“It’s Black. Open the fuckin’ door before I start shooting through it.” I actually heard him say, “Shit,” before he opened the door.
“What’s up, Black?”
As soon as I was inside, I punched him in the face and he went down from the blow. I kicked him in the face while he was laying there. “That’s for making me come down here,” I said and kicked him again. “Help him up, Freeze.”
Freeze stepped up and helped Mark to his feet. I punched him in the stomach and when he doubled over; I went to the face with a knee lift. He went down again. Then I went into the living room and sat down. Freeze came and stood near where I was sitting, and we waited for Mark to get up and join us. I was glad that I didn’t have to tell Freeze not to help him up.
When Mark did finally join us, he ran down some long, drawn out story about why he didn’t have the money. But as usual, he promised that he would have it if I’d just give him some more time. I got up and smashed his face into the wall a couple of times before I left that day, and ended up killing Mark when I found him the next week.
As time went on, Freeze learned the craft. It got to the point that we worked together that we didn’t need words. Freeze knew exactly how and when I wanted him to deliver pain. And Freeze was brutal. I think its the thing that separates Victor most from Freeze. Victor is smart, efficient; he does what needs to be done to get results. Freeze enjoyed hurting a mutha fucka.
I remember a guy named Irving Anderson; a stock broker whose only vice was that he liked to bet baseball. After a run of bad luck, he owed me fifteen thousand dollars. We found him one night at a bar on Seventh Avenue. Me and Freeze got to the door, but instead of going inside, I went and leaned against a car. “Go on in and bring him out,” I said.
Freeze smile. “You ain’t goin’ in, Black?”
“I’ll be right here.”
Freeze went in, and five minutes later, the doors swung open and Irving Anderson landed at my feet. I looked at Freeze as he came out. “Mr. Anderson I presume?”
“That’s him,” Freeze said.
“He’s all yours.”
Freeze smiled again, but went straight to work on Mr. Anderson. I watched him while he worked. And I looked in his eyes and could tell that he was lovin’ every second of it. Hittin’ him with fists, forearms and elbows; kickin’ him, rammin’ his head into cars.
“Is there a problem out here?” some big mutha fucka that I assumed was the bouncer asked as a crowd formed to watch.
I showed him my gun. “Does it look like I’m havin’ a problem?”
“No problem,” he said wisely.