Me and My Hittas (16 page)

“Set me down, bae, I’m starting to get dizzy.” She
told him and he obliged her. He kissed her and hugged her
again, rocking back and forth with her in his embrace. He
cupped her face and kissed her hard, deep, and passionately.
Staring into her pretty greenish blue eyes again, he kissed
her one more time on her lips.

“How far along are you?” he asked her.

 

“Three months.” She smiled happily, holding up three
fingers.

A voice began to sing
Unchained Melody
by The
Righteous Brothers in synce with a violin playing the
song’s music notes. Hearing the beautiful vocal cords,
Pavielle interlocked his fingers with Vaydal, they both
turned around in the direction of the singing. At the ends of
their line of vision they found a clean cut Avenue in a sharp
ass mustard green suit and a pair of black Mauri gators that
were so shiny that you could see your reflection in them.
Standing beside him
was
a young
African
American
violinst playing the hell out of his instrument. The former
Mesmerizers’ crooner held a brimmed hat to his torso as he
sung his heart out. Luther Vandross, Stevie Wonder, Al
Green, Curtis Mayfield, Marvin Gaye; old Avenue could
blow with the best of them and hold his own. That was for
damn sure.

“Oh, baby, this is so beautiful,” Vayda said, holding
her hands over her mouth as tears streamed down her face.

“May I have this dance?” Pavielle asked, bending
forward and holding out his hand. Vayda took it and rested
her head against his chest as they slow danced, moving
about with rhythm. She shut her eyelids and wished this
moment would never end. She hoped this wasn’t all a
dream, but if it was she didn’t want to wake up.

Pavielle looked over to Avenue and gave him a thumb
up, Avenue smiled and continued to croon.

 

The young kingpin’s marriage proposal went
beautifully.
An hour later

Pavielle and Vayda played the
backseat of
his
Mercedes Benz as Avenue pushed the wheel back home.
The redbone couldn’t take her eyes off of her engagement
ring; it was as if she was watching her future unfold in the
diamonds before her. Every so often Pavielle would glance
over at her and flash her smile. It felt good to see his lady
so happy. Her happiness meant more to him than his own.

“Where do you wanna get married at?” Vayda asked
her husband to be, leaning her head against his shoulder and
locking her arm within his.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Where ever you want
is good with me. Planning weddings, baby showers and
proms, all of that stuff is for females.”

“Is that so? Well, what’s for men then, Mr. Know It
All?”

“Fixing shit, proposing, and making babies.” Pavielle
stated proudly with a smile, rubbing her stomach and
envisioning the life growing inside of her.

“Babies, huh? Well, I want lots and lots of babies.”
“Is that, right? How many?”

 

“Four.”

 

“That’s it?” Pavielle asked as if four babies weren’t
many to have. “I was thinking eight.”

“Well, it’s settled then, we’ll hav
e eight kids. Then I
want a big house, with a white picket fence, a Labrador
retriever and a family station wagon. I want a great big old
family and I want us to do all of the corny things you see
families do on television and in the movies, what about you,
babe?”

“Whatever you want, boo, it’s your world. I’m just
happy to be in it.” He curled his finger under her chin and
kissed her on the temple and then the lips.

“Ohhh, I can’t wait to get home and tell momma,”
Vayda shrieked like high school girls do when discussing
their crush.

Avenue pulled the Mercedes Benz into Gmomma’s
driveway. He executed its engine, slid out from behind the
wheel, and opened the back passenger door. Standing to the
side, he waited until Vayda and Pavielle had gotten out and
then shut the door behind them. He then withdrew a cloth
from his suit and began wiping the smudges from the
foreign whip. Vayda ran into the house screaming to Gmomma that she was getting married. Pavielle couldn’t help
but smile as he made his way up the steps, where Gouch sat
on the porch flipping through a family photo album, taking
pulls of a Newport. The oldest Hood brother made eye
contact with his baby brother as he approached.

“Say it ain’t so, Booby, say it ain’t so. Tell me your
not really finna wife that ho?” he song then busted up
laughing.

“Watch your mouth, nigga,” Pavielle frowned and
pointed a threatening finger. “That’s the future Mrs. Hood
right there.”

