Still Hood (30 page)

Read Still Hood Online

Authors: K'wan

BOOK: Still Hood
7.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
IN THE LAST SEVERAL YEARS THERE'S BEEN A
growing number of magazines claiming to cater to the inner city and the people that inhabited it, but one stood out above the rest.
Dream
magazine was founded in 2003 by a former drug dealer named Tito, as a means of not only cleaning up some of the wealth he had amassed over the years, but of giving back to the communities he had helped destroy. Not only did it give a voice to the streets, but it provided jobs for men and women who were fresh out of jail, to help them stay off the streets. Within a year of printing its first issue,
Dream
landed major distribution and was now available in every U.S. city, as well as several overseas. A year earlier, its founder Tito was murdered over an old beef, but the magazine continued to flourish, carrying on his legacy.
Unique Lane had been an intern when the magazine first started, but through hard work and a good nose for a story, she managed to work her way up from contributing writer to eventually becoming editor-in-chief. Along with Tito's daughter, Maria, she ran the magazine, but that day found her revising her old role as reporter for a very special story. She was getting a one-on-one interview with Harlem's latest rising star, True.
“What's going on, Don?” Unique greeted him warmly as she entered the lounge area of the Big Dawg studio. She was wearing a black blouse and a pair of gray slacks that hugged her shapely bottom just the right way.
“Unique, what's good?” He hugged her. “Damn, I ain't seen you in a minute. Where you been hiding girl?” Don B and Unique had a history dating back to the beginning of his career. Back then he was an up-and-coming rapper, while she was a reporter on her grind. The chemistry between them was apparent, but she wasn't the type to mix business with pleasure. Though the romance went nowhere, they kept in contact over the years and traded an occasional favor.
“Running
Dream
keeps me pretty busy,” she told him.
“I heard you're moving up in the world, that's why I was so surprised when I heard you were coming to conduct the interview. What happened to Nails?” he asked, referring to the gentleman who normally hit the streets for the magazine.
“Nails is good, but I had to come do this one myself. The buzz on True in the streets is retarded!”
“You know the Don has always known how to pick em,” he bragged. “Come on,” he motioned for her to follow, “True is in the booth.”
As soon as Don B opened the door to the studio a cloud of smoke washed over them. The haze lingering in the air was so thick that Unique got dizzy. She smoked weed from time to time, but not of the grade Don B and his crew smoked. The usual goons were in attendance, minus the deceased Pain, Lex, and Jay, but there was a young man sitting off in the corner with whom Unique wasn't familiar. He had the face of a boy barely in his teens, but cold, menacing eyes that ran over her. Behind the glass was the man she had come to see, True.
Don B hit a button on the console, cutting the music off. “Yo, somebody is here to see you,” he said into the intercom. True nodded and removed his headphones.
The last time she had seen True in person he was a thug-ass teenager running behind Don B, but the man emerging from the sound booth was all grown up. His face was still as youthful as she
remembered it, but there was a wizened look in his eyes that hadn't been there before. True wiped his sweaty face with his tank top, exposing his rippled stomach. Something stirred low in Unique, but she maintained her professional demeanor.
“Yo, kid, you remember Unique, right?” Don B, nodded to the dark-skinned young woman.
True stared at her for a minute until a light of recognition went off in his head. “Oh, from
Dream
? What's up, ma?” He hugged her. True's shirt was damp and uncomfortable against her skin, but she pretended not to mind.
“Chilling,” she said. “Thanks for agreeing to sit down with me.”
“You know Big Dawg and
Dream
is like family. Stop that.”
“So you wanna do this right here?” she asked, taking out her recorder.
“We can do it wherever you want.” He flashed a near-perfect smile.
“I'll be damned if you don't sound like somebody I know.” She looked over at Don B, who was grinning. “Okay.” She hit the button on her recorder. “Let's get started.”
JAH SAT IN THE CUT
while the girl Don B had introduced as Unique conducted her interview. He had expected it to be pretty much the same as most interviews with rappers that he'd read up on, full of bling and bravado, but True was surprisingly interesting to listen to. He articulated himself well and was very passionate about his craft. The most interesting part of the interview was when he spoke of his mother.
As the story went, she was a hustler from Harlem, much like her boy. True's mother had gone to prison on a drug charge off the word of a snitch, and was killed shortly after by one of the guards. When asked what became of the man who turned state's evidence on his mother, he claimed not to know, but there was something in his eyes that made Jah wonder how true that was.
“Okay, I've got just a few more questions, then we can wrap it up,” Unique said, glancing at her watch. “Now, I don't put much stock into
rumors, so I decided to go to the source. I hear that you were in a shootout the other day. You wanna talk about that?”
