Me and My Hittas (5 page)

Pavielle and Panic pushed their way through the
double doors of the hood establishment. As soon as Pavielle
stepped to the window to place his order, he was at a loss
for words for the beauty behind the cash register. Little
momma was finer than a mothafucka, and she was working
the hell out that red and black uniform. Redbone was
banging like a B.G that had just finished getting processed
through the county jail. She possessed a face and a body
that deserved the cover of Smooth Magazine. She had a rose
gold complexion and smooth blotch less skin. Her long
curly sandy brown hair fell just past her shoulders. And her
eyes were a greenish blue, depending on where she was
standing when the light hit her.

Vayda snapped her fingers before Pavielle’s eyes
trying to snap him out of his daze.
“Hellooo, hi there,” She smiled after snapping
Pavielle out of his daze. “May I take your order, please?”

“Blood, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Panic
frowned, looking from his nigga to the cashier. “Order your
mothafucking food so we can bounce.”
“Oh, sorry about that,” Pavielle apologized.

“It’s okay.” Vayda giggled. “Our low prices tend to
do that to the customers. They’re stunned by how good and
affordable the grub is here.

“Oh, it ain’t the grub here that’s got me tripping,”
Pavielle confessed. “Believe that.”

Vayda blushed and smiled,
she couldn’t help herself;
the young nigga was just how she liked her men, cute and
thuggish.

“Oh, she smiles?” Pavielle eyed the redbone
seductively. Vayda shook her head and took on a more
serious approach.

“May I take your order, sir?” She asked. Catching
on, he straightened himself straight out

“Alright,”
he looked over the menu above her head.
“Let me get a two piece; a breast and a wing, a small fries,
a large lemonade, no ice, a sweet potato pie and, uh, your
name and your phone number.” He said slyly, pulling out a
wad of $100 dollar bills from his pocket. He made sure the
crisps roll of Benjamin Franklins before the redbone’s eyes.
He wanted her to know that he was holding, and that he
wasn’t just some bum ass nigga trying to spit game.

“Sorry, sweetie, but my name and number aren’t on
the menu.” Vayda stated seriously, the least bit impressed
by his money. She punched in the total of his meal on the
register. “Eight twenty-fiveis your total, sir.” She said with
a no none sense attitude.

Pavielle peeled of a $100 dollar bill and handed it to
her. She handed him back his change and left to prepare his
food; as soon as she was out of earshot Panic started in on
Pavielle.

“Ah, Blood!” Panic laughed. “Light skin dissed you,
kid.”

“Shut up, fat boy!”
Pavielle said, playfully throwing
jabs
and
punches
at
the
refrigerator
of
a
man.
Once Pavielle and Panic were back in the Suburban they
checked their food to make sure everything was there. The
first thing the young nigga noticed when cracking open his
chicken box was the cashier’s name and telephone number
scribbled on the receipt. Right below the ten digits was a
purple lip-stick print kiss. The same color of the lip-stick
that the curly haired beauty had on. Pavielle picked up the
receipt and stashed it in his pocket.

Pavielle called Vayda the next night and they had an
in depth conversation that lasted three hours. He found out
some interesting things about Vayda. For instance, she was
Creole, left handed and spoke three different languages:
Spanish, French and German. She was quite the artist and
had moved from Oakland to Los Angeles not long ago.She
filled him in on being shuffled through the foster care
system, living from pillar to post, and her relationship with
Buddy. She gave him the rundown and didn’t leave anything
out. The way she figured he was going to accept her or he
was going to move the fuck on. She’d rather put everything
out in the open.

After there conversation they made plans to go out the
next night. Instead of the traditional dinner and a movie
outing, Pavielle decided to switch things up and take Vayda
to an African American Heritage Museum at the coliseum.
Afterwards they went go-kart racing, played the arcade and
ate at a restaurant called the Fish and Grill in Gardena. At
the end of the night, Pavielle laid a blanket on the roof of
his ‘96 Chevy Impala SS and they spent the remainder of
the night staring up at the moon and scattered stars. From
that day forth the pair was inseparable.

***

“Damn, I must really look good.” Vayda
said,
approaching Pavielle and closing his bottom jaw to his top
one.

