March 18th, 1997
Most of the ride was silent. The most interaction between the two came when Bone offered a .40 oz of Ole English and KP took a sip; his hands shook. Sweet scent of cherry stunk up the carâs interior as Bone hit the blunt. Music drowned the nerves much as it could. They reached a stop sign and were soon on the border of the East side of their turf near 117th. Bone halted the car, and popped the passenger side lock. A head nod, KP got out an in the fear and frenazy he forgot to close the door. Bone whistled and said the only words KP had ever heard him say,
âClose my mothafuckinâ door, blood.â
KP did as was asked and the red cadillac departed at Boneâs hest. KP turned, eyes laid on the group of about six men who were shooting dice in front of a dilapidated house encircled by a small metal fence. A rusty weight bench sat in the miniscule front yard as well as a rottweiler. No âBeware Dogâ sign in sight. KP parsed chatter amid the six kneeled men as they progressed through their game of craps,
âSnakes, nigga.â taunted Tiny Bear,
âFuck outta here, bluh, doubles nigga.â retorted
Peanut,âAinâ no fuckinâ doubles, bluh, rounâ up.â concluded Six Pack,
âIâm in nat.â added a muscled, stocky man. KP had seen him before, older homies called him
Twin. Armed robbery, extortion, kidnapping. Word was he might have the longest jacket on the turf. It was him who noticed Kentrell and checked him,
âAye, bluh, who you?â
KP glanced up at Twin, memory served KP right; he had seen Bear around 111 street when KP was younger. Kentrell responded swiftly as was protocol,
âKP. Where Al at?â Twin frowned, Kentrell couldnât tell whether it was because of the sun or because Twin was confused,
âOhhh shit! Lil Kentrell? Baby K? Shonda nem Ke--â
âYeah, nigga, Baby K.â
âShiiit! Nigga, the fuck you doinâ ova here?â
âIâm lookinâ fo--â
âI know who the fuck you lookinâ foâ, nigga,
why though? Know damn well ya mama donâ play that shit.â
Kentrell chose silence. Twin rose to his feet and moved closer to KP,
âWhaâs all this?â Twin tugged at Kentrellâs red shirt, a little too rough for Kentrellâs liking.
Kentrell kissed his teeth and Twin laughed. The mocking was never subtle,
âOh you a big boy now, huh? You onna hood now, huh? Kssshh!â he jumped at Kentrell who immediately balled his fist up and stuck Twin in his lip. Realization sunk in; Twin felt the cut along his lip with a few fingers, shock radiated for but the briefest second. The next thing Kentrell knew he was pinned up against the car, covering himself from Twinâs onslaught. The others watched and jeered,
âGonâ let him fuck you up like that, bluh?â touted Peanut,
âDamn, nigga! Fight back!â of course Tiny Bear had something to add,
âBuster ass nigga!â and Six Pack brought a close to the symphony of deprecation,
Kentrell covered himself and did manage to make Twin miss a few blows, but the ones that landed in his stomach and forearms keeled him over,
âStupid liâl nigga! Chu never touch me aga--â the door creaked open, all eyes turned except a damaged KPâs and an enraged Twinâs,
âThe fuck is yâall stupid niggas doinâ in my mothafuckinâ yard, blood? Twin get off the liâl nigga, blood, and bring yoâ stupid ass and
his stupid ass in here, blood!â it was Al, or as the younger bloods knew him,
âEvil Alâ. Leader of the 117th street clique of the Denver Lanes.
No matter the terror Twin had built in him for Kentrell, it was incised by the OGâs command. He came to his senses unnaturally quick and turned to walk inside. Kentrell gathered himself best as he could and hobbled inside, an arm wrapped around his stomach. Al held the door open for Twin, but not KP--aching arms outstretched to the iron bars around the door and pulled it open before it closed. Kentrell grimaced in pain.
Once inside, there were no less than ten members from both the 117th street clique--many of them newbies like Kentrell--and Kentrellâs own 109th street clique who also had a handful of new faces Kentrell didnât quite recognize including a few females. There were reputables from the other cliques in the neighborhood sprinkled throughout, too: the 111, 112, 115, 118, and 120. The 109th street cliqueâs big homie,
Killer Tone stood near the back of the room alongside⌠Shontay? Now wasnât the time to ask questions, just to listen.
âSit down, blood.â Evil Al instructed Kentrell, who did nothing but oblige.
On the table lay a map of the turf surrounding the Denver Lanes. They were sandwiched between two sets of Hoover Criminals: one on the south of the Lanes own turf on 109th and Figueroa all the way down to 92nd St and the 107 Hoover Criminals to their West alongside a much smaller Crip gang, the Pimp Town Gangster Crips (PTC) who had cliqued up with the 107s. To the north of the Lanes were the Raymond Avenue Crips and to the East across the 110 freeway lie the 112 Broadway Crips and the 118 East Coast Crips, all who numbered from 50-300 deep per individual neighborhood with the Raymond Avenue Crips being the largest.
