“Sup, Snake,” the dark-skinned boy addressed Snake Eyes, but never took his eyes off Gutter.
“Sup, lil nigga. I see y'all fools out here banging on each other.” Snake Eyes gave him dap.
“Fuck this nigga.” The dark-skinned boy spat blood on the floor. “Bitch nigga trying to put shit on Suicide, so I had to school 'em out.” The young man paused for a minute and then turned to Gutter. “Sup, cuz, we know each other or something? Where you from?”
“Say what?” Gutter asked, surprised.
“Watch yo mouth, Lil Gunn,” Snake cut in. “That ain't no way to talk to your family.”
“Gunn?” Gutter said with recognition finally setting in. The reason the young man looked so familiar was because Gutter had been there the day his mother had given birth to him.
Tariq “Lil Gunn” Soladine was the child of Big Gunn and a woman named Stacia, who originally hailed from Watts. Back when Big Gunn was on a come-up, Stacia had been his ride-or-die bitch. She loaded the guns and he dropped Brims with them. She knew Gunn was on his way to being a ghetto superstar, and wanted her piece of the pie. Everything was gravy until she got pregnant with Tariq. Stacia felt that since she was now Gunn's baby mama that she had papers on him. She began trying to press Gunn to marry her and square up in a big house. Gunn, being married to the streets, wasn't trying to hear it. Eventually, she absconded with the child and moved to San Francisco. She claimed it was to keep them safe from the violence Gunn was bringing to their doorstep, but most people felt it was done to spite Gunn for not marrying her. He saw the child from time to time, but other than the checks he sent once a month, they really had no contact.
“I'll be damned. Lil ass Tariq!” Gutter said in disbelief.
“Snake, who is this nigga?” Lil Gunn asked, not really making the connection.
Snake Eyes smiled. “This is your cousin, Gutter.”
Lil Gunn looked Gutter up and down, and his face began to soften. “No shit?”
“Come here, lil muthafucka.” Gutter embraced him. “Man, I ain't seen you since you was about eight or nine years old.”
“Cuz, I heard you got smoked out in New York!” Lil Gunn said excitedly.
“Don't believe rumors, fam. I took a shitload of lead from some stunting ass Brims, but can't no bullet kill a Soladine,” Gutter joked.
“I'm glad to see a real Crip among us.” Lil Gunn shot a glance over his shoulder. “My old man is taking his last breaths and these niggaz ain't trying to do shit but get faded and
talk
about shooting muthafuckas. If you ask me, the only thing these busters is shooting is their mouths.”
“Not everybody is built like us, little cousin.” Gutter stroked his beard.
“I know that's right, man. But I ain't tripping. My big cousin Gutter is home and these faggot-ass oh-las better run for cover. Man, your name is ringing all over the Coast. Yo shit is the stuff of legends. With you and me together, we gonna ride on every Brim hood in retaliation for my dad.” Lil Gunn tried to hide the pain in his voice, but Gutter caught it.
“All in due time, cousin.” Gutter placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “For now, let's get you cleaned up and us reacquainted.”
“YOU GOT
that info I asked you for, poppy?” Major Blood asked Tito as he entered the hotel suite.
Tito reached into the pocket of his jeans and handed Major Blood a folded piece of paper. Tito narrated as his superior read the printout. “My home girl tracked that down for me. The top is a job address for Gutter's girl, Sharell.”
Major nodded as he looked over the sheet. “Bet I got a lil nigga I can put on Sharell's case and see what pops off. I'm just gonna have him watch her for now, but when I lower the curtain, I'm gonna do it real ugly on Gutter's bitch. What about that turncoat ho, Satin?”
“The address on the bottom is the hospital where she's locked up,” Tito told him. “I still don't see what you want with her though. The girl can't even wipe her own ass.”
Major nodded. “Ain't your job to wonder, T. You just handle your end of this; I got the Satin situation from here. In the
meantime rally the troops and let's get ready to mash out, Blood. It's time we made our presences felt.”
Â
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POP TOP
sat in the emergency room of Harlem Hospital flanked by China, B. T., and Hollywood. The staff shot funny glances at the ragtag bunch, to which they responded by throwing up their sets or middle fingers. Though several people had complained to security about the noise they were making, no one dared ask them to leave. As much business as they brought the hospital, they were given ambassadors' status.
C-style came from the back where Rob was being treated for his injuries wearing a grim look. She was dressed in sweatpants and a white V neck. Her hair was wrapped and pinned under the powder-blue scarf she wore. When they had called her she was already in bed, so she just jumped in her sweats without bothering to primp. Her eyes were red from crying and lack of sleep, but she didn't seem too broken up.
