Gutter Read online

  He stepped from the balcony into his bedroom, feeling the warm rush of air on his neck and chest. There was a time when Gutter would sleep through the sacred hour of prayer, but since the nightmares began he and sleep didn’t always see eye-to-eye. The master bedroom of the duplex was dark, but the sun coming over the horizon was beginning to illuminate it. The first few rays had already crept up to the floor and gently touched the sleeping girl’s face.

  He leaned down and brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead, and found that his fingers came away damp. Gutter couldn’t help but wonder if Sharell’s sleep was as fitful as his had been. He had literally taken her through hell and back and she was still with him. The murders, the drugs, him dying and rising again like the fabled Lazarus. She had been through it all. If he had it his way, she would never see another moment of hurt. Life would be good for his boo, but that didn’t change the fact that he had business to handle. Blood would answer for blood.

  Tucking his.38 snub into the waistline of his sweats, Gutter made his way down the stairs. The sun hadn’t made it to the hall yet, so that remained dark. He didn’t need any light though. Gutter performed this routine so often that he could do it with his eyes closed. He crossed through the spacious living room and retracted the metallic blinds. The orange rays of the sun seeped through the window and coated the living room in a soothing light.

  The floors were made of mahogany and polished to an almost mirrored finish. The cream-colored sofa and love seat were made from butter-soft leather that had a sunken effect for the few privileged to sit in them. The apartment was decorated more for comfort than floss.

  After securing the place, Gutter began his calisthenics. He started with push-ups, then went to sit-ups and back again. This went on for about a half hour or so. Often if he tried to work out too hard the old wounds began to ache. Cross had restored his body as best he could, but some of the wounds would still take time to completely heal. He hated the assassin for what he was, but was grateful that he had allowed him to breathe on his own again.

  After the workout, he proceeded to the kitchen to make breakfast for himself and his lady. The meal consisted of eggs, waffles, and turkey bacon. No swine would be tolerated in the Soladine household. After completing the meal, Gutter proceeded to set the table.

  SHARELL SAT bolt upright in the king-sized bed. Her gown was drenched with sweat, while her heart threatened to leap from her chest. She clutched the cross around her neck and tried to banish the fading images in her mind. It had been awhile since she had enjoyed a peaceful night’s sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the faces of the dead. She always put God first in her life, but she knew she would have to atone for the part she played in the story that had unfolded.

  Donning her robe and slippers, Sharell made her way into the hall. The first thing she noticed was the smell of breakfast being cooked. The scent greeted her nostrils and sent a signal to her stomach. Turkey bacon, she figured. She would know the smell anywhere. She enjoyed the tender strips of meat, but longed for her lost pork. There was really no comparison between the two.

  When she got downstairs, Gutter had already set the table. The plates were decorated with fruits and dressing for appearance, and orange juice filled the crystal goblets. Smiling at her from the far side of the table was Gutter.

  “Hey, baby,” he said, getting up and pulling her chair out for her, “did you sleep well?”

  “Like a rock,” she lied. She didn’t want to upset Gutter with tales of her nightmares. She had mentioned the dreams to him before, but had never told him the extent of them.

  Gutter gave thanks to Allah, while she said a prayer to her god, before tearing into the food. They made small conversation at the table, but nothing significant. It had been this way for a while now. Gutter was still as attentive and caring as ever, but his mind always seemed to be elsewhere. It was no secret where that was.

  “So, what you getting into today, baby?” Sharell asked, popping a piece of bacon into her mouth.

  Gutter shrugged. “Probably bend a few corners. I got some things I gotta take care of on the set.”

  “The set,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Kenyatta, you spend more time in the streets than a little bit. When you gonna give them corners up?”

  “When the black man can get a fair shake in America.” He winked.

  She gave him a mock laugh. “I see you got jokes this morning.”

  “Ain’t nothing funny about chasing a dollar, baby.”

  “Then why continue to do it?” she asked. Gutter gave her a look like he didn’t understand the question so she elaborated. “Kenyatta, we’ve got money saved up and I’m no stranger to hard work. Why don’t you get up out them streets?”

