by Jason Poole
I also began to slack in my efforts in looking out for Mal-Mal because at times, he would page me and it would take me a few days just to get back to him. Whenever he needed something like video games or toys, I was the one who got it for him. The only thing about it was I was too busy to spend time with him. My world was moving too fast, and I couldn’t see what was to come next.
In July 1988, I stopped hustling Love Boat and moved onto a more profitable drug called crack cocaine. At the time, crack in D.C. was at its all-time high. The demand for it was ridiculous.
I was copping from my boys Ek-Dre and Li’l James. These two brothers was getting it, and they both had a good reputation all over. Dre was a smooth nigga who loved to dress. He had all kinds of Polo, MCM, and Gucci shit. James was the hard one, more like the leader among his crew. They were some good niggas and was getting some major paper on the hill.
I was getting half a brick at that time, breaking it down in half ounces and ounces. I had runners up Glassmanor, Galveston Place, Wayne Place, Parkland, Fourth Street, Condon Terrace, and a few lames from Alexandria, Virginia.
I traded my Maxima in and bought a 1988 Nissan Turbo 300ZX with cream-colored leather, and I put some white deep-dish classic rims on it. My car was one of the tightest joints in the city, at least on the southeast side, ’cause them uptown niggas and them niggas on R Street Northeast was pushing 500EL Benzes and Convertible BMWs and shit. The type of bank I was getting was considered play money to them, because the niggas from around Bilal’s way was super getting it. The Orleans Mob had 944 Porsches, convertible Jags, 300CEs, Range Rovers, the new Acura Legend and anything that cost more than fifty thousand.
On the Fourth of July, Mal-Mal paged me and I called him back.
“Hello,” Gloria said, answering the phone.
“Yeah, Gloria, how you doing? This Jovan. Is Mal-Mal in there?” I said to her.
“Oh, hi, Jovan. Yeah, his li’l bad ass here. You coming to get him?”
“Naw, not right now, but I promised him I’d buy him some fireworks for tonight, and I’ma come pass and drop them off and come back later and light ’em with him.”
“That’s good, ’cause I gotta work tonight, and Cookie said she was gonna be here, but I ain’t seen her ass yet,” Gloria said, then she yelled, “Mal-Mal!”
“What?” Mal-Mal said.
“Boy, don’t what me,” Aunt Gloria said to him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Get your butt in here. Somebody on the phone for you.”
“Who is it?” Mal-Mal asked.
“Answer the phone and find out.”
Mal-Mal came running to the phone and said, “Hello.”
“Mal-Mal, what’s up, youngin’?” I said to him.
“Hey, Uncle Jay. What’s up, man? I thought you was gonna bring me some fireworks and light ’em with me tonight.”
“I’m still gonna do that, Mal-Mal. I’m on my way over there to drop the fireworks off to you.”
“You gonna stay, Uncle Jay?”
“For a little while. Then I gotta go do somethin’, but I’ma come back and light ’em up with you, though.”
“A’ight, Uncle Jay.”
“Okay, young soldier.”
As I was driving to Twelfth and Wyle Northeast to go see Mal-Mal, I got a page from this little freak broad out in Bowie, Maryland that I was staying with at the time. I didn’t call her back right away, though.
When I pulled up onto Wyle Street, Mal-Mal came running out of the house.
“Uncle Jay, Uncle Jay,” Mal-Mal said, running up to my car.
“What’s up, youngin’?”
“Man, Uncle Jay, this your car?”
“Yeah, that’s my joint.”
“Man, this joint is tight! I bet it’s fast, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s fast.”
One of Mal-Mal’s little buddies came running outta Gloria’s house. He was there to see the fireworks. Mal-Mal was always bragging about his Uncle Jay so much that his buddies would be just as happy as he was to see me pull up, but this particular kid was a little too grown. He always felt he was in competition with Mal-Mal, so when he noticed that Mal-Mal was fascinated by my car, he felt the need to say something just to make him mad.
“Hey, Mal-Mal, that joint ain’t all that. My uncle got a Benz, and his joint is way tighter than that!” his friend said.
