Eventually It Catches Up to You

I decide to ask Deep as we’re pulling out of the parking lot, “Got a little weird at the end, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, you noticed that shit, too?” he asks as he adjust the heater so it’s blowing on him. “Like maybe they got some bad news or something. Just real quiet. Kinda angry looking, too.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe the big dude got chewed out by Kobra or something,” Deep offers. “Called someone while we were looking around the park. I saw him on the phone, but we were too far away for me to hear what he was saying. Whatever it was sure changed his attitude quick.”

I’m annoyed that I missed seeing Big Doug get the call, but I try to play it off like I saw it, too. “Hard to say. Could be anything, I guess. You want me to take you to your place or Dizzy’s?”

He tells me Dizzy’s, so that’s where we head after putting a CD on. The ride to Dizzy’s is quiet because both of us are tired from the whole craziness of this night and I’d bet Deep’s turning things over in his mind the same way I am. He thanks me for the ride after we get to Dizzy’s and out of habit I wait for Jezzy to open the door to him before driving on home. On the way back I catch myself dozing a little. It doesn’t feel like I should be as tired as I am, but the stress of the day chewed my energy up faster than normal. After parking the car in the garage I head to MadBlack’s living room, planning to update him on what all’s gone down. Terminator 2 is still blaring from the big TV, but neither MadBlack nor Sam are watching it. MadBlack’s asleep in his recliner, head tilted back and snoring away. Sam’s curled up on the couch, oblivious to the world around him.

I know better than to wake MadBlack up. Instead, I head up to my room, undress and collapse onto the bed. In less than a minute I’m sound asleep.

Author’s Notes: Short chapter this time More tomorrow

Smoke, Talk and Drive

I head to the den so I can get MadBlack’s viewing experience readied. He and Deep Kut chat with Sam while I set things up. By the time I’m ready to take Deep home they’re all getting along pretty well. Almost natural. Deep and I say our goodbyes and get into an ‘88 Oldsmobile Cutlass Classic that MadBlack keeps in the garage. It’s chromed up, lowered and painted a gorgeous shade of indigo. A choice ride with an expensive sound system. Deep Kut throws on some Ludacris for the ride over to Benton before I take him back to Dizzy’s studio for the night. Smooth sailing, set to some serious smoking of premium weed, courtesy of Kingfin supply. I can feel my adrenaline-tensed muscles relaxing under the good herb’s spell.

“Crazy shit Sam pulled back there, ain’t it?” Deep asks while it’s my turn to toke.

“Yes, indeed,” I can still talk with lungs full of smoke. “Damn near ended himself up in the city morgue instead of MadBlack’s. Brave little bastard, though, I gotta say.”

“You’re right,” Deep’s nodding thoughtfully to this song’s bass line. “To tell the truth, I felt pretty sure he’d end up dead, pulling a stunt like that. Seen alotta niggas fall tryin’ to stand tall.”

“Glad we changed cars before we got pulled over,” glancing over at him I read from his smile that he’s going to turn this situation into another song. “A shootout of that magnitude is going to end up on the front pages of the papers tomorrow morning. Smoke Money Family’s liable to hunt our asses down if that last dude they had standing recognized me as Kingfin. Hope Philly doesn’t end up fielding a second visit tonight – by SMF thugs.”

I take a few drags while I let Deep Kut unroll what’s in his head, “I ever tell you about my Pops? I was about Sam’s age when he got shot. He rolled with the Harborside Crips back in the day. Not after I was born, though. He quit the gang life cause my momma didn’t want us kids growing up that way. Thing is, you never really quit the streets. It’s like a magnet in your bloodstream. If you ain’t drawn to them, they’re drawn to you. Pops worked on the docks since that was all that would hire him. So he’d been doing hard labor making a way for our family, not messin’ with gangs at all. Then one day, on his way back home he’s waiting on a red light at an intersection. Some punk ass crossing the street jogs over to his window and sticks a gat in face. Carjacking.”

Funny I’ve never heard this story, even having known Deep so long like I have. He takes another toke before I smash the roach out in the car’s ashtray, reminding myself to dump it once we get to the park.

