Tales from da Hood (9 page)

Soon the clubgoers start gathering around the Hardee's parking lot. The parking lot is well lit, so niggas is all in my face and shit while I'm stretched the fuck out. The lights make it seem like sunshine but suddenly a dark gloom comes over the crowd. It starts to drizzle; small droplets of rain fall on my face, and Nessa's saliva slides down my nose. I can hear bitches crying, “Somebody call for help,” and niggas saying, “Man, that's Dyke Demetria from Nine Mile.” Then it starts pouring, the rain drowns out the lights and niggas start running 'cause they soft asses is scared of getting wet. I'm wondering where my nigga Rome at 'cause by now that nigga should've come blasting. Shit, man, niggas ain't never round when you need 'em. But I'm jive all right, 'cause a nigga like me ain't 'sposed to be scared to die. I'm glad that it's raining on these fake-ass muh-fuckers that's out here looking down on me. I arch my back, take in a deep breath and yell out, “That's right, niggas! Ain't gon’ be no muh-fucking sunshine when I'm gone!”

Then I close my eyes and take my last breath.

Written by The Ghost, experienced by many

IT
WAS
THE
LAST NIGHT
of bike week at Myrtle Beach and the scene was off the chain. The hotel parties were off the hook and the women were fascinating. There were phat asses in thongs all over the place. Everybody was out trying to get their last night of riding, drinking, smoking, and fucking on, but not necessarily in that order.

Cojack and his partners, Maniac, Fisher, and a couple other dudes from the hood, weren't any different. They had spent the entire week partying and acting a fool in Myrtle Beach. Myrtle Beach, with all the half-naked women running around and niggas willing to spend cheddar to get the women fully naked, was surely something to write home about. Cojack and his crew must have spent well over $5,000 on pussy alone. But that was nothing to a true baller. Most cats were there to trick up some dough anyway.

The Strip was one of the biggest attractions. This was the spot
where some of the best motorcyle riders performed remarkable stunts. If a person's skills weren't up to par, then they were definitely out of place.

It was the last night of bike week and Cojack was determined to go out with a bang. Cojack, his best friend Mason, aka Maniac, and his crew were all up in a strip club ballin’ out of control. Although they knew it was all part of the business, broads talkin’ shit in order to get cats to buy them hundred-dollar drinks, their attitude was “Fuck it!” They were all sipping bubbly with Mr. Cheeks from The Lost Boyz and paying strippers for lap dances when two cats from Atlanta approached Cojack about buying some weight. Cojack slipped them his digits and told them to hit him in a few days. Co-jack was typically leery of dealing with strangers and ol’ dudes from the ATL would be no exception.

After giving out his digits, a few minutes later Cojack made note of Mason leaving the table and chatting with the ATL cats. Cojack wondered what Mason was telling them, but he didn't care too much. If they fell for Mason's game, then that was their bad luck.

After leaving Magic City, Cojack, Mason, and the crew rolled up to Solid Gold. The place was jam-packed and the music blasted through the speakers. A gang of stars lounged in VIP. Shaq and Alonzo Mourning were at a table having drinks while being entertained by a group of cuties engaged in an ass-shaking contest. There was a group of rappers at a table in another section of the club smoking purple haze. Cojack knew one of them personally from a show his partner promoted a few years back. After a brief conversation earlier out at the races where bikers were going over a hundred miles per hour, Busta and Cojack planned to hook up later at the club and have a few drinks.

That's exactly what they did, drank half the night while flirting with beautiful females. By the time they reached the hotel it was five A
.
M
.
The crew crashed out in their suite for a few hours and
woke up ready to head back home. Just one hour before they were about to leave, Mason's cell phone chimed.

“I won't be but a minute,” Mason said before answering it, heading out the door. He was followed by Fisher, flashing one of his characteristic smiles.

