Dying Like Dogs

“Perce!” he’s yelling. “Perce, I called Kettle to ask about the money. He didn’t answer so I called around to find him. Found out he ain’t called me cause he got shot!”

“Slow down, Philly!” I keep my voice low so the people in this parking lot can’t overhear me. “Kettle got shot? Who shot him? Is he okay, what happened?”

“He’s dead, Perce.” Philly seems only slightly calmer as he tells me this. “Him, Ducky and Big Pete. All fucking dead.”

“How in the fuck?” is all I can muster, my nerves not quite catching up to the news.

“Drive-by,” my lieutenant informs me. “Outside the liquor store in Doyle Heights, man.”

“Aw, shit!” I curse quietly. “Smoke Money, right?”

“Ain’t sure who shot ‘em,” Philly tells me. “From what I can get outta people, apparently it was some sort of Nissan sedan. Tinted windows. Whoever shot ‘em ditched the thing about half a mile from where they gunned our boys down. Stolen ride, the cops are saying.”

“No one got a good look at the shooters?” I can’t believe this bullshit.

“Nah, it happened real quick so it must’ve been planned out. Only thing we know is Kettle didn’t have none of that money on him. All of ‘em straight dead and none of ‘em had anything unusual with ‘em. Cops know they’re Kingfin so they figure this shit is gang-related, but can’t figure out a motive since as far as they know we ain’t feuding with anybody.”

This strikes me as strange. Kettle’s from Sunset Point, but he’s still Kingfin and Philly still pulls rank on him so I seriously doubt he’d pocket that cash or risk leaving it with anyone. The only conclusion that I can come to is that he must’ve had it stripped off his corpse. That’s pretty sick and it’s not real likely Smoke Money’s crew would do that kind of thing if this was a vendetta hit. I highly doubt that Smoke Money has any clue we shot ‘em up at Thunder Gate, anyhow. My intuition tells me this is pure Knucklehead bullshit and that money was real, not fake.

“Three of our men dead.” I let the statement hang in the air. “Money gone off Kettle. I guess that doesn’t leave a whole lot of guesswork for us now does it?”

“What you sayin’ Perce?”

“I’m telling you this is a Knucklehead hit.” I let my tone tell him how deadly serious I am. “They want us to continue business as usual and show up at Lanky Joe’s to get at least a partial payment. When we show up, they off us.”

“You fucking serious?” Philly’s got to be foaming at the mouth now. “You think they set this shit up just to knock us off and take Benton?”

“S’right, I do. This isn’t just about Seattle, Philly. It’s some sort of gig that interests their entire fucking organization. Why else would the Diamondknuckles be doing bitch work for some fucker from LA? Why else would they toss us decent chunks of change to keep us off their asses while they dowsed the park? This isn’t some minor thing they’re looking for. Whatever it is, it’s worth a lot to them or they wouldn’t risk provoking a war with us. However, what they’ve done calls for war. None of those boys deserved to die, especially not by ambush.”

“Holy fuck!” Philly hasn’t technically known full-scare war. Beef, yes, but not war. “We’re at war?”

“Gonna need MadBlack’s approval since it’s his Doyle Heights set, but that won’t be hard for me to get. This is gonna be a war those Knuckleheads are never gonna forget. I’m going straight to MadBlack’s to get his approval. You get some troops decked out and bring ‘em to Morton’s. Fast as you can.”

Morton’s is Morton & Son’s Scrap & Salvage, our secret weapon. Philly’s got some idea about it though we’ve rarely needed to use the place before now. It’s on our payroll and he’ll learn why once things get rolling.

“Got it, Boss,” he rushes his words. “Get ‘em to Morton’s quick as I can.”

“Good. See you there.”

I click my phone shut and enter the car, smiling at Lolinda. “I hate to do this, you know I do, but I’ve got some up and coming business to handle. I’ll swing you back to your place and we’ll re-schedule the walk on the pier if that’s alright with you.”

“Okay,” her smile flickers a little. I know she’s disappointed. “I understand. You do what you’ve got to do.”

“That’s right,” I tell her, “Don’t worry, though. We’ll get together again soon, I promise you.”

She doesn’t mind 2pac and right now that’s what I need, so we listen to The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory during the trip back to her place. I make sure she has a fifty tucked down the back pocket of her jeans before I let her out of the car. She thinks I just felt her up.

Author’s Note: more tomorrow….

Back in the Day

After topping off the gas tank, I take a leisurely ride through the neighborhood where I grew up. The housing looks even worse than it did when I lived here. Sagging houses shedding their paint, laced together shoes hanging from telephone wires and yards littered with bikes, children’s toys and beer cans. Seattle forgot the Cedar River suburb in the 70’s before my birth. Kids still hang out in the ancient playground, most of them teenagers passing joints or drinking cheap liquor the way I used to. In fact, if I got out of the car, most folks around here would recognize me on sight. This area still belongs to Kingfins. And to me.

Police rarely patrol here, coming only when they’re summoned and generally an hour after the fact. Even the patrols are meaningless because precious few officers are willing to get out of their cars in neighborhoods like mine. As a result, I feel perfectly comfortable smoking the honey-dipped blunt I left MadBlack’s place with. The sensamillia smoke whirls around in my chest and I’m beginning to feel at peace. I’ve got the urge for some music, so I pop in my CD of The Temptations, the one I always deny being the owner of. If anyone gives me grief about it, I simply inform them that one of my girls left it in my CD binder. This trick never fails because no one who knows me could imagine this sort of music appealing to me, but it does.

My mother loved Motown, so the soundtrack of my earliest childhood memories consists of The Temptations, Marvin Gaye, The Supremes, Stevie Wonder and even The Jackson 5. She loved the inspirational sound, told me that the music gave her wings which allowed her to rise out of the poverty we endured together. Contrary to what you might be thinking, my mother was not black. She was the daughter of a white dairy farmer from Wisconsin. My father was black and this music is how they related to each other. It’s even how they met at a club in Detroit decades ago. Neither of them are alive today, but listening to their music always connects me to them because I imagine wherever they flew off to when they left this world has a disco to beat any they ever danced in while they were alive.

As I cruise back past the playground, nearly halfway through my blunt, I notice a couple kids sitting on the merry-go-round. They’re eating burgers from some fast food chain, but I can’t tell which one from this distance. It dawns on me that I’ve forgotten to call around to find a date for lunch. Got so wrapped up in reminiscing that it completely slipped my mind. I find my phone, scrolling through the names on my list to find a suitable companion to dine with.

Author’s Note: We’ll get the ball back rollin’ now

Text Message

Ronnie-K and Dank let their controllers fall to the floor, the unpaused game continuing without them. Philly and I freeze, too. I’m hoping no one draws their piece at this point because the woman’s looking just crazy enough to discharge both of those barrels if someone upsets the balance of power in this room.

“What are you doing?” Tiff’s in a panic, staring at her aunt.

“What I should’ve done the first time I laid eyes on these filthy thugs!”

“Put that shit away,” Hyena barks at her. “Are you fucking nuts? We all got guns! What are you gonna do, blast us all?”

“If I have to,” Her gaze dances around the room, more than eager for an excuse to pull that trigger. “My Daddy taught me how to use this thing and he told me if it came down to it I better not pull it out unless I planned to use it. And I do.”

“Are you going to let us walk out of here?” I ask, sounding as bored as I can.

