Section 8

  SECTION 8

  ALSO BY K’WAN

  Gangsta

  Road Dawgz

  Street Dreams

  Hoodlum

  Eve

  Hood Rat

  Still Hood

  Gutter

  ANTHOLOGIES

  The Game

  Blow (with 50 Cent)

  Flexin & Sexin

  SECTION 8

  A Hood Rat Novel

  K’wan

  St. Martin’s Griffin

  New York

  Dedicated to the Too Smooth Crew (T.S.C.)

  Tone

  Ty-Weed

  A.C.

  E.Z.

  Mikey

  I’m still on it!

  RIP

  Frankie “Crumb Louie” Foye

  Katherine “Aunt Cookie” Stevenson

  Emma Lee Holder

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  SECTION 8. Copyright © 2009 by K’wan Foye. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  K’wan.

  Section 8 : a hood rat novel / K’wan. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-53696-1

  1. African Americans—Fiction. 2. African American neighborhoods—Fiction. 3. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. 4. Street life—Fiction. I. Title. II. Title: Section eight.

  PS3606.O96S43 2009

  813'.6—dc22

  2009012530

  First Edition: October 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  You would think that with as many years as I’ve been doing this and for as many books deep as I am that I would’ve run out of people to thank by now, right? Wrong. One of the most beautiful things about this profession that has chosen me is that I meet new and interesting people just about every day. Most come wearing smiles but have larceny in their hearts, but there are the few who are genuine and for this I thank you for adding on to my life and making it richer by the day.

  I first have to acknowledge my wife and children because more than anyone they sacrificed while I was writing this book. It’s a hard thing to live in a house with someone who is there in body but their mind is a million miles away, which is always the case with me. To truly create a great character you have to become that character. Thanks, guys, for giving of your time while I knocked out one of the greatest stories ever told.

  My mother, who is my constant guardian and strength. There is not a day that goes by when I don’t think of you and that my heart does not weep over the fact that you were not here to see in the flesh what you made possible. You birthed me, you raised me, and you empowered me. They praise me for being one of the greatest writers of our time, but I can’t take credit for something that isn’t mine. This was your gift, and in passing you gave me something that maybe you felt like you hadn’t had in life, a way out. No matter what they say or write about who they think I am only you know who I really am . . . your son.

  To my grandmother Ethel and my aunt Quintella. I love the both of you more than I can express for making sure that I didn’t end up one of the kids that the world forgot about. You may not agree with some of my methods, but I assure you that they are necessary evils. I know that God has and always will take care of me, but sometimes the lamb has to become the wolf to make sure we don’t lose the entire flock.

  Special shout to Monique Patterson, who I constantly give gray hairs by twisting her publication schedule. I have no sense of time and more often than not I’m rushing to get things done, but one thing I want you to always remember is that I would never leave you hanging. I might jam you timewise, but I’d never stiff you on a project that I agreed to turn in. That’s not how I’m built.

  Can’t forget my agent, Marc Gerald, from the Agency Group. From making sure that my business was finally handled correctly, to helping me birth something I’ve wanted to do for years, to flying in for my surprise birthday party, you’ve gone above and beyond. Had I met you a few years ago things may have gone differently for my career, but I don’t believe in regrets. It is what it is and will be what it will be. And what it will be is huge!

  And I didn’t forget you Sarah Stephens, aka Agent Stephens. You’ve quietly been the driving force and buffer for a lot of the stuff that’s gone on. Thank you for helping to make the transition as painless as possible.

  Thank you to all my peers in this industry who have always encouraged me to go harder and reach for the stars. It takes a lot to praise your competition in private and public. I ride for you like you ride for me. Let’s get it!

  A very, very special thanks goes to these jealous mofos who keep throwing jabs. No matter what you say you’ll never get me to feed into the bullshit. I would never do yo the honor of speaking your names, at least not on paper. God has given me a blessing and thus I will always remain humble. Instead of trying to bring me out of my character you need to sit with me and try to figure out why you can’t seem to get it right. If that doesn’t work I’m having a special on mouth-shots. You can get two for the price of one!

  And my readers, new and old. I would need about a hundred more pages to thank you for all that you have done in helping to create the monster that my career is becoming! There are some of you who bought Gangsta before Barnes and Noble would even think of having us on their shelves and you still support me now. Without you none of this would be possible and without you I would not have found the courage within myself to keep sharing pieces of me with the world. There is no amount of thanks that I could offer you that would equal the love you have shown.

  Now on with the show . . .

  PROLOGUE

  The rising sun had just crawled over the grassy hills and was shining through the four-foot-high picture window on the east wall of the master bedroom. The yellow-orange rays kissed Tionna softly on her cheek, making her flawless dark skin shine like polished onyx. She tried to ignore it, but the rays continued to needle her eyelids. When she tried to roll over, strands of her midback-length black hair got tangled in her bracelets, making her wonder again why she didn’t just go ahead and cut it.

