by Dorian Sykes
The Good Life
Dorian Sykes
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Urban Books, LLC
300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109
Farmingdale, NY 11735
The Good Life Copyright © 2020 Dorian Sykes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-6455-6063-0
eISBN 13: 978-1-64556-064-7
eISBN 10: 1-64556-064-3
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.
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Acknowledgments
Family
First, my loving Mother. You’re my heart, and you know it. Always on time, and always sending God my way when I need it the most. My Auntie Janice, who’s been my angel since coming home. I’m grateful God put us together. When the chips were down, you put ’em up! Nothing but love for believing in me. Aunt Karen, my heart. Nephew, so happy to be home. I’m taking your advice, doing the right thing. Unc (Gene) for always giving it to me straight, even when I didn’t wanna hear it. You’ve been like a father to me my entire life. Both my cousins, Justin and E.T., y’all were down with me, and I trust y’all will stay down.
Industry
Richard Jeanty, respect a million times over for mentoring me and continuously pushing me in the right direction. Kevin Chiles, for being a solid guy about the struggle.
Ms. Michel Moore, special thanks for not hesitating to embrace me as I chase down these dreams. You had a hand in making this happen, and I’m forever grateful. Last but not least, my devoted readers. Here’s another one! Thanks for the continued support and helping my dreams become reality!
Prologue
June 1988
Just like every other major city back in ’88, Detroit fought hard to be crowned the murder capital of the world as the crack epidemic spread like wildfire, taking a strong hold of the city and a vast number of its residents. Bodies were dropping in numbers, as up-and-coming drug dealers went to war over territory. Drive-by shootings had become the norm, and innocent people were caught in the crossfire, often being killed. It was just a total disaster and a setback for the once-striving, predominately black city. Almost overnight, Detroit went from being ole Motown, the home of Motown Records and the birth of the auto industry, to a widespread battlefield. It was a prison for the still law-abiding citizens who remained.
The rise of crack and its availability not only sprung the murder rate, but also the level of theft and robberies. These crimes were often committed by crackheads against people who had nothing to do with the life of the underworld that engulfed them. Detroit had become known as Murder City instead of Motown. All sorts of government programs, such as Ronald Reagan’s “Just Say No” War on Drugs campaign sprang into action, but to no avail. Crack was everywhere, and there to stay for a long time.
Within this mayhem, Wink plotted how he would get into the drug game and take it over. He had grand plans and aspirations, but one problem existed—he didn’t know a single thing about selling crack. He didn’t know where it came from, how to make it, or who was supplying it. He’d seen the empty, tiny-size packets, which once contained rocks of cocaine, scattered on the sidewalks and curbs of his neighborhood, but he’d never seen an actual rock. It was crazy because something called “crack” was taking over his city, and yet he had never even laid eyes on it.
Wink was seventeen and fresh out of high school. He’d graduated by the hair on his face, which was slim to none. He was a baby-faced, light brown–skinned, tall and lanky nigga. He wore a high-top fade and cuts in his eyebrows. His mom worked at GM, and as the only child, he pretty much got whatever he wanted. The problem was he wanted it all, which was why, when he saw all the drug dealers with their expensive cars and clothes, Wink knew he had to get in on the game.
School was out, and so was all the fun stuff he and his crew used to do prior to the crack era. All the things they enjoyed coming up—roller skating, break dancing, house parties—ceased to exist when crack hit the scene. Niggas went from being B-Boys to D-Boys. All the B-Boy crews were now full-fledged drug crews, each trying to reinvent themselves as gangsters. Niggas were funny like that, though. One day they were standing on the corner in a circle, breakdancing with the boom box on; the next day, they were on that same corner with fully automatic Uzis, selling crack.
“Oh, you still breakin’! That’s some li’l boy shit,” dudes would say of the ones not yet in the game. Pretty soon, all the youngin’s were standing out there, trying to establish a reputation as a crew. It wasn’t even about the money, for real, because money was coming in hand over fist. It was about power.
Wink’s crew was the last crew to get on board, and he felt behind. He went to the barber shop and cut that goofy-ass high-top fade, let his eyebrows grow back, while he plotted and watched. The first thing he had to learn about the game was who was supplying the crack, or work, as niggas started calling it. His first mission didn’t take long. All he had to do was observe everybody. For a week straight, all he did was sit on the porch and watch the traffic come and leave. Niggas serving crackheads, police chasing niggas down the block, the raid van jumping out in the middle of the block: all these were mental notes for Wink when he finally got in the game. College hadn’t crossed his mind. Despite his mom’s protest, he told her not to waste her money because he wasn’t going to college. Wink’s mind was set on the streets. Cars, money, women, and clothes were all he could dream about.
