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“You got no one to show off for, Andre,” I say, yanking his head side-to-side. “Your friends have checked out. Someone tried to kill you tonight but they got the wrong house. Who was it?”
“Man, I don’t know what—”
Strike to the head.
“Try again.”
“Cops,” he says in the smart ass tone that any arrogant punk has. “Baby mamma. White people. Gang. They all want me,” he says, trying to smile. A laundry list of potential enemies means he’s doing something right. What a world he lives in.
“Gangs. Name them.”
“Every gang in the world, bitch.”
“Which one tonight?”
He wrenches his body and gets an arm out. I drop my piece onto his face. Grab his flailing wrist. He bucks his head; the gun falls off to the side. Cuts on his nose and inner eyebrow. Both my hands on his, I take his pinky finger.
“We’re out of time, son,” I say. A snap fills the cold air as his cutest finger finds a new angle to point in. My hand down to his head, shove it back under his jaw and push as far as it goes. No scream. I’ll let the burn from the broken bone settle in.
“You answer my question and you get to dry swallow some of that meth in your wallet. It might numb the pain. Plus, the quicker you give me answers as opposed to this gangbanger represent bullshit the quicker you stop losing fingers.”
He struggles against me. Like a snake caught by its tail he whips as hard as he can. I look to his buddies but they do not stir. Once one of them does, this will get out of hand. Fast.
I pull his head up off the porch, slam it back down. His eyes jiggle with the impact. Next finger in hand.
“What’ll it be, Andre?”
“Fuck you—”
Snap.
r /> Hand to throat, pushing back. Struggle as a way to expel the pain from his body since I won’t let him scream. I stop pressing so hard and I see tears cut a path down his face. Now we’re getting somewhere.
Next finger.
“What gang?”
“I roll with the 39th Street Felons! My parole officer gonna know ’bout this! Motherfucker, you goin’ in the pen and I got friends who gonna shower rape your ass—”
Head up off the porch, slam back down.
“Don’t threaten me with butt-fucking, son.” There’s a certain decorum we follow, and cornholing isn’t included.
39th Street Felons. Not what I was asking for but might be just as good. I still know some guys on the gang unit. They’ll know who Andre’s folks cross most often.
Andre groans, trying to fight back sobs. Rolls his head off to the side and spits. That’s a great sign. He spit...and not in my direction. He might not respect me, but he knows the consequence of disrespect. We finally understand one another.
“Who tried to kill you tonight?”
“Don’t know,” he says with a hint of honesty. “Coupla gangs is out for me. We took some hood from the SA Crips. We cornered and jacked some fool who got crew in Los Carniceros or what the fuck ever.”
“The Butchers?” I ask. The Los Carniceros are a Mexican gang who made their name decapitating the families of their adversaries. Gangs and cops went to war with them, and luckily for the world the Carniceros took some heavy losses. But they still exist.
“The street says Thuggie in Carnivore Messiahs is after me. That’s bullshit.”
“If they’re after you, a drive-by is quite tame.”
“Thuggie just got outta the joint. He’s gettin back in the game but he’s gotta lay low so he don’t go back.”
