The Apostles (8 page)

Bezo didn't flinch. The cold, unyielding stare that he afforded Grove withered the detective's attempt to terrorize him.

The detective lowered his hand. “Motherfucka, I better hear from yo boss. Let's go, Bull.”

Grove walked from behind the candy counter and headed for the door. Bull followed him, but not before grabbing another Twix.

If the two detectives had left the game room a few minutes earlier, they would've noticed the young Apostle they'd harassed leaning against their unmarked police unit. They also would have seen him open the gas tank door on the Crown Victoria's rear flank and unscrew the gas cap. From his pocket he produced two Snickers candy bars, which he stuffed through the little metal trapdoor in the gas tank neck. He screwed the gas cap back on and closed the gas tank door. With his hands in his pockets, the youth walked away humming the lyrics to 50 Cent's “Wanksta.”

I
T WAS SATURDAY NIGHT AND CHARLENE'S COOL CORNER WAS
packed. Charlene's catered exclusively to the twenty-five-and-over crowd—no jeans, gym shoes, or baseball caps allowed. Bodies filled the dance floor and along the bar, and there was a line of people outside waiting to get in. The lights from the elaborate lighting system cut multicolored swatches through thick cigarette smoke. Scantily clad women braved the chill of the Chicago April night as they dashed from their cars in the parking lot to the lounge's entryway. In the DJ booth, a heavyset disc jockey with a mouth full of gold teeth made the crowd roar as he mixed cut after cut.

Tonight the VIP section was ruled by the Apostles. Solemn Shawn, Murderman, Big Ant, and a few other Apostles sat with a group of women enjoying themselves. Two almost impossibly huge bouncers warded off strays trying to join the VIP crowd. Without a nod from Shawn or one of the other heads it was impossible to enter this section of the lounge. Champagne and Rémy Martin cognac flowed like water as the revelers toasted the highlight of the weekend: Saturday night.

A young man walked through the crowd. The pair of dark glasses perched on his face did nothing to disguise his disfigured jaw. Courageously or foolishly he walked straight up to the bouncers guarding Solemn Shawn and his crowd and tried to push past them.

“Hold up, chief,” the bouncer on the right said.

Wayne tried to ignore him.

The bouncer on the left put his large hand on Wayne's chest. “Nigga, I know the music ain't that loud! My partner told you to hold the fuck up!”

Impatiently, Wayne hissed through his teeth, “I need to talk to Solemn Shawn.”

The two bouncers could barely understand him.

The bouncer on the right asked, “Man, what the fuck did you say?”

“I need to talk to Solemn Shawn,” Wayne repeated.

“What's wrong with yo mouth, homie?” the bouncer on the left asked.

Unashamed, Wayne parted his lips to let the bouncers see the wires and rubber bands in his mouth holding his jaws together.

The bouncer on the right cracked, “Damn, mello, I don't know how you make it through no metal detector.”

Wayne was not amused. “Nigga ain't shit funny,” he hissed. With his Nike baseball glove-covered hands he lowered his sunglasses and let the bouncers get a glimpse of his eyes. A large blood clot circled his right pupil, giving him an evil look. “I'm trying to talk to the boss. I ain't got no time to be playing with the hired help, nigga. Now take me to him.”

“All right, homie,” the bouncer said, “get yo arms up.” Thoroughly he searched Wayne's person. Satisfied that the man wasn't holding heat he told Wayne to follow him through the velvet rope. Ten feet from Shawn's table the bouncer stopped Wayne's progress. “Chill right here, homie. I'mma let the man know that you want to holler at him.”

The bouncer mindlessly flexed his chest muscles in his tight, silver lamé shirt as he walked over to the gang leader's table.

“What's up, SS,” he thundered as he reached over the table to shake Shawn's hand.

“How you feeling, Big Toby?” Shawn inquired.

“I'm cool, bro. Uh, this stud here want to have a sit-down with you.”

