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  Dante came through the window first. His long skinny body fit through the boards easily, and his partner came through right behind him.

  The moment the pair turned to walk up the rickety stairs, Lamont was on it.

  Pop! Pop!

  Then just to be sure, Pop! Pop! Again.

  The hammer he’d taken off Kraft echoed in the empty house. The thud of falling bodies could be heard. Lamont’s footsteps were light and quick. He had aimed for the upper back and both times he had hit his mark. He dropped the gun and went to work. It took him a few seconds to rifle through Dante’s pockets as the dying man moaned and twisted around on the floor.

  “Shit!” Lamont cursed when his hands came up empty. Dante gasped and pushed away from Lamont as he tried to rise up on his knees. Lamont kicked the fiend in the face, sending him down again. Still moaning, Dante used his arms to pull himself toward the stairs as he tried to escape. Lamont jumped into the air, coming down on Dante’s lower back. That did it. Dante sprawled out on the floor, bright red blood gushing freely from his mouth.

  Next, Lamont eyed Postal. Grabbing him by his bubble jacket, he rolled the skinny dead man over onto his back. Underneath his coat, in the large front pocket of his hoody, was the package Lamont had come for. He despised drugs for real, but he wiggled the package out and stuck it down inside the front of his pants anyway, making sure it was halfway in his underwear and wouldn’t fall out.

  “Pipe-head muhfuckas,” he muttered as he looked into Postal’s lifeless eyes. Lamont could still remember the fear that had rushed over him when they were awakened by Postal and his can of gasoline. The fiend had sloshed that shit everywhere, even on Moo’s bomber coat, which is why his baby brother was walking around in just a thin jacket now. No matter what they did the smell of gasoline just wouldn’t wear out of his coat, and breathing it in had just made Moo cough even harder and get sick to his stomach too.

  Lamont looked at the body, then kicked it. Anybody who even threatened to fuck with his little brother deserved to die. He reached down and took Kraft’s jewels out of Postal’s jacket pocket, then snatched both gloves off the corpse’s hands too. Dante wasn’t moving no damn more either. He lay still and quiet near the foot of the stairs, dead as fuck.

  Just the way Lamont wanted him.

  Chapter 5

  I’m a beast ya dig??

  I’m a buh-buh-beast, my nig!

  I’ma muhfuckin beast, ya dig?

  On the beat,

  In the muhfuckin streets, my nig!

  WORD GOT AROUND fast in the hood, and Kraft’s body was barely cold when news of the robbery and back-alley murder hit the corners. Dreko had caught the buzz about the two fiends who’d stuck Kraft up near the projects, and every street nigga in the area, from the lookouts to the paid niggas who worked to package their goods, was on watch. There was no doubt the killers would be smoked out like rats in a deep hole, and when they scurried out into daylight then the streets would hold court and retribution would be Xanbar’s to dole out.

  Dreko walked the streets alone. His boys Lil Jay and Vandy were pulling look-out shifts on the corner they shared, and his moms had locked him outta the house again. One of their nosy-ass neighbors had been in her ear telling lies about him, and as usual Portia was always down to believe the worst when it came to her oldest son.

  Dreko was heading down Livonia when he saw some static popping off, and walked up on a group of wanna be come ups from Riverdale Houses.

  He paused and leaned against the rough stone of a nearby building and dug his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. Them Riverdale boys had snatched up that same lil cat he’d seen earlier in the day. The kid had pushed the small boy behind him and was talking mad shit for somebody who was outnumbered about five to one.

  “Nigga, you ain’t gone do shit to me,” the little dude said holding his ground. Dreko saw a blade glinting in the kid’s hand, and the look on his face was so cold and fearless that he wondered which one of them Riverdale boys was gonna get stuck first.

  “Step up if you wanna. I’ll slice you and all ya goddamn homies too.”

  The raw violence in his face was even more chilling than the cold.

  A wicked smile curled Dreko’s lips as he watched the boy get set to make good on his threat. The biggest cat in the bunch jumped on the kid, and the boy’s hands moved so fast and with so much brutality that seconds later the big kid was writhing on the ground, screaming like a bitch and pressing both hands to his side.

