The Apostles (24 page)

Trying to get off the subject, Tonto said, “Give me one of them squares.”

Toobie pulled a pack of Newports from his pants pocket and handed it to his twin. When his brother extracted one and handed the pack back, Toobie took one out for himself. After Toobie lit Tonto's square, he lit his own. They both held their cigarettes in the same hand and often managed to puff on them in unison.

“You know we can't do this forever,” Tonto mused. “We been lucky so far, twin. If we get this run in like we trying to do, then it'll be time to put some space between us and this place.”

“I understand that shit, twin,” Toobie acknowledged. “You ain't got to drag me away from this place; I want to see other shit anyway. I been kinda thinking why don't we move to the ‘Sota and try getting this money.”

“Nigga, get the fuck outta here!” Tonto exclaimed. “Minnesota is burnt up! Cats been going there for years hustling. If you get caught getting down dirty up there them people try to lose yo ass. Man, they be giving niggas football jersey numbers if you get popped off. I ain't trying to go get down in some place that Chicago niggas been playing for years. If I go out of town and hustle it got to be somewhere these niggas ain't burnt to the fucking ground. I ain't even trying to go like that, twin.”

“I did hear from a friend of mine that it's pumping in Davenport,” Toobie offered. “Plus, my man told me that you don't have to consent to a search if you don't want to and the pigs got to leave you the fuck alone.”

“Get the fuck out of here!” Tonto scoffed.

“For real, Tonto. My homie's cousin hustle out there. He say that
if the police roll up on y'all they got to ask can they search you. If you say nall they got to push on. Plus, he say that there is a gang of little towns that they go hustle in. Them one-cop-in-the-car type of towns. I say we at least check that shit out for ourselves. Then if …”

Tonto flicked his Newport butt in the gutter, a split second before Toobie did the same thing. “Hold on, Toobie. Here come Angie.”

A tall, ultraslim, dark-skinned woman approached the twin Governors. She was wearing a dirty, blue-jean skirt that had seen better days and a nasty-looking, gold Champion sweatshirt that was three times her size. Hanging off her head was a tangled, lint-filled phony ponytail that was secured to her own meager, filthy hair by a greasy-looking Scrunchi.

“Hey, twins!” Angie said loudly as she made a beeline for them, trying to switch her thin hips.

Toobie rolled his eyes.

Tonto greeted her warmly. “What's up, Angie.”

Walking past Toobie, Angie got as close to Tonto as he would permit her. “Ain't nothing up, Tonto, with yo fine ass. You know that you—I mean both of y'all—is getting so tall and fine I barely recognize y'all. Y'all done turned into some grown-ass men on Angie. Shit, I remember when I used to babysit y'all asses.”

Toobie made a face behind Angie's back. “Every time that you ain't got no ends, you come around here trying to bring up them old-ass stories of when you used to watch us for our mama. If anything we used to watch you. Watch you eat up all our mama's food, drink her liquor, and stay on her damn phone.”

Angie turned to Toobie. “That's why I ain't never really got along with you, Too-Too. You was always a mean little cuss. Always trying to hurt somebody feelings and shit. When I used to couldn't tell you two apart, I would wait for you to say something and I would know it was you, Too-Too. Tonto was always nice and respectful, but you have always been mean and nasty.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” Toobie sneered. He added, “And you better quit calling me Too-Too.”

“What's wrong, Too-Too?” Angie asked playfully. “Scared one of your gangbanging-ass friends gone find out that yo name is really Little Too-Too?”

“Fuck you, Angie, with yo pipe-smoking ass!” Toobie said. He walked a few feet away from his twin and Angie to sit on the hood of their Cutlass Supreme parked at the curb. “I don't want to hear that shit. Leave me the fuck alone.”

Toobie rolled his eyes at Angie and she rolled hers back before turning to Tonto. “Tonto,” she cooed, “I ain't got no scratch and I'm trying to get high.”

“For real, Angie?” Tonto asked half sarcastically.

“Stop playing, boy. Shit ain't been too good for me lately. Ole Angie ain't been doing so good. I'm about to go in the rehab next month. I'm just trying to enjoy myself for a last few days before I go detox. After I get my check on the first, then I'm gone throw myself a little party and then I'm going to this treatment center downstate for the next six months.”