  Gutter laughed, but Sharell’s face remained serious. “Baby, you know I can’t do that right now. I’ve got unfinished business to take care of.”

  She knew what he meant without him having to say it directly. She had been thrilled beyond words when he woke up from the coma. Through the grace of God her lover had been returned to her, but the man who got up out of that hospital bed wasn’t the man she knew. On the surface he was still her Kenyatta, but there was a change in his soul. Though no one blamed him for what happened to Lou-Loc, Gutter felt otherwise. He believed that if he had been there his friend would still be alive. Instead of focusing on healing, his thoughts were consumed with revenge. No matter how much Sharell fought him on it he wouldn’t let the vendetta go, blood would answer for blood. Sharell was forced to watch helplessly as her lover slipped further and further into the darkness. She could only pray that the Lord would deliver him from the insane quest before it consumed him.

  “Kenyatta”-she placed her hand over his-“no matter how much work you put in, you can’t bring him back.”

  “Come on, Sharell, don’t start tripping this morning.” He pulled his hand away.

  “Kenyatta, I’m not the one tripping, you are. Baby, I know how you feel, believe me-”

  “Sharell, ain’t no way in hell you could know how I feel.” His words were sharp, but the anger wasn’t directed toward her. “My brother is dead… gone… fucking outta here. Them niggaz killed him like a dog in the street when all he wanted to do was get out of the game, and I’m supposed to let that ride? Fuck that, it’s over when all them busters is dead.” He slammed his fist against the table, nearly knocking over Sharell’s orange juice.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. It took all of his concentration to stop the mounting rage from spilling over. “I see him every night, Sharell. Whenever I close my eyes I see my friend.” Gutter placed his face in his hands and she almost thought she heard him sobbing. “He shouldn’t have gone out like that, I should’ve been there.”

  Sharell got up from her chair and went to kneel beside Gutter. She moved his hands from his face and looked into his glassy eyes. “Kenyatta, the Lord decides who he calls home and when. Even if you had been there you can’t say for sure that Lou-Loc would still be alive. It could’ve been two dead black boys instead of one. Baby”-she ran her fingers through his nappy beard-“it’s a sad thing that happened to Lou-Loc, but you can’t change what has already come to pass. You weren’t there with Lou-Loc so you could be here with me”-she placed his hand over her stomach-“with us.”

  This brought a faint smile to his lips. “Yeah, I gotta make sure my little man comes up right.” He kissed her on the forehead.

  “Or little girl,” she corrected him. With Gutter’s help, she got off the floor and moved back to her seat.

  “Whatever, you know damn well my first child gotta be a son.”

  “All your first child has to be is healthy, Ken. Boy or girl it’s still gonna be ours.”

  After breakfast Sharell cleared the table while Gutter went upstairs to prepare for the day. From their walk-in closet, he chose a pair of blue jeans and a white Air Force. After pulling on his white T-shirt, he retrieved his chain from the dresser. It was a thirty-inch platinum cable that
twirled in on itself and around the diamonds. The piece was a script G that had sapphires embedded in the grooves. The last accessory was a black.40 caliber, which he slipped into his pocket. He was ready to hit the streets.

  chapter 2

  DANNY-BOY LEANED against the black Escalade watching the people watch him. Dressed in a blue hoodie and sagging blue jeans, he stuck out like a sore thumb in the upper-class neighborhood. It didn’t offend him though. He got a kick out of their reactions. One woman nearly snatched her dog off its feet for wandering too close to the banger.

  Daniel “Danny-Boy” Thomas got his name because of his youthful appearance. He was twenty, but looked fifteen. His skin was the color of caramel, and he always wore his hair in a wavy Caesar. He was one of the set’s newest recruits. When Gutter found him, he was a young knucklehead looking for acceptance. Under the O.G.’s tutelage, Danny-Boy was becoming a true-blue soldier.

  When Danny spotted Gutter coming down the steps of the brownstone, he immediately straightened his posture, so as not to look like he wasn’t on point. He respected and admired Gutter, so he was always looking for approval. Danny put on his best mean face and nodded.

