Me and My Hittas (11 page)

“Gangster?” Black Jesus stopped his glass at his lips.
“There’s nothing gangster about spending the rest of your
life behind the wall, or being gassed like some diseased
rodent. You’ve got a lot to learn about life, little brother.”
He took a swallow of wine.

Bullet nodded his head in agreement, his big brother
made a good point. There wasn’t anything “Gangster”
about spending the rest of your life in prison, or being
sentenced to death. But if he had a choice in the matter, he’d
rather take the short walk to his execution, than rot behind
a barbwire fence.

“So, what exterminator should we hire?” Bullet
inquired. “I was thinking about Tito.” He took a bite of
salmon.

“Definitely not, Tito’s family,” Black Jesus told him.
“We don’t want this thing being traced back to us. It’s bad
enough the cops are sniffing around. The last thing I want
to do is give them a reason to come prying further in my
affairs. We’ll get some outside assistance for our little
vermin.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

The drug lord held up his fork, as he chewed his food
and then he swallowed. “The Ghost,” he went back to
cutting up his salmon.

“The Ghost?”

 

“Unh huh,” Black Jesus said, munching on salmon.

 

“You sure you wanna use this guy? I mean, he charges
an arm and a leg.”

“
Fifty thousand dollars to be exact, but who gives a
shit? I have more money than I know what to do with. I
spend fifty thousand dollars a year on socks and drawers
alone. What the fuck do I care?” Black Jesus was about to
take another bite of salmon until he noticed how uptight
Bullet was at the mention of hiring the infamous hit-man.
“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think old Ghost
had you spooked.”

“Who me?” his brows furrowed as he pointed his
thumb at his chest, “Not the kid, my heart don’t pump no
KoolAid, you know my resume.” He took a sip of red wine.

Bullet was full of shit; the hit-man gave him the
creeps. As a kid he was told stories about the assassin as if
he were The Boogie Man. If you don’t behave then The
Ghost will come and chop your head off, his big brother use
to tell him late nights when they were the only ones home.

Black Jesus clapped his hands sporadically and the
maid emerged in the dining room with a pearl and gold
antique telephone on a golden platter. It was time to make
a very important phone call.

That night

A milk white stretch Mercedes Benz pulled up on
124
^th
and Compton Avenue. The chauffeur slid out from
behind its wheel, popped its trunk,
and removed a
wheelchair. He sat the wheelchair on the ground, closed the
trunk, and proceeded around to the back passenger door. He
then opened the back door of the stretch hog and helped
Black Jesus into the confines of the wheelchair. Tango
exited the limo from the opposite side and made his way
over to his boss. He took his wheelchair by the handles and
rolled him upon the sidewalk. Rolling Black Jesus through
the black iron-gate of the house, he gave the creepy looking
place a once over and could have sworn he saw a dark figure
move past the openings of one of its boarded up windows.

Tango knocked on the chipped wood door of the old
house and paint chips floated into the crisp, cold night air.
For a moment there was silence, and then they heard what
sounded like ten locks coming undid. The front-door swung
inward and Tango and Black Jesus’ nasal passages were
assaulted by an odor so foul that it made them gag. The
stench was a combination of blood, sweat, urine and feces.
Tango and Black Jesus brandished their handkerchiefs and
covered their noses; as they proceeded over the threshold
the front door slammed shut behind them, locking itself.
Startled, Tango pulled his pistol and stepped in front of his
boss to shield him from any danger. He pointed his piece
and turned his head in every direction a threat might present
itself.

Black Jesus
looked around the living room; its
hardwood floors were dirty and wore gaping holes. Its walls
and ceiling was filthy and covered in green mole from water
damage.

“Hello? My name is Jesus Arturo!” He yelled. “I’m
looking for the one they call The Ghost!” he spoke loud
enough for anyone to hear that may be listening.

