Gutter (20 page)

Read Gutter Online

Authors: K'wan

BOOK: Gutter
8.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“HE'S STILL
not picking up his phone,” C-style said, flipping her cell closed. “First B. T. and now China has gone missing, what the fuck is happening to our troops?”
“We need to get a line on China,” Pop Top said, thinking of how funny he started acting after the murder. China was one of their click, but if Pop Top even thought he might snitch he was going to kill him. “C, I want you to swing by his mama house and see what's up with the boy. If he ain't there we gotta assume he's flipped.”
“Nah, not China, he's one of us,” C-style defended him.
“So was B. T.,” Hollywood reminded her. “I always knew that nigga was shady, but wasn't nobody trying to hear me.”
“I can't believe that nigga was working for the other side,” C-style said in disbelief.
“Fucking rat.” Pop Top slammed the glass of Hennessey he'd been sipping. “He's probably been sucking that L.C. dick since Lou-Loc whooped his fucking ass, so ain't no telling how much they know about us.”
“Damn, you think he gave up addresses or anything like that?” C-style asked nervously.
“Shit, it wouldn't surprise me,” High Side spoke up for the first time. “You can't put nothing past a cocksucker, ma, no offense.” He smiled.
“Fuck you, Side.” She punched him in the arm.
“I'm glad you muthafuckas see this as some kinda playtime when we got the fucking devil on our heels. If Major Blood is here that means we managed to piss off somebody real important.”
“What's the skinny on this cat?” Hollywood asked.
“Before today I had never met him personally, but he's supposed to be official wit his murder game, since a shorty. Him and Lou-Loc had an ongoing beef; that's how he got the scar behind his ear.”
Hollywood whistled. “If he was able to get at Lou, he must be one bad muthafucka.”
“So, what are we supposed to do?” Rob asked, sporting two fresh black eyes.
“We war,” a voice to their rear answered. Bruticus was a hulk of a man, who wore a clean-shaven head and a thick gold chain bearing a transformer emblem. Bruticus was one of the founding members of the Decepticons back in the late eighties. He was notorious for his violence, so it was a brilliant strategic move when Lou-Loc suggested they recruit him for the cause. Bruticus and his team from Brownsville had been instrumental in the fall of L.C. Blood, with him having murdered at least four of their members personally.
“I can agree with you on that one.” High Side nodded. “But how do we find this nigga, Major Blood?”
“That shouldn't be too hard. We ride on enough of his punk-ass boys; he'll poke his head out again. Then we bust it open.” Bruticus
chuckled. “Matter of fact, I got the perfect mark in mind. He's a pussy, but he brings in a lot of money for them cats uptown. The best way to hurt a nigga is to cave his pocket in.”
“Bet. Arm up and make it happen, my dude,” Pop Top told him. “C”—he turned to her—“hop in a cab and go see what up wit young China. You know where he lives, right?”
“Yeah, I'm on it.” C-style grabbed her purse and prepared to bust her move.
“I'm ready to rock when y'all niggaz are.” Hollywood cocked the hammer of his pearl-handled .357. “How you wanna do this, cuz?”
“We gonna mash on these niggaz, on some guerrilla warfare shit.” Pop Top ground his fist into his palm. “I gotta a little nigga I've been hearing about that should make things real uncomfortable on them slobs.”
“You know how Gutter don't like bringing in no outsiders on family business,” High Side reminded him.
“I hear that, playboy, but Gutter is in Cali and I'm holding the reins. Check, right now ain't but so many niggaz on the turf that's 'bout that body count. Niggaz is shooters, but they ain't killers. Make no mistake about what I'm telling you, cuz. Major Blood is a stone killer and to combat a killer we need killers, smell me?”
“Yeah, I got you, Top,” High Side told him. “So who you gonna call?”
Pop Top grinned wickedly and said, “The Outlaw.”
 
