“Bitch, who is you fuckin’?” he asked, like he got that shit personally from X. The harshness in his voice and the directness of the question took her by surprise. She knew he wasn’t one to bite his tongue. Now that he had the question, she intended to give him an honest answer. Michelle had been dying to tell him for some time now. She was looking for a reason to say something and now she had it.
“Nigga, it is too early in the morning for this bullshit,” she answered angrily. “Can’t you call me back later, when you got something to say?”
“Bitch, don’t fuckin play with me. I made you whore. I know all about the lil’ affair you think you having.”
“Whatever! Nigga, you don’t know nothing. Who’s filling your head up with that bullshit? Ya fat ass sister? That bitch needs to mind her own business and worry about why she’s a size 24. If she wasn’t so fat, she would have a life and wouldn’t be all in my business,” she exploded.
“Don’t worry about what size she is, just be a woman about the situation and tell me the truth, yo,” he said.
“Nigga, if you really want to know, it’s Black alright?”
Instantly, Nard got quiet. So his sister was right, the 411 was true. Michelle was playing a dangerous game, one that involved two dangerous men. When men are pitted against one another in a confrontation involving a woman, emotions can come into play and the outcome can sometimes prove to be fatal for somebody. Michelle had just put herself out there on Front Street, riding with Black. She came in the game with a thoroughbred, Nard, and she planned to stay on top with one, Black.
For a few seconds, Nard was speechless. He was shocked by her audacity. He knew that people on the outside had a tendency to get brave when a man was in jail and appeared to be down. Especially facing the kind of time Nard was facing. He had no one to blame but himself. He created this monster. He left her out there with two bad habits, a dope habit and a sex habit. Sooner or later, somebody would come along and supply her with both. It just so happened that the person was his man.
“Of all the motherfuckers in B-More you could have fucked, yo, you had to fuck my man. I don’t believe you went against the grain. You must be fuckin’ crazy. Bitch, you know what? Both you whores is dead.”
“Ain’t nobody scared of you motherfuck…” The ‘er’ never got out. The phone went dead.
Nard was in City Jail seething. Before he realized the words that came out of his mouth, he realized he had issued a death threat to both of them. Now he had to follow through with it or be considered a lame, someone that tossed around empty threats. He stood by the phone contemplating his next move. Nard wanted Black dead. Friend or no friend, he had to go.
But who could do the job? he thought. Suddenly, someone came to mind. He dialed the number of the Bullock Brothers, Ace and Rodney. They were two grimy hit men he grew up with from the Perkins Projects in East Baltimore. They also owed him a favor for bailing them out and helping them on their feet. They were more than willing to settle the score for Nard. He put up $30,000 as an added incentive.
Placing the handset back on the receiver, Michelle thought it was a joke and laughed. That nigga ain’t gonna do shit. This was just an idle threat, she reasoned.
As the day wore on, it began to sink in that this was no laughing matter. Maybe I overplayed my hand, she thought. Her sharp tongue and foul actions had gotten her ass in a world of trouble. She had ignited a feud and set off a deadly chain of events that regrettably had to happen now. Her big mouth not only placed her in danger, but Black too. He was under the gun and didn’t even know it.
Something funny is going on, thought Black, looking at the phone. His connect still hadn’t called back yet. This was unlike him. He was about business like Black and he knew when Black paged him, it was about making money. Any other time the boy would have called back by now, but two days had gone by with no response. Black jumped up and decided to go down to City Jail to pay Nard a visit. It had been a long time since Black had actually seen Nard face-to-face, 18 months to be exact.
Arriving at the jail, Black parked his car on Madison Street and walked a few yards to the entrance. At the visitor’s desk, he passed his driver’s license to the Correctional Officer and watched as he scanned the visitor’s list for his name. Looking up and down Nard’s visiting list, the C.O. was unable to locate his name.
“Sorry, my man. Your name is not on Bernard Smith’s visiting list,” the C.O. said, handing him back his ID.
