Eastside (6 page)

Lil Texas kicked Travon in his chest. “You little punk-ass bitch!”

Travon cried out in pain and grabbed his chest.

Quentin threw a right punch, striking Travon across his left eye. “Yeah, bitch! What's up now? Dejuan can't save your ass now, can he?”

Travon's mind flashed. He thought of the pain from the first beating, the stay in the hospital, the move to the Heights, his mother's fear, and his dead brother. He quickly came to a conclusion. Not again. It was not going to happen again.

Travon quickly reached beneath his shirt and pulled out the Beretta.

“Look out, he's strapped!” Lil Texas yelled.

The boys began to flee.

POP, POP, POP, POP, POP, POP, POP.

The earsplitting sound of gunfire filled the air.

Travon jumped to his feet and ran in the opposite direction of the boys, while continuing to fire his weapon at them. He heard them returning fire, but was several blocks away, before he realized that his gun was empty, and that he was still pulling the trigger.

CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK
.

“Shit!” Travon tucked the empty weapon into his waistband, pulled his shirt down over it, and continued to flee.

Back in the Courts, Quentin was lying on the ground cursing. Blood was oozing from his stomach.

“That lil nigga shot me!” he moaned, clutching his stomach. “I can't believe it, I'm shot!”

“Fuck!” yelled Lil Texas, who was pacing back and forth near Quentin.

“Just hang on, man. It's gonna be all right,” said a nervous Tech Nine, who was kneeling over Quentin. “Just hang on.”

“Fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, shit!” Lil Texas had stopped pacing and was now tapping frantically on Tech Nine's shoulder.

“What?” Tech Nine shouted angrily.

Lil Texas pointed. Tech Nine turned his head in that direction, then instantly leaped to his feet.

“Fuck! Oh, shit! Oh, shit!” Tech Nine began shouting.

The little girl who had been swinging in the playground from which they had just come was now lying on the ground. The empty swing was swaying with the gentle breeze just above her twisted form. Soon, a mother's scream pierced the air, and sounded as though it could be heard around the world. The child would swing no more.

Travon gasped for air; his chest and lungs were burning, but he was now well over two miles away from the Courts. He felt as though he were about to collapse. Then he heard the siren.

Travon looked over his shoulder and saw a police car just behind him. He tried to flee, but the police car simply angled in front of him, cutting him off. The passenger-side door flew open; Travon slammed into it and fell backward, crashing down into the ground hard. When he opened his eyes again, Officers Cooney and Preto were standing over him.

“You just couldn't do what I asked?” Cooney told him. “Not only did you not get down with the Courts, you went out there and shot the place up!” He bent over, grabbed Travon by his arms, and lifted him up. “Come here, you little shit!” He slammed Travon against the scorching hood of the police car and handcuffed him.

Preto took Travon's backpack and tossed it into the front seat. Together, the officers searched Travon, removed the Beretta, and then placed Travon in the backseat of the patrol car. Quickly, they each walked to their respective sides of the car, climbed inside, and drove away.

“You dumb fuck!” Cooney shouted from the driver's seat. “What in the hell did you think you are doing?”

Travon remained silent.

“You know what, Travon, you're making me feel really stupid. I don't like to feel stupid, especially if it's because of a nigger! I know how to pick them, Tre. My partner says that you are a lost cause, but I know that you can't be. I was right about Too-Low, and I know that I'm right about your black ass. But you're making it kind of hard for me, you dumb, stupid, fuck!” Cooney banged on his steering wheel. “Why should I give you another chance, huh?”

Travon remained silent.

“Do you know that your ass is all over the radio?” asked Cooney. “Three down, suspect fleeing on foot, black T-shirt, black knapsack. How fuckin' hard do you think it is to spot your little black ass, running through the middle of the street?”

Preto, who was rummaging through Travon's backpack, turned to his partner. “Look at what we found here!” He turned back toward Travon. “This will not only get us promoted, but it'll get your little black ass twenty to thirty years in the Feds. But only after you come back to life, because Texas is gonna fry your black, gangbanger, dope-dealing ass for that little girl you popped!”

Travon sat up. “What the fuck are you talking about? I ain't shoot no little girl!”

“Oh, that's right, you probably don't know,” said Cooney. “Well, some young nigger girl got popped during your little Wild West shoot-out.”

“Fuck!” Travon kicked at the partition separating him from the officers.

Cooney and Preto exchanged knowing glances and slight smiles. They knew that they had him. Preto's instincts had been correct. Travon was not like the others; he wasn't a hard-core gang member yet. So he would not want to go to prison. Travon was now firmly inside their pockets. He would sell drugs for them, inform on others for them, kill for them, and do whatever else it was that they asked him to. No, change that. He would do whatever they
told
him to. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Cooney and Preto looked at each other and decided instantly that there was no way on God's green earth that this meal ticket was going to rot in prison. Especially when it could be out on the streets making them rich.

“Look here, Travon. I don't give a fuck about the little coon you popped,” Cooney told him. “She was probably gonna be just another loose jungle bunny, collecting welfare and food stamps, and living in the projects. Hell, you just saved a lot of decent, hardworking folks some tax dollars. So look here, boy, this is what we're gonna do. We're gonna take half of this here money, as sort of a down payment; kinda like good-faith money. Our little arrangement is gonna cost you a thousand dollars a month for the next three months. Then it's gonna cost you two thousand dollars for the next three months after that. Then it goes up to three thousand, and finally, it jumps to five. You let us know what your Slob-ass homeboys are up to, you buy straps from us, and you throw us a good bust every once in a while. In exchange, you don't go to prison today. Do you understand what I'm saying, boy?”