“Oh, you’re all of that and a bag of uncut dope.”
Gangsta took her hand and kissed it.

 

“Why thank you Gangsta,” Vayda blushed and took
him in,“You don’t clean up too bad yourself.”

 

“Are you ready to go?”

 

“I’m ready when you are.”

 

With that said, Pavielle snapped out of his daze and
rose to his feet.

 

Gangsta embraced his youngest nephew as if he was
on his way to prison and was saying his last goodbyes.

“Don’t worry, nephew,” He whispered into his ear. “I
won’t fuck her. At least not tonight I won’t.” He pecked
Pavielle on the cheek and laughed, smacking him on the
back. Seeing that he wasn’t feeling his sense of humor took
the jovial expression off of his face. “Ah, I’m fucking with
you, nigga. Redbone is in good hands,” He assured him
before hooking his arm with Vayda’s. “I’ll take care of her.”

“I’ma hold you to that, old nigga.” Pavielle said
seriously.

 

“Shall we?” Gangsta asked Vayda.

 

“Yes, we shall.” She replied.

After closing the door behind Gangsta and Vayda,
Pavielle grabbed everything he needed to break down both
pounds of Kush. He took the digital scale from the top
dresser drawer along with the sandwich bags. He then got
the food-tray stand from out of the closet and set it up beside
the bed. Sitting behind the food-tray stand, he dumped the
contents of the first Ziploc of Kush onto the tray and
proceeded to break it down.

Working for their uncle, Pavielle and Gouch hustled
everything from hash to crack cocaine. Gangsta showed
them the ropes when they were coming up so they knew
how to cook, cut, and rock the product up. While Gouch
could hustle he wasn’t as good as his baby brother. Pavielle
could tell how much the product was worth just from
looking at it. He was what you would call a natural born
hustler. Back in grade school he would sell the kids candy,
bubblegum, potato chips, sodas and cookies and by the end
of the day he’d leave with one hundred and fifty dollars
profit. He’d sneak Gangsta’s old dirty magazines from
home and charge his friends at school a dollar a peek. And
when Wrestle Mania came around, he’d charge the
neighborhood kids two dollars a head to watch it on the big
screen television in his grandmother’s den. The hustle was
definitely in the young nigga’z blood, some would even
argue that he was even better at it than Gangsta.

Working for his uncle was cool and the money was
straight,but he couldn’t see himself under his uncle’s wing
for the rest of his life, he had bigger aspirations. He wanted
to be the man someday, too. He wanted to be more than just
the neighborhood dope man; he wanted to hold the title of
kingpin.

Chapter Three

A young man sat duct-taped to an iron chair inside of
a dark basement. The chain linked light bulb dangling from
above, illuminated a light that exposed the damages of the
brutal beating he’d taken. He had a golf ball size knot on
his forehead, an eye that was swollen shut and a broken
nose that had doubled in size. His face was bruised black
and blue. A series of tiny cuts littered his face, and their
bleeding had run down his neck and stained the chest of his
wife beater pink. He looked around at his four captors with
trembling legs, piss dripping from the edge of his chair and
making a small puddle at his feet.

“Sun, I suggest you tell us where our money is before
level two of this interrogation begins, and believe me, if
you’ve seen what these eyes have seen Supa do to cats with
his torture methods…Let’s not take it that far. Let’s end this
now. What did you do with the money you stole?” Casanova
asked him, sounding calm and sincere. He was damn near
convincing. Casanova, or Double O.G Cas, as he was
called was the oldest homie present at sixty-two. He had a
thick crop of salt & pepper dreadlocks that hung over his
shoulders and back and a matching beard. His neck was
thick and his body was rippled with muscles. Casanova was
a member of the Eastside Crips as well as the Five
Percenters.

The young man looked to Supacrip who was removing
the bloody brassknuckles that he’d just finished using on
him. He had put on some goggles and was pulling on yellow
dishwashing gloves. Only God knew what he had in store
for the youth. He wore an evil smile as he tried to decide
what power tool to use on his capture.

“Man, this nigga ain’t gone talk,
Cuz.” Nike said
looking at the number Supacrip had done on the young man
duct-taped to the chair. Nike was a short, muscular cat that
wore his hair short and wavy. He’d gotten his name from
the Nike logo scar under his right-eye. Killing was his
hobby and slinging crack was his habit. He was slowly
churning out a resume that was as lengthy and brutal as
some
of the
notorious
gangsters
his
hood
had the
misfortune of producing.

