Eviction Notice, page 2
“Whatever, man, you just don’t think I’ll pop off. Watch, you’re gonna see how I give it up one day.”
All Holiday could do was sigh. “Out of love for you and your dad, I pray that day never comes.” Holiday relit the blunt, which had gone out. “You’ve got a lot to learn about these streets, BD. They can be easy lessons or hard ones, that’s on you. But as long as you’re under me you’ll keep your mind on game and off shit that ain’t gonna help you, understand?”
Baby Doc nodded, as he had been more preoccupied with a girl crossing the street whose soaked dress was showing her goodies to anyone looking. A slap to the back of the head from Holiday brought him back to attention.
“I said do you understand me?” Holiday barked. Baby Doc nodded. “Good.”
When they rolled through the light at the corner of 132nd and Madison, Holiday sat up and peered out the window at a group of young men posted up in front of the corner bodega. “See, it’s niggaz like these are a prime example of what I mean about you li’l niggaz focusing on the wrong shit. They’re dead foul right now, but floating around like they ain’t got a care in the world. Young and dumb.”
Baby Doc peered over across Holiday and squinted. “I know them kids, I went to school with the tall one, Buck, but son dropped out last year.” Baby Doc pointed to the tall light-skinned kid wearing the green do-rag on his head.
“Well, he should’ve stayed, because his dumb ass still has a lot to learn.” Holiday removed his nines from the stash spot. “Pull over, son.”
“Beef?” Baby Doc asked Holiday, ready to get down for his mentor and friend.
Holiday smiled and mushed Baby Doc playfully. “It ain’t beef unless both parties are willing to kill.” Holiday winked at him and slid from the car. Immediately all eyes fell on the approaching Holiday. Everyone tensed except the kid who had been identified as Buck. Buck folded his arms across his chest and glared at Holiday.
“What you need, son?” Buck asked with an attitude.
“Just a li’l information,” Holiday told him.
“Then you need to take your ass to the seventh floor of 100 Centre Street, because ain’t no snitches on this corner,” Buck capped, drawing laughter from his boys.
Holiday gave him a crooked grin. “You a funny dude, real talk. Listen, I ain’t got a lot of time to play with shit birds like you so I’m gonna keep this short and sweet. Whose corner is this?”
“Son, you out here asking a whole lot of questions for a nigga I don’t know,” Buck said defiantly.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners? My name is Holiday.” At the mention of Holiday’s name, everyone suddenly got very quiet. Even if you didn’t know Holiday by face you knew his reputation. He was the enforcer for Big Doc, one of Shai Clark’s capos. “From the look on your face, I’m gonna assume you know who I am.”
“Yeah, I heard of you,” Buck said sheepishly.
“That’s a good thing, so you know how I give it up. Now I’m gonna ask you one more time: whose corner is this?”
Buck hesitated for a few minutes before whispering, “King James.”
“Wrong answer.” Holiday shot Buck in the thigh. Buck rolled around on the ground whimpering in pain while his crew watched in shock. “Listen to me and listen well,” Holiday addressed the horrified young boys. “This shit is property of Shai Clark. If you don’t get money for my team then you don’t get money for NOBODY. Are we clear?” No one said a word. “I’ll take your silence as a yes. Now get this pussy to a hospital because he’s bleeding all over my street.” Holiday stomped on Buck’s injured thigh for good measure and got back in the whip.
* * *
“What the fuck was that about, Holiday?” Baby Doc asked when they were safely away from the crime scene.
“That was about me letting niggaz know what time it is out here,” Holiday said dismissively.
“I think you did a little more than let him know what time it is. You shot that kid in front of mad witnesses.”
“What’s your point, BD?”
“My point is, maybe we should’ve found out more about this King James cat before you popped off. You never know what may come of this.”
Holiday gave Baby Doc a disbelieving look. “Li’l nigga, do you hear yourself? This ain’t no damn democracy, niggaz violate and they get it and I don’t give a fuck who they’re connected to if their last name isn’t Clark!” Holiday declared.
