"It looks the same way it did, before I blew this bitch to dust," Putt said, crossing from the small living space into the even smaller kitchen. "Nothings changed. If I didn't know any better I'd say this was the same house. Loco."
The cash house they damn neared four months back once again stood, or for a more accurate description, it leaned. Putt was right. Maldonado may have had it rebuilt, but it still looked no better than a shot gun shack. The front door swung loose on the hinges, while the porch was one good stomp from caving in. C's refused to complain, though. A couple of months after Reyes had caught his cut, Maldonado presented the house and land to him on a--cocaine residue covered--platter.
Since he'd increased his territory, Maldonado said a more secured spot for product storage was in order. C's was against taking the house. It gave him bad vibes. Too much shit had gone down due to its destruction. Not to mention the countless liters of blood that saturated the ground courtesy of Vasquez's men.
Instead of prosperity, the house represented loss. When he attempted to refuse, Maldonado had insisted with a glare sharper than a scorching red razor blade. Vato wanted to remind C's of just how swiftly things could flip-flop when loyalty was questioned. One minute the cash house was his bitch, nuttin' green daily, and the next she'd devour his ass like a meal and her insides would become his grave. Maldonado didn't have to stress none of that shit, though. He got his meaning like the fucking alphabet.
"When's the first shipment comin' through, yo?" C's asked, eyeing the wood plank floor.
"This Thursday. Just in time for Friday." Putt answered as he inspected the inside of the deep freezer. "Most of the orders from Prichard are locked, but Happy Hill..." Shaking his head, he released a low whistle. "They're a motherfuckin' problem, hombre. Last time we tried to go in that bitch, two jits were strapped the fuck up guarding the gate." He walked to the entrance of the kitchen, and then leaned against the wooden frame where the door was meant to be placed. "It's lookin' more and more like we're gonna have to lay their asses down and flood that joint with our peoples."
C's bobbed his head. "I'm hearin' you, folk but if we do that then that can upset the order in other parts of the city. Prichard isn't that big, yo. Everybody is family in one way or the other. We chop up the block and we could risk plunging the squad into a blood fued." A cockroach skittered over the toe of his shoe, he cringed and made a mental note about getting Julio in there to set off a bomb of Raid. "Can't get money that way. Not while we busy duckin' hollowpoints and returnin shots. It'll fuck up the bottom line and now that I got Maldonado in my pocket, it would be fatal to miss a drop."
"So what you wanna do?" Putt asked.
He remained silent for a moment, while he twisted varibles in his head. Shit over in Happy Hill was too organized. Every D-boy around that bitch worked together to keep him out. Normally, in a project type setting everybody stayed out for self. No one bothered to help the other, regardless if they were homeboys are not. If one rose, then a partner turned crab, and snatched his ass back down into the pile with the rest of them. The only project he knew of that didn't have the crabs in the bucket syndrome was the Ninth, but that was because Tech...
"They're followin' someone." His glare richocheted back to Putt. "Got to be more careful." He shook his head. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner?
"Followin someone? The fuck you talkin' about, vato?" Putt asked, scrunching his face, confused.
C's began to pace the expanse of the raggedy ass shack. "All this time I assumed they didn't want to except my lead because they were still loyal to Reyes. It was the only thing that made sense. Except it didn't." He spun on his heel to face Putt. "Why the hell would black dudes be so loyal to the fuckin' Venezuelans? Long as the coke comes back like cacka lak, then it doesn't matter who the motherfucker supplying it is, ya dig?"
"Like a Pitt hidin' a got damn bone, ese,' Putt said, bobbing his head all excited and shit that he'd finally peeped the picture. The corner of his mouth hitched in a smirk. "Want me to find out who it is and snatch his ass?"
"Naw," C's said. "I want you to find out who it is, and then some. When it's all chopped, flipped, and served I wanna know this vato better than Jesus does."
Before he could go on, his pager vibrated at his hip. A frown tugged his lips when he realized it was his pussy pager. The number that flashed across the screen motivated his jaw to twitch. What was this bitch's problem?
"Cleo again?" Putt asked.
C's flinched. The sound of her name still fucked him up. "Naw. This another chick I took down a couple of weeks back. Now she actin' all in love and shit." He dove head first into a subject that didn't consist of him having to bump gums about his ex. "Bitch shows up at my spot without callin' first, and then I've caught the slut tellin' folks more than once that she me."
