by T. Styles
“A few days ago.”
Yori stepped back and frowned. He placed his fingers on his chin as if he was pondering what Kerrick had just said. “Hold up, why you didn’t hit me up earlier? I would’ve brought you home right.” He looked at Kerrick’s clean but off brand gear.
“I had to see my ladies first,” Kerrick said calmly. “But I’m here now.”
“Did you hear this cat,” Yori announced loudly to the other men on the top of the step. “This cat said he had to see his bitches.” He slapped Kerrick on his shoulder. “Right on, my brother. Get pussy first.”
Kerrick nodded but was growing weary of Yori’s antics. He couldn’t believe that he was in charge of anything because he didn’t carry himself like a boss. Still, he was the one who could change his life and Kerrick had to humble himself or he would lose out on the American Dream.
“So what are you doing here?” Yori asked.
“I need a job. I’m a hard worker and I hope I’ve demonstrated my ability to follow orders already.”
“Did you demonstrate your ability to follow orders?” he repeated. “Fuck yeah, you did.” He looked back at the men again. “Let my man be a lesson to the rest of you worthless niggas. He did five years off the strength of an order I gave him and never batted an eye. That’s an assassin.” When he was done with his staging, he addressed Kerrick again. “Of course you’ve proven what you can do. And even though the streets are dry these days, I should be able to find work for you.”
Kerrick was pleased because up to that point, he wasn’t sure if he would get played again like he did when he visited Peter Cramer when he first arrived in America.
A smile, which was uncommon for Kerrick, appeared on his face. “Thank you, man. You know I got you. So what do you need me as? Muscle?”
Yori leaned back and said, “Whoa. You have to practice before you can spar with the champs.” He turned around and yelled, “Aye, Mox. Bring me that pack.”
A fat kid, who was eating a taco, stuffed what was left into his mouth. He then observed his surroundings as if he wasn’t already slipping, and reached into a Doritos bag on the porch. He removed a plastic bag and handed it to Yori.
Yori took it from him. “This right here is hair-ron. You move this and you got a job for life, you dig?” He handed it to Kerrick.
Kerrick examined the large Ziploc that was stuffed with tinier heroin bags. “I’m confused. You want me to be a…”
“Instrumental part of our business,” Yori said finishing his sentence. “There ain’t no money being made without the foot soldiers. Empty that work and I’ll see what else I got for you. Deal?”
Kerrick didn’t have a choice. He was broke. He was unemployed. And he wanted in on the sensational lifestyle he’d seen on television as a child in Africa.
So he extended his hand and shook Yori’s. “Deal.”
CHAPTER 5
KERRICK
“I am not in the giving vein today.”
-William Shakespeare
Kerrick was standing on the corner smoking a jack. For some reason, when he approached Yori he never envisioned that he would be reduced to corner nigga status. In his country when a man demonstrated his ability to go the extra mile like he had at the restaurant, he would be rewarded in kind. That wasn’t the case in America and it only added to the many reasons he despised the country he tried to love.
Kerrick had been working for Yori for weeks. Whenever he was given a pack, he moved it like it was nothing, making the other soldiers look incompetent in the process. But Kerrick was tired of the position. It wasn’t challenging enough. And he decided to step to Yori about it later.
It was midnight when Yori finally stopped by to check on things. Kerrick let him talk to the other soldiers first and collect the money they owed before he spoke to him. When Yori finally walked over to Kerrick, he readied himself for the conversation.
“Here’s the money,” Kerrick said handing Yori his cut. “I earned more this week than last.”
Yori counted the money by licking his index finger and flipping bill after bill. “I see…I see. You have definitely proven yourself yet again.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. Because I wanted to talk to you about getting another position.”
“Damn, blood,” Yori yelled. “Why you keep coming at me about the same shit? I said I’ma change your position when the time is right. If I haven’t done it yet, it means it ain’t the right time.”
Kerrick’s left arm tightened and he was about to hold Yori’s neck in his hand to see how soft it was. But when a large Mercedes Benz pulled up and parked, his attention was diverted. For the moment anyway.
Kerrick watched as a man with a huge build eased out of the backseat. His driver followed him.
Yori’s entire disposition changed when the man’s boot stepped on the block. He seemed less confrontational. Almost cowardly.
He was the boss, not Yori. Kerrick was now certain.
“How are things going?” the Boss asked Yori.
