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IN THE HOOD
A short story
that takes place between HOOD RAT and
STILL HOOD
THE GREAT AND
POWERFUL DON
The winter had been a brutal one in New
York City. The temperature had dropped
to record lows on several occasions, turning
the streets into a ghost town. It was
as if Mother Nature was trying to use
the ice and snow to wash away Harlem’s
sins, but we all know blood doesn’t
wash off.
A
few months before violence had run through
Harlem like a rabid cancer. It seemed
like every day somebody was getting
killed or locked up. The media had labeled
it the worst period in upper Manhattan
since the gentrification was initiated.
Men, women, and children, none were spared
summer’s long kiss before stepping
aside for the winter. Fall seemed to sit
that year out. When winter finally stepped
off, spring took the podium and urged
everyone to come back out and play. With
a new season came new adventures on the
uptown streets.
The
corner of 115th and Seventh Avenue was packed with people.
Some were out trying to enjoy the weather, while others
gathered around to gawk at the dice game taking place
at the side of the bodega. Bills of all denominations
were piled on the ground or were poking out from under
the feet of the assembled gamblers in anticipation of
a win or loss. Shifty-eyed sack chasers prowled around
the edges of the ring, trying to get a line on who had
the most paper. There was some heavy money floating around
the game, but none as heavy as Don B’s.
I got a buck that he four or better!” a
nameless face shouted from the sidelines.
“That’s money well spent, young’n. The
Don don’t know how to lose, ya heard?” Don
B said in his raspy voice, while shaking
the three multi-colored dice in his mitt.
The afternoon sun kissed off his pinky
ring, damn near blinding anyone trying
to stare directly at it.
“I
got ya bet, son,” a young cat named
Beans said, pushing through the crowd. “This
nigga out here talking like he got the
God hand on them bones, rapping ass nigga.
I got a buck that say my nigga in the
medium jeans dumb to the four.” He
thumbed at Don B “I need some of
that good record label money.”
Don B looked at him coolly and said, “Nigga,
the only way you could ever get some record
money is to suck a CEO for something short!” Don
B tossed the dice, sending them spinning
like three little maidens in pleated skirts.
When they finally stopped they wore the
devil’s grin, six six six. Don B
just smirked as Beans’s face turned
to shit. “Don’t ever disrespect
a king in his kingdom, clown.” Don
B snatched the hundred dollars in crumbled
bills from Beans’s wilted hand and
passed it to the nameless face.
“Yo, let me get a bet,” a
voice called from somewhere behind the
crowd. Bumping through the crowd was
a five-nine cat that sported his beard
long and his head as bald as the day
he was born. Even covered by a long
sleeve white t-shirt you could see the
well developed muscles in his arms and
chest. Devil and Remo stepped between
the man and Don B, not even giving a
second thought to the money they were
standing on. Don B paid them to kill
and they did so not only efficiently
but with vigor. Though the man was a
stranger to most assembled, Don B knew
just who Pop was and had mixed emotions
about seeing him.
“It’s all good,” Don
B said as he passed between Devil and
Remo. “My nigga, Pop, when you
touched down?”
“A few days
ago,” Pop replied. “I heard
you was blowing up, but I ain’t
never known the Don to need security.”
Don B shrugged. “More money,
more problems. You know how that shit
goes. But fuck the dumb shit, how you
been my nigga? I ain’t seen you
in like….four,
five years.”
“One thousand eight hundred and
thirty days,” Pop
corrected. “The state took a good
chunk out my ass, kid. The wild shit is,
from Attica to Clinton all I’m
hearing is that Don B is bringing the
life back to Harlem.”
Don B tried to
downplay it. “I’m
doing a lil something something with this
rap shit. It’s just another hustle,
smell me?”
“Little my
ass. Man, you came a long way from when
it was just me and you flipping coke to
pay for studio time. You took our baby
and ran with it. I’m
proud of you son.”
“The
hard work paid off in the long run,” Don
B said. His face wore a smile, but darkness
settled around his heart. Pop had touched
on a very sore subject with his statement,
and by the smug grin he was wearing he
knew it. Back before Pop went up north
he had been the star attraction at Big
Dawg. Don B was the brains and he was
the talent, but his conviction changed
things. Don B had to take the company
on his back and make it go by himself.
It wasn’t
until his own career was established that
he took on the group Bad Blood.