“What the fuck you mean, my name ain’t on the list? You better check that shit again, yo!” Black demanded.
“That won’t do you any good. You ain’t on there,” the C.O. insisted, trying to be polite but ready to call for back up.
Feeling stupid, Black snatched his license and headed out the door. Now he knew something was very wrong. Nard had always said his name would be on the visiting list, so he could always come up to talk business, since they couldn’t talk over the phone. As he sat in his car and thought about the weird turn of events that was happening lately, the entire situation rubbed him the wrong way. First, his connect was missing in action. Now, Nard had him off the list. Before he pulled off, Black went into the ashtray and got two bags of dope. He snorted both of them, one up each nostril. He had to head to Michelle’s. Something wasn’t right, and he had a gut feeling she had something to do with it.
Black arrived at his destination, amped up from the mood he was in and the heroin. He was feeling meaner than a pit bull being fed gunpowder. He let himself in and walked down the hallway, finding Michelle watching television in the living room.
“That you, Black?” she yelled over her shoulder, as he entered the room.
“Who the hell else would it be?” he asked sarcastically, before flopping down on the couch across from her.
“You heard from Nard lately, yo?” he asked as he pulled out a $100 bill filled with dope and began to sniff.
His question caught her off guard. She wasn’t thinking about Nard; she was fiending for a blast.
“I hollered at him the other day.”
“Did he say anything about me?” he asked between snorts.
“Naw, why?” she asked, her eyes transfixed on the dope he was holding.
“Cause I went down to see him today and they wouldn’t let me in. Them fuckin’ bastards said my name wasn’t on the visitors list. All of a sudden, my name ain’t on the list. I can’t get in contact with his peoples. I can’t re-up. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but something ain’t right,” Black said, blowing out the air in his chest cavity as he took another deep breath.
He paused long enough to let his last sentence hang in the air. He then passed her the heroin filled hundred-dollar bill. Of course she accepted it and greedily inhaled large amounts of dope like a vacuum. Immediately, she started to feel good as the narcotic began to take effect. Heroin was better than any truth serum. It gave a person the courage to speak things out of their mouth they would have otherwise never stated.
“I got something to tell you, Black. Promise you won’t get mad,” she nervously said.
“Listen Chelle, I ain’t got time to be playin’ no motherfuckin’ games, yo. I got some serious shit on my mind. If you got something to say, spit that shit out!”
“Nard knows about me and you. He said he’s going to kill us,” she said, like it was the weather and just a little rain in the forecast, then she took another sniff.
Black’s mind went blank. He couldn’t believe what she just said. His whole attitude changed from bad to worse. If looks could kill, the bitch would be dead.
“Nard said what?” he asked again, wanting to make sure he heard her right. Michelle repeated herself only telling the half of it. What she neglected to tell him was she was the source of the information. Black wouldn’t leave well enough alone though. Shit wasn’t adding up, so he pressed her for more information.
“How the fuck Nard find out about me and you? Who told him?” he demanded to know. He waited to hear who
it was, so he could fuck them up.
“How am I supposed to know? Probably his nosey ass sister,” she said irked, as if his line of questioning was bothering her. Still telling only half the truth, she just looked back at him, then rolled her eyes as if the conversation was irrelevant.
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to like that, yo? Hoe, I’ll kill you in this motherfucker,” Black said, beginning to check her back into reality. “If you don’t know, you better act like you do.”
Chumped, Michelle toned down her voice, “I guess I don’t know then,” she responded, still challenging him.
Black was through being nice. He got up, casually walked over to her and smacked the living daylights out of her. The force of his blow sent snot and dope flying out her nose as she dropped the rolled-up bill and fell off the sofa on the floor.
“Hoe, you better stop playing games with me and start playin’ ya position, yo. You done started something you can’t even fuckin’ finish!” he said scolding her, towering over her, ready to strike again. She curled up in a ball on the floor protecting her head and face.
