I was down Angie’s waiting for Dog Boy to meet me so I could set up something with him and Troy. I dozed on her plastic chair covers till Joan called me up to tell me how Soni was going to love the Viking stove that came with the place she had just found me, because it could bake a whole turkey in an hour. “Wow! I wonder how long would it take to make a grilled cheese?” I asked.
Joan and I had a real working relationship. She sold me two properties in a month—the bar, a rental on Belair Road, and now we are working on my castle, a home in Bolton Hill, but not like Tyler’s family. I want all three or four thousand square feet to myself—a Cosby-like brownstone with modern features.
“Okay, Joan, take Soni to see it and if she likes it, draw up the contract.”
Dog Boy spilled through the door leaking. His red drippy hands wrapped his own torso as he fell toward me. He collapsed with bug eyes before tilting his head toward heaven. Miss Angie saw the blood from the top of the steps.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” she screamed like a lottery winner. Cops, ambulance. I’m calling them,” Miss Angie said, trembling. I grabbed both of her meaty arms.
“Calm down, Angie, get some towels and water. Don’t call anyone!”
We never call police unless we need reports for insurance purposes. Hero cops are fictional like Santa Claus and affirmative action. Plus we were on Madeira Street—pizza guys and cops never come when you call.
“What should I do with these towels?”
“Throw them over the blood!” I replied. Dog Boy moaned and rocked on his side. I told him to stay still.
“Done, what do you want me to do with this water?” said Miss Angie—still shaking. I didn’t even know why I told her to get water; it just sounded right.
“Sit here with Dog Boy while I go get Disco. Don’t open the door for anyone, he’ll be okay.” I sprung out of the front door and hopped off the steps. Nick waited at the bottom.
“Go back in the house, boy, I was coming in. Them niggas that shot Dog Boy circled the block!” said Nick as he pulled me down low to the ground. I got on all fours and leaned my back against someone’s car.
Nick looked horrible—like a functioning junkie—and he smelled like shit. Those Perks had him all messed up. His skin was soggy, he scratched until blood surfaced, and his eyes were piss-colored.
“Yo, I gotta go and get Disco. Dog Boy’s bleeding like a muthafucka!” I said, peeking up to see if the coast was clear. “Who shot him? Who he beefin’ with now?”
“You wouldn’t believe me. Dog Boy slapped some nigga and he came around here three or four times today bangin’ guns like Rambo. Take this and go back in the house. I’ll get Disco,” replied Nick as he handed me a .45. It was black, gray, two-toned, and cocked.
Dog Boy had the living room smelling like baked scabs. Miss Angie said the bullet went through the right side of his chest. This was the first time I ever saw him speechless. It hurt because I was powerless. I kneeled down and scooped the back of his head with my palm. “Miss Angie, get me another cold washcloth! I gotta clean him up; you’ll be okay, Dog Boy. Stay with me.” I had to make sure he stayed still because I didn’t know if a bullet was still in him. Angie could’ve been wrong. Moving a body with a bullet in it could cause it to pop around and hit a vital organ or something. Nick and Disco were taking forever. I had to talk to Dog Boy. I thought talking would calm him—it definitely calmed me. I joked about his speech impediment. I rubbed the cloth across his temple and reminded him of the house raid when Fat Tay dumbass tried to flush a small pistol down the toilet. I reminded him of the time he fucked Liz with the peg leg and then stole it for proof and how we used to ride our dirt bikes through Pat’s kitchen, do doughnuts in her living room and then wheelie out the front door.
Miss Angie said Disco was outside. “Yo, let her in!” I yelled. Disco walked in with a multicolor windbreaker on with two-strapped Reeboks and a glittery bag to match. She looked like a pack of Life Savers.
“Gib him a pill for da pain. Dis ain’t shit but a hole, baby!” said Disco, lighting a Newport and analyzing the wound. I didn’t have any strong prescription pills, but there was a bottle of Motrin, so she spoon-fed him that. Dog Boy had the same drug tolerance as some of these fiends he served—too high to catch a buzz off of ibuprofen, but something was better than nothing.
Disco dipped into her bag and started dabbing the hole with rubbing alcohol–soaked gauze. Dog Boy squeezed my hand, making my complexion as red as the blood on his damp tee. Miss Angie prayed to Jesus.
Disco started sewing his skin like fabric. She wove the needle in and out in perfect equal stitches. Dog Boy quailed with every poke but got used to it as she started on his back. I interrupted Miss Angie’s prayer and told her to call around for some pain pills. Her tears were enough to wash the blood off of the floor—I could’ve put a “Wet Floor” sign down.
