B-More Careful

by Shannon Holmes

  “Get on ya knees, you fuckin’ coward. I don’t give a fuck about you or ya peoples, yo. You didn’t give a fuck about mines. You killed my father, remember? Remember Fats? Remember motherfucker?” Black barked at him.

  Sure, he remembered. It was the only person Squirrel had ever killed in his life.

  So this is the kid that was there that day, Squirrel thought.

  “I didn’t mean to do it, he pulled out a knife. You saw it. You father was going to kill me,” he cried.

  His voice rose as he pleaded his case. He was trying to attract attention to this deadly confrontation.

  “Please don’t shoot me! It was self-defense. You was there, remember?”

  Those were his last words. The roar of the .357 drowned him out. The bullet struck him in the forehead right between the eyes, silencing him forever. Black watched as Squirrel’s lifeless body dropped to the ground. He stood there for a few seconds as thoughts of his father scattered through his mind. You can rest now, Dad. Black then turned and walked away as if nothing had happened.

  The first killing Black took part in was personal, an eye for an eye. He finally got revenge for his father. The second killing was business, strictly business. Human beings are creatures of habit. Black knew, sooner or later, Mr. Myles would return to familiar surroundings.

  When Myles went into hiding, he merely postponed his death by moving from Patterson Park to Cedonia. Baltimore isn’t that big in comparison with other cities on the east coast. So when cats go on the run, they usually go from the East Side to the West Side or from the city to one of the surrounding counties. Wherever they are least likely to encounter whomever was looking for them.

  Myles made the fatal mistake of getting homesick. Thinking he was slick, Myles started creeping back to see his girl at night and leaving by morning. Big mistake for Myles. Black had staked out her house for weeks, hoping to catch him slipping. One night, while he was going to the store for his girl, Black caught up with him. He followed him to the store and back, then killed Myles right on his girl’s front steps. Just like Squirrel, he watched him drop to the ground. Black thought about how the game was the game and walked away.

  With two bodies in less than one month, Black was feeling himself. He went looking for trouble, wanting an excuse to bust his gun. He thought he was invincible when he had a gun in his hand. He loved the rush of adrenaline and power he felt when he squeezed the trigger and he hit his victim. Flashes of murdering Squirrel and Myles made the adrenaline rush through him. All it took was five pounds of pressure for him to kill a man. The kick from the gun, the flash from the muzzle and the noise all happened simultaneously, then came death. Black thought he was God when he had a gun in his hand. It was he who held the power of life and death and you couldn’t stop him. He was invincible, or so he thought. Black forgot the old saying, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

  Chapter 12

  Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

  Black’s pager vibrated loudly on the night stand, causing it to do a strange dance. It was times like these he regretted having a pager. He was dead tired. It seemed like every time he tried to get a breather and take a rest, there was always something disturbing him.

  Instinctively, he reached his hand out from beneath his covers. Feeling around on the table, he managed to maneuver past his keys and money until he located it. He hit a button on the pager, deactivating the vibration device. Slowly, Black peeked through one eye, looking at the numeric display. It read 007-911 and he knew immediately that this was trouble. It was Nard’s secret code that he only used in case of emergencies. Black jumped up out the bed and ran to the phone.

  “This Black,” he said to a female that answered the phone.

  “Black, this is Michelle. Nard got knocked,” she said in a soft-spoken voice.

  “Say no more. I don’t want to talk over the phone,” he said, knowing exactly who Michelle was.

  “You know where we live, right?” she asked.

  “Yeah, yo. I know where you at,” he answered, trying to get his mind together.

  “Come over and I’ll explain everything,” she said.

  “I’m on my way,” he answered.

  Inside Nard’s house, Black listened carefully. Michelle relayed the message she got from Nard and explained to her best ability what she knew about his arrest. Black couldn’t believe it was going down like this. Not his man, not his mentor, not his connect. Nard was too smooth or so Black thought. He didn’t put himself in those kinds of positions since his hands never got dirty. He always had someone else to do his dirt for him. There was always someone between Nard and the streets. Whether it be a broad, a soldier or a lieutenant, his risks were always kept to a minimum. This was the reason he’d never been knocked, and how his organization enjoyed a long run.

