Capital City

  “Naw, man, that’s why I’m sweatin’ ’nis nigga. I mean, he got that brotherly love that I was tellin’ you ’bout.”

  Red looks frustrated. “Man, fuck dat ‘brotherly love’ shit you keep stressin’! Niggas ain’t got no love, man. It’s all a money thing now.”

  “What ’bout us?” I ask. I almost sound like a girl, an innocent virgin again. But the shit came out my mouth, so I can’t take it back.

  “We is brothers, nigga! We is brothers!” Red looks strongly at his son. “And he ya nephew. You hear me? He ya nephew.”

  We quiet down and talk small talk when Keisha comes back to the table. And when it’s time to leave, Red looks at me and says, “Yo, make sure you put some flowers on Tub’s grave next Wednesday. That nigga would’a been twenty-four.”

  * * *

  We get back to the District by seven thirty. I drop Keisha and Little Red off and beep Max at a pay phone. He calls me back five minutes later.

  “Who dis?”

  “It’s B.”

  Max laughs over the receiver. “Oh, what’s up, Butterbitch?”

  See, that’s why I hate this nigga! “Yo, man, I need two by Tuesday. I’ll give you eighteen hundred for ’em.”

  “Eighteen hundred? What’chall niggas think I’m stupid? I know it’s Christmas time, punk. I want a grand a piece like usual.”

  “Man, you crazy! I heard you been cuttin’ that nine hundred deal for other niggas.”

  “Look, man, take it or buy some weak shit from somebody else. I hear Leon got some powder this week.”

  Leon gave his runners some fucked-up ’caine that people were getting sick off of. Nobody fucks with him like that no more.

  “Yeah, whatever, man.”

  Max laughs and hangs up. I see how he’s trying to play things though. He’s gon’ try to ride out the holiday season. Niggas get just like the white man, sooner or later. For real! That’s why I have to get with that New York connection: ’em niggas that Bink know.

  I rush back to my plush-ass apartment in Silver Spring and check my answering machine for my girl’s phone call.

  “Yes, it’s me, and I can see that you’re not home, but I’m still horny, so I’m gon’ go out and buy me some dick t’night.”

  Beep!

  She trippin’. I’m gon’ tear that ass to pieces when I get down there tonight. It’s a quarter after eight now, so I just missed her call by fifteen minutes.

  I start to grab my bags. Then the phone rings. “Hello.”

  “Guess who, baby?”

  “Janet Jackson.”

  “Janet Jackson?”

  “Oh, oh, oh, it’s you, baby. What’s up?”

  She sucks her teeth. “Yeah, aw’ight. I got’cha Janet Jackson.”

  “Yeah, and I got your go-out-and-buy-me-some-dick shit, too.”

  She laughs. “So you got your plane ticket and everything?”

  “Yeah. Did you get us a hotel room?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shake my head and smile. “I still can’t believe they don’t let’chall have male guests at Spelman.”

  “Baby, this is an old-fashioned school based on principles.”

  I laugh. “Then how you get in there?”

  “Funny. ’Cause I was smart, that’s how.”

  “If they knew how nasty you are, they would expel you.”

  “Are you complaining?” she asks seductively.

  I smile. “Naw.”

  “Oh, ’cause I’m only nasty with you, sweetie.”

  Yo, my dick is hard as a rock. We gonna fuck something fierce tonight. “Well, I’m on my way, aw’ight.”

  “All right. I’m doin’ leg exercises for you, baby.”

  She laughs because she know that her nasty mouth is turning me on. But don’t get the wrong idea about my girl. She’s sweet as hell and fun to be with. She’s dark brown-skinned with beautiful model features and an hourglass body. Young’uns were sweating her like shit when she went to La Reine Catholic School for girls in Suitland. But she was on my Jimmy. People say it was because I was light-skinned with curly hair and money. I mean, I don’t really care, because the way I figure, a girl has to like you for some reason. Some girls like niggas because they’re athletes, you know?

  I beep a couple of my runners on an outside pay phone and tell them to finish selling what they got and hold the money until I get back Monday morning. I wouldn’t usually tell them no shit like that, but I only have ’bout three hundred dollars left on the street from this week, so it wouldn’t be too much of a loss. But I swear, I’m getting tired of these dumb-ass bammas losing money and claiming robbery. That’s why I’m ’bout to cut some of these runners loose and start selling ounces.

