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!

Chapter 8

From Skateboards to Shootouts

My foot’s crushing the gas pedal. I’m doing over fifty miles an hour through residential streets, but that’s not how I feel. In my mind, I’m crawling towards my destination in slow motion. Tiff’s aunt lives out in the Thunder Gate district about sixteen miles from Dizzy’s studio. I’ve got Deep Kut riding shotgun. He’s bracing himself against the dashboard with one hand. Since I’ve already driven down the train tracks a short stretch to save time, he knows that right now I’m capable of breathtakingly risky maneuvers that could flip this Lincoln Town Car at any moment. He’s fumbling with my cellphone.

“The hell you want me to do with this?” he asks frantically trying to open the phone.

“Call Philly!” I know turning my head to look at him right now could end up with us taking out a telephone pole so I don’t look over. “Tell him to get his ass over to Thunder Gate!”

“I don’t know his number, man!” Deep Kut’s normally low voice becomes tinged with what sounds to me like whining. “Come on, man. You dial him!”

“You don’t need the goddamn number,” I blow past a stop sign, praying that there are no cops around right now, “Go to the menu, his name’s right there! Just dial the shit and put him on speaker phone.”

“What menu? How do I get to it?” his brow knits together above his sunglasses as he concentrates, shaking his head. “Man, I’m no good with technology. I don’t see any menus.”

My nostrils flare. My face heats up, “You can read, can’t you? It’s right there on the screen! Then you hit send on Philly’s name. It’s not rocket science, you bitch.”

After more fumbling by Deep Kut, and yelling by me, we finally get Philly dialed and on speaker phone. He answers in three rings.

“Philly!” I have a tendency to raise my voice even though the microphone works just fine and the car’s not all that loud. “We got a problem on our hands. Where you at, son?”

“At home, man,” he fails to stifle a yawn. “Watching videos, you know? Something go down in Benton?”

This is a poor time to raise my stress level.

“The fuck did you just say? Didn’t I tell your ass to keep tabs on Benton tonight?”

“Of course, man,” his tone grows worried. “I got six guys down there right now and there haven’t been any calls or nothin’ all night.”

“How would you know that if your bitch ass is sleeping?” I swerve around a bike that seems to have randomly appeared in the middle of the street, causing our Lincoln to nearly jump the curb.

“Voice mails, Perce,” so he did fall asleep then like I thought. “Our boys know to call me if there’s action anywhere in Doyle Heights, much less Benton. I was down there a few hours back and it’s just fine. Everything’s flowin’ real nice.”

Arguing about the situation only prolongs Philly getting to Thunder Gate so I drop it.

“I got a big problem, Philly. A real bad situation is going down with Tiff’s little brother. You remember that kid Sam?”

“Sure, man. His sister’s that blond chick who wears all the goth makeup? Moved up here from Texas a few years ago?” I think I just heard him zip his pants up. Motherfucker must’ve been in bed.

“That’s her,” at least his memory’s working even if the rest of his brain is on vacation tonight. “About fifteen minutes ago she called me. Some of those Smoke Money assholes tracked Sam to her aunt’s place. Kicked the door down, but Sam went out the back. She heard shots a couple minutes later so she called me.”

“Holy shit!” Philly’s paying full attention now. “Smoke Money play hardball out there. How the fuck did Sam get mixed up in that shit? They gunnin’ for Sam only or his whole crew?”

I explain the situation to him as best I can. I dated Tiff a couple years back when her family moved up here from San Antonio and I took a nearly instant liking to her little brother, Sam. She may’ve been blessed with the looks in the family and she certainly can be a sweetheart, but Sam’s got heart and the brains to match. When I met him, the boy had a knack with computers and phone equipment, but he didn’t have the temperament to be a geek – too wild in his ways. Once he found out I was a Kingfin, he started quizzing me about the streets and life as a banger. Since I’m not a public service announcement, I went ahead and answered his questions. I gave him advice about how to handle situations and turned into something of a mentor for Sam. That didn’t sit too well with his sister and led to our breaking up, but we’ve still kept in touch so she can get a little Percy Straight-style love when she feels like it.

