Neighborhood.

[Soapy]

Makaveli - Episode 9
“You’re going to love this,” Redden said, already walking, his shoes clicking against the floor. “We just finished the remodel six months ago and we were already one of the newer facilities. Steve didn’t skimp on a single thing. You’ll see.”

Keshawn nodded. Bronstein was half a step behind him, hands in his pockets. The hallway stretched out in front of them, wide and bright, the walls a clean white with the team’s logo repeated at intervals.

They passed the first set of doors. Redden was talking about the training staff, the sports science lab they’d built out on the second floor. Keshawn’s eyes drifted to the walls.

The first poster was small. He almost missed it. Set low on the wall, framed in what looked like black metal, the glass catching a little glare from the overhead lights. A kid in a Thornwood Prep jersey, number fifteen, mid jump, his arm extended. The kid’s face was younger, rounder, the baby fat still sitting in his cheeks.

Keshawn looked at it. The kid in the poster looked back.

Redden kept walking.

The next poster was a few feet down. Hamilton green. He was driving left, his defender’s hand at his wrist, the ball pinned against his hip. He remembered that game against Westchester. The photo was grainy, the colors a bit washed out. Someone had blown it up and framed it anyway.

The hallway kept going. UCLA now. The posters multiplied. One of him at Pauley Pavilion, arms raised after a three, the crowd behind him a blur of blue and gold. Another of him mid-block, his hand swatting a ball into the stands. The Big Ten Championship, the confetti falling, his jersey soaked through.

Keshawn’s feet kept moving but his eyes stayed on the walls. The posters were everywhere now. They lined both sides of the hallway, floor to ceiling, spaced maybe three feet apart. The UCLA ones took up the most real estate, the Final Four run, the semifinal against Villanova, the championship game against Kansas. The assist on the buzzer beater to win everything.

Redden was still talking.

Then the hallway opened up.

The last poster was at the far end, before the hallway turned toward the offices. It was bigger than the others. Maybe eight feet tall, six feet wide. It was the only photo he didn’t recognize.

He was wearing a Clippers jersey. The red and blue. Forty-four jersey. His arms were raised, one hand gripping the bottom of the Larry O’Brien trophy, the other balled into a fist. Confetti fell from somewhere above the frame.

Keshawn stood in front of it.

Redden had stopped talking. He was standing at the turn in the hallway, one hand resting on the wall, watching. Bronstein stood a few feet back.

Keshawn looked at the photo one more time. Redden pushed off the wall.

“Right through here,” he said, and turned the corner.

…

The apartment was small enough that Angela could hear the shower running from the desk. The bathroom door sat at the end of the short hallway that separated their bedroom from the kitchen, and the pipes in the wall groaned every time someone turned the knob.

She had her laptop open, a spreadsheet pulled up on one half of the screen and a PDF of the event permit application on the other. The numbers weren’t adding up the way she needed them to. The vendor fees alone had already eaten through what she’d budgeted for entertainment, and she still needed to confirm the sound system rental and the insurance rider. Her pen moved across the legal pad beside the laptop, crossing out one number, writing another, crossing that one out too.

The shower stopped. The pipes groaned again. A few seconds later, the door to their room opened and Ronnie came out with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“You eat yet?” he said.

Angela didn’t look up from the spreadsheet. “No.”

“Let’s go out. I’m starving.”

“We got food in the fridge.”

Ronnie leaned against the door frame of their bedroom. She could feel him standing there without turning around.

“Devon and Deja are in the kitchen,” he said. “Four is a crowd in that little ass kitchen.

“Too bad.”

“Come on, Ang."

“We’re already over budget this month and we’ve still got bills."

Ronnie pushed off the doorframe. He walked past her desk toward the closet on the far wall. She heard him pull the door open, the hangers scraping against the rod.

“Maybe you should ask Keshawn for a pay bump,” he said.

Angela kept typing. The numbers on the screen blurred for a second and she blinked them back into focus.

“Oh yeah,” Ronnie said, pulling a shirt off a hanger. “You’d need to get paid first.”

She set her hands on the keyboard and stopped typing.

“You go ahead,” she said. “I got work to catch up on.”

Ronnie didn’t say anything back. She heard the towel hit the floor, then the sound of him pulling on jeans, the zipper, the belt buckle. He moved around the room behind her, opening drawers, closing them. She kept her eyes on the spreadsheet. The numbers still weren’t right.

The bedroom door opened and closed. His footsteps moved down the hallway, past the kitchen, and then the front door opened and shut. The apartment settled.

Angela sat there for a moment. The spreadsheet stared back at her. She picked up her pen, wrote a number in the margin, and started typing again.

