Gutter (32 page)

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Authors: K'wan

BOOK: Gutter
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C-style just stood there for a while, staring at the ruined funeral home and the horrified looks on the mourners' faces. Two of the homeys were escorting Rob's mother and Ms. Lucy from the
funeral home to the limo. She could tell they were terrified and rightfully so. It was bad enough that they had lost their babies, but the war wouldn't even allow them to mourn in peace.
C-style took her blue bandanna from her purse and went to wipe her face, but stopped in midmotion. It was the same bandanna she'd been given when Big Keke and the home girls had put her on the set. Her heart had swelled with pride when she received it and Gutter embraced her as one of his lil home girls, but now it represented the ugliness that being in a gang had brought into her life. Until that moment it had been one of her most prized possessions.
“It wasn't supposed to be like this,” she whispered to herself. C-style let the bandanna slip from her hand and float to the ground. This drew some disapproving looks from some of the home boys that were still gathered around, but at that point she didn't care. She was done with the set.
 
 
LEXI WAS
propped against the lumpy white pillows, trying her best to get comfortable. Her head felt like a herd of elephants was on parade inside it. Hollywood had treated her to a hairline fracture and a severe concussion. To add insult to injury Major Blood had botched the hit on him. She was pissed, but her visitor had eased the pain a bit.
When she'd gotten the initial phone call she thought it to be a prank or even a setup, but as she brushed her hand against the manila envelope containing the five g's she knew it to be real. If her source was on the up-and-up then Gutter had finally gone too far and Major Blood would get a second chance at Hollywood. Soon she would call him to set the final wheels in motion, but the morphine drip in her IV told her it could wait until after her nap.
“MAN, WHAT
the fuck is this nigga doing way over on this side?” Criminal asked from the backseat.
“Fuck if I know,” Blue Bird said, taking a hit off the dipped cigarette and trying to pass it to Tears, but he declined so Criminal readily snatched it. “What I do know is that these niggaz is out of bounds, aiding and abetting a fucking fugitive!”
“Man, y'all need to put that shit out and get focused on the muthafucking task at hand,” Tears said, rolling down the windows. “We deep in enemy territory, cuz. I'm sure if Major has brought a crib out this way there's probably some 900s 'round here too.” Tears pulled up to a red light at the corner of East Compton Boulevard and South Atlantic Avenue.
“Fuck 900s and for damn sure fuck Lime Street, I'm dumping on sight,” Criminal said, way louder than he needed to. The PCP was obviously kicking in.
A group of young men standing in front of the store caught Blue Bird's attention. He recognized them all as members of East Side Lime Street except the one in the wheelchair. He was a 900. Being the troublemaker he was, he looked back at Criminal and said, “Say, cuz, there go some Nines right there. You gonna let them marks clown you by posting up when they know we riding?”
“Nigga what? Watch this muthafucka bark.” Criminal brandished a long-nosed Colt. Tears knew what was about to go down and had it not been for the red light he would've pulled off. Before he could even protest Criminal was out of the car and heading in the direction of the store.
 