 
“C-STYLE” HOPPED
out of the cab in front of China's building and slammed the door with an attitude. While all the men were making plans for the war, she was reduced to playing the roll of errand girl. When she had joined the set, it was in search of adventure and
stripes, but so far all she was used for was braiding hair and slinging weed. It wasn't the most exciting roll, but it was better than getting passed around like some of the other home girls.
There was a group of young men posted up on the stoop, passing a blunt and trying to look hard. To an outsider they'd have been intimidating, but C-style was unmoved by the tough guy antics. They were as much a part of the scenery as the wilted tree planted on the curb.
“Sup, C-style?” one of the young men asked as she approached.
“Shit, everything is blue,” she replied.
“Damn, girl, you getting thick than a muthafucka,” another young man reached out to pinch her thigh, but she slapped his hand away viciously.
“Nigga, you must be trying to lose that,” she snapped.
“Aw, its like that, ma?”
“I ain't ya mama, nigga, and respect my space.”
“Stall her out, cuz, you know Young Rob got that pussy on smash,” the first young man taunted.
“And
smash
it he does,” C-style said smugly before going into the building and up to China's apartment. She rapped heavily on the door and waited.
Lucy Maynard snatched the door open with a scowl on her face and a Newport dangling from her mouth. She was a slightly plump woman with dark skin and full black hair, which she wore in a stylish cut. Her mouth was pursed to spew something hateful, but she relaxed when she recognized C-style.
“Oh, hey, Cory, I thought you was somebody else.” She stepped aside to let C-style into the apartment.
“You got drama, Ms. Lucy?” C-style asked. She and Ms. Lucy had always gotten along famously. She often hinted that she and China should hook up, but C-style never entertained it. China was
cute, but she wasn't trying to get passed around Harlem Crip like some of the other home girls.
“Yeah, but as usual it ain't my bullshit, it's China's. The police came around here looking for China again earlier and I thought you might've been them making a return trip. I swear, if it ain't one thing it's a fucking nothing. You know why they looking for his ass this time, Cory?”
“No, ma'am,” C-style lied.
Lucy gave her a disbelieving look. “I'll just bet. You know, y'all seem to forget that I ain't much older than you so I ain't completely ignorant to what's happening in the streets, it's the same as when I was coming up. In the eighties we thought we knew more than the people coming out of the seventies, same as y'all do today, but what we ended up learning is that it's the same bullshit. You understand where I'm coming from,
C-style
?”
“Yes, Ms. Lucy.” C-style nodded, a bit embarrassed at Ms. Lucy's use of her gang name.
“Good. Come on.” She turned toward the hallway. “I just got back so I don't know if China is here, but if he is he better not be up to no good in my damn house!” She said the last part loud enough for China to hear through his bedroom door. Ms. Lucy knocked twice before pushing China's bedroom door open. The first thing she noticed was the rank smell and promised herself that she would make China clean his nasty room. But when she looked over at the bed her mind snapped. The bellow that came from Ms. Lucy was like nothing C-style had ever heard. Chanting, “Not my baby,” over and over again she rushed to her departed son.
China was lying on his bed with his arms tucked peacefully behind his head and his ankles crossed. His face was calm and his eyes glassy, staring up at the ceiling. Had it not been for the fly perched undisturbed on his foam-crusted lips you could've
mistaken him for sleeping. C-style had seen dead bodies in her lifetime but never someone close to her, never a friend.
There was an empty pill bottle lying near his leg, and a folded piece of paper on his chest, labeled MOMMY. While Ms. Lucy grieved for her son, C-style picked up the slip of paper and read it. In the note China had gone on to explain to his mother how he had done some terrible things in life and was sorry for not being a good son. Apparently the weight of what he and Pop Top had done became too much to bear and he took the coward's way out. C-style slipped the note into her pocket and went to console Ms. Lucy. There wasn't much she could say to ease her pain, but the least she could do was hold her for a time. She kept her eyes on the top of Ms. Lucy's head to keep from looking at China. She would make her report to Pop Top later, but the only thing that mattered at that moment was being there for Ms. Lucy.
NORMALLY, IT
was against Gutter's policies to seek outside help with problems involving the set, but Gutter wasn't in charge at the moment, Pop Top was. A young man, riding a motorcycle composed of parts from different bikes, cruised up Marcus Garvey Boulevard. He was smiling behind the face mask, but you couldn't see it because of the skeleton's face airbrushed onto the visor. Hanging from the handlebars of the bike were two blue bandannas, the calling card of the Crip army, but he wasn't a banger, he was an outlaw, the last outlaw, let the streets and the obituaries tell it.
Johnny Outlaw was a man barely out of his teens, but had already earned a reputation as being brutal and cold. He was among the elite in his field, which was killing. Pop Top had paid him a handsome fee, but he knew if anyone could get his point across, the Outlaw could.
The young killer coasted to a stop at the corner of Jefferson
and Marcus Garvey. There was a cluster of young men in the block between Jefferson and Throop shooting dice. There were about five of them in all, and none had the slightest clue as to what was about to go down. The Outlaw checked his Ingram M-10 9mm to make sure that the silencer was secure and one was in the chamber. It was a different weapon than he was accustomed to using, but Pop Top had promised him a few extra stacks per slob he dropped, and he intended on breaking the bank with the M-10. Satisfied that he was battle-ready, he revved the bike, emitting an eerie wailing sound from the custom exhaust pipes fitted onto it. Startled by the high-pitched sound the young men looked up from their game and the block burst into bright flashes.
 
