Animal (6 page)

“It was my fault, ma’am,” Animal interjected. “He liked the song, so I was trying to let him hear it. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

Suge looked Animal up and down. “What you did or didn’t mean is anyone’s guess, but you look like you got sense enough to know you can get in a mess of trouble for inviting children into your car.”

“You’re right, and I’m sorry,” Animal said sincerely.

Suge nodded, neither accepting nor rejecting his apology. “Let’s go,” she ordered the boy and stormed back toward the car. The boy gave Animal a sad wave, then made to follow Suge to the SUV.

“Hold on, kid,” Animal called after him. He popped the CD from the player and placed it in the CD case. “Here you go.” Animal presented the boy with the CD.

“I can have it?” The boy’s eyes widened in excitement.

“Since you like it so much, run with it. I ain’t got no more use for it,” Animal told him.

“Thanks a lot, man!”

“What’s your name, kid?” Animal asked, though he wasn’t sure why. There was something about the way the boy carried himself that made him intriguing.

“Nicholas, but everybody calls me Nickels.”

“Nicholas Clark, if I gotta call you again we’re gonna have a problem!” Suge shouted through the window.

“I gotta go, but thanks again,” Nickels told Animal and hurried to the truck.

Animal had spent the entire ride from New Jersey back to Harlem fuming over the cancelled hit. This wasn’t just some street punk he was after; it was Angelo, one of Shai’s capos and closest friends. Angelo was a cagey street vet who kept with no set routine except taking Nickels to basketball practice on weekends. Animal wanted to chalk Angelo’s absence up to shitty luck, but something about it didn’t feel right. The fact that Angelo wasn’t there meant that Shai and his crew had gotten the message and were gearing up for battle. The fact that they were now aware of the threat did little to take away from Animal’s element of surprise because he was pretty sure none of them knew how to defend themselves against a ghost.

Animal jumped off the highway and took the streets. He rode down Broadway, looking at the General Grant Houses looming to his left. He had had some wild times in the hallways in his days as a street punk. The last he’d heard, King James had Grant in a headlock and was gobbling up more and more territory by the day. Animal knew firsthand that King had been groomed by one of the greatest criminal minds of the underworld to be the next heir to the throne of Harlem. Much like his mentor, he quickly established himself as a force in the streets, but unlike his mentor, he was a novice at the arts of manipulation and diplomacy. King James had built a reputation as a bull on the streets, and Animal respected his gangsta for taking the hood the way he did, but wondered if he possessed the qualities it would take to hold onto what he had taken.

Animal sat waiting for the red light to turn green at the intersection of Broadway and LaSalle. He was admiring the renovations they had done to some of the stores when he spotted a familiar face coming out of the bodega. When he realized who he was looking at, his heart leaped into his throat, and he almost cried out. He started to hit the horn, but caught himself. He wasn’t in New York on a social call and had to keep his focus on his mission.

Ashanti had gotten taller since the last time Animal had seen him, but he still had the same baby face and wore the same mischievous scowl. His jeans were sagging off his ass so you could see his boxers and he was
flamed up,
with a red bandana tied around his neck and one hanging from his back pocket. His whole appearance screamed gang related, and he wore it like a badge of honor. Animal used to always warn Ashanti about making himself a target for rivals or the police, but big brother wasn’t around to scold him anymore so the youngster was marching to his own beat.

On Ashanti’s heels was a young girl. She was short with a pretty face and curves so nice that you couldn’t help but to take a second look. From the way she moved Animal could tell she was too young for him to ever consider going in on, but she was just Ashanti’s speed. Animal smiled like a proud father as his young boy handled the girl with the poise of an old head. In all the years Animal had known Ashanti, this was his first time ever seeing him interact with a girl, outside of trying to avoid getting slapped for something he said or did. It was an emotional and proud moment for Animal, and he had no one he could share it with because he was supposed to be a ghost. Ashanti and the young girl ended the conversation, and he sent her on her way
in the direction of 3150, while he, himself, climbed back on his mountain bike and went his way.

Seeing Ashanti made Animal think of young Nickels Clark and how what he planned to do would affect the grand scheme of Nickels’s life. He wondered how little Nickels would make it in the world if he was left to raise himself. Would he still chase his hoop dreams or become like the rest of them—another bastard child of the ghetto?

FIVE

T
HE PROJECT APARTMENT WAS A WHIRL OF
noise and activity. In the kitchen, a crackhead named Patty stood over the stove, shuffling pots and adjusting the level of the flame as needed like a master chef. She took a pot off the stove and eyeballed it, making sure the cookielike object was in the bottom of it. Once the cookie began to coagulate, Patty removed the pot from the stove and placed it on the table, where two chicks sat chopping up the cookies that had hardened already and placed small pieces into baggies to be sold on the street. Welcome to the trap house.

King James stood near the window staring out intently, stroking his goatee occasionally. He wore a red and white Nike tracksuit with the matching red and white Nikes. Hanging from his neck was a thick cable chain with a large medallion dangling at the end of it. The medallion was black onyx with a diamond-filled number seven nestled in a crescent moon. For all who saw it, the piece was a symbol of his faith and his ruthlessness.

The sound of raised voices drew his attention from the window
to the middle of the living room. Two young men, Dee and Meek, sat on the couch in front of a big-screen television engaged in a heated game of NBA 2K12. Dee was getting the better of Meek, and Meek wasn’t happy about it, cursing every time he missed a shot. King James had tried ignoring them, but their bickering had finally gotten on his last nerves.

“Fuck is y’all making all that noise for?” King snapped.

“This nigga is mad because I’m getting in that ass,” Dee laughed.

“Fuck you! The only reason you’re winning is because you got the Heat and I’m playing with these bum-ass Hawks,” Meek shot back.