“So, Pops acts real cool,” he continues, his voice lower than I’m used to. “Another kid comes up on the other side, gun in hand, ready to back his partner and take Pops’ ride. What does my old man do? He reaches out quick, grabs the guy on the driver’s side’s gun and yanks his arm into the car so he can get control over the weapon. Well, that guy starts pullin’ the trigger all rapid-fire. Bullets go into the seat, the passenger-side door and then through the window while Pops and this little bitch are wrestling for the gun. Shot that goes through the window hits the other jacker, drops him dead on the pavement. Once Pops has the gun away from the one guy, he floors it out of there. Now he’s stuck with a gun that shot somebody and even though it’s got no prints on it, Pops wasn’t a man to take unneccessary risks. He drives over a bridge and tosses the gun into the Duwamish River. Next day, he and I are going down to the Circle K to get him a pack of smokes and this car rolls up alongside us, goin’ too slow. Window rolls down and Pops screams at me to get down. Shoves me to the sidewalk as the shotgun fires. Missed me, but it hit him. Died instantly, they told us. One shell, that’s all it took. See, the carjackers were Southtown Red Kats, Blood-affiliated. Jacker that lived told them about my Pops and they remembered he was Harborside Crips. The situation became a colors game. The jacker blamed the death of his homeboy on Pops and less than 24 hours later, us kids lost our old man. Streets get sick, don’t they Perce?”

“They fuckin’ do,” I nod, feeling sorry for Deep. “Harborside ever get even for that?”

“Nah, they didn’t give a shit. Said Monkeywrench, that’s what they called Pops, was dead to them already. None of ‘em even came to his funeral, man.”

“Fucked up,” I find myself a bit angry at hearing this. “Kingfins don’t operate that way. Unless you cross us, once you’re in we stick by you for life.”

“No shit, that’s the way it should be. I took it upon myself to settle the score. Made up a Molotov cocktail and tossed that fucker into a party they were having. Three of ‘em got to roast that night. I figure that’s even enough.”

I give a low whistle before saying, “Nasty way to die, but sounds like it suited the nature of their crime, blasting your Pops like that. Red Kats around any more?”

“Nope, they all either shifted allegiance, got busted or wound up dead. Doesn’t hurt my feelings, though. Nasty crew. Stupid violent and most ‘em were hopped up smokin’ rock all the time.”

Author’s Notes: Still playing catch up, next chapter goes live in a day or 2 until we get back on track!

In the Studio

“Rollin’ slowly up beside you,” I bob my head to the thump of the beat, keeping my eyes closed so my ears can relish the raspy baritone delivery of these lyrics. “Tinted windows won’t hide you. These streets slicked by the rain, can’t wash away stain of pain. You stepped across the borderline, the rules we’re playin’ by are mine.”

The chiming echo of the guitar solo fades out over the bass line as I slowly open my eyes, a smile rising to my lips. Behind the glass, I see Deep Kut mirroring that smile. The boy has really come up since he started recording a couple years back. As always, he’s got on his burgundy hoodie and those aviator sunglasses. While the last notes fade out, he looks to Dizzy for a reaction. Though his back is turned to me, as he hunkers over the soundboard, I’m positive Dizzy can’t suppress a grin, either. He gestures for Deep Kut to come out of the recording booth, to where we are.

I’ve been sitting here for the last few hours watching the recording process. It’s a pleasure to be there, during the moments music is being formed and shaped into the end product, before it hits the streets. Sessions with Dizzy are especially fine because, to my ears, the man is an audial genius. Though, he may not be a well-known hip hop producer right now, I’ve got a feeling it’s only a matter of time before he will be. Depth Charge Productions started out as a one man venture by his hands, right here in this basement. It’s grown over time and keeps getting better thanks to Dizzy’s work and my money. I’ve invested thousands to set the place up with quality equipment.

Walt “Dizzy” Lee came to Seattle from San Francisco, as a teenager, when his father got an engineering job with Boeing up here. As a kid growing up in the Bay Area he absorbed himself in hip hop culture, despite his Asian parents’ strong objections. While he never joined a gang himself, he certainly got exposed to the lifestyle and gained a healthy respect for the real bangers. The first time we met, I ran into him at a club where he was spinning house music that drove the kids crazy. The next time I saw him, he was on stage at some back alley death metal concert in Tacoma, that an ex-girlfriend of mine dragged me to. Since I kept coming across him, I felt I had to meet him and find out what he was all about. Turns out, he’s got not only wide musical tastes, but talent as well. Doesn’t matter whether it’s guitar, drums, bass, turntables, or keyboards, if it makes a sound then the boy can work wonders with it.