 
“MAN, I
got fifty he four or better!” A kid wearing a beat-up Yankee hat called from the sidelines.
“Ain't nothing, I don't mind taking ya money and ya man's,” the man shaking the dice said. He was a portly young cat, just out of his teens and dying to make a rep for himself.
Surrounding them were other thieves and hustlers from the block. Some had money tied up in the game and some were just watching. Almost three thousand dollars lay on the ground, tucked under feet or piled near the center. No one worried about anyone being stupid enough to try and rob the dice game. At that end of Jefferson Avenue, they didn't play that old bullshit. There were dozens of Blood sets in New York City, but the boys from Jefferson boasted one of the most notorious. Between their little group they had accumulated more than a dozen bodies, and too many robberies to count. Their click was strong and they had the block on smash.
“What the fuck was that?” the kid with the Yankee hat said,
scanning the block for the source of the strange noise. It sounded like a cat being dragged over a barbed-wire fence. When the kid shaking the dice popped his head up, the side of his face was caved in by a bullet.
 
 
JOHNNY OUTLAW
dipped into the block, going against the flow of traffic, spitting with the M-10. It looked like someone was pelting the men with rotten tomatoes as they lost body parts and vital organs. One cat tried to run and had his leg torn clean off by one of the high-powered slugs. Satisfied that he had done enough damage, Johnny prepared to make his escape when something slammed into him, knocking him off the bike and sending the M-10 skidding.
Now, for as vicious as Johnny Outlaw was rumored to be, he couldn't have weighed more than 160 pounds on a good day, and the man who had dismounted him was almost double that. Johnny rained rights and lefts on the man who was trying to pin him down until his comrades got there, but the brute was too strong. Seeing that his fists were getting him nowhere, Johnny tried a different tactic. Dipping his hand into his boot he came up holding a stiletto, which he shoved up into the man's gut with all his might. The man coughed blood onto the airbrushed visor and fell to the side.
“See what the fuck you made me do?” Johnny said, getting to his feet. Though his voice was distorted by the small microphone built into the helmet, his intentions were clear as he retrieved the M-10. “Couldn't lay down like the rest of them, could you? Trying to fuck up a perfectly good killing, huh?”
“P-please, man. Don't kill me,” the brute pleaded.
Johnny looked at him almost compassionately. “You got heart, man, and that's a good thing. But you chose the wrong side of the
color line to throw in your lot with, which means you're fucked. My niggaz from Harlem say y'all forgot your places on the food chain, and I gotta remind you. Nothing personal, baby,” Johnny assured him before cutting loose with the M-10 and finishing the young banger.
Even with the sirens in the distance Johnny took a moment to admire his handiwork before heading back to the fallen motorcycle. The smart thing would've been to leave the patchwork bike, but it held sentimental value to him. It was the first thing he could ever call his own, since leaving his old life in Mississippi as a young boy. He built it with his own hands and refused to leave it.
People were starting to stir, coming to their windows trying to be nosey, but when Johnny sprayed the front windows with the M-10 they thought better of it. True, it was overkill but Johnny Outlaw had made his bones by overdoing it. Satisfied that he had temporarily deterred any Good Samaritans from aiding the police, Johnny hopped back on the bike and floored it, leaving a trail of bodies and a ghostly howl in his wake.
J. B. BOPPED
down Morningside Drive with his right-hand man, Steve. They had just come from the spot copping two twenties of haze and had two prime freaks waiting to help them smoke it up. When they got a dose of the date rape that J. B. had scored to drop in their drinks, the party would really be in full swing.
“You think they'll go for it?” Steve asked J. B.
J. B. smiled reassuringly. “I don't see why not. This shit is supposed to be off the chain. My man, Harv, gave a bitch a half of pill and she took cock damn near till the next morning.”
“I can't wait!” Steve said excitedly. “I'm gonna fuck the shit out of one of them hoes.”
“Fuck that, Blood.” J. B. held up the baggie containing several white pills. “Once they get a dose of these, you're gonna fuck both of them.”
As the two young men continued to walk and talk, a white Chevy Lumina was coming up behind them. There were three men in total occupying the vehicle, all motivated by one thought—murder. When the car was coasting along next to them, the driver's side window rolled down.
 
