Straight Up

I ain’t here to tell you a story.  And I ain’t here to tell you want you want to hear.

I’m here to tell you how it went down.  Straight up.

Now I know you’re saying, “Damn, nigga, you never told the truth in your life.”  But this is different.

I should have known something was up.  The air felt different--hot.  And in San Fernando Valley, you never know when it’s gonna be hot, except in the summer.  But when it’s ninety in January and the sun’s cooking the streets, you damn well stay inside and blast the AC.

That was my mistake.  I didn’t do the smart thing.

You see, I got this call.

Here I am, right around lunch time on a Saturday, got nothing to do but pick up a dog and Big Gulp from 7-Eleven down in Reseda.  So, me and my boy, Reza--this crazy-ass Persian dude--were chillin’ and eating outside the store when my cell phone rang.

Now, the last thing anyone wants to do is talk to someone when they real hungry, right?  But the phone wouldn’t stop ringing. 

“Chris, you gonna get that or what?” Reza asked in his thick-ass accent. 

“Nah,” I said.  “Got to eat, yo.  Whoever it is can leave a damn message.”

The ringing stopped.  But just when I was about to take another bite, it started again.  I pulled the phone out, checked the display, and answered.

“What up, Hater?  What you want?”

“Chris, I told you to stop calling me that.” 

His name was really Federico, but like a woman, he always screwed up our game at the club.  So we all called him Hater.

“All right, Freddy, what up?  Reza and I are trying to eat.”

“They want to meet.  Right now.”

“Come on, man.  It’s too damn hot.  We got plans:  chill; maybe meet up with these honeys.”

“No, it’s either we meet now or we’re out.”

I turned to Reza.  “They want to meet now.”

Reza shrugged. 

“All right, Freddy, where at?”

“You know the Starbucks by the 101?”

“The one on Topanga and Ventura?”

“Yeah.  They want to meet there.”

“You crazy?  We gonna meet at a damn Starbucks?”

“Yeah, that’s what they want.  You in or not, cause I gotta call them back?”

“Yeah, we in.”

And just like that, our asses were driving over to the Starbucks in Woodland Hills.  I tell you, that place ain’t nothing but a hangout for wannabe actors, porn stars, and all the riff-raff that has nothing better to do.

So we got there and Hater was already sitting outside smoking, drinking a Frappu-something next to these two guys dressed up like Middle Eastern players.  They wore shades, and one of the guys was messing with his Mercedes key ring, like he was trying to show off or something.

“Looks like your people,” I whispered to Reza as we walked up.

“They’re Jews, stupid.”

So we met.

Reza and I sat down with the last bit of our Big Gulps while these guys drank lattes or whatever the hell it was they were drinking in the heat.  The conversation was flat:  “Hey, what’s up?  This is so-and-so”--that sort of thing.  And the one guy with key ring, Mike, did all the talking while his partner sipped all noisy on his drink.

“So,” Mike said, “Freddy tells me you got the ‘donations.’” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said.  “We got ‘em.  And we ready to roll if you are.”

Mike played with his keys, taking a moment to ponder or whatever.  It was too bad I couldn’t see his eyes; would’ve known what he was thinking.

“Sounds good,” he said.  “Meet us at eleven, but lose the red.”

I knew what he was thinking:  don’t look like a Blood, like you in a gang.  “All right.  We’ll be there.  Just bring the receipts for our donations, aight?”

And that was that.

You know, I didn’t like this Mike guy or his quiet friend.  But money was money.  If I had the goods and these guys had the connections, then why not?  My mama was always complaining, saying, “Chris, you ain’t nothing but a lazy, no good liar who ain’t ever gonna go nowhere.”  And she was right.  But it was time to change things:  move up; be a player; get a new ride. 

“It’s payday!” Reza said all excited on our way home.  “You want me to call Omar?”

“Nah, Omar’s c-razy.  He’d be the first one to shoot things up, and I don’t want any trouble.  Not tonight.  I got somebody else in mind.”

So it was settled.  Reza and I would bring the goods, and our friend, Dough, would wait just out of sight with his twelve-gauge--just in case.

But like I said, I had this feeling.  And I couldn’t shake it.

Ten PM--do you know where your gangsta at? 

We knew.  We was in Reza’s nasty-ass, rundown Honda, smoking a little weed, getting in the mood for the transaction.  And that was another mistake.  Smoking.  It always messed with my head.  Never learned, did I?

Driving down Ventura Blvd that night, we listened to a little 50-Cent with the windows down, arms out, bass booming.  Every cutie turned her head, but when they saw Reza’s rice rocket, there was no love.  All the more reason to get this deal over with. 

We got to the meeting place early.  Why Hater agreed to Agoura Hills, I don’t know.  It was where the rich people lived, a hotspot for a lot of heavyweights in the movie biz--not the place I would have picked to transact. 