“Holiday, I was only saying—”
“You wasn’t saying shit,” Holiday cut him off. “Baby Doc, this ain’t like college where shit is decided with student unions, this is the streets and disputes are resolved over pistols. You wanted to be a gangster, right? So stop crying and play ya fucking position.”
“Whatever you say, Holiday,” Baby Doc told him.
“Muthafucking right. Who the fuck is King James anyway?”
CHAPTER 2
Johnny-O lounged on the velvet sofa with the remote control in one hand and the thigh of a pretty brown thing in the other. The stuffy project apartment was thick with the smoke of purple haze from the Dutch burning between his lips. At the dining-room table bagging up crack were two of the young boys Johnny-O had on his payroll. Once they were finished bagging it up, the crack would be distributed to the night shift when they came on at midnight. The brown fox leaned over and whispered nasty things into Johnny-O’s ear, giving him an instant erection.
“Y’all hurry up and finish bagging that shit up. I’ve got business to attend to,” Johnny-O told his workers, never taking his hungry eyes off the girl. He had heard through the grapevine that she was a superfreak and couldn’t wait to see if the rumors were true about her not having a gag reflex. There was a knock at the door and Johnny-O cursed, as it was sure to be one more thing delaying him from getting to her sweetness. He gave one of the workers the nod, and with pistol in hand he crept to the door and looked through the peephole.
“It’s the nigga Antoine,” the worker told Johnny-O.
“Yo, tell that base-head ass nigga to get the fuck away from this door and cop in front of the building like everybody else,” Johnny-O ordered.
The worker nodded eagerly. He had never liked Antoine and looked forward to barking on him. He placed the gun on the table and undid the locks on the door. When the worker snatched the door open, his lips poised to spew venom at Antoine, something smashed into his mouth and cracked two of his teeth. The worker spilled to the ground, holding his bloody mouth and trying to figure out what was going on. By the time Johnny-O even thought to reach for his gun on the coffee table, three masked gunmen had rushed into his apartment.
“G’head and reach for it, sun, so I can open ya fucking melon,” the shortest of the gunmen warned, waving a MAC 11 menacingly at Johnny-O.
The girl on the couch began screaming hysterically as the gunmen inched toward her. The lanky robber tried to shush her, but she just kept screaming, so he tried a different approach and slapped her viciously across the mouth. The girl flipped over the armrest and landed on the floor. The lanky gunman pressed the .38 to her forehead and placed one finger over his lips for silence. Immediately the girl’s hysterical screaming was reduced to heavy sobbing. The gunman took her by the arm and tossed her on the couch next to Johnny-O, who was sweating like a runaway slave.
“You niggaz got big balls coming in there like this,” Johnny-O said, trying to sound tough. His heart was beating a million miles per minute as he sat there wondering if he was going to die.
“If you open that pretty mouth of yours again I’m gonna show you a pair of balls that you won’t soon forget,” the leader of the gunmen said. He was a muscular man holding a dusty-looking .45. “Y’all get the money and the work. If any one of these dizzy muthafuckas move, put the love on ’em.” His henchmen hurriedly did as they were told. “Looks like you’re doing good for yourself these days, Johnny”—the gunman ran his hand down the terrified girl’s thigh—“real good.”
“Get your fucking hands off her.” Johnny-O slapped the gunman’s hand away and sprang to his feet. Feeling the .45 under his chin cut his moment of courage short and he eased back down to the couch.
“Tender-hearted ass nigga, you ready to die for this bitch?” the leader asked mockingly.
“Y’all gonna be the ones who die when word that you robbed Born’s spot gets out. We’re connected to some major players and you just fucked yourself,” Johnny-O threatened.
The leader reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a thick link chain that was stained with blood. Johnny’s eyes widened as he stared at the medallion, which was slightly smaller than a saucer. It was the number 7 tucked in a crescent moon, laid over black onyx. Johnny knew the chain well because for the last three years Born had always worn it.
