by Dorian Sykes
Wink definitely couldn’t argue with her on that. She was most worthy of whatever it took to be in her presence. Wink would have walked through Hell wearing gasoline drawers if Armeeah was there waiting on him.
“Enough about me. Tell me about you, Wink. What’s your real name?”
“When I tell you, you’ve gotta promise to never call me by my name. It’s Wayne.”
“That’s not a bad name. But I’ll call you Wink if I must. Tell me about your family. Are you close to your parents?”
Wink dropped his eyes to his plate. Mixed emotions ran through him as he thought about his mom and dad. “I’m the only child, and my parents are separated.”
“So, who did you grow up living with?”
“My mom. But we’re not really talking right now.”
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“Nah, not for real. Ask me something else.”
“Okay. What do you do for a living?”
“You don’t look like the judgmental type, so I’ma be honest with you. I hustle.”
“You mean, like, drugs?”
“I guess if that’s what you wanna call ’em.”
“I understand you’ve got to survive. I have uncles who sell drugs. It’s not right, but I understand.”
That was like music to Wink’s ears. Could she be any more perfect? The hustla in him wanted to ask her where her uncles were at and what type of drugs they dealt with, but Wink didn’t want Armeeah knowing that’s all he thought about.
“I don’t know, maybe one day we can help each other figure out what it is we want,” said Wink. He stared deep into Armeeah’s eyes and watched her smile.
“I’d like that,” she said.
They finished having lunch, and Wink walked her out to her car. Her parents may have been strict, but they kept her laced and pushin’ in a brand-new Audi 5000. Their whole thing was, if they spoiled Armeeah and her sisters, then they wouldn’t have to worry about them seeking these things from men. But Armeeah was seeking something else that they wouldn’t dare let her have in a million years: a bad boy.
“I gotta watch out. You’re ridin’ harder than me. You sure you’re not the one hustlin’?” Wink said.
“No, silly.” She laughed.
“I really enjoyed your company. When can I see you again?”
“I have to work the next five days, and I have school right after. Next weekend, maybe.”
“I tell you what. Call me sometime during the week, and we’ll have dinner at your school.” Wink handed Armeeah his house number he had scribbled onto a napkin.
“I will call you,” Armeeah said softly. “And thank you for lunch, Wink.”
“You’re welcome.” Wink opened her door and watched her get in. He wanted so bad to kiss her pretty, full lips, but it was too soon for a girl like her, with her Muslim upbringing and all. Wink didn’t want to come on too strong and scare her off. He watched as she pulled away. She honked her horn with a smile and waved goodbye.
Wink thought to himself, I gotta cuff her. He walked over to his Caddy and climbed behind the wheel. His thoughts quickly flashed back to his father and their plan. It was time to get back to business.
Chapter Thirty-one
With Fatts dead, there was a lot of street-level hustlas scrambling around the city in search of some coke. There was plenty of coke in Detroit. Other niggas had connects and were making moves, but they did what any other hustla with some brains would do—they all lied and said that they were getting on through Fatts, and the little work that they did have was the last of the last. Them faggot niggas knew exactly what they were doing. They were all in it together. It was always like that. The hustlas shared certain information to keep control of the street economy. The rich vs. the poor, so to speak.
Everybody knew Fatts was rumored to be that nigga, so it made their stories believable. And most importantly, it caused everyone to scream, “Drought!” When there’s a drought, the price of pussy goes up drastically. It’s like you’re hustling out of town, making money hand over fist. In this case, pussy was coke, and the major players were lookin’ to rape the city with the coke they were sitting on.
Wink put his ear to the street, and as soon as he heard that there was a drought, he pulled those sixty bricks out. His father’s plan was about to come together. He called good money, play by play. Gunz helped found the shady tactics of the game, so he knew them niggas would cry drought. But that’s when Wink would make his intro into the big leagues and start rubbing elbows with the niggas who really ran the city, the street hustlas Wink was about to take over in a major way, and not a soul saw him coming.
