Читать книгу Crave All Lose All - Erick S. Gray - Страница 14

Six

That same night, I was on one of the rooftops of the buildings in 40 projects smoking, drinking. There were couple of niggas from the way enjoying the night reminiscing on Thomas and how it was coming up back in the days.

I clutched a forty-oz malt liquor bottle and stared down at 107^th Avenue from seven stories up. Watching life in the hood, one nigga laid to rest and it keeps going endlessly like space. We mourned and hurt but our days never stop. I thought about what the pastor said at the burial, about starting out bravely with a gallant smile; for my friends ‘sake and in his name, live and do all things the same. I chugged the forty.

I found myself wishing that my days wouldn’t go on. It seemed easier to be dead. But damn, when I’m dead, who’s gonna look after my son and my moms…?

I took another swig from the 40oz and continued to look down at society. There was a row of trucks parked on 160^th street, nothing but tricked out Escalades, Yukons and Range Rovers, all sitting on huge chromed rims right across the street from the bodega.

The owners of the lavish rides were up on the rooftop, enjoying the night and trying to escape reality off beer, Hennessy and weed. I tried to trick out my ‘89 Mazda 626 with cheap alloy rims and tinted windows. It wasn’t close to what these niggas pushed.

“Vince you good my nigga…?” S.S. asked me. He was Spoon’s cousin. We went to high school together, were the same age and fucked the same bitches coming up.

The only difference between S.S. and me was that he owned a sixty thousand dollar truck and always stayed with a knot.

“Yeah, I’m good, just thinking about some shit,” I replied casually.

“Here take a pull,” he said passing me the dro.

He poured beer on the rooftop and said, “That’s for my nigga, T. May he rest in peace. He’ll be missed.”

The rest followed doing the same thing. S.S. pulled out a .357 and said, “Yo we need to send my nigga, T out right. The niggas who murdered him is still breathing.”

“My nigga, I’m down. Your beef is mine.” Someone shouted.

“Fuck it; let’s give this nigga a twenty one gun salute right now,” S.S. said aiming his .357 into the air with his arm outstretched.

More guns were pulled and aimed at the night’s sky. I waited for shots to start ringing. S.S. let off and soon an explosion of gunshots followed. I covered my ears and waited for the salute to end. It sounded like war on the rooftop. Seeing residents running, ducking and looking around made me laugh.

Empty shells covered the rooftop when it was over. S.S. and his niggas were high and ready to get into whatever.

Tyriq appeared on the rooftop soon after the shooting. Everyone gave him respect.

“Yo, it’s sounded like Iraq up here,” he joked.

“What’s good?” S.S. greeted him with dap and a hug. “We lighting up the night for your brother.”

Tyriq strutted around the rooftop clad in a Mitchell and Ness Jets throwback Jersey, jean shorts with beige Timberlands. He rocked a diamond platinum chain that gleamed brightly like the sun itself.

“Ayyite, Vince, what’s good? You acting a fool with these niggs too?” he laughed.

“I’m wit it, came up to chill and get my thoughts together,” I smiled.

“Ayyite, been a stressful, fucking day,” he said.

I swallowed another mouthful of brew and stared at the neighborhood. Tyriq and the rest stood behind me.

“Yo S.S., y’all niggas bounce for a minute. I wanna have a word with my dude, ayyite?” Tyriq requested.

When the door shut, Tyriq stood next to me.

“What’s on your mind, Vince?”

I had a lot on my mind, money, the funeral, my son, my baby moms, struggling to stay afloat.

“Nuthin’ much, just enjoying the night,” I responded.

“Ayyite, let me get a taste,” he said pointing to the beer. I passed it and he took a mouthful. “Look at these muthafuckas here, late as usual.”

I looked down and saw three police cars drive hastily up 107^th Ave and five uniformed officers got out.

“Clown ass pigs,” Tyriq laughed and pulled out a small wad of bills. “Let me give them a lil’ sump’n for their efforts,” he said tossing the wad of bills into the streets. Hundreds, fifties and twenties floated into the night’s air, falling loosely to the ground.

I laughed.

“Look at that money. You think I give a fuck. I own this shit. The fucking world is ours for the taking. Who’s gonna stop us?”

