Memphis Streets 2 (Urban)

Chapter 24- Lucifer

July ...

Rolling my ass up to the federal pen is never a good time, but it's necessary. There's a lot of good soldiers here. All of them putting in their bid with their heads held high while playing a harder game on the inside. They have my respect on that shit. The moment I stroll into the visiting room, heads turn and then bob back at me, like, What's up? They all know that I've been holding shit down, but only the few and trusted got the 411 on where and what is going on with Fat Ace.

That's the way I like it and the way that it's going to stay. The visiting room is loud with women and children. Some are crying; most are wearing their game faces. I cut through the crowd dressed head to toe in Grim Reaper black, my eyes cautious and my lips flat-lined. When I drop into a seat, I take another look around. I strongly believe in being aware of one's surroundings. Everybody in the game knows that it takes only one time to either be too slow or too late and you get white-chalked in the game. The door opens and another stream of prisoners shuffles into the visiting room. The man I'm waiting on pulls up the rear.

Still pretty-boy handsome with a mean swagger and a bigger muscular build than he had back in the day, Smokestack enters the place like he owns the muthafucka. I smile before I can stop myself. What can I say? He's still got it, and maybe if I was still wearing Sunday school dresses, I might've stood up and started twirling around for compliments.

"Well, well, well," he says, smiling and shaking his head.

"I was wondering what a nigga had to do to get you up in here. What? You ain't got no love for your cousin Smokestack no more?"

"All day, every day. You know that shit. It's that we're in the middle of a fuckin' war and-"

"Hold up before you get started. Squash the excuses," Smokestack says, shaking his head.

"You know I've never been one who liked a nigga with a whole lot of excuses. I deserve to know what the hell is going on with my fam. You feel me? I'm hearing so many conflicting bullshit stories up in here I'm about to qualify for a transfer to the mental institution. NahwhatImean? Now come with it. What's really poppin' out there? Give it to me straight, no chaser."

Straightening my back, I take another look around to make sure that niggas are minding their own business.

"It's all good. It ain't great. Both of your boys got banged up pretty bad."

"But they're alive, though, right?" he barks, his eyes bright with hope.

"Yeah. They're alive."

Smokestack closes his eyes and whispers, "Thank God."

His shoulders deflate with relief and he pulls in a deep breath.

"In my heart, I know one day one of you is going to march in here and give me a different answer ... but thank God that today ain't that day."

I bob my head because I know exactly where he's coming from. Street niggas ain't got a lot of options out here in this muthafucka. Hustling and grinding is all there is and all there ever will be. I stop myself before I hop onto a mental soapbox. At times I sound like him in his old militant days.

"Thanks, Leah. I appreciate you coming out here to tell me," he says, and then reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.

I don't even correct him on that Leah shit. Some people are afforded the privilege. There's so many emotions racing across his face I feel like I should look away.

"This street shit ..." He shakes his head.

"When word got 'round these steel bars about what happened to Raymond ... and then no one knew where or what happened to Mason ... gut check. NahwhatImean?"