A Hood Legend

“First, ask me do I give a fuck! Then look me in the face to see if I care!” Menage said over his cell phone as he sat behind his desk at the body shop. “No . . . since you can’t see me, listen really hard to see if I give a fuck. You done wrecked two cars, Rico—two! Now this is the last time I’ma work wit’ yo’ ass and your sister won’t change my mind. And by the way, where she at?” Rico had called and said that he had crashed the forty-thousand-dollar Chevy SSR that he had stolen. After lending his sister’s services to Menage, he promised that he’d have another SSR the following week. Menage already had a buyer willing to drop twenty thousand tax-free greenbacks for the SSR, and he told Rico to make it happen. Since his cars commanded the biggest checks once they were tagged, his name was gold to those that knew his hustle. Why pay top dollar for a nice ride when you could cop one from Menage for less than half price with less than eight hundred miles? After dealing with Rico, he went back to the garage where the DB-7 Vantage Volante sat covered, sitting next to a fortieth anniversary Ford Mustang GT. His workers would be in about two, so for now he was alone. He glanced at this Bulova and figured it would be best to try to call DJ later. He was heated and was itching to talk. DJ knew the rules and he knew Felix was telling the truth about the DB-7 being from L.A.

The five-car garage was dark and smelled of oil and leather.

Menage walked toward a blood red Cadillac XLR with gold twenty-inch rims. It had been stolen from Tampa straight off the lot. A simple solo test drive and a trip to a parked van with a key copier had made a key. In less than thirty minutes the XLR was returned and it was stolen a week later. Rico just walked on the lot around midnight, got into the vehicle and drove off like it was nothing. The XLR would bring Menage a huge profit. He knew it was possible to move five cars a day and bring in crazy, stupid money, but he refused to be sucked in by greed and speedballing was out of the question. The game had rules—like not using your own product if you sold dope. Although Menage followed a set of rules, he looked at buying cars as some looked at buying a new pair of Air Ones; to him it was just an everyday thing.

The scratches Tanita had left on his back were becoming irritated by his bulletproof vest, so he took it off, but planned to put it back on later. When his workers started to show up he changed his clothes and went to work on some cars that were in his shop for legitimate repairs. He got dirty just like everybody else.

He grew restless as the hours passed and he began working under the hood of a Dodge Ram SRT-10, amazed with its 500hp engine. “I gotta get me one of these,” he said when he found out that the pick-up could reach 150 miles per hour and reach sixty in five seconds. Once things were generally taken care of at the shop, he changed, washed up, and headed to his mansion. Halfway home, he realized that he had left his vest at the shop, but he didn’t sweat it. Home was safe and today would be a good day, he told himself.

DJ sped through traffic with one hand on the wheel and his phone in the other. His meeting with Mr. Marchetti wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be and he was glad that it was over. He had more important things to take care of.

Menage pulled into his garage at ten minutes to five. As soon as he stepped out of his car, Vapor and Vigor ran up to him, whining and fully agitated. He knew something was wrong.

“What is it boys, huh?” he whispered as he pulled out his .380. Before walking into the house, he quickly scanned both his front and back yards. Nothing appeared suspicious but he trusted his dogs. He rushed to his bedroom, picked up his MP5, slung it over his shoulder and went into the living room. He switched his TV to the surveillance channel with Vapor and Vigor still at his side. He checked each camera as he slammed a fresh thirty-round clip into the Mp5. It all went down too fast.

On the last camera shot of his front yard, he noticed four men trimming his bushes. It took two seconds for him to realize that they weren’t due until Tuesday and that the van wasn’t out front like it was supposed to be. He tried to figure out what the deal was but the camera suddenly revealed two of the men rushing toward his glass door carrying Uzis. They stopped inches from the glass and bringing the guns up to their chins, they opened fire. The glass shattered in tiny fragments as the deadly stream of lead ripped through the living room. Sheetrock began to fly, as the bullets tore ragged chunks from the wall. The eighty-inch TV exploded as it too came under fire. Menage had dove over the couch and into the kitchen before the first shot was fired. Finally the shooting stopped and he heard the sound of broken glass under boots. He knew they were reloading, but what about he other two? “Fuck!” Menage cursed as he pointed the Mp5 blindly over the counter, sending a barrage of bullets in the direction of where the men had entered. His military training now took over.

