Gutter (9 page)

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Authors: K'wan

BOOK: Gutter
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HAWK STEPPED
into the lobby of the W Hotel and gave a casual glance around. He had been to a few of their hotels and compared to the rest, the Lexington Avenue location didn't measure up. Still, he wasn't a guest, he was only there to handle business so he wouldn't have to endure it long. With him were Tito from L.C., and Hawk's guard dogs, Red and Shotta. The two men looked like day and night, with one being tall and slightly chubby, while the other was almost pitch-black and sported long dreads. For as odd a pair as they appeared to be, they were both very handy with the steel.
Hawk was a man of high standing in most underworld circles so it was rare that he ever had to unleash the two, but when they killed they did it well. That was before Gutter. With the way he had things popping in New York, Shotta and Red found themselves with their hands full. Gutter didn't discriminate against rank when it came to taking out his enemies, which Hawk had a feeling was part of the reason he was down at the W that afternoon. A very important, and
very dangerous, associate of his gang was visiting New York City and that meant trouble for anything blue.
As soon as he got the word that Major Blood would be visiting the city he knew something major was about to go down. His instructions were to act as a liaison while Major Blood was in the city, but he hadn't been told what the mission was. Adjusting the bulge under his butter-soft, red leather jacket, Hawk led the way into the elevator.
They got off on the sixth floor and filed down the carpeted hallway. Even if they didn't know what room Major was in, the unmistakable sounds of N.W.A. would've led the way. Hawk motioned for Shotta and Red to hang in the hall while he knocked on the door. The music dropped to a respectable level, and he could hear people shuffling around in the room. When the door opened a thick cloud of marijuana smoke floated into the hall.
The girl who opened the door was a shapely Puerto Rican. Her thick thighs pressed against her light blue Lady Encyes. She took her colorful fingers and brushed a strand of feathered blond hair from her face as she looked them over. Without waiting to be invited in, Hawk stepped into the hotel living room. Sitting across the room was Major Blood.
Major was sitting on the floor with his back against the love seat and his head resting on the inner thigh of a big-breasted girl, with heresy skin. She was pulling a comb through his long silky hair, finishing up the last two braids. Major Blood looked up at Hawk with lazy eyes, smoke billowing from his mouth to his nose in two tiny jets. Resting against the crease of his tan Dickies was a chrome 9.
“My nigga, Hawk,” Major greeted him, his face smiling but his tone flat. “I know you ain't bring ya goons with you to see lil old me? We Blood, homey, I ain't no threat to you.”
“Nah, it ain't like that. We got some other business to handle
when we leave here, but I ain't want them in here while we talked,” Hawk lied, hoping Major Blood didn't see through it. “Welcome to New York, Blood.” Hawk pounded his fist. “Sorry I wasn't there to meet you at the airport, but I'm sure you've been making out okay.”
“I've been keeping myself occupied.” Major patted the chocolate girl's thigh. “Ladies, go in the back for a sec. I gotta talk to my dawg.” The girls went into the sleeping area, closing the door behind them and turning up the television. “Now, down to business; I hear you niggaz got a crab infestation you can't handle?”
“That's not totally accurate,” Hawk said, pulling up a wooden chair. “We've just been having some difficulties with a pocket of Crips in Harlem.”
“I don't call getting most of your team greased,
difficulties.
Word is, Harlem dusted damn near all of L.C. and is making short work of the rest of you muthafuckas too. That sounds like a problem to me, hommes.”
“With all due respect, Major, you ain't from out here, so you really don't know what's up.”
“Well”—Major sat upright—“
with all due respect,
Hawk, my O.G.s say y'all losing face out here and they ain't feeling that.” Major Blood got to his feet and walked over to where Hawk was sitting. “Don't trip, man.” He draped his arms around Hawk, causing him to tense up. “The old heads know you get down, Hawk, so you're good money, baby. Now, it's these little bastards y'all got flagging that's becoming a problem. No disrespect, but you guys are looking like a bunch of pussies to the niggaz back home, repping this.” He tugged at the red belt that was looped through his Dickies.
Hawk got up out of the chair and positioned himself so that his back was to the wall. “What do you want me to say? Niggaz die every day, all over the world. Sometimes we get one up on them,
some times they get one up on us. That's how this shit has always gone. Gang-banging ain't gonna change, fam,” Hawk defended.
Major Blood stared at Hawk long enough to make him uncomfortable before responding. “See, that's the kind of half-ass thinking that's got your monkey-asses in a sling now. Hawk”—Major took the seat Hawk had just vacated—“you of all people know this shit y'all putting down ain't what we come from. I mean, we all criminal muthafuckas at the end of the day, but there was a time where the people who lived in our neighborhoods were off-limits. We didn't prey on our own, we protected them and smashed on the rest. We made long paper and made sure that niggaz knew they couldn't come through our hoods tripping. Fuck is New York promoting? Purse snatching and cutting civilians for stripes? Them fruits don't come off no tree that I know of. Show me one muthafucka other than you and maybe Tito that's banging accordingly.”
Hawk was usually the one giving the homeys lectures on Blood etiquette, so Major flipping the script had him tight, but he held his composure as best he could. “Man, we're working with what we got in New York City, Blood. This ain't California so the same rules don't apply. It ain't a problem with Crips; it's a problem with Harlem. Gutter is on some bullshit.”
“And that's just why I'm here,” Major Blood rocked the wooden chair back on two legs. “My orders are real simple, homey: Harlem Crip is getting shut down. I need any information you got on them fools. Sets … numbers … the works. I'll take care of the rest, you think you can handle that?”
“I'll have somebody get it to you,” Hawk assured him.
“I need anything you got on Diablo's murderer too.”
“His sister killed him, Blood,” Tito spoke up for the first time.
“I don't give a fuck who killed him. He was one of ours. Fuck is it when our generals can get they shit pushed and nobody do
nothing? On everything, I always fill my contracts. As far as I'm concerned she's a Judas and wasn't fit to share the same womb as a down-ass damu like Diablo. That bitch is going to sleep, Blood.”
Tito cringed at the ice in Major Blood's voice. He could understand bringing it to Gutter and his lot, but why bother with Satin? She had lost her sanity as a result of the shooting and surely couldn't be a threat to anyone but herself. Tito would stand with his people when it came time to ride on Gutter, but he would have no part in Satin's execution.
 
