Animal 2 Read online

  Frankie looked Cain up and down. He wasn’t the prettiest thing she’d ever seen, but his swag was cute. “Come see me in about two or three years, shorty,” she capped, and kept walking.

  Cain stood there smiling dumbly until Abel punched him in the arm and pulled him out of his moment.

  “Close your mouth. You’re drooling,” Abel teased him.

  “Fuck you, you’re just mad she was feeling me,” Cain said.

  “She wasn’t feeling you. Look at how she’s dressed, she probably don’t even like dick,” Abel shot back. He wasn’t used to girls picking Cain over him, and it stung.

  “Frankie Angels, what brings you to the slums?” King embraced her. He and Frankie knew each other through a girl named Sahara whom King had dated a while back. It had been King who bailed them out of jail when they got locked up for fighting a girl named Debbie whom they were subleasing an apartment from.

  “Not much, just looking for a friend of mine. Y’all seen Zo today?” Frankie asked.

  “What you want with my brother?” Lakim asked in a less-than-friendly tone. He also knew Frankie but in a different way. Back in the days when Frankie had been running with a crew of girls who called themselves the Twenty-Gang, they had robbed Lakim. Frankie couldn’t have been more than a teenager at the time, but even back then, she was playing grown folks’ games. The beef was years old and had long been squashed, but Lakim always paid extra-special attention to her, because he knew what she was capable of.

  “His girl, who happens to be my best friend, is worried about him. Zo slid out the crib last night to go to the store and never came back,” Frankie told him. From the look that flashed across Lakim’s face, she knew that he knew something, but he didn’t seem to be willing to tell it.

  “Zo got himself into a pinch last night,” King told her.

  “What kind of pinch? Is he OK?” Frankie asked in a concerned tone.

  “He got knocked last night, but I got my lawyer on the case. The charge is bullshit, fabricated by two thirsty-ass cops,” King informed her.

  “I hate a cocksucking-ass pig. They know Zo ain’t killed nobody,” Frankie said heatedly.

  “How did you know they picked him up for murder?” Lakim asked with a raised eyebrow.

  Frankie hesitated before answering. “Oh, because King just said—”

  “I only said he got locked up. I never said what for,” King said, cutting her off. “Something you wanna tell me, Frankie Angels?”

  Frankie felt like every eye in the hood turned to her, waiting to see how she would answer the question. She considered lying, but something about the way King was looking at her made her hesitant. Frankie Angels could stare down most men without flinching, but his gaze made her cringe. She felt like if her words weren’t chosen very carefully, they could very well be her last.

  “Look,” she began, “when Zo came by last night, he told me that his name was on the wire over this kid who got clapped. Outside of that, I really don’t know the details.” What she said wasn’t completely true, but it wasn’t a lie, either.

  “If Zo was in trouble, why the fuck would he come to you before coming to me, and I’m his brother?” Lakim asked suspiciously.

  “How the hell should I know? When he came by Porsha’s house last night, he told me what was up, but he didn’t seem too concerned, so I left it alone,” Frankie lied.

  Lakim shook his head. “I keep telling that nigga these bitches ain’t no good.”

  “That bitch, as you call her, is my best friend, so I’d appreciate it if you watched your mouth when you speak about her in front of me,” Frankie told Lakim.

  “Put ya fangs away, shorty. It ain’t that serious,” King interjected. “The immediate situation is getting Zo out of the slammer. Did he tell you anything else?”

  “Not really, you know how Zo is,” Frankie said.

  King nodded. “Indeed, he always plays his hand to his chest.”

  “This is some bullshit! My brother is about that action, but he ain’t no killer. He ain’t like us, King,” Lakim said emotionally. The thought of his baby brother spending the rest of his life in a cage made him weak.

  “What is or isn’t in that man’s heart isn’t for us to say, and it ain’t what’s important. Zo-Pound is family, and we look out for family, you hear me?” King asked Lakim.

  “I hear you, God, but thinking about baby bro laying up in the system is fucking with me,” Lakim told him.

  “La, Zo ain’t no stranger to time. Zo did a nickel and never asked a nigga for a crumb, so I’m sure he’ll keep for a few days until we can get him out,” King said.

