“That shit crazy, huh?” Trap asked from the back seat of Lamar’s Panamera. “DL made that happen for me. He charged me the fuck up, but I respect the hustle.”

“Yeah, he a cool ass clown,” Lamar said, joking. “I talked to him yesterday to be sure no one saw shit in Crook’s case. Before the cops got to the shop, he kicked everyone out and then hid Crook’s gun in the alley. He told the cops that a robber came in and killed Tic and shot Crook as he ran up the steps of the shop.”

“That’s a real nigga,” Hamma said, choking on another puff.

“The nigga Slam telling the streets that he’s looking for me,” Lamar said, smirking.

“Yet, that pussy ain’t been through his hood,” Trap said. “Fuck outta here.”

“Old head need to fall back and wait for his turn, ‘cause he definitely going to meet up with Mossberg again,” Lamar said arrogantly.

“You holla at a lawyer for Gunna, yet?” Trap asked.

“Yeah. The ballroom said they don’t have surveillance of the shooting, because the system was down,” Lamar replied, looking into his side mirror at a Cadillac CTS coming down the block. “Who the fuck is in this Caddy?” he asked, watching the car make a slow presidential approach up the one-way street.

The CTS pulled parallel to Lamar, and the driver door opened.

“What the...how the fuck?” Trap was speechless.

“How the fuck this nigga get out? I’m killing this nigga,” barked Hamma, whipping out his Glock and attempting to open the passenger door.

“Chill,” Lamar said, grabbing his arm.

Gunna danced his way out of the back of the black CTS, smiling as if he hadn’t just been arrested for murder. He was screaming, “He thinks he ballin’ cuz he got a block.,” with Young Jeezy’s song Ballin’ playing in the background.

Stevie Wonder could see that Gunna was higher than a trip to Mars. A light dusting of cocaine was visible on his mustache. So evident that it looked like premature gray.

“Aye, Gunna, how the fuck you get out?” Lamar asked, hoping that he was asleep or dreaming. He glanced up and down the projects for the police.

“Money. You gotta pay how you weigh, that’s all. Magic Johnson got rid of AIDS with money. Shit, Frank Lucas got the Feds up off of him with money. So...” he said, shrugging nonchalantly.

“Naw, Gunna, Frank Lucas told, so we ain’t buying that shit, you talking,” Trap said through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, Gunna, I don’t know wassup with you, dog,” Hamma said, shaking his head. “Why you buy another CTS? You already had the same exact make and model.”

“Just to say it’s black,” answered Gunna arrogantly.

For a moment, Lamar’s ears deceived him, unsure if he was hearing Gunna correctly. He looked hard at his childhood friend, wondering again where he’d suddenly found his air of stupid arrogance. He knew better than to react angrily to the slight as he formulated the words to say to his friend. He stood there having a truthful conversation with himself. One of his “failings” as a street thug, at least in his own opinion, was that he allowed this buffoonery to fester for some time. Something just not in the greatest interest of America’s top echelon of drug king pins.

Hamma squirmed uncomfortably in his seat at the sarcasm. He wanted to kill. Was thirsty for blood. Just drop him in the street.

Lamar stepped out of the car, got right up in Gunna’s face, and said, “This shit is getting ridiculous, and we can’t keep fuckin’ with you.”

“What the fuck you mean?”

Gun in hand, “You heard him, pussy,” Trap said, hopping out the car with Hamma behind him. “You snortin’ coke, buying car after car, just drawin’ on the set.”

“And now,” Hamma said, coming around the car, “you bought ya ass outta jail. With what money, nigga?”

“Oh, y’all ganging up on Gee,” Gunna said, referring to himself in the third person.

“You, my man,” Lamar said, “and I love you to death, but you gotta go get ya shit together and keep your distance before you bring us all down.”

“And I ain’t going back to jail for your dumb ass,” Hamma said.

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” Gunna said, rushing over to where Hamma stood.

Lamar jumped between them.

“Gunna, I’ll break your bitch-ass the fuck up,” Hamma said, removing his shirt. “Don’t hold that nigga, Chop.”

“Get the fuck off me, dog,” Gunna said, pushing Lamar. “How the fuck are you gon’ take they side over mine?”

“Look,” Lamar said, “it ain’t even like that. But just go to let shit cool down. Look at where we coming from while you’re gone. You were booked for a murder, nigga. Something ain’t adding up. I need time to think.”

Gunna stared at all three of them. Hard! Death in his eyes. “Remember, this was y’all call, playa. Y’all ain’t gon’ be shit wit’ out Gunna,” he said, backing up. He hopped into his car and sped down the street.

CHAPTER 37

Thursday afternoon.

Mossberg’s funeral came to an end. Although today was a time to grieve, Slam’s appearance made many spirits change from somber to glee. Slam’s whole camp was at the service, those that were still alive, anyway. He had one of them in the cut talking privately.

“I just can’t get involved in that lifestyle anymore, Slam. I mean, like, I got a wife, kids, and drive for SEPTA now. This shit is all over nothing. Look at where it got Mossberg,” one of Slam’s original gangsta, Roc Wilda, proclaimed, pointing at the casket Mossberg rested in as the pall bearers carried it out of the church for his late ride.

“Come on, man, just one last time for ‘Berg. That’s our homie in that box. He’d do it for you, no questions asked,” Slam said.

“Well, he’s not here to confirm that. Now is he?”

“You’re losing ya fuckin’ mind with this so-called real life Huxtable bullshit that you’re on.”

Roc Wilda was now a law abiding citizen. he lived a routine life and maintained a career driving a SEPTA trolley. After being shot in an eighties gang war, he left the game, promising his wife that he was done with the streets. He was happily married with lively twin daughters and was not about to exchange that for a meaningless war with no washed-up ex-con. As much as he sympathized with Mossberg’s family, he was done with the game.

“I can’t do it. It just ain’t in me no more,” Roc Wilda said, shaking his head.

“You working niggas kill me,” Slam said, balling up his face. “These muthafuckin’ young bulls probably think that we some type of pussies. I been home and still ain’t drop nothing on them li’l bastards.”

“You sent many warnings and threats their way, man. You started this crazy shit.”

“Fine, but they walking around here like shit is all good. Like they got me scared of them of something. I ain’t scared of them fuckin’ kids,” Slam declared angrily.

He walked side by side with Roc Wilda out side of the church to see everyone coming out.

Mossberg’s five brothers and his father made up the six pall bearers that transported Mossberg’s coffin from the church to the awaiting hearse.