“That’s your only option.” She snarls, brave behind the firearm. “Unless you’re interested in getting a load of buckshot to fill that empty space where a brain ought to be.”

I stand up slowly, “Let’s go, boys.”

“Then I’m going, too,” Hyena tells her.

“You so much as think about taking a step towards that door and I’ll blow a piece of you off, too!”

“Aunt Jolene!” Tiff shrieks. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” the woman’s speaks slowly, “He’d better stay put until I can talk some sense into his head after these piles of trash get off my property.”

“You’d shoot me?” Hyena’s beginning to realize who he’s dealing with. “You’d kill my friends? I can’t fucking believe this.”

“Believe it,” Philly tells him, standing up slowly. “Bitch is crazier than fuckin’ Cujo.”

“Shut your mouth, wetback! And y’all keep your hands where I can see ‘em.”

“Listen, lady,” I stand by as the others file past me towards the door, “The boy just needs you to be reasonable right now.”

“Are you talking again, nigger?” She hisses, “The only thing ‘the boy’ needs is to get away from trash like you and get his life back to Jesus!”

If I thought this angry little troll had the intelligence to understand it, I might point out the hypocrisy of this entire situation. Since I don’t, I simply roll my eyes. Philly passes me, his jaw working in a way that tells me he’s grinding his teeth to hold his tongue.

“Follow him out,” she orders me.

“I go last.” I look her straight in the eyes. “I don’t trust you so I’m gonna make sure you don’t try shootin’ one of my men.”

“I wouldn’t shoot a person in the back.” She tells me. “Unlike you, I’m not a coward.”

If I didn’t give a shit about Hyena or his sister I’d not have any trouble dropping her out of principle. She certainly seems to be begging for it by constantly provoking us. Of course, no matter who’s fault it was since we’re gang-bangers and she’s a church lady we’d be the ones going to jail.

“Dank, Ronnie.” I let her break our stare-down before I look over to them. “Follow Philly out to the car. I’ll be right behind you.”

Aunt Jolene knows I’ve overridden her control of the situation, but she says nothing. Both men look at me as they pass by, their expressions showing that they’re more pissed off than they are scared.

“Good luck, Hyena,” I tell Sam before following my crew. “You too, Tiff.”

“Move, don’t talk!” Aunt Jolene orders, jabbing the gun into my back. “Once you’re gone don’t you ever come back or, Lord help me, I’ll go straight to the police.”

And tell them what, that she held us up at gunpoint? No sense mentioning that to her since she’s not acting on any sane impulses. Once we’re in the parking lot, I tell Philly to run down to Benton with the boys to make sure things are going smoothly there. I also make sure he remembers to meet with Kettle to inspect the cash the Knuckleheads gave us. Then I kick him hard in the shins.

“Ow!” he yelps. “Why the fuck did you do that?”

“I told you to keep your hands off Tiff, didn’t I?” Suppressing the fact that I find this humorous is tough, but I manage.

“Aw shit, man.” Philly’s rubbing his sore leg. “She came on to me last night, I couldn’t say no cause I didn’t want to piss her off and get us kicked out of there so we couldn’t guard the place like you asked us to.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.” He knows I’m mocking him. “Next time you do like I tell you or I’ll aim for the balls.”

“I didn’t fuckin’ beg her!” He protests loudly, causing Ronnie-K and Dank to burst into hysterical laughter. “Didn’t beg her aunt, either.”

“Nuh-uh!” Dank’s collapsing against the car while he says this. “You screwed both of ‘em?”

“Damn straight!” Philly scowls at him. “Why you think the old bitch got mad when she found out I balled her niece? I only did her while Tiff was in the shower, otherwise I was too busy bangin’ Tiff to fool with her.”

“Oh my god!” Ronnie-K’s wracked by a fresh wave of laughter. “You did the old chick, too! Oh my fucking god!”

“Okay, okay,” I jump in, impatient to get out of here so I can make a call. “Enough high-fiving over balling skanks. We’re all proud of you for scoring the world’s easiest lays. Philly, get to Benton with these two monkeys. I’ve got shit to do. Call me if you need anything.”

With that I get into my car and pull out of the parking lot. All this insanity has left me hungry and since I skipped breakfast I’m going to need some form of sustenance here real quick. I hate eating alone, so I reach for my phone to call around and see which of my females feels like a date. While I’m opening the phone, a text message comes through. It’s from Hyena.

“not going to texas. see you after they leave. stay true.”

I have to smile at the kid’s determination. Might be more difficult to get out of his predicament than he thinks right now, but my gut tells me he’s going to pull it off.

I fire back a message of my own: “do what u gotta do.”

Author’s Note: There it is.

It’s All in the Money

“What is it, Philly?” I growl.

“Just got a call from Kettle.” He’s verbally tip-toeing, I can tell. “Sent him to Benton to make sure the Knuckleheads were cleared out by the time they told us. All of ‘em gone except for this dude, Hulk.”

“You mean Hurk.” I sit up to fish around in the ashtray beside the bed for a roach worth smoking. “What’d he want?”

“Well, Hurk or whoever, says the Kobra dude wants the park for another night.” I can almost hear Philly holding his breath, awaiting a negative response.

“Really?” I touch the flame of my lighter to the roach and suck in the smoke. “They plan on paying?”

“Yeah, Hurk gave Kettle five grand.” Philly relaxes noticeably since I’m not angry. “Said we know they’re good for the rest. We can pick it up at some place over in Cherry Hill called Lanky Joe’s. A bar, I’m guessing.”

“Lanky Joe’s? Yeah, I’ve heard of the place.” I blow out the smoke lazily, taking my time with this conversation. “Knucklehead owned & operated for a decade or so now. They hold meetings and shit there, real honky tonk.”

“Oh yeah?” Philly’s as confused by my response as he is cheerful. “So you wanna go over there later or what you thinkin’?”

“Thinking they don’t plan to pay us.” I let these words drop like lead.

“What do you mean, man?” There he goes getting nervous again. “They already gave us five grand. Why give us that and then bail on the rest?”

“Cause they plan to kill us later today when we go pick up the money,” I tell him, relishing the opportunity to show my street smarts. “Get us out of the way so they can have Benton for as long as they like. Whatever they’re looking for is too valuable for them to stop. They figure we’ll refuse to let them use the park a second night, see? Figure we’ll pocket the cash they gave Kettle, then tell them no at Lanky Joe’s.”

“Tell you the truth, that’s what I thought you’d do, too, Perce. I know MadBlack’d be pissed the fuck off if we let them have another night in Benton.”

“Damn straight he would.” I have to grin at Philly’s honesty, but frown at the roach burning my fingers. “So we can’t ask him, not even gonna try. Besides, did you check that cash Kettle got handed?”

He’s hesitant. “No.”

“Did Kettle tell you he checked it himself?”

“Nuh-uh.”

I can’t help but laugh as I light a second roach I’ve found. “Old tricks, Philly. Knuckleheads didn’t get where they’re at by playin’ it straight. They also aren’t going to be forking over twenty grand to their rivals, either. So one of three things is going on here: the envelope doesn’t have any money in it, it’s got fake money in it or, and this is my bet, it’s got the cash in there because they plan to ambush our asses at Lanky Joe’s.”

“Motherfucker!” Philly’s got his volcanic anger back. “You really think so? What are we gonna do?”

