The Last Street Novel

by Omar Tyree

  The Heat Is On

  TRAP DIDN’T LOOK TOO FRIENDLY when he arrived outside of Zip Code to talk to Shareef. He pulled him aside and said, “Yo, man, let me ask you a question right quick.”

  Shareef thought about Polo’s joke concerning a grade school call-out, and he figured it wasn’t that far-fetched.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, concerned himself. Had he offended Trap in some way? Shareef was baffled by the sour tone. He didn’t have a clue.

  Trap looked him in the eyes and quietly asked him, “Did you make a visit ‘up north’ today?”

  Shareef exhaled and mellowed out. “Oh, yeah,” he answered. He had nothing to hide about that. And why would that anger Trap?

  Trap said, “Who did you visit up there?”

  Shareef paused. Now it began to hit him. Who was Michael Springfield connected to and who were his enemies?

  He answered cautiously. “Why, is it enemy grounds?”

  “Tell me who you saw first.”

  Shareef figured Trap already knew, so he went ahead and confirmed it.

  “Michael Springfield.”

  Trap eyed him another second in silence before he nodded his head to accept his answer.

  He said, “Do you know him like that?”

  Shareef shook his head. “Nah, I don’t know him like that. He just wanted to meet me.”

  “I heard more than that. But we gon’ get to that in a minute. So who took you up there?” Trap asked next.

  Shareef said, “Some girl I know.” He wasn’t sure how frank he should be with his information. He would have to wait it out to see what Trap’s angle was first.

  “Some girl you know? Do we all know her?”

  “I don’t think we do, but I don’t know.”

  “Well, how well do you know her?”

  “I mean, I know her, but I don’t really know her like that. Why?”

  Shareef continued to play hopscotch with his answers. He still wanted to see where Trap was going with it all.

  Trap studied his face with intensity. He said, “Look, this ain’t no make-believe bullshit you gettin’ yourself involved in, man. If you don’t really know this girl like that, then why would you go up there and start talkin’ to a ma-fucka you don’t really know about some book you writing. That shit ain’t safe. The fuck was you thinkin’?”

  Trap’s violent tone and intensity got the attention of Spoonie and Polo, who were having a conversation of their own while watching the crowd and the passing cars that were still pulling up outside the club.

  Polo asked, “What’s going on, B? Is there a problem?”

  Trap backed away from Shareef and answered, “There may be a problem.”

  Spoonie looked at Trap for an explanation. “What? What happened?”

  “Shareef went ‘up north’ this morning and met up wit’ a ma-fucka that he didn’t tell us shit about. If he would have told us that shit last night, I would have told him not to do that shit. But he went and did it already.”

  Polo and Spoonie both looked at Shareef for his explanation.

  Trap said, “Go ’head, Shareef. Tell them who you visited.”

  Shareef asked, “I mean, what’s going on with him? What’s the deal?”

  He still didn’t know any of the particulars from Trap.

  Polo asked, “You went ‘up north’ today? You didn’t tell me that.”

  Shareef said, “That’s where I got this whole Harlem book idea from, this girl who knows Michael Springfield.”

  Spoonie repeated, “Michael Springfield? You visited Michael Springfield in jail today? What is he trying to talk about?”

  Shareef answered, “He was only talking about his life story, and how he surrendered from all of the bullshit that got him there in jail.”

  “Yeah, and he may just surrender a bunch of fuckin’ names of niggas who still out here in the game, too. You don’t know what that nigga’s intentions are” Trap stated.

  He shook his head and said, “I still can’t believe you did that shit. I mean, I’m sitting there bragging about you in the barbershop, talking about how you working on writing a book on Harlem, just to see who I could get to talk to you, and these motherfuckers start looking at me like I’m stupid. It was like, you already had your story, a story about Michael Springfield, who may be ready to rat ma-fuckas out, while using your dumb-ass to do it.”

  Shareef didn’t like the sound of that, nor did he like being called a dumb-ass.

