My Brother's Keeper 2

by U. E. Wynn

Jahad and Tony talked for a few more minutes before they left. Jahad was still trying to persuade Tony to stay and Tony continued to refuse his offer as they eased out the apartment. Koran waited until he heard the front door slam and then scrambled out the closet with their conversation still buzzing in his head. He had to find a way to let his mother and Jahad let him stay in New York. Maybe if he stayed gone another week or two they would realize how serious he was about staying. At least he hoped so or he would have to run away again.

  After packing his book bag full of clothes he tossed three pairs of sneakers in a plastic bag and then quietly left the room. At the end of the hallway, he was about to make a left to enter the short hallway that led to the front door when he heard movement in the living room which was directly to his left about five feet away. He flattened himself against the wall, his heart racing trying to figure out what to do. It all boiled down to two choices; sneak back into his bedroom and hide in his closet or make a dash for the door. After a few seconds, he went with his second choice and sprinted off like a track star. In the living room, all Jahad saw was a black streak shoot pass but recognized Koran immediately.

  “Koran?... Koran, bring your little ass back here!” he yelled, just as Koran reached the front door.

  Driven by fear Koran ran as fast as his short legs would carry him out the apartment to the staircase door. He reached the handle thinking he had escaped when Jahad suddenly snatched him back by his dingy collar.

  “Where the hell you been, huh? Where the fuck you been!” Jahad screamed resisting the urge to hug him.

  Koran was about to answer, but Emma ran from her apartment scowling, her church hat turned sideways on her head “Koran what in the world are you doing out here? I thought you were using the bathroom.”

  Jahad whipped his head around. “Bathroom? He's been with you the whole time?" he asked angrily.

  “Don’t take that tone with me Jahad!” she snapped. “You know doggone well I wouldn’t have you or Michelle worried like that. I bumped into him this morning when I was doing my grocery shopping. I was bringing him home until he lied and said he had to go to the bathroom with his slick butt. He must’ve snuck out while I was in the kitchen."

  Koran turned away from Emma’s glare.

  "What the hell is wrong with you Koran? You know how worried we been man? You got Moms and Trice about to have nervous breakdowns.”

  Koran held Jahad’s stare defiantly. “I ran away and I’ma run away again soon as I get a chance. You said I could stay with you when Mommy moved and I’m staying! I don’t care how many times you beat me up or mommy beats me. I ain’t leaving!”

  Jahad looked back at Emma as if asking What should I do? She responded with a shrug of her shoulders. Feeling like his hand had been forced he turned back to Koran with a sigh. “A’ight man. You got a winner ‘cause I did say you could chill with me. But if you ever try some bullshit like this again I’ma beat the breaks off you, word up!”

  “I ought to beat the breaks off you now,” Emma added, secretly thrilled that he was staying. A smile lit up Koran’s face. He was staying. The words replayed over and over in his head like a chant.

  “I don’t know what you smiling for. You about to be on lockdown for a whole month. No T.V., no video games, no phone, no nothing!” Jahad barked.

  Koran didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was staying. When he was old enough, some way or another, he would be a M.G. What he couldn’t possibly grasp, and what none of them could foresee, was what he would become.

  Chapter One

  Saturday, April 5, 2005

  A spectrum of colorful lights lit up Harlems 125th street. The Apollo Theater had just let out so the sidewalks were crowded. People dressed in their finest clothes were walking shoulder to shoulder to Lincoln Town Car Cabs. Some were hanging out along the busy street trying to decide what night spot to hit next. The congested traffic looked more like a car show as drivers inched by in their Benz’s, BMW’s, Range Rovers, and Hummers with the music blasting.

  Stalled at a stoplight on Adam Clayton Powell, a sleek black Bentley G.T. idled quietly drawing second glances from pedestrians. The driver, a man on the brink of stirring up madness, smiled out at a group of pretty young women crossing the street before he reached for his cell phone. He looked down at the number written down on a Macy department store receipt, a number he’d spent months searching for. A number that would set in motion a stream of mistrust and murder.