An hour later he came back, flashing a roll. Cojack figured the guys from Atlanta were raising hell right about now. Mason was known to sell one brick of coke along with a couple of other bricks that were just old videotapes wrapped up in plastic. Mason was as grimey as they came with a million-dollar smile and an awesome talk game, in total contrast to his ace, Cojack. He was a baller in the truest sense: a regular pretty boy who not only had his way with women but knew how to stack that paper. Cuties were entranced by his six foot three towering frame, dark wavy hair, and the hypnotizing brown eyes that complemented his smooth chestnut skin.

As Cojack and most of the crew rode in the trailer with the motorcycles attached behind, Mason and Fisher followed. Along with Fisher, Mason was pushing a cream Q45 with eighteen-inch Pirelli wheels. Mason knew his friend would disapprove of his actions, which was why he drove his own ride instead of riding with everyone else in the trailer. He didn't realize that Cojack knew all along what he was doing. But Cojack wasn't the type of person to push too much into someone else's business, especially someone who would kill at the drop of a dime for him. Friends that had your back like that were hard to find.

THE
VERY
NEXT MORNING
Cojack opened his eyes to find his mother standing over his bed. He wiped sleep from his face as he
took in her small frame adorned with her usual pink-and-white housecoat. She held out the cordless phone and said, “Telephone.”

“Tell whoever it is I'm sleep, Ma,” Cojack replied with a yawn.

“It's Mason, boy,” she said, tossing the phone on his bed. “He said it's important.” Then she walked out of the room.

Cojack sighed, watching his mother turn and head toward the door. Then he picked up the receiver.

“Yo, what up?” he said after clearing his throat. He listened for a few seconds. Suddenly, he was wide awake. “I got you. Just calm down. Give me a minute and I'll be there. I said I'm coming!” Cojack hung up.

“Shit!” he mumbled as he jumped from his bed like a firefighter going to put out a blaze.

Ten minutes later, Cojack was racing down the stairs. The pleasant aroma of bacon and eggs hit him instantly as he flew to the kitchen to say bye to his mother.

“Smells good, Ma, but I gotta run,” Cojack said, stealing a slice of bacon off of the paper-towel–covered plate.

“What that boy done got himself into now?” she asked without even turning around.

“I don't know, Ma. I gotta go get him, though.”

“You not gon’ eat breakfast first?”

“Gotta go, Ma. I'll see you later,” he said, and shot out of the kitchen.

Outside, Cojack hopped in his Lexus and sped away. In less than twenty minutes he was rolling up in an apartment complex. It was just a little after nine in the morning. Cojack dialed a number into his cell phone as he slowed for a speed bump. He passed a swimming pool and then drove ten or fifteen yards down, turning left into another duplex. Before he could park, he caught sight of Mason rushing toward the car. Mason was wearing a black velour hoodie, blue jeans, and tan Timberlands. What really got Cojack's attention
was the bandanna covering his face. What the hell was that about? Cojack immediately became alert, lifting the .40 caliber from under his seat. Something about this scene just didn't look right.

As Mason approached the car and got in, Cojack's gaze swept the surroundings. He turned and looked at his partner. “What was the bandanna for? What the hell on your mind?” Finally, Mason removed the scarf from his face. Cojack wasn't prepared for what he was seeing.

“What the fuck?” Cojack asked in shock. Mason's face was lumped up, both eyes swollen and a trace of blood on his lip.

“Give me the pistol right quick,” Mason instructed him excitedly.

“Hol’ up, nigga. What the fuck going on?” Cojack said, twisting up his mug at the sight of Mason's face.

Mason took a deep breath, then told Cojack how he had been asleep in some chick named Kenya's place when her jealous baby daddy snuck inside and caught him there. He described how the guy punched his lights out and slung him around like a rag doll.

“I was sleep, man,” Mason said bitterly. “Nigga caught me out, Jack.” Mason had tears in his eyes. “Give me the gun, man. The bitch still in the crib and his sister in there, too. I swear to God I'ma slump both of them bitches.”

