by Beanie Sigel
“I ain’t feelin’ that shit either, sun,” Jihad admitted after a brief contemplation.
“It’s too late to fall back, though. We’re here now. We just gotta play it smart. I’ma leave the money in the truck. If I ain’t out of the building within five minutes, come in blasting ... no hesitation. Flaco told me to ring the buzzer to apartment 14-B, but it could be a set up. I’m sure they have to buzz me in, so I’m gon’ leave something wedged in the door for you.”
“I got you, bruh,” Jihad assured his partner.
Terry pulled his SUV over in front of the building. With his foot on the brake pedal, he shifted the gear into neutral and activated the hazard lights. By doing this simultaneously, the front console rose revealing two black .50 caliber Desert Eagle handguns. Terry removed one gun and Jihad took the other. Terry grabbed an extra clip and slid it into the back pocket of his Robin jeans. Stuffing the gun into his waistband, he made sure that his Polo pullover concealed it. He, then, tucked his platinum chain with the princess cut diamond laced “T” medallion inside his pullover.
“Five minutes,” Terry said to Jihad, looking at his Breitling watch.
“Not four minutes and thirty seconds, not five minutes and fifteen seconds...five minutes.”
Jihad looked at the time on his watch, which was a gold version of Terry’s.
Terry left the Navigator and walked up to the entrance of the building. To the left of the door was approximately fifteen doorbells. He searched for 14-B and found it. He rang the doorbell.
“Who is it?” the accented voice asked through the intercom.
“It’s T-Lova.” A few seconds later the door buzzed open. Terry stepped in. Before it closed behind him, he wedged a lighter between the door and it’s post to prevent it from closing shut.
On the second floor, near the end of the hall, he located the apartment. After delivering a light rap on the door, Flaco opened it displaying a wide smile. He had his arms outstretched prepared for a hug. With a smile just as wide, Terry simply extended his hand for Flaco to shake. If he would have conceded to the hug, Flaco could have possibly felt the gun resting on his waist. He accepted Terry’s handshake.
“Entra.” Come in.
Terry walked inside, scanning the interior layout. Except for sparse furnishings the apartment was desolate. The living room contained a well-worn couch, two old chairs, and a cheap kitchen table. There was no feeling of warmth to the place at all.
Flaco closed the door and locked it. He was a small man standing at about five-feet-seven and weighing no more than one hundred and fifty-five pounds. He was clean shaven and no more than thirty years old.
After the door had been closed and secured, an older Dominican man with graying hair and rough, stern facial features walked into the room.
Terry eyed the man carefully. “Wassup?” He received no response.
“You didn’t bring the money?” Flaco asked with concern.
“No disrespect, Flaco, but we’re dealing with a lot of hard earned money. I need to make sure everything’s okay.”
“No problema. I understand,” Flaco turned to the older man. “Pablo, bucalo la ya-yo.” (go get the cocaine). The man left and quickly returned with the drugs. He gave the kilo to Flaco. Flaco handed it to Terry. “Here you go. One kilo of cocaine. The exact same coke I gave you before. Now, everything okay?” Flaco spoke in a calm accented voice.
Terry visually inspected the kilogram. It was in a paper wrapping, then double coated in Saran Wrap. “Yeah,” Terry said as he placed the cocaine back into Flaco’s hands. “I’ll be back in two minutes with the money.”
Terry left the building and returned to the truck. Jihad pressed the unlock button allowing him to enter.
“Four minutes and seven seconds.” Jihad noted, letting Terry know that he was on point. “What’s good?”
“They got the work. I’m gonna cop it.” Terry pulled himself into the driver’s seat and closed the door. “Hand me the box.”
He reached behind him to the second row and grabbed the bag containing the shoe box of money. “Here.” He gave the bag to Terry. “Just because you saw the blow don’t mean they won’t try nothing funny, so stay on point.”
“No question. The same rules apply. If I ain’t back in five minutes, come in with that ratchet in your hand ready to squeeze.”
“Fact.”