  So much time, years in fact had been spent orchestrating what he considered would be the perfect revenge, but also the ultimate game. A game in which he would be calling all shots, pushing all buttons and controlling all the players, therefore making him the Operator. Though who lost, well, they died. That was the main objective of the game. The prize, total control of New York’s most secretive and deadliest organizations. The number he now dialed started the clock.

  “Hola?” His party answered in Spanish just as the light turned green.

  “Hector?”

  “Speaking… Who’s calling and how did you get this number?” Hector, Jahad’s arch enemy asked sounding paranoid. Since his drug empire came crashing down nearly five years ago, he had been slowly rebuilding his team. During the process he was extremely careful to keep his name from circulating on the street due to numerous attempts made to end his life. Somehow, no matter how safe and secluded he felt, he was always found. However, before each attack, he was miraculously notified in advance. So he stayed on the move never laying in one spot longer than a month. What he failed to realize was any involvements he had with the streets in the four boroughs the M.G’s were active in, would sooner or later filter back to Jahad. The M.G.’s had long arms and very good ears.

  “Who I am ain’t important. What I can do for you is all that matters,” the man said with a satisfied smile as he made a right on 130th and Lenox.

  “Listen, whoever you are, I’m not interested in buying anything and I have no time for riddles…Goodbye.”

  “Yo!” The man shouted, but Hector had already hung up. “Stupid Bitch!” he cursed quickly before dialing again and spoke as soon as Hector answered. “Don’t hang up again! Now I’ma say one name and then you tell me, do you have time for riddles…Jah.”

  The hairs on Hector’s arms stood erect. “I’m listening”

  “Got your attention now, huh? Hear this then, I’m the dude to help you get your face back. We…”

  “Who are you? What do you mean by getting my face back? How did you get this number?” Hector spat rapidly, his Spanish accent thickening.

  “Whoa Poppi, you speeding. Now who I am like I said, ain’t important. I’m the dude to put you in a position to merk Jah though if you’re interested. I ain’t feeling dude either. I just can’t merk him. Well, I can, but I choose not to. What I want you to do is give it some thought. I’ll get back at you through some of your people.”

  Click.

  Chapter Two

  Over a five year span the M.G.’s grew enormously in numbers and strength, and dominated 60% of the drug trade in South Bronx, Harlem, Brownsville, East New York, Bed Stuy, and Jamaica Queens right under the noses of New York’s underworld, the N.Y.P.D. and the F.B.I. This was accomplished by an ingenious system put together by the Heads (Jahad, Sha’, Star, Lord, and Prince), while locked up on Riker’s Island. Their birth caused the name M.G. to be whispered among drug dealers, gangsters, and stick up kids the way children spoke of the boogie man; in a quiet spooky manner. And just as children feared the boogie man, grown men feared the M.G.s mainly because no one knew who they were or if the organization even existed.

  In 2004 after an off and on two week heated debate, a cap was put on the M.G. membership list. Sha’ and Star, both believers that numbers produced strength, voted to keep the numbers open. Jahad, Lord, and Prince agreed, but were also believers that too many numbers produced weak links. Already each head supervised a 60 man crew, for a total of 300 extremely dangerous, money oriented brothers rec
ruited straight from Riker’s Island. As a whole, the M.G. had two main objectives, money and murder. If anyone was foolish enough to stand between their money making operation, they were found a few days later floating in the Hudson River or stinking up an abandoned building. It was never personal, always business. Big Business.

  Jahad played the role of a small time businessman to cover the secret life he led. A year after the M.G.s were in full operation, he approached Joe Collins, his former boss and owner of Joe’s moving company, with a huge offer to buy his business. More out of respect than money, Joe sold his twenty year business for pennies on the books, but a small fortune under the table. Enough so he could never have to lift another couch or dresser again in his life. Since then, Jahad turned the already established business into a money washing gold mine.

  While the M.G.s thrived, Koran grew into a man. At seventeen he graduated from Theodore Roosevelt at the top of his class earning a full scholarship to St. Johns University with an astounding 1400 S.A.T. score. Jahad, like a proud father, went out and bought him a brand new 2005 smoke gray Range Rover thinking he was going to college. He was sadly mistaken. Koran had only one goal in mind and he made his wishes known a week before his classes were to start.