Cojack watched as tears fell from his boy's eyes. Mason never cried. And he knew without a doubt that if he gave up the pistol he'd do exactly what he said. Cojack did a quick evaluation of the situation. It was nine-thirty in the morning and he was driving a hotass Lexus. There was no way he could go out like that. Mason was obviously not thinking clearly.

“You don't wanna do that, playa,” Cojack said, giving Mason a supportive pat on the shoulder. “Trust me.”

Mason knew Cojack was right, but he was still mad as hell. He pulled the hoodie back over his head.

“I'ma take you home,” Cojack said. “That fool will have his day.”

Cojack threw the car in reverse and backed up. He peered out the corner of his eye at Mason and thought, Damn! My nigga is fucked up. It was not a laughing matter, but Cojack couldn't help from smiling on the inside. Time and time again he had warned Mason about playing these broads so close. First of all, Mason didn't have his gun, which was unlike him. Fisher had his car. The reason for that was because Mason didn't want it parked at the apartment complex. He had a girlfriend, Trina, one of those who, if he stayed out, would undoubtedly ride around searching for him. As they rode in silence, Cojack thought of the two girls back at the apartment. They had not a clue as to how close their lives were to being over. Cojack felt pity for them all. The guy and the two females. Mason would not forget.

THREE
DAYS LATER
, as Cojack cruised the Richmond streets in his 'Bama Ford pickup truck, he couldn't help from reflecting back on the spectacular time he'd had at bike week.

In the back of his truck was his dog, Killer, a red nose pitbull whose specialty was sinking teeth. Killer was a nutcase and would bite anything in his reach. Whenever Cojack made his moves, he would bring along his dog.

Cojack pulled into an Amoco gas station on Broad Rock and was relieved to see his customer, Rob, already there, parked in the end car wash. It was dark, and the place was crowded as usual. Music blasted from a SEL 500 Benz, royal blue with chrome eighteen-inch Lorenzos. Porsha, the cutie behind the register, had her weed customers in and out all night.

“What up, partna?” Rob said as he hesitated at the sight of Killer standing upright and sizing him down.

“He tied up, cuz,” Cojack said to Rob.

“You sure he can't get a loose, man? And why the fuck he so mean anyway?”

“He supposed to be,” Cojack said, then, getting down to business, “Ay, you know that thang was five hundred dollars short last time, right?”

“Damn, that's my bad, Jack. I'll straighten it on the next one.”

“A'ight,” Cojack answered, holding the dog as he growled at the stranger. “Look in the passenger floor. You can weigh it, too. The scale beside it.”

Rob crept past the dog and got in the truck. Cojack played with Killer while watching the street. He surveyed the entire scene and saw nothing that looked unusual. For over a year now, he'd been serving cats at that same spot and so far had no problems. Cojack punched numbers into his cell, spoke a few minutes, and hung up. He restrained his dog as Rob exited the truck.

“Everything good, Jack. The money in the floor,” Rob said.

“A'ight, playa. Holla back, shit should be smooth for a minute.”

“Good,” replied Rob. “I'ma step it up next time anyway. A half a bird or somethin'.”

“Just give me a ring.” Rob attempted to shake his hand but saw Killer's teeth and changed his mind. Cojack laughed as Rob walked off, got in his car, and drove away. Just as Cojack hopped in the truck, his phone chimed. He rapped for a minute then sparked his Black & Mild. After he pushed end on his cell phone, he turned up the volume on his radio and the sounds of
All Eyez on Me
by Tupac filled the speakers. With a brick and a half left and two more people to see in another thirty minutes, he'd be on his way.

It was after eleven P
.
M
.
when Cojack left the gas station. Forty-five thousand dollars in an hour; he couldn't complain. He drove
back to his house in Northside. After he put Killer back in his pen, he pulled out his LS 400, all black with smoke gray tint and factory wheels. His first stop was the projects, where he'd find his boys shooting the breeze about their weekend. Mason was also among the crowd. The swelling around his eyes had gone down, and he now had a black ring under the left one. Cojack had been talking to him ever since his unfortunate incident, trying to prevent anything drastic from happening.