9
“Yo, this better be mad important,” Brian said as Will opened the door. “Carla's mom ain't home. I could be chillin' right now.”
Will shrugged. “Yo, don't be mad at me, son. I didn't call for this.”
Brian frowned. He didn't want to be there. Not only because Carla's mother would be gone for a few hours, but more so because he really didn't want to talk business. The three-man cartel's luck was running out. Brian could feel it in his bones. They'd been lucky with the Laundromat. Lucky that neither Patel nor his wife had been seriously injured. Lucky that Will hadn't said more than he had. And they'd been lucky that nothing further had escalated between Will and Tyrel.
But Brian knew that luck wouldn't be on their side much longer. He'd been tempted to say he couldn't make the meeting, but as badly as he wanted to, he'd never backed out on his boys. So there he was. Reluctantly, with a churning in the pit of his stomach.
He stepped past Will and walked into the living room, where Tyrel was sitting on the couch next to Will's little brother, Marcus, playing
Madden NFL
on the Xbox 360. “What up, son,” he said to Tyrel as he sat down beside Marcus.
“Sup,” Tyrel said, his jaw hard, his eyes focused intensely on the flat screen. His body was rigid as his fingers furiously worked the buttons and control stick on the game's controller. By the look in his eyes, the baring of his teeth, and the smile plastered on Marcus's face, it was obvious that Tyrel wasn't having a good game.
“Come on, nigga!” Tyrel said, shoving Marcus with his elbow. “Stop fuckin' cheatin'.”
“Man, I ain't cheatin',” Marcus said, his voice giddy.
“Whatever, nigga. There ain't no way you could run that bullshit-ass play three times in a row and keep getting twenty yards every ma'fuckin' time without cheatin'.”
Marcus laughed. “Maybe you just need to practice.”
Tyrel shoved Marcus again. “Whatever, nigga.”
Brian exhaled as his thoughts went to Carla. He really was trying to spend more time with her. “Yo, son, put that shit on pause. Let's talk and get it over with.”
“Nigga, don't you see I'm tryin' to keep from getting embarrassed?”
“I'm just sayin',” Brian countered. “Carla's mom ain't home.”
“Nigga, just chill. Carla's pussy ain't runnin' nowhere.”
“Yo,” Will said from a chair beside Brian. “Watch the language, son.”
Tyrel looked over at him. He said, “Nigga, please,” and then focused back on the game.
Brian shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. He wanted to protest again, but knew there was no point to it. He looked over at Will, who looked at him and shrugged again.
Brian looked at the television screen. Tyrel was playing as the Eagles, using Michael Vick as quarterback, while Marcus played as the New York Giants. Marcus had a two-touchdown lead and had the ball on Tyrel's twenty-yard line. He hiked the ball, faked a run to the right, rolled out of the pocket to the left, avoided a rush from the defense, and threw a bullet toward the back of the end zone for another touchdown.
“Goddamn!” Tyrel yelled, slamming the controller down to the carpeted floor. “Don't tell me your ass ain't cheatin', nigga.”
Marcus laughed. “I told you, you need to practice, nigga.”
“Man, fuck you!” Tyrel stood up and looked at Will. “Your li'l brother's a fuckin' cheater, son.”
Will raised his eyebrows. “Yo, he lives and breathes
Madden.
”
“Whatever, nigga.” He looked down at Marcus. “I'ma get your sister to come and beat your ass like she did in boxing.”
“Nah, nigga,” Tyrel said, laughing. “You just need to practice.”
Brian and Will both laughed as Marcus pouted. Tyrel slapped Marcus heavily in the back of his head, prompting an “ow” from the twelve-year-old.
Tyrel looked at Brian. “You ready now, son.”
“Been,” Brian said, standing up.
Tyrel walked off to Will's room with Brian and Will in tow. When they got to the room, Will closed the door behind them, while Tyrel sat down on his bed. “Fuckin' cheatin'-ass nigga,” he said, still fuming.
“Yo, man, it's just a game,” Will said.
“Fuck that game and fuck you and your brother,” Tyrel said.
Brian laughed.
“Shit ain't funny,” Tyrel said, glaring at him.
Brian put his hand on his stomach. “Yeah, it is,” he said, laughing harder.
Tyrel gave him a hard look, and then, seconds later, joined him in laughter. “Fuckin' kids,” he said. “All they do is play that shit. I ain't playin' wit' his ass no more.”
The three of them laughed hard for a few more seconds, until Tyrel said, “A'ight, we got business to talk about.”
Brian and Will stopped laughing immediately.
“What's up?” Brian asked, taking a seat in a chair.
“We about to be paid,” Tyrel said.
“Didn't you say that about the Laundromat?” Will asked.
Tyrel gave him a deathly stare that gave Brian the chills. “Nigga,” he said, his voice low and taut, “do yourself a favor and don't bring that shit up again.”
Even though he'd moved on since that night, it was obvious that Will's actions still left a bitter taste in his mouth. Will gave a nod and didn't say anything else.
“Anyway,” Tyrel continued, “the Laundromat wasn't what it was supposed to be, but we still got some cheddar for the night. But now I'm talking about coming off with some real money.”
“How?” Will asked.
Brian frowned. He had no interest in how.
“Check cashing,” Tyrel said with a sinister smile.
“Check cashing?” Will asked. “You talking about hittin' Old Man Blackwell's joint?”
“Hell yeah, nigga,” Tyrel said.
Brian sat forward in his seat. “Yo, Blackwell is like everyone's grandfather around here. We can't fuck with his spot. He looks out for all of us around here.”
“Fuck that shit, son,” Tyrel said. “He got mad dough in there. We could roll outta there wit' at least sixty thousand easily.”
