The telephone rung three times before it was answered.
“Yes?” a man with a deep Spanish Accent picked up.
“Well, damn, my nigga. You been duckin’ and dodgin’ my mothafuckin’ calls and s**t. What’s up with that?” Malik asked. His brows were wrinkled and he fist was clenching. He was as hot as a fire cracker about old boy avoiding him. He had tried hollering at him several times. He called him from the cell phones of a couple of cats that he knew on lock, and ever time he’d hear his voice he’d hang up on him. Malik tried hitting him up a year ago and he’d changed his number. God was on Malik’s side though because one of old boy’s hit-men had gotten knocked on a couple of bodies and he shot him his number once he’d hit the pen.
“Who is this?” Old boy asked irritated.
“Mothafucka, you know