Everything Wink wanted and dreamed of having, J-Bo already had times ten. J-Bo had to be the first nigga in Detroit to start selling crack. He was getting down in ’85 and ’86, when the Chambler brothers came up from Arkansas. He wasn’t personally fucking with them or even necessarily getting on through them, but he was around and on deck, making noise. Everybody and they mamma knew who J-Bo was. He had seven Porsche
s, same exact car, but different colors. Minks, gators, Rolex . . . you name it, J-Bo had it. He was probably the first one you’d ever seen with the shit on.
Wink had never personally met J-Bo. Two words were never exchanged between them. But growing up as a shorty, you idolize certain niggas in the game, and Wink idolized J-Bo. He wanted everything he had, starting with the fire engine red Porsche he’d just hit the block in. When J-Bo hit the block, everything stopped so that niggas and bitches could give him his props. But that’s not only why J-Bo came down Charest every day. He came to personally collect his ends from all the workers. That way, it would never be a discrepancy on the strength of the money touching too many hands.
It was evident who was supplying the work. Now all Wink had to do was figure out a way to cut into ole J-Bo.
“Wayne, you comin’ to eat?” asked Hope as she stepped out onto the front porch.
“I’ll be in later,” said Wink. His mom was the only one who called him by his real name.
“You out here watching these bums sell that shit. I know one thing. If ya ass thinking about trying to join them, you won’t be living under this damn roof,” snapped Hope.
“Ma...”
“Don’t Ma me. If you ain’t goin’ to school, ya ass need to find a job until you figure out what you doin’ with ya life.” Hope had no idea that her one and only son had already figured out what he’d major in: selling crack. And there was nothing she could say or do to stop him.
Wink had blocked his mother’s bitchin’ out. His idol was barking orders, and niggas were listening. J-Bo climbed back in his new Porsche and started its turbo engine. He shifted the gears, peeling away from the curb. Wink’s head followed the red blur down the street until J-Bo made a right on Emory.
I gotta get in the game, thought Wink. He could see himself pushing a Porsche of his own, with diamond rings on each finger, on his way down to Belle Isle to show it all off.
“You hear me talkin’ to you, Wayne?” Hope said as she slapped the back of Wink’s head.
“Ah, what?”
“I said to get in the house. These niggas aren’t looking right. I can tell something’s about to happen, and I’m not catching somebody else’s bullet.”
“I’m okay, Ma. I’m seventeen. I can handle myself.”
“Wayne, I said to get in the house. I don’t want to see anything happen to you.” Hope held the door open as Wink reluctantly got up.
He knew his mom didn’t mean any harm. She loved him to death and would do anything for him. But Wink was set on being the next big thing to come out of Detroit since Cadillac, and crack was going to get him there.
Chapter One
Trey pulled up in his mom’s new Honda Civic, blasting EPMD’s “Strictly Business.” He hit the horn twice, then jumped out, leaving the car running. Wink turned in his seat on the sofa and pulled back the blinds. He stood up and met Trey at the front door.
“What up, doe,” said Trey, extending his hand for a pound. His high yellow face was pulled back into a smile, obviously happy about something.
“Chillin’. Fuck you smilin’ so hard for, and why you all dressed up?” asked Wink as he walked back into the living room and took a seat on the sofa.
“Don’t tell me you forgot,” said Trey as he patted his flat top in the mirror mounted above the fireplace.
“Today’s the senior picnic. I thought I told you,” he said, turning to face Wink.
“You probably did. But I’m not going.”
“Why not? Do you know how many chicks is gon’ be on the Rock, all ready to do whatever?”
“That shit ain’t going nowhere. It’s all gon’ be there.”
“What’s up with you lately? First you cut your fade off, now you talkin’ ’bout it’s gon’ be there. What’s gon’ be there?”
Wink lifted a magazine from the coffee table, revealing ten dime rocks packaged in plastic packs.
“You’re still on that shit?” asked Trey as to say he wasn’t impressed. “Where’d you get that from?”
“That’s not important. What’s important is that it’s going to make us rich.”
“Wink, what do you know about what you holding? It’s more to it than what you think.”
“You’re right, and that’s why I’m gon’ learn all there is to know. This right here is just an experiment to get our feet wet.”
“You keep saying we like I agreed to this. Tell me this, where you plan on sellin’ that shit at?”
“Right here. We’re from this block.”
“And you think J-Bo’s gon’ go for that?”
