Ike, no, Riot couldn’t let that shit go. Fuck Romello and fuck the Rolling 80s. He hadn’t been a wannabe. He’d found Romello. He’d dealt with Romello. Then the state of Virginia had dealt with him. They were the ones who put him in prison, but Ike had been the one who’d taken away his wife’s husband and his son’s father.
“I needed to get your attention. How you been, Slice?” Ike asked. Slice bore down on him with his coal-black eyes like chips of hematite. He was drinking dark brown rum out of a cut-crystal glass.
“What you doing here, Ike? I thought you won’t ’bout this life no more? Last I heard you was cutting rich people’s grass, giving the La Raza a run for they money,” Slice said.
“I was. I mean I am. I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor could somebody like you want from somebody like me? You want me to take care of whoever beat yo ass? Oh yeah, you done got walloped, bruh,” Slice said. Ike set his jaw and pushed his tongue into his cheek.
“I need a meet with a homeboy I think is one of your clients. I need it today,” Ike said. Slice smiled. It was like watching an icicle form.
“What you know about my business, Ike?” Slice said.
“I know you run shit from Cap City to Red Hill and up to DC. I know you move weight and guns up the Iron Corridor. I know you own Club Roja. Nice touch. You name it for Red Hill? And I think I know you can set this meetup because this motherfucker is the type that would either buy big weight or want to tag along with some real ballers. And you the realest baller I know,” Ike said. Slice sipped his drink.
“You keeping tabs on me, Ike?” he asked. The question itself was fairly innocuous, but the subtext was as menacing as a tiger sitting in your back seat. Ike had known dangerous men all of his life. There were several John Does buried in a pauper’s grave that would say Ike was a dangerous man. They radiated a dark energy that was fueled by the fusion of determination, will, and the not-so-subtle ability to not give a fuck. Slice was one of the most dangerous men Ike knew. He’d earned his nickname from his penchant for slicing off fingers and tongues. Not those of his enemies, but those of his enemy’s brothers and sisters, wives and children.
“Not like that, Slice. I just be hearing stuff. I’m out the game, but the game don’t want to leave me alone,” Ike said. Ike could feel a mad tension in the room wash over him and swallow him whole. Slice stared at him over the edge of his cup. Craig had spoken about kings. Ike didn’t want to be a king. A king never sleeps. He ends up like Slice. Staring at everyone and anticipating how they might try to come for his crown.
“And who is the motherfucker you want to meet?” Slice said. He drew the word “motherfucker” out until it sounded like it had seven syllables.
Ike crossed his arms.
“Mr. Get Down,” Ike said. Slice’s eyes crinkled. He chortled.
“You want to talk to Tariq? My business partner? Oh yeah, I’ve got a piece of his catalog. He’s an investor in a few of my clubs. I put some money in that Brown Island Jam he put on last year. That runt has fattened my pockets a lot over the years, and I gotta be honest with you, Ike, it don’t seem like you wanna sit down and break bread with this nigga. I don’t think I’m gonna be able to help you out, homie. I can’t have you messing with my bag,” Slice said.
Ike felt the spit dry up in his mouth. He’d been afraid of this. Time makes loyalty thin. People shed it like snakeskin.
“Oh, because he your business partner?”
“I know what you about to say,” Slice said.
“I know you do. Cuz I was more than your business partner. I was your boy. I was Luther’s boy. I’ve never asked you for nothing. Not even when I went inside. You the one told me you was gonna make sure I was straight in there. You the one told me I had nothing to worry about. You the one said Mya and Isiah wouldn’t have to lift a finger. You said they was family. Then you sent her three hundred dollars. Once. I put in work and what did I get for it? Four niggas trying to punk me and a wife who had to work three jobs to take care of our son while I was on some old thug-life shit,” Ike said. It dawned on him that he was yelling. The monster in the corner pushed off the wall but Slice held up his hand.
“Shit was complicated, Ike. Ain’t none of us know Romello’s cousin was hooked up with the East Coast Crips. We didn’t know they was running things in Coldwater. You went inside and we was fighting for our lives out here. Shit got real fucking hectic. Did I fuck up with Mya and Isiah? Yeah, and that’s on me. But let’s be real. Ain’t nobody put a gun to your head and made you go find Romello and beat him to death in the middle of the street. That’s on you,” Slice said.