“Take my belt off, Yo. Don’t let shit hit my belt. I love you, Disco, but you ugly as shit!” mumbled Dog Boy. Disco laughed and patted the back of his head. I unlatched his black Damier belt. The LV buckle weighed at least a pound, I thought as I pulled it off. I wiped the belt down with tap water, dried it, and rolled it up like it was new. Miss Angie ran in the kitchen and told me that LT had a line on some Oxys for Dog Boy’s pain.
“So Dog Boy is stable?” she asked.
“Yeah, he’s gonna be okay,” I replied.
“You’re not going to do anything crazy, are you?”
Twenty minutes later I got up with Mac, Long Tooth, and Nick. We strapped up with heavy artillery and loaded up in the Camry. My family sedan was a tank with choppers, handguns, extended clips, and cartons of bullets. I blasted the radio to shake Nick out of his nod.
“Yo, you rockin’ on a mission, that’s crazy, Dee!” Long Tooth yelled from the back. Mac was silent. Nick drooled in and out, head knocked back every time we hit a bump, only waking up to scratch and rub his nipples. “So who did the shit?” I yelled to the car.
“He my cousin, but fuck that clown!” said Mac.
“Your cousin?” I pulled over. “Nick, get up!”
Nick was out of it. Long Tooth said that Dog Boy got into an argument with Hurk over a hundred dollars and Hurk shot him. An awkward silence entered and then chilled the car for a few minutes.
“Yo, so y’all gonna kill Hurk?”
Mac said hell yeah because he has work and doesn’t pay, he’s goes to clubs just to start fights, and borrowed money from everybody in the car—saying he needed it because he’s on the run, but he’s always out every weekend throwing money, trying to impress girls, and he just bought a new car.
Nick rose from the dead. “I tried da tell you but shit was crazy!”
I hadn’t been in the street for a few months. Running the bar was a seven-day-a-week, seven a.m. to two a.m. gig, so I really didn’t know what was happening with my friends. I was busy learning how to create a schedule, hire good employees, renovate the units, and basically build my business.
“So y’all wanna kill Hurk?” I said.
“What we post to do?” Nick said.
What were they supposed to do? What was I supposed to do? My childhood best friend shot another one of my best friends and I’m in the middle. Hurk hit an all-time low; we were a family. How could you shoot your brother, someone you said you loved, over something ridiculous as money? The money changes everybody. And now I’m in a car full of my brothers ready to kill one of our brothers over money.
“Yo, I can’t let y’all kill Hurk, man. This can’t go down,” I said.
“Well, don’t be surprised if that nigga kill you!” Long Tooth replied, exiting the car.
“What’s the move then?” Mac asked. “I’m fucked up and he ain’t put me on after I got locked up for his bullshit! I got my reasons for wantin’ to rock that nigga, he a whole rat!”
I told Mac to relax. A part of this wasn’t even about Dog Boy, it was about money. Mac was ready to kill Hurk—his real lifeblood—over money. Tyler and Troy barely called me after I stopped selling drugs. Hurk and Mac are as worthless to each other as I am to Tyler and Troy because they want money and the love fades as soon as the cash does—pure, innocent relationships gone flat over something as simple as a dollar.
“Look, Mac, I can’t put you on with drugs because I don’t do that anymore but I can give you five thou until you get right.”
“So what I gotta do for that?”
“Just don’t kill Hurk, and give me a chance to squash their beef.”
“Man, I swear you the best nigga I ever met, Dee. Real life, I ain’t never gonna front on you. Don’t worry ’bout LT, I’ll rap to him.”
I pulled back over to Madeira Street and let Mac out. Nick just slept in the car for another half hour or so. Angie came out and said that Dog Boy was good but she still made him rest. We sat together on her chipped steps. I wanted to tell her that I loved her but I didn’t know how—I was still learning how emotions worked from Soni—and Miss Angie’s from the same slum as me.
“The neighborhood changed a lot since you left. It used to be fun round here, Dee. It felt like family. Now these young kids is crazy.”
“Everybody always say that. Like every generation gets more and more crazy!”
“It’s true boy! Now take me to your bar, and I want to meet your pretty girlfriend again,” Angie had told me. I nodded yes. She was right; the neighborhood was different—new fiends and new drug crews. Packs of kids I never saw. Even they were new to the block or shot up really quick in the time I left. The game doesn’t stop. A lot of these dudes don’t know me or probably care about what I did on these streets. And they’ll last a summer or two and then a new set will move in. I’m lucky enough that I was able to move on.