Da Black Scorpion

By Ali El

I originally wrote this book as a movie script back in 1992 while awaiting trial. It was a add-on to a movie that I had started filming before being locked up. It was my answer to the movie Rocky. But if you knew anything about the publishing business, you would know that at the time, it was virtually impossible to get published as a black author. So this book went in my bag.
Once convicted and sent off to the plantation, this book was passed around amongst the convicts alongside the likes of Goines and Ice Berg. Til finally my homie shipped with it. I tried unsuccessfully to contact Apple for about two years with no luck.
By this time, 2002, I had written four more books, and with the emergence of independent black publishers, I realized that my own try at independent publishing in 1998 wasnt a pipe dream but rather the lack of vision from un-named people. So once again I tried to go thru the established. Finally I concluded that a nigga that has never had nothing dont know how to be true to the game. So back to square one with the idea of dropping two books at the same time. I rewrote the book and merged it with the book that all my readers liked the most. But since my luck is as good as a rabbit losing his foot. You know I lost the book again.


Finally, January 2006, I re-wrote this book. Only this time I set out to put it in book form as I wrote it. And here it is, all hand written; cover and all. 14 years in the making. Damn, why so long?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479737703

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Ali El.

ISBN:                  Softcover                  978-1-4797-3769-7

                  Ebook                                 978-1-4797-3770-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Contents

Author of the Book

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

VOODOO CHARM

Words from the Author

ONE

TWO

THREE

Author of the Book

I originally wrote this book as a movie script back in 1992 while awaiting trial. It was a add-on to a movie that I had started filming before being locked up. It was my answer to the movie Rocky. But if you knew anything about the publishing business, you would know that at the time, it was virtually impossible to get published as a black author. So this book went in my bag.

Once convicted and sent off to the plantation, this book was passed around amongst the convicts alongside the likes of Goines and Ice Berg. Til’ finally my homie shipped with it. I tried unsuccessfully to contact Apple for about two years with no luck.

By this time, 2002, I had written four more books, and with the emergence of independent black publishers, I realized that my own try at independent publishing in 1998 wasn’t a pipe dream but rather the lack of vision from un-named people. So once again I tried to go thru the established. Finally I concluded that a nigga that has never had nothing don’t know how to be ‘true to the game.’ So back to square one with the idea of dropping two books at the same time. I rewrote the book and merged it with the book that all my readers liked the most. But since my luck is as good as a rabbit losing his foot. You know I lost the book again.

Finally, January 2006, I re-wrote this book. Only this time I set out to put it in book form as I wrote it. And here it is, all hand written; cover and all. 14 years in the making. Damn, why so long?

Acknowledgements

To my grandma, Rosa, who has stood by me for the 15 years of my incarceration. Always telling me it would happen one day.

To my kin, Wanda Kay, for the V.I.s when everyone wrote me off as dead, and to my lil’ bruh, Ty, for keeping it all the way one hundred.

To all of my kids for being a driving force that made it impossible for me to give up. I know baby need shoes and college!

My beautiful wife, Miriam Hicks, Candi. (Rest in peace). My soul mate in life and death. We’ll be together again, for sure.

To all the real live niggas in Da Rock AKA Rock City; Alcatraz. Most definitely my Mad Ave Posse from the jump. My night club team that put Da Rock on the map and changed the city forever. Especially my DJ, The Mad Incredible DJ Slice. My bartender, Ivery Joe (R.I.P.) My man my melo, Dre for helping hook up the joint. My uncle Top Cat for holding the door down. And Soul 92 for the promo’s.

My peeps from my Nash days. NOW, fo’ sho. DC, Tyson, B-MO, Uzzie, Jazzy Jeff, lil Junior and the rest. 4 Life.

Last, but not least, all my Fam doing time in the Bing. From the Red ones to the Mighty Moors. Keep it moving and watch them dust eaters.

Click-Clack! North cock it, Blat-Blat!

IMAGINE

Imagine a thought!