  The next day over at Baltimore City Jail, Nard explained to Black the details of his arrest. His voice dripped with venom.

  “I’m telling you, yo, point blank it was a set up. Somebody’s snitching!” he said angrily. “The fuckin’ knockers went straight to my stash spot, yo. How they know I had a secret compartment in the dash. They knew which buttons to hit and how many times. It was like I was ridin’ their car, I swear, yo. You don’t even know about my stash spot. The only person who knows about that besides me is Garfield!”

  Garfield was one of Nard’s most trusted and oldest lieutenants. Black couldn’t stand him. He always said to himself that if Garfield ever gave him a reason, he’d kill him. Black knew the nigga was soft. Garfield was the type of cat who’d rather squash a beef than go to war over a block. Too many times Black saw him come to a compromise with other hustlers. In his book, Garfield was a chump and was only down because he knew Nard from way back. There was no room for weakness in the game. Nobody respects a nice hustler and Black felt Garfield lacked the killer instinct.

  Truly, Garfield wasn’t cut for the drug game and now he was snitchin’. There was nothing Black hated more than a snitch. He couldn’t believe Garfield had crossed his man. A snitch put too much shit in the game. A snitch anywhere is a threat to hustlers everywhere.

  “Black, I need you to take care of this, yo. You know what you got to do. Make sure that nigga don’t make it to court,” Nard said.

  Both men stared at each other. Black looked in his eyes knowing what Nard was asking of him. He wanted Black to kill Garfield for him. No more needed to be said. It was a done deal. Garfield was already a dead man; he was just still breathing. This is what Nard had been grooming Black for all those years, for times like these. He counted on him being a loyal soldier and kill for the cause, and he knew Black would.

  Rumors had been circulating on the street about Black murdering Myles and Nard had heard them. So, he knew that Black had it in him to kill, which was apparent since day one. What Nard didn’t realize was when he issued the order to murder Garfield, he’d given his little man a license to kill. After holding his dog back for so long, he suddenly sent him to sic’ em’ and things would never be the same between either one of them again.

  Even though Nard was being held on a million-dollar cash bail, he could have bailed himself out. But, on the advice of his lawyer, he didn’t. The quarter kilo of raw heroin that he got caught with had the Feds snooping around. Paying that high ass bail would definitely put him under investigation with the FBI and the IRS. It was best for him to sit for a minute while his lawyer went through the legal motions. In Nard’s view, it was better to fight a state drug charge than a federal one. The federal conviction rate was very high and there was no parole in the federal system.

  Generally, most snitches would go into hiding but Garfield wasn’t like the ordinary snitch. He kept doing his thing as usual, up on Hartford Road. Besides, if he went into hiding, it would have signaled guilt. As a confidential informer, he thought his secret was safe. He was so naïve to believe he wouldn’t be exposed. Somewhere down the line his name was bound to appear on an Affidavit or come up at Nard’s Suppression of Evidence heari
ng. The means by which the police used to secure the search warrant would eventually come out in court. That didn’t matter, though. Nard and Black were already on him. They didn’t need to see his name on any court documents. According to the rules of the streets, he was guilty and had been sentenced to death.

  Unknown to Nard, Garfield had been arrested for possession of an illegal firearm during a routine traffic stop. The police ballistics experts quickly discovered that the gun had several bodies on it. Garfield had purchased the gun hot off the street and had gotten more than he bargained for. He made a deal with the narcotics squad to set up Nard. The police had been trying to get Nard for years, but they could never catch him dirty. They locked up Garfield on a humbug charge and he started talking. With his criminal history and felony convictions, he was singing to them. He knew he’d never see the streets again if he didn’t, so he was saving his own skin.

