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“Damn, I needed a few dollars too,” Don said as he put his feet on the floor.

He flinched at the cool wood on his bare soles. His young bones creaked as he bent over to pick up the pair of pants he'd worn the previous day. Out of the hip pocket he fished half of a blunt. He straightened up and looked in the
large mirror on top of his dresser. He saw a brown-skinned boy just a shade away from being a man; standing at five foot ten and weighing 173 pounds he wasn't really skinny, but he wasn't heavy either. He didn't have six-pack abs, but there wasn't any flab around his middle. His short fade sported a few waves on the top, but they weren't really defined because he didn't have the patience to sit and brush his hair hour after hour. Strong peach fuzz was evident around his mouth and under his chin, complementing his strong facial features. With a heavy sigh he lit the tip of the blunt with his lighter and took a long pull. He held the smoke in his lungs until he choked. For his efforts he was rewarded by the instant euphoric effects of the weed on his system. With his sister in mind he walked down the short hallway to the top of the staircase.

He called, “Rhonda! You want to hit this shit! It might mellow yo high-strung ass out some!”

“I don't think so. You don't even need to be smoking that stuff in the house! I don't even see how you smoke that mess so early in the damn morning! That's all you little dummies spend every cent you get your hands on! I'm leaving you ten dollars on the table. I've got to go. I can't be late for humanities because of you. Make sure you take your behind to school too!”

The front door slammed as he headed for the bathroom. He pulled his boxers down and perched on the white porcelain toilet. Leisurely he thumbed through a
Sports Illustrated
magazine while he smoked and obeyed nature's order
to put out the garbage. He wondered what was on the agenda for the day. He had to laugh at that thought. He already knew the answer—the same as every other day. Ditching school, hanging out, dodging the police, trying to come upon money for weed and alcohol, and trying to talk some young girl out of her panties. Even though it was a school day, attending was definitely out of the question. He hadn't been to school in two months. School was for the winter time. It was spring.

After showering and dressing, he devoured half of a box of Cap'n Crunch and left the house. His first stop was Momma Taylor's weed spot on Vernon, the best weed in the neighborhood. Momma Taylor had the biggest bags and the best green that could be bought for ten dollars. After his purchase he ducked into the first unlocked hallway he came to and rolled two blunts. He dumped the contents of the cheap cigars on the carpeted steps of the hallway. He slid one of the blunts into the top of his sock and pulled his pant leg back down. He lit the other as he relaxed on the stairs. He smoked about half of the blunt before putting it out and sliding it into the band of his Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap.

He then headed to the pool hall. Confidently he pushed open the door and stepped inside. He began to greet his boys.

“Li'l Joe, what's up, nigga? Damn, Semo, who cut yo hair? Want me to whup his ass for you? Tabo, yeah, nigga. Don't pretend like you don't see me, nigga. What's up wit
my ten dollars? You always trying to act like you broke. We gone fall out about that little money.”

Happy that the whole gang was there, Don exchanged a few more playful remarks while he settled into the atmosphere. No sooner had he deposited a quarter into a video game than a light-skinned, wavy-haired boy stepped over to join him by the game.

“Double-D, what's up, nigga?” the boy greeted him happily.

Glancing over his shoulder, Don continued to fight off the demons in the video game as he replied, “Dre, what the deal, baby boy? What you niggas get into when I left last night? I was so fucked up, I don't even remember going to the crib.”

“Don, yo ass missed it! After you broke it out last night, we was laying back, niggas sleep and shit, then Gail and her ugly-ass sister came through.”

“Gail?”

“Big-nose Gail, that got that ugly-ass sister that so damn thick. Man we got to pouring gin in them hoes. That do-it fluid got them bitches hot and it was on.”

“What you mean?”

Dre pulled an imaginary train whistle cord. “Choo, choo.”

“Get yo lying ass outta here!” Don said, not wanting to believe that he had missed out on the main event.

“Nigga, I ain't lying. We all hit them bitches. Jag, Carlos, Keno, and Big Man. I hit both of them. Gail wouldn't suck
no dick, though. Her ugly-ass sister was trying to but it felt like she had a mouth full of razor blades. And guess what?”

“What, nigga?” Don asked as he slapped the buttons and joystick.

