Hoodlum Page 3

  “Look,” Poppa said, speaking again, “the summer is damn near on us and it's too late for us to get you back into school this semes

  ter. I’m gonna give you a play this weekend, but I’ll be expecting you to come to me with a plan by Monday.”

  “Thanks, Pop,” Shai said sarcastically.

  “Thanks my ass, Shai. Have your fun, but stay out of high-traffic areas. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, now get outta here before I come to my senses. I wanna talk to Tommy.”

  Shai hopped up and headed out of the office. The old man was being a mother hen, but he’d come around sooner or later. The important thing was that Shai had gotten his way. It was summertime in Harlem and nothing could’ve been sweeter.

  Tommy remained silent until his little brother had left the office. He knew exactly what Shai was thinking. Shai was far from stupid, buthe was young and impressionable. He’d just have to make sure his brother stayed out of harm's way.

  “You sure that was the right thing?” Tommy asked. “Letting Shai run loose in the streets unattended?”

  “He’ll be all right,” Poppa said, relighting his cigar. “Gotta let go sometime. Besides, Shai is a good kid. Street-smart too. I raised all my boys in the real world, not that sheltered, fantasy shit.”

  “I can dig it, Pop, but you know it's getting crazy out there?”

  “Everybody knows that Shai is a square peg. Ain’t got nothing to do with the streets. Besides, who's gonna be crazy enough to fuck with one of y’all?” Poppa asked confidently.

  “Right as usual, Pop. You know I’ll lay something down for my lil’ one.”

  “There you go, Tommy. You can dress a nigga up in a suit and give him all of the education in the world, but you can’t take the hood outta him. When you gonna wise up, boy?”

  “Come on, Pop, you know how I get down.”

  “Yeah and that's why I pulled you off the streets. It was getting too damn expensive cleaning up after you.”

  “Pop, you know I ain’t never blast on nobody that ain’t have it coming.”

  “Whatever, Tommy. Let's just get down to business. You speak to them Wong boys?”

  “Yeah, Pop. Got it all set up. Me and Here is supposed to meet up with ‘em tomorrow night. After the party.”

  “Okay, that's good. You sure this is what you wanna do?”

  “Yep,” Tommy said confidently. “Mike and them niggaz been half stepping for too long. It's time to find a new supplier.”

  “Who's to say that they won’t pull the same flake shit?” Poppa asked.

  “I don’t think so, Pop. Word on the street is these dudes do square business. They don’t deal with too many people, but I hear that their shit is off da chain. The meeting should go well.”

  “Let's hope so, Tommy. This is your call, so it's up to you. If theAsians set out a better deal, then do what you gotta. Remember though, be careful when you fuck with them Triads. Dangerous folks, Tommy. Dangerous.”

  “Shit, Pop. Ain’t a nigga alive as dangerous as me and Here.”

  “Don’t let that pompous-ass attitude get you caught up in some shit. I don’t plan on outliving none of my kids.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tommy said, standing to leave. “I hear you.”

  “I know you hear me, but make sure you’re listening.”

  “Man, I ain’t scared to go at it with nobody, Poppa. Every nigga bleeds.”

  “Boy, ya head is like a rock.” Poppa sighed. “Discretion is the better part of valor.”

  “Yeah, and war is in the nature of man,” Tommy capped.

  “Don’t get cute, lil’ nigga. I don’t care how many bodies you’ve dropped, don’t forget who taught you the game. We understand each other?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. You young boys ain’t got shit on the old-time gangsters. You better wise up, Tommy. By splitting with the Italians, the deck is about to be stacked against you. This situation is a lot touchier than you might realize. It ain’t like we’re just dealing with Fat Mike and his dope, but we’ve also got relations with the Cissarros as a whole. We’ve always operated independently of the Italians, but they play a role in our power structure. When they cut us in on some of their people, we made quite a few dollars.”

  “Fuck them,” Tommy spat. “What about our rackets that we cut them in on? We kick them back a taste on quite a few of our endeavors. They say it's a partnership, but it's more like we keep the niggers in line and keep our bullshit from spilling over into their backyards. If you ask me, we ain’t nothing but some well-trained watchdogs.”

