Trust in No Man

by Cash

  “I don’t know,” admitted Youngblood. “I gotta eat, and I gotta get my own crib, so I gotta shake something.”

  “You on parole or probation?”

  “Naw, I did all mine.”

  “True dat.”

  Lonnie went to his bedroom and returned with a .9mm Glock and two full clips. He tossed the gun, the clips and a small wad of money to his tightman.

  “I ain’t got much, dawg. But this ought to get you started. What’s up with that older broad you were hollerin’ at from prison?”

  Youngblood explained that Brenda was cool, but they were just friends. He didn’t want to step to her empty-handed. His plan was to hit a lick, get a car and a wardrobe before he went to see Brenda.

  She knew he was due to get out of prison soon, but he hadn’t told her exactly when. He figured her brother would call her and tell her he was out.

  The grand in his pocket that Lonnie had just given him would last for a minute, long enough to carry him until he could find a mark. He’d crash at Lonnie’s crib until then. But not too long, he didn’t want to impose too much on his one true friend.

  Later that evening, Lonnie took him to the mall to buy a few pairs of jeans and some Timberlands. Youngblood stole a couple of video games to give to his son. He assumed Shan had already bought the boy the latest Play Station.

  Lonnie hadn’t seen Shan in a few months, but he knew where she lived.

  Youngblood said, “Let’s go by her mom’s crib first. Maybe she’ll be over there.”

  They drove through Englewood, stared at people they’d known for years. No new faces, just older and more tired-looking. Some people were still doing the same old shit. Some of the kids were teenagers now, following the neighborhood blueprint: hustling, having babies and smoking dope.

  Lonnie stopped the car in front of Poochie’s apartment and waited in the car while Youngblood got out.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  The door opened and Youngblood stared in horror. “Damn!” he said, not meaning to let the words slip out.

  Poochie stared back, looking like a skeleton with big eyes and dry lips. Crack was still kicking her ass, good.

  “Well, look what the wind blew in!” she said, honestly glad to see Youngblood out of prison. Then, as if realizing she looked a mess, Poochie combed her disheveled hair with her fingers and licked her lips to relieve the dryness. But in ten seconds, they were dry again.

  “Boy, when did you get out?” Poochie smiled and pulled Youngblood to her and hugged him. She was musty as hell.

  “I got out today,” answered Youngblood, holding his breath. He stepped back a bit. “Where is Shan and my son?”

  “They live in Bowen Homes, in the front apartment building. I hope you ain’t planning to get back with her. She’s my daughter but she ain’t right. Find yourself a nice girl and stay out of trouble,” Poochie warned.

  “I just wanna see my son.”

  “You need me to show you where they live?”

  “Naw, I’ll find it.” Youngblood handed Poochie twenty dollars. He pitied her but he had love for her, too.

  She stuffed the money in her pocket. “You ain’t have to gimme no money, you just got out of jail.” But she didn’t offer to give it back.

  “Don’t trip,” Youngblood said. “You all right with me.” He gave Poochie a hug, and then he and Lonnie bounced.

  A half hour later, they pulled into Bowen Homes. The first person they encountered directed them to Shan’s apartment.

  “‘Preciate that, folks.” Youngblood thanked the block boy before they headed around the corner to Shan’s crib.

  Not wanting any drama to jump off, Lonnie went to the door with Youngblood. He knew how hotheaded they both were.

  Shan opened the door. She was seven months pregnant.

  “When yo’ ass get out?” she asked.

  “Where’s my son?”

  “He sleep.”

  “Wake him up,” Youngblood demanded.

  “I ain’t.”

  “Girl, wake my son up!”

  “I said no!” Shan said nastily. So Youngblood pushed his way into her apartment, brushing against her bulging belly.

  “Oww! You hurt my stomach, fool!”

  As soon as Youngblood stepped through the doorway and into the living room, Shotgun Pete walked out of the bedroom wearing boxer shorts and no shirt. Their eyes locked. Neither one looked away.

  Shotgun Pete, who was still bigger than Youngblood, was trying to intimidate him. Youngblood had gotten taller in prison, but he was still a skinny man, but he had mad heart.

  The stare-down lasted more than a minute. Finally, Pete spoke. “What you want? Drama or what?”