“Is he on our team?”

“To tell you the truth, SS, I ain't never seen this stud before today. Somebody done gave this dude a punkinhead. His jaw broke up pretty bad.”

Murderman leaned past the girl sitting between him and Shawn. “SS, that nigga is a Governor, one of them studs off of 71st Street. He fuck with Ditto's cousin, broad with a Indian name or something.”

Solemn Shawn looked over at Wayne. “What this cat want with me?”

Murderman shrugged. “I don't know, but the Governors pushed on this nigga. They say that he a trick. They came through Ditto's cousin crib on some guerrilla shit and took all of this nigga shit. Disrespected her and shit.”

Solemn Shawn looked at his old friend with admiration. Murderman's knowledge of underground events was unrivaled— he was like the CIA of street gangs.

“So how do you know all of that?” he asked.

“Ditto was telling me about the shit,” Murderman answered with a smirk.

Solemn Shawn turned from his friend with a hint of a smile on his face. “I don't even want to know, Double M. Toby, tell the dude to come sit down and have a drink with us. It should be interesting to find out what my old friend Vee is up to.”

Toby walked over to Wayne. He said a few words to him, then returned to his post. Wayne walked up to Solemn Shawn's table. Murderman stood up.

“Ladies, give us a minute,” Shawn told the three women sitting at the table, who then excused themselves from the booth. “Have a seat, my man,” Solemn Shawn told Wayne.

Wayne slid into the booth and Murderman sat on Wayne's right.

Solemn Shawn said, “You know who we are, but we don't know who you are.”

“The name is Insane Wayne and I want some of y'all champagne.” Without waiting for Shawn to reply, Wayne grabbed the ice-cold bottle of Moët from the ice bucket and poured himself a glass. To drink it, he had to hold his head back and pour the liquid through his wired teeth. A fourth of the glass wound up on the front of his shirt, but Wayne didn't seem to notice.

Solemn Shawn cut his eyes at Murderman; his friend returned his gaze.

Solemn Shawn asked, “Insane Wayne, huh? What is it that you want with me?”

Bluntly Wayne stated, “I want to be a Apostle.”

“Why?” was the only thing Solemn Shawn could think to ask, still put off by Wayne's appearance.

“‘Cause you niggas take care of y'all own. I don't see all that hating on each other shit going on between you studs.”

A yell from the crowd made Solemn Shawn turn to the dance floor. At first he thought it was a fight or something, but then he saw a young lady getting especially loose on the dance floor. She had taken off her shirt and was going through a series of raunchy moves. He could tell by the glazed look in her eyes that alcohol or some other intoxicant had swept her up into the music thumping from the concert speakers at each end of the dance floor. A fellow who must have been her man or a friend stopped her before she could get her bra off. The irate man dragged her off the dance floor while the crowd groaned. He held up his middle finger as an answer to them.

Solemn Shawn turned back to Murderman and nodded his head.

Murderman snarled, “Nigga, what about the Governors?”

Wayne slammed his gloved hands down on the table, almost toppling the flickering candle in its middle. “Fuck the motherfuckin' Governors! Them niggas is the reason that my damn mouth is fucked up now! Fuck that bitch Vee!”

“Calm down,” Solemn Shawn cautioned.

Murderman said menacingly, “Yeah, nigga, you better calm yo ass down!”

Sensing the malevolence in Murderman's voice, Solemn Shawn said, “Chill, Double M.” To Wayne he said, “I take it that something transpired between you and the Governors.”

Wayne answered evasively, “Just some bullshit.” He reached for the champagne bottle again.

Murderman grabbed his hand and stopped Wayne from lifting the bottle. “Playboy, I ain't seent you drop no scratch while you trying to drink up all the champy.”

From behind his shades Wayne stared at Murderman. He shrugged his hand free. Through his clenched teeth he said, “Dude, I came here to talk to Solemn Shawn. Now I don't know if you his bodyguard or his send-off man, but you need to keep your fucking hands off of me, pimp.”