“Yo, a nigga appreciate them kites you was sending
through, Don. Word, I was one of the flyest niggaz in
the joint!” Pop said.
“You fam, nigga. Anything less would be beneath
me,” Don B assured him.
Pop’s face became more serious. “I’m
glad you feel that way. So, I know you
got something for a nigga on the touchdown?” Pop
rubbed his hands together. Devil and Remo
felt the tension mounting and moved closer
to Don B, but Pop wasn’t sweating
it. He had two young wolves of his own,
who were toting heavy iron, posted up
across the street. Though Pop and Don
B had been thick as thieves years prior,
money and time changes people so he didn’t
know what to expect from Don B.
Don B looked at Pop as if he had taken
leave of his senses. “Son, that
goes with out saying.” Don B pulled
his bankroll out and handed the whole
thing over to Pop. “You family,
Pop. I would never see you go without.”
“Good looking out on this, but I’m trying
to get on,” Pop said, stuffing the roll into his
pocket. “So what’s good? Can
a nigga get in position?”
“My dude, that’s not even a question. Me and
you go back like two flats. Just say the word and I’ll
get you in the studio, my G,” Don
B said.
Pop scrunched his nose as if he had smelled
something rank. “Studio? Don, I
hung that rap shit up when I went to the
can. Don’t nobody wanna get behind
a thirty-one-year-old rapper. I’m
on my suit and tie shit. I was thinking
that when you kick back my end of Big
Dawg it’ll get me up and running
for some things I wanna do.”
Now it was Don B’s turn to make
a face. Though Pop hadn’t said it
outright, Don B knew a press when he felt
one. “Your end?”
“Yeah, I mean being that me and you started Big
Dawg together I think that entitles me to something,” Pop
said seriously. He scratched his head
to signal his shooters to be on point
for trouble.
“Pop,” Don B began in an even tone. “I
can’t lie and say you weren’t
there when the seed was planted, but I
watered it. My G, I took this company
from us fighting to get your singles spins
in clubs, to the cover of The Source,
I put in that work son. Now, if you wanna
sit at this table and reap the benefits
like the made nigga you’re supposed
to be, I ain’t got no problem with that. My brother
is always welcomed with open arms, but all that about
me kicking you half of Big Dawg… it ain’t
gonna work, fam.” Don B tensed,
expecting Pop to do something stupid,
as was his M.O., but instead he laughed.
“Ain’t this some shit.” He clapped his
hands together thunderously. “Here I come extending
my hand in friendship and you spit in it, talking some
what ain’t gonna work shit. Man,
them magazines got you believing your
own hype, Donald. The last time I checked, I was
the shooter of the team, or did you forget
what the fuck I went to prison for in
the first place?”
Back in the days Don B and Pop were both
heavy in the streets, but Don was about
his paper while Pop was on his gorilla
shit. Together they made a lot of money,
but Pop kept them hot. No matter how much
Don B tried to warn him about the unnecessary
attention, Pop was intent on making the
streets fear him. It was this same mode
of thinking that landed Pop in prison.
While partying at a club Don B had gotten
into an argument with a kid over a girl.
The Don wanted to let it go, but Pop insisted
on making an example of the kid. He caught
him after the club and shot the kid twice
in the stomach, but the kid ended up living
to testify against Pop. Though Don B would
later take the kid out of the game, Pop’s
fate was already sealed.
“Yeah, I remember why you went to jail, because
you’re a hardheaded muthafucka,” Don B reminded
him. “I told you to leave that shit alone, but you
had to get on ya bullshit. Forget the fact that it was
wild people up in there, you had to lay ya gangsta down.
And that’s what got yo ass locked
up!”
Pop’s nostrils flared, signaling
a thinning of his patience. “Check
it, son. We can do this the easy way and
you break me off what you owe, or we can
go about this like some knuckleheads.
What you wanna do?”
Don B just sighed. Pop was entitled to
something because he was a Dawg, so that
went without saying, but he was being
unreasonable. This wasn’t the first
time an overzealous cat tried to muscle
his way in. Don B didn’t budge for
the street punks and he sure as hell didn’t
have any intentions on budging for someone
who was supposed to be his friend.
“Pop, I can’t do what you’re asking
of me,” Don B said, casually hooking
his thumbs in his belt, close to where
his derringer was tucked. Devil and Remo
came to stand on either side of Don B,
drawing a line in the sand. It was at
that moment the whole block went silent.
