there was were boxes of guns. Like that place they put the Ark at the end of Raiders. Messiah almost cried tears of joy.
“We ‘bout to get rich!” Tyrone cackled. “It must be at least a thousand guns!”
There were actually 1200 – nines, four-fifths, .40 calibers, revolvers, .38’s, .357’s, 44’s, all shapes and sizes down to pink derringer .22’s.
“This for my bitch!” Knowledge laughed, kissing the gun’s box like his girl.
Then there were the bullets. There were so many, they filled a duffle bag the size of a body bag. Bag after bag went up the rope; so many, Lil’ Earl yelled he was getting tired of pulling them up. In all, they filled 8 full-size duffle bags.
That’s when Tyrone saw the watch.
The rest of the jewelry on display was pawnshop-typical - thin ass herringbones, pinky ice rings and a couple of cheap tennis bracelets. But the watch stood out.
“Yo, I gotta have that watch!” Tyrone’s voice was full of lust.
“Yo, we out. Fuck that watch. You can buy a hundred of them cheap ass shits,” Messiah replied taking hold of the rope now all the bags were on the roof with Lil’ Earl...
But Tyrone was too locked in. He used the butt of the gun to break the glass…and sealed his fate.
“Shit fuck and day-um!” Tyrone hissed as the glass from the display case bit into his palm. He held up his hand for them to see the fresh wound, gripping his wrist hard, red blood running over his sleeve. “Fuck, look at that!?”
But Messiah wasn’t looking at the cut on Tyrone’s palm. All he saw was the blood on the glass, the blood in the case and the blood on the floor.
In some ways he wished he’d shot the stupid ass nigga in the face right there.
Present Day
“What kind of mission?” Power questioned, once he and Kane were driving along Merrick Boulevard, smoking a blunt.
“Guns, my nigga. Guns. They got a cousin in Carolina that turned them on to a sweet ass pawnshop lick. Shit official,” Kane explained. Kane passed Power the blunt.
“Ay yo, I got some official shit, too.”
“What up?”
“That nigga Duppy.”
Kane scrunched up his face. “The rap dude?”
“Yeah,” Power replied, exhaling smoke. “His Brooklyn nigga back on the island got links to ‘em.”
“So what, we gonna stick that nigga? God damn thun, pass that shit.”
Power hit the blunt once more, then passed it back. “Nah, yo. We gonna get scrams to put us on.”
“Man, ain’t no money in that rap shit. We see more dough than them,” Kane replied dismissively.
“That’s ‘cause they ain’t us. Nigga, our weight up! That Q.B.C. shit we on is murder music for real. All we need is the plug,”
Kane flicked the roach out the window. The night, lights and cars streamed by. He couldn’t see it. “Man, that rap shit is some pastime for me. But fuck it, you wanna see this nigga? I’m wit’ you.”
Power smiled, a dragon’s breath of smoke blooming from his mouth and nostrils. He passed the blunt back to Kane. “Yeah, ‘cause if he don’t put us on, we can always rob his punk ass,” Power said. He said it like he was joking, but deep down they both knew he was dead ass.
“What you call yourself?”
That was the first thing Duppy asked Power and Kane once they introduced themselves at the club. Power wasted no time getting in touch with the chick Mona that C-Allah had told him about, and she shot straight at Duppy. He’d told them to meet him at club Vertigo in Manhattan, where he was having a showcase for an R&B group he was planning on signing.
Kane and Power looked at each other, then back at Duppy “Call ourselves?” Kane echoed.
“Yeah, the name of your group.”
“Q.B.C.,” Power replied without hesitation. It had always been their crew’s name, so he just went with it.
Duppy nodded thoughtfully. “Q.B.C.… what it stand for?”
“Queens Boro Crew.”
Duppy sat back and swigged straight from the magnum of champagne he had in his hand. Power watched him with amusement. Power could tell Duppy was the type of dude they used to chase home from school and rob in the cafeteria; the type of dude the rap game would elevate into shine status and who would act like they were really street dudes.
He looked at Duppy’s two bodyguards standing close to him, creating a false sense of security that could easily be shattered.
“You know that street shit don’t be sellin’, right? You gotta make that smooth shit for the bitches. That’s where the money at. Y’all got some smooth shit?” Duppy asked.
“Nah,” Power answered simply.
“That’s too bad. Don’t get me wrong – I like that street shit. I mean, I’m a Harlem nigga for real, but business is business. Hol’ up, they about to intro my new group. Watch these bitches go crazy!” Duppy said, his arrogance screeching like fingernails down Power’s blackboard.
They turned towards the stage, Duppy’s bodyguards on either side of him scanning the crowd like he was the President of Shit.
“And now, Duppy presents his latest discovery – Exclusive!” the emcee announced, and the crowd reacted with frenzied applause.
“Watch,” Duppy said, his eyes lighting up like neon dollar signs in a cartoon.
Three dudes dressed exactly alike in rhinestone-covered jean suits and Timberland boots hit the stage. They all looked like pretty models, and just as Duppy had predicted, the bitches screamed with abandon. Power looked across a sea of gyrating pussy. Hands in the air, asses working like dryers in the laundromat. Power liked the look of the crowd, but was not impressed by the lame ass niggas on the stage.
“Yo, this nigga a clown, thun,” Kane agreed with Power’s expression of disgust, as he shifted his weight from foot to foot like he was ready to see it.
“No doubt, but he our connect to that industry dough, my nigga. Check it – I got an idea,” Power replied slyly, then began to approach the stage.
Kane fell in behind him. They maneuvered through the crowd, then disappeared through a side door, and saw a short set of five steps leading up to the stage. Kane looked at Power. “Fuck you thinkin’ about doing, thun?”
“I’m
