Carl Weber's Kingpins Read online

  Carl Weber’s Kingpins:

  West Coast

  Raynesha Pittman

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Urban Books, LLC

  300 Farmingdale Road, N.Y.-Route 109

  Farmingdale, NY 11735

  Carl Weber’s Kingpins: West Coast

  Copyright © 2021 Raynesha Pittman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-6455-6205-4

  This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Submit Orders to:

  Customer Service

  400 Hahn Road

  Westminster, MD 21157-4627

  Phone: 1-800-733-3000

  Fax: 1-800-659-2436

  To the little girl who needed healing, you no longer need the Band-Aid. It’s time to embrace the beauty of the scar. You are my cousin, my mother, my sister, and one of my closest friends. Thank you for nursing my wounds when no one else would. Because of your love, teachings, and care, I am this woman, this healed woman. I’m at peace with God’s decision to take you home sooner than most because you have always been more significant to me than this world and to everyone who was blessed to know you. I love you and miss you, Susan Mae Browne, sleep well.

  June 9, 1967–January 27, 2019

  Prologue

  Troy sprang from the couch, snatched up the pile of clothes at his feet, and rushed to the window. He almost tumbled over as he lost his footing getting dressed. His nap was short, and the cause for it abruptly ending was unknown. However, the knots tightening in his stomach were enough for him to honor his gut feeling of getting the fuck up.

  With space no bigger than the length of his cocaine-induced dilated pupils, he peeked through the broken blinds into the darkness of the night. The moonlight that usually graced the hood’s urban decay had been replaced by what he feared most. Red, blue, repeat. Blue, red, repeat, and just for the hell of it, there was the steady glare of headlights positioned on high beam. The cycling lights were missing their usual serenade of sirens as each squad car pulled up and armed police jumped out. It was supposed to be a sneak attack.

  “You three take the back, and the rest of you cover the exits,” he heard one say as he slowly backed away from the window.

  “Fuck,” he hissed, unsure of his next move.

  The time had come to raise the white flag and surrender. Though Troy had been nervously awaiting this day by staying higher than escort pussy, he wasn’t quite ready to face the consequences of his actions. Hell, how could any man prepare himself to leave his three favorite girls?

  The overheated, gooey crumbs of crack his pocket change could afford to buy didn’t furnish the high needed to take his mind off the only threesome he’d triumphed over in years. His wife, still his favorite piece of artwork as her beauty continued to battle the effects of her addiction, lay in their bed stark naked, waiting for him to satisfy the hunger between her thighs. Knowing her hunger would eventually become starvation didn’t sit right with him. There would be no makeup sex to fix their bedtime argument that sent him to slumber on the couch. He smirked. That argument of whose wrong was ultimately the better act of righteousness now seemed stupid. Truthfully, at this moment, everything they discussed outside of splitting the contents of a glass pipe seemed silly to Troy. “Tomorrow isn’t promised.” He felt that cliché weighing on him as the thought of not being able to touch his wife was seconds away from being a reality.

  His mother, the woman who loved him through every unwise decision and more than any other woman could ever love him, would have to watch her only son be cuffed and hauled off again. Her house, the longest tangible memory she had left of the love she shared with her late husband, was minutes away from being barged into with the backing of an arrest warrant. To save her ass from Troy’s latest mistake, she’d have to perjure herself when she willingly told the lie under oath that she didn’t know her baby boy was a wanted man.

  And the baby. What about the baby? She wasn’t his baby. However, she was the only person he had the title of guardian over, and he loved his niece. He didn’t want her exposed to his foolishness.

  Dashing down the hallway in a sprint of hope, he decided to remain a free man as knocks rattled the metal screen door.

  “Who the hell is it?” asked his mama, Jo, dragging her slippered feet across the dusty hardwood floor. There had always been a draft in the house. However, the room had never felt this cold. It was more than the Santa Ana winds sending the chill up her spine, she was sure of it. “I said, who in the hell—”

  The police quickly answered her question as her door was knocked off its hinges and slammed against the wood, identical to the last domino played at a family reunion. She’d bitch about the door once the guns returned to their holsters.

  “Get on the ground!” was all she could make out in the commotion.

  “Where’s Troy?” another voice shouted for what must have been adherence to protocol, seeing that the search of the premises was already underway.

  Don’t let go, Troy thought as his sweaty palms struggled to keep a firm grip on the rod. His knees were tucked into his chest, mirroring a half-completed set of crunches. Be that as it may, this was no exercise routine. It couldn’t be. He was in the air while his feet rested flat against the wall. None of his body was near the floor. The hanging position he chose suggested he’d read one too many web-shooting and wall-crawling superhero comic books. The reality of being able to endure the discomfort of the situation was nonexistent.

  “Y’all are asking me about the whereabouts of a damn crack ghost. Shit, I got questions too. Which one of you is paying to get my damn door fixed? Now answer that!” Jo yelled while lighting the cigarette that dangled from her lip.