Gunz told Wink that niggas would be thirsty to find some work, anything that they could get their hands on. Thus, they would be more willing to deal with him, or anybody else, for that matter, who had some work. They just needed the work so they could supply their customers.
Gunz gave Wink the game play-by-play on the visit. “Here’s what you do. After you kill Fatts and take whatever bricks he’s sitting on, wait a week or so until the city starts hollering it’s a drought. That’s when you come out with the bricks you took off Fatts. It’s going to be the best coke in town, so they’re comin’. Don’t try to step on the coke, not even a little. Sell ’em the bricks as is. Once they see how good our coke is and that you have it, they’ll become loyal customers. While all those other fools are wondering why they can’t off their shit, you’ll be stealing their clientele right from under them. Just remember this, son, and you’ll be all right. Forget about the glory and just get the money.”
Those words stuck with Wink, and he would remember them until his death. He did exactly what his dad told him to. He didn’t take or try to add anything to the plan, and as a result, he was seeing the results. The first thing Wink did was set up a shield around himself. Like his father said, forget about the glory. It was about money. Wink paid this African cab driver two thousand dollars to act like he was this drug lord from Nigeria. The plan was, Wink would introduce and turn on niggas to Offy, the African, for a fee. He’d tell them that he had a connect with the primo who was charging twenty-two thousand a brick, even though it was a drought. Like his father said, niggas would be thirsty, so their judgment would be off. They’d jump at the sound of coke. All the while, Wink would really be the man, the connect, but he’d also be able to protect his identity, which was the important thing. Niggas can’t rob, kidnap, or snitch on what they can’t see. Wink was to be a ghost.
* * *
The inside of Timbo’s after-hour was packed to the hilt with hoes, and of course, you had the tricks. For every ho, there were ten tricks impatiently waiting their turn to perform whatever freaky fantasy they had yet to live out. Cars wrapped around Gratiot Ave. down to Harper and back as people hoped a parking spot would open, while some struck side deals right there on the strip.
Wink parked down the street at the Better Made Potato Chip Factory. He knew that if there was anyplace full of hustlas on a Friday night going into Saturday morning, it was Timbo’s. He had been in there a couple times with his crew, but they felt out of place because they weren’t getting any money at the time, and a piece of pussy cost a month’s allowance.
Wink laughed at the memory as he climbed the steps up to the entrance. In a couple weeks, he’d have enough money to buy Timbo’s and open up ten more locations if he wanted. It was funny how the game worked. One day, you were at the bottom, not knowing where your next meal was coming from; the next, you were sitting so high you were next to God, having a conversation.
Wink paid the twenty-dollar door fee and let the bouncer frisk him. He stepped down to the basement where all the lap dances and bargaining went down. All the fucking took place upstairs in the rented rooms, which would cost a trick another twenty dollars, plus the cost of pussy, head, and any other weird shit he wanted done. You’d be surprised at what some of those suppose-to-be hard niggas were up there doing. A lot of them were borderline faggots for real,
up there getting they ass tickled with chicks’ tongues, and some even went so far as to let women strap a dildo on and fuck them in their ass. Long as they were spending, any fantasy could come to life up in Timbo’s.
Wink wasn’t there for that, though. He was strictly business. He scanned the dimly lit basement for any familiar faces. He spotted his money-gettin’ nigga, JC, from the west side, over near the speakers. He was all leaned up against some ho, all in her ear, probably trying to hook it up for later.
Wink didn’t know the nigga per se. He just knew of JC because his name was ringing in the city. He supposedly had the west side in a chokehold on the coke. The nigga was only a few years older than Wink, but he was already pushing Benzes with an S on the end. He had mad jewels, but most importantly, he had that dust, which was all Wink wanted.
The skank JC had been rapping to walked away, leaving JC alone. Wink saw his opening and quickly walked over to JC. He was downing the last of his drink when Wink pulled up.
“JC, you mind if I holla at you a minute?”
“Who you?” JC looked Wink up and down like, Nigga, I don’t know you.
