the door off the alleyway ready to blast any motherfucker who crossed his path while O.T. stooped down in the thick bushes in the next house over, pistol also drawn. Boz, both nines in hand, cautiously crept around to the dining room window where they’d seen the most movement through the sheets that were nailed up serving as the poor man’s curtains. Waiting for the perfect opportunity he listened to them talk.
“This bullshit is getting crazy.” Marco tried convincing Royce to give up the senseless war he’d got them all involved in over Chocolate Bunny who was still missing. “We losing manpower every day.”
“Well recruit some more soldiers!” Royce’s beard had grown long as bin Laden’s and was totally gray. “Even if you have to go to the schoolyard to do it!”
“How you gonna pay ’em? Not to mention everybody in town’s momma and they momma’s momma know this bullshit war is over a female.” Marco took a cigarette out the open pack on the table and lit it. “Don’t get me wrong. I hate them mark busters as much as you do but damn! I’m missing meals over that bitch!”
Boom, boom, boom, boom.
As Royce, his right hand Marco, and three other devoted young members of the crew sat around hoping for some paying work they were shocked and had no choice but to hit the floor scrambling for their burners as gunshots roared through the windows without notice. The hail of bullets seemed to be coming from everywhere.
“What the fuck!” Royce dived, belly down, near the hall closet and cracked it open, crawling inside to seek refuge. Even though he had his gun in his hand he cowardly chose not to fire back protecting himself or his crew.
Marco, knowing it was now every man for himself, crouched on his knees ducking behind the oak entertainment center that was completely full of holes. As he watched two of the guys run out the front door and heard an obviously separate gun battle ensue, he made his move strategically to the other side of the now disarrayed room. Callously using the third guy, who was dead sprawled out in a pool of blood, as a human shield Marco rose up returning fire in Boz’s direction. Letting off the entire round, Marco tossed his dead comrade through the already broken windows and made his way out to the front porch.
Out of bullets, with his gun still in hand, he jumped over the steel railing. Quickly observing O.T. at the other end of the block in a foot chase, Marco sprinted into a neighboring back yard, hopped a few fences making dogs bark wildly, and escaped into the darkness of the night.
Chasing the other guy after fatally wounding the first one who exited through the door, O.T.’s adrenalin raced as he was close on his trail. Seeing the scared, barely old enough to vote youngster try to hide behind an abandon car, O.T. cornered him up about to pull the trigger when he somehow grew a heart. Thinking about the boy’s mother having to bury her son as the unarmed teenager begged for his life promising to get out the game indefinitely, he gave him a pass.
“Get the fuck on, little nigga!” O.T. motioned with his gun. “And remember the day a real OG let you live!”
Most if not all of the gunfire had ceased when Storm entered the rear door of his rival’s hideout. A fresh smell of gunpowder and dust filled the air and all was silent. With each step that he took the floorboards creaked. Easing his way out the
kitchen, he looked over to the windows which were all shot out.
“Boz! Boz!” he tried whispering loudly. “Boz!”
Careful not to step in the trail of blood that was smeared across the warped planks, Storm heard some movement from the back hallway. Turning his gun to the side, ready to take a nigga’s life, he froze listening for the direction it was coming from.
Sniff, sniff. He heard what sounded like a small child crying coming from the closet. As Storm twisted the knob he was ready to fire. “Your ass better come out this motherfucker if you know what’s good for you!” he yelled before flinging the thin door almost off the hinges.
“Please, Storm! Please don’t shoot me!” Royce’s hands were folded tightly as he pleaded for his life. The gun he had with him was on the floor on the other side of the closet as if it was poison and he didn’t want to touch it. “Please! Please!” His tears were so intense they seemed to soak his beard.
Storm heard police sirens off into the distance and knew he, O.T., and Boz had to get out of dodge before they got caught up. “You and your crew done fucked up this time!”
“Please, Storm, let me live! I’ll give you all the rest of the shit I got stashed! It’s in the top cabinet over the kitchen sink.”
“Come on, Royce.” Storm had a flashback to the island where Royce was being a tough guy. “Dude, you once called me a rat and thanks to you and all your signifying my best friend Deacon loss his life.”
“That wasn’t my call.” Royce continued to cry as he negotiated to see the light of morning. “Javier made that decision not me! I told him he could trust you, I swear!”
“Well whoever made it, you the one who’s about to pay for that motherfucker!”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“Naw, don’t be sorry! Man up! It’s what true gangsters do in the end!”
Storm fired one fatal shot in Royce’s head who slumped over into a pile of old sheets. He then ran in the kitchen and snatched open the cabinet door grabbing whatever dope he saw. Throwing it all in a plastic bag that was on the counter he slipped out the door where he was met in the backyard by his brother.
“Where’s Boz?” Storm heard the sirens get louder as he threw the bag to his brother. “We gotta dip.”
O.T. caught the bag and nodded his head to the side walkway of the house. Looking over in the small patch of grass near a rusty chain-link fence, Storm saw one of Royce’s soldiers face down in a pile of broken glass from the window above and he wasn’t moving an inch. Less than a yard away, Storm focused in on Boz lying flat on his back, motionless.
“Awwwww shit! Naw!” He covered his sweaty face with his pistol still in his hands running over to Boz’s body whose eyes were wide open. “Fuck!” He pounded the concrete wall.
“Come on, dude!” O.T. yanked his brother’s arm dragging him away near the alley gate. “He gone, dude! He gone! I already checked! We can’t do shit for him now!”
“But . . .” Storm briefly hesitated hating to leave Boz like that.
“But nothing!” O.T. took charge of the situation. “It ain’t shit we can do for him by getting locked the hell up! Now come on! We gotta bounce before the bitch-ass police get here!”
