“New York you was scared to death, yo,” Shorty joked.
“Man, that shit was crazy. These cops ain’t playin’ fair out here, huh?” Tone commented.
“Welcome to Baltimore,” she exclaimed.
Tone’s story may have begun in New York, but it was about to unfold in Baltimore.
6
Tone was so immersed in the streets of Baltimore that he seemed to lose track of time. The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. This time period was more so a feeling out process to make sure that he and Shorty could work with each other. The vast amounts of money they began to make together assured him they could. Slowly but surely Tone grinded away and began to build a name for himself in the streets of East Baltimore. Piece by piece he started to assemble his own drug organization, the pitchers, lookouts and runners. All at his disposal. It started off with just him and Shorty. Whenever the mood struck him, Stew would get down too. Eventually, he bought his younger cousin Mann down from New York since he was running wild and getting into trouble in the city. Tone felt like since he was risking his freedom for nothing, he might as well make some money off his recklessness. But besides that, Tone needed someone around him he could trust, unconditionally, and Mann was that person. He felt whom better to trust than family.
Once the proceeds from the drug sales began to come in, Tone was able to hire more help. This came in the form of local, young, hungry dudes from the neighborhood, native Baltimoreans. He knew this strategy would pay dividends moving forward. Tone did this deliberately to avoid the animosities and rivalries that an all New York drug crew might incur.
Long before Tone arrived in Baltimore, the rivalry between hustlers from New York and Baltimore had been perpetuated for years. Blood had been spilt and murders had been committed to strengthen each side’s stranglehold on the drug trade. Tone hadn’t done anything to fan those deadly flames. He merely inherited a lot of animosity because of where he was from, not because of anything he had done. Tone was a different kind of New Yorker, he heeded Shorty’s words and chose to blend in. He was well aware of the anti-New York sentiment in certain sections of Baltimore. He made it a point to steer clear of those places, not because he was afraid, it was because feuding with someone over a drug block was pointless. Beef was a broke man’s sport that Tone would rather not indulge in. He’d rather stay right in East Baltimore, where the streets had accepted him and the neighborhood had embraced him. Where he could flourish in relative anonymity.
In Baltimore, hustlers from New York were notorious for taking over neighborhoods and everything it had to offer and never giving anything back. Tone decided to make himself the exact opposite of everything that the streets were accustomed to when dealing with a New Yorker. He played fair and gave everyone their just due. If he ever did anything to someone, then they had it coming.
Man, fuck them New York boyz yo, Junkies often said to Tone. No disrespect Tone, you the only New Yorker I fuck wit. You ain’t like them other petty muthafuckas yo. You show love out here in these streets.
Early on, Tone used strategic moves to defuse the anti-New Yorker sentiment. Whether it was by occasionally accepting short money from junkies or looking out for kids in the neighborhood by buying them new tennis shoes when their old one’s wore out. He gave money to struggling single mothers who might be behind on a bill. These random acts of kindness deflected any distrust or misplaced reservations that anyone may have had about him. As a result, the community began to embrace him, overlooking the fact that he was a part of the drug problem that was ravaging the neighborhood.
Despite his best intentions, Tone’s drug operation didn’t get off the ground without a hitch. He struggled to keep a consistent flow of drugs. As quickly as he would get his drugs from New York, the quicker he would sell out. He couldn’t maintain a big enough or constant supply of drugs. Because of this incontinency, he lost a few customers and a few workers too. Only the loyal ones remained as he worked out the kinks. In reality, Tone was running a nickel and dime drug operation, trying to find his footing in the drug trade in Baltimore. He was forming the cornerstones of what would some day be a drug empire.
No matter how good the quality of his cocaine was, Tone’s unpredictability, accompanied with lack of sufficient weight, kept him cornering the drug market in the area. He was forced to rethink his game plan as a result, in an attempt to solve his problem. His thoughts turned to older, more established hustlers from his hood that he knew, maybe form some kind of partnership with them and really flood the streets of East Baltimore with coke. He quickly scratched that idea, fearing that they would take over his entire drug operation and leave him out in the cold once they saw all the money there was to be made.
