Where the fuck did I see this nigga before, he thought, tossing the paper on the passenger seat of the Porshe before getting in. Inside the car, he dialed Gunna’s number after turning on the air conditioner.
“Yo, Lambchop, wassup?” Gunna answered.
“Aye, Gunna, meet me at the apartment. I just got today’s paper. This nigga, Slam, got out on parole. He at the F.”
“Aight, so what you scared now or some shit?” Gunna asked, looking up at the sky. The plot thickens.
“Scared? Nigga, never. I got a plan, so meet me at the apartment. Matter fact, meet me on the block, I’m about to call Trap and Hamma when I hang up with you.”
“Aight, well, I’m busy right now. I ain’t got time to be worrying about no Slam.”
After realizing that Gunna hung up on him, Lamar started to call him back but chose not to. Lamar couldn’t determine what, but something was up with Gunna. Big time. He shook his head at the thought and called Hamma. He answered and informed Lamar that he was en route to Bartram Village to join him.
Lamar told him about Slam’s release, and then said, “I’m ready to get this nigga right out of the way.”
“Fuck out the way. Right into a coffin.”
“Right. I got a perfect idea, though. I’ll tell you about it when we hit the block. Did you talk to Trap?”
“I holla’d at him like an hour ago. Li’l nigga said he was handling some business.”
“That young bull crazy as shit,” Lamar said, laughing.
“He acts and talks just like you.”
“My little protege.”
“True dat. But this Slam situation is going to play out. We got them old niggas beat. This clown, Slam, been locked up twenty-two years and want a block. He needs to worry about social security benefits.”
“Tell me about it,” Lamar agreed, laughing. “I’m on the block, my nigga, see you when you get here.”
Lamar hung up the phone and twisted up a healthy-sized Backwood filled with orange-banana kush. He left his car running with the music playing, stepped out and talked to a few around-the-way females. Moments later, Hamma pulled up and parked his charcoal-black Range Rover Sport in front of Lamar. He stepped out of the car with a Dutch hanging from his mouth and joined Lamar.
“Wassup, boss?”
Lamar smiled. “I ain’t no boss. You funny. Look at that, though,” Lamar said, passing the newspaper to Hamma.
“This the elderly nigga that wants parts of this,” Hamma said, waving his hand in the air. “This block ain’t up for grabs.”
“Yeah, that’s his old ass.”
“So, he’s back on the street?”
“Not yet, he at CFCF for some old warrant, bullshit.”
“You know I can violate my probation and get that nigga before he leaves The F.”
“You’ve just read my mind, but you know Crook is there. I’m def gonna get that nigga aired out.”
“Crook can eliminate him and we can handle any of his followers out here,” Hamma said. “Where’s Gunna at?”
“Fuck dat, nigga. I think he’s jealous of me ‘cause Oz fucking with me real hard. I told him to meet me, and this nigga said he was busy.”
“Busy wasting money and treatin’ his nose. Just give me the green light to get him out the way. I swear his dumb shit is going to get us fucked up.”
“Naw, man. I can’t see that nigga hurt. That’ll make me a fucked up nigga. I’d rather cut him off before he gets one of us killed or booked with his reckless shit.”
“Looks like ya boy coming now,” Hamma said, watching an Audi A8 pull up behind Lamar.
Lamar said, “I know this muthafucka ain’t cop no fuckin’ new car.”
The back door of the Audi opened and to Lamar’s and Hamma’s dismay, Trap hopped out.
All smiles, Trap said, “Y’all like that, right?”
“We goin’ to jail,” Hamma said, laughing uncontrollably. “This li’l nigga ain’t pass the tenth grade and he ridin’ around in some shit better than a white man with a degree. Aye, Lambchop, we going to prison.”
Lamar couldn’t stop laughing. He’d created the little monster before him but knew their downfall was on the horizon. “You bought that?”
“Yeah, I got it this morning with a heavy down payment, as soon as I pass my permit test. I’m going to get my license in a few weeks.”
“Um, who ya driver?” Lamar asked, wanting to know who sat behind the five-percent tint.
“Oh, that’s Kick Rocks, nobody special,” he answered nonchalantly as if she wasn’t one of the neighborhood smokers. “She got a license.”
Hamma’s eyes darted to Lamar.
“Lambchop, we going to jail. He got an Audi A8 with a crack head behind the wheel like Mr. Bentley,” Hamma said, chuckling.