“Man, True wasn't in no shootout,” Don B answered for him.
“So the report about there being a shooting at Stacks Green's video shoot are untrue?”
“Man, it wasn't like that. I happened to be walking with a cat who had a problem with some other dudes and ended up getting caught in the crossfire. That shit ain't have nothing to do with me,” True lied.
“Well, like I said earlier, I don't put much stock in rumors, but some people are saying it was a hit and not a robbery.”
True shrugged. “I couldn't tell you what it was about, cause it wasn't my situation.” He said it nicely, but it was clear that he didn't want to talk about it.
She nodded, but the look on her face clearly said she didn't believe him. “A'ight, well, thanks for taking the time out for me, True.” She stood to leave.
“No problem, ma. Thanks for letting me speak my piece.” His face softened.
“Yo, Unique, you better e-mail me a copy of the interview before it goes to print.” Don B hugged her.
“Don, you know I'd never print anything without letting you proof it first.” She headed for the door.
“You better not,” he called after her. As soon as Unique was out of the room, True started speaking.
“What the fuck was that shit all about? How did she even know what went down?”
“The streets talk, baby, and Unique has always had her ear to the streets,” Don B said.
True frowned. “I don't like having my business out there like that, son.”
Don B looked at him. “True, let me explain something to you. When you decided to get in the music game, your private life flew out the window. Every time you do or say something it becomes public knowledge. Get used to it.”
“Whatever, Don. I still don't like it,” True said.
Don B removed his shades and stared directly into True's eyes. “It ain't for you to like, it's for you to accept in pursuit of that fucking paper.” He stood up and walked back over to the console. “You better get your shit together, True.”
True glared at Don B but said nothing. Back when becoming rappers was just a dream for the kids from Harlem, it was about fun and self-expression, but the larger they got the more Don B became obsessed with paper. There was someone trying to murder the young rapper for something that he had no clue about, and all Don B cared about was album sales.
Jah sat off in the cut, silently watching the exchange between Don B and True. True was his charge, but his eyes were fixed on Don B. The older head couldn't seem to grasp True's anxiety over his situation, but Jah fully understood the mind-set of someone put in the position of prey. Being a hunter for many years, he had to familiarize himself with their thinking. He was resentful of how seemingly unmoved Don B was by the plight of his protégé, and wondered how he would react if the shoe was on the other foot. Though True wasn't as close to Jah as, say, Spooky or Tech, he still recognized him as a good nigga in a bad situation, which is what Don B seemed to be missing in his quest for number-one stunter status.
Jah had once credited Don B as being an official street nigga at one time, but as with most people, the money had changed him. If it had been one of Jah's close comrades who had been marked for death, stopping the murderer would've been first priority; but Don B was more concerned with it interfering with his pockets. Suddenly he felt sickened by the sight of the man and needed to be away, before he let his personal dislike of rappers complicate what he was trying to do.
“I'm bout to roll. I got something to take care of.” Jah stood to leave.
“Son, what we paying you for, if you gonna keep dipping off?” Don B asked angrily.
Jah glared at Don B. He started to bomb on him, but held it. “Homey, my daddy died years ago, and I ain't real good with people
coming at me like a kid. Remo and Devil are on the entrance and you got at least another half dozen able-bodied niggaz running around this bitch. I got a move to make, but I ain't going too far for too long. True,” he turned to the youngster, “you gonna be here for a minute?”
“Yeah, for at least another couple of hours trying to finish this song,” True said, scribbling on a notepad. “Go handle yours and we'll pick you up later for the locked door, I'm a'ight.”
“A'ight, if that changes then hit me on the cell.” Jah held up his phone. “Now, with the Don's permission,” he said sarcastically.
“Whatever, man,” Don B grumbled.
Jah stared at him for a moment longer before moving towards the door. Aside from wanting the men dead for what they did to Yoshi, Jah wanted True to live through the ordeal and see his dreams come to fruition. They were from two different spectrums of the game, but cut from the same cloth. It wasn't every day that a real nigga made it out of the hell they called the hood. Don B was proving to be another case. If the shooters showed up again, Jah would protect True to the best of his ability, but if it came down to a choice between he and the Don on the slab, he might just have to turn the other way.
MICHELLE SAT ON THE EDGE
of her bathtub smoking a cigarette, which was something she normally didn't do, but she had a bad case of the jitters. She had fucked and sucked Lazy into a coma, so he was fast asleep in the other room—which was a blessing, because she needed privacy for what she was up to.
