Introduction
Sunday
September 14
Evangelist Cornell Reynolds and his Divine Battalion Mission of the True
Light speaking on Man's greatest abomination before God: homosexuality.
(Excerpts from his KTTU-TV broadcast at 9:00 a.m.)
"… And so, brothers and sisters, I leave you with the Word of the Almighty
Himself, from Genesis 19, verse 11, which states very clearly and concisely
the Lord's position on this grievous matter. It says: ‘And they smote
the men that were at the door of the house with blindness, both small and
great, so that they wearied themselves to find the door.'
God bless you all and keep you well."
Chapter 1
Monday
September 15
10:14 a.m.
Emma McPeale felt her heart freeze in a tight knot of panic as the suspicious
looking pair entered through the bank's double glass doors. Ohh, no. Not
again, she thought in dismay. This was the third time in less than forty-five
days her branch of Crocker National had been robbed. No doubt in Emma's mind
what these guys intended. Danger exuded from them in palpable waves.
They were both tall, broad-shouldered, either
African-American or possibly Hispanic. She couldn't tell for sure. Both men
wore dark wool caps pulled down low over their brows and turtleneck sweaters
pulled up to cover most of their mouths and noses. They dressed in thick
army fatigue jackets, dark jeans, gloves and those Chuck Taylor sneakers
her son, Jeremy, liked to wear. The taller of the two had a duffel bag slung
over his shoulder. Their clothes dripped beads of water...
(And from Chapter 11 we hear from the thugz...)
After the shower, he padded naked into his and 'Toine's bedroom and chose
a fresh outfit to wear: a faded, Pelle Pelle black denim two-piece sweat
suit with whtlow and red lettering on the jacket, a dope pair of brown suede
Adidas slip-ons, and his gold nose ring. Downstairs to raid the kitchen.
'Toine had made a batch of his famous ghetto stroganoff
the night before. Paulo removed it from the fridge and reheated it, luxuriating
in an aromatic bowl of purple kesh buds while he waited. The o.g. came home
just as he was finishing his scrumptious meal and cleaning up. 'Toine rushed
over and engulfed him in a hug, kissing the kid full on the mouth and holding
him close.
"Missed you, dog," Paulo whispered heavily. "Damn. Missed
you."
"Got a surprise for you, my nigga." Fixer Man let the
kid go and gave him a mysterious grin. One arm hooked around Paulo's shoulders,
he led him out through the service porch and into the garage. "Wasn't sho'
when you'd be comin' home or I'da waited. But…" He clicked on the light
switch. "Wah laaahhh!"
Paulo was dumbstruck. "Whoaaa."
It was a gleaming, fire-engine red, 1998 Porsche 914.
Lakestar rims all around. Sunroof. Tinted windows. Abellanosa
looked over at 'Toine's grinning black face.
"Bulletproofed, by the way," said the o.g. "Bought it
off an Eastside D-boy yesterday."
"How much?"
'Toine frowned. "What's it matter?"
"How much, 'Toine?"
The older gangsta looked sheepish. He shrugged. "Five
eight."
"Fifty-eight thousand?? You spent fifty-eight thousand
bucks on a car for me??? 'Toine, I—"
"Hell, dog. Who knows how long them pigs gonna fiddlefuck
around with yo' '88?" Paulo turned and leaped at Fixer Man, throwing both
arms around him in a ferocious hug. The money meant little. The thought was
what impacted. His eyes grew suddenly teary, the last few days finally taking
their toll, unsure why. Eight months in San Bruno for hustling sex hadn't
affected him emotionally. Perhaps he'd had nothing to lose back then. Perhaps
he feared and distrusted good fortune. Love. Maybe he was just tired and
happy.
They went back inside, Paulo stopping in the kitchen to finish
putting dirty dishes and silverware in the washer. Fixer Man came up behind
him at the sink. The o.g. wrapped his strong arms around the kid's waist
and goatishly pressed his pelvis into Paulo's butt, working his hips in a
slow, languid churn. The motion caused the boy's belly to rub up against
the sink's edge. Fixer's nose and lips brushed lightly against his scratchy
dreadlocks.
"Leave that shit fo' later," said the older thug huskily,
his animal nature steadily swelling his pleated dress trousers, the vulgar
hardness warm and intrusive on the Venezuelan youth's ass. "We gots other
biz'ness to attend to right now." Paulo gave a low and earthy chuckle. He
arched his back catlike, wagging his rear teasingly from side to side with
a lopsided, sly grin, feeling 'Toine's manhood respond with increasing
rigidity.
