Eastside (13 page)

“Shit, he's probably going to go and whip that tripping bitch of his,” Lil Fade answered.

Capone peered up from the bag in which he was rummaging. “Say, fool! Don't go and catch no ho-bashing case!”

Darius shook his head. “Man, I couldn't have no broad like that!”

Marcus reached into his pocket and pulled out a large plastic bag filled with marijuana. Some of it had already been rolled into joints. “I rolled some up already, but I ain't about to roll no more,” he told them, holding the bag in the air. “That shit got my fingers cramping.”

Lil Fade snatched the bag away from Marcus. “Shit, nigga, give it here. You ain't said nothing, I'll roll the rest.” He turned to Capone. “Puffing is an art form. You have to be able to roll the shit just right, plus you have to be able to puff all night.”

The boys laughed at Lil Fade's rhyme.

Capone turned to Marcus. “You can't roll no weed anyway, youngster. You be rolling baby joints. Yo shit so tight, a nigga can't even get a decent pull off a one.”

Marcus pulled out a Swisher Sweet cigar that had been emptied and stuffed with marijuana. “That's cool, y'all keep on cutting, while I sit here puffin'. And since y'all wanna talk about the way I roll, y'all gets none of this here.”

“Naw, dog, you know I'm just fuckin'g with you,” Capone told him.

Marcus pulled out five more Swisher Sweet cigars, and tossed them to Lil Fade, who immediately began removing the tobacco from them.

“I got more 'gars if you need 'em,” Darius told him.

Lil Fade nodded. “Bet.”

Capone popped the top on a bottle of gin, took a drink, and then passed it around. Darius turned up the volume on the radio, and the boys commenced to getting drunk and high.

Later that night, Travon was helped inside the house, where he was laid on a couch. He quickly fell asleep again. This time, he dreamt of his brother.

“Don't ever join a gang, Tre.”

“I do this shit, so you don't have to!”

“I better not ever hear about you joining a gang, or selling any kind a dope, do you hear me?”

“Tre Tre Tre”

Travon tossed and turned in his sleep. He dreamt of the gunshots that he'd heard the night of his brother's murder. He dreamt of the shootout in the Courts between himself and the others. He dreamt of the shootout in the park. He dreamt of the shootout on the highway and of the words that his aunt spoke to him afterward. His dreams, and his sleep, came to an abrupt end when a thunderous roar ripped through the house, as the front door was busted open.

“Everybody get down on the floor now!” Now! Now! Now!” the first officer through the door shouted. “This is a search warrant! Search warrant! Police Department! Everybody on the floor now!”

Travon's heart began to beat a million miles per hour. His first thought was that it was actually a jack move by some rival gang. Those thoughts were quickly erased when he spied two officers wearing black jumpsuits, ski masks, gloves, boots, helmets, and utility vests entering into the room. They were also wearing bright yellow jackets with “police” printed across the front of them, and they carried large black bulletproof shields in their left arms. One of the officers was pointing a Glock semiautomatic pistol at him, from behind his shield.

“Get down on the ground now!” the officer shouted through his black ski mask. “This is a narcotics search warrant! Keep your hands where I can see them!”

Travon quickly felt himself being searched; his arms were pulled back and his wrists were cuffed.

“Get up!” one of the masked officers told him.

Another clasped Travon by his forearm, and pulled him up from off the floor.

“Yeah, we got you muthafuckers now!” shouted the officer who was holding Travon's arm.

Travon was led into the kitchen; Marcus, Darius, Capone, and Lil Fade were already seated around the breakfast table with their hands cuffed behind their backs. He stared at Darius, who smiled at him. Travon shook his head in disbelief, and then peered down at the floor.

“Sit down over here,” one of the masked officers told Travon, pointing toward an empty chair.

As Travon was seated, the old man to whom the house belonged was led in. All of the chairs around the small breakfast table were occupied, so a chair was brought from the living room for the old man to sit in.

“We're clear,” one of the officers announced. “This is everybody.”

One of the masked officers walked to the front door, and waved his hand signaling that everything was clear. All of the officers with the exception of two holstered their weapons. The officers leaned their massive ballistic shields against the dirty off-white refrigerator, just as an old fat white man in a beige Guayabera shirt hobbled into the kitchen. The old man held a long, official-looking piece of paper.

