be willing to go to hell and spit in the devil’s face. When I look into your eyes I see life and promise, when I look into his eyes I don’t see
Rob sucked his teeth. “Whatever, man. One day you’re gonna see that your man is just as down as anybody else, you watch.” He pulled his pants up and started walking down the stairs.
“Where are you going?” she asked with an attitude.
“I gotta meet the homeys,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll get up with you later, ma.”
C-style stood in the staircase not knowing whether she should be mad at Rob or herself. He had pulled a typical nigga move, getting his then leaving her without so much as a hug or a kiss, just to go be with the set. Being down used to be fun, but that was before the killing. Gutter promised to bring prominence back to the C-nation, but all he’d brought was death. She and Rob were both down with the movement, but it was Rob’s determination to prove himself that scared her. She knew how Gutter and Pop Top broke in their shooters and knew that Rob couldn’t handle that kind of pressure.
HOLLYWOOD STEPPED out of his smoke-gray Chrysler 300 Limited. The vehicle resembled a Bentley, but the design was more squared. He fitted it with whitewalls, but left the factory rims on it. He would always tell people that the factories on that particular car gave it nobility. Hollywood had what people would call refined taste. He liked his cars plush, his women seasoned, and his money new. This is what pulled him from between a young girl’s thighs to the block.
Hollywood gave himself the once-over in the vehicle’s tinted reflection. He ran a manicured hand down the waves that rippled through his dark hair. The laces of his Nike Airs looked as if they had been bleached, while the cuffs of his jeans were perfect. After adjusting the collar on his smoke-gray blazer, he stepped off the curb.
He saw B. T. and a few of the other homeys congregating in front of the store. The timing couldn’t have been better. B. T. owed him some money through one of his girls. She had swung an episode with the Crip, but he couldn’t pay all of the money. After dropping Hollywood’s name, and agreeing to repay the rest, she let him rock. Now, it was a week later and B. T. didn’t have Hollywood’s bread. The set was the set, but this was business.
Hollywood adjusted the pistol tucked in his pants, near his kidneys, and headed in their direction. As he passed the bus stop, he was confronted with a vision. The young girl was brown-skinned with hair that tickled her shoulders. She had nice round breasts and a shapely ass. She was reading a copy of
“Hey, baby girl,” Hollywood said, easing around the advertisement to stand next to the girl.
She glanced at him with a look of disgust on her face. After looking up and down at him, she snorted and went back to her book. Now someone in the know might’ve taken this as rejection, but Hollywood always dug deeper than the surface. The fact that she had even bothered to look him over meant that she was considering it. That was incentive enough for him.
“I didn’t mean to come between you and your reading, but I’m a lil lost at the moment,” Hollywood lied. “I just wanted to know if you could point me to building Two Fifty-nine?”
“I ain’t from around here.” The girl had a soft voice.
“A blind man could see that. You came from heaven right?” Hollywood flattered her.
“Yeah, right.” She blushed.
“True story”-he eased closer-“I’d be thankful for the directions, but I’d be thrilled with a moment of your time.”
The girl looked Hollywood over once more. She found him very attractive, and from the looks of his gear, he was getting some type of money. The bus came and went, but the girl remained. After about ten minutes, Hollywood was letting her into his car with instructions to wait for him. Then he stepped back across the street to handle his money.
“Damn, you don’t play,” China said, slapping Hollywood’s palm. He was a brown-skinned cat with slanted eyes. Originally from San Francisco, China was the product of a black whore who had the misfortune of having the condom break while turning an Asian trick.
“You know how it is, man. I gotta stay one step ahead of the competition,” Hollywood replied. “Sup, B. T.?”
“Ain’t nothing,” B. T. said. His beady little eyes kept going from Hollywood to the car. If you looked closely, you could still see the scar on his head from when Lou-Loc had pistol-whipped him. Though he never said it out loud, he wasn’t sad to see him go.
“Say, I need to holla at you, T,” Hollywood said.
“So, talk.” He shrugged.
“Dig, you and one of my ladies came to an understanding over some paper, and she says she ain’t seen it yet.”
“Oh, I told shorty I’d square up with her.” B. T. brushed him off.
“Yeah, I dig that. Thing is, you ain’t made no moves to settle the debt.”
“Yo, you stunting me over a few dollars?” asked B. T., sounding a bit hostile.
“Listen, man,” Hollywood said, hooking his thumbs in his belt. He kept his hand close to his gun. “You know I don’t do nothing but count money. Them few dollars you skipped with don’t mean shit. This is about principle. Pay to play, cuz.”
“Damn, kid. All that shit you slinging in the hood and you shorting bitches,” China clowned.
“Fuck you,” B. T. snapped, “and for damn sure fuck that bitch!” He tried to give Hollywood his coldest stare, hoping it would rattle the pretty boy. It didn’t.
“Yo, I think you need to watch your tone, cuz,” Hollywood replied, removing his shades. No matter how flashy Hollywood was, there was nothing sweet about him.
“Fuck y’all bitch-ass niggaz arguing about?” Pop Top came out of the store, breaking the tension.
“Ain’t nothing,” Hollywood said, never taking his eyes off B. T., “just a little dispute between the homeys.”
“B. T. owes Wood some paper and he stunting on the debt,” China confessed.
“Why don’t you mind ya muthafucking business?” B. T. turned on China.
“Them stitches in the side of your head ain’t taught you nothing.” Top nodded toward the scar Lou-Loc had given him shortly before his murder. “Either pay, cuz, or go head up for it, but ain’t gonna be no extra shit. That goes for both you muthafuckas.”
B. T. sized Hollywood up and weighed his options. True, he owed the girl some money, but he wasn’t really feeling how Wood was coming at him. He had been down with the set longer, so he figured his seniority should’ve been respected in that right, but Hollywood was about his paper. He reasoned that he could take Hollywood in a fight, but if he lost he would’ve been embarrassed as well as wrong. Reluctantly B. T. reached into his pocket and gave Hollywood what he owed him.
“Now, was that so hard?” Pop Top patted B. T. on his back. “Y’all niggaz always going at each other instead of dropping these dead rag chumps. You got the young boys showing you up.”
“I heard Hook and them dropped some brims the other night?” China asked.
“Square biz,” Top confirmed.
“That nigga Gutter got this shit like the Wild West. Soon we ain’t gonna have nobody to bang on,” Hollywood joked.
“Some niggaz know how to hold a grudge.” Top shrugged.
“Shit, he fucking up our paper.” B. T. snorted. “Police running all up and through the block and shit, how we supposed to sling?”
“Same way you been doing it. With caution,” Top said. “Gutter gonna keep riding for his nigga until he gets it out of his system. I know it’s hard on y’all, but that’s how the homey wants it.”
“Man, fuck that,” B. T. spat. “That nigga been dead how long? I’m trying to get money, fuck that ol’ mourning shit.”
“Watch ya mouth, cuz.” Top glared at him. “That nigga you wolfing ’bout is a ghetto legend. I know you still salty over that ass-whipping, but you had it coming. Learn when to shut the fuck up!”
B. T. was uptight, but he didn’t say anything. Awhile back he and Lou-Loc had a dispute over his relationship with Satin. The end result was him getting pistol-whipped and stripped of his rank on the set. He had tried to have the assassin murdered, but his people were sent back in bags. Before B. T. could make a second attempt, someone blew Lou-Loc’s brains out.