 
IT WAS
a beautiful night on the Pacific Coast. The sack chasers were out sacking, and the dope boys were out getting their sling on. Just another day in the hood … At least it was for the moment.
“What's up, East Side?” A man in a wheelchair asked, rolling up to the store. He was dressed in black Dickies pants and a red T-shirt.
“Oh, shit, Big Bo from the Nine!” He snatched his green Seattle Supersonics hat off for emphasis. “Man, fuck you doing way over here?”
“Same thing you doing, nigga, trying to cop a bottle and get blown,” Bo told him, wheeling up to the window to place his order.
“They ain't got no liquor stores where you stay at?” A man in a Raider's cap asked sarcastically.
“Hell yeah, you know the hood ain't got nothing but hard times and liquor stores. Me and the homeys is kicking it off San Luis at the rest.”
“Y'all posted up over here? You must be ready to flip that Lime?” another young man asked. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but there was a green sports band around his arm, the kind you would get at a club.
Bo looked up at him. “You know I ain't no set flipper, Blood. It's Nine or nothing, y'all know my style.” He threw up his set.
“Man, your old ass still out here tripping, wheelchair and all,” Lil Bay teased him.
“Please believe it, my nigga. They might've put me down”—he dipped under the seat of his wheelchair, and came up holding a small pistol—“but not out, you feel me, dawg? I ain't tripping though. My nigga Major copped a pad for his people down that way, so we just come through and coast. Me, Mo-Mo, and the nigga Reckless.”
“Reckless? I thought I seen him come through here a time or two. I just thought he was on one.”
“Man, stop that bullshit. My folk is cool,” Bo said, knowing he was telling a bold-faced lie. Though Reckless was barely a day over twenty, he had Major Blood's temper and bloodlust.
“Shit the way Reckless be on it I doubt if it'll be a secret for very long. It's only a matter of time before that fool smokes somebody, much of that sherm as he smoke,” Bay said, taking a swig of his forty ounce.
“Man, the nut don't fall too far from the tree,” Supersonics cap said. “I don't know who the fuck is worse, between him and Major.”
“Say, Blood, who that?” sports band asked, nodding toward a dark-skinned young man who was coming across the street. His question was answered when he heard the battle cry.
“Crrrrriiiiiiiipppp!”
Criminal bellowed right before he lit the block up.
 
 
“RUN MUTHAFUCKA
grab you shit and duck, I'm from the crew of O.G.s where niggaz don't give a fuck!” Mad Man sang along with the Dogg Pound song blasting from the stereo. “Man, this niggaz can't C faded!” He slapped Lil Blue on the arm.
“Man, turn that shit down before you get us pulled over, nigga!” Lil Blue snapped. “These niggaz send us off on this fucking dummy mission and yo ass is having a sing along.”
“Kick back, cuz. You act like it's something to bust on these ho-ass niggaz.”
“Man, this is some real fuck shit!” Lil Blue said from the passenger seat of the stolen Pontiac. “Them niggaz is gonna get all the glory, while we do the grunt work.”
“Quit bitching, cuz, this shit should be fun,” Mad Man told him, as he surveyed the gas station. A middle-aged man was jiggling the pump inside his '91 Ford, and a gray Le Sabre was double-parked in front of the station. “Come on, man. Let's go in here and rip this bitch off so the homeys can get it popping.”
The plan had been for Mad Man and Lil Blue to go around committing petty crimes and leading the police on a chase while Gutter and his team would roll through and put the smash on Reckless and his family. Lil Blue Bird was still upset that they wouldn't be a part of the murders, but Mad Man didn't care. As far as he was concerned, stripes were stripes.
“I still don't like being no damn diversion,” Lil Blue complained, taking the gun from under his seat and jamming it into the pocket of his pullover. Still mumbling under his breath, he followed Mad Man across the gas station.
There wasn't much going on inside the filling station. A group
of young men congregated around the beer cooler, arguing about what kind of malt liquor they were gonna chip in for. Behind the bulletproofed glass a young girl clicked her gum, and chatted away on her cell phone, not really caring about the loitering young men. All she wanted to do was make it through her shift unmolested. From the way the young men were dressed Mad Man knew they were bangers and a wonderful plan formed in his mind.
“Looks like we might get some real action after all, cuz.” Mad Man nudged Lil Blue and nodded at the young men around the cooler. Lil Blue Bird just smiled and continued on to the potato chip rack, while Mad Man moved to get a Pepsi.
“What's cracking, baby?” Mad Man capped to the attendant, opening the Pepsi before paying for it. He took a deep swig and watched for her reaction.
The girl rolled her eyes and clicked her gum one last time before asking the caller to hold on. “Can I help you?” She glared at Mad Man.
“Yeah, I came in to get some blunts and something to drink, but I'll settle for your phone number.” Mad Man smiled, at which she just frowned.