Abellanosa's face and the crotch of his airy denim sweats
both rose in temperature, the front of his pants twitching restlessly as
his penis lurched to life. With a hissing intake of breath, he jutted out
his lower jaw and gently pushed 'Toine's hand down to engulf his package,
bearing witness through the power of touch. Greedy brown fingers caressed
and worried butchy denim and silk and engorged flesh. Paulo felt 'Toine's
heated breath scorch his neck. Felt his fingers slip beneath the elastic
band of his sweats and snake their way inside his underwear.
"Ssssst. Don't squeeze too hard, papi. I'll blow off
in my fuckin' pants."
"That would sho' nuff be a shame," quipped 'Toine in
a dry tone. "Then I'd be forced to give that dizzy bitch, Billy Cole, a holler.
Invite his slutty ass over to put his soup-coolers to good use." The mood
instantly shattered.
"Fuck Billy Cole." Paulo, suddenly angry, thrust his
rear end back hard into Fixer Man's groin and pushed off from the sink, spinning
about-face to glare at him. The Black gangsta grunted and clutched at his
privates, his face reflecting his sharp discomfort and surprise. "What'd
I say??"
Paulo's nostrils flared. His gray eyes blazed with naked
hurt and anger that seemed to boil up from nowhere. "Why you gotta bring
that horse-faced maricon's name up now? You fuckin' the muh'fucka while I
was in jail? Huh?? Is that why you went out and bought me a new car?" The
older thug gawked at him like he'd lost all sense of reality. He took a placating
step toward Paulo, reaching out to him, only to be spurned with an angry
shove. "I asked you a goddamn question!" The youth's lean body was wound
tight as a coil and trembling. 'Toine didn't retreat. He stood his ground,
stubby fingers gingerly touching the tell-tale rise in the front of his trousers
with his bald head angled a little to one side, gazing at his volatile partner
with a look somewhere between detached puzzlement and amusement. Noting the
look, Paulo's expression flared incendiary.
"You think I'm a joke, 'Toine?"
"Naw, baby," The Black gangsta struggled to hold back,
failing. A snorting chorkle escaped him. Seeing Paulo's incensed reaction,
he quickly threw up a halting hand and rushed on. "Naw. You ain't no joke.
You crazy, that's what you is. It's that smokin' Latin blood in yo' veins.
Whew! Since when was Billy Cole or any other sideline plaything an issue
between us?"
"It's an issue now," answered Paulo, gray-fire eyes boring
into his older partner's, "and I want an answer. Was you packin' that puto
faggot's ca ca while I was sittin' in jail?"
"No. I wasn't." Fixer Man gazed at him calmly and levelly.
"I was just clownin' you, P. But..." The o.g. coolly turned from the fuming
kid and went over to take a banana from the fruit bowl on the table, heading
out toward the family room. "Obviously," he added as a parting shot, "Billy's
a sensitive issue wit' you, My bad, yo. Next time I get horny fo' fag bootie
I'll go stick my dick in one'uh them prissy-ass, Castro White boys with the
fussy toy poodles."
That was it. "Don't brush me off and strut away,
muthaFUCKA!!" Fixer glanced back just in time to see Paulo barreling towards
him from the kitchen, scarlet dreadlocks streaming back, face a furious scowl,
clawed hands stretched out in front of him. He launched like Spiderman onto
the rugged o.g.'s back, the two of them tumbling to the thick shag carpet
in a grappling roll, recklessly thumping into end tables, potted plants,
the cluttered coffee table. An expensive lamp wobbled, tipped over and clunked
to the floor beside them. A wild foot kicked the entertainment center and
sent a dozen CDs and DVDs clattering.
'Toine cackled like a lunatic, halfhearted in his efforts
to fend off his hot-tempered boy's flailing arms, fists, knees and feet.
He'd goaded Paulo, as he often did, relishing the burst of raw, rough, physical
emotion. There was a blunt and almost brutal sweetness to man-to-man sex
'Toine rarely matched in his pairings with women. Men were innately greedy
and demanding—in bed and out. Bottoms just as commanding as tops; slaves
as daddies. Pleasure was conquest.
(There's more...)
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