“Canine unit is five minutes out, sir,” one of the officers reported.

The old man nodded, and the officer turned sharply on his heels and departed. The old man shifted his gaze toward the boys.

“Listen up!” he barked. “I'm Sumner Bowlman, and this here's a narcotics search warrant. It was signed last night by municipal court Judge Homer Falls. You can make it easy on us and tell us where the dope is, or we can tear the place apart. But before you say anything, I'm a gonna read you your rights. You got the right to remain silent, because anything you say can and will be used against ya in a court a law. You all have the right to an attorney, an' if'n you can't afford an attorney, they have to give you one. Do you fellers understand these here rights as I have read them to ya?”

The boys stared at one another; all remained silent.

“Good,” Bowlman said. “Now down to business. Where's the fuckin' dope at?”

The boys remained silent. Bowlman turned to the owner of the house.

“Waters, do you know where these boys keep their dope at?” Bowlman asked, in his heavy, good-old-boy accent.

Waters shook his head.

Bowlman squinted and shrugged. “Okay, if that's the way you want it. I guess we'll be here all day then.” Bowlman turned to the unit of masked officers. “Okay, boys, tear the place up.”

“All right!” one of the officers exclaimed.

Another officer brought a chair from the living room, and sat it down just behind Bowlman. The commander seated himself in it, and began to rock back and forth and stare at the boys.

The noise from the officers' overly enthusiastic search soon became deafening. They broke, smashed, tore, ripped, slashed, cut, and destroyed everything in sight. It was what the Waffen SS once termed “Youthful Exuberance.” They merrily destroyed the entire house.

After a while, Travon began to wonder about the small pieces of rock cocaine that he'd had in his pockets when he fell asleep. The police had searched him thoroughly, and yet they had found nothing.

Waters, Travon thought. The old man must have peeled him while he was sleeping. He could almost kiss the old fool.

Lil Fade did not have anything, Darius had sold out before they left their other spot, and so had Marcus. Travon now knew that he was clean, so he was able to sit back and relax a little bit. He found that he was even able to smile now.

“Bingo!” one of the officers strutted triumphantly into the room. He held the AK-47 up in the air, displaying it to his boss. “Look at what we have here.”

Bowlman grunted approvingly. “Now we're talking fed time. And since you boys wouldn't cooperate, as soon as I get back to my office, I'm calling the U.S. Attorney. I'm going to ask him to pick up the case and prosecute your little asses to the fullest.”

“What?” Waters shouted. “I can't even have a gun in my own house, to protect myself?”

Travon smiled at Waters. He felt as though he were falling in love with the old man.

“I went to Vietnam and fought for my country,” Waters continued. “I got a Silver Star, a Bronze Star, and two Purple Hearts, and you mean to tell me that I can't have a gun in my home! Is that what you're telling me?”

Travon promised himself that he would give Waters an entire quarter-ounce of crack, so that the old man could smoke until his heart was content.

“I'm not saying that, Mr. Waters,” Bowlman told him. “But I do seriously doubt that this here gun is yours.”

“What? Are you calling me a liar?” Waters asked. “Who's your boss? Who's in charge of this breaking into my home?”

“I'm in charge of this task force,” Bowlman told him.

Waters shook his head. “No, I want
your
boss. I'm gonna sue your ass for everything you've got!”

“Mr. Waters, if we find anything in this house, I'm taking you to jail,” Bowlman told him. “And then I'm going to try my damnedest to seize this house from you.”

“When you don't find anything, all of the shit you are letting your boys break, you will pay for, and then some,” Waters countered.

The only time that Travon had any dealings with old man Waters was when he was already doped up. Waters' current actions compelled Travon to think about the old man's life. He wondered what had happened to him to drive him into so deep of an addiction. Who was the man before he became a crack addict? Where was his family? Did he have any children, and if so, where were they? He would never allow something like this to become of his mother, Travon told himself. How could people slip so far, and how could their families allow them to?

