Tales from da Hood (18 page)

“Nigga, what you think, we from the Itty Bitty Committee?”

Furquan said. “We ain't here for no kibbles and bits. Your black ass is sitting on fifty thou, and you gon’ unass that shit fo we leave out here.”

It had been years since Carl had that kind of money. He didn't know where this cat had gotten his information from, but they were way off. After buying the house, opening up the store, buying a family car and a car for himself, plus putting a down payment on a second store, he was lucky to have six thousand in the bank.

“Listen, my brother,” Carl began, “I—”

“Hey, nigga, I ain't ya fuckin’ brother, so don't try to play that brother shit on me,” Furquan spat.

Furquan, Malik, and DuJuanna had been in the house for over thirty minutes. Janet, who was semiconscious, was curled up in a fetal position, moaning. Malik, standing off to the side through the beatings and torture, was impatient. He walked over to Fu, touched his shoulder and motioned for him to follow him to the far side of the room.

“Listen, Fu,” Malik began as soon as they had gotten out of earshot. “This shit ain't gettin’ us nowhere.”

“You sho this nigga sittin’ on that kinda bank?” Furquan asked, his UPS jacket drenched with sweat and dried blood.

“Yeah, I'm sure. Listen, I know my cousin. The nigga is caked but the muthafucka is cheap and stubborn as hell. Thing is, he loves Janet but he worship that little boy. You got to make that nigga believe you gon’ kill Little Carl. That cheap muthafuck will come up then.

“Let me step back out of the way, then take the blindfold and the duct tape off, put the gun to Little Carl's head, and act like you gon’ kill the kid. The nigga will up them duckets then.”

Furquan put his black aviator glasses back on and walked back over to where Carl and his family lay sprawled out on the floor. “Listen, nigga, I see you think this shit is a joke.”

“Yo, I don't think—,” Carl started.

“Shut the fuck up. You must be trying to get your fuckin’ son killed,” Furquan said as he knelt down next to Carl and took off his blindfold.

Furquan then pulled out his nine and placed the barrel against Little Carl's head. Little Carl had tried not to cry during most of the ordeal, but he visibly shook as the cold steel rested against his temple. He tried to maintain his composure, to be a man even now, but he couldn't stop his body from trembling or stop the beads of sweat from running down his forehead.

“Now, nigga, I'm gon’ ask you for the last time, where is the muthafuckin’ money? I'm not fucking with your bitch ass, nigga. Where's that muthafuckin’ cheddar?” Furquan demanded as he placed the barrel of the gun firmly against Little Carl's head.

“Man, I don't have—,” Carl began.

“Fuck this shit,” Furquan hissed. He pulled the trigger. A deafening sound exploded from the barrel of the gun and a bullet smashed through Little Carl's head. Little Carl's body jumped nearly two feet from the force of the large-caliber bullet. Thick warm blood splashed
onto Furquan's face, covering the aviator glasses and much of his UPS uniform.

Janet began to moan and move slowly.

One loud and prolonged screeching sound came from Carl's mouth. It seemed to begin in the depth of his soul and went straight to the heavens.

“My son, my son,” he screamed, tears running down his face.

“Oh my God,” DuJuanna said, backing away from the pool table toward the stairs.

“Where the fuck you think you going, bitch?” Furquan growled, grabbing DuJuanna roughly by the sleeve of her jacket.

“I'm getting the fuck out of here, Fu. I'm not down wit’ no killing shit,” she said.

“Bitch, you ain't going no fuckin’ where. We gotta finish this shit now,” Furquan snarled as he looked across the room at Malik, who hadn't moved since the explosion from the gun.

“What the fuck did you do that crazy-ass shit for, Furquan?”

Malik shouted, walking out of the shadows, heading toward Furquan, his eyes blazing fire.

Furquan raised the gun and pointed it at Malik. “Nigga, don't be calling my fuckin’ name,” he spat.

“Mafucka, don't ever point no muthafuckin’ gun at me,” Malik replied coldly, walking past Furquan and continuing to the other side of the pool table where the lifeless body of his cousin's boy lay.

“Y'all done killed my son,” Carl whined. “Y'all killed Little Carl.”

“Come on, Malik,” DuJuanna begged, tugging at Malik's arm.

“Let's get the fuck outta here. You wit’ me?”

