by Leo Sullivan
In the background I heard Tomica suck her teeth, hatin’ on a
nigga. Bitch! I retrieved the chunky iced out chain I took from
Suge Knight’s cockeyed twin back at the hotel. Putting it around
my neck, I walked over to the table and began placing the dope
into Ziplock bags. I would just have to get someone to cut up the
rest later.
“What are you doing?” Trina asked.
“What it look like I’m doing? I’m getting out of this joint.”
Trina and Tomica exchanged glances. Actually what I was really
doing was following the number one code of the game: never shit
at where you got to eat. Meaning, never keep dope where you got
to lay your head. Never!
“Gimme the keys to the car,” I said to Trina. She hesitated
with a look of despair the way a woman does when she wants to
ask a question, but is unsure of her boundaries. She reached into
her purse and gave me the keys. I placed half of the powdered
cocaine that was at the sink into a bag, and left some. I walked to
the door. I could feel their eyes boring through by back.
“Come here,” I turned, talking to Trina. She walked toward
me. If her brown eyes could talk, hers would have plainly begged
me to stay. I spoke a whisper against her ear lobe palming her ass
through the soft material of the dress. “Dig, Shouty, I’ll be back in
a second.”
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“It’s going to take some hours for the stuff to dry,” Trina said
in her attempt to get me to stay. I could hear the somber plea in
the tone of her voice.
“If you like, you can give the rest of the powder on the sink to
your homegirl.”
I bent down and pecked her on the lips. She reached up, las-
soing my neck with her arms and kissed me like I was a soldier
about to go off to war.
“Baby, don’t go. I bought a nice sexy Victoria’s Secret outfit I
wanted to wear for you.” As Trina whispered I looked at Tomica.
She was watching us closely. That reminded me of something. I
peeled Trina’s arms off of me, reached into my pocket removing
the diamond bracelet, and gave it to her. Tomica damn near fell
out of the chair when she saw that.
“Ohmigod! Ohmigod! It’s beauuuutiful!” Trina exclaimed
after she saw the price tag and began to do the two-step like I used
to see women do at my father’s church when they claimed to have
the Holy Ghost. As I walked out of the door, I thought I heard
Tomica call my name.
*****
153
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
“The Jump-Off ”
– Life –
Trina’s Lexus Coupe was nice, real nice. The inside was hand-
somely designed with expensive oak wood and plush butter soft
leather interior. The seats felt like I was riding in the cockpit of a
jet. Yeah, I could tell her daddy was deep in the game. He spoiled
her rotten. I placed the shopping bag of cocaine on the seat next
to me, with Jesus on my lap, my hand resting on it in case there
was any drama, and my mind on my money.
As I drove, the air felt crisp and cool. I was on a mission to
stack some chips. While driving I counted out twenty ounces, my
mind str uggling with the mental transition of being a jackman, to
not get jacked. Easier said than done.
*****
I parked down the street from the house that I rented for
Blazack and the crew. I walked in the shadows of semi-darkness
and hid the dope underneath a tree in a hole I dug. After ward, I
got back into the car and drove the short distance to the house.
There were so many cars parked in the yard and driveway, I had
to park in the middle of the street. As I walked up, people were
hanging out everywhere. Females lounged out front on the porch.
It’s hard to believe that only a few hours ago this place was for
rent. Mad Ball and Gucci looked up to see me. They could tell by
the expression on my face my mood was not good. I walked inside
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and saw that the place was jam packed. In the kitchen, I saw Dirty
throwing dice. They were gambling, playing Low. He looked at
me and said something slick out the side of his mouth, something
about how much money did I have, and then he threw the dice. I
shot him a look that said,
don’t fuck with me
. Twine walked up and
grabbed my hand. He was smoking a blunt, eyes red, pants hang-
ing off his ass.
“Nigga, you been killing ‘em huh?” he said checking out my
gear and running his fingers over my necklace.
“Listen man,” I talked between clinched teeth fighting to con-
trol my temper. This was becoming a habit dealing with these nig-
gas. I was trying to stop it before it started. “Ya’ll didn’t come
down here to party, this is strictly business. Clear these mutha-
fuckas out the house!”
I knew that there was no way that Twine was going to take
orders from me, at least not at this stage of the game, but now was
the time to employ my will for the sake of building a team and
bleeding this town out of its riches. “Where’s Blazack at?” I asked.
Twine pointed at the back room giving me a look like he was try-
ing to read where I was coming from with the attitude.
I knocked on the door. Heard a voice say come in. I walked
into what looked like a gun show. “Damn it man!” I intoned.
