Tales from da Hood (17 page)

Mason cut Cojack with his eyes, spat on the ground, and continued on as he was escorted into the back of a police car. It had been tormenting for Cojack to sit there in Mason's apartment and kick it with him over a few drinks. Everything in him wanted to inform Mason that he was onto his rat ass. Fuck what the Feds were going to do to him—Cojack wanted to blow his brains out. But he just sat back cool, thinking about the aftermath. Later Cojack
planned to run up in Mason's spot and take every goddamn dime he had. He wouldn't even have enough to pay his attorney. There was no doubt in his mind that Mason had come up big time from working with the gang, his $230,000 and the Nigerian hit. Yeah, this nigga was strap for sho. But first Cojack had other business that needed handling and he needed to take care of it before Mason was allowed any phone calls because Cojack put everything on it that he knew exactly who Mason would call. So just as soon as Cojack watched Mason ride away in the back of a police car, men mugging him down until he was out of sight, Cojack jumped into his car and headed off to take care of his next order of business.

Robbin was none the wiser when Cojack showed up at her apartment acting his normal self. He had given himself a pep talk before entering her apartment, telling himself that no matter what he wouldn't put his hands around her neck and squeeze the life out of her, not taking his eyes off of hers until every ounce of breath had exited her body. Cojack entered and she began her normal flirting routine. He had pretended that he had just done some heroin and that he wanted her to be high too when they had sex. Cojack had prepared a package especially for her. It was uncut, raw, strong. Robbin didn't know what hit her when it started taking effect on her body. It would be days before she would be found in her apartment bed, dead from a heroin overdose.

“Yeah, muthafuckas, two can play at that game,” Cojack said to himself as he sat at his living room table counting all the money he had jacked from Mason's spot as an episode of
The Sopranos
played on his big television. He laughed as he thought about the expression on Mason's face once he found out that he didn't have shit. “What goes around comes around, the law of life and nature itself.” He laughed again.

As far as Cojack was concerned, it was on and muthafuckas was about to feel his wrath. He didn't feel pain no more. He didn't need
heroin no more. He had a new high. He was born again in a sense. Yes, he fell, but now it was time to get back up. He would beat this monster called heroin. It had been a long time since he felt so much excitement. Now he could feel the same anticipation Mason experienced in the course of perfecting his plot. He exhaled as he picked up the remote control. As he flicked through the TV channels, a smile covered his face. Relaxing his head against the soft pillow cushion of his couch, he gazed up at the ceiling and mumbled, “Ain't no fun when the rabbits got the gun!”

Put down by Akbar Pray, picked up by many

IN
THE BACK
of a dark brown UPS van, the three checked their gear. For the third time Furquan looked in his carryall to make sure they had not forgotten the duct tape, handcuffs, or rope. His movements were quick, and his eyes darted around nervously. Although Malik assured Furquan that they probably would not need the guns, Furquan put a round in the chamber, engaged the safety, and hid his nine in the small of his back.

Malik was husky, about six feet two inches, with a quiet air of authority. “All right,” he said as he turned the ignition and started the van. “I'm gonna pull up to that phone booth down the street. DuJuanna, hop out and make the call. Then we on from there.”

Sitting across from Malik and Furquan, DuJuanna rolled up her long hair into a bun and tucked it under a brown cap that also had UPS stenciled across the front. She handed a cap to both Malik and Furquan and put on a pair of black aviator sunglasses that hid
her green eyes. Built like a brick house, she filled out the UPS uniform perfectly.

As the van moved down the street, Furquan's mind drifted back to his and Malik's last caper and the short money they had come up with.

“Yo, Malik,” Furquan said as soon as DuJuanna had gotten out of the van. “You sure your cousin is sitting on forty or fifty thousand and this ain't some more yeast shit like that last caper we rode on?”

“Listen, Fu, if you starting to get cold feet, nigga, just say so. I don't be doing no perpetrating. The nigga sold drugs in the Seth Boyden projects for years before he opened his video store. He's sitting on at least that,” Malik growled with a hard edge to his voice.

