The Old Neighborhood (16 page)

A couple hood rats lurked around that night—dirty, mangy, and loud—trying to impress us and smoking cigarettes. Hood rats weren't so good looking. They wore huge, gaudy jewelry, gold necklaces, and big fake-stone rings. They used cheap grandma perfume and way too much makeup—dark eye-liner and fake eyelashes. They were all a little on the chunky side—or thick, as the brothas would call 'em—but this didn't stop them from wearing skin-tight jeans with high-tops and big t-shirts that made it look like they had giant tits, but really just hid the bloated lump of their bellies. Half of 'em were pregnant by the time they got to high school, and the other half were pregnant by the time they got out.

Some of the hood rats could fight, and some just thought they could until they got womped on publically. The ability to fight actually mattered to these girls. They were kinda tomboys in a way, but more just girls raised with roughnecks for older brothers, uncles, and fathers. It was the life they knew, you could say. And it wasn't all that difficult to get a hood rat to suck you off in an alley. They were kinda like peewee hookers in training, and they were always screeching and whining about something. But in the end, I guess they were like any other young girls; they were just out there trying to find themselves, looking for romance—and even love—and doomed like so many of us to never find it.

I couldn't stand hood rats. The thought of kissing one, or even letting one slob my thang, made my stomach bubble. Kissing one of them was like smooching the nut-sacks of half the 13-year-olds in the neighborhood. No, thank you. But there was something sad to me then about the way they were, too.

Vicky leaned against the partition separating me and Ryan's sills wearing a short tan skirt and a big airbrushed t-shirt with her name written in pink and purple cursive. She was puffing on a Merit 100 she probably stole from her aunt, and her deep red lipstick was smeared on the butt. She had a ton of Aqua Net in her shoulder-length, light-brown perm, which crinkled every time she tossed her head back to expel a short string of smoke.

Samantha stood across from Vicky and made obviously excited eyes with her like it was some little staged performance Vicky was putting on.

I sighed at the mountain range of pointy blackheads that spread across Vicky's chunky cheeks; she'd smothered and caked them over with makeup. Vicky'd been following me around for a week now, and she'd done the same to Angel months back—he just made fun of her until she gave up on him. Ryan'd bounced her chin off his balls a few times before he got bored. I planned on just ignoring her until she went away.

The lights were out in Sy's old window across the street. Some flowery, yellow drapes hung in
'
em, and they swayed lazily in and out of the open window with the breeze.

“Man, I miss Sy,” I said.

“Yeah, he wasn't so bad,” Angel said as he slid his palm-comb through his oily hair.

“He was like another big brother, ya know?”

“Yeah, but all he ever did was beat-cho-ass,” Ryan said laughing.

“Naw….” I shook my head. “He was just playing. Hell, that's what I'd do if I had a little brother.”

“Yeah, he was funny.” Ryan grinned. “Always yelling out that damned window of his, playing that Slayer shit. I don't know what was worse.”

“Slayer ain't so bad,” I said, scrunching my brow at Ryan.

“Man, I don't know how you listen to that shit,” Ryan jeered.

“I like Slayer,” Vicky sang. She leaned up against my sill and batted her darkened, vampire-ish eyes.

“Dr. Dre—now that's some good shit,” Ryan said, waving his hand over his head in hip-hop fashion.

“Man, if Mickey knew you were listening to that shit…” I raised my eyebrows.

“Man, Mickey… He's too old-school. This the new generation,” Ryan admonished. “Hell, he's the baddest gangsta in the whole neighborhood; Dre's talking about him in dem songs.”

“Man, Mickey hates Dr. Dre as much as he hates them Ds up in Rogers Park,” I snapped.

“It's different, man,” Ryan urged.

“You know dem niggers by your house are gonna flip Stones soon anyway,” Angel added, glancing down Hollywood.

“Man, what the fuck are you saying?” Ryan replied in disgust. “We're staying Crew forever… KC,” he bellowed.

“Once they go to Senn, man, that shit'll all be over,” I said, cocking my head to the side and locking eyes with Ryan.

“Man, just look at T-Money and Twon,” Angel reasoned. “They were Krazy Crew. Now look at 'em; they're Stones. Hell, they started the whole thing.”

“Hey look, the TJOs is Peoples, too, so it don't matter,” Ryan said, grimacing. His face and scalp reddened.