Ever since she had met the young boy she knew he had to be hers. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that Lazy was going to go on to become a successful athlete and maybe even go to the league one day, and she refused to take a backseat to his high school sweetheart. When he took that ride, she had every intention on taking it with him. In Lazy she saw someone that she could mold in the image of her ideal man, but it was proving to be a bit more difficult than she had expected. For as much love and material affection as she showed him, his was still a heart divided. Michelle would lie awake many nights,
trying to figure out what a seventeen-year-old girl had over her. She was financially secure, had her own crib, and a plan of what she wanted to do with her life, but it didn't seem to be enough to move him. He was young and still quite wild, which made him reluctant to commit. But there were ways around that.
With a trembling hand, she reached for the little white strip on the sink and checked it. Two lines, just like the first. She could count on one hand how many times she and Lazy had had unprotected sex, so they should've been okay, had it not been for the fact that she poked holes in the condoms from time to time. It was grimy, but she couldn't wait forever for Lazy to decide he wanted to square up with her. She had to speed things up. Girls like Michelle were one of the main reasons why it was important for young men to carry their own condoms, instead of completely trusting the ones their jump-offs provided. Michelle wanted to shout for joy, but she had to hold her composure so as to seem sincere when she dropped the bomb.
She forced tears to well in her eyes before heading into the bedroom to confront Lazy. He was lying on his back with one leg slung over the edge of the bed. She knelt by the bed and shook him as roughly as she could until he stirred.
“Huh?” he looked at her with sleep-heavy eyes. He immediately knew something was wrong when he saw the crocodile tears streaming down her cheeks. “Michelle, what's wrong?”
“Lance, we need to talk,” she said, placing the strip in his hand.
“AIN'T Y'ALL GOT NOTHING BETTER TO DO THEN
play this stoop?” Yvette asked playfully, as she walked up. Shannon, Nate, and Spooky were passing a blunt around.
“You got nerve for as much as you be out here sacking!” Shannon shot back.
Yvette dug into the pocket of her sweatpants and pulled out a wad of money, which she flashed in Shannon's face. “These bitches sack, I
stack,
muthafucka!”
“Well, let ya boy hold something?” Nate asked.
“You better go snatch a purse,” she joked.
“Baby girl, that's a lot of bread for you to be running around with on your person,” Spooky said.
“I ain't worrying about it, cause I know you wouldn't let anything happen to me, Harlem,” she said flirtatiously.
“I got ya back, ma,” he said, and winked.
“Let me find out,” Shannon said, looking at them suspiciously.
“Let you find out what?” Yvette asked defensively.
“That you let that nigga hit it before me.”
Yvette sucked her teeth. “Shannon, ain't nobody hitting nothing, especially not your ass. I'd fuck around and have to fight every bitch on the block,” she joked. Though she
downplayed it, she and Spooky shared a secret. Not only had he hit it, but he had been hitting it for the past few weeks.
Ever since Spooky had started coming around there had been some sexual tension. On a drunk night when everyone else had turned in, she called him on it. They had snuck off to the roof of her building, where she and Spooky engaged in a bout of some gangster-ass sex. Spooky pounded her out so severely that her pussy was sore for days afterward—but that didn't deter her for going back for more. Though it was obvious that they felt each other deeply, they decided to keep it a secret, as neither wanted their business in the streets.
“Man, that nigga Spooky wouldn't know what to do with all that ass.” Shannon slapped Yvette playfully on the ass.
“You better watch ya fucking hands!” She hit him with a sharp jab to the chest. Shannon and Yvette horsed around on the stoop, while Nate and Spooky laughed. None of them ever saw the car pull up or the men get out, but they all felt the aftermath.
The report from the shotgun sounded like thunder on the clear afternoon. Yvette took a burst to the back, sending her flying into Spooky's arms. There was a terrified look in her eyes, as she coughed blood into his face. She pleaded something, but Spooky couldn't make out the words. For the first, time in his life, Spooky froze in battle, but Shannon didn't.
Leaping off the stoop with his .44 in hand, Shannon opened fire on the men. There were at least five of them, so there was no shortage of targets. Shannon managed to drop one of them, but the others returned fire, forcing him back. The shortest of the men, who Shannon recognized as the cat Spooky had shot, leveled a Tech-9 and sprayed the front of the building. Spooky leapt behind the gate where the trash was stored, while Shannon managed to take cover behind a car, but Nate wasn't so lucky. He tried to run into the lobby but was too slow. Bullets ripped up his legs and back, eventually splitting his skull and dropping him. Spooky watched from his vantage point, as his brother's body tumbled down the stairs and rolled onto the curb.
