People made a lot of noise about respect. Most of them didn’t know what the word meant.
Pappy did. He wanted people to look up to him because they thought he was a golden fucking god when it came to what he did, not like they looked up to Black because they were afraid to look down while he pissed on their feet. It was a different kind of power.
It was the same with the girls, but in a different way.
Some of them were attracted to Black and the crew who surrounded him because they sensed his power. Some of them were drawn in by danger and the drugs—they went hand in hand. Some came for the cash, literally. So as it was stuffed into their thongs they’d moan and writhe and press up against the hand that fed, faking just how fucking hot the whole lie was. It was a house of lips, lies, and hips, and without Black it would all come tumbling down. He was the glue that stuck it all together.
Pappy walked through the front door, one pretty-looking bitch hanging off his arm. She was only there because Black had put her there. Pappy hadn’t seen her before, and really wasn’t in the mood to find out who she was. She clung to him like a clam. Black had no doubt promised her a snatch full of cash if she was nice to him. Nice. Right.
Tonya was different; she was with Black because she wanted to be, not because of what she got out of it in return. At least that was how it looked to Pappy.
She’d hung around with the crew for a couple of years. All too often she was stoned and barely able to walk on her impossibly high heels. Maybe that was how she survived. Pappy might have had a dream, but there was no guarantee someone like Tonya had one.
Or hell, maybe she had one once upon a time, but gave up on it along the way. The hood wasn’t exactly a place of fairy tales. Still, Pappy liked her, and if he’d been her fairy godfather he’d have wished her a better hand in life than the one she’d been dealt.
She hadn’t always been like this; everyone had a time before, a time when they still thought that anything was possible. Maybe that was why she treated him and Black differently than the rest of the crew. They went back. They remembered a time when she had still been all pretty and virginal and sang gospel in the church choir.
That was before her mother had died and she’d been passed from one relative who didn’t really want her to another, until she found herself with an uncle who thought that putting a roof over her head allowed him some God-given right to stick it in her like any God-fearing fucker would. So, yeah, maybe she’d had a dream before. It wasn’t impossible, just life and a fat bastard had fucked it out of her.
Black had a dream too. Or so he said: fast cars, speedboats, a fucking
Miami Vice
soundtrack playing in his head as a beautiful bitch sucked on his cock. That was his version of heaven.
Looking at Tonya just made Pappy all the more determined to hang onto his dreams.
Once they were gone, they’d be impossible to find again.
He looked at his watch. Three thirty.
The first bus out to Detroit left at seven. He was going to be on it.
“I thought you were splitting, Pappy,” Tonya said. She slurred her words a little. Her eyes were glazed. It was a permanent state of affairs.
“Soon enough,” Pappy replied.
“He don’t want you to leave, you know,” she said, like it was some great secret. “Fool needs you around more than he can say.”
The thing was, after today it didn’t matter what Black wanted anymore. It was all about what Pappy needed from now on.
It had to be.
Someone passed him a bottle of bourbon.
He sank down onto a leather sofa. The stitching sighed—it had seen its best days end with Reagan.
Despite everything, he felt comfortable here. Sometimes home didn’t have to be home. Sometimes it just had to be a good, safe place. And this was as good a place as any to spend his last night in town.
And no matter what else, Black knew how to party.
Someone turned the music up. Bass drove the rhythm—hard, pounding, incredibly sexual. This was the music of life. This was the hammer of life. Raw. Primal. The words bled into each other and he could imagine the guy, oil-slick skin, tats like tribal markings, girls coiled like snakes around his well-defined physique.
Pappy lost himself in it for a moment, grateful to forget the failure of the day. The music grew louder. He closed his eyes, felt his body shake with it. Sometimes he couldn’t express himself—he wasn’t good with words, he couldn’t say what he wanted to, not in the same way he could put something into a computer and make the thing dance to whatever tune was in his head. He wasn’t a words guy. But sometimes he could imagine himself up there, the guy behind the mic rapping out from his soul, reaching people. Making them understand. And then there were days like today, when getting wasted seemed like the best fucking idea in the world and a viable way out that didn’t involve applying to some IT department in some school where his gang tats wouldn’t serve as a reference.
