Me and My Hittas (7 page)

“What’s up, pop?” Young Nightmare’s head snapped
back and forth between his father and over his shoulder at
the police cruiser. His old man ignored him and pulled over
to the side of the street, unbuckling his safety belt. “Pop,
what’s going on?”

“I’m tired of this shit, stay here, Junior.”

Dave picked up his cell phone and speed dialed his
lawyer before throwing open the driver side door. He
hopped out and turned to face the officers.

“I’m getting tired of y’all fuckin’ with me now,” he
hollered out to them, gripping his silver cellularphone. “I
just called my lawyer and he’s…” The headlights of the
police cruiser deflected off of the cell phone causing it to
gleam and appea as of a gun.

“He’s gotta gun!” One officer blurted out and they
both drew their weapons. Bop! Bop! Bop! Bop! Young
Nightmare watched in horror as his father was filled with
holes and the driver side window exploded from a rush of
bullets. His eyes were wide open and his mouth was the
shape of an O. Dave slid down to the ground still holding
his cell with his head at a funny angle. His eyes had a far
away look in them and his mouth was ajar. He had expired.

“Pop!” Young Nightmare
screamed seeing his old
man lifeless and bleeding, sitting in broken glass. Tears
were running down his face as he was crawling over the
driver seat and stepping out into the streets. He got down
on his knees before his father and hugged his waist,
ignoring the police’s ordered for him to get out of the way.
With his face pressed against his old man’s chest he
whimpered and slobbered, muffling some of his cries.

Present

After his father’
s
death, Nightmare was
off
the
mothafucking chain. He got into everything that there was
to get into that was illegal. He jumped off the porch early
as hell and made his bones whacking niggaz for profit;
anything to put food on the table.My nigga even tried his
hand at pimping. If it was a dollar that could be made off of
it then he was with it.It didn’t matter what the fuck it was.
That’s just how he was on it.

Nightmare came from a house hold that had both
parents. His father was a truck driver and his mother was a
certified nurse’s assistant; most of the time neither of them
was at home, which left him and his sister to do whatever
they pleased. While his kid sister, Shantell, was hanging out
with the older chicks on the block he was kicking it with the
local criminals picking up game and earning his place
among them. It took sometime but he eventually earned the
label of a thorough young nigga that wasn’t to be fucked
with. And this was when the little bastard was only twelve
years old.

Chapter Four

A Bentley Continental pulled up to the curb outside
of the Spanish restaurant,
Chico’s
. Gangsta exited his
vehicle, walked around to the passenger side, and opened
the door up for Vayda. After helping her from the car,
Gangsta closed the door behind her and they made a beeline
for the entrance of the restaurant. As soon as Gangsta and
Vayda pushed their way through the double doors of the
Spanish restaurant they were greeted by the loud music of
the El Mariachi band playing on the stage. Standing at the
door, Gangsta and Vayda took in the scenery. The Spanish
restaurant was elegant and classy.

Black Jesus was in his wheelchair on the shiny, black
marble dance floor dancing
The Salsa
with a fine Spanish
mami in a red dress with a rose behind her ear. She had
bronze skin, big brown eyes, and long silky hair that
reached her ass. With his crown full of dark raven curls,
Black Jesus was quite handsome. The Latin drug lord was
an attractive man; a pretty boy some would argue. Though
he was Mexican, he had skin the color of a Hershey’s Kiss.
In fact when first laying eyes on him, you would think he
was the descendent of at least one African American parent
until he’d opened his mouth and address you with that Deep
South American accent.

Before he was the drug lord that he was today, young
Jesus Arturo was an active gangbanger running around
reckless in the streets of South Central, Los Angeles. Back
then thirteen year old Jesus was known for carrying twin
black revolvers, both of which helped him garner the
reputation of a killer; between him and his little brother,
Bullet, the two had accumulated enough bodies under their
belts to fill a cemetery. But that was a long time ago; the
drug lord had put his guns away and picked up the hat of a
business mogul. He was now over seeing a multimillion
dollar drug empire.

