Durty South Grind by L.E. Newell

Author:L.E. Newell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Strebor Books
Published: 2011-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rainbow Works The Younguns

Rainbow and a group of rock-slanging thugs were sitting around the glass table in the dining room of his crib across from Turner Field. They were in the middle of a Georgia Skin gambling game. He started rubbing his chin with his elbow resting on the table as he studied each youngun individually. He was full of confidence, knowing they didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning.

Behind his ever-present aviator sunshades, his eyes glittered as he thought, Now that’s a damn shame. These so-called slick-to-the-bone-ass niggas don’t have the slightest hint that I’m cheating their stupid asses to death. The fools are probably thinking that I’m laughing at all that fake-ass gangster lingo they keep tossing around.

He forced a fake frown as he waited for the next hand to be dealt. It was a mask he constantly displayed while dealing with these young fools. He couldn’t afford to let either of them ever think there was anything soft about him. For dealing with these clowns was sort of a must with keeping his ear to the pulse of the hood.

Little Bird, decked out real fly in a candy-apple red short set, was the smallest of the crew. He tried to maintain a hard-as-nails mannerism to enforce the image that nobody had better take his mini size as a sign of weakness. He had already lost a considerable sum of his hard-earned pusher money, so he wasn’t in the mood for any bullshit. “Nigga, will ya please stop finger-fucking the cards and let a nigga scoop a winner out of that raggedy-ass deal you just shuffled up. I need to get my baby boy some new Air Force Ones with ya’ll niggas’ hard-hustled money,” he hollered at Billy, who kept right on rifling the deck.

Billy, a real runt of a dude himself, was slightly bigger than Little Bird at five-feet-seven inches. He was dressed in a black denim short set, with a Yankees baseball cap cocked acey-deucey on his head. He was as crazy as the rest of the young fools who thought that slinging rocks gave them the swagger to be gangster. He set the deck down, snorted as he sat back in his chair and rubbed his baby fu-Manchu mustache. His complexion was as dark as midnight, leading his crew to jokingly call him “Inky.” Outside of the guys there, very few were allowed to tither along his extremely short fuse.

But the other players around the table were just as mean, or so they thought. They couldn’t care less if his little short ass getting riled up. Nor were they the least concerned about him being short of his re-up money. The less he had to work with, the more their pockets had the chance of staying fat.

Rainbow leaned back in his large African bamboo chair, observing the slick back-and-forth banter of the young drug dealers. They had no idea that every deck on the table—hell, in the house—was rigged in several ways to skim them for their digits.

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