  Doors creaked open and slammed closed for more than half an hour. The police searched the house for Troy to no avail. At the discretion of the lieutenant, the search was seconds away from being called off. Then, Troy heard her voice. It was as if an angel had sung out to him.

  “Why are y’all trying to take my uncle to jail? He didn’t do nothing to nobody,” Temper whined.

  “Aw, sweetheart, don’t cry. Your uncle did do something, something very bad, and we’re only here because we have proof that he did it. Are you okay, sweetie? Why are you pinching your nose like that?”

  Troy knew what was coming—an obnoxious hacking sound followed by her spitting—and he still couldn’t hold in his laugh. Defeated, he let go of the rod, placed his feet on the junky closet floor, pushed the trench coats to the other end to make himself visible, and then put his hands in the air a second before the door flew open. Sighing, Troy walked out with guns pointed at him. The smirk on his face grew into a smile when he looked up and saw his angel.

  “Did you hock a
loogie in that pig’s face, Temper Taz?” he asked as they slammed him into the wall and placed cuffs on his wrists.

  “Yep, right in that coward’s face, and it was full of flam!”

  “It’s phlegm, baby.” He chuckled.

  “Did you do something bad, or are they lying on the black man?”

  Troy roared in laughter as tears filled his eyes. His mama stood on one side of his angel and his wife on the other. It was his makeshift trinity.

  “Good and bad sit in the eyes of the muthafucka who’s doing the looking. That shit ain’t important right now, though.” He stopped walking, and the police tried to drag him. “Damn, nigga, I know y’all mad I was hiding in the closet that you mark-ass bitches checked three times, but can I get a second to talk to my niece?”

  “All you got is a second, nigga.” The voice was familiar. He was sure it belonged to the man wearing his niece’s mucus.

  “Listen, Temper Taz, I’m going away for a while.”

  “No—” she shouted.

  “Shut up. I need you to listen. I fucked up in their eyes, and they don’t give out whippings with a belt. They punish you by snatching away your time. You might even be grown when these hoes let me out, but before I go, I need to drop this knowledge on you, and yo’ Asian ass better not forget it. Are you listening to me, Chinaman?”

  Temper nodded her head, her expression as cold as steel.

  “Good. Now peep game. The only way out of the muthafucking hood is over a thirty-foot wall. Unlike the rest of us, you being born half black and Asian gave you a ten-foot ladder, and it’s up to you to get the twenty or more feet to get over it. But that half-Asian and half-black shit don’t mean shit. It’ll only get you so far.” He nodded his head toward a couple of white cops standing near her. “They don’t give a fuck about your skin being pale or that your eyes slant. You’re black. These muthafuckas will make sure you never forget it, and I don’t want you to forget it. Promise me, no matter how life might twist, flip, or toss you around, that you’re going to bust yo’ ass to get those feet.”

  The room seemed to get lost in his words. They were ghetto yet militant and felt by all in attendance.

  In a voice more mature than the eight years she owned, Temper locked eyes with his and said, “You can bet your ass I promise!”

  Chapter One

  It was nearly eight o’clock, and the signs of night approaching were slowly beginning to peak. Noctilucent clouds covered the sky in their beauty as the sun drifted away to its nightly hiding place. No one with vision would question why God was called the greatest architect of the universe. The sky was His canvas. The sunset was His painting, and He drew effortlessly for all the residents of Los Angeles to see. Well, everyone except Kei’Lani. She didn’t get to enjoy the free art exhibit. Her best friend Temper’s body perched on her bike’s handlebars didn’t grant her admission.

  “Pedal faster, bitch!” Temper yelled.

  Although little and malnourished from the junk food and beer she used as meal replacements, Temper’s body acted as a solar eclipse blinding Kei’Lani’s line of sight. She used memory to steer them to their destination. In cooler words, Temper was throwing shade, literally, and that shade prevented Kei’Lani from seeing her lap and the warm, sticky fluid that was covering it. That wasn’t to say that she would have opted to glance at it if she could. The thought alone of blood dripping made her dizzy. It was paradoxical to the coldhearted gangster bitch Kei’Lani so desperately wanted to be.

  “I’m trying to, but . . .” But seeing the blood was one thing. To feel it drip like a busted pipe in the ceiling over her thighs was another. An uneasy discomfort built in her upper abdomen and sent spasms to the back of her throat. If she gagged again, she’d throw up. Thanks to her queasy stomach, she didn’t need smarts to assess the danger in the amount of blood Temper was losing. She knew only God would be able to make her friend’s bleeding stop. Although, she was sure God was too busy handling more critical stuff than to make a trip to the hood for a sinner. That assumption reminded her of the deadly situation they were in. “Is it supposed to be leaking like that?” she questioned.

  “How in the fuck am I supposed to know? Just keep pedaling. I think I’m about to die,” Temper moaned, weaker than when she last spoke. The pain caused her lips to lock, suppressing her screams. She didn’t want to scare her best friend with the answer. The truth was that the only thoughts Temper could formulate were those related to her death.