“Nigga, you just salty cause you missed out on that pussy,” Dre said.

“Whatever, nigga,” Don scoffed. He lied, “I ain't salty 'bout no big-nose Gail and her ugly-ass sister. I can get both of them bitches if I wanted to. Now fuck all that. What was you finta say?”

“Oh yeah. After we all had a couple of go-rounds wadn't no more rubbers and shit, right? Man, this nigga Jag get to searching like crazy for a rubber. Everybody telling him ain't no more, right. This thirsty-ass nigga get to hitting Gail raw. We tripping on this nigga, right. Most of us ain't hitting shit raw, 'specially after that little runner Miesha damn near burnt our dicks off last summer.”

“You ain't lying,” Don agreed as he thought about the severe pain he experienced as he urinated one morning three days after he and his friends ran a train on Miesha. “That girl had me leaking like a broken faucet.”

“Right, right. Well, by this time, Gail was passed out anyway. She stretched out on the couch with her mouth wide open and Jag is running up in her. Just when he 'bout to nut he jump up with his pants around his ankles and aims for her mouth. When he jumped up, Gail woke up and as he aiming for her face she move. He trying to move with her and tripped on his pants. Anyway, to make a long story
short, he missed and Semo was salty than a motherfucker. Enough of that shit, though. I just came from yo crib trying to catch you. I got business to discuss.”

“What kind of business you got to discuss, Mr. Porno Star?” Don asked, his voice dripping with envy.

Dre ignored his friend's salty attitude. “Guess who I hollered at yesterday?”

“I don't know.”

“Guess, man.”

Don exploded. “Nigga, quit playing that twenty questions shit and tell me what the fuck you talking about!”

“Awight, don't get yo panties in a bunch. Yesterday I was shooting ball with Diego and them up at Harper Court. Them niggas think they can hoop. They was talking shit like they was so cold and shit. I told them niggas to stick to selling drugs 'cause we would come through there and spank they ass hooping. Niggas trying to hoop with new-ass clothes on and jewelry and shit. That shit be funny seeing them niggas trying to stay clean and play ball at the same time. Man …”

“Excuse me, Dre, would you get to the fucking point!”

Dre rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Anyway. We argued for awhile and it all boiled down to they say they would play us any time for any amount. Them niggas know we ain't making no paper or nothing, so they say that they would triple any amount of money we came up with. They was talking so much shit it wadn't even funny. All the time they woofin', I won two games of varsity going up to 31.”

Don released the video game's joystick and slapped Dre in the back of the head.

“Why the fuck didn't you tell me that shit last night,” he fumed.

“I was high than a motherfucka, I forgot all about shit,” Dre answered, rubbing the back of his head.

Grabbing the joystick again, Don continued to play the video game. He said, “Dre, you'se a ignorant motherfucka if I ever seen one. You don't use yo gotdamn brain at all.” Don fell silent as he concentrated on his game and searched his brain for a way to get hold of a lot of money fast. Dre chattered incessantly in his ear, but over the years Don had learned to ignore his talkative friend when necessary. Sensing that Don was scheming, Dre was just about to walk away when he spoke.

“Dre, is yo big brother still slinging all that dope in the Wells?” Don asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Do that nigga still hide his money in y'all basement?”

Apprehensively Dre nodded his head up and down. He could tell from the look on Don-Don's face that he was getting another one of his infamous brainstorms—and that usually meant trouble.

“Run to the crib and get a gee, I'll round up the fellas,” Don ordered.

“Damn, a thousand dollars, man. I don't know about that shit. What if we lose that shit? My brother would kill me. You know that nigga be sweating about pennies and
shit. Always crying broke. Then them nigga at the court could get on some bullshit. What if them niggas don't want to pay us if we win?”

“Dre, my nonbeliever of a friend, we don't plan on losing. You know that them niggas can't do shit with us on no basketball court. Ain't a nigga that be with them that can play no ball for real. And if they try not to pay us after we beat they ass, I'll kill one of them studs. Now quit asking all them damn questions and go get that paper; Imma take care of everything. We'll have them ends back before you brother know it's gone.”