The first man was hit in the neck, stumbling backward through the shattered glass door, spewing blood as he fell down dead. The second man caught a few rounds in the chest and the impact took him high off his feet like a rag doll. Gasping for breath, he slowly tried to get back on his feet and make it to his Uzi just a few inches away. He knew he was still vulnerable to the man who had shot him and he was surprised that he didn’t pick him off while he lay struggling to get to his feet. His plan of surprise didn’t work, and he figured that Menage thought he was dead. Well, he’d sure as hell make him pay for that mistake, he vowed, as he got to his knees.

The first man now lay in a steady streaming pool of blood. Clenching his teeth, the second man reached for his Uzi and set out to finish the job that he and his partner had started. He hesitated as a quick movement caught his eye. His mouth dropped in pure horror. Vigor lunged at him swiftly and silently, his fangs fully bared. The man screamed, and seconds later the dog broke though his weak shield of forearms, bit into his neck and gave him a deadly bite to the jugular.

At the front door the other two now stood. Giving each other the go-ahead, they raised their Uzis and shot through the lock. Kicking in the door, they slowly eased down the hallway, Uzi’s held under their chins. There was total silence; the thick carpet made their steps light and undetectable. Menage was still in the kitchen behind the counter and had heard the men kick in the front door. He loaded the Mp5 with its last clip. Vapor lay next to him, tense and alert. He growled softly, sensing the two men in the house. “Easy boy, easy,” Menage said rubbing his head. Where was Vigor? Thinking the worst, he blocked his thoughts out of his mind. He then threw the huge plastic saltshaker over the counter, causing it to fall onto the glass from the shattered TV. His plan worked. One of the men ran into the living room, pointing his blazing Uzi from left to right. Glass shattered as he now fired into the kitchen and then back into the living room. Menage never gave him a chance to regain his composure. He tucked the Mp5 under his chin and sent three rounds right to the man’s face. He dropped lifelessly onto the glass coffee table, shattering it on impact. Menage watched his headless body fall, but it would cost him. The last of the four men, now acting out of pure fright, darted into the living room, catching Menage off guard. He pulled the trigger, wildly spraying the already-destroyed wall and kitchen, but he found his target. The lead tore into Menage’s left shoulder, spinning him around and onto his back. At first he was in excruciating pain, but he soon lost feeling in his left shoulder, now bleeding profusely. With his adrenaline working overtime, he clenched his teeth and got to his knees. The MP5 was nowhere in sight now. Vapor whined and drew closer to his owner, licking his face. Menage let out a deep guttural cry and stood up quickly. He fired his .380, emptying the clip of hollow tip slugs.

