Some hours later, as nightfall descended upon the tall,
sixteen-story centerpiece structure that was the Kingsborough
Houses landmark building, DaQuan slowly made his way off
of Bergen Street and towards the pathway that led into the
complex’s circular courtyard area, feeling his reefer-induced
buzz slowly wearing off.
Pausing to check the contents of his bag of White Castle
hamburgers and soda, he contemplated sitting on the benches
and enjoying his meal right then and there, only to cancel
that thought when he felt a sudden, tickle-like vibration in his
pocket and heard the piercing sound of his beeper going off.
With a sigh, he reluctantly retrieved the beeper, then
smiled as he looked at the numbers “008-14,” then turned the
beeper upside down where the number strategically spelled
out the words “HI BOO.”
Turning away from the courtyard to head towards the
nearest pay phone on the corner, DaQuan wondered whether
or not it was smart to stay around these parts any longer. Since
the hit went down, the streets of Crown Heights and Ocean Hill
were flooded with Five-Oh—nothing but marked and unmarked cop
cars rolling through these parts nonstop once the bodies hit the ground,
he observed. It was too bad that those girls and that little kid heading
got caught out there like that, but fuck it, niggas had a job to do.
Acknowledging that it was a smart move to crash at his new
friend’s house for the time being—a young woman that he met
two weeks ago by the name of Alexis, he automatically knew
that he couldn’t go home; that was the first place that Five-Oh
was going to look, he surmised, as he was sure that his name was
going to come up in conversation about the shootings.
While he thought long and hard about staying over at Alexis’ crib for one more day before hiding out at his cousin’s crib down in Coney
Island, DaQuan replayed the mental tapes of the past several
hours, instantly regretting his decision to talk to certain heads
in the crew about his participation in the killings.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have bragged on it with Shalord and them
niggas up on St. Marks—them motherfuckers are born rats, he
surmised bitterly, only to fix his face in stunned disbelief as
he saw a familiar face in the long-stemmed, dark-skinned girl
wearing huge bamboo hoop earrings, a bowl cut hairstyle,
Calvin Klein jeans, calf-length boots and a black goose-down
fur-hooded parka.
Shit . . . this is Tracy, he mumbled under his breath once
he saw the grim, concerned look that she wore on her face. What the hell does she want now?
“Quan,” Tracy began, obviously surprised to see him on the street. “Man, what the hell are you doing out here? Yo,
you realize how dangerous—”
“My being out here is, right?” he interjected. “Yeah, don’t
think that I noticed all the marked and unmarked cars that’s
been rollin’ through here lookin’ for heads. That’s why I’m
trying to get to my cousins out in C.I. right now. I only came
back home to get a few changes of clothes, that’s all . . .”
DaQuan’s hurried explanation would be interrupted as
his beeper went off once again.
“Damn . . . listen, Tee, I gotta answer this . . .”
Playfully, Tracy snatched the beeper out of his hands, her
curiosity soon turning to anger as she recognized the code.
“Who’s this pagin’ you?” she interrogated.
“That’s my cousin, yo,” DaQuan lied, trying in vain to get
his beeper back from her. “They probably pagin’ me to see what time I’ma be down there—yo, stop playin’, Trace!”
Sucking her teeth in disgust, Tracy threw the beeper back at him. “Yeah, whatever, nigga!” she hissed. “As a matter of fact, Quan, lemme ask you somethin’ . . . since when do your cousins page you through the words ‘Hi, boo? And, while I’m on that subject . . . who the fuck is Alexis?”
Normally, DaQuan would be tongue-tied, trying to lie his way out of another misadventure, but this time, he wasn’t even trying to hear it.
“Yo, why you all in my business like that?” he fired back,
further adding to his girlfriend’s foul mood.
Tracy managed a sigh, flashing him a classic talk-to-the-hand
gesture as she was fed up with his lying. “You know what, DaQuan,”
she began, her voice barely disguising her hurt and contempt, “I
hope that your cousins out in C.I. really got your back for real,
’cause if you get into any more shit out here in the streets, then
don’t look at me to give any fuckin’ help, not after tonight—”
“Yo, Trace—”
“Fuck you, man . . . you’re on your own!” Tracy yelled, cutting her eyes at him before she stomped off.
It was the final indignity for her, having to put up with his attitude to go with his blatant cheating on her, and as her mind told her not to look back at him, she couldn’t help but wonder how such an attractive young guy like DaQuan could be such an incredulously stupid motherfucker.
Stunned and partially chastened by Tracy’s attitude, DaQuan shrugged his shoulders, watching her disappearing back fade away in the distance before he managed a sigh and walked back towards the courtyard.
“Nosy-ass bitch,” he mumbled under his breath, checking his burgers once he eyed the two men that occupied the benches, sitting opposite each other in their leather jackets and dark sweatshirts, hoods over their heads, apparently not paying him the least bit of mind.
Shit, I hope it’s not Dominick and them niggas, he thought to himself as he jealously guarded his meal, then began walking up the path towards the main building. Them niggas always wanna seem to come behind my ass whenever I got the munchies, and man, I’m not sharing this shit with nobody, fuck that . . .
Being totally lost in all of his private thoughts and fighting
off the feelings of irritability that encroached upon his soul, DaQuan took his eyes off the two men, never seeing them nod at each other in acknowledgement before they rose from the benches and began walking towards him, covering several yards in a matter of seconds as a cold northwesterly breeze gusted through the courtyard.
With his hunger finally getting the best of him, DaQuan
stopped dead in his tracks and reached into the bag to retrieve one of the pint-sized hamburgers, forcing the two men to go around him as they nearly bumped each other.
Wordlessly, the two men moved around him, walked away from him for a few steps and, as they took a glance over their shoulders and saw him preoccupied with his meal, whirled around, drew their .380 automatics and shattered the courtyard’s silence with the crackle of automatic pistol fire, pumping one round after another into the back of DaQuan’s shattered head before they dropped their weapons, took the bag of hamburgers amid the shrill sounds of DaQuan’s beeper going off a third time, and sprinted off into the Brooklyn night.