One Hustler's World

by Nikita Stewart

  A teary-eyed Ski-Beau noticed the sudden emergence of two strangely familiar entities.

  A short, dark-complexioned woman held the hospital room door open for a large, broad-shouldered, light-brown complexioned man.

  Detective Swanson displayed his badge. Preventing the man from approaching the hospital patient, he said. “Why don't you return to the nurse station and verify whichever room you're looking for."

  The man eyed him coldly. "I'm where I need to be. So, if you don't mind, allow an uncle to spend some time with his nephew."

  “There are several questions the patient still needs to answer."

  "Is he under arrest?"

  “If that's what it takes." Detective Swanson quickly returned.

  The large man replied at a near whisper. "I was outside the door long enough to hear my nephew agree to cooperate with your investigation... under duress. Because I also know you told his nurse not to give him his medication, whatever he says will be suppressed. Now, if you want, I can have my attorney join us. Or you can give me your card, and I'll see to it that my nephew continues to cooperate." The man accepted the homicide investigator's card. "Thanks for allowing me this time to be at my nephew's bedside."

  "Don't contact me within forty-eight hours. You'll be standing at your nephew’s prison bedside." Detective Swanson warned him. "And don't think I don't know who you are, Mr. Percy Bannister. Or which so-called organization you represent." Approaching the door, he couldn't help noticing the eerily silent woman's solemn disposition.

  She stood against the wall, head down and eyes to the floor. Her dark chocolate skin shone against the lighting. Her large, sparkling eyes met the homicide detective's ocean blues. "Yes, officer?"

  "Ma'am, is everything alright?"

  The large man snatched the woman by his side. "She's my niece, the patient's cousin."

  Detective Swanson stepped to him off. “She can speak for herself."

  The woman chimed in. "Sorry if I made trouble. I thought Shaun was dead."

  The large man took his niece into his embrace. Glaring at the pompous homicide, he said. "We'll be seeing you in a couple of days." Once the homicide detective took leave, he snatched the woman by her jaws. Cherishing her utter, long-standing despair, he spat. "Stand outside. If anyone comes, you better tell me. And bitch, you better not move one fucking muscle." He shoved her into the hallway then slammed the door.

  The woman took up her post.

  Ski-Beau relented to the man’s fiery glare. "Uncle P... I thought ya went back to Maryland cause ya had enough of the Tidewater terrain."

  “Situations change.”

  “What about yo charges?”

  “What about them?” The man took a seat on the bed beside Ski-Beau. “Nephew, you luncheon hella hard. If you’re going to snitch, snitch. Just make sure your lawyer gets you the best deal first. In writing.”

  “I feel that, unc.”

  "Nephew, I heard you mention Sea Breeze."

  Ski-Beau nodded exhaustedly. "Meatball caught word a bitch from the way pose to be the one who set him up."

  “She the bitch that was all over him at Club Allure that night?"

  "That's the word."

  “Describe her."

  Ski-Beau disclosed her 5'7, 140Ib high-yellow, curvaceous allurement. Long, light-brown hair and facial features. In his opinion, though she was educated in the ways of male manipulation, she lacked the wherewithal to lead a man to his death. That just wasn’t her style.

  The large man asked him. "This bitch from yo hood?"

  “That’s the word."

  “That's not the bitch I'm thinking about." The man stood. Stretching, he continued. "You wanna find out who fucked you up and bodied yo loc stickman?”

  “I got it, unc.”

  “In case you don’t. Anybody you had problems with, make it so they can't eat. A starving man always exposes the world to his truth."

  The man told his nephew about a brawl outside of an Ocean City, Maryland Italian restaurant several months ago. The two men he encountered were of no concern. He needed to find a woman.

  Befuddled, Ski-Beau asked. "What she look like?"

  The man gave him a description. “Sounds familiar?”

  “I'm drawing a blank."

  “Then focus on her, dude. Word is, her dude do bizness somewhere around IGC side of town."

  Ski-Beau tried raising his cast right leg. Greeted by excoriating pain, he sulked exhaustedly. "Unc, it’s gone be awhile for I can put the locs onto hunting the bitch or her nigga down."