…

The private room at n/naka sat at the back of the restaurant, behind a sliding door made of dark wood. The first course came without anyone asking for it. A small ceramic plate with something on it that looked like a flower. The server set it in front of each of them with the same quiet precision, bowed slightly, and left. The door slid shut behind her.

Keshawn picked up his chopsticks. The flower turned out to be a piece of fish, sliced thin enough to see through, arranged in overlapping petals. He ate it. It didn't really taste like anything.

Steve Ballmer, the team owner, sat to his left, Bronstein to his right. Across the table, Clippers’ head coach Ty Lue had his elbows on the table, his hands clasped in front of him. Redden sat between Lue and Ballmer, his chair pulled back a few inches from the table, his body angled toward both conversations at once. Ballmer had been talking to Bronstein since they had sat down. Keshawn had only caught pieces of it whenever he would turn his head.

"I think you’ve heard it all by now," Lue was telling him, "Point forward. Space out the floor. More pick and roll. Less pick and roll. More pick and pop."

Keshawn quietly laughed to himself, "Yeah, something like that."

"Basketball is basketball," Lue shrugged, "Put the ball in the hands of the best motherfucker and start out from there."

Keshawn nodded. The server came back with the second course, a small bowl of something clear with a piece of something white at the bottom. She set it down and left. Keshawn didn’t touch it yet.

"Don’t get me wrong, Portland did a lot of good things with you," Lue continued, "Nick’s a hell of a coach. I just think, in certain situations, you have to touch the ball. Not at the eight-second mark either. Get you a touch early, get you a touch late. I lose in the playoffs because my star player made a bad decision, miss a shot? I sleep like a baby that night. Roll that motherfucker out the next game and we do it again."

Keshawn picked up the bowl. The broth was warm against his lips. He took a sip and set it back down.

"I saw it up close in the playoffs so I know what you’re capable of," Lue told him, "This is the Keshawn Chase Show. Make no doubt about what our team is going to look like. I know you saw Bron in those playoffs run with me. I ain’t drawing up shit just to draw up shit."

Redden had been listening, his head turning between the two conversations like someone watching a tennis match. He leaned in now.

“We’re not bringing you into a situation where you’re fitting into something that already exists,” Redden said. “I think we can speak candidly. Trae is probably signing with New Orleans. He’s off the books. We love Big Zu, but he’s probably gone if you’re here. Same with a lot of other guys."

Keshawn looked at him.

“We gut the roster and build it back up with you and Keyonte. Just like the Blazers did last year,” Redden said. “Except you’re living in LA and not Portland.”

He winked.

Keshawn laughed.

The third course arrived then the fourth, then the fifth, then the sixth. Each one arrived without ceremony, the server sliding the door open, setting the plates down, sliding it shut. The conversation found its rhythm in the gaps between courses, the pauses where everyone ate and nobody talked, the natural breaks that the omakase format built into the evening.

Redden had moved closer to Ballmer and Bronstein now, his chair pulled into their orbit, his voice dropping to match theirs. They must have been talking numbers beyond his basketball salary. Keshawn purposefully turned away.

The private room door slid open.

Keshawn looked up. Kawhi Leonard stood in the doorway, his frame filling most of it, his expression the same one Keshawn had seen on TV a hundred times, flat, unreadable, like he was waiting for someone to tell him why he was there. James Harden stood behind him, one hand on Kawhi’s shoulder, a little more expression and life on his face.

Everyone at the table stood up.

Ballmer was on his feet first, moving around the table. He reached Kawhi and pulled him into a hug that Kawhi tolerated for exactly the right amount of time before stepping back. Harden got the same treatment, Ballmer’s hand on the back of his neck, the two of them exchanging words.

Redden was next, shaking both their hands. Lue followed, dapping Kawhi, then Harden.

Keshawn stood where he was. Bronstein had moved to his side.

Ballmer turned back to the table. He had his hand on Bronstein’s elbow.

“Alon,” Ballmer said. “I’ve got something I want to show you. Some bottles I think you’ll appreciate.”

Bronstein looked at Keshawn. Keshawn gave a small nod.

“Lead the way,” Bronstein said.

Ballmer guided him toward the door. Lue and Redden were already saying their goodbyes, Lue clapped Keshawn on the shoulder, wished him best of luck with his decision and said he was confident that Keshawn would make the right one, and followed Redden out. The door slid shut behind them.

The room was quiet.

Harden sat down first. He pulled a cushion closer to the table and settled into it like he’d been there all night. Kawhi sat across from Keshawn, his movements slow and deliberate, his hands resting on the table in front of him.

The server appeared with two more place settings. She set them down and disappeared.

“So,” Harden said. “You ready to come home, big fella?"

[Caesar]

Angela peeped that Keshawn using that foundation to funnel money to Trey. Like father, like son head ass nigga.

