I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2) (18 page)

“Cheeks.” Dickie held up his palm, trying to
placate the muscle, still speaking to Werner. “We got something we
need to talk about, we’ll find time to talk about it right? That’s
all we got in here,
time
, right?”

“I don’t think you understand what I’m
saying,” Werner ignored the other men at the table, the hard looks
they were giving him, the screw unarmed in here like all the other
guards, “you don’t want him to come to you.”

“Whoa!” Bianchi rose, outraged, Dickie
holding up a palm, stopping his men. Dickie saying to Werner, “I
heard you.”

“The balls on this guy…” Bianchi settling
back down, Werner already turned and walking off.

“Fuckin’ jamook,” Carlucci threw his cards
down, disgusted.

“Fuckin’ guy’s a
mortadella
,” offered
Nicky.

“I don’t like that guy,” said the Scal. “He’s
bad news.”

“Cheeks,” Dickie looked in the direction the
screw had walked off in, “Who they talking about?” He meant Werner
just now, Renfeld the other day.

“Nothing. No one.
Strunz
. Some piece
of shit we don’t go near.”

“Oh, yeah? Don’t sound like it.”

Mitchell Givens had grown up in the Moses
houses. He’d started out on the quad steering for the Rock Steady
Boys when he was eight years old, got himself a job inside the
crack house before he was twelve. By fifteen he was out of school
and pulling security full time in the kitchen for Little Ringo,
helping to keep an eye on the cooks, oversee the bricks and triple
beams. Somewhere along the way he figured out he could string words
together and started earning a name for himself as an MC,
travelling to cyphers all over the city, coming to the attention of
an older rap legend who took him under his wing, got him
signed.

Four albums later Busta Nutz was an overnight
success on the back of his single,
An
East
Side
Thang
, featuring G-Funk-style deep bass and
melodic synthesizers over a cacophonic hook with a sample from
Gambino mobster John Gotti. This past summer, with the music
establishment questioning his staying power, his single
Lines
(
Way
Back
) dropped, propelling him to
the top of the urban and R&B charts once again. When Mitchell
Givens came back to the Moses houses he was treated like a
celebrity, which, as Busta Nutz, he was. He visited once or twice a
year, rolling in like some kind of dignitary in a flashy new whip,
his posse with him.

This morning he’d rolled in with his crew in
a dark red 98 Lincoln Navigator, tricked out with chrome from the
grill to the rims, the system booming
Way
Back
. Folks
had heard him coming and kids started pointing, following in the
street. Givens got out of the SUV with his boys and greeted his
people, dapping them up, hugging some, flashing his grillz at the
ladies.

The Rock Steady crew had fallen apart years
ago, Little Ringo drawing federal time out in Ohio. A number of
individuals and crews stepped up in an attempt to fill the vacuum
left behind, but dominance over the drug trade at the Moses houses
wasn’t cemented until a pair of young brothers, James and David
Conyers, moved in and moved up. Busta Nutz had maintained friendly
relations with everyone involved and found himself welcomed by all
parties on his biannual returns.

By seven o’clock, Busta-Nutz was done
pressing the flesh. The men his production team had hired with the
moving van had come and set up the speakers and equipment. A DJ was
spinning discs, rocking beats that filled the quad, his rotation
heavy with Busta’s joints. Noticeably absent from the mix was
anything from Gangsta Khan: Khan had the number one single in the
city and was all over the news following his shooting. Men and
women filled the quad, mostly young, some old timers standing back
on the sidelines, drawn out of their apartments by all the noise.
Busta’s people pulled security with Conyer’s men. Days Busta Nutz
came back to the hood were days people in the Moses houses could
count on as safe, look forward to a good time.

Seated in the rec room of building 4,
Mitchell Givens was content to act out his role as visiting
emissary. He remembered the stories he’d heard as a kid about
Howard Beach and John Gotti. On the table before him a bottle of
champagne and a collection of mix tapes neighborhood hopefuls
brought to him. In front of the table, a steady stream of Moses
people, coming in to ask favors, to thank him for favors granted.
Busta’s man Malik at the door ushering them in one at a time. Trey
standing behind him with his man bag and what was in it, just in
case. Busta was respected around here but he wasn’t stupid. He was
from Moses, knew you couldn’t trust it.

