Guns, Sex, Lies & Money

Ch 3

Lowell Manson couldn’t help but snap his fingers as he settled into place. Today was going to be a damn fine day. The sidewalk looked as relatively smooth as ever, but he could practically feel the “sweet spot” his feet would have worn into it, had the block been carpeted rather than concrete. He’d spent so much time here, up until a couple months ago.

It was a great corner to sell from—when the cops weren’t around, that is. That was the whole reason he’d moved on, despite hooking up with the Vice Rocks a few months back. Even the homies said to write that shit off. Today though, the biker rally in the middle of downtown had the attention of enough of the force that Lowell’s little patch of real estate wouldn’t be of any concern. Lowell and his crew rode, but they didn’t give a fuck about no damn bike rally. This was Vice Rock community outreach.

The first customer of the lunch rush pulled up before he could even finish patting himself down to make sure he had his product, money and gun for the third time today. The smooth, West Coast flow pouring from the vehicle as the passenger window rolled down was legit, but too damn loud.

“Shit, man. You want people to pay attention to what we’re doing over here?” The fool behind the wheel managed to look at least slightly shamed as he dialed the music down and leaned over the leather bench seat. Young, ignorant kids. Best customers, though. Had the least amount of bills, so besides rich cats, had the most money to blow.

“Lemme get an ounce, nigga.” The driver held a small wad of bills just under the window. “I don’t care what anyone says, ya’ll’s shit is still better than that shit the Princes are slingin’.” Lowell locked his eyes on the driver’s.

“You buyin’ the Princes’ weed?” Lowell and his people had been hearing lots of talk on the street about the product their main competitor, the Crown Princes, was selling. Supposedly, it was the finest green the city had ever seen. It was bad enough they were rivals with a damn wolfpack; the last thing the Rocks needed was more of their customers jumping ship.

“Hell naw, Low-man. You know me.” The driver tried to meet Lowell’s gaze, but couldn’t. The kid was a paying customer, so Lowell let it slide. He plucked a fat bag of weed from his front pocket and cupped it in the palm of his hand. The driver swapped green for green and pounded Lowell’s fist before settling back behind the wheel and rolling up his window.

Lowell pocketed the cash and stepped back into his sweet spot. A strange tickling gathered in the back of his head as he scanned the streets for any police. He scratched his head, but it did nothing to help the itch. It left as soon as it came, though, as a loud rumbling grew in strength at his back.

“Sup, Low-man?” Lowell turned slowly. He knew the sound of that bike. Big T threw his leg over the huge, low-sitting chopper he rode and cut the distance between Lowell and himself in a couple of steps. Lowell clasped the larger man’s hand in his own. Most guys couldn’t leave their weed, their money or their girl alone in a room with Big T for too long, unless they were Rocks, but Lowell and T had lived down the street from each other since the seventh grade, and there was no one Lowell trusted more. Big T was the one who helped Lowell get set up with the Rocks when he decided he was tired of flying solo.

“Chillin’, T. You know how I do. Makin’ that paper already.”

“That’s what’s up. I’m about to go over to my sister’s house and see my new nephew. Thought I’d come over and see how the old block was treatin’ you. Ain’t tryin’ to make a habit of this, are you?” T pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes from his pocket, slapped it against the palm of his hand a few times, and lit one up. “You want one?”

“Naw, homey. And I’m just here for today. Boys in blue’ll be back ‘round here tomorrow, but for now, their minds are on this motorcycle thing.”