Tales from da Hood (11 page)

“You guess?” Cojack asked.

“Yeah, it would. I can get better with some help.”

“Then what do you say maybe twice a week after school you could come here to the rec and work with a math tutor?”

“That sounds good,” the boy said.

“Cool. Then I'll hook it up.”

“Damn, thanks, Cojack,” the boy said. Once again Cojack sighed. “I mean, dang, Mr. Cojack, sir. Thank you.”

Cojack laughed, then patted the kid on the head. “No problem. Now go on and eat up some of this food.”

“Okay,” he said, running off.

Cojack watched him run off and just stood there with a smile on his face. But then a gorgeous chick walked by and he stood there watching her ass instead.

Females crushed the party in packs. They wanted to be wherever the hustlers were. It was such a good day, but something was different for Cojack. Something was missing. His mind was distracted
and all he thought about was going to see Robbin again. He remembered the way he had felt the night before, like he was some kind of superman. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to try some more of that stuff she had.

TWO WEEKS
after the picnic the sun was blazing over Richmond's streets, bringing people out to the Midlothian Car Wash in droves. It was more like a car show, the way drivers lined up their whips in front of the car wash for everyone to admire, everything from Hummers, Corvettes, and Escalades to souped-up old-school Caddys.

The chicks were hawking all of the fellas in an attempt to find their flavor, whether it was a dude in a snugly fit wife beater that outlined his cuts and a body covered in tattoos or a clean-cut dude in a Rocawear button-up with khakis.

Cojack cruised up and saw Mason's Philly cap hung to the back as he stood talking to two cuties in a forest green Land Cruiser. Co-jack got out of his Lexus. His iced-out chain and Rolex glistened in the strong rays of the sun. Immediately, three girls cleaning out a red Tracker began flirting with him as he stopped to chat with a few of his buddies from the Ave. Finally, he made his way over to Mason, who was with two familiar faces, this woman named Mesha that Co-jack sometimes ran with and her friend Kim. Cojack chuckled to himself at the look Mesha shot him. After giving his man dap, he faced the glaring female.

“Damn, Mesha, when we get there?” Cojack asked as he looked her up and down, admiring her toned physique. He almost quivered thinking about the last time the two of them had hooked up. Whether he came too quick or not and she never got hers, she got excited off of the mere fact of pleasing him.

“Why you ain't been callin’ me?” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I can't even lie, shorty. A nigga been rippin’ and runnin'.”

“Unh-hunh, I bet,” she replied.

“So what up, though?” He smiled and squeezed her cheek. “You gon’ spend the day with a nigga or what?”

“And where we goin'?” she asked, snappin’ her neck.

“For real, for real, I'm tryin’ to lay back in an AC somewhere. Shit, we can hit the pool and chill. It's too hot to do anything else.”

“That sounds like fun,” Kim jumped in. Mason seemed to like the idea as well.

“So how you gon’ act? You gon’ chill out wit’ your boy or what?” Cojack asked, giving her a pat on the behind. He stepped closer, observing her long bronze legs, thick hips, and a set of breasts that seemed like they would burst out of her one-size-too-small blouse if she breathed too hard.

She finally agreed but said they had to run up to Cloverleaf and get something out of layaway. That worked for Cojack because he had to make a quick run. He produced a bankroll, peeling off a crisp hundred. “Get the room after you handle your business,” he said, handing Mesha the money.

“Anywhere specific, baby?” she asked in a sexy and drawn out tone.

“Anyplace with a pool.”

Days Inn was located directly across from Chesterfield Towne Center. Mason and the girls were already in the pool when Cojack arrived. The foursome played around in the water for over an hour, dunking each other and simply enjoying themselves. Cojack and Mesha were the first to leave. He was answered at the expression on the white woman's face as he exited with a rock-hard penis. Her face turned a reddish pink and she started rubbing her neck as if she had become hot. He and Mesha laughed all the way to their room.

Inside, no time was wasted as Cojack and Mesha stripped themselves bare as if they couldn't wait another second. He rained soft, heated kisses on her neck and then laid her across the bed. Mesha looked in awe at his large penis. It seemed to have expanded a few inches since their last session. After ten minutes of foreplay, Cojack propped her legs on his shoulders. With her pretty manicured feet resting on his collarbone, he commenced to stroke her nice and slow.

