Riding Dirty on I-95 (15 page)

A
fter C-Note snatched Jus's drunk butt up, they headed towards the exit. C-Note stopped and waited at the bottom of the steps of the club when he realized that Jus wasn't right behind him.

Where the fuck is that nigga?
C-Note thought as he looked around. He must have stopped off somewhere or got mixed up in the crowd. C-Note stepped outside of the door of the club to wait for his partner.

“Move along!” the four-hundred-pound, seven-foot bouncer shouted. “Move along.”

C-Note thought the bouncer was talking to someone else until the big guy tapped him on the shoulder. “My man, you need to move the fuck along. I need to keep this area free.”

“I'm just waiting on my man,” C-Note advised him. “He should be coming any second. He was right behind me when I was walking down the steps. He's drunk and ain't in no kind of condition to be left and shit. You know how it is.”

“My man,” the bouncer said, filling his chest up with air, “move the fuck along. I don't give a fuck about
y
o' nigga being drunk. I want this area clear.”

“Peace, G,” C-Note said in a calm tone as he walked over to the bouncer. “I'm not trying to start anything or be rude, because I know you got a job to do, but my man is pissy drunk. He was right behind me and should be coming out any minute now. So I'm going to wait here by the door for the next minute or so.”

C-Note turned to walk away. Catching a glimpse of Mercy, he put his finger up to tell her to wait a minute. He then motioned with his lips, “I'm coming.”

The next thing he saw, or didn't see, was the lights go out. The bouncer hit him with a fist the size of a sledgehammer. The punch was so hard it sent him straight to the concrete and stretched him out cold. The crowd was silent for a few seconds, and a group of people surrounded C-Note.

“Damn! That's fucked up,” one of the clubgoers said.

The bouncer was standing off by the door, still popping junk. “I bet when I tell a motherfucker to move along next time, motherfuckers will move.”

“That's fucked up,” another clubgoer said.

“Naw, man, I'm just doing my job,” the bouncer insisted.

When people saw that it was C-Note stretched out on the ground, somebody walked past the bouncer and said, “Nigga, you done fucked up. I hope your family got some insurance on you.”

“Look at that lame. The bitch-ass nigga is stretched out. Look like he da one that needs some insurance.” The bouncer laughed. “A nigga like him ain't got none. It's cool, though, because the students at MCV will see him.”

Seconds later, Jus came out of the club along with Cook'em-up and a few other homies.

“What da hell happened out here?” Jus said. They were shocked when they saw their boy out on the cold concrete.

“What the fuck?” one of the homies said with an incredulous look on his face.

By that time, Mercy was kneeling down by his side trying to get him up off of the pavement. C-Note came around and looked up at her, half embarrassed and half groggy. He jerked his arm away from her and said, “I got it. I don't need no help.”

Someone pulled Cook'em-up aside and told him what happened, while his other homeboys hurried up and got C-Note off of the pavement, pushing Mercy aside. As they walked down the street to get into the car, a police cruiser slowed down and stopped two bystanders and asked them what was going on. Neither of them said anything. However, as folks saw Cook'em-up and the rest of his team, they all started clearing out. They knew what time it was. It was time to get the hell out of Dodge. If Cook'em-up had any reputation at all, it was that of a stone-cold murderer. He didn't take any shit and usually left no witnesses. The bouncer had violated, and you could smell the murder in the air.

Cook'em-up and C-Note stood at the back of the truck. “Go 'head and get ghost. I'll take care of this clown as soon as shit calm down,” Cook'em-up said.

“Nope, not this time,” C-Note said in a quiet voice.

Cook'em-up couldn't believe what he had just heard. He knew C-Note didn't like to get his hands dirty when it came to the rah-rah shit; that's why he offered to take care of the BI himself. He knew if they let this “Suge” Knight–wannabe clown get away with this stunt they would be the laughingstock of the entire city. By morning every little joker in the game with a pair of nuts would be trying to carry his man's little brother for weak.

