return, but not under these circumstances. Nearly his entire family was Crip’d out, but Big Gunn banged the hardest. Now that he was out of commission, the weight of restoring order would fall on Gutter.
He thought about Sharell and how the situation would affect her. She didn’t really know his family, but she had love for them off the strength of him. When he broke the news of Gunn’s shooting and his trip back home, she was sure to insist on going. It would be a tooth-and-nail fight when he told her no, but it was for the best. Gang life in New York was harsh, but nothing compared to the escalating feud in California. Los Angeles was truly the land of the heartless.
Gunn was an O.G. Touching him was a blatant sign of disrespect and justice would have to be dispatched swiftly to save face. There was no doubt that the homeys were going to loc up and he would be smack-dab in the middle. He had already put Sharell through enough and wouldn’t subject her to that. As the weed numbed his physical, his mind began to make preparations for the events to come.
THE PRIVATE room at the facility was completely dark and quiet. The only sound that could be heard on the floor was the small television that played in the nurse’s station. The duty nurse and one of the orderlies watched a sitcom and drank beer, waiting for the end of their boring shift.
Satin tossed and turned fitfully, but she did not awaken. The unannounced visitor crept silently into her room as he always did. A chain hung from his belt, but made no sound as he moved across the tiled floor. The visitor looked down at the girl’s sleeping form and wondered what she saw when she slept. The visitor reached out to touch her, but withdrew when she stirred. On more than one occasion he thought about intervening, but Satin’s injury wasn’t a physical one. For all of his gifts, there was nothing he could do about a broken heart.
“If only he’d taken the bargain,” the visitor whispered.
The floor nurse thought she heard voices coming from Satin’s room so she went to investigate. Cautiously, she entered Satin’s room sweeping her flashlight back and forth. The room was empty save for the young girl who occupied it.
chapter 5
“WE’VE BEEN waiting here for forty-five minutes,” Eddie complained.
“Shut up, man.” Tito waved him off.
“Eddie’s right,” Miguel added from the backseat. “The flight landed twenty minutes ago, and the guy still hasn’t shown. We don’t even know who we’re looking for.”
“Please believe we’ll know Major when we see him,” Tito assured him. “Y’all just chill.” Tito leaned back and lit a cigarette. He too shared their impatience, but that didn’t change the fact that he had been ordered to pick up their guest. A council had been called to deal with the recent Crip insurgents and the murder of El Diablo, who had been a respected East Coast general. This suited Tito just fine. He wanted everyone who could connect him with the double cross to disappear anyhow.
Cisco had recruited Tito to double-cross El Diablo. He was to make it so the old L.C. leader was found with dirty guns in his car and get sent off to jail. During the set up, things went wrong. El Diablo ended up getting smoked by his crazy-ass sister before the police could get to him. The bonus was that one of their greatest adversaries ended up getting clipped in the process. It seemed like a fair exchange. The only problem was, Cisco got whacked right after and the L.C. was thrown into disarray before he could make good on any of his promises. Instead of the promotion Cisco had assured him of, Tito found himself starving with the rest of the set.
A knock on the rear window startled the trio. They turned as one and saw a man standing beside the car. He was a stocky yellow cat who wore his hair parted into quarters, with four thick braids crowning his face. Dressed in a red leather varsity jacket and construction-colored Timberlands he didn’t look like much, but a smart man knew that you never judge a book by its cover.
“Holy shit!” Miguel gasped.
“Who the fuck is that?” Eddie asked, being new to the click.
“Major Blood,” Tito said with a slight edge to his voice.
“Right on the money.” The stranger smirked. “The
Drayton, or Major Blood as he was called, was one of the meanest cats you could ever have the misfortune of going against. He was born and raised in California, in a one-story stucco home off Piru Street. His father was a wayward Mexican, whom he had only met once, and his mother was a home girl, claiming the 900 block Bloods.
Just about everyone in the hood was either a Blood, or a supporter. It was usually what block you lived on that determined which side you chose, if any. Maria had always been attracted to the hard-ass street thugs, so when she and her parents moved to a Blood hood, it seemed only natural that she threw her lot in with them.
Her parents were always warning her against the gangs and the violence that came with their lifestyle, but it was hard to monitor the comings and goings of a wild young girl, and work three jobs between them. Maria’s older sister Essie was reserved and obedient, but Maria was wild. Even when they forbade her to hang with the local gangsters, she would just sneak off every chance she could. This eventually led to her period standing her up, six months after her fifteenth birthday.
Her parents were irate. Her father would’ve beaten her to death had it not been for her mother’s interference. They were disappointed with her, but they didn’t cast her to the streets. Six and a half months later, she gave birth to Drayton.
A girl so young could never fully understand the burdens of parenthood, which is what happened with Maria. She eventually grew tired and frustrated with having her wings clipped at sixteen. She began going off and staying out later and later, putting the baby off on her parents. Her mother eventually had to quit her jobs to stay home with the child.
Drayton grew up watching his mother’s antics as well as the violence and absorbed it. A child’s mind is so very like a sponge in those early years, taking in whatever it comes into contact with. Drayton had the full “red” print on how to bang accordingly, but it wasn’t until he was about five that his life would be defined.
On a rare night, Drayton had accompanied his mother and a group of her friends to a local fair. The only reason she had him along was because her parents had flat-out refused to babysit. Reluctantly, she took her son to the fair, and as it turned out had a pretty nice time. The home boys adored him and were very generous in showering him with popcorn and candy till his stomach hurt. He got on the makeshift rides, while they smoked pot and drank Old English.
As the day wound down the group made to leave the park. On the way out, one of Maria’s people got into it with a group of Hoover Crips over an incident that was at least six months old. The beef was broken up when the sheriffs and their dogs started to bully their way toward the altercation. The two groups parted with violent glares and threats. One young man in particular radiated an especially menacing vibe.
His hazy green eyes looked down on young Drayton and studied him for what felt like an eternity then broke off. A cold chill ran down the child’s back, even as the big man stormed away.
The new excitement, mixed with the weed and drinks, sent everyone into a fit of laughter. The Bloods poked their chests out and traded stories about what they would’ve done if the sheriff hadn’t come. They weren’t worried, because they had “straps” in the car, which was parked right outside the fairgrounds. The group of Crips walked in the other direction, deeper into the fair. Maria held the seat up, and Drayton hopped into the back of the Chevy.
The next few seconds would be embedded in his mind until the end of his days. He could remember his mother, with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, laughing at a joke someone told. Suddenly everything seemed to move in slow motion. Those same eyes he had seen at the fair were approaching from the rear. His bulky form was hunched over and moving swiftly. It was just like the army movies he had watched with his grandfather, he recalled. Everyone in the group was smiling, but the man wore a mask of pure hatred.
The tipsy group noticed him just as he was pulling a long revolver from beneath his blue sweatshirt. Bottles fell from hands and joints were abandoned as everyone tried to find cover. Drayton saw the man’s lips moving, but he couldn’t make out all the words. The two he did catch would be his newfound purpose in life. “Hoover, nigga!” the
