Gangsta Bitch (11 page)

“You’re about a lucky son of a bitch,” Thor added, from his position behind the wheel.

“It ain’t got nothing to do with luck, this shit is pure skill!” Cowboy boasted.

“Stupidity is more like it. Man, what was you thinking when you jacked El Pogo?” Cos asked.

“I was thinking he had that bread and how sweet it is,” Cowboy said honestly. “Cos, I knew you was gonna trip on it, so I had to go lone wolf. What’s done is done, so fuck talking about it. All I wanna know is are y’all down to celebrate tonight?”

“You know I’m always down for a party,” Thor said.

“Yeah, man. We can hit the spots and get shit faced. How’s that sound to you?” Cowboy asked Frankie.

“Been there done that,” she said, thumbing through the bills. “Ya’ll do the guy thing, I’m probably gonna hook up with Mo.”

“If you like it, I love it,” Cowboy said, secretly thinking of the pussy he could get while Frankie was gone. “Cos, why don’t you bring the young boy out tonight? I wanna feel him out before we do the Doll House.”

“I still can’t believe y’all letting an outsider into our thing. You better hope he don’t turn out to be no snitch,” Frankie warned.

“Nah, homey is a straight shooter. I seen his paperwork, and the boy was in the street handling before he got knocked. Even the bulls steered clear of that cat on the yard.”

“I don’t give a fuck what he did on the yard. I’m more worried about how he handles himself on the street.”

“We’ll see what he’s made of,” Cos said, finally lighting the blunt.

Tito paced the dim living room
replaying the robbery in his head. He watched so much C.S.I. and Law and Order that he considered himself somewhat of an expert. On a glass table, under a reading lamp were the remains of the plastic restraints and a beat up bullet. Mustache had screamed like a girl when the old woman cut it out, but they couldn’t risk him going to the doctor.

Tito thumbed one of the plastic restraints. “Definitely someone who does this,” he said to no one in particular. Even before he had examined the evidence, he knew whoever had hit El Pogo’s bodega wasn’t a novice. Only a real ballsy or real skilled thief could’ve gotten away with it, and he figured the leader was a combination of both.

Still thumbing the restraint, Tito headed down the hall to the bathroom. There was a man standing outside the door looking on while another man spoke quietly to a young boy who was slumped on the toilet. It had taken them no time at all to find the third black who had been in the bodega. Kids like him never strayed too far from what was familiar to them so it was just a matter of playing the block and waiting. Once they had him under wraps Tito began the interrogation, which had been violent and unpleasant.

“You ready to talk to me now?” Tito asked, glaring down at the boy. His lips were split and bleeding, while the left side of his face looked like chopped meat.

The kid was visibly dazed, looking around trying to locate the voice. When his puffed eye landed on Tito, he tensed. “Man, I swear on my dead grandmother’s grave I ain’t have shit to do with that robbery!” he sobbed.

“So it was by accident that you were seen coming out of the bodega right after it happened?” Tito slapped him. “Don’t play with me, monkey!”

“Yo, God, I was just going into the store to get some blunts and these niggaz was like shooting shit up. I just got low and tried to wait it out, that’s my word!”

Tito picked up a wilted newspaper that had been sitting on the floor. It was splotched with blood, but the headline was still legible:
Harlem Youth Found Shot to Death Outside Fort Lee, New Jersey.
The actual words were smeared, but it was the picture of the victim that Tito was more interested in. From what they had learned from the kid so far, the dead man was the accomplice. Apparently, whoever had master-minded the robbery wasn’t leaving any loose ends.

“Looks like your boy is killing off anyone who could finger him in the robbery,” Tito said, literally shoving the newspaper into the kid’s face. “If we hadn’t gotten to you, he surely would have.”

“I don’t know neither one of them cats,” the kid shook his head violently.

Tito looked at the man who had been whispering to the kid when he came in, but the man just shrugged. “He’s been kicking the same shit for the last half hour. I don’t think he’s gonna rat on his homeboys, T.”