Detectives
“There’s another call for us!” Malloy grabbed his jacket off the hook. “The officers on duty said they have four fatalities.”
“Another four?”
“Yeah, Kendrick. And they also said two of them would be of particular interest to our case.”
“Good, maybe this is the break we need!”
When the detectives arrived at the crime scene, which was roped off with yellow tape, a small crowd of onlookers had gathered. The news cameras were rolling and investigators were conducting door-to-door questioning of all the neighbors.
“What you got?” Malloy put on rubber gloves and pulled back the sheet on one of the victims on the side of the house. “Any ID on this one?”
“No, but I’m quite sure his prints and the other victim on the grass are in our system,” a homicide detective spoke up. “But the other two fatalities don’t need identifying.”
Leaning over pulling the sheet off the other body, Malloy was shocked. “Well, I’ll be damned! It’s Boz! One of Storm’s men!”
“What did you say?” Kendrick got closer with his notepad in hand. “The bouncer from the club?”
“Yeah, one and the same.” Malloy covered the corpse back up wondering what really went down earlier.
“And if you think that’s something, I advise both you guys to go take a gander in the back hall closet.” The homicide officer pointed to the house. “It’s a real sight to see!”
Being vigilant so as not to disturb the integrity of the scene the detectives walked through the sea of forensic officers and were surprised to see Royce, who was still regarded by many law officials as a major player in the game, dead as a doorknob with one apparent gunshot wound straight through the head.
“Live by the gun. Die by the gun!” Malloy taunted as him as his partner headed back to the station to figure out their next move.
Lost Friends . . .
The ride back to pick up the car from the place they had left it was a somber one. Now one more man, a good friend no less, was lost to the senseless war Paris and Kenya had started. Not knowing what exactly to say or do next, the brothers made the switch and headed over to one of O.T.’s female friend’s houses to shower and get changed into the extra clothes that were in the trunk. Just in case the police were at his condo, Storm didn’t want or need to take any chances. He knew they had to lay low.
Realizing that it was going to be extra hot at Boz’s house, Storm had the female drive over to there to explain to Boz’s wife about the tragedy that happened before the cops got there to deliver the dreadful blow. He had the chick reassure his wife and kids that he’d handle everything and they’d never ever want for jack shit. Not that it would bring Boz’s wife any comfort, but at that point, there was nothing else he could say or do. Even through all her grief, Storm and O.T. knew she was a true trooper and wouldn’t say nothing to the cops about who her husband had left with.
“It was that little punk Marco.” O.T. paced the floor wanting immediate retaliation.
“How you know for sure?” Storm’s body trembled from anger as he drank straight from a pint of Wild Irish Rose, which was the only thing the project chick had in her small apartment.
“Man, I saw those yellow stank mc-nasty dreads swinging around when I looked back at the house.” O.T. hated that he had left the front door to chase those other fools down the block. “I thought Boz had the nigga!”
“You know what?”
“Dawg, please.” O.T. took the bottle from his brother killing the last little corner off. “I already know! Marco gotta die!”
“Fuck his daddy, his mother, his bitch, and his firstborn!” Storm ranted as he reminisced about all the times his boy Boz had his back and had held him down.
Even when O.T. was doing his own thang nuttin’ up out in the streets, acting a straight idiot, Boz stood by his side. If nothing else before he went to his grave he promised himself he’d avenge Boz’s death.
Chapter 9
Reality Check
Kenya
Making herself a tuna fish sandwich on wheat bread, Kenya settled back down and read three more chapters of her novel before putting it away for the night. As the hands of the clock slowly moved, she thought about what Storm wanted her to do. It wasn’t that it was so difficult to carry out; it was she was still pissed at him for choosing that baby over her. And in her way of thinking, why should she help him put food in that kid’s mouth, even if it was technically her niece or nephew?
As she schemed on how to get him back on her trail the telephone rang. “Hello.”
“Hi, Kenya, can we talk?”
“About what, London?”
“Is this how it’s going to be between me and you the rest of our lives?”
“Um, is you st
ill having my man’s baby?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Well, answer the question.” Kenya wasn’t letting up. “Is you still having his baby?”
“Yes,” London firmly replied.
“Then, yeah, I guess it is gonna be like that!” Kenya slammed the phone down on the coffee table and went back to devising a plan to get Storm back on her jock. Soon she was fast asleep on the couch.
Ring, ring, ring. Kenya was awakened the next morning by the annoying sound of the phone. “Yeah, hello.”
Finding out it was Tangy calling collect, she accepted the charges. Filling her in pertaining to the last time she’d visited with Paris, Kenya headed upstairs to ask Storm why he hadn’t woke her up when he came in the night before. By the time she got to the top and turned into their room seeing the bed hadn’t been slept in, she hit the roof.
“What the hell! Who this nigga think I am!”
“What’s wrong?” Tangy speculated like she could really help Kenya from behind bars. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
“This motherfucker ain’t even come home!” Kenya’s heart pounded as she went to look out the front window to see if she saw Storm’s car in the driveway. “I swear I’m done with his ass.”
Tangy took that as her cue and cruelly added fuel to the fire. “Storm just like that grimy-ass no-good brother of his. They probably somewhere lying up with some hoes!”
“Bye, Tangy!” Kenya hung up on her not wanting to hear that dumb shit and dialed Storm’s cell phone. On the first ring he answered.
“Hey, Kenya.”
“Where the fuck are you?”
“I’m with my brother.”
“Oh yeah?” she hissed. “And some bitches I assume?”
“What is you talking about now?” Storm barely mumbled.
“Why didn’t you come home?”
“What?”
“You heard me! Why ain’t you come home?”
“Haven’t you watched the news?”
No Home Training Page 8