“Where did ya get all dem shits from?” There were about a half
dozen AK47s lined up on the wall, a Mac-10, Mac-11, various
handguns, a Thomson submachine gun with a special shoulder
holster to hold three thousand rounds of ammunition. On the bed
next to Blazack was his trusty double barrel 12 gauge sawed off
shotgun, the same one that he pointed at my nuts earlier that day.
On the bed was a book titled
The Art of War
. Blazack just lay
there, looking up at the ceiling. He was the most reclusive man
that I had ever known. His quiet could be disturbing at times. It
gave you the feeling that he was always plotting. I hoped he was
not plotting about me.
Slowly he rose from the bed ignoring my disapproval of his
arsenal of guns.
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“I had to use my hands,” Blazack said, flexing his fingers. His
hands were huge. He now examined them as if it were his first
time really seeing them, their power and strength.
“What?” I asked, confused as to what he was talking about.
“He wouldn’t die.” Blazack continued. The scowl on his face
was that of a man reliving a bad memory.
“I strangled dat nigga for damn near ten minutes. He would-
n’t die.”
“Who?” I asked aggravated.
“Dre’,” Blazack said clinching his fist.
“Oh.” The sounds left my lips, with it the grimy reality of who
he was talking about. I stared, mesmerized. Once again I won-
dered about the mystic of life’s greatest myster y–death, and if the
&nbs
p; people who kill are haunted by the very souls they stole. There was
a glassy look of a madman possessed by demons on Blazack’s face
as he examined his hands like they were murder weapons he
wished he could discard. I think that to some degree, the dead are
still alive, they live vividly in the minds of the people that killed
them. At least with Blazack that was the case.
“Yo, I let the cracka in the van go and tied him to a tree.
Someone’ll find him in a few days, maybe. But Dre’… dat nigga
ain’t never comin’ back,” Blazack said with malice as his eyes nar-
rowed, giving me the full intent of what he meant. The moment
lingered. I was lost for words. I noticed in the corner of the room
there was a stick of dynamite and some other kind of explosives.
Just when I was about to ask about that rat muthafucka, his state-
ment completely caught me off guard. I knew what he was hint-
ing at.
“My nigga, on ever ything I love, when the shit went down in
the hotel with the nigga trying to set me up, I had to out-run hel-
icopters and some mo shit. Hooked up with this broad, if she did-
n’t help me, I’d be fucked up right now, that’s how I ended up
here.”
“Uh huh,” Blazack said with all the interest of a man watch-
ing paint dry. “I talked with Lil Cal’s mom this morning. Told her
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to ask about you, since you da one that introduced us to Dre’ in
the first place.” Blazack left no doubt in my mind his suspicion of
me, as well as his loyalty to Lil Cal, death before dishonor. He
would kill me in a heartbeat. The feelings were mutual. Our real
common bond was only Lil Cal. I knew I would have to accept
the dark cloud of treason that loomed over my head. For some rea-
son the dope game is like that. It permeates on paranoia and fear
for the lack of trust. Trust is like a good woman forced to go bad,
she will always be needed and unfortunately used and abused to
serve like hell in the dope game. If there were no trust, there
would be no lies.
I ignored Blazack’s acid remarks. The reality was, I needed him
as much as he needed me.
I retrieved five ounces from the bag. His eyes lit up like novas
as I passed them to him. Maybe he was thinking about searching
me to see if I was I wearing a wire. He hesitated. Through the dark
pools of his eyes I read his suspicion of me.
“What you want me to do wit dis?” he asked, still not touch-
ing the dope.
“Keep ‘em,” I replied, tossing the five cookies to him.
“Getting paper?” His faced cracked into a sinister grin.
“Jus a lil sumpin’ sumpin’,” I drawled slyly, as my mind deftly
tried to search for the holes in his mental armor, an avenue for my
sales pitch in recruiting him and the rest of them Oplica niggas.
“Dig, playa. I’m tryna build a team right here in Tally. Open
up shop, drop some weight, boom dis muthafuckin town and get
ghost ‘fo the spot get hot. Nawaimsayin’?” As I talked, in the
background I heard JT Money rapping,
Bitch shake what yo
momma gave ya
.
“I want you to be my lieutenant. I’ll pay you five G’s a week
once we get on our feet.”
I waited for his response. Blazack was a natural born leader.
Since his man Lil Cal was gone, he might rather rob than work for
another nigga. I was aware that he could take what I said as being
disrespectful on the strength of the caliber of nigga he thought he
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was. He stood all five feet seven, two hundred thirty pounds of
brute force.
“Nigga you got me fucked up!” All that platinum and dia-
monds in his mouth sparkled for emphasis. I braced myself, felt
my hand with a mind of its own inching toward Jesus in my draw-
ers.