Terry left the SUV with the bag in his hand. Again, he rang the doorbell. This time, no one spoke through the intercom. The door simply buzzed open. He walked in and jammed the door behind him the same way he did the first time. He made his way back to the apartment and knocked on the door. Flaco opened it and Terry stepped in.
“Good, my friend,” Flaco said, with his signature smile that was beginning to irritate Terry. “You bring the money?”
“Yeah, I got the money.” He removed the box from the plastic bag and held it in his hands.
Flaco opened the box, revealing twenty-six one thousand dollar stacks of money.
“This is not fake, no?” He looked at Terry suspiciously.
Terry laughed at the man’s audacity. “I don’t play those games. My chain is worth two ki’s.” He straightened Flaco out. “My money or jewelry ain’t fake.”
Flaco’s smile subsided and seriousness was etched into his face. He mumbled something to his partner. Terry couldn’t recognize the words, but his keen eyes quickly picked up on the older man’s reaction to whatever Flaco said. The elder man reached under his button down shirt into the waist of his pants. With his hand on the handle, he began to remove his revolver. Terry, who was younger and faster, rapidly pulled out his hulking triangle barreled .50 caliber and squeezed the trigger two times. The thumb sized bullets smashed through the man’s chest sending blood and fragments of his rib cage spewing out of the grapefruit sized hole in his back.
“P-p-please poop—” Flaco’s words were cut off by the roaring sound of the gun burst. Everything above his top lip was blown off his body into multiple bloody chunks that splattered across the living room.
Terry rapidly picked up the cocaine and money. Covering his hand with his pullover, to conceal his fingerprints, he opened the door and left the apartment. He then fled down the hallway. He hurried to the Navigator and Jihad opened the door.
“Did everything go all right? ” Jihad asked.
Terry started up the SUV and slowly pulled off. “I guess you can say it went better for me than it did for them.”
“Watchu mean?”
“It was three of us in that apartment, now I’m the only one who’s still breathin’.”
“I told you, you need to work on your anger management skills. I think you need a hug.”
“Shut up.”
When they made it back to Syracuse, they called Twan to come test the cocaine. Twan was a universal soldier. He was six-feet-one, three hundred plus pounds, and agile for his size. He did it all, from robberies to hustle. He was also very good at cooking powder cocaine into crack. He was so good, he earned the nickname, The Chef. There was only one problem. Twan had narcolepsy: a condition characterized by brief attacks of deep sleep.
He was prone to fall asleep at any given time.
After Twan scrutinized the product, he concluded that it was heavily re-rocked, meaning it contained a lot of impurities. The Dominicans took approximately ten ounces of cocaine and added different ingredients to make it appear to be thirty-six ounces of cocaine.
When Terry revealed to the men that his jewelry was valuable the Dominicans decided to rob him of it. They would have been successful in cheating him out of his money, but their greed cost them their lives...
CHAPTER 2
Jihad cruised down South Salina Street in his champagne tan BMW 645 CSI coupe. The twenty-two inch chrome rims with six inch lips gave the gaudy Beemer a more aggressive stance. Terry sat comfortably reclined in the passenger seat. They took solace in the fact that although they could see out, no one could see inside due to the dark tinted windows.
“This drought is kind of fucking us up, T,” Jihad mentioned, referring to the shortage of cocaine in the city.
“Yeah, I didn’t think it was going to last this long. It’s been over three weeks.”
“I was reading the USA Today and they said the feds busted a vessel containing over two and a half tons of coke two days ago. That’s the second major bust this month.”
“We’re definitely feeling the effects of it. The entire East Coast is hurtin’. We’re losing a lot of fuckin’ money,” Terry realized.
“I’ve been doing the math, and it ain’t a pretty sight. We have to get our hands on something else in order to make up for the money we’re losing.”
“What you got in mind?”
“I was thinking about getting a ki of Boy.”
“Heroin?” Terry questioned.
“Yeah, I know this Puerto Rican cat that...”
Terry stopped him before he could finish. “I ain’t never fuck with heroin before and I don’t wanna start.”
