Coca Kola - The Baddest Chick (19 page)

“Bingo! I’ma kill this muthafucka.” He reached under his seat and removed his pistol. He cocked it back, getting it ready for action, and put it in the passenger seat.

Chico’s eyes followed Moe’s every movement. Moe walked toward a tricked-out burgundy Acura Legend with spinning chrome rims and dark tint. It was definitely Moe’s new ride. He got into the ride alone and pulled off, and Chico followed him.

As Moe drove north, Chico was two cars behind him, looking for the right opportunity to make his move. Moe turned off Amsterdam Avenue onto 155th Street, a four-lane street. When he stopped at a red light on the corner of 155th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue, Chico decided to make his move. There were no other cars around Moe, which gave Chico the opening to strike.

Chico sped up to the driver’s side of Moe’s ride. His window was already rolled down, and he had the pistol gripped in his hand. Moe was reclined in his seat and smoking a cigarette, nodding to a Jim Jones’ track, “We Fly High,” and his window was halfway down, allowing the cigarette smoke to air out from his car.

Chico shouted, “Yo, Moe!”

When Moe turned and saw the 9 mm pointed at him, his eyes widened.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

The driver’s side glass shattered, and several slugs tore into Moe’s frame and into his head like stones ripping through paper. The car started rolling forward with Moe slumped behind the wheel. The Acura jumped the curb of the sidewalk and ran into a light-pole.

Chico stopped his car and jumped out. He wanted to make sure Moe was dead. People were screaming and running, but Chico didn’t care who was around. He rushed over to the car with the pistol still in his hand and fired into Moe again.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Click! Click! Click!

Chico had emptied the clip into Moe. It was certified street justice. He then ran back to his car, jumped behind the wheel, made a screeching U-turn, and sped away, headed for the George Washington Bridge.

***

Chico pulled into a gas station in Gastonia, North Carolina, right off Interstate 85. South Carolina was only a few miles away now. Hungry and tired, he stepped out of his car, stretching and yawning. He looked around the gas station and sighed heavily, the sun beaming in his face.

He walked into the gas station, dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the counter, and said to the clerk, “Fill me up at pump number seven.”

The pimple-faced clerk nodded. He was familiar with Chico’s kind—an out-of-towner from the North. His accent already gave him away.

Chico walked back to his car and began to fill his tank with gas. He leaned against the 760 BMW and sighed. “Fuckin’ South.”

Chico loved the concrete jungle. The South was too slow for him and had nothing but rednecks waving their confederate flags, and country bumpkins longing for the hustle and bustle of New York City. And the trees and grass made his skin itch. He thought it was for the animals and the birds. And all he could hear was the early-morning chirping of the birds.

***

The last thing Chico remembered about the South was he and Chop barely escaping a half dozen DEA agents who’d kicked down their door during a drug raid in Greenville. It had been years since he’d seen his friend. They had fled out the back door and ran into the woods before the raid swept through the house. As they hid in the dense woods for hours, the mosquitoes bit Chico, and he was itching from the plants he’d encountered. Eventually he came out of the woods covered in grime and his clothes torn and ruined. That day, he cursed everything about his time with Chop in the South.

Chop was a good friend and a good hustler. The two had met when Chico used to stay the summers in Spartanburg with his grandmother. They became friends when they were fifteen, and as the years went by, they kept in contact with each other.

Chico had gotten into a drug beef in New York, and his rivals shot up his mother’s apartment, so his mother sent him packing to live with his grandmother in the South. At the time he was seventeen. His grandmother was strict and tried to rein in her grandson, but Chico was an outlaw and wanted to do whatever he wanted. He ran away from her home and was able to stay with Chop, and the two became inseparable like Batman and Robin, and were into everything, from fights to women and drugs.

Chico had spent barely a year in South Carolina, because it was only a few weeks after his eighteenth birthday when the DEA agents kicked in the doors to one of the stash houses he worked in. He soon learned he had a warrant out for his arrest. That sent him running back to New York, and he never looked back since then. The only thing he respected in the South was Chop.

***

After fueling his car, Chico picked up a few things to munch on, got back into his BMW, and sped off. His New York plates were a clear indication that he wasn’t from around there. He wanted to be in the South as little as possible. His mission was to get with Chop, move the fifteen ki’s he had in his trunk through his friend, collect his money, and be back on I-95 North toward New York.

The sun was shining brightly when he drove into Greenville, South Carolina, a few miles away from the highway. He pulled up to a ranch-style home with a sprawling green lawn and a rusty GMC pickup truck parked in the gravel driveway. He stepped out of his BMW and sniffed the South Carolina dew. He looked around the quiet street, the homes spaced a respectable distance from each other, giving neighbors some reasonable privacy, and ample yard space in the front and back. And there was no fencing around any of the homes, just plenty of land, trees, and grass on the long street.

With his pistol tucked in his waistband, Chico stared at the single-floor house, shaded with trees, and the porch wrapped around it to a side door. It was the address Chop had given to him when they’d spoken on the phone briefly.

It had been a few years since Chico had seen Chop. When they had spoken over the phone, Chop was excited to hear from him, but Chico wasn’t in the business of keeping up with friends. He was going there for business only, not for a reunion.

He walked up to the door and rang the bell. He remained cautious, remembering the warrants they had on him when he was eighteen. He couldn’t afford to get arrested. He had to make this money and get back to Apple. He heard movement from the inside as he stood on the porch.

“Who that?”

“Chop, it’s me, Chico. Open up.”

The door suddenly opened up, and Chop stood there with a smile. “My nigga, Chico!” he hollered. He pulled Chico into a friendly hug.

Chico didn’t smile, though.

“Come inside, my nigga,” Chop offered.