  “I know bro can handle it, but that ain’t stopping me from feeling helpless. We getting money, so the rules shouldn’t apply to us,” Lakim reasoned.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, La. When it comes to murder, the same rules apply to rich niggaz and poor niggaz,” King told him. “On the legal side, I’ll wait until I hear back from the lawyer, but on some G shit, I’m gonna launch my own investigation. Nine times outta ten, the police are reaching by sweating Alonzo for the body. I know Zo-Pound, and if he put a nigga to sleep, he damn sure didn’t leave any evidence behind. He’s too careful for that, so there has to be a leak in the pipes somewhere. We gonna find that leak and plug it.” He patted his waist, where he had the big Desert Eagle tucked.

  Frankie felt like a look passed between her and King when he made the gesture. “If there’s anything I can do, just hit me up,” Frankie told him. She was anxious to get up out of there, because the more they spoke, the worse she felt.

  “Yeah, we’ll definitely be in touch,” King assured her. There was something about the way he looked at Frankie that made her uneasy.

  Frankie gave a rushed good-bye, then hot-footed it out of the projects as fast as she could. Lakim’s eyes stayed glued to her until she had disappeared from sight.

  • • •

  Frankie couldn’t get away from the projects fast enough. The whole time she’d been talking to King, she feared that he’d see through her half-truth and tear her head off. He never came out and said it, but Frankie had a feeling that he knew she wasn’t being totally honest, and the question remained, why he didn’t expose her for it? Whatever his reasons were for toying with Frankie, she couldn’t be sure, but that wasn’t the immediate issue. She had to get Zo out of the jam he’d gotten himself into.

  She didn’t have the money to drop on a high-powered lawyer to help him, but that didn’t mean she was totally without resources. Frankie ducked into the corner bodega and purchased a long-distance calling card, then began the tedious process of trying to find a pay phone. The fossils had become nearly extinct since the invention of cellular phones, but after walking about eight or nine blocks, she was able to find one. She could’ve made the call on her cell phone, but wireless lines weren’t secure, and she couldn’t risk the call being traced.

  Frankie followed the directions on the back of the calling card and punched in an overseas number she had committed to memory many years ago. When it was given to her, she was instructed to only use it under the direst of circumstances, and helping Zo qualified as just such circumstances. She listened intently, praying that the number still worked. On the fourth ring, her prayers were answered, and someone picked up, but they didn’t speak.

  “It’s me, Fran—it’s Angels.”

  Still silent.

  “Listen, I know what you said, and I swear to Christ, I wouldn’t even call you if it wasn’t important,” Frankie said.

  More silence.

  “OK, you want me to beg? I’m begging!” Frankie was emotional. “Please, you’re the only one I can turn to. You don’t have to talk, just listen.” And with that, Frankie began pouring out the details of her tragic life over the past few years and hoped it was enough to melt an icy heart.

  • • •

  “I don’t trust that bitch,” Lakim said venomously after Frankie had gone.

  “You don’t trust nobody. Fra
nkie Angels is solid,” King told Lakim.

  “Why do they call her Frankie Angels?” Cain asked. He’d been so quiet neither King nor Lakim had noticed him standing there.

  King looked at Cain and caught the telltale glint of infatuation in his eyes. “Frankie is skilled at eluding the Reaper,” King told him. “She’s died and come back twice, and those are just the times that I know of. That girl has been through more shit than a little bit and is still standing. If that ain’t angels protecting her, I don’t know what to call it.”

  “She’s a little too lucky for my tastes,” Lakim said coldly. Something in his gut told him that Frankie knew more than she let on about his brother’s case.

  King draped one of his muscular arms around Lakim and pulled his friend to him. “La, you need to relax. I know you stressed about what’s going on with Zo, but you pointing that anger in the wrong direction. I got something you can focus that on, though,” he said sinisterly. “Y’all took care of that for me?” he asked the twins.

  “You know it,” Cain told him. With a wave of his hand, he motioned for everyone to follow him to the green Honda sitting at the curb. He gave his brother the signal, and Abel gleefully popped the trunk. Tucked neatly inside was a man, bound and naked. His eyes held the look of a terrified rabbit.

  “Who the fuck is that?” Lakim asked, not really sure what to make of it.

