Animal (8 page)

Ashanti rode with Alonzo on the back of the bike until they got to 116th Street and Lenox, where they left the bike leaning against a store and headed for the avenue.

Alonzo pulled out a cheap cell phone he had purchased that morning and punched in a number. When the person on the other end picked up, he simply said, “Dead men tell no tales,” and ended the call. He then removed the SIM card, which he placed in his pocket, then shattered the phone in the street and kicked the pieces into a gutter.

“That it for the day?” Ashanti asked.

“Yeah, we done, at least for now. The next move is on them,” Alonzo told him.

“All this chess shit is getting on my nerves, Zo. I say rush homie’s spot and wipe them niggaz out once and for all,” Ashanti said heatedly.

Alonzo shook his head and smiled at Ashanti’s anxiousness to spill blood. “That’s because you’re still too young and too inexperienced to understand the value of life. You don’t rush into a lion’s den and put yourself at a disadvantage; you draw him out and give yourself a fighting chance.”

“Whatever, Zo,” Ashanti said dismissing his wisdom. “What you getting into for the rest of the day?”

Alonzo shrugged. “Not too much. I’m headed to the crib now to blow it down and freshen up. I got a date later. Bumped into this chick I used to fuck with awhile back, and we’re supposed to hook up later. I’m trying to crack that.”

“Damn, it seems like you rocking with a different shorty every night. What’re you trying to do, break Wilt Chamberlain’s record?” Ashanti teased him.

“More like finding a needle in a haystack. It seems like it’s easier to get a job than finding a good chick out here these days,” Alonzo said sadly.

“Then why keep looking? I say to hell with it. Be single and mingle.”

“True, but it gets old after awhile. Sometimes it’s nice to have somebody in your corner who rocks with you for who you are and not what you got or can do for them. I’m just looking for somebody who I can smile with after a long day of frowning out here on these streets. And it can’t be just anybody; she has to be special.”

“I think I understand,” Ashanti weighed his words. He gave Alonzo grief but secretly looked forward to his words of wisdom. “So what happened with shorty from the projects? I didn’t know her too good, but I can tell you thought she was special.”

“Who, Porsha?” Alonzo smiled thinking of the young lady who had stolen his heart not so long ago. “Yeah, she was special in her own way. In a perfect world, I’d have loved to see where things could’ve gone with Porsha, but it wouldn’t have worked, and I think deep down, we both knew it.”

“Why? Because she was a stripper?” Ashanti asked innocently.

Alonzo laughed. “Nah, li’l homie. Her being a stripper
didn’t have anything to do with it. I’ve never too much cared what people said or thought, especially when it comes to my heart. I think Porsha and me were a case of both of us bringing too much baggage to the table.”

“You ever think about following up with her?”

“No,” Alonzo said, but there was uncertainty in his voice. “Anyway, I’m about to bust a move,” he changed the subject. “You wanna come through for a minute?”

“Nah, I gotta go see a nigga about some change, but I might push through later on,” Ashanti told him and started for the train station.

“You need me to roll with you?” Alonzo called after him.

“For these niggaz?” Ashanti laughed. “I doubt it. Niggaz know how I give it up; give me mine or pose for that white line,” he patted his waist where his gun was tucked. “I’m out,” he saluted Alonzo and disappeared down the train station stairs.

SEVEN

B
EFORE TAKING CARE OF HIS BUSINESS
A
SHANTI
stopped by his small apartment to change his clothes. His chest swelled with pride when he put the key into his front door. It was a small kitchenette furnished with only a futon, writing desk, and television, but it was more than he’d ever had in the past. Every place he ever laid his head was always someone else’s place and he was at their mercy, but this apartment was his. It was the first time he had ever owned anything, and he had King James to thank for it.

After seeing him in action, King James took Ashanti under his wing and made him a part of the organization. There was too much traffic going in and out of the apartment where Ashanti was renting a room, so King hooked him up with an apartment of his own to hold down. The gesture meant the world to Ashanti, but to King, it was just his way of looking out for his family. He knew Ashanti’s twisted story, a story not too unlike his own, so he understood his pain. In addition, Ashanti was a loyal soldier and would bust his gun without having to be told to, which was something King both loved and hated
about Ashanti. He was a child of the streets and wore it on his arm like a badge of honor. Sometimes King and Lakim would get frustrated with Ashanti, but never Alonzo. He was patient with him, teaching Ashanti the tricks of the trade as he knew it.

Alonzo was one of the coolest dudes Ashanti had ever met, but there was also a dark side to him that Ashanti had seen firsthand. Ashanti silently watched the battle between Alonzo and Zo-Pound, and it had saddened him because he knew the eventual outcome. He watched the same internal struggle tear his best friend Animal to pieces before eventually becoming his undoing. Though Ashanti never fully bought into the rumors of Animal’s demise, a part of him was eased to hear it. The demons that rode Animal’s soul could no longer haunt him.

After taking a quick shower to wash off any leftover gunpowder residue, Ashanti dressed in blue jeans, a white thermal, and Yankee fitted, which he wore pulled low. After checking himself in the mirror he headed for the door. As an afterthought, he grabbed his gun and tucked it into the front of his pants. He doubted he would need it where he was going, but it was better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it, so he wasn’t taking any chances. On the way out, he stopped and looked at the picture of him, Animal, Brasco, and Nef, sitting on a project bench. Animal was holding up the magazine cover with him on it. It had been one of the last times they’d all been together before all the bullshit that had torn them apart.

