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Authors: Y. Blak Moore
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motherfucka, I should …” He raised his hand as if to strike the shopkeeper.
Bezo didn't flinch. The cold, unyielding stare that he afforded Grove withered the detective's attempt to terrorize him.
The detective lowered his hand. “Motherfucka, I better hear from yo boss. Let's go, Bull.”
Grove walked from behind the candy counter and headed for the door. Bull followed him, but not before grabbing another Twix.
If the two detectives had left the game room a few minutes earlier, they would've noticed the young Apostle they'd harassed leaning against their unmarked police unit. They also would have seen him open the gas tank door on the Crown Victoria's rear flank and unscrew the gas cap. From his pocket he produced two Snickers candy bars, which he stuffed through the little metal trapdoor in the gas tank neck. He screwed the gas cap back on and closed the gas tank door. With his hands in his pockets, the youth walked away humming the lyrics to 50 Cent's “Wanksta.”
I T WAS SATURDAY NIGHT AND CHARLENE'S COOL CORNER WAS packed. Charlene's catered exclusively to the twenty-five-and-over crowd—no jeans, gym shoes, or baseball caps allowed. Bodies filled the dance floor and along the bar, and there was a line of people outside waiting to get in. The lights from the elaborate lighting system cut multicolored swatches through thick cigarette smoke. Scantily clad women braved the chill of the Chicago April night as they dashed from their cars in the parking lot to the lounge's entryway. In the DJ booth, a heavyset disc jockey with a mouth full of gold teeth made the crowd roar as he mixed cut after cut.
Tonight the VIP section was ruled by the Apostles. Solemn Shawn, Murderman, Big Ant, and a few other Apostles sat with a group of women enjoying themselves. Two almost impossibly huge bouncers warded off strays trying to join the VIP crowd. Without a nod from Shawn or one of the other heads it was impossible to enter this section of the lounge. Champagne and Rémy Martin cognac flowed like water as the revelers toasted the highlight of the weekend: Saturday night.
A young man walked through the crowd. The pair of dark glasses perched on his face did nothing to disguise his disfigured jaw. Courageously or foolishly he walked straight up to the bouncers guarding Solemn Shawn and his crowd and tried to push past them.
“Hold up, chief,” the bouncer on the right said.
Wayne tried to ignore him.
The bouncer on the left put his large hand on Wayne's chest. “Nigga, I know the music ain't that loud! My partner told you to hold the fuck up!”
Impatiently, Wayne hissed through his teeth, “I need to talk to Solemn Shawn.”
The two bouncers could barely understand him.
The bouncer on the right asked, “Man, what the fuck did you say?”
“I need to talk to Solemn Shawn,” Wayne repeated.
“What's wrong with yo mouth, homie?” the bouncer on the left asked.
Unashamed, Wayne parted his lips to let the bouncers see the wires and rubber bands in his mouth holding his jaws together.
The bouncer on the right cracked, “Damn, mello, I don't know how you make it through no metal detector.”
Wayne was not amused. “Nigga ain't shit funny,” he hissed. With his Nike baseball glove-covered hands he lowered his sunglasses and let the bouncers get a glimpse of his eyes. A large blood clot circled his right pupil, giving him an evil look. “I'm trying to talk to the boss. I ain't got no time to be playing with the hired help, nigga. Now take me to him.”
“All right, homie,” the bouncer said, “get yo arms up.” Thoroughly he searched Wayne's person. Satisfied that the man wasn't holding heat he told Wayne to follow him through the velvet rope. Ten feet from Shawn's table the bouncer stopped Wayne's progress. “Chill right here, homie. I'mma let the man know that you want to holler at him.”
The bouncer mindlessly flexed his chest muscles in his tight, silver lamé shirt as he walked over to the gang
Bezo didn't flinch. The cold, unyielding stare that he afforded Grove withered the detective's attempt to terrorize him.
The detective lowered his hand. “Motherfucka, I better hear from yo boss. Let's go, Bull.”
Grove walked from behind the candy counter and headed for the door. Bull followed him, but not before grabbing another Twix.
If the two detectives had left the game room a few minutes earlier, they would've noticed the young Apostle they'd harassed leaning against their unmarked police unit. They also would have seen him open the gas tank door on the Crown Victoria's rear flank and unscrew the gas cap. From his pocket he produced two Snickers candy bars, which he stuffed through the little metal trapdoor in the gas tank neck. He screwed the gas cap back on and closed the gas tank door. With his hands in his pockets, the youth walked away humming the lyrics to 50 Cent's “Wanksta.”
I T WAS SATURDAY NIGHT AND CHARLENE'S COOL CORNER WAS packed. Charlene's catered exclusively to the twenty-five-and-over crowd—no jeans, gym shoes, or baseball caps allowed. Bodies filled the dance floor and along the bar, and there was a line of people outside waiting to get in. The lights from the elaborate lighting system cut multicolored swatches through thick cigarette smoke. Scantily clad women braved the chill of the Chicago April night as they dashed from their cars in the parking lot to the lounge's entryway. In the DJ booth, a heavyset disc jockey with a mouth full of gold teeth made the crowd roar as he mixed cut after cut.
Tonight the VIP section was ruled by the Apostles. Solemn Shawn, Murderman, Big Ant, and a few other Apostles sat with a group of women enjoying themselves. Two almost impossibly huge bouncers warded off strays trying to join the VIP crowd. Without a nod from Shawn or one of the other heads it was impossible to enter this section of the lounge. Champagne and Rémy Martin cognac flowed like water as the revelers toasted the highlight of the weekend: Saturday night.
A young man walked through the crowd. The pair of dark glasses perched on his face did nothing to disguise his disfigured jaw. Courageously or foolishly he walked straight up to the bouncers guarding Solemn Shawn and his crowd and tried to push past them.
“Hold up, chief,” the bouncer on the right said.
Wayne tried to ignore him.
The bouncer on the left put his large hand on Wayne's chest. “Nigga, I know the music ain't that loud! My partner told you to hold the fuck up!”
Impatiently, Wayne hissed through his teeth, “I need to talk to Solemn Shawn.”
The two bouncers could barely understand him.
The bouncer on the right asked, “Man, what the fuck did you say?”
“I need to talk to Solemn Shawn,” Wayne repeated.
“What's wrong with yo mouth, homie?” the bouncer on the left asked.
Unashamed, Wayne parted his lips to let the bouncers see the wires and rubber bands in his mouth holding his jaws together.
The bouncer on the right cracked, “Damn, mello, I don't know how you make it through no metal detector.”
Wayne was not amused. “Nigga ain't shit funny,” he hissed. With his Nike baseball glove-covered hands he lowered his sunglasses and let the bouncers get a glimpse of his eyes. A large blood clot circled his right pupil, giving him an evil look. “I'm trying to talk to the boss. I ain't got no time to be playing with the hired help, nigga. Now take me to him.”
“All right, homie,” the bouncer said, “get yo arms up.” Thoroughly he searched Wayne's person. Satisfied that the man wasn't holding heat he told Wayne to follow him through the velvet rope. Ten feet from Shawn's table the bouncer stopped Wayne's progress. “Chill right here, homie. I'mma let the man know that you want to holler at him.”
The bouncer mindlessly flexed his chest muscles in his tight, silver lamé shirt as he walked over to the gang
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