  “Well, I don’t recall asking you, Tommy. When you take over, you’re free to do as you please. For the moment, I’m master of this house. You just continue to be my strength in the streets and we’ll be straight. Okay?”

  Tommy didn’t bother to answer his father, he just kept walking. Old age didn’t seem to be making Poppa soft, but he was damn cautious. He seemed to be taking the idea of retirement more and more seriously. It was okay, though. Poppa had put in enough work over the years. If he wanted to play the background, then it was all good. Tommy liked being in the mix. He didn’t have a problem parleying with the Asians. If they decided to get crazy then he would teach them the universal language: iron.

  “Damn,” Detective Brown said, “somebody did poor Heath dirty.”

  “You ain’t lied, brother,” his partner, Detective Alvarez, agreed. “I guess it's a pretty sure bet that his mama will opt for a closed casket.”

  “That's some cold shit, partner. Ain’t you got no respect for the dead?”

  “Fuck ‘em,” Alvarez said, lighting a Newport. “You do dirt, you rest in it. We all know the rules.”

  “True enough, partner. True enough.”

  Detectives Brown and Alvarez continued to examine the crime scene, while drawing strange glares from some of the plainclothes officers who didn’t really know them. “Minority Report,” as they were playfully referred to, didn’t look like your average cops. As opposed to the off-the-rack suits that most of their fellow detectives wore, they draped themselves in the style of the streets they protected.

  Tony Brown was a short, light-skinned man. He had a round face that had forgotten how to smile. He had seen some things on the streets that made him bitter toward everything, even the system he served. Brown was the more serious of the two.

  Jesus Alvarez was the prankster. He was a very tall Puerto Rican guy. In addition to being an overall sarcastic bastard and pain in the ass, he considered himself to be a ladies’ man.

  “So what’ve we got so far?” Brown asked, flipping through his notepad.

  “Numbers man takes a bullet, film at eleven,” Alvarez saidsarcastically. “Far as we can tell, it was a robbery that went sour as hell.”

  “Doesn’t make sense, J,” Brown protested. “Everyone around here knows that Heath was a connected guy. Even if it was someone that knew him, why rob him in the street instead of just hitting his numbers spot? Heath is the top dawg so he's not gonna be carrying money. What's this all add up to?”

  “Come on, bro. If you know something let me in.”

  “This was an execution.”

  “In broad daylight? Come on, man.”

  “The writing is on the wall,” Brown insisted. “Whoever killed Heath was close up on him. He had powder burns all over his clothes. Trust me on this one, partner.”

  “Detective,” a uniformed officer said, approaching them, “we’ve got somebody over here that you might want to talk to.”

  The detectives followed the officer to a squad car on the corner. There was a man sitting in the backseat that looked like he was going to shit all over himself. Something or someone had him rattled. “What's his story?” Alvarez asked.

  “Seems he was out here when it went down,” the detective said, nodding toward the man in the car. “The thing is, he's not talking. Guy's scared to death.”

  “Let me talk to him,” Alvare
z said, opening the back door. The detective slid onto the seat next to the man. “What's good, papi?”

  “I just want to go home,” the man said, sounding frightened. “I don’t want trouble.”

  “Trouble, who's giving you trouble?” Alvarez asked, faking concern. “All we want to do is find out what went down here.”

  “I dunno,” the man lied. “I know nothing.” He shrugged.

  “Listen,” Alvarez said, leaning closer, “nobody's gonna do anything to you, bro. We look out for our own. You understand?”

  The man looked into Alvarez's eyes and saw the signs of cama

  raderie. He felt much more comfortable talking to a fellow Latino than the white officers who had originally been questioning him. “Two boys,” the man blurted out. “They come and talk to the deadguy. They talk about something, but they no argue. Then the fat one shoot him in the foot, but the other help him up. Then, bang-bang. The one who help him up, shoot him. He ask what the fuck I looking at and I run ‘cause I scared. Then I call you.”