“Shut up, punk, ’fore I bust your nose again! That’s why you ain’t playing wit’ my fireworks,” Mal-Mal said to his friend.
“So? I don’t care.”
“Me either, punk.”
That shit was funny, seeing two youngin’s ready to wreck. If I wasn’t in such a hurry, I would have taken both of ’em around back and let ’em fight. I was almost certain Mal-Mal would whip his ass, because Mal-Mal was eleven years old now and big as a house. He was also bad as fuck.
I kept getting pages from that broad out in Bowie, Maryland. This bitch was blowing my shit up with 911-911-911-911. She used to page me so much when I was out with other bitches that I ignored it when she put in 911 because most of the time, she’d just be trying to find out if I was with another bitch or not. Damn, she was getting on my nerves, but at the present time, I needed her. She had a nice apartment in Bowie, which was twenty minutes away from the city, and she had a nice job working for the Department of Labor, so I needed her credit.
She was the one who co-signed for the 300ZX, and when I got my bank right, she was gonna sign for a Mercedes 300CE for me. Plus, she was a stone freak in bed. She loved sucking my dick, and I loved it too. One thing about her I didn’t like was that she was a Bamma-ass broad. She talked loud, she couldn’t dress, and she wore cheap shit. Even when I’d try and buy her some fly shit, she still looked fucked up in it. She couldn’t even rock it right. To add to all this, she had a two-year-old daughter by some punk-ass nigga that used to beat her ass.
As I looked down at my pager while Mal-Mal was still arguing with his buddy, I figured I’d use Gloria’s phone to call her back. As soon as I entered through the front door, I could tell that Gloria was in a rush. She was running back and forth from the bathroom to the living room, as if she was in a hurry to go somewhere. She was fixing her hair and ironing her clothes at the same time.
“Hey, Gloria, can I use your phone real quick?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Ring, ring, ring.
“Hello,” a female voice said.
“Why the fuck are you blowing my pager up like that?” I said with an immediate attitude.
“Jovan, somebody broke into the apartment!” the female on the other end of the phone yelled hysterically.
“What?” I asked, not sure I had heard her correctly.
“They came in through the balcony.”
“Is there anything missing?”
“I dunno! The furniture is all ripped up, the TV is broken. It doesn’t look like they were trying to steal shit. It looks more like they vandalized the place. Jovan, I’m going to call the police,” she said.
“No! Hell no! Don’t call the police. I’m on my way,” I said quickly.
“Jovan, please hurry up. I’m scared.”
When I hung up the phone, Gloria could see that I was mad as hell.
“Is everything all right?” she asked me.
“Yeah, I’m cool. Look, I gotta go right now. I got something to do.”
“All right, Jovan. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” I said, walking out the door.
When I came outta Gloria’s house and walked toward my car, Mal-Mal came running down the street.
“Hey, Uncle Jay, where you going? I thought you were gonna stay and light the fireworks with me.”
“I’ll be back, Mal-Mal. Right now I’ve got something to do.”
“Can I go with you?” he asked me.
“Naw, man, this is important; but I’ll be back,” I told him.
“Hurry back, Uncle Jay, ’cause it’s almost dar
k now.”
“Okay, youngin’.”
As I pulled away from Wyle Street, I saw Ms. Cookie walking toward Gloria’s house. She was walking real fast. I rolled down the window and said, “Hey, Ms. Cookie.”
“Oh, hi, baby. Where you going?” Ms. Cookie asked.
“I’ve gotta go do something. Look, I brought Mal-Mal some fireworks, and I don’t know if I’ma make it back in time to light ’em up with him. If I don’t get back in time, can you do it?” I said to Ms. Cookie.
“Yeah, baby, I’ll do that. I’m on my way to Gloria’s anyway.”
“Okay then, Ms. Cookie. See you later.”
“Jovan, hold up for a minute.”
“What’s up?”
“Baby, you got ten dollars so I can get Mal-Mal something to eat from the carryout?” Ms. Cookie said.
“Yeah, hold up,” I said, reaching into my back pocket where I kept a knot of ones and peeled off twenty dollars. I knew if I gave Ms. Cookie only ten, she’d just go cop a dime of blow, but with twenty she could get Mal-Mal something from the carryout and do whatever with the rest.
As I got on the highway to Bowie, all I could think about was my money. I had fifty thousand dollars over this bitch’s house. My mind was racing. Who the fuck did this? I never brought anybody over there, and when I came home, I’d circle the parking lot a couple of times before I got out. I was always cautious not to put my bank in any danger. The more I thought about it, the madder I got and the harder my foot pressed on the gas.
As I turned off the highway onto the ramp, I reached under my seat and pulled out my black Beretta 9 mm. I always kept my pistol with me, especially when I was in Southeast, cause on that south side niggas ain’t have no picks; they were always trying to kidnap and rob anybody who was getting some money.
Although the city was in an uproar around this time, I never had to use my Beretta. No one had given me a reason to. No one violated me like that dope fiend did back in ’85, but tonight I felt violated, and whoever did this surely deserved two to the head. I’d killed before, and I would certainly kill again.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I didn’t circle the block. I felt there was no need for my routine. I jumped out of my car holding my Beretta, hoping and wishing that the perpetrators were still around, Damn, all I could think about was my fifty thousand dollars. That was all I had: fifty thousand and my car. With that fifty thousand, I was going to cop two bricks and flip them over so this bitch and me could go to the nearest Benz dealer to cop my 300CE.
When I opened the door to the apartment, I saw that the place was a complete mess, and I knew my fifty thousand was gone. I ran toward the bedroom where I kept my money.
“Dee-Dee! Dee-Dee! I’m here. You a’ight?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. They just fucked my house up,” Dee-Dee said.
When I went into the bedroom to check the vent where my money was, I saw that it was busted open. I knew my shit wasn’t there, but I still reached my hands in to make sure. As I took my hands out of the vent, my whole fucking world was crushed, and I instantly developed a supreme hatred for all cruddy niggas in the game. From this point on, I was going to make it my business to find out all the niggas in the city known for robbing and kidnapping. I was also going to make it my business to know where they hung out and who was down with their crew.
Around 8:15 p.m., I got a page, and when I looked at it and saw that it was Mal-Mal, I remembered I had promised him I would light the fireworks with him. Even though I was fucked up and my money was gone, I still had to keep my loyalty to Bilal. I promised him that I’d take care of Mal-Mal, so I figured I’d go light the fireworks and sit over Gloria’s for a minute and get my thoughts together. I didn’t call Mal-Mal back. I figured I’d just pull up and surprise him.
“Dee-Dee,” I said.
“What?” she said in a snappy way.
“Here’s fifty dollars. Take a taxi over to your grandmother’s house,” I said.
“For what? Where you goin’?” she asked.
“I’ve got something to do.”
“Jovan, how the fuck you just gonna leave after something like this?” Dee-Dee asked.
“Just do what the fuck I said! Damn, your ass is always trippin’ and getting on my fuckin’ nerves!” I said.
“Well, if I get on your nerves that bad, you can just move the fuck on and don’t ever come back!” Dee-Dee yelled.
That was all I needed to hear. My fifty thousand was gone, the apartment had gotten broken into, and my 300CE was nowhere in the near future. I realized I didn’t need this naggin’-ass bitch no more. After all, I was only eighteen and she was talking about settling down. Shit, I hadn’t even begun to live my own life yet. Plus, I was broke again, and I had to get back out there and grind on the corner. The last thing a nigga who was trying to get his grind on needed was a broad who didn’t understand. So, I did what any nigga in my position would do: I packed my shit and left.
As I walked out the door, Dee-Dee called me a million no-good-ass mu’fuckas. “You ain’t shit, Jovan. You too weak to have a strong woman like me! Fuck you, nigga. I hope you have bad luck all your life, you no-good, dirty bitch!”
As I got into my car and pulled off, I had a smile on my face. Although I was mad about my fifty thousand, I was happy as hell to get Dee-Dee outta my life.
On my way to see Mal-Mal, all I could do was think about how I was going to get back on. For one, I didn’t want anybody to know that my bank had gotten taken. Also, I didn’t want to get fronted nothin’. I liked to pay for my own shit. I wondered if I would have to sell my car and jewelry, because if I did, then niggas would put it out in the street that I was broke. Shit, I didn’t know what to do. I needed some time to sit back and think.
As I pulled up onto Twelfth Street, I saw a bunch of flashing lights and a lot of people standing around. Some were crying, and others were just being nosey. The crowd was so thick that I couldn’t make my turn onto Wyle Street, so I got out of my car and walked up the street. It was obvious something was wrong. When I hit the corner, all I saw were fire engines and ambulances. Aunt Gloria’s house was going up in a blaze of flames. I was determined to know what had happened.
I saw Ms. Cookie on the ground, crying her heart out, screaming, “My baby, my baby!”
Instantly, I knew Mal-Mal was in that fire. Man, what the fuck had happened?
“What happened, Ms. Cookie? Ms. Cookie, what happened?” I said as my heart pounded inside my chest.
No one could hold me back. I was mad—mad at the world, mad at Ms. Cookie, and mad at myself.
Later, I found out that Ms. Cookie never went back to Gloria’s when I gave her the twenty dollars. She went around Orleans Place to cop her some blow, and Gloria had to go to work and left Mal-Mal and his cousin, Gwenee, at home by themselves.
Mal-Mal wasn’t but eleven years old, and Gwenee was only twelve. Anybody in their right mind would know you can’t leave an eleven- and twelve-year-old home by themselves with a bunch of fireworks on the Fourth of July.
When the fire marshals finally put out the fire, they went into the house to investigate what had happened and to see if anyone was alive in there. Ms. Cookie was still crying, trying to pry her way through the police and firemen, but they held her back with all their strength.
“Get the fuck off me! My baby’s in there! Oh my God, Mal-Mal! My baby, my baby! Please, God, not my baby!” Ms. Cookie screamed.
That’s all I could hear was Ms. Cookie screaming. As for myself, I just stood in the middle of Wyle Street with no expression on my face. I had no feeling in my body. I don’t even remember if I was thinking or not. I was in a complete daze, and my whole system had shut down.
The first body they brought out was Gwenee. The fire marshal had her in his arms, and her body was limp. She didn’t have any burn marks on her or anything, so she must have died from smoke inhalation. Li’l Gwenee was Gloria’s only child, and when Gloria arrived on the scene and saw the fireman holding her
dead child in his arms, she went off.
“Give me my child! Give me my child!” she screamed, fighting with the police and fire marshal who were trying to hold her back. She cried in pain for her child, and then her cry became angry blame.
“Cookie, what the fuck did you do to my baby? What the fuck did you do?” She fell to the ground, scratching and kicking the police, screaming, “Get the fuck off me!”
The fire marshal then brought Mal-Mal out. The only way that I knew it was him was from the new Jordans he had on, because I had gotten them for him last week. His body was burned from head to toe. I was so fucked up at what I saw that all I could do was fall to my knees right there in the middle of the street and cry the loudest pain that I ever felt in my life.
Ms. Cookie fell unconscious and had to be hospitalized for a few days. All I could think about was Bilal and how he would take it.
I paid for Mal-Mal’s funeral and wake because I had a little money from the niggas who still owed me in the street. I sold my 300ZX but kept my Rolex, and I had about twenty thousand to work with after the funeral and everything.
After we buried Mal-Mal, Ms. Cookie went into rehab, and I continued trying to get some money. I always felt in my heart that my life was indebted to Bilal for taking my murder rap, and I also felt somehow responsible for Mal-Mal’s death. If I had only been there to help light those fireworks, Mal-Mal would never have tried to do it himself.
Sonya
“Okay now, Mr. Lawyer, tell me where you’re from,” I said.
Jovan started smiling, and for a minute I thought he was blushing.
“Well, I grew up all over Southeast. When I was young we used to live in the Farms.”
“You mean Barry Farms?”
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
“That’s a rough neighborhood, isn’t it?” I said.
“Yeah, it’s rough, but it was cool coming up, because that’s where I learned how to fight, how to pick and choose real friends, how to survive and peep the game. It’s also where I learned how to express certain talents.”