“Come down into the basement!” A voice
came from
the dirty, spider webbed intercom on the wall. The voice
was deep with a heavy bass to it. If you were to close your
eyes you could assume that it belonged to the Lord himself.
Tango and Black Jesus’ eyes darted all around the living
room trying to figure out where the voice had come from.
Giving up, they moved in on the basement door. Tango
twisted the door knob and pushed in on it with his shoulder
but it wouldn’t budge. He then tackled the door twice,
which caused debris to fall from the ceiling. Giving it
another try, he took a few steps back, ran forth and threw
his whole body toward the door. Before the door and his
200 lb frame could meet, it swung open and he went
tumbling down a flight of steps. The Dominican body guard
hit the basement floor and his pistol went skidding into the
wall.

Black Jesus rolled into the doorway and looked down
the flight of steps that lead into the basement. The steps
were dusty and looked weak,as if they’d give under the
slightest amount of pressure.

“Tango, are you okay?” Black Jesus yelled down to
him.

 

“Yeah,” Tango responded, rubbing the lump forming
on his head and surveying the basement.

 

“Who’s down there?”

“No one,”
he answered, picking up his pistol from
against the wall. “It’s hot as hell, though. There’s a burning
furnace down here!”

“Alright, I’m going to try to come down!” With that
said, the
wooden steps converted into a ramp,
easily
accessible for a wheelchair. “Was that you who did that?!”

“No!” Tango said, looking around the basement with
his pistol out stretched, ready to open fire on anyone posing
a threat.

“Alright,
I’m coming down!” the drug lord rolled
himself down the ramp and onto the basement floor beside
his bodyguard. Standing side by side, they looked over the
basement; it was clean as a whistle.

“Fuck is going on here?” Tango asked. “Where is
your hitman?”

“Ghost,” Black Jesus called out. “Hola, mi amigo,
I’ve come to talk business!” He rolled his wheelchair an
inch forward and a wild German shepherd shot from out of
the dark corner of the basement. The huge dog leapt forward
and tried to bite the Mexican druglord’s face off, but it was
snagged in mid air by the chain attached to the collar around
its neck. The German shepherd snarled and barked at Tango
and Black Jesus. Tango raised his weapon and was just
about to fire on the dog, when he heard a voice from the
darkness.

“Hank,” The voice boomed from the confines of the
shadows. “Sit your ass down!” An albino man oozed from
the shadows of the basement. He had dark menacing eyes
and long blonde hair that lay over his broad shoulders. His
6 foot 2 frame was lean and mean, with just the right amount
of muscle. He was in a black long brim hat, a cape and
needle pointed boots. The Ghost bit into a juicy peach as he
ascended on the drug lord and his body guard. He seemed
to more so float over than walk. This was just one of the
attributes to which why he was christened,
The Ghost.

The Ghost was so tall that his shadow gave his guests
shade. Tango’s eyes crept up from his boots and settled into
the cold eyes of the pale skinned assassin. The Dominican
was intimidated by the killer but he wouldn’t let it show. He
had a reputation made of Teflon and he refused to relinquish
any dents to it.

The Ghost’s eyes wandered from Tango’s and rested
on Black Jesus’. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “So,
talk,” before taking another bite of his peach.

“Right,” Black Jesus
said, popping the locks on his
briefcase. He raised the lid and revealed rows of crisps
$5,000 stacks. On top of the bills was a black & white
photograph ofLil’ Gangsta. He removed the photograph
from the briefcase and handed it over to the hit-man.

“His government, alias and current address a
re on the
back,” Black Jesus informed him “Though I doubt you’ll
find him there.”

The Ghost tossed his half eaten peach high over his
shoulder. Hank leapt into the air like a dolphin, snagged it
and gobbled it down. The assassin sucked the juices of the
ripe fruit from his fingers as he studied the information on
the back of the photograph.

“Is that my money?” he
asked, pointing
to the
briefcase full ofmoney on the drug lord’s lap.

“Yes, it’s
all here, fifty thousanddollars,” Black Jesus
told him. The Ghost closed the briefcase and pulled it from
Black Jesus’ lap by its handle. He didn’t even bother to
check the dollar amount. “Don’t you want to make sure the
money is all there?”

“Oh, it’s all there.” The Ghost said with confidence.

 

“How can you be so sure?” a line indented his
forehead.

“Because no one has ever been stupid enough to cross
The Ghost,” He spoke of himself in third person. Tango was
about to make a move on the assassin for his comment, but
his boss waved him off.