He felt a hand on his thigh, then it moved on to his cock, stroking gently, insistently, and breath on his ear, warm, hungry.
She bit at his ear, and pressed down harder, grinding up against him.
“You’re such a cliché,” he said, without opening his eyes.
“And you fucking love it,” she whispered.
It was hard to argue with that.
He heard shouting somewhere, but didn’t feel like going to investigate. Let the fuckers have at it. If it kicked off then he’d know soon enough, and that would be too soon, given what her hand was doing. He didn’t even know her name.
Then there was a scream.
Then silence.
Whoever played deejay just turned the volume up, drowning out the sobs. He opened his eyes eventually with a damp patch in his lap that wasn’t from the bourbon.
The girl was gone.
There was no sign of Tonya or Black.
He saw Von and Ant arguing in the corner.
The crew.
No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, he was going to miss the niggas he grew up with.
Gee had crashed out in an armchair with a naked Latina curled up in his lap. She had spectacular tits and very little else going for her.
Pappy pushed himself up out of the sofa. The stale air was playing havoc with his head. Fuck knows what was floating in it. He needed some fresh air.
He went over to the window and cracked it open. Fresh air—or as fresh as the shithole that was the city allowed—filled his lungs. He counted to ten, exhaling on each number.
When he turned around he saw Tonya standing behind him. She had swelling around one eye and a smear of blood—already dried—staining her lower lip and chin like kids’ makeup. There was nothing cute about the image.
“Fuck, Ton,” he said, reaching out to touch her cheek, “you okay?”
She tried to force a smile. Even he could see it hurt. She had tears in her eyes. He started to instinctively hold her in his arms, but then he saw Black in the doorway, face like thunder.
“You and me, we need to talk, Pap,” Black said. He inclined his head toward the door, beckoning Pappy to follow him out of the room.
Black had that bug-fuck crazy look in his eye. It was a look that Pappy knew well. Now wasn’t the best time to stand up to him. Pappy took another glance at Tonya, but she didn’t peer back at him.
The bedroom stank of stale smoke and hot sweaty sex. There was no smell in the world like it. It filled up every inch of the place. Alive. It smelled alive. Pappy felt Black’s eyes boring deep into him. Pappy didn’t move. He waited for Black to say something. Black shook his head. Pappy felt the sweat trickle down his back. His empty stomach shrunk down to a fraction of its size.
“Tonya says I should just let you fuck off and follow your dreams,” he said, finally, as though it was the craziest shit he’d ever heard.
“We’ve had this conversation. I’ve always said I was going. This place, the whole fucking thing, it’s not me, man. Not anymore.”
“I know it’s what you
said
, Pap. But saying and doing, they’re two different things, nigga. You’re my boy. We’re like this”—he crossed his fingers and put them over his heart—“and I need you here, man, you gotta keep me straight. I’ll go fuckin’ under without you, Pap.”
“I’m sorry, man, I’m done.”
“No.” Black shook his head. “You’re done when I say you’re done. One last job. That fuckin’ shit today wasn’t a job, it was a fuckin’ piece of shit. You owe me a job. A proper fuckin’ score. I need it, man.”
“I’m not listening to this shit, Black. Get out of my fucking face, I’m out. Done. Over.”
Black stared him in the eye. “You owe me, bro. One last job. I can’t do it without you.”
“I’m not listening.”
“Of course you fuckin’ are. You haven’t pushed me out of the way, have you? No you fuckin’ haven’t, so cut the bullshit, nigga. We get this one right and I’m gone for good. We both get the life we want. Think about it, Pap. One job. A few fuckin’ hours of your life. You owe me that. We both know I’m fucked. That stupid fuckin’ guard ruined my fuckin’ life. I’m fucked. I mean, proper fucked. Any second now the fuckin’ law will come knocking on the door. They’ve seen my face on the CCTV. I can’t stay here. This ain’t no fuckin’ fortress of solitude, Pap, it’s a fuckin’ squat. And I’m no fuckin’ Superman, you dig? It won’t take them long to find out who I am.”
Pappy didn’t argue.
“Some fancy computer will go
ping
and my name will pop out and they will be looking for me. I need this job now so I can get out of town.”
