Trap House (39 page)

Herc was glaring at him with murder in his eye, but he spoke to him gently. “I don’t believe
you, son. You know, a man can get in a whole lot of trouble lying to me. Come on, now. Tell me
where Cyrus is, and y’all can walk away like this never happened. See what I’m sayin’? Be good,
baby. Tell me where he is.”

“Fuck you, Herc!”

Chase and Herc both turned in surprise to see Corey standing there, bristling with outrage at the
indignity. His sixteen-year-old manhood was offended, and he was full of piss and vinegar.

“How you gonna pull a gun on us, Herc? What the fuck is wrong with you, man?”

Chase put his hand on his brother’s arm. Things were about to get crazy; he could feel it.

Herc smiled grimly and turned his gun from Chase to Corey.

“Shut up, Corey. Don’t say nothin’,” Chase ordered in that same even voice.

Corey shrugged his hand away. “Naw, man! Fuck this nigga, Chase!” He turned his head and
scowled at Herc, his young, handsome face glowing with indignation; his eyes were ablaze with
it—with bright anger and naiveté.

Chase stepped in front of him to try to diffuse the already out-of-control situation, hoping he
was not too late to change the ending of this story. He could understand Corey’s anger, but he also
understood the fact that if Herc had the audacity to pull a gun on them in the first place, he most
definitely had the nerve to follow through.

Herc grinned and spoke through his teeth. “Who you talkin’ to, boy?”

Corey pushed against Chase. He foolishly feared neither Herc’s size nor his weapon. “I’m talkin’
to you, you big, stupid, motherfucker! How you gonna pull a gun on us, Herc?” he demanded
again.

Chase pushed him right back. Corey’s fast temper and big mouth were finally about to get him
into something neither one of his brother’s could fix. “Shut up, Corey! Stop talkin’! Just shut the
hell up!”

Herc reached past Chase and snatched Corey up by the front of his T-shirt.

“Let him go, Herc!” Chase yelled, pushing his weight against the big man who outweighed him
by fifty pounds, easy.

Herc knocked him out of the way like he was swatting a fly and hit Corey in the face with his
.45.

Corey yelped in pain, but it didn’t take the fight out of him; instead, it only made him angry.

Chase knew his brother well. He knew what Corey was going to do even before his hand
went under his shirt. Corey might have only been sixteen, but he never left the house without his
trusty .32. Chase’s brow furrowed in resignation. He was resentful about the unfortunate turn of
events. All he wanted to do was go to the park with his brother and get in a simple pick-up game
of basketball, but this fool had come out of nowhere with his flexing and his questions. He’d even
felt brave enough to come alone, thinking he’d intimidate two teenagers. Chase smiled a sad smile
as he watched Herc turn his gun to point at Corey’s head. He couldn’t just stand there and let that
murderous fool kill his little brother. Just like everyone else, Herc had slept on Chase, paying him
no mind,

Because Herc had his back to Chase, he didn’t see him slip his hand into his back pocket and
pull out his own weapon of choice. Chase quietly put his foot between Herc’s feet and put his left
hand on his forehead, pulling his head back to his shoulder in an oddly intimate embrace. By the
time the look of surprise fully registered on Herc’s face, he was already wearing a broad smile
across his neck. Chase wiped the blade of his silver-handled razor on Herc’s pants and stepped
away.

Corey, who’d been down this road before, wrested himself away from Herc before the blood
could touch him.

Herc didn’t care that Corey got away from his grip, because he had more important matters
to consider at that moment. He instinctively clutched at his throat and unleashed the torrent. He
watched in shocked dismay as his warm crimson life force jetted between his fingers, coloring the
air with its spray and soaking the pavement. “Shit . . .” he gurgled.

Chase shook his head. “You got a couple seconds to find God, Herc. Maybe you should pray.”

Herc gurgled something unintelligible—maybe it was a prayer—and then he fell on his side in
a growing pool of his own blood.

Corey leaned down and looked him in his dying eyes. “That’s what you get when you pull a
gun on us, Herc. Don’t nobody pull no guns on us. Oh, and don’t worry... we’ll make sure we tell
Cyrus you were lookin’ for him.”

Chase tapped his brother on the shoulder. “It’s not right to mock a dyin’ man, Corey. Let’s get
the hell outta here and leave this nigga to his last breath.”

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