Frowning, he made his way out to the bank of phones in the center of the long C-block—there were four hundred cells on the unit. He placed a call to Mossberg, hoping that he had answers for him.
“Whassup with the paper y’all said y’all had for me?” Slam asked after Mossberg accepted the call.
Mossberg was one of Slam’s loyal soldiers and had been during his entire time incarcerated. “Aye, man, shit tight out here, dog. Them young niggas got the area all sewn up out here. The smokers ain’t got nothing but love for them, Slam,” said Mossberg. “Even, Neta.”
“Kick Rocks?”
“Yeah, man.” He sighed.
“Fuck them, young niggas. How the fuck can’t y’all make no money? That’s our hood.”
“As I told you, this dread-head, young buck, named Lambchop, got a team of cannons that’s about they work. He even got Crook on his roster. We can’t make no paper out here. I’m definitely not trying to be out here shootin’ every day with these crazy ass li’l muthafuckas over no projects.”
“You sound like a straight bitch.”
“Man, I’ll be fifty next month, and ain’t got time for this dumb shit you talking.”
“Listen to yourself, Moss. Go around there and take my shit back!”
“And sell what? I don’t trap any more, nigga. I drive for UPS.”
“This some shit.”
“Look, man, we had our run. You shoot one of the niggas and they’re telling,” Mossberg said, blowing air. He didn’t have time for this bullshit.
“Listen,” Slam said annoyed. “We done took the most vicious niggas to war in our time.”
“Emphasis on our time. It’s November-fucking-2008. Not the eighties.”
“I ain’t scared of no snotty ass kids, and I know my homie Mossberg ain’t either. When I get out it’s on?”
“Man, you got years to go.”
“You wouldn’t bet on that. I’m waiting for my green sheet from the parole board. I have been down twenty-two years without a misconduct. I got this LT in the pocket and has been since I helped him bust these faggots trying to escape back in 1990. They gonna let me outta here.”
“And when you get out we can rap then. I’m done with this talk over the jack.” Mossberg was stunned at how Slim casually admitted to being a cheese-munching rat. He hung up the phone. Good bye, you hot-ass has-been.
CHAPTER 28
“Where the fuck is this, nigga?” Lamar said to himself, waiting for Oz inside of Yummy’s Diner.
“Lampchop, ya food was done, boy,” Amilli told him, smiling.
Lamar sat at a booth playing with his iPhone. “‘Bout time, Shorty. What, they had to cook the shit in a Bake Easy Oven?”
They both laughed.
“It’s called an Easy Bake Oven, silly. But one of our grills are down, so we’re running slow.”
“I wanna see your supervisor,” Lamar said lightly. “He got to give me a day with you since CFCF has you at night,” he added, smiling.
Looking him over, Amilli said, “I gave you my number, call me,” before strutting away with a flirtatious smile on her face.
Lamar was also smiling when Oz joined him at the booth. He sat a Louis Vuitton rucksack on the table, unzipped it, allowing Lamar to peek inside.
“As-salāmu ʿalaykum,” Oz said. “That’s all you. The bag is on me. Give that shit to one of your little bitches or something.”
“Wa ‘alaykum al-salaam,” Lamar replied, scanning the contents of the bag. “All sixty-five?”
“Ninety. I threw in a twenty-five bonus. You twisted main man shit up crazy, and had to get rid of some innocent bystanders.” Oz smiled.
“Good lookin’,” Lamar said, without a lot of enthusiasm. He had been having nightmares since that afternoon. Changing the subject, he asked, “You know where I can get some oils from? My block is on the up side and I’m trying to keep it that way, you feel me?”
“I do, and you’re talking to the guy. I got it raw or cooked to perfection,” Oz answered conceitedly. “What you want?”
“We’ll talk,” Lamar replied firmly. He wanted to check the current rates before he negotiated.
“Who’s shorty behind the counter that keeps eye balling you?”
“Oh, that’s my homie, Amilli. She’s good peoples.”
“She’s nice. You bust her, yet?”
“Naw, I booked her, though. She playin’ with that pussy, but I’mma hit it. I got to.”