Reluctantly, he sent his cousin Mann up to New York a time or two in an attempt to find a coke connection. But those trips yielded nothing.
Tone remained on the path of inconsistency until he made a bold move of returning to New York himself. It was in Manhattan, Washington Heights, that Tone finally met the solid cocaine supplier that he needed. After constantly copping weight on a weekly basis, his Dominican coke connection saw the value in Tone as a customer, and began giving him cocaine on consignment. Whatever amount of weight Tone bought, he matched. Once he found a reliable cocaine connection, things really took off for Tone in Baltimore.
With a consistent supply of cocaine, Tone was able to begin to make some real money. He worked around all the major drug operations in the area until his organization rivaled theirs. Then he surpassed them by using all kinds of gimmicks he had learned in New York to lure new clientele. He fed right into the greed of the junkies by offering two for ten-dollar specials, buy three get one free. He gave out full sized testers whenever he bought a new batch of coke out. Aside from giving out free, full sized testers, Tone was winning on two fronts, with quality and quantity.
With the right connection, Tone’s drug block really began to pop. The streets of East Baltimore began to buzz with talk of New York Tone and his raw cocaine. Every day he was gaining more street notoriety, unlike anything he had ever experienced in New York. Quickly, Tone was becoming a star in the hood.
Leaving New York was looking like the best thing that ever happened to him. He went from a little fish in a big pond to big fish in a little pond. He was beginning to play the game on a level not even he had imagined.
“Black Tops! Ready Rock!” a worker’s voice chanted.
“Got that Ready y’all,” another worker shouted. “Don’t beat yaself, treat yaself. If you wanna get high, then I’m ya guy, yo.”
Dressed in black from head to toe, a black hoodie, black jeans and black Timberland boots, Tone sat quietly on the abandoned and boarded up row house steps doing his best to blend into the bleak, impoverished landscape while observing the daily activities. Each day Tone had taken up the same tactical position on the block. Try as he might to be incognito, his presence was unmistakable. He served as a deterrent for any stickup kid or would be robber. The gun in his waistband testified to that fact.
The junkies knew he was strapped, his workers knew he was strapped, and maybe even the occasional police patrol car that passed might have known too. It was no secret that Tone had a gun on him. East Baltimore was an extension of the world, guns were everywhere and violence could erupt anywhere.
Tone lead by example. Although he didn’t have to be out there, he hit the block every day with his team to make sure things were run right. He never wanted to feel that he was too big or beyond getting his hands dirty by putting in some work. This was his thing, no one else had a more vested interest for seeing it go right besides him. His perception of the situation was in line with the reality. He stood to gain the most financially. With the demand for his coke steadily increasing along with his profits, Tone felt like he could be targeted for a robbery any day. For those reasons, Tone was willing to protect his drug operation with his life.
Tone glanced at the alley and smiled as he saw his workers servin
g a multitude of customers. He was proud of himself. He had taken a block that had been abandoned and built it back up into an open-air, ‘round the clock drug market that junkies frequented in search of some of the best powder cocaine and ready rock that East Baltimore had to offer. Rain or shine, day or night, customers came and went.
Tone’s eyes scoured the street for anything out of the ordinary before returning to the junkies on line. He searched each face, looking for anyone who seemed out of place. For the moment everything appeared to be in order, so Tone continued to sit on the stoop while keeping vigil on the block. One after another he watched the junkies get served their vials of coke until the line died down.
“I’ll be right back, I gotta use the bathroom yo,” Shorty said to him as she suddenly appeared from the alley before disappearing up the block.