“First thing you do is have Kettle check that envelope.” I snuff the second roach out before it scorches me. “If it’s empty or has fake bills, then they expect us to arrive angry which means they’ll meet us with lots of armed troops. If it’s genuine cash then they’ll be waiting to surprise us once we get there to collect the rest and won’t expect us to be ready to get jumped. We need to have an idea of their plan before we make our move.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Philly’s getting the hang of this way of thinking. “That’s fucking brilliant, man. I’ll call up Kettle and see what’s poppin’ with that envelope. You want me to call you back?”

“Nah, man,” I yawn. “I need a shower before I give a Sam a ride over to Tiff’s aunt’s place. Just wait for me there and you can fill me in once I show up.”

“Ok, so stay here and chill for right now?”

“That’s right. Besides,” I let a little evil creep into my tone. “I don’t want you running off anywhere. I owe you an ass-kicking for getting busy with Tiff.”

“But I–” is all he has time to try replying with before I hang up, laughing to myself. Though I couldn’t care less if he shagged the girl or not, Philly’s always fun to wind up.

Author’s Note: From here, things are bound to get more interesting….

I Dream of Saltwater

Waking up never has been one of my favorite activities. It’s a terrible way to start the day if you ask me. Unfortunately, it’s a ritual we’re doomed to repeat our entire lives. I like being woken up even less. If a man hasn’t gotten himself to wakefulness under his own power, he surely won’t be wanting you to help him along with the process. That damned Afroman is singing again. I need a new ringtone.

My hands fumble to open the phone as my eyes struggle to stop crossing each other. I see it’s Tiff calling.

“Hey baby,” I gaze at the poster of Jamaica I’ve got tacked up on my wall. “How you holding up?”

“Not good, Perce,” her voice feels like an icicle jammed into my ear. “Not good at all. My front door got broken down, my brother damn near got killed. How the hell do you think I’m doing?”

The digital clock radio’s telling me it’s nine in the morning, which is far too early for this shit. “That’s definitely fucked up, I feel you. Important thing is that he’s alive. Boy’s been through a lot and I know you worry about him, but listen to me, if there’s–”

“No,” she cuts me off. “You listen to me. I want Sam back here with me. You about got him killed last night. I’ve been worried this fucked up city would get to him one day and I can’t take the stress any more. I want him home.”

“Now wait just a god damned minute, Tiff,” now I’m glaring at Jamaica. “I didn’t get him into this shit with Smoke Money. Matter of fact I risked my life trying to save him!”

“Right,” she scoffs. “That’s not what I’m talking about, Percy Straight, and you know it! You’re the one who got him interested in all this ‘gangsta’ bullshit. Dealing drugs and starting fights! My little brother was a good kid, a smart kid. Now look at him, just another low-life thug headed for a prison cell or a cemetery plot.”

The ice in her tone has melted away, giving way to gut-wrenching sobs. You’d think Sam died last night.

“Hey, hey now,” I try to sound comforting and not show that I’m offended. “I made sure he knew this life isn’t for everyone. I told him about the dangers and the risks, I didn’t try to sell the kid on life as a banger, you know that.”

“He’s just a baby!” she moans, nearing the hysterics I’m working to avoid here. “MY little brother!”

“Well, he might be young,” I try to be delicate in getting my point across. “But he’s no baby. Sam’s becoming a man now and what a man wants is respect. That’s why these kids fall in with gang life. They want to be treated with respect, like they’ve got dignity. You go talking like that to Sam and he’s liable to push you away.”

“Oh God!” she wails, causing the phone’s signal to fuzz a bit and me to wince. “I can’t stand it here, Perce. Sam and I are going back home to Texas with Aunt Jolene. She bought the tickets online this morning. We leave tonight.”

“What?” I sit up in bed, suddenly far more alert. “You can’t just run off like that! What about all your stuff?”

“Ladies from Aunt Jolene’s church are going to pack the rest of it for movers after we’re gone,” she sniffles. “We can’t sleep in this house anymore, Perce. I feel like my whole world’s been shattered. Seattle’s too dangerous.”

My jaw about drops. “Oh and Texas suddenly becomes an oasis of peace? Come on, Tiff! You said you hated it there. Sam hated it there, too. What about you and me?”

“I never got my front door kicked in back in Texas.” She seems to view this as something other than dumb luck. “I may not like it, but it’s home. As for you and me? What the hell are you talking about? You’ve never cared about me as anything more than another one of your easy lays so don’t make it sound like we were engaged or something. You’ll find new girls to fuck. You always do.”

‘Hell hath no fury,’ I think to myself before responding. “Far be it from me to cast judgment on you and your Aunt’s decisions, but I think you’re being a little hasty here. You got Kingfins looking out for you and that’s the best security money can buy, even though it costs you nothing. That’s cause I care about you and about Sam, too. I know this whole mess is stressful, but turning and running away isn’t going to solve your problems.”

“It’s awfully sweet of you to be looking out for us and I have enjoyed having Philly around,” she jabs me with that sly statement, “But what about a week from now? What about a month from now? Are they going to escort us to the grocery store? Go to school with Sam? It’s just not safe enough for us here anymore, Perce. Thugs like that hold grudges for a long time. We may not be tough like you and your ‘homeboys’ but we’re at least smart enough to get out of a building when we know it’s on fire.”

I let silence answer her before I respond, forcing my irritation back down. “Do what you have to, I guess.”

“So when are you bringing him home?” she asks.

“In a few hours.” I know I’m not going to win this disagreement now. “I need to sleep some first. So does Sam. I’ll get him to you later today.”

“That’s fine,” she’s lies. “Thanks again for sending Philly, he’s surprisingly quite the gentleman. A pleasure to hang out with.”

Bitch. I hang up on her, roll over and drift back to sleep.

As I sleep, I dream deeply. I dream, as I often do, of the sea. Clear blue skies over shimmering waters dark with mystery. I see a boat, rising and falling to the rhythm of the waves. I feel far away, watching this scene like an outside observer. The boat has billowing sails, pregnant with strong winds which drive it forward across the ocean. I spot a man, high up in the crow’s nest. He’s peering through a telescope back across the rear of this proud ship. I’m moving towards him, seeing the bandanna tying back his hair, the leathery features of his face and the sweat rolling down his brow. Suddenly, I can see what he sees through his telescope.

At first it’s a shape, but as I watch, its details unfold before my eyes. A ship looms forward across the horizon, a ship with a black flag snapping in the breeze. A pirate ship, I remember thinking. Then the dream fuzzes out and I can’t remember what happens between this realization and the next part I remember: smoke and fiery blasts. The ships are firing volleys from their cannons at each other, salt water splashing with each miss. Each score crashes through the timber of the first ship and the pirate vessel manages to avoid any damage at all. Men from both boats are screaming at each other, preparing their swords for the inevitable showdown. Then I see one of my friends. I can’t tell who he is, but I know that I know him. He’s not with the pirate ship, but as the pirates begin to cut down his mates, he fights valiantly. Musket balls are being emptied into sailors left and right, men going down everywhere.

Then a dark-bearded pirate steps out from the fog of smoke. A tall, thin figure who’s surely the captain of the pirates if pirates ever had captains. He’s majestic as he surveys the battle, looking down a classic Roman nose as his men savage the ship’s crew. There’s a shot fired by my friend and the captain’s hit, but no blood comes out. This is because, I realize slowly, the crimson amulet he wears around his neck deflected the musket ball. The amulet shatters and he seems shocked.