Then Blazack smiled like the sun coming from behind dark
clouds. “You damn right I want to be down wit your team.” I felt
a wave of relief wash over me. After ward we sat down and talked.
I explained to him how we had to act like niggas on a mission, and
to stop the dumb shit, as well as the partying. I didn’t tell him that
I had a connection so large they could use the scales for elephants
to weigh the dope. In time he would find that out for himself.
Trina’s cousin was a major Colombian drug lord of both “Boy”
and “Girl” meaning cocaine and heroin. Her cousin liked my hus-
tle. I never looked back. My life would never be the same.
*****
That night I drove through Frenchtown. It was dark. Most of
the streetlights were shot out by drug dealers for the protection of
the night. A lone luminous light shined within the dense fog of
smoke and air pollution. Throngs of people moved like cattle to
the pulsating rhythm of the ghetto. Every Black section has one.
A strip of town where everyone hangs out, flossing in their cars,
clothes and jewelry, parlaying their hustle–get in where you fit in.
A place where a man could lose his life over the throw of the dice.
I’ve learned that the element of surprise, if used effectively, is
a brilliant strategy in winning over your adversaries. It could also
get you shot. I made up my mind days ago that I was going to
make my move, boldly. Fuck ‘em! I felt like all hustlers feel when
they’re hungr y. I needed eat!
*****
I finally spotted Nina Brown. She was in a crowd of about two
or three hundred people. The scene was rowdy. I heard gunshots
in the distance. I was having second thoughts about my plan.
Stevey D and his henchmen were a few yards from Nina. They
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were all sitting in front of the pool hall. He was leaning against a
blue tricked out Caddy with a ragtop, sitting on dubs. Back in the
day if you had a clean caddy on expensive wheels, you was the shit.
Rubbing up against him was a thick redbone. She wore skin tight
blue jeans with holes near her ass cheeks. She was fat-to-death, ass
for days. I drove up with Trina’s system bumping Dr. Dre’ and
Snoop’s joint talking ‘bout, “If your bitch talks shit you know I got
to put the slap down.” I hopped out of the car, and boldly walked
into the lion’s den. The element of surprise, I had Jesus tucked in
my drawers, made sure they could see the bulge. Niggas jaws
dropped like old folks with no teeth. Stevey D shoved the girl off
his lap. I could tell he wanted to go for his strap. I walked up
humbly, and never took my eyes off him. The expression on Nina
Brown’s face was that of complete shock, like seeing a dead man
walking.
“Whuz up, yo?” I said to Stevey D. He had on a thick her-
ringbone, a white shirt, a pair of starched Dickies and a pair of
black Nikes. The redbone was eyeballing me. From the expression
on her face I could tell she could sense something was about to go
down. “I told you I was comin’ back ta break bread wit cha,” I
said, smiling with more gaiet
y than I was actually feeling. Stevey
D bunched his face, crinkling his nose, the way people do when
they smell something foul. He then looked to check both ends of
the street like he was going to start blasting.
“I don’t believe dis nigga,” he said tensely while shaking his
head at me. The crowd was starting to circle us. The tension was
tight as a fat lady climbing a rope. I felt a glaze of sweat on my
forehead. “You got some’tin for me.”
“Sho’ll do,” I drawled. He laughed and looked around at his
crew. They followed his lead and laughed too. He walked up and
placed his hand on my shoulder in a friendly gesture, like the spi-
der introducing himself to the fly.
“Let me holla at you for a sec,” I said, walking to the car. I
needed to get out into the open.
“Yo D, you aight?” one of his peeps asked. He threw up his
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hand. “Yea, I’m aight.”
I was parked in the middle of the street with the engine run-
ning. We got in the car. “Nice ride,” Stevey D said, rubbing his
hands on the oak wood dashboard. I ignored him and hollered out
the window for Nina Brown, signaling for her to get in the car. As
I pulled off I threw an ounce into Stevey D’s lap.
“What you want for dis?” he asked, never taking his eyes off
the dope.
“That’s yours.”
“Mine?”
“I told you I was going to bless you when I came back.”
“Tr ue, true, true,” he intoned, shaking his head.
“Bet that up my nigga.” I could hear the delight in his voice.
I also knew that my kindness could be taken for a sign of weak-
ness but he had something that I wanted–this town. He extended
his fist, I hit it with a mean dap.
“Let me buy some of that off ya, it’s a drought in town.”
Ain’t no way in hell I was going to sell this cat some dope. A
hustler’s dream is to have a spot on lock down and be the only
man holding. That’s like cornering the entire market of Wall
Street, having the only commodity.
“I’m fucked up right now, I can’t sell you nothing, but when I
get on my feet, I gotcha.” He twisted his mouth the way people
do when they want to say, “Don’t piss on me and tell me it’s rain-