  Jahad sat in the living room after putting in ten hours at work that Tuesday afternoon. His feet were propped up on the glass coffee table, a double shot of Hennessey in his hand, and a blunt hanging from the side of his mouth. He had enough money to afford a five million dollar mansion in Long Island, a few hundred thousand dollar cars, a Lear Jet, but chose to live in the projects and play his hard working business man role just to divert attention and the notion that he was fooling Koran.

  Only inside his apartment could a hint of his wealth be seen. Plush burgundy carpet covered the living room, hallways, and bedroom floors. The living room held expensive black suede furniture, a 60 inch plasma screen television perched on the wall between two African covered masks, and a Dell computer that sat right beside a red oak wet bar. All three bedrooms had king sized beds, a small dresser, and 42 inch flat screen televisions hanging on the walls. There wasn’t much room for anything else except for the computer Koran squeezed inside his room.

  Yes, he was rich beyond his wildest dreams. Happy? Well, Joy was emotion Jahad rarely dealt with. Since the M.G’s came into existence, he only allowed room for one feeling. A bitter coldness that came straight from the core of his heart. As the years passed, he no longer felt human and could no longer feel the same emotions humans felt. Now he was more like a reptile and no amount of heat could change that he was a cold blooded animal.

  Pushing himself off the couch, he walked over to the window behind the bar and Stared out over the South Bronx wondering how his life would have turned out if he never bumped Heads with the CoCo twins. With his eyes closed, he drifted off into the fantasy of his lost music career. He stood on stage at Madison Square Garden, thousands of fans screaming his name, sweat pouring from his face as he belted out slick hardcore lyrics only the streets would relate to, but everybody, black and white could feel.

  Beside him to the left, Eric, his best friend and rap partner stood swaying to the beat waiting to rock the mic next. Tony stood to his right moving his hands from side to side hyping up the massive crowd. Then it all disappeared when he heard the front door open and reality came crashing down. Eric was dead, had been dead for years, killed by the CoCo twins. Tony was in North Carolina happily married and working for a radio station in Raleigh. And he was… He was a mass murderer slash drug Lord hiding behind his moving company. The thought left him depressed.

  Koran walked in a few seconds later fresh off a date with one of his girlfriends. He had grown into his lanky arms and big feet standing at a slim six feet. If he were a few inches taller and a bit bulkier, he and Jahad could almost go for twins. They both had the same strong facial features with their mothers light brown eyes, but where Jahad was dark Koran was high yellow. He wore lime green Timberland’s, Gucci jeans, a white and lime green striped Gucci button up shirt, and Jahad’s diamond platinum chain with his own rose gold Cuban link holding a son piece flooded with yellow diamonds. At the time his life revolved solely around clothes, clubs, and women, but this was about to change.

  “A yo, I told you about rocking my chain. You could have one if you ain’t spend all your money trickin’,” Jahad said, turning from the window, his face set in a scowl.

  “Whatever.” Koran dropped his keys off on the coffee table, then sat down and put out the blunt Jahad had been burning in the ashtray. “We need to talk.”

  “Whatever?” Jahad started towards him. “Nigga, I’ll…”

  Koran quickly held up his hands. “Chill Jah. We need to talk for real.”

  For months he had been trying to figure out the best way to bring up the subject of him becoming a M.G. He already had in mind what Jahad would say. No, followed by a lecture about how important college was, promises he made to their mother, blah, blah, blah.

  “What’s so important that we need to talk about besides you taking off my chain, right now!”

  “The Money Getter’s, the M.G.’s, whicheva’ you wanna call them.”

  Jahads’ mouth dropped open. No one outside the M.G.s knew their identity besides Tony, or so he thought.

  Koran cracked a smile. “Guess you ain’t stressing’ the chain no more, huh?”

  Jahad covered his surprise with a look of annoyance. “I don’t know what the hell you talking about. You high or something?”