Things fade to black and once more Afroman serenades me from sleep. I try to hold onto the memories of this dream as tightly as I can before I pick up my cell.

Author’s Note: Dreams are such strange, strrange things…. More tomorrow.

Man of the House

“Smoke Money Family,” MadBlack’s talking to me, but he’s looking at Sam. “Those brothers Chinaman and Corvette?”

“Camaro, but yeah,” I instantly regret correcting the man. It’s too late to take it back. “That’s them. They’re pushing cheese at Louis Carver, the high school over there in Thunder Gate? Sam’s school. He and his boys roughed up a few of their dealers so they came after him for revenge.”

MadBlack’s leaning back against a wall, his blue silk robe exposing a bit more bare skin than I’m comfortable with. He likes these awkward silences and even though he’s still wearing his dark shades, I can tell he’s visually appraising Sam. He’s met Deep Kut before, but not Sam. Hopefully he likes him or he won’t be staying here tonight. I try to help Sam’s cause along.

“I don’t like that cheese bullshit,” MadBlack’s shaking his head. “Came outta Dallas, Texas. Nothin’ good ever came outta Texas.”

I’m hoping Sam doesn’t mention that he moved here from Texas. Luckily, he’s not doing anything more than letting his eyes roam around this kitchen. With black marble counter tops, state of the art appliances and expensive slate-gray floor tiles, it must appear pretty posh to him as a young buck who’s only ever lived in low-income housing.

“Bad news, for sure,” I agree. “Trashy dope made to make new junkies out of young folks who don’t know any better. Predatory. Sam’s crew only slangs ganja. Right, Sam?”

Sam nods, fidgeting with his pockets.

Deep Kut’s still working on those sandwiches when he turns to ask MadBlack, “Where y’all keep the mayonnaise?”

“Fuck mayonnaise,” MadBlack’s irritated by this seemingly unimportant intrusion to our conversation. “I ain’t French. I don’t eat that nasty shit. Miracle Whip’s in there. Mustard, too, but I don’t fuck with nasty mayonnaise.”

“It’s cool,” Deep Kut finishes up the sandwiches, handing one to each of us before approaching MadBlack. “You want a sandwich, too?”

“Nah,” he tosses his reply at Deep before refocusing on me, “How’s Benton Park doin’?”

I take a bite of my food to avoid wincing, “Good. I had Philly watching over it while I went to Dizzy’s. No problems.”

“Ain’t Philly in Thunder Gate?” this question comes out low like a roll of thunder before the clouds rip open.

I nod, chewing busily.

“So,” he let’s that word linger. “Who’s watching over it now, then?”

I swallow the dry sandwich hard, “I am.”

MadBlack crosses the floor, depositing his empty glass in the sink. “Don’t look like you’re watching it. Looks like you’re standing in my kitchen. Eating.”

I hate when he gets this way, means he needs sleep. “We got three cars full of our boys patrolling it right now. Figured I’d head on over soon as I updated you on the situation at Thunder Gate and found Sam a place to lay low for a while till this blows over.”

Kissing ass sucks, but sometimes it has to be done.

“You do that,” he’s aware of what I’m trying to get him to say so he decides to draw it out longer the way he likes to do. “Where’s the kid gonna stay?”

“Hoping he could stay the night here if that’s alright with you.”

“We can do that,” he’s watching Sam slowly eat the sandwich. “But get this numbskull outta my house before he empties my fridge.”

“Aw, man!” Deep knows he’s playing. “Why you gotta do me that way? You know I draw my musical inspiration from the way you handle business, man.”

“Don’t insult me like that,” MadBlack’s not serious, but anyone who didn’t know him wouldn’t be able to tell by his deadpan delivery. “Blamin’ that shit you write on me.”

Deep Kut laughs, shaking his head.

“Kid want a joint or something?” MadBlack’s watching Sam with the closest thing he has to an expression of concern. “Been through a lot, sounds like. Reefer’ll calm the nerves and build the appetite.”

Sam doesn’t seem to hear this so I ask him myself, “Hear that, Sam? MadBlack’s offering you some of the finest bud in this country. You up for a smoke-out?”

“Sure,” I worry Sam’s going to seem nonchalant towards MadBlack’s generosity, which is a bad idea. “Thanks, man.”

“It’s nothing,” MadBlack tells him, then says to me. “I feel like a movie. You got any suggestions?”

“Terminator 2,” Sam tells him. “If you got it.”

“Course I got it,” he sounds pleased. “Arnold motherfuckin’ Schwarzenegger! Damn fine choice.” He looks at me, “Load that up for me before you head out. Pack me a fat bowl, too.”

Author’s Notes: Late posting again, next post goes up tomorrow to speed things up. Will try to get back in sync soon!

Shellshocked & Shaken

A crack in the night tells me one of those SMF pieces of shit managed to survive. Not only that, but the fucker is shooting at us. The shot must’ve hit the Lincoln, but I don’t have time to fret over that. I swing the steering wheel hard around the next corner and we’re screeching off down 181st Avenue back towards MadBlack’s place. I could call Philly at this point to update him, but I’m more worried about getting Sam to a safe place before I go doing that. Besides, SMF may send more of their troops to Tiff’s aunt’s house. We’re also guaranteed to encounter incoming police cruisers if we don’t exit this area of town fast enough.

“My God,” Deep Kut’s lighting a cigarette with shaky hands despite sounding calm, “I thought for sure those fools were gonna ice our asses. Musta been what, a dozen of ‘em?”

“Eight, I think,” I’m craving a smoke myself right now. “Important thing is we bailed our boy Sam out and they didn’t hit a single one of us. Goddamn lucky for that, too. They fired off enough lead to more than wipe us out.”

“Hell yeah, boy,” Deep’s passing his cigs to Sam but Sam’s not really responding. “Motherfucking Kingfins are down for life! Here, take a smoke, Sam. Make you feel better, son.”

“Gimme one, too,” I don’t feel like fishing my pack out, “Light it for me.”

“Aight,” Deep does what I ask first, still watching Sam. “You gonna be okay, Sam?”

“I ain’t ever shot anyone before,” is all he can manage in a voice that sounds far away.

“Well you did tonight, son,” Deep says as he leans up to hand me my smoke. “Killed his ass, too.”

“He died?” Sam’s still staring at the back of the passenger seat, his face showing no expression, his eyes wide.

“Damn straight he died,” Deep holds the pack of cigarettes out towards him again. “Dead is the best condition for those who’d shoot at you. You did what you had to, son. No shame in it. Have a smoke, it’ll calm your nerves.”

I’m watching Sam pick out a cigarette with what seems to be great concentration.

“Sam,” I tell him between drags of my Camel, “The streets are like this. Deep’s right, you did good. Next time, though, I don’t wanna look over and see you walking towards ‘em. Never stand up in a situation like that. Look for cover. You gotta give your enemy a smaller target to shoot at.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam’s still staring at the cigarette he chose.

“S’alright, Sam,” I’m worried the boy might be too shaken to act normal if we get pulled over so I try to bring him out of the shock. “You’re just learning. Won’t be too long till you’ve got your shit down.”

“I got to call my sister,” he’s smoking the cigarette like it’s a joint. “She’s worried about me. I hope they didn’t hurt her.”