“Muthafucka!” Spooky jumped out, letting off with his Glock. Blick took one to the chest, dropping him. A stray shot whizzed passed his ear,
drawing his attention to the young man firing from behind a car with a 9. He had been firing so frantically that the gun ended up jamming on him, which spelled his undoing. Spooky hit him twice in the chest and kept pumping rounds into the man, even after he was down.
Not wanting to be left out of the action, young Dooly went in with his .380. He let off four rounds, but didn't manage to hit anyone. Thinking he was living out a movie, he tried to rush the car he had seen Shannon duck behind and found himself staring down the barrel of a long-nosed .44. Grinning wickedly, Shannon shot the young man flush in the face.
When Ronny put their little rider mission together, he had expected them to have the advantage because of how deep they were, but he hadn't expected to come to a head-on collision with two wild dogs. Deciding that a good run was better than a bad stand, he bolted.
Spooky tried to drop the man, but the bullet missed Ronny and shattered the window that Ralphy had just replaced. Ronny had almost made it across Throop, when a car turned the corner and slammed into him. He rolled over the length of the car before bouncing off the hood and hitting the ground. Ronny made one last attempt to escape, but his now-broken leg wouldn't support his weight.
Spooky stood motionless in front of 437 Jefferson Avenue staring at the two bodies of his loved ones. Nate was facedown on the sidewalk, while Yvette was propped on the steps where he had left her. Her beautiful face was frozen into the same horrified expression it had taken on when the shotgun slug hit her. Nate played the game, so he knew the threat of death was everpresent. But Yvette was innocent. It was just a sad case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Feeling moisture on his cheek, Spooky initially thought he was bleeding, but when he touched his finger to the spot the liquid was clear.
“We gotta dip, Spook!” Shannon yelled, hearing the sirens getting closer. Spooky ignored him, instead picking up Blick's abandoned Tech-9 and walking into the street. “What the fuck are you doing? Nigga, we gotta bounce!”
Spooky walked casually over to Blick, who was still squirming and put one in his skull. Oblivious to the approaching police and the
crowd of people who saw him, he continued across the street to where Ronny was trying to crawl to safety. Spooky raised the gun and shot Ronny in his good leg, which stopped his crawling.
“Spooky!” Shannon called again, but got no answer. It was obvious that his friend was someplace else at the moment and wouldn't be returning any time soon. Spooky was his man, but Shannon didn't look forward to going to jail for him. He called his name one last time, and when Spooky still didn't answer, Shannon took off running towards Marcus Garvey.
Ronny saw the blank look on Spooky's face and knew that he was in a world of trouble. Knowing he couldn't shoot his way out of the situation, Ronny tried a different approach to save his life. He tossed his gun into the street and raised his hands in surrender.
“Chill man, I ain't even armed!” Ronny pleaded. Spooky looked down at him with almost-sane eyes, and for a minute Ronny thought he might actually live through the ordeal, but when Spooky raised the Tech-9 Ronny knew the game was over.
“Like I give a fuck,” Spooky snickered, cutting loose with a barrage from the automatic. Ronny's body flapped on the ground like a wounded fish before eventually going still. To be sure that he was dead, Spooky placed the Glock in Ronny's mouth and pulled the trigger twice. Killing the men wouldn't bring his brother or Yvette back, but he'd sleep better that night knowing that the gunmen's families would be grieving right along with him.
Out of nowhere, several police cars converged on Spooky, who was still kneeling over Ronny holding a smoking gun. Even if he wanted to run, he couldn't, because they had him boxed in. Seeing the curtain about to fall on the last act of his street run, Spooky stood up to meet his end with dignity.
“Drop the fucking guns!” a pale officer with red hair barked. His, as well as several of his fellow officer's guns, were aimed at Spooky, all ready to blast.
Spooky took a deep breath and lowered his guns to his sides—but didn't put them down. Looking around at the carnage he had helped to create, he felt a bit of sadness in his heart and what had become of
his life, and the legacy he would pass on to his seed. Nobody wakes up and says they want to be a killer, stick-up kid, or dope boy, but they play the hands they are dealt—as Spooky had done all his life, and as his son would probably do with his, unless someone showed him better. It was a bitter pill, but he had to swallow it. He knew the rules of the game before he played, and if he had it to do all over again, he wouldn't change a thing.
“Son, nobody else has to get hurt. Put the guns down and let us take you in. Better in cuffs than a bag, so let's do the right thing.” This was from a Black officer who sounded strangely sincere.
Spooky looked at the officer and nodded sadly—before a grin spread across his face. “You can't be fucking serious,” he laughed, then hit the Black officer full in the chest and face with a burst from the Tech-9.