 
“CRIIIP!” THE
driver sang in a high squeal. When J. B. and Steve turned to identify the source, Bruticus stuck his arm out the window, letting the sun wink off the barrel of his .45. At first there was only silence and then came the thunder.
Two slugs entered Steve's chest, cracking his breast plate, decorating the bench behind him with bits of heart and lungs. When Bruticus turned his hammer to J. B., J. B. was already sprinting in the other direction. The Lumina screeched and reversed after him, while another shooter leaned over the top of the car and tried to lay J. B. Trees splintered and glass shattered, but the shooter never hit his target.
 
 
J. B. DUCKED
and zigzagged like a hunted animal. He recognized one of the shooters in the car as a member of a rival gang. Even though he had gone on a few outings with his new family, he had never done anything directly to any of the men in the car. He found himself running for his natural life, because he represented a different color. When he joined the gang, he thought it would be fun, but he would soon realize that banging was not a game; it was a way of life.
 
 
“FUCK IS
wrong with your aim?” Bruticus barked at the shooter. “Lay that nigga down!” He steered the Lumina with one hand, watching the fleeing man over his shoulder. A taxi came around the bend on 116th, causing him to swerve and slamming the car into a parked Explorer. “Shit,” Bruticus spat, sliding from the car. “Take the wheel.”
 
 
THE EFFECTS
of all the cigarettes had begun to catch up with J. B. as his chest started to burn. He knew that the only way for him to escape would be to cut through the park. That was easier said than done, because the next entrance was more than four blocks away. The loud crash to his rear caused him to spare a glance over his shoulder. The nose of the Lumina was jutting out into the street, while its rear was hooked on the bumper of an Explorer. He thought that luck might finally be swinging in his favor, but knew it to be a lie when he saw the driver climb out of the car and begin pursuing him on foot.
The fear of being gunned down in the middle of the street made J. B.'s mind race. He knew he only had one chance of escaping, but he didn't like it. He looked over the wall of the park, at the grass that was easily twenty feet below street level. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he leapt over the stone wall.
 