  “Too early,” she grumbled, trying to duck farther under the thick comforter. It helped only until the identical window on the northeast wall got in on the act. She had loved the story-booklike windows when she’d picked out the nearly quarter-million-dollar house on the outskirts of Westchester, but now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe she’d have Duhan trick off on some shutters.

  Just thinking of her baby daddy/fiancé made her cat jump. Duhan was short and thick, but hung like a plow horse, and he knew just how to touch her secret places with his tool. The night before, he’d had her speaking in tongues as they experimented with a position they’d seen in a porno. Grinning wickedly, she began fumbling behind her for the precious meat that he always rested against her back when they slept. There was nothing more exciting to her than that “he ain’t peed yet” wood.

  To her surprise, his side of the bed was cold and empty. It wasn’t like Duhan to be up this early when he wasn’t on the block, but it had been a while since he had to play the role of corner boy. He was probably downstairs making her breakfast to thank her for the steamy night. She had been in rare form, if she did say so herself. Tionna snuggled into the thick folds of her comforter and decided to rest her eyes until breakfast was ready. The moment of peace was short-lived when she heard a banging on the front door.

  “Who the fuck . . .” The words died in her throat as the realization set
in. Police! Very few people knew where Duhan and Tionna had moved, and even the few that did know wouldn’t be banging on the door at the crack of dawn. Though they didn’t have any drugs in the house, there were several guns, and those would be enough to violate Duhan’s probation and send him back to the joint.

  Tionna tried to hop from the bed and do what they’d practiced for months on end, her part as the hustler’s wife, but her legs were tangled in the sheets. “Mommy,” she heard her older son, Little Duhan, calling. She ignored him and kept trying to free herself from the blanket. “Mommy,” he continued. The more Tionna struggled, the more entangled her legs seemed to become.

  “Mommy, somebody is at the door!” Little Duhan was now shaking her.

  Using all her strength, Tionna broke free of the blanket and rolled onto the floor. When she hit the rug, she didn’t smell the Carpet Fresh that she vacuumed it with every morning, but stale cigarette smoke and faint traces of mildew. Little Duhan was standing against the faded and cracking yellow wall, his mouth twisted in disgust, while Duran hugged his knees to his chest on the love seat with a terrified expression on his face.

  Looking from the dingy tan shade, which covered an even dingier window, to the tiny kitchen sink and the two roaches sharing a cake crumb, reality crashed back down on Tionna. The plush home she’d grown to love so much was gone, snatched like everything else the dirty money had bought, and now there was only the efficiency she shared with her two children in the battered-women’s facility.

  The insistent banging on her front door kept Tionna from breaking into a fit of tears. She managed to pick herself up and find her bathrobe, which was hiding in one of several piles of clothes that were strewn throughout the small space. It was a gold kimono crafted of genuine silk, with beautiful dragons embroidered about the back and sleeves. The robe looked out of place in the shabby room, but then again, so did Tionna.

  “I’m coming!” Tionna shouted, tripping over a loose sneaker on her way to the door. “What!” She snatched the door open, only to have the anger drain from her face when she saw who was on the other side.

  She was five seven and weighed about one forty, but carried it mostly in her hips and ass. The black Nike sweat suit seemed to fit her perfectly, accenting her firm breasts and hugging her curvaceous hips just right. Her signature black Gucci frames slipped down slightly over her button nose, giving you a glimpse of her honey-colored eyes. Had it been anyone else, Tionna would’ve gone up-top, but Gucci was the exception to the rule. They had been friends since grade school and had stuck together through thick and thin. True friends were rare to come by, and Gucci was about as true as they got.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Gucci stepped into the efficiency apartment. Though there was more than enough room, she still managed to bump Tionna when she crossed the threshold. Gucci was a project chick who moved with an air of nobility. No matter how you felt about her, you always knew when she entered a room. The look on her face said that she was less than pleased with the accommodations, but she’d never offend her friend by saying so, at least when she was sober. After kissing Little Duhan and Duran on their foreheads, she turned to her friend and asked, “So what’s up, bitch, you ready to get up outta this shit hole or what?”

  PART 1

  WELCOME TO

  THE BLOCK

  CHAPTER 1

  The new school year was a week old, so the block was absent of the normal noises of children running around, causing all types of hell. This suited the four gentlemen sitting around their makeshift card table just fine. It had seemed like forever since they were able to enjoy a nice breeze in front of their building without the bullshit young people tended to bring with them. The four old heads were referred to as “the Senate” by the locals because of their constant presence and meddling on the block. More often than not they enjoyed drama-free afternoons, unless of course they were at the center of the foolishness.

  “Man, you gonna play or what?” Harley asked in a gruff voice. His ever-present Newport 100 was pinched between his thick lips, bobbing when he spoke. Harley had been a career criminal before old age and lead poisoning had slowed him down. Getting shot repeatedly can do that to you.