Tone nodded his head slightly, barely acknowledging her. Though his suspicions lead him to believe her trip up the block wasn’t to use the bathroom at all. Shorty was probably gone to get high. Tone didn’t care though, Shorty had proven her loyalty and allegiance to him time and time again. If it wasn’t for her, Tone wouldn’t be in the position he was in. Besides that, he knew his drug operation would run itself until she returned. He employed a small team of workers to assure that it would.
Stone faced, Tone watched closely as a stranger approached. He eyed him suspiciously. The man hadn’t even come in close proximity of him yet and he had already gotten a bad feeling about him.
“What’s up, yo?” the man greeted him.
Tone replied slowly, “You!”
“You New York Tone?” he asked.
“Why?” Tone fired back. Whenever Tone felt uncomfortable with a question, he always put the onus back on the person asking the question by stating why.
Tone studied the man’s physical features for a moment. The thing that jumped out at him was his dark jet-black skin and big potbelly. His dark beady eyes seemed to announce his griminess.
“Ain’t nuttin’, New York. I don’t mean you no harm. I was just askin’ that’s all, yo,” he explained. “You don’t sound like you from Baltimore.”
“Well what do somebody from Baltimore sound like?” Tone wondered.
“Not like you, yo,” the man laughed in an attempt to ease the tension.
The man suddenly extended his hand in an attempt to formally introduce himself.
“They called me Ronnie Sykes, yo,” he blurted out. “But everybody call me Sykes.”
He stared at Sykes’ dirty, black, swollen hand and declined to shake it. Instead Tone gave him a head nod. Seeing that Sykes coolly withdrew his hand. If he felt slighted or disrespected by Tone’s actions, he did a good job of camouflaging it.
“Boy, you New York boyz go hard huh, yo,” he laughed. “You remind of my boy Champ from New York. He usta be up on 20th Street and Greenmount Avenue. I think he from Brooklyn…. Queens or one of them places, yo… Don’t start me to lyin’ though… Anyway, you might know him?”
“Nah, I don’t know ‘em,” Tone assured him. “New York’s a big place.”
He was beginning to sense Sykes was trying to run game on him. Making small talk in an attempt to hide the real reason for his sudden appearance.
“So I heard,” Sykes proclaimed. “Yo, was the man wit’ that China White.”
“I hear you,” Tone replied, sarcastically.
Sykes must have heard the sarcasm in his voice because he quickly changed the subject.
“Anyway,” he began, “I just come home a few days ago. I’m tryin’ to get back on my feet yo…. I was wonderin’ if I could get in wit’ you. I’ll do whatever, New York. These niggas around here know me. They know I don’t play…. I’m as thorough as they come.”
As Sykes boasted about his exploits in the streets, Tone just stared blankly at him. Tone got the feeling that Sykes thought he was actually somebody. And maybe he was back in his day. However, right now, he was a nobody to him. Try as he might, Sykes couldn’t convince him otherwise. Tone’s mind was already made up.
“Yo fam, I got my team already,” Tone told him. “I only deal wit’ a select few. My circle small.”
“Damn, New York. They said you the man around here yo. You getting’ all the money and if I wanna get money to see you. They said you got the best coke in East Baltimore…. That you was a good dude…. Damn, New York, don’t do me like that yo…. I messed up, I just came out the joint….” Sykes pleaded.
“They told you wrong. I ain’t gettin’ it. I’m gettin’ a quarter over lunch money. I’m strugglin’ just like everybody else,” Tone announced, trying persuade him otherwise.
“I hear you, New York,” Sykes said, regrettably. “If you ever need me yo, just holla.”
“Aiight, cool. If a spot open up, I’ll let you know,” he lied.
“Say, New York,” Sykes continued. “I know you said you ain’t got no position for me right now, but I was wonderin’ could I get a lil help?”
Tone stared at him for a moment. He knew exactly what Sykes was hinting at. Sykes wasn’t really looking for a hand up. He was looking for a hand out. Tone was slowly becoming a victim of his own success. It seemed like word was getting around about how fair he played, how he looked out for certain junkies giving them a few vials of ready rock on credit. His acts of generosity made him a good dude to some, and a target for the low life’s and leeches.
