Chapter 67 – You're Ready
Los Angeles, South Central.
Inside a café on West 61st Street, John Singleton sat across from a heavyset Black man with dreadlocks, his brows furrowed in frustration.
"Lorel," John said sharply, "in the past half month, you've disrupted our shoot three times. You've cost us a lot of money.
"And don't forget—we already cleared things with Don Juan. He gave us permission to film here. His people have been cooperating. By stirring up trouble, you're going against his word."
John Singleton was furious. Boyz n the Hood had only been shooting for three weeks, and already this crew had crashed the set three times.
The dreadlocked man, Lorel, simply grinned. His burly frame leaned back casually, gold chains clinking.
"You only talked to Crippled Juan. Didn't think you had to show the Bloods some respect too?"
John worried over the schedule. The film had to be finished in time for a spring release. He raised his hands, trying to keep calm.
"Fine, Lorel. Just tell me—what do you want?"
Lorel spread a wide grin, flashing perfect white teeth. He raised two fingers and waved them slowly.
"Two hundred grand. You pay, and I swear to God, no one from my crew will bother your production again."
"That's impossible!" John shouted, his anger spilling over. "We've already notified Juan."
Lorel tugged on his thick chain and swaggered out of the café.
"Then you'd better hope Juan's people can babysit you forever."
When Lorel left, John let out a long sigh. Neither Juan nor the cops could protect the crew around the clock. Small-time gangs like this were unpredictable, impossible to guard against.
Just then, Jack Wells walked up and clapped John on the shoulder.
"I've already spoken to Aaron. We'll take care of this. You just focus on shooting your film."
John gave a weary nod.
That afternoon, Jack filled Aaron in on the situation with Boyz n the Hood.
"I thought they cleared things with Crippled Juan already?" Aaron frowned. "You mean to tell me they can't even handle three or four street punks?"
Jack gave a helpless smile.
"That neighborhood's full of gangs, Aaron. Juan controls most of it, but those guys belong to other crews. They only show up when the cops and Juan's men aren't around."
Aaron's face hardened. Impossible to guard against, huh?
"Two hundred grand…" He sneered. "Enough to buy a few lives."
There was no way he would give in. If he set that precedent, anyone could shake him down for cash.
"Boyz n the Hood is a five-million-dollar production," Aaron snapped. "These bastards are wasting my money."
Jack leaned in. "I'll take care of them. We can't let this drag the shoot down. They're just bottom-feeders—nobody will even notice if they vanish. As long as Lorel goes down, the rest won't be a problem. People die in the hood every day."
Five million was a fortune. Aaron couldn't afford delays. Letting these punks run loose would cost him far more.
"Stake out the set. Find Lorel's hideout," Aaron ordered coldly.
"When the time comes, we'll deal with them."
He had been focused on Ghost up until now—he hadn't expected trouble with Boyz n the Hood.
As for Crippled Juan? Useless trash.
Jack smirked. "So you're giving the word?"
Aaron nodded. "They want my money without working for it? God doesn't allow that. Convince them to confess to Him."
Aaron's mood had soured. Nothing made him angrier than someone trying to steal his money.
"Good," Jack said. "Wait for my call." He was more than happy to send those punks to meet their Maker.
That evening, the two drove to the set. Aaron stayed behind, wanting to see for himself which bastards had dared target him. Jack left immediately to make arrangements.
Later that night, on the corner of West 75th Street, a young Black man stepped into a phone booth, made a quick call, then hurried back to the street.
"Apartment 550, 75th Street. Three of them inside. Lorel's there. Someone just saw them go in."
Jack handed the informant a crisp hundred-dollar bill. The youth disappeared into the shadows.
Jack then dialed a number.
Half an hour later, he pulled up with John Levin, a German-American with a brutal face and a reputation as a cleaner. The Levin family had long ties with the Wellses.
John popped open a case, revealing two pistols with suppressors.
"Custom jobs. Black market. Try them out."
Jack checked the weapon, nodded with satisfaction.
"One more hour. At midnight, we strike."
The old streetlamp cast weak, yellow light across the crumbling buildings. Shadows swallowed the block. Jack and John waited like wolves in the dark, eyes locked on their prey.
"Time's up," Jack murmured, checking his watch.
They pulled on bandanas marked with Juan's cripple-gang symbols, slipped on gloves, and armed themselves with pistols and knives.
Approaching Apartment 550, they crept to a window and slid silently inside. The place was small, one bedroom and one living room.
"Empty downstairs. They're upstairs," Jack whispered.
John nodded. The two crept up the stairs.
"Hey… who the hell are you?"
A drowsy Black man shuffled out of the bathroom, catching sight of two dark figures.
"Fuck," Jack cursed under his breath.
Before the man could react, John lunged, clamping a hand around his throat.
"Urk—"
The blade flashed.
"Shhk!"
The knife slid deep into his neck. John held him down until the struggling stopped, and silence returned.
Jack Wells quickly recovered, his eyes snapping to the sofa. Another man was still sprawled there.
Bang! Bang!
Two shots cracked through the room, the man's scream cut short. Jack strode over and put a third round straight through his skull.
John Levin released the limp body he'd been holding and moved with Jack toward the next room.
"Wait—wait! I'm Lorel of the Bloods! The money's all here—I can—"
The gang leader, naked and scrambling off the bed, tried to bargain.
Bang! Bang!
Jack didn't let him finish. Two bullets slammed into his chest, dropping him to the floor.
"You…" Lorel gasped, eyes wide, blood bubbling at his lips. He looked at the two intruders in disbelief.
"Outside—he's dead?" Jack asked calmly.
"Yeah. Peaceful as could be. Just a little messy," John replied with a savage grin.
"Jack… you've graduated."
On the floor, Lorel twitched, still trying to raise an arm. "Ambulance…" he croaked.
Jack crouched, grabbing a fistful of the man's hair.
"Don't be afraid, Lorel. Really. Just tell me—where's the cash?"
The dying gangster wheezed, then lifted a trembling finger toward the nightstand.
John yanked the drawer open. Inside was a few hundred dollars, some chunky gold chains, and a handful of trinkets. He scooped them up in one swipe.
"Who the hell are you people?" Lorel rasped.
Pop!
Jack put another bullet through his skull.
"You talk too much."
John examined one of the gaudy chains, then smirked.
"Fake. Toss it in water and it'll float."
Jack's smile faded. "A small-time boss, and this is all he had? A few hundred bucks?"
John shrugged, then pulled a red bandana—the Crippled Juan gang's marker—from his pocket and tossed it onto the blood-soaked floor.
"Doesn't matter. Job's done. Let's move."
The two men slipped back into the night, leaving nothing but corpses, blood, and the stench of cheap perfume behind.
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