CHAPTER FIVEMrs. Williams pulled up on 77th and Figueroa outside of a brown and tan colored home with a rusting fence and a dirt patched lawn. Once she killed the engine, she grabbed her cane and threw the driver side door open. She made her way around her Benz and stepped upon the curb. As she approached the house she was seeking, she found a congregation of thugs down on their knees shooting dice. Cluttered around them were plastic cups of dark liquor, a Hennessy bottle, and cans of Olde English 800. The embers of cigarettes and blunts glowed, and the smell of nicotine stunk up the air as smoke was expelled. Amongst these roughnecks was a man with a muscular upper body, sitting up in a wheelchair that resembled a fancy motorcycle. He was rocking a doo-rag with a flap and a tank top which
