Christmas in the Hood (26 page)

Fats nodded again and walked away to his unit. As he entered the block and made his way to his cell, he was at a loss as to what he needed to do, but that all changed when he walked in his cell and saw Mel-Mel nodding. “What up, moe.” Fats said.

Mel-Mel looked up, scratching his head. Mel-Mel was whacked out on heroin.

“Merry Christmas, joe,” Mel-Mel said, and broke out into a wide grin. “You know Country hooked me up with a little something, something.”

“Oh yeah, is that so?” Fats said.
So Country made his move and I got busted
, Fats thought. He looked up to see Mikey P at his door, motioning him out of the cell. Mikey P shook Fats’s hand, and they exchanged greetings.

“Good to see you, Fats,” Mikey P said. “I thought you were gonna be gone for a while.”

“Naw, Mr. P. I was clean. They didn’t get nothing on me.”

“That’s good. That’s real good, but I got something to tell you,” Mikey P said real serious-like. “I didn’t want to say anything before, because I didn’t really know you, but when I was doing time in Lewisburg, they said your homie Country was setting
dudes up to get his heroin in. I’m not saying anything, but it seems to me that he did the same thing to you and Rock.”

Fats hadn’t wanted to accept the truth of the matter, but now he had no choice, it was staring him in the face point-blank.

“Thanks for letting me know, Mr. P.,” Fats said, and hit rocks with the old mobster.

This nigga got some serious problems now
, Fats thought. He knew he had a game that night, and he would play. He would make Country think that nothing was wrong, but after the game Fats would get his.
At least my kids got some presents from the Angel Tree program
, Fats thought.
Because after I do what I gotta do, they might not see me for a minute.
All because Fats wanted his kids to get something for Christmas. Fats felt good knowing that they got something even though he didn’t come up.
That’s what I get for fucking with treacherous niggas
, Fats thought. All that bullshit about finding the snitch and giving him a Christmas present.
I got a motherfucking Christmas present for that bitch.
Fats started planning the night’s activities.

Chapter Twelve

A
fter dinner Fats went up to rec to see the Christmas concert that was put on by the prisoners. They had a rap band, a heavy metal band, an R&B band, a country band, some Jamaican MC’s, and Fats’s favorite: the go-go band. Fats sat with his homies and watched them all. He noticed that Country hadn’t shown up yet. Fats had gotten a shank from Mel-Mel earlier, who copped it
from some other old heads. Fats was ready to put in some work; he wasn’t fucking around. He didn’t know what Country was saying about the whole affair, but he wasn’t waiting to find out.

As far as Fats was concerned Country had put his family in jeopardy, and Fats didn’t fuck around where his family was concerned. After the concert it was game time, and on the move Country showed up in the gym. He was psyching the homies up for the finals. The D.C. mob wasn’t favored to win. They were playing a team comprised of North Carolina dudes that was led by the Monkey-Man, a fan favorite. Monkey-Man could shoot the lights out and was considered the best player on the pound by far. As the game tipped off, Fats was just thinking about what he had to do after its completion. He kept seeing Country looking at him like he was trying to feel him out, but Fats didn’t really say nothing to the dude other than what he was expected to during the game.
Maybe he doesn’t suspect anything
, Fats thought. The Monkey-Man’s team jumped out to a big first-half lead, but with Country exhorting his team the D.C. mob clawed back to within five points. Big Murk was grabbing boards like crazy and putting back all misses.

In the second half the Monkey-Man came out on fire, and his team looked to win for sure, but in the last eight minutes of the game Fats found his shot and the Monkey-Man went cold. Fats drained five threes to end the game, giving the D.C. mob a one-point victory to win the Christmas tournament. The homies were going crazy, running all over the gym and screaming. It was pandemonium. Just the cover Fats needed. He took it all in stride. The congratulations and accolades. Fats had only one thing on his mind. Retribution. Country came up to Fats and slapped his
homie five. Apparently all lost love forgotten. He was all on Fats’s dick, talking with that that’s his man and shit. All the homies were gathered ’round, and there was a big cheer for D.C.

“Merry Christmas,” Country told all his homies. “I told you we could win this shit. Chocolate city all the way.” Congratulations went around one more time, and everybody ran around wildly celebrating. When Country turned his back, Fats went and got the shank out his gym bag.

