Gangpire

List

This book is dedicated to my mother, for being the complete opposite of Smoker Tracey in every possible way, and always being there for me, unconditionally.

To my brother Deon, my friends Jornal, Eli, Jason, Raymundo, Glen, Larry, Thrett, Dennis, Moe and Reggie. To my family Kalle, Tascia, Bofta, Tadu, Eden, Hiruy, Salem and Tita.

Special acknowledgements to my cousin Lenny, and my friends Igwe and Kemi Waters for their outstanding artistic help and support.

––––––––

In memory of Sky, Tiana, Brian, Sheba and Seattle.

Prologue

It was well past 3 am in the drug and street gang infested Brookfield neighborhood of East Oakland, California. Two figures lurked in the shadows of a dark street corner.

Oh shit homie, you see the white El Dorado parked across the street? The taller of the two, a hood named Set Trip asked his smaller cohort. Yeah, I see it, why what’s up? Baby Menace asked. Cuzz, that’s Bobcat’s car. That fool tried to dump on me in front of Ken’s store the other week. While he spoke, Set Trip pulled a .45 from his waistband, and chambered a round in one fluid motion. Come on little homie, it’s time to get active. Baby Menace nodded and grabbed his dingy .38 snub nose from the front pocket of his dark blue hoodie and followed Set Trip who was creeping to the side of the parked Cadillac. Both crouched down low against its fender.

The door to the house in front of which the white car was parked opened, and a tall black man, dressed in all black, emerged into the cool January night air. His permed hair, styled in shiny Shirley Temple curls, reflected off the porch light, bouncing around his dark face. He stopped on the top the stairs for a moment, looking suspiciously around, and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he walked towards his car. At that moment Set Trip jumped up and opened fire. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! His small cannon roared to life. Baby Menace came around the hood of the car and squeezed the trigger of his secondhand handgun. It jammed without ever firing. Bobcat although struck by several bullets managed to raise his 9mm and squeezed off a few rounds before he fell dead on his stomach.

One of the slugs ripped through Baby Menace’s baby face, ending his short 16 years of life. Set Trip took off running down a filthy alley, disappearing into the dark... One of the anonymous rounds raced through the window of an apartment across the street. The slug bounced off the kitchen sink before it crashed into the refrigerator.

The loud bang kidnapped Tacoma from his deep sleep. He jumped up and raced the short distance across the hallway that separated his room from his sisters. CeCe, are you okay? Answer me, are you okay? He yelled as his fists hammered at her door. The door lock clicked open and a young girl, groggily with her eyes still half shut appeared through the crack. What’s wrong, what’s gotten into you? She asked in the slurred dialect of a sleepwalker. He sighed in relief, Everything’s okay sis, go back to sleep. It was just some idiots shooting outside. The young girl shook her head. Again? Gosh, I can’t wait till we can move somewhere else, dude. Ok, I see you in the morning. I’m going back to sleep. She shut her door. He smiled and stumbled back to his room, locked the door and flopped on top of his bed. He was in deep sleep before negotiating his arms to pull the blanket back over him.

CHAPTER 1

The alarm clock screamed at him like a demon giving birth. He stretched, and strained to shake off the cobwebs in his head and prepared himself for another long day, plopping a cigarette to his lips. Aside from the burglar bars on the window, his room was that of any normal 17 year old. His entire wardrobe was piled and crumbled on the floor, posters of rappers and rock bands decorated the walls. A small stereo, TV, and skateboard leaned on a dresser. Besides the skateboard, his most prized possession was his tattoo equipment which occupied the remainder of his small domain. He bought the equipment for $ 20 at his job a year ago from the local crack head fence named Happy Hour. He has been busy ever since, and kept awake by tattooing the neighborhood thugs long into the night. He wished he would have the time for a real apprenticeship, especially under the tutelage of the legendary Tuki Carter and Mya Bailey; having gotten sick already of the unchallenging redundancy of doing gang tattoos. He vowed that once he owned his own shop he will refuse any request of tattooing any more moneybags, drama masks, or an AK-47, ever again. But for now, that’s what was giving him the practice he needed and more importantly, it helped put food on the table for him and his baby sister.

He grabbed his shower kit, unlocked his door and stepping out into the hallway, he immediately locked it with a key that was on a dog tag chain around his neck, which always stayed around his neck. If your mother is a junkie and you don’t want to buy all your shit back from Happy Hour, this is a normal precaution in the Washington residence. If he had his way, his mother wouldn’t even have a key to their apartment, but his sister insisted that he doesn’t change the locks. It was her way of keeping hope alive that one day their mother will miraculously turn into a TV commercial mom. After coming out of the shower, he knocks on his sister’s door and calls her by a nickname only he could get away with. Rise and shine Cece, it’s another beautiful day in the Bay, baby!! He hollered in his best radio personality voice. Her door unlocks immediately, Sir, my name is Seattle R. Washington, but if I find this Cece you speak of I’ll tell her I have a gorgeous brother with stinky cigarette booger breath that’s looking for her. Seattle said in a singsong way. Tacoma laughed and countered, Well, if you are going to play matchmaker, see to it that she’s taller sitting down, than standing up. Seattle was momentarily stumped until her mind could picture a woman with the physique her brother hinted at. Ewh, retard, you and your gross ghetto taste, she snickered at him.