Pop looked at the trio quizzically. He
knew without a doubt that all of them
were holding, but he also knew that he
could earth Don B before the
final call. But with both of them dead,
neither would prosper. Pop had just done
over five years in the state penitentiary,
so he knew how to be patient.
“So that’s how this is gonna play out?” Pop
grinned. Don B just shrugged his shoulders. “Cool.” Pop
began backing away. “I see you feeling all swoll
because ya team is out here and I can respect that, but
we’ll speak about this again soon,
Don B Bank on that.”
Don B held his ground never taking his
eyes off Pop until he had joined his minions
and rounded the corner. Devil made to
follow him, but Don B held him off. The
last thing Don B wanted was to see his
former comrade pushed off the earth, but
he knew Pop was going to be a problem.
Letting Remo and Devil go at Pop would
only turn out worse if they fucked it
up. Pop would rain a shit storm on Don
B that he didn’t want to expose
his public to. The last thing he needed
was to be under the scrutiny of the media
and the dreaded hip-hop cops.
“You don’t want me to mash that nigga, D?” Devil
asked eagerly.
Don B thought on it for a minute and shook
his head. “Nah, this might call
for a little special attention. Get that
lil nigga from Lincoln on the jack and
tell him the Don requests a meeting.”
“Don, I know you ain’t about to put scrams
on Pop?” Remo almost sounded saddened by the news. “I
mean, me and Devil would at least do it clean… but
him?”
Don B turned his shaded eyes on Remo. “Man,
quit asking so many fucking questions
and tell Johnny Outlaw I wanna see him.”
MS. JONES
“They’re trying to make
me go to rehab, but I said no, no, no,” Dena
sang, while licking the ends of a Dutch
Master closed. She was perched on the
bed as if she was posing for a magazine,
just a hint of thigh and breast showing
beneath the oversized Pete Rose jersey
she was wearing. Any other day Dena
would’ve been sitting in Mrs.
Zabrola’s Spanish class, but she
had decided to take a day to herself
and kick it with her boo. It was only
April, so she had at least eight more
weeks to coast through to graduation.
“Why
you singing that white girl’s shit?” Lazy
asked from his spot on the floor, where he was playing
the new Madden.
“What
you mean? That song is fire!” she said defensively.
“Whatever.” Lazy
thumbed the controller. “Put that in the air, ma.”
Dena
popped Lazy on the top of his ear with the lighter. “What
I tell you about that, ma shit? Save that for
them project bitches you keep getting caught up with.”
“Dena,
why you always gotta go there? We was just having a good
time and you gotta rain on it. I didn’t mean nothing
by it, baby,” he tugged at her leg.
“Whatever,” she
said, yanking her leg back. Dena looked around on the
bed for the lighter they’d been using and noticed
Lazy’s cell phone was flashing. He’d obviously
put it on silent when they got to his house, trying to
be sneaky. Dean slyly hit the button and peeped that it
was a text message. What you doing boo?
Boo? Who the fuck was calling her man
boo? The thought shot through Dena’s
skull so fast that it almost hurt. She
looked over the edge of the bed at his
soft grain of hair as he played the video
game, oblivious to her mounting rage.
Lovingly, Dena reached down and began
stroking Lazy’s head with her left
hand, just before she came down with the
phone in the right.
When the Motorola hit Lazy’s head
it broke apart and went scattering. Lazy
dropped the joystick and tried to spin,
but Dena was already leaping on him. They
went crashing into a Rubbermaid container,
which had been acting as a dresser, knocking
over the ashtray and several of Lazy’s
toiletries.
“Fuck is you doing?” Lazy grabbed her by the
wrists in an attempt to restrain her. Dena’s eyes
were overcast and threatening to storm.
“Boo!” she shouted. “What bitch has
your wayward dick slipped into that feels she had the
right to call you boo, huh Lance?”
“Dena, I don’t know what the fuck you’re
talking about,” he said playing dumb.
“Nigga, I’m talking about the bitch who text
you!” She thrust the screen in his face. The back
of the phone had slid under the bed, but the battery managed
to stay put. “Lazy, why you always gotta fuck around,
huh?” she pressed. “Ain’t I enough woman
for you anymore?”
“Dena, I don’t even recognize that number.” He
tried to snatch the phone away, but she held it back.
“Her fucking name came up with the text!” She
threw the phone at him, finishing it off.