Reza took Kanan Road exit and drove toward Malibu.  With lots of canyons and such, there was plenty of places out of the way.  We took a side road and pulled into some unmarked clearing, the kind of place I pictured rich, white kids hanging out bumping uglies.

“Pull over,” I said. 

“Where’s Dough?” Reza asked.

“I think he’s posted up over there.”  Fresh tire tracks led around this trail behind a bunch of bushes.

Sure enough, I got a text message from Dough a second later.  He was in place, strapped and ready to go.

Stars, fresh smells, warm weather--who could have asked for a better night?  Even my shirt was clean.  I don’t know why Mike wanted me to change clothes.  It wasn’t like we was trying to get into a club wearing gang colors or anything.

Before I knew it, eleven o’clock rolled around.  Sure enough, we got company:  two sets of headlights, one more than expected.  Reza and I sat on the hood of his powered-off car, waiting. 

“Two cars?” Reza asked.

“Don’t know.  Don’t care.  Dough’s got our back.  Know what I’m saying?”    

“If you say so.”

The first car was a Mercedes--Mike’s probably.  The second was a black Escalade with tinted windows and killer rims--my kind of ride.

“Damn,” said Reza, “I’d like to roll up in that.”

I didn’t respond.  I was thinking.  Freddy never said anything about two cars.  Dough’s fat ass had better be ready, that’s all I cared about.

The cars pulled up.  Mike and his quiet friend got out first.  They left the headlights on, so I could hardly see their faces.

“Hey guys,” Mike said.  After shaking hands, he looked at my shirt and gave me a thumbs up.  Like I could give a damn.

Then four guys got out of the Escalade.  White boys.  That’s when I knew something was up.  Why so many?  I had a thirty-eight in the trunk with the donations, but it wasn’t gonna to do much good if these guys were strapped.  And Dough had just one gun.  We needed a sniper or something. 

“This is Cal,” Mike said, introducing the white boy with the Tommy Bahamas shirt.  “Cal, this is Chris and-- sorry, forgot your friend’s name.”

“Never mind that,” I said, eyeing the others.  “What up with the crowd?” 

Mike gave me that phony smile of his.  “Business partners.”

“Alright Cal and ‘business partners,’ how about we do some business?”

“See,” Mike said to Cal, “I told you this guy was all right.” 

“Okay,” said Cal, “let’s see what you got.”

And so we went around to the trunk of Reza’s car.  After popping it, I unzipped the duffel bag, revealing the taped-up plastic bags of our donations:  crystal meth--nothing but the best shit to pump into your veins.

Cal snapped his fingers and one of his guys, this tall, funny-looking dude, came up. 

“May I?” said Cal.

I gave him a bag and he gave it to his boy, who wet his finger, pulled back the tape and got himself a sample taste.

There was something about this guy--something that made me say to myself, “Chris, get your ass out of here right now.”  But my ass stayed put.

“So?” I said to Cal.  “We good?”

The guy nodded to Cal, who said to me, “We’re good.”

“And the price?  We okay with that, right?”

“Sure.  Mike will handle the details.  It’s his deal.”

And that’s when I knew we were done for. 

I ain’t the smartest thug in the hood, but when it comes to this kind of stuff, my brain’s like a goddamn computer.  Every movement; every word; every signal.  It’s like IBM up in my head. 

Behind the car, I already saw the other white dudes moving, hands reaching behind them.  Reza had no idea what was about to go down, but I did. 

For a second I thought about reaching into the trunk beneath the duffel bag and pulling out my gun.  Still can’t understand why I didn’t.  Maybe the Lord put His hand over mine.  Maybe it was my mama’s voice in my head.  Don’t know.

Which was why I just stood there when the guns pointed at us.  Sure enough they were cops, badges out.  I wasn’t eighteen yet, but I knew there was jail time coming my way.

“Put your hands up!” Mike ordered.

That was the last thing he said, too.  Old Dough plugged him good.  I heard the snap of branches, followed by gunfire, but I didn’t move.  It was like slow motion.

Poor Reza--he took a bullet to the head.  Never had a chance.  And that white prick, Cal--he got his face shredded.  But Dough--his fat ass took five bullets before he fell.  I still can’t believe it. 

And me?  Well, you see where I’m at, here in this hospital bed, all jacked up.  I ain’t going nowhere.  And I’ve got this invisible label up top my head saying “cop killer.”  At least that’s what the newspapers are calling me.

But like I said in the beginning, I ain’t here to tell you what you want to hear. 

You may be thinking I’m making this all up--that I’m the one who pulled the trigger and killed them cops.  But I tell you what?  Look in my eyes and you tell me if I’m making this shit up.  I guarantee you won’t.  Cause you heard it firsthand from me.  Straight up.

THE END

©2006 Steve Pantazis. All rights reserved.