“It ain’t nothin’ to it,” Jihad stated matter-of-factly.
“I used to sell heroin back in the day. As long as you got good dope you gon’ make good money. The fiends need that shit. They gotta...”
“I said I don’t want to fuck with it,” Terry shouted, interrupting Jihad.
“Nigga, you yell at me again, I’ma kick yo ass out of my car. Matter of fact...” Jihad slammed on the brakes, bringing the coupe to a screeching halt in the middle of the street. “Get the fuck out!” The cars behind him were forced to come to a stop. They began to honk their horns in frustration.
Terry remained calm despite Jihad’s antics. “Nigga, if you don’t drive this piece of shit I’ma whoop yo big ass.”
Jihad took his foot off the brake pedal and eased on the accelerator. “Ah, I scared the shit outta you, punk!” He laughed. “You thought I was gonna make you get out.”
“Yeah, okay.” Terry turned the music up and sat back in the comfortable leather seat. His mind reflected back to when he was ten years old.
Terry had just come home from school. He removed the shoestring from around his neck, which held his house key, and opened the door to his home.
He walked into the house, tossing his book bag onto the couch. On his way to the kitchen to get something to drink, he heard the sound of his mother crying.
“You stupid, good for nothing bitch!” Terry senior scoffed at his wife and son’s mother, Anita. She was sitting on the edge of the bed when he hit her with a back-hand across her face that sent her sprawling to the floor. He stood over her in dominance with his hands balled into tight fists. “Didn’t I tell you to bring me two bags when you got off work?”
“I only made eighteen dollars today, Terry. I barely had enough to get you one bag. It was a slow day at the restaurant,” Anita managed to explain between sobs.
Her words fell on deaf ears as he straddled on top of her and began to choke her. “I don’t give a fuck what you made, bitch. You better do whatever you have to do to make me happy!” He tightened his grip around her neck, cutting off her air supply.
Anita desperately scratched and kicked in an attempt to get him off of her. “Not in front of little Terry.” Anita pushed the words through his vice like grasp.
With his hands still tightly wrapped around Anita’s neck, Terry looked behind him. His son stood at the doorway with tears streaming down his cheeks. “He needs to see this so he’ll know how to treat a worthless bitch.”
“Get your hands off my momma!” Little Terry flew towards his father, throwing a wild haymaker, hitting him in the back of the head.
“Oh, you think you’re a man now?” Terry senior rose off Anita and faced his son. “The next time you raise your hands to hit me, you better know how to fight.”
“Terry, no!” Anita cried from the floor. “Please don’t hit my baby.” Her plea came too late.
Terry had reared back and slapped his child with full force across the face. Little Terry stumbled as his bottom lip split open, but he refused to fall down. He was only ten, but he knew better than to fight a battle that he couldn’t win. Instead of going with his heart and attacking his father, he went over to his mother and cradled her in his small chest.
“Leave us alone!” Little Terry shouted.
“Look at this shit,” Terry said, glaring down at his wife and son. “I got two bitches.” He shook his head and walked over to the dresser, grabbing his bag that contained the material he used to prepare his fix, then walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom.
Five minutes later, Terry senior called out to his son. “Little T, come here!”
Little Terry tried desperately to block the one voice that left a pang in his heart every time he heard it.
“Little T, bring yo ass in here before I have to get up and come get you!”
“Baby, just go see what he wants. He’s probably going to apologize.” Reluctantly, Little Terry left his mother’s side and walked into the bathroom. His father was seated on the clothes hamper. He had on the white tank top and brown slacks that he had wore the previous day.
“Do you want to be like me when you grow up?”
Little Terry shook his head in response.
“I don’t speak fuckin’ sign language, boy. You got a mouth, use it!”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I don’t want to be like you,” Little Terry said without concealing the anger in his voice.
“Good. I’m gonna show you what makes me the way I am. If you turn your eyes away from me for one second, I’m gon’ beat shit down your leg. You hear me, boy?”