  He said, “What the fuck makes you think I’m gonna allow him to name drop, and then actually use those names? That’s slander, in the first place. I can be sued for that shit.”

  Spoonie added, “You can be shot for that shit.”

  “But why would you talk to that motherfucker anyway without asking us about it first?” Trap asked him.

  “Dig it,” Spoonie agreed.

  Polo was still stunned by the whole line of questioning. He was stuck on the fact that Shareef had visited prison and hadn’t said anything about it.

  Shareef answered, “Look, I didn’t want too many opinions when I went up in there. I just wanted to see what he had to say, and if it turned out to be something, I would deal with it. If not, I would move on. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Well, it ain’t that simple to these other motherfuckers,” Trap told him. “They gon’ wanna know what he said to you. And then I heard you walked across the fuckin’ yard with him.”

  Polo looked at Shareef again. He said, “You walked across the yard with him?”

  Shareef was stuck on that one. He answered, “I didn’t even know you could walk on the yard. I mean, I was caught off guard with that.”

  “Did he want you to walk across the yard with him?” Trap questioned. “Was it his idea?”

  The charades were over. Shareef understood he needed to give full and straight answers.

  He nodded. “Yeah, it was his idea. But it wasn’t like he asked me about it, he just started walking forward and told me to follow him.”

  “And you did exactly what the fuck he told you to,” Trap summed up. He shook his head and said, “Well, your Harlem story is over with, B. So pack up your shit for tomorrow, and go on back home. It ain’t safe for you up here now.”

  Polo was still speechless. Spoonie didn’t have anything to add, either. But Trap continued with plenty on his mind.

  He said, “All you had to do was ask me, man. But now you got me looking like an asshole, too, ’cause niggas know I know you like that. So they’re asking me what’s going on. And where the fuck is this girl you talkin’ ’bout?”

  All eyes were on Shareef again. He didn’t know what to say. He thought about calling Cynthia on her cell phone to ask her a few questions himself. She hadn’t called him back at all that night. Was it all a setup to get him in hot water with the streets? And if so, why? Did Michael Springfield have a story to tell or what?

  He answered, “I don’t know where she at right now, man.”

  “You know where she live?” Spoonie asked him.

  Shareef shook his head. He was feeling more ridiculous by the second.

  “She always visits me at my place and gets her own transportation back home,” he answered.

  Trap said, “So you don’t even know where this girl lives.”

  Polo commented, “He don’t know where a lot of these groupie-ass girls out here live, B. That shit ain’t unusual.”

  “I’m just saying, you see how bad this situation is when you deal with people you don’t know?”

  Trap seemed to have calmed down a bit.

  Shareef nodded to him and admitted, “You got me there. I guess I fucked it all up then.”

  Polo wasn’t so sure. He said, “Just because he met with the ma-fucka don’t mean he gotta write shit about him. Just say you’re not gon’ do the shit. All you gotta say is you didn’t know what time it was. But now you do.”

  Trap started shaking his head already. He said, “It’s too late for that, man. He need to ge
t the hell out of Dodge. I heard about the shit today; how many people you think gon’ know about it by the weekend?”

  Shareef was actually surprised that news of his visit “up north” had traveled back down to Harlem that fast.

  “I mean, who knew about me being up there anyway?” he commented.

  Trap looked at him as if he was insane. “Nigga, are you crazy? They know who you are. They may not all read your books, but they know your fuckin’ name. Shareef Crawford. And they know that the women know you. So they gon’ fuckin’ talk about it.

  “The streets is always talkin’,” he said. “And now they talkin’ about you.”

  Trap had already tasted the strength of the venom within a few short hours. Nervous and connected criminals had made note that he needed to handle his boy’s curiosity or suffer the consequences himself.

  “Let your man know what time it is and tell him to leave that shit alone, B. That’s for his own good health…and yours,” Trap was told by unnamed faces.

