Out a Order by Evie Rhodes

him.
    Rico’s cell phone rang. He answered while wondering at the shocked expression on Temaine’s face. “Yeah?”
    A deep raspy voice emanating chords of darkness snaked its way through the phone lines. “Rico, my boy. Why don’t you look and see what has your boy in shock?”
    Rico looked around. He didn’t see anyone. The streets were practically deserted at this time of the morning. All the night players were shut in, keeping the light out of their eyes until time for the evening’s business.
    Rico peered into the Jeep. He saw Eight Ball’s head residing on the plush leather of his seat. “You son of a—”
    Ballistic cut him off. “In the future, Mr. Rico, you will have to learn to find better hiding places for your friends. This is the only time I’m going to change your Pampers, baby boy.” The phone went dead in Rico’s ear.
    Rico bugged out. He kicked the Jeep door in a rage, until a dent appeared. “That punk-ass nigga is insane.” Rico surveyed the area. He motioned to Temaine to do something about the head in the Jeep. Temaine grimaced.
    â€œThis punk done lost his mind, man,” Temaine said. “We’re gonna have to pump up the volume.”
    Rico nodded.
    Rico’s mind was working overtime. He would definitely have to turn the heat up under Ballistic. And it would have to be lightning quick. His Cuban connect had already questioned him, word having reached him through the grapevine of a war on the streets.
    Rico had assured him it was all under control. The connect would move quickly to displace him if there was a problem, and he knew it. All they cared about was the bottom dollar. Who was controlling the turf in Newark didn’t mean jack to them. They would supply whoever was holding it down.
    He needed a grandstand move, one that would solidify his stronghold. But first he would toy with this nigga. He would show him that he hadn’t uprooted him with Eight Ball’s death.
    Jasmine Davenport’s funeral had definitely given a nigga one up. Dropping Spence in her grave would be a legend that would live on the streets for years to come.
    Rico was always one to top even himself, and he knew just the thing. He had been running things since he was what the old-timers called a piss spot on the sheets. But now he had risen. He was going to set the standards for these niggas. When his name rang they were going to know to bow down.
    Rico didn’t have to wait long to recreate himself. The opportunity presented itself at Spence’s funeral services. Outside the church on Clinton Avenue vehicles were stacked and packed, triple-parked along the streets.
    All had come to pay homage to one of the fallen in the game. There were enough Cadillac Escalades on the block to stock a showroom.
    The hearst and a line of black limousines were lined up at the head of the block, so as to lead the procession from the church. The ghetto was glistening and glittering on this day. There was enough gold, diamonds, Versace, and Prada in the house to make Fifth Avenue proud.
    Tiffany’s window display of diamonds and rubies was front and center on the women who had players that were getting real paper.
    Funerals in the hood had become like hot spots for the latest nightclub. It was less about a life being lost, and more about who was who, who appeared to be connected because their face was seen in the place, as well as who was with whom and who had on the latest gear.
    It was the perfect spot for the spectacle that was about to go down. Rico and his crew parked directly in the middle of the street, in front of the church. Soft music floated out onto the streets.
    Rico jumped out of his Jeep, and the crew followed, their guns drawn. He strutted up to the doors of the church, pulling them open arrogantly.
    Stepping inside the church, the crew looked like an ensemble from the Men in Black movie. They were all dressed down in black silk