Hold it a minute,

a hour,

a day,

a week,

a year,

a life.

A life you created

molded and fashioned

then put on display.

Behold the creation

you created

in your mind.

Just a thought.

IMAGINE!

Chapter 1

Che Jigaga Shakur, the son of a former Black Panther, was about to witness the streets as only told in jail cell tales. For most, it would probably be over after the first look at death. But Che had been breed by one of the most street savvy hustler turn Black Panther that ever walked the mean streets of New York City. He had seen it all, so he thought. But at 15, going on 16, he felt like the world was his for the taking. Even with the elders that ran with his Pops constantly in his ear, schooling him, he always referred back to his Pop’s words. Then there was his Mom Duke, the darker complexion version of Angela Davis. He had everything one would need to be successful in the concrete jungle. Everything but the experience of living thru it.

Boxing, his father thought, would give him that experience. So boxing was Che’s thang. One reason why he had avoided being caged up before his 16th birthday like all of his home boys. The extra money was just a bonus. Even if it was under a assumed name. The less that anyone knew about him, the better. He knew that one day he would be the King of the Red Dragons. His Pops had made that law when he set up the Red Dragons after the Feds broke the Panthers up. It was foresight after seeing all other black organizations crumble after their leaders died off or was locked away for life. Leaving the members to fight amongst themselves for leadership. This way was simple. If he died, which was highly likely, his son would be the leader at the age of 16. He even foresaw the rebel rousers. So by creating a council of elders, he envisioned a balance of power. So whoever lead before the Che, couldn’t hold power. But what he hadn’t foreseen was about to hit Che smack dab in the face.

*     *     *

Che looked across the ring at his opponent. He had listened to his corner-man all week. Tall guys are difficult to fight. You hear me Che. You got to bob and weave, move your head. All that talk went in one ear and out the other. His plan was the same as it always was. Knock the nigga out before he got a chance to do all that shit George kicked to him. So far it worked. 12 and 0 with 12 KO’s in the first round. This opponent didn’t seem any different.

Che had that Jersey Joe Frazer style, attack straight forward. The only difference was the weight class. Che was a middle weight with the power of a heavy. Hence the nickname the Black Scorpion. A little guy with a deadly sting. But unlike the scorpion, he had two stingers, a left and right. And everybody in the Bush knew it. Especially after he knock Zulu out, the so-called best brawler in the Bush, at the age of 12. Not once, but twice. First with a right, then with a left. The last comatose’ the big nigga.

Che bite down on his mouthpiece, bounced up and down in his signet red trunks, which was his way of reppin the Red Dragons even while under an assumed name.

After instruction by the ref, he backed to his corner, where George started in, Watch ‘im, he got a limp. One leg’s stronger than the other. Don’t let’m set up. Bob and weave, bob and weave. Che just rocked his neck and stared at his toothpick like opponent.

Ding! Ding!

Che rushed across before his opponent could get out of his corner. A left jab stopped him in his tracks. His head snapped back, but he caught his self, squared up and threw a right hook.

His opponents mouth piece flew towards his corner man, as his head quickly followed. Jaw broke, eyes in the top of his head and head lying on the bottom rope was all that the ref needed to see. No count out. No one, two or three. Just the waving of hands and Get a doctor in here.

Che walked back to his corner, spit his mouth piece out and observed the mayhem, as the crowd moaned in disbelief. It was as he had done a grave wrong. But what could you expect when you KO a nigga on his home turf. He knew shit could get ugly in Manhattan. Especially with Manhattan having the biggest, most powerful gang in all of New York.

It was get the check and bounce back to Brooklyn before he ran into the Black Mafia.

Yo Georgey, what’s up with yo young lil protégé, Akbar, the leader of the Black Mafia said, stopping Che and George on their way to the dressing room.

Ain’t no haps baby . . . George said before being cut off by Che.