“It matters, man...” I sighed. “It matters.”

“Man, it'll be different. You'll see. We're gonna be Crew forever.” Ryan rocked back, swelled his chest out, and threw up the KC with both his hands. “In fact, quit with that 'nigger' shit. Monteff is coming through... He's got some a dat flame 'dro!”

Monteff had gotten a hold of some Hydroponic-grown marijuana and was coming through to share. I think he liked to get away from the Dead-End-Docks—the constant family bickering, the cops always hounding the alley, the redundant gangbanging. Over here at the sills, it was quiet, except when Ryan and Angel were snarling at each other. Plus, we could get away with smoking a bowl right there, too—just crawl in one of the sills and toke. Monteff had a way of keeping the focus of conversation off negative crap, and that helped me a lot in keeping Ryan and Angel from colliding. Sometimes, if we got high enough, we'd even talk about deep shit—black holes, the meaning of life, fate. It was cool 'cause Monteff would defend anyone's wild ideas, no matter how stupid or crazy they were. I liked having him around. We all did.

“Mickey just needs to smoke a J and chill his ass out,” Ryan vented.

“Mickey is scary,” Vicky sang in a girly-girl voice as she whipped the length of her crinkly perm over her shoulder.

“Shit, Mickey ain't scary,” Ryan sneered. “I ain't scared a him.”

“He sure is a killer, though,” I said, smiling at Vicky.

“That he is,” Ryan replied as he looked down toward Ashland and Clark.

I stood and leaned against the same partition as Vicky, and she batted her eyes at me. “We were there when they killed that motherfucker,” I said.

Ryan laughed and flicked his cigarette.

“Smashed his fucking brains out with his own pistol!” I added
.

Angel and Ryan broke up on that one.

“That's a lie,” Vicky said, rolling her eyes.

“Call it whatever you want,” I said, sitting down. “I saw the guy take his last breath.”

“Tough guy….” She took a short, forced puff off her cigarette and blew it out slow, then looked at me with what was supposed to be a sultry glance. Then, she smiled and revealed the braces encasing her yellowish teeth. I just grinned over at Angel. He giggled.

“Hey, Vicky…” Angel said, cocking his head to the side with his crazed, toothy-smirk. “Do you like to look cool smoking cigarettes?”

“What?” Vicky barked sharply, straightening.

“You puff just like Marilyn Monroe. Did you know that, Vicky?” Angel mocked her girly voice and held an imaginary cigarette in his fingers. Ryan and I cracked up.

“Angel...” She rolled her eyes. “Shut up... God, you are so stupid.” She spliced her chunky arms across her chest.

The air stirred, and a tremble rattled up through the metal grate exhaust vents embedded in the sidewalk right between Ryan and the alley. Angel hopped off the sill and stepped towards her. She backed towards Ashland smiling playfully.

“What?” She smiled nervously. The makeup cracked on her cheeks.

“I wonder,” Angel said as he took a large, sweeping step and placed his foot between her sneakers. Then, he leant close. “How much attention do you really like? As much as Marilyn did?” Angel whispered. Then, he tilted his head as if he was about to kiss her.

Vicky backpedalled atop the iron grate on the sidewalk and smirked defiantly. Then, she sucked a quick toke and blew a cloud around Angel's smug smirk. Samantha squealed triumphantly as she followed them. Ryan and I sat up on the edges of our sills, watching.

A deep, subterranean bellow erupted upward through the grate as a subway train howled past. Vicky's skirt caught like a kite and swooped up, elevating above her hips and exposing her panties; they were white with lime-green piping and two little green hearts intertwined above the crotch. She shrieked. Angel stumbled backward, and his short ponytail fluttered upward like a single feather in a brave's headdress. Vicky's half-smoked square dropped from her fingers as she spun and dashed off. It descended a few feet, then levitated in the updraft before the smoldering-red ember disintegrated. A spray of sparks splintered into an upward spiral like a dust devil of fire.

Vicky ran down the sidewalk squealing.

“Angel! You asshole!!!” Samantha screeched as she chased after her friend.

Angel sauntered back toward his sill. I reached my hand out as he passed and he slapped me five.

“That girl can't take a hint,” I said.

“Did you see those pasty drawers?” Angel asked, sighing as flopped on his sill ledge.