“What part of
I’m done
don’t you understand?”
“The part where you think you’re saying no to me, bro. Plain and simple, you ain’t saying no. I can’t do this without you, and like I said, you owe me. I’ve been pulling your sorry ass out of the shit since Sumner Houses.”
“The only thing you’ve been pulling is your own cock, bitch.”
Black laughed. Hard. “Man, Pap, I’m gonna fuckin’ miss you when you’re dead.”
Pappy shrugged. “Why the fuck should I, man?”
“Because it’s me, Pap.” Black held out his hand. “Help me, Obi-Fuckin’-Pappy Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”
“Fuck you,” Pappy laughed. “Obi-Fucking-Pappy Kenobi? Who’s that make you? Princess Black?” He shook his head.
“Whatever it takes to get the job done.”
“No guns,” Pappy said, suddenly serious.
“Man, you don’t even need to
be
there. I just need you to do the shit you do with your computers to fuck with an alarm system, so I can get in and get out quiet as a fuckin’ church mouse, bro.”
“I could do that from anywhere.”
“You could, but I need you close.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Jeez, dude, that’s not what I’m saying. I need my people close. I like to be able to see what the fuck’s occurring as it’s fuckin’ occurring, simple as that.”
Black obviously wasn’t going to make it easy for him to walk away.
“How soon?”
“Couple of days.”
“Then we cut the cord, man. Separate ways.”
Black nodded. “A week max. I’ve been planning this for ages, I can’t do it without you. If I could, I would, I swear. And like I said, I’d really fuckin’ miss you if you were dead, man. Know what I mean?”
Pappy was already starting to think in terms of what real difference a couple of days would make, and how useful the extra cash would be, and he hated himself for it. Every time it seemed like he was seriously getting his shit together and hauling out, Black just reeled him back in with some desperate fucking promise.
“What’s a few more days?”
Black put a hand on Pappy’s neck and pulled him close. Pappy could smell sour whiskey and what he assumed was Tonya’s pussy juice on Black’s breath. He wanted to pull away. He had never felt quite so uncomfortable with the man, or with knowing just what Tonya’s honey smelled like. Black was like the sun . . . no . . . he was a fucking black hole. He just pulled you in and pulled you in until he consumed you, just like he’d consumed Ton.
“Just don’t try to fucking kiss me, nigga,” Pappy said.
Black barked out a laugh. “I knew I could count on you, Pap. Respect,” he said, his fingers digging in too deep for comfort before releasing him.
Pappy caught himself before he rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t want to show any sign of weakness. And pain was weakness.
End of Excerpt
More about
H.N.I.C.
by Albert "Prodigy" Johson with Steven Savile
Prodigy, from the legendary hip-hop group Mobb Deep, launches Akashic’s new Infamous Books imprint with a story of loyalty, vengeance, and greed.
“After reading this can’t-take-my-eyes-from-the-pages hardened street novella, I’m thinking less is much more. The authors’ writing rarely misses a beat with characters caught in a violent criminal world with no escape. The work is a breath of fresh air from lengthy, trying-too-hard-to-shock street lit and is an excellent choice for all metropolitan collections.”
—Library Journal
(starred review, Pick of the Month)
“The urban setting is unnamed but familiar in this brief, bloody tale of wasted lives lived short and hard.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Simultaneously a fast-paced crime drama and an engrossing, unsentimental moral tale,
H.N.I.C.
peers into the dark heart that underpins the codes of loyalty and friendship, betrayal and vengeance.”
—Brooklyn Daily Eagle
“In a genre that too often places incorrect ebonics in the mouths of black characters and fails to cross the empathy gap to get into their heads, Savile and Prodigy arrive at a seamless voice that is a refreshing take on crime fiction tropes . . . if tone and texture are what you’re looking for in your hardcore literature . . .
H.N.I.C.
delivers the goods.”
—Okayplayer
“
H.N.I.C.
is written by Prodigy himself and shows the extent to which good rappers can make good storytellers.”
—Brooklyn Based
“If you don’t have this novella in your library collection already, please be on the lookout for this 2013 release,
H.N.I.C.
, penned by Hip Hop artist Prodigy of the group, Mobb Deep.”
—StreetLiterature.com