Tito stared at the pleading look in the boy’s eyes. “Shoot him and let’s get out of here,” Tito said, turning to leave the bathroom.

“Cowboy!” the kid blurted out.

Tito stopped and turned slowly. “What did you say?”

“Cowboy,” the kid choked on his tears. “The dead guy from the newspaper called the other one Cowboy, but man, that’s all I know.”

Tito looked at Whisper to see if the name rang a bell with him. “Ain’t that the black dude who be on the motorcycle? You know… the bandito.”

Tito wasn’t familiar with Cowboy, but he was familiar with his exploits. He was known through out the streets as “The Bandit King”, a man with the balls and the brains to take off any caper. Tito vowed that this would be the last caper he took off once they caught up with him. In his mind, he was already thinking of ways they might possibly trap the arrogant little thief.

“You did good, little monkey. Whisper,” he turned to the interrogator. “Get that sneaky ass nigga Booby on the case. I wanna know where this Cowboy is at all times. Let’s go,” Tito said to his two soldiers.

“What about him,” Whisper nodded towards the boy who had the hope of survival in his eyes.

“Smoke that little nigger,” Tito said wickedly, leaving them to their work.

There was a good amount of traffic on the block that night. Even with the frigid temperature the crack heads ventured out to get their blasts. Both sides of the street were buzzing with traffic as the fiends shuffled back and forth like the walking dead. The corner boys moved everything from nickels to twenties in the still of the December night.

Willie’s Lounge sported its normal mix of drunks, macks and sack chasers decorating the curb and entrance. Stumbling out of the bar was the so-called “lynchpin” of the block, Scott. Scott had never been much in the way of a leader, but he was good at taking other nigga’s scraps and making something out of them. A few years prior, he had struck a bargain that was supposed to make him a star player in the game. Alas, when the shit hit the fan he was left with a few ounces of coke, a corner of his own, and a badly burned bridge. Still, he made the best out of it, flipping the coke and building clientele. Though he was still low on the food chain, Butch made sure he made enough to keep himself afloat which was acceptable to a nigga like Scott.

Wind whipped through the block sending a swirl of trash into the air. Scott pulled up the collar of his leather jacket to try and deflect some of the wind, but it didn’t help. He cursed himself for wearing the stylish, yet thin, jacket knowing it was damn near mid-December, but he wanted to show it off. A chest cold would be the price he paid for fashion.

“How we looking?” Scott asked a slim kid who had come to stand next to him.

“I’m almost done with this pack,” the kid replied.

“A’ight, when you’re done go get another one from Steve. I’m getting up outta here,” Scott told the kid and bounced. Scott had decided that it was too chilly for him to play the block so he decided to turn it in. He had tried to call Marsha again, but she wasn’t picking up. She always did that when he stayed out. Their son was at his mother’s so there was no telling who or what Marsha was into. Writing her off, he hoped that he could catch one of the lounge stragglers to slide with before the night was done.

Scott made a brief stop at the corner store to grab a cup of coffee and a cigar before stepping out to the curb to flag down a cab. Eighth Avenue wasn’t showing him any love so he decided to try his luck on Seventh. Scott made his way down the block sipping his coffee, lost in his own thoughts. A flicker of movement brought him up short. Scott gave a brief look around but other than him, there was no one on the block but two crack heads who were having a minor argument.

“That fucking weed is making me paranoid,” he said to the night. Scott kept walking, but he still felt uneasy. Just as he reached the end of the block, he heard a flicking sound. Scott spun and found himself staring at a man huddled in a darkened doorway. The man hadn’t done anything or even moved in Scott’s direction but the warning alarm in his head was blaring.

The man flicked a lighter and brought it up to his face. The flame played tricks with the light against the man’s face, obscuring his features. Though Scott couldn’t see him totally, there was something familiar about him. As the man stepped out of the shadows and under the soft glow of the street light, a ball of ice began to form in Scott’s stomach. “Oh shit!”