 
BRUTICUS WAS
a large man, but he was by no means slow. J. B. had a head start on him, but he was closing the distance in good enough time. He watched the young boy veer from the street, and head for the wall. He knew that there was a long drop and figured he had
him cornered. He slowed to a jog and made to dispatch his victim, until his mark suddenly jerked and leapt over the wall.
Bruticus ran to the wall and looked over in time to see J. B. picking himself up from the ground, and preparing to continue his sprint. Bruticus knew that if the boy got away, it would upset Pop Top's plan. Leveling the .45, he got J. B. in his sights and squeezed the trigger once. J. B.'s calf exploded, knocking him to the ground. Bruticus pulled himself over the wall and dropped down to finish him.
The force of the impact sent shock waves from Bruticus's ankles to his lower back. It hurt like hell, but he didn't feel like anything was broken. After gathering himself, he walked casually over to J. B. who was trying to crawl away. The bullet had totally destroyed his calf muscle, but the fear of death wouldn't let him give in to the pain.
Bruticus kicked him square in the ass. “Turn the fuck over, nigga!”
“Chill, man,” J. B. cried.
“Fuck that chill, shit. You knew the rules when you joined up, kid. You wanted to be a soldier, so now yo bitch-ass is a casualty of war.”
“I don't want no beef with y'all. You got it!”
Bruticus chuckled wickedly. “Nah, I don't want it, you take it.” Bruticus squeezed the trigger. Bullets tore through J. B.'s body and struck the ground below. A dust storm rose up around J. B., coating his face and body. The boy lay in the dirt with plum-sized holes in his chest and legs. Bruticus took a moment to spit on his corpse, before limping across the park to his waiting getaway car.
 
