by Dorian Sykes
Chapter Twelve
Almost two months had passed since Wink copped his first double-up from Fat Mike. Since then, he had been to see Fat Mike twice a week and was now copping two times the amount as before. Wink wasn’t being greedy. He was going hard ’cause Krazy’s lawyer was demanding more money to file motions. Money to go out and visit Krazy, money for gas, and money to scratch his ass—the shit was getting out of control, but there was no way Wink was going to stop paying and leave Krazy on ice.
Trey and Willie were over on the east side, going just as hard, and J-Bo was starting to get suspicious. He couldn’t figure out why, all of a sudden, the money from both spots was coming in so slow. He’d count behind them when he’d re-up, but the money and crack was always on point. But J-Bo, being in the game as long as he had, knew some shit had to be in the game, especially when he saw no change in traffic at the spots. He got a rental car and watched the spot on Linwood for a couple of days to see if the same custos were coming through, and they were. Even some new ones were showing up.
J-Bo would bend a few corners and watch the passing cars. Maybe somebody’s out there callin’ themselves short-stoppin’, he thought, as he drove around the hood only to see no one out there except little kids shooting basketball on a crate nailed to the phone pole. The shit was irking the hell out of J-Bo. Losing money meant losing weight, sleep, and respect on the streets, and he wasn’t accustomed to it.
J-Bo circled the block and spotted Rayfield. He was walking down Linwood, carrying two bags of bottles and cans over his shoulder. J-Bo grew up with Rayfield. They played PAL football together and went to the same schools. They used to be friends back in the day, but after high school, J-Bo started hustling, while Rayfield started experimenting with drugs. He finally found his drug of choice when crack hit the city. Who’d have ever thought J-Bo would be the one supplying it to him? But life was funny like that.
J-Bo pulled alongside the curb and rolled down his window. “Rayfield!” he yelled.
Rayfield was in a trance. He had one thing on his mind, and that was cashing in his bottles and getting himself a nice fat dime rock to get off. Then it was off to downtown to see what and who he could swindle.
J-Bo honked his horn, breaking Rayfield from his early morning mission. He turned and squinted with unfamiliarity in his eyes. The crack had really taken its toll on ole Rayfield.
“It’s me, Gerald,” said J-Bo.
Rayfield pulled back a smile, exposing his yellow, smoke-stained teeth. “I didn’t know who you was,” Rayfield said, crossing the short lawn.
“Put those in the trunk. You going up to Hank’s, right?” J-Bo asked.
He put the bottles in the trunk. “Yeah, gotta cash these bottles in.” Rayfield climbed in the passenger seat, out of breath and reeking something awful.
J-Bo rolled down all the windows, then pulled away from the curb with his head leaned as close to the window as possible.
“I see you’re out here still doing your thang. That’s good, man,” Rayfield said, smiling.
“I would ask you when you gon’ clean yo’self up, but that’s none of my business. I wanted to holla at you ’cause I need you to do somethin’.”
“Anything. What’s up?”
J-Bo rode past the spot, then asked, “You been coppin’ at my spot lately?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Notice anything funny going on?”
“Just the size of them damn rocks. They’re small as hell, but that’s always been your M.O.” Rayfield laughed.
“What about the crack? Is it always the same high?”
“It’s never the same. But then it could just be me. You know I been chasing that first high since ’85.”
J-Bo dug in his pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “Look, I want you to go up and get ten rocks out of my spot. I’ma let you keep them, but I just want to see them first.”
Rayfield’s eyes lit up like he’d just won the Powerball on the Super Lotto. J-Bo handed the bill to him and circled the block, then parked on the corner.
“That’s all you want me to do?” asked Rayfield.
“Yeah. I’ma be right here, waitin’ on you. And Ray, don’t make me have to chase you. I’ma give you all the rocks,” said J-Bo.
Rayfield pulled the door handle. “I got you, baby.”