He went back to his room and began to rummage through the pile of clothes scattered on the floor, looking for a semi-clean outfit to wear. Geez, you are so sloppy dude, he heard Seattle say behind him, and before he could think of a reply, she continued, After school, I’m going to wash all your clothes so you don’t have to look all hella bummy and stuff. She reached into the pile and began assembling an outfit for him to wear. She always seemed to find a way to coordinate color schemes together in ways he never thought off, thus making it appear as if he owned more clothes than he actually did. Watching her as she was picking out a pair of tight, olive green slim fit corduroy pants, and a black and burgundy Santa Cruz Skateboard’s T-shirt, he couldn’t help but notice how his 12-year-old sister began taking the physical shape of a young woman. Seattle had unusual light tobacco brown, orange-flecked eyes, a peanut butter skin tone, and long, curly, raven black hair. Now that her body was forming it wouldn’t be long before problems would form as well.

Oblivious to his daymare, Seattle chatted on You know Sabrina’s big sister Tammy? Sabrina was a classmate of hers he has never seen, but there was only one Tammy he could think of. The stripper? he asked with the delight of a six-year-old at Six Flags. Dude, she’s hella rancid, she already has like 70 kids, but anyways, she said she wanted you to tattoo a butterfly on her butt, so I said that you are going to charge her by the acre, hahaha, anyways, when are you going to teach me how to tattoo some more? Tacoma stared at her, You told her what? Dude, was she pissed? He didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. I don’t care if she was, if she thought she was going to flirt with you and get it done for free, she thought wrong. So I made her agree to pay you 75 bucks. By the way, when are you going to teach me some more? Tacoma was impressed; $75 was 50 more than he would have asked for a butterfly tattoo. As much as he was worried about protecting his sister, he didn’t always notice how much she actually looked out for him.

Seattle was an amazing drawing artist for her age and he expected her to surpass his skills if she kept at it. She was also a gifted skateboarder and he planned to get her a pro contract, once he would get legal custody of her in about a year. Tomorrow we will tattoo some pig’s ears okay? Did you give her my number? Tacoma asked while tying the laces of his dusty pair of Chuck Taylors and checking his pockets to make sure he had all he needed while out. Oh I can’t wait. Maybe if I do a good job I can tattoo you again! Oh, and yeah, she said she’ll call you today. Her words came out with a huge smile brought on by the thought of practicing with her big brother’s tattoo equipment. She locked her room after she retrieved her book bag, and met Tacoma at the front door; together they exited the apartment.

CHAPTER 2

They walked past the yellow crime scene tape from the previous night’s murder scene. Their Chuck Taylors crunched on broken glass as they navigated past the spray painted buildings and the open market of the local crack commerce. I am beginning to worry about Mom, she hasn’t stopped by in like two weeks, Seattle announced as they passed a group of gang bangers shooting dice on the sidewalk. Don’t worry, she’s just on one of her binges, I bet if you forget to lock away the microwave in one of the rooms, she would be home to pawn it before you could say Hot Pockets, Tacoma snorted with utter disdain.

My babies, hey y’all, look at my gorgeous babies! Give ya Mama some dollars Tacoma! Speak of the devil he thought, as he located the skeleton from which the voice came from. Their make-believe mother crawled out from an alley smelling like a safari. Hi Mom, Seattle said. Hey CeCe, their mother mumbled without making eye contact with her daughter, therefore, not noticing Seattle’s frowned face, nor hear her mumble under her breath. Don’t call me that. The nonchalant disregard towards her own daughter made Tacoma’s blood boil, knowing it was him her focus was really on. Give me some money son, help me out, will yah, she begged in a whiny voice. Tacoma spat on the ground, Not today, Tracy, he told her. Nigga, I’m yo mama dontchu call me by my first name. Really? Since when? Kick rocks, Tracy...hehe, get it? Kick rocks, as in Narcotics Anonymous He totally bungled the clever punch line he heard on a Ras Kass song. He laughed at her, grabbing his sister’s hand and briskly walked away, not wanting Seattle to see their mother in this condition. You arrogant piece of shit, punk ass bastard! She yelled after them as they approached the school.

