It was Billy's idea to rip off the liquor store. He heard brotherabe on his cell say the place was ripe.
Bounce was good— take Fruitvale or Foothill outta there. Heart of the hood, where this kinda crap happens all the time. And Lucky Liquors is run by this old chink. Gook's at the mart from opening til closing cuz he too damn cheap to hire help from the Projects. Serves him right getting tagged every couple of months.
Slide convincing Ty to do the deed. Bluds since Sunshine Daycare, they bled enough and shredded enough to earn respect as the cracka/nigga posse not to jack. No fools in their faces since 5th grade, or on their streets edging the rim of the Hood. Only their jank address and the popo's keeping em down.
Lunchroom Thursday, Billy goes on spouting about taking what they deserve for being dissed since they was kids. From jacking construction sites at seven, to ripping music, movies and apps off the net and selling it on Craigslist at eleven, Tyron is always angling for money. To Ty, it buys respect. To Billy— freedom. He be flipping off his hammered old man and dick-head brother on the way outta town, and his mom too, if she'd stuck around.
"One strike gets us a sled and elevates us the rest a high school, blud. Then we outta here, down to Hollywood, man, do some rappin, some actin, be whoever we wanta be, Ty. And even if we get caught, but we won't, the most we'd get is maybe a short stint in juvie since we ain't got no rap sheets. And if we don't get caught, and we won't, I heard Chris say the gets around five large."
Tyron stares at Audrey across the lunchroom, the hoodrat who brought him out, now slumming with the cracka slanger, Baker. "Five grand would get us some respectable treads," Ty says. "We be legally stylin by the weekend if we did the deed this week." And Ty's sly, white-tooth grin spreads like a crack in a cave against his dark skin. "Late afternoon, tomorra," Tyron says. "Before the chink stashes his cash from the day in a safe or at the bank. Hoodies and caps, keep our mugs down, away from cameras, and we be golden."
"We ain't gonna just glide in there and ask for cash, blud. And copin a gun's gonna take time, and it ain't gonna be cheap," Billy feels a need to reality check him.
"We don't need no gun. Never liked em anyway. I'll thinka somethin."
No shit Tyron hated guns. Took his old man out in a drive-by in their driveway when he was nine and his dad's brains landed all over him.
They're rifling through Tyron's shared closet for old baseball caps after track Thursday afternoon. Action figures missing body parts, busted Transformers, remoteless remote control cars once Ty's, now part of his four younger half-brothers and sisters collection. Most of the toys were used when he got em, but now they're all trashed, except for the hard plastic stuff, like shields and swords, and his old toy gun, the black and silver Beretta M92 pistol he got for his tenth birthday from Uncle Mike, a replica of the ones in the The Matrix. Tyron holds it with both hands, points it out in front of him towards Billy still ripping through the pile of junk.
Billy looks over at Tyron and his freckled face goes white. "What the fuck—." Then he grins, his blue eyes laughing. "Dope, hom. I remember that, when you brung it to school and guard dog Jackson almost shot yo ass."
"Guess it's real enough," Ty says checking out his old toy. "And this way we in control, get what we want and no one dies. Now all we need is caps and we tight on gear, but we gonna need treads to haul ass outta there. Stupid runnin round the Hood— ever— but retarded after popo's get called out on the hit."
Billy's bushy brows bunch, then his eyes light up like there's a bulb in his head. "I'm for liberatin my brother's Charger from the Costco parkin lot. Jack it right after he starts his shift. Bring it back before his dinner break and he'll never know we copped it."
"And how we gonna cop his keys, homs?" Ty asks.
"Chris made an extra set of keys after that time he shredded me for losin his."
"Even though ya didn't, and he found em in the fuckin couch cushions after crackin yo ribs for losin em."
Billy can't help grinning. "Asshole laid out $150 for a new set he didn't need, which he keeps in his box of stash under his bed."
Tyron nods, but Billy sees his eyes glazing, his minds churnin. Ty's brain is always working.
"I gotta hold the gun, since it's mine, well, was. And I'm way more harsh than yo cracka mic mug." Ty's plan— he points the toy gun at the chink, covers most of it with his monster paws so it looks real, then shouts for the paper. Billy snags it and they haul ass. "And with a bogus gun no one gets drilled. And that keeps us in juvie if we get nailed."
"But we won't get nailed if we do this right, Ty. Then we be stylin with our own treads, right on outta here."
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