He figured since crack had wrecked his life, he might as well use crack to fix his life. He got a friend to front him an Eightball. Will chopped up the 3.5 grams of cooked coke while his mom was asleep then hit a very crowded and competitive drug strip. There were too many guys trying to hustle their families out of the projects. Every time a car slowed down kids ran up to the car and stuck out their hands for the buyer to see who had the largest rock. Will knew there would be constant and dangerous jousting to earn a small piece of the pie if he wanted to hustle in the Lincoln Heights Projects.
Instead, Will rode a bus down to Mitch Snyder’s Place, a homeless shelter on Second Street. Plenty of homeless people were milling around outside the shelter talking, smoking cigarettes and pacing. Some had been to work and a few had done odd jobs that day. Will sold $300 worth of crack in less than two hours.
He returned to the neighborhood with enough money to pay off the eight ball he was fronted and buy another one on his own. He was an instant success. He bought a steak, egg and cheese sub, fries with too much salt, pepper and ketchup and a Nehi grape soda. He sat alone in the bleachers of Woodson High School’s football stadium and thought about how quickly his sad life had turned for the better. He ate one of his favorite meals in peace, without fear of having to share, and he dreamed. He dreamed of being an adult. He dreamed of moving far away from DC and the ruthless people he called neighbors. He dreamed of having a wife and kids and a house with a real yard.
Will quickly took control of the crack sales at the homeless shelter. He was selling an eight ball every night. It was even better on Fridays, welfare and social security days. Will worked the homeless shelter every evening until the early morning hours. He spent so many wee hours in the football stadium eating subs, pizzas, chicken wings and fries that he started to gain weight.
He bought new clothes, several pairs of tennis shoes and a cell phone. It wasn’t a month before he moved up to buying ounces.
When Thelma saw the money and drugs, she started inviting her friends over to buy from him.
On a cold day, Thelma charged one of her friends five dollars to use her room to smoke a dime rock. It wasn’t long before she was renting the room out regularly to smokers and tricks. Soon there was a constant stream of crack fiends and horny men renting the room all night.
Now Will was keeping a fresh haircut and clean shoes. This drew attention from some of the thugs in his projects. He was buying larger and larger quantities and it was obvious to the peddlers in his neighborhood that he was moving the most coke of anybody in Lincoln Heights. Whenever anyone asked about his secret to success, he just smiled.
Then one night he saw a boy from his block hanging on a corner next to the homeless shelter casually smoking a square.
“What you doin down here?” Will demanded.
The boy just smiled and exhaled through his nose. He looked Will up and down and smirked. “Whatchu talkin about, man?”
This kid was about 17, Melvin’s age. He had Will by about three inches and twenty-five pounds. Will stared at him then slowly repeated his question. “What are you doing down here?”
The boy dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. He bald his fist at his sides like a monkey. “Who you talkin to?”
“This is my thing right here, you hear me?” Will started. The boy laughed. Will punched him. “What’s funny?”
“Oh shit,” the boy said as he doubled over holding his face and trying to gather himself. “Nigga, I’ma kill you.” He was backpedaling.
Will approached. “You’re gonna do what?” he screamed. The boy backed up and held his guard up as best he could. Will punished him with three blows that knocked the kid on his back.
“Aiight, aiight, you got it,” the boy yelled.
“Get outta here and don’t come back,” Will shouted and pointed to the streets.
The knot on the boy’s eye was swelling immediately. He got up and ran to his car. Will watched him get into it and then he turned back to face the shelter.
Will looked around and didn’t see any squad cars. Satisfied, he looked around for customers. He thought about where he would hide his stash. He feared getting caught with the whole bag, so he always hid the stash under a car near the shelter, but not too far out of sight. Crackheads are great at finding things. Will smiled when he thought of a crackhead Easter Egg Hunt.
Lost in thought, he never heard the boy walk up behind him. He turned around and saw the gun first.