“What they say?” Pop Top asked.
“He took a hell of a beating.” She sighed. “They blackened his eye, and he'll look like Jimmie Walker for a while, but he'll live.”
“Did he get into a fight or something after I left him?” Hollywood asked.
“That's the thing, he said he got snatched up,” she explained. “Supposedly, some of them niggaz from the other side rolled up and tossed him into a car.”
“If he was kidnapped, why didn't they ask for a ransom?” China questioned.
“I was getting to that,” C-style said. “He said they wanted him to take a message back to Gutter. âIt's a wrap for Harlem.'”
“These niggaz got nerve,” Hollywood said, picking his tooth
with a manicured pinky nail. “Trying to tell my dude how to do what he do. You'd think that after we laid down damn near an entire set that they'd finally realize that we ain't to be fucked with.”
“Them niggaz knew he was with us, and they fucked him up anyway. They outta pocket.” B. T. shook his head.
“Yo, they fucked him up real bad, fellas. What're we gonna do?” C-style asked.
“Okay, okay.” Pop Top stood up. “The last time I checked, I was running Harlem. We gonna handle these niggaz who touched our brother. They're gonna learn the hard way how we play.”
“Maybe we should call Gutter?” China asked.
“Nah, we ain't gonna do that,” Top said quickly. “I can handle this shit. Was Rob able to ID anybody?”
“Yeah, Tito from L.C. and some other dudes. He said he'd never seen them around before so maybe it was a joint effort,” C-style told him.
“Fuck 'em all then,” Pop Top declared. “Snake-ass muthafucka, we should've killed his ass years ago. But you know what; I got a trick for that bean-eating muthafucka. They wanna touch our fam, we gonna touch their pockets.” Everyone looked at him curiously, but he didn't elaborate. Pop Top was always secretive when it came to murder, as everyone should be.
Rob was the hardheaded son of a square mother, but he was like a little brother to most of the members assembled. The group filed out of the emergency room, each lost in his or her own thoughts about what would come of Rob's beating and the seemingly endless war with their sworn enemies. B. T.'s cell going off caused him to slow up. When he looked at the caller ID he hung back a bit from the group. Only when he was sure the crew was out of earshot did he pick up the phone.
“Yo?” he answered.
“Sup, son?” the voice on the other end taunted.
“Man, I can't talk right now I got something on the ball.” B. T. tried to rush the caller.
“Well, yo shit is gonna have to wait cause I need to get up with you,
now,
” the caller insisted.
“Loc, I told you I'm in the middle of something. I can't just dip off to come meet you.”
“Nigga, you can either come meet me or I can come to you. Imagine how it's gonna look to your homeys to see me and you chopping it up like old friends. You know the deal, son,” the caller shot back.
B. T. was so angered by the threat that he could've roared. He had been doing side business with the caller for the last few months without anyone finding out, and now that was threatened because his partner wanted to flex his power. He made a mental note to address the issue once he was in a better position. Before he could utter a response, he heard footsteps behind him.
“Nigga, what you doing?” China approached.
“Ah, nothing,” B. T. stuttered. “Just taking care of something. Look,” he said into the phone, “I'll be there.” He ended the call.
“Man, why you look all irritated?” China questioned.
“These hoes getting on my last nerve.” B. T. gave a fake chuckle.
“You need to be more like Hollywood. He's got his hoes in check,” China pointed out. “Now, let's hit the block so we can get to the bottom of this Rob shit.”
“I can't,” B. T. blurted out. “I mean, I got some shit I gotta handle.”
“What's more important than handling business for the crew?” China raised his eyebrow.
“Stop being so nosey, slant-eyed muthafucka. Man, I'll hook up with you later.”
B. T. strode from the emergency room exit, while China looked on. There was something about B. T.'s behavior that didn't sit right with him. B. T. was always a shifty-acting cat, but something was different this time. China decided he would keep an eye on his comrade and see what he could discover before taking his suspicions to the crew.
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B. T. STOOD
in the parking lot of Western Beef, chain-smoking. Every time he heard a car, or saw a group of people, his body tensed up. The last thing he needed was for someone to spot him and report it back to the homeys. He had been a Crip for a long time, since even before Lou-Loc and Gutter came to New York. In those days, he was a respected member, and even had his own territory. The Cali native had changed that.