Toobie cut her off. “Damn, Angie. Look how many times you been to the rehab. You need to get the fuck out of here with that bullshit.”

“I'm talking to Tonto, Too-Too. This time it's for real. This place I'm going, I heard it really works. It's called the Miracles Farm. A friend of mine just got out of there and she looks good. She used to be smaller than me. Now she fat and greasy-looking like a pig or something. Shit, that girl used to smoke like a broke stove. If they could get her off crack then they really do grow miracles down there.

“I ain't even asking you to believe me, Tonto. This time it's serious to me. I'm telling you. I just got a couple more days to get high, then I'm gone.”

Looking into her eyes, Tonto wanted to believe her. He had
always liked Angie, but he knew the power of crack cocaine. It wasn't that it couldn't be beat, someone just had to be serious to conquer an addiction to the Colombian cocktail. He knew that Angie could easily look into his eyes and tell a bald-faced lie; lying was the least of things a crackhead would do to get their hands on some drugs.

Skeptically, Tonto said, “Angie, if you lying you ain't hurting me—you hurting yo'self. Girl, you used to be pretty as hell. Tall and thick. Now look at you. And you smart as hell. I remember how you used to help me with my homework and shit. That hard-ass algebra shit was killing me and you showed me how to do that shit easy.”

“Y'all is killing me over here with this stroll-down-memory-lane bullshit,” Toobie commented.

Tonto politely showed his brother his middle finger. “I'm saying, Angie, I'll let you hold one of these dubs but that's all I'm gone give you.” Over on the hood of the car Toobie let out an exasperated whoosh of air, but Tonto ignored him. “I ain't gone even charge you double. But I'm telling you, don't come back ‘less you got some scratch ‘cause I ain't finta hit you no more. You need to get yo shit together though. I ain't finta be fucking with you like this no more. I'm for real, Angie.”

With a big Kool-Aid smile on her face, Angie gushed, “Thank you, Tonto.”

Without answering Tonto stepped into the gangway and reached his hand into a Ruffles potato chip bag on the ground among the debris in the gangway. He pulled a bundle of dimes and twenties of crack out of the bag. Unrolling the plastic bundle, he extracted a fat twenty-dollar bag of crack from the bundle and retied it. He tucked the bundles back into the chip bag and left the gangway. He walked over to Angie and with a smooth motion that came from tons of practice he slid the twenty into her palm.

Still holding on to her hand, Tonto said sternly, “I want my money too, Angie. So don't decide to just smoke yo check up on the first and then try to bounce to the rehab. Come hit me with my paper.”

“I'mma bring you yo scratch,” Angie assured him. “You ain't even got to worry about that. I got you as soon as I get my check and I'm gone spend some money with you. Bye-bye, Too-Too,” she said quickly and scampered down the block, leaving Toobie cursing in her wake.

The string of expletives from his brother made Tonto smile. Laughing, he said, “Angie be having yo ass on the moon when she call you Too-Too.”

“That ain't my motherfucking name,” Toobie spit. “She be doing that pussy shit on purpose. I be wanting to slap the shit out of yo ass for standing up there grinning and giving away our coke to her ass.”

“Man, Angie is cool. She always pay that little money, Toobie. You just don't like her ‘cause she ain't never really fucked with yo ass.”

“Whatever, Tonto.”

The twins fell silent. A few cluckers came and went, making small purchases—nothing spectacular. Finally the small tension passed between the brothers.

Tonto said, “Man, let's go get something to eat.”

“I am hungry,” Toobie confessed. “I say let's give this about another hour and then go get something to eat.”

“Damn, Toobie,” Tonto bitched. “I'm hungry as hell right now and you talking about in an hour. Ain't shit really moving out here. We could go get us a couple of plates from Alice's diner and go to the tip.”

“You know that once we eat ain't neither one of us gone want to come back out here,” Toobie pointed out. “Plus I want to call my little white bitch up. I already told her earlier to come through tonight and bring one of her friends that like dark meat. Once I get some of that homemade meat loaf in me and get me some brains, ain't no way I'm leaving the tip.”

“Fuck that meat loaf. I want me a half of that smothered chicken with them buttery-ass whipped potatoes, some of that baked macaroni
and cheese with about four of them sweet-ass corn muffins. Ohhwee, I'mma kill that shit!”