“They call me Ghost. I want to holla at you ’bout some business.”
“I ain’t never heard of you, so what business do we have?” JC looked sternly into Wink’s eyes.
“I know you don’t know me, and that’s cool. But I think that after I tell you my reason for hollering at you, you’ll want to know me.”
“I’m listening.” JC raised his finger to the ho waiting for him on the steps. He was telling her to wait a minute.
“As you know, it’s a drought right now, and niggas is charging an arm and two legs for some work.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. I got some ass lined up, feel me?”
“What if I told you I had a connect on some primo right now, and the price is the same as if it weren’t a drought?”
“I’d say you’re lying.”
“Well, I’m not. I can plug you in with my man, and y’all can go from there. He’s got whatever you need.”
“If I ain’t know no better, I’d say you’re try’na set me up.”
“Look, here’s my pager number. If you try’na get on, holla at me. If not, you be easy.” Wink handed JC a piece of paper with his name, Ghost, written beside his number.
As he walked away, JC stopped him. Wink turned around, and JC being thirsty, said, “I’ma hit you up in the morning.”
Wink nodded, then kept it moving. He walked over to the bar and ordered a double shot of Hennessy. He sipped his drink and waited for JC to descend the stairs with baby girl. Then he moved in on this north end nigga named Gucci. They called him Gucci because that was all he rocked from head to toe, every day all day. He was a little black bugger-lookin’ mothafucka, so his ass had to stay fresh to give people something to focus on besides his face.
Wink slid up on Gucci real playa-like and disarmed him with a compliment on his Gucci loafers.
“You like these?” Gucci asked, looking down at his white loafers.
“Yeah, I just snatched them today. I see you in step. I got a couple pair like ’em.”
Gucci returned the compliment on Wink’s Gucci sneakers.
“By the way, they call me Ghost.”
“Gucci. What can I do for you, young blood?” Gucci was touching forty and looked every day of it, but he’d live every day like he was twenty-five.
“I think that I’m the one who can do something for you, and at a playa’s price.”
“Money, my favorite language. Talk to me.”
“I got a connect right now who’s lettin’ ’em go for twenty-two even. Primo.”
“In this weather? It’s drought season.”
“Not for him, it ain’t. The nigga got it.”
“What’s his name?”
“We’ll get to that. But if you try’na get on, it’ll have to be through me. He’s an African from Nigeria, and he wants me to turn him onto some serious niggas.”
“I’ma fuck with you on the strength ’cause I like ya style. But youngin’, I deal pawns up. I don’t want no B.S. about mine’s. We clear?”
“That’s what I don’t do, play games. Here. Hit me when you’re ready and have twenty-two racks for every bird you want.” Wink handed Gucci his number, then pushed on.
He caught Squirt on his way upstairs. Squirt was off the east side. He ran the Mack Ave. with his brothers. There had to be at least ten of them niggas, but Squirt was the oldest and was the man. He had two yellow-bone skanks tailing him upstairs for their duck-off session.
“Squirt, let me holla at you,” said Wink. He was one of the few niggas Wink actually knew personally and not just on some I heard about you shit.
Squirt turned around and squinted down the dark steps.
“It’s me, Wink.”
“Oh, what’s good, my nigga? You down here on the same mission I’m on, huh?” Squirt pulled back a wide smile and nodded at the two hoes lingering at his side.
“Nah, I’m on B.I. Let me put something in ya ear real quick. Excuse us, ladies,” Wink put his arm around Squirt’s neck and walked him upstairs.
“What’s up?” asked Squirt.
“Have you been able to find any work in the city?”
“Yeah, but that shit is garbino. Niggas taxing like shit.”
“Well, look. You always played it fair with me, so I’ma look out for you. I got a connect, and he’s not taxing. The work is A-one, too.”
“Shit, where he at? I’m try’na see him right now. What he chargin’?”
“Twenty-two a brick. I’ma plug you in with him so y’all can deal. Just throw yo’ man a few dollars for pluggin’ you.”