“Things are fine, Abraham.” He handed him the money he collected from the soldiers. “Everything is in order and the turnaround has been quick.”
Abraham thumbed through the stack. “I see profits are up too.”
Kerrick seemed invisible as they continued to talk. He was infuriated. When Kerrick realized the man who he had done five years for was not the boss, he felt like strangling him on sight. Yori was nothing more than a glorified minion. Had he known this, he would’ve requested to speak to Abraham weeks ago. But he also knew now was not the time. There were levels.
Abraham chewed Yori out about Chill, one of their soldiers who got robbed and killed last week. Riley was supposed to be with him but Yori let him off to go over his girl’s house. Because of that, the jacker got away with a nice stack of cash and the young dealer’s work and jewelry. Abraham warned him if it happened again, Yori would be through in Baltimore if not dead.
When Abraham left, Yori was upset. Kerrick walked closer to him and said, “Is he in charge of—”
Kerrick’s sentence was cut short when Yori turned around and slapped him so hard Kerrick stumbled backwards. The pain rippled through his cheek and the embarrassment was more than he ever had to endure in a lifetime. But instead of going off, like Yori expected, Kerrick smiled. This intimidated Yori even more.
“Get back to…to…to work, Damien,” he stuttered, worried the man would kill him when he saw the fire in his eyes. “Before you be…be looking for work in DC.”
Kerrick walked away from Yori without another word.
****
Francesca pleaded with Kerrick to be gentle with her body but her request fell on deaf ears. Infuriated with how Yori treated him, he took it out on her sexually. He would’ve never treated his wife, who Francesca found out about last week, so viciously.
In her mind, if she made herself available, he would realize he made a mistake by choosing Victoria, and marry her instead.
Kerrick drove into her pale buttocks forcefully and blood saturated the sheets beneath them as she begged for mercy. But he was unresponsive.
Brief memories of Yori’s hand touching his face flashed in his mind on repeat and he went animalistic. Sweat poured down his face in puddles as he teetered on the line between consensual sex and rape.
When he busted his nut inside of her, he pulled out his bloody penis and wiped it on her back. She defecated on the bed automatically because he tore her anus.
“Oh my god,” she said embarrassed at her action.
Without asking if she was okay, he got up, went to the bathroom and washed up. When he was done, he slipped into his jeans and the rest of his clothes.
After cleaning up, he saw Francesca had balled up the linens in piles on the floor. The room smelled like a public bathroom at a dirty nightclub.
Kerrick grabbed his car keys and looked over at her, his heart thick with insensitivity. “You in pain?”
“What do you think, Damien?” she said so
ftly.
He didn’t think anything, truthfully. If he was being one hundred, he didn’t give a fuck. He dug into his pocket and grabbed a pack of dope. It was the last of Yori’s work and since he wasn’t going back, he wanted to unload it on her. He tossed it on the undressed bed.
“What is that?” she asked looking down at the drugs.
“Something to make you feel better.”
She stared upon it, confused. “Are you offering me heroin? When you know what I’ve been through?”
“You asked for weed when I came over earlier. I don’t have any. You can have that if you want it. Either way, I’m gone.” He bounced toward the door and out of the room.
Fran didn’t follow him this time. Instead, she dropped to her knees and cried on the floor.
He left the house and was about to go back inside when he heard her crying harder. But it would be a waste of time since he didn’t feel for anything or anybody but himself. Still, he wanted to see what type of woman he was dealing with.
He knew she had a history with heroin but had gotten clean. If she avoided the drugs, he would treat her better in the future. If not, he would continue to use her for his sick pleasures.
Instead of knocking on the door, he crept toward the back window that led to her bedroom. The blinds were partially open and he could see Francesca sitting on the bed with her back faced him. At first he thought she was crying, but when he saw a pillow of smoke rise over her head he knew what she was doing. Getting high.
Disappointed, he stepped away from the window. A few branches cracked under his foot as he made his way to the curb. He had his answer. She would never be more than a device he used for his own sick needs. Nothing more. Nothing less.
CHAPTER 6
KERRICK
“The king’s name is a tower of strength.”
-William Shakespeare
It was 8:00pm when Kerrick threw the door open to his apartment. Blood covered his t-shirt and jeans and he was breathing heavily. Anger washed over him.
He had been out all day trying to get a job before things got violent. Things started out normally. He went from one restaurant to another trying to find work as a cook or dishwasher but he had zero luck.