“Tisk, tisk, tisk, haven’t you learned anything being
my baby brother? You don’t go and buy the cow when you
can get the milk for free.” He shook his head in
disappointment.

“Gucci, what the fuck are you talking about?”
Pavielle asked not having a clue of what his big brother was
getting at.

Gouch shook his head again and went back to flipping
through the photo album. “2+2 ass nigga,” he said under his
breath.

“Put some bass in your voice, fool. I can hardly hear
you.”

 

“You’re simple, mothafucka! Simple!”

 

“Man, fuck you.”

 

He looked him over and said, “You’re not my type.”

 

“Anyway, what chu looking at?” Pavielle asked,
looking over Gouch’s shoulder.

“Photo album, what’s it look like?” he turned the page
to a mangled, creased picture of an African American
couple. The man in the photograph held an uncanny
resemblance to Gouch. Though whereas Gouch was tall and
lanky, the man was tall and ripped with muscles. The
woman beside him had more of his little brother’s features:
narrow face, bowed lips, and slanted eyes. The couple was
dressed in black jeans and black leather jackets, with sky
blue turtlenecks under them. The girlfriend wore her hair in
afro puffs, while the
boyfriend wore his
in six neat
cornrows. He clutched an M-16 in one hand and an AR-15
in the other, while his better half gripped a 12 gauge
shotgun.

“That’s moms and pops, huh?” Pavielle leaned in
closer to the picture, smiling.

“Yeah, that’s them,” Gouch smiled, admiring the old
photo. “Man, momma was fine. I wonder if she was
considered a dime piece back in the day.”

“Yeah, momma was fine.” Pavielle cosigned with a
smile. His mother really was a beautiful woman. “But look
at pops, Blood. He was buff than a mothafucka. Nigga look
just like you and shit.”

“Blood do kinda look like me.” Gouch agreed,
nodding his head. “And your ass look just like momma. All
you need are some afro puffs and some lip stick.”

He laughed.

 

“Gucci, tell me again how they were killed.” Pavielle
sat down across from him on the balcony.

“Goddamn, man, I told
you the story a hundred times
already.” Gouch rolled his eyes after blowing smoke out
into the air.

“I know, Blood, but tell me again…please.” He
pleaded, with his hands together as if he was praying.

“Alright,” Gouch gave in, taking another pull of his
cigarette. He blew the smoke from his nostrils and flicked
the butt like a booger, sending embers flying. “This is the
last time I’m telling you this shit, so listen up.” He closed
the photo album and Pavielle sat up ready to listen, looking
like a kid atschool during story time. “Okay…”

Gouch went on to tell the story.
Flashback

Robin Vines
and Joshua Hood were once
the
members of the defunct Black Panther Party. The party
dissolved in 1982, but the couple along with a handful of
comrades decided to carry on the legacy through a new
movement of their own called The B.P.P aka The Black
Power Posse. The posse needed funding, so they went to the
drug dealers of the community asking for donations. They
figured since the hustlers had been peddling poison in the
community for so many years, that it was about time that
they contributed to helping the environment that they had
helped to destroy. After being told by the dealers to go fuck
themselves, the posse picked up ski-masks and rifles and
took to robbing them. Every dime the posse jacked went
towards funding the movement, which helped the poor
families within the poverty stricken environments. The
B.P.P was literally stealing from the rich and giving to the
poor. So the neighborhood dubbed them as the names of
their two leaders suggested, Robbin’ Hood, as in Robin
Vines and Joshua Hood.

Robbin’ Hood left a bad taste in the local hustlers’
mouths, so the dealers came together. They combined their
moneys and put out a hefty bounty on the organization;
$400,000 dollars for the capture of Robbin’ Hood, dead or
alive. The very communities that Robbin’ Hood had sworn
to protect and serve turned against them.
In just a few
weeks six members of the movement was gunned down like
rabid dogs in the streets. The city ran red with blood and
chaos.

The streets had gotten so hot that Robin and Joshua
had disbanded their organization and sent their two boys to
stay with Robin’s parents. The couple became fugitives and
went into hiding. While on their hiatus they put their heads
together and came up with a plan. They were going to rob
the biggest heroin dealer in Southern California, Anthony
Philmore a.k.a Cadillac Tony. Tony had over a dozen dope
houses scattered throughout Los Angeles, with each one
grossing a minimum of $50,000 dollars a day. The man was
a low key multimillionaire. Robin and Joshua were going
to take their proceeds from the lick and move out to
Oakland, where they’d start their organization over from
scratch.