Lil protégé! Son please. I’m not lil, and I’m defiantly nobody’s protégé. So if you don’t mine, could you please step back so I can get dressed and blow this joint.

Akbar looked at George, Is this chump serious?

Che reared back to flo’ him but George quickly grabbed him. Chill out baby boy. You don’t wont to do that.

Fuck that bitch ass nigga. Don’t nobody insult me. Who the fuck he think he is?

Come on baby boy. Let’s talk about this in the dressing room.

Yeah, Akbar said, straightening his suit. You tell that boy who I am, and he can ride with me or float in the Hudson.

Fuck you nigga, Che shot back. Do you know who the fuck I am. I’m . . .

George slammed the door before Che could reveal his identity.

Dead that nigga, Akbar ordered.

"Che, that was Akbar. You know, leader of The Black Mafia.

Che eyes widen. He knew the stories of this ruthless gangster. A fist fight was out of the question. It was definitely gonna be gun play. So what! I take over the Dragons in a week anyway. If he want war, we’ll give’em what he want.

Calm down baby. You don’t need enemies like Akbar. You gonna need him as an ally somewhere down the line. He controls every black hood in the city for the MOB.

Get the fuck outta here. You sound like you down with that nigga. My Pops would smack the taste out yo mouth if he heard you bitch out like this. Just get my check fo’ I flo’ yo ass.

*     *     *

I got you son, Optimums Prime said over the phone, setting at the bar in the Dragon’s lair, which was the nickname of the Red Dragons head quarters. He knew Akbar didn’t play when it came to his money. Still he had to save face in front of his crew.

He looked around the basement, which was filled to the max with members dancing the night away. He couldn’t let anyone see him sweat. He was the set-in President of the Red Dragons. Akbar knew this but he also knew that in a week Prime wouldn’t be the man any more. His strategy was simple. Make Prime pay what he owed, step up his business, or when Che took over the leadership, do business with him.

You got me? How many times I heard that? You got one week, then Im putting Che in charge of the Bush operation.

What you sayin son, Prince asked boldly, trying to show heart.

Akbar gripped the phone tight. He knew he should have never told Prime that he was also a son of a Black Panther, and that was the only reason he didn’t turn the Red Dragons into Black Mafia. Respect was over rated in the new generation. Especially with a nigga as grimy as Prime.

Im sayin’. Get yo weight back up or your ass is out.

The click of the phone in Prime’s ear told the story. Bitch ass nigga, Prime screamed, slammin’ the phone down. He knew Akbar was serious. He thought of a plan as he looked the basement over. His eyes grew at the sight of Che coming towards the bar. The puffy left eye was odd for Che. He, like everybody else, knew that Che was the KO king. Who you been rockin’ wit’?

Che sat on the stool next to Prime. A double life had become second nature to him, so to lie was easy. But now the stakes were higher. He had a gang of 15,000 plus on his ass. You know duke that be over the Black Mafia?

Prime shook his head, thinking Akbar was already grooming Che to take him down a notch. You talkin’ about Akbar?

Yeah. That fool think Im ‘pose to bow to him.

Whey you see him at, Prime probed.

Manhattan, I went to see a fight, nah mean? We just happened to cross paths. He didn’t know it was me tho, but I’m sure he’ll find out. Ya know, shit happens.

Prime studied Che. He knew Che was holding back, probably to get his reaction. He made up his mind. Che had to go before he turned 16. The only problem was how without alerting Akbar to his plan. So what you sayin, son?

I wont to hit him before he hit me.

Prime took a deep breath. This scheme they were planning was mind boggling. Akbar wanted Che in charge, Che wonted to off the nigga. He figured the plot was to throw him off balance, but he was too smart for that. You know what you sayin is crazy. The Elders would never agree to it. That’s war. And you know Im the only warlord in the Bush.

Why you think I come to you first. All the gun clappers follow you. I got a week before I take over. Common sense tell you I got to show and prove before they respect me as the king.