J-Bo watched as Rayfield’s head got small. He knew Rayfield like the back of his hand. Everybody knew about Rayfield and how scandalous he was. He was known for pulling capers on people’s shit and then would have the nerve to show his face in the hood a couple days later. After a while, people got tired of chasing him, and instead, they put the word out there. His grimy ways had earned him a name in the city. People from all over Detroit would be saying, “Don’t make me pull a Rayfield move on yo’ ass.”
J-Bo relaxed at the sight of Rayfield heading back for the car. Good, he thought. He really didn’t feel like a foot chase through the hood. Rayfield climbed in the car and poured the ten dime rocks into J-Bo’s palm.
“You sure you just got these from my spot?” J-Bo asked, looking up from his hand.
“Yeah, that’s what the li’l nigga gave me.”
J-Bo handed Rayfield the rocks after looking them over once more. He pulled away from the curb and drove over to Hank’s liquor store. J-Bo popped the trunk for Rayfield to get his bottles.
“A’ight, good lookin’ out, Bo.” Rayfield climbed out the car.
J-Bo was furious and had every intention of going around to the spot and putting hands on Wink for insulting his intelligence. But J-Bo was never one to act out of emotion, because he believed an emotional man was a weak man. Half of the rocks Rayfield showed J-Bo were his. The other five he had not a clue where they came from. He could tell that they weren’t his because they weren’t in the sky blue 20-20 packs he used. They were in sandwich bags.
“Where the fuck is his li’l ass gettin’ on from?” J-Bo asked himself aloud.
He bent the corner of Andover and saw Fat Mike standing outside in front of his spot. Fat Mike flagged him to pull over to the curb.
“What’s up, big boy?” J-Bo asked.
Fat Mike sank into the passenger seat of the Dynasty. His 380 pounds caused the car to sink. “When you gon’ be ready for me? I’m ’bout out around here,” said Fat Mike.
Fat Mike was one of the few niggas J-Bo sold weight to. The rest of them niggas he made work for him, or otherwise they wouldn’t get any money.
“You flyin’ through that shit, ain’t you? It usually takes you two weeks to dump a half brick,” said J-Bo.
“Yeah, but I got this li’l nigga coppin’ from me. He be spending two G’s every couple of days. And the thing about it is, he’s buying all rocks. Stupid mothafucka.” Fat Mike laughed at the thought of him getting over so well. He had started referring to Wink as his “sweet thang.”
“What the nigga look like?” asked J-Bo.
“I’m not tellin’ you so you can try an’ steal him from me. That’s my sweet thang.”
“Nah, I’ve got a good feelin’ you’re talkin’ about my li’l worker, Wink. He’s pushin’ some side shit outta my spot, and I just wanted to know where it was coming from.”
“That’s crazy. Every time I run across something sweet, shit don’t never last long. Yeah, that’s his li’l ass.” Fat Mike couldn’t lie to J-Bo because that would be like biting the hand that was feeding him. “Damn!” he yelled, then slapped the dashboard.
“You know what they say. You gotta get it while the gettin’ is good.”
“So, what? You gon’ give the li’l nigga the pumpkin head for disrespecting?”
“I started to, but nah. I want to show his li’l ass what he’s doing is elementary and that school is in. It’s time I teach him one last good lesson before he graduates.” J-Bo was doing what he did best, cooking up a master plan.
Fat Mike looked over and saw that spaced-out, sinister look in J-Bo’s eyes. “I been knowing you for too long, Bo. What�
��s that look in your eyes?”
“I need yo’ help on baking his cake,” J-Bo said. He snapped out of his trance with a well thought out plan.
“I’m listening.”
“You say he be coppin’ like two G’s every time he re-ups, right?”
“Yeah.”
“A’ight, well, what I want you to do is tell ’im you got a sweet deal for him, but that you can’t sit on it. Tell ’im you’ll give ’im twenty ounces for ten grand.”
“Then what? You want me to rob him?”
“Oh, we gon’ definitely do that., but with no gun,” J-Bo said. He knew just about how much money Wink had cuffed on him, which was about ten thousand, give or take. It was ten thousand he was soon to part with.
J-Bo let Fat Mike out and went to put the finishing touches on his cake bake. There was no way he was going to let Wink get over, let alone think he was getting over.
