"Dats crazy. I was gonna stay in today, too, but I had to snap on my girl and left."

"Aye, li'l nigga, let me holla at you," Crook called out to Lamar from across the street. He was an old head that got money in the area for decades. He ran a dog fighting ring and sold pit bulls over the Internet for a living because he was petrified of the LIFE bids that the Feds handed out for selling drugs. He could get less time for murdering a human. Crazy world.

"What's up, Crook?" Lamar said as they shook hands.

"Walk with me, youngin'," Crook replied with a deep baritone voice. He was a towering figure in his late-forties. The size of an NFL corner, heavily muscled, with thick, cruel hands. He wore blue jeans, a black T-shirt, leather jacket, and black boots. His hair was in a Mohawk the color of wet mud, his skin pocked marked bronze, except for a green-and-black tattoo just under his right eye. It was a pit bull's face.

Lamar hoped that he had answers.

Out of earshot from anyone, Crook said, "Listen to me, youngin'. A lot of niggas want y'all out of the way. Especially your man, Gunna. He is doing too much, and his arrogance is out of pocket."

"This we all know, but who came through here first thing in the muthafuckin' morning. Fuck all that he arrogant shit, 'cause I can give two fucks about his attitude right now."

"I don't know who work this was today, but they were in a silver Benz with the bug eyes. An old jawn. Y'all got a lot of people on y'all heads, but mainly Gunna."

Lamar nodded his head. He knew that but didn't care. "I got all that, man."

"Listen to me carefully," Crook said, looking around. "You heard about the nigga, Slam, that used to run this block?"

"Nobody. But go 'head."

"He sent word down from Graterford that y'all better start sending him a monthly check, or he's going to press the GO button to eliminate y'all. Gunna knew but blew it off when he was told by the OG Mossberg that live around the corner."

"As he should have."

"I say fuck him, too. You’re my number one youngin' so I'm gonna rock with y'all. Right now, we gotta pray these two niggas pull through, so we can find out what happened out here. Turk was found with a gun in his hand, so if he lives he's going to wake up handcuffed to somebody's hospital bed."

Tears of anger welled up in Lamar's eyes as he soaked up everything Crook had just told him. This was his block, and no has-been was going to change that. He and Gunna had brought the block back to life.

"Dig this, I don't know, Slam, but it's a new sheriff in town, and he ain't got shit coming from me, but a few obituaries at mail call after I rock his family."

"Don't act on impulse, young blood."

"That's one thing, I won't do," he said, rubbing his temples. "I'm 'bout to slide down to the hospital and see what's up with Turk. Hit my jack if you hear something."

Lamar turned and walked off thinking about the stories he had heard about Slam being a cold-blooded killer. Not one tale impressed Lamar, as he was also the same: a cold-blooded killer. He was not about to breakdown his proceeds with some prisoner, he didn't know. Lamar headed from the scene thinking of someone to rent him a car when Trap ran up to him.

"Here," Trap said, handing Lamar Gunna's phone.

"How'd you manage to get this?"

"When I got here, the ambulance wasn't here, yet. Gunna was stretched out next to his wheel with his phone and pistol on the car seat. I grabbed them. Turk was down the street laid out."

"Good thinking, young bull. This phone might shed some light on this shit."

"My man, Turk, in the hospital fighting for his life while somebody somewhere gettin' high and laughing. I ain't going for it. Somebody gotta pay."

Lamar loved Trap's aggression and authority. He knew that he had one good man when the time arose to respond to the morning's tragedy.

He placed a hand on Trap's shoulder and gave it a tight fatherly squeeze. "Don't worry, my comrade, we gonna get them back real soon. Gotta find out what's what first. You gotta really step up to the plate."

"This the chance I been waiting on."

"When I figure shit out, we turn up to the max." He watched as the ambulance rolled away with Gunna inside.

"I understand you, big homie."

"Shut the block down for a few days and hold that work 'til later. I'll be back for it, don't touch it until I figure out what we up against. I got something nice for you when this ends. You got your burner, right?"

"Yeah, no question," answered Trap before tapping his waistline showing the Ruger's print.

Lamar smiled at his boldness. "Aight, anybody come through, shoot first and ask questions later. Hit my horn if you need something."

"Aight."

They gave each other the world-renowned one arm hug and parted ways. Lamar pushed his way by the gossiping looky-loos. He hated them and their false concern. Women were shedding tears―some he knew hated Gunna, and some didn't even know him. I hate people. Using more reflex than deliberate thought, Lamar walked away from the crime scene before the police started pulling people up for questioning. He passed a news van and smiled; Gunna had always wanted to make the news. Good thing, the two boys were not lying there suffering alone in the dewy morning street, waiting for the coroner.

A HALF-HOUR LATER, Lamar arrived at The Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania at Thirty-Fourth and Spruce Streets. Blending in with a crowd of medical students, he bypassed the visitor's desk and found the corridor leading to the emergency surgery department. He pressed the button on the wall to open the automatic double doors and was greeted by Gunna's mother, Mrs. Robinson.

Her eyes were reddened, filled with sorrow and grief. On sight, she stood and hugged him. He was frustrated to see tears in her eyes. He dropped a tear of his own.

"What's going on with him? He dead ain't he?"

"My baby fightin', Lamar. He's in surgery. He died out there on the scene. They said he was dead on arrival, but they revived him. He's not conscious, but alive."

"Wow."

"God is good, Lamar. God is good."

"Yes. Any word on the kid that came in with him?"

"He's in stable condition." Lamar was speechless, and she went on, "Y'all are too young to be out here living like this."

Should we wait until our sixties? What-the-fuck!

"If your mother was alive, Lamar, she'd be disappointed. I know that poor woman is turning in her grave."

"I know, Mrs. Robinson. Let's sit down."

She had always been like a second mother to him. Someone that he could talk about anything. Lamar's mother and she were close friends until the tragic night when his mother's life was cut short.

"He was shot in the head and at least eight times in the body. They didn't have to shoot my child all them times." She shook her head and started to cry, again.

He got her some tissue and water and then sat back next to her.

After ten minutes of silence between them, she said, "You don't have to sit around here. Let me call you after the surgery."