Sobbing uncontrollably, Michelle’s face was stinging, and her heart was pounding. She was scared. She began to wonder were all the rumors she heard about him true? Is he really a cold-blooded murderer? What is he going to do to me?
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled between cries.
“Not as sorry as you gonna be,” Black furiously replied.
For all the money, for all the power, for all the fame Black had enjoyed up until now, this was a very low point in the game for him. Nard must be trippin’ if he wants to go to war over some no-good broad. Wasn’t it him who always said, if you don’t make dollars, it don’t make sense, Black thought, as he looked at Michelle’s fetal-positioned body on the floor.
He still couldn’t believe the shit was going down like this. Beefing over a broad was the extras, and because of her silly ass, he now had major issues. Nard held the advantage, even in jail. He still had money and power. Black couldn’t afford to underestimate Nard and expect to live. The boy had too much paper to go to war against and Black was sorry he had gone against the grain. It was too late now, though, and at that moment, he didn’t know what in the world to do about it.
Chapter 15
As Black leaned against the countertop in the kitchen of one of the stash houses he operated, his right hand massaged his chin as he pondered what his uncle was saying in the echoes of the background. Nothing had gone right for him since the falling out with Nard. His main concern was getting a dope connection and that’s why he had called his Uncle Briscoe. Here they were in the kitchen, having a meeting, his uncle trying to convince him to make a move with him.
“That’s some faggot ass shit ya man did, you. Getting you cut off from your connect over some stink bitch. Wasn’t you taking care of that chump? What’s wrong with these niggas today? They sure don’t make them like they used to. Nowadays, niggas got the game fucked up! Fuck that coon, yo, one monkey don’t stop no show. I got peoples in New York. My man Carlos is up in Spanish Harlem. I did a bid with ‘em in the Feds. Yo, the nigga is large. He got that raw China White, so let me run up with there with a couple of gees and I’ll holler at him,” Briscoe said.
Uncle Briscoe was a fast-talking con man and ex-bank robber. He was short, stocky and dark-skinned. He was Fats’ baby brother whom he kept in contact with since his father’s funeral. Uncle Briscoe had done time in Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary and supposedly had plenty of connections.
“When’s the last time you copped from him, yo?” Black asked. Truth was he was only asking Uncle Briscoe cause that was his only hope. He was trapped between a rock and a hard place, and all his uncle had to do was tell him what he wanted to hear.
“I just copped from him about two weeks ago. He looked out for me. The more money I spend, the less he charges me for weight,” he said, lying through his teeth. Always looking for a way to make a fast buck, Briscoe told his nephew he had a connection that didn’t exist.
“My man Los got the bomb, yo. I’m telling you. Remember that dope that was killin’ junkies on the West Side a couple of months ago? That was his shit. That shit is takin’ at least thirty or better.”
“You mean to tell me I could step on it that many times?” Black asked, excitedly knowing damn right well dope taking that much cut was unheard of.
“I’m tryin’ to tell you, yo. You ain’t got to worry about nothing. I got this. I got two broads that’ll carry the money up and the product back. When we get back, you can take care of us,” Briscoe said, trying to endorse his imaginary connect and his imaginary plan.
What the hell, I ain’t got shit to lose, Black thought.
“All right, I hope you know what the fuck you doing, yo. My $35,000 means a lot to me, so I hope the dope is some real good shit. You straight with 35, right?”
“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m going to take care of it for you.”
“With that, you should be able to cop no less than three ounces, yo. Anything you get over that is yours. Just bring me mine, all of it. If ya people’s dope raw like you say it is, then we’ll do some more business. Then, you’ll really get paid, yo.”
With that Black left the kitchen, went in the bedroom, and returned carrying a large brown bag filled with $35,000 dollars wrapped in individual rubber bands.
Uncle Briscoe opened the paper bag and damned near began to slobber on himself. He hadn’t seen that much money in years. Now all he had to do was make good on his promise. Go to New York, find a connect, cop and make it back home.