Travon thought about all of the people that he had met since beginning his new occupation. Who were they, and what had happened to them? How could it have happened to so many? What would their lives have been like, if they weren't strung out? How would their lives be, if it weren't for drugs, or drug dealers for that matter? How would their lives be, if it weren't for him?

Two hours later, an officer entered the room. He stared at Bowlman and shook his head. “Nothing, boss.”

Waters smiled, and Bowlman tightened his lip. He rose from his chair rapidly.

“Send me a bill, Waters! But you'd better hurry, because I'll be back!” Sumner knocked over the chair in which he had been seated as he stormed out of the room. “Take those grinning little bastards to juvenile!”

The confused officer stared at his boss. “What charges?”

“Curfew violation, firearms charges, hell, I don't know!” Bowlman shouted. “Be creative!”

The officer turned back toward the boys. “Okay, you three juveniles, let's go.”

Travon, Marcus, and Lil Fade were led outside and placed into a large, black van. On the way to the juvenile detention center, Travon peered out of the dark tinted window. It was still morning outside. Marcus hit Travon's leg with his knee, in order to get his attention. Travon turned and stared at his cousin.

“Don't worry, kinfolk,” Marcus told him. “We'll be out by lunchtime.”

“Travon Robinson!” shouted the slightly overweight guard.

“What?”

“You're going before the judge,” the guard told him. “C'mon!”

Travon rose from his bed. He was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit with
BCJDC
stenciled on the back in big, bold, black letters. It stood for Bexar County Juvenile Detention Center. Travon carefully walked to where the guard was standing and waiting. It was imperative that he step with caution, or risk a terrible fall. The orange sandals he wore were made two sizes too small by his thick gray institutional socks.

The guard took Travon by his arm and escorted him to the elevator, where a second guard was waiting. The elevator arrived and the doors opened to reveal a smiling Marcus, along with his stern-looking escort. Forbidden to talk to each other, Travon and Marcus were content to simply exchange comforting smiles during their elevator ride down to the courtroom floor.

The cousins were led out of the elevator and through a hall filled with social workers in cheap suits. They passed a holding cell, with four other juveniles inside, and walked straight to a desk with another overweight guard seated behind it.

“These are the two late ones that Judge O'Connor wanted to see,” Marcus' escort told the guard.

The desk guard nodded. “Okay, and when they are done, take 'em to the visitation area. They both have parental visits.”

Marcus' escort nodded. “Okay.”

The desk guard punched a button and a loud buzzer sounded; the thick metal door to the right slid open. The boys and their escorts walked through the steel door and a large white metal detector that was positioned just on the other side of it. They turned right and walked down another corridor and through a set of massive wooden double doors.

Their mothers were seated in the center of the courtroom, and waved to them as they entered. Vera pointed her finger at Travon, and mouthed “
You're gonna get it.”
Travon joined a balding gentleman in a cheap gray suit who was seated at a scarred wooden table.

“Hi, I'm Anthony Conway Jr., your attorney. I've been looking over your case file since it was given to me five minutes ago. You have been charged with possession of a dangerous weapon, lying to a Texas peace officer, curfew violation, membership in a dangerous criminal organization, and obstructing justice. I've talked to the prosecutor, and he wants to send you to boot camp for six months, or TYC for a year, and then place you on a monitor until you turn eighteen. I recommend that you take the boot camp, because I think that it's a pretty good deal. He said that if we take it right away, he'll drop everything but the obstructing of justice.”

The lawyer reached into his briefcase and pulled out some papers and a pen. “Just sign these and we're done.”

Travon turned and peered over at Marcus, who was arguing with his attorney. He turned back toward his attorney. “I ain't pleading guilty to shit. I ain't did shit, and they ain't caught me with shit.”

The lawyer tapped the papers he held. “But it says here that they found a Norinco AK-47 in your house!”

Travon shook his head. “Bullshit! It wasn't my house; it was the old man's house, and the old man's gun.”

Conway stared at Travon, tilted his head to the side and sighed. “Do you have any money? It says here that you live on the Eastside.”

Travon frowned. “Hell yeah, I got money. I got enough to hire a real lawyer, and get rid of your sorry ass!”

Stunned, Conway leaned back in his chair. “You have enough money to hire a lawyer?”

