Lighter Shade of Brown (Urban Fiction) BWHM

Chapter 32

"It looks the same way it did, before I blew this bitch to dust," Putt said, crossing from the small living space into the even smaller kitchen. "Nothings changed. If I didn't know any better I'd say this was the same house. Loco."

The cash house they damn neared four months back once again stood, or for a more accurate description, it leaned. Putt was right. Maldonado may have had it rebuilt, but it still looked no better than a shot gun shack. The front door swung loose on the hinges, while the porch was one good stomp from caving in. C's refused to complain, though. A couple of months after Reyes had caught his cut, Maldonado presented the house and land to him on a--cocaine residue covered--platter.

Since he'd increased his territory, Maldonado said a more secured spot for product storage was in order. C's was against taking the house. It gave him bad vibes. Too much shit had gone down due to its destruction. Not to mention the countless liters of blood that saturated the ground courtesy of Vasquez's men.

Instead of prosperity, the house represented loss. When he attempted to refuse, Maldonado had insisted with a glare sharper than a scorching red razor blade. Vato wanted to remind C's of just how swiftly things could flip-flop when loyalty was questioned. One minute the cash house was his bitch, nuttin' green daily, and the next she'd devour his ass like a meal and her insides would become his grave. Maldonado didn't have to stress none of that shit, though. He got his meaning like the fucking alphabet.

"When's the first shipment comin' through, yo?" C's asked, eyeing the wood plank floor.

"This Thursday. Just in time for Friday." Putt answered as he inspected the inside of the deep freezer. "Most of the orders from Prichard are locked, but Happy Hill..." Shaking his head, he released a low whistle. "They're a motherfuckin' problem, hombre. Last time we tried to go in that bitch, two jits were strapped the fuck up guarding the gate." He walked to the entrance of the kitchen, and then leaned against the wooden frame where the door was meant to be placed. "It's lookin' more and more like we're gonna have to lay their asses down and flood that joint with our peoples."

C's bobbed his head. "I'm hearin' you, folk but if we do that then that can upset the order in other parts of the city. Prichard isn't that big, yo. Everybody is family in one way or the other. We chop up the block and we could risk plunging the squad into a blood fued." A cockroach skittered over the toe of his shoe, he cringed and made a mental note about getting Julio in there to set off a bomb of Raid. "Can't get money that way. Not while we busy duckin' hollowpoints and returnin shots. It'll fuck up the bottom line and now that I got Maldonado in my pocket, it would be fatal to miss a drop."

"So what you wanna do?" Putt asked.

He remained silent for a moment, while he twisted varibles in his head. Shit over in Happy Hill was too organized. Every D-boy around that bitch worked together to keep him out. Normally, in a project type setting everybody stayed out for self. No one bothered to help the other, regardless if they were homeboys are not. If one rose, then a partner turned crab, and snatched his ass back down into the pile with the rest of them. The only project he knew of that didn't have the crabs in the bucket syndrome was the Ninth, but that was because Tech...

"They're followin' someone." His glare richocheted back to Putt. "Got to be more careful." He shook his head. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner?

"Followin someone? The fuck you talkin' about, vato?" Putt asked, scrunching his face, confused.

C's began to pace the expanse of the raggedy ass shack. "All this time I assumed they didn't want to except my lead because they were still loyal to Reyes. It was the only thing that made sense. Except it didn't." He spun on his heel to face Putt. "Why the hell would black dudes be so loyal to the fuckin' Venezuelans? Long as the coke comes back like cacka lak, then it doesn't matter who the motherfucker supplying it is, ya dig?"