“What’s up, Stag?” he said, trying to switch-hit, hoping to find some humor in Stag, or at least a reprieve. I’m sure that at that point he suspected I knew, as I had said it.
“Cuz, what you got against me?” I asked Keith. April excused herself and went into the house. “Or, what you got against my ’hood?”
“Nuttin’, Monster, you and me been cool. You know I ain’t beefin’ wit’ you.” He was taking big gulps of the forty, perhaps his last drink.
“Keith, Keith, Keith,” I began, doing the Michael Corleone scene with Rocco, who had set Sonny up. “I saw you. Now don’t lie to me.”
“Cuz, they said it was just business. That’s on the ’hood, they said it was strictly business—”
“Who said that?”
“Li’l Fee and the Raymonds. They—”
“Raymonds?!” asked Stag.
“Yeah, it was us, the Sixties, and the Raymonds. But cuz, it wasn’t nuttin’ personal.”
“So it’s just business when I blow your fuckin’ brains all over this muthafuckin’ porch, huh?”
“Uh… uh… ”
“Huh?!”
“Naw, Monster, wait. I know where they be hangin’ out at. All of ’em. Cuz, they there right now. They tryin’ to start this syndicate thang on the west side and say you a problem, so you gotta go. It’s for the betterment of the Crip Nation!”
“You believed that punk shit? Nigga, you out yo’ fuckin’ mind. They can’t kill me, fool, I’m already
I drew my weapon and grabbed Keith by the collar, putting the barrel to his temple. I watched the sweat pour down over his face.
“Monster, wait, please man, hold it. We can go right now and bust on them niggas. I ain’t down wit’ them.”
“Man, I wouldn’t do shit wit’ yo’ sorry ass.”
Just then a Cutlass came to a halt in front of April’s house. It was impossible to see who was inside. I put my weapon away and pushed Keith out in front of me. The driver, who it appeared was the only occupant of the Cutlass, got out and came up to where we were.
“Keith, who these niggas and what’s wrong wit’ you?”
“Cuz, that’s Monster Ko—”
And before Keith could even get it out, the dude, who I later found out was Brandon, started to draw a small chrome revolver. But his movements were slow and obvious, and Stag had him on bead with the .44.
“Cuz,” Brandon said when he saw we had the drop, “Harlem ain’t got no beef wit’ Gangsta.”
“Then why you pullin’ yo’ gat?” asked Stag, who still had the .44 trained on him.
“’Cause, shit, I ain’t knowin’ what’s up wit’ Monsta.”
“Yo, homie, Keith was wit’ some Sissies and Raymonds last night when they call theyself ambushin’ a muthafucka.”
“What?! Keith, what I tell you ’bout hangin’ wit’ them niggas when they set trippin’? Huh?”
pow!
Brandon slapped Keith hard across the face.
“Cuz, I didn’t know they was—”
POW!
“You a damn lie, Keith, you love them niggas!”
SWOOSH!
Brandon swung at Keith, but missed. Crazy Keith hobbled a few feet away like an old, sorry dog.
Stag and I started to leave but were stopped by Keith.
“Monster, watch yourself, ’cause cuz and them is serious.”
“What you know ’bout serious when every time someone stronger than you around, you do whatever they say? Get out my damn way.”
“Naw, cuz, wait…” Keith tried to explain further.
“Let ’em go, Keith,” Brandon said.
We got into Tamu’s car and left. We contemplated rolling on the Sixties, but I didn’t want to bring any more heat on Tamu’s car. It was bad enough that Keith had seen it. And lived.
After a while, Stag asked what I thought about what Keith had said about the West Side Syndicate thing. I actually had no opinion about it. I knew that if they tried to hit me, I was going to hit back. West Side Syndicate. I did feel an awkward kind of fear that I had never felt before. This stemmed from the fact that if it were true that they were forming some new union inside of Crip and that my removal was, in some way, for the betterment of the Crip Nation, then there must be someone other than the Sixties, the Raymonds, and the Harlems behind it. That was not their language. This was the language of older people, people I didn’t know. That was a problem. How could I put up an adequate defense when I didn’t know who was coming? Or worse yet, how they were coming? The previous night’s maneuver was typical Sixties—bungled. I could always out-think them. But if they were, as Keith had said, starting something new, the next group of shooters might not be Sixties, henceforth creating a blind spot in my ability to predict what would happen.
“We gotta find out who is pumpin’ this West Side Syndicate shit, you know?” I told Stag.
“That’s right,” Stag replied. “We should kidnap that fool Li’l Fee. His grandmother live off of Seventy-sixth Street.”
“We’ll see what’s up.”
I dropped Stag off and went home. Tamu wasn’t there. I peeled out of my combat black, took a shower, and watched the news. I dozed off on the couch.
I was awakened by Tamu, who had Keonda in her arms. She told me to go get into our bed so she could put Keonda in the couch bed. I stumbled to our room, but couldn’t sleep. Tamu eventually came in.
“Do you believe in God?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said, and then added, “why would you ask me about that?”
“No real reason.” I propped myself up on my elbow. “And what is your God’s name?”
“Name?”
“I mean what do you call him?”
“God. Or Father, I guess. But I don’t really get into names. I just believe in a higher power. Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Do you know what Allah means?”
“Isn’t that the name of the Muslim’s God?”
“No, it just means God in Arabic.”
“Oh, ’cause one of my mother’s friends was a Muslim.”
“I’m tired, very tired,” I said, lying back on the bed and looking up at the ceiling.
“Well, babes, get some sleep.”
“No, not that kind of tired. I’m tired of living. Tired of killing. Tired of acting like people want me to act. I’m tired of… “
“What’s wrong, Kody? Don’t talk like that, you’re scaring me. It’s gonna be all right. Things will get better. Hey, remember that Temprees song you like so much, We’ve Only Just Begun?’ Remember that?”
“Yeah, that’s a bad jam.”
“It’s gonna be all right, babes, you watch.”
She held my head to her breast and rubbed the side of my face with her soft hands, all the while humming “We’ve Only Just Begun.”
When I awoke the next morning, Tamu was up cooking and playing music. The fresh, wholesome aroma from the kitchen coupled with Anita Baker’s new song, “Angel,” made me feel good. The sixth sense of my melanin was catching some good vibes. Keonda came into the room and she and I talked awhile. When I was in Y.T.S., Tamu or Tamu’s mother had taught her how to say Ronald Reagan. When I was released I taught her his third name—pig. Now, over and over, she would say “Wonal Wagan pig!” and I’d say “Yeah!” I finished playing with Keonda, ate, showered, and geared up. The phone rang.
