TWENTY-NINE
Lil’ Long held his finger on the Glock’s trigger. He stood watch in this position until Vulcha was a step away from him.
“Five G’s,” Vulcha said as he approached. It was the password. Lil’ Long relaxed.
“Five G’s,” Lil’ Long repeated. “They drug dealing asses be getting over from da cheap protection we be providing their asses wit’ Vulcha.” He placed the gun in his waistband. They got back in the Navigator.
“So whatcha saying sun?” Vulcha jerkily pulled the SUV into the traffic.
“I’m saying they should be hitting us wid mo’ dough, see? They getting protection from da police. I mean, when was da last time a bust went down?”
“It’s been a minute. True.”
“That’s worth a couple G’s. And mo’fuckas able to operate safely. Nobody, I mean nobody, runs up on nobody. We’re like operation safety net, see?”
“True dat, sun. So what you saying?”
“I’m saying, nigga, we need a muthafucking pay raise.”
“Yeah, now you talking. It ain’t no lie, nigga,” Vulcha said his eyes steadfast on the road.
“I’m saying, Vulcha, you got that new chumpy and all. Matter fact how’s what’s her name doing?”
“Who that, Kamilla?” Vulcha asked.
“Yeah, that big-tittie bitch.” Lil’ Long replied.
“Don’t be calling my bitch no bitch, mo’fucka. That’s wifey.” Vulcha said.
“Don’t be running that ‘who’s calling who bitch’, Vulcha. We go way back, but that don’t mean I won’t break you off sump’n,” Lil’ Long said caressing the silver handle of his Desert Eagle.
“I ain’t da enemy, sun. Let’s you an’ me go have a drink and discuss this matter like gentlemen.”
“Good idea, for sho,” Lil’ Long said in a mocking tone. They both laughed.
“But I mean it,” Lil’ Long said.
“Mean what, nigga? Get a raise?”
“Yeah, and the other question, too. How’s your woman?”
“Hit her wid dough. Hit that fat ass often. She’s always smiling, know wha’ I’m saying? No stress, no complaints outta that bitch.”
“Yeah, yeah, nigga. Talking bout hitting, we should pay mo’fucking Busta a visit.”
“But how do we know? That nigga Rightchus might be making up da shit to drum up some biz for himself.”
“Nah, nah. That nigga, he’ll be doing much shit, but Rightchus is never, ever wrong, Vulcha.”
“So let’s talk to Busta. Lemme talk to him, sun.”
“Vulcha, I know he’s your man from way back an’ all, but check da stats. Rightchus has never been wrong. We should be taking duct tape an’ baseball bats to that fat, mo’fucking Busta-ass nigga.”
“Lemme build wid him, know wha’ I’m saying?”
“I’m saying da nigga is da enemy. Da nigga is trying to get us. We got to get him first. Pull up. Pull up right here. They got some good southern fried chicken in this spot.”
“Let me see him first, ahight?” Vulcha asked and looked at Lil’ Long. Their gaze was held together by Lil’ Long’s bitten lips.
“Ahight,” Lil’ Long said, “for old time’s sake. Getting soft, nigga? Don’t get weak on me.”
Vulcha pulled the SUV into the lot. They headed toward the all night diner.
“You must leave the keys, sir,” the attendant said. Vulcha threw the keys over his shoulder. They landed next to the attendant’s feet.
“You’re careless, Vulcha.”
“Let’s get drunk, ahight? I ain’t getting careless, either. I know your ass is thinking because Vulcha have da piece of ass at home that I’m soft. But I’m not, nigga.” Now Vulcha was sitting across from Lil’ Long, sipping an Alabama Slammer.
“Well, you know my motto, mo’fucka: All weak niggas must die in order for me to be immortal.” Lil’ Long raised his drink. “No exceptions,” Lil’ Long said with finality. Vulcha stared at him and wondered if he could get in touch with Busta without Lil’ Long finding out. He contemplated if, and why, Busta wanted to kill them. He downed his drink and ordered another.