Wink smiled. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” That was his whole plan. He hoped J-Bo would say something to him about being on the block. He would use that conversation when it took place as his means to cut into J-Bo.
“I wish you’d leave that shit alone and come to the picnic with me.”
“Then what? When we get back, then what?”
“What you mean?”
“What are we gonna do for the rest of the summer, ride around faking? Going to the same clubs, breakdancin’? Trey, we ain’t kids no more. It’s time to get this money, and this is the best thing going,” said Wink as he raised one of the crack packs up like it was gold.
“So, you’re not going to the picnic?”
“Fuck that picnic. If you had any sense, you’d say fuck it too and put your money with mine’s and get on.”
“I’m straight.”
There was a pound at the front door. Wink covered the rocks with the magazine, then stood up. Before he could get the door, Krazy walked right in with Willie on his heels.
“What I tell you about walkin’ in my crib like that, huh?” asked Wink.
“I ain’t try’na hear that shit. What’s up? Y’all niggas ready to hit the rock?” asked Krazy, walking around Wink.
You could look in Krazy’s eyes and see where he got his nickname. He tried to live up to his name every chance he got. He was always down for everything.
“Why you not dressed, Wink?” asked Willie.
“He says he’s not going,” informed Trey.
“What? Why not?” asked Willie.
“He wants to be the next Butch Jones,” Trey said, hitting up on the magazine.
“Now, this what we ’pose to be doing,” said Krazy. He picked up one of the rocks. He was all too familiar with the sky-blue clear pack. He had found a thousand empty ones just like it lying around his house. His moms was strung out on crack.
“Not you too,” said Trey.
“You know how much money these niggas is out there making? All the other crews gettin’ money except us. We the only ones still runnin’ around doing the same shit we was doing last summer,” said Wink.
“You ain’t gotta tell me, my nigga. I already know the business,” said Krazy.
“Can we kick it about this later after we come from the picnic?” asked Trey.
“Y’all go ’head. I gotta take care of something,” said Wink.
“Yo, Wink, I’m with you, my nigga. Make sure you put me down,” said Krazy.
“Me too,” said Willie, always one to follow along. There were leaders and followers. Willie belonged to the latter group.
“What about you?” Wink asked Trey.
“I’ma see what’s up,” Trey said, not wanting to seem soft in front of the crew.
Wink walked them to the door and gave them all pounds. “Tomorrow, come through and we gon’ chop it up on how we gon’ get this money.”
“Stay up, my nigga,” they all said.
Wink watched as they piled into Trey’s mom’s Civic and peeled off. He hoped Trey would eventually come around once he saw how easy it was to make the money. Trey was his best friend, and Wink wanted him by his side, making money too. They were both spoiled rotten by their moms. Only difference was Wink had more heart. He was willing to try his hand at new things, while Trey just wanted to continue being spoiled and ride around flossing in his mom’s car.
But Wink felt it was time to grow up and start holding they own nuts. So, in order to get them up and running, he’d have to be the one to show his crew the ropes. The only problem was he had to learn the game himself.
Wink looked across the street at Ms. Bowers’ house. All her grandkids were drug dealers out there pumpin’ for J-Bo, and in return, J-Bo would hit Ms. Bowers off with a cut of the money made. Her crib sat in the center of the block, directly across the street from Wink’s house. Ms. Bowers’ crib was the central office of all the drug activities. Her grandchildren would stand in the driveway, making sales as customers pulled up. They stashed their dope sacks on the sides of houses in empty potato chip bags or under any other garbage, so if the raid team pulled up, nobody would be found with drugs in their possession.
Wink was catching on quick. It was time to test his hand at pitching. He went inside the house to grab the ten dime rocks he’d bought from Ms. Bowers’ grandson, Cedd, the night before. Wink was trying to buy some weight, but nobody would sell him any. They knew he was green to the game, so Cedd made him pay like he owed the game. He charged Wink one hundred dollars for ten dime rocks, no deal, no nothin’. Straight up dollar for dollar. Wink couldn’t argue because he didn’t even know what type of deal he wanted, and all he had was a little over a hundred dollars to his name. For real, Wink didn’t care about making a profit. He just wanted the experience of being out there on the block, pitching. The money would come later, he told himself.
Hope, Wink’s mom, was at work and would be until midnight, so he had all day to scratch the block. He locked up the house and started down the stairs. Crackheads were pulling up on the block left and right, copping and going. Cedd and his brother, Small-man, had the block on lock. Cedd would line the cars up like it was a fast food joint. He’d wave each car forward, taking the money first, then hand signaling Small-man their order. They had the shit moving like an assembly line out that mothafucka.