Stories inspired by verses from the Wu Tang Clan’s Ghostface Killah
Chasing profits in New York City requires traveling back and forth up town. In a cab, the ride costs 60 dollars, plus the toll.
On this particular winter day, sidewalks are dotted with goose-down bubble jackets. Clouds of vapor exhale through manholes, whispering secrets from the dragon’s lair.
Inside a cab, music blares. The driver appears high, but that may be a projection. The cab now smells of the fried fish I ordered at the spot on 125th street in Harlem. Squeezing ketchup on my french fries before digging in, my partner Frank passes me a baseball-bat spliff. The tobacco masks the smell of the weed. Not completely, but enough to convince the driver that he is best served by playing dumb.
Before I can return to the fish and chips, my cramped 6’1” frame needs relief because my legs are getting stiff: “Push the fuckin’ seat up,” I say to the cabbie.
He obliges.
I notice tartar sauce on my fresh S Dot Reeboks. A bad omen? The S Dots were subbed in with Wallabees unsuited for the day’s heavy lifting. Easier to wipe tartar sauce off the S Dots. The spot is unnoticeable after a swipe from the napkin. A good omen?
I return the carry-out container to the bag. Out the window, fiends warm themselves over the fire of crack rocks. I pop the clips on my twin glocks. I’m ready for war.
I have to call the Cuban guys with the Montana booth in front of the store. I finish my usual gun check, turning the safety off.
“Come on, Frank. The moment is here. Take your fuckin’ hood off and tell the driver to stay put,” I say as Frank steps out of the car behind me.
Frank rejoins at my shoulder and I can feel his nerves.
“Fuck those dudes on the block,” I say, nodding in the direction of some young hoods. “They’re so scared of me, they won’t even look. They just like to front, but they’re not crooks. They fuck around and try to rob people, but they’re too dumb to pull anything off.”
Frank seems to be easing into the mindset.
“Look out for Jackson, you know, 5-0? The cops still walk the beat here.”
Frank nods.
I turn around, looking across the street. Frank follows. “Straight ahead is the doorway,” I say. We tune our attention to the iron bar and plexiglass doorway that gives a view of the building’s foyer. “Now, you see that lady with the shopping cart?” I signal the woman adjacent to the door. “She keeps a shottie cocked in the hallway.”
“Damn, she looks pretty old, Ghost,” Frank says.
“She works for Kevin, she’s about 77. She paid her dues when she smoked his brother-in-law at his boss’s wedding. She flew to Venezuela when Big Fed stepped in,” I conclude as we walk across the street and enter.
Climbing the stairs to the third floor, I say: “It’s 3 o’clock, so watch for kids. It’s the last door.”
Frank seems unsettled again.
“You look paranoid. That’s why I can’t juks with you,” I say.
“Why?” Frank says.
“Why are you behind me leering, shaky dog stutterin’ when you got the bigger cooker on you?” I gesture to the .44 caliber in his waistband. Realizing I need to change the energy, I say: “You’s a crazy motherfucker, you small hoodie dude. That little hoodie is a hilarious move, on some Curly, Moe, Larry shit like the Three Stooges. But seriously, you gotta tighten up. We’re about to see it all: Krispy Kreme, cocaine, and dead bodies. But if you don’t get it together, you’re gonna be carrying out a prison sentence. Alone. I’ll be carrying the cash. So if you want your share, straighten up. If we split up, we meet at the Marriott and split the loot as planned.”
Frank nods, still looking shook.
But it’s too late: “This is the spot,” I say, “Yo, son, is your burner cocked?”
The peephole is blown out and I look in the apartment: “These maricons are sitting on the couch watching Sanford and Son, passing rum. A big shirtless guy, a skinny guy with long hair, and a stacked chica. Each has a plate of fried plantains and rice, with big round onions on a T-bone steak.”
“My stomach growling, yo, I want some,” Frank says, normalized by the thought of food.
The skinny one stands up. He starts walking toward the door.
Surprised, I whisper to Frank: “Hold on, somebody’s coming. Get behind me. Knock at the door. Act like you stickin’ me up. Put the joint to my face and push me in quickly when they open up. Remember, you don’t know me. Blast him if he reaches for his gun.”
“Yo, who goes there?” Comes the terse response to Frank’s knock.
“Tony,” I respond.
“Tony? Tony, one second, homie. No matter, rain, sleet, snow, you know, you s’posed to phone me,” he says and I hear the latch slide off the door.
As the door opens, Frank pushes me in. The door flies open.
The skinny doorman maricon froze with his mouth open. Motionless, his heat bulged in the front of his pants.
“Freeze,” Frank tells him as he snatches the gat, slaps him, then asks him “Where’s the cash, coke, and the crack?”
Pointing at the man and woman on the couch, Frank says: “Lay the fuck down and enjoy the moment. Move and I’ll get to smokin’ you fast.”
But the maricon’s wife stood up speaking Spanish. Her big, unholstered breasts bounce and she pulls a cannon from the couch. Running towards the kitchen, she throws a shot at Frank. He pushes me to the floor and dives himself.
The kick from the .45 breaks a bone in her wrist and she drops the heater with a scream.
“Give up the coke,” Frank yells as he grabs her piece from the kitchen floor, keeping his gun aimed at her.
I’m on the floor like holy shit as Frank zones out, slapping the wife before tying her hands.
I realize the big maricon from the couch snuck out only after the pitbull emerges from the back room.
Big head Bruno with the little shark’s teeth is charging toward Frank, foaming at the mouth. I’m scared, Frank is screaming, blowing shots in the air. Missing the target, one shot ricochets off the Frigidaire and grazes my ear.
My first shot kills that bullshit pit and I run to the bathroom, butt first.
The skinny doorman stood up, but Frank put two holes in his Vidal Sassoon before he could get away.
“The coke’s in the vacuum,” Frank yells from the kitchen.
The big one emerges from the back room. Sneaking from the bathroom behind him in the commotion, I find the vacuum in the room he vacated and slice the vacuum bag, putting the coke in a duffle.
On the big guy’s back, I can see a stab wound with the centipede arms formed by stitches. He’s not packing though. Looking for the cash, I pull the mattress off the bed. At the thwack of fist on skin, I look up to see Frank reeling from a punch.
To be continued…
This story is an adaptation of the song “Shakey Dog” off the album Fishscale by Ghostface Killah. Listen to it.
