"I don't know, bull," Gunna said, "even the old head Slam ain't have it poppin' like that, and he had the block on smash back in the eighties. That's when shit was really sweet."
"Slam? Man, Slam ain't me. And that was then. This is now and our time is now. The block is ours now."
Gunna smiled at the determination of his friend. "Only time will tell. But let's go shopping first."
Lamar and Gunna, friends since kindergarten, and sat in Talim classes (instruction in Quran and hadith and sometimes Islamic law) together at the neighborhood mosque. Both of their fathers were Muslim and raised them to practice the Islamic faith. They no longer attended Friday Jumah services at Masjid Al-Wasatiyah Wal-Itidaal, and barely offered one of the five daily obligatory prayers. Well, Lamar had been praying in jail with other Muslim inmates, but that was more to fit into the prison element, as opposed to a true dedication to his faith. Undoubtedly, now that he was released with the prosecution having been withdrawn, his prayers—five times a day—had been answered, and now it was back to blood and bullets.
Killing, or be killed.
After hitting the Neiman Marcus Outlet, the Polo Outlet, and a few other stores, Lamar made the last stop Victoria's Secret. He purchased something that he thought Nikia would look good in for his pleasure. The duo had spent over two grand and was back on I-95 headed back to their Southwest hood.
After a half-hour drive, because for some odd reason, rush hour traffic was thin, they exited at Graysferry Avenue. Lamar had been listening to music, watching the city fly by, his thoughts interrupted when they pulled to the light near a Sunoco gas station. Gunna made two left turns, and then a right around the bend leading to Lindbergh Boulevard.
"You ever wonder why the fuck they got a waste disposal site in the middle of the hood," Lamar asked, turning his nose up at the stench emanating from the city's trash dump.
"The government thinks we're some shit, that's why," Gunna replied, shaking his head, making a right turn.
Two lights later, Lamar watched two young bulls running up to cars in the Amoco gas station, trying to make some change by pumping people's gas. The visual was a clear indication, he was home: Bartram Village.
Bartram Village, a small neighborhood in Southwest Philadelphia, comprised the vicinity of South Fifty-sixth Street and Lindbergh Boulevard. The neighborhood took its name from the noted botanist, John Bartram, whose historical home and gardens, Bartram Gardens, was nearby, and deemed a National Historic Landmark. Lurking amidst this history, though, lied a housing project located at Fifty-fourth Street and Elmwood Avenue, appropriately called, Bartram Village.
Making a left into Bartram Village, Gunna beeped the horn and Lamar waved at a group of old heads on the top of the hill. The men were drinking Wild Irish Rose and Steel Reserve 211 cheap beer, uncharacteristically, named after the police's radio call for a robbery in progress. On this hill, though, it robbed men of their capacity to think. They were drinking and playing cards on a foldable table wasting their day away, and teaching Lamar a valuable lesson. He didn't want to be like them.
Continuing along, Lamar saw dudes posted in different groups selling everything from coke to weed, syrup to water ice. It didn't matter what was looked for; they had it.
Gunna lived in the 5401 Building, named Harley Terrace, but known as Baby Harlem, a sibling of Harlem, New York. The strip reminded Lamar of the eighties. He had grown up watching fiends making lines that wrapped around the corner, waiting to be served their drug of choice; no customer service required.
Entering the building, Lamar and Gunna were met by six dudes bent over in front of the stairway. When the men saw them approaching they stopped their street craps game, and in unison said, "What's up, y'all?"
"Ain't nothing. Same shit," Lamar replied.
"What it hittin' for?" Gunna said.
The chubby one out of the group, Turk, held up the dice, and replied, "You already know," adding a smile.
They all laughed and Gunna and Lamar headed up the steps to the second floor.
"I know you thought the clothes was it, but I got something else real nice for you," Gunna stated, walking into the apartment. "Follow me, my man."
Gunna threw his keys on the table and led the way towards the back room. He walked Lamar to a large picture of the deceased rapper, The Notorious B.I.G., dressed in all white à la Scarface. He took the portrait down, revealing a small safe, spun the dial a few times, and the door slid open. Inside were a few stacks of cash bound in bank wraps marked five-thousand-dollars each, along with a menacing Glock 22 .40-caliber black safety-action pistol.
"Here," Gunna said, tossing a stack of cash to Lamar.
He caught it and stuffed it into his leather jacket pocket, appreciating his man's gesture. He planned to add it to what he had stashed before he went to jail.
"One more thing," Gunna said.
"What's that?"
Gunna picked up the weapon, handed it to him, and he graciously accepted the cold piece of steel. He had not touched a gun since his arrest, but for Lamar, it was like riding a bike: he'd never forget how to shoot one. Methodically, he released the magazine, allowed it to fall into his palm, and noticed it was fully loaded. He then slid it back into the gun and pulled the slide back, lodging one into the chamber. He smiled as he admired its beauty and the power he instantly gained.
"Yeah," mused Lamar. "This's one nice piece of work right here."
"I knew you'd like it. I got a nice little gun connect, too. But we'll get into that later. Go ahead and holla at your girl. I got a lot of twork lined up for us come next week. You got all this week to chill, then, we back in effect. You can take the phone and the wheel. I'm gonna fall back here for a little bit. If I need to go somewhere, I'll get a ride from Trap or Turk." Gunna flopped on the couch and turned on the TV.
"All right, that's a bet, bro. Thanks for everything, too."
"Without a doubt.”
CHAPTER 2
Lamar grabbed the car keys and cell phone before walking out of the door. With his manly loins churning for satisfaction, it wasn't long before he pulled up to his girlfriend's house. He parked ready to see her and get his nuts out of the street, calling her as he quickly made his way to the front door.
He heard her angelic voice, and said, "Yo, come to the door, dust bunny." He chuckled.
"Maybe I don't want to," Nikia responded, smiling as she played hard to get.
"You better come open the door before I get back in the car and leave," Lamar said.
He imagined Nikia slamming the phone down and hopping out of the bed. He knew that she was probably playing mad and as if she was asleep.
He was right.
When she saw the love of her life for the first time in months, her demeanor softened. Lamar had lost his visiting privileges a year earlier, and Nikia had suffered.