“I got you. When can I meet him?”
“Tomorrow! Here. This my number. Hit me in the a.m. and I got you.” Wink tapped Squirt on his back, then walked out the front door of Timbo’s. He had secured three meetings with some major playas. That was enough for the night. He had a nigga on each side of town who he could supply work to. It was all part of his dad’s plan, for Wink to spread his wings across the city. When he plugged him in with the real connect, he’d be able to handle the work, ’cause it was coming by the truckload. The sixty kilos were to serve as a means of Wink hooking up with niggas like JC, Gucci, and Squirt. He could supply them until Gunz put his other plan together.
Chapter Thirty-two
Wink paced the floor of Broadway’s men clothing store while constantly checking his pager. “How much longer?” he asked Nate.
“About ten more minutes,” said Nate. He was kneeling down, hemming the African cab driver’s pants. Offy was smiling from ear to ear. He hadn’t ever bought or worn a suit like the one Wink was putting him in. The suit alone cost twelve hundred dollars, and the loafers ran four hundred. Everything was on schedule and looking good. Wink wanted Offy looking like money when he met with JC, Gucci, and Squirt. Offy kept smiling.
“Stop smilin’,” ordered Wink. The shit was starting to drive him crazy. “You remember everything?” he asked.
Offy nodded. “Yes.” He fit the make of a Nigerian drug lord. His accent was thick, his black eyes were still and uncomfortable. He just had to stop fuckin’ smiling, and everything should be good.
“Where the fuck is Willie?” Wink mumbled to himself. Willie was supposed to serve as Offy’s runner, the nigga who would deliver the coke and pick up the money.
Just as Wink started to curse his pager for not beeping, Willie walked through the door. The bell underneath the front door jingled, causing Wink to look up.
“Where’s Trey?”
“He just got on a plane. That’s what took me so long, ’cause I had to drop him off,” said Willie.
“A plane to where?”
“Back down to Texas, I guess. That’s all he’s been talkin’ about is hookin’ up with them Mexican mothafuckas.”
Wink was furious. Trey hadn’t said a word to him about going out of town, especially not to go see about no work
. In a minute, they were going to have all the coke they needed.
“What he call his self doing, hookin’ up with them amigos?”
“Wink, I don’t know. You know how Trey is.”
Yeah, I do, thought Wink. He’s hardheaded and stupid at times. How the fuck he gon’ hop on a plane all by himself to go meet up with some Mexicans in the middle of the desert? Stupid mothafucka.
“Did he take some money with him?”
Willie nodded.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they robbed his dumb ass,” Wink said.
Good, Wink thought. That fool doesn’t know what he’s buying no way. Them amigos fuck around and sell him some straight gank.
Wink was fucked up that Trey would just bounce like that. He was out there putting in all that work, lining things up, but Trey obviously wanted his own connect and wanted to call his own shots. Wink smiled at the thought, ’cause he knew Trey wasn’t built like that. Even if he did come back with some work, all was gon’ happen was some gorilla was gon’ slap him and take it or might not pay his ass.
“I think that I’m about finished,” said Nate. He stood up, and his old bones cracked from being bent over for so long. “Step down and let me take a look at you,” he told Offy.
“Take that stupid smile off ya face,” said Wink.
“This mothafucka always smilin’,” Wink told Willie.
Nate fixed the suit jacket on Offy’s shoulders, then buttoned him up. “That’s it. You’re in there, my man.”
“Good, ’cause we’re runnin’ late. How much I owe you, Nate?” Wink pulled out a bankroll and followed Nate around to the register.
“That’ll be sixteen hundred dollars with no tax.”
Wink paid for the suit and shoes, then rushed Offy and Willie out the store. “Follow us over to the Pontchartrain Hotel on Jefferson,” Wink told Willie. He and Offy climbed in his El Dogg.
“Just remember everything I told you, and don’t try adding anything.” Wink looked over at Offy as he nodded. “And whatever you do, don’t smile.”