“No,” Johnny-O whispered.
“Oh yes.” The leader of the invaders removed his mask. For some reason, Johnny-O wasn’t surprised when he saw who it was that had come to pay him a visit. The gunman smiled, showing his perfect white teeth, and placed the .45 to Johnny-O’s cheek. “It’s like I told y’all faggots when I came home: there’s only enough room in Harlem for one king.” He squeezed the trigger and put the lower portion of Johnny-O’s jaw on the coffee table.
* * *
“Yo God, you got blood on my fucking Timbs,” Lakim told King James when they got back to the stash house, which was an abandoned apartment in West Harlem. After the murder/robbery they had made a beeline back to the hood to divvy up the spoils.
“Here, buy yourself five more pairs.” King James threw a handful of money at Lakim and laughed. “You okay, Fangs?” King addressed the third man who was in the apartment with them. He was sitting by the window, chain-smoking cigarettes with a worried expression on his face.
“Yeah, I’m good, man. I just thought we were gonna go in there and rob Johnny-O, not kill him,” Fangs said nervously.
King James walked over and placed a reassuring arm around Fangs. “Sometimes you gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet, my nigga. No need to worry, because the blood is on my hands and not yours. But on another note, you did good with shooting us that info about Johnny-O’s stash house.”
This made Fangs smile a bit. “It wasn’t about nothing, I was glad to be able to help out.”
“But something has me curious: you been down with that cat for like a year—didn’t you feel no way about giving him up like that?”
Fangs spat out the window. “Fuck him. All this time I’ve been working for that nigga and he still ain’t trying to put me in position to see no real bread, so I figured, why not take it?”
James laughed. “I guess you can’t argue with that kinda logic.”
“But yo, y’all gonna put me down with the team now, right?” Fangs asked eagerly. He knew after what he had done he would need some type of team behind him to keep him eating.
“True indeed. In fact, I’ve got something for you to show how much we appreciate you.” King James raised the .45 and blew Fangs’s face off.
“What the fuck you do that for?” Lakim hopped up off the chair in shock.
“He who recognizes a snake and still invites it into his home is a fool, and I ain’t never been no dummy, La. If he turned on Johnny-O, how long do you think it would’ve been before he turned on us? Fuck him.” King James spat on the corpse. “Go get that lighter fluid from under the kitchen sink so we can get rid of this pussy and this crib.”
After setting the apartment on fire, King and Lakim hurried back to the car and away from the burning building. Lakim watched in the rearview mirror as the flames came spewing out of the apartment. “Damn, looks like the whole building is gonna go. Do you think we might have overdone it?”
“There’s no such thing as overdoing it when you’re trying to make a point,” King said.
“My dude, it’s been a long time since we had a nigga like you on the streets of New York.”
“Correction: there ain’t never been a nigga on the streets like me and there never will be,” King James said confidently as they drove off into the night.
CHAPTER 3
Old San Juan, Puerto Rico
Old San Juan was the oldest settlement in Puerto Rico located in its colonial section. During the day tourists moved throughout the streets of San Juan, taking in the sites and history of the place, but when the sun set, creatures of a more sinister nature roamed its streets, and anything was likely to pop off if you weren’t careful.
“Why don’t you slow down before you kill us?” Javier snapped at Victor as the beat-up, green military-style jeep bounced over the broken streets.
“Kick back, bro. I know these streets like the back of my hand. Besides, in a little while Poppito’s boys are gonna be all over this place and I don’t wanna be caught out here alone if we bump into Los Negros Muertes looking for their money.”
“You mean our money,” Javier corrected him, patting the duffel bag resting between his legs. “Besides, we’re the police, remember?” Javier held up the badge hanging around his neck.
Javier and Victor had been on the force for three years, but for the last few months they had been on special assignment working for Captain Herman Cruz, a dirty cop and one of Poppito’s top competitors for control over Old San Juan and its drug trade. Cruz and Poppito had been friends as children but as adults they had become rivals. For the last six months the two had been locked in a bloody battle, with Cruz gaining ground over his enemy.
