“When y’all get the gat for me come back. But like, right now, I want some pussy and some food. Now if either of y’all got some of that I’ll stay back here with you, but if not, I’m goin’ in the pad to get some,” I said, smiling.
“Aw, man, fuck you, cuz, we gone.”
“Oh, but Monsta, we be back in three minutes, awright?” Joker said over his shoulder.
“Yeah, but if I ain’t here leave the gat in them bushes right there, okay?”
“All day.”
“Righteous.”
I went in the house through the back door and made my way through the kitchen. I watched as Joker and Li’l De told the other homies that I’d be out later. The small crowd went one way and Joker and Li’l De went the other. Joker had the big .45 in his waistband, so I didn’t worry about them out in the street.
I had brought a collection of my best tapes home: Jimmy Reed, Otis Redding, the Temprees, Barbara Mason, and Sam Cook. I went into the den and put on Jimmy Reed. When it came out over the speaker it sounded foreign to me. Jimmy didn’t fit home like he fit jail. I couldn’t rightly put my finger on it, but I knew that I wasn’t going to be listening to too much Jimmy Reed out here. When I came back into the living room, Tamu was sitting there looking through my photo album. I sat next to her and played with her hair.
“Kody, let’s leave. Let’s go and be alone,” she said, never taking her eyes off the photo album.
“Awright, but let me eat somethin’.”
“I want to take you to dinner. I know a nice little place you’d like.”
“Okay, let me tell Mom we’re leaving.”
“She already knows,” Tamu said, looking up at me seductively.
“Well, well, what is this, a conspiracy?”
“No, babes, just natural instincts.”
“And what about this?” I said and fell hard upon her, crushing the photo album between us.
“That is called smashing your girlfriend.”
“And this?” I kissed her full on the lips, my tongue darting in and out of her mouth.
“That,” she said between kisses, “is called animal instinct.”
“Well call me King of the Jun—”
“Kody?” Mom interrupted, appearing in the doorway.
“Huh? Oh, Mom, yeah?” I stammered, struggling to get off Tamu.
“I’m going to lie down. If you leave, lock the house up, okay?”
“All da… I mean, yeah, sure Mom.”
I had been so used to our natural response to “okay”—meaning Sixty-Ninety killer—which would be “All day,” that it just came out.
Mom looked at me then turned on down the hallway.
“Let’s go,” I told Tamu, and we left.
She took me to a small restaurant on Crenshaw Boulevard called Aunt Fish. We could sit in the window and look across Crenshaw and watch the D.J. spin records at Stevie Wonder’s radio station, KJLH. We ordered jumbo shrimp and red snapper. Tamu, who ate like a horse, matched my appetite, and we tore that food up. The entire time I was eating, the woman at the cash register kept making hardcore eye contact with me. Naturally I flirted back, though only when Tamu wasn’t looking. We kept eating and the woman and I kept flirting, right up until it was time to pay the tab. The bill was forty-nine dollars. When Tamu went to pay she found that she was short ten dollars. The woman at the register gave me a look that clearly said “Help her,” but I didn’t have a dime. I was so embarrassed, as I’m sure Tamu was. But it was especially difficult for me because it became a “man thang” when I couldn’t help pay the tab. It took all the strength I had not to shout “I JUST GOT OUT OF JAIL!!”
Surprisingly, the woman offered to pay as long as Tamu promised to return with her money. Tamu thanked her and turned to exit. As I turned to follow Tamu, the woman cleared her throat to get my attention. When I looked, she handed me a restaurant business card with her name, phone number, and address on the back side. I put the card in my pocket and followed Tamu out to the car.
In the car I tried to console Tamu, who was really bent out of shape about not having the money to pay the bill. I almost told her about the flirting and of the woman giving me her card, but decided against it. We went to Tamu’s house and retrieved the needed money and drove back to Aunt Fish.
After paying the woman we went straight to the Mustang Motel on Western Avenue. From the moment I left the car I had a raging erection that threatened to tear a hole in the front of my pants. We hurried like eager children up to our room. Once behind the door we literally tore our clothes off. To my surprise, Tamu had on black stockings and garters. She knew I had developed a liking for such things while in Youth Authority. We wasted no time as we fell into one another immediately. We sinned for most of the night, taking occasional breaks to smoke pot, laugh, and joke. We really had a good time. By the time we were buzzed to leave we both were spent, and it was another day when we emerged from the room.
“You know, Kody,” Tamu began, talking in measured tones as she drove down Western Avenue, “I want to get an apartment together, for us. You, me, Keonda. But you have to get a job, babes.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, but I really had no intention of getting a job. Hell, I was going to do like Joker and Li’l De said they were doing: sell cocaine. Whiteboy Eric, who was like a cousin to me (we told everybody we were cousins) was already heavily into it. I knew he’d kick me down, but I didn’t want to tell Tamu that.
“’Cause, babes,” she continued, “with your job and my doing hair, we could get a nice little place somewhere.”
“That’s right, babes,” I said, not really paying much attention anymore, as I was now watching a familiar face in the car next to us watch me. The man slowly began to roll down his window, so I started rolling down mine, all the while cursing myself for not getting the .45 from Joker.
“Hey,” he hollered to me, “ain’t yo’ name Kody?” He didn’t seem to have any venom in his voice, but it could be a ploy.
“Yeah, wha’s up?” I said skeptically.
“Aw, nigga, you don’t ’member me from Horace Mann, Terry Heron?”
Terry Heron, Terry Heron… I turned the name over several times before it caught, and when it did it was too late.
He recognized the stages of change in my face and knew I had computed him amongst the damned. Not only had I fought him in school long before the Sixties—Eight Tray conflict, but during the conflict I had shot him. Luckily for him I was unarmed, because I had ample time after the recognition to aim and fire. But to my surprise he was making no threatening moves.
“Aw, Kody, man,” he said as we drove along, “I ain’t in that bangin’ shit no mo’. It’s all about that money now. Nigga, you betta get wit’ it.”
“Awright then,” I said with a slight hand wave, more relieved than anything. Shit, I needed a gun. He turned right on Sixty-seventh Street and into his ’hood, and we drove two more blocks and turned left into our ’hood.
Tamu dropped me off and we made plans for later. It felt like my second day on a new planet.
The phone rang. It was Li’l Crazy De asking me if I had gotten the strap.
“Naw,” I said, “where was it?”
“In the bushes where you told me to leave it.”
I told him to hold on and went out back to retrieve the weapon—a .38 Browning semiautomatic pistol. I came back to the phone and told him I’d found it and asked how many hot ones—murders—it had on it.
“Oh, three or four,” Li’l De replied, “but don’t sweat it, ’cause you was locked down when they happened, you know?”
“Righteous,” I said and spaced the line.
I checked the weapon for rounds and went into the den to jam some sounds. I took Jimmy Reed out of the tape deck and put in a tape my brother Kerwin had lying around. “The Big Payback” by James Brown came roaring out:
