“Stephanie, it’s just business, a’ight! Stop being so fuckin’ jealous.”
“Then stop makin’ me so jealous. I want you and only you, Cash.”
He smiled. He had the bitch going fanatic over him. He continuously played with her heart and emotions. He wasn’t in love with her and would never be in love with her. She was just a convenience in his life for the moment. Stephanie smiled like the world was made of gold. She loved spending every minute of her life with him.
***
“Yo, turn left right here,” Petey Jay said from the passenger seat.
Darrell made the turn. Manny and Cash were in the backseat, passing a blunt back and forth. They were riding around Queens, moving through a ritzy area called Jamaica Estates. They were in a stolen Dodge, cruising the streets looking for a particular car to steal—a Honda Accord or Civic in mint condition, if not, then a Toyota Camry. It was a still night. An hour after midnight.
Everyone was quiet, smoking and keeping an eye out for police.
They drove deeper into the posh neighborhood. It was a good distance away from their Brooklyn home. The residents were asleep. The houses were dark, luxury cars lined the driveways and the streets. It was the perfect opportunity—get in and get out. See Perez, get paid, and enjoy the remainder of their night with some bitches.
Cash took a pull from the burning blunt and handed it forward to Darrell. Darrell took the weed with his right hand while steering with his left. He looked like a pro at getting high and driving. He took a strong pull and drove smoothly.
The weed was taking its effect on Cash. It was some potent shit straight out of Colorado with a high strain. He was ready to steal this car and hit the strip club afterwards and get his groove on. Smoking always made him horny or hungry. He was both tonight. Riding around in the backseat, he grabbed his crotch and thought about some pussy.
Out of nowhere, Petey Jay said, “So what’s up wit’ you and Pearla?”
“We just chillin’,” Cash responded.
“Yeah, I seen y’all two gettin’ all comfortable wit’ each other at the block party,” Manny said.
“I know, right. You fucked her yet?” Petey Jay asked.
Cash laughed. He never lied on his dick. “Nah, we ain’t fuck yet.”
“What! It’s almost been a week and you ain’t fuck that bitch yet?” Darrell chimed.
“I got a lot goin’ on.”
“Well, I’m gonna need that two hundred soon. You know I like makin’ that money,” Petey Jay said, a smile plastered on his face.
Cash ignored his friend, thinking about Pearla for a quick second and then erasing her from his thoughts. “It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.”
“Well, let that bitch sing then,” Petey Jay quipped.
His friends laughed.
Five minutes later, the crew rolled up on a 2013 Honda Civic. It was white, looked like it came fresh off the car lot, and it was calling Cash’s name, saying to him, “Come get me.”
“There we go,” Cash said, his eyes on the vehicle.
Darrell stopped next to the vehicle. Cash and Manny jumped out, ready to put in work. Darrell and Petey Jay remained nearby in the idling car, ready for their niggas to go to work.
Cash looked inside the car, and the factory issued alarm, which is located under the dashboard was on—just as he figured it would be. He had the slim jim in his hand and quickly broke into the car. The alarm sounded, and he dipped inside and quickly disabled the siren.
Manny was watching out. He was keeping his cool, waiting to get it over with. There was no telling who that alarm had woken up. “C’mon, Cash, hurry the fuck up,” he said.
“Yo, give me a few seconds,” Cash replied. He was dismantling the dashboard and hot-wiring the Civic, which was taking him longer than usual.
Petey Jay and Darrell remained in the idling car, swiveling their heads left to right, keeping a keen eye out for approaching vehicles or unwanted company in the area. Underneath the driver’s seat was a loaded .45. It had never been fired. It was for protection, just in case things got heated. They were car thieves, not drug dealers or enforcers, but in their line of work, things could go from good to bad in a split second.
The Civic’s engine roared to life all of a sudden, and Cash hollered, “There we go!”
“Damn! ’Bout fuckin’ time,” Manny exclaimed. “You slippin’, Cash.”
“Nigga, I never slip.”
Manny ran around the Civic and jumped into the passenger seat. Darrell sped away, and Cash was right behind him. He had one hand on the steering wheel and the other playing with the radio. The radio had been left on some oldie, but goodie station and Cash needed to listen to his rap tunes.
“Yo, don’t get us locked up tonight,” Manny said.
“Nigga, you in great hands,” Cash replied. “You know I need to listen to my station.”
Hot 97 started to blare inside the car. Cash nodded to a Wale and Rick Ross song and said, “There we go, son. This my joint right here.”
“Just drive, nigga.”
Cash simply smiled at him.
The crew pulled up to Perez’s chop shop on Liberty Avenue. It was nestled furtively in an industrial area with mechanic and body shops flooding every block.
Darrell parked near the shop, while Cash rode up to the garage and called Perez, letting him know they were outside and waiting. They didn’t want to linger in the area with a stolen car. It was dark, but it was a risky area, especially with the headlights shining against the gate.
Within seconds, the rolling garage gate started to lift up, and Cash drove the Civic inside. He and Manny stepped out of the car.
Perez walked toward them with a deadpan gaze. This was his place, his home. He was six feet, two inches tall and weighed 180 pounds. He was a slim man with strawberry blond hair that was neatly parted on the side. It was hard to tell his age and his background—Spanish, Italian, Cuban. He spoke multiple languages, had tan skin and satanic tattoos running up and down his arms, and he smoked cigars regularly. He had a knack for business and had been running chop shops for over ten years. It was rumored around the hood that he had strong mob and cartel connections.
“See? We got it for you, Perez. Easy as one, two, three,” Cash spoke, nodding to the 2013 Honda Civic.
“You boys always do good work for me,” Perez said.
Cash smiled.
Perez stared at the Civic. His facial expression indicated that he approved of it. There were no damages to the vehicle, and the parts alone would be gold. The chop shop stayed busy 24/7. A half-dozen men were dismantling stolen cars. It wasn’t a huge warehouse with rows of expensive sports cars and teams of mechanics sending sparks flying as they worked like in the movies. It was quite messy and standard.
Perez turned to Cash and said, “I’m gonna need three more of these in four days, plus a Chevy and a Dodge. You think you can handle that?”
“Perez, we got this under control,” Cash said. “This is what we do.”
Perez nodded. He handed Cash an envelope filled with cash. There was $2,500 inside.
Cash took the money and was ready to go out and steal more cars. He wanted to impress the man. He admired and respected Perez. The man knew his shit when it came to running a chop shop and making tons of money off stolen cars. His workers could dismantle a car into its components in as little as one or two hours. Dismantling the car could be extremely profitable, since the price of an entire car’s worth of replacement parts is usually much higher than the resale value of the car. The profit margin increases for older model years, since legitimately salvaged parts become more difficult to find as the cars become harder to find.
Perez and his mechanics would remove personal items and license plates from the car and destroy them. Next, they would unbolt the front end of the car from the frame in one piece, which included the fender
and the hood. They then would cut out the windshield and unbolt the doors and seat. Using an acetylene torch, they would cut the roof supports at the front, and then cut through the floor under the steering wheel. The dash section was especially valuable for the airbags.
If they didn’t dismantle a car, then they would sell it to a foreign country. In underdeveloped countries, there were often fewer rules and less enforcement of laws pertaining to plates and title paperwork, so the car would be less likely to be noticed.
Perez also got creative when it came to dealing with the VINs. He would completely replace the VIN on a stolen car so that the car could be sold intact. He would purchase cars at salvage auctions that had been destroyed in accidents or fires. He wanted the vehicles mostly for their VINs. Once they had the car and its VIN, they would steal a car of the same year, make, and model. Then they would be able to switch the VIN plates on the two cars and claim that they’d repaired a totaled car.
Perez was like the master chef in a five-star restaurant. If he needed more cars within several days, Cash was ready to deliver. He needed the money.