 
SHARELL THUMBED
through her outfits trying to pick something comfortable to wear for her trip to see Satin. She could still fit into some of her stuff, but the babyweight limited her choices.
She was still a bit upset at Gutter for planning to fly out without her, but she understood where he was coming from. A respected member of the Hoover Crips had been shot and the shit was definitely going to hit the fan. Gutter had no way to tell exactly what the situation was and he didn't want Sharell to get caught up if things went sour. Still, she didn't know how she felt about Gutter running off into God only knew what.
Gutter had always lived his life like two people. This was one of the only similarities that he shared with Lou-Loc, other than both being down for the set. One side was the light, where he was Kenyatta, the loving husband and father. The other side was the darkness, where he murdered and ordered men murdered. He chose to keep her in the light.
Sharell might've been a churchgirl, but she wasn't a twit. She knew that Gutter had bathed in a river of sin, yet she stood by him. She was his woman, and it was only right. For the most part, she
knew there was good in him, but he showed it less and less as the need for revenge grew. Still, she prayed for his salvation.
Sharell quietly reflected on how things would be with Gutter being all the way in California, while she was stuck in New York. She knew he had a life before her and wondered if he would pick up where he left off? Maybe there was some old flame awaiting his return with open arms. Would she be the one to console him?
She was thinking nonsense. Even suggesting that Gutter was going off to some secret rendezvous as his uncle lay mortally wounded was selfish on her part. If she spent his time away conjuring scenarios she would surely drive herself crazy. What she needed to do was get herself on the road to go see about Satin.
Her soul was wounded in ways beyond what no woman should endure. To be sentenced to a lifetime of sorrow seemed a fate worse than death. Sharell wondered what Satin now saw in her mind's eye. Was she aware? Or in some far-off place that existed only in her mind?
When she finally finished dressing and stepped outside her building, the sun blared mercilessly down on her. Throwing on her Chanel shades, she continued on to her car. Mohammad was at his usual post, sitting in his Maxima thumbing through one of the several newspapers that he devoured each morning. He was a youthful-looking man with copper skin and a beard that hung slightly longer than Gutter's but was far more kept. He smiled politely at her then went back to reading.
Since the conflict, Gutter insisted that she be under constant guard. One of the homeys had occupied the job in the beginning, but that turned out to be a disaster. Mohammad was one of Anwar's. He was always with her when Gutter wasn't around and sometimes when he was. Other than the fact that he greeted her in the mornings, she never knew he was there. He didn't talk to her and he never revealed his exact location. He only made direct contact
with her when necessary. Mohammad was the equivalent of having your own personal ghost.
Sharell walked to her car, which was parked a few spaces up, and got behind the wheel. She checked herself over in the mirror and pulled into traffic. Mohammad followed shortly behind her.
 
 
SATIN SAT
at the foot of a waterfall, looking at her reflection on the surface of the water. Her hair hung down to her shoulders, but had begun to frizz from the light drizzle that was sprinkling her. Her face was as beautiful as it has always been. There were no dark circles around her eyes and her cheeks still held a youthful glow. Running her hand through the water, she waited as she always had.
A figure approached from the direction in which the sun was setting, she couldn't see his face due to the glare, not that she needed to. She'd know him anywhere. He approached, with his hair neatly braided and his khakis heavily creased. His brown face smiled at her lovingly as he occupied the patch of grass next to her.
“Lou-Loc,” she whispered, to which he gave her his infamous smile. His face was still as smooth as it had been before the shooting.
“Hey, baby,” he said, his voice being little more than the hum of a mosquito's wings, but she was able to hear him perfectly. His breath smelled of the sweetest flowers, with a hint of tilled earth. When she laid her hand against his cheek it felt warm, not the cold flesh of a dead man. Every rational part of Satin's mind told her that he was dead and that the man sitting beside her couldn't be her forever lover, but when she pressed her body against his it seemed very real.
“God, I miss you,” she sobbed.
“I miss you too, ma,” he replied. “More than you can imagine, Satin.” His form wavered then became solid again. “Satin, you gotta go back, ma.”
With tear-filled eyes she looked up at him. “I know, baby, but I can come back tomorrow, or the day after.”
He looked down at his All Stars before turning back to Satin. “No, baby, I mean you gotta wake up. This ain't no life for you, and the more you come here the more of yourself you lose. I can't let you end up like me.” He motioned toward his body, which was starting to take on the clarity of a bootleg movie.
“I won't leave you, Lou-Loc.” She tried to grab hold of his Dickies shirt, but her fingers passed right through. “Why can't I stay here with you?”
“Because you gotta water the seed, ma.” He tried to touch her stomach, but his body was rapidly losing substance.
“Water the seed, what are you talking about?” she asked his fading form.
“You can't sleep anymore, Satin, sleep is for the dead. This place”—he motioned at the fading scenery around him—“it ain't for you, baby. Life is for you.”
“Baby, a life without you ain't a life,” she pleaded. “I wanna stay here with you, Lou-Loc. Just about everybody I ever loved is dead, ain't nothing out there for me. I don't wanna lose you too.”

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