“You like that shit, Dizzy?” Deep Kut asks as he steps through the door. “Practiced my ass off to get it just right. Did like you said and recorded it with that little tape recorder you gave me. Kept playing it back until it sounded just how I wanted it to.”

“That,” Dizzy’s fingers dance around the soundboard until a mix of Deep Kut’s vocals and Dizzy’s music are pumping out of the speakers. “That’s some beautiful shit, right there. Beautiful!”

“Damn, man, I’m glad you like it!” Deep Kut can’t contain his pride. A compliment like this from “Reverend Dizzy” is like having Einstein tell you you’re smart.

“Honestly, it looks like we got it in one take, Deep,” Dizzy leans back, arms folded across his Orange Crush t-shirt, “Hell, I’m not even sure we needed to do it twice, but you know how I am.”

“The mastermind has spoken,” Deep Kut beams at me. “And when the mastermind speaks his mind, who are we to disagree?”

“Maybe make that into a song, Deep,” I smirk at him. “Call it ‘How to Rise By Kissing Ass’.”

He knows I’m referencing his local hit ‘How to Rise by Killing’.

“Shit,” he chuckles, in far too good of a mood to take offense. “I never thought one song could take so long to write, but I think this one’s worth it.”

I light a cigarette, despite the glare from Jezzy. She’s Dizzy’s latest feminine companion, a Latina from some barrio south of here, that I could care less about. Maybe Los Angeles, maybe Tacoma, maybe Tijuana. All I know is that her high-maintenance demeanor totally offsets her beauty. Liquid chocolate eyes, perfect mocha skin tone and a shining black cascade of curls draping over the attitude of a spoiled toddler.

“Aw, Perce,” she whines like a caged dog. “The smoke, that’s bad for you! You keep sucking those fumes and you gonna end up on your back in a hospital bed like my grand-mama.”

I gaze at her wondering how much torque I’d need to slap that white eyeliner off her face. “You talking again, Jezzy? I thought we had a moratorium on that shit. Why don’t you go get your man a drink, like a good little girl.”

She’s scowling at me as she runs her hands down over Dizzy’s chest. “Walty, you got mean friends. I’m trying to be helpful cause I care, you know? Then he goes and treats me like some kinda ho!”

Dizzy’s eyes meet mine but I can tell he’s a little torn between his fine heina and my cash dedication to his passion, “Nah, baby girl, you know how it is. I smoke, too, and it’s for the stress. Perce didn’t mean nothin’ mean, right man?”

“I meant,” I’m not too interested in a spat killing my buzz even tho I’m peeved. “That there’s better ways of showing the care. I risk a hospital stay every day I run these streets. Get shot or something slipped in my drink. Cigarettes the least of my worries, Jezzy. Not the kind of thing a man wants to be thinking about while he works.”

“I can’t help caring about you,” her tone sounds apologetic but her kind smile gleams false. “Dizzy loves you like I do and you two got this great thing going. I don’t want to see that end.”

Bet she doesn’t. Gold-digger.

“Oh hell yes,” Deep Kut speaks up, trying to break this awkward conversation. “I’m stealin’ that shit, Perce, ‘I risk a hospital stay every day I run these streets’, man that is pure platinum. I feel a song comin’ on!”

“OG philosophy,” I tell Deep, glad to have a new discussion started. “The way we think because we have to, man. Without a mindset you get your ass checked out there.”

“Oh fuck, Perce!” Deep Kut is loving this. “That’s priceless, right there, ‘OG philosophy, without a mindset you get your ass checked’ is so true, so deep, and so fucking lyrical. You a street poet, man.”

“Yeah, well,” I can’t help but grin at this sheer flattery since I know my words will become verse. “That’s how we roll. Armed up for the war that’s–”

My cellphone goes off. I’m slow at opening it, but before I do I see that it’s Tiff, one of my favorite girls.

“Perce, oh my god!” she’s hysterical and I have to squint against the assault on my ear. “They’re shooting at Sam! He ran, but they’re shooting at him! They’re gonna kill him!”

Author’s Notes: Chapter 8 will go live November 28, 2009! Have a Happy Thanksgiving!