  The large man replied. "I came back cause Bounty Hunter Blood having a hard time running down on whoever got at Sea Breeze. Since I'm here, I figured why not wrap up some unfinished personal bizness." He held the hospital room door open then looked back. "Remember what I said about making it so yo enemies can't eat."

  "A starving man always exposes the world to his truth." Ski-Beau correctly finished.

  ∗

  Meanwhile...

  University Apartments

  Lowery Road, Norfolk

  For the first time, Yolanda looked around KT’s hideaway apartment. The first thing she noticed was six out-of-place Pioneer house speakers situated about the living room. Standing off to the side, she watched KT use a Philips screwdriver to unscrew each speaker.

  He removed a total of fifteen two-pound plastic & duct-taped wrapped packages. KT used a disposable razor to slice through the packages. As expected, they were greeted by the waft emitting from the compressed, greenish-blue cannabis. He placed a Pitney Bowes digital postal scale on the coffee table. He weighed out thirty individual one-pound packages.

  Yolanda split a Corona Dutch Master cigarillo open. She emptied the tobacco and replaced it with some of the merchandise. Yolanda rolled a modified cigarillo. Flame set to it, she took a slow drag. Warring against a violent coughing episode, her eyes watered. "Explain how all this Kush wound up here again."

  KT reiterated how five days ago, he phoned Alisha in Yemassee, South Carolina. The following day, she arrived in Norfolk. She took his $75,000 and the Pioneer house speakers back to her home. KT acknowledged the dismantled house speakers. “Today, the second day after Alisha made it back to South Carolina. And before you say it, yes, we assume all risk. But look at what we came up on."

  Yolanda asked. "You obviously think it's worth the risk. What I’m wondering is... what's to stop them from simply disappearing with our money?"

  “Besides the fact Big Suge down there and close to both shorties... Nothing can prevent that if that's what they decide to do." KT slid two rubber-band bound stacks of cash across the table to her. "That's $35,000."

  Yolanda, fumbling through the cash, eyed him aggressively. "You a tad-bit short."

  "Slim Goodie cut it out. I gave the plug $25,000 on yo behalf. Add that to what I just gave you, sixty stacks... Now where my clips?"

  Yolanda unzipped her overnight bag and placed three plastic-wrapped packages on the dinner table.

  KT accepted the three kilograms of powder cocaine. "How much whip can I add?"

  “You can whip each brick of soft into one and a half bricks of hard. And you'll still have some of the best work on the market. "

  “I put you onto the Kush connect. So, when can I start paying the prices you pay on the soft?"

  Yolanda smiled mischievously. "I show you too much. You won't need me anymore."

  KT accepted the half-smoked cigarillo. Tart, THC-rich cannabis smoke filled his lungs. Scribbling on a piece of paper, he crunched the numbers. Three kilos of powder cocaine purchased at $20,000 per, transformed into 4½ kilograms of high-quality crack cocaine. Wholesaled, KT stood to gross no less than $25,000 per kilo. Gross projected total... $112,500. Minus the $60,000 purchase price, net projected profit...·$52,500.

  Yolanda took one last drag then extinguished the cigarillo roach in the ashtray. She lit several mango incenses. Watching a latex-gloved KT place a Corona beer-filled jumbo crab cooking pot on the gas stove, s
he knew he was preparing. "Chef Khalid, I know you think you got everything figured out. But sometimes, we never know what exists until it’s already too late. That's why it’s good you have me to hold your hand."

  While KT tends to his kitchen duties, Yolanda explained the perils of wholesale crack distribution. The overall key to ultimate survival is to limit one's exposure to armed robberies, confidential informants, gold diggers, etc. In reducing one's exposure to those elements, you also decrease your exposure to federal investigations. Yolanda reiterated that to lower one's risk of exposure. You MUST conduct business only with those who take great pains to limit exposure to themselves.

  KT remarked. "So that's why I'm the only Ingleside dude you do business with."

  "Says you. In any event, pay attention to the fact you don't have the slightest idea who I do business with. No exposure." Yolanda relayed how though no one involved in illegal activity is ever truly insulated, steps can be taken to minimize the risk.