He ignored her, but Seattle turned to look back at their mother and asked him, You think she’s ever going to get clean so she can live with us again? Tacoma clenched his fists and mumbled under his breath, Who cares... sorry, I mean, I hope so, but at the end of the day know that we got each other and I’ll always be there for you, just like how you always be there to help me look less sloppy and keep me from tattooing stripper ass cheeks for free. Seattle laughed at him while a single teardrop ran down her face, I love you too, Retardo Di’Capribro, she sniffed as she wrapped her arms around his lanky frame. "Okay, now go in there and get your li’l ass in that classroom, grrrrh,’ he mockingly barked at her as she ran up the stairs into the school building. Tacoma could tell that Seattle was still upset after their encounter with their mother.

Tacoma turned around and headed to his day job. He pulled out his phone to call his best friend Pedro, who has earned the nickname Raider because he wore an eye patch over his right eye. Years ago when they were throwing rocks at an abandoned car trying to break the windshield; just being destructive nine year old boys, one of the rocks ricocheted off the cracked windshield and crashed directly into Pedro’s now empty eye socket. The two knew each other since 1st grade, and were just as much different as they were alike. Tacoma early on developed a sense of individuality that almost bordered on a phobia of being typical anything. He resented the notion that he was supposed to fit a category, act a certain way, and dress a certain way, just because he was a dirt-poor black kid from East Oakland. He liked punk rock and skateboarding as much as he liked underground rap and graffiti art. His eccentric oddball self- standard also rubbed off on his sister, and they were commonly viewed as strange and even snobbish. Which was far from the truth, they were very aware of their place at the bottom of society’s barrel, but the snob label worked in their favor. It kept people away from trying to get too close to them, protecting their carefully guarded secret of living by themselves without parents for most of their lives. A secret that if found out would split the siblings apart by placing them in foster homes.

Raider on the other hand would seize every opportunity to live up to the stereotype of being from the ghetto, as if it was a badge of honor. He would decorate his language with as many obscenities and slang words as he could. He would lie about being able to speak Spanish because he thought it wasn’t cool; especially since he was dark skinned and didn’t remotely look Hispanic. But despite their different outlook the boys shared a catalog of mischievous feats they engaged in, and loving each other dearly, including Seattle. Besides Raider, only three others knew of their arrangement; among those is Slow Poke, an ex-con OG Crip who lived with them for a while after his most recent prison release. Back then Raider’s grand-mother Mama Marcella fed them and paid all their bills before Tacoma found ways to do so himself. She also home schooled them when Raider was kicked out of school, and Tacoma dropped out to work when they were sixth graders. The third to know their secret was Ken, Tacoma’s employer.

Pedro picked up and Tacoma growled, Raider Nation, what’s up into the phone. Hey what’s up cuzz? Raider retorted. Man, I need you to take Cece home from school, maybe Ken lets me put in some extra hours. Tacoma didn’t really had to ask, because Seattle was just as much a sister to Pedro as she was to him. Ok, fo sho’, just text me loc, oh and cuzz, I got some shit for you to check out too, man. What’s up? Tacoma asked curiously. I’ll have to show it to you when you get off from work. I’m gone, cuzz Raider declared and the line went dead.

CHAPTER 3

After hanging up the phone, Raider’s real mood surfaced. During the brief phone call with his best and only friend, he was able to conceal his lonesome depression. Raider hated his life, he hated the trailer they lived in, itfelt like a prison to him. Even so, his drug-dealing father could afford a mansion; he wanted to keep a low profile. Sure, his father and uncles tried to make up for it by laying more cash on him than he could spend, but that was part of the problem. What’s the point of having loot when you can go nowhere to spend it? It’s only so much shit you can order from the internet, before it becomes boring, he thought. He often wished he could be in Tacoma’s shoes; true enough, Tacoma was always broke, and had to use all the money he made to pay bills and take care of Seattle. But at least he was free to come and go as he pleased, and meeting hella’ bitches at his job. No matter how bummy his friend looked, it still beats being the flyest, freshest dressed dude in East Oakland, who plays video games alone in his fuckin’ room all day long. He never understood why his father and uncles made sure that his grandmother kept him under lock and key.

Raider suddenly felt the urge to cut himself, something he hasn’t done in a while, and he missed the jolt of euphoria and power when his blood would rush out, flowing down his arms. Only once did he cut so deep that his arms resembled the Niagara Falls, and he fell out. When he woke up, he was in his bed and his arms were heavily bandaged, yet he felt no pain or soreness, he usually experienced after slicing himself up. He carefully removed the bandage on his left arm and saw that he didn’t have a gash or scab, hell, he didn’t even had as much as a swelling. It was almost as if he never cut himself at all. He knew Mama Marcella practiced Santeria, he suspected she must have healed him with her secret spells and potions. He re-bandaged his arm and planned to pretend to play the fool.... for now.