Chico stepped into his home. He quickly looked around and immediately noticed the drug paraphernalia on the coffee table, open liquor bottles, and fast food wrappings spread out everywhere. The only furniture in the living room was a tattered couch, and the paint on the walls was chipping. The place reeked of weed smoke and other odors. Chico shook his head.

“What’s happening, Chico? Long time.”

Chop was all smiles. Tall and lanky with a high-yellow complexion, low haircut, and no facial hair on him at all, he still looked like a young teenager. He was the same as Chico remembered him—a bit cheery and always sloppy. The only thing different about him was that he had cut off his bushy top.

“Yeah, long time,” Chico replied dryly.

“I know my shit is a mess right now. Meant to clean up an’ shit, but you know how it is. Nigga get fittin’ to do one thang and sumthin’ else comes up,” Chop said in his thick country accent.

Chop was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a white tank top that showed off his thin frame and several tattoos. He wore a pair of black sandals with tube socks pulled up to his shins. He looked like he hadn’t washed in days. Chico instantly knew he wasn’t the same Chop he had known years ago. He was clearly using.

“You look good, Chico,” Chop said.

“What the fuck happened to you, Chop?”

“What ya talkin’ ’bout, Chico? This is me, man.”

“Ya usin’, nigga,” Chico spat.

“I dabble here and there, but I still get my hustle on. I’m still that nigga, Chico. Don’t get it twisted, man. I’m here fo’ you. I was just fittin’ to go to the store. You want breakfast?”

Chico didn’t want anything Chop had to offer. He walked farther into the room and continued to look around. He knew he wasn’t going to stay. The place was too much of a pigpen. He wasn’t comfortable. He knew you couldn’t trust a user, even if he was a friend. They would do anything to fuel their addiction and continue with their habit—even betray a friend. He had too much product in his car and too much cash on him. And the look that Chop carried in his eyes said it would not be long until he betrayed him.

“I ain’t stayin’ long.”

“You just got here, man. Why you wanna leave? Ya my friend, and my home is ya home. I can move that work for you. C’mon, Chico, you can trust me. How many ki’s you got in the car?”

“Nah, I ain’t come down wit’ anything.”

“But you told me over the phone that you needed some weight moved.”

“Not right now.”

“You don’t trust me, Chico?” Chop asked, looking offended. “I know it’s been a while, but I’m still me, nigga.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while.” Chico’s eyes scanned the hallway, searching for anything around him that looked suspicious, his gun concealed and tucked snugly in his waistband.

“I can have some bitches come over. I got drinks and weed. We need to celebrate. My nigga is back in the South.”

“Nah, I ain’t in the mood to celebrate.”

“Chico, ya among family now. Relax, man.”

Chico didn’t respond. He continued to focus his attention down the hallway. He felt something wasn’t right.

“Chico, let me show you around,” Chop said.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“C’mon, man, it wouldn’t be right if I didn’t get to show you my place. Ya know, that good ol’ Southern hospitality that we known fo’. Let me show you the room you gon’ stay in.”

“I said I ain’t staying,” said Chico more sternly.

Chop looked at Chico. The smile dropped, and the cheery attitude dissipated. “Ya hurtin’ my feelings, Chico. I’ve known you since we were fifteen.”

“And I ain’t seen you in almost ten years,” Chico countered. “Anything could change.”

“Well, I ain’t change.”

Chico was about to speak, but heard a sudden noise that seemed to come from the hallway. He looked at Chop and asked, “We alone?”

“Yeah, Chico, ain’t nobody hur’ but me and you.”

All of a sudden, Chico felt like he had walked into a setup. He knew he fucked up by telling Chop about the large amount of weight he was coming down there with, sounding desperate. And then he was alone. The only good thing on his side was the 9 mm he had on him.

He continued to look at Chop square in the eyes. Chop’s eyes already showed what Chico was feeling—mistrust and a setup. “I’ma catch you on the rebound, Chop.”

“Yo, nigga, don’t go. We suppose to get that money.”

“Some other time.”

Rapidly, the door to one of the bedrooms in the hallway flung open, and two men came rushing out, screaming, “Yo, fuck this nigga!”

Chico saw the guns.

Chop rushed for Chico to try and grab him, but Chico hit him in his jaw with a hard right, dropping him to the floor. He then reached for his pistol and quickly pulled it out.

The men shot at Chico, and the bullets whizzed by him and ripped into the couch. He jumped back for cover and scurried behind the couch. He had gotten a good look at his two assailants, and he knew they were young.

Chico jumped up and returned the gunfire. The men swiftly moved for cover. One moved against a weather-beaten wall unit, and the other moved into the kitchen. He looked over and noticed Chop hugging the floor tightly, trying not to get shot. Chico couldn’t believe the shit he was in.

“What the fuck y’all want?” he shouted.

“Just give it up, nigga!” one shouted back.

“I ain’t got shit to give up.”

“Fuck that!”

The shooting continued, and Chico felt like a sitting duck. He had half a clip in his 9 mm and needed to maneuver out of the tight situation he was in. It was a moment that he wished Dante was still alive and with him. But, he was alone, and he refused to die in some backwoods house in South Carolina. Chico didn’t want to go out like that.

“You set me up, Chop?” Chico shouted.

“You left for New York and forgot about me. I ain’t got shit right now. Shit happens!”

Chico wanted to blow his head off, but he needed to save his ammunition for his attackers. Time was ticking. It wouldn’t be long before a neighbor called 911 and the cops came rushing to the gun battle.

Think, nigga, think
. Chico sighed heavily. He checked his clip and said to himself, “Fuck it!” With his arm outstretched, he sprinted from behind the couch and fired rapidly in their direction.

Chico’s gun exploded like a cannon. The first shot hit the wall unit, but the second one was on the money, striking its mark in the chest and pushing him back into the wall. He slid down slowly, dying.