Prime smiled. He knew what this was about. It was some Akbar shit to secure Che at the top. It was the same thing Akbar had him do. Ahite, If you ready for this, go off Sears and Townsend.

What? You crazy or something? They’re cops.

Yeah, crooked cops. They been shaken all us down on the regular. All the Dragons want’em dead. You dead’m, you got instant respect. Nahmean?

Che thought about it for a second. He knew he needed the gun clappers on his side if he was to win against Akbar. Bet it up. Just get me a burner and state the place to be.

They on the Bush now. Probably shaken us down. But you got to go alone. So don’t even think about gettin yo shadow Tito to go wit’ you. You want respect, you got to earn it do’lo’. Nahmean?

Word. I got no problem wit’ that. Just get me the burner.

Prime reached in his waist and pulled out a 9mm. We wiped it clean before handing it to Che. Ahite. It’s on you now, he smiled devilishly.

He waited til Che left, then called Sears to give him the heads up. He figured two people could play the snake game, and with Che gone for attempted murder on two undercover cops, he would be out the picture for a long time, at the least he would be caught with a burner and sent up for at least 3 to 5. Then Akbar would be forced to deal in the Bush thru him, or at least that’s what he thought.

*     *     *

Che prowled the Bush for about a hour before spotting Sears and Townsend’s unmarked car. They were the perfect setting ducks. But Che being the son of a Black Militant studied the scene further. Something didn’t seem right. It all seemed to easy. But to kill the thought of paranoia, he stayed to see what was really wrong with the picture.

He walked back and forth up the ave with his hoody draped over his head. Nonchalantly glancing at the unmarked car. The tinted window only revealed two occupants that were unrecognizable. Which was strange considering how Sears/Townsend were the type that like to mingle in the night crowd . . . Then the scenario played out. He noticed Sears posted up on a store front. A quick surveillance revealed Townsend a couple of yards up the street. He checked their gear, which was abnormal. Hoodies and jeans weren’t their style. Something was definitely fishy.

Che posted up across the street and watched them. Occasionally glancing at the two figures in the unmarked-marked car.

Yo son, you got a light?

Che looked up at the young hoodlum, allowing the light to reveal his face. Don’t smoke B.

Word, Word, the hood said, then trotted off.

Che looked back across the street to see Sears and Townsend talking. He knew he was made by the way they looked towards him. He gripped the 9mm in his waist, thinking 16 shots was enough for them and the backups in the unmarked car. Still it didn’t make sense.

He put his hand on the trigger as they started across the ave. He planned to pull out as soon as they hit the curve. But as they did, the squealing tires threw everyone off balance. First Sears and Townsend looked as they drew their weapons. The gun fire from the speeding car dropped them like a bad habit. Che ducked, then raised up with his 9 aimed at the two prone bodies. The lifelessness told the story. ‘It’s a set up,’ Che said to himself, looking at how the scene unfolded. He thought about Prime, then ducked as another hail of bullets came his way. It was evident now that the car’s occupants had another motive in mind. Probably Akbar’s boys sent to kill him. He waited a second, then raised, letting off shots at the speeding car. To his surprise, the car stopped in the middle of the ave and the occupants jumped out. ‘What the fuck’ he yelled, seeing the two occupants of the unmarked car get out in an attempt to arrest the shooters, but were gunned down instead. He fired at the hit men until his gun went empty. He knew if they were sent by Akbar that they had extra clips. The obvious choose in this shoot out was to tuck tail and run like hell.

He ran and ran, thought and thought. The only thing that came to mind was to blow the Apple until he could figure out what was really going on.

He woke up in the D.C. bus terminal with a $2,500 check made out to Mark Best, a fake I.D. and a empty 9mm.

D.C. was a ideal spot since D.C. niggas hated N.Y. niggas. He figured that if it was Akbar who wanted him dead, his street connects had no chance in hell of reaching D.C. It was kind of ironic, he thought after getting off the bus. He was a New Yorker too. A bullet could have his name on it just for having a New York ascent.