  “This is one of the niggaz who had a hand in that shit that happened with Shorty,” King told him.

  “His name is Big Money Savage.” Cain filled him in, prodding Big Money with his finger.

  The name immediately rang off in Lakim’s head. “You mean to tell me you’ve got a member of the Savage family tied up in the trunk?” He was shocked.

  “You say it like these niggaz are connected or something,” King said.

  “Nah, they ain’t connected, but the name Savage is ringing in the streets,” Lakim told him. “There’s a bunch of those crazy muthafuckas. They’re like Bebe’s kids, only packing uzis.”

  “Well, I didn’t find no uzi on this piece of shit, but he did have a punk-ass twenty-five on him when we swooped down,” Abel joked.

  “Shut up, stupid,” Lakim snapped. “King, I don’t know how you, of all people, don’t know the Savages when you were locked up with their brother Mad Dog.”

  King flashed through his mental Rolodex and put a face with the name Mad Dog. He had met a kid who went by that moniker while passing through Sing Sing state prison. Mad Dog was very passive and mostly kept to himself, reading or working out, but there was a monster lurking beneath that calm exterior, and King had seen it firsthand. He had been on a visit at the same time as Mad Dog when an inmate who was also on the visiting-room floor said something crazy to Mad Dog’s sister. Without wasting a second, Mad Dog was on the inmate, punching him and slamming his head repeatedly against the ground. The COs tasered and pepper-sprayed Mad Dog, but he kept fighting as if they were merely spitting on him. The COs ended up having to beat Mad Dog unconscious with their batons to stop his attack, but not before he knocked two of them out, too. Mad Dog spent a month in the infirmary. When they released him back to the cell block, he went back to being tucked away and reading peacefully, as if the brutal attack had never happened. Ironically, King could remember joking with a few of the other inmates about how he would hate to ever have to go against Mad Dog in the streets.

  King found himself faced with a dilemma. It had been the Savages who were responsible for Shorty’s death, obviously trying to assassinate King. If he let Mad Dog live after having spilled innocent blood in a neighborhood he had sworn to protect, he would appear weak. But if he killed him, it could spark a war with the notorious family, while he was still trying to make heads or tails of his war with the Clarks.

  “You sure about this?” Lakim asked, noticing the look of uncertainty on King’s face.

  King approached the trunk of the car and looked down at Big Money. Unexpectedly, he ripped the duct tape away from his mouth. “So you’re kin to Mad Dog Savage?”

  “That’s my cousin! If you know I’m related to him, then you know what’ll happen if I’m returned to my people in anything more than one piece,” Big Money blurted out, hoping his relation to Mad Dog might save him from whatever they were planning.

  “Why should I show you the courtesy, and you didn’t do the same for my little homie?” King asked him. “He was just a kid, barely old enough to have gotten his dick wet, but you sent him to his mother in pieces, so why shouldn’t I send you to yours in pieces?”

  Big Money shook his head sadly. “That wasn’t for him,” he said sincerely, “but there’s casualties in every war.”

  “Spoken like a man with the heart for this shit,” King said approvingly. “Cain.” He turned to the scarred twin. “Since Big Money’s got so much heart, make sure his heart is the first thing you cut out when you kill this bitch.” He turned and walked away.

  “Wait, wait . . . I can—” Big Money began, but his words were cut off when Cain slammed the trunk shut.

  Lakim caught up with King. “King, I know you tight, but let’s think about this. He’s related to the Savages, which means he’s protected. Killing him will mark us.”

  “Yeah, so you keep saying, but let me ask you this. What makes his life more valuable than Shorty’s, his name?” King asked. “Shorty had a name, too, and I’m going to make sure everyone remembers it.” Without another word, King walked off and left his soldiers to carry out his sentence.

  TWENTY-NINE

  SLEEP DIDN’T COME EASY FOR Ashanti that night. There was too much going on. Every time he heard a noise, he grabbed his gun from under the pillow, thinking the police were going to kick his door in and try to arrest him for his part in the deadly shootout in the Bronx. Animal seemed to think that the police hadn’t gotten a good enough look at Ashanti to place him at the scene of the crime, but he figured why take chances. If they came to his house looking for someone to pin a case on, all they would find was hot lead and death.