The couple were going to hit the Pueblo Bishops
Projects, where Tony did his weekly count of the proceeds
he made
trafficking heroin.
Every
Sunday
at twelve
midnight a carrier would drop off Tony’s take from the dope
houses. Robin and Joshua were going to force their way
into the apartment behind the carrier, take the bag of money
and raid the spot for whatever cash that may be stashed
inside. The couple did their homework and rehearsed their
plan a thousand times. They had it down pact, so the lick
was going to be a piece of cake. But before the couple could
put their plan into effect something tragic happened, Robin
was gunned down at a phone booth, while placing a call to
her parents to check on the boys. Joshua was devastated
once he caught wind of his wife’s murder. He was hurting,
but he was still going to carry out the mission they had
planned. He knew that’s what she’d want to happen. Once
Robin was buried he decided to finish what they’d started.

Sunday night came bringing a storm and hard rain
along with it. So when Joshua slipped on his black army
fatigues and cap, he draped a poncho over it. He dressed
his face in war-paint and loaded his weaponry into a black
gym-bag. On his way out of the house, he stopped at the
framed portrait of his family sitting on top of the television.
He picked the portrait up, kissed it and placed it back down
before heading out of the door.

Joshua lay on the wet roof of a building a few blocks
away from the Pueblo Projects. Scoped, infra-red rifle in
hand, he picked off the armed guards on the roof of Cadillac
Tony’s complex one by one, dropping their mothafucking
asses. The armed guards collapsed like a house of cards
upon impact of the silenced weapon’s bullets. Next, Joshua
drew his hunting knife and started in on the armed guards
patrolling the grounds around the heroin dealer’s complex.
He moved so quick that he was nothing more than a blur
before the guards’ eyes. Before the guards could pull the
triggers of their weapons, their throats were slit and they
were toppling like dominos. Joshua dragged their bodies to
the tenants’ trash bens and dumped them. Once they were
taken care of, he hid himself within the shadows and waited
for the carrier to arrive. Seeing the carrier about to knock
on the nigga he’d came to kill apartment’s door, he sprung
into action and pressed his banger into his kidneys. The
carrier’s eyes doubled and he stiffened, eyes shooting to
their corners. A gloved hand pressed down over his mouth
and a deep, raspy voice whispered into his ear. The breath
of the voice was so hot it made the carrier’s ear moisten
and the hair stood up on the back of his neck from fear.

“You s
hould know before you knock on that door, that
if you alert who’s ever in there to my presence. I’m going
to kill you first. Got it?” the frightened carrier nodded yes.
“Carry on.”

The carrier knocked on the door in a specific pattern.
A moment later five locks were undone and the door was
pulled open. Before him stood a burly Nigerian man, with
high cheekbones and a head as wide as a pit bull. He wore
a button-down shirt, slacks and Ostrich skin shoes. The
holster strapped under his arm held a large caliber pistol.
The hulking man was Cadillac Tony’s bodyguard, Bruno.

Bruno locked eyes with the carrier and could tell
something was wrong. He was sweating profusely and he
seemed sort of tense.

“Are you going to let me in before I catch the flu, big
man?” The carrier asked, trying to keep his cool. The giant
narrowed his eyelids at the man and looked down at his feet.
Noticing a second pair of boots behind his, he scowled and
went to draw his burner. And that’s when all hell broke
loose.

Joshua shot the carrier in his back and kicked him in
his ass. He stumbled towards Bruno with the bag of money
and the ebony brute swatted him like a fly. The stumbling
carrier created a diversion just long enough for ghetto
avenger to open fire on the hulking bodyguard. Bruno
jerked violently as an entourage of bullets ripped through
his chest. Joshua grabbed him by his tie and pulled him
close to use him as a human shield; he had peeped Cadillac
Tony going for his pistol when the first shots went off.
Cadillac Tony had rose to his feet from the kitchen table,
where he was eating fried Jumbo shrimp and French fries,
pulling his burner. He tried to draw a bead on his intruder,
but couldn’t see him over Bruno’s wide back.