 
IT TOOK
more than an hour, but Sharell had finally managed to fight through the traffic and make it to Harlem. Though she was officially
off, she still found herself at her place of employment, St. Luke's Hospital. She could've waited until she came back to pick up her check, but it allowed her time out of the house, which is what she needed since Gutter had her feeling like a sardine trapped in the house.
Instead of going directly to her station she decided to cut through the emergency room so she could holler at her girl, Rhonda, who worked as a triage nurse. When she passed through the automatic doors her senses were overwhelmed with the bullshit that was the emergency room.
As usual it was overcrowded with people in need of medical attention. In the far corner, an addict rocked back and forth, sweating like a runaway slave, waiting to see if there was an available bed in their detox wing. Another man was hunched over near the pay phone, nursing his hand, which was wrapped in bandages that were splotched with blood. A girl who didn't appear to be more than seventeen or so cradled a newborn in her arms, while two more kids who couldn't have been more than a year apart tore through the emergency room as if it was their own personal backyard.
“Welcome to the jungle,” Sharell mumbled, as she stepped over a bum who was either passed out or sleeping, and made her way to the triage window. A woman, whose profile was familiar to her, sat at the window exchanging words with Rhonda. Though it had been a while, she'd know Tameeka anywhere.
“Look, I've been sitting here for two hours and my son still hasn't been seen, this is unacceptable,” Tameeka was saying.
“And like I've been telling you for the last ten minutes, we're overcrowded and understaffed today. We're seeing the priority patients first,” Rhonda replied.
“And my child ain't a priority? My boy has been throwing up all morning, and he's running a fever!”
“Look, we've got people in here suffering from everything from gunshots to the shakes, your son's flu symptoms aren't a priority right now.” Rhonda was still being polite, but Sharell could tell she was losing her patience with Tameeka so she decided to step in.
“What's up, Tameeka?” Sharell said, moving to stand over her. Tameeka's eyes flashed surprise then embarrassment before she uttered a weak, “Hey.”
Until about a year or so ago, she, Lauren, and Sharell had been like the three amigos, but when she got serious with Gutter all that changed. Lauren, though she never really cared for Gutter and still didn't, held her down when people tried to crucify her for her choice of a life mate, but Tameeka fell in line with the Joneses. The few times they had spoken on the phone Tameeka always had an excuse about how busy she was, but Sharell knew it was just so she didn't have to state the obvious—she was afraid. Everybody knew who her man was and what he represented, but they also knew that her love for him was unwavering.
“Sup, mommy.” Sharell tapped on the window Rhonda was sitting behind, and gave her a warm smile.
“Chilling, preg-o,” Rhonda teased. “I'm just trying to get through the day without having to get fired.” She cut her eyes at Tameeka when she said this.
“Take it light, Rhonda, you only got a few hours left until your shift is over. Breathe, girl,” Sharell told Rhonda, but placed a hand on Tameeka's chair.
“No doubt.” Rhonda nodded in understanding. Reluctantly she turned back to Tameeka and said, “Give me a minute and I'll see if I can get somebody to see your son.”
“Well, I just came to pick up my check and skate, call me later though,” Sharell said to Rhonda before heading deeper into the
hospital. She was about to go through the double doors in the back when Tameeka stopped her.
“Hold on, Sharell,” she said, catching up. “Thanks for looking out.”
“It was nothing, you know how I do it,” Sharell reminded her. “So what's up, how's everything with you?”
Tameeka shrugged. “I'm just trying to make it like everybody else. But listen, can I talk to you for a minute, in private?”
“Sure.” Sharell took her by the hand and led her outside the emergency room. “What's up, Meeka?”
Tameeka took a minute to examine her shoes. “Listen, I know I haven't been the best friend over the last few months, but you know that hasn't changed how I feel about you, right?”
“That's what I like to think,” Sharell said. There was another short silence.
“You know, for a long time I didn't see what it was about Gutter that made you stay with him. I mean, he's thugged out and you're sweet. If anything I always figured you'd end up with a doctor or some square dude.”
“We ain't got a whole lot of control over our hearts, Tameeka,” Sharell told her.
“Don't I know it.” Her eyes said something. “I didn't understand it until life threw me a curveball and I ended up in a similar situation.” Tameeka paused as if she wasn't sure of how much she wanted to share with Sharell.
“You wanna talk about it?” Sharell asked, sensing her uneasiness.
“Not much to tell, really. My heart belongs to a nigga who refuses to do right. If it ain't the beef, it's the bitches and I'm starting to feel like I can't get a word in edgewise.”
“That's a hard pill to swallow, baby girl.”
“Yet I do,” she said in a shameful tone. “Don't get me wrong, my
man takes care of me and my son. We ain't rich, but we don't want for nothing. But this lifestyle”—she paused—“it's just hard to deal with. I call myself doing him a favor and went and picked up some work from uptown and end up getting stopped in the cab. I had to call my mother to pick my son up from school, because my ass was down at the precinct.”
“Jesus, girl, is everything all right?” Sharell asked, genuinely concerned.
“Yeah, I'm still going back and forth to court over this shit though. Sharell, in my whole life I've never been one to be twisted up with the police, but it seems like lately they're always over my shoulder.” She looked around as if they were being watched. “How do you cope with this shit?”
Sharell thought for a minute before answering. “Honestly, if Jesus wasn't my backbone I'd have probably snapped a long time ago. I can't speak on your situation because it's not my situation, but Gutter draws a very clear line between his street antics and the life we're trying to build. It ain't no secret that Gutter is a criminal, anybody who watches the news knows that, but the streets have no place in our home. I'm not gonna go as far as to say that it's impossible for me to get caught up, but Gutter goes the extra mile to try and ensure that I never find myself in that position.”
“I feel you, but do you ever feel like it'd be easier for you to just cut your losses?” Tameeka asked.
“All the time,” Sharell confessed. “But you know what, I knew what he was into before I committed to him, and I still fell in love with his ol thug ass.” She rubbed her hand over her belly. “My guy goes the extra mile for me, so it's only right that I hold him down through thick and thin. The question you need to ask yourself is, how far is your man willing to go for you? Once you know the answer to that then you'll know where you stand.”
“That's deep.” Tameeka nodded.
“That's real. Meeka, I can't tell you what you should or shouldn't do, but always make sure you put you and your son first.”

Other books

Dancing in the Moonlight by Bradshaw, Rita
Daring Her SEAL by Anne Marsh
Finder's Fee by Alton Gansky
Killing Them Softly by Glenn, Roy
Eddie Signwriter by Adam Schwartzman
Firestarter by Stephen King
The Neo-Spartans: Altered World by Raly Radouloff, Terence Winkless
A Beautiful Fate by Unknown