“Down boy,” The Ghost flashed the bodyguard
a
devilish grin, showcasing the fang like teeth inside of his
mouth. He then looked to Black Jesus. “How do you
want’em,” he held up the photograph of Lil’ Gangsta “Open
or closed casket?”

“Do as you please. Just as long
as you put him out of
his misery,” he told him. “I trust that you still have my
number.”

“No more phones, I’ll be contacting you directly.”

“Don’t run off with that money and make me come
looking for you.” Tango warned the assassin, as he rolled
his boss over to the ramp. The Ghost laughed at his threat;
he knew the bodyguard was no match for his talents. The
albino was a proficient killer and was in incredible shape.
He would make short work of the old gangster if they were
to bump heads.

“Don’t tempt me.” The Ghost smiled wickedly.

 

“You think this clown is going to come through?”
Tango asked his employer as he rolled him up the ramp.

“Oh, he’ll deliver,” Black Jesus told him, lighting up
a cigar and blowing out smoke. “There’s no doubt in my
mind.”

You can take that to the bank,
he thought.
Chapter Seven

Fat Travon was p
osted up in front of Ace’s mini
market curb serving. He had both of his hands in his jacket;
in one pocket he held onto a .32 and in the other he grasped
a fist full of dime rocks. Paranoid, every five seconds he
found himself looking over his shoulders, checking his
surroundings. He knew he had no business hustling on
Adams; it had been made clear that this was Big Gangsta’s
territory. Therefore, the small piece of land was off limits
to any homies who weren’t under the shot caller’s employ.
But things had changed since Gangsta had gotten locked up
and gave his nephew the imaginary deed to the property. It
was no longer Gangsta’s land he was slinging on, but O.G
Booby Loc’s. And to him the
differences
were
considerable.

Travon knew of Booby and his older
brother Gouch’s
reputations. But he didn’t care, he had a family to support
and neither O.G Booby nor his brother was going to put
food in his babies’ mouths. He had rent for two houses, two
car notes, five kids, three baby mommas and his mother’s
medical bills to take care of.

The Adams block was the best strip for a D-boy to get
his hustle on; the block was a gold mine for corner hustlers.
You could always catch a few fiends sniffing around for a
fix. Travon had only been posted up for an hour and had
clocked $300 dollars already. The hell if he was going to
pack it up and move somewhere else to hustle just because
Bobby said so. Fuck that, he was strapped; he was going to
hold his little corner down and go to war behind it if
necessary. If shit got too hot he had a couple of riders he
could call to bear arms alongside him.

A Beach Cruiser skidded to a stop beside Fat Travon,
the stubby man spun around and tried to pull his piece but
it got snagged in the inside of his jacket’s pocket. After the
slip up, he was expecting to feel the sizzling bullets of his
assailant’s weapon, but instead he got laughter.

“Blood, you slow than a mothafucka! If I was a
crab,
or one of the Mexicans, I would have floored you already!”
Big Head threw his head back laughing.

“Well, nigga you’re not!” Fat Travon shot back,
annoyed.

 

“What chu doing out here this early anyway, fool?”
he switched subjects, seeing his homeboy was on one.

“What does it look like? The early bird catches the
worm. I’m tryna get it.” He replied like he should have
known, serving a butch smoker two dime rocks. The
exchange was so smooth that it looked like the two of them
were just smacking each other five.

“I ain’t mad at chu, B
lood, but chu do know this the
bighomie’s shit, right?” Big Head asked, knowing damn
well Travon knew who corner he was hustling on; all the
homies from the hood knew that O.G Booby Loc was
running Gangsta’s operation now.

“Man, fuck Booby!” Fat Travon spat angrily. “Blood
might be y’all niggaz daddy but he ain’t mine.”

 

“So what chu saying, my nigga?” he frowned up.

“What I’m saying is,
Booby can eat a bowl of hot
dicks and you can, too!” He stepped into the little nigga’z
face, drawing his .32 pistol.

“That’s how
you feel?” Big Head mad dogged him,
wanting to fire on his ass. He was so close he could smell
the leftover liver and onions on his breath.