A Glimpse of the Author's Writing Style

 

Late Fall ‘69

Busta made a call to Eastside Snake. After he hung up the phone, he called Trigger in.

He said, “Go fetch 10 G’s from my mattress. Place it in dis hare bag. Den takes it to Eastside Snake.” Then he called in Joker.

“Joker, git da boys ready. Both groups. Weez ready ta roll.” Joker realized Busta was not in a teasing mood. He had not been since they were robbed almost eighteen months ago. April of last year and still no payback. So instead of being snide, he said, “Busta, you want us to ride now? It’s still broad daylight.” Busta looked at Joker, realized he was making him nervous and merely replied, “Yeah. I know.”

An hour later, they were turning down Santa Rosa Drive from Chalfonte Street.

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

Trigger walked onto the porch of the McCants residents and knocked. When Martha answered the door and saw Trigger, she immediately knew Michael had brought trouble to the household. She had been wondering just how long it might be before it came to this, and she had hoped they might escape it. She now wondered if it was time for her to use her ‘one-time-call’ option. Before she could finish the thought Frank entered the room, still holding his t-shirt, looked at her as she turned to him, and immediately went to the door.

Martha knew to step back. “Yes, may I help you?” said Frank.

Trigger thought, “I was all set ta talk to da White bitch, den dis dark-ass motha steps up. Shiiiit! Wonder what day kids looks like?”

Trigger said, “Lookin foe a dude name Michael.” Frank replied in his low bass voice, “Michael is my son. He doesn’t live here anymore, but if you have business with him, then you have business with me.”

Trigger thought, “Proper talkin prick! Must be edumacated. Probably where he meets his bitch.”

He abruptly said, “When did ya seed him last? Me and my boys gots serious bitnez with em.” Frank stepped out onto the porch, forcing Trigger to back up. He kept walking toward him, and Trigger eventually found himself having to step down onto the top step. Now he was looking up at the six foot, 200 pound mass of pecs and biceps.

Frank calmly replied, “I said my son doesn’t live here anymore. And I said if you have business with him, then you have business with me,” His cadence did not change which was somewhat unsettling to Trigger. Trigger stepped down an additional step.

By now most of the neighbors on the south end of the block were out on their porches. Some of them recognized Busta and knew trouble was brewing. Word spread up the block of a potential problem at the McCants.  Four ‘70 Cadillacs full of thugs parked on the wrong side of the street proved very informative. Mack was at the north end of the block walking down the street from school. Louis and Richard were coming out onto the porch joining their dad. Both had removed their shirts, something Frank generally did not allow. Martha’s radar went out for the little kids, so she told Louis to bring them in. He ignored her, not leaving his father’s side. So, she went out to the backyard and brought them indoors, sending them to their room. They did not stay in there long. Then she joined Frank and her two boys on the front porch.

Trigger opened his mouth to speak, but Martha cut him off, switched to her Harlem tone, and said, “Look son. My husband already told you Michael ain’t here, so tell your boss over there to take his shit elsewhere.”

Trigger’s mouth never closed as he was now shocked by Martha’s declaration. He backed down two more steps then turned, jumped the remanding ones, and walked toward Busta’s car.

Busta said, “What da fuck is goin on? You let dat factory motha back ya up? And his White bitch sass ya? Well, I’ll…”

Busta started to cross the street. Trigger reached out his hand and lightly grabbed Busta’s arm. He said, “Busta, I smells trouble. Dis ain’t no ‘tap-dance’ job. Dat nigga say Michael don’t lives dare no-mo. And dat ain’t no White bitch. She New York, through and through. A Cotton Club sista. I can tell by her meaner, she’s been growed up in the street, I tells ya. She growed up in the life. I can tell by da way her man looked at her, he don’t even kno what I’s kno.” Busta stopped and stared at Trigger then at Frank. He took a step toward the house, then stopped.

He thought, “Shit, Trigger may be on ta sometin. Yeah, sometin ain’t rights hare. Smells fishy. We standin hare twelve strong, and he ain’t even got no piece on em.” 

He yelled across the street, “Ya tells Michael, Busta lookin foe ‘em! Busta knos where he lives!” He turned around, got back in his car and drove away. Three Cadillacs followed.