  Brown's theory was right: Heath had indeed been executed. “So what else happened?”

  Poppa sat in his recliner, rubbing his temples. It seemed that the warmer the seasons got, the more he had on his plate. Over the last few years, he had built a sizable empire. He had played God and executioner to his followers, for more time than some of them had been alive. Poppa would forever be remembered as a player in the game, but his tenure was coming to an end.

  His bitch of a wife had left him with the responsibility of raising three kids on his own, with the headache of running businesses that danced on both sides of the law. Poppa had done a good job balancing the scales, but retirement would allow him to do better. The small box on his desk buzzed, snapping him out of it.

  “Yeah!” he barked, holding down the TALK button.

  “Poppa,” a metallic voice squawked. “Hope is waiting for you in the Navigator.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Ah . . . you’re supposed to take her to basketball tryouts.”

  “Shit!” Poppa cursed. He had totally forgotten about taking Hope to tryouts. The day was wearing on, and Poppa still had things to do. “Have Duce take her and I’ll be there in a while. Tell her I have a meeting, but I’ll be there.”

  Somewhere in Florida

  Artie checked his watch and noticed that it was still early. He had an asshole full of drug money and the rest of the afternoon to fuck off. At least until his man Steve came down with the rest of the packageshe was bagging up. Artie figured that he’d go to the mall to kill a few hours.

  Artie climbed into his Acura and began his journey across town. He took a deep pull off his Newport and let the smoke roll from his mouth. He was feeling good. So good in fact that he never noticed the blue Chevy following him.

  Artie parked his car at the rear of the mall. He could run in, get what he had come for, and run out. Artie's plan was foolproof, or so he thought. When he stepped out of the car and found himself staring down the barrel of a Desert Eagle, he realized that even the best laid plans had flaws.

  “Aye, nigga. You know what it is,” Malik said in a Southern drawl. “Come up off that shit, like now.” Malik was a big man, but he moved as silently as the grave while he and his partner crept up on Artie.

  “Ain’t this a bitch,” Artie cursed. “Y’all niggaz know who you’re robbing?”

  “We know just who you is, fuck nigga,” Gator hissed. “Now do like the man say and come up off yo’ shit, fo’ I have to peel ya mutha fuck’n potato.”

  Artie looked from Malik to Gator and cursed himself for not having a pistol. Many thoughts ran through Artie's head at that moment. He looked down at the cross hanging from his neck and remembered how long he had saved up to get it. He thought about the birthday present for his son, which he had come to the mall to get. Artidecided at that moment he wasn’t going out like that.

  “Nah, man,” Artie mumbled.

  “Fuck did you just say?” Malik asked.

  “I said I ain’t giving y’all niggaz shit.”

  “Boy,” Gator cut in, “is you retarded or some shit? That shit swinging ‘round yo’ neck ain’t worth dying over.”

  “I can’t let y’all jack me,” Artie said, trying to fight back the tears.

  “Oh, hell no,” Malik said, reaching for Artie's chain. “You gonna unass that shit.”

  When Malik moved, so did Artie. He caught Malik off guard with an overhand right. The blow didn’t drop Malik, but it stunned him long enough for Artie to grab for his gun. Artie put up a fight that neither of the robbers had expected.

  Gator looked on in amusement as the little fella gave Malik one hell of a fight. When he thought that he had seen enough, Gator took his .357 and clubbed Artie in the back of the head. The smaller man collapsed to the ground, clutching at the gash on the back of his head.

  “Enough of this silly shit,” Gator said in an icy tone. “Now come up off yo’ shit, before I put lead to yo’ lil’ ass, nigga.”

  Gator expected the fight to be over, but he was mistaken. Artie looked at the man with desperation in his eyes and lunged for the gun. Unlike Malik, Gator wasn’t for the bullshit. As soon as Artie got within spitting distance, Gator pulled the trigger. The blast hit Artie in the face and tore part of his skull to shreds. Malik jumped, but Gator didn’t flinch.

  “Look what the fuck you made me do,” Gator said as he bent down and went through Artie's pockets. “Done made me pop this ol’ fuck-nigga.”