“Dena, let me talk to you for a minute.” He
tried to grab her arm, but to his surprise she spun on
him with a box cutter that seemed to have magically appeared
out of nowhere.
“Nigga, I wish you would put your hands on me,” she
spat, waving the razor freely. Dena was a product of Bedford-Stuyvesant,
Brooklyn, so learning to use a blade came with the first
stage of her training. Lazy knew this, so he backed up
a bit.
“Lazy, no matter how much I give of myself you just
can’t keep your dick out of the pudding,” she
said in a defeated tone, while slipping her jeans back
on. “I love you, baby, but I can’t keep letting
you gamble with my life.” She made for the door.
“Dena…” He stepped forward cautiously.
“Lance, I love you so I let a lot of shit slide,
but please don’t take being in love as stupidity.
You’re a good dude, but you’ve got some fucked-up
ways about you that I’m starting to get tired of.
You need to either get it together or let me go.” The
tears began to dance in the corners of her eyes. “Call
me after you get tested,” she told him before walking
out, taking the blunt with her.
TRUE TO THE GAME
Had you told him a year prior that things
would turn out the way they had, he’d
have laughed at you. Bad Blood had their
first record deal and a single that was
blazing through the streets like the crack
epidemic. It seemed as if heaven was finally
in sight until everything was cast into
hell.
Pain’s bullshit had finally caught
up with him when he was gunned down by
a group of Dominicans over a debt owed
for some coke. Karma had finally come
around to bite him in the ass, but unfortunately
Jay and Lex ended up getting caught in
the crossfire, decimating the group’s
numbers and leaving their debut album
incomplete. Lah and Lynx were also gone,
leaving only True.
It had always been the plan to have True
drop a solo album after the group’s
album, but their untimely deaths sped
the process. The Truth was near
completion and the buzz was threatening
to rival that of Bad Blood’s release.
Though his group was gone he would carry
the torch proudly, spending the whole
winter finishing up the album. True was
more focused than he had ever been in
life until the situation with Rhonda placed
him sitting at her mother’s kitchen
table with his head in his hands.
“I don’t believe this shit,” he said
just above a whisper.
“Shit, you don’t believe it? This came as
one hell of a shock to me too, True,” Ms. Rita said,
lighting a Newport-100 on the stove. She looked like a
slim, older version of her late daughter.
“Ms. Rita, you know I wouldn’t never disrespect
you by calling you or Rhonda liars, but are you sure?”
“Honestly, no. When P.J. was born Rhonda said Paul
was the father so I had no reason to doubt it. For years
I watched that boy do right by little P.J., only to find
out that Rhonda had been lying to all of us. Now, I love
my baby but it still doesn’t change the fact that
she’s created a fucked-up situation. You young people
are quick to lay down with each other unprotected, but
you never think of the ramifications. Little P.J. has
already lost his mother and the man he thought was his
father so I think he deserves some closure.”
True took in every word that Rita said,
but he couldn’t take his eyes off
the little picture of P.J. that he held
in his hands. He examined the boy’s
features and tried to think back on how
he looked as a child. Could P.J. be his?
He and Rhonda had been on-and-off-again
lovers for a number of years, sometimes
protected and sometimes not, but he couldn’t
digest the fact that they might’ve
created a life together.
He finally looked up from the picture. “I
don’t know what to say.”
“And nothing to say except that you’re gonna
step up and do what you have to do,” Kelly said
in a stink voice from the sidelines where she had been
sitting. “True, that boy needs a father and if you
and my sister laid together then you need to share in
the responsibility.”
“Slow ya roll, Kelly. We don’t even know if
P.J. is mine or not. I mean, I had love for Rhonda, but
I sure as hell wasn’t the only nigga she was jumping
off with.”
“Oh, no you didn’t!” Kelly snaked her
neck. “How you gonna try and sit here and play my
sister like some slut? I don’t recall you complaining
about how many men she was sleeping with when you was
laid all up in the pussy.”
“And I don’t recall this having a muthafucking
thing to do with you!” True shot back.
“Both of y’all need to watch your mouths in
my house,” Ms. Rita cut in. “Arguing about
this ain’t gonna solve nothing. What we need to
do is get a paternity test to find out who P.J.’s
father is.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, mommy,” Kelly
said. “My home girl is a receptionist at the DNA
testing center downtown and she can set it up. We should
be able to get it done for like five or six hundred. I’ll
set it up and you can just pay for it when you get there,” she
added, looking at True.