“Nah, man,” I assure him, “Tiff’s doing fine. I got Philly Mako and some boys over there watching out for her. Go ahead and call her if you want to. Might make her feel better.”

“They busted into my aunt’s house.” There’s a sort of metallic ring to the words as Sam speaks them. “Fuckin’ Smoke Money assholes wearing masks. Said they’d shut down the Brotherhood. Said they came to even the score. I ran for it. Went out the back.”

“That’s right, man,” Deep’s sounding nervous, watching Sam closely. “Did what you had to do. Can’t keep your boys alive if you yourself end up dead. You did good, son.”

For the rest of the ride Sam talks quietly with Tiff. We don’t spot a single cop on the way home, which is good. I’m itching to get the Lincoln parked in MadBlack’s garage for the night in case anyone took down my plates and went to the police with them. Unlikely, due to the speed of the shoot-out, but I don’t feel like taking chances. We get into the house and find MadBlack in the kitchen, sipping some orange juice. I fill him in on what went down at Thunder Gate. He nods as I tell him, after he instructs Deep Kut to make some sandwiches for us. Food calms the nervous system he tells us, keeps the body busy so it worries less.

Author’s Notes: Late post again, but next post goes up December 9th

Sit Down at the Brass Jaw

Windale is located in a section of the city that’s mainly blue-collar neighborhoods. Lots of factories, mills and that sort of thing. Grimy and rusty, lots of sorry looking houses with peeling paint and potholes in the streets. The place is neglected, probably crawling with addicts of various stripes. There are a few gangs from Windale, but none of them have managed to earn themselves much notoriety as far as I know. The Brass Jaw sits between a closed shoe repair shop with busted windows that are all boarded up, and a hardware store that doesn’t appear to be doing much business today. The sign says this bar’s been in business since 1962.

Stepping inside, Philly and I survey the place. Grubby drinkers are already lined up at the bar, talking loudly. No one turns to watch us come in, but clearly we’re not their average customers. Barely any lighting in here to speak of. The inside reeks of sweat, booze and smoke. Whoever decorated this place must’ve thought Seattle was located in Alabama, not Washington, because there are stuffed and mounted animal heads everywhere you look. A cheap TV is playing ESPN above one end of the bar. From the looks of him, the bartender is also the bouncer. A hulk of a man with a shaved head and a thick mustache like they had on gunslingers in old cowboy movies. Though neither of us show it, I’m sure Philly gets a shiver down his spine, too. A place like this holds no attraction for us.

Philly spots the Knuckleheads we came to chat with. Two great big men dwarfing a table in the back corner of this dimly lit shithole. He leads the way and I’m only a few steps behind him. Drawing closer, I get a good look at who we’ve been sent to negotiate with. There’s the one with the eye patch, that Oxy told us about, called Uncle Fritz. A massive spray of orange-red beard sprouts from his cheeks and chin; his golden mane of hair has been pulled back into a tight ponytail that runs far down his back. His one laser blue eye trains on me, creeping me out. He’s got the ruddy face of a chronic consumer of hard liquor and judging by the belly on this man, I’d say he’s okay with beer, too. That being said, he’s taken off his black leather jacket to reveal a massive stretch of intricate tattooing that covers arms damn near the width of my thighs. He lifts one side of his upper lip in what is either a smirk or a snarl before casting a glance at his partner. That guy has a bit more style. He’s cupping a mug of beer between two heavily inked hands, rings ranging from sapphires to silver skulls crowding each of his fingers. I’m really not interested in seeing his face as I scan up, taking in the art on his arms. Maybe he doesn’t have quite the bulk of Uncle Fritz, but his body’s got a rangy kind of musculature and his posture gives me the impression that this dude takes zero shit. He’s clean shaven with dark brown hair falling down over his shoulders from underneath his gray beanie. I find it odd that he’s wearing shades in a dark place like this.

“Well what do you know?” Uncle Fritz cries out in a hoarse, booming dialect that’s surely Southern. “You boys must be with that fish gang, right?”

Philly stays quiet, but I can see him tense. He’s clenching his fists, too.

“Gentleman,” I give each of them a nod. “I’m Percy Straight and this is my associate, Philly Mako. You wanted to speak with us?”

This causes Uncle Fritz to chuckle heartily before sucking a mouthful of beer from his mug. It strikes me that he’d have made a good Hells Angel. Or maybe a modern Viking.

The thinner guy gestures towards the two empty chairs with a smile that shows surprisingly white teeth, “Good to see you. I’m Kobra and this is Uncle Fritz. Sit down with us?”

Philly looks to me and I nod, pulling out a chair I can slide down into. I don’t expect this to take too long so I keep my coat on.

“You’re with the KSM?” Kobra asks, leaning back in his chair, “Doyle Heights crew, right?”

“Straight up,” I tell him, watching my reflection in his sunglasses. “Kingfins are who we represent. Our organization controls the streets of Doyle Heights. All business goes through us under approval of our leader, MadBlack.”

Kobra’s got on a black t-shirt with some strange design. After a few minutes of staring, I realize it’s a word. Aargota? There are wings coming off either side of the logo. Probably some German thing or other.

“I see,” Kobra’s measuring his words carefully. “We didn’t realize that when we showed up there last night. We thought those dealers were unaffiliated.”

“If it goes down in Doyle Heights, we get our cut,” I can tell this guy’s slick so I don’t mince my words. “Doesn’t matter what kind of enterprise it is, we get ours. Big mistake to try shaking our assets down.”

“Now wait just a goddamn minute-” Uncle Fritz’s one eye narrows at me, but Kobra raises a hand to silence him.

“Understandable,” he takes a sip of his half-finished beer. “We’re not looking to start any problems with your assets, as you call them, or you. That’s why, once we realized our mistake, we called you here to hammer things out over drinks. I already paid Mercer, the bartender,” he points to the bald giant wiping down the bar, “So your drinks are on us today as a sign of good will.”

Philly cuts his eyes over to me. I can tell he’s thirsty for free booze. Drinking during negotiations seems unusual, but MadBlack wants us to resolve this peaceably so I’ve got to avoid offending them if at all possible.

“Hey Philly,” I tell him, “Get us a pitcher of Pabst Blue Ribbon if they got it.”

“No problem, boss,” he plays his role calmly so as not to appear overeager.

“Good choice,” Uncle Fritz grins at us, making his cheeks rise and causing that eye patch to buckle a little. “Working class beer. You guys got decent tastes.”

“Peanuts?” Kobra asks, pushing a bowl of them across the table towards me.

“No, thanks. Just had lunch.”

He notices me staring at the logo on his shirt.

“Vargotah,” he says, “German metal. Heard of them?”

I shake my head, “Can’t say that I have,” or that I want to, “They any good?”

“I enjoy their sound,” Kobra pops a few peanuts into his mouth, chews for a while. “Metal’s probably not your sound, huh?”

“Not so much. I’m more into hip hop.”

Uncle Fritz snorts and rolls his exposed eye.

“To each their own, I say,” Kobra’s smiling but if I could see behind those shades of his I have a feeling his gaze would be disapproving. “So, shall we get down to business or wait for your friend to get back?”

I look over to the bar and see Philly bringing back a pitcher of beer in one hand, two mugs in the other.

“Might as well start talking,” I tell him, “He’s not calling the shots anyways.”