Little Terry’s first reaction was to nod his head, but he remembered what his father had just told him about using his mouth. “Yes.”
Terry removed the belt from his pants and wrapped it tightly around his left bicep. He then picked up the syringe that lay on the sink and held it in the air. “Do you see this? This is what makes me who I am. This is my true wife. Ever since we first met, I fell in love with her. She’s a jealous woman. She makes sure that I love nothing or no one more than I love her.” He looked at his son whose eyes were transfixed on the needle. “Do you know what her name is, boy?”
“No.”
“Her name is Heroin. Now if you want to be like me, then, you fall in love with her. This is how you do it.” He stuck the tip of the needle into the vein that protruded down the length of his forearm and injected the liquid into his blood stream.
Little Terry stared at his father with growing hatred towards him and the drug that turned the man that he once loved and admired into the cold, heartless being that stood before him.
Instantly feeling the intense high from the heroin that traveled through his body, he slowly pulled the needle out of his arm. A trickle of blood seeped out of the tiny hole and slithered down his forearm. He then loosened the belt from around his bicep and slouched against the wall. “Now get the fuck out of here,” Terry ordered. His eyes stared off into oblivion.
“Damn, T. Did you hear what I said?” Jihad asked, snapping Terry out of his reverie.
“Yeah, I heard you.” He lied.
“What did I say then?”
“You was saying something about how you was tired of paying for pussy and how you can’t wait to find a chick that’ll give you some pussy for free.” Terry joked.
“Oh, I know you ain’t talking. You so black, when you put on baby oil, it looks like you used Kiwi shoe polish!”
“Nigga, you so black, you gotta wear white gloves when you eat Tootsie Rolls so you don’t bite your fingers off.” Terry shot back.
“You so stupid, you thought Cheerios was donut seeds!”
“Fuck you!” Terry playfully jabbed Jihad in the arm. “Ride by the restaurant, let’s get something to eat.”
Terry owned a soul food restaurant with the help of his mother named, Inspirations. The establishment was well known for its delicious food and relaxing atmosphere. Three n
ights a week, Anita hired local poets to recite their poetry live, and two nights a week she invited jazz musicians to perform for the patrons while they ate and drank.
Jihad pulled over in front of Inspirations entrance. It was noon. The restaurant did not open until 3:00 p.m. but Terry knew that his mother, along with the rest of the staff, were inside preparing for the day.
Terry stepped out of the BMW handsomely dressed in a coffee hued cable knit cashmere sweater. The solid color was the perfect background for his thirty two inch total diamond necklace and matching diamond laced cross. His black Seven jeans and black alligator and leather trimmed Mauri sneakers rounded everything out.
Jihad was dressed in an exclusive green Retroactive hoodie, blue Japanese hard denim Retroactive jeans and a unique pair of grey and green Retro V Air Jordan’s.
Terry reached into his pocket and removed a set of keys. After finding the appropriate one, he unlocked the door and entered his establishment.
Is it a Crime by Sade, flowed through the air as Terry took a sweeping look around.
“Hey, baby. What’s up?” Anita came walking from the back where the kitchen was located. She was forty-nine years old with a vibrant look and demeanor.
“What’s good, ma?”
“What’s good?” Anita asked. “Everything we cook is good. What you talkin’ about?”
Terry giggled at his mother’s reply. “You know what I mean. How you doin’?”
“Oh, I guess I’m alright. Some asshole came and stole three garbage bags of bottles from out back. I hate that shit. You know old man Leroy comes by once a week to pick up them bottles. I’ma get me a BB gun and as soon as I catch somebody takin’ them bottles, I’m gonna shoot ‘em right in their ass! You watch ‘n see.”
“Ma, you trippin’.”
“No, I ain’t either. You think I’m jokin’!” Anita looked to her right and saw Jihad giggling. “What you standin’ over there all quiet for, big boy? You can’t speak?” She placed her hands on her hips waiting for a response.
“Everything’s okay. How you doin’, Ma?” Jihad asked, revealing his pearly whites.