“Me?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, you, big baller. You getting all that good
album money so I know five hundred is light. Besides,
if it does turn out that P.J. is yours the five hundred
won’t look like much against the back child support,” she
said, smugly.
“Yo, fuck you.” True pushed away from the
table and stood up.
“Kelly, you need to mind your business,” Ms.
Rita told her daughter harshly. She turned to him. “True,
pay Kelly no mind, she’s always talking out of her
ass. She ain’t got two cents in this dollar. This
is about P.J.”
“I feel you, but I ain’t beat for the
drama your daughter is trying to shoot my way. No disrespect
to you, Ms. Rita, but I ain’t trying to sit up in
here for this shit. Give me a call and let me know what
the next move is,” True said. He stormed out of
the house, drowning out Kelly’s mocking laughter.
STEP-IN EXECUTIONER
Most people think of killers as hard-looking
cats with quick tempers and extensive
criminal histories. This isn’t always
the case. Imagine, if you will, a man
only a few months shy of his seventeenth
birthday, with a boyish face and a fetish
cruelty that would rival even Jim Jones.
Not the rapper, but the cult leader responsible
for the famed Jonestown massacre. If you
can picture this, then you can picture
Johnny Outlaw.
The
moment he got the word from Devil that Don B needed his
services he knew what it was about. Johnny Outlaw wasn’t
the most sociable cat, so he knew it wasn’t an invitation
to a tea party. Someone needed to die and this was the
reason Johnny found himself posted up in front of a rundown
tenement on 116th and Morningside on a Sunday morning.
Just
as his intelligence had indicated, his mark came strolling
out of the building at exactly ten o’clock. He was
dressed in a cheap brown suit, helping an older lady down
the steps who was dressed in her Sunday best. Most would’ve
thought the mark was the picture of the perfect son as
he helped his aging mother along, but Johnny knew better.
The mark was a piece of shit that Don B had paid handsomely
to have flushed down the toilet.
Johnny
waited patiently for the mark and the woman to reach the
curb before he started walking casually toward them. The
mark must’ve felt something was wrong because when
Johnny was within six feet of him, he turned around. At
first the mark’s body tensed, but seeing the teenager
he relaxed.
“You
shouldn’t be walking up on people like that, yo,” Pop
told the young man.
“My
fault, man. You just look like this rapper I used to bump
named Pop,” Johnny said innocently.
“That’s
me. What you a fan or something?” Pop asked.
“Yeah,
man. I got all your old mix tapes. I thought you was gonna
drop an album, but you just disappeared. What happened?” Johnny
asked, as if he really gave a shit about the washed-up
rapper.
“You
know, I had to take a lil vacation, but I’m back
now and about to bless the streets, ya heard?” Pop
said proudly.
“That’s
what’s up!” Johnny said in a high-pitched
voice. “Man, my peoples is never gonna believe that
I met you, dawg. Say, I don’t mean to sound like
a bird or nothing, but can I get an autograph?” He
handed Pop the white Yankee cap he’d been wearing.
“Sure,
kid. You got a pen?” Pop asked, holding the hat.
Johnny
kept grinning like a country bumpkin as he fronted like
he was reaching in his pocket for a pen. When he brought
his hand around he was holding a snub-nosed .38. Pop’s
eyes got wide as he realized he had been duped. Instead
of trying to run for cover, he pushed his mother out of
the way as the first bullet hit him high in the chest.
Pop staggered but managed to keep his legs under him.
He stumbled awkwardly towards Johnny, taking another shot
to the chest. He then dropped to one knee and looked up
at Johnny in disbelief. Johnny smiled down at Pop before
putting one more in his head.
Screaming
drew Johnny’s attention to the right, where Pop’s
mother was on the ground screaming how he had shot her
boy. By now people were beginning to look out there windows
to see what the commotion was. Johnny cursed himself for
being careless and the woman for her big-ass mouth, nearly
ruining a perfectly good hit. Johnny was about to leave
when he had a truly wicked thought. Stopping in his tracks,
he turned around and shot the screaming woman in her face.
Don
B was going to be uptight about Johnny killing the old
woman, but he didn’t care. In his mind she was a
casualty of the war they were all fighting in the streets
of Harlem. Pop was the first to die heading into the new
summer, but before it was all said and done he wouldn’t
be the last.
STILL HOOD
the novel
Coming October
2, 2007
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Donna Hill
Brenda Jackson
Francis Ray