I can’t be sure, but it sounds like Uncle Fritz just muttered ‘thank god’ into his beer before he downed it. Dude’s got a bad attitude.

“Alright,” Kobra’s watching Philly set the pitcher on the table, “As you probably know, we’re with the Diamondknuckle Saxons. Unlike your ‘organization’, as you put it, we don’t have territories or do much business on the streets. I’m sure you know about what we do so I won’t go into that.”

Philly pours our beers and I nod for Kobra to continue as I take my first sip, hating the froth. I wonder how clean mugs in a place this poorly maintained can possibly be.

“Our chapter is only one in a network that stretches across the United States and Europe called Teutonic Knights,” Kobra pauses for a slight second before continuing, clearly aiming for a dramatic flair. “Saxons are simply a branch on a large and mighty oak, if you see what I mean?”

“You got connections, right,” I can’t help hiding the fact that I’m not real impressed. “We know all about you guys, don’t worry.”

Kobra laughs in a way that’s unmistakably arrogant.

“I’m sure you do,” his tone narrowly avoids mockery. “I just wanted to be clear on who you’re dealing with.”

“If that’s a threat,” my voice becomes icy, “It’s not working. We’re here to negotiate out of respect so there’s no need to get carried away talking yourselves up.”

Uncle Fritz exhales loudly and shakes his head to show his exasperation. An urge to pimp slap him wells up within me. I resist, turning my attention towards Kobra who is fishing a Marlboro out of a hard pack that’s been lying on the table. He offers the pack first to me and then to Philly. We each take one. Kobra offers us his butane lighter and damn if it’s not a heavy one. On it is engraved a skull with emerald eyes and two machine guns crossed behind it. Below the image there’s the inscription, ‘Tod ist nichts, Ruhm ist für immer.’ That’s German, I’m guessing.

“It means ‘Death is nothing, glory is forever’,” Kobra informs me when he catches me eying his lighter. “German, of course. That’s the Saxon creed.”

He lifts the sleeve of his shirt so I can make out the large cobra tattooed there along with his name and their motto running along either side of the snake’s body, “Buddy of mine in the SEALs inked me while we were on leave over in Iraq.”

“Nice,” Philly nods appreciatively at the lighter before lighting his smoke.

“Y’all got a motto?” Uncle Fritz asks in a tone that suggests he doubts we do.

I stare into his eye, “These jaws make the laws.”

Both men nod solemnly. I find myself staring at the shaggy stuffed head of an elk and wondering how long all this small talk is going to take. The thing’s got glassy eyes that kind of creep me out.

“Now, when I sent some of our brothers down to Benton Park,” Kobra taps his Marlboro against the ashtray. “I had no idea the place was your turf. We assumed we’d be strong-arming it from a few dealers, pimps or maybe some local hoods.”

“Well,” I’m having trouble believing him, “Apparently some of your soldiers saw our tags because they sprayed over the top of them. That’s considered to be a sign of disrespect on the streets.”

“I take full responsibility for that,” Kobra answers. “My mistake to send others out on a mission I should have done myself. That’s the past, now, though. Let’s talk about the future. We’d like to rent your park for a little while.”

“Rent?” I have no idea what the fuck this is supposed to mean. “What do you mean ‘rent’? What do you need Benton for?”

“We’ll pay you for uninterrupted access to place. Meaning no dealers or other things go down around there until we’re done with our work.”

“What kind of work are we talking about?” I’m extremely skeptical.

Obviously, Kobra intended to avoid being too specific, but since I’m forcing his hand he’s got to tell me, “See, some of our brothers down in Long Beach, California – the Seabeard Saxons – contacted us about getting a hold of something for them. We think what they’re looking for can be found in Benton Park,” everyone at the table is watching my face for a reaction I don’t plan to give. “We’re willing to pay you good money so that we can do this favor for our Seabeard brothers.”

I’ve heard of these Seabeards, surprisingly. A biker gang that cropped up in the mid-80’s. Had themselves a decent little racket ‘renting’ the beach out to surfers, and selling white dope. Vicious fuckers back in the day from what I’ve heard. Used to dye their beards with cheap blue ink. For a while they had a war going with the Bloods, who thought they were aligned with the Crips, and the Crips who didn’t appreciate them claiming their color.

“Look,” I lean forward to stub out the last of my cig. “I ain’t trying to be rude, but vague bullshit like that is not going to get permission from MadBlack. That means this whole thing won’t be going down. He’s a businessman and paying attention to details is how he keeps from getting fucked. Those are his own words I’m repeating to you, of course, but I don’t see how I’m going to get his approval when he won’t even know what he’s approving.”

“So how much would it cost to make sure he’s not interested in the details?” Kobra grins.

He wants to play hardball. We can do that. I calculate mentally how much we make per hour in Benton on average.

“Gonna be a royal pain in the ass keeping the dealers out of there since there’s so much traffic to the place, especially after dark,” finishing off the last of my beer I push it toward Philly for him to refill. “You’ll be needing protection while you do whatever it is you’re planning and that ain’t cheap, either.”

Uncle Fritz snorts, snapping back with, “We got our own protection so you don’t gotta worry about that shit.”

“You’ll need us, man,” Philly scowls at him. “You guys don’t have the knowledge of the area that we got. Those projects around Benton are full of mean-ass motherfuckers who’ll swarm that place if they think there’s no Kingfins around.”

“Uncle’s right,” Kobra tosses peanuts into his mouth, chews. “We can handle ourselves, but we’ll pay you for keeping a lookout, too, if you want. Name your price. Within reason.”

“Six hundred an hour,” I tell him. “Plus a cut of whatever you’re making off your project out there.”

Uncle Fritz nearly spits his beer at this, “Sonofabitch! We get blowjobs to go with that?”

Kobra considers what I’ve said after shaking his head at his partner, “I’ve got no way to tell how long it’s going to take to find what the Seabeards are asking for,” he reaches behind his back and for a split second I feel my stomach clench, thinking he’s going to draw a pistol.

Instead, he pulls out an envelope and pushes it across the table towards me, “Think a ten grand down payment would do the trick?”

I check the envelope’s contents. Definitely looks like ten grand in hundreds to me. MadBlack is going to be fairly thrilled. However, I also feel a shadow of suspicion cross my thoughts. If these Knuckleheads are shelling out ten thousand dollars just to borrow the park, then whatever they’re after must be worth a hell of a lot more.

“If this takes more time than we’ve estimated,” Kobra sees me hesitate as I consider his offer. “Then we can pay you the rest at an hourly rate like you said. You know we’re good for it. You guys prefer cash, gold bars, guns or what?”

“Cash,” what the fuck does this fool think we’d need gold bars for. “But MadBlack isn’t going to want this taking too many days because if it does, the junkies are gonna be going elsewhere to get their fix. That’s bad for business.”

Some social reject from the bar just paid actual money to hear Guns N’ Roses play Welcome to the Jungle on the jukebox. Once again, the urge to exercise my pimp arm is strong. I can’t help glaring at the guy’s back as he saunters back to his stool. Hopefully he feels it.

“Hey!” Uncle Fritz is nodding enthusiastically, “My kinda music! G n’ R, baby!”

For a moment I’m gripped by the nauseating fear that he may try singing along. Kobra shoots him a disapproving smirk.

“I doubt it’ll take us that long to be out of your hair,” Kobra pulls another smoke from his pack and touches the lighter’s flame to its tip. “But we’ve gotta have an agreement that we’re not going to have to stop in the middle of things.”

