Wally tugged at the neckline of what had once been a fresh white tee, and his fingers came away damp. He was sweating like a runaway slave with “Massa” hot on his heels. It was ninety-three degrees outside, and the heat trapped in the two-bedroom project apartment made it feel like the temperature was on hell. The air conditioner was busted and all they had to work with were two dollar-store fans that only circulated the hot air. Between the heat and the fumes coming from the kitchen, Wally felt like he was going to fall out, but he reasoned it was all a part of the job.
In the kitchen, Melinda stood over the stove, whipping two pots like she was making Sunday dinner. She was auditioning for a job with the new crew who had set up shop, so she knew she had to bring her best whip game. A bead of sweat rolled down her butter-flavored cheek, and splashed on the mural she had tatted on her forearm in memory of her deceased brother, True. Ambidextrously, she worked the water around in both pots at the same time, watching the cocaine and baking soda take their marital vows before the drug gods and forge a union known as crack. When she was satisfied with the consistency, she whipped the pots around once more for good measure before taking them from the heat and sitting them on the dining room table.
One of the fiends they had at the spot to test the finished product danced too close to the pots and Melinda met him with a forearm the chest.
“You can’t taste the meal until it’s done. When it cools, you’ll get your blast.”
“C’mon shorty, I can take my steak rare. Just let me wet my beak right quick.”
The fiend shuffled in place, scratching his arm and sucking up the drips hitting the back of his throat. There was no way to say for sure when he’d last fixed, but his extreme thirst suggested it had been a while.
Melinda didn’t like the desperate look in the fiend’s eyes. Her hand swept across the table and inconspicuously picked up one of the razors they’d bought to cut the crack up. She hoped to God she wouldn’t have to use it, but she was prepared to.
“Yo, why don’t you be the fuck easy?” A slender light skinned dude stepped into the living room. He was dressed in a Nike jogging suit, with a gold chain and cross hanging down his chest. From the way everyone in the room perked up, you could tell he was the man in charge.
“How we looking?” he asked Melinda.
“I just whipped the last two,” Melinda nodded to the two pots.
The slim kid picked one of the pots up and examined it. Floating in the bottom of the cloudy water was a perfectly round cookie.
“You got skills, kid,” he told Melinda.
“Shit, I been in the kitchen since I was a kid. I told you I had the god-hand with it. Y’all need to stop fronting and put me on the payroll,” Melinda said.
“Yeah, we might have a position to you,” the slim kid cracked a smile. “Yo Wally, go find them other two young boys and have them come up here and help you cut this shit up. We about to flood the hood.”
“I’m on it,” Wally moved for the door. He had just undone the lock when the door burst open. He never got a good look at the person who had kicked the door open, but he had a great view of the stars that danced in front of his eyes when the baseball bat made contact with his head.
Two men rushed the pad, holding automatic weapons and wearing masks and ordering everyone to freeze. They were led by the young boy who swung the bat. He wore his hair in box braids with a red bandana tied around his head. He opted not to cover his face, because he wanted his victims to know exactly whom they were dealing with. He saw Wally trying to get up and gave him another whack with the bat. He hit him over and over, and continued hitting Wally long after he’d stopped moving. Everyone in the room was horrified about Tech’s display of brutality, which was just what he was shooting for. He wanted to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind how far he was willing to go in the streets.
“I think he’s dead, so you can stop hitting him,” Swann entered the apartment. He was a light-skinned kid who looked more Hispanic than black. His sandy hair was neatly braided into cornrows that hung to his shoulders. Physically, Swann was a pretty boy, but mentally he was as ugly as they came. His exploits in the streets had earned him a reputation as a killer, and a seat at the table of one of the most notorious crime families in the eastern United States, the Clarks.
“What the fuck is this about?” the slim kid asked as if he didn’t already know what was up. He thought he would be able to fly under the radar and get his weight up a bit before he had to deal with the problem that he knew would come from opening up a crack spot in a hood that was claimed as property of the Clark family.