Travon nodded. “Yeah.”

“Can you bring me two Gs to my office before the week is up?” Conway asked.

“Can you get me and my cousin outta this bullshit?” Travon demanded instead.

“Maybe.” Conway smiled.

Travon leaned forward. “I'll tell you what. Get us the fuck outta here, and I'll have your two Gs waiting for you tomorrow morning when you get to the office.”

Conway returned Travon's smile. “Keep this between us. I'm not really supposed to be taking money from you. So just drop it off, and we'll consider it a gift.”

Travon nodded. Conway went to the prosecutor's table and sat down next to the state's attorney. He opened his briefcase, pulled out Travon's file, and began to flip through it while talking to the prosecutor. Both men looked up as the defense attorney pointed toward Travon, and returned their focus to the file.

Conway continued to flip through the folder and point things out. He and the state's attorney shared a few laughs during the process, as well as a few pats on the back. Another prosecutor and defense attorney stood before the judge, and Travon focused his attention on them.

What a mean bitch, was Travon's first impression, as he listened to the judge berate both men. Conway rejoined Travon, followed by Marcus and his attorney.

“Mike has dismissed the charges against both of the boys, on the grounds of insufficient evidence,” Conway told Marcus' attorney. “C'mon, I'll buy you a beer.”

Marcus' attorney grabbed his hand. “No, let me buy you a beer. I couldn't have gone before the judge with that kid; she'd have torn our asses off.”

Conway turned toward Travon and Marcus. “You boys are free. I just have to take care of some paperwork, and then your mothers can sign you out. Stay out of trouble.”

The attorney extended his hand toward Marcus, who shook it firmly. He did the same to Travon, and then leaned forward and whispered into Travon's ear. “My office, tomorrow morning, two grand, and not a penny less.”

Travon nodded.

“Good luck, son!” Conway told him, as he turned and walked away. Midway he turned back. “I'll tell your mothers the good news.”

Later That Day

Aunt Vera's House-Denver Heights

“Shit, I was scared,” Marcus said.

“You wasn't alone.” Travon nodded. “Po-po everywhere, all jacked up, wearing ski masks and destroying everything in sight. Hell, I was scared as a muthafucka.”

“Boy, they got hot when they didn't find nothing,” Darius said. “I thought that they was gonna plant something. That task force is known for that shit.”

Darius turned toward Travon. “That reminds me; I been meaning to ask you, what happened to you yeayo?”

“I think the old man peeled me,” Travon told him. “But trust me, I ain't mad at him.”

Darius shook his head. “Man, I just knew we were gone.”

“Shit, I wanted to kiss Waters when they didn't find nothing,” Travon told them. “Hell, they didn't find no crack pipes or nothing!”

“That's because old man Waters in a primo man,” Darius explained. “He won't touch a pipe, but his ass will get geeked as hell on them moes.”

“How much money did you lose?” Marcus asked.

Travon shook his head. “Nothin' but a couple a hundred. I gotta holler at that lawyer tomorrow though. He want me to take him two grand. Shit, I gotta get me some wheels. I don't wanna bum a ride or catch the bus. I'm a have to rent me a geeker car tomorrow or tonight if I can find one.”

Darius shook his finger at Travon. “Boy, you playin' with fire, fuckin' with some dope tonight.”

“Yeah, you can't get lucky two days in a row,” Marcus added.

Travon shook his head. “Shit, I need a car though.”

“I know where a clean-ass six-four is,” Darius told him.

“Naw, fuck that,” Marcus said. “Everybody is pushin' fours. I know where a clean-ass Olds Regency is. Stay away from them hot-ass fours and battlelacs.”

A small white Subaru pulled up. Darius reached for his Ruger P-89 nine-millimeter handgun, until he recognized the car. It was Lil Fade's sister's car.

The Subaru stopped in front of Aunt Vera's house, and out leapt a smiling Lil Fade, pulling up his sagging pants.

“What's up, Bloods?” Lil Fade shouted, extending his arms into the air. His smile was wider than the Grand Canyon.

“What up, B?” Darius replied, extending his right arm into the air, and using his fingers to form the letter
B.

“What happened?” Marcus asked.