“Not this time?” Cook'em-up repeated what he had just heard. “I got the utmost respect for you, Note.” Cook'em-up didn't want to offend his man's manhood. “No doubt, yo' hustle game is on
another level, but ain't no room in this car for no Martin Luther King, Jr. tonight.” Before C-Note could respond, Cook'em-up continued. “Just go ahead and roll out, and I'll meet up with you later with the details. Trust me.”

C-Note pulled back the cover where the spare tire was supposed to be.

“You got me twisted, Cook,” C-Note said, finally getting a word in edgewise. “I appreciate the offer, trust that, but I gotta bake this cake myself.”

Cook'em-up knew C-Note couldn't give the bouncer a pass. He watched as C-Note went under his spare tire and pulled out an M-16, identical to the one Al Pacino had in
Scarface.
Before he knew it, C-Note had changed his clothes. He put on a pair of jeans and a black Champion hooded sweatshirt. He always kept a few spare pieces of gear in the truck. C-Note then walked off, heading around the corner to the club. Cook'em-up saw murder in his eyes. It was like C-Note had transformed from a gentleman to a gangsta in a matter of seconds.

The homies were all in awe, trying to talk sense into C-Note. They knew he wasn't a killer, and they didn't want him to hesitate in the heat of the moment and get himself killed. So they began to chase behind him and try to take control of the situation themselves.

“Let him handle his business,” Cook'em-up called out to the fellas. “He feels he needs to handle this one himself.”

It was indeed time for C-Note to let the world know how he would hold his own. Although Cook'em-up had warned the homies, they all continued to trail closely on C-Note's heels. But Cook'em-up didn't budge. He was certain that C-Note had the situation under control and didn't need any assistance from anybody. Cook'em-up got in C-Note's car, turned on the ignition, and let the engine run so it could be good and ready to peel when
C-Note returned. Cook'em-up lit a cigarette, shook his head, and smiled.

C-Note never stopped walking as he used one hand to pull the head of the hoodie over his head. His face was now partially covered. He turned the corner and had the bouncer in his sight. It enraged C-Note to see that the big guy was still throwing his weight and position around, talking to people with no form of respect at all. As C-Note got closer, the bouncer knew something was wrong by the facial expressions of a whole new crowd of partygoers who had no idea what had gone on fifteen minutes before. As he turned to look around, in a split second the smile plastered on his face turned into despair. C-Note had locked eyes with him, and the expression on his face made C-Note fully aware that the big bad guy wished he was someplace else. Anywhere but here. He was so scared of what the big gun had in store for him that he shit his drawers. The bouncer fixed his lips to start pleading for his life, but whatever he was fixing to say never left his throat.

“Chop! Chop! Cha! Cha! Chop! Chop! Cha! Cha!” Sounds of gunshots roared, echoing through the sky as C-Note dumped the whole clip into the bouncer, never letting his eyes leave his target. He saw the life leaving the bouncer's eyes as the big man lay on the ground.

With a wicked smile he said, “Game over, Biggums.” Then he quickly walked away from the scene, strutting right past his homeboys as if they weren't even there. He strolled like he had made a major accomplishment, and he was wearing a badge of honor on his chest that he wanted displayed to the world.

Once C-Note bent the corner he saw that Cook'em-up had turned the car in the opposite direction. C-Note hopped in the backseat and lay back to let all the chaos in his mind settle. Jus hopped in the front seat, while the other homeboys got into Cook'em-up's car and fled the scene.

“Nigga, is you fuckin' crazy?” Jus said from the front seat, looking back at C-Note. “You could've waited to do that shit. Man, you know how hot you 'bout to make us? Nigga, it was a million mafuckers out there, and somebody gon' tell.”

Cook'em-up was quiet.

C-Note smacked his lips and replied, “Ain't nobody gonna tell because them so-called witnesses was too busy running for they fucking lives.” Jus turned around and looked from the front seat as C-Note continued in an ice-cold voice. “Praying that I didn't give them none.” Then a low chuckle escaped his lips.

