Page 41 of The Street Disciples
“I’m gonna keep your microphones from finding the wrong song,” I told him, each word heavy, deliberate. The kind of sentence that settles in a man’s bones. “Don’t get it twisted.”
He exhaled through his nose, downed the rest of his drink in one pull, throat bobbing like he swallowed something sharper than alcohol. He left bills on the bar—crisp, starched, like he ironed them this morning to remind himself he had control somewhere.
“Careful, Trigger,” he muttered, sliding off the stool. “The wrong people are watchin’.”
“They always watch,” I said, not looking at him. “They just don’t always see. Dead homies can tell you that.”
The bartender’s eyes followed him out the door before landing on me, unreadable but sharp. I tapped my empty glass once against the bar. No request. Just a reminder. He poured another round, hand steady but jaw tight. In Lyon Crest, respect didn’t come with smiles. It came with silence. “On hood,” he muttered under his breath, like a prayer.
I didn’t pay. I never do here. Not because I’m owed—it’s because I’m the reason the lights stay on. We weren’t friends. We weren’t customers. We were the solution. And in the Crest, being the solution meant every man stayed in my pocket, yadadamean?
The door groaned like it wanted to snitch when I pushed it open, the stale heat of the bar giving way to Lyon Crest night air—wet, thick, alive. Rain had slowed to a mist, but the asphaltstill glistened like oil, catching every flicker of neon and busted streetlamp glow. Cigarette butts floated in the gutter, and a bus sighed at the corner, headlights cutting through fog like interrogation lamps.
My Hayabusa sat under the hum of a crooked streetlight, white paint shining ghostlike, gold trim flashing every time a drop slid off it. It didn’t need a name. Men like me didn’t christen tools we’d eventually bury.
I walked slow, letting the night scan me the way the Crest always did. Every shadow was a lookout. Every flick of a lighter was a message. The bar’s buzzing neon reflected in puddles, red and green bleeding together like the set of a crime scene that never got cleaned up.
I reached the bike, leather jacket creaking when I swung a leg over. The engine was silent, but it felt alive under me—metal cold, chain taut, exhaust still holding heat from the ride in. I thumbed the key, and the dash flickered awake, a quiet hum filling the night. My gloves were wet, and I could feel every drop through the stitching.
“Trigger,” a voice murmured from somewhere in the dark. A shape leaned on a payphone post, hoodie low. No face, no name. Just a warning disguised as a greeting.
“Stay dangerous,” I muttered back, voice calm, low, carrying enough weight to shut him up.
I twisted the throttle once, letting the pipes bark into the street like a pit bull testing its leash. A couple walking across the block flinched, and the guy muttered something he thought I couldn’t hear. I could. I just didn’t care.
The bike roared to life with a sound that wasn’t loud—it was deep, like a low note from God’s own bassline. I adjusted my gloves, rolled my shoulders, and scanned the block one more time. Lyon Crest always stared back.
Kickstand up. First gear. The Hayabusa glided forward, smooth and menacing. Rain-slick streets opened up like an old scar, and I disappeared into it, the sound of my exhaust bouncing off buildings like a promise nobody wanted me to keep.
Every light I passed under felt like a camera flash, and every shadow in an alley was someone holding their breath. This city didn’t sleep—it lay in wait. My jaw locked as I checked my mirrors twice, not because I didn’t trust my ride, but because I didn’t trust what rode behind me.
I slowed at a red light that blinked like it was thinking about quitting. A sedan rolled up two cars back, windows tinted dark enough to swallow secrets. My thumb hovered over the safety strap on my piece. Paranoia wasn’t paranoia in Lyon Crest; it was survival. The rain made halos around the lights, streaking my visor. Somewhere a dog barked, sharp and clipped—one bark. A signal. Always a signal.
I turned down East Marcus, a narrow street where the walls leaned in like they were listening. My thoughts drifted to Sal, to his empty chair, to the fact that I was the one filling it now. His ghost rode pillion every time I swung a leg over this bike, whispering in my ear: Don’t miss. Don’t flinch. Don’t trust applause.
My Hayabusa purred like a predator even at low speed. I cracked the throttle just to feel the rear tire bite. Lyon Crest was slick with rain and history, and both could kill you if you didn’t respect the road. I scanned rooftops, windows, every dark gap between buildings. One silhouette too still, one shadow that didn’t move with the rest of the night, and this ride would end bloody.
I pulled to a stop in front of a mural painted for a man whose name I knew too well. The candles beneath it had drowned in last night’s storm, wax melted into puddles like the city was tiredof mourning him. I stared a second longer than I should have, rolled my shoulders again, and pushed forward.
The streets opened up into a wider avenue. More lights, more noise, more witnesses. I preferred that. Too much quiet was a setup. In my world, safety was just a trick the city pulled before the next hit. I gripped the bars tighter, leaning into the hum of the engine, letting the vibration remind me I was still alive.
My eyes swept every mirror twice—checking shadows, checking for tails. Streetlights flickered like they were whispering secrets. An SUV lingered a car-length too long behind me; I switched lanes, and it kept straight. Good. Paranoia keeps men breathing. I rode low, visor catching stray raindrops, the smell of wet asphalt heavy in my nose. Every corner felt like a question with teeth.
Night crept into the bay. The city’s chest loosened, the way it does before it coughs. I knew it was time for me to make my way to the yard.
I coasted slow toward Tino’s block, heart calm but wired, counting every shadow like I was doing inventory. Even the neon felt hostile tonight—sharp blues and reds bleeding off puddles like cop lights were crouched in the water. A stray cat bolted under a rusted Civic and I flinched anyway. Couldn’t help it. Too many ghosts’ ride shotgun in this town.
I parked on the rise above the yard. From here you see the lights like a cheap constellation—Dollar Tree strung over plastic tables, browns and blacks and laughing that ain’t joy yet, just warming up. The stage would be a speaker on a milk crate and a mic that sprays spit back at whoever loves their voice too much. That’s where Ro would stand. He loved his voice and hated it both. The worst kind of man for my work is sure. Ro ain’t that. He’s hungry and ashamed and stubborn. He’d give me everything for free if I made him believe he was taking it.
From up here, I could see the whole yard like a chessboard. Faces blurred into motion, but every bike stood out: chrome teeth glinting in the dark, paint jobs flexing under cheap lights. Cops weren’t here yet. That didn’t mean they weren’t coming. I scanned rooftops—empty, but I never trusted “empty.” A chill crawled up my spine, and I let it. Fear sharpens the edges.
My phone began to buzz with short replies for everyone I texted earlier.
Tino: Gate built. Barbed wire, too.
Jinx: Bike tuned to loud. Shakes the block.
Mouse: Tony leashed. Camera ready.
