The Nine

Chapter 7.1: Wallace

I sped home in my 2005 Camry. I had bought it during my days of hustling with Cay, but I nearly immediately regretted the decision; a man of my caliber could've been whipping much better considering I had a closet full of Versace, Giuseppe, and Cartier. Moms was waiting on me when I walked in the house a little past noon.

As the only child, I had always been a spoiled lil nigga. I had it all too good. Gifted, a musical prodigy, I was too smart for my own good. Cayman came in my life when I was bout six, and that was my nigga ever since. He brought out the very worse in me, or so moms thought, and she made it her point early in life to keep me in check. But Mabelline West was no strict or overbearing mother - in fact, my mama was the opposite. She was the kind, fifty year old candy lady of Bonita Park who I was currently staying with.

I had some tax problems recently and, long story short, my house that I grinded hard for and bought at the age of twenty-one got foreclosed on. Now, all the money I made from my nine to five and all the money moms made selling lollipops to these bad ass kids went toward getting me back on track. When the Nine got big - and it was only a matter of time - I'd pay her back and then some.

"Hey baby," she greeted me from the kitchen table, which sat in a straight line between the pale yellow hallway and the door. I went over to hug her plump body as she kissed my cheek.

"Hey ma," I said, handing her a Walgreen's bag. "I brought ya medicine."

"Thanks hun," she said, taking the bag from me slowly. Mama had breast cancer, for the second time. It was in its early stages and there was a great chance she pulled through very much okay, so we didn't sweat it. Hell, we ain't even much talk about it. Shacking with her was convenient because she had someone to help her during the rough patch and I could move in with somebody who wouldn't be all in my damn business all day, and I was a very busy man.

Delivering her her pain medicine was first on my list. Next, I had to go to Cayman's and help him out with his... predicament.

I took a quick shower - the church's sanctuary got me hot as a bitch with all them niggas jam-packed in there - and put on a pair of sweatpants and a white Hollister shirt. I'm too big a nigga for this type of shirt, I thought as I squeezed it on. It had always been designated as a sleep shirt, and it had been a while since I wore it - a while - and you could see all a nigga nipples in it. I shook my head at its fit, took it off, and threw it in the trash. I put on a black Hanes undershirt, some all black Air Max 95s and grabbed my keys.

"I gotta head out ma, I'll be back by seven," I called as I walked down the steps of the tiny house and out the door. Cayman's house was a two minute drive away - it was only an expansion of the house that he grew up in, and my mom had never moved since moving to New Orleans before I was born. We were right around the corner from each other.

I walked up the cobblestone driveway of the big, tan house noting what a beautiful day it was outside. It was sunny and clear. Normally I'd be out here having a smoke just watching the clouds roll by, maybe thinking up some beats or something, but today was strictly business.

We were moving more than just drugs.

Last night, he and I had formulated a game plan as soon as he had got off the phone with Sweet. We wasted no time at all. Cayman went to go drop off Sweet's product to his dealers at eleven that night and told them that any money they made selling it - any at all - would be collected this evening. We were gone hire a nigga to go and collect Sweet's head before he collected ours. As always, I knew the perfect guy for the job.

Cayman couldn't have been expecting much, seeing as he only had four surviving dealers and a couple hours for them to sell. It was a shame we wasn't even gone be able to mourn that nigga - what's his name? Marquis? Who died by the police's hands yesterday evening, but that's the way it was on the street. I was surprised it made the morning news (only because a white officer died in the shootout).