  “No, I ain’t high and you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “Yeah, a bunch of meatball shit.” He grabbed his glass and poured himself another drink refusing to meet Koran’s eyes.

  “Was it meatball shit when you came home from the Islands and all though bodies Starting poppin’ up? That was meatball shit too, right?”

  “What kinda shit you on? You trying to be a detective or something?”

  “Nah, just the opposite. I’m gonna be a M.G.” he said, fighting to control his temper.

  Jahad burst out laughing. “Well, send your application to Superman or Batman. One of them should get back at you.”

  That did it. Koran snapped. “What you playing stupid for Jah! I know what’s poppin’. You remember that conversation you had with Tone back in the day trying to get him to stay so he could help you build the M.G.’s? I was in the closet the whole time, so you can chill with the jokes.”

  Jahad Stared coldly at Koran for a second. He set his drink down, then crossed the living room and snatched him up by the collar of his shirt. “You nosey lil muthafucka! I’m sending your ass down south on the first plane out. Now who the fuck have you told!” He shook Koran like a rag doll.

  Koran struggled in vain to break Jahad’s grip. “No fucking body! Who in the fuck did I tell when you and Razor bodied all them people in the park? I don’t even know why you asked me some crazy shit like that for.”

  Sobered by Koran’s words Jahad let him go. His thoughts traveled back to the time he and Razor, who had been killed by the N.Y.P.D., murdered sixteen of the CoCo twin’s workers in P.S. 100 School Park. By eyewitnesses account, Razor held a man hostage in broad daylight before he killed two police officers. The man’s identity was never learned, but from his bedroom window facing the park Koran watched the bloody scene unfold through powered binoculars. Since that day not a word of what he’d seen had been spoken until now.

  “You think I would tell somebody about the M.G’s? That my brother is the nigga that started it? If so, then yeah, I need to go down south. Anywhere to get the hell away from you.”

  Jahad grabbed Korans’ shoulder before he could walk off. “Hold up yo. Pardon me lil nigga, but you don’t understand how serious this shit is.”

  “Evidently I do. I kept it to myself all these years.”

  “Yeah. Still, you know I won’t... I can’t bring you into this shit. You know why, right?”

  Koran didn’t answer.

  “Cause
I love your lil ass.”

  “Look at me Jah.” Koran held out his arms. “I ain’t little no more and from my S.A.T. scores, I’m damn near a genius.”

  “Do you know what you’re asking for? No! Why you wanna get mixed up in some bullshit when you got the mind to make millions legally?”

  “If the M.G.’s eating like I think, y’all be seeing millions. Tax free dough at that.”

  Jahad sighed and ran a hand across his face. Koran was making this hard. “It ain’t about money Koran, well it is, but the price you have to pay ain’t worth it. Not when you gotta different way of getting dough. The shit I do not good for the heart and it ain’t good for the soul. It’ll kill a weak nigga.”

  Koran frowned. “You trying to say I’m weak or something? I know how weak niggaz get down. They be crackheads, snitches and faggots. None of though labels fit me.”

  “No, Koran. No!” Jahad shook his head frustrated. “You know the promise I made to mom. Besides, there’s better things you can be. You start college next week bro. You wanna throw that away for this?”

  “I don’t wanna be nothing else Jah. You know how long I had my mind set on this? Five years. Five years of following all your bullshit ass rules so that when this day came you wouldn’t deny me. Everything has a price, you just said it. Now it’s time to pay up.”

  “You think it’s that easy nigga? That I can just snap my fingers and bang! You’re in. It don’t work like that man. You don’t got no idea what we do, who we really are. This ain’t a fade you…”

  “I know…”

  “Listen!” Jahad shouted bitterly. “We’re like fucking vampires Koran, only we don’t kill for blood, we kill for money. You get the concept? We don’t do it outta greed, it’s our nature, what our environment produced. Every last M.G. is a cold hearted killa. Is that what you wanna be? Think you can handle that?”

  Koran took the time to think before answering. “I mean, if that’s what it takes then yeah. I can handle it.”