"Get the fuck outta here with that shit, nino." Putt laughed, following him to the door.
C's cracked a smile over the hoe's stunts. "That ain't nothin'. Man the last time the bitch creeped by my way, this motherfucka had the cojones to answer my phone. Like she my main and thangs." For a minute he wanted to snap the bitches neck. It could've been Cleo on the line, but the chick must've had Lucky Charms that morning, because she claimed it was the wrong number.
"Why the fuck you keep lettin' her ass slide?" Putt asked as they stood on the porch of the cash house. "All that shit you're talkin' is firin' offenses. I'd have been cut that bitch out."
A smirk hitched the corner of his mouth as he descended the porch steps. "Man I know I'm wild as fuck for keepin' her around, but her pussy gotta lil' snap back to it. She handles her shit aw' ight in the sheets. Unless she starts twerkin' my nerves beyond the usual female bullshit, she good for now."
"Pep's crunk ass is finally back on his feet," Putt said, trailing him down the dirt path as they made their way back to the car.
C's exhaled. He already knew what Putt would say next. "That's what's up."
"Now he able to get around again ain't no pushin' his ass off the subject. He wanna go see Cleo," Putt cautiously said.
Jealousy ripped his gut to shreds. For the past three months all he wanted to do was see his ex-girl and show her how sorry he was about putting her to the side the way he did, but he couldn't for her own safety. The shit stung like salt and alcohol in a bullet wound. Everyone around him got to see her but him. Ant, his moms, and now even Pep would get to beat his time.
"Tell jit to do whatever comes to mind," he said as his ass took a seat on his shoulders. "Trouble ain't in my zone anymore. She can see or do whatever the fuck she wants. How many times I gotta stress this? Maybe I need to get it tatooed across my forehead, and then y'all will stop comin' at me about shit that has to do with her."
"My bad, folk," Putt said, stepping around him to walk towards the driver's door of the waiting Chevy Cavilier. "Just wanna keep shit down. Taz was takin' him and-,"
"Say that shit again." C's demanded, while standing in the crook of the passenger side door as he glared at Putt over the roof of the car.
"Come on now, nino. You just said you didn't care," Putt accused, before climbing in the car.
He dove in on his side anxious to continue the conversation. What the hell did he mean Taz would take him? Dude didn't like to drive Pep up the street, and now he planned drive all the way to the Ninth? Man bullshit!
"Putt this ain't got nothin to do with my throwback. I've told your cousin already about drillin' my leftovers." He argued.
"Your leftovers? Man do you hear yourself?" Putt yoked the car from the grassy under brush onto the highway. "This Cleo you're talkin' about, not the hoe we was just goin' back and forth about. She motherfuckin' fam. She get drug enough in the Ninth behind dealin' with your culo. Do you know what I heard those fuckers out there callin' her?"
C's lifted his shoulders and let them fall. How the hell would he know? For the past three months he'd blocked any conversation his moms or Ant attempted have about her.
"PR motherfuckin throwback," Putt said, shooting him a sideways glance.
"The fuck is that?" He asked.
"Puerto Rican throwback. And now you sittin' over here confirmin' the shit." Putt muttered under his breath.
Putt's admission wrecked his ass. Damn, he hated she had to go through the bullshit, all because he'd thought it would be a good idea to put their break up on front street. Right or wrong though, there was just no other way. The word of their split had to get out. He needed the streets talkin' about how hard he slammed her ass to the left. It wouldn't have worked any other way. And what place was better than the Ninth to do just that?
"You know how shit go, Putt," he mumbled. "It is what it is. There's nothin' I can do about the shit she goin' through out there."
"Man let's just move on to the other shit I wanted to tell you," Putt said, sounding as if he was gritting his teeth.
C's trained his gaze on the windshield. Putt was pissed, but he'd get the fuck over his issues. He could care less about how Putt felt over his treatment of Cleo. Not when he was the one suffering the most.
"Holla at me," he said, silently agreeing with his change in subjects.
"We found Chubbs fat ass," Putt said, making his motherfucking day. "Give me the word and we'll snatch him."
About damn time! Ever since he'd put Estevan's timid ass in the dirt they'd shook down the entire East Side looking for Chubbs'. That greesy motherfucka had set him up to be robbed. He new this shit like he knew the exact shade of Cleo's green eyes. The shit wouldn't be over until he sliced his fat ass up like a birthday cake and hung him upside down to bleed the fuck out.
"The word is go, hombre."