"Aight, thanks," Slam replied, pulling into traffic.
Slam opted to ride pass Fifty-Second and circled three blocks to see where a white car was parked. Identifying his target, Slam parked up the street and made his way back on foot. Like a lion stalking its prey, he took calculated steps to approach the intruder's car. With murderous aggression, he cocked his Smith and Wesson 10mm pistol. Slam's eyes glanced up and down the block. He didn't see residents out on their porches or in their windows. Slam had to be certain, no one saw the two men have a little accident. He'd been arrested for a shooting last month and was awaiting trial on those charges. The consequences would be disastrous if the police were called. Two cars behind his targets, he heard them talking.
"Man, this bitch sucked a nigga to sleep. Then, sucked a nigga awake." Fathead smiled re-living the moment.
"Damn, I didn't know Shorty was like that," Juice replied.
"Yeah, she..." Fathead was cut off by countless rounds zipping by his head.
The shots caught Juice in the temple. His head exploded sending blood and brain matter across the passenger side window. Beautiful. A miniature Big Bang, no? Fathead tried to push open the door to knock Slam to the ground. Slam kicked the door slamming it shut, locking Fathead in like a rock stuck in a hard place.
"I told your bitch-ass to stay from around here," Slam stated, frowning.
Fathead looked into the killer's eyes and regretted peddling crack on Fifty-Second Street. Without an ounce of remorse, Slam squeezed off three rounds into Fathead's face. When the flying bullets stopped an echo followed, and then, an eerie silence. Slam took off, bending the corner, doubling back through the nearest gangway, stashing his gun in an old bar-b-cue grill behind an abandoned house. In the distance, the sound of sirens rose, as he made it back to his car.
Leaping into the Caprice, he roared out of the parking space and made a U-turn. At the first intersection, he made a left turn. He planned to stay off of the main streets. Police sirens continued to scream in the distance and he knew because the area was labeled a high crime area, it was likely that the police were only a block or two away from the scene. The last thing he wanted to do was drive right by a police car.
Had someone seen his well-known face?
Could they have jotted his license plate number?
Young people who sold drugs flirted with jail and death; Fathead and Juice experienced the latter. The killer needed to get away. He doubted the men were identifiable, and most dealers didn't carry ID. No family searched for them, Slam concluded, because families gave up on street hoodlums. They didn't go day-by-day worrying where a thug was, or if they’d come home.
Slam parked and found a pay phone to page a goon to get him.
His light complexion blanched. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. Perspiration dotted his forehead. His wet shirt felt like he'd jumped into a pool. He remained focused on the road but was at a STOP sign at Fifty-Ninth Street when a cop car turned out of a small street and pulled right behind him. He flipped his left turn signal on at Sixtieth Street and turned. The cruiser followed him.
After zigzagging through streets for a mile, with the police behind him, flashing lights blinded him.
Tapping the pedal, he made a left onto Lindbergh Boulevard. Smart men didn't try beating the rollers in a high-speed chase. He knew he had a better chance on foot while on familiar ground. He banged his foot on the gas, racing to the first small one-way street. Turning right, he jammed on the brakes and hopped out of the car just ten-feet from the corner. The police cruiser bent the corner and rammed into the back of Slam's Caprice, forcing the cruiser's air bags to deploy. The sound of steel on steel tore through the night, encouraging the killer to run harder towards the home of one of his many conquests, Kesha.
He took two fences without touching them and burst out of the gangway. The flashing lights that were behind him moments ago, were nowhere in sight. He heard sirens. His heart raced a mile a minute as he reached Bartram Village Housing Projects and made it to Kesha's building. He leaned on the buzzer of the intercom.
"Come on, bitch, open the fucking door," he mumbled, looking around for police.
"Who the fuck you about to let in here?" Kesha's boy toy asked.
She ignored him. He was out of the bed, threw on his boxers and jeans before the front door swung open.
Slam fell through the threshold as if he had out run a pack of wolves. The wolves wore Philadelphia PD uniforms. He didn't even look twice at Kesha, who wore nothing but a black button-up. Under normal circumstances, Slam would have recognized a woman fresh off of a dick. This was not normal.
"What's up, Slam?" she asked with an earnest worry in her tone.
"I need to stay here for a minute," he answered.
"Damn, Kesha, you gonna let a nigga in here?" Kesha's date asked. "What the fuck you on?" The man stood at the entrance of the bedroom with no shirt on; his Tims unlaced around his feet.
Slam took in the physique and height of the unfamiliar man. He registered him as little to no threat. A mistake, because the scowl on the man's face claimed he had unfinished business and was ready to kill. Slam's street sense kicked in as he caught the awkward way the guy stood, showing he was armed.
“Jamie, could you please leave for now? I'll see you later," Kesha said of a desire to diffuse the Mother of All Bombs before it exploded in her apartment. She had to help Slam.
"You'll see me later?" pleaded Jamie.
"Nigga, you heard me."
Slam touched Kesha's arm. She looked up into his face and read something that froze her tongue. "No offense, bruh, but I need to get off of the street? Y'all can do y'all. I ain't into pussy-blocking. I'll kick back in the living room and watch TV." Slam was assertive with little aggression in his tone.
Kesha, for a second, looked at Jamie desperately trying to read his intentions. She didn't know him as well as she knew Slam.
Despite wanting to sleep with Kesha, Jamie said, "Nah, homie, I'mma bounce." Without another word, he slipped back into the darkness of Kesha's bedroom. Minutes later he emerged dressed, gun clutched in his hand. He gave Slam a terse glance and walked out of the door.
OUTSIDE JAMIE WAS PISSED at Kesha's audacity. He thought that’s how dudes get killed. When he reached the safety of the inside of his car, he sat his 1911 Colt 45 pistol under the driver's seat, ignited his BMW, and sped away.
Jamie was so pissed off, he barreled through multiple STOP signs and red lights, stupidly ignoring the heavy presence of the PPD, patrolling the Southwest streets. Eventually, his luck had run out as he made a California roll through a STOP sign with a cop car parked on the corner which activated its overhead lights. Damn. His adrenaline rushed as he thought of the .45 under his seat. He flirted with the idea to kill the cops. He pulled over because he was legal. Upon doing so, he watched his side view mirror as the cop emerged from his vehicle. Jamie rolled down his window.
"License and registration, please?" The officer asked, shining a flashlight in Jamie's eyes.
Jamie looked to his passenger window and saw the cop had a partner. "Damn, man, what y'all pull me over for? I ain't done a muthafuckin' thing," he said, snatching open the glove box retrieving his credentials. The cop took the documents and studied them before turning his attention back to Jamie.
"Step out of the car, Mr. Murray," ordered the cop.
"Step out?" Jamie replied in disbelief. His night continued in a downward spiral. "For what?" Beads of sweat formed along his temple and nose.
The cop grabbed the door handle and snatched it open. "I said get the fuck out of the car, dickhead," the officer yelled, stepping back with his hand on his service revolver.
Jamie did not understand what was going on. It wasn't good. He had a strong assumption this stop had something to do with Slam and was pissed Kesha had let him seek cover. Had he still been at Kesha's, he'd be deep inside of her, and not in too deep with an over-the-top police stop.