Swann looked at Tech, who stepped forward and smacked the slim kid. “Nigga, you know what it is. You been warned about this bullshit, but you still trying to violate so now you gonna get violated,” Tech barked.
The slim kid looked like he wanted to try Tech, but he knew better. Tech was the alpha male in the Dog Pound, a crew of young hitters who were about the business of mayhem. None of them were old enough to drink, but they were old enough to kill. The slim kid figured he could probably take Tech in a fistfight, but whether he won or lost, the end result would be the same. He would die.
The slim kid finally found his voice and addressed Swann. “I know you said we couldn’t pump around here unless it was y’all work, so I was just trying to sell off what lil’ bit I had left so I can get up out your way.”
Swann looked at the two fresh brewed pots on the counter. “And this is why you still cooking and bagging?”
The slim kid looked at the paraphernalia on the table. His lie was a weak one, and he knew it before he’d told it, but it didn’t stop him. He had a feeling this was about to go poorly, so he tried to appeal to Swann’s nostalgic side. “Swann, you know what it is to be a young nigga struggling, you been there. Every kid in the hood has heard the stories of how you gave it up as a young outlaw trying to get to the top.”
Swann’s lips twisted into a scowl. “The fact that you know my history and you still tried this dumb shit only makes me feel more disrespected.” Swann picked up one of the coffee pots with the crack cookies floating in them. “You lil’ niggas always wanna throw that shit out there about how you like us, but you ain’t like us. Y’all punks, out here stepping on toes, because you so thirsty to get noticed. Well guess what, we see you now homie!”
He smashed the coffee pot against the slim kid’s head. He looked at the slim kid, now on the floor crying, and shook his head in disgust. He turned to Tech. “Earn yo stripes, Blood, but leave nothing to chance. Everybody is aboard on this flight.”
“Swann, you gotta be kidding leaving this young boy to clean up this mess. He ain’t ready,” one of the masked men said. He was the burlier of the two.
Swann looked at him. “And I was how old when you and the OG used to give me guns to play with?” he asked. The burly masked man didn’t have an answer. “Exactly,” Swann said, and turned back to Tech. “When you done, toss the pad. All you find, all you keep. Consider it a bonus.”
“Say no more,” Tech dropped the bat and drew a 9mm from his waistband.
“Wait, you gonna kill me over a few sales?” the slim kid asked in a frantic tone.
“Nah, I’m gonna kill you so the rest of these muthafuckas know what happens to clown ass niggas who go against the grain,” Tech told him before pulling the trigger. The bullet took the slim kid off his feet and slammed him into the window. Tech shot him twice more, painting the wall and table with blood. When he was done with the slim kid, he turned his attention to Melinda.
Melinda threw her hands up defensively. “Wait, wait, wait, I ain’t got nothing to do with this. I was just trying to make some extra money cooking up for some work. I don’t even know these dudes like that.”
“Next time, be smarter with the company you keep,” Tech said and prepared to finish her.
“Hold on, youngster,” Swann said. He was examining the remaining coffee pot. He turned his eyes to Melinda. “You got some skills, ma. You want a job?”
Melinda hesitated; making sure it wasn’t a trick question. “Ah…yeah,” she stammered.
“Cool, come see me tomorrow morning and I’m gonna put you to work. I don’t think I have to tell you what’ll happen if you ever breathe a word of what happened here, right?” Swann asked.
“Hell no, I ain’t seen shit and I don’t know shit,” Melinda assured him.
Swann nodded. “Good answer. You start tomorrow morning at eleven.”
“But wait, how will I find you?” Melinda asked. “You won’t have to, I’ll send somebody to pick you up,” Swann told her.
“But you don’t even know where I live.”
“I will by tomorrow morning,” Swann winked. “Just some food for thought in case you get any big ideas, ma. The name is Swann. Ask anybody in the hood how I give it up.” Swann turned and addressed his crew. “Let’s make moves. Shai’s function starts in a few hours and it’d be in poor taste for us to show up late.”