Dodd stood in front of the table with the
kid, Luther, who liked to be called Luke. Dodd in one of his denim
suits, checking out his boy Mitchell. Busta with his sweats-worn
low, boxers prominent. A 32” heavy gold rope chain over his wife
beater, like something out of the 80s. Busta had his Nike visor off
his head and on the table next to the mix tapes, some kind of
matching sneakers on his feet. Dodd didn’t recognize the kicks but
he figured Luke did.

The rap game had been good to Dodd’s old
friend, a fact Busta wasn’t shy about advertising. An iced out
fourteen-karat gold watch on his wrist. The rings on his fingers
worth more than his ride outside.

Trey stood behind Givens, looking
disinterested or stoned. Trey was a tall man with a short beard. He
wasn’t as wide as he was tall, but wide he was. Busta’s bodyguard
wore a diamond Jesus pendant over his throwback Brooklyn Dodgers
jersey, Jesus wearing shades. Had a man purse hanging from a
leather strap over his jersey, like one of them bags the couriers
on the bikes in the city wore.

Dodd be damned if he’d ever be caught wearing
one.

“Heard you done good the other night, kid,”
Busta was talking to Luke.

Luke nodded, quiet for once. Talking to Busta
Nutz, rap superstar. He couldn’t get over it. Wait till he told
Marquis and Yuri. Busta Nuts had summoned
him
. Busta sitting
there in his Nike Air Foamposite Maxes, silver and black. Tim
Duncan’s shoe. Luke knew those sneakers went for a couple hundred
bucks.

“Heard you can keep your mouth shut,” Busta
said to the kid, and Dodd cast a side-long glance at Luke because
that
wasn’t
what he’d been hearing and it concerned him
some. But Dodd kept his mouth shut; knew Givens was really here to
talk with him, not the kid. Even had some idea what Mitch was going
to say when he got around to it.

“Just want to let you know I’m thankful,
aight?”

“Aight.” A broad smile broke over Luke’s
face, the kid basking in the approval. He’d self-consciously tucked
his shiny new link chain under his t-shirt when he’d come in the
rec room. No way he could compete with Busta’s gold rope, with any
of the bling.

“Might could use you again down the road, ya
n’meen?”

“Aight!” Enthusiasm is Luke’s reply, the kid
already picturing him and Dodd pulling more jobs, like Duncan and
David Robinson together on the Spurs, the Twin Towers. A force to
be reckoned with.

“Go on then.” Busta motioned with the
champagne bottle. “Get outside, get yourself some hootchie.”

The kid left, fairly glowing, Givens turning
his undivided attention to his old friend. “Double-D.” Dodd smiled
in spite of himself, in spite of the fact that the business that
brought Mitch here wasn’t anything to smile about. Double-D was
Dodd’s nickname from a long time ago, for a variety of reasons,
partly because of his first name,
Darius
.

Darius
, which nobody but his grandma
used to call him, and then only when she was angry.

Darius
Dodd
.

Double-D.

“Not like you to choke.” Givens put it out
there, cutting to the chase.

“I put half a dozen in him, more,” Dodd
related, not nervous, stating the facts. “I shot that nigga in the
head.”

“You’re tellin’ me
what
?” Givens drank
straight from the bottle. “He’s indestructible? And sit down,
nigga. Don’t stand in front of me like that. You my boy.”

Dodd pulled a chair over, saying as he sat
down, “Man ain’t indestructible. He just dies hard.”

“Another thing I’m wondering,” Givens put the
flat bottomed bottle down. “Why’d you kill Turner?” The slight man
on the elevator. Their man inside, had set it all up.

“That’s the thing. I didn’t.”

“Wasn’t easy explainin’ that to his brother.”
Givens picked up one of the cassette tapes from in front of him,
turned it over in his hand absently.

“Like I said, I popped him in the shoulder.
Nigga was fine when I walked out of there.”

This was the part where, with someone else,
Trey would step up in his throwback jersey and Jesus pendant and
say something intimidating. But Trey didn’t say anything, because
this was Dodd, some kind of Busta’s boy since way back.

“You want,” offered Dodd, “I finish it.”

“What you gonna do—walk into that hospital,
disguise yourself as a doctor?”

“You and me done crazier shit than that for
Ringo we were kids.” And Givens had to grin because he remembered
it well, remembered some of the shit he and Dodd had walked away
from. Dodd saying it could be done, “I figure out the angles.”