  “I am pedaling, but your blood is dripping all over me, and you know my stomach is weak. What if Lena’s not there? Doesn’t she go to bingo with the church tonight? Man, I think we should stop at that mom-and-pop store on the corner and call 911 if you think you’re dying. I can’t ride around the hood with you dead on my handlebars. My mama gon’ kill me.”

  “Damn, you got the bingo bus rider list memorized?” Temper teased, trying to make light of the situation. “Please do me a favor and shut the fuck up so if I do die, it can be in peace. We’re a block away from her house. We might as well check, and why are you all in my ear complaining? I’m the bitch who might die on these fucking handlebars if you don’t pedal faster. Does it look like I want your big undertaker-looking ass riding me through the hood dead on this raggedy-ass bike?”

  “You’re always taking shit as a joke. I’m here trying to help your crazy ass, and you still tryin’ to burn on me like this shit is a standup comedy opportunity. I got your nasty-ass Asian blood dripping on me, bitch, and you don’t give a shit about what I’m going through with yo’ selfish ass. I am trying to pedal faster. I’m nervous and . . .” Her words stopped abruptly, and the not-so-easy-on-the-ears sound of vomiting replaced them. She didn’t have time to warn Temper that the forty ounces of Olde English she’d gulped down less than twenty minutes ago were about to make their way back up and onto her back.

  “I know you didn’t just call Earl all over my muthafuckin’ back. If I weren’t dying, I’d jump off these handlebars and beat yo’ ass.”

  “My bad. This shit got my stomach all fucked up, and I gotta shit, too. I need a blunt, a drink, or something. I can’t believe you got me doing this. I swear if you live through this shit, I’m going to stop fuckin’ with you like my mama said.”

  She continued voicing her ill feelings about making the house call instead of doing what was best, which, in her opinion, was taking Temper to the hospital. As she ripped Temper a new one, Temper lowered her head and focused on the squeaking sounds of the bike to take her mind off the pain of death moving near.

  The gunshots a little while ago had seemed far away as the girls had dropped to the floor for safety behind the park’s gymnasium. The tucked-away, graffitied, piss-smelling area, with shards of glass from every beer bottle known to Angelenos covering the concrete, had become the girls’ sanctuary from the dangers that flooded their neighborhood. Whenever they needed a break from it all, they’d flee to the spot to smoke and turn up a beer or two without worrying about being seen by the wrong person or people. The girls knew everybody, and they hated that everyone knew everything about them, including their ages. Turning 18 was in their near future. However, 21 was years away. As far as the nosy adults and police assigned to their community were concerned, underaged drinking was still illegal. The girls didn’t want to catch a charge nor have a grown-up snitch telling their guardians.

  As they’d smoked the fattest blunt of weed Temper had ever rolled, the sound of the shots ripping through the noise barrier had acted as an alarm, and the best friends knew the drill. One and then the other hit the floor for cover. For the girls, it was overly rehearsed choreography. It was 1998 in L.A. Guns going off, police and ambulance sirens, and the loud, choppy sounds of the ghetto bird making its daily rounds were unwanted yet unremovable occurrences to that shitty side of the city where the girls grew up. Temper used to waste hours puzzled by why that part of Los Angeles had been called the Low Bottoms. It wasn’t until she grew older that she realized it was a cool nickname give
n to those who lived in the bottom of the Hollywood-fueled city’s barrel. In the 1980s and ’90s, Hollywood still had the world trapped in its web of motion pictures identical to its heyday. The punchline was that Hollywood had yet to break away from L.A.

  Nevertheless, being the rich and powerful Holly-Angelenos they were, they made sure to let the world know the city of Los Angeles was extremely large, so large that the city divided into multiple areas and sections. Holly-Angelenos got this message across by filming more movies and shows throughout the city so, no matter where you lived in this world, you’d know the bad sides of the city from the good. The poverty-stricken and underprivileged knew what Hollywood was doing and didn’t give a fuck. Even with the movies filming on East Twenty-fifth Street and Naomi Avenue, the Low Bottoms were still the Low Bottoms. The drive-by shootings didn’t stop on account of the cameras. Hollywood was fake, and the hood was as real as it got. Not everyone could call the Low Bottoms home. No one who made the mistake of visiting was allowed to make it home without the local gang’s approval.

  Out of mere habit formed from making it out alive after a shooting, Kei’Lani had burst out laughing until she looked over and saw her friend hunched over, gripping her side, with a growing puddle of blood beneath her. She’d wanted to call 911 and get help. However, Temper had her plan in mind. That plan had landed them on a bike ride to the neighborhood nurse’s house.

  “We’re here. What’s the plan now, smart ass?” asked Kei’Lani, out of breath as she backpedaled to bring the bike to a stop. There was too much weight on the bike. Her feet couldn’t rest on the pedals like usual, so she used her Chucks as kickstands on the concrete.

  Temper jumped off the handlebars the same way she did every other day, except every other day she hadn’t been leaking blood outside of her monthly menstruation. The impact of her Chuck Taylors touching the sidewalk sent a shock to her already-pained side, and she nearly fell. Fortunately, Kei’Lani was there, ready to catch her as she always was.