by Leo Sullivan
act. I couldn’t help but smile, maybe showing him a little too
much gum and teeth, enjoying the attention of being noticed by
such a handsome man.
“So what can I do for you Mr. Coffee?” I asked, remembering
his cliché–the best things in life are free. I hadn’t been with a man
in almost a year. His words held a special meaning to me. I held
my son like he was contaminated, trying not to let him put his
sticky little fingers on my $180 dollar blouse as my eyes quickly
roamed the car looking for the candy apple he had earlier.
“Just stopped by to check on you. Hey lil man,” he said, r uf-
fling my son’s hair. I could smell his cologne, it was a beautiful fra-
grance that seeped inside of me like his imperturbable masculini-
ty. Damn he smelled good.
“I just thought I’d make good use of your tax dollars by com-
ing back to check on you and your son, besides, you never called
me.”
I looked up at him with his handsome face carved out in the
majestic clouds as birds flew overhead, chirping chimes of sum-
mer’s reign. “You know what Officer Coffee, I refuse to answer
that under the grounds that it may incriminate me.”
He chuckled a good one at that. What he did not know was
that I already called the number in the pretense of a booty call,
and the number that he gave me was an answering service, not his
home, which meant that policeman was a playa or else he would
have given me his home phone number. My girl Nandi taught me
that a long time ago when we were in school.
“So how are things going?” Officer Coffee asked. We both
knew what he was talking about–Marcus.
“I’m taking it one day at a time. Boy! If you don’t put that dirt
down, I’ma knock you into tomorra. Come here!” I yelled at
Junior. All the ghetto came out a sista. You know a bad-ass kid can
do that to you. “Excuse me.” I blushed and apologized to Officer
Coffee for my language.
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“So, are you two going to get back together? If not, I’d like to
ask you out.” The brotha squeezed a bunch of words into one sen-
tence catching me off guard. I pondered the thought, as I watched
my son meander over to the damn dirt pile again. I stared up at
Mr. Coffee absent-mindedly and felt the bright sun on my cheeks.
“It’s going to take time,” I responded melancholically, hearing
the slight tremble in my voice that usually gives rise to my emo-
tions. Officer Coffee brought something to the surface in me that
I had been trying to run from. I wanted to forget the day that my
marriage went bad. In some ways I think that it traumatized me,
the way that it does a lot of women.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said, deciding to make no secret about
my attraction to him. “If I decide to play the dating game, you’ll
be the first on my list.” Boldly, I tiptoed, kissed him on his lips
and rubbed my body against his. Estrogen and testosterone polli-
nated the air. We had cerebral intercourse. My body just seemed
to gravitate toward the man. I pulled myself away from him,
walked over and snatched my little rugrat out of the dirt and took
off walking like I stole some love. Actually, I was a little embar-
rassed by my antics. I turned and peered over my shoulder once I
reached my door. Mr. Coffee was wearing my red lipstick. I could-
n’t help but giggle. “You need to get a real phone number. That
answering service is a sure giveaway that you’re a playa.” Mr.
Coffee’s jaw dropped realizing that I had indeed called him. My
son waved bye as I closed the door.
*****
For the first time in my life, I was going to have to be an inde-
pendent single parent. I could not lose sight of my dreams and
aspirations. I didn’t just want to be a lawyer, I wanted to be a
damn good lawyer and help my people as best as I could. They
gave my baby brother life for a few rocks of cocaine, and white
men were stealing billions from corporate America, shutting down
entire cities and never went to prison. In my hear t I knew this was
not right.
Eventually Marcus won a court order granting him weekend
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visits with his son. Can you believe I was still in love with that
man? In fact, I was tempted to seduce him, just out of spite. To be
truthful, it’s a woman’s dream to turn a gay man straight, espe-
cially if he just happens to be your husband. But in my heart, I
knew that Marcus would always be damaged goods. I would never
be able to forget the sight of Stan backing his anaconda out of my
husband’s ass. Disgusting! In some ways we were now strangers. I
held the darkest secret within me–Marcus Jr. wasn’t his child. In
my mind I reasoned that’s why I had to forgive him. We both
cheated and now must suffer the consequences. I could never ask
him for a divorce. For me that would be the testament to the fail-
ure of something I held ver y dear to me, the precious virtue of
marriage. So often, I just blamed myself then got lost in my work
and school.
*****
On May 28, I graduated from law school. Two months later,
I passed the bar exam with one of the highest scores in the state.