  Dressed in all black from head to toe, Black looked like a ninja. Armed with two 9 millimeters, he was on a search and destroy mission, driving a stolen hooptie. As he cruised up Hartford Road in search of Garfield, it didn’t take long to spot him. His burgundy Infiniti Q45 alerted Black to his presence in the area. It was parked on a dark side block to avoid attention, but Black saw it and made a mental note of where it was. Then, he continued on his mission, cruising the block until he spotted Garfield on the Avenue.

  Undetected and unnoticed he kept cruising by, watching Garfield surrounded by three of his workers. Black began weighing his options. He debated whether he should do a drive-by.

  Fuck a drive by, too many witnesses and I still might not hit the nigga.

  Black devised a plan of ambush. He decided to get him on the block where his car was parked, hoping he’d be alone. But, passenger or not, Garfield had to die, and whoever was with him could get it too. Nothing or nobody was going to come between Black handling his business.

  Hours passed by before Garfield returned to his vehicle. His pockets were bulging from the day’s drug sales. He had some freaky chick named Tasha waiting on him and it was about to be on. Jumping into his ride, he never bothered to look in his backseat. If he had, he might have spotted Black crouched down on the floor. Instead, he started up the car and revved up the engine, listening to his music.

  The element of surprise was on Black’s side. Coming out of nowhere, he caught Garfield off guard. Before Garfield had a chance to get the car in gear, Black had the trigger to his temple. Instantly, Garfield’s heart stopped, and his mind went blank feeling the cold steel against his skin. His body froze, his eyes growing wide with fear.

  “This is from Nard, pussy!” Black said, blasting Garfield’s brains to kingdom come. His lifeless head slowly tilted itself resting on the window which was covered in blood. Mission accomplished.

  The next day, Black went to visit Nard. In the visiting room, they spoke in hushed tones so that no one would overhear their conversation.

  “I saw the news,” Nard stated, filled with nothing but relief and content.

  “So did I. Shit is over,” Black said, with confidence.

  “I wish it was,” Nard answered, with a look of stress reappearing over his brown.

  “What?”

  “I may have to cop out. This shit don’t look good. My lawyer’s talkin’ about twenty years,” Nard said soberly. “The dope was too pure. The DA wants to know where I got it from, but I ain’t telling. That’s the game. It’s not what they give you, it’s what you give it back. I ain’t got no choices.”

  Nard was stressed, wishing his destiny didn’t look so bleak. The jail time that Nard had just alluded to was an eternity to Black. He couldn’t see five or ten years down the road, let alone twenty in prison. Hell, no! Nard might as well do life. And from the gloomy expression on his face, it appeared he was about to.

  What the fuck am I gonna do now? Black wondered. Shit wasn’t right.

  “Look, yo, don’t you worry about me. This ain’t a done deal yet. My lawyer still might beat this case. You know the game and the game don’t stop just cause I’m knocked. I’ll plug you in with my connect. He’ll front you whatever you can handle and me and you will be partners, 50-50. You give my half to my girl. Wadda ya think? Is it a deal?”

  Black dreamt about this day his whole life. Though he didn’t think it would happen like this, with his man knocked and fucked up, he knew it would happen.

  “Whatever you say. I’m wit’ you, yo.”

  With Nard off the streets, there was a void in the dope game. Black stepped his weight up and filled Nard’s shoes. He flooded East Baltimore with raw dope and he quickly got rich. As with most, this was the point when greed set in and Black wanted more. He wanted every money-making block to himself. So he reverted to his old ways; he became a menace. He put the dope game in a stronghold by taking over blocks. He told dudes that hustled on blocks all their lives that they couldn’t hustle there no more, ride or die ‘cause the ride is rough. Any sign of resistance was met with violence. When it was all said and done, Black controlled more than half of the drug trade in East Baltimore one way or another. Either you worked for him or you purchased weight from him. Either way, you got with the program or you got killed. It was some real simple shit to comprehend.