  One of his homies rushed the little dude and lifted him off his feet. Those hands moved like lightning again, and Dreko bit his bottom lip in glee as the kid locked his legs around the Riverdale dude’s waist and flailed with his knife hand again and again. The boy fought deliberately and with so much fury that it was hard to tell who was the fuckin attacker and who was getting attacked. When another dude grabbed the kid’s arm and tried to wrestle his knife away, the kid started wildin like a goddamn maniac. Not only did he cut them niggas wherever he could, he bit, punched, kicked, clawed, spit, and used his forehead like a bat.

  By the time two grown men rolled up in a Range Rover and jumped out to break shit up, the kid had taken him an ass kicking but he’d put one on them boys too. Ere last one of them Riverdale niggas was either beat up or cut up. The kid had held his ground to the max and Dreko was impressed. The cat was obviously very violent, and above all, Dreko had mad respect for that kinda brutal street shit because violence was his middle name.

  “Yeah!! Yeah!!” he yelled loudly, jumping up and down. The kid was a fuckin beast. The Riverdale boys had retreated, but the kid was still wildin. It was all them two guys in the Range Rover could do to stop him as he tried to break loose and run after them boys to get him some more. “Ay yo!” Dreko hollered.

  The kid turned and put them brutal eyes on him and Dreko grinned.

  “Yeah! That’s how you keep a muhfucka in pocket, my nigga! Them fool bitches won’t be runnin up on you no muthafuckin more.”

  The kid lifted his chin, realizing that the tall guy lounging against the building had witnessed everything and seen how he got down. He nodded, accepting the compliment while returning the respect. Dreko grinned and nodded back, his energy and his mood suddenly high. Yeah, there was no doubt about it. Dreko punched his fist into his open palm. Violence was his middle name.

  All the edging and haircutting was done for the day and by nightfall all the community niggas was congregating up in Fat Daddy’s joint. Like a lot of ghetto barbers, Fat Daddy was the kind of neighborhood icon who drew folks to him. Especially since he had some of Xanbar’s boys selling blow and sticky from the back of his joint. He kept a cee-low game going and youngsters with rap skills could always get their spit on in his joint at night. Plus, Fat Daddy had connections. He was the go-to guy when you had something that needed off-loading, and if he thought he could sell it for two cents more than he paid for it, Fat Daddy would take it.

  It was still freezing cold outside, but inside the lights in the shop were bright and there was a full house warming up the shop. As usual, the neighborhood shot callers had come together to discuss the day’s operations, handle any ongoing problems that hadn’t been solved during the day, and to plan for the next day’s successful management of their growing drug empire.

  Xanbar was a black-hearted killer at the top of the food chain in these parts, and his crew had flowed with him into the shop the way they always did. Tonight the talk had been about who mighta done Kraft and how they were gonna get some get back on that shit. Now that Xan had given the word to dead Kraft’s killers on sight, niggas were sitting around listening to music, taking turns spittin battle rap on a cordless mic, and waiting for the deepest part of night so they could hit the streets and start their manhunt.

  Fat Daddy was getting lifted. He’d worked hard all day and Egypt was upstairs asleep. He had washed and twisted her locks earlier, enjoying his daddy-daughter time as his baby girl sat on a stool between his legs and read out loud
to him. It looked like every other day she was begging him to buy her two or three new books. Fat Daddy would act mad sometimes and tell her to slow down on her reading, but deep inside that shit made him swell up with pride. Him and his baby had something special going together and Fat Daddy cherished it. He cooked for her, snuggled with her, washed her clothes, and took care of her every need. You couldn’t find a hustler no grimier than Fat Daddy out on the streets, but when he was at home with his daughter he tapped into the best parts of himself and loved her deeply and completely. And Egypt loved him right back the same exact way.

  But late-night was a time for grown-man things, and right now Chop and Felton were out front catering to Xanbar and making sure him and his crew were comfortable. The music was blasting all the way into the back room, where Fat Daddy sat in a lounge chair playing in the pussy of a young chick he held on his lap.