However, months later I was still unable to find employment. I
sent my resume to hundreds of employers. One day when I arrived
home there was a message on my answering machine. The United
States Attorney’s office for the district of Tallahassee, Florida want-
ed me to come in for a job interview. As desperate as I was, there
was no way in hell I was going to work for them. Especially after
what they did to my brother, and not to mention their so-called
war on drugs, which was actually a war on Black males. Lately
there had been a lot of DWB charges–driving while Black. For a
Black woman, me anyway, it would feel like treason to help
imprison young Black men. As it was, America was already spend-
ing more money on sending Black men to prison than the entire
educational budget. My sole purpose of becoming a lawyer was to
get Black men out of prison, not keep them in. I decided to call
Nandi to chat with her about this latest event.
“Girlllll, you’ve got to be out your cotton pickin’ mind!”
Nandi screeched. In order to learn the enemy and how to defeat
them you must first learn their tactics. Not only will it give you
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valuable knowledge but will give you an advantage like being
behind the enemy lines of their scrofulous ways, teaching you
their strategic tactics,” Nandi exhorted, and went on to regale me
with one of her stories. This one was about the true story of
General Hannibal and how he journeyed all the way from Africa
through the Caucasoid mountains of Europe. He had over one
hundred thousand soldiers and elephants and they went through
the treacherous rough terrain and tempest weather. They encoun-
tered tribes of barbaric caveme
n, better known as Neanderthal. By
the time they reached Rome a year later, he lost over half his of his
forces. Wear y and fatigued, with for ty thousand soldiers, a Black
man conquered Rome, defeating its million-army military.
Hannibal is known as the greatest stratagem of all time. He ruled
Rome for many years. How was he defeated? He made the mistake
of allowing a Roman to join his army. The Roman befriended
Hannibal, learning of all his brilliant war tactics and defected back
to the other side and defeated Hannibal in battle.
“Hope, you can learn a lot from your enemy. White folks have
been doing that to us for years. Stealing our genius and using it
against us.”
I hung up the phone in a daze. Nandi was right. She knew one
of my life-long desires was to get my brother out of prison, and
one day file a class action suit against the government. I wasn’t
anti-government, but I was anti-discrimination, anti-racism, anti-
oppressive and anti-genocide. So if the government was that, then
I was against it and any act that violated human rights against
human life, Black or white.
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Chapter T
en
Chapter T
en
“A Bird in the Hand”
– Life –
I shoved Trina in the room shutting the door, as I spun around
realizing my blunder. She had her hand in her purse. I forgot all
about the small derringer .38 two shot pistol that she carried.
“Nigga, let’s get one thing straight! Don’t you ever, ever, place
your damn hands on me out in public.” She took a step forward,
and continued, “Yeah, a bitch was wrong for stealin’ your shit, but
I knew you would never trust me with your money.” She then
reached into one of the shopping bags, took out not one, but two
bricks of cocaine and placed them on the table. As if reading my
mind she answered, “I bought them from my cousin in Brooklyn
for ten grand apiece. He gave me one for eight after I promised
that I would come back and get more. I stood there rigid. I never
had a bird in my entire life, much less two of them. Trina saun-
tered up to me real close and poured a heavy dose of herself all
over me as her hand caressed my private part then unzipped my
fly as she eased inside my pants. “Papi … I would never betray
you … Never!” Vaguely I could hear what she said as my mind did
figures, weight, dollars. There are thirty-six ounces in a kilo of
dope. Two times thirty-six is seventy-two. Each ounce goes for
about a grand in Tallahassee. My face broke into a shit-eating grin.
Trina removed her hand and looked at me strangely, sensing where
my mind was, knowing it wasn’t on sex.
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“Let me cook it for ya,” she offered. “I can make one hundred
thousand off each bird.”
I looked at her like she was crazy. “You must be going to make
up some fake dope -Dreams.”
“No, no Papi. If you whip the dope just right, cook it slow and
use just enough baking soda and water you can make three ounces
out of one. My daddy taught me that. All the old heads in
Brooklyn have been doing that for years. The trick is to cut dime
rocks out of each ounce, that way you get more money, three
grand instead of the one.” I was listening to this Brooklyn chick
talk and I was sucking up game like a sponge. She continued, “By
selling dime rocks you keep the federalies off your ass. They’re
only looking for weight. Ain’t no longevity in the dope game, stick
and move. Get out within a year.”
*****
I sat back and watched her as she attempted to make her
magic. I had to see this shit to believe it. In all, she was going to
take two birds and make six. I had already decided if she fucked
up this dope I was going to kill her. Her face was fixed in heavy
concentration. Cooking cocaine was an art, like a delicate trade,
and it involved a special skill. Like a chef, every cook has his own
technique, as well as formula. That day, I was learning that Trina
was a pro at cooking dope. From a glance, you would think that
she was fixing dinner.