  “I came to get my son. I ain’t got nothing to say to you, nigga. I didn’t fuck you, did I?”

  “Prison done made you tough, huh?”

  “I been tough!” Youngblood boasted.

  “You frontin’. You a bitch!” Shotgun Pete said, intentionally disrespecting.

  “You see a bitch, kiss a bitch,” challenged Youngblood.

  “You ain’t my type, too skinny. But I got the type of bitch I like,” Pete said, looking at Shan.

  “Y’all don’t start no stuff in here! If y’all fools wanna fight, go outside,” Shan said.

  Lonnie cut in. “Yo, Pete, I ain’t taking sides, but why you disrespecting Youngblood? He just came to see his son. You got a problem with a man seeing his son?”

  “This ain’t got nothing to do with you, Lonnie,” Pete said. “If Youngblood got beef wit’ me, we can do it any way he wanna, knuckles or pistol play.” Pete moved toward the bedroom, obviously going to get his heat. Lonnie was packing heat himself, but he didn’t want to blast Pete in the back.

  It really wasn’t his beef and Shan wasn’t worth dying over or killing for. Plus, Lonnie also knew that Younglood had left the .9mm he’d given him in the car.

  “Yo!” he yelled and Pete stopped and looked over his shoulder.

  “Y’all don’t need no pistol play. Y’all can step outside and settle the beef with fists,” Lonnie offered.

  “I’m down with that!” Shotgun Pete didn’t hesitate to agree.

  “Nigga, you ain’t saying nothing. I’ll whoop your punk ass up and down the muthafuckin’ block.” Being fresh out of jail, Youngblood was used to throwing hands.

  When they stepped outside, he went straight off in Shotgun Pete’s grill, busting his mouth. Blood poured down Pete’s chin as he shook off the effects of the blow and charged at Youngblood.

  They fought like Hearn and Haggler back in the day. Blow for blow, neither one giving ground.

  They were still swingin’, trying to knock each other’s head off when the police arrived on the scene with their sirens blaring.

  Since Youngblood and Shotgun Pete refused to press assault charges against one another, the cops locked them up for disorderly conduct and creating a public disturbance. Youngblood was released from jail hours later, after paying a $250 fine. But Shotgun Pete was held on traffic warrants.

  CHAPTER 8

  Youngblood

  I stayed in the city jail for nearly five hours before they let me pay two and a half bills and bounce. But those five hours in jail fucked with my head worse than the whole five years I had just spent in prison. It made me realize that once po-po put the cuffs on a nigga, there was no telling when he’d see freedom again. I was at their mercy, and I didn’t like that setup at all.

  I made a vow, right in that city jail cell, that po-po would never lock me up again. Mad niggaz screamed that, just frontin’ like they gon’ hold court in the street. But I was dead-ass serious about mine. Not that I planned to square up and stop doing crime. Shit, what else was a young nigga with no legitimate skills gon’ do? Doing crime was just the hand I’d been dealt. I damn sho’ wasn’t gon’ go looking for a job.

  It was real stupid of me to throw fists with Shotgun Pete. Number one, the nigga was mad bigger than me. Even if I would’ve busted the nigga up,
his pride would’ve made him come at me with his heater, his gat. And I would’ve hunted him with my heat had he beat me down. So, the best thing for me to have done was to bust caps in his ass off the jump. Fuck a fistfight.

  But after giving it some serious thought, my baby’s mama wasn’t worth the drama.

  I was steamed ‘cause Shotgun Pete was trying to regulate me seeing my son. If Shan had some respect for herself, she would’ve laid the law down to the nigga and made him respect me about mines.

  But rats and chickens like her wasn’t ‘bout business. They loved drama.

  They loyal to whoever stickin’ dick in them at the time.

  Now, Shotgun Pete was older than me and Shan and he should’ve been up on himself. Instead of letting a chicken head put him at beef with me, a nigga he had robbed with and all. He should’ve figured that if Shan would violate me, her son’s daddy, she would one day do the same foul shit to him. But young pussy had a way of fucking up those older cat’s head. Fuck it. Next time the beef wouldn’t be settled with fist.

  A few days had passed and I was riding with my dawg, Lonnie. We ran into a dope boy named Freddie, a mafucka that pushed a little weight.