He used his best down south drool he could conjure up to ask questions and finally get a room. He knew he had to lay low in the slums sort of speak. With four cops getting knocked off and him being at the scene. It was a possibility that his name and picture would be all over the news. And everybody know niggas in the hood don’t watch the news. So South East was the best place to chill.

It took him a couple of days to scope the area around his new crib. The surprising part of it all was that everything was black owned. He had always thought of D.C. as a place of rich white politicians and backward as black slave minded as niggas. Come to find out, these niggas were no different than the niggas in New York. The only visible difference was the sky scrapers were missing. All in all, it was like being in another hood in New York. The same Shit was going down. Drugs were being sold, hoes were selling pussy, niggas were pulling capers and murders were just another part of life in the concrete jungle.

Finally, it was time to test his skills. He started with an ounce of hard, which moved slow the first day. Then the next he sold out. It was crazy, he thought, how he had made $1,500 profit in 2 days. He laughed at how stupid he was for thinking boxing money was easy money. This was easier than taking candy from a baby.

To celebrate his new found get rich quick hustle, he decided to treat himself to pizza. A first since being in D.C. He had passed the Pizzeria on numerous occasions but never been inside. With his new found success, he found himself constantly looking over his shoulder and staking out a place before entering it. Today was no different. He checked the street, the parked cars, and everything before entering the parlor. Then again scanning the inside before finally taking a seat in a booth, which he choose because of its angle to the front door. He grabbed a menu and studied it until a soft voice broke his deep thought.

Excuse me. Can I take your order please?

‘Dam," he said to himself as he stared at the beautiful Latino female bombshell standing in front of his table with her golden skin, long black hair, which was breath taking. Her thick long eye lashes over her jet black eyes had entranced him. He didn’t know what to say.

You want me to come back?

Oh, nah, my bad. I was thinking, he said, stumbling over his words for the first time in his life.

You must be new around here.

Why you say that, he asked, squirming in his seat at the sight of her setting down directly across from him.

Your ascent. New York, huh?

‘And real observing to,’ he said to himself, wondering was it him being caught off guard by her beauty, or was his ascent that noticeable. Maybe he was fooling his self, thinking, he was fooling these D.C. kats. This girl seemed innocent enough. So he decided to keep it real, at least for a moment to see where it would lead. Having a shorty in the cut couldn’t hurt nothing I confess. I did it Sherlock Holmes. You figured it out. Please tell me what gave me away.

She laughed at his antics. Well my dear Watson. It was . . .

Hold up. I knew. My flamboyant style, he said, grabbing her hand as it rested on the table.

She smiled as his touch sent chills thru her body. It was nice to meet someone who was not after her goodies. But then again she didn’t know if he was or not. She had never really had a New Yorker come on to her. Let alone have a real conversation. But something was different with this one. His eyes sparkled with pure passion. A passion that had her captivated.

Curt to Scotty. Curt to Scotty. Beam me up.

‘cuse me, she said, shaking off her daze. What did you say?

I said today’s my birthday. What’s the special?

‘Now this seemed like a line,’ she thought, pulling her hand away. For real? I know you city boys got better lines than that.

Word up. Today is July the 7th, isn’t it? And the last I checked I was born on July 7th.

So how old are you?

Six, he thought about his fake I.D., then went with the truth anyway. Sixteen.

She smiled, ‘Most young guys would have said 18.’ Sixteen was good compared to her 15. So birthday boy what’s your name?

Ch-chocolate. I’ll take a chocolate shake.

She looked at him strangely. ‘Ch-chocolate,’ she thought. Maybe he was trippin. O.K. birthday boy. My name is Cherry . . .

Ho-ho-hold up. I say chocolate and you say Cherry. What up wit’ dat?

Well my real name is Charity but everybody call me Cherry.

Che took a deep swallow. ‘That was a hellofa come back! So do this place do birth day parties?"