A year or so ago, Sam started his own crew – Brotherhood of Lost Souls. More like a clique, really, since they’re all still in high school. About a dozen or so skater kids in dreadlocks who spend more time smoking joints between classes than they do listening to their teachers. When they’re not at school, they’re blasting reggae and giving each other jail-style tattoos with sewing needles and whatever ink they can find – for authenticity, you understand. They all go to Louis Carver High School in Thunder Gate and as a crew their main gig is selling herb to their classmates. Since Sam learned everything he knows about the dope game from me, they sell a hell of a lot of it. Probably pushing a pound or two a week last I heard. That’s big money for high school kids and they’ve developed a taste for life’s finer things now. They’ll probably do alright if they can avoid juvie long enough to expand their game by getting a larger customer base and recruiting people to deal on their behalf. However, as you rise up the ladder of the drug game, you eventually encounter problems. Smoke Money Family is the problem they encountered.

In the early 1990’s, two brothers, Ivy and Darnell Patterson, set up shop down in Phoenix, Arizona. On the streets they were known as Camaro and Chinaman, respectively. Both are former Crips. The brothers got heavy in the heroin trafficking business, pulling in shipments that they’d drive down from San Francisco to Phoenix. Instead of the low-grade Mexican brown, they were pulling in high potency China white from Asia which got them a lot wealthier clientèle. They made money fast, but they got brought down even faster because when addicts start kicking it in hotel rooms in significant numbers, law enforcement gets interested real quick. The FBI nailed Chinaman during a sting operation, but they couldn’t pin anything on Camaro because the boy was too damn slick. Camaro had enough cash squirreled away to afford an ace legal defense for his brother so Chinaman didn’t serve too much time before he got released on technicalities involving how the feds conducted their sting.

Once Chinaman got released, both brothers got the fuck out of Arizona and came north to Seattle. They kept a low profile here for a while, but once you sling dope for a living nothing else quite compares to the thrill or the cash flow. They got back into the hustle. This time they did things differently, though. Camaro discovered the rave scene just as it was peaking, and he convinced his brother they could make a killing selling pot and ecstasy to the party kids. Within a few years they had a nice wide distribution network called Smoke Money Family that still functions within this rainy city. They’re not so much a gang, really, as they are plain old thugs. There’s zero loyalty among these dudes beyond the bond between the brothers who run SMF. Everyone who works for them is dependent on the brothers’ supply which means the pair maintains absolute control over the whole Family. They’re a disgrace to the streets, but because they have so much money, they’re well-armed and most of their rivals have decided to give them time to hang themselves. Nothing that grows as fast as the SMF has, while not having roots in the environment it’s trying to take hold of, is going to last too long. That’s the theory, any way.

Recently, SMF has shifted its focus from the clubs uptown, straight into suburban high schools. Selling drugs to high schoolers is like shooting fish in a barrel – nothing to it, especially when you buy off every rent-a-pig working security on campus and some of the administration, too. Lately, they’ve been selling a new concoction they call ‘cheese’, a nasty little drug. They make it by crushing up Tylenol PM’s with a dab of heroin. It’s about eight percent pure heroin per batch, and a hit only costs two dollars. Cheap and effective, like crack was back in the day. This shit is snortable and they can get rid of it quicker than free beer on a college campus. Louis Carver High happens to be one of the schools these SMF dudes have started selling cheese in. Sam and his Brotherhood don’t like the idea of their operation getting taken down, along with the others at Louis Carver, once those at the school who haven’t been bought off start noticing that half the student body got hooked on cheap smack. Apparently, they took some pre-emptive action against the SMF boys. What I mean by that is that they cornered a couple of them and beat the teeth out of ‘em.

“So they came in there with guns and masks and shit?” Philly’s in his car now, bringing a couple boys out to Thunder Gate, but we’re still talking. “That’s fucking crazy! Neighbors probably got their plates. Fucking amateurs.”