“Nah.” Givens tapped the cassette in his hand
on the table. “Nigga might not make it as it is.” He tossed the
cassette back on the piles with the others. “We wait, let nature
take its course, ya n’meen?”

“Go see my man, Styles.” Malik was at the
door, redirecting a crack head in the hall. “He hook you up.”

“How you like being back?” Givens changed the
subject, asking Dodd how it felt to be out of prison.

Dodd shrugged but didn’t say anything.

“I appreciate what you done for me. You want,
there gonna be more work comin’ up.”

“I’m in.”

“
My
man
, Double-D. Trey, you
know why they call Dodd here Double-D?”

“He like big titites?”

Givens laughed, “Who don’t?” and Dodd scoffed
good-naturedly, Givens asking, “Yo, you remember those parties we
used to have right here?”

Dodd’s smile was genuine, things were cool
between him and Mitch, even if the Khan wasn’t past tense.
Yet
. “Man, how’m I forget that?”

“Trey,” Busta spoke to his bodyguard without
looking at him. “My boy Dodd right here, let me tell you, this boy
could get his swerve on.” Busta reclaimed the Cristal bottle. “Dodd
could move. Yes, he could. Taught me to cabbage patch—you remember
that?” Drinking from the bottle. “That was some back-in-the-day
shit right there. You should have seen him.” The bottle back on the
table.

“Could he moon walk?” Trey asked Busta like
Dodd wasn’t sitting right there.

“Moonwalk wasn’t shit, a man with footwork
like him.”

“Let me see.” Trey said it to Dodd like he
expected Dodd was going to get up and dance for him right there.
But Dodd and Busta were both looking at him, Busta having turned
around in his seat. Trey took a step back.

“Don’t mind Trey,” Givens put his back to the
standing man again, looking down at the bottle. “He lacks the
social graces sometimes is all. Trey, give my man some stacks.”

Trey unzipped the bag he wore, reaching in to
whatever was inside, his hand emerging with a stack of banded cash
an inch thick. He stepped forward, asking hesitantly, “How much of
it?”

“The whole thing, dammit.” Busta answered
without looking back, giving Dodd a look like:
the
help
these
days
…

Trey dropped the cash on the table in front
of Dodd.

“Nigga—pick that up and hand it to him.”

Trey, used to throwing money at strippers and
Busta’s underlings, did as he was told.

“This,” Dodd took it from him, his eyes on
Givens, “is a lot of money.” He didn’t say it was too much.

“Consider it a retainer.”

Dodd slipped the money inside his jean
jacket.

“Yo, Busta.” Malik was standing there in his
Ecko Unlimited shirt over Boss jeans, some kind of funky Addidas
sneakers Dodd didn’t recognize on his feet. Had two girls with him.
“Busta, these young ladies want to make your acquaintance.”

“Hey, baby girl. Hey there darlin’. How’s it
goin’?” Givens raised the bottle to the women, winking at them,
flashing his grillz. “We done,” he told Dodd. “Want to hang around,
party like we used to?”

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

Dodd stood up from the chair, looked once at
Trey—the bodyguard still looking indifferent or high, wearing some
kind of purse,
damn
—and turned to leave, the girls coming
into the room, talking fast, their voices high. Givens called out
behind him, “Yo, Dodd.”

Dodd turned.

“Good seein’ youse all, man. Ya n’meen?”

Dodd held his fist up high in the air like
they used to do when they were kids—black power—and Busta laughed
as his friend left the rec room.

“S’up, Dodd.” Luke tried to greet him as Dodd
came out of tower four, the music from the speakers booming here on
the quad. Luke on the steps with his boys Marquis and Yuri, some
little girls. Luke had his chain back outside his shirt, his hand
up at his neck, fingering the links.

Dodd walked by him, like he hadn’t heard him.
It stung Luke, because Luke was here with his friends and Dodd was
going to play him like that. Dodd, who hadn’t ignored Busta’s guy
outside the door there but had ignored him. Dodd, whose ass would
still be walking home if Luke hadn’t driven him home.

“My boy’s quiet like that,” Luke told the
others, fooling with his chain. “Likes to keep to himself.” He
turned his attention back to his group, his head already reeling
from the weed Marquis was passing around. “You should have seen him
when we walked in there—that Khan nigga like,
oh
shit
! Me and Dodd just lightin’ them up like, like—” the
weed messing with his head, Luke couldn’t find the word.