Almost two hours later, Mesha had experienced three major orgasms, a record breaker for her. Cojack was sweating like a Hebrew slave and hadn't climaxed once. What the hell was his problem?

“Please come, baby,” she begged. “You killin’ me.” There was no response as he turned her slippery body over like a pancake and began pounding her from behind. Twenty minutes later, Cojack said fuck it and faked his orgasm, collapsing on top of her. Soaked in each other's ecstasy, she looked at him nearly out of breath. “Did you come?”

“Yeah,” he responded between breaths, lying through his teeth.

“Oh my God. Damn,” she uttered and turned to him with a surprised expression. “You ain't never fucked me like that before. Have you been drinking or something?” He nodded, tired and drained, lying again. Luckily, it was a room with double beds because the bed they had fucked on was destroyed. Thirty minutes later, after regaining his strength, Cojack led her into the shower and picked up where they left off.

THE
ROOM SEEMED
to spin in front of Cojack as he sat in the corner of Pier 7 Night Club watching the dance floor. He had just left
the VIP section after buying out the bar. Now he was standing close by the restroom, feeling like he'd puke any minute. The fellas had set up so much pussy for after hours that it was hard to pick and choose.

Cojack felt so twisted after leaving the restroom that he changed his mind and decided to call it a night. Plus he felt strange and very uneasy. He had a paranoid feeling that he couldn't dismiss. Maybe it was just being in the company of so many strangers. Or maybe he was just stoned out of his fucking mind. At any rate it was time to go. Everyone stayed back except Mason, who wanted to make sure his man got home safe.

Cojack felt more alert once the fresh air hit him. A lot of party-goers stood around in the parking lot, goofing around and passing time. As they proceeded on their long journey to the car, their attention quickly turned to a dispute fifteen yards away between two men and a female. Everyone in hearing distance tuned in as one young guy, obviously drunk, pulled out his penis and urinated a couple feet over from the pair.

“Ay man, you don't see the lady right here,” the other guy stated.

“So? Fuck that bitch! I gotta piss. Tell her to turn her head,” replied the young cat.

“C'mon, baby, don't pay him no mind,” the woman suggested, tugging at her man's arm. He hesitated for a moment, staring at the youth.

“Got a problem or somethin', slim?” the youngster asked, zipping up his fly. He knew the man was pissed, but still, if he knew what was best for him, he'd take his girl and step.

“What!” the youngster barked, lifting up his shirt just enough for the other guy to see the pistol strapped to the side of his waist.

“I don't want no problem, man,” the older guy said, then turned to his woman. “Get in the car. Let's go.”

“Huh? That's what I thought,” the drunk said as he turned and
walked off. Suddenly, the sound of a gun being cocked brought him to a halt. The young drunk never got chance to pull his pistol.

Boom!
The overconfident youngster was dead after the first bullet slammed through his brain. The last three were simply for general principle. The deafening vibrations echoed through the entire parking lot, sending people ducking for cover.

“Oh shit! Did you see that?” Cojack asked in disbelief, staring at the speeding car as the guy and his woman fled the scene.

Mason shook his head and replied, “I ain't see shit. C'mon, let's get the fuck outta here.” They scurried through the parking lot, glancing at the riddled body stretched between two cars. After pulling off, they wound up out on the Ave, shooting dice.

The block was nearly deserted except for five or six young hustlers at the top of the corner getting that early-morning cash.

Dukey, a veteran in the projects who used to get money back in the mid-eighties, waved the Lexus down, flashing a bankroll, hollering, “What the dice hittin’ fo?” The stranger he had with him was a dopehead, but he had a pocket full of cash. It was two in the morning and these cats had been going at it for an hour straight. Mason stood on the curb smoking a blunt while watching for the rollers.

“Don't cover the dice no more, Duke. This the second time you done pull that shit,” Cojack warned.

“Nigga, you crazy,” Duke replied, lying as usual. Everyone who gambled with him was aware of his slickness when it came to dice. It was just a matter of time before he did something to piss off his opponent. The stranger, whose name was Stan, told the men to stop arguing. “C'mon, baby, let's gamble,” he said.

They continued and shot hard for another thirty minutes until Duke did it again. An argument erupted. Mason had to intervene by stepping between his homeboy and Dukey before a punch could be thrown. It had gotten so out of hand that Mason snapped.

