"Do me!" said one of Levon's men, exposing himself to the TV screen.
"Bitch wants a meal, not a snack," said another.
Loud cursing and shoving followed, but it was quickly broken up.
Moses noticed a guy lying flat in the fetal position on the floor beside the couch. He appeared to be breathing, but his face was a battered mess, and his shirt was drenched in his own blood.
"Wannabe number one didn't make it through the initiation," said Levon. He pulled one of the chairs from the stack and climbed up to stand tall above the group. "Listen up!" he shouted.
Conversations faded into silence, and someone lowered the music. The fact that Moses was standing to Levon's right was the first indicator of his importance. Levon said, "This here's Moses. He's my new main man in Miami. He'll be staying with me a while, till the heat cools in Florida."
Hiding from law enforcement in another jurisdiction was one of the biggest advantages of an alliance with a national gang like Gangster Disciples. Most of these guys struck Moses as expendable morons, but any gangster was smart enough to grasp that Levon's reference to the heat in Florida had nothing to do with the weather.
"What's the crime?" asked the doorman.
Levon answered for him. "Murder."
"Killed a state trooper," said Moses.
"Cool," said another.
"Twelve hours after he got outta prison," added Levon.
A guy with a rum bottle flashed a mouthful of gold teeth." Very cool"
Moses' status was established immediately.
Levon said, "Moses has full rights of a Gangster Disciple while he's here. So bring on the next wannabe!"
The men howled like drunken football fans. The rap music cranked up again, and Blondie, the on-screen porn star, was working feverishly on stud number two. A pair of older gang members left the room and returned with a fifteen-year-old black youth who was already blindfolded and stripped to the waist. Crude tattoos covered his chest and arms, and his head was covered with a black-and-yellow bandana. As they led him to the center of the room, it was difficult to tell who was having a harder time walking a straight line, the soldiers or the wannabe. The rum and drugs were kicking in.
Levon went to the wannabe, stood face-to-face with him, and removed the blindfold. The music stopped and the room fell quiet again.
Levon said, "Kenny Butler: Are you ready to become a Gangster Disciple?"
"Yes, sir!" he shouted.
Levon pulled a revolver from his belt and held it in the air for everyone to see.
It was a Russian Ml 895 Nagant, and the excitement in the room gave Moses the distinct impression that everyone understood the significance of the chosen firearm – everyone except him and the wannabes.
Levon quieted the gang and said, "Bring me Wallace."
The two soldiers walked over to wannabe number one. Wallace was still bloody and lying on the floor, and he groaned with pain as they jerked him to his feet.
"Front and center!" shouted Levon.
The soldiers brought Wallace to their leader and left him there to stand on his own power. His face was swollen from the earlier beating, and he couldn't open his left eye. The blood around his nose was starting to dry a crusty brown, but the big gash on his forehead was still running red. The kid tilted to one side, unable to stand straight, his whole body battered.
"On your knees," Levon said.
Wallace complied as quickly as he could, which wasn't quick at all, his every movement painful.
Levon flipped open the revolver's six-chamber cylinder, which was empty. He took one round of live ammunition from his pocket, inserted it in the first chamber, closed the cylinder, and gave it a spin, Russian roulette style. Then he handed the gun to Butler and guided the barrel of the gun to the base of Wallace's skull.
"You got a choice, Butler," said Levon. "Squeeze the trigger. If the gun don't go off, both you and Wallace is in."
That drew a loud woo-hoo from the peanut gallery.
"What's my other choice?" said Butler.
"You can do the line, just like Wallace did."
The line was a common initiation rite that even Moses and the O-Town Posse had used. The wannabe walks between two lines of gangsters who punch and kick him repeatedly. Only those candidates who walked on their feet from one end of the line to the other are admitted into the gang. If they fall, they have to start over, usually on another day, when the injuries have healed. Wallace had obviously failed in his attempt.
"And if I make it through the line?" said Butler.
"You're a Gangster Disciple," said Levon.
"What about him?" he said, pointing to Wallace, who was still on his knees.
"You walk the line, Wallace is out. The gun is the only way you both get in."
Wallace bit down on his lower lip. Part of him looked as if he wanted to stand up and run, but he remained on his knees.
Butler swallowed a lump in his throat.
"The gun!" one of the soldiers shouted.
"Shit, yeah!" said another, and soon a chant filled the room: "Gun, gun, gun!"
Levon raised a hand in the air, silencing them. "What's it gonna be?"
Butler stared down at the top of Wallace's head. It wasn't hot in the room, but both kids were sweating.
The chant continued: "Gun, gun, gun!"
Levon said, "I need an answer!"
Butler's hand gripped the revolver. The tip of his finger caressed the trigger.
"Gun, gun, gun!"
Still on his knees, Wallace's expression tightened. "Gun!" he shouted.
Butler seemed caught off-guard. It was a ballsy decision for a guy on his knees with a gun to his head.
Levon said, "It ain't Wallace's call. It's yours, Butler."
"Gun!" Wallace shouted again.
The other gangsters cheered.
Butler's arm went straight as a rod, as if he were trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the target. The gun moved high and then low, left and then right, all around the back of Wallace's skull.
It was obvious to Moses that the kid had never shot anybody in his life – let alone a friend.
Butler retracted the gun and dropped his arm to his side. "I choose the line," he said.
The gang groaned and booed with disapproval. Levon snatched the revolver from his hand and brought a knee to Butler's groin. The kid doubled over and fell to the floor. Levon kicked himhard in the face, bloodying his nose and mouth. "There ain't gonna be no line, you pussy."
Levon's soldiers grabbed Butler and dragged him away. Wallace was still on his knees, smart enough not to move until Levon gave the order.
"Moses!" said Levon.
All eyes shifted to the man from Miami as he stepped forward. Levon handed him the firearm, saying, "He's all yours, bro'."
The rhythmic chant resumed: "Gun, gun, gun!"
A flat smile creased Moses' lips. He opened the cylinder, and he didn't even have to verbalize his request. Levon knew what he wanted. He handed Moses another bullet.
The gang cheered, loving the way Moses had changed the odds and upped the stakes.
Wallace placed his hands behind his waist, wrists crossed. Moses noticed they were trembling.
Even so, the kid shouted, "Gun!"
Moses inserted the second round in one of the empty chambers, slapped the cylinder closed, and pushed the barrel of the revolver firmly against the back of the teenager's skull.
The room went stone silent.
"What you want, Wallace?" said Moses in a booming voice.
"Do it!"
Without a moment's hesitation, Moses pulled the trigger.
It was almost simultaneous – Wallace falling face-first to the floor and the loud crack of the hammer against an empty chamber. But his head was intact. Raw nerves and emotion had caused his collapse.