“Nigga, please”—she rolled her eyes—“what you need to do is get yo ass from around here with all that blue on.” She motioned toward his blue-on-blue Chucks. The girl tossed two Phillies in the little sliding drawer and punched in a series of keys on the register.
“Bitch, please, my pass is international!” Mad Man snarled. “Yo cuz,” he called to Lil Blue Bird, loud enough for the young men by the cooler to hear. “This bitch sound like shorty that was wit that tampon we rolled on at the drive-through. You remember the bitch who fries you ate!”
“Straight up, cuz.” He picked up on his friend's train of thought.
“Bitch ass rolled through the wrong hood and got caught, you know the rules.” The last insult thrown spurred the young men to approach them.
“Sup, Blood. You know where you at?” said a young man wearing jeans two sizes too big for his slim hips. His fitted cap was cocked deep to the right, and the set of his jaw said trouble.
Lil Blue took up the challenge with his chest poked out. “Nigga, we know where we at. The question should be, do we give a fuck?”
“Y'all don't start tripping in here. You know I got a half hour left on my shift, so save that shit for then!” the cashier shouted from behind the glass.
“Bitch, shut up,” Mad Man said, tossing his Pepsi against the glass. When he turned around to add his two cents to the mix, he was holding his hammer. “Now tell me where the fuck we at?” Mad Man demanded, pointing it at the man who'd approached Lil Blue Bird.
The young man's scowl faded and he was once again the little boy his mother would kiss on the forehead before school every morning. “Lime Street,” he mumbled.
“What, nigga? Tell me again?” Mad Man pressed the barrel against his forehead.
The young man who had been sipping the forty looked like he was having a moment, but Blue Bird pushed the notion from his mind by pressing the barrel of the Beretta in his back. “Don't do it to yourself, homey,” he warned.
“Now,” Mad Man continued, “tell me where we at?”
The kid looked like he would fall out if he didn't think a sudden movement would've gotten him shot. “Lime … Street,” he forced out. “East Lime Street.”
Mad Man grinned at him before slamming the butt of the gun
into his head. The kid collapsed into a heap, trying to stop the gush of blood that was spewing from his head. “Fuck you hood, nigga!” Mad Man spat. He hadn't had to be so brutal, but he wanted to make sure that he left the young man with a clear picture of what he had signed on for choosing a side. One thing Mad Man hated more than an enemy was some that represented the life without fully understanding it.
“I done told you fool about set tripping in here, I'm 'bout to call the police!” the cashier threatened.
Lil Blue Bird spun and let off a shot. The barrier webbed, but didn't shatter, which was enough to get the cashier to jump beneath the counter. “Bitch, weren't you told to shut up? Now”—he turned to the young men—“you muthafuckas turn you pockets out,” he said, waving the gun. “The big homey Gunn has passed on and he demands tribute.”
Ten minutes later Mad Man and Lil Blue Bird were hopping back to the Pontiac, laughing like two schoolkids. They had robbed all the young men and the cashier before snatching an armful of cigarettes and fleeing. The police were surely on their way to the crime scene, which was expected. But when they got to the gas station and demanded to see the tape they'd only find out what Mad Man and Lil Blue already knew. The camera hadn't worked in three months. When they got back to the hood they would break Tia off for her stellar performance, but right then they had more mischief to cause. The chase was on.
 
 
THE MOTEL
room at the Holland Motor Inn was several steps down from the room at the W Hotel in Manhattan, but it would have to do. Being anywhere within the five boroughs was too risky. Not only did he have to worry about the Crips, but the police were riding
on every gang in an attempt to restore order and the Bloods wanted answers as to what had happened to Hawk. New York was on fire and Major Blood had struck the match.
“That shit is all over the news,” Tito said proudly as he watched an Asian woman on the screen recount the shooting that evening in Harlem.
“Anybody reach out about Hawk yet?” Eddie asked.
Tito looked at his cell phone. “Yeah, niggaz been blowing my jack up all night, but I'm looping the calls.”
“Man, they gonna know we was behind that shit,” Eddie told him.
“So?” Major Blood spoke up. “Blood, Hawk was connected, but he ain't have no real street power in years. Niggaz is gonna be tight for a while, but when we bring down Harlem and start the new unification they'll get over it. Hell, we'll be heroes!”
“Or dead men,” Eddie mumbled.
“I'm getting tired of your negative attitude, Eduardo.” Major pointed a finger at him. He was about to start ranking on Eddie again, but his cell phone made him hold the thought. He listened for a while, trying to decipher the caller's slurred speech, then asked, “Lexi?”

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