Travon hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good,” said Cooney. He turned to Preto. “How much is there?”

“Eleven thousand dollars, half a bird, and three straps.”

“Fuck! I'm almost tempted to turn you in and make lieutenant,” Cooney told Travon. He shifted his gaze back to his partner. “Give Sambo back five G's, the half bird, and the straps. He needs to come up so that he can make his monthly payments.”

Preto shrugged. “Okay, Sarge.” Preto lifted the nine-millimeter Beretta into the air. “Hey, do you remember this?”

Cooney glanced at the Beretta and laughed. “I sure do.”

“So, you found your brother's guns, huh?” Preto asked Travon.

“How do you figure that those are my brother's guns?” Travon replied, trying to be cool.

“Because I'm the one who sold them to him, you little shit!” Cooney shouted.

“That's the one he used in that big shoot-out at the park last year, isn't it?” Preto asked.

Cooney stared at the gun again and then nodded. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I think that was the one.”

Preto whistled. “Boy, that Too-Low sure could shoot!”

“And make a shit load of money too!”

Both officers shared a hearty laugh.

“I sure miss ol' Too-Low,” Preto told Travon. “The Courts died down a little bit after he got killed.”

“Yeah, too bad them Crips killed him,” added Cooney. “He was one mean nigger.”

“But ol' Tre here is gonna take his place.” Preto smiled, and looked back at Travon. “Ain't that right, boy?”

Travon nodded. His thoughts were elsewhere. His thoughts were on Cooney's last comment.
The Crips had killed his brother.

For several long months, dozens of potential suspects had passed through his head. He had surmised that it had been someone affiliated with one of the local Crip gangs; he had even gone so far as to narrow it down to some members of the East Terrace. But now, now he knew for sure.

Elmira had talked to several detectives, and had been assured numerous times that they were working diligently to solve the case. They had refused to give her any idea who they were investigating, or who they suspected. And yet, they knew. They all knew. And they had known it all along.

Travon's anger built up like a pressure cooker. The Crips had killed his brother. The thought of Dejuan riding around with Big Mike made Travon feel as though he wanted to explode. He felt betrayed; thoughts of vengeance and malice danced through his mind.

“I'ma kill his ass,” Travon muttered.

“What was that?” Preto asked.

Travon shook his head and stared out of the window. “Nothing.”

“Well, look here, this is how it's gonna go,” Cooney explained. “If somebody starts cutting in on your profits, or getting in the way of your comin' up, let us know and we'll roll on 'em.”

They pulled into the parking lot of Mrs. Chang's grocery store and stopped. Preto and Cooney climbed out of the vehicle, walked to the rear where Travon was seated, and pulled him forcefully out of the car. Preto shoved Travon, turning him around, and then slammed him against the trunk, where he proceeded to uncuff him. Cooney reached into the passenger side of the vehicle, grabbed the backpack; which was now six thousand dollars lighter, and slammed it into Travon's chest.

“How do I find you guys to pay you?” Travon asked.

“Don't worry, we'll find you,” Cooney replied.

“What about my bike?” Travon asked. “It's in the Courts where the shooting happened. And what about the guys? Lil Texas, Quentin, Tech Nine, and all of them?”

“Don't worry, Tre. We'll take care of all of that,” Preto told him with a smile. “Relax, we're partners now.”

Cooney climbed back inside the squad car.

Preto gave Travon a wink, and opened the passenger side door. “Trust us.”

“I ain't partners with no niggers,” Cooney shouted at Preto as the latter climbed into the vehicle.

Travon could hear Cooney continuing to protest Preto's choice of words, as the squad car pulled away. Once the car was fully out of view, Travon staggered into the store.

“What's up, Mrs. Chang?” Travon asked, upon entering into the store.

“Oh, nothing,” Mrs. Chang exhaled. “Just trying to assemble this damn camera.”

“Why? What's up? Has somebody been fuckin'g with you?”

“Oh, no! Nobody's been fucking with me. Everybody knows that you boys would kill them.” Mrs. Chang smiled. “No, it's for this damn insurance company. I'm trying to get my theft insurance down, so I have to put in this camera. They think that every store in a minority neighborhood has theft problems. For some reason, they have a problem believing that minorities can work and pay for what they want.”

Travon laughed, then made the short trip to the cooler. He opened up a cool frosty bottle of Red Bull, and turned it up to his lips. The cold liquid felt rejuvenating to his tired, thirsty, and mentally exhausted body. He drank nearly half the bottle before venturing to the counter, paying for it, and then heading out for the trip to Aunt Vera's house.

Travon struggled down Pine Street, made the turn onto Palmetto, and was halfway down that street, when a small, two-door Hyundai passed him up, hit its brakes, and then slowly began to back up toward him. Too tired to run, duck, hide, or shoot, Travon simply kept walking forward to meet whatever destiny that fate had bequeathed him. He did not know much, but he did know one thing. If he was going to die, he was at least going to die with his thirst quenched. Travon lifted the beer bottle to his lips and drank heavily.

The window on the passenger side of the Hyundai rolled down slowly, and a familiar face came into view. It was Tamika.

“Tre! Tre!” She waved as she called to him.

The car pulled up beside Travon.

“What are you doing out here, girl?” Travon asked. He could not help the smile that spread across his face.

“Just cruising with my sister before I go to work,” she answered.

“Where do you work at?” he asked. “You never told me.”

She pointed. “Right up the street at Church's Chicken on New Braunsfels Road.”

“You lying!” he said excitedly. The restaurant was just up the street from where he now lived. He could walk there.