  As with any coin, Black also had a flip side, a kinder side to him. Taking some of the money he made in the hood, he reinvested it right back into the community. He opened a soul food restaurant, a sneaker store and a barbershop. He would routinely take poor kids to his business establishments and treat them to whatever they wanted. Black was like a modern-day Robin Hood, giving back to the poor. He did things especially for the kids. He liked fixing up playgrounds. He started summer basketball leagues and winter football leagues for them too. Anything to help keep them off the streets and out of the game. He handed out hundreds of new coats and toys around the holidays, and even treated kids to new Jordan sneakers every once in a while. These acts of generosity made him beloved in the community. But, when he started passing out handfuls to the elderly, welfare mothers and pregnant teenagers, his legendary status was solidified.

  The residents of East Baltimore didn’t care how many people were killed by his bullets and poison. He was alright with them; he was one of them.

  As Black’s name began to ring, his reputation spread. Slowly, fame and fortune began to change him, and he began to flaunt his wealth. He purchased a fleet of cars, iced-out platinum and even had a brand-new Bentley with a white chauffeur to drive him around the ghetto, while he sat in the back, watching television or talking on his cell phone.

  His favorite was to pull up on the block of his strip, roll the window of the Bentley down and say, “Excuse me, would any of you happen to have some Grey Poupon?” in a British accent. He’d say it then start laughing, roll the window up and order the driver to speed off.

  He took care of his family too, buying Cynthia a gigantic house near the outskirts of a town in Columbia, Maryland. He hired a cook, maid and gardeners so she wouldn’t have to lift a finger. As far as he was concerned, his mother had suffered enough. Black wanted her to enjoy life now.

  Over at City Jail, Nard was hearing all about Black’s flamboyant lifestyle. He even heard about the Grey Poupon thing and it was all met with mixed emotions. On one hand, he was proud of Black for doing his thing, and on the other, he was concerned about Black going to jail prematurely. Thus, he’d be unable to keep collecting his share of the loot. An incarcerated Black was no good to him when Nard needed him on the streets. He had every right to worry about Black. Black was his investment, always had been. It was times like these when Nard would pull up on the block for another ride in the S500 like old times. He knew Black was unguided in a lot of respects, but he had heart. That’s what Nard liked about him. Plus, Nard knew he could trust him. There weren’t too many cats Nard could say that about.

  Black loosened up the embrace Michelle had on him, readjusting her arms and legs, which were wrapped about him, as he slid out the bed trying hard not
to wake her. Michelle looked so beautiful laying still. Her long straight hair ran down her back. The green silk sheets clung to her body’s voluptuous contour. From where he stood, Black could see the imprint of her round behind and perky breasts. It made his dick hard all over again. Now he understood why Nard took such good care of her and kept her on lock down in the house. The sex was priceless. Any man that wasn’t a faggot would want her for himself. She was too pretty and too perfect not to desire.

  “I got to take care of some business, yo,” he said, dressing and adjusting his jewelry in the mirror. He looked like a million bucks and felt like it too. He was that nigga.

  Michelle was irked at the fact he was leaving so soon.

  “You just going to fuck me and leave like that, Black? It ain’t even morning yet. I thought you said you were staying the night? I wanted some more.”

  Black was too engrossed with his image in the mirror. He wasn’t paying her any mind until he turned around. Michelle was lying across the bed with her legs sprawled apart, completely exposed. She had tossed the covers to the side and was making snow angels at him. Black couldn’t turn away from the view. She was sensual, sensuous and inviting, like one of those super models in a magazine, but better. One look and he was stuck, he had to have some more of that. He couldn’t resist her, and he couldn’t leave just yet.

  “Since, you playin’ like that, I’ll stay, yo. Now, come to daddy. Crawl,” he commanded, as he began to take his clothes back off.

  Michelle complied, getting on her hands and knees. She slowly and seductively crawled across the king-sized bed she used to share with Nard. This act was so erotic to Black, his manhood stood at attention. To him, Michelle looked like a sexy black panther stalking her prey. When she finally reached him, she looked up at him and took his penis into her mouth. She began working her magic as her hands slithered up his chest. She wrapped her fingers around his diamond platinum cross as she kept working her mouth magic. He was all she needed, and he needed to know it.