In the crowd it was easy to approach Country from behind. Fats was focused. More focused than at any time in his life. He closed in on Country from behind. All the cheering and noise receded in Fats’s mind as he came upon Country. Country turned around with a big smile on his face. When he saw the shank, his smile quickly vanished. Country put his hands up, but it was too late. Fats sank the shank swiftly into Country’s chest.

“Merry Christmas, moe,” Fats said as the shank bit deep.

Charge It to the Game

J. M. Benjamin

Chapter One

A
s he rode shotgun in the passenger seat of his Beamer, occupied with rolling a dub sack of Sour Diesel weed, Supreme was interrupted by the sound of his cell phone. “Hmm?” he answered, holding the phone up to his ear with the help of his shoulder since his hands were preoccupied while he licked and twisted the cigar paper full of weed to form what he called a perfect L, ready to get his chief on.

“You have a collect call from … It’s me, Victorious. Accept the call! This call may be recorded or monitored. To refuse this call, hang up. To accept this call, dial one. To block future—”

“Peace, sun. What’s good? Where you at?” Supreme asked, turning down the volume of the Harmon Kardon system in his
midnight blue 2007 convertible 645i, bringing the latest DJ Phat Rodney Club CD to a minimum.

“I’m in Union-muthafuckin’-County Jail, bee!” an upset Victorious replied.

“For what?” Supreme asked as he sparked up the blunt he had just finished rolling.

“I don’t really wanna say over the jack, but it ain’t a good look. These devils caught me on some humbug shit,” replied Victorious as he recalled the incident.

“Word? How the fuck that happened?”

“Like I said, I don’t really want to go into details over the jack like that, but, yo, you hear me.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know how the fuck they knew, but them muthafuckas found the Self-Truth-Allah-Self-He in da Benz, feel me?” Victorious stated, using a street lingo he knew Supreme would understand, referring to the stash spot compartment in his CLS 500.

“Get the fuck outta here. How they get up in ya shit?”

“Yo, they pulled me over on some fake shit. On a bullshit traffic violation, talking about I switched lanes without using my blinker,” Victorious explained. “But like I said, that’s bullshit, though.”

“Word is bond. That sounds like some bullshit right there, sun. What they say was probable cause for them to be searchin’ ya piece, though? What, you ain’t have ya credentials on you or somethin’?” Supreme asked, passing the blunt to the driver.

“How you sound? You know I always travel legit, kid.”

“So how they get in ya whip then? I know you ain’t give ’em permission.”

“Now you really buggin’,” Victorious said. “Never in the history of the game would I do that. Nah, them mu’fuckas ran down on me like they was tipped off or somethin’.”

“That sound like illegal search right there, unless they was already onto you, but I don’t know. You sure they wasn’t squattin’ on you?”

“You know ain’t nothin’ slow about me but my walk. Trust me, kid, they were squattin’ on me,” Victorious answered, still trying to decipher the mayhem in his mind even as he spoke. “Oh, yeah, and check how they gonna hit me with the bullshit, talking about they smelled Equality in my joint,” Victorious added, using Five Percent terminology to refer to the imaginary smell of marijuana the arresting officers used to justify the search of his vehicle.

“Come on, sun. You know that’s bogus right there. A muthafucka couldn’t get in my piece if they were travelin’ like that, you know that. You, my manz, and I still ain’t let it go down like that, nahmean.”

“True,” Supreme answered. For some reason Victorious’s words made Supreme think about how he was traveling in his own whip blowing trees. The thought of what Victorious had said almost made him dud the blunt he was smoking out, but the weed had already begun to take its effect, so he brushed the notion off, refusing to let Victorious’s statement get him paranoid.

“But, yo, why you think they was tipped off, though? And by who?” he asked.

“ ’Cause they knew exactly how to get up in that shit. They tried to fake me out like it was on some ole co-incidental-type shit,
but believe me when I tell you, kid, they knew the official steps it took to finagle their way into the box. How? I don’t know. Who? I don’t know that, either. What you thinking, though?” Victorious asked Supreme, hoping that he would somehow be able to shed some light on the situation.

“I don’t know, beloved. We’d have to build on that when you touch down, but anyway, check it,” Supreme said, changing the subject, feeling that Victorious was going too deep into details over the phone.