“No shit,” Will said with a gleam in his eyes.
Brian shook his head. “Yo, son, I don't care how much money we could pull in, we ain't hittin' Blackwell's spot.”
Tyrel looked at Brian with a tight jaw. “What you mean
we
ain't hittin' his spot? What, you the leader now, nigga? You the coach calling all the plays now?”
“It's not about me tryin' to be the leader, Ty. All I'm sayin' is Old Man Blackwell's always looked out for us ever since we were kids. He's always been fair and he's always shown us respect. He don't deserve to be disrespected like that. At least, not by us.”
Tyrel sucked his teeth and raised the corner of his mouth while cocking an eyebrow. “Fuck that shit, nigga. Is Blackwell puttin' money in your pocket?” He looked at Will. “Is that nigga payin' your bills, son?”
Will shook his head.
“Shit.” He pounded his right fist into his left palm. “This is about survival, son. Old Man Blackwell ain't starvin' and he sure ain't gonna fuckin' die.”
“Yo,” Brian said, his fists clenched. “I hear what you're sayin', but we can't hit his spot.”
“Fuck that, nigga. For thirtysome Gs or more, I'll hit any ma'fuckin' body.”
“Yo,” Will cut in. “You really think we could pull that much?”
Tyrel turned to him. “Nigga, everyone be cashin' their shit over there.”
“What about security though?”
“Big Mike already checked the shit out. Blackwell ain't got but one security camera, and that reformed cokehead, Rich, workin' wit' him. There ain't no security to worry about. All we gotta do is roll in, keep our fuckin' mouths closed,” he said, staring hard at Will, “and do what the fuck we need to do and then roll out.”
Brian shook his head emphatically. “Nah, man, we can't do it. Blackwell don't deserve that. Not from us.”
“Nigga, what the fuck is your problem?” Tyrel snapped. “Did you not hear me say how much we can pull? What, you suddenly get rich and don't need the money?”
“Yo, Brian,” Will said, looking at him. “I hear what you're saying. I respect and like Old Man Blackwell too, but . . . shit is rough out here. I can bust my ass all I want at work, but I won't ever see that kind of cash. And I need it, son. I got Marcus and Charmaine to think about.”
“I feel you, Will,” Brian said, understanding his dilemma. “But that shit ain't right.”
Tyrel stood up. “Nigga, what ain't right is you willin' to pass up on some real cheese.”
“You gotta draw the line somewhere, son.”
“So, what, you sayin' that you bailin' out on your niggas?”
Brian shook his head. “Nah, I ain't sayin' that.”
“So then you in.”
Brian gritted his teeth and exhaled a heavy breath. “I . . . I can't do it, son.”
“So then you bailin' out on your niggas.”
Brian frowned. “Manâ”
“Yo, which is it, son?” Tyrel cut in. “You either in or out. If you in, cool. But if you out, then you bailin' on us.”
Brian rose from the bed. “Why it gotta be me bailin' on you, Ty?”
“Because that's what it is. We a three-man cartel, son.”
“I know. Shit,” Brian said, frustrated at the predicament he was in.
“So are you in or not?” Tyrel asked.
“Yeah, man,” Will added. “Are you down?”
Brian looked over at him. “It's that easy, Will?” he asked.
Will shrugged. “I got my li'l brother and sister to look after.”
“And what if something goes wrong, Will? What're Marcus and Charmaine gonna do if you're not around?”
“Ain't nothin' gonna happen, nigga,” Tyrel said. “Brian, man, why you being such a bitch about this?”
Brian flared his nostrils, took a breath, held it for a second, and then exhaled. He looked from Will's pleading gaze to Tyrel's cold one.
His boys or Old Man Blackwell.
A man who'd known him since he was two. A man who used to lend him money for pizza when his mother had none. A man who always used to ask about his grades, who always seemed to be concerned as to what he wanted out of his life, and whether or not he was on the right path.
Old Man Blackwell or his boys.
Boys who knew him better than anyone. Boys who'd been with him through thick and thin. Boys who would do anything for him. Go to war for him. Boys who would never choose or put anyone else above him.
Old Man Blackwell or his boys.
Brian shook his head again. “I . . . I gotta think, son,” he said, his voice low.
“Think?” Tyrel said. By the tone in his voice, it was obvious that he'd expected a different answer. Had it been any other place, as much as he didn't want to do it, Brian would most likely have given the answer Tyrel wanted to hear. But they were talking about hitting Old Man Blackwell's place, and, whether they liked it or not, the decision wasn't an easy one to make. “Are you for real, son?”
“Yeah, man,” Brian said. “I'm for real. I need to think about it.”
Tyrel laughed, though it was hardly one filled with amusement. “Can you believe this nigga, Will? He has to think about sellin' his boys out. That's some fucked-up shit, right?”
Will looked at Brian and frowned, but remained silent.
“Yo, fuck you, Ty. I ain't sellin' nobody out.”
Tyrel stepped toward Brian. Not stopping until his face was inches away from Brian's. “No, fuck
you
, nigga,” he said, his tone acerbic. “You a fuckin' bitch ass, son,” he spat.
Brian's heart beat heavily as he closed fists at his sides. Fighting was nothing to him, but he'd never fought his boy. “Yo, Ty, back down, son.”
“Or what, nigga?” Ty challenged, decreasing the inches between them.
“Ty,” Brian said, his heart beating faster, “I ain't tryin' to beef with you, a'ight? Just step down.”
“Fuck you, nigga. I step down for nobody.”
Brian ground his teeth together, and flared his nostrils. He'd known only bad things were coming. He should have just stayed with Carla.