Chapter Thirteen
J-Bo was a master when it came to masking his emotions. He could smile in your face while he was plotting on blowing your brains out. It was no different with Wink. J-Bo played it cool as a fan, acting as if he knew nothing. His complaints about the spot slowing down ceased. He attributed the loss of money to the narcos being out, running down custos as they left from the spot. He told Wink that he’d run into a few custos at Hank’s, and they said they stopped coming because they were scared they’d be arrested. He assured Wink that the spot would pick back up and not to worry about it.
This was all, of course, to make Wink feel laxe in what he was doing. He was relieved to know J-Bo hadn’t suspected any shady dealings on his part. They both smiled in each other’s faces during pickups and dropoffs. Wink would be cheesin’ right along with J-Bo all the way until he left; then it was back to business.
Wink had another phone line put in the spot so that Krazy could call home collect. J-Bo’s petty, penny-pinching ass had already shot down the idea of Krazy calling the spot’s phone because he didn’t want to be stuck with no high-ass bill. Wink held it down, though. Krazy would call every hour on the hour, worrying the hell out of Wink about his court date and what they might do to him if he lost at trial. They had the same conversation at least fifty times. They’d start out talking about back in the day, remember this, and do you remember that? Then Krazy would go silent. He was beginning to feel like that was what was left on his life, nothing but old memories. He knew if he lost at trial, them honkies were going to roof his black ass.
Wink was sitting on the edge of his sofa seat, leaning forward while counting out the re-up money for Fat Mike. He held the phone to his ear with his shoulder. “Go ahead. I’m listening,” he told Krazy.
“My nigga, these crackers is try’na give me forever and a day,” said Krazy.
“How many times do I have to tell you stop stressin’? You gon’ be straight.” Wink tried to assure his friend. He was steady counting out the re-up money and putting it in stacks of a thousand.
“That’s easy for you to say. Y’all out there free as a mothafucka, living it up while I’m in here on ice.”
“Who’s living it up? ’Cause we sure in the hell ain’t. Every time you call this phone, my nigga, I’m right here going hard, try’na get this money up for your lawyer. And Willie and Trey on the east side doing the same thing. We done blew the whole summer fuckin’ with this shit, but it’s cool, ’cause you our nigga, and we got love for you.”
“I know, my nigga. It’s just good to hear sometimes. These crackers got me ’bout to worry a patch in my head,” Krazy said, leaning against the phone with his head down. He was sick that he got jammed up, and of all places, in a small town like Davenport.
The food was garbage. All the guards were locals who had heard about the incident, and some them even personally knew Mandy and Robert. Krazy was real leery of them tobacco-chewing honkies. He didn’t know what they might try and pull.
“Just don’t leave me in here, Wink.”
“We got you. You just gotta ride it out, and hopefully yo’ mouthpiece can get your bond reduced. But until then, fall back and bust ya head.”
“You got jokes, huh?” smiled Krazy.
“Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with you. Damn, yo’ phone beeping. It’s about to hang up?”
“’Bout another minute.”
“A’ight, I wanna ask you one question before you go. What were you thinking about bringing the Donnie Brosco?”
“After that demo happened with you up at Hank’s, I told myself not again. Never would we be caught slippin’ again, and I meant that.”
The phone went dead before Krazy could finish saying what he was saying, but Wink got the message. He figured it was something like that. Krazy was always putting his neck on the chopping block for his crew.
Wink smiled as he recalled the time Krazy took one for the team. Back when they were in middle school, all the other crews were showing up to school in stolen cars. The girls would all pile in and go on a joy ride. Wink never wanted his crew to seem lame or behind, so he paid this junkie Zap to steal him a car.
Wink pulled alongside Trey, Krazy, and Willie one morning in the stolen Toyota as they walked to school. The day played itself back as if it were just yesterday. They all climbed into the stoly and took turns joy-riding through the hood.
It was Krazy’s turn, and he wanted to ride up to Pershing High so they could floss on some of the older chicks. Krazy pulled up in the Amoco gas station across from Pershing and parked like all the other niggas who were either skipping school or up there to pick up some chicks. He was leaning out the window, trying to get the attention of a pack of thick young girls when the narcos pulled into the rear of the station. All the other cars started pulling off, but Krazy was still shooting his shot at the girls. He hadn’t seen the narcs until it was too late.
