Sanyika Shakur - T.H.U.G. L.I.F.E.

Table of Contents

Also by Sanyika Shakur Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member

Copyright 2008 by Sanyika Shakur

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or the facilitation thereof, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

Cant C Me Copyright 1995 Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner Tamerlane Publishing Corp., Goosehock Music. All rights on behalf of Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

So Many Tears, words and music by Eric Baker, Gregory Jacobs, Tupac Shakur, and Stevie Wonder Triboy Music c/o Missing Link Music LLC.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to events, localities, or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America

FIRST EDITION

ISBN-10: 0-8021-1871-2 ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-1871-4

Grove Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Distributed by Publishers Group West
www.groveatlantic.com
08 09 10 11 12 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Samir, Kim, Kendis, Kerwin, and Kershaun Its a family affair

Inconspicuously, Anyhow opened the window and raised the venetian blinds slowly, careful not to allow the individual blades to announce his presence. He scanned the partially illuminated den with a trained eye, looking hard at corners and door frames leading to other parts of the spacious town house, which could conceal an occupant lying in wait. Seeing no hint of movement or shadow, Anyhow held fast to the lower seal and with one swift motion hefted himself up and through the window. He landed with learned precision like a stalking catsmooth and gracious, eyes alert, ears tuned like scanners for inordinate sounds. After a moment on toes and fingertips, confident that his entrance had gone unnoticed, Anyhow lifted his short muscular frame quickly and eased to the darkest part of the room. From this point he stood as still as any inanimate object.

From his immediate left his eyes took in the room. A fifty-three-inch Mitsubishi television set stood diagonally in the corner, resembling in the dimness an Easter Island statue head. Its wide, spoon-shaped screen reflected the hall to his right from where the night light shone. Hed use it as a cautionary reflector. Atop the big screen sat two eight-by-ten photographs in chestnut-mahogany frames. Although they were not entirely visible from this distance, he could make out the fact that one was a graduation photo and the other a family photo. A raggedy car rolled by on the street in front of the house, its engine knocking badly, begging for oil and a ring job. Anyhow cursed himself for not having closed the window. They had warned him about this. Damn, he thought to himself. One photo, the graduation cap and gown one, was the most visiblevisible enough, that is, to reveal the person to be an Amerikan. Something he sensed anyway by the cold temperature of the room. They, hed been told once, are like polar bears. Next to the big screen on the left side stood a two-and-a-half-foot Sanyo speaker and on its top a vase with tacky ornamental designs painted on it. A door leading two steps up to what must be a kitchen, he thought, and then the window from whence he came. Under it, but slightly leftward, was a love seat made of black calfskin. On it a childs notebook was laid open with a pencil across the page. A picture of an oceanscape dominated the wall above it. To the left of the love seat stood the matching Sanyo speaker. On its top was a Holy Bible encased in glass, a long-since-dead rose stem protruded from its middle. The cold temperature of the room caused Anyhow to raise the collar of his Fila sweat jacket and clench his teeth. A longneck, mushroom-topped Tiffany lamp stood erect catty-corner to his position. Next to it was an immobile wet bar with a childs crayon drawing haphazardly taped to it. The drawing was of stick people. Behind the ebony-oak bar was a full stereo set inserted into the wall. Its reel to reel, however, stood out on a shelf made especially for it. That portion of the room was deep brown paneling, grooved expensively with wedge-end chip stone. Two Norman Rockwell drawings adorned the paneling and led to a plethora of photographs framed in different sizes, all of which covered the expanse of the entire wall. Sitting out from the wall, on an awkward-looking end table, was an antique lamp of considerable expensea Gregorianimported from England.

The door with the light shining through its hall broke the wall and to his immediate right stood a six-shelf bookstand densely packed with leather-bound medical texts. Where is it? Anyhow thought, feeling his blood begin to boil, which was a comforting thing against the backdrop of the icy den. They said it would be in the den. He pondered, looking slowly around the walls for something he might have missed, squenching his eyes like Steve Austin, but where in the damn... his thoughts were cut short by a framed medical doctorate degree above his head to the right. Hmmm. He positioned himself in front of the certificate and raised his gloved hands toward it. But something furtive caught his eye to the left, and in one learned, fluid motion he reached for his Glock, drew, and fired. The room in a seconds time was awash with light, gunfire, and assertive shouts. Instead of feeling secure as he had in the past when his Glock barked, Anyhow was knocked back into a ball of confusion, fear, and pain. Briefly there was light, and then came the darkness.

WESTSIDE NIGHT BANDIT CAPTURED! the headlines screamed the following morning. The paper slid across the Formica table, knocking two packs of Sweet n Low into the lap of Detective Sweeney. He ignored them and stared unblinking at the newspaper. He read, moving his lips without sound.

John Sweeney was a bald Irishman whod grown up in the San Fernando Valley and lived in a state of constant fear all of his life. First he feared his domineering father, whod taken great pains to let him never forget he was of Fighting Irish descent. Hed often demonstrate this fighting spirit by routinely finding something to jump on John about. Of course back in the 1970s this was not, as it is today, considered child abuse. Joseph Sweeney was also an alcoholic whod find fault with John for the most trivial things and then use that as an excuse for history lessons through brutality. John feared and resented his father. His mother had learned her history lesson early and had long since graduated in divorce court. Because she was deathly afraid of Joseph, she didnt pursue a custody battle and John was left to his dad. As an overweight, pimple-faced boy, John caught the eye and brutish attention of the local stoners; thus, they were his second lesson in fear education. And in the late seventies, his school district began to bus in New Afrikans from South Central L.A. With a short right hook, which knocked out his two front teeth, John Sweeney met his first Crip and there started his third fear. When Career Day was held at his school, El Camino Real High, he sat at two booths and planned his future. One was the USMC booth and the other was an LAPD recruitment booth. After fearfully completing his senior yeartaking all the bumps and bruises his dad, the locals, and the Crips (who were in no short supply being bused from South Central) could give himJohn Sweeney joined the marines. After four years he was honorably discharged and went directly into the LAPD, assigned to the 77th division in South Central L.A. Within the 77th Division he was designated to the Community Resources Against Street Hoodlums unit, better known by its acronym, CRASHthe gang detailand Sweeney was in nirvana. Ten years with CRASH, two fatal shootings, and countless arrests later, John Sweeney made detective, assigned to the homicide unit.