“Nah, this bitch ass nigga go
ne tell me where my
money is,” C-note exclaimed with a Belizean accent. He
was
a caramel
complexion brother
with
a
crown of
naturally curly hair he wore in a taper-fade. He screwed
the cap off a bottle of rubbing alcohol and splashed it on
the capture’s wounds. The young man whipped his head
back and forth, screaming in agony and thrashing around
in the chair. “Shit feels like acid when it hits them open
wounds and shit, don’t it? Well, it’s gone get a hell of a lot
worse before we’re done.” He harped up spit and spat on
the young man before throwing the bottle at his head.
“Fuck is your cousin, Nike?” He whipped around to the
shorter man yelling with clenched fists.

Nike shrugged. “
Cuz, said he was on his way like
fifteen minutes ago.” He glanced at his watch and pulled
out his cell. “I’ma bout to call him again,” He began
punching a number on the digital screen of his cell.

“No need, I’m already here,” Nightmare said as he
ascended the staircase with a pit bull on a chain leading the
way. He was a tall dark skinned dude with a face that
belonged on the F.B.I’s most wanted poster. His rap sheet
boasted everything from robbery to attempted murder. He
had a blue bandana tied around his head Aunty Jemima
style and a blue button-down shirt with a bandana print.

Nightmare slapped hands with his homies before
turning around to the young man. “Soooooo this is the lil’
nigga that cleaned us outta mill, huh?”

“Yep, that’s him, he ain’t talking but he will be in a
sec,” Supacrip opened and closed the hedge clippers
rapidly, making the sharp metal blades
cling. He
threatening eyes bored into those of his victim’s, sending
volts of fear throughout his body. “One of y’all niggaz
unzip his pants and pull out his dick.”

“Ah
, nah, Cuz,y’all gone cut off my shit?” The young
man’s head darted around at the faces surrounding him.
“Please, man, don’t cut off my dick. Oh,God! Help! Help!”

“Shut cho ho ass up,” Nike point
ed his pistol at the
youth’s head, putting him on mute and causing him to
whimper.

“I’m not touching his dick,” C-note frowned.
“I’m not doing it either.” Cas said.
Supacrip looked to Nike. “Cuz, I don’t know why
you’re looking this way.”
“I’m doing all the torturing and shit, the least y’all
could do is pull the nigga’z wang out.” Supacrip said.

“That’s right; you’re doing all of the torturing so you
pull his thang out. This is your part of the game, sun.” Cas
told him.

“Fuck it, I’ll do it. Hold these,” Supacrip passed the
hedge clippers to Nike. He started over in the young man’s
direction but Nightmare stopped him.

“Chill, no need to get that bloody, I’ll find out w
here
the nigga stashed our shit.” Nightmare chained his pit to a
pillar in the basement and approached the young man. He
looked to be relieved that he wasn’t about to have his penis
severed.

“Nightmare, thank God you’re here,
Cuz. They…”
the young man’s words died in his throat as Nightmare
brought his palm back and forth across his face.

Smack!

Smack!
Nightmare viciously smacked the youth across the
face until he drew blood. He then wiped his hand off on the
young man’s stained wife beater.

“Where the fuck is the money, nigga? I’m not gonna
ask your ass again.” Nightmare swore. Seeing its master
agitated caused the pit bull to go wild barking and
struggling to get off the chain.

“Nightmare, why are you doing me like this, fam? You
know…” again he was put to silence by Nightmare vicious
backhand slaps. The O.G crip’s open palm felt like punches
from all of his years of pumping iron. The blows had left the
youth dazed and barely conscious. Nightmare leaned in
close to him so no one could hear him. “Did y’all put the
loot up where I told you to?” the young man mumbled some
jargon he couldn’t understand. Nightmare grabbed him by
his jaw and looked him in the eyes, a mixture of blood and
saliva oozed down his hand. “Come on now. I’m tryna get
chu outta here, but chu gotta let me know where you stashed
that paper. Did it make it to the spot where we agreed to
meet?”