No, but it’s a first time for everything. Wait here I’ll make a call.

Che watched as she walked to the counter. Her petite shape was to his liking. ‘Oh yea, I gots to have her for a shorty, um-ha,’ he said to himself, when a thugged out character stepped to her. He zoomed in on them.

Who that nigga, the guy barked, grabbing her arm. You know what Rah will do to that nigga.

Get your hands off me fool. He just wont to have a birth day party here, she spit back.

Gurl, I saw you over there flirting wit’ dude. Matter fact, just get Rah’s regular. I’ma be hollarin’ at cuz.

Why don’t you leave him alone. He don’t bang or slang, she said as a voice came over the other end of the phone. Hey Da . . . , she continued as she watched Scrappy walk over to Che’s table.

What up cuz? This seat taken?

Nah, Che said, which didn’t seem to matter, seeing how the guy had started to sit before he answered. He knew shit could get real ugly real quick, considering the hatred for New Yorkers. Then this guy thinking that something was up with him and Cherry. He leaned back and placed his hand on his 9mm.

So cuz. I hear you having a birthday party here. What’s up with that? Don’t shit like that go down up in this piece. What, you rollin wit Ice and them or you just pushin’ up on my man gurl?

Che figured silence was the best approach wit’ duke. Duke was full of himself, and any lil thang could add to the hype, then toe tagging his ass wasn’t a option. Another bump in the road while on the run. A easy bump to avoid with the possibility of getting with this fly chick. The puzzling thing about it was this Ice guy. He had heard the name before but couldn’t put the story with the name, at least not yet.

Yo cuz. Cat got yo tongue, Scrappy barked.

Cherry quickly rushed the table, yanking Scrappy out the booth. I told you fool. Now Ice and Dog on the way.

Scrappy’s facial expression changed completely. Why you do that gurl? You know I was just foolin.

Yea right. Just get Rah’s order and go, she ordered, heading back to the counter.

Scrappy waited til she was out of distance before turning back to Che. Cancel the party or else.

Che stared with tiger eyes, thinking if this was how D.C. kats got down, then no wonder they hated New Yorkers. Their styles were totally different, or maybe it was that New Yorkers could pull their gurls with hardly no effort. Whatever the case, he was glad he didn’t have to pull out. He breathed a sigh of relief when duke left. His thoughts went back to the hot gurl as she headed back to his table.

You better go before they come back.

Che looked in disbelief. Leave! I’m not afraid of that nigga or anybody else.

Well, I guess your brains don’t match yo’ looks.

Che stared at her. He didn’t know rather to take her words as a dis or compliment. What?

Boy. Those guys are known killers. And their leader think I’m his gurlfriend or sumthin’.

O.K., so who this Ice and Dog you spit at him about? And what they comin’ for?

Ice my cousin. They know he don’t play games. But that’s besides the point. He ain’t comin! I just said that so you would have time to get away.

Who tellin’ jokes now?

Im serious. They’ll come back and kill you dead. And don’t ask me why. They kill for the hell of it.

Che could see the truth in her expression. It was now a thang of saving face. Pretty gurls always ended up with the hardcore niggas, never the lames, and he wasn’t about to lose out to some gun happy Bama. So what about my party or did you forget.

Look. Just come back tonight. They’ll probably have forgotten by then.

You really think so, he said, sarcastically.

She hit his shoulder playfully. You so crazy, she said, glancing at the door revealing her nervousness, which Che caught off the rip.

Ahite, I’m gonna bounce fo’ you make me regret it. But check it. Don’t surprise me with no swine pizza. I would hate to turn it down, he said then quickly exited.

Cherry stared in amazement. He was probably the closest thing to what she had imagined in a boy friend. She smiled at his words. ‘Don’t surprise me with no swine . . . . I would hate to have to turn it down.’ That was cute. It was as if they were already dating.

*     *     *

Rashun Mohammad checked the streets from the back of his limo as he cruise the hood. Che darting out of the Pizzeria caught his attention. ‘New Kid,’ he thought. Probably one of Raheem’s new run boys.