Raider lifted his mattress and glanced at the book he had wedged underneath there. Good, it’s still there, the fool playing days are just about over, he chuckled to himself. He got up and put on a flashy outfit for when he would go and pick up Seattle from school later. You never know, one might meet some bitches, he figured. He left his room to tell Mama Marcella that he’d be going to pick the girl up for Tacoma.

Five blocks later Tacoma arrived at Brookfield Food Center, better known as Ken’s store, a bodega style corner store where he ran the deli section, making sandwiches, fried chicken, and potato wedges for Ken’s customers. In front of the store Li’l Blacc Out, one of the neighborhood gang bangers, was proudly gripping a 40 oz. bottle of Olde English, having already begun his own work shift of peddling crack and meth.

At 22 years old Li’l Blacc Out or L-Bo for short had already a large beer belly from drinking 40’s that he looked like he was approaching his own 40’s. Loc Life fool, what’s cracking li’l nigga, L-Bo snapped at Tacoma. What’s up L-Bo, I see you are at it already huh? he replied, pointing at the bottle of beer. Yeah nigga, you know, anything else would be uncivilized, haha. Say homie, when are you going to stop being scary and get put on the set, we always got space for a young thumper like you, cuzz? Pressuring, no, more like trying to bully Tacoma to join the neighborhood gang was L-Bo’s version of small talk as long as he could remember. Big homie, you know I’m not cut out for that life, he responded and moved past L-Bo’s big belly into the store. The bell chimed, what’s up Ken? Tacoma said to his boss. Ken Sanders was an older dark skinned black man with a baldhead and a neatly trimmed gray beard. Ken owned the store for a 1000 years; it seemed like. Having opened it back when East Oakland was a middle class neighborhood made up by the many black people lured to the Bay Area from the south, when the shipping yards still offered decent wages. Ken took Tacoma under his wings on a very memorable day six years ago.

Okay Cece, we gonna play pirates today, an eleven year old Tacoma told his then six year old sister, as they marched hand in hand on cracked pavement towards Ken’s store. Okey dokey, this time I’mma be the bestest girl pirate ever! Seattle jumped excitedly up and down. Alright, here is what we gonna do. I go in first, you wait here and count till eight and then come in. Just go straight to the magazine rack and knock some down and say Mommy I want this. Got it?’’ Tacoma knelt down to be eye to eye with his little sister. Wait, what’s my pirate name? You said last time I was gonna get a real pirate name. She stomped her foot and crossed her arms over her chest. Uh...uh..., Maiden Rain, that’s your pirate name. Ok? Hmm, ok, I like that one, and what’s your name? Right then Tacoma’s stomach growled, sounding like a saxophone. Captain Starved, he answered, and Seattle giggled. Aye, aye Captain Starved, what’s the plan again? Tacoma let out a doomed sigh and repeated his instructions. He briefly wondered if he shouldn’t just hang around Raider’s trailer until Mama Marcella would give them some lunch. But stupid Raider threw a garden snake at him a couple of days ago, and they haven’t spoken since. He hates snakes, and his friend knew that. He wasn’t ready yet to forgive and forget.

Tacoma walked into the store and went directly to the meat cooler, priding himself for not stopping at the comic books first. Maybe he could swipe some on his way out. The store was empty, which will make their quest quite difficult. Just then the bell chimed, and Seattle stepped in. Her thick, unruly hair, sticking out any which way. He unsuccessfully tried to comb her hair into a ponytail this morning. Mama, I wanna coloring book! Seattle yelled out and kicking the magazine rack as hard as she could. Tacoma immediately began stuffing frozen meat packs under his shirt. Not one magazine fell down; Tacoma glanced at the counter, but couldn’t see the old man. He stuffed more ground beef in his waist, shivering from the cold meat sticking to his skin, when he felt an even colder shiver running down his spine. He could sense Ken standing right behind him. Tacoma knew he was caught before he felt a heavy hand grabbing him by his shirt collar. Run Cece!! he yelled trying at the same time to wrestle himself free from the man’s grip, when he saw that Ken already had his sister by her shirt sleeve with his other hand.

Please, don’t call the police, please sir, just let us go. I got a big suitcase full of money, I promise I’ll come back and give you some. I swear sir; just don’t call the cops on us! Tacoma pleaded with the old man who stood in front of them blocking off the exit after he took them both behind the counter. Seattle, scared and confused was crying loudly. Ken almost laughed out loud at the boy trying to hustle him. If you have a suit case full of money son, you should’a paid for it. Uhuh, I’m callin’ the cops on ya both. Ya’ll finna learn a lesson today, and get a good spanking from your parents. "Wait! Ok, I was lying, I got’s no money sir, but please, please don’t call the police. I’ll sweep your floors, for like a year. I’ll do anything, we didn’t eat like in two days, and