“MAN, WHAT the fuck is this nigga doing way over on this side?” Criminal asked from the backseat.
“Fuck if I know,” Blue Bird said, taking a hit off the dipped cigarette and trying to pass it to Tears, but he declined so Criminal readily snatched it. “What I do know is that these niggaz is out of bounds, aiding and abetting a fucking fugitive!”
“Man, y’all need to put that shit out and get focused on the muthafucking task at hand,” Tears said, rolling down the windows. “We deep in enemy territory, cuz. I’m sure if Major has brought a crib out this way there’s probably some 900s ’round here too.” Tears pulled up to a red light at the corner of East Compton Boulevard and South Atlantic Avenue.
“Fuck 900s and for damn sure fuck Lime Street, I’m dumping on sight,” Criminal said, way louder than he needed to. The PCP was obviously kicking in.
A group of young men standing in front of the store caught Blue Bird’s attention. He recognized them all as members of East Side Lime Street except the one in the wheelchair. He was a 900. Being the troublemaker he was, he looked back at Criminal and said, “Say, cuz, there go some Nines right there. You gonna let them marks clown you by posting up when they know we riding?”
“Nigga what? Watch this muthafucka bark.” Criminal brandished a long-nosed Colt. Tears knew what was about to go down and had it not been for the red light he would’ve pulled off. Before he could even protest Criminal was out of the car and heading in the direction of the store.
IT WAS a beautiful night on the Pacific Coast. The sack chasers were out sacking, and the dope boys were out getting their sling on. Just another day in the hood… At least it was for the moment.
“What’s up, East Side?” A man in a wheelchair asked, rolling up to the store. He was dressed in black Dickies pants and a red T-shirt.
“Oh, shit, Big Bo from the Nine!” He snatched his green Seattle Supersonics hat off for emphasis. “Man, fuck you doing way over here?”
“Same thing you doing, nigga, trying to cop a bottle and get blown,” Bo told him, wheeling up to the window to place his order.
“They ain’t got no liquor stores where you stay at?” A man in a Raider’s cap asked sarcastically.
“Hell yeah, you know the hood ain’t got nothing but hard times and liquor stores. Me and the homeys is kicking it off San Luis at the rest.”
“Y’all posted up over here? You must be ready to flip that Lime?” another young man asked. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but there was a green sports band around his arm, the kind you would get at a club.
Bo looked up at him. “You know I ain’t no set flipper, Blood. It’s Nine or nothing, y’all know my style.” He threw up his set.
“Man, your old ass still out here tripping, wheelchair and all,” Lil Bay teased him.
“Please believe it, my nigga. They might’ve put me down”-he dipped under the seat of his wheelchair, and came up holding a small pistol-“but not out, you feel me, dawg? I ain’t tripping though. My nigga Major copped a pad for his people down that way, so we just come through and coast. Me, Mo-Mo, and the nigga Reckless.”
“Reckless? I thought I seen him come through here a time or two. I just thought he was on one.”
“Man, stop that bullshit. My folk is cool,” Bo said, knowing he was telling a bold-faced lie. Though Reckless was barely a day over twenty, he had Major Blood’s temper and bloodlust.
“Shit the way Reckless be on it I doubt if it’ll be a secret for very long. It’s only a matter of time before that fool smokes somebody, much of that sherm as he smoke,” Bay said, taking a swig of his forty ounce.
“Man, the nut don’t fall too far from the tree,” Supersonics cap said. “I don’t know who the fuck is worse, between him and Major.”
“Say, Blood, who that?” sports band asked, nodding toward a dark-skinned young man who was coming across the street. His question was answered when he heard the battle cry.
A SERVICE STATION OFF NORTH HOLL AVENUE
“RUN MUTHAFUCKA grab you shit and duck, I’m from the crew of O.G.s where niggaz don’t give a fuck!” Mad Man sang along with the Dogg Pound song blasting from the stereo. “Man, this niggaz can’t C faded!” He slapped Lil Blue on the arm.
“Man, turn that shit down before you get us pulled over, nigga!” Lil Blue snapped. “These niggaz send us off on this fucking dummy mission and yo ass is having a sing along.”
“Kick back, cuz. You act like it’s something to bust on these ho-ass niggaz.”
“Man, this is some real fuck shit!” Lil Blue said from the passenger seat of the stolen Pontiac. “Them niggaz is gonna get all the glory, while we do the grunt work.”
“Quit bitching, cuz, this shit should be fun,” Mad Man told him, as he surveyed the gas station. A middle-aged man was jiggling the pump inside his ’91 Ford, and a gray Le Sabre was double-parked in front of the station. “Come on, man. Let’s go in here and rip this bitch off so the homeys can get it popping.”
The plan had been for Mad Man and Lil Blue to go around committing petty crimes and leading the police on a chase while Gutter and his team would roll through and put the smash on Reckless and his family. Lil Blue Bird was still upset that they wouldn’t be a part of the murders, but Mad Man didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, stripes were stripes.
“I still don’t like being no damn diversion,” Lil Blue complained, taking the gun from under his seat and jamming it into the pocket of his pullover. Still mumbling under his breath, he followed Mad Man across the gas station.
There wasn’t much going on inside the filling station. A group of young men congregated around the beer cooler, arguing about what kind of malt liquor they were gonna chip in for. Behind the bulletproofed glass a young girl clicked her gum, and chatted away on her cell phone, not really caring about the loitering young men. All she wanted to do was make it through her shift unmolested. From the way the young men were dressed Mad Man knew they were bangers and a wonderful plan formed in his mind.
“Looks like we might get some real action after all, cuz.” Mad Man nudged Lil Blue and nodded at the young men around the cooler. Lil Blue Bird just smiled and continued on to the potato chip rack, while Mad Man moved to get a Pepsi.
“What’s cracking, baby?” Mad Man capped to the attendant, opening the Pepsi before paying for it. He took a deep swig and watched for her reaction.
The girl rolled her eyes and clicked her gum one last time before asking the caller to hold on. “Can I help you?” She glared at Mad Man.
“Yeah, I came in to get some blunts and something to drink, but I’ll settle for your phone number.” Mad Man smiled, at which she just frowned.
“Nigga, please”-she rolled her eyes-“what you need to do is get yo ass from around here with all that blue on.” She motioned toward his blue-on-blue Chucks. The girl tossed two Phillies in the little sliding drawer and punched in a series of keys on the register.
“Bitch, please, my pass is international!” Mad Man snarled. “Yo cuz,” he called to Lil Blue Bird, loud enough for the young men by the cooler to hear. “This bitch sound like shorty that was wit that tampon we rolled on at the drive-through. You remember the bitch who fries you ate!”
“Straight up, cuz.” He picked up on his friend’s train of thought. “Bitch ass rolled through the wrong hood and got caught, you know the rules.” The last insult thrown spurred the young men to approach them.
“Sup, Blood. You know where you at?” said a young man wearing jeans two sizes too big for his slim hips. His fitted cap was cocked deep to the right, and the set of his jaw said trouble.
Lil Blue took up the challenge with his chest poked out. “Nigga, we know where we at. The question should be, do we give a fuck?”
“Y’all don’t start tripping in here. You know I got a half hour left on my shift, so save that shit for then!” the cashier shouted from behind the glass.
“Bitch, shut up,” Mad Man said, tossing his Pepsi against the glass. When he turned around to add his two cents to the mix, he was holding his hammer. “Now tell me where the fuck we at?” Mad Man demanded, pointing it at the man who’d approached Lil Blue Bird.
