Lights Out (14 page)

Marcus turned on the engine and started blowing AC out the vents even though it was a cool night outside and they didn’t need it.

‘Cops better not have this shit in their computers,’ Saiquan said.

Marcus laughed. ‘Computers - that shit’s funny. The fuck you know about computers, man?’ He turned on the stereo and reggae started blasting.

‘I know they can bust your ass - that’s what I know,’ Saiquan said over the music.

‘Chill, mon,’ Marcus said, with a stupid Jamaican accent. ‘You gots to learn to chill, mon.’

Saiquan turned the music down, then said, ‘I ain’t playin’ around, yo. Them computers can bust yo’ ass hard, yo. Nigga Leon on my block - he got busted that way. They caught his punk ass on radar, ridin’ around the Bronx and shit.’

‘Radar?’ Marcus said. ‘What the fuck you think we on,
Star Wars}’

‘That’s what they usin’ now. Got the Lojack shit built into the car. Shit comes up on the screen and they know where you at.’

‘Lojack,’ Marcus said. ‘Man, I think you the one been smokin’ some crack today.’

‘How you know this car don’t got no Lojack in it?’

‘ ‘Cause I had the car a week already. Shit. They had Lojack in it don’t you think they woulda busted my ass already?’

This was probably true, Saiquan realized, but he still had a bad feeling. Shit was gonna get fucked-up. He didn’t know how, but it would.

They drove out of the lot onto Seaview Avenue. Marcus had the pedal down, getting to the intersection at One Hundred Second Street, then jammed the brakes.

‘Maybe J be hangin’ at the playground on Hundred Third tonight,’ Marcus said. ‘Maybe we pop him quick and I be back home to see the rest of
The Tuxedo.’

They drove to Avenue K and stopped around the corner from the playground. Marcus put on his Batman mask and Saiquan put on Casper the Friendly Ghost.

‘Let’s do it,’ Marcus said.

As they drove up the block, Saiquan saw a group of Crips brothers in blue do-rags standing on the sidewalk in front of the playground. Marcus slowed down, maybe going fifteen miles per hour. The brothers were still too far away for Saiquan to see their faces.

‘You see J?’ Saiquan asked, surprised that his voice sounded shaky.

Marcus squinted, leaning over the steering wheel. ‘Can’t tell. That might be him there in the back.’

Saiquan opened his window, realizing his hand holding the gun was shaking.

The Crips brothers saw the BMW coming down the block and some of their hands went under their shirts.

‘I don’t see him,’ Saiquan said.

‘Me neither,’ Marcus said.

Marcus and Saiquan took off their masks, then Marcus sped up, honking the horn five times fast, a signal of respect to his fellow gang members. Saiquan showed his respect, nodding once as the BMW passed by.

‘Nigga prolly be home right now,’ Marcus said. ‘We could go by his crib and check it out.’

‘What we gonna do,’ Saiquan said, ‘knock and he come to the door and say, “Oh, good, people here to kill me, come inside”?’

‘Naw, naw, it ain’t like that, man. I was just by his crib last week. Motherfucka never know nothin’s up when he sees my ass. And you’re with me - so what? He don’t think you gonna pop him neither.’

‘I don’t like it, man. I wanna do it drive-by.’

‘Yo, thought you wanted to take care this shit
tonight.’

‘I do.’

‘Then fuck’s yo’ problem? W e drive around all night lookin’, maybe we find him, maybe we don’t. But we go to his crib, he be there, we take care this shit right now, yo, know what I’m sayin’? Drive-by, smoke him in his crib - long as we get him dead, what difference it make? And we do it in his crib - nobody sees nothin’. N o witnesses rat on yo’ ass, no nothin’ goin’ wrong.’

‘Yeah,’ Saiquan said, ‘but what if he got niggas there with him?’ ‘Then we get him in the car with us,’ Marcus said. ‘Say, “Kemar and Manny need to see you, told me to come get you,” some shit like that. He get in the car with us, you plug him, we drop his ass on the street someplace or in some landfill, and we on our way.’

Marcus’s plan made sense, but Saiquan didn’t feel like giving him props.

‘Whatever, man, whatever,’ Saiquan said, staring out the window.

Marcus turned the reggae back up, singing along. When they got to Flatlands Second Street, Marcus turned the stereo off and pulled over, double-parking near the corner.

‘This it?’ Saiquan asked.

Marcus didn’t answer. He took out a Baggie filled with crack. ‘The fuck you doin’?’ Saiquan asked.

Marcus put the rock into the pipe and lit up.

‘Yo, put that shit out.’

Marcus held the flame under the pipe and the crack started sizzling.

‘I told you, I ain’t gettin’ into no crazy crackhead bullshit tonight.’ Saiquan tried to grab the pipe, but Marcus turned quickly toward the driver-side door, blocking Saiquan with his right elbow as he took a hit from the pipe.