  I park my car in the garage for the weekend. I call a cab to take me to the Silver Spring Metro station. I’m on my way to Atlanta to be with my sweetheart. And yo, I love Toya to death! I’d die for that girl. And she’d die for me.

  Shank

  Stick-up kids is out t’ tax.

  Nice & Smooth, sampled by Gang Starr: “Just To Get A Rep.” But I ain’t out to get no rep. I need some money to pay my rent. I’m not trying to be homeless. Fuck that shit! Somebody’s getting robbed tonight, and I know just the motherfuckers: some bamma-ass hustlers.

  It’s some niggas that hustle up near Ninth Street Northwest. They just started getting paid, so I know they don’t have no major fire power yet. And I got my. 38 for their asses. I throw on my black leather jacket and my black knit hat and grab my shades. It should be an 82 bus coming down Rhode Island Avenue any minute now.

  Shit! The bus is taking all day. I might as well start walking down.

  My mom probably thinking I’m gonna lose the lease on my apartment. I got news for her ass. I’m keeping this crib. Fuck being homeless! I’m not KRS-1, and it’s already too many homeless motherfuckers in D.C.—the nation’s capital and shit!

  All the bus stops have that Bodyguard movie poster. I mean, it was an all right movie, but they only talking all that shit about it because Whitney Houston is starring in her first film. I still can’t believe she married Bobby Brown. I wonder if she got some good ass.

  Here comes the bus now. I put my shades on before I get on. I don’t like people staring at me on the buses, so I try to stay incognito.

  “I do what the hell I wanna do, gotdammit! You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do! I’m a man!”

  These crazy niggas be trippin’ on the buses. This bum is out his fucking mind, talking to himself.

  “Do I tell you what to do? No. So don’t tell me a fuckin’ thing!”

  I get off the bus at Eighth and Rhode Island Northeast. I have to walk under the Metro Bridge and catch a G bus to Northwest. It’s about nine thirty. And it’s Friday night, so I know them young’uns are out there.

  This old lady looks scared as hell when I walk past her. She’s coming out of McDonald’s and she probably thinks I’m out to rob her since I’m dressed in all black with shades on at nighttime. I can’t blame her for being cautious. But I ain’t the type to rob old ladies and shit like that. You go to jail for that shit, eventually. I only rob motherfuckers in the game: drug dealers, other thieves, and addicts.

  This shit is more dangerous because these niggas will shoot as fast as I will. But I don’t feel that you should bring regular people into this shit. You know what I’m saying? They work hard and honestly for their money. But if I don’t have nobody else to rob . . . I don’t know. I just don’t know.

  I’m waiting for the G bus on Fourth Street now. This bus is taking all day. Or I guess I should say night. But who gives a fuck? I’m out of school now anyway. Niggas thought I wasn’t gon’ graduate. But Anacostia was easy. All you had to do was show up and do a little bit of homework. Them motherfuckers who failed or dropped out didn’t wanna do nothing.

  Ever since I was an infant I knew I was different. Paid no attention to my moms when she rifted.

  Yeah, that’s my nigga Redman. He from Jersey too. B
ut I think Redman say he from Newark. That’s where all them hardcore, New York-type Jersey niggas are from. Naughty By Nature from East Orange. My cousin Peanut used to hang back there. He had this bad-ass redbone bitch up that joint he used to stay with. And Queen Latifah from Jersey, The Lords of the Underground, and The Poor Righteous Teachers are from around my old way in Trenton. They ain’t came out with no new records yet. You, black man! Tell the real story! Man, they were like dat!

  I’m just standing out here reminiscing. Here comes the bus now, and it’s a good thing it came, because these young’uns about to get killed, staring at me like they hard. I’d fuck them punk-ass bammas up. They better find themselves some toys to play with. Like Rakim said, “I ain’t no joke!”

  I get off the G bus at Rhode Island and Georgia Avenues Northwest, and walk into the 7-Eleven. I buy an apple juice and down the shit. Now let me stroll around here and take care of business.