The eye was bruised badly and there was a trail of blood streaming down his cheek. His jaw had a lump that was getting larger by the second. He was crying even though he wanted to look hard. He looked crazed. His eyes were wide even though he was frowning and kept shifting his weight nervously.
“Boy, Ima take that gun and shove it up …,” Will tensed.
“Why the fuck did you hit me?!” the boy raised the gun. “You think you can sucka punch me and get away wit it?!” He twisted the pistol to the side like they do on television and spread his legs, one in front of the other. “Get on your knees. I want your shit and your cash, you bitchass nigga. And I swear to God Ima blow yo shit to pieces you try me.”
“I know you. You ain’t gon shoot me cause you pussy,” and then Will landed a left hook on the boy’s face. The boy stumbled and if he had not crashed into a wall he would have hit the ground. He nearly fumbled the gun, but caught it at the last second. Will made a move for him and the boy shot him in the leg.
The small bullet felt like a sledgehammer. It forced Will to the ground face first as he clutched his leg. The bullet had pounded through his thigh avoiding arteries and bone, but burned in and out ripping muscles to shred.
Will thought his leg was on fire. He could smell the flesh burning. He could feel the cold wind inside his thigh. He screamed and prayed unashamedly. His leg got so warm that he began sweating from every pore in his body. He lay on the ground writhing and screaming. He was only fourteen years old.
The other kid was too scared to rifle through his pockets. He figured Will was stronger than himself despite being on his back on the concrete bleeding and crying uncontrollably. So he ran.
When the police came they found the crack in Will’s pocket and the cash. They took the crack to the police station and took Will to DC General Hospital. Will had over five thousand dollars in his pockets. He was afraid that if he left it in the apartment his mother or brother would find it, so he carried his life savings in his pocket. His property report didn’t mention any money.
A judge gave Will six months’ probation and ordered him to go back to school. The judge also warned him that the police would be looking for him around the shelter. He was broke again, and he had no options.
A week later Will arrived at school late the first day and missed homeroom, so he sat in Tardy Hall and then reported for the second period. His Spanish class was studying indefinite articles. The last time Will had been in the class they were learning the numbers, alphabet and colors. He was completely lost, and the teacher was annoyed that he had showed up.
He thought about leaving after that first class but the sight of 500 girls in one building made him stick around and show off. So, he disrupted every class he attended and spit on a nerd in the cafeteria. On his first day back to school the principal suspended him for ten days.
At home, his bullet wound was a badge of honor in Lincoln Heights. The boy had told everyone how he “had to buss the youngin Will”, so Will went about telling everyone his side of the story. Everyone was excited to finally find out how Will had moved up in the game so fast. They all smiled knowingly when he taught them about the homeless crackheads downtown.
The older boys told him the kid who shot him was named “Marlo” and that they believed Will’s version of how he whipped Marlo’s ass. They said Marlo was always soft and that’s why he went downtown to move in on a young boy rather than trying to take a corner in the hood.
The girls agreed the boy was a punk for shooting him in the leg. One
of the older kids offered to get Marlo for him, but Will vowed he’d handle it himself. The boys offered him a gun and he accepted. Just like that Will was on the corner, toting a pistol and selling coke again – this time in Lincoln Heights.
Will was the first hustler on the block at six every morning. He caught the morning rush and survived the midday droughts. He passed the down time thinking about what he would do when he saw Marlo.
On the third day, a guy asked Will if he was worried about being out on the Strip with one leg. Will explained how the painkillers numbed him up. He sat in a chair and kept his leg propped up most of the day. It wasn’t until the Jumpouts pulled up later that day that Will understood the question in its full context.
Will wasn’t accustomed to hustling on the strip and he didn’t know the basics. He didn’t know the Jumpouts rode on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He didn’t even recognize the car. He didn’t notice the whiteboy’s elbow sticking out of the passenger window. The other boys on the corner dropped their drugs and started running as soon as they saw the burgundy Ford Tempo turn the corner. Will just looked around confused. The car screeched to a stop right in front of him and five cops jumped out and started sprinting in every direction.