  In addition to everything else he was going through, Ashanti was having a hard time wrapping his mind around being dumped by Fatima. Part of him wanted to be mad at her for bailing on him, but he couldn’t say that he blamed her. She was a young girl who had her whole life ahead of her and had already been through so much. She deserved better than a boyfriend behind a wall or in the ground, and Ashanti was likely headed for one or the other, if not both. Still, it hurt him to the core to think about it. He loved Fatima, and a life without her was too painful for him to dwell on without getting emotional.

  Ashanti continued to lie in his bed, staring at the ceiling until the first rays of the sun came peeking through his apartment window. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to get any rest before he was to meet the others back at the church that morning, he decided to tend to his other bodily need: food. With everything going on, he hadn’t eaten in almost two days and was ravenous. He jumped into the shower and dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt so he could run to the corner store and get a hero sandwich. He got to the door, and as an afterthought, he went back and snatched his Beretta from under his pillow. He gave the silencer fitted at the end of the barrel a good twist to make sure it was secure before stuffing the weapon down the back of his pants. As was his ritual every time he left his apartment, he stopped in front of the framed picture hanging to the right of the door. The picture was of him, Animal, Brasco, and Nef, sitting on a project bench. Animal was holding up the magazine cover with himself on it. He wished Brasco and Nef had been there with him to stand with Animal, but they weren’t. Brasco was still locked up, and he didn’t speak to Nef much those days.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, big homie.” Ashanti kissed his fingers and patted the picture before leaving the apartment. On his way out, he made sure to lock both the top and bottom locks. He lived in a nice building, but it was still in the hood, and he knew some of the tenants were suspect, including himself.

  Ashanti steppe
d out onto the stoop of his apartment building and gave a cautious glance up and down the block, searching for anything that might’ve seemed out of place. He was ducking the police, Shai’s shooters, and God only knew who else who might’ve wanted a piece of him. Thinking of Shai turned his thoughts to Swann and the bit of information Percy had revealed to him, and all Ashanti could do was shake his head. On the streets, Swann was known as one of the realest dudes to ever shit between two pairs of shoes, but even the realest cats had secrets, some more detrimental than others. What Ashanti knew about Swann could’ve shattered his street credibility and possibly gotten him murdered if it ever got out. Ashanti would hold on to the secret as leverage against Swann should he ever find his back truly against the wall.

  On his way to the store, Ashanti tried to hit Zo-Pound to see what time he wanted to link for the meeting, and his phone went straight to voicemail. He tried him three more times with the same results. Normally, he wouldn’t stress it, but in light of Zo’s suspect behavior lately, it made him uneasy.

  For as long as Ashanti and Zo-Pound had been friends, they had always kept it one hundred with each other, until the situation with Rick Jenkins. Even after Ashanti had confronted Zo and told him what the police were saying, he still tried to spin Ashanti. Murder was a very sensitive subject, and Ashanti could understand Zo not wanting anybody to know, but Ashanti wasn’t just anybody. They were brothers in arms. What Ashanti found even more disturbing than Zo keeping secrets was the fact that the murder seemed so random and totally out of Zo’s character. Zo had bodies under his belt, but he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. For Zo to take a man’s life, he had to have been pushed, but what could Rick have done to send him over the edge when they supposedly didn’t know each other? There were so many questions that needed answering, and Ashanti just hoped that they had enough time to touch on all of them.

  Ashanti slipped into the store and greeted the young Arab dudes who worked there. He didn’t have to tell them what he wanted; they already knew, because he got the same thing every time: turkey, ham, and Swiss, with extra mayo, oil, and vinegar. He kept one eye on the dude making his sandwich and one cast out the bodega window. Outside, a blue-and-white police car pulled to the curb in front of the store. Ashanti felt the icy trails of sweat running down his back and pooling near the butt of the Beretta tucked into the back of his sweatpants. His heart thundered in his chest as one of the officers got out of the car and started walking toward the bodega. Ashanti’s hand involuntarily slipped over the gun, finger trembling over the trigger. The cop stopped and listened as a call came in over the radio mounted on his shoulder. After responding to the radio call, the cop turned on his heels and went back to the squad car, which peeled off. Whatever had happened must’ve been more important than what he wanted in the store, and Ashanti was thankful for it.