The last man stood against the wall as the slugs exploded just inches from his head. He held his Uzi to his chest with his eyes closed. When the firing stopped he slowly opened his eyes and looked to his left toward the living room to see a dog walking slowly through the shattered glass door, teeth grinding. The man panicked, nearly dropping his gun and let out a long, ten-round flurry of bullets in the dog’s direction. Menage saw Vigor jump out of the way before the man could empty an entire clip on him. He tried to make it to his Mp5, but he didn’t move fast enough. The man veered around the corner and yelled as he pulled the trigger, letting off another six rounds. They all found their mark. Menage was off his feet and lay crumpled on the kitchen floor. The man tossed his empty gun to the floor. Fear and shock made him forget about the extra clip he had in his pocket. He looked at all the blood and his headless friend. Holding back vomit, he closed his eyes and picked up his dead partner’s Uzi. He wouldn’t need it. He had to finish the job as ordered—a bullet between the eyes. He slowly made his way toward the kitchen. Vigor charged through the front door behind the man, growling viciously as he locked onto his leg. The man yelled and tried to fight off the dog. Vigor slipped in some blood and lost his footing. Again he charged the man, this time not minding his weapon. The audible spit of the Uzi stopped Vigor in his tracks. The man then heard the familiar sound of an empty clip. Shaken and drained he slung the Uzi on the floor. It landed next to the Mp5. Before he could take one step, Vapor appeared from behind the counter, his hair standing up on his back as he bared his teeth and growled. The man froze. He saw the muscles tighten and flex in the dog’s full chest. He was now prevented from grabbing the Mp5, and he winced when the dog barked. “Easy b-b-boy, it’s okay now,” he said and slowly took a step back. Vapor took a step forward, ignoring the soft mush of brain matter and blood under his paw. Standing over Vigor, he quickly dropped his head and let out a soft whine, never taking his eyes off the intruder. He nuzzled Vigor with his nose. Seeing his chance for escape, the man bolted for the front door. Vapor took off like a rocket after him, but he lost his traction in the blood. He quickly regained momentum but it was too late; the man slammed the door just in time for Vapor to crash into it, sealing it shut with his own weight. The man was about to head back to the van when all of a sudden, a Lexus GS430 smashed into the iron gate and came to a screeching sideways halt.

* * *

Dwight was a few blocks away from Menage’s house. Even from a distance, he could see the front gates leaning at an odd angle; he knew something wasn’t right. He nearly gave Tina whiplash as he floored the Viper. DJ ran toward Dwight’s vehicle as it came to a sudden halt. Dwight jumped out with his 357 in tow.

“Tina, stay in the fucking car and call the police—now!” Dwight yelled. “DJ, what the hell is going on? Where’s Menage?” he said looking at DJ, then down at the nine-millimeter in his hand.

“I . . . I just got here. I saw the place shot up, and I rammed into the gate. This guy came running out, so I smoked him!” DJ said gripping his 9 mm. Dwight looked down at the man in the driveway near the front end of DJ’s Lexus. The back of his head was gone. Dwight turned away quickly. “D-Dwight, we need to check on Menage!”

Dwight gripped his gun and rushed toward the house. Things didn’t look good. If his friend were okay, he’d be out to greet them by now. With DJ beside him, he kicked open the door. Once inside he moved slowly along the wall, noticing all the bullet holes. He felt hard shell casings under the weight of his body with each step he took.

“Menage . . . answer me, man!” Dwight yelled. His heart was pounding in his chest. “DJ, you go to the back. I’ma check the living room and kitchen!” DJ went off without a word. Dwight stepped into the living room and nearly lost it. He had to step back around the wall to catch his breath. “Oh my God,” he said breathing heavily. The smell of human excrement made his knees weak, but he had to find his friend. He stepped back into the living room, ignoring the gushing pink substance beneath his feet. The once state-of-the-art living room was now a war zone. Tears filled his eyes as he saw Vigor lying on his side. His finger stayed poised on the hair trigger as he slowly scanned the scene before him. The gun felt heavy in his hand. He finally made it to the kitchen. He collapsed to his knees, dropping his gun. “Oh, please, God, n-o-o-o-o!” Dwight moaned. He looked at his friend, lying on the once-white floor; it was now red. Vapor stood next to Menage’s body, growling viciously. Dwight’s voice was weak. “Easy, boy . . . come on, Vapor, it’s me, boy. Let me help Menage. Come on, boy.” Vapor barked and whined and cocked his head to one side. He nudged Menage’s head with his nose, whined again and sat down, staring at Dwight. Dwight, still on his knees, started to move forward, but Vapor’s ears shot straight up and he started to growl.