The muscular white boy in the front passenger seat got out and locked eyes with Will. Will was standing and leaning against both crutches. The cop stayed low, sprinted and tackled Will. He had knocked the wind out of him before they hit the ground. Lying on the sidewalk, being rolled over and handcuffed, Will thought about when Dexter Manley damn near buried Danny White in the middle of RFK Stadium. While they were reading him his rights, his leg was in excruciating pain and he was struggling to breathe.
Later, while he was being booked at the precinct, another jumpout officer paraded another boy from the neighborhood, Fat Ron, through the precinct towards the holding cell. The officer stopped, looked at Will’s arresting officer, smirked and shook his head.
“You a sorry motherfucker,” he said.
“What?” the whiteboy laughed.
“We chasing these lil mufukas through the projects and you tackle the cripple?”
“Oh please, like that fat fuck was hard to catch.”
“Harder than a motherfucker on crutches! What’s the point in being a jumpout if you gon grab the motherfuckers that can’t even run?”
“Hey, his dumb ass was out there,” he answered. The precinct erupted with laughter.
Will caught another coke charge. This time it violated his probation and he was in possession of a firearm. He was sent to Oak Hill Youth Center in Fort Meade, MD. Oak Hill was the reformatory for DC’s big boys. Younger kids or non-violent boys went to Cedar Knoll. William was big for his size and he was charged with possession of a firearm so he was sent to Oak Hill.
Oak Hill was a dangerous juvenile hall because a lot of the inmates there were headed for Lorton Youth Center, the annex at the local prison. Lorton was nothing less than a gladiator school, so the boys that were going to age-out into Lorton tried to build their rep up while at Oak Hill. There were stabbings, sexual assaults, drug deals, extortions and everything else the adult lock up offered. William’s dad was an alumnus of Cedar Knoll, Oak Hill and Lorton and young Will was following his dad’s educational footsteps through life.
Of all the low life bastards in Oak Hill the guards were the worst. The worst ass whippings Will ever suffered in his life were at the hands and feet of the guards at Oak Hill. They would smuggle drugs in for the older or more dangerous kids and they would treat the smaller, younger boys like shit. The guards always made the boys fight each other in the bathrooms after lunch and made small wagers on the bouts.
They picked Will out the first week he was in the hall. They called him the “new kid” and made him square off against one of the jailhouse bullies. This other kid, named Blinds, had a big mouth and he ran the boys from the Montana Terrace Projects. Blinds charged the other boys in his dormitory rent every week. Each visitors’ day the boys had to pay him rent or suffer a severe beating – or worst.
Blinds was in for carjacking and was graduating to Lorton soon. He hated the “youngins” who were doing a short bid and going home. He was dark-skinned, muscular and was growing a mustache. He had beady eyes behind thick glasses and Will wondered if his poor vision is what made him mad at the world. He had targeted Will the minute Will stepped in the dorm.
On his second day in General Population Will was in the TV room watching a show and eating Cheetos. At a commercial he got up to throw the bag in the trash. When he returned to his chair Blinds was sitting in it. As Will walked up Blinds looked him up and down and sneered.
“You’re in my chair,” Will announced.
Blinds stood up. “And so what?” he said.
A guard stepped in between them and separated the two. Blinds promised he would deal with Will later. The next day the same guard told Will to go to the bathroom after lunch.
When Will walked in the bathroom half of the dormitory was in there. A few guards were in there squeezing dollar bills and laughing. Blinds stood across the room bouncing on his toes. Will was looking around the room trying to take account of everyone there when Blinds suddenly rushed him.
He saw him at the last second and tried to cover up his head with his hands so the first left hook only grazed his forehead, but it knocked him off balance. Blinds followed with a flurry of haymakers that sent Will reeling back against the wall. The crowd cheered and jeered. Blinds pounced on him, throwing digging body punches and wild hooks.
