If so, then what took place next must undoubtedly have been by the design of that
great hand, as well.
The homeboys turned onto the street from South Broadway, looking to cut across to Grand Boulevard. The car they rode in was a brand new Chrysler 300C, pimped the hell out, and issued a quaking bass rumble from its top-end stereo system. Its 20-inch rims flashed silver under the streetlights, almost a match for the car's vibrantly burning metallic red paint. As far as the homeboys were concerned, their ride was the center of the universe.
Inside the sedan that looked like it was pumped up with steroids were the homeboys. G-Riders. Use whatever rap video-furnished cliche you want. There were three of them, all African-American. (Or black. Or brown. Or just plain American. It depends on who one talks to these days.) At the wheel was Mad Dawg, a.k.a. M.A.Dawg...born Marvin Anderson, 23 years old. Co-pilot sitting next to him was T-Bone...born Terry Wilkins, 21 years of age. The last taking up the back seat, just chillin', was the pup of the group: Bennie J...born Benjamin Jefferson, who had known 18 years on this earth.
All had criminal records longer than the proverbial arm of a booking officer. Convictions for dealing, assault with a deadly weapon, carjacking and G.T.A., and other assorted crimes...and that was when they were still juveniles. All were considered veterans of their set, hardcore gangstas, and proof positive that one should question why eating one's young was limited to allegedly lower rungs of the food chain. The three had been buddies since forever, coming up in their hood. All held the same interests, especially the street-born philosophy of getting rich quick and maybe dying in the attempt. All three suffered from the same lack of empathy for their fellow human beings as any borderline sociopath.
They embodied the American Dream at its worst, re-imagined by predatory minds as a free fire zone.
As they cruised down the street all three saw the woman on their right, who walked on the sidewalk in the opposite direction of their route of travel, from under the car's chopped top.
T-Bone raised his bling-studded glasses from his eyes, unsure of what he was seeing. But after a second he burst out, "Check it out, check it OWWWT!"
No longer chillin', Bennie J sat up in the back and stared. "What the fuck -- ?!"
Mad Dawg couldn't help but smile at the sight. "The hell's the deal with this hoochie?!"
T-Bone editorialized, "Sweet meat, that's for sho'!"
Bennie J shook his head. "Freak can't be right in the head, man, walkin' round naked like dat!"
They cruised past her, and all three homeboys turned their heads at the same time, not taking their eyes off her. That included Mad Dawg, who realized quickly he should be keepin' his eyes on the fuckin' road, and turned forward again. He slowed down, still computing what he saw.
Which was exactly what his fellow gangstas were doing. T-Bone turned to him, excited. "Gotta be a ho, Dawg. Jus' gotta be!"
Mad Dawg brought their whip to a stop. He looked intently at the woman in the rear-view mirror. "The hell's her deal, fellahs? What'chu think?"
Bennie J from the backseat: "Ain't got no fuckin' clue, Dawg."
T-Bone responded by looking at the driver with predatory hunger in his eyes. "Maybe she be willin' to make a deal with us?"
"I dunno." Dawg looked back at his co-pilot, then back at the woman, still walking away from them. Yeah, he thought, be a sweet deal we'd make wit' her, whether she likes it or not. But now ain't the right friggin' time, we got shit to do. Speaking of deals: the homeboys were in the middle of making a shipment. Five pounds of uncut heroin, seated firmly in the spacious trunk of their 300C with their heaviest artillery. They were supposed to deliver it to the Hot Biscuit, a strip club in the county, and to its manager...Antonio 'Tony' Pucci, local captain to the main man Nico Roccoli himself. It'd be a bad fucking idea to be late.
Late, shit! A smile grew on Dawg's face. We been makin' such good time, we'll get there early. And so what if we're just a little late? We'll just tell 'em we got stuck in fuckin' traffic. In spite of the possibilty it would have looked bad for them in the eyes of Pucci and maybe even Boss Roccoli, his hormones spoke louder than his brain cells.
Mad Dawg proclaimed, "Shit, let's find out!" He hit the gas and turned the car around in the direction they came. Toward the woman.
T-Bone bayed at the low ceiling of their ride like the figurative wolf: "Ow!-Ow!-
OWWOOO!" Bennie J just sat in the back with a dubious look on his face. He wasn't so sure about this shit.
Pointed in the opposite direction, the Chrysler moved leisurely forward until it reached the woman, who was now on its driver's side. It slowed further until it began to keep pace with her. All four windows of the sedan slid down with automatic grace. Three occupants looked out at her...two with hunger, one with building uncertainty.
If she was aware of them or their vehicle, she gave no indication.
Mad Dawg turned down the volume and poked his head out. "Yo, girl! Where ya
goin'?"