Krazy locked eyes with Officer Thrashter, who was riding shotgun in the cranberry Crown Victorian. “Oh, shit,” said Krazy. He tried to play it cool, but the car stopped, and all four doors opened.
“Get out of the car now!” yelled Thrashter as he and his three partners slowly approached the Toyota.
Willie said from the back seat, “Pull off.”
He didn’t have to tell Krazy twice. It was right up his alley anyway. Krazy slapped the car down into drive and peeled away from the pump. The four officers dived out of the way and quickly climbed into their patrol car. Within minutes, they were on the Toyota’s ass. The little six-cylinder Krazy was pushing wasn’t measuring up to the souped-up 5.0 under the Crown Victoria’s hood. It was like a mouse trying to outrun a cat. It just wasn’t happening.
Krazy took them on a chase, though. He flew down residential streets at speeds of eighty miles per hour, trying to shake the narcs, but they were riding on their bumper. Willie and Trey were holding on for dear life in the back seat, while Wink rode shotgun, with his eyes bugging out of his head. All their hearts were beating a million miles an hour.
Krazy wasn’t scared, though, even knowing there was no way out. Krazy figured there wasn’t any sense in all of them going down. He made a screeching right down Fenlon Street and looked in the rearview at Trey and Willie.
“This what I want y’all to do,” he said. “When I stop, all y’all jump out and run.”
“What about you?” asked Wink.
“Don’t worry about me. Just get ready.” Krazy cut the wheel and slammed on the brakes, making the car do a half donut so that his door was facing the narcs. “Go!” yelled Krazy.
Wink, Trey, and Willie all got out and ran, while Krazy stayed to block them in. The narcs jumped out and snatched Krazy out of the window and beat the brakes off him. Wink looked back over his shoulder at Krazy as the cops continued to put hands and feet on him. Wink wanted to go back and try to help Krazy, but he realized what Krazy had done. He took one for the team.
Krazy spent two months down at the juvey center and came on home. Wink wished it was that simple with this case, but he knew it wasn’t.
“One for the
team,” Wink said as he gathered up the money off the coffee table. He looked at the alarm clock beside him. It was almost one o’clock. Almost time to meet Fat Mike. He told Wink that he had a partner who’d give him a sweet deal, twenty ounces of hard for ten grand. Wink had been stacking the odds for a week, and he finally had the money up. With twenty ounces, he could afford to pay for Krazy’s lawyer and have something put away for his bond.
Wink put all the money in a brown paper bag, then stuffed the bag into his drawers. He pulled his hoodie over his pants and patted the bag for safekeeping. He locked the spot up and took the raggedy back staircase down to the backyard. He jumped the back fence into the alley and walked down to Fat Mike’s spot on the next street over.
Wink scanned the block as he knocked on the door. Fat Mike snatched the battered door open and moved aside, letting Wink in.
“Wink, my man. What’s up, hustla?” asked Fat Mike as he put the two crossboards back on the door.
Wink eyed the man seated on the sofa. “I’m good, but yo, who this?” Wink hadn’t taken his eyes off the high yellow man.
“This my man, Tony Long Loot, one of the richest niggas to come off the west side.” Fat Mike put his hand on Wink’s shoulder.
“Yeah. Well, y’all got that ready or what?” Wink wasn’t for all the small talk. He was trying to get what he came for so he could be on his way.
Tony Long Loot stood up and mashed the Newport he’d been smoking into the glass ashtray on the ancient coffee table. “I got what you need. Did you bring the money?” Tony asked, giving Wink his back.
“I got it near,” Wink said, following Tony into the kitchen.
Tony opened one of the cabinets above the stove. He pulled down a box of Frosted Flakes cereal, then carried it over to the kitchen table. Tony poured twenty individually wrapped ounces onto the table and waved his hand. “It’s all here.”
Wink picked up one of the cookie-size pieces and inspected it.
“Money,” said Tony.