“Freeze, don’t move, put your hands on top on your head!” yelled the police. The house quickly filled up with cops and paramedics. Physical force had to be used to remove Dwight from the house until everything was under control. One of the officers used a stun gun on Vapor so the paramedics could get to get to Menage, but by the looks of what they saw, he was too far gone. Police cars and rescue squads packed the driveway of the house, and officers and paramedics ran from one spot to another. It started to rain, and DJ sat on the curb across the street wrapped in a raincoat . . . the weather forecast was wrong. Dwight and Tina sat in the back of an ambulance. She tried to get him to talk, but he was in shock. Squinting through the rain, he never took his eyes off the front door of Menage’s mini mansion. The reverberating sound of the news and police helicopters hovering above the house drove Vapor crazy as he yanked his chain, attached to a palm tree in the front yard. The man lying in front of DJ’s Lexus had already been covered with a body bag. DJ stood up when he saw a plainclothes officer yelling out to a uniformed officer standing in the front doorway.

“How many you say?” he yelled over the loud helicopters circling about.

“Two . . . bring two . . . no, three,” replied the officer in uniform. DJ saw the plainclothes officer rush toward a paramedic, who then searched the back of an ambulance and gave him three body bags. DJ walked slowly up to the gate as far as he was allowed. Dwight was there too now. Helplessly they stood, eyes focused on the front door, waiting to see last of the living legend come out in a body bag. Vapor let out a long howl, causing everyone to shiver. Dwight clenched his fists. He desperately needed to vent his anger.

* * *

Chandra sat at her computer alone while her roommate was at basketball practice. Her mind drifted to Menage. She knew about the chop shop and occasionally tried to talk to him about getting out of the game. He made a promise to her that once he and Dwight each reached a million, he would get out and wash his hands clean. She glanced at the picture of him on top of her computer. He was standing in front of his Escalade with Vapor and Vigor. She was looking forward to spending time with him during spring break. She turned off her computer and ran her fingers through her soft, curly hair and recalled the day she met him.

It was a year and a half ago, and she was up in Raleigh, North Carolina, visiting a friend that attended Shaw University. They had gone to Crabtree Valley Mall to buy gifts for Christmas. She had to smile, remembering how Menage made his presence known. While she and her friend were leaving the mall, Chandra nearly stepped out in front of Menage’s midnight black Acura RL. He was quick to get out to see if she was okay. With his smooth tongue, he persuaded her into letting him take her out to eat. They got along well, and what shocked her was that he waited around a few months to have sex with her. He grew to trust her with everything he had. She rubbed her stomach and wondered how he would take the shocking news that she was carrying his first child. She wondered if he was ready for what she had in mind—marriage. Putting on her Fubu tennis shoes, she started to head out the door to go wash her peach BMW X-5. Just as she was about to leave, the phone rang. She started to let the computer take the call but she went ahead and answered it.

“Hello?” she said.

“Chandra, this is Felix. How are you?”

“Oh, hi Felix. I’m doing fine. Menage tell you I’m comin’ down for spring break?”

“Ah, yes, yes, he did.”

“Felix, is something wrong?” She knew it was odd for Mr. Marchetti to be calling her. She slowly sat down.

“Chandra, Menage has been shot.”

“Oh my God, Felix . . . no . . . h-how is he?” she said standing back up now.

“Listen, calm down and come to the airport. My private jet is on its way. How soon can you get there?”

“I . . . I’m on my way now . . . Felix, how is he?” she said, bursting into tears. She heard him take a deep breath.

“He’s in critical condition and on life support. That’s all I know as of right now. But it’s important you get here, so drive carefully, Chandra, and don’t worry. He’ll pull through.”

Chandra wanted to ask who was responsible, but she had to make it to the airport and get to Menage’s side. His mother received the same call from Mr. Marchetti and an hour later, she, too, was aboard another one of his private jets from New York to Miami.

* * *

It had been almost thirty minutes since the helicopter had flown Menage off to the hospital. Detective Dominique Covington finally had the crime scene under control and he was thankful that it was no longer raining. Now he could stand outside and smoke his Newports. Earlier as he had finished taking statements from DJ, Dwight, and Tina, the nosy-ass TV reporters rolled up in their vans. He had also confiscated DJ’s 9 mm and Dwight’s .357 until further investigation. DJ’s Lexus, with its front end smashed, would be under investigation as well because of the blood on the fender. DJ didn’t seem to mind; he was upset over what had happened to his friend. Detective Covington got down on one knee and pulled back the bag from the body in the driveway.