‘Motherfucka,’ Saiquan said, and he pressed the barrel of the Glock hard against the side of Marcus’s head and had his finger on the trigger.

Acting like he didn’t even feel the gun - or if he did he didn’t give a shit - Marcus held the flame under the pipe again and took another hit.

‘I’m countin’ to three,’ Saiquan said.

Marcus closed his
eyes,
smiling, getting high.

Saiquan clicked the safety off. ‘One . . . two . . . You think I’m playin’? Driving around with rock in a stolen car - I must be crazy. . . . Two and a half. . .’

Marcus kept smiling, saying, ‘Ah,’ a few times under his breath. Then he opened the door, tapped the pipe against the side of the car a couple times to clean it out, then said to Saiquan, ‘A’ight, let’s do it.’

Keeping the gun against Marcus’s head, Saiquan said, ‘Do what? You takin’ my ass home.’

‘We at J’s crib, man. That’s it right over there.’

‘You think I’m goin’ in with you now?’

‘Come on, yo - you wanna get this shit over, right? Man could be dead already, we ain’t sittin’ here bullshittin’.’

Saiquan didn’t move the gun.

‘I know you want me to go in that house with you,’ Marcus went on. ‘I go in there all shaky, I might fuck shit up, but now I’m cool, I’m real cool, and we can go get this shit done, know what I’m sayin’?’

‘You ain’t shootin’ nobody,’ Saiquan said. ‘Why it matter if you shaky?’

‘A’ight,’ Marcus said, and then he licked his lips a few times. ‘But what if I smash up the car and shit? See, you didn’t think about that. I be needin’ rock I be drivin’ swervy and shit, might crash into a lamppost or a tree or whatever; then the cops come and everything gets fucked-up. You don’t want that shit happenin’, right?’

‘Whatever.’ Saiquan lowered the gun. ‘But I’m tellin’ you - you fuck this shit up, I poppin’ yo’ ass too.’

Saiquan put on his Casper mask and opened the door.

‘What you doin’,’ Marcus said, ‘goin’ trick-o’-treatin’?’

‘What?’

‘Leave the fuckin’ mask in the car, yo. You think J gonna open the door, he see us with masks?’

Saiquan tossed the mask onto the backseat.

‘See, you lucky you got me here,’ Marcus said. ‘I ain’t here I bet you be doin’ a lot a stupid shit tonight.’

Shaking his head, Saiquan got out of the car, and then he and Marcus headed along the sidewalk toward Jermaine’s with their hands deep inside their jacket pockets.

Saiquan followed Marcus up the stoop. The house wasn’t too fancy - it was skinny and looked kind of run-down - but it was still a house, and Saiquan felt the same way he did when he was in Marcus’s crib, thinking,
This shit just ain’t right. Why don’t I got no house? Why don’t I got none of this shit?
Saiquan didn’t know Jermaine too good because J was just coming up when Saiquan went away last time, but he knew J was just a punk-ass street hustler, five years younger than Saiquan, and it was totally fuckedup that the man had this big motherfucking house all to himself and Saiquan had nothing.

‘Stay back there, till he open up,’ Marcus whispered.

Saiquan stood with his back against the house. He had his piece out in his hand. It was quiet except for some dog barking somewhere.

Marcus rang the bell. Nothing happened. He rang it again.

‘Yeah,’ somebody inside said.

‘Yo, it’s Marcus.’

‘Who?’

‘Marcus, man.’

Locks turned. The door opened. A second later Marcus was pressing his SIG into Jermaine’s upper lip and mustache.

‘The fuck you doin’, man?’ Jermaine said.

‘Get the fuck inside,’ Marcus said, forcing Jermaine back into the house.

Saiquan went inside too and said to Marcus, ‘Yo, put that shit away, man.’

Marcus had the piece in Jermaine’s mouth now, and Jermaine was biting on the barrel with his gold front teeth. Marcus pushed Jermaine up against a wall in the living room.

‘Yo,’ Saiquan said, ‘you hear what I say?’

Jermaine was a tall dude - not b-ball tall, but still tall, like sixtwo. He had braids like Marcus’s, but shorter.

‘Why you pop D?’ Marcus was saying to Jermaine. ‘Huh? Why the fuck you pop him, bitch?’

Jermaine tried to speak, but he couldn’t with the gun in his mouth. Saiquan was aiming his Glock toward the back of the house, maybe toward where the kitchen or staircase was, in case some of Jermaine’s boys were home. Now Saiquan’s arm was shaking badly, and it was hard to keep the gun steady.

Marcus was going, ‘Why you pop him, man? Why you fuckin’ pop him?’

‘Maybe you take the gun out of his mouth he can tell you,’ Saiquan said.

Jermaine’s upper lip was bleeding. Marcus removed the gun and said, ‘Talk, nigga.’