Lou-Loc had not only whipped his ass in front of his friends, but he had also stripped him of all rank and title. B. T. was reduced to nothing more than a soldier, trying to keep his head above water. When the opposing team had come to him, he was skeptical about the whole idea. He was a Crip, but what had it gotten him so far? He gave them loyalty, and was rewarded with disrespect. His plan was to work with the Bloods until he got what he wanted, then set out a piece of the pie for his comrades. He never planned for anyone to get hurt in the process, but he reasoned that you had to break a few eggs to make an omelet. What he was doing was beyond fucked-up, but the fact that no one from his gang respected him was his motive.
B. T. spotted the car he was waiting for, and tried to pull himself together. The red Taurus pulled into the lot and parked a few cars from where he was standing. There weren't many cars in the lot at that hour, but they found two to hide between. Tito came
walking in his direction, followed by Miguel, Eddie, and a man he didn't know. His antennas screamed danger, but he brushed it off and stepped out to meet his partners.
“Sup, Big Time.” Tito extended his hand.
“Cut that small talk, Tito. What you want, man?” B. T. looked around.
“Damn, you niggaz is antisocial 'round this bitch,” Major commented.
“Fuck is this nigga?” B. T. looked him up and down.
“This is the cat I called you out here to meet,” Tito explained. “Major”âTito turned to himâ“this is our inside man. B. T.”
Major Blood studied B. T. momentarily before speaking again. “So, you the turncoat muthafucka that's willing to sell his crew down the river?”
“Fuck you. Dead rag-ass nigga,” B. T. spat. “You don't know me.”
“You're right. I don't know you, and don't wanna know you. These niggaz said you could help further our cause, and that's the only reason I'm here. Don't flatter yourself, young'n.”
“Yo, Tito,” B. T. addressed his contact, “I ain't come all the way out this bitch to be insulted by this chump. If you got some business, let's talk about it. If not, I'm out.”
“Everybody be cool,” Tito said, trying to defuse the situation. “We're all on the same side. Major Blood is from the West Coast, so his style is a little different. He ain't mean nothing by it.”
“Whatever. So, what y'all need?”
“What we need is information,” Major cut in. “They say you know the ins and outs of Gutter's operation, so spill. I need names and addresses, starting with that Bible-toting bitch of his.”
“Sharell? I really can't say. I know he moved her out of Harlem. Brooklyn, I think,” B. T. replied.
“Where in Brooklyn?”
“Didn't I just say I don't know?”
“Okay. What about a mistress?”
“Gutter fucks with bitches here and there, but nobody he really gives a fuck about.”
“What about his routines.” Major tried a different angle. “Where does he hang out? What restaurants does he take his broads to?”
“He ain't got no set patterns. Mostly he just bounces in and out of the hood. Beyond that, I don't know.” B. T. shrugged.
“Tito, I thought you said this nigga was useful?” Major Blood asked over his shoulder.
“Yo, you got a lot of sideways shit with you, fam,” B. T. said angrily.
“B. T.,” Tito cut in, “Major Blood is here to help us knock Gutter off his high horse. Now, if I remember correctly, that's what you wanted, wasn't it?”
“Yeah, but that don't mean I gotta listen to this faggot pop shit. Besides, I don't think Gutter is gonna take too kindly to you niggaz doing his young boy like that. You might wanna watch ya back,” B. T. said smugly.
Major Blood laughed at that. “You let me worry about Gutter, homey. I'll deal with King Crip when the time comes, but right now he ain't an issue. Dismantling your fag-ass set is the order of business, so play your fucking position, crab.”
B. T.'s eyes flashed rage, and he thought about taking a swing at the stranger, but the coward in him stayed his hand. “Check this shit out, cuz, I've been helping y'all niggaz take out key players, and I think that counts for something, so you might wanna stop talking all crazy to me. When I get some more info, I'll float it to you.”
“Fair enough.” Tito nodded. “If Blood ain't got no more questions for you, we out.”
“Actually, I do have a question,” Major spoke up. “Why?”
“Why what?” B. T. asked, confused.
“Why cross yo peoples like this? I know they've done some greasy shit, but you're still a Crip. How can you set your own up to be slaughtered?”
“Gutter ain't mine. Him and his faggot-ass man came out here acting like they running shit. It's about time somebody checked his ass. Besides, this shit ain't personal. It's strictly business.”
“Strictly business.” Major laughed. “I'll be sure they put that on your tombstone.” Out of nowhere, Major Blood hit B. T. with a left. He staggered from the blow, but it was the right hook that put him on his ass. He lay on the ground, dazed and leaking from his nose.
“I never could stand a rat.” Major Blood shook his head while kneeling over B. T. The turncoat suddenly found it very difficult to focus his eyes, but he caught flashes of Major Blood taking something out of his pocket. B. T. tried to say something, but all that came out was a wet, gurgling sound as Major Blood cut his throat.