  Oh my God! I don’t believe this shit. These motherfuckers out here gambling inside of an alley. How easy can you make a stick-up? I knew these young’uns were bammas. Like Ice T says, “I ain’t new ta dis.”

  I ease up on these niggas and put my back to the wall so I can see everything.

  I take my shades off so these niggas can see my eyes. You know if you got a motherfucker by watching his eyes flicker. And mine stay steady as steel.

  “What’s up, what’s up?” I ask with a smile.

  I got my trey-eight pointed at this first dude wearing a green bomber jacket.

  “Yo, man,” he says. He got his mouth wide open like he about to piss on himself.

  “Back da fuck up off the money!” I yell. I’m staring at these motherfuckers like I could kill them with my eyeballs. I stay glued to the wall. And if anybody comes running around this corner trying to be a hero, they gonna make the Washington Post.

  “Line’na fuck up and empty y’all pockets!” They do it, like pussies. “Now throw the money in’na pile!” I tell them. “You, in the green bomber, pick that shit up and give it to me.”

  He reaches out his hand with the fumbled money in his grasp.

  I frown at him. “Motherfucka, make that shit neat. ’Cause I don’t want no money fallin’ out my hands.”

  He straightens out the bills. I look past him to the fifth nigga, standing in the back of the line. Joe looks edgy, like he got a gun.

  “Yo, you in’na back? Get’cha ass up here!”

  He walks to the front, shaking like shit. I got my. 38 pointed at his heart.

  “You packin’, ma’fucka? Is you packin’?”

  “Yo, man—”

  “Shut da hell up and get’cha hands in’na air.” He does the shit. And he can’t look me in the eyes. He’s a bitch with a gun. “Where da fuck is it at?”

  “In my belt, man, please.”

  I put my .38 muzzle to his stomach and pull his gun out with my left hand. He got a .22, a piece of shit. I knew these niggas were bammas when I checked them last week. But I didn’t think it was gonna be this easy.

  “Anybody else got a gun?” I ask, staring.

  They shake their heads. “Naw.”

  “Anybody want revenge?” Nobody says nothing. “Aw’ight, well, if anybody wants to know, motherfuckin’ Shank did it. And if they got beef, then look my name up in’na fuckin’ Yellow Pages under K, for killas.” I stick the .22 inside my pants pocket and speed off with my treyeight inside my jacket.

  Them young’uns had seven hundred and fifty-two dollars. That ain’t bad for a three-minute hit.

  I wonder who they working for. Whoever it is, they didn’t teach them much of shit. You never gamble when you supposed to be making money. You never walk your whole crew into an alley either. And you always keep a gun someplace where you can pull that shit in a flash. I mean, that nigga did have the gun ready, but he was a bitch. Then again, if he would have missed . . . It’s curtains, Mugsy! Curtains!

  I’m laughing at the shit now. Punk-ass motherfuckers. I call up to the Howard Towers Plaza to see if my pretty bitch is there. I let the phone ring five times and her answering machine comes on. Fuck it, I hang up. I’ll catch her tomorrow. I should call back and tell her to stay her ass in the house tomorrow so I can get some pussy when I want it. But fuck it, let me head back home.

  I get back in the crib in time to catch the last couple of minutes of Def Comedy Jam. Martin Lawrence a funny motherfucker. Here comes Russell Simmons.

  That nigga dresses plain as hell. Man, if I had the kind of money he got, I’d wear nothing but dope shit. I’d dress like my man Bink. That motherfucker got gear.

  This TV I bought from Benny is working good. Then again, it better, because I gave that motherfucker a hundred dollars for it. That’s all in the code of the game. I don’t rob other niggas when they got straight-up merchandise for sale. It’s just like a thieves’ creed. But some people go by their own rules. Them niggas end up dead or in jail.

  Me? I just need enough money to get hip to some other game. Maybe I should go in with Benny and them. They warehouse their stolen shit. But you know, the cops might raid them after a while. It just don’t seem too stable.

  I need to hook up with some kind of racket where I can get some steady cash. I should ask that nigga Bink if I could get in with them. But I don’t know. Bink keeps his game pretty tight. That’s my boy though!