Murderman's face flushed. Before Shawn could stop him, his .44 Bulldog was under Wayne's chin. He snatched Wayne's glasses from his face. Angrily he spat, “Bitch-ass, trick-ass, dick-licking Governor! Nigga, I should make you lose yo memory right now! Who the fuck do you think you talking to? Pussy-ass nigga, you ain't gone never be no Apostle! We don't accept tricks or pancakes. And, nigga, you both! We know about you, bitch! You told on a nigga, now they done broke yo mouthpiece and you want to flip Apostle! Nigga, they should have cut yo fuckin' tongue out of yo mouth! Now if you don't get the fuck out of here, I'mma personally see to it that yo ass is in Gatlings by the morning!”

Wayne calmly asked, “So, Solemn Shawn, is that y'all final answer?”

“I would have to say that I echo his sentiments. I apologize, but we are not currently accepting any new members with questionable references. Murderman, chill with that heater.”

Slowly Murderman lowered the pistol, but he didn't put it away. He stood up and allowed Wayne to slide out of the booth.

Wayne stood in front of the booth and stared at Shawn.
He said, “You motherfuckers is gone regret this shit. Bitch-ass Apostles!” Adding insult to injury, Wayne picked up the champagne bottle and walked away with it. With a sneer on his fractured mouth he walked out of the VIP section and out of the lounge. The bouncers started toward him, but Solemn Shawn waved them off.

In Insane Wayne's wake Murderman began to follow.

“Double M,” Shawn called, “don't merc him. We don't need any more pressure than usual from the pigs.”

Murderman smiled. “I ain't gone bite him, I'm just gone let my dog bark at him for all of that wolfin' he just did.”

Halfway down the block from the lounge, Wayne was walking and sipping from the Moët bottle. He seemed to be holding a conversation with himself.

Suddenly the night exploded.

Blam, blam, blam, blam, blam, blam.

Like nothing had happened, Wayne kept on strolling, sipping champagne, and talking to himself.

Amazed, Murderman watched him walk to the corner, then turn and keep going. As he slipped his empty pistol into his pocket he thought,
Damn, that nigga really is insane.

“S
TOP CALLING MY MOTHERFUCKIN' HOUSE!” SAKAWA SHOUTED
into the telephone receiver, then slammed it into its cradle.

“Girl, who was that?” China Doll asked.

“Mind yo damn business, China Doll. And watch them damn blunt ashes on my couch, bitch!”

Nonchalantly, China brushed the blunt ashes onto the beige carpet. She said, “Bitch, ain't nobody finta burn yo little shit. And don't change the damn subject—who was that you just cussed out?” Holding the blunt in her ridiculously long, fake fingernails, China Doll took another hit of the weed. “This shit is some headache weed. Ain't been no good shit around here since Bing stopped working.”

Sakawa was cross. “Bitch, I wish you would stop coming over here smoking that stanking shit in my damn house. I hate the smell of that shit. It be all in my clothes and hair.”

“Saki, you is really bullshitting. When Wayne used to smoke all day in this motherfucker you didn't have shit to say.”

“Wayne was my motherfuckin' man. You ain't my man, China.”

A sly smile crossed China Doll's lips. She slit her almond-shaped eyes for a moment as she thought about the misfortune that had befallen the high-and-mighty Sakawa James. The Governors' robbing and damn near beating Wayne to death served her friend right. Shit, if Sakawa knew that Wayne used to give her money and
try to fuck her on a regular basis she would flip. She decided to rub it in a little.

“You know what, Saki? I seen that nigga Wayne. Girl, he was talking to hisself with his mouth all wired up and shit. When I spoke to him I called him Wayne. He was like, ‘Bitch, my name is Insane Wayne.’ He scared the shit out of me. Them niggas must've fucked up some shit in his head when they beat him down. I hate the Governors.”