Array 50 Cent - Baby Brother

“What’s poppin’?”

“It’s your brother, man.”

Malik sighed. Farad? Nah, probably Finesse. Two-strike felon, and busted again.

“Yo, he smoked a girl,” Wiley went on, shaking his head. “Gunned her down in the street. They caught him holding the burner, man, with blood all over him.”

Damn, was all Malik could think as his heart sank. Their moms was probably turning over in her grave. But something just didn’t feel right about this. Finesse was brutal, but he had never been violent toward women. He couldn’t think of one reason his brother would have to pop no female. It just didn’t add ufl He shook his head. It was hard being a street cop and having two major drug dealers for brothers. They was extra tight, and he would lay down and die for either one of them, but sometimes living with the bullshit in their lives was real hard.

“They got him down at Central Booking,” Wiley said. “I just figured you’d wanna know.”

Twenty minutes later Malik had rolled up at Central Booking and was skimming a roster looking for his brother’s name. He had a few boys who were on shift, but none of them remembered seeing one of his brothers being brought in. Malik got with a cop he knew from Van Dyke projects who gave him their prisoner log. He was dragging his finger down the paper and checking the long, detailed list for recent arrests when his eyes slid over a familiar name. What he saw made his hands shake and his mouth go dry. Prisoner number 837R2006 was not Finesse. It wasn’t Farad either. It was Davis, Zabu Xade.

Finesse studied the young girl who was bobbing her head in his lafl She claimed he was her first, but he couldn’t tell it. She gave top like a professional. He watched his joint sliding past her lips and disappearing into her mouth and wondered how the fuck she took it all without choking.

He pushed the flat of his palm against her forehead, raising her ufl This bitch was a liar. Wasn’t no cherry in her throat. She had this neck game on lock. Her technique was too tight to be light.

He had to chastise her. Storyteller. Scratch a liar and find a hoe. He slid both hands through her hair, his fingertips colliding with glued-in tracks. Winding up two fistfuls, he gripped her weave and stood, pulling her up with him.

“Get outta them clothes, girl.”

The young girl giggled, then turned her back on him and shot him a smoky look over her shoulder. She was wearing a canary-colored belly-shirt and a matching skirt in a slinky, flowing material. She slid the shirt upward, the toned muscles in her stomach clenching and unfurling. Her firm young breasts practically jumped free when she pulled the shirt over her head, and Finesse sucked his bottom lip, loving her moves. She inched the bright yellow skirt down over her hips, tantalizing him with enticing gyrations. She was naked underneath and Finesse swore there was a trail of steam seeping from the triangle between her legs.

He’d seen enough. He turned her around and bent her over. “Let me in baby,” he barked, pushing himself into her as deeply as he could. Yeah, she was a liar ’cause he’d slid right in. They went at it stroke for stroke. Her hands were on her breasts as she squeezed and flicked her own nipples. Finesse panted and pounded. He felt his nut rising. It turned him on to see her so turned on. He was about to lose it. His eyes was fluttering, his toes was curling, and he was just about ready to erupt when his cell phone rang.

“Shit!” He pumped real hard, almost there.

The cell jangled again, but this time shit sank in. This wasn’t no regular call. His phone was spittin’ a special tone. One reserved for the most crucial, dire emergencies. A tone that demanded his immediate attention. A matter of life or death.

He slapped the girl on the ass, snatching his pipe out of her and putting a freeze on both of their nuts. He grabbed the phone off a table and flipped it open.

“Who?” he demanded, and the response on the other end of the line not only wilted his erection, it damn near stopped his heart.

“What?!?” With the phone still pressed to his ear, he pushed his soft dick back down inside his boxers. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He couldn’t even wrap his mind around the shit Malik was telling him on the line, and a steely mask came down over his face as rage settled in his nuts. They’d gotten the wrong one. The wrong one. Somebody was about to get fuckin’ blasted and Finesse was ready to spark shit off.

“Initiate the chain, muthafuckah,” he told his brother. “I’m rolling out.”

Farad blacked the fuck out.

He was in Riverdale Houses playing Spades with some homeys when the Chirp came through. The score pad said Us and Them, and of course Farad was on the winning team. Game was five hundred, and they had 430 on the board and had taken a blind seven. His partner had just cut a book and saved them from getting set, and now he had come back in diamonds and was waiting for Farad’s next play.

But the Nextel was pressed to Farad’s ear and he couldn’t see shit and he couldn’t hear shit neither. The only thing that got through to him was the voice on the other end of the line.

“You sure, man?” he finally managed to say. “Malik you gotta be wrong, niggah. C’mon. Tell me you got your information wrong.”

“I just seen him, man,” Malik said, sounding close to tears. “They got him in a fuckin’ holding cell, man. A pissy little holdin’ cell with all kinda foul motherfuckers up in there with him.”

Farad cursed. “Don’t even worry about them niggahs, Leek. Baby Brother can hold shit down with his hands, man. That’s truth, niggah. He’ll be all right for a good minute, but what we gotta worry about now is getting him the fuck outta there.”

He heard Malik take a deep breath. “Aiight. Let me see what I can do. He’s gone be having an initial hearing in a little bit. I’ll get down there early and talk to the judge. See if I can work something out for bail or whatever. But I don’t know man…they charging him with murder, yo—”

“Just try,” Farad interrupted forcefully, knowing how slim the odds were that a judge would agree to something like that. But for real tho, with Sari dead and her psycho brother motherfucker Tony on the loose, it mighta been better to just leave Baby Brother where he was for a minute. Fuck no! “Yeah, Leek. Just get your ass in there and try.”

Ain’t this some shit! Kadir thought, laughing out loud. This big-ass fuckin’ white boy was pissin’ down his leg. Scared like that. The little one was scared too, but at least he wasn’t pissin’. He was standing against the warehouse wall with a resigned look on his face like, “Shoot me if you wanna, niggah, but I’ma go out holding my nuts.”

“Y’all eating lead tonight, motherfuckers,” Kadir taunted. Motherfuckers just didn’t learn. Gambling was a fuckin’ disease, and nobody knew that better than him. Some people inherited heart disease, and others inherited cancer. Kadir was his father’s son. He had inherited the betting disease, and just like Cameron, he had a sixth sense about the odds and was a top shark in the game of chance.

But no matter how much his hunches paid off, there was always some low-level motherfuckers who got in over their heads. Idiots like these two here, who took one look at him and pegged him as a pretty niggah who could be dicked around like an herb.

They weren’t the first two to make that mistake, and they probably wouldn’t be the last. There was something about the thrill of the bet that made niggahs get stupid. White boys too. Overstating a bet and floundering at the table was no crime. It could happen to anybody. But trying to stiff a cat like him outta his cash was an unforgivable atrocity. Kadir had popped more than one lame niggah who thought he could beat him outta what was rightfully his. These two white boys would be no fuckin’ exception.