  On one hand, Shareef felt a tingle of fear that the wrong types may be thinking about him in the wrong way. But on the other hand, he was curious about how fast word on the street traveled about him writing a Harlem book. Was the street life that alluring? Men had never been concerned about any of his books before. So he was tempted to see just how big of a deal a book on the Harlem underworld could be. It felt adventurous, like writing about a war zone from the middle of the war.

  He said, “So you think Harlem would be that pressed to read something that I put out on the street life?”

  It was a challenging question, and one that would imply that Shareef was willing to ignore Trap’s warning and write a Harlem book anyway.

  Trap said, “The point is, if you’re gonna write something that they don’t want people to read about, then they’re not gon’ want you to write it. Period.”

  Shareef asked him, “But is that for the few or for the many?”

  Trap became alarmed again. He said, “Look, man, if he got a whole gang of niggas against him, then you’ll have that same amount against you.”

  And me! Trap thought to himself. But how much of his own fears or his own participation in the Harlem streets was he willing to let Shareef know about? The man had pride, more pride than Polo and Spoonie combined. So he had learned to guard his life’s interests.

  “But I thought you said Harlem don’t roll thick like that no more,” Shareef asked him.

  “I’m not talking about one crew of niggas, man, I’m talking about this kid droppin’ names on people who don’t want their names out there. I mean, you not gettin’ me, man. This ain’t some script meeting. This is real life.”

  Polo asked, “But what if he don’t write shit about the dude? What if he just write about the game in general.”

  Spoonie shook his own head. He said, “Man, don’t nobody wanna read about no game in general unless you droppin’ names. That’s how the magazines do it. And that’s how that video chick, Super-head, sold her book. She was droppin’ real names. You know that.”

  Trap figured he had said enough, but he wanted to give his friend one final warning.

  He said, “Shareef, I know you, man. You can be a hardheaded nigga sometimes. That’s just how you are. But I’ma tell you right now, you gon’ play with this Harlem fire, and you gon’ get yourself burned the fuck up.”

  He said, “So if I was you, I’d go back to writing what I’ve been writing, living how I’ve been living, and just call Harlem home. Because the stakes is too high out here to be playing fuckin’ Columbo. You feel me?”

  Shareef listened but he remained unmoved by it. He didn’t get to be a writer in the first place by ignoring his instincts. His peers had told him before that he would never make a living writing books. But not only had he made a living from it, he had accumulated millions from his writings. In less than ten years, he had proven the naysayers wrong and had them lining up on his side now while celebrating his name. And it all felt good to him.

  There was something there to write about in Harlem. Shareef wasn’t willing to let it go that easily. There were thousands of people he could write about at home. He didn’t need Michael Springfield’s story. Nor was he willing to allow street talk to scare him into running away from doing his research. He hadn’t written a word yet. How did they know what he was willing to write?

  Trap studied Shareef’s unfazed mug for another minute before he finally gave up on him. “Aw’ight, I’m gone, B. You gon’ do what you gon’ do, and it’s gon’ be all on your head like a red egg.”

  With that, Trap left them and walked down the street away from the crowd.

  Spoonie looked at Shareef and said, “Are you sure you still wanna do this Harlem book, man?” He wondered if Shareef would be shaken himself. It wasn’t as if he had to write about Harlem. He would still be rich and popular without it.

  Shareef looked back at him. “I still haven’t made up my mind yet,” he answered. “I need to think more about it.”

  Spoonie shrugged and said, “Aw’ight, well, y’all going back in this party or what?”

  Just as he spoke, Shareef looked past him and saw that Baby G, the young street celebrity, was guiding Tiffany, the California girl, to a black Chrysler 300 that had pulled up and parked in the street in front of the club. They had a protective line formed out of his young followers, like a red carpet affair.

  I guess he do have game enough to get her, Shareef told himself. And in his loss, he had no more desire to reenter the party.

  He shook his head and answered, “Nah, I’m good for the night. I need to think a little bit more about all of this anyway.”