Everybody in the car was silent. There was no radio playing, no conversation going on at all for the next few blocks. They were digesting C-Note's unexpected reaction. Then Jus finally said, with his whole high now blown, all of a sudden sober as a preacher man, “Man, you crazy as shit, C-Note.”

C-Note looked up at Jus. “Man, don't call me C-Note no more. That nigga died with Biggums back there at the club. C-Note was that nigga that was all about getting money. He wasn't no soldier. He didn't want war. He toted guns but wouldn't kill for his army. That dude wouldn't protect what was his. He was a good nigga, but he just wasn't built like that.” Nobody responded. The fellas just listened. “As a matter of fact, pull this motherfuckin' car over.”

Cook'em-up did what he was told. C-Note grabbed one of the Heinekens out of the floor in the back of the car and hopped out. The homies didn't know what was up, but they followed suit. He popped the Heineken and the others homies did, too. He poured some out onto the ground.

“Like I said,” C-Note continued, “that nigga died and a good nigga he was, but for every nigga that did it in this game, when he dies or goes to jail, it's a better nigga that takes his place. And Cleezy took that nigga C-Note's place.”

He talked in the third person like he, in fact, wasn't C-Note. Jus didn't say a word. He was dumbfounded. But Cook'em-up loved every word that C-Note was kicking. So he poured some beer out and said, “May that nigga C-Note rest in peace.”

“My niggas, shit is about to change. I ain't taking no shorts, halves, or parts,” Cleezy said. “None whatsoever. No mo' sucka shit. This here is an organization. If and when the Feds come, we going down for organized crime, CCE, and all that bullshit. So we gon' run this shit like a fucking organized drug ring, straight gangsta style all the way. If in doubt, take the motherfucka out. This nigga right here, Cleezy, done hit this town and shit is 'bout to change. Y'all niggas got me or what?”

“No doubt, my nigga,” they said, giving pounds, knowing that Cleezy meant every word he said. This night had been a life-altering night. And they all knew it. C-Note was dead. Cleezy had been born. Cook'em-up and Jus were certain that the boy they had all grown up with and protected for many years had been killed, and there was no doubt with Cleezy walking the streets, the city limits would never be the same.

They all piled back in the car.

“Man, you going home?” Cook'em-up asked Cleezy.

“Naw, man. Just keep the car and drop me off at Paula's. I gotta go get some shit together over there,” Cleezy said. C-Note's plans with Mercy had been forgotten. Cleezy had other things on his mind.

“You handling yo' business, huh?” Jus said as Cook'em-up pulled the car in front of Paula's house.

Cleezy hopped out of the car and took in a breath of fresh air. He had just found a power that he had no idea existed within him. He had the power to take life and to be able to breathe life into himself. As he walked up to Paula's house, he was glowing, and his boys in the car saw him in a new light.

I
t was almost four o'clock in the morning when Paula's phone woke her up out of a deep sleep.

“Hellloo,” a sleepy Paula said after fumbling to get the receiver to her ear.

“You sleep?” Cleezy asked her.

She yawned and looked at the clock.

“No, I'm up,” she lied.

“Stop lying.”

Paula paused. She could hear something different in C-Note's voice. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I'm good. You got company?” he asked.

“Naw, not in here. Don't no niggas be laying up in here.”

“That's what yo' mouth say.”

“Why, what's up? You need to come through?”

“Yeah. I'm at the door now. Come open it,” he demanded.

Still half asleep, Paula walked to the door with her Hampton University T-shirt and a pair of white panties on. The T-shirt was so short that her butt cheeks were hanging out. She opened the door and headed back to her bedroom and hopped back into the bed. Cleezy walked right behind her. She figured he was just
going to do what he had to do and she was going to go back to bed. But Cleezy turned on her bedroom light and startled her.

She squinted her eyes, then focused in on the knot on his head.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said, jumping out of the bed and walking over to touch his head gently. “What happened?”