  Damn, I’m tired. I might as well throw a tape in my box and nod out.

  I put in Showbiz & A.G. Them niggas came off!

  The Giant is great/ So step back. I know you were told, black, about the Soul Clap.

  Wes

  Another day, another struggle. But without a struggle there is no victory.

  I finally get up out of bed to take a shower after just watching my clock for the last half-hour. My mother is due to call me any minute. There goes the phone now and I’m drenched.

  I dash to my bedroom with shower water dripping all over my rug.

  “Hello.”

  “Yeah, Raymond, now you make sure you set up everything and you talk to the fat white man named Eddie at the entrance to find out where all my stuff is. And remember that you don’t have to get the full price for everything that you sell. You can make bargains where you see fit. And hang in there until at least six o’clock, because a lot of times the crowds come in late. Okay?”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “All right then, I’ll talk to you tonight or either tomorrow morning.”

  My mother hangs up. I lay softly across my bed, naked. I’m wishing I had a beautiful black woman naked with me. Oh, how I would caress her and kiss her and cuddle her until she couldn’t take it any longer. Then she’d say, “Raymond, I’m yours. Take me. I love you dearly.”

  My penis sits erect at even the thought of any romantic encounter. And although I have a dedicated girlfriend, I still have wet dreams at night. I can’t seem to help it. My lust is strong.

  I get dressed and look outside to see how the weather is. It looks windy. WKYS radio says it’s going to be forty degrees.

  I lock my apartment door and head to the Fort Totten Metro station. I get there and buy a rail pass to wait for the train. A lovely brown-skinned sister is waiting with me. She looks to be about my age and glowing with confidence.

  “Hi,” I say cheerfully.

  “Hi,” she responds, uninterested.

  She wears gold loop earrings and a long purple coat that shines like its waterproof.

  “Is that coat waterproof?” I ask her.

  She looks at me confusingly. “No. Why you ask me that?”

  I smile. “Well, it sort of has that glazed appearance that waterproof things have.”

  She smirks. “Well, no, it’s not waterproof,” she repeats, shaking her head.

  Was it something that I said, or is she simply over reacting? Or maybe I need to douse my contact lenses in more solution. No, it can’t be that. I see just fine.

  The train comes and the brown sister with the waxed purple coat walks to the next car. I
doubt if she’s trying to avoid me, but it’s still irritating.

  I sit down adjacent to an older brother in the seats to my left. It’s early Saturday morning so the train is nearly empty.

  “How you doin’, brotherman?” he asks me.

  “I’m hanging on a string, trying to pull myself in,” I respond.

  He laughs. “So whadda ya think about Bill Clinton as president?”

  “Well, I don’t honestly think he cares much about my generation, especially after he dissed Sister Souljah and Jesse Jackson.”

  “Unh-huh. But what about him being able to get us more jobs and things?”

  “It depends on what ‘us’ you’re referring to. Because if you mean politically conservative blacks, whatever that means, yeah, he’ll probably get them further employment. But if you’re talking about the masses of disenfranchised blacks, then no, I don’t think he’ll do anything.”

  The brother nods his head. “Well, at least we got a Democrat in office, ’cause I swear, them damn Republicans were reversing the entire country. I mean, Reagan and Bush have just taken back everything that we gained over the past thirty years.”

  “Oh, yeah. Like what?” I challenge. I’m starting to get one of those vibes that tells me this brother is one of those who just blows hot air. He probably didn’t even bother to vote.

  “You know, like civil rights and stuff,” he says, grinning.

  “What particular things are you referring to?”

  “Well, a lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  He laughs, probably feeling uncomfortable. I bet he thought he could just blow some wind my way and had no idea that I happen to be a political science major. I’m about to graduate in one more semester.

  “You puttin’ me on the spot, ain’t ’cha?” he asks, chuckling to himself.

  “Well, you know, what I’ve found is that many American citizens, white and black, have become professional complainers. At the same time, they have not even the slightest idea of how politics work, nor do they participate in voting. Like for example: Did you vote for Bill Clinton last month?”

  He laughs again. “Naw, li’l brother. You got me there. What are you, a student of politics or something?” he asks me embarrassingly.