Cross or his bitch right now!” Chico shouted.
Chico didn’t want to admit that Dante was right. He didn’t want to look stupid and played. He had heard the name “Coca Kola” being floated around. Word on the street was, she got that nickname for all the weight she was unloading. Cross and his bitch were moving so much snow, they were calling his team “The Perfect Storm,” which was hard for Chico to swallow.
“I’ma go talk to a few not-so-loyal muthafuckas and negotiate,” Chico said.
“It’s your court, cuzzo.”
“And I’m still holding the ball.”
Chico sat silently, disturbed by everything going on. He only wanted to have a few words with Memo and then kill him.
An hour later, the two men were still sitting and waiting in the stolen, dark Chevy. It was evident that Dante wanted to be elsewhere. Becoming weary, he fidgeted with the radio continuously.
“We should have brought some CDs wit’ us,” he said.
“Worry about that shit some other time. Just focus on this muthafucka comin’ out,” Chico replied, his eyes glued on the tacky lounge across the street.
“You sure he really in there? You trust the chick that’s tellin’ you this?”
“She’s a hundred percent.”
“And why’s that?”
Chico turned his focus toward Dante. He was silent for a moment before saying, “Because I say so.”
“Well, she better be. I’m gettin’ tired of this waiting around. It’s making me feel like it’s a setup.”
“You a gangster, right?”
“Fuck kind of question is that?”
“Nigga, then act like it.”
Dante glared at his cousin. The bickering was normal between the two. Dante was the only person Chico trusted and the only man with the balls to question him.
It wasn’t until after two in the morning when a few patrons began exiting the rusty side door that led into the dark alley. Both men in the Chevy rose up and retrieved their guns. Chico cocked back his .45 and kept a steady eye on the small crowd pouring into the streets, mostly bottom-class residents of Harlem inebriated with liquor, their source of heaven.
“Look hard for this muthafucka,” Chico said.
“I always do. You wanna talk first, or just open fire?”
“Talk to this muthafucka for a moment, but if he raise up, shoot to kill this nigga.”
Dante nodded.
Memo followed behind the other patrons onto St. Nicholas Avenue. He was easily recognizable by his height alone. He stood six three with long braids and was dressed in a pair of beige Timberland and a classic varsity-style jacket with wool/polyester body and soft, lambskin sleeves. He was high yellow, like afternoon daylight, and slim, and his beady eyes carried an angry stare.
Memo exited the lounge with a friend by his side, shorter in height but carrying the same thuggish demeanor. The two men looked like they were nothing to play with.
Chico observed his mark closely, blowing cigarette smoke out of his mouth. He said to Dante, “Let’s fuckin’ do this.”
Chico jumped out of the Chevy and walked quickly toward Memo and his friend, and Dante was right behind his cousin, both men carrying their guns at their sides, ready to open fire.
Memo headed for the Accord parked at the corner of St. Nicholas and 148th Street. He staggered toward his car with the keys in his hand, unaware of the oncoming threat across the street. His friend Mooky was steps behind him, laughing to himself. The liquor in his system was making everything much funnier to him. He almost lost his footing and caught his balance against a parked car.
“Yo, I’m ready to go smoke,” Mooky said.
Memo turned slightly to comment on what Mooky had said, but his eyes caught the sudden trouble heading his way. His eyes squinted, zeroing in on Chico and Dante rushing his way. He saw the guns, noticed their bizarre movements, and read into it immediately—They were coming for him.
He reached under his shirt for his pistol. Before he could warn Mooky about the danger, a shot was
Chico didn’t want to admit that Dante was right. He didn’t want to look stupid and played. He had heard the name “Coca Kola” being floated around. Word on the street was, she got that nickname for all the weight she was unloading. Cross and his bitch were moving so much snow, they were calling his team “The Perfect Storm,” which was hard for Chico to swallow.
“I’ma go talk to a few not-so-loyal muthafuckas and negotiate,” Chico said.
“It’s your court, cuzzo.”
“And I’m still holding the ball.”
Chico sat silently, disturbed by everything going on. He only wanted to have a few words with Memo and then kill him.
An hour later, the two men were still sitting and waiting in the stolen, dark Chevy. It was evident that Dante wanted to be elsewhere. Becoming weary, he fidgeted with the radio continuously.
“We should have brought some CDs wit’ us,” he said.
“Worry about that shit some other time. Just focus on this muthafucka comin’ out,” Chico replied, his eyes glued on the tacky lounge across the street.
“You sure he really in there? You trust the chick that’s tellin’ you this?”
“She’s a hundred percent.”
“And why’s that?”
Chico turned his focus toward Dante. He was silent for a moment before saying, “Because I say so.”
“Well, she better be. I’m gettin’ tired of this waiting around. It’s making me feel like it’s a setup.”
“You a gangster, right?”
“Fuck kind of question is that?”
“Nigga, then act like it.”
Dante glared at his cousin. The bickering was normal between the two. Dante was the only person Chico trusted and the only man with the balls to question him.
It wasn’t until after two in the morning when a few patrons began exiting the rusty side door that led into the dark alley. Both men in the Chevy rose up and retrieved their guns. Chico cocked back his .45 and kept a steady eye on the small crowd pouring into the streets, mostly bottom-class residents of Harlem inebriated with liquor, their source of heaven.
“Look hard for this muthafucka,” Chico said.
“I always do. You wanna talk first, or just open fire?”
“Talk to this muthafucka for a moment, but if he raise up, shoot to kill this nigga.”
Dante nodded.
Memo followed behind the other patrons onto St. Nicholas Avenue. He was easily recognizable by his height alone. He stood six three with long braids and was dressed in a pair of beige Timberland and a classic varsity-style jacket with wool/polyester body and soft, lambskin sleeves. He was high yellow, like afternoon daylight, and slim, and his beady eyes carried an angry stare.
Memo exited the lounge with a friend by his side, shorter in height but carrying the same thuggish demeanor. The two men looked like they were nothing to play with.
Chico observed his mark closely, blowing cigarette smoke out of his mouth. He said to Dante, “Let’s fuckin’ do this.”
Chico jumped out of the Chevy and walked quickly toward Memo and his friend, and Dante was right behind his cousin, both men carrying their guns at their sides, ready to open fire.
Memo headed for the Accord parked at the corner of St. Nicholas and 148th Street. He staggered toward his car with the keys in his hand, unaware of the oncoming threat across the street. His friend Mooky was steps behind him, laughing to himself. The liquor in his system was making everything much funnier to him. He almost lost his footing and caught his balance against a parked car.
“Yo, I’m ready to go smoke,” Mooky said.
Memo turned slightly to comment on what Mooky had said, but his eyes caught the sudden trouble heading his way. His eyes squinted, zeroing in on Chico and Dante rushing his way. He saw the guns, noticed their bizarre movements, and read into it immediately—They were coming for him.
He reached under his shirt for his pistol. Before he could warn Mooky about the danger, a shot was
Similar Books