In Tone’s book, that’s exactly what Sykes was, a leech. He had seen his kind before, time and time again, undercover addicts looking to use him. Tone had helped a few local hustler’s fresh out of jail, rehab or whatever, get on their feet by giving them packages of drugs to sell for themselves with the idea that when they got on their feet, they’d not only pay him back, but come buy weight from him. However, that never materialized. In the end, it turned out to be just talk on their part and wishful thinking on his. Their drug habits turned out to be bigger than their hustle. Making money was a ploy they used to cover their real intentions of getting high.
Tone had gotten burned too many times showing love to look out for another person other than himself.
“Help how?” Tone snapped.
“Lemme hold somethin’… just a couple vials yo... til a better day,” Sykes reasoned. “I’ll pay you back yo….. You got my word on that…. I swear to God yo….”
Finally, Sykes had exposed his hand. Now Tone knew that his entire conversation was fraudulent from the start. What Sykes was really attempting to do was something called a friendly extortion. Asking for drugs in a friendly manner. Tone knew if he gave Sykes anything that it would open a door for him to keep coming back repeatedly. He would rather nip the situation in the bud now than have him feeling entitled to some free drugs anytime he felt like getting high.
“Ain’t nuttin’ free my nigga,” Tone barked. “Can’t support ya habit fam.”
Sykes flipped out. “You New York boyz some disrespectful muthafuckas yo. I just ask you for a lil sumthin’ yo and you gone do me like that? Me, Sykes? This ain’t New York, this Baltimore yo. Pay homage…. You got me fuck up yo! You must not know who the fuck I am?”
Not liking what he just heard, Tone rose from the stoop. With his hand underneath his hoodie, he tightly gripped his gun, signaling to Sykes he was prepared to make this verbal altercation into a physical one.
Transforming from beggar to bully, Sykes was now attempting to throw his weight around and intimidate Tone. The problem was Tone wasn’t easily intimidated. Despite the size differential favoring Sykes, he had the heart to stand up to him. He would meet aggression with aggression. He wasn’t about to bow down to a bully and let him walk all over him. If it was a few vials today, it’ll be something else tomorrow. Tone knew how he dealt with Sykes, or rather how the block saw how he dealt with him, would go a long way in determining how he was treated for the duration of his time there.
“Whore ass nigga, I’ll run you from ‘round here yo,” he continued before taking a few steps toward Tone.
Q
uickly, Tone drew his gun. Placing his weapon close to the side of his leg. He menacingly pointed his finger in Sykes’ direction. His actions caused Sykes to slowly back-pedal with hands slightly raised.
Tone had drawn a line in the sand that he dared Sykes to cross.
“Yo, who the fuck you think you talking to? C’mon, play yaself my nigga and I’ll leave you right where you stand,” Tone threatened. “I don’t give a fuck who you are!”
“You got it! You got it, New York,” he repeated while backpedaling away.
“Yeah, I know I got it,” Tone insisted. “Now get da fuck outta here. And don’t let me catch you ‘round here again, or you gone have a fuckin’ problem.”
By the time the last words exited Tone’s mouth, it seemed like the entire block had stopped and taken notice of the altercation. Junkies and workers alike stopped what they were doing and openly stared. From the looks on their faces they seemed stunned to see Tone backing down Sykes. They continued to watch as humbled Sykes walked away.
Inwardly, Tone reveled in momentary victory. This was the first chance he got to flex his muscle. He thought the streets had been getting the wrong perception of him. Tone hoped the altercation with Sykes would go a long way in changing that. He knew he had to flip every once in a while to keep everyone in line.
Calmly, Tone put his gun away and sat right back down on the stoop. He acted as if nothing had happened. Soon everything went back to normal.
A few minutes later his cousin Mann exited the stash house and ran over to him.
“Yo, what’s good Tone?” he uttered. “Heard you had some beef out here.”
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