“Four dead bodies—three by gunshot wounds and one by a dog . . . fucking headache,” Covington said to himself. At thirty five, he was the head man on the street for homicide. Three things made him unique: He was the youngest person and the first black to ever hold the position. The other thing that made him unique he kept on the low. Crushing the butt under his shoe, he stood up and stretched. He pulled out another Newport but changed his mind. “Okay guys, let’s not fuck up this scene. Collect all spent shells,” said Covington.

“Oh, fuck, there must be over two hundred fucking shells in there!” a rookie cop replied.

“You keep talking and I’ll have you do it all by your damn self! Now, as I was saying . . . collect all, that’s A-L–L, spent shells, and please, please, make sure the CSI gets enough pictures of the bodies before they are moved. Peterson!”

“Yes, sir,” Peterson, a rookie cop replied.

“Order some pizza, I’m starving. Okay, girls, let’s get to work!” Detective Covington said as he walked toward the house, looking up at the dark clouds overhead.

* * *

At Jackson Memorial Hospital, Dwight sat in the waiting room with his head against the wall, eyes closed. Tina sat next to him, stroking his hand. DJ sat in the corner alone, rubbing his throbbing, aching head. Mr. Marchetti stood looking out of the rain-streaked window with his hands behind his back. Next to him, facing the room, were his two bodyguards. Occasionally a doctor or nurse was paged over the intercom, breaking the silence. The only other thing that seemed to make any noise was the soft humming of the water fountain by the exit. No one knew what to say, and silence ruled. Outside the sky was getting darker and thunder could be heard in the distance. Time seemed to stand still.

“Mr. Marchetti, Mrs. Lovick has arrived,” whispered one of his bodyguards, having received the information from a small mic that was in his left ear. Anyone who didn’t know Marchetti would have mistook him for a government official and figured that his two guards were secret security agents. But in truth, he had as much power as the Mayor of Miami—maybe even more. Another pair of Marchetti’s bodyguards escorted Chandra in, and he immediately got up and hugged her and then slowly walked her to a seat. He could see that she had been crying. As they sat down, she choked up on her words as she sought answers to what was going on. Dwight couldn’t keep his eyes off Chandra, knowing what she had to be going through.

Menage’s mother arrived about an hour later. At fifty-two she still looked young and in shape. She thanked everyone for coming, not really knowing what to say. Then she and Mr. Marchetti went to a corner to speak privately. Later on, sitting next to Chandra, she told her she was glad her son finally had some taste. She liked Chandra and the two seemed to get along well, considering the circumstances and them meeting in person for the first time.

“Baby,” Menage’s mother said softly holding Chandra’s hand in her lap, “my son would want you to be strong, so we got to be strong right now . . . come pray with me.” She and Chandra got down on their knees and held hands. Mr. Marchetti got down on his knees as well and prayed with them. Then Dwight and Tina, followed by DJ, joined them. The two bodyguards, keeping their eyes fully open, lowered their heads. Chandra tried to be strong, but she had to lean on Mr. Marchetti for support and sobbed as Menage’s mother began to pray: “Dear Lord . . . Oh Mighty Father . . . I ask you in Jesus’ name, to save my son—your child. Oh heavenly Father, show your mighty power and grace and let the sun shine on his face again. Oh Lord, let him know that it’s you who will bring him back. Oh Lord . . . oh Lord . . . let it be your will. My faith in you is strong, oh Lord, so I . . . so I now put it in your hands, Oh Lord, my Savior. Glory be thy name . . . oh Jesus . . . ohh Lord . . . in Jesus’ name I pray and I thank you.”

After the prayer, Chandra sat with Menage’s mother as every one continued to wait. When Chandra was able to talk, she told her that she was two weeks pregnant. Mrs. Legend, raising her head for the first time since her prayer, let a single tear run down her face. “This tear is for your baby—not my son,” she said softly. DJ sat alone rubbing his eyes, trying to hide his tears.

