“I’mma get my youngin’ to put a li’l one-fifty pack together for you. Just bring him back one-twenty,” Lamar continued, laughing.
“You have no idea. I got the kinda old money to pay some body to die for me. Remember that. See you in traffic, li’l lamb, and when I do, I’mma silence you,” Slam said, hanging up the phone.
AN HOUR LATER, AMILLI arrived in Baltimore and made her way to the Hyatt Hotel room that she’d slept in the night before with Lamar. She laid in bed and could smell him because they left the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door to avoid housekeeping from changing the sheets. She turned on the TV and ran bath water before calling room service to order for two. Two, because, how else would Lamar have an alibi for being in Baltimore. Far away from the killing of Franklin Moss.
CHAPTER 36
Tuesday. Three days later.
“This shit here some fire.” Hamma coughed, as he continued to take long drags of the sour diesel that Trap provided.
“Yeah, youngin’, you gotta keep that shit coming in. Fuck that other shit,” Lamar said.
“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.