Malik paused then sighed. “We can't,” Malik said, looking first at Janet and then at Carl. “We can't. Fu is right. We gotta finish it.”

Janet lay in a pool of blood, shaking violently and sobbing uncontrollably.

“Where's your gun, DuJuanna?” Furquan asked, wiping the wet blood from his glasses and face.

“Why?” DuJuanna asked, stepping back from Furquan.

“Shoot him,” Furquan said, pointing toward Carl.

“Shoot who?” DuJuanna asked, eyes wide with apprehension and fear. “I ain't shooting nobody, Fu.” DuJuanna once again backed toward the stairs.

“Bitch, I ain't playing. We all in this shit together now. Shoot that muthafucka or I'm gonna bust your ass,” Furquan roared, stepping forward and pointing the gun directly at DuJuanna's right eye.

“Malik, talk to Furquan,” DuJuanna begged, glancing furtively at Malik, who was staring at the lifeless body of Little Carl, shaking his head.

“We gotta finish it, D,” Malik said, meeting DuJuanna's gaze with a determined but distant look in his eyes. “We gotta finish it.”

“Now shoot him, bitch!” Furquan demanded, stepping close to DuJuanna, still pointing the gun toward her face.

DuJuanna pulled out the .38 she had in the bottom of her carry-all. She began shaking as she pointed the gun at Carl. The first bullet caught Carl in his shoulder. Carl screamed in pain and tried to roll out of the way but three more bullets rang out of the gun in rapid succession, the last one landing in his neck at the base of his skull. When the shooting stopped, DuJuanna stood in the middle of the room shaking. There were now two dead bodies on the floor. Janet was lying next to them, rocking in a fetal position, waiting for whatever fate had in store for her.

“This one's on you, Malik,” Furquan commanded as he looked across at Malik, who was still staring at the lifeless body of Little Carl. Malik had never intended for this shit to turn out like this. Now he was in too deep to turn back. The shit had started out as a simple robbery. Now it was about to become a triple murder. He knew he didn't have an option. If he was locked up for this shit, he
would be lucky to escape the death penalty and was certain to get life without parole.

“Go upstairs and get the money and the jewelry from the bedroom,” Malik said as he jacked a bullet into the chamber and stood over Janet's trembling body.

As DuJuanna crept along the wall around the bodies toward the stairs, Malik fired the first shot. “No mercy,” Malik said as the bullet hit Janet's cheekbone, ricocheted off, and broke the bridge of her nose. Janet screamed and in the same instant, DuJuanna heard a noise come from the pile of toys and quilted blankets in the corner. She looked closer and realized that she was staring into the prettiest, yet saddest, eyes she had ever seen in her life. The eyes never blinked. They didn't tear up. They simply stared at her in pain, confusion, and fear. Malik fired into Janet's body again and again.

DuJuanna knew that she could never reveal to Fu and Malik what she had seen. He's just a baby, she thought as she rushed upstairs to get the money and the jewelry.

Little Antwan's eyes were glued to the bad man who just kicked his mommy. He tried to scream but no sound came out. The bad people had tied up Mommy, Daddy, and Little Carl. He didn't like them from the first moment he saw them. When the big man and the pretty lady came in the house, he had run to the basement and hid behind his old toys under two quilts. Looking out from under the quilts, he watched as the bad people hurt his mommy, daddy, and brother.

ANTWAN WAS
on the bottom bunk in his fourth foster home in a year. He moved restlessly in his sleep as he did most nights as nightmares
of his family's murder tormented him. Tears rolled down Antwan's face and drenched his pillow. Though tears flowed, no other sound ever escaped. When Antwan woke up he promised himself once again that one day he would get the people who killed his family.

In the years since the murders took place, Antwan had not spoken once. Now eight years old and in third grade, he was a good student. His teachers, aware of his problem, never called him to the front of the class or to answer questions aloud. He listened intently, did his homework religiously, and became an avid reader. He had no friends and usually sat in back of the classroom.

One day Antwan placed his head on his desk and fell asleep. The same nightmare plagued him, but this time one thing was decidedly different. His mother's body, which had been lying perfectly still for what seemed like hours in the dream, suddenly began to move. Antwan held his breath under the quilt as his mother rose up on her knees and the handcuffs that had bound her from behind suddenly slipped off. Slowly she turned toward him. Blood and maggots oozed out of the holes where his mother's eyes had once been. She stretched out her arms and started walking toward him, stumbling awkwardly but still walking directly toward him. When Antwan looked up, she opened her mouth to speak and maggots poured out.