I peered at the lay of the land that was South Jamaica, Queens. These niggas have it lovely, I thought.

“C’mon, before I end up busting my gun,” Tyriq said.

We walked down the piss-ridden, staircase and heard commotion. In the lobby, the police were harassing S.S. and his crew.

“Why y’all fucking with us?” S.S. shouted. “We ain’t strap.”

He raised his shirt. They got rid of the gats knowing the police would be around.

“Word, this some bullshit…!” Macky shouted.

He was pressed against the wall, looking upset. The cops tossed everyone against the wall. S.S. resisted.

“Fuck y’all! I ain’t doin’ a damn thing. Shoot me, muthafuckas!”

Two officers tried to tackle him to the floor, but S.S. swung and punched one in his face causing him to stagger and almost fall. Couple cops hit S.S. in the back with batons. He winced and collapsed.

“Yo, is that fuckin’ necessary?” Tyriq shouted.

The crew was getting rowdy watching S.S. getting roughed-up by the NYPD and stepped forward to help him but were greeted by police issued Glocks.

“Back off!”

I witnessed the fire and prejudice in the eyes of the police. One more step could cause an explosion.

They put the iron bracelets on S.S. and brutally carried him outside. The officer who S.S. punched took pleasure in twisting S.S. arm making the ‘cuffs tighter.

“You going to jail, nigga!” he cursed at S.S.

“Fuck you!” S.S. spat.

He was five-eight but tough and took shit from no one, not even the cops. His knuckle game was fierce and he had an itchy trigger finger to match.

The cops took away S.S. satisfying their adrenaline rush for the night. The lobby cleared out and quiet down soon afterwards. We were seething over the arrest but shit like that was common and we were used to it.

Tyriq looked at me and said, “Let’s ride, too much drama round here, ayyite?”

“I’m wit’ it…”

Traffic was light on Hollis Avenue but the corner boys were out chilling in front of the bodegas gambling and peddling drugs to the fiends. It was a balmy night and besides the drama earlier, everything was peaceful. I sat in the backseat of Tyriq’s burgundy Escalade listening to a mix CD. The air in the truck was saturated with weed smoke. I was quiet for most of the ride and listened to Tyriq and Tip talking about pussy. They didn’t discuss too much business around me. I was high, chilling in the backseat. They were cautious.

Tip slowly drove slow and easy through Hollis. I was paranoid at first. Tip had a reputation and was known to be violent. He was one of Tyriq’s top enforcers and was feared in the hood like the virus.

Tip was twenty-two with long cornrows to his back. In the summer, he wore tight fitted tank tops exposing dark chiseled physique. Past murders made his eyes cold. He was a loyal underling to the game.

Earlier we stopped at the USA diner on Merrick Blvd and eaten. Tyriq picked up the tab. After that we went to see one of Tyriq’s bitches on Linden then ended up here in Hollis.

My nervousness subsided after we were high. He joked with Tyriq. I never heard him laugh and when he did, it was kind of cynical.

“Why you quiet back there, Vince?” Tyriq asked turning his head to get a view of me.

“I’m chillin,” I said.

“A nigga almost forgot that you were back there,” Tyriq said.

“I’m high as a muthafucka,” I laughed.

“Yeah, ayyite, that’s that bomb shit right there. I got pounds for sale,” Tyriq informed.

“Yeah, this shit gotta nigga wanting to fuck,” I said.

“You need pussy nigga?” Tyriq asked.

“I could fuck wit’ a blowjob or sump’n,” I said, slouching down in the back.

Tip turned and cracked a smile.

“What’s up? That nigga need to ease his tension?” Tip asked.

“That nigga is craving pussy. Shit, he needs to take his mind off pussy for a moment, ayyite? And think about business,” Tyriq said.

“Yeah, we gotta talk,” I said.

“Yeah, we gonna talk, but not tonight. Tonight, we’re gonna party like rock-stars. My brother, Thomas is in the fucking ground right now, but we gonna live and do us for that nigga,” Tyriq proclaimed. “Yo, Tip, take us to that spot in Mt. Vernon where the bitches be at.”

Tip smiled and drove the truck toward the Grand Central Parkway.