  Spoonie said, “Aw’ight, well, I’ma stay at the party. And Polo, you drive Shareef back home to safety.” Then he stopped and asked, “You need my gun?”

  Polo looked at him and chuckled. “Nigga, you ain’t the Godfather. Fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m just trying to make sure my boy get back home safely, that’s all,” Spoonie joked. “You need me to send a goon squad with you?”

  Shareef smiled it off himself. “Nah, I’m good, B. Harlem don’t scare me like that. I grew up here.”

  Spoonie eyed him and said, “Shit, so did ten thousand other motherfuckers who died of bullet wounds in Harlem. That don’t mean shit that you was born here. What, you think that gives you a force field? Nigga, you betta’ wake up and get off that high horse. Anybody can be touched in Harlem.”

  WHILE POLO DROVE Shareef back to his hotel room on Frederick Douglass Boulevard, not that many words were exchanged between them until they arrived out front.

  “So, what do you think about all this, man?” Shareef finally asked his friend.

  They sat in the jeep outside the hotel entrance.

  Polo nodded and continued to look forward out of the windshield. He said, “First, I want to thank you for helping me out of my jam like you did with them five Gs, son. That’s first of all.”

  He turned to Shareef and gave him a handshake for it.

  “Yeah, just try to stay up above water for yourself and your family, that’s all,” Shareef advised him.

  Polo joked and said, “Yeah, that’s easy for you to say.”

  Shareef stared at him. He said, “You know what? A rich man actually has more to lose than a poor man, B. And if I fall behind on my shit, five Gs ain’t gon’ cut it. ’Cause see, between me and you, it takes me and my family about twelve Gs a month to live.”

  He said, “And some people may say, ‘Well, you can do without this,’ and ‘You can’t do without that.’ But the reality is, I’m a goal-oriented person. The challenge of life is what I thrive on. That’s what keeps me up and going. So I can handle what I got as long as there’s a new goal in front of me. And this right here, this Harlem shit…it’s a new goal, B. A big one. I can feel it.”

  Polo looked into his boy’s eyes in silence for a minute.

  He said, “I just hope you not try’na bite a bigger piece of pie than
you can handle right now, Shareef. Like you said, you got a lot on your plate already. I mean, my kids only see a hundred dollars a month from me, if that. But how much your kids gon’ miss each month if something happens to you?”

  Shareef blew him off with a smile. “Shit, man, I got life insurance. They’ll be all right. They still gon’ see it.”

  Polo didn’t budge. He said, “That shit ain’t funny, son. That ain’t nothing to joke about. The last thing in this world I would want is for you to come back home to Harlem and lose your life over some bullshit. I wouldn’t be able to take that shit right there, man. That’s word to my whole family.”

  He said, “You an inspiration, B. You a shinin’ light in the dark for niggas around here. And not only that, but who else can I count on next time I fall five Gs behind the eight ball?”

  They shared a laugh about it.

  Polo said, “But seriously, man. You need to really think about this shit, Shareef. I mean, Trap know them street niggas better than all of us. So if he say to leave that shit alone…then leave that shit alone.”

  Shareef looked away from him and stared into empty space. He said, “You can’t get nowhere in life by being afraid of it, man. And I’m not gon’ sit here and lie by saying I’m never nervous about shit, but I always find the courage to stand up for what I believe in.”

  Polo said, “Yeah, you gon’ stand up until you get blown the fuck down. Like Spoonie said, all that Superman shit is gon’ get you in an early grave. I mean, you sound like one of them old-school boxers who can’t take his gloves off, B. And what do they end up doing; they end up fighting the next great nigga in his prime, and get themselves beat the fuck up and embarrassed in the ring. I mean, let it go, Shareef. Just let it go.”

  Shareef took a deep breath and had no more to say about it. Everyone was against his Harlem masterpiece now. Or at least his friends were.

  Shareef nodded and went to grab the door handle. “Aw’ight, man, so I guess, um, I’ll just go ahead and visit my grandparents tomorrow before I decide when to take a plane back to Florida.”