G’s black ass was dead. I had watched Jimmy blast his whole chest open right in front of my eyes! No, it wasn’t the notorious Granite McKay sitting in that plush armchair in the basement of that funeral home, but it was a stone-cold killer who was dressed like G from head to toe and twirling an onyx ring on his finger. “Fletcher!” I screamed real loud when I recognized who it was. A huge wave of relief washed over me at the sight of Jimmy’s old friend from back in the day. “Boy! What the hell are you doing down here?” “It’s Flex, remember?” he said smoothly. He stood up and opened his arms real wide, and I was so happy that G hadn’t crawled outta his wet grave to get me that I fell right into them. “It’s good to see you, Juicy-Mo,” he held me close to his chest for a few seconds and then beamed at me with that same dumb, bucktoothed smile of adoration he used to give me back when he was ten. “Boy, you almost made me pee on myself! I can’t believe it’s you!”