  She emphasized the importance of placing a brick inside a book bag along with every package to be delivered. Keep a butterfly knife nearby. The bookbag should always be in the passenger seat. If ever involved in a 'routine' traffic stop, pullover as ordered. However, never roll your window down more than halfway. Keep your license & registration up to date. And NEVER consent to a search. If ordered to exit the vehicle, or if additional police vehicles converge, floor it. With waterways flowing throughout the greater southeastern Hampton Roads, Va. region, a bridge is within reach no matter where the pursuit begins. En route, unzip the bookbag and use the butterfly knife to puncture the package. At a bridge's apex, toss everything into the water.

  KT successfully transformed the first kilo of powder cocaine into one and a half kilos of moist crack. Carefully, he placed the large, damp slab on top of an aluminum foil draped cooking pan. Folding the aluminum foil into a bowl, he put it inside the bathtub.

  Returning to the living room, he took an exhausted seat. "It would've been easier if you just said... if Poe-9 gets behind me, throw the work over a bridge. The butterfly knife in of itself told me what to do with it."

  "The brick is so everything sinks. Using the butterfly knife to slice into it makes sure the crack or powder cocaine dissolves by the time police send divers down if they even do." Yolanda clarified. "One felony attempt to elude police charge, a far cry from cocaine trafficking. When you do make a delivery, make sure you never box yourself in. Always have at least three escape routes. Preferably a residential area."

  KT quipped. "Yes, Ms. Drug game guru."

  Yolanda set flame to a second modified cigarillo. Marijuana smoke filling her lungs, expelling through her nostrils, she eyed him sternly. "Ready to tell me why we had to attend Meatball's funeral? If anything, it should've been a double, or none."

  KT explained why Dynamo felt the need to take advantage of the golden opportunity. Even though he disagreed, KT couldn't escape the fact Dynamo was right. They needed to send a message.

  Yolanda passed him the blunt. "Be careful when dealing with Dynamo. I know you two go back a way, but this new brazen attitude of his is dangerous."

  "You talking about what happened between him and Maxine."

  “The only reason I didn't surveillance him was because of your friendship. If you hadn't come to me when you did..." Her thumb across the throat gesture spoke louder than any words would have. "Money has corrupted some of the best people. A person in power never willfully gives it up. It must be taken by someone with more power."

  “And in our world, money is power." KT correctly finished.

  “Especially when the person who now has it isn't used to having it. Just be mindful of what I said."

  KT perched the cigarillo between his lips. He took a slow drag. Expelling marijuana smoke from his nostrils, he spoke about Angel.

  Yolanda eyed him astonishingly. "This real damn sudden. You two haven't even been together a year."

  "The night Angel found out about the reeducation web footage, I went home thinking our relationship was dead. In my eyes, it was." Recalling what Angel said about wishing she had ‘laid him down when she had the chance.’ "I threw 270 stacks (thousand) on the table. It was all hers. All Angel had to do was take it and leave. Despite everything before that point, all she wanted was me."

  Yolanda, peering into his eyes, replied. "Do you love her enough to walk away from this world?"

  KT slid a small velvet box across the table. "You tell me."

  Yolanda slid the box back to him. "Your mind is made up. Just keep in mind that saying about placing all one's eggs in one basket. Don't forget this either... you can love her and still enjoy the company of others."

  "We paid our respects to Meatball. So how do we play this Ski-Beau situation?"

  Yolanda, privy to his deliberately changing the subject, obliged him. "Start by playing the same cards he played. He's vulnerable right now, so don't expose too much." She placed ten pounds of the purchased marijuana inside her overnight bag. Readying herself to depart, she kissed him. "Thanks for the blueberry Kush plug. But if I run out before you do, you will be wholesaling some of yours. Now walk me out."

  KT led her outside. Watching Yolanda propel her cherry-red Chevy Camaro into the sun-blessed morning, he went back inside. He was set to repeat the tedious process of transforming the remaining two kilos of powder cocaine into three kilos of crack.