He had hoped by doing that, Victorious would catch on, which he did. “Yo pardon self, sun. I know I’m kinda reckless right about now. This shit just got me real vexed.”

“I smell you my dude, but you gots to keep a level head up in there, you follow me?”

“Indeed, sun, no doubt,” Victorious agreed, regaining his composure.

“Yo, kid, what’s your ransom anyway?” asked Supreme, referring to Victorious’s bail.

“That’s why I hit you up. It’s a buck-fifty, no ten percent. I already hollered at the bondsman to see what the damage was on that earlier, and he said he wanted fifteen thousand eighty-eight dollars and two signatures. I been trying to reach Meeka ever since I got knocked ’cause she got access to that, plus I need her signature.” Victorious was becoming frustrated behind the fact that he was unable to get in touch with his girlfriend, who was the only one besides himself who knew the combination to the safe at his condo.

“But, yo, I can’t get in touch with her ass. That’s why I need you to swing by the crib and see what’s good, ’cause she should be
there. She probably all treed up and shit and fell asleep. She don’t be hearin’ shit when she like that. If the truck there, then she home; if not, then I need you to get at the bondsman and handle that for me before the day out, and I’ll see you back on that when I touch.”

“Say no more, I got you. I’ma dip over there right now as soon as I hit the town.”

“Yo, where you at now?” Victorious asked, concerned about the length of time it would take for Supreme to do what he asked of him.

“Right now I’m on one and nine,” Supreme answered. “Yeah, me and Math just coming back from New York doing some shopping. I just rode past the Budweiser factory.”

“Math? Math who?”

“Mathematics.” Supreme had completely forgotten about the history between Math and Victorious.

“Yo, sun, what you doin’ with that joker?”

“I seen sun over there when I was on two-fifth. He caught the train over, so I gave ’em a ride back, that’s all.” Supreme prepared himself for the lecture that was to follow, fully aware of Victorious’s dislike of Math, but he was surprised when he wasn’t given the third degree.

“Anyway, sun, just take care of that for me, a’ight? You know jail ain’t my thing. I can’t believe they finally got me to pay a visit to this hellhole, and on some ole fluke shit, too.” Victorious was still in disarray over the whole ordeal.

“I know, dawg, but just fall back and chill. I got you. Everything’s gonna be everything. I’ma locate wifey, and we gonna come snatch you.”

“I think sun could be the cause and effect of this chaos and confusion,” Victorious blurted out.

“Who?” Supreme asked.

“Mathematics.”

“How you figure, god?” Supreme questioned, wanting to hear the logic in Victorious’s accusations.

“No, I’ll elaborate on that more when I touch, but yo don’t let the nigga leave your sight. Keep sun close until I get there, a’ight?”

“Done deal,” replied Supreme. “I’ma locate wifey, don’t worry, but if I don’t connect with her, that ain’t about nothing, I still got you, a’ight, sun?”

“True indeed, god, that’s love. Yo, I’ma hit you back up later after I holla at the bondsman again and let him know what’s good. This jack should be about to cut off in a few min—”

“You have one minute remaining,” the recorded operator stated, cutting in.

“—uck that nigga!” was what Victorious thought he had heard just as the recording of the one-minute warning was ending, and he could have sworn that the words came from a female, but with the Akon cut “Go Better” now playing in the background on Supreme’s end, he wasn’t for certain.

“Yo, sun, I only got less than a minute left, so I’ma go ’head and holla at the bondsman again and let ’im know you gonna be comin’ through, but, yo, who else wit’ you?” he asked, unable to shake the thought he just had seconds ago.

“I told you. Why? What’s up?” Supreme asked.

“It sounded like I heard a chick in the background.”

“Naah, suun, you buuggin’,” Supreme replied, sounding as if he was trying to hold his breath and talk at the same time.

Victorious didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that Supreme was smoking weed. He couldn’t help but grin at the thought. He figured being as though that was the case, then the voice that he had heard before had to be how Mathematics sounded when he smoked. But who was he referring to when he had said “uck that nigga,” or rather “Fuck that nigga?” That couldn’t be possible. He knew there was no way that his man Supreme would allow that to go down in his presence. Maybe it was his own paranoia from this being his first time in jail.