Memphis Streets 2 (Urban)

Chapter 22-Lucifer

Mason looks fucked up. By the time Dr. Cleveland had finished digging and stitching our leader up, there were eight bloody bullets sitting in the bottom of a silver pan. I had hoped by the time I returned today to check on Mason that he would've had a hell of a lot more color than he's showing right now-or at least be awake. My disappointment must show on my face because Bishop takes one look at me and then walks over to try and relieve my fears.

"He's going to be all right," Bishop says, curling up a half smile.

"This nigga is like the Teflon Don. You ought to know that shit better than anybody." I reluctantly pull my gaze away from Mason's still form to look my brother dead in the eye.

"Maybe."

"I'm betting every dime I got on it." He throws a light punch against my shoulder. "Now cheer the fuck up before you get all mushy on my ass."

I roll my eyes. "You wish."

"Yeah. Probably. The day your ass sheds a tear, it will likely usher in those 'end of days' that Momma preaches about."

"Ha-ha."

"So what did you find out down at the hospital? Dice awake yet?"

"Nah." I shake my head.

"Doctors down there don't sound too fucking optimistic about his ass waking up anytime soon either. Hell, they're still trying to figure out how the muthafucka is still breathing."

Bishop laughs. "It's because him and our nigga here got the same blood rushing through their veins."

"Did the doctor say how long it would be before Mason wakes up?"

"Could be any minute."

"And it could be never," I inject pessimistically.

Fuck. I can't help it. It's who the fuck I am. Life has never given me much to be optimistic about. Bishop twists his face up at me.

"I done told you my man is going to pull through this shit, so squash it." I toss up my hands and back the hell up.

I can tell by looking at him that he doesn't even want to consider the possibility of us losing our boy. That shit is odd, given the nature of our business. Niggas fall every day-and there's always another nigga to take their place. It's the cycle of the street life. There's no pension or retirement plans out here. We live by a bullet and the odds are we're gonna die beneath a hail of them. The only questions are, when, and are we going to have the guts to hold our heads up? Right now, I'm uncomfortable about how still and colorless Fat Ace is. It's too easy to picture his ass lying in a casket like so many other street soldiers before him-my daddy included. . .

Three days after my father was gunned down in our front yard, Momma, Javon, and I stood huddled together under a lone umbrella while one sobbing person after another stood in front of the closed black and chrome casket and told how my father, the Dough Man, as they called him, either helped pay a light bill or put food on the table when a soldier was either dead or serving a bid. My father was a great man, they said over and over again. The newspapers had it wrong.

"A gangsta? A drug lord? A criminal?" Smokestack thundered in a rising baritone. "These are labels society tries to shackle us with every day. The white man ain't happy unless he keeps us chained down. And trust and believe that it's by any means possible."

A chorus of agreement ensued, despite the few nervous glances we made toward a line of police officers who also stood watch. Momma said they were there for additional police protection, but we trusted the police about as much as we trusted the Vice Disciples.