“If I was you, I’d call the police on that muthafucka,” Reese said. “I wouldn’t have no nigga putting his hands on me.”

“Reese, why don’t you stop instigating,” Billy said. “You wasn’t talking that shit when Bone used to put his foot in your ass.”

“Fuck you, Billy. This ain’t about me.”

“You know damn well Rhonda and Paul will be fighting today and friends tomorrow. Don’t try to add fire to the shit.”

“Nah, I ain’t gonna call the police, but I’m gonna fix that nigga,” Rhonda plotted. “Paul is gonna learn just what kind of bitch his baby mama is.”

5

The sun had dipped below the shoreline of the Hudson River, bringing the temperature down with it, but that still didn’t stop the action on the busy streets of Harlem. The popular avenues, such as Lenox, Seventh, and Eighth, were still buzzing with people, and police. The Beast always patrolled Harlem in the summer, like tourists on the boardwalk, trying to catch somebody dirty or harass someone minding their own business in search of the all-demanding quota set forth by the mayor and his henchmen.

On the side of the bodega on 142nd and Lenox, a group of young men stood around shooting dice. Open containers sat on the ground and atop cars, with the sweet smell of weed smoke lingering like an unseasonable fog. Though all the players wore smiles and laughed good-naturedly, there was plenty of larceny present, each man wanting to relieve the others of whatever cash, or in some cases jewels, that they were willing to play for. A few buildings over sat the governing chickenhead council of those parts, doing what they did best: killing time.

Yoshi, Rhonda, and Reese sat on the stoop of a slightly dilapidated building, drinking cognac from foam cups and swapping stories with some of the locals. The excitement of that afternoon had come and gone, giving away to the anticipation of what the night might bring. If you played the hood long enough, you were bound to see something noteworthy.

“Yo, my ass is sore as hell from riding that motorcycle all day,” Yoshi said, massaging her thighs.

“Either that, or letting Scooter pound you in your shit box,” Reese snickered.

“Fuck you, Reese. You always got some slick shit to say. Don’t act like you ain’t never take it in the ass, bitch.”

“That was only once and I didn’t like it, ho,” Reese lied. Truth be told, she took it in the ass from time to time, depending on whom she was with and what she thought the act could get her. Reese knew that she wasn’t as pretty as Yoshi or Billy, and hardly as cunning as Rhonda, so she had to get it however she could. Young men traded stories about her on a regular basis, but she chalked it up as taking one for the team.