One place acted as if they didn’t understand a word he was saying even though when he tried, his accent was undetectable. Another diner owner said that he was too black to be seen at night, so they couldn’t hire him. He was known for not giving African Americans jobs and had Kerrick known, he never would have applied. But the joke was on the owner not Kerrick, who waited on him to lock up later that night.
The moment the owner closed his restaurant, with his back turned toward the street, Kerrick cracked a liquor bottle sitting on the curb, so that it produced a jagged edge. Then he rushed up behind him and put his hand on his mouth to silence his cries.
“Surprise, Whitey. You were right, I guess I am too black for you to see me at night.” Kerrick whispered into his ear before bringing the bottle across his throat, killing him instantly.
After washing up, he sat at the dining room table and rubbed his temples. Victoria came behind him and handed him a glass of vodka. “Drink up, husband. You look like you’ve had a rough day.”
He tossed it back, smiled and pulled her into his lap. She was face to face with him. Looking directly into his large eyes, she said, “I don’t care what anyone says, you aren’t the dishwasher type. So I’m glad you didn’t get the job.”
Over the years, thanks to dealing with Kerrick she had actually grown wise. And Kerrick was amazed.
“Why do you say that?” he asked curiously. “I’m a man. And a man is supposed to care for his wife.”
“You already know what belongs to you, Kerrick,” she said calling him by his real name that he finally informed her of recently. She touched his face softly. “And I don’t care how long it takes you to get it. Just claim it now. That’s the start.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked rubbing her white ass.
“Your blocks.”
Kerrick sighed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Yori is never going to give it up.”
“If he does or doesn’t, that’s on him. But if you ask me, you shouldn’t waste any more time.”
****
After all his attempts to pursue a legal lifestyle failed, he went back to the block. Kerrick just finished moving all of his work and was waiting on Yori to bring him more. He had been thinking all night about a plan that would show Abraham that he was more capable than his minion.
The answer came to him when he saw the other foot soldiers playing and joking on the job. There were three of them, Mox, Riley and Jameson, and they all were shabby businessmen.
Mox, a pudgy kid, made it known that the only reason he sold drugs was to have enough money to stuff his fat face. His neck was always sweating, no matter the weather and his voice was raspy and low as if he was always whispering.
Since he was the worst, Kerrick decided to start with him.
So he padded toward Mox who was sitting on the step eating a bowl of chili from a carryout up the block. One of the reasons Kerrick outsold the men was because the three of them were lazier than newborn babies. Mox was no exception.
“You plan on working today?” Kerrick asked as if he were his boss.
“Fuck you worried about it for, African?” Mox asked stuffing a spoonful of food in his mouth.
Irritated, Kerrick slapped the cup out of his hand and watched the food splatter against the grungy ground.
“Fuck is wrong with you?” Mox yelled as he jumped up, preparing to challenge him.
But when he realized that Kerrick stood as tall as a Baltimore City lamppost, he backed down. Besides, Kerrick’s reputation preceded him and Mox preferred his beef in his food not in his life.
“Get back to work,” Kerrick responded as if he were boss. “The days of fucking around are over.”
With Mox under control, a few days later, he decided it was time to approach Riley. Riley was older than everyone else on the block but he was the biggest shit starter of the crew. He was more interested in neighborhood gossip than he was in moving a pack and stacking bread. He was worse than a bitch with his gossip game. It was because of him that Chill was killed because he was working the block by himself when Riley was supposed to be with him.
Riley was also the cause of a recent beef they had on the streets. An East Baltimore crew came over and sprayed everything standing with bullets. Luckily, nobody got hit but had Riley not disrespected one of the gang member’s mothers by saying he saw her giving a blow job to a dealer for dope, the event would not have happened in the first place.
When Kerrick decided to get him in shape, Riley was standing against the building talking to a cute chick with a fat ass. “Riley, you must not want to make money,” he said walking up on them.
Riley looked away from the woman he was planning to sex in the alley and focused on Kerrick. “Fuck you say to me, African?”
“I said you must not want to make money. Every day you out here rapping some bitch up instead of helping the squad. So I want to know if you out here for paper or not.”
Riley left his lady friend and stepped toward Kerrick. He didn’t get a chance to check him because suddenly his face was stinging. When he touched his cheek, he felt thick, warm liquid. It was blood