LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

to run off little brothers.

      We crawled in a dark back room in the fort. Twon was there lounging on a green beanbag. A purple and black Vikings ball cap sat on his head. He frowned at us, and then he snatched a can of aerosol off a hook that hung down from a board in the ceiling and sprayed a huge fog of white mist in our direction.

      “Quit sprayin’ dat shit, nigga,” T-Money said.

      “It stank in here,” Twon replied, eyeing us.

      “Whateva, man.” T-Money spun around and folded his legs up under him and waited for us to get in. His eyes lit up in the dark, little room. “Now, I gotsta ax y’all a question! Do you wanna be memba’s of the dopest, rawest, realest, mothafuckin’ click eva?” His eyes bulged excitedly. “KRAZY CREW?”

      “Yeah,” I said, shrugging.

      “Alright,” Angel answered, nodding.

      “Ok, but den you gots to get V’d in,” T-Money added.

      “What’s dat?” I asked.

      “A violation,” Twon said ominously.

      “20 shots in the chest,” T-Money added.

      “From who?” I asked, eyeing Twon’s huge paws.

      “I’ll do it,” T-Money said.

      T-Money had Angel get behind me and hold my wrists behind my back. Then, T-Money started to punch me in the chest—real soft at first, then harder and quicker. The booms of the shots resonated throughout my body. My heart beat traced after them— boom… dmm dmm, boom… dmm dmm, boom…. I lost count in all the pounding, and finally, T-Money stopped, and we shook hands. Then, T-Money showed me how to throw up the “KC” in the midst of the handshake by hooking thumbs. Angel smiled as he got into position. I crawled behind him and held his wrists.

      “Aye, Joe, you better count this one. He hit you about thirty-five times,” Angel said in a squeaky voice.

      “Aight, Joe can count,” T-Money said, giggling.

      Angel let out some “Ohhs” and “Ewws” between chuckles as T-Money started. Then, he grew real silent as T-Money hit harder. I counted, and when I said, “Nineteen,” T-Money wound up and nailed Angel in the chest. Angel’s ribs crunched, and then he let out an overly dramatic “Ahhhhhhh” before falling over on the dirty concrete ground, laughing.

      “Keep laughing, and I’m gonna do it again,” T-Money sighed. We both giggled as we crawled out of the shack.

      “Man, T-Money hits hard!” Angel said.

      “That shit was loud as hell wasn’t it?” I said.

      “Look at this,” Angel said as he raised up his shirt. A series of red fist marks bloomed on his chest; the reddest one sat in the center.

      “Ahh shit. He fucked you up,” Ryan gawked. “You’re Crew now!”

      “Hell yeah,” Angel said, reaching out and shaking his hand.

      “What about you?” Ryan asked, looking at me.

      I lifted up my shirt. The marks showed clear, bright-red on my pale chest.

      “Ahh, man, he really fucked you up,” Ryan guffawed.

      “Ahhaa,” Angel laughed.

      “Hell yeah,” Ryan said, grinning. We shook hands and threw up “KC.”

      BB walked up behind Angel and snatched the magazine he had rolled up in his back pocket.

      “Ahh snap,” he said, flipping it open. Angel ripped it out of his grasp. It was a car magazine that had Lowrider written on the cover and an old Chevy Impala ragtop sitting below it. The car was dark-purple with black pinstriping, and it had a crazy-ass mural of a blue and red dragon with bright-orange fire exploding from its mouth. A thick-built Mexican lady bent over the hood. Her healthy curves bulged against her white bikini and hovered over her white high heels. She stuck her huge, round ass out toward the camera and looked back over her shoulder with her long black hair splaying down to her waist.

      “Man, gimme dat shit,” BB demanded as he reached for it again. “I’ma busta nut ta dis shit.”

      “Man…” Angel sighed, taking it away from BB. “I don’t want your jizzum on my magazine! Get your own, fool.”

      I peered over Angel’s shoulder as he slowly flipped through the pages. A few more kids crowded in. There were more shots of cars with huge murals on their hoods, bright, golden-spoked rims, and white-wall tires. And plenty of hot chicks. Some cars had their hoods up with the engines completely chromed. Then, there was this one car, another old Chevy, with only three wheels on the ground. The fourth wheel levitated three-feet in the air.

      “What the fuck’s that?” I asked, pointing at it.

      “What?” Angel said, squinting at me.

      “How’d they lift that car up like that?”

      “They got it locked in three-wheel motion,” Angel answered and looked at me. I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about.

      “Man, hell yeah,” Ryan said, beaming. “I’m gonna get a six-foe like dat one.”

      “That’s a ’61,” Angel remarked.

      “Whatever it is, dat shit is bad as hell,” Ryan retorted.

      “Man, my big cousin’s got a six-foe,” BB squeaked. “He live out sout’ doe.”

      Angel flipped the page, and there was a large picture of a bike. It was an old Sting-Ray frame from the ’60s with the banana seat and springer fork, but it was different. There was a chrome, chain-link steering wheel attached to three thin sheet metal stems that were rigged into the bike’s neck. The ape hanger handlebars were forced way down, so the front wheel stuck up between them. It looked like the steering wheel was the more viable option. The old-style springer fork bars were curved and seemed too long, and there was a twisted metal bar where the brace went. Angel went to turn the page.

      “Aye, hold up a second,” I said.

      “What?” he said, looking back at me.

      “Man, that bike is bad as hell.”

      “You like dat?” Angel eyed me suspiciously.

      “Man, why would you want a bike like that?” Ryan whined. “You can’t even ride it.”

      “You can ride ’em,” Angel cut in.

      “How, bro? The pedals are hittin’ the ground?” Ryan tapped the glossy page with the back of his hand in disgust.

      “Man, they just got the spring out,” Angel replied.

      “So, you put the spring in, and you can ride ’em?” I asked.

      Angel nodded to me. The other kids had lost interest. They went back to climb in the dumpster and bang on the shack’s walls with the tiny ball peen hammer they’d scrounged up. Angel flipped through the pages and then stopped.

      “I got something I want to show you guys. Want to come to my place?” he asked.

      Ryan and I looked at each other and shrugged.

      “OK,” I said.

      Angel lived in a first-floor apartment on Olive. He let himself in with his own key, and we headed to his room that was up front. He had posters up of all kinds of lowrider cars and bikes. Then, across the room, I saw a wheel with a white-wall tire resting near the door to his closet. There was an old blue Schwinn frame with a back wheel attached that leaned against the wall, too.

      “No shit?” I said admiringly. “You got one?”

      “Well, it ain’t done yet,” Angel replied.

      “Man, it looks bad ass!” I said, continuing to leer as Angel smiled proudly.

Скачать книгу