[Soapy]

Angela peeped that Keshawn using that foundation to funnel money to Trey. Like father, like son head ass nigga.

it was their accountant that committed the fraud

[Soapy]

Makaveli - Episode 10
The rain hit the windshield in sheets, the wipers working harder than they were used to.

“Of course,” Angela said from the passenger seat. “Of course it rains the one time we decide to have a meeting outside."

Keshawn kept his eyes on the road. The Pacific Coast Highway was slick and empty, the ocean on their left a gray smear behind the rain.

“Even more reason we need an office space,” he said.

“Cart before the horse,” she kept her eyes on her phone, her thumb moving across the screen. “We need to get the bones of this foundation in place before we start hiring people, renting office space, all that. This event is the launching pad. Then we build the infrastructure.”

He nodded. The turn came up and he took it, the tires catching on the wet asphalt. The road climbed into the hills, the houses getting bigger, the trees thicker. His house sat at the top of a cul-de-sac, the gate already opening. He pulled through and the gate closed behind them.

The driveway was short. He parked in front of the garage and killed the engine. The rain kept going.

They made a run for it. Angela had her bag over her head, which did nothing. Keshawn unlocked the front door and they both stepped inside, dripping on the entryway tile.

“Towel?” he said.

“I’m good,” she was already looking past him, into the house.

The living room opened up from the entryway, high ceilings, the windows facing the canyon, the furniture all neutral tones, nothing too loud. She walked past him and into the kitchen, her wet shoes leaving prints on the hardwood. She pulled out a stool at the island and sat down.

“Wow,” she said.

Keshawn stood by the fridge.

“I guess putting a ball in a circle is a great business to be in.”

He felt the heat come up his neck. He turned and opened the fridge, grabbed a water bottle, cracked it open.

“You want one?”

“Yeah.”

He pulled another one out, set it on the counter in front of her. She picked it up but didn’t open it. Her eyes had moved past him, to the wall behind the island where the wine rack was built in. Floor to ceiling, maybe thirty bottles.

“Actually,” she said, setting the water back down. “I need to see what’s going on over there.”

She got up and walked over to the rack. Keshawn followed her.

She ran her finger along the edge of one of the shelves, reading labels. She pulled one out, looked at it, put it back. Pulled another.

“I don’t really know much about wine,” he said. “The rack came with the house. I just had somebody fill it up.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “By somebody, you mean a girl, right? Because girl clearly got taste.”

He laughed instead of answering. He pulled a bottle from the middle shelf. A Bordeaux. He held it in front of her.

She nodded.

The cork was already halfway out by the time they got back to the island. He poured two glasses and set the bottle between them.

Angela took a sip, closed her eyes for a second, opened them.

“Okay,” she said. "We need to finalize payments for the vendors this week."

…

The party had already settled in by the time they pulled up. DJ cut the engine and they climbed out, the five of them, DJ, Trey, Cal, Lil Jeff, B-More, moving toward the house in a loose cluster, the music audible from the driveway.

The living room was packed. Bodies everywhere, the sound system turned up past where it needed to be, somebody's speakers doing their best to rattle the windows. The furniture had been pushed against the walls to make room. Two women were dancing on the coffee table, their heels clicking against the glass.

DJ scanned the room. He found Reggie near the back, a red cup in his hand. Reggie spotted him at the same moment and his face opened up.

"DJ!" He came through the crowd with his arms out.

They embraced.

"You good?" DJ said.

"Bicking back booling," Reggie said. He pulled back, his hands on DJ's shoulders, looking at him. "Look at you, nigga. You doing your thing out here."

"Trying to," DJ said. He turned. "This is the big homie Trey. Cal, Jeff, B-More."

Reggie went down the line, dapping each of them up. When he got to Trey he held on a beat. "I heard about you," Reggie said.

Trey nodded.

"Come on, Blood. Y'all hungry? They got food outside," Reggie said as he led them to the backyard.

The party went on for a while. The food kept coming. The music kept playing.

The crowd started thinning out around midnight. The front door stopped opening and closing as much. The music got turned down a notch. The folding tables outside got cleared and stacked against the fence. The two dancers left together, their heels clicking down the driveway, somebody whistling after them.

The kitchen emptied out. The living room emptied out. What was left was the table in the kitchen and the guys who’d been around it. Trey. DJ. Cal. B-More. Lil Jeff. And on the other side of the table, Reggie and two older guys that Reggie had introduced as Bishop and Kane, his big homies. Compton Pirus.

Reggie had a bottle in front of him and he was pouring for everybody.

“Man,” Reggie said as he finished pouring a drink, “That shit was crazy. I ain’t gonna lie, I thought the Woods was gonna win that shit. Shit, they probably would have if we ain’t jump with the Southsiders."