Will was as scared as a turkey in November. He stopped thinking. He stopped being. He couldn’t imagine what was going to happen to him next. No logical answer or reasonable thought could help him understand what his options were. His back was against a wall, in a juvenile hall bathroom and an older, bigger gang leader was beating the shit out of him.
Almost in tears, Will started throwing punches, although the last thing he wanted to do was further upset this kid. He only wanted to slow him down, maybe make him back up some. So, he didn’t throw wild looping shots, but rather stiff, straight crosses that landed on Blinds’ nose in succession. Blinds took a step back and dropped his guards. Will kept punching. Right hooks landed split seconds before left hooks landed. It wasn’t long before Blinds’ face went from a little shocked to completely terrified. Finally, Blinds fell backwards, hit the floor, and didn’t move.
The boys in the bathroom went crazy. Everybody started screaming and laughing wildly. Guys shook Will’s hand and patted him on the back. He was still shook up from the fight, but he quickly understood he had done something big. His adrenaline was pumping and the meanest boys he had ever come across were telling him he was “the man.”
This was the first time Will felt like the King of the Hill. When he walked through the halls or out on the yard everyone talked about how he was the guy who knocked out Big Blinds. Older dudes nodded and said, “Shorty, you all right, man” and younger guys who didn’t know him spoke, “Hey, Will.” It wasn’t long before he noticed everyone had started calling him “Six Hands.”
The law in Oak Hill was “loser moves”, meaning if you lost a fight you had to move out of the dormitory to prevent escalating events. Blinds’ clothes and personal belongings were rolled up and moved to another tier. Will earned a lot of respect and a few perks from the guards.
Will still got scared when a guard tapped him on the shoulder and told him to go to the bathroom. But he always went and he always won. With each win his confidence grew and he became tougher, meaner and more aggressive in and out of the bathroom. Alone in his cell Will trained for his next fight. He did push-ups and pull-ups until he lost count. He rolled his mattress up and used it as a heavy bag. He understood that with every win he gained more freedom in the jail and his reputation grew with his muscles.
At 15, he was a jailhouse celebrity. Guys asked him if he was going to be on the boxing team at Lorton. They talked about how guys won championships in the prison boxing leagues. Will tal
ked of being champion of the world. He knew his future was brighter than those boys could even imagine.
Six months later, when he was released, Will returned to Thelma’s apartment and joined an amateur boxing team in Palmer Park. The boys at the boxing gym looked like good boys from good homes in the suburbs. Even the city kids looked like they were trying too hard to look tough. In the ring, Will fought like he was still in Oak Hill. He roughed his opponents up with elbows and forearms. He hit after the break, after the bell and once chased a boy and his father through the parking lot after practice. He stepped on the boys’ shoes and used every other boxing trick in the game. By age 17, Will was known as a dirty fighter.
He won a few amateur tournaments and even got to travel outside of DC for a few fights. The first trip he earned was to Jersey City where he competed in a Silver Gloves competition. While the team sat in the lobby of the Hyatt waiting for the coach to check them in, Will couldn’t believe he was about to stay in a hotel so nice. He wondered what was about to go wrong. When the coach returned from the front desk and handed Will a key he felt a wave of relief. That night was the first in Will’s life that he had slept on a bed with two sheets.
The trip to New Jersey was one of the best times of Will’s childhood. He stayed in a fancy hotel and even splashed around in the swimming pool. He saw the New York City Skyline and won a trophy. He was loving life for the first time. His victory earned him a trip to Kansas City to fight for a national championship. Will wasn’t sure where Kansas City was, but he knew if it was half as gratifying as the trip to Jersey City, he was ready to do this boxing thing forever.
He couldn’t pay attention in school. He knew he didn’t fit in socially as soon as he started high school. He didn’t fit in with the kids. The kids were so immature that he felt older than everyone and since he spent junior high school in jail, he didn’t have many friends at the high school.
Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries Page 2