Cash and Manny walked out of the chop shop with $2,500 to split between four people. They climbed inside the vehicle Petey Jay and Darrell were waiting in.
“Everything good?” Petey Jay asked.
“Yeah, everything’s copasetic,” Cash replied.
Before they drove away, Cash removed their payment from the envelope, quickly counted it, and then started to divide it between his crew. In total, they received $625 apiece. Cash looked at the bills in his hand, and truth, it wasn’t enough for him. Earlier, he’d spent $1,200 on Stephanie. He needed to recoup what he spent. He needed a little more and had the thought about stealing cars by himself to receive the full payout.
The fellows were happy with their split. It was a good night.
“Yo, we goin’ to the strip club?” Manny asked.
“No doubt,” Darrell answered. “I’m ready to be around some pussy.”
Cash didn’t respond. He was quiet, thinking.
“What you thinkin’ about?” Manny asked.
“Nah, it ain’t nothin’,” Cash replied.
“What you need to be thinkin’ about is some pussy tonight. You know Cream is jumping tonight, like every night. And I know you thirsty to get your dick wet,” Darrell said.
“Let’s go then,” Cash said halfheartedly.
The boys headed toward the strip club. Cash strangely thought about Pearla. He wondered why she was coming into his mind, but he quickly erased it from his head and thought about having some fun at Cream.
Ten
Maribel was twenty-one years old and average-looking with dark skin, short hair, and a nice figure. She had an associate degree in business and communications from Brooklyn College, and she wanted to try and get her bachelor’s degree next. The problem was, she couldn’t afford the tuition. School was expensive. Her rent needed to be paid, she was on the verge of being evicted from her apartment, her lights were about to be cut off, and her jobs at Burger King and the clothing store sucked.
But there was a light at the end of her dark tunnel.
“So you gonna pay me to do what?” she asked Pearla with disbelief.
“To marry this Nigerian man and help him get his green card,” Pearla explained to her nice and slow.
Pearla had chosen her easily. She was from the projects, never had anything growing up, parents on hard drugs, no kids, and she wanted a come-up. Maribel was perfect for the hustle. It just took some coaxing for her to join the program.
“So you’re willing to pay me to marry some man I never met before?”
“You get fifty percent, and it’s easy money, Maribel.”
Maribel looked somewhat reluctant. “I don’t know, Pearla. It sounds crazy.”
“It’s not. We have everything set up to work out smoothly.”
“Do I gotta suck his dick and have sex with him?”
“Listen, chances are, you won’t even have to live in the same apartment with him. All we need you to do is go down to City Hall and get married. It’s cash money in your pocket. What you need to do is memorize the questionnaire we’ll give you with his likes and dislikes, remember his birthday, birthplace, and whatnot, and he’ll remember your likes and dislikes, and go to all appointments at immigration.”
Maribel sat across from Pearla in her run-down apartment where the heat barely worked in the winter and air conditioner was always on the fritz in the summer. She looked like she was struggling, clad in her Salvation Army wardrobe, and always exhausted from working two to three dead-end jobs just to make ends meet.
“Is he cute at least?”
“It’s just business, Maribel. You don’t even have to stay married to him. Within two years, file for a divorce. But get your money. He’s willing to pay for a bride. The man is desperate, and he’s caked up, so being married to him can come with perks and benefits. Think about it—What’s two years of your life? You’re twenty-one now. By the time you’re twenty- three, twenty-four, your life will be much easier than it is now.”
Maribel looked deep in thought. It was still something she didn’t want to rush into, but the bills piling up on her rickety coffee table reminded her that she needed to come up with some type of financial solution quickly.
“If you don’t jump on this now, I guarantee someone else will quickly.”
Pearla trusted Maribel. She had known her for a long while. She was an introvert, but she put the other girls she talked to through a grilling interview before anyone was hired. She had to trust each one completely, because they could go to jail.