Rashun was the Don of the D.C. streets. Nothing moved without his knowledge. As for South East, he had Raheem as his top lieutenant. He knew that Rah had a thang for Cherry Delaney. Even knew how many niggas he had killed behind her ass. But all that was about to come to a end. If there was one thang that couldn’t be forgiven. It was fuckin’ wit’ his money, and Raheem had fucked wit’ his money. Fuck how much money Raheem had made in the past. ‘Fuck wit my money, I put my foot in yo ass,’ was his motto.

Lts were easy to come by now adays. He had come up in the 60s, when you had to have a PhD just to become a criminal. Now, any old knuckle-head could be a gangster.

He shook his head at all the new faces. Maybe he was getting old. ‘Maybe time to retire.’ ‘Hell naw’ he concluded as he saw Raheem. He pressed the intercom button and ordered the limo driver to stop. Rah, get yo ass over here, he screamed out the window.

Rah threw his sub-pizza to the curve, then nodded his head at one of his soldiers and quickly jumped in the limo. What up Don Dada?

Cut the crap jack, Rashun barked, then waved his hand for the driver to pull off. He waited til the limo turned the corner before cuttin’ into Rah.

Why my money keep coming up short?

Rah slouched in the soft leather interior. He wasn’t trying to hear the pimp of the year speech. His’ was on Cherry, and this new kid she was seen with. Hell if I know! Aint nothing changed.

SMACK!!!

What the fuck was that for, Rah yelled, grabbing his nose with a death stare.

I told yo young ass not to fuck me. I see you got the top of the line cars. Hell, yo yacht dam near bigger than mine, but I’m thinkin’, how you keep buyin’ shit when my money short? Is it something you got to tell me?

Rah looked from Rashun to Abdul, then back. Shit was about to get ugly! Look God Father, I swear. I always had yo money correct. That’s on my life. You know you raised me up. Why would I try to play you? Maybe somebody going in the drop.

Maybe, maybe not. But who I ‘pose to trust? Your people, or my people. To me it’s simple. If you got a theft on your team, then how can I trust you? One, you can’t even choose qualified people to handle a simple drop.

Rah knew were this was headed. This was classic shake down 101. He knew dam well his ‘Ace in the Hole’ wouldn’t be diggin’ in the stash. What’s missing? I’ll make up for whatever is short.

Yeh, I know you will, Rashun laughed. He waved his hand at Abdul, who lifted a camera. Smile for the man.

Rah cut his eye at Rashun. This shit was cold-blooded. He idolized the black Don, and to be treated like a buster was a all time low. He knew the picture taking was a sign that your time was up. But for him, it was more or less a jester of how important it was for him to get the money. You still aint said how much.

Rashun laughed again, seeing Che again run across the street. Who the new kid right there? He pointed.

Rah stared at Che for a second. I don’t know’m from Adam and Eve.

You sure? Cause I seen him earlier comin’ out of the Pizzeria, and everybody know you got a thang for Cherry . . . Sending run boys after run boy over there. For what? You know that’s Ice’s people. Don’t you?

What you getting at, Rah asked, then answered his own question. ‘He think I’m sidin’ with the Bloods.’

You tell me, I put you in charge of South East. You pose to know everybody in this fuckin hole. But nah, you don’t even know what nigga that eats where your sweetheart work at. Who the fuck do you think I am? Sam Sausage Head.

Look, Scrappy just told me about this new kid like ten minutes ago. He tried to get info out of the kid but Cherry called Ice. You said the Bloods were off limits. So I was waitin’ til shit cooled down before goin’ round to check on this kid.

‘Dam kid make a good case,’ Rashun thought. But that wasn’t the problem. His money being short was. 300,000.

What?

"$300,000 is what you owe. Your tab been comin’ up short for the last six months.