“Protect me from my enemies, seen and unseen,” Ashanti placed his hand over the picture and left the apartment.

The train ride to Brooklyn was relatively quick. Ashanti came out of the train station and got his bearings before starting out
in search of the address scribbled on the back of the business card he was holding.

The building wasn’t too hard to find because you could smell the weed smoke as soon as you turned into the block. Ashanti let himself in the gate and rang the doorbell. For as loud as the music was playing on the other side of the door he wasn’t sure if they could hear him so he banged on the door with his fist. A few seconds later the door was snatched open and Ashanti found himself confronted by a dangerous-looking cat whose face appeared to be locked into a permanent scowl.

“What it do, Blood?” the man scowled down at the shorter Ashanti.

“All is well. What’s popping, Devil?” Ashanti extended his hand.

The man called Devil stared down at Ashanti’s outstretched hand for a few seconds before letting what passed as a smile spread across his face. He engulfed Ashanti’s hand in his much-larger mitt and pumped it vigorously. “I can’t call it, Young Blood. I’m hanging in like everybody else.”

“Looks like you’re doing better than most,” Ashanti admired the brownstone.

“Yeah, this shit looking real sexy; too bad ain’t none of it mines. I’m on the payroll like everybody else.”

“Better a payroll than a bedroll,” Ashanti said.

“I know that’s right.” Devil gave him dap again.

“Is ya man around?”

“Yeah, he in the back in the studio. Go ahead in, but you know I gotta pat you down,” Devil told Ashanti.

Ashanti just looked at him. “Do we really need to dance this dance, D? You already know what you’re gonna find if you
look, so why not just let me handle my business and skate? I ain’t tripping today.”

Devil weighed it. He knew that there was no way Ashanti was going to part with his gun and trying to get him to do so would’ve been more of a headache than it was worth. If Ashanti said he wasn’t tripping, then Devil would take him at his word. Everyone who knew Ashanti knew he respected little in the world except a man’s word. “A’ight, but I got my eye on you, li’l nigga.”

“Fair enough, big homie,” Ashanti said sarcastically. He made to step inside, but Devil stopped him.

“Ashanti, we ain’t seen each other in awhile so I didn’t get a chance to say this to you face to face; I’m sorry to hear what happened to Animal. I know a lot of niggaz say it, but I mean it, feel me?”

Ashanti knew who he meant without him having to say. “Thanks, Devil.”

Devil stepped aside to let Ashanti enter the brownstone, whose eyes and nose were immediately assaulted with the smells of weed and sweat. The brownstone was a zoo. “Welcome to hell, Young Blood,” Devil laughed before closing the door behind him.

After the many fiascoes at his main office in the Empire State Building, it became a hot spot for unwanted attention, so Don B. had started spending more time at the studio/office in downtown Brooklyn. It was at the ground level of a brownstone he owned in a relatively busy block. He had picked that location so that the comings and goings of some of his less-than-savory associates wouldn’t stick out so much. His offices and one of his apartments were on the top floor of the brownstone and
off-limits to all but The Don and the occasional admirer, but the ground floor was for the Big Dawg family. It boasted a large studio that took up most of the floor and a separate one in what was once a bedroom. The sitting area and kitchen had been turned into a lounge with a fully stocked bar, where the Big Dawg family gathered. Normally it would be packed with artists hanging or grinding it out with projects, under Don B.’s watchful eye, but this night was special, as Don B. was trying to woo a new artist.

There were so many blunts and cigarettes burning that it was difficult to see your hand in front of your face, let alone breathe. The newest Big Dawg mix tape banged through the speakers, receiving positive feedback from everyone who wasn’t too preoccupied to pay attention. At least a dozen women were walking around the main area either half-dressed or wearing nothing at all. Seductive vixens sat on the laps of rappers and ballers whispering evil things into their ears. It was a circus, and standing in the center of it was the ringmaster, Don B.

The lord of the manor moved around the room with an air of royalty that was heightened by the silk bathrobe and matching slippers he was wearing. To make a good show of it, he had thrown on most of his jewelry, so his arms, neck, and hands looked like ice sculptures and cast funny patterns on the floors and walls when the light hit them. A World Series Yankee cap sat ace-duce on his head with the brim covering one side of his sunglasses. A female guest made the mistake of asking him why he was wearing his sunglasses inside, and he simply responded, “Because I’m The Don, bitch,” before having security remove her. No one questioned the king in his castle, and Don B. enforced this with an iron fist.

Don B. shuffled across the room, pinching asses and hitting Ls in search of his latest conquest, and it wasn’t long before he found him, sitting on the sofa wedged between two big booty stallions that were thumb wrestling in his pants. He looked over at Don B. and smiled. Big Dawg took care of their own . . . at least according to Don B. when he started chasing Dance.

Young Dance was a slick, young, light-skinned dude from Harlem that had a hustler’s swag and a Mark Zuckerberg mind. Everyone who came in contact with Young Dance recognized that he had a personality that was bigger than life and had stardom written all over him, which is why Don B. tried to sink his claws into him. Dance was talented, but he was also very smart, which made the task of snaring him a bit more complicated than Don B. had expected, but The Don always got what he wanted.

“You good, my nigga?” Don B. gave Young Dance dap.

“I’m better than good; I’m great,” Young Dance tugged at the brim of his Kansas City Royals fitted.