“Nigga, I don't know what cold feet feel like and I ain't scared of nothing that shit between two humps and that includes a Silver Back,” Furquan retorted, screwing up his face.

“Yo, I hope y'all don't start that arguing shit again,” DuJuanna remarked as she climbed back into the van and looked at their faces.

“Let's just get this shit over with so I can take off this fuckin’ uniform.”

“Let's do this then,” Malik said as he turned the ignition and pulled away from the curb.

JANET DAWSON
spotted her two boys placing bulbs on the Christmas tree and smiled to herself as her younger son, Antwan, came stumbling toward her, carrying a candy apple red Christmas bulb. She reached down to pick up her son and thought that life could not be better.

Carl Senior had just put the down payment on a second video store, she was expecting their third child, and both her boys had bright futures. They would never have to deal drugs the way their father once did. They would never have to live in the projects and
hustle out on the streets. She and Carl Senior had made sure of that.

“Daddy, you want me to get the presents out of the basement?” little Carl Junior asked as he stepped through the kitchen's open door and walked hurriedly toward his father. Carl Junior was the spitting image of his dad, whereas Antwan had his mother's features.

“Hold it down, shorty,” Carl Senior said to his son, faking anger before smiling. “Do you want your little brother to hear you?”

“Nah, Dad, I just wanted to help you and Ma,” Carl Junior replied, looking up at his father. The phone rang and Carl Senior picked it up.

A few minutes later, Janet came into the kitchen and asked, “Baby, who was that on the phone?” She rubbed her slightly protruding belly as Antwan clung to her skirt.

“UPS,” Carl replied, replacing the wall phone in its cradle. “They wanted to make sure we were home and that they had the right address. They said they were only a few minutes from here and would be dropping off a package that we need to sign for.”

“Did they say who it was from, baby?” Janet asked.

“No, but I guess we'll find that out when they get here. I bet it's a present for the boys from your crazy-ass aunt.”

Janet laughed. “Well, tight as things are this month, a few extra presents wouldn't hurt.”

Carl Senior stood up and kissed her. “I know I had to put a lot down on that second store, but it'll be worth it. Wait and see. I'm gonna leave a video store empire to my sons.”

Janet pulled back from him and glanced down at her belly.

“And maybe your daughter, too,” she said.

“That's right,” he said, putting his hand on her stomach. “All my kids.”

“ALL RIGHT
, WE
'RE HERE
,
” Malik announced as he pulled into the driveway of the Dawson house. “DuJuanna, put your sunglasses back on and get the clipboard. Fu, you ready, man?”

“Nigga, I was born ready,” Furquan responded, putting on his aviator glasses and checking the gun tucked at his back.

“Yeah, yeah, man, whatever. Just make sure you got all of them handcuffed and blindfolded before I come in. Click the porch light on and off when y'all ready for me.”

Fu exited the truck with a package in hand and headed to the Dawsons’ doorstep. DuJuanna followed. Once they reached the doorstep, Fu knocked. Janet looked through the peephole and saw two UPS carriers. This must be the package Carl was talking about, Janet thought to herself as she answered the door.

“Ms. Dawson?” Fu asked as he set the box down with DuJuanna close behind him.

“Yes. Do you mind bringing it in the hallway?” Janet asked. “I'm expecting, and I can't pick up anything too heavy.” Just then, Antwan approached his mother bashfully. “Antwan, stop. Come from behind Mommy's dress.” Janet turned to the deliveryman.

“I'm sorry about that. My son is acting so weird. He's generally not afraid of strangers.”

Antwan came from behind his mother and ran to the back of the house.

“Carl, your package is here,” Janet yelled as DuJuanna handed her the clipboard.

“Coming,” Carl said, heading toward the front of the house with Carl Junior walking in lockstep with him.