Bullet sat with his back to the bar peeling an apple
with a switchblade. He was so busy watching his brother
out on the dance floor that he didn’t notice Gangsta and
Vayda had walked in.
Although the youngest Auturo
brother was Mexican his skin held the complexion of a
white man. He had hazel
green eyes
and a trimmed
mustache. The back of his shaved head advertised his gang
affiliation like a bill board on Hollywood Boulevard. He
possessed a menacing
appearance
even when he was
smiling. While Black Jesus adopted more of a casual look,
his little brother held to his street attire: oversized white
Pro-Club under a gray hoodie, starched Ben Davis jeans and
gray Nike Cortez. Black Jesus was the businessman and
Bullet was the enforcer. He preferred to stay in the streets
along with the rest of the soldiers, making sure the drug
lord’s presence was felt.

Before Gangsta could start over in Bullet’s direction,
Black Jesus’ Dominican bodyguard, Tango, cut him off and
gave him a thorough pat down that produced a chrome
.9mm.

Bullet greeted Gangsta with a smile and a hug.

 

“What’s up, papi?” He gave him the once over.
“Looking all fly and shit.”

 

Gangsta struck poses for Bullet, modeling what he
was wearing.“Aye, what can I say?” he smiled brightly.

 

Tango offered Bullet Gangsta’s gun but he waved him
off.

“Fuck are you doing, dawg?” Bullet asked him. “This
man has been doing business with us for manyyears. He’s
family. Give‘em his mothafucking gun back.” Tango gave
Gangsta his banger back. “Sorry about that, G, my bad. You
know how this mothafucka is.”
he referred to the
bodyguard’s behavior.

“Don’t even worry about it, B
ullet,” Gangsta stashed
his burner on his person. “You know you’re good money.”
He gave the young Vato a pound.

“And who is this?” Bullet asked, giving Vayda the
once over. “Your date?”

 

“Yeah,” Gangsta smiled like a shady cars salesman.

 

“What’s your name, Gangsta’s date?” Bullet inquired,
kissing Vayda’s hand.

 

“Vayda,” The redbone replied.

 

“Pleasure to meet you, Vayda, you wouldn’t by any
chance have a twin sister, would you?”

 

“Nope, sweetie, I’m one of a kind.”

“If it weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck
at all.” he said regretfully and turned his attention to the
dance floor. “Aye, Jesus! Look whose here, homes! Check
it out!”

Black Jesus spent around in his wheelchair and rolled
over to his
guests. He greeted Gangsta with a firm
handshake and Vayda with a kiss on both cheeks. He then
ushered them over to a table. “Wine?” Black Jesus asked
Gangsta.

“Yeah, white,” Gangsta replied, pulling out a chair for
Vayda and then himself, sitting down.

 

“Ladies?” Black Jesus asked referring to the wine.

 

“White is fine,” Vayda said.

 

“Okay, by me.” The bronze skinned mami answered.

 

Black Jesus
snapped his
fingers
and the waiter
approached.

 

“Uh, Miguel,” he addressed him. “White wine,
quarto glasses, please.”

 

He held up four fingers.

 

“Coming right up, boss,” The waiter replied before
turning to leave.

“Gracias,” Black Jesus thanked him before turning to
Gangsta. “So, Charles, how’s business?” He addressed the
O.G by the name on his birth certificate.

“Business is alright.”
He replied nonchalantly,
shrugging his shoulders.

“A
lright? Business is a lot more than alright. This is
the millionth time I’ve met you in a suit; tailored at that.
Calogero’s, no?”

Gangsta nodded yes.

 

“Italian,” Black Jesus exclaimed. “Expensive too,
$5,000 dollars a suit, but what’s money to guys like us?”

The waiter returned with a bottle of white wine and
four glasses as requested. He sat a glass in front of each
guest present at the table and poured the glasses half full.

“What will you fine people be having for dinner this
evening.” The waiter asked.

“Do you all mind?” Blac
k Jesus raised a hand,
looking around the table for anyone who objected him
ordering their meals for them. Everyone agreed to let him
order for them. Seeing that no one minded, he went on and
ordered their meals in French. The waiter scribbled down
the orders on a small tablet and then he headed off into the
kitchen.

“Fucking show off,” Gangsta leaned over and
whispered to the drug lord before taking a sip of his wine.

