“No doubt.”
“We there. I’mma bury Nikia with her daddy.” He was angry and prepared to take it out on anyone.
CHAPTER 48
Hamma pulled them up to Slam’s burial site in the Range Rover. He parked about half a block away as Lamar, Trap and him walked on the cemetery grounds. They watched the ceremony through binoculars. Slam’s casket was clearly visible. It sat in the middle of family and friends, who watched a pastor give his final remarks.
Shortly thereafter, Slam’s casket closed and began its descent to hell, while those who were crowded around it threw carnations into the grave. One lady actually tried to jump onto the coffin as it made its way into the ground but was prevented by family members.
“That bitch didn’t even show up to her own father’s shit,” Lamar uttered, having never seen his ex.
“She knew them goons was going to pop up and throw her a casket party,” shot Trap, laughing.
“I don’t see Kick Rocks either,” Lamar said, scanning the area. “I knew we should not have relied on a smoker to keep tabs on anyone showing up.”
“Man, I told you not to, remember?” Hamma said.
Over the next half hour, they watched the mourners vanish, and the grounds crew leave the plot.
“Come on,” Hamma said, making his way to Slam’s grave plot.
“I can’t wait to see what this nigga gonna look like. He probably looks like something from the Thriller video,” Lamar said, laughing, as Hamma and Trap shook their heads at his humor.
The threesome walked through the manicured wet grass to Slam’s grave where Lamar pulled a crowbar from his hoodie, jumped down into the grave, and popped the top on the coffin. He wanted to see Slam dead for himself. Hamma was eager to see the damage that he had caused, resulting in Slam’s untimely death. He felt like it was a must that he saw what Slam looked like as a dead man. It was something he longed for.
“Aye, fellas, it looks like Snitchy Billy,” Lamar called from six feet underground with dirt all over his clothing.
“What the fuck?” snapped Hamma, looking down into the box. “I know Slam gotta be dead.”
“He pulled a fast one. That faggot pulled a fast one,” Lamar shouted, full of rage, hearing his cell phone ringing.
On the cell phone, he heard: “I believe that this is checkmate. I knew you’d come to my so-called funeral, but you forgot that I told you’d I’d pay someone to die for me. I mean, you even tried to kill your own new born. Well, I must admit, ruthless, but stupid. You killed a baby doll. Smart. I’mma leave you with this, tighten up your circle. There’s already been one hole in it. Did you get the video?”
The call went dead.
“This muthafucka pulled a fuckin’ Machiavelli on us,” Lamar said, shaking his head. “Slam told me my circle had a hole in it.”
“It ain’t me,” Trap said quickly.
“I know li’l, homie,” Lamar replied.
“Gunna,” Hamma said walking in the direction of the truck. “Too bad he’s already dead.”
“No, it ain’t,” Trap said, “we can go kill that nigga again. Shoot his casket and dead body right up.”
“Naw,” Lamar said. “We good. Let’s get the fuck outta here, though, we got money to blow. And, we got some people to put here.”
“Yeah, starting with that mutha fucka old ass clown, once and for all,” Hamma said.
CHAPTER 49
That night Hamma rolled out of a car dealership on Essington Avenue in a 2010, burgundy BMW 750Li. He left the dealer with ninety thousand cash, although his paperwork indicated that he was making monthly payments. He had Monica—his on and off girlfriend—riding shot gun. It was after ten p.m. and the city was slow and quiet.
Clearing the ramp leading onto I-76, he noticed a black Crown Victoria with two white men in it riding behind him. He tried to slow and let them pass him, but they didn’t. They slowed when he did.
“I think the cops are following us,” Hamma said out loud.
“Where?” Monica said, sitting up.
Squeezing her thigh, Hamma said, “Relax. Sit ya ass back, and relax. They may not even be worried about me.”
“True,” she said, thinking about the guns and drugs in the car that she had picked up for him earlier that day. She had been carrying the guns in a huge Tory Burch Ella Nylon tote all day like it was the normal thing to do. The drugs were in Louis Vuitton duffle bag with wheels. She had been rolling around with kilos of cocaine that were perched on the back seat. The fresh Glock 18’s were right between her legs in the tote, ready to be used.
Panicking, Hamma used the BMW Assist system to call Lamar, driving nonchalantly with both hands on the steering wheel, as if he didn’t see the Crown Victoria.
“Yo, Lambchop,” Hamma said when Lamar picked up the phone.
“Yo, Ham...damn, girl...aye...aye...Ham...Let me hit you back, homie. I’m...I’m getting my dick sucked.”
“Dog—” Hamma said as the line went dead. “Fuck it,” he said, noticing three other Crown Vics behind them. He did a steady fifty-five miles per hour because he didn’t want to give them a bogus reason to pull him over.
