Lamar instantly became infuriated. "Hell no." He diverted his attention back to the TV. He had turned it to ESPN.

Silence filled the room and Nikia's tension was clearly evident. She kept her eyes glued to Lamar, and desperately tried to read him and his body language―a psychology student testing the theories of her studies.

"I know you're lying. I can't believe you. You gonna be right the fuck back in jail again."

"Here we go."

"I know it wasn't nobody, but you and that damn, Gunna."

"Not someone else with a Marauder. Or maybe someone that borrowed my Marauder. Right?"

"What happened to all of the promises that you made me while you were locked up and over the last two weeks?" She began to cry. "This shit has to stop, Lamar."

"I haven't even done nothin'." What happened to breakfast? Guess I gotta go to Yummy's to see Amilli.

"I'm hurting and you running around killing people. I pray that no damn detectives come here and tell me and my mom to come identify your body."

"Listen, I told you about calling me out." He had had enough. Her maddening speech needed music to sound letting her know that her time was up. "If you gonna bitch all day, I can slide now. I'm honestly not tryinna hear that shit," Lamar said through tight lips.

Nikia looked at him in disbelief. "Well slide then. Go ahead and leave, muthafucker, 'cause I'm not gonna sit back and be quiet. Silently condoning this bullshit." Tears streamed down her face.

"Fuck are you crying for?" She frustrated him. He didn't have a sympathetic bone in his body. "Matter of fact, I'm out. Don't call or text my phone for shit, you fuckin' nut. I don't have time for these accusations when I told you I ain't do it."

He began to put on his clothes to run, just as he'd watched his dad do to his mother when they had had a problem. Shuffling from one boarding school to the next, he didn't learn any skills to comfort a hurting partner, either. He was a true product of his upbringing which lacked emotional warmth and compassion.

"Lamar, you ain't shit," she yelled and swung twice. Her blows connected with his face.

His temper reflexively erupted.

"Bitch, you done lost your fuckin' mind."

He responded with two jabs that found their targets: her chest and face. She fell to the bed and grabbed her face and heart.

He dropped to his knees, wrapped his hands around her small neck, and said, "I'll kill your nut-ass. Don't ever put your hands on me. Are you crazy?"

She could barely breathe. Although they had problems in the past, it never amazed her that he talked to her like a street-person when he was angry. Now, he had abused her like a stranger.

With the limited air that she was able to muster, she choked out, "Go ahead, Lamar." He gripped tighter. "Go a...head and kill me and your ba...by." She took a breath between words. "With your bi po...lar ass. I hate you."

The statements ripped his rage in halves. He released his grip and stumbled back in utter shock from the revelation. A demonic expression remained on his face. Kill me and your baby. Bi-polar ass.

Nikia struggled to regain a steady breath and her composure. "Yeah, muthafucka, I'm pregnant."

He didn't reply as he grabbed his gun, walked down the stairs, and out of the house. She knew that he hated being called bi-polar, a designation forcing him to spend several grades in special education for behavioral problems. It was another embarrassing component of his make-up.

CHAPTER 12

Lamar walked towards his car parked on the corner of Nikia's street. Her face flashed in front of him, the disgusting way in which she'd stared at him. He killed a worthless drug dealer. Big deal. It came with the rules of the game, which everyone playing knew all too well. He begged her not to talk down to him. But, no, Nikia hopped on the first opportunity to degrade him. Bitch! A trickle of saliva ran down the side of his chin, he wiped it with the back of his hand and smiled.

When he reached the corner of Ithan Street―Nikia's street―and Elmwood Avenue, he leaned against the Marauder and watched the police in a riff with two truant delinquents. They were all imbeciles for sure, the cops especially. Here, I am over here. A killer. A big fish. Forget those kids. He simply stood there frozen. He couldn't move, breathe, think. He had to remain calm, figure out a game plan.

He was a Boy Scout―always prepared.

Ten minutes later, he popped the trunk and removed the Dr. Denim bag with the drugs from the previous night's robbery/homicide. Rummaging through Nikia's book bag, he found a black Magic marker and some loose-leaf notebook paper. On it, he wrote FOR SALE, his cell phone number, and then placed it in the back window. He removed Nikia's book bag and his charger from the car and then locked the car up. With no desire to be bothered by Nikia, Lamar stuck her bag between the screen door and front door, before texting her to let her know that he had left the bag there. He disappeared on foot before she came to the door.

Five blocks away he decided that the only solution to calm down was to call his best friend, Gunna. He smoked a Newport to ease his stress. Better.

CHAPTER 13

Lamar hailed a taxi as Gunna's voicemail picked up. He hung up and told the driver that he had to go to Fifty-Fourth and Woodland―three blocks from his strip―because he didn't want anyone inquiring about his car. Five minutes into the ride, he tried Lamar again. This time, he left a message: "Yo, dog, call me back ASAP. You can sleep when you're fuckin' dead."

FROM TWO BLOCKS AWAY, Lamar was assaulted by the whirling red and blue lights atop a half dozen police cruisers. The abundance of yellow DO NOT CROSS crime scene tape, caused him to pause. His eyes hurt, blood rushed to his head. His whole body shook, and what remained of his mind tried desperately to control the rage and anguish that welled up and swept through him. Before walking into what could have been a police dragnet, he called Gunna once again. Again, he didn't get an answer, so he called Trap, who answered on the first ring.

"They shot Gunna and Turk, man. Where you at?" Trap said without preamble. "Your phone kept going to VM all day."

"Jogging up the block," he said with murderous revenge laced in his tone. "Who shot them?" His mind thought of retaliation from Dot or the Upper Darby dealer, Snake. This is war, and he didn't even know who it was against.

"I don't know. Where you at?" Trap said, walking into the middle of Kingsessing Street.

"I see you now," Lamar said. He locked eyes with Trap and hung up. When they reached each other, he handed the Dr. Denim bag to Trap, and said, "Take this to your mom's crib until the cops roll out."

"Aight," the little soldier said, turning to walk away.

"Hey," Gunna called, walking up to Trap. He whispered, “There are coke and weed in there, so hide it, my nigga."

"Got you, Lambchop."

Lamar was pulled to the crime scene like a magnet. He lived for bullets and blood.

Gunna's Oldsmobile was taped off with the driver's side door opened. It looked like thirty bullets penetrated the car, and his body was unmistakably still. Lifeless.

His initial denial led him to believe that Gunna would survive. Paramedics were on the scene to make that a reality. He hoped for the best but would prepare for the worse. Lamar got closer, standing with a group of people looking at the bloody mess. Not taking his eyes off the car, Lamar noticed Kick Rocks approaching him. She had earned her street name by always getting high and kicking around trash looking for anything of value to sell for another hit. She was sassy, funny, a fixture of the area that lost her name, Neta Jackson, many moons ago.

She said, "Aye, Lambchop, this shit crazy." Her hair was in two balding braids to the back, with strands of gray here and there.

"Yeah, I see. What the fuck happened?" Lamar asked, searching for answers. He braced for the reply.

"Niggas came through here wit' them choppas this morning and sprayed shit. They dropped like fifty shots off, Lambchop," she replied sincerely. She liked all of the thugs around her way and acted just like them. She looked at the ground and added, "Gunna dead, Lambchop."