‘Fuck you,’ Jermaine said, spraying blood and spit. ‘Punk-ass bitch.’

Marcus whacked Jermaine across the face with the gun, and Saiquan heard bone crack. Blood gushed from Jermaine’s nose.

‘Fuck you, man,’ Jermaine said. ‘I’m gonna fuck yo’ punk asses

up - ‘

‘Shit’s funny, man,’ Marcus said, smiling. Then he said to Saiquan, ‘You hear that shit, man? He gonna fuck our asses up.’ Then, back to Jermaine, ‘How you gonna fuck anybody up when you gonna be six feet underground?’

Jermaine tried to grab Marcus’s piece, but Marcus yanked his hand out of the way, then came down hard with the gun against the side of Jermaine’s head.

‘You best answer my motherfiickin’ question,’ Marcus said. ‘Why you pop D?’

‘Yo, you gonna
pay
for this shit,’ Jermaine said.

Marcus whacked Jermaine again, this time in the mouth. A gold tooth popped out and more blood sprayed.

Marcus laughed. ‘That shit’s funny. Maybe I should do that again.’

‘The fuck’s wrong with you, man?’ Jermaine said, spitting blood. ‘I told you - I didn’t do shit.’

Marcus came with the gun again against Jermaine’s mouth. More blood splattered, but no more teeth came out.

‘You gonna have to have a closed casket, man,’ Marcus said. ‘Mama ain’t gonna be able to kiss you good-bye.’

‘Don’t talk about my fuckin’ mother, bitch.’

‘I can talk about whatever the fuck I wanna talk about,
pussy.
Know why? ‘Cause I got the chrome in my hand and you just the sorry-ass sucka ‘bout to get popped, that’s why.’

‘Fuck you.’

This got Jermaine another whack across the face. He screamed, putting his bloody hands over his eyes.

‘You got two fuckin’ seconds to answer my question, bitch, or I’m gonna pump ten into you real quick.’

‘I didn’t do shit.’

Marcus shot Jermaine in the left foot. Jermaine yelled even louder and keeled over. Saiquan couldn’t stand looking at Jermaine anymore; instead he looked toward the back of the house, the direction he was still aiming his gun, in case Jermaine’s boys were hiding somewhere and came out shooting.

‘Tell me that lyin’ shit one more time, your other foot gonna go,’ Marcus said.

Jermaine continued screaming and cursing for a while, making sounds that didn’t sound like a man making them. It sounded like they were coming from a dog - a dog that was about to die. Then he said, ‘Bloods did that shit. Axe anybody you want - they tell you same shit. Why’d I pop a nigga in my own fuckin’ crew?’

Marcus pulled the trigger again. Saiquan wasn’t looking, but he could tell by the way J was screaming that foot number two got shot up.

‘Say it, nigga!’ Marcus screamed. ‘Say you did it! Just fuckin’ say it!’

Saiquan looked over at Jermaine, who was sitting down in a puddle of blood, making more animal noises.

‘I saw D at Brookdale,’ Saiquan said. ‘He’s paralyzed, can’t move shit, got one of them metal shits screwed into his head. He said you did it. He said it was ‘cause he was bonin’ Ramona.’

‘Bullshit,’ Jermaine said, crying, his face covered in blood. ‘Nigga’s fuckin’ lyin’, man.’

Marcus put the gun up to J’s messed-up face.

‘A’ight,’ Jermaine said. ‘I smoked him, man - I fuckin’ smoked him. But it wasn’t ‘cause a’ no ho. I did it ‘cause the nigga was jackin’ supply, playin’ us like punks. Caught his nigga ass, cold -selling rock on Cozine and Alabama. That ain’t even his corner. I go, “Fuck you doin’?” and he go, “Fuck you,” and pull a motherfuckin’ piece on me. So I fuckin’ capped the bitch. Shit’s the motherfiickin’ truth, man. Why’d I lie? Why the fuck I’d—’

Marcus shot Jermaine in the neck. Blood splattered all over Marcus’s face and jacket and onto the white wall behind Jermaine. Jermaine was still squirming, blood coming from his mouth.

‘Ah, shit,’ Marcus said. Then he screamed at Jermaine. ‘Look what the fuck you did! You fuckin’ stupid-ass piece of shit!’

Marcus shot Jermaine again - this time in the middle of his forehead. Jermaine’s body fell over into the blood puddle and was still.

Saiquan was staring at the body, at the spilled-out brains, thinking about so much shit at once that all he heard in his head was a lot of loud, crazy noise.

‘Shit better come out,’ Marcus said as he brushed past Saiquan and headed toward the kitchen.

Starting to feel sick, Saiquan turned and followed Marcus, and then he keeled over, gagging.

Marcus, at the kitchen sink, splashing water over his face and the top of his head, said, ‘The shit better not be on my Timbs.’ A few seconds later he said, ‘Damn, yo, and I just stole them shits last week.’