  He thumbed her clit, and plunged his fingers around inside of her damp cave as she squealed and puffed on some treez, inhaling the weed deeply. Fat Daddy’s dick was uncomfortably hard in his pants and he wanted some of the tight pussy that was bouncing all over his lap. He withdrew his fingers and held them under his nose, smelling her funk and getting high on that shit. He wasn’t about to put his face in her box but he was hooked on the taste of pussy so he licked the juices from his fingers and pushed his dick up toward her.

  “Butch,” his uncle Chop called out, interrupting Fat Daddy’s flow. Chop was about seventy but he kept himself trim and looked less than fifty. “That boy around here again. One of them kids Felton say belong to Marjay.”

  Fat Daddy sat up. “Let ’em in.” He smacked the girl on her ass and pushed her off his lap, pausing to smell his fingers one last time. Her pussy was strong-odored and he had to fix his dick in his pants before he could join the guys out front in the shop. He stepped into the main room just as the bigger kid was coming through the door.

  The boy’s eyes were cold and his face set in a hard mask. One of the neighborhood lookouts, Dreko, had the floor. He was practicing for new jack night down at Baller’s Paradise and the elder G’s were nodding their heads and digging his flow game.

  The kid stepped inside and ignored Dreko, violating his a cappella spit game as he stared dead ahead and walked straight up on Xanbar, who was sitting in Felton’s chair.

  Plap!

  Fat Daddy watched as Lamont slapped a package wrapped in brown paper down on the arm of the chair, shutting everybody up, including Dreko.

  Silence fell over the room and the rising aura of danger filled the air.

  The boy spoke deliberately. “This you, man. Kraft’s last stash.”

  He waited a few seconds then said, “I took it off them fiends who stuck him up. Ya nigga ain’t even have no protection on him,” he lied. “No gat, not even a fuckin blade.” The kid shrugged. “That nigga was a mark. He got caught out there. Plain and simple.”

  He went in his pocket and came out with an expensive Jacob watch and two platinum chains and three rings.

  “I got these back for you too.”

  Xanbar glanced at the jewels, then frowned.

  “Where them fiend muhfuckas at?”

  “Popped. Slumped. I did ’em both.”

  Slowly, Xanbar looked down at the package, then back up again. He picked it up and tossed it around in his hand, feeling the weight. Satisfied, he stared at the kid and said coldly, “Now where’s my fuckin money?”

  The kid wasn’t even pressed. He stared right back. His voice was quiet and just as cold. “What fuckin money?”

  Xanbar grilled the boy for long moments, then suddenly a smile cracked his face and he laughed loudly. This kid had some nuts. Not only had he deaded them fiends, he coulda took Kraft’s stash and tried to hustle it for himself, or he coulda turned that shit in for some reward money from the 73rd precinct. Or worse, the lil muhfucka coulda took it across town and dished it off to Chaos, that come up nigga who was running shit in Ocean Hill. Either way, the boy had had options, and he’d chosen the right one. Damn right “what money.” Xanbar believed in eating. The kid had earned that little bit of bank.

  Getting up from the chair, he clapped Lamont on the back, shaking his head.

  “This lil nigga right here is hood, goddamn it!” Still laughing, he grabbed his coat from a hook and pulled his skully low on his head, then motioned to his entourage who immediately got up to follow him.

  “Yo,” he said grinning at his boys. “I likes this lil muhfucka. He what? Ten? Eleven? And already he a fuckin gangsta and a business man. Come’ere, Hood. I tell you what. You all about business and you got a heart. I’ma put you to work. You ain’t fuckin with that regular corner action, though. Come see me tonight at Baller’s Paradise, aiight? Kraft left behind some territory that needs to be covered, man, and you just the kinda lil nigga who can handle that shit.”

  Minutes later, Fat Daddy had taken Lamont into the back room and the boy was standing in front of him with cold determination in his eyes.

  “Here you go,” he held out a C-note, offering it to Fat Daddy. “This oughtta cover that sandwich and them haircuts you gave us.”

  Fat Daddy eyed the money the kid had stolen off Kraft. This lil nigga acted like he was paying taxes or some shit. He waved the kid off.