“Calm yo ass down, Tonto. Nigga, you sound like yo dick getting hard talking about food.”

“Fuck you, nigga. I enjoy food like you enjoy tattoos and getting shit pierced, motherfucker. Shit, you know that since we got our apartment and moved out of Ma's place we been eating bullshit all the damn time. If it wasn't for Alice's diner I don't know what we would do.” Tonto looked at his watch. “Let's do it like this. We can call in an order. It'll take about twenty, thirty minutes. You go pick up the food and I'll stay here and work. When you get back with the meals we can be up. What do you say about that? Even you can't argue with that.”

“Fuck you,” Toobie retorted. “You make the call. Make sure that you get me cabbage and mashed potatoes with gravy. Get me a couple of them banana puddings and a peach cobbler too.”

Pulling his small cellular telephone from the holster on his belt, Tonto quipped, “Will that be all, sir?”

As he dialed the diner and began placing their order, two customers pulled up in a Ford Taurus station wagon. The passenger rolled down the window. “Y'all working, twins?”

“Dimes and twenties. Park,” Toobie stated, as he headed for the gangway.

When Apostle Yo-Yo parked the vehicle, Murderman climbed out. He was dressed in tattered jeans and a ratty black sweatshirt.

In the gangway, Toobie was already removing the bundles from their stash spot as Murderman focused on the gangway. Yo-Yo got out of the car and sat on the hood a few feet away from where Tonto was placing their food order on the phone. He was dressed in a similar tattered costume.

“Get us a fat one, baby!” Yo-Yo called to Murderman. “You know that's our only dough till we get hold of some merch!”

Tonto turned and looked Yo-Yo up and down. Bells and whistles were going off in his head. The hype sitting on the hood of the
car didn't really feel like a clucker to him. This guy wasn't humble at all—almost defiant under his gaze. The waitress on the telephone finished taking his order and Tonto returned his cell phone to its holster. A few minutes passed and Toobie or the crackhead still hadn't come out of the gangway.

“A, homie, watch for the law,” Tonto said apprehensively. “I'mma see what's taking so long. My brother probably need some change or something.”

“It's cool, baby,” Yo-Yo remarked, as he smiled, revealing perfectly even, sparkling-white teeth.

Tonto strode into the gangway, but he didn't see his brother or the clucker. “What the fuck?” He started to continue through the gangway to the rear of the building, but he sensed that something was wrong and turned to go back to their car and retrieve the handgun under the passenger seat. As he turned, Tonto saw the other hype behind him, smiling and holding a sinister-looking pair of aluminum .38 revolvers.

“Keep walking, vic,” Yo-Yo declared.

I knew something wasn't right with these studs
, Tonto thought. He followed the man's instructions and headed for the rear of the building. As soon as he cleared the gangway Tonto could see the other hype holding a pair of the same revolvers on his twin as the man behind him. With a terrified look on his face Toobie had his back against the wall.

“Get over here with yo twin,” Murderman sneered.

Tonto was thinking, though. “A, homies. If this is a stickup y'all can have that shit, family. We ain't tripping.”

Murderman and Yo-Yo looked at each other and broke out in laughter.

“Apostles don't steal,” Murderman stated coldly, when the laughter subsided.

“But we do kill,” Yo-Yo added.

Both Apostles trained their handguns on Tonto and Toobie. Murderman nodded his head and they began firing at point-blank
range. Twenty shots rang out as the hollow points in all four weapons found their mark. Even as the echoing of the miniexplosions were still reverberating through the neighborhood, Murder-man and Yo-Yo were making their way to the Ford Taurus. The dying twin brothers behind them in the rear of the building meant nothing to them.

“It's a shame we gone have to get rid of these heaters,” Yo-Yo said casually as they entered the car. “These little motherfuckers is mad nice. They feel like toys or something. Plus you ain't got to worry about no stray fingerprints you might have accidentally got on a shell.”

“Yeah, they is well-balanced and light,” Murderman agreed. “My gun connect got me sounding like his redneck ass. ‘This here one is well-balanced and light, you nigras will like it for doing drive-bys,’ “ he joked in a hillbilly voice.

“Well, tell ole Billy Bob I want about ten of them motherfuckers,” Yo-yo said as he pulled away from the curb.

“Bet,” Murderman said.