Dee flicked his thumb on the controller and nailed a three-pointer with Mario Chalmers. “My nigga, you could have the Dream Team and I’d
still
be busting your ass because you’re garbage!”

King walked over and snatched the cord from the wall, abruptly ending their game. “I’m glad y’all got time to play video games instead of doing what the fuck I’m paying you to do.”

“C’mon, King, we had money on that game,” Dee whined.

“Nigga, fuck the money on that game. We got money on the streets, and y’all need to be worried about that instead of that fucking game.”

“It’s slow right now. Ain’t nothing going on outside,” Meek said, propping his feet on the coffee table and lighting the weed clip he and Dee had been smoking.

King James slapped Meek’s feet off the coffee table and snatched him up roughly by his shirt. “Ain’t nothing going on, huh?” He dragged Meek to the window and pressed his face to
the glass. “What is that?” King pointed to a Direct TV van that was parked near the bus stop.

“It’s a cable van, B. Somebody is probably getting their cable hooked up. Why you acting all paranoid?” Meek babbled.

“This is the projects. You’re not allowed to have those dishes, so why would they be here, you dumb muthafucka?” King released him. “Keep your eyes on that fucking van. If they’re still there in fifteen minutes close shop for the day. And you,” he turned to Dee, “since you ain’t got nothing to do, grab a razor and help these bitches finish chopping and bagging my shit.”

“I ain’t no bitch,” one of the girls at the table spoke up.

“For as much as I pay you I can call you what the fuck I want. If you don’t like it, get yo monkey ass out, and I’ll get somebody to replace you,” he told her. King crossed the living room and saw that the apartment door was open, which angered him more. Everybody in the spot knew that unless you were coming and going, the doors were to be closed and locked at all times. “Who the fuck is that?” He snatched the door open, startling Fatima, the girl who had been holding the door ajar.

When King first went away, Fatima was a kid playing jump rope in the park, but when he came home, she was a young woman and had hung up her jump rope for grown folk’s games. If you had to describe Fatima in one word, it would be BAD. She was a young redbone piece who stood just a hair over five-five, with more curves than a roller coaster. More than a few people were waiting for Fatima to turn eighteen that year so they could officially make their bids for the beauty. She had offered herself to King and for as much as he wanted to hit it, he passed. He had known Fatima all her life and trusted her like a
sister, so bringing sex into the equation would’ve complicated things.

“That ain’t nobody but Beans.” Fatima nodded at the addict standing outside the door holding two shopping bags. “He’s selling bottles of champagne half price,” she explained.

“I don’t care who is selling what. If he ain’t here to buy drugs, then get the fuck away from the door.” King slammed the door in Bean’s face. “Fatima, how many times do I have to tell your hardheaded ass not to open this door for nobody who ain’t a part of this team? That kinda stupid shit gets niggaz’ cribs ran up in.”

“A’ight, I heard you,” Fatima said with an attitude.

“If you heard me, then I wouldn’t have to repeat myself. Get ya shit together Fatima, or your ass is outta here, feel me?”

Fatima’s eyes narrowed to slits. She had always been King’s favorite, so for him to talk to her like that in front of the other workers threw her off. “You got it,” she said slyly and left the apartment, slamming the door on her way out.

“What good is having a team if you gotta do everything yourself? Word to mine, if y’all don’t get ya shit together, you will all be looking for somebody else’s operation to fuck up!” King shouted.

“Fuck is going on out here?” Lakim came rushing from one of the bedrooms with his gun at the ready and the flap of his dorag blowing behind him. Lakim was a short, stocky dude, with a slight overbite that he capped with gold teeth. He was King James’s right hand and best friend. “Damn, fuck is ya problem, God?” Lakim asked King.

“My problem is that we’re at war, and everybody around this bitch is acting like this is Sesame Street!”

Lakim saw the worry etched across King James’s face that no one else noticed. “Yo, give me this walk to the store right quick.”

“Nah, I gotta make sure the rest of this shit gets packaged up and outta here.”

“King, the soldiers got it. Take a walk with me.” Lakim undid the locks and held the door open for King. King was hesitant, but he eventually walked through the door and allowed Lakim to lead him outside the apartment.

The hall was empty save for a young boy named Biz, who hustled for King. Biz was leaning against a wall talking to a fiend, shuffling through the drugs in his hand to show her his wares. King’s nostrils flared, and he made hurried steps toward Biz. Biz smiled when he saw King coming his way, but that smile faded when King grabbed him roughly by the collar and shoved him against the wall. Lakim ushered the fiend out of the building and came to stand beside King.

“What are you doing?” King pressed Biz, who looked like he was about to piss his pants.

“I’m making a sale. What’s the problem?” Biz asked confused.

“The problem is y’all niggaz can’t follow directions. I told you that when you sling, make the sale outside! If you ain’t always violating the lobbies and stairwells, scaring the shit out of the old heads that live in the building, they’re less likely to call the police on you. We give respect to receive it, do you understand?” King released Biz and smoothed his clothes where he had wrinkled them when he grabbed him.

“Yeah, man, my fault,” Biz said sheepishly.

“Don’t worry about it, my nigga. Just be more tactful with
how you get ya money, fam.” King patted him on the back letting him know all was well, then exited the lobby.

The minute King stepped out of the building he scoped the Direct TV truck. There was a Spanish dude sitting in the passenger’s seat watching King and Lakim, but acting like he was reading his clipboard. Instead of going to the store on the corner they decided to cut through the projects and hit Amsterdam. The block was just beginning to come back to life. It had been raining all morning, which kept most people indoors, and even though it had stopped by that point, everything outside was still damp. Meek hadn’t been lying about it being slow because there wasn’t a fiend in sight besides the one Lakim had chased out of the lobby.