“Fuck Poppito and fuck Negros Muertes.” Javier dismissed Victor’s fears.
Legend had it that Los Negros Muertes, The Black Death, were a mysterious sect of killers that were whispered about throughout the Caribbean and parts of South America. Some said they were rogue black ops or some other government agency, while the more spiritual aligned them with the devil, with the human soul as the price for their services. No one had ever lived to verify any of the accounts.
“Victor, watch out!” Javier shouted as he spotted something lying in the middle of the road.
Victor yanked the wheel to avoid whatever it was in their path and sent the jeep into a tailspin that ended with the back end crashing into an abandoned car and his head slamming violently into the driver’s side window. “What the fuck?” Victor dabbed at the gash that had opened up in his forehead.
“There’s something in the road.” Javier shook off his dizziness and tried to focus on the object. The small lump seemed to be moving and he could hear soft whimpering. “Shit, it looks like a dog or something.”
“You almost made me kill us over a dog? Fuck that dog, I’m outta here.” Victor put the jeep in gear.
Javier had a good mind to let Victor pull off, but since he was a kid he’d always had a soft spot for animals. “It’s still alive; we can’t just leave it there to get run over. I’m gonna at least move it out of the road.” Javier got out of the jeep with his machine gun slung over his shoulder.
“Javier, fuck that dog. Let’s get out of here, man,” Victor called after him, but Javier ignored him and kept walking toward the wounded dog. “This guy…” Victor mumbled under his breath and got out to join his partner.
The dog curled up in the middle of the street was a brindled pit bull with a jet-black muzzle. It looked to be healthy, so they doubted it was a stray, but it had clearly been in some fights. There were old wounds covering the dog’s front and hindquarter, and an especially nasty-looking scar that went across its back. When the pit bull spotted the two men approaching, it growled.
“We ain’t gonna hurt you.” Javier eased forward with his hand extended. Victor chose to keep his distance and watch from the sidelines. “Just be easy.” He got in closer. The dog placed its chin on the ground and allowed Javier to stroke its head. “That’s a good girl,” he cooed. His cooing quickly turned into screams when the pit bull locked its powerful jaws around his arm.
“Oh shit.” Victor reached for the pistol at his waist, but the press of cold steel against his cheek froze him.
“You weren’t thinking about shooting my dog, were you?” a voice breathed in his ear. A hand snaked around Victor’s waist and removed the gun. “That’s better.”
The dog was shaking Javier’s wrist violently, but he was able to bring his machine gun around and crack it across the bridge of her nose and free himself from her grip. He staggered backward and went to bring his machine gun around when out of nowhere his body was covered in infrared lights. “Your next move is your last move,” a voice called from the shadows. It seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Slowly, several men and a woman dressed in all black and holding guns began to step from the shadows.
“Los Negros Muertes.” Javier crossed himself. Tossing his gun away, he dropped to his knees and raised his hands in the air.
Victor was shoved roughly to the ground where Javier was already kneeling and instructed to do the same. For the first time he had gotten a good look at the man who had gotten the drop on him. He was tall and built, with a shaved head and brilliant smile. Victor studied him quizzically because he had never seen a man so dark with eyes so green.
“It’s okay, everybody be cool. Just take the money and we’re straight.” Javier grimaced in pain from the dog bite on his wrist, which wouldn’t stop bleeding.
“Nice of you to offer something we already know we can have.” Javier recognized this as the voice he’d heard in the shadows. He was a few inches shorter than the green-eyed man, but stockier. His thick black hair was braided into two ponytails that hung down his back. “We gonna take yo money, fo sho, but we came here for yo life.” He raised his gun and shot Javier in the face. When he turned around to pop Victor, the green-eyed man stopped him.
“Chill, leave this one for baby bro. It’s about time the li’l nigga busts his cherry.”
The cat rocking the braids hesitated. “Chill, K, you already know how son get down. Let me finish this spic off so we can be out.”