He had managed to kill three of the officers and wound four more before going down in a blaze of gunfire. Nobody knew for sure how many shots were fired, but when the smoke cleared Spooky had more holes in his body than a noodle strainer. Jason “Spooky” Benjamin died alone and in the gutter on the corner of Jefferson and Throop at the hands of the NYPD, ten minutes after his older brother, Nate. And so ended the chapter of the Benjamin brothers, whose only real crime was being born into the life.
MO SAT IN THE EMERGENCY
room of St. Vincent's hospital, impatiently looking at her watch. She had already been there for three hours and the staff was still moving as slow as molasses. Just another example of how the city treated you when you didn't have the proper insurance.
Several hours prior, she had gotten a frantic call from her girl Sharon, stating that she needed her and Dena to get to Fourteenth Street and Tenth Avenue immediately because it was about to go down. Apparently, the wife of some old nigga she was fucking with had found out about them and wasn't too happy about it. She and a few of her girlfriends had tracked them down at the Liberty Inn and
started lunching, threatening to kill her and him if they came out. Not wanting her sister to find out what she was up to, she called her girls to come get her back.
Mo had tried to call Dena, but she still wasn't taking any calls, which was starting to concern her. With Dena or not, Mo couldn't let her girl go out like that, so she snatched her Rambo knife and headed into Manhattan. When she got there, the scene in front of the Liberty looked like something out of a movie. There were police everywhere and the man's wife was in handcuffs. Apparently, Sharon tried to slip out of the Inn and got caught up. The girl had beaten the hell out of her and scratched her face pretty bad. She even managed to bite a small chunk out of Sharon's shoulder as the police were trying to break it up. Mo and Dena had warned her about tampering with other people's men, especially the married ones, but her hot ass didn't listen. Now Mo had to sit in the crowded-ass emergency room waiting for the doctors to finish treating Sharon.
Mo's cell phone rang, breaking her train of thought. The security guard shot Mo a nasty look, motioning towards the
NO CELL PHONE
sign, but Mo ignored him and answered anyhow. “Yeah?” she answered in a stink tone.
“What's popping, hussy?” Dena capped on the other end.
“Dena? Girl, where the hell have you been? Shannon and your moms are worried sick about you.”
“I'll bet. I ain't stunting that shit. I spent the night with Ice,” Dena said proudly.
“That pimp-ass nigga from the other night? Dena, I know you must've fell and bumped ya damn head,” Mo accused.
“Bitch, cut it out, Ice ain't no damn pimp, he's a manager. And furthermore, he's been treating me like royalty ever since I've been with him. Shit, I'm uptown with Wendy and Lisa right now getting my wig tightened up. Ice wants me to look good on his arm tonight at the party. Mo, this nigga is balling with a capital B!” Dena went on to tell Mo about the last two days she'd spent with Ice and how he'd tricked off a good amount of his dough on her. She expected her friend to be happy for her, but Mo was unmoved.
“Dena, I don't know about that nigga. Ice is cool and all, but I ain't under no illusions about what time it is with Mr. Black Ice.”
Dena sucked her teeth. “Mo, why you hating cause I finally found an official nigga?”
“Dena, I could never hate on my girl, but I'm trying to tell you to be careful.”
“Trust that ya girl got this. Anyway, what're you doing tonight?” Dena asked.
“From the looks of this shit, I'll probably be sitting up in this fucking, nasty-ass emergency room.”
“Emergency room? Is everything okay?” Dena asked, concerned about her friend.
“Yeah, but Sharon's ass is in some shit as usual.” She went on to tell Dena about Sharon's run-in with Scooter's wife, and the two girls shared a laugh.
“That girl is always in some shit,” Dena said.
“Tell me about it. I hope this ass-whipping will finally slow her ass down.”
“I doubt it. You know how Sharon is. But check it: Since you're already in Manhattan, why don't you come through tonight? I know it's gonna be some heavyweight niggaz up in there, cause that's all Ice fucks with,” Dena boasted.
“I don't think so, girl. As soon as I get finished with this dizzy ho, I'm heading back to BK. I got a nine-inch piece of meat on hold for me that I can't wait to taste!”

Other books

Jenna's Cowboy Hero by Brenda Minton
The Last Original Wife by Dorothea Benton Frank
Tainted Bride by A.S. Fenichel
Midsummer Night by Deanna Raybourn
The Talented Mr. Rivers by Helenkay Dimon
Hope Farm by Peggy Frew
Signs and Wonders by Bernard Evslin
Texas Hunt by Barb Han
Unforgettable Embrace by Clancy, Joanne