“So how did you meet Nina Brown?” I asked. Trina turned
and looked at me with cocaine in a pot of hot water. Then there
was a knock on the door. A knock that only a hustler and his girl
can describe. Scared the hell out of both of us. Quickly, I grabbed
my gun. As I walked to the door looking out the peephole, Trina
gave me that look that asked,
what should I do?
Someone had their
finger or something over the hole blocking my vision. Police? I
turned to Trina and mouthed for her to put the yae away. She
scrambled around trying to hide all of the drug paraphernalia. I
dashed to the curtain and looked out. “Godamnmuthafuckin-
sonofabitch!” I saw Blazack standing outside the door with his fin-
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ger over the damn peephole. With him was a posse of niggas from
Miami’s notorious set, the Oplica Triangle. “It’s cool,” I said to
Trina over my shoulder. To my surprise, she was packing dope in
her panties. I walked out of the door into the sweltering heat.
Blazack and I ain’t never been close. It wasn’t nothing personal. It
was just his demeanor, cool and aloof. Looking at all of them I had
to smile. They all looked haggard and wary, like unemployed hus-
tlers. I knew the feeling.
In the crew with Blazack were Dirty, Gucci, Mad Ball and
Twine. All of us at one time or another hustled together, either in
Sarasota, my stomping ground, or theirs in Miami. Basically we
were tight, but it dawned on me, they could be here to kill me.
The last time we were all together like this was at a strip club down
in Miami called The Rollez. Coming out of the club, the police
took a combined $98,000 from us and we couldn’t say shit.
Charge it to the game and they label us crooks.
“What the fuck you doin wit dat?” Blazack asked, pointing to
the gun at my side. “We ain’t drive all this way for you to be
stuntin’ wit your gun, wearing that Sunday School suit. What, you
preachin’ now too?” he joked, showing a grill full of platinum and
diamonds worth enough money to buy poor folks a home. His
hair was uncombed and nappy, however he wore it like the urban
trend. Short and stocky, with broad shoulders the size of large
watermelons, Blazack was a diminutive tank of a man. The kind
of man that never accepted defeat under any kind of circum-
stances. He possessed the uncanny ability to display human kind-
ness. And like all leaders, he could be very persuasive when need
be. Mar vin Johnson, a.k.a. Blazack, was a cold-blooded killer, at
least by metro’s Dade police department standards. He was
rumored to have taken part in at least twenty gangland slayings of
rival drug dealers and was currently the number one suspect in a
double homicide of his baby’s mother and her boyfriend over a
&
nbsp; dispute over custody of the child. The only evidence the police
could find was spattered blood, no sign of a struggle, no bodies,
no witnesses. That was Blazack’s MO. Currently, Blazack’s moth-
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er had custody of his three year old child.
“If I was comin’ for you, you wouldn’t know it until you was
all wet up,” Blazack said, continuing to berate me as he pulled up
the towel in his hands showing me the eighteen inch double bar-
rel shotgun pointed at my nuts. They all erupted in laughter at the
dumb expression on my face as I stepped to the side, moving my
balls out of the line of fire if he happened to shoot.
Dirty was the first to greet me. He was the baby of the crew,
18 years old, and had a heart as big as the Atlantic Ocean. He still
had that youthful smile of innocence that the ghetto had not yet
stolen from him. Next was Gucci, a fat boy. He loved to dress and
eat. He was the kind of man that looked good in his clothes and
ladies found him attractive. His loyalty was priceless. He once
took seven shots from the police using his body as a barricade on
the door during a bust, just so that the rest of the crew could get
away. We did. The doctors later said the only thing that saved his
life was the fact that he was overweight. Next was Mad Ball and
Twine. They fam for real. The last time we were together, they
were in the back seat asleep while I drove ten hours in the wrong
direction trying to find a town called Stone Mountain, Georgia.
When they awoke that morning to find out I was lost, we argued
the entire trip. We exchanged dap. Twine grinned at me and asked,
“Nigga you find Stone Mountain yet?” We erupted in laughter at
our own personal joke. Blazack quickly seized the conversation.
He wanted to talk about the snitch Dre’ and then he added, “I got
somethin’ I want t’show ya in the van.”
“Van?” I repeated. “I sent you money to catch a plane,” I said
as I followed them to the parking lot to a brand new customized
black Chevy van.
“I had a change of plans at the last moment,” Blazack said to
me as he opened the back door to the van. The doors were the