Chapter 12
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!
