No Dominion

Right next to the bank of MetroCard entrances, they got one of those old-fashioned turnstiles. One of the big steel exits that spin like threshers, the tines of the turnstile passing through the bars of the gate.

– Seriously, guy, you don’t want to leave this station. You got yourself in enough trouble crossing our turf.

Some kids are fucking around at the MetroCard entrance, a boy outside and his girl inside, making out until she hears her train and has to run to catch it. People bunch up at the other two entrances. I head for the old turnstile.

The enforcer keeps yapping.

– Down here they might not do anything. But you go up those stairs and it will be different. The niggers spot you up there and they will take you apart.

An old lady tries to spin through the turnstile and snags the handle of her shopping bag on one of the bars. I tug it free and she smiles at me. I smile back.

– I’m telling you now, fucker, do not leave this station. Do not leave this station or you will be in a world of shit.

I give him my smile.

– Who you trying to convince, me or you?

I step through the spinning bars. He stays inside.

– Guy, you are fucking up in a big way.

I stand with the gate between us.

– Just come on out and drag me back. Or is there a treaty or something? You step outside that gate, you gonna be abusing the peace between the Coalition and the Hood? That it?

– This is it, you walk over to that entrance and get your ass back in here and get on a fucking train with me now.

I shrug.

– No money left on my MetroCard. Sorry.

He starts to push through the turnstile.

– You stupid fuck.

As he comes through I put out my hand.

– Look, take it easy, man, no need for a scene. I’ll go quietly.

– Too late for that, you piece of shit Rogue.

He makes to slap my hand away. I grab his sleeve, yank him forward, grab the bars of the turnstile with my free hand, push him into the set-bars of the gate, and swing the turnstile around, smashing the square steel bars into his back. A few of his ribs make a nice cracking sound. I slam the turnstile against him two more times, trying to force his face through the gate bars. No dice. Then I run for the exit, out the tunnel, and up the stairs.

That was stupid. That was fucking stupid. Making war on a Coalition enforcer on Hood turf was fucking stupid.

But fuck him.

He got what he asked for. Trying to mad-dog me. Trying to make me show yellow and climb back on that train. I look back at the station entrance to see if he’s bouncing up the stairs after me. Not yet. Must have given him a good shot to the head. But he’ll be up and running. Unless the stationmaster calls the cops from his booth. Could be with an MTA cop right now. That’d be sweet. Let him deal with cops and EMTs and shit. But figure it’s best not to count on it. Figure it’s best to move.

I’m walking fast. I look up at a street sign and see I’m pointed the wrong way, heading down. I need to turn around, get moving up toward 150th and this Percy guy. I turn the corner onto 123rd. I’ll circle the block before I head up so I don’t have to go back by that subway entrance.

I turn the corner and two guys wearing huge black parkas with Ecko rhinos embroidered on the breast grab me and shove me against a wall. A black Humvee bounces over the curb, stops next to us and the rear door flies open. The two guys throw me inside and someone shoves the soles of both his Timberlands into my neck, pats me down, pulls my.32 out of my pants and sticks the barrel in my eye.

– That was some stupid shit back there. Some seriously stupid shit.

– What Predo thinkin’? Muthafucka out his brain? Insane in the membrane?

– Who?

– Doan who me, muthafucka. Predo. Dexta mothafuckin’ Predo.

– Never heard of him.

– Never heard of him. That what he said, Never heard of him, that what muthafucka said?

The one armed barber nods.

– Sounded like it, Digga.

DJ Grave Digga nods and looks back in the mirror.

– Never heard of him. Mutha. Fucka.

He shifts his eyes and looks at my face reflected just behind his, pinned between the two Ecko rhinos.

– Beat on that muthafucka a little.

They beat on me a little and then they stand me back up.

– I ax you again, what Predo thinkin’ sendin’ you an’ one them fuckin’ enforcers up here?

I wipe the blood out of my eyes with the back of my hand.

– What was that name again?

– Shit. Sheeit.

He snaps his fingers and points at the chair next to his.

– Sit his ass down.

The rhinos pull me over and push me into the barber chair.

Digga looks at the barber.

– You done yet?

The barber taps Digga’s upper lip and Digga slides his tongue under it, pushing it out. The barber scratches his straight razor over the raised spot, sculpting the edge of Digga’s pencil moustache a little sharper. Then he sets the razor aside, squirts some oil from a dispenser into his palm and slaps it onto Digga’s face before he whips the smock off his chest, snapping it once to shake loose the hair clinging to its folds.

Digga gets out of the chair and leans close to the mirror, inspecting his face. The barber stands behind him with a hand mirror, angling it so Digga can see the back of his head.

– Nice.

He looks at my reflection again.

– You want a cut? Muthafucka knows his bizniz. Best damn barber in the Hood.

– No, thanks.

– No, you have a cut. Lookin’ a little bedraggled, a little raggedy.

He gestures to the barber.

– Clean the man up. Shave and a cut. On me.

The barber comes behind me, rolls down my collar, tucks a piece of tissue inside, snaps the smock and lays it over me.

– Hows you like it?

I run a hand through my hair.

– Just off the ears maybe. Natural in back.

He cuts the air once or twice with his scissors.

– White hair ain’t my thing.

I shrug.

– It grows back.

He starts clipping.

Digga leans his ass on the counter in front of me.

– It grows back. Hear that? Muthafucka says his hair grows back. Ain’t the only shit grown back, huh? Folks like you and us all in here.