  Jesus picked up twelve men from the bottom ranks of business

  and forged them into an organization that conquered the world

  -Bruce Barton 1886-1967

  CHAPTER 18

  If a snake disguise itself to look like a bird,

  it has less of a hard time being accepted

  -Von Killa

  DePaul Medical Center

  Grandby Street, Norfolk

  11:30 am Later same day

  Ski-Beau, confined to his Intensive Care Ward hospital bed, fought against yet another sedative-induced slumber. He tensed upon the emergence of two men entering his room. He sat up and said. "What's cracking, fellas?"

  KT tapped his fist against Ski-Beau's bandaged right wrist. "I thought everybody was bullshitting. But real talk... you look like an airplane hit you."

  “I feel worse. Good look on hitting up Meatball's funeral. Ya didn't have to."

  “Our problems small. He from the hood, so we couldn't see ourselves not paying respect to the OG. How you holding up?"

  “I'm holding. IGC still doing what it do."

  Dynamo placed a modified cigarillo and cigarette lighter underneath Ski-Beau's pillow. "That's for when you feeling good enough to blow some trees."

  Ski-Beau experienced his umpteenth dry heave cough episode. Spitting into his bed-pan, he exhaled dispiritedly. "Muthafuckas got the OG-Loc good."

  KT replied. "Let me run something by you... do Insane Gangsta Crip do any business out Lambert's Point or anywhere in that area?"

  “Nawh, why?"

  “The word out about two Crips getting they cabbage twisted out there awhile back. On 41st or, 42nd Street if I'm not mistaken. I figured if the dudes were IGC, then whoever did that got at you and Meatball too."

  “What makes ya think that?"

  “Coincidences rarely happen. At least I'on believe they do. So, both shootings gotta be connected."

  Ski-Beau studied both men through grief, pain-stricken eyes. "Ya might not believe me... but word on my flag, IGC didn't shoot either of yawl."

  “We feel you." Dynamo returned solemnly.

  “Ingleside big enough for everybody... You don’t wanna rep IGC. You don’t have to."

  "Why the change in attitude?"

  Ski-Beau spat. "Look at me. Meatball dead, Bloods all over the place chopping at the bits. I'm having enough trouble directing the locs. Some hardheads think cause I'm on the shelf for a while, my OG status doesn't count. The first thing I'm gone do is make sure I'm still OG-loc."

  Dynamo shrugged. "Just don't twist they cabbage out, Ingleside. The hood supernova hot
as it is."

  KT gave Ski-Beau a fist pound. "Same way you offered to help us rundown on the dudes who shot us, we returning the favor. And we starting with one of the Blood sects."

  “Which one?”

  “You’ll be the first to know when we do.”

  Dynamo chimed in. "Ski, whatever you need, just ask. In the meantime, if we hear something, you the first to know." Following KT from the hospital room, he looked back at Ski-Beau one last time. "Don't let one of them nurses find the spliff."

  Ski-Beau watching the door close on both men's departure, reached underneath his left thigh, retrieving his phone. He pressed the speed dial and said. "Lemme holla at Uncle P."

  At the end of the hall, KT pressed the elevator button. The murmur of a distant motor churning several floors below, he asked. "What you about to get into?"

  Dynamo replied. "I promised Candace we would hit up a few stores for running the Kush spot when we were doing us."

  “You didn't tell her WHAT we were doing, did you?"

  “Her slow neck good, but not that good for that type of pillow-talk."

  “Absolutely.”

  The men shared a laugh.

  The elevator bell chimed. The double doors parting, Detective Swanson glowed in recognition of both men. "Wallace... Garrison, I see you two tying up some loose ends." He gave them a thumbs-up salute. "Showing up at Chris 'Meatball' Lyons' funeral was genius. No one suspects you two were involved in his murder... Almost no one."

  Non-responsive, both Dynamo & KT stepped onto the elevator. The doors closing, they watched Detective Swanson walk into Ski-Beau's hospital room.

  ∗

  MacArthur Mall parking garage

  Downtown Norfolk, Va.

  5 pm Later same day

  Though Dynamo cherished the opportunity to splurge with reckless disregard. After five hours, he was glad to finally exit Downtown Norfolk's MacArthur Mall. He was lugging a plethora of shopping bags. With his high-yellow beauty on his arm, he stepped onto the MacArthur Mall parking garage elevator.