 

“What?” Black Jesus asked, playing dumb.

 

“Mothafucka, you ordered our food in French and this
is a Spanish restaurant.”

 

“I’m afraid I have no idea of what you are referring
to.” He tried to contain a smile.

“Vayda, this nigga been doing this shit for years now;
ever
since we were in high school. Pretty
Spanish
mothafucka with the dark skin, and the Superman curl,
laying down French, it was always enough to get this
mothafucka laid.” He took a sip of wine. “Rico Romance is
what this fool use to call himself back in the day.”

“Aye, what can I say?” Black Jesus
said. “The chicas
could never get enough of the Latin lover.” He did a funny
little dance in his wheelchair. Everyone at the table busted
up laughing. This rest of the night carried out just like this,
two old friends reminiscing about old times and shooting
on one another. When the food came they barely took two
bites of it. The waiter had warmed their food up twice, but
everyone was having such a good old time that they didn’t
pay any attention to their plates. Seeing that his guests
weren’t going to be getting to their meals any time soon,
Black Jesus requested two doggy bags to go for them.

Usually Gangsta and Black Jesus never met up to
make their exchange, but the drug lord wanted his old friend
to come out to see his new restaurant so he obliged him.
They both showed up in identical rentals. After the outing,
Gangsta would leave in the car with the bricks stashed
inside and one of Jesus’ men would leave in the car with the
money hidden in it. The transaction had been made like this
for years.

Tipsy and thirty kilos richer, Gangsta and Vayda said
their goodbyes and made their way for their vehicle. Vayda
pushed the whip while Gangsta played the passenger seat.
He
placed a call to his
nephews
and told them that
everything had gone smoothly and they were on their way
back.

Forty minutes later

The front door of the trap house swung open and
Gangsta and Vayda came dancing in over the threshold,
hand and hand. They hummed the tune of the Spanish music
that the El Mariachi band played back at Chico’s. The pair
moved around the living room as if they were competing in
Dancing with the Stars. Unbeknownst to them, Pavielle
stood in the bedroom doorway watching them as he took
swigs from a bottle of Hennessy. He was shit faced drunk.

“I see y’all had yourselves a good old time.”
Pavielle’s spoke, startling the dancing duo.

“Yes, we did,” Vayda said, breaking her embrace
from Gangsta. “It’s been a long time since you’ve taken me
out dancing. Why don’t you dance with me?” she
questioned, taking her man by the hand and moving from
left to right, trying to get him to dance along with her.

“Gangstaz don’t dance!” Pavielle told her, taking her
by the face and locking lips with her. The entire time they
were kissing he was staring at his uncle like ‘
Yeah, nigga,
this is my bitch and don’t you ever forget it.
’ Vayda took
the bottle of Hennessy and took a long drink before passing
it back to her man.

“Alright, boo, I’m finna go hop in the shower.” She
told Pavielle and waved to his uncle, as she headed to the
bedroom. He returned the gesture.

Gouch came out
of
his
bedroom
stretching and
yawning with his head back, showcasing his teeth and every
cavity in his mouth. He was in a wife beater and tan Dickies,
rubbing his flat, hairy stomach.

“I’m bored as fuck, y’all niggaz tryna get in a game
of dominos?” he looked between his brother and uncle.

“Yeah, I could go for a game of bones.” Gangsta
replied. His
forehead
crinkled when he saw Pavielle
eyeballing him
and taking the occasional swallow of
Hennessy.

“What about chu, bro?” Gouch tapped his sibling.

 

“I’m with it.” He kept his eyes on their uncle as he
took another swallow from his bottle.

 

“Bool, I’ma get the bones.” He retreated to his
bedroom to get the dominos so that they could play.
A few minutes later

Gangsta, Gouch and Pavielle sat at the kitchen table
playing dominos. The entire time that Gouch and Gangsta
were having a ball shooting the shit, the alcohol guerilla
inside of Pavielle was pounding on its chest in a rage
demanding to be let loose. It also didn’t help that his mental
was being assaulted with images of his uncle fucking the
shit out of his woman. He got trailers of them sexing in his
head and the more of them he saw the angrier he felt until,
finally, he snapped like a twig.