As Carl walked into the front hall, he saw two UPS agents talking to his wife. He noticed that the UPS girl was attractive, and then thought it was a little odd that there were two deliverers. Must be a heavy package, he thought. He was about to smile as he came abreast of the male agent, but something about the firm set of the
agent's jaw and his aggressive body posture pulled him up short. His street instincts kicked in, and he realized that something didn't feel right. Too late, Carl also noticed the delivery guy had one hand behind his back, a hand that suddenly came forward holding a gun.

“All right, muthafucka, put your hands up and get against the wall,” Furquan snapped as he pointed the gun at Carl Junior's head.

“Oh my God, what do you want?” Janet screamed, reaching out to grab little Carl by his hand and drawing him to her side.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch, and get your ass against the wall,”

Furquan hissed, “before I slap the shit out of you.”

“Man, what do y'all want?” Carl asked and faced the pair.

“Nigga, turn your ass back around and face the muthafuckin’ wall,” Furquan commanded as he slammed the butt of his nine against Carl's forehead.

Janet screamed as she watched Carl sink to the floor, where a pool of blood began forming from the open gash on his forehead.

“Oh my God, what are y'all doing?”

“Daddy!” Little Carl shouted, running to his father, Carl Senior was sprawled out awkwardly in the small vestibule. “Daddy, get up. Get up, Daddy,” Little Carl repeatedly screamed with tears rolling down his face.

“I'm okay,” Carl murmured as he tried to clear his head while wiping away the blood that was flowing into his eyes. “Go back over there by your mom.”

DuJuanna took out four pairs of handcuffs and a roll of duct tape.

“Stand up and put your hands behind your back,” DuJuanna demanded. Carl struggled to his feet. “That goes for you, too, Ms. Thang. Put your hands behind your back and face that wall,” she instructed Janet.

MALIK SAT
in the van nervously puffing on a Camel cigarette. It felt as if Furquan and DuJuanna had been in the house for hours. He looked at his watch and realized it had really been less than ten minutes.

“Shit, they still should be finished by now,” he muttered to himself while glancing up and down the street and then back at the house. Maybe something went wrong, he thought. He took a short drag on his cigarette before putting it out. Just as Malik was about to get out of the van to go inside and check on things, the porch light flashed on and off.

DuJuanna stood in the doorway with the screen door slightly ajar as Malik walked up the short path leading to the house.

“We got all three of them downstairs in the basement tied up,”

DuJuanna said as they walked to the back of the house and down the small flight of stairs leading to the basement. In the middle of the floor near a green felt pool table, Carl, Janet, and Little Carl lay on their stomachs, blindfolded, with their mouths duct-taped and their hands cuffed behind their backs.

“Where's the baby?” Malik whispered to DuJuanna.

“He ran when we first came in, but I don't think we have to worry about him, he don't look to be no more than two or three.”

“All right, fuck him, let's get started and get the fuck outta here,” Malik replied.

Furquan walked around the pool table, stopping between Carl and Janet, bending down so that he was talking almost directly in Carl's ear.

“Listen, nigga, I ain't gonna say this but one time, where the muthafuckin’ money?”

“Yo, man,” Carl began, trying his best to steady the tremor of fear in his voice. “All we have is our weekend receipts from the store. You can have that, man.”

“Bitch, do you think I'm a goddamn fool? We know you was
rolling, nigga, and we know you got bank,” Furquan hissed in Carl's ear. He turned and kicked Janet sharply in the stomach. Janet's muffled scream escaped the duct tape and sent shivers up Carl's spine.

“You think we fuckin’ around, nigga?” Furquan shouted, standing up straight and kicking Janet again in the side. “You must be trying to get your bitch kilt.”

“Listen, please don't kick her again,” Carl managed to mumble through his duct-taped, swollen lips. “I have some jewelry, man, plus my wife's wedding rings and the money from the store. Man, just take all of that and leave her alone.” Tears seeped from behind the blindfold and ran down his swollen cheeks as he muttered his plea.