Gutter by K'wan Page B

Hollywood’s bread. The set was the set, but this was business.
    Hollywood adjusted the pistol tucked in his pants, near his kidneys, and headed in their direction. As he passed the bus stop, he was confronted with a vision. The young girl was brown-skinned with hair that tickled her shoulders. She had nice round breasts and a shapely ass. She was reading a copy of Section 8 over her glasses.
    â€œHey, baby girl,” Hollywood said, easing around the advertisement to stand next to the girl.
    She glanced at him with a look of disgust on her face. After looking up and down at him, she snorted and went back to her book. Now someone in the know might’ve taken this as rejection, but Hollywood always dug deeper than the surface. The fact that she
had even bothered to look him over meant that she was considering it. That was incentive enough for him.
    â€œI didn’t mean to come between you and your reading, but I’m a lil lost at the moment,” Hollywood lied. “I just wanted to know if you could point me to building Two Fifty-nine?”
    â€œI ain’t from around here.” The girl had a soft voice.
    â€œA blind man could see that. You came from heaven right?” Hollywood flattered her.
    â€œYeah, right.” She blushed.
    â€œTrue story”—he eased closer—“I’d be thankful for the directions, but I’d be thrilled with a moment of your time.”
    The girl looked Hollywood over once more. She found him very attractive, and from the looks of his gear, he was getting some type of money. The bus came and went, but the girl remained. After about ten minutes, Hollywood was letting her into his car with instructions to wait for him. Then he stepped back across the street to handle his money.
    â€œDamn, you don’t play,” China said, slapping Hollywood’s palm. He was a brown-skinned cat with slanted eyes. Originally from San Francisco, China was the product of a black whore who had the misfortune of having the condom break while turning an Asian trick.
    â€œYou know how it is, man. I gotta stay one step ahead of the competition,” Hollywood replied. “Sup, B. T.?”
    â€œAin’t nothing,” B. T. said. His beady little eyes kept going from Hollywood to the car. If you looked closely, you could still see the scar on his head from when Lou-Loc had pistol-whipped him. Though he never said it out loud, he wasn’t sad to see him go.
    â€œSay, I need to holla at you, T,” Hollywood said.
    â€œSo, talk.” He shrugged.

    â€œDig, you and one of my ladies came to an understanding over some paper, and she says she ain’t seen it yet.”
    â€œOh, I told shorty I’d square up with her.” B. T. brushed him off.
    â€œYeah, I dig that. Thing is, you ain’t made no moves to settle the debt.”
    â€œYo, you stunting me over a few dollars?” asked B. T., sounding a bit hostile.
    â€œListen, man,” Hollywood said, hooking his thumbs in his belt. He kept his hand close to his gun. “You know I don’t do nothing but count money. Them few dollars you skipped with don’t mean shit. This is about principle. Pay to play, cuz.”
    â€œDamn, kid. All that shit you slinging in the hood and you shorting bitches,” China clowned.
    â€œFuck you,” B. T. snapped, “and for damn sure fuck that bitch!” He tried to give Hollywood his coldest stare, hoping it would rattle the pretty boy. It didn’t.
    â€œYo, I think you need to watch your tone, cuz,” Hollywood replied, removing his shades. No matter how flashy Hollywood was, there was nothing sweet about him.
    â€œFuck y’all bitch-ass niggaz arguing about?” Pop Top came out of the store, breaking the tension.
    â€œAin’t nothing,” Hollywood said, never taking his eyes off B. T., “just a little dispute between the homeys.”
    â€œB. T. owes Wood some paper and he stunting on the