“Shit, they dropped the charges, but I had to stay until my sister could come and get me,” Lil Fade explained.

His sister rolled her eyes at Darius, and pulled away. Darius turned to Lil Fade and smiled.

“She wouldn't even wave at me,” Darius told him.

“She'll get over it, I know she still cuts for you,” Lil Fade told him. “So, what are y'all getting in to?”

Darius shook his head. “Nothin.' Tre was talking about getting a ride.”

“Oh, Blood!” Lil Fade shouted. “Did you tell him about that black six-four over there by Jolly Time?”

“Yeah,” Marcus answered. “But we need a ride over there.”

“Hell, we just rode past Cactus Street, and Big Pimpin is home,” Lil Fade told them.

“Shit, let's go!” Darius said.

The boys set off for Big Pimpin's house.

“Shit!” Marcus shouted. “I forgot my strap!”

Darius stared at him. “You know we are goin' over there by Jolly Time, and you forgot your shit?” He shook his head. “Tre, Lil Fade, are y'all strapped?”

“Yeah.” Travon nodded.

“Hell, yeah!” Lil Fade answered.

The boys continued toward Big Pimpin's house. A beige Ford Escort drove past them and slowed down. A hand came out of the window, held up two fingers, and then formed an
O.
Lil Fade waved his arms in the air, and then turned to Travon.

“You got some yea?” he asked.

Travon nodded. “Yeah, but it's at the crib.”

“Fuck Big Pimpin, here's our ride right here,” Lil Fade told them.

The Ford Escort backed up, and the passenger nodded. “What's up?”

Travon walked to the driver's window. “Shoot me to the crib, and I'll hook you up if you let me rent your car for two hours.”

The passenger stared longingly at the driver.

“How much?” the driver asked.

“A fat forty,” Travon told him.

The driver nodded. “All right, but only for two hours. I gotta get back home.”

Travon hopped on the hood of the Escort. “Take me two blocks that way, and then make the block until I meet you back at the corner.”

The Escort turned around, and took Travon in the direction in which he had pointed. Once at the corner, Travon leapt from the hood and ran to his Aunt V's house.

Travon bounded up the stairs and into his room, where he lifted his mattress. Beneath the top mattress were several thousand-dollar bundles of money. Travon grabbed four wads.

Travon headed back down the stairs, out of the front door, and into the backyard, where he approached Tank, Darius's pit bull. Travon lifted Tank's dog bowl and dug up his sack of drugs. He removed a hundred-dollar bag of crack, then reburied the sack and replaced the dog bowl. Confident that no one had witnessed his actions, Travon bolted from the backyard and raced down the street, where he met up with his ride.

“You got it?” the driver asked.

Travon handed the driver two rocks from his sack, and the driver quickly climbed out of the vehicle.

“We'll be at Dave's Barbecue joint, right around the corner,” the driver told him. “Just bring the car there when you're through.” The driver and passenger turned and headed down the street.

Travon climbed into the car, and then backed up to where Darius, Marcus, and Lil Fade were sitting patiently on a curb waiting for him. Then they headed off toward Jolly Time, a small gambling shack in the heart of the city's Eastside.

“Shit, Tre, I still think that you should peep out that nine-eight first,” Marcus told him.

“Naw, man, get you a four,” Lil Fade countered. “Paint that ho lime green and dip it, like the one in Cube's video.”

“Naw, hook it up like the one in that Black Superman video,” Darius suggested.

“Man, get that nine-eight, and paint it black cherry,” Marcus told him. “Throw you a white vinyl on it, and buy you some gold and chrome disc and vogues, a white interior, some sounds, and you got you some shit.”

“Turn left here.” Lil Fade pointed.

“Shit, Tre, you gonna be seventeen soon,” Darius said. “Do you want us to throw you a party? You know we can have it at Big Pimpin's house.”

Travon shrugged. “Shit, I don't care. You know that it don't make me none.”

“Turn right at the next street and slow down,” Lil Fade told him.

The boys began looking from driveway to driveway, trying to spot the car. About halfway down the street, Lil Fade found it.

“There!” Lil Fade said excitedly. “Right there, at the purple and white house.”