  “Boy, you look like you just swallowed a lemon,” Gutter joked.

  “Why you always gotta clown me, cuz?” Danny asked.

  “’Cause you’re trying too hard,” Gutter said, walking around to the passenger’s side. “Lil homey, I know you’re official so you ain’t gotta come wit the mean mug.”

  “Nah, man, I know you know. I just want the rest of these muthafuckas to recognize. When people see my face, they’ll know not to try me.”

  “Danny, that’s bullshit. If a nigga is gonna try you, he’s gonna try you. It don’t really make no never mind what’s on your face. It’s all about what’s in your heart. Remember that shit.”

  Gutter had love for the young soldier, but sometimes Danny could be like a child. He was definitely one of the most dedicated little niggaz Gutter had encountered since being on the East Coast. Danny would put in work without question. His only hang-up was inexperience. He was always asking questions and speaking out of turn. Gutter tried not to be too hard on him, because he knew the boy was still young and didn’t know any better. What Danny lacked in etiquette, he more than made up for in other areas. Before becoming a full-time banger, Danny was a boxer. He came up short during the Olympic trials, but he was lethal with his hands.

  During the ride uptown Gutter and Danny smoked a blunt and made small talk. Danny did most of the talking, while Gutter half listened. He had a lot on his mind. During the time he spent in his coma, much had changed. L.C. Blood was still around, but their numbers had been decimated by Gutter’s hit squads. Harlem Crip was still functioning, but not at peak efficiency. Pop Top had done what he could to hold the set together, but he was more of a soldier than a general. They had lost lives and money under his reign. Now it was up to Gutter to put things in order.

  They exited the West Side Highway at 125th and coasted through Harlem. Gutter sat in the passenger side of the truck taking in the scenery. The weather was warm, so people were out in numbers. Shoppers shoved their way up and down the strip, visiting the stores or making their purchases from the vendors.

  They made the left on Lenox Avenue, and headed farther into the hood. It seemed like every block was popping that day. People were either outside barbecuing or just shooting the shit. Every hood they went through, someone acknowledged Gutter. They either waved or just stared. His exploits in Harlem had made him both known and feared uptown.

  Cutting across 132nd, they made their way east. Danny suggested they not take that route, but as usual, Gutter insisted. They had been shot at on several occasions passing through some of these hoods, but Gutter wasn’t easily spooked. How could you scare a man that had already died once? Even though it wasn’t the safest way, he wanted his face to be seen. It was to be made clear to each and every hood that he went wherever he pleased.

  When they approached the Abraham Lincoln housing projects, Gutter placed his gun on his lap. He had quite a few projects on smash, but Lincoln wasn’t one of them. The project was once totally dominated by Bloods, but the increased work the Crips were putting in had caused their control to slip. The project became a free-fire zone coveted by both sides.

  When they crossed Madison Avenue, some local hardheads in front of the bodega tried to ice Gutter. He turned his soulless eyes on them and threw up his hood, causing the boys to turn their heads.

  “Punk-ass niggaz.” Danny snickered. “We should go back and set it on them faggots.”

  “For what?” Gutter slouched a bit in the seat. “We already got they hearts. Ain’t no thrill in busting on a nigga that’s scared.” Gutter noticed the questioning glance Danny gave him, but continued looking out the window. He would learn in his own time.

  They finally arrived at their destination. It was a storage facility on Park Avenue at 125th, right next to the Metro-North. The young woman behind the reception desk didn’t even look up from her magazine when the two bangers came through the front door. Gutter and Danny boarded an elevator and took it to the third floor. When they stepped off they were greeted by home boys smoking blunts and shooting the breeze. Gutter nodded at a few of them and proceeded to the rear storage unit.

  The man Gutter had come to see sat on a crate in the last unit. Also inside the unit were Young Rob, Hollywood, and a female named C-style. The room was filled with wooden crates, marked from different ports in the Middle East, and loose sheets of bubble wrap. Some of the crates were sealed, while others sat on the floor open. In the center of all this, Pop Top was hunched over examining a Russian machine gun.