The Lanes only allies were the neighboring Crenshaw Mafia Bloods, one of the largest blood gangs on the West Side of Inglewood as well as a small Sureno click who were to the south of the Lanes as well. The only reason the Lanes were still around were thanks to their numbers, anywhere from 150-400 deep depending on who one asked, but only members knew how deep the hood truly was.
Put simply, it was time to push these smaller hoods from their borders.
Evil Al and Killer Tone stepped up and addressed the room. Killer Tone took the floor first,
âListen, bluh, we quiet out here, bluh. Nigga, Raymonds came thu jusâ lasâ week gettinâ at us, bluh anâ what we do since then? Nothinâ, bluh. The older Gâs ainâ pushinâ
no lines, ainâ givinâ no get back, bluh, anâ we canâ move like that, bluh. Krispies and naps mobbinâ thu our shit on the daily, bluh, and homies is spooked like,â then Tone added,
âWe ainât lettinâ no moâ of that shit go, blood. On Lanes, nigga, this why yâall here. Hood gotta change or ainâ no moâ flagginâ
shit. Them niggas gone run us out the muhfuckinâ city, blood. So this what it is: all yâall niggas in this room âbout to
earn them flags yâall like to carry âround, blood.â keeping the rhythm of the rally going, Killer Tone continued,
âTip Toe-â Tone nodded to Shontay, âfound out from a liâl nap âbout a liâl function nem krispies havinâ âmorrow night anâ we gonâ hit that shiâ, bluh. Ainâ it thoâ, bluh, while couple yâall do dat the ressa yâall gonâ hit them snoovas, bluh. KP you anâ Tip Toe anâ Six Pack anâ Bear anâ Twin gonâ funk witâ me early nexâ time anâ we gone go ova the resâ.â and to cap it off, Evil Al spoke,
âThe rest of yâall niggas witâ me. We hittinâ them snoovas later. But onâ worry âbout all that right now. Yâall gonâ get up witâ me after all that other shit die down. Anâ listen blood, we got too many enemies for you dumbass niggas to be knockinâ against witout usinâ ya muhfuckinâ heads first. Stay in bounds until we make this move, anything yâall got thatâs hot gotta go, blood. Iâm talkinâ âbout even the silva, blood. Stay in bounds and stay low. Now get the fuck out my house, blood.â
At the dismissal, they all rose and left. Outside, Shontay and Kentrell walked back to the Vista together, although it would be quite a long walk.
âTip Toe? What typeâa shit is that?â Kentrell egged,
âShut up, goofy. You heard what the big homie said, ainât shit to play a thirsty nigga out his mouthpiece.â
Kentrell raised an eyebrow, partly in disappointment and partly impressed, âNiggas gone think you a jump.â
âIâonâ give a fuck what niggas think. We
in this shit, fuck a civilian.â
âI mean⌠Darius and Lorraine civilians too.â
âOkay, and? Wasnât talkinâ âbout them. Shit, speakinâ of them I been told L ass I was gone get up witâ her.:â she said more to herself than to Kentrell,
ââBout what?â
âSome money.â
âOh? Yâall ainât trynna cut nobody in?â
âNah⌠nah, nah, this just between me anâ her.â a little deflation marked the words, Kentrell didnât say anything he just nodded and made a mental note for later, they turned the corner of 115th and Vermont Avenue, a long strip of land known as the âLaneâ or the âHiveâ for its uniqueness among other streets within the Lanes turf--it was a stretch of old abandoned factories and fewer houses, it was also where many of the hoodâs gangways were. A place where many of the Lanes ran prostitution and drugs, partied, and died. Perfect for,
--
Blue bandanas covered their faces and blue Converse patterned the ground as they ran up the alleyway,
âAye cuh, there go two of them niggas right there, cuh.â
âAye, ainâ that the one liâl bitch from lasâ night?â Marquise âDuRoccâ Thomas squinted,
âShitâchea, cuh. She a slob?â Vernon âBuddhaâ Harrisonâs heart sunk, but he would deal with his feelings another time, âWho that nigga witâ her though?â
âDonât matter, locâ, hurry yoâ ass up foâ they get away!â Thomas cocked the hammer on his Glock 19; Harrison checked the clip on his Sig Sauer P226 and made sure the safety was off,
âWe ainâ got all day, nigga. Come on!â and with that, Thomas and Harrison raced up the gangway parallel to the Price siblings,
Kentrell head the footsteps before he heard the call; in mere seconds his head turned and the world slowed--all he saw was blue.
âAYE, WHAT UP CUH!â