Streets of New York. Mark Anthony

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      They all laughed some more. Fear gripped her tighter. She now realized that they had searched her place and left the empty gun for her to retrieve. Now they were certainly gonna hurt her, she thought.

      Lindsay saw the notebook that Pooh had treasured. The one she’d kept after he was killed. She knew it was dear to her brother and looked at the pages littered across the kitchen floor. Lindsay instinctively bent down and started to retrieve all the pages. She was packing all the pages neatly as her unwanted guests drank beers. The tears finally started to flow.

      How was this going to end? She wondered. What were they waiting for. They probably just wanted to torture her. One of them saw how neatly she’d packed the notebook and just before she bound it all together, he shouted to her when he saw the picture of her brother on the front page.

      “Is that your man?” He asked as she stared down at the picture on the cover.

      “No, that’s…He’s my brother. He was killed last year.” She said with finality.

      “He’s your brother, hmm you don’t say? Your brother?” The fat man asked in disbelief. “What a small world.” He said to her then turned to his friends and started talking. “He is the Moreno we killed. The one who robbed Julissa.”

      “You gotta be shitting me,” one of them said.

      “Get the fuck out,” the other said.

      Then they all looked at Lindsay. Their stare made her nervous. She knew immediately that whatever they were thinking couldn’t be anything good. They all converged on the notebook and each took it in hand and further examined it.

      “Read a little sump’n, sump’n, let me see if homey had talents.” The jovial fat man said. Lindsay picked up the note book and leafed through it with tears clouding her eyes she started to read too low at first. “Ah you don’t have to be scared of us. I told you we don’t wanna hurt you. Go ahead read.”

      Lindsay silently cursed the day she’d kept the notebook. She cleared her throat and began to read as requested.

MARRIED TO THEZ STREETZ

       I’m walking blakwardz through parkz of knowledge with no iz to my rear. No fearz. Thoughts like vinyl recordz keepz on spinnin inside my head. All dayz paranoira spreadz like poverty bottled juz for the hood. No one getz in or getz out. No medizine, no remedeez I treadz on the edge of the future and traze the path through a maze called life. Trying to figga like a humble solja on what to do next until I met deztiny. Me n my manz scrambling like kidz all from memory, shit we learnz uzi make uz top notch hustlaz. Now I guez I must have mad time to chill, recollecting how it izz and how it wuzz and how thingz use to be… way, way back whenz. Thiz Pooh hard riding don’t even try bringing your girlz round me cuz if she don’t fall for theze sexy iz then she falling for my blingz and thingz. Riding in a benz or ezzkaping in a ezzcalaid or rolln on a Range, lifted on dubz. None out there can shut uz downz. Weze bout da dollaz them scrillaz are ourz theze gunz aint borrowed we changingz hoodz like changing houzewives cuz we married to them streetz wit no namez they got our facez on the cornaz our own big facez on them. Blood running outta you iz murder only a nigga with a cut knowz how much it hurtin ya. I’m hip to thiz and for y’all hataz feelz the shellz bounz off your domez running when I blaz my ninez.

      Lindsay paused at the end of the page and checked her listeners’ expressions. The fat man smiled and he seemed impressed. Lindsay all the time was thinking that the longer she kept them entertained then the greater her chances of escaping or planning a good escape. Her mind was spinning real fast and she had to do everything to prevent it from going into orbit. Lindsay heard as the fat man addressed her.

      “Your brother was a poet and only you knew it,” the fat man laughed.

      Lindsay smiled nervously and laid the loose leaf journal now held together by red strings down on the coffee table. The fat man picked up the remote and pointed it. He lowered the volume on the spit from JayZ’s Roc exit The Black Album.

       Can I get an encore do you want more? … Hova, Hova,

       Hova…

      The anthem diminished from dance club volume to a favorable living room background. Lindsay cast a worried glance at the gang of three. She saw the fat man put down the remote, nodded and signal for her to read on. Nervous, Lindsay handled the pages carefully trying not to damage them.

      She knew her brother Pooh had tried to keep the pages neat. And that Pooh had kept this side safely tucked away from the rest of the world. Most importantly she knew the reason. The others sat on the edge of the leather sofa pretending not to listen to the words which now came in her whispers. Lindsay realized that she was feeling relaxed also, almost comforted by the poetry her dead brother had penned.

      They looked at her and tried to ignore the way she chuckled at odd times. Maybe they’d think she was crazy and leave her alone. She wanted to ask what effect the poems were having on them, but fidgeted with the idea too long. Lindsay continued to read scanning their expression as she occasionally smiled at her brother’s intended misspelled words. Lindsay saw how they deliberately looked away. They seemed uncomfortable with the lines. She paused and leafed uneasily through pages before she heard the fat man speaking softly.

      “Read a little louder,” he said in a quiet still voice that made her realize he had been listening all along.

      Lindsay was pleased and immediately heeded the request. Her voice rose lusty and loud with her brother’s secret verses. Maybe it will spare my life. She believed that the words gave her courage, Lindsay read on.

       When first I knew I wanted to be so much like real gangstaz from the old block. They were kingpinz and bozz going hard, sitting pretty on colozzal stackz, gentlemenz working with crazy dimez pozzezzing helluva knowledge with tight gamez. I want to be thoz hustlaz living in the phattez cribz, the smoothz whipz. Hand over fiz, me and my niz trizin’ big chipz. Enemz schemz for C.R.E.A.M. that all mighty scrillarz. I want to be richer than the puppet-mizer juggling stringz with judgz and politicianz attached to my enz. Dangling from my every whim no clue on what I might do next. I’ll try invezment my cheddar to make my community a little better place for dez to arrez me in. Dirty politicianz juz ain’t helping and they ain’t helping me grow either. Robin Hoodz for greenz I’ll continue to use kings’ ransom for poor living. Nah just kidding—I’ll use my money to buy more bling. Nice ice baby. Thez thingz take heart.

      Lindsay cleared her throat. She studied their faces and felt the power of her brother’s words surged through her and brought about a calming effect on her unwanted guests. Two rose, whispered something in Spanish, turned to the fat man who quickly waved them off. They walked to the door beer bottles in hand and spoke and one walked out. Only the fat man and another stayed inside guarding the door. And now there were two, Lindsay thought. The fat man waved his arm.

      “Squeeze is taking an awfully long time to get here. Read some more then I want you to call him and ask him nicely to come see you. Let me hear some more. Your brother should’ve stuck with that shit maybe he’d still be around,” he said with the big-headed comfort of an arrogant boss.

      Lindsay did not want to call Squeeze. She thought for the first time in the last month, this was the only time she didn’t want him to visit. Her mind was gushing with thoughts and before she read on, СКАЧАТЬ