with his plunder, ultimately deciding against it. He knew he would eventually cross them, but it wasn’t going to be today. He ducked down in the back seat of the car to prevent being seen with the known thief. The guard followed Marcus and Pony to the stolen car and wrote down the plate number.
“You can get up now, ol’ hide-and-seek-ass nigga,” Marcus laughed as he pulled onto Panola Road.
“What’d ya get?” Pony inquired anxiously.
“A little something-something,” he bragged, producing one of the cameras.
“Damn! These shit’s nice,” Pony exclaimed.
Marcus swerved the car, trying to get a look for himself.
“Three dollars a pop,” Big Zo said proudly, “and I got ten of dem, guys.”
“Red cheap ass ain’t gon’ give us but a buck a piece,” Marcus complained.
“Shit, that put us where we need to be,” Pony said.
Alonzo decided his co-conspirators didn’t need to know about the DVDs and assorted knickknacks stuffed in his clothes. A little something for a rainy day , he thought to himself.
* * *
Most of the older homes on Red’s street had been bought, razed, and replaced with McManions built in their place. He was one of the few holdouts when the developers came through offering peanuts. As a result, the small home he paid $30,000 for twenty years ago was now worth a small fortune.
Red had cake already. He was one of the major fences in the city. He bought and sold anything that could be bought or sold. His house was a virtual warehouse of goods. The walls were lined with flat-screen TVs all hooked up to showcase picture quality. There were several complete living room suites for sale as well. The kitchen was stocked with every appliance and gadget known to man. “From Picasso to pussy” was Red’s mantra, and he had it all for sale. The police knew who and what he was, but they only came through to shop or to be paid off.
Red was well into his fifties, but he dressed in the latest fashions that kids wore. His salt-and- pepper hair was kept freshly braided by one of the young girls he kept around the house. He wasn’t just a sugar daddy; he was a baby daddy knocking young girls up on the regular. Besides the ten grown sons he had with his first wife, he had another forty or fifty kids on the side. Two of his current girlfriends were pregnant now, neither of them even twenty years old.
Red greeted the trio of Marcus, Pony, and Big Zo warmly as he let them in. He had no security to speak of; if a person knew him, he knew them, and that was good enough. Besides, he had ten grown sons and nephews who were well-known goons. Anybody would be a fool to try and rob Red. “Let me see what ya got,” he asked the men eagerly.
“We came up on some cameras,” Marcus, the unofficial spokesman, said, handing one to Red for inspection.
“Dese nice rat here,” Red announced, showcasing his third-grade education.
As he checked out the cameras, Marcus scanned the room with larceny in his eyes.
Pony read his mind and gave him a terse headshake when their eyes met. He knew a man would have to be a fool to try Red, and Marcus was a fool.
“My neighbors gon’ love dese,” Red said, referring to the young white professionals who now inhabited his street. His law-abiding neighbors loved a good deal, stolen goods or not—“hot shit for a cool price,” as one put it. “How many you got? I’ll take ‘em all,” Red announced, looking to corner the stolen camera market.
“We got ten. Give us a stack,” Big Zo blurted, out of turn.
“A stack, huh?” Red pondered, even though he was prepared to go to $1,200. “A’ight,” he sad reluctantly. “For y’all, I’ll do a grand.”
Marcus gasped audibly when Red produced a huge wad of cash and began peeling hundreds off of it. Pony saw a deadly glint in his friend’s eye as he watched him count the money.
Just as Red was handing over the cash, the front door swung open. “Hey, Daddy,” two of Red’s sons said in unison,
“You can get up now, ol’ hide-and-seek-ass nigga,” Marcus laughed as he pulled onto Panola Road.
“What’d ya get?” Pony inquired anxiously.
“A little something-something,” he bragged, producing one of the cameras.
“Damn! These shit’s nice,” Pony exclaimed.
Marcus swerved the car, trying to get a look for himself.
“Three dollars a pop,” Big Zo said proudly, “and I got ten of dem, guys.”
“Red cheap ass ain’t gon’ give us but a buck a piece,” Marcus complained.
“Shit, that put us where we need to be,” Pony said.
Alonzo decided his co-conspirators didn’t need to know about the DVDs and assorted knickknacks stuffed in his clothes. A little something for a rainy day , he thought to himself.
* * *
Most of the older homes on Red’s street had been bought, razed, and replaced with McManions built in their place. He was one of the few holdouts when the developers came through offering peanuts. As a result, the small home he paid $30,000 for twenty years ago was now worth a small fortune.
Red had cake already. He was one of the major fences in the city. He bought and sold anything that could be bought or sold. His house was a virtual warehouse of goods. The walls were lined with flat-screen TVs all hooked up to showcase picture quality. There were several complete living room suites for sale as well. The kitchen was stocked with every appliance and gadget known to man. “From Picasso to pussy” was Red’s mantra, and he had it all for sale. The police knew who and what he was, but they only came through to shop or to be paid off.
Red was well into his fifties, but he dressed in the latest fashions that kids wore. His salt-and- pepper hair was kept freshly braided by one of the young girls he kept around the house. He wasn’t just a sugar daddy; he was a baby daddy knocking young girls up on the regular. Besides the ten grown sons he had with his first wife, he had another forty or fifty kids on the side. Two of his current girlfriends were pregnant now, neither of them even twenty years old.
Red greeted the trio of Marcus, Pony, and Big Zo warmly as he let them in. He had no security to speak of; if a person knew him, he knew them, and that was good enough. Besides, he had ten grown sons and nephews who were well-known goons. Anybody would be a fool to try and rob Red. “Let me see what ya got,” he asked the men eagerly.
“We came up on some cameras,” Marcus, the unofficial spokesman, said, handing one to Red for inspection.
“Dese nice rat here,” Red announced, showcasing his third-grade education.
As he checked out the cameras, Marcus scanned the room with larceny in his eyes.
Pony read his mind and gave him a terse headshake when their eyes met. He knew a man would have to be a fool to try Red, and Marcus was a fool.
“My neighbors gon’ love dese,” Red said, referring to the young white professionals who now inhabited his street. His law-abiding neighbors loved a good deal, stolen goods or not—“hot shit for a cool price,” as one put it. “How many you got? I’ll take ‘em all,” Red announced, looking to corner the stolen camera market.
“We got ten. Give us a stack,” Big Zo blurted, out of turn.
“A stack, huh?” Red pondered, even though he was prepared to go to $1,200. “A’ight,” he sad reluctantly. “For y’all, I’ll do a grand.”
Marcus gasped audibly when Red produced a huge wad of cash and began peeling hundreds off of it. Pony saw a deadly glint in his friend’s eye as he watched him count the money.
Just as Red was handing over the cash, the front door swung open. “Hey, Daddy,” two of Red’s sons said in unison,
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