  His real claim to ghetto-fame was that he had a project in East Atlanta locked. He was also one of those pretty boys and his uncle had mad juice on the streets. Niggaz knew that Freddie was semi-soft, but his uncle Hannibal wasn’t to be fucked with.

  Hannibal pushed major weight, had a crew of young killers who made niggaz disappear if they disrespected. Hannibal looked like a black ass Suge Knight, and he always rolled in a caravan of vehicles. He was so hard to touch and so violent that po-po didn’t even fuck with him.

  Anyway, Freddie got some respect from street niggaz just ‘cause Hannibal was his uncle. We never saw them together, and I don’t think Freddie got his dope from Hannibal, but niggaz wasn’t really sure so they basically didn’t fuck with Freddie. Meaning, they didn’t bring drama to him. He rode the wave of his uncle’s rep.

  When Freddie pulled alongside us in his candy-apple painted Porsche Roadster with a dime ass bitch in the passenger seat, and motioned for Lonnie to pull over, it didn’t surprise me one bit to see him showcasing like a star.

  In the BP gas station lot, Freddie got out of his whip, came over to Lonnie’s Cadillac Avant and leaned his wavy head inside the driver’s window. I could see the dime bitch in Freddie’s whip bobbing her head to the sounds coming from the Porsche’s sound system.

  Conceit was written all over her fly ass face, like it was her ride and she was just letting Freddie drive her around. Dumb ho!

  I didn’t have to know shit about her to know that bitches like her came a dime a dozen. I would’ve fucked her, though. I hadn’t splacked any pussy since I got out. I could’ve went to see Brenda or fucked a rat out the hood, but my mind was on getting loot. Even a young nigga, like myself, knew to get the loot first. Everything else, especially the rats, follow the cheddar.

  As Freddie spoke to Lonnie, he looked over at me like he couldn’t place my face. I told him who I was and where I’d been the last five years. He still acted like he didn’t know me. That kind of pissed me off, but I knew that it was just a matter of time before niggaz was gon’ recognize my name. Then again, in my line of hustle it was good not to be recognized. Still, every street hustler, no matter his hustle, wanted niggaz to recognize and respect his name.

  Lonnie got out of the car and him and Freddie talked in hush tones. I was eyeing the dime in Freddie’s whip. She looked over and our eyes met. She made a face like I was throw-up, or shit, or something! I checked that in my mental file. Told myself I’d get with her when I came up, drag her ass for that nasty look she gave me. If not her, I’d drag other bitches like her. Atlanta was full of them ho’s.

  Out the corner of my eye, I saw Freddie hand Lonnie something. It looked like a roll of money. When Lonnie got back in the car and we were back in traffic, he showed me what Freddie had given him, a wad of big faces, loot. He told me what Freddie wanted us to do for him.

  I said, “Bet that!” letting Lonnie know I was down with it.

  He told me to split the loot in half, and he didn’t even count behind me when I handed him his portion. He just stuffed it in his pocket. That was the way it should be with partners, mad trust. Not enough niggaz keep it real, though.

  A week passed before Lonnie and I finally saw Jerrod, an up-and-coming hustler who was inching his crew into Freddie’s territory.

  Jerrod was from D.C. and hadn’t been in ATL but a few years. I didn’t know playa, but Lonnie gave me the 411 on him. Well, all that he knew, which wasn’t much.

  To sum it up, Jerrod was just another nigga from out-of-state who came to the Dirty South to get money and fuck southern bitches. Problem was, he was trying to get money in a spot that already belonged to Freddie.

  Freddie wasn’t a killer and he didn’t really have a crew, so Jerrod probably didn’t even blink before putting work down in Freddie’s East Atlanta spots.

  The niggaz Freddie fronted dope to wasn’t gonna war for him, ‘cause they had no love for him. Their arrangement with Freddie was strictly business. I would think that it would be in the best interest of business for the niggaz who Freddie fronted dope to to get together and put Jerrod to sleep. But for some reason, they were letting Jerrod get money that should’ve went in their pockets. My guess was they all were scared to catch a murder case.

  Lonnie said they had an every nigga for himself mentality.

  Whatever.

  Freddie might’ve been scared to get a cold body but he had paid Lonnie and me to step to Jerrod. So, Jerrod was gonna get stepped to.