Pearla wasn’t about to give up on Maribel. She needed to make this money. It looked like an easy hustle to get into, setting up American women with desperate foreigners eager to get their green card and stay in the country. Everyone wanted a piece of the American dream, thinking the streets in America were paved with gold.
“I get fifty percent, huh?” Maribel said.
“Yes, that’s two thousand for now, but there can be more money where that came from. The trick is that we keep milking this guy.”
Maribel looked around her surroundings. She hated to live hand to mouth. She was ready to go back to school. She was ready to make a change in her life. Being poor, and struggling to keep her head above water was a fucked-up feeling. With a strong sigh, she looked at Pearla and said, “I’ll do it.”
Pearla smiled. “You’re making the right decision, Maribel, believe me. Your poverty days will soon be far behind you.”
Maribel hoped her friend was right. She needed something far-reaching to happen.
Pearla sat with Maribel for an hour, and they worked out all the details to make the marriage happen. It was her first match, but Pearla was thinking that there were going to be plenty more. Chica had turned that light on inside of her head, and she was going to run with it.
After talking to Maribel, Pearla walked out the project apartment feeling happy about herself. She strutted toward her car with her cell phone in her hand and with a lot of moves to make. She called her friends and wanted to meet up with them, maybe have dinner at some nice restaurant on her, since she was feeling generous.
But behind her happiness and her sudden generous mood, there was also some frustration that Cash had stopped calling. She’d ignored his call a few days earlier because she was still upset and she needed some time. She wanted him to apologize, but he didn’t. When he’d called her phone, he’d left no voice messages—nothing sincere or remorseful from him since the day of the incident. She wanted to call him, but it would be playing herself. She constantly kept thinking about him and wondered if he was thinking about her too.
Their date was fun, and different. He made her laugh. She felt comfortable around him. But did he have a girlfriend, and did he lie to her? Pearla wasn’t about to become second to any bitch, e
specially one that wasn’t even pretty like her. She wanted to be Cash’s priority, not his alternative. She was willing to bide her time and wait for her next opportunity, if it ever came.
Pearla climbed into her Benz, started the ignition, and sped off, her expensive heels pressing down on the accelerator. She was about her money, and she didn’t have time to dwell on love—love should dwell on her.
***
Pearla stepped out of her mother’s home looking like she was ready to walk down the red carpet at a prestigious event. Everything was on point with her—makeup, hair, nails, and feet. With her clutch gripped in her manicured hand, she walked through the messy living room and said to herself, “I need to get the fuck out this house.”
Living in the projects, the Brooklyn ghetto, she felt like a diamond covered in shit. Soon, she always said to herself. Soon she would be in her own palace and living the way she was born to live.
She stepped outside onto the porch, and there he was waiting for her, propped up against his silver Audi A7, looking like a don posing for a photo shoot. He was wearing a V-neck T-shirt that fit snugly around his muscular physique, tattoos showing on his arms, designer boot-cut jeans, his tan Timberlands looking like they were fresh out the box, and his bald head gleaming. He was swimming in bling—platinum chain with the diamond-encrusted dog pendant hanging around his neck and the diamond pinky ring with matching bracelet.
Seeing Pearla walk out the lobby in her outfit, Hassan smiled, showing his bright, white teeth. Hassan was a drug dealer, moving kilos of cocaine to states like Connecticut, Rhode Island, and Albany in upstate New York. He was half-Jamaican half-Chinese.
For the past two weeks, he and Pearla had been kicking it. Hassan was infatuated with Pearla, but the feeling wasn’t mutual.
They’d met on the street. Hassan was driving by and noticed Pearla getting into her Benz. He quickly threw his Audi in reverse and pulled up beside her passenger window and caught her attention. He was a silver-tongued gentleman, always smiling and polite. He spoke proper—no Ebonics, no pickup lines. He simply said, his voice deep and clear, “Excuse me, beautiful, can I have a minute of your time?”
The House that Hustle Built, Part 1 Page 9