Antwan's scream was as if a long-dormant volcano had erupted. It pierced his dream state and shattered the calm of the real world. The screaming didn't stop as Antwan's scared classmates ran to the front of the class. His teacher ran to the nurse's office.

“Antwan screamed! He actually made a sound,” she said breathlessly to the nurse. The nurse stared at her in shock and then reached for the phone.

A
FEW
MONTHS LATER
, Dr. Shaw entered the office of Dr. Milton, his superior, and sat down heavily in the brown leather recliner directly across from Milton's desk.

“So how's that boy, the one who didn't speak for all those years?”

Dr. Milton asked, turning toward the window to stare out at the panoramic view of the New York City skyline.

“He's still getting used to hearing his own voice,” Dr. Shaw answered. “You know, Dr. Milton, even though the kid had not spoken a word in five years, he's bright. I've been in his room talking with him for most of the day. Still, getting more than two or three sentences at a time out of him is like pulling teeth.”

“Well, Shaw, you have to give him time. As you yourself said, he's seen and been through a lot.”

“Yes, I know, but I get a bad feeling when I talk to him,” Dr. Shaw said, shaking his head and sighing. “He's suppressing a lot of hostility and anger. In most of the clinical studies, in cases where kids have been severely traumatized, they've suppressed those memories so deeply and for so long that sometimes they've buried them completely and can only recall them under hypnosis. This case is totally different. It seems as though he relives that day during almost all of his sleeping periods and sometimes while he is wide awake.” Dr. Shaw paused briefly and then continued. “But there's something else I can't ignore that makes me worry.”

“What?” Dr. Milton asked curiously.

“When I ask the kid what he wants to be when he grows up, he looks me squarely in the eyes and says ‘a killer.’ ”

ANTWAN RODE
to Watson Avenue on the back of Rah Rah's black Ninja motorcycle. Big Farook had given the sixteen-year-old two
more contracts in addition to the work he'd done for him down in the Mercer Street projects. On Mercer Street, Farook had wanted a nigga shot in both legs and had given him $500 for the work. This time he wanted a nigga slumped and had given him a thousand dollars up front and another thousand was promised when he completed the work. Antwan planned to give Rah Rah, his best friend, $200 to ride him to the spot where the mark hung out and wait for him while he put his work in.

Over the last two years Rah Rah and Antwan had been inseparable. Never had Antwan allowed anyone else to get close to him, but there was something about Rah Rah that he found intriguing from the moment he saw him.

Antwan was fourteen years old when he was walking up the alley one day and an altercation between two boys caught his attention. From what he could tell, there was an older boy hemming up a smaller boy for his sneakers. After the smaller boy took a few hard blows to the mug from the older boy, he kneeled down in defeat to remove the sneakers from his feet in order to relinquish them to the older boy.

As the older boy stood directly over the smaller one waiting for him to turn over the sneakers, the smaller boy caught him off guard. As hard as he could, the smaller boy rammed his head right up into the crotch of the older boy. The older boy keeled over, grabbing his privates. That's when the smaller boy stood up and began throwing uppercuts until the older boy fell to the ground. Antwan watched intently as the smaller boy got on top of the older boy and began ramming his head into the concrete with all of his might. After the older boy's head banged against the concrete about fifteen times, his body went limp.

The smaller boy slowly got up, nudged the older one with his foot, then proceeded to walk away heartlessly. When he turned to
walk away, his eyes locked with Antwan's. Antwan didn't budge as the smaller boy came toward him, not taking his eyes off him once.

The closer the boy got to Antwan, the clearer it became to Antwan that even though the boy was smaller than the one who had just tried to jack him for his sneakers, he was bigger than Antwan was. The boy was only a couple of years older than him, but bigger nonetheless. Still, Antwan could hardly wait for the boy to approach him. He wanted to look into the eyes of the person who had so callously taken someone's life. As the boy approached Antwan, he was surprised by the look he found in Antwan's eyes. It wasn't the look of fear he had expected. It was a look of admiration. The boy knew then that standing before him was his very own prodigy.