  Funny shit about it, though. Freddie didn’t want us to do the nigga. He had instructed Lonnie to just shoot him in the legs.

  Yeah, right!

  We tried to catch this fool, Jerrod, for a week or more. But playa didn’t have a set pattern we could pin him down to.

  We then saw him parked at a McDonald’s drive-thru. But how we suppose to shoot a nigga in the legs while he’s sitting inside his car?

  “Yo, pull around the corner and wait for me,” I told Lonnie as I got out the car.

  “What you ‘bout to do?”

  “Just park around that corner,” I pointed about fifty yards away.

  “Be ready to pull off in the other direction when I get back to the car.” I checked my gat before stepping out of the car and shutting the passenger door. I didn’t wait for shit. I knew Lonnie would try to talk me out of what I was about to do.

  I heard him say, “Nigga, you stupid!”

  By the time I walked calmly across the street and set foot in the McDonald’s parking lot, the sun had faded behind the clouds and the darkening sky provided cover for my mission. In addition, I pulled my baseball cap low over my eyebrows. My collar was up but I didn’t tuck my chin. I was hoping to look cool, not criminal. Both hands were in my baggy jeans pockets, one hand gripping my heat. My jeans sagged; I was just a young nigga headed to McDonald’s for a Big Mac.

  I acted like I was checking traffic to be sure it was safe to cross the street, but I mainly was making sure po-po wasn’t nowhere around.

  I saw that two cars were ahead of Jerrod and three more behind him at the drive-thru.

  Playa was boxed in!

  I got right up to his passenger side and unloaded right through the window. Glass shattered. He tried to pull off but rammed into the car in front of him. I stuck my arm inside the shattered passenger door window and let loose some more.

  I saw his body jerk with each shot, then it slumped down bloody and crooked. The stupid bitch in the car behind Jerrod’s screamed. So I opened up on her old ass, too, before I dashed across the street and around the corner where Lonnie was waiting, engine running.

  Once I got in, he drove off in a direction that nobody from McDonald’s could see us.

  We didn’t chance driving all the way back to Lonnie’s crib. It was damn near twenty-five minutes away. Instead, w
e drove to some bitch’s house he knew.

  I saw the shit on the news that night after Lonnie and I crept back to his crib. Jerrod was damn sure dead. I learned that the old bitch who had screamed got hit in the shoulder and the jaw, but they expected her to live. They showed a sketch of the suspect from witnesses account. The shit didn’t look nothing like me.

  I was a little nigga. The mafucka they described was six feet tall, 180 to 210 pounds. I wish!

  The car we used was a jack mobile. Lonnie got rid of it with no trace or trip to him. Of course, it was only a few days before we’d step to Freddie and put the press down on him for some extra dough since I had bodied Jerrod.

  What the fuck could he do but pay up?

  Freddie came correct and told Lonnie he’d holla at him in the future. I was thinking how nice it would be to jack Freddie. But I put the thought on hold.

  Lonnie only wanted 30 percent of the dough Freddie had just gave us. He said I deserved a bigger share ‘cause I did all the work. But I split it with him fifty-fifty. I kept it real.

  Later, Lonnie told me Freddie asked him why we had murked Jerrod. Lonnie told him it just happened like that. Pay up and forget about it. Lonnie never asked me one question about it, either. He just said, “Boy, you wild as fuck don’t do shit out in the open again. You gon’ fuck around and get cased up.”

  “I hear you, fam.” I chuckled, feeling invincible.

  CHAPTER 9

  I had some cheddar on my plate and was ready to unwind from the adrenaline rush I’d been on from the moment I told I Lonnie to park around the corner from that McDonald’s.

  Delina worked for a car rental company and was able to hook me up with a rental. I went shopping and bought the latest thug gear. I went in the hood and paid a rat to braid my hair in a fly style. I also stopped by Poochie’s neighbor and dropped off some gear for her to give to my son.

  I didn’t trust Poochie, she was on the pipe too bad. I gave the lady a fifty-spot, and she promised she’d make sure Lil’ T got the stuff. I didn’t wanna take it to Shan myself, ‘cause I knew I still had beef with Shotgun Pete. But I’d deal with him later.