  “That little mutha fucka snuck me,” Malik said.

  “Puss-ass nigga. Go through the mutha fuck’n car and see what he was holding. Stupid mutha fucka.”

  Malik knew better than to argue with Gator. There was no telling how he would react. Malik took two steps and froze as he heard trouble arrive.

  “Mall security. Don’t move!”

  Malik looked at the white man dressed in the tan-and-brown uniform. Had it been a few years ago, they would’ve just run or beat the hell out of the rent-a-cop, but it was a new millennium and the rent-a-cop was armed.

  “Put the guns down and get on the floor!” the security officer barked. He was scared to death, but the sounds of sirens approaching in the distance gave him some courage.

  Malik made to comply with the officer, but Gator stopped him short. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m doing like he say,” Malik explained.

  “Fool, you can’t be serious,” Gator said in disbelief. “That nigga ain’t ‘bout to shoot nobody.”

  “I said, on the ground!” the officer repeated. By now there was another security unit on the scene, so the first officer's confidence shot up another notch. “This is your last warning, boy. Get your ass on the ground.”

  “If it ain’t one thing, it's a fucking ‘nother,” Gator said. He fired from the hip, hitting the officer in the stomach. Malik panicked and tried to run. Before he made it anywhere the other unit opened fire. They laid Malik out right on the spot.

  “If you want something done right,” Gator mumbled as he hit the ground and crawled for Malik's gun. With both pistols in hand Gator popped up from behind a car and laid his thang down. The windows on the security cruiser shattered as Gator hit it with multiple slugs. The ensuing screams told him that at least one of the cruiser's occupants was no longer with them. Gator continued to fire off shots as he backed out of the parking lot.

  A police cruiser arrived on the scene, killing any ideas Gator might’ve had about getting back to the Chevy. He was now a caged rat searching for another means of escape. Gator ran around to the side of the mall hoping that he could snatch a car to make his getaway. To his dismay, there was neither time nor opportunity. He would have to find another way or hold court with the Dayton PD.

  As luck would have it, a young man was pulling out of the lot on his motorcycle. When Gator made his move the man never knew what hit him. Gator clothes-lined the man so hard that he almost took his head off. He really didn’t give
a shit though. His driving force was that they still had the death penalty in Florida.

  Gator tossed his spent .357 and opted to go with the Desert. Another security officer came running around the bend as Gator picked up momentum. The dumb-ass officer jumped right out in front of him. Gator jerked the bike, causing the front wheel to become airborne. Before the security officer could react, Gator tore into hisface and chest with the bike tire. The guard didn’t even live long enough to see Gator hop the tiny divider leading to the street.

  A police car tried to cut Gator off, but he leaned his weight to the left, causing the bike to fishtail. When one of the officers attempted to get out, Gator opened fire, shattering the window and making the officer rethink his play. Gator revved the bike and sped in the other direction.

  To his surprise, one of the remaining security officers was standing in the street with his gun drawn. He fired a shot, grazing Gator's arm. Gator lost control of the bike and skidded along the ground. The security officer, trying to be a hero, approached the fallen gunman. He figured that if he apprehended the man before the police did, he would be a hero in Dayton County. He never figured that Gator had plenty more tricks up his sleeve. Gator hopped up off the ground and landed a hard right to the security officer's gut. When the officer doubled over, Gator followed with an uppercut. The security officer went to pass out, but Gator held him upright. He yoked him from behind, using him as a shield as the police drew their weapons. In the blink of an eye, a robbery had turned into multiple homicide and kidnapping. Neither of which Gator planned to stand trial for. It was either get away or die in the streets.

  The officers advanced on Gator but didn’t dare to fire a shot for fear of hitting the security guard. Gator had no such reservations as he opened fire on the police. The first officer took one in the chest, taking him out of the firefight. The second one dropped to the floor and crawled for safety.

  Gator, still holding the security guard, backed down the street, desperately seeking another escape. People cursed and blared their car horns at the black man standing in the middle of the street. Gator looked to a beat-up brown station wagon and saw an opportunity.