I’m walking fast. I look up at a street sign and see I’m pointed the wrong way, heading down. I need to turn around, get moving up toward 150th and this Percy guy. I turn the corner onto 123rd. I’ll circle the block before I head up so I don’t have to go back by that subway entrance.

I turn the corner and two guys wearing huge black parkas with Ecko rhinos embroidered on the breast grab me and shove me against a wall. A black Humvee bounces over the curb, stops next to us and the rear door flies open. The two guys throw me inside and someone shoves the soles of both his Timberlands into my neck, pats me down, pulls my.32 out of my pants and sticks the barrel in my eye.

– That was some stupid shit back there. Some seriously stupid shit.

– What Predo thinkin’? Muthafucka out his brain? Insane in the membrane?

– Who?

– Doan who me, muthafucka. Predo. Dexta mothafuckin’ Predo.

– Never heard of him.

– Never heard of him. That what he said, Never heard of him, that what muthafucka said?

The one armed barber nods.

– Sounded like it, Digga.

DJ Grave Digga nods and looks back in the mirror.

– Never heard of him. Mutha. Fucka.

He shifts his eyes and looks at my face reflected just behind his, pinned between the two Ecko rhinos.

– Beat on that muthafucka a little.

They beat on me a little and then they stand me back up.

– I ax you again, what Predo thinkin’ sendin’ you an’ one them fuckin’ enforcers up here?

I wipe the blood out of my eyes with the back of my hand.

– What was that name again?

– Shit. Sheeit.

He snaps his fingers and points at the chair next to his.

– Sit his ass down.

The rhinos pull me over and push me into the barber chair.

Digga looks at the barber.

– You done yet?

The barber taps Digga’s upper lip and Digga slides his tongue under it, pushing it out. The barber scratches his straight razor over the raised spot, sculpting the edge of Digga’s pencil moustache a little sharper. Then he sets the razor aside, squirts some oil from a dispenser into his palm and slaps it onto Digga’s face before he whips the smock off his chest, snapping it once to shake loose the hair clinging to its folds.

Digga gets out of the chair and leans close to the mirror, inspecting his face. The barber stands behind him with a hand mirror, angling it so Digga can see the back of his head.

– Nice.

He looks at my reflection again.

– You want a cut? Muthafucka knows his bizniz. Best damn barber in the Hood.

– No, thanks.

– No, you have a cut. Lookin’ a little bedraggled, a little raggedy.

He gestures to the barber.

– Clean the man up. Shave and a cut. On me.

The barber comes behind me, rolls down my collar, tucks a piece of tissue inside, snaps the smock and lays it over me.

– Hows you like it?

I run a hand through my hair.

– Just off the ears maybe. Natural in back.

He cuts the air once or twice with his scissors.

– White hair ain’t my thing.

I shrug.

– It grows back.

He starts clipping.

Digga leans his ass on the counter in front of me.

– It grows back. Hear that? Muthafucka says his hair grows back. Ain’t the only shit grown back, huh? Folks like you and us all in here.

He points around the barbershop, taking in the rhinos, the one-armed barber, and the guy in the Timberlands sitting in a chair by the door reading a copy of The Source. Timberlands there is wearing my hide, the nice black leather jacket that Evie gave me.

Digga takes them all in.

– We all grow shit back.

– If you say so.

He laughs.

– If I say so. Muthafucka. Give it to you, you cool. You busted out in the wrong place at the wrong time, you got yo ass dragged up in my shop, got us Hoodies all about yo ass, an you still cool. Give you that. Give you that.

– Thanks.

– Don’t be thankin’ me. Shit. Want to do somethin’ might help with this situation, you start tellin’me what the fuck Predo thinkin’. Start talking ’bout that ’fore you get somethin’ cut off don’t grow back.

– Sorry. I missed that name again. What was it?

He crosses his arms and drops his head.

– Mutha. Fucka.

He looks up.

– Cool-ass mutha. What yo name, cool-ass?

I look at the barber.

– Leave as much length as you can on top.

I look at Digga.

– Pitt.

– Oh! Snap!

He claps his hands.

– Pitt. Joe muthafuckin’ Pitt. You Terry Bird’s bitch. You his pet Rogue bitch, ain’t you? This shit gettin’ curiouser an’ curiouser. What Bird send you up here for? His hippie ass know better than to send no Rogue agent up here without no transit agreement.

– He didn’t send me.

– Uh-huh. You jus wand’rin’ up here all by yo lonesome. Sight-seein’ like.

– Heard the fried chicken and waffles can’t be beat.

The barber stops cutting.

Digga puckers his lips.

– What that you just say?

– Heard about the fried chicken and waffles.

– That’s thin ice, bitch. That fried chicken talk is some thin ass ice for a muthafucka to be treadin’ on.

– Sorry.

– That right you sorry.

– Not like I said I was here for the watermelon season.

His eyes open wide.

– Uh-uh. You did not. You did not.

He points at the barber.

– You done with that shit?

The barber looks at my head.

– Doan look no worse none than when I started.

Digga flaps his hand at him.

– Leave it, leave it. Lather muthafucka up and give him a scrape.

The barber sets his scissors aside, stirs a brush around in an old coffee cup and starts lathering my cheeks and neck.

Digga turns his back to me and faces the mirror again. He flicks his pinkie over the tips of his moustache.

– Watermelon season. That some classic shit. That some good, old-skool, stereotypin’, racist humor that is. You a racist, Pitt?

The barber puts his index finger on the point of my chin and tilts my head back.

– Not really. I just don’t like assholes.

– Muthafucka!

He grabs the razor from the barber, pushes him aside and tucks the blade up under my jaw.

– Asshole this, muthafucka. You tell me what you doin’ up here. Now, muthafucka. Want to know what you doin’ comin’ up here trailin’ a fuckin’ enforcer behind you. You on Predo’s tip or whorin’ for Bird, I doan care, you just talk, muthafucka, talk. And doan move yo mouth too much or you slit yo own damn throat ’fore I can.

– Not here for Predo.

– Oh, you know that name now, do ya?

– Not here for Bird.

– Who for?

– I’m here on my own, on my own business.

He adds an ounce of pressure to the blade and the skin splits and I feel the blood start to run.

– On your own bizniz. A Rogue out traipsin’ ’cross Coalition turf, takin’ a spin up ta the Hood on his own bizniz. Bullshit.

– It’s my own thing.

– You got someone gonna vouch that shit? You got someone gonna throw down for you on that? You got a brotha gonna back you?

I don’t say anything. Got nothing to say.

– That your answer, son? Got no names for me?

The blade slices deeper, the edge raking the cartilage sheath around my esophagus.

I throw the only name I have.

– Chubby Freeze.

He eases slightly on the razor.

– Chubby Freeze. That downtown niggah. He vouch you?

– He might.

– Hunh.

He lets go of my head and snaps at Timberlands.

– Chubby Freeze. You got that niggah’s digits?

– Ya-huh.

– Blow ’im up. Get that niggah on the phone.

Digga turns to the mirror and adjusts his collar and tie.

– Lucky I di’nt get no blood on this tie.

Timberlands waves his arm.

– Got ’im.