“Actually, they worked pretty smart considering they’re just Smoke Money hired thugs,” I slow down so as not to miss my turn. “Pulled up in front of the apartments in a Yukon, let the masked dudes out to rush the door, and sped off around the corner. Probably took about ten seconds. Then the thugs went out the back door after Sam. Probably had the ride ready to meet them back there because that’s the direction Tiff heard squealing tires coming from.”

My call waiting beeps so I tell Philly to hang on and tell Deep Kut to switch over to the other line.

“How do I do that?” he stares at the phone. “There’s no call waiting button or nothin’.”

I knock him upside the head and take the phone since we’re stopped in front of the apartment complex now.

“Gimme that, you fool! Hang it up, then turn it back on. Fucking children use these things everyday and you, the ‘Lexus of Lyricists’, can’t figure it out? Damn!”

“Hey, come on!” Deep sounds more offended than angry. “I ain’t good with shit like thi–”

The line switches over and I raise the phone to my ear, but the caller starts talking before I can say hello.

“Perce!” it’s Sam whispering loudly. “You hear me, brother?”

“I can hear you,” I tell him.

“Listen, I got a problem,” he’s panting as if he just ran a marathon. “Smoke Family’s after the Brotherhood. Me in particular. We fucked their shit up at school the other day and now they’re looking to settle the score. Showed up at my Aunt’s house looking for me. Four dudes in masks kicked the door in, but I made it out the back and I’m runnin’ for it.”

“Where you at right now?”

I’m glad he called because this’ll make bailing him out a hell of a lot easier.

“Hiding in some bushes outside the library,” I can tell by the pauses in the conversation that he’s also having a cigarette. “Shootin’ at me, Perce! Motherfuckers tried to run me over in that SUV they got, too. I ran like a bitch because I got my piece on me, but I had the clip in a different pocket. Take too long to load up before they’da popped me.”

I start backing the car out of the parking lot rapidly, heading over to the library, “What I tell you, Sam? You gotta stay prepared! Handle your shit! Be ready at all fuckin’ times because that’s the thing about gang life: if you’re not with your boys, you’re vulnerable and your enemies wait until then to jump your ass. Let this be a lesson for you. You’ve got to stay aware at all times and–”

There’s a loud crash followed by an irritating and rather high-pitched beeping. I’ve backed the Lincoln into a parked minivan behind us that I didn’t see.

“Perce! You ok?” Sam’s panicky, “What was that?”

“Nothin’,” I glare at Deep Kut who’s shoulders are shaking from the snickering he’s trying to subdue. “Don’t worry, we’re on our way. What street is the library off of?”

“Corner of Rosewood and 182nd,” Sam assures me. “I got my piece loaded up now so don’t go surprising me, aight?”

“You hang tight, man,” I’m out of the parking lot before the mini-van’s owners can come flying out their front door. “We’ll be there before you know it. You see them, you stay hidden. Only shoot if you have to.”

“Ok, Perce,” is all he has time to say before I flip back over to the other line.

“Philly, listen up,” I feel a little calmer now that we know where Sam is. “Sam just called, and he’s alright. Hiding out down at the library and we’re going to pick him up, me and Deep Kut. I want you to sail on over here to Thunder Gate and stay in the apartment with Tiff and her aunt for at least for a few hours in case those punks come back. We’re gonna run Sam over to MadBlack’s place so he’ll be safe until we get this shit sorted out proper. After I drop Deep back at the studio, I’m gonna sleep for a bit since things at Benton are going okay.”

“Got it, boss,” he’s confident, “I’ll call you if I get any static from those SMF fuckers or hear of anything going down in Benton. Count on it.”

“Make sure you stay awake this time,” I remind him. “One of us has got to keep watch over all this. And that’s you.”

“I know. I will,” the resentment’s easy to catch in his tone.

“And Philly, one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t go playing the hero role and getting busy with Tiff. You know how I feel about her.”

After firing this parting shot, I hang up before he can protest.

Author’s Notes: Check back December 1, 2009 for Chapter 9!

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!