He set the bottle down.

“We ran through them niggas,” Reggie said. “Ran through them. Took the yard back that day and kept it. Woods didn’t come back out for a week.”

Bishop laughed. Kane shook his head. Trey was smiling, his cup in his hand.

Reggie looked at Trey across the table. "I heard you was putting in mad work upstate."

Trey shrugged. "You know how it is."

“Nah,” Reggie said. "I heard that tier was full of crabs and you marked them niggas out, turned that shit into a Blood tier, my nigga. That’s some real shit right there. Niggas was talking about that shit all over the yard after it went down."

Trey took a drink. Didn’t say anything.

Bishop leaned forward. "How you managed to do that?"

Trey set his cup down. He looked at Bishop for a second, then shrugged.

“Got to squabbling,” he said. “Sent niggas packing. That’s all there is to it. Shit, what else you gonna do?"

The table laughed. Trey laughed too. He picked his cup back up.

“Nah, but for real,” Trey said. “It wasn’t all me.”

He nodded toward DJ. “My little nigga put in some work too. Held it down.”

DJ nodded back.

“DJ ain’t nobody’s little nigga,” Jeff scoffed.

The table went quiet. DJ looked over at him. Jeff’s jaw was set.

“DJ put in work the same as anybody at this table,” Jeff shrugged. “While you was locked up, DJ was the one holding it down. Settling the situation with that fat motherfucker. Losing people in the street over a beef that wasn’t even ours to begin with.”

Nobody said anything.

Jeff kept going. “Ain’t no little niggas at this table. Everybody here earned they spot.”

DJ looked at Jeff. Jeff looked back at him. His eyes were steady.

“Go wait in the car,” DJ said.

Jeff paused. His jaw worked once. He sucked his teeth, loud, the sound cutting through the kitchen. Then he pushed his chair back, stood up, and walked out. The back door opened and closed behind him.

The table sat there for a beat. Then Reggie laughed, short and sharp.

“Looks like a little nigga to me,” he said.

The table loosened. Bishop chuckled. Kane shook his head. Somebody said something else and the conversation picked up where it left off, the energy finding its way back, the war stories resuming like nothing had happened.

DJ sat there. His cup was in front of him. He didn’t pick it up.

Trey picked up his drink and took a sip. He didn’t look at DJ.

DJ watched the back door for a second. Then he looked at his cup. The liquid sat still inside it. He picked it up and took a drink. It didn’t taste like anything.

…

“You late.”

Candace stood in the frame, one hand on the door, the other on her hip. The robe was silk, the color a shade of purple he couldn’t put his finger on, and it sat open at the collar just enough. Her hair was down, still wet at the ends.

Keshawn put his hands together like he was praying and bowed his head, the smile already there. “My bad, my bad.”

She stepped aside and let him in.

The apartment was a mid-rise off Santa Monica. The living room was half unpacked. Boxes sat against the far wall, some of them open, clothes spilling out of one, shoes out of another. A lamp sat on the floor without a shade. A mirror leaned against the wall, still wrapped in bubble wrap. The couch had been pushed into place but there was nothing on the walls yet, no curtains on the windows, just the blinds pulled halfway down against the evening.

“My meeting with Angela ran late,” he said as he set his keys on the counter.

"They already love you," Candace walked past him toward the living room, the robe moving with her. She dropped onto the couch and pulled one leg up under her. "You don’t gotta pretend to be some Dr. Umar nigga to get them to buy more of your sneakers."

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

She laughed. He sat down on the other end of the couch, leaving a cushion between them, and she shifted, pulling the leg out from under her and crossing it over the other. The robe fell open along her thigh, just enough, and he caught the bare skin underneath before he could stop himself.

He looked away. Looked back. She was watching him.

“How was your day?” he said.

“It went,” she turned her head toward him, her chin resting on her hand. “How was it getting wined and dined by the richest man in LA?”

He laughed. “It was cool."

“Did you put out?”

“Come on,” he said. “You know I play hard to get.”

She smiled. She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them the other way, and the robe did the same thing again. He didn’t look away this time.

“So,” she said. "You’re going to be a Clipper?"

[Captain Canada]

Fuck the Clippers

[Caesar]

“Come on,” he said. “You know I play hard to get.”

Keshawn going be a Clipper because he don't have the heart to handle being a Laker

[Soapy]

Fuck the Clippers

“Come on,” he said. “You know I play hard to get.”

Keshawn going be a Clipper because he don't have the heart to handle being a Laker

and if he does pick the lakers, it's gonna be he's a dick rider

can't win with you lot

[Soapy]

djp doesn't follow this chise

[Soapy]

so i can bump all i want

[Soapy]

neither does james