“That wasn’t quite the reception that I was expecting,” Duce smiled. Scott went for his gun, but Duce beat him to the punch. The 9mm was pointed square between Scott’s eyes. “By the time you pull it the fight will be over. Why don’t you toss that hammer over here so we can talk?”

Scott thought about trying for it, but he was sure that the man standing before him would shoot him if he did. Hell, he might’ve shot him if he didn’t, but he’d rather try to negotiate his way out as opposed to shooting. Scott cursed under his breath and tossed the gun on the ground, with a faint sloshing sound.

“That’s better,” Duce continued. “It’s been a long time, my nigga. Ain’t you gonna tell me how happy you are to see me?”

“Truthfully, no, you’re the last mutha fucka I ever thought I’d see again,” Scott said coldly.

“Nobody did, baby boy, but here I am,” Duce spread one arm, but didn’t take the gun off Scott. “So what’s the good word? I hear you and that fat mutha fucka Butch is out here getting rich, building off the ashes of my brother’s shit.”

Scott looked into Duce’s eyes and could actually feel the hate boring into his face. “D-Murder, I’m just out here trying to eat.”

“Eating off the dead? Yeah, I always knew you were a vulture and even a creep, but I’d have never picked you to be a fucking traitor, Scott. That was some slick shit y’all put together though, calling me to the spot with them corpses then tipping the police off to it. Cock sucker, they could’ve fried me!” Duce took a few steps closer.

“D, don’t do nothing crazy. Let’s rap about this, fam.”

“Nah, we ain’t got nothing to talk about. All I want is…” Duce’s next word was replaced by a scream as Scott tossed the cup of hot coffee in his face. The liquid was hot enough that it burned when it made contact with Duce’s skin, but not enough to leave a mark or deter him from killing Scott. He managed to wipe the sticky black liquid from his eyes just in time to see Scott running top speed back towards Eighth Avenue. If Scott made it out of the block and onto the avenue, it would be harder to kill him because of all the witnesses. No, he had waited too long to let revenge elude him.

Instantly, old muscles came back to life and Duce was after his prey. Scott had too much of a lead on him for Duce to Catch him in an outright sprint so he tried something else. His booted feet made thunderous noises as he ran up the back of someone’s Maxima to stand on the roof. The cold mixed with his adrenaline made it hard to breathe, but breathing was essential at that point. Steadying the 9mm in a two-handed grip, Duce jerked the trigger twice.

Scott had managed to make it three buildings from the corner when what felt like a baseball slammed into his shoulder. It happened so fast that Scott didn’t even realize that he was shot until he was airborne. His chin made contact with the frosty ground, before the rest of his body did. When he gathered his wits enough to look up, he saw the man he’d known as D-Murder sprinting towards him and began to scream like a frightened child.

“Shut ya bitch ass up,” Duce kicked him in the mouth, bloodying his boots. “So, you wanna throw hot coffee on niggaz, huh?” Duce aimed the gun at his face.

“Please, man,” Scott pleaded, trying to shield his face with his good arm.

“Huh?” Duce asked as if he didn’t hear him. “Are you begging?” he asked sympathetically.

“Listen, I got some dough in the crib. You can have that and my chain if you let me live,” he said hurriedly. “Please, man.”

“Your chain? Do you think a funky ass chain is gonna bring my brother back?!” Duce fired a bullet into Scott’s thigh. A few inches higher and it would’ve hit him in the testicles. “Let me ask you this,” Duce leaned down to whisper to Scott, totally ignoring his screams. “What did you gain from all this, his bitch, and his position? Marsha is a ho and Butch run the block. Fuck you got?”

“D-Murder,” Scott called him by his title, hoping the show of respect would increase his chances of living. “Nobody was supposed to die. They said that nothing would change and we’d all be partners if Knowledge would agree to step down, but your brother wasn’t trying to hear it. It was supposed to be good for business.”

Duce’s body went rigid for a moment, but the rage leaked away. “Business,” tears glistened in his eyes. “My brother died on a street corner because it was good for business?” Duce fired twice into Scott’s gut.