After four hours of waiting, a doctor in a surgical mask and gown walked over to the group. Everyone stood with questioning looks on their faces. Mr. Marchetti directed the doctor toward Menage’s mother. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Legend, but I must be fully honest with you . . .” He never got to finish. Chandra screamed at the top of her lungs. “N-o-o-o-o-o, God please, no-o-o-o!” She passed out and Dwight caught her before she hit the floor. Everyone began to yell and scream.

“This . . . this can’t be . . . it can’t be true!” Dwight muttered to himself as he held Chandra in his arms.

* * *

Detective Covington looked at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock. He sat in his unmarked Ford Crown Victoria smoking a Newport as he watched a tow truck haul DJ’s Lexus from the driveway. Things didn’t add up from his viewpoint. He looked at his pad and glanced at the details of the case as the smoke burned his eyes. “Two bodies out back—one with one or two shots in the neck and the other . . . killed by one of the dogs.” He let out a chuckle.

He then looked at DJ’s statement regarding the shooting of the man in the driveway. DJ had said the guy ran toward him—unarmed—and he blew his head off at close range. Covington was now certain that something wasn’t right. “It’s going to be a long week,” he sighed and looked down at his muddy suit. They had called the pound to pick up the dog. He seemed friendly, but as soon as some fool let it loose to go into the van, it took off toward the gate, dodging ten or more officers, including Covington, who slipped and fell face first.

He took off his muddy tie and tossed it onto the back seat. The yellow crime-scene tape flapped in the wind, as he flicked his Newport out the window. Looking at the once beautiful mansion, he shook his head in disbelief, started the car and drove home.

* * *

Tina sat crying in her bedroom with the lights out, while Dwight sat at a bar getting drunk. He never experienced a pain so deep. Menage was like a brother to him, and Dwight knew that the only thing his friends cared about was the paper chase. Yet and still, Menage set rules, like no carjackin’, or involvement with drugs or drug trafficking, so this all made no sense to Dwight.

“Why?” he whispered to himself. “Jealous-ass niggas . . . it’s all bullshit . . . just so . . . so . . .” He flung the bottle of wine he had been drinking against the wall. He knew he had to stay in control but he felt compelled to do something. However, there was nothing to do but wait.

* * *

Mr. Marchetti left two of his guards at the hospital as he flew back to his island. His gut told him that whoever did the hit on Menage had to have had a specific reason, being that Dwight or DJ weren’t shot. He vowed to find out who it was and deal with them in his own way.

Tears slowly ran down Chandra’s face as she looked at Menage. She carefully dabbed his lips with a wet towel to prevent them from drying. Chandra did her best to stay strong, since his mother wasn’t able to stand the sight of her only son being kept alive by a machine. She refused to think of life without Menage, and she became hysterical and shouted at the doctor when he told her of the odds of him coming out of the coma. Menage’s mother simply turned around and dropped to her knees and prayed. Over and over Chandra whispered in Menage’s ear, begging him to fight and telling him how much she loved him. She once recalled seeing a special on TV about people waking up from deep comas, claiming to have heard music, so she relayed it to Felix, who quickly had someone get the CD she asked for, along with a portable CD player. After turning out the lights, she stopped and looked at all the machines that kept Menage alive, casting an orange glow on his face. Before Felix’s bodyguard returned, she heard a song on the radio that caught her attention and the tears ran freely again. Closing her eyes, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed as the song “Many Men,” by 50 Cent filled the room at a low volume.

Menage’s medallion, which spelled out his last name, lay on the table behind where Chandra sat. The bullet that would have hit him in his heart had ricocheted off the letter D and created an imperfection. Even before this incident, Chandra knew her man had one foot in the grave because of the life he was living. She also knew that he had to pull through soon because his mother wouldn’t let him remain this way for too long. She fell asleep inches from his bed as the music played softly in the background.