Don's silver tongue managed to put Dre's fears to rest, so he hastily exited the pool hall to filch the money from his brother's stash. Don lost the last man on his video game. While the word
continue
flashed on the screen, he dug in his pockets to try to find another quarter, but he didn't have one.

“Oh well,” he said as he looked around the pool hall and began calling the names of his friends. “Keno, Carlos, Big Man, y'all check it out. Y'all want to make some quick money doing what we do best?” he asked when the three youngsters were within earshot.

“Don-Don, you ain't even got to ask us no stupid shit like that,” Big Man drawled in his usual countrified manner.

Don said, “Alright. Just hold tight til Dre come back, then we gone go over to Harper Court and shoot the lights out them niggas that run with Diego.”

Excited at the prospect of easy money, the small group
exited the pool hall. They sat on garbage cans in the mouth of a nearby alley for shade from the glowing midday sun. Don took off his hat and pulled the half of blunt from the headband of his fitted cap. He lit it and took a few puffs, then passed it to his friends. Dante was the first among them to choke. They laughed at their friend as he gagged and spit with tears in his eyes. Dre ran past them headed for the pool hall.

“Yo, Dr. Dre! Dre!” Don yelled.

Dre backpedaled and peeked into the alley. He had to shield his eyes so that he could see his friends clearly. His right hand was shoved into the pocket of his jeans like he was holding on to something extremely valuable.

Don asked, “Did you get it?”

Breathlessly Dre nodded his head.

Don jumped down from the garbage can. He addressed the troops. “C'mon y'all. Let's go hit these niggas up for this paper. I'm telling y'all, when we get out here don't be playing no games with these studs. Don't underestimate 'em either. The minute we start playing them studs like they sweet, they can sneak up and get a win. Don't be on no soft shit neither. If we got to fight for every loose ball and every call we on that shit. If they want to throw they hands up, then we gone be some fighting motherfuckers 'cause we here to get this paper. Y'all got it?”

Everybody agreed.

Lighthearted at the prospect of winning some easy
money, the five friends started the short journey to Harper Court. They were all in a good mood except Dre, who couldn't think about having a good time until his big brother's money was safely back in its hiding place in the basement. When they reached Harper Court they saw Diego and his usual band of flunkies, selling drugs and shooting baskets. The basketball court was a front for the dealers to sell their merchandise under the guise of being avid sports competitors. The five boys walked through the gate and stepped onto the court. Diego was sitting on a bench with a couple of girls who looked too young for him to be hollering at, but he was leering at them like they were supermodels.

Don called out to him. “Diego, what's up, yo? Let me holla at choo.”

Diego left the bench and met Don and his crew in the middle of the court.

Jerking his thumb in Dre's direction, Don said, “My nigga told me that y'all studs was up here talking crazy 'bout what you would do to us on the court. It sound like you studs want to donate some of that drug money.”

“You ain't said shit slick,” Diego said. “We right here, we got a ball and we standing on a court.”

“Whoa, pimp. Slow it down. I seem to remember my man telling me something about three-to-one odds. It sounded to me like you was just woofin'. Ain't that right fellas? 'Cause I know you ain't got no paper like that.”

Even though Diego didn't have as much money as he pretended,
there was no way that he could let Don and his crew, or his own cronies, know that. That information could damage his reputation and people would stop treating him like he was big-time. Besides, he knew that Don and his boys couldn't have that much money anyway. He knew that they didn't serve or work regular jobs, so how much scratch could they have gotten hold of? He decided to call Don's bluff.

“Yeah, nigga, I said it. I ain't biting my tongue neither. Let me see yo money, frontin'-ass nigga.”

Whipping out the thousand dollars, Don offered the money to Diego to count. Diego eyed the deceivingly thin bankroll but refused to touch it. He tried to guess the amount of bills hidden from his view by the ten-dollar bill on top. It looked to him like it couldn't have been more than fifty bucks.

Diego laughed. “You niggas come up in here acting like y'all got big paper. We can play for that little shit. I'll give y'all five-to-one odds.”

Don and his friends joined in Diego's laughter. Turning to the growing crowd of curious onlookers, Don said, “Y'all heard the wetback, right? He said that he gone give us five-to-one odds. For all of y'all that failed math or just don't know shit, that mean for every one dollar we got, he gone put up five dollars.”