The Start Of A Good Thing (Book 1)

Chapter 18

Later that day Trevor and Thoro were hanging outside of an abandoned Mechanic shop by their neighborhood. Thoro was suppose to meet Pit here thirty minutes ago, but to their non-surprise he was late. Trevor had a small pile of leaves in front of him that he set on fire. He was beginning to grow impatient.

            “Where he at man?” Trevor questioned, stomping out the fire before him.

            “On the way,” Thoro quoted, repeating what Pit told him.

            “Who knows what that means. You know how Pit is,” Trevor exclaimed. The moment he said that, a black truck swerved into the parking lot. In the bed of the truck were three Doberman pinschers. When Pit got out of the drivers seat, he pulled up his pants and dapped up his friends.

            “Damn cuz, you aint sell them niggas yet?” Thoro asked; referring to the dogs Pit had in his truck.

            “Hell naw, everybody so fixed on Pits that they aint trynna get nothin’ else,” Pit explained. “They good dogs too.” Pit whistled sharply and his dogs jumped out of the back of the truck coming to their master.

            One young Doberman in particular went to Trevor, smelling his shoe. Trevor patted the dog on the head, watching it take a seat by his side. Pit pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit up a cigarette.

            “So what’s up dog? You straight?” He questioned.

            Thoro removed a lump some money from his jeans and handed it to Pit. Pit counted the dollars, licking his fingers as he flipped through the bills.

            “Aight, Aight.” He nodded, putting the money in his pockets. He slipped off the book bag he had on his back and tossed it to Thoro.

            Thoro searched the backpack, seeing large quantities of various types of drugs. “Damn cuz, you want me to move all this?” He asked, scratching his head.

            “Oh you can’t handle that?” Pit retorted.

            “Naw… I got it,” Thoro said, changing his tone.

            “Yo Pit,” Trevor called. Pit looked at him still smoking his cigarette. “How much them dogs goin’ for?”

            “For you, a hundred,” Pit informed. “You lookin’ to buy one?”

            “Yea. What’s his name?” Trevor asked, pointing to the Doberman by his feet.

            “That’s Desoto. He my youngest, he just about two years old. Cuz can scrumble too,” Pit told him.

            Trevor stared at Desoto, who looked back at him as if he knew what was going on. “I got twenty five in my pocket. I get paid on Friday, I give you the rest then.”

            “I aint worried bout it,” Pit shrugged. “He yo’s now.” Pit turned to Desoto who sat still by Trevor. “He already trained, watch this . . . Desoto!” Desoto jumped on his feet, ready for action. Pit pointed to one of his other dogs and snapped his fingers. Desoto began to growl and bare his fangs, inching toward the other animal. The other dog saw Desoto coming his way and snared at him, preparing for a fight. Before the two dogs could get down and dirty, Pit snapped his fingers again, stopping them in their tracks. “He know all the basics. I’ll show you the other stuff lata’, I gotta make moves right now though,” Pit dapped Thoro and Trevor up. “I catch ya’ll lata.”

            “Ight,” Trevor and Thoro said at the same time. Pit ordered the other two dogs in the bed of the truck, and got in.

            “We might as well be out too,” Thoro suggested. He whipped out a pre-rolled blunt and placed it in his mouth.

            “Desoto, let’s go,” Trevor ordered. The dog dashed to his new owner, trailing behind him as they walked back to their neighborhood.

            “Aye, you plannin’ on fightin’ him?” Thoro asked, referring to Desoto.

            “I don’t know,” Trevor shrugged. “Maybe, but probably not.” He suddenly stopped walking when a graffiti tag caught his eye. Thoro noticed Trevor go in his book bag and take out a can of spray paint.

            “Com’ on bruh. We aint got time for that,” he grumbled.

            “I aint doin’ nothin’ serious. I’m just lettin’ this nigga know what’s up,” Trevor said, painting his signature over the other artist’s design.

           

            By the time they reached their neighborhood, it had gotten dark. Trevor was on his phone texting while walking. Desoto lingered behind him, sniffing every inch of ground he could.

            “Ight dog,” Thoro said, halting at the steps of his apartment building. He and Trevor dapped up. “We’ll see what’s good tomorrow.”

            “I don’t know man, I work from five to close, but we can put somethin’ in the air.” Trevor replied, referring to smoking. Thoro nodded and took a seat on the porch steps. Trevor made his way to his apartment building when some one called out to him.

            “Aye, Pyro!” A voice shouted. Trevor turned around and saw his brother’s car parked across the street. “Aye let me holla at you real quick.” Trevor and Desoto jogged across the road to Heavy’s vehicle. Heavy rolled down his window all the way. “Hop in man.”

            Trevor opened the door, getting greeted by clouds of marijuana smoke. “What up?” He asked, leaning back in the seat.

            “Man when you got a dog?” Heavy questioned. He looked outside the window, watching Desoto pace around the car. “Look like one of Pit’s dogs.”

            “He was, I had bought him off that nigga,” Trevor explained.

            “Oh word, … you gon’ fight em?” Heavy wondered. He lifted the blunt to his mouth and smoked it.

            “Nope,”

            “True,” he muttered. Heavy slightly coughed after inhaling more smoke. “Man lemme ask you somethin’,” Trevor’s eyes showed his brother he was listening. “You packin?”

            “Naw bruh,” Trevor shook his head. “For what? I aint got no beef like that.”

            “Shit, Not from what I heard. You know Zone aint it? He be slangin’ dope in the Lake?” Heavy referred to the neighborhood Silver Lake.

            Trevor sat up in the seat, wondering what was going on. “Yea. He one of them niggas that jumped me. What about him?”

            “I heard he lookin’ for you.” Heavy informed.

            Trevor thought about the altercation he had with Zone. “I aint surprised…” he muttered. “I got at that nigga like a week ago.”

            Heavy cracked a big smile. “I know.” His smile quickly vanished and he reached in his pants, pulling out an old 357 revolver. “But for real though. You gon need somethin’ to hold yo self down. I got yo back, but I aint always gon be around,” He dropped the gun in his brother’s lap. “You rememba’ how to shoot?”

            Trevor took the revolver and slipped it in his jean pocket. “Yea, you taught me everythin’ I need to know.” he nodded.

            “Good.” Heavy passed his blunt to Trevor and stared out of the window. “I don’ had a few run-ins with Zone myself.” He turned to his brother, looking him dead in the eyes. “You gon have to buss somethin’.”