“You need me to take that trip with you to the city, yo?” Black asked as he watched his Uncle rummage through the money.
“Naw, yo, I got this. Everything is under control.”
So, on the strength of his uncle’s word, and the prospect of coming up on some raw dope, Black parted ways with his paper. That was chump change to him. He had plenty more stashed away. He figured he’d let his uncle go ahead and handle things his way, this time. However, next time he planned on meeting his uncle’s connect face to face.
Off to the city Briscoe went, alone and in search of a sweet deal on some weight. He figured that in New York he’d easily find a dope connection. After all, New York was one of the main drug distribution centers on the East Coast. As soon as he got off the Greyhound Bus at the Part Authority, Briscoe hailed a cab. His destination, Spanish Harlem. That was where he made two mistakes that would ultimately cost him dearly. First, he went to cop alone with nobody to watch his back. Second, he was flashing his cash to the wrong people.
On 116th Street, a couple of Hispanics were able to lure him into an empty shooting gallery in a tenement building by giving him a free quarter-ounce of heroin. This was just enough to appeal to Briscoe’s greed. The deal was too good to refuse. As soon as they got him into the building, they flipped the script and killed him. He suffered multiple stab wounds to the back, head and neck. His body was found a few days later by the building’s superintendent.
Back down in B-More, Black caught a bad vibe about his uncle. He hadn’t heard from him since he left for New York. He specifically told him to call as soon as he got there. Black kicked himself for not going along with him. He should have played his first vibe and went with him. His worst fears were confirmed when the NYC Police Department notified the family of his uncle’s murder. Black was really stressed out now. The amount of money was a small thing to a hustler of his caliber, so that wasn’t what bothered him. It was the fact that he had no dope. With no possibilities of any on the horizon, he was desperate and desperate times called for desperate measures.
So Black went on a rampage, a robbery spree with no picks about who he robbed. If you had it, he was coming to get it. This was a life or death situation to him. It wasn’t a game or at least he wasn’t playing one. Selling drugs was more than his livelihood, it was his life. He had to maintain his lifestyle by any means necessary. He robbed to replenish his own heroin stash.<
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One group of hustlers in particular, who felt his wrath, were the New Yorkers. He mainly targeted any brothers from New York down in Baltimore trying to get their hustle on. It was his own personal attempt to seek revenge for his uncle’s death. He formed a deep-seated hatred for all New Yorkers. By robbing, shooting and killing as many of them as he could, he extracted a measure of his revenge at the same time. His entire mindset was money and murder. His rationale was, they didn’t belong down there anyway, so he was personally going to run them outta there. One by one, he was gonna send them home in a body bag.
Slowly, Black pulled his Toyota 4Runner into the McDonald’s on North Avenue. Ordering some lunch at the drive-thru, he never noticed the stolen golden Maxima creeping up on him.
“Black,” a voice said in a friendly tone.
Sipping, he turned toward the direction of the familiar sounding voice without even thinking. Immediately, he knew he had made a serious mistake. Two angry black faces stared at him. Unable to place them, he ducked for cover. Hitting the lever on the side of his seat, he laid flat and covered his head with his arms.
Simultaneously, the two hit men began unloading their weapons. The automatic gunfire made the drive-thru seem like the 4th of July. Bright muzzle flashes could be seen, and nonstop thunderous gunfire could be heard. Black was defenseless the way he laid in the truck ducked down for safety. Not to mention, the cars in front and in back of him in the drive-thru line had him boxed in. He was a sitting duck. His truck was riddled and rocked by bullets. He didn’t know what type of guns they were firing, but from the sheet volume of bullets that hit the truck, it had to be Uzi’s or Mac 10’s.
Bits of metal and glass rained down on Black as he lay motionless. His adrenaline was pumping but he didn’t panic. Slowly, he eased out his .40 caliber from his waistband. If he was gonna die, he was gonna take somebody with him.
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