“If a spark woulda caught in her hair, dat bitch woulda exploded wit' all dat hairspray!” Ryan added.

“I wouldn't be havin' dis problem if you wouldn'ta stopped fuckin' her, Ry,” I said.

“Man, I didn't fuck that hoe!” Ryan shot back and grabbed his crotch. “I'd end up with crabs fucking wit' her.”

“Ah, you know you got that shit,” Angel sang.

“Naw, but what'd it smell like?” I grinned at Ryan.

“Hmmm...” Ryan looked downward and scratched his chin. Then, he sniffed his fingertips, and his eyes darted to mine. “Tostitos!” He shoved his index and middle finger under my nose. “Wanna smell?”

I pushed his hand away, laughing.

Angel scooted way back in his sill and sparked his lighter. I leaned over and looked in his shadowy, concrete cave. His bony face creased in the dark as he giggled. Then, he brought the wood-based bowl to his lips. The flame bent and dipped into the metal cup. He sucked deep, and that ashy stench of two-day-old resin eased out.

“Your ass can't wait, man? Monteff'll be here any second,” Ryan whined from his seat.

Just then, there was the throttling ramble of a V8 on Hermitage. I shot to my feet and craned my neck to see down the dark block. Then, tires screeched, and a splash of headlights washed over the f
a
ç
ades of the apartments down at the corner.

“It's just that crazy ass brother of yours,” Ryan said, standing beside me. He waved it off and drifted back to his sill.

Rich's Dodge raced up, then eased to a stop half-way down the block. My mouth suddenly dried with anticipation. I stepped out to the curb and strained to see through the bright headlights. There was a shadowy figure in the street; it looked small next to the wide 4X4 truck. Rich hung his head out the window and said something—just a whisper. Suddenly, a black streak leapt out of the window. It was quick, thin, and long, like a snake strike. A slashing crack rang out, followed by a whimper. The shadow reeled, then disappeared into the parked cars. Swift footsteps slapped the sidewalk pavement. I stepped back from the curb to intercept it.
Who the fuck is it? Some PG3?
I squeezed my fists closed and bounced on my tip-toes. The foggy figure swept up towards us. Its arms and legs flailed wildly. Rich's Ramcharger paralleled alongside it in the street smooth, keeping pace with his prey.

I'm just gonna crack dis mothafucker when he gets close.
Then, the gray glob was a guy—a black kid. As he was just a few feet off, I realized it was Monteff. He clutched the side of his trimmed 'fro. Deep-red blood bubbled up through his fingers. He locked his horrified eyes on mine.

“What de fuck, Joe!”

My hands dropped at my sides. My fists unfurled as Monteff gusted up. His pants blurred into a white whirl as he dashed past us. He bent a left into the ER tunnel. Ryan and Angel stood with their mouths agape, stupefied.

Rich's Ramcharger bounded to a screeching halt in front of the sills. Heavy metal bore out his open window like a gigantic death-rattle on amphetamines. His arm hung down from the window, and he gripped the handle of his wood-blade Samurai sparring sword; its glossy, oak blade was bowed slightly. He aimed it downward. Dark fluid dripped along the wooden blade.

Rich panted. Blood-red veins swelled around his eyes. His wet teeth gleamed inside his overgrown beard and mustache.

“What up, little brotha!!!” Rich called out as he brandished the wooden blade like some boorish relic of the Germanic hordes. “Whyn'tchu catch dat nigger? We coulda had some fun wit' him!”

“Stupid motherfucker,” Ryan sighed, defeated.

“Rich, man, dat's my fucking friend.” I clutched my throbbing head with both hands.
How the fuck am I gonna explain this.

Big James's deep voice bellowed out of the tunnel. Rich put it in gear, and the engine surged again. The truck rocked back before accelerating, then squealed a right onto Ashland. Big James emerged at the mouth of the tunnel with his heavy Maglite clanking at his side. His neck swelled as he craned to see the truck, then he snapped his head around, and his eyes flashed at us.

“Hey, get over here you three,” he yelled. We broke down Hollywood.

Big James only chased us for half the block, and we stopped running when we turned the corner at Hermitage.

“Man, what the fuck was dat all about?” Angel asked, swallowing deep, heaping breaths.

“Fuckin' Rich, man. He's gone crazy ever since Sy died,” I pleaded. “He thinks every fucking nigger's the one who shot him.
”