  “Quiet, fool; don’t be in such a rush to get this ass whipping!” Rayfield replied, still examining his cards. The fisherman’s cap he always wore was tilted back slightly, showing the top of his balding head. He had been among the first to move into the block back when white folks had started abandoning Harlem. Rayfield wasn’t a wealthy man, but his eyes had seen some truly amazing things. From the rise of fall of the last street kings to Harlem’s resurrection, Rayfield had been there.

  “Man, it ain’t rocket science; hearts led, so play a damn heart.” This was Cords, the so-called lover of their crew. Though Cords was getting on in age, he still carried himself like a gentleman. That morning he sported a white polo shirt and a houndstooth sports coat. As always, his thinning, processed hair was laid to the side. He’d worn it like that for nearly half a century. Back in the days, Cords had been the bass player for a teen band, but his star had since dwindled. It had been more than forty years since his group had cut their first album, but let him tell it, he could give Chris Brown a run for his money.

  “What I tell y’all ’bout that cross-board shit?” Sonny said in his deep southern drawl. He shifted on his crate so that his back was to the street when he poured a snort of Five O’clock vodka into his Pepsi bottle. Dressed in overalls and dirty work boots, with a stained bandanna tied around his neck, Sonny’s appearance screamed country nigga, but he wore it proudly. Sonny had once been a sporting man who frequented the gambling holes and juke joints of Georgia, trimming suckers of their money and their women. Life was good until he slept with the wrong man’s wife and ended up getting his throat cut. Now Sonny was just an old man, humbled by the weight of knowing that he was going to die with nothing.

  So it would go with most, if not all, of the men at the card table. They were men of a bygone era with nothing to hold on to except the broken promises the streets had made, only to throw them to the dogs when their numbers came. The game was different and there was no room for old men, or rules. Though the Senate may not have had much, a cold beer and the good company of one another made the days easier to deal with.

  “Somebody play a damn card this century!” Harley demanded, dropping ash on the table.

  “See, that’s the problem with you country niggaz,” Rayfield began, slapping a queen of hearts on the table, which to everyone’s surprise ended up being boss in the suit. “You be too busy running ya damn mouths to focus on the game.” He snatched up the four cards and slammed a king of spades on the table and looked to his left, where Harley was sitting. “Jump if you got it, chump!”

  “Watch out now, me and mine came to play!” Cords danced in his seat.

  “Fuck you, Cords, wit’ya washed-up ass.” Harley threw down the only spade he had left, which happened to be a nine.

  “I’d rather be washed up than set,” Cords shot back, dropping his five of spades onto the pile.

  “Say, who the hell that is?” Sonny asked, his eyes fixed on a forest-green Ford Explorer that had just pulled up next to where they were sitting.

  “I don’t know the two chicks in the front, but them muthafuckas they toting in the back surely had trouble stamped on their birth certificates,” Rayfield said, fingering the switchblade that sat on his lap under the table.

  Everybody in the neighborhood knew Rock Head and they all felt pretty much the same way: that his mother should’ve let the state have him years ago. Every hood had a kid that couldn’t manage to keep himself out of trouble, but Rock was the personification of that. Rock was a snake to his heart, and the moment you turned your back on him he was bound to drive a knife into it. From robbery to drugs to extortion, Rock was with all that . . . at least when he could manage to stay out of jail. Rock believed that if you were weaker than he was, then he could take what you had, but this didn’
t hold true for the second young man to slide from the truck.

  Though he had grown some and now wore his hair in long box braids, Tech still had the face of a teenaged boy. At one point Tech had been one of the wildest young wolves in Harlem, a kid that would put in work just to say that he had. From his first lick he had attacked the streets with vigor, which stacked the odds against him that he’d make it to see eighteen. He was lawless and ready to die senselessly in search of a name, but a tragedy several years prior had caused a change in him.

  Jah had been not only Tech’s best friend and mentor but one of the greatest tragedies to touch Harlem in a long time. The wily gunslinger had built a name for himself in the streets and was whispered about like the boogeyman because of his antics. It had been like a great sigh of relief when he’d found someone other than the streets to give his heart to, but his newfound happiness had been short-lived. Jah had been murdered over a beef that had nothing to do with him, all because he couldn’t let go of a debt. To mourn him he’d left a shell of a girlfriend and the battle-hardened soldier that Tech had grown into. When his friend had died, so had the innocent little boy that Tech had been. All that remained now was the monster his hardships had created.

  Rock Head had been trying to get in with Tech for a while and it looked like he was finally staring to make progress.

  “I’m telling you, son, these big-head niggaz is getting it down there, but they ain’t got a shooter amongst them,” Rock was telling Tech, who was busy watching the block. A habit that came from seeing one too many cats get laid out for not paying attention, a good amount of them having been laid down by him and Jah.