  “Nah. Keep your money. What I gave you was a gift.”

  “I don’t need nobody to give me shit.”

  Fat Daddy turned and stared. This lil muhfucka was serious. He snatched the hundred dollar bill with his pussy-sticky fingers and pocketed it. “Yeah, okay. This might just be about enough then.”

  The boy pressed on. “You got anything else around here that’s up for sale?”

  Fat Daddy shrugged and raised his eyebrow. “Depends on what you lookin for.” He nodded toward the room where his fenced goods were stored. “A whole lotta shit out there got some value to it. For the right price you could pretty much have whatever the fuck you want.”

  “Well, how about the whole room,” the boy said with a straight face. “I’ll take the room and that little green couch you got back there. Let me and my brother use the bathroom too, and I’ll pay you extra.”

  Fat Daddy looked up in the ceiling like he was calculating and totaling shit up in his head. He didn’t even like little street kids and he sure didn’t want none around here fuckin up his action. But the fact that this one was standing before him negotiating like a grown man made him eligible to be treated like one.

  “I could prob’bly let that couch go for about twenty-five a week. It ain’t all that clean but it’s somewhere to crash. Maybe twenty if you wanna sweep up the shop every night. I can’t go no lower than that though.”

  The kid thought for a minute. “Cool. I’ll sweep up. Throw the kitchen in on the deal too. Just the microwave. My little brother gotta have some hot food.”

  It had been a long time since Fat Daddy had seen a young cat as calculating as this raggedy little kid, and although he didn’t show it, he was impressed.

  “That’s righteous,” he said nodding, then looked down surprised to see that the kid was holding out his hand.

  Fat Daddy took the small fingers and ground them tightly in his fist as he shook the boy’s hand. “All right then. We got a deal and you got yourself someplace to rest.” He nodded. “I call that good sense.”

  The kid took his knuckle grinding like a man. His bones rubbed together and he didn’t even flinch. When Fat Daddy finally let go of him the boy looked dead in his eyes and nodded right back. “I call it good business.”

  Chapter 6

  I’ma twist my weed, I’ma get my G’s

  I’ma G, I can see why niggaz don’t want me to win!

  Never kneel, I don’t care how whoever feels,

  I’m forever real and I came here to get mine in!

  LATER THAT NIGHT, with Moo sleeping on the sagging couch in Fat Daddy’s back room, Lamont sat in a booth at Baller’s Paradise surrounded by countless members of Xanbar’s click. The owner of the club had
a deal going with some Haitians who had some connections in the state liquor authority, and his liquor license was just as phony as his name.

  Lamont sat up there with the big willies, his hand wrapped around a glass of St. Ides that Xanbar had put down in front of him. Somebody passed him a dutch and he puffed and coughed so hard tears flooded his eyes. Niggas laughed, but he didn’t give up. He hit the blunt with small puffs until his chest could stand it, then he pulled on that shit like he’d been born with a tree in his mouth.

  “Check this out young Hood,” Xanbar said, leaning toward him with his elbows on the table. Xanbar was the kind of nigga who attracted loyalty, and something in his gut told him that Lamont was gonna be loyal to him for a good long time. “I’m giving you a crew, ya heard? Now normally when I first put cats on they gotta start as lookouts. Niggas gotta prove themselves to me. Show they G and ere’thang all the way through. And tonight you done just that.”

  The big kid Dreko slammed his glass down on the table and stood up.

  “Yo Xan! I thought you said I was gone be moving up! This nigga just came on, man! What about me?”

  Xanbar stared at the young cat. He was mental, and unlike young Hood whose senses were keen and in search of an opportunity, this cat could think no further than most kids on the streets.

  “Nigga sit ya ass down. You can’t even get your dick sucked good without making noise and getting noticed. That shit coulda got real ugly with that white bitch you almost killed up in here. You gotta learn how to hold ya head, homey. That’s truth. But dig this. Even though you fucked up a lil bit, Xan still got love for you. So no more lookout duty. You officially a trap boy now. I’m putting you down on Hood’s team. Get you exposed to some new territory. Hood gone be my number one over on Chester Street now, and you gone be my number two.”