Rah squinted his eyes. $300,000 dollars. This nigga got to be trippin.’ There was no way he could come up with 300 geez. He cut his eye at Abdul. Ace came to mind. He was the best man for the job. Besides, Ace wonted to run the Miami Bloods out of D.C. anyway. Might as well run Rashun ass out too.

What you waitin’ on? Get yo ass out, Rashun barked.

*     *     *

Ace nodded as the limo cruised by him. His plan must be working. It had been in the works for six months. To see Rashun come thru South East meant one thang. Somebody’s picture was being taken. He jumped out of his black on black Prelude and lit up a Newport. He looked up to the third floor window of the Bullets gang complex as he took a couple drags off the cigarette. He of T-Boz’s smooth red skin lying across her bed. He puffed again as he adjusted his dick, which had started to swell. He thumped the cigarette to the curve and made his way to the complex.

Ace was the type of street soldier that every gang lord wanted. A ruthless cold uncalculating killer. He was only 19 years old but no one would ever know it by his demeanor. He was the quite type. Always observing everything around him. Most of the Bullets thought he was psycho. They had never seen him with a gurl. But no one dared to suggest that he was a fag. The gurls in the gang knew better. He had been with most of them, usually out of fear, but mostly by force. He was super strong for his 5'10, 170 pound build. His cold black skin and shiny bald head was a signet that would make you think he was a descendant of Kenyatta from the ‘Goines series,’ some black militant out for justice or something. How wrong could a perception be. With Ace it was totally opposite. No one knew it better than Terry ‘T-Boz’ Bozwell.

She was a Los Angeles native that ended up in D.C. by virtue of a dad on the run. Now at 18, she was a six year veteran of the streets. Her father was gunned down when she was 12. A few weeks later she was gang fucked into the Bullets. Not a bad thing when considering not havin’ eaten in a week. But since then it was straight to the top. Fuck, rob, steal and kill was how she did it. She was the number one Bullette with more rank than most the boys. The only ones that out ranked her were Rah, Ace and Black. But since Black had left to start his own thang. It was only Rah and Ace that she had to answer too. Rah was cool in her book. He was like a big and little brother at the same time. Ace on the other hand was the total opposite. He was like sleeping with a enemy. You knew what he was capable of doing, you just pray that your affiliation with him kept him at bay. Or at least in check. T-Boz knew of his sexual prowess first hand. Once was OK, twice was a favor, a third was takin’ advantage. And she wasn’t having it like all the other Bullettes. She was a captain, not a two bit ho he could skeet in and bounce. Never making an attempt to commit. She had already thought of the third time and how it would go down. His brains splattered all over the wall.

Yo T, open the dam door. Rashun cruisin’ the hood. You know what that mean!

T-Boz listened as she painted her toe nails. She had just got out of the shower and was preparing to lay back all day. But Ace’s words put that thought on hold. Everyone knew shit hit the fan when Rashun came thru. She slowly eased off the bed with cotton balls between her toes and a giant pink towel wrapped around her naked body. She stopped half way to the door and headed back to her bed. She realized her appearance and how Ace always eyed her assets. Hopefully Rashun being in the hood would keep him focused. But then again, not. She reached under her pillow and checked her 380 automatic. She laid the pillow back over it and walked to the door. Ace, I just got out the shower. How important is it?

Bitch open this got-dam door ‘fore I kick this mutha fucka in.

She knew he would. He was never the one to go back on his word. She opened it and stepped to the side. She closed it as he walked over to the window. She breathed a sigh of relief when noticing he was in deep thought. Rashun must be planning something big, she thought. So what is it?

I think Rashun gonna take Rah out!

What, she said, moving towards him. What Rah do to bring this about?

I don’t know. Maybe he been holdin’ out on Rashun. You know he been livin’ large the last couple of months, he said turning to her. His eyes remembering her naked. He scanned her body from her jet black shoulder length hair down to her high yellow pink painted toe nails. He licked his thick purplish lips.

The lustful look escaped