Axel Rose’s screechy voice reminds me of what it feels like when the dentist is giving you a filling. Except right now I’m not numbed by Novocain.

“The only thing I can do for you is ensure that you can use the park for seventeen hours,” I’m sure the music’s causing my expression to look sour. “After that it’s up to MadBlack’s mood about this thing. Take it or leave it, that’s all I can promise you.”

“Okay,” Kobra exhales a plume of smoke. “We’ll take it on those terms.”

“When do you want to get started?” I down the rest of my beer, getting ready to leave this roach trap.

“Tonight. After the sun’s down,” Kobra tells me, “Seven o’clock or around there. Have the place cleared for us.”

I push my chair back, stand up and stuff the envelope inside my coat. No use counting it in front of them because that’d be insulting. Plus, if they lied about the amount Kobra just passed me then we can settle the score tonight. I’d like to keep on their good side as long as I don’t have to be their bitch in order to do it. I’ve got a thirst to know what it is they’re looking for in Benton.

“It’ll be clear,” I tell Kobra. “Get a hold of us if you change your plans. Thanks for the drinks and smokes.”

“It’s nothing,” Kobra flashes a wide smile. “See you tonight, Percy.”

He glances at Philly, “You, too, brother.”

Finally, Philly and I exit this little slice of hell. On the way back to the house we count the money. It’s all there, none of it counterfeit, either. Philly theorizes they’re looking for some Saxon’s bones, but I’m almost positive it’s some sort of mystical gem. Bad juju, my gut tells me. I don’t tell Philly this. Since he’s not Selachi he wouldn’t understand. Besides that, he’s a suspicious motherfucker who still wears the crucifix his mother gave him because, “It’s protection from vampires.”

If only he knew the truth about the world around him.

He’d have reason to be even more scared.

Author’s notes: The next post will go up on November 22, 2009. Thanks for reading along so far!

Walk on Home

We’re in line at the Burger King drive-through in Philly’s car. I’ve already ordered my four bacon double cheeseburgers. Philly is still making up his mind and LaShonda only wanted a Hershey pie.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this, man,” Philly’s dark eyes flash over to me before he turns back to the drive-through speaker, “Yeah give me three chicken Whoppers and a large Coke.”

“I think it’s a good idea she comes along,” I tell him for about the fifth time during this ride, “She’s got charm. Charisma. Plus, she can keep them distracted looking at her. That way they can’t think straight and end up giving us a better deal than they meant to.”

Philly adjusts his Mariners’ ball cap, socking it down tighter, “Whatever, man. I still say it’s stupid.”

“Will you shut the hell up, boy?” LaShonda’s using that high-pitched tone again and it collides with the effects of the joint I smoked before we left.

Philly turns so he can look back between the seats at her, “Boy? You don’t call me boy, I’m a man, nina!”

“Nina? Don’t pull that Spanish shit on me, boy!” she emphasizes ‘boy’ the way an angry teenage girl would. “The whole ride you’re bitch, bitch, bitching about Percy bringing me along so I can help you guys out.”

Even though he wasn’t raised in a Spanish speaking household and is nowhere near fluent in Espanol, Philly likes to toss out the Spanish words when he gets riled up.

He glares at me, wanting me to get involved then his smoldering eyes lock on LaShonda, “No more calling me boy, LaShonda. You’ve got to respect my status, right Perce?”

“Yeah,” I roll my eyes, “Pull forward to the window, man.”

He whips his head around and sees we’re next in line, “Right,” he says with more than a touch of resentment before pressing the gas pedal. We get to the window and both Philly and I notice the girl taking our money is one fine looking chick. Thick, auburn hair done up in a ponytail, clear green eyes and well-endowed in the chest. Our natural reaction is a low whistle and as he turns to me a look of understanding passes between us.

“What?” LaShonda wants to know, “You’re whistling at that?”

“Hell yeah!” Philly tells her excitedly, “I’d rather have her than those Chicken Whoppers. Damn!”

“Oh my god!” LaShonda is talking way too loudly and that girl can probably hear her. “You want me to get you some Kibbles ‘n Bits, Philly? You got a thing for dogs? She probably plays a great game of fetch, too!”

The girl must’ve heard at least some of that because she blushes, glancing back at LaShonda as she hands the food over to Philly who’s trying to apologize quietly.

“Don’t you apologize for me, boy!” LaShonda starts rolling down her window. “I can have my fucking opinion if I want to. Dog-ass ugly bitch can’t do a damned thing about it on company time, huh?”

I’ve heard enough. LaShonda wanted me to bring her along because she had nothing to do today. Promised me she’d act nice and be my little status symbol for the meeting at the Brass Jaw. Post-orgasmic decisions aren’t always the best, especially if they happen after you’ve had a fat joint. Clearly this decision was a mistake. I unbuckle my seatbelt, open the door and walk back to her door.

“Percy? Baby?” she’s giving me those big puppy dog eyes a little too late in the game, “You know I was just playing.”

“Get out,” I instruct her, holding her door open as the elderly couple in car behind us watch nervously.

“Oh, come on,” there’s a honey-sweet tone to her voice, “Can’t a girl get a little jealous?”

“That was fucked up!” Philly scowls at her, “Do like Perce says, get outta my fucking car, bitch!”

LaShonda’s smile melts into shock, “You can’t be serious. How am I gonna get home?”

“Out,” there’s frost forming on the words as I speak them, “Now. That or I drag you out.”

She’s silent as she steps out clutching her purse, watching my face closely. I show no emotion. If we were in Kingfin territory when she pulled this stunt I’d have yanked her out myself, but this part of the city employs plenty of police and no one knows me here so it’d be foolish to slap her around. Especially with all the people in their cars behind us taking in the show. Some teenage emo-looking kids in a Volvo two cars back blast their horn. I give them the finger without looking in their direction, then I swing my arm around to where my middle finger is in LaShonda’s face. Her mouth drops open, she shakes her head and starts walking as I slam the passenger door behind her.

“I apologize for that bullshit she said about you,” I tell the girl at the window who’s watched the entire drama unfold, “She’s only angry because she doesn’t have your looks, girl.”

The girl nods, blushing and mumbling some sort of thanks. Though she’s now quite a distance from me, I hear LaShonda muttering the ‘fuck you’ she wouldn’t dare say to my face. Doesn’t matter, she’ll call me tonight, I’m sure.

Author’s Note: Next chapter goes up on November 19th, 2009

Not Much to Love About Mornings

4:17pm the clock reads. A wave of belligerence washes over me. Afroman is singing about how he was going to do something, but then he got high. That’s the ringtone on my cell right now because I got tired of Ludacris after a few months. My desire to be awake right now is at an all-time low. Sure, I got six hours of sleep, but I still don’t feel like moving. I check the caller ID so I know who it is. I answer as groggily and pissed-off sounding as I can.

“Shit, nigga,” Philly asks, “Did I wake you up again?”

“You did,” I snarl, “And you called me ‘nigga’ again, too. You know I hate that.”

“Sorry, man,” he is sorry, but he’ll do it again because old habits die hard. “Listen, though, we got more trouble. Knuckleheads showed up at the park again. Didn’t rough anybody up this time, but they gave us a message through Cheeky and Quill.”

“The fuck were those two doing down there?” I yawn.

