1
 
Boys Will Be Boys
 
 
Seven years later
The month of July had two-pieced the city like an experienced, heavy-weight champion boxer walloping a malnourished and under-skilled wannabe combatant. The fight was over before it started. The winner, by unanimous decision, was the heat wave.
Local meteorologists had warned the masses about the extreme weather. There was going to be a heat index of 105 to 110 degrees, and feature the three Hs: hot, humid, and hazy. None of the so-called experts mentioned the fourth H:
Hellacious!
The streets were sweltering. The only people it didn’t seem to slow down were the kids who were out of school for summer vacation and the low-level drug boys who were out of their mind for being caught in that heat, peddling everything from pills to crack cocaine.
The musical chimes of the ice-cream truck sounded throughout the community; its presence alone was a relief to everyone, especially the neighborhood kids.
Ali and Hadji were sitting on their friend Tommy’s porch kicking the bo-bo. When the loud melody from the ice-cream truck announced that it was near and on its way to the block, Tommy’s little sister, Tommesha, ran out of the house in reckless abandon in chase of an icy treat. “Hold on a minute,” Tommy said, putting the brakes on his sister. “How much money do you have?”
“Two big nickels,” Tommesha proudly told him, anxious to get on her way.
“Girl, c’mere. That ain’t enough to buy nothing.” Tommy dug into his pocket and fished out a five-dollar bill.
He asked his friends, “One of y’all got change?”
Both twins shook their head, so Tommy handed his sister the five-dollar bill along with strict instructions: “Get one thing and bring my change back.”
Tommesha clutched the money in her small hands and took off running.
Ali asked Tommy, “How old is your sister, man?”
“Five, going on twenty-five.” They could tell he really loved her, even though he tried to act like she was a pain in his butt.
When Tommesha returned from the ice-cream truck with a red-and-white-and-blue Bombsicle, she was so preoccupied trying to get the wrapper off that she barely heard Tommy ask, “Where’s my change?”
After he asked a second time, she went in her shorts pockets and pulled out a dollar and a nickel. “Here.” She handed it to him.
“Where the rest of it?” he asked, knowing good and well that the popsicle didn’t cost four dollars.
Tommesha shrugged her little shoulders. “That’s all the man gave me.” She had the wrapper off now, taking her first lick. It put a snaggle-toothed smile on her face.
“He on that same stuff, man,” Tommy said to the twins, shaking his head. “That popsicle was only one-fifty, at most.”
This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Pop, the guy that operated the ice-cream truck, always cheated little kids—a quarter here, fifty cents there. The more Tommy thought about it, the more pissed he got. It was despicable the way Pop treated the kids, and Tommy wasn’t having it. It was bad enough that Pop was cheating the other kids, but the buck stopped with his little sister.
Tommy was so mad he stomped over to the ice-cream truck to confront Pop. He went straight to the front of the line. “You can’t cut,” one of the kids protested.
“Wait your turn,” Pop reprimanded. “I got enough for everyone.”
“Fuck that,” Tommy voiced his displeasure at the thief after glancing at the picture of the Bombsicle on the side of the truck and its price. “You stole two-fifty from my baby sister and you gotta give it back.”
Pop held his ground. “You better get yo’ lil’ narrow butt away from my truck before you get yo’self in trouble, lil’ boy.” His tone was both threatening and patronizing. He added, “I ain’t stole nothing from nobody. Now play like Michael Jackson and beat it, kid!”
Tommy had no proof of the theft other than what his sister told him. What if she lost the money in her haste to start eating her frozen treat? Embarrassed and feeling conquered while unsure what to do next, Tommy dropped his head and walked off, biting his lip.
The twins watched, feeling like the entire situation was messed up. Tommy looked defeated but Hadji had no intentions on letting his friend go out like a punk. Ali, picking up on his brother’s body language, got right on board.
“You strapped?” Hadji asked.
Ali nodded. “Yep.”
“Time to teach this sucker a lesson.”
They slow-walked their way to the truck. Pop paid them no mind; he was busy exchanging merchandise for money. The twins took one last look at each other, confirming what they were about to do next. They both had a hand on their guns, which were tucked in their waistbands under their shirts. A few of the kids saw the guns and either moved back or started to take cover before the twins busted off.
“Cheat this!” Hadji screamed when he whipped out a big black pistol. Ali followed suit.
Pop’s eyes got big as a pair of ripe, fleshy plums, almost popping out of their sockets. “Oh, shit. Don’t shoot,” he begged, then tried to duck, but it was too late.
Both boys had already squeezed the trigger.
Pop was hit twice in the chest and once on the arm before dropping to the floor of the ice-cream truck. He thought he was going to die. Then he realized he was hit with BB’s.
He regained his composure. “You son-a-bitches!” he screamed. “I’ll kill yo’ lil’ asses!”
Pop was reaching under the counter for something, probably a gun, when Ace popped up.
Antonio “Ace” Davis was somewhat of a hood legend in the Richmond Redevelopment Housing Projects. In his prime some people actually referred to him as the King of Cyprus Court, in reference to the projects where he grew up and did most of his dirt. Now at age thirty-nine, with a six-year prison bit behind him, he mostly just went by Ace. Ace knew that kings ruled for a while, but most eventually fell or were overthrown. There was always someone new waiting to pick up the pieces and the crown. That’s why he had ditched the king moniker: Ace planned to get cake forever … until the day he decided he wanted to pass his crown down.
“What you thinking bout doing, Pop?” Ace asked the question matter-of-factly. “It can’t be what I think…”
At the sound of Ace’s voice, Pop froze up like the popsicles he was peddling.
Pop was visibly shaken just by Ace’s presence. “Th-the kid,” Pop stammered, “shot me with a BB pistol.”
“Stop crying like a bitch, man, especially when you deserved that shit.”
Ace knew Pop was an opportunistic junkie who would do anything for a dollar. The only thing that kept him afloat was the old-ass ice-cream truck and scamming kids.
“Good thing it wasn’t no real bullets, huh?” he said, trying to make himself feel better and convince Ace that he was over it at the same time.
“You should be thankful.” Ace wiped his face...