Carl Weber's Kingpins by Smooth Silk Page A

mirror, so I merged off to the right as if I was going elsewhere. I had a potential address for him. It appeared he was moving in that direction, even though he wasn’t at that address earlier.
    I circled the streets for a while, and then from a distance, I saw Quinton park his car in a complex heavy with a bunch of welfare recipients. The tall brick buildings looked as if they were ready for demolition. Windows were broken, laundry swung from several of the balconies, and plenty of unkempt-looking kids were running around. Loud mouths could be heard a mile away, and two chicks outside looked as if they were gearing up to fight. Quinton stopped to say something to one of the chicks, and that’s when I saw him pass her a bag of weed. She smiled, and then got back to arguing with the chick who stood before her. When Quinton walked off to go inside, I got out of my car. I moved swiftly to catch him at the elevator.
    As we both got on the elevator, he glanced at me, and then hit the eighth floor. I moved over to the left, as if I was on my way up to the eighth floor too. The squeaky elevator closed, and as the smell of piss gave my nose a tingle, I winced. Quinton had his hands in his pockets, and then he closed his eyes.
    â€œNigga, what you want with me?” he said, then opened his eyes to look across the elevator at me. “I saw you following me. What’s up?”
    He raised his sweatshirt so I could see his Glock secured in the front of his sagging jeans. I shrugged and played clueless.
    â€œI don’t know what you talking about. I wasn’t following you; you must be paranoid about something. I’m here to see a friend of mine.”
    â€œWhat’s yo’ friend’s name?”
    â€œNone of yo’ damn business.”
    He reached for his gun, but in a matter of seconds, I snatched it from him and slapped him across the face with the butt of it. The elevator doors parted, and I hurried to toss the gun into the hallway. Quinton held his busted up face and tried to rush from the elevator to get his gun. Either he was too slow, or, most likely, I was too fast. I tangled his feet with mine, causing him to trip and fall flat on his face. The elevator closed again. We wrestled, but he was no match. I positioned him on his stomach and pressed my knee into his back.
    â€œWhat in the fuck do you want from me?” he yelled. “Who the fuck are you, nigga?”
    I pulled his arms behind his back and positioned them into a tight X. His movements caused my grip to be more painful, so he finally lay still.
    â€œWhat I want is simple. Handle yo’ business with Mango. He’s waiting for you.”
    Never wasting time with a lot of talk, I did what I knew best and twisted Quinton’s arm so tight that his bone snapped and popped through his skin. His loud scream echoed in the elevator, and he hollered so loud that I had to silence him. I released his arms, then slammed him in the mouth with my powerful, balled-up fist. His lip busted wide open—the white meat was on display. Blood gushed from his lips, but I still reached into his bloody mouth to collect my souvenir. With a tight grip on one of his many rotten teeth, I pulled and yanked that muthafucka clean from his mouth. By then, he was in a daze. In shock. Speechless. The elevator opened, and a chick stood with groceries in her hand. Her eyes bugged as she saw Quinton lying there, looking deformed. She didn’t know if he was dead or alive. Her bags hit the floor, and she screamed. I stepped over Quinton, excused myself, and made my exit.
    I sped off the parking lot, and within thirty minutes, I was back at the table with Mango. He smiled at the bloody tooth I put on the table for him to see; as promised, my work had been done.
    â€œYou did good,” he said, standing and massaging my shoulders. “I knew I was gon’ like you.”
    I shrugged my shoulders as a gesture for him to move his hand. Didn’t