“Watching over Benton,” his voice sounds like he’s wondering if he messed up. “You know, keeping our tags up and making sure there’s no more trouble.”

“Two people is never enough,” I warn him, “Especially when you know there’s potential for danger. What’s the matter with you? Anyway, what’s the message?”

“They want us to meet with ‘em at the Brass Jaw as soon as we can get there. Said they want to talk diplomacy.”

Okay, I’m now officially angry. Sitting up in bed I realize LaRonda or LaVonda or whoever the fuck was sleeping with me is gone. Bitch left the curtains wide open, too, which irritates me further. I hear the shower running, so I know that’s where she went not even bothering to wait for me.

“Diplomacy?” I yell, “Diplomacy? What the fuck do these Knuckleheads know about diplomacy? They come onto our turf, beat our dealers around and tag over our art and they want diplomacy? Fuck that!”

“I know, Perce, I know,” Philly’s calm tone isn’t helping me bring my temper down. “Thing is, MadBlack thinks the meeting is a good idea and told me to have you go talk to them. He said I should go along, too. He says it’s a lot better than starting a hot war with them and that we got more leverage this way.”

That little weasel! I know he conned MadBlack into saying that shit, but the thing is, once MadBlack gives an order like this there’s no way he’s going to back down on it. I’m stuck.

“Alright, Philly, you asshole, I know this was your idea, but whatever,” I sigh, “Where the hell is this Brass Jaw joint?”

“Man, it wasn’t my idea.” Liar. I can practically hear him wince as he tells me, “Out in Windale. Neutral territory, they’re saying.”

“God dammit!” I’m yelling again, “Windale, motherfucker? That’s way the fuck up town! And there’s no such thing as ‘neutral territory’, you know that!”

“I know, man,” he’s probably wishing someone else would’ve made this call for him. “I ain’t happy about it, either. But you’re a good talker. You can stop this war before it starts and maybe we’ll score some loot off those fuckers for not killing ‘em while we’re at it. They’re saying all they want is to use the park, not own it.”

“Well that’s awfully white of ‘em,” I scowl at the rain I can see through those damned open curtains. “Look here, Philly, since we have to go do this bullshit I want time to get ready. Need my shower, some breakfast and a joint. Where you at right now?”

“Downstairs in the living room.”

“Okay, get us a ride ready. And you’re gonna drive us, too.”

I hang up. Stretching out across the turquoise sheets, I savor my last few moments of peace before I have to get moving. My brain still feels a bit high from last night’s blunt. That Yukon Gold smoke will do it to you every time. I’m still not exactly sure when I went to sleep. The girl who kept me company isn’t Selachi, so that means there’s no chance I could get her pregnant. We’re only fertile with each other. That’s why she and I went at it so long last night. I must’ve had her in every way the Kama Sutra tells about. Freaky little thing, too. This thought reminds me that she’s still in the shower. Maybe if I hurry I can have her before breakfast. Nothing like a shower fuck to get the day started right. Plus, maybe she’ll have washed whatever nasty perfume she wore last night off of her.

“LaVonna!” I call through the bathroom door since she’s locked it on me, “Let me in, baby!”

The shower water stops. I hear the wet slap of feet on tile and the door’s lock turns. The door swings open and there she stands, holding one of my towels across her body.

“What?” her tone is ice cold. She makes each word into its own sentence. “The fuck did you just call me?”

“LaRonda.” Panic grips me, but I force it to hide behind my smile.

“Nobody in here named LaRonda,” her brown eyes drill me with a gaze I’m helpless to break. “Maybe you know a LaRonda. If so, then the next time you want someone to sleep with your inconsiderate ass, call her!”

She tries to slam the door on me, but I’m quick. I get my foot in there before it closes. My reflex forgot to take into account that I’m barefoot. This chick has some strength to her and I grit my teeth against the pain. She leans her weight against the door to keep me out.

“Sugar, you know it’s not like that!” I call to her. “I’m not good with names and it’s early!”

If I have to, I’ll break the damn door down. I’m getting my shower.

“To hell you are!” she shrieks, “Sure remembered it last night! Don’t you tell me it’s ‘early’, it’s four o’clock in the damned afternoon!”

“Nah, baby,” I’m holding the door off my foot, but not overpowering her. “I mean it’s early for me, you know? Nothing to be mad about. I remember your name, of course I do. You’re not a woman that’s easy to forget.”

She relaxes her press against the door a little, “Oh yeah?” her voice has a tricky feel to it. “Well go ahead and say my name, then. Prove it.”

I hesitate, struggling to remember and make myself sound at least half-confident. “Gorgeous is the name I remember you by, girl, because that’s the truth about you.”

The bitch actually chuckles at this, “That’s rich, Percy, real rich. Move your damned foot before I break it,” I start to protest as she continues to work on crushing my foot with the door. “It’s LaShonda, you fool!”

Enough of this. One night stands don’t require a person to remember a damn thing. I got her nice and high last night, let her sleep in my bed, use my shower and now she wants to pretend to be offended because I can’t remember the weird name her mother gave her. I slowly begin forcing the door open.

“LaShonda, baby girl,” I use my sweetest voice, “All this anger ain’t good for you. Let’s get in the shower and give me a chance to make things better between us. Fighting never solves things.”

“Shower with a guy that can’t remember my name?” she sounds furious again. “What kinda ho do you think I am?”

“Nah, girl,” I’ve almost squeezed myself inside the door. “We just need more time. Give me a chance to-”

She lets go of the door. That causes me to come stumbling in past her while the door slams against the inside wall. I regain my balance, turning to her. Something about girls just out of the shower drives me crazy. Maybe it’s my Selachi genes. Her straight black hair is still dripping down her back, which she has turned to me. Bending over she reaches for the towel she’d been holding. I snatch it away from her, giving her a playful slap on the ass.

“Don’t you touch me!” she screams, “Give me that fucking towel back!”

When she spins to face me her large breasts sway in such a way that not looking at them becomes a real challenge. Instead, I take all of her in. She told me last night that she’s half black and half Asian. Her face is what drew me to her. I’ve got a weakness for pretty faces. LaShonda’s face is a work of art: wide eyes, long lashes, high cheekbones, a delicate nose and pouty lips. The rest of her isn’t bad, either. Noticing my wandering gaze, she rushes to cover herself.

“Oh, no, no, no!” she glares at me hard. “Give me that towel so I can get outta here.”

“Come on, Gorgeous,” I notice she’s staring at my erection. “We can soap each other up, you know?”

Her skin is the color of coffee with heavy cream. I lick my lips, my eyes drifting down below her navel to the close-cut tuft of hair between her legs. Then she covers that, too.

“Towel!” she demands.

“Okay,” I agree since I’ve got a plan now. “Let’s get you dried off, then.”

I hold the towel open in front of me, stepping forward to wrap it around her then I pull her close to me. This startles her and she takes in her breath sharply. Leaning down, I kiss her. At first she’s tense, caught off guard, but it’s only seconds before she relaxes and returns the kiss. I didn’t think she was really mad at me. Soon the towel drops as our kisses get deeper and more heated. We’ve got our hands on each other. She’s stroking me with a slow, twisting grip and I’ve got two fingers inside her. Like a dream, she steps into the shower and pulls me in with her. The water runs over us as I slide up inside her.

Author’s note: The next chapter will be posted on November 16th, 2009.