Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

“I don’t know for certain,” Val replied. “But I will ask you this. If someone took from you what we took from him, would you simply run away? Or would you seek out your revenge?”

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

Val nodded. “For me, as well. And I don’t think that Oleg is so different from either of us.”

“No,” Sergey said. “He was bold enough to steal money from me and to complain about how I ran matters.” He shook his head. “What a fool. You would think that a man who was stealing would remain as quiet as possible, so as not to attract attention to himself.”

“Not every man is capable of remaining silent,” Val said. “But don’t worry, Sergey. The horse may run quickly, but it cannot escape its own tail. I will find him.”

“Do whatever it takes,” Sergey instructed. “I am not a man to be trifled with, nor betrayed.”

Val only nodded.

Wednesday, July 16th

0507 hours

DeShawn “Dee” Brown sat on the couch, sipping slowly from the bottle of beer. The TV in front of him flickered with images of dancing women, gyrating to a beat that he couldn’t hear because of the mute button. He didn’t care. The sleeping forms that lay twisted and piled on the floor and furniture of his living room needed the quiet and not the pulsating beat of Sir Mix-a-Lot. And DeShawn was more interested in the sweet bitches shaking their asses.

He should be asleep himself, but he’d been up late working on a problem with his little cousin, Ladondra. Of course, no one called her that. To most everyone, she was Dondra, but to Deshawn, she would always be Little La La.

DeShawn shook his head. Poor girl was only fifteen and she went and got herself pregnant. He’d sat with her for hours, listening to her cry and rave about her situation until she finally told him who the swinging dick was. He had worried that she’d crossed the line and found some guy in a rival gang, but she’d stayed true blue. Still, DeShawn wasn’t happy to hear it was Ronnie. The boy was a low-level runner who might make it up to selling shit on the corner someday, if the motherfucker overachieved. There was no way he could take care of DeShawn’s little cousin, even if he wanted to. So that didn’t leave many options.

After he checked that Little La La was in bed, and kissed her on the forehead, he went looking for Ronnie to discuss those options. Unfortunately, the rabbit-ass motherfucker must’ve known DeShawn was on the lookout for him, because he was nowhere to be found for the longest time. DeShawn was just about to give up when he ran smack into the kid coming out of the Circle K convenience store.

He’d gotten right up into Ronnie’s grill, but quickly saw that something wasn’t clicking. DeShawn hadn’t thought to ask Little La La if she’d told the boy yet. The answer was clear from the surprise and confusion in Ronnie’s face.

“I din’t know you was declaring the girl off limits,” he’d stammered. He apologized, but he gave no hint he knew about the condition she was in. “I’d have never touched her if you’d said the word.”

DeShawn swore, shook his head, and brought the stupid punk back to the house. Now Ronnie lay sleeping on the overstuffed chair in the corner, curled up like some little kid.

DeShawn didn’t sleep. Instead he sipped a brew and watched some big-ass black girl shake her moneymaker while he mulled over what to do about Ronnie and Little La La.

He shook his head. What choice was there? Ronnie could try to hit some big score and have enough to take care of La La and the baby, but what were the odds of that? He couldn’t handle that kind of action. Besides, the stupid punk would probably blow all the money. Spend it all on rims and chains. Shit.

DeShawn sipped his beer. A blue-clad form in the easy chair shifted in his sleep, passed gas, and sighed. DeShawn ignored it. Put five brothers in a room, he figured one of them had to fart eventually. Plus, it wasn’t healthy to hold that stuff inside.

The beer was flat, so he screwed the cap back on the bottle and walked into the messy kitchen. He opened the fridge and put the bottle on the bottom rack, where it was coldest. He knew that because unlike most of his crew in the other room, DeShawn had finished high school. He even flirted with going to college, though he never told anyone. In his world, saying he wanted to go to college was along the same lines as telling everyone he was gay or something. The reaction would not have been congratulatory.

Besides, he wouldn’t be where he was now, running his own crew. Taking River City for serious bank every goddamn day.

He smiled and closed the refrigerator. Then he thought about Ronnie again and scowled. What in the hell was he going to do about him and Little La La? Maybe if he had Ronnie take care of the-

KA-BLAM!

DeShawn jumped. “What the fuck?” he yelled, and took a step toward the living room.

Another blast exploded through the front window. Glass flew across the room. The groggy gang members instinctively dove for the floor and huddled behind furniture.

DeShawn dropped into a crouch. He reached into his waistband and pulled out the 9 mm Glock he kept tucked there. His hand trembled with adrenaline. He took a deep breath and told himself to relax.

The sound of squealing tires echoed through the shattered windows.

“Motherfuckers is doin’ a drive-by,” he said in a low tone. His voice carried in the silence of the room. “Some gonna be dead motherfuckers,” he added for the benefit of his boys.

For a long moment no one moved. DeShawn listened carefully, but all he could hear was the racing whine of a small engine descending in the distance. He waited another few seconds, then motioned toward the sprawling figures on the floor of the living room. “Any o’ y’all hit?”

There was a pause, then a general murmur in the negative.

DeShawn rose. “Well, then, get yo’ asses off the motherfucking floor and check it out,” he snapped. He turned and strode quickly back to the bedroom to check on Little La La. He found the girl sitting up in bed, blinking in confusion.

“What is it, Dee?” she asked him.

Relieved, DeShawn slipped his gun into his waistband. He sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t you worry none. Just some broke-ass wannabes taking a shot at the title.”

“Huh?”

“Bad guys,” he told her. “Go back to sleep.”

She nodded and slid beneath the covers. DeShawn was pretty sure she was back asleep before he left the room.

He returned to the now empty living room. The front door stood open, and he made his way toward it. He’d almost reached the threshold when the sharp crack of automatic gunfire erupted in the night. He dropped to the ground but the rounds weren’t landing near him. He saw the muzzle flashes from behind parked cars across the street. The shooters fired in controlled bursts, their bullets tearing into the assembled group of gang bangers in the front yard.

DeShawn watched in horror as his boys scrambled for cover. One did a grotesque, shuddering chicken dance before flopping to the ground.

Almost as soon as the gunfire started, it ended. A van appeared in front of the house and slowed to a near stop. Three shooters materialized from their positions of cover and walked purposefully toward the van. The side door slid open and the first gunman climbed inside.

Rage washed over DeShawn. These motherfuckers were not getting away! He tore his nine from his waistband, pointed, and cranked off three quick rounds.