  “Sup, O.G. Gutter?” Top asked, looking up from his inspection. A crown of dusty black hair sat atop his head. It had begun to thin in the middle from the stress of hard living, but Top refused to cut it. He was never big on appearances.

  “Maintaining,” Gutter said, making a mental note of how many boxes were stacked in the room. “Sup wit all that traffic out there?”

  “That ain’t ’bout nothing,” Top said, putting the gun down. “A few of the homeys came by to spend something wit Harlem. Them niggaz is hyped off the new hardware we got.”

  “If they copped already, why they still here?” Gutter questioned.

  “It’s blue, cuz. They just kick’n it,” Top responded.

  “It ain’t blue, cuz. You sitting in here on a shitload of illegal burners and you got muthafuckas smoking, congregating in the hall. This ain’t no hangout, Top.”

  “I’ll tell the homeys to bounce,” Hollywood said from behind his shades. He had been down with the set since the days when Lou-Loc was around. He was a lanky yellow dude, who always dressed in flamboyant gear. Even his jewels were different. From the iced-out globe he wore around his neck, to his bracelet that spelled out his set, Hollywood was a fly nigga. The former hoops star strode from the room to pass along Gutter’s decree.

  Top and Gutter made eye contact, but no challenge was issued. When Gutter had gotten hit up, Lou-Loc had turned Harlem Crip over to Pop Top. At the time it seemed like a wise decision, but it soon turned sour. Pop Top was a warrior to the heart, but he lacked the diplomacy skills to efficiently lead the set.

  Havoc reigned in the coming weeks. Top allowed the homeys to run wild and do as they liked. It didn’t take long before the police started riding down on the team, snatching up quite a few of their number on charges. Top solidified Harlem Crip on the streets, but he also sent a blue flag up for the police.

  “What we looking at?” Gutter asked, looking over the shipment.

  “Shit, ya peoples done set it out,” Top replied, pulling out an invoice. “We got all kind of shit up in this piece. Rifles, handguns, the whole shit, cuz. The regular shit is already sold on the streets, but we got some choice clientele for the pretty shit. We doing the damn thang, cuz.”

  “That’s what’s up. Sell off whatever you can and hit the homeys off with the rest. I don’
t want nobody on the set to be without a strap. You hear me?” Gutter slapped his hands together.

  “I got you, homey.” Pop Top nodded.

  “The boy, Diamonds, get wit you on that yet?”

  “Yeah, he said he needs like seven and a half this rip.”

  Gutter thought on it for a minute. “When he comes to cop, give him eight. I like that country muthafucka’s style.”

  “Y’all need to let a bitch hold one of these down,” C-style added, picking up a nickel-plated.22. “I got some lingerie to go with this here.”

  “Bitch, please.” Top snatched the gun from her. “You hoes ain’t trying to pop nothing.”

  “Fuck you, nigga! Do you call your mama a bitch, bitch?” C-style had a supermodel figure and the features of an Egyptian princess. High cheekbones sat behind her cinnamon face. Though she was a fun-loving chick, she had a low tolerance for disrespect, which Top had to be reminded of all too often.

  “Yo, cuz,” Young Rob spoke up. “I heard the young boys Hook and Noodles put the heat to them niggaz from over on Lenox last night.” His youthful brown eyes looked at Gutter eagerly for a response.

  “Word?” Gutter replied in a very uninterested tone. When Gutter had gotten the wire the night before he knew it was a good move to bring Hook and Noodles in. They were like he and Lou-Loc had been when they were young and didn’t give a fuck, which made them the perfect protégés. He currently had them tucked away up in Yonkers until the heat in the city died down.

  “Straight gangsta,” Rob continued. “Harlem ain’t to be fucked with.”

  Gutter ignored Rob’s praises and continued to inspect the arsenal. He was pleased that two more “dead rags” had been taken out of the game, but he didn’t show it. To him, the movement wasn’t about praise; it was about power and old scores. Before it was all said and done, the other side would pay for his friend’s murder a thousand times over.

  “I’m taking these,” Gutter said, holding up two German assault rifles.