“Y'all niggas wanna argue? Tell you what,” he said, scooping the
dice up and throwing them into the dark night. “Ain't no muthafuckin’ body gamblin’ then!”

Dukey and Stan looked at him, surprised, while Cojack simply laughed. He knew when his man was mad and so did Dukey. As for Stan, he grinned and said, “I got some more, baby. Don't worry.” He was slurring, his head kept rolling, and his eyelids were getting heavy, making it obvious that the heroin had him feeling nice. Mason's eyes lit up as Stan pulled out a box of dice. Stan took three out and shook them in his hand before letting them fall to the sidewalk. “One monkey don't stop no show,” he stated, telling his two players to come on.

In one fluid motion, Mason pulled a chrome “four pound” from his waist and cocked it, catching everyone by surprise, including Cojack.

“Whoa, whoa. Playa, what's this about?” Stan stood, scared shitless.

“Nigga, didn't I tell you the game is over?” Mason growled, aiming his weapon. Stan looked at Dukey for some type of assistance only to receive a dumbfounded look.

“Get the fuck from around here, muthafucka!” Mason threatened.

“A'ight, man. Please, I'm leavin'. I don't want no problems.” Stan was so nervous that he stuttered out every word. Duke stood silently, zoning as if he were living a nightmare.

“You ain't moving fast enough, nigga,” Mason yelled.

Boom!
Mason fired a slug at Stan, causing him to fall against a nearby car.

“Please!” Stan screamed, clutching his wounded leg. “Don't kill me. Please don't,” he hollered, moving swiftly, half walking and half limping. Dudes at the corner observed the action and quickly cleared the block, knowing the police were on their way. Mason
laughed and fired off three more rounds. Stan grunted, catching another in his left biceps. He kept stepping in an effort to make it out alive. When Stan was out of sight, Mason turned his attention to Duke.

“You started this shit, so go ahead and blame yourself for what just happened,” Mason said.

The old head didn't respond, scared that he'd say something to get himself killed. He knew Mason was half crazy and, if provoked, wouldn't think twice of offing him.

Just two years earlier Mason had slumped a cop for running up on him at the wrong time. He'd just left Cojack and had two kilos in a bag in the backseat. Luckily, he was stopped on a backstreet a couple blocks over from Midlothian Village. As soon as the cop walked up to the car, Mason just unloaded his entire clip, giving him several head shots to make sure he was dead.

Cojack cursed him the whole walk to the car for cappin’ Stan. They drove away from the projects and Mason snickered as they passed the wounded man sitting on a porch across from the projects.

“You's a fuckin’ nutcase, cuz,” Cojack said as he made a right turn on Jefferson Davis. When they stopped at a red light, he looked over at Mason and asked, “Why you do that crazy shit, man?”

“He disrespected me,” Mason replied. “Who the fuck is he to pull out some dice? Nigga ain't even from round here. He lucky I ain't merk his ass. You know I could've.”

Cojack sighed and shook his head. “Now we gotta worry about this nigga comin’ back. Or even worse, sending the police at us. You ain't think about that, did you?”

“Damn,” Mason muttered, realizing that Cojack had a point.

“And you know Dukey. He ain't nothing but a snake. Now we gotta look out for this nigga, too.” Cojack had to take a deep breath to calm his growing anger. He continued, “How the hell you expect
to get money and be gangsta at the same time? You tryin’ to live up to that maniac shit for real, ain't chu?”

Mason laughed and replied, “I feel you, man. But for real, for real, I done seen plenty gangsta niggas get money.”

“Oh yeah, and how long they last?” Cojack asked.

“Not long,” Mason answered, gazing out of the window. “But see, most of them dudes didn't know what the hell they was doing.”

“And you do?” Cojack said.

Mason nodded and said, “A lot of niggas just be out there in the way. It ain't what you do, Jack, but how you do it.”

“Look, cuz, all I'm saying is we coulda handled the shit another way.” Cojack paused for a second. “You don't think, man. You just act and I'm telling you now, shit like that is what brings heat. Fuck the stupid shit. I'm tryin’ to get this paper.”

“Yeah, you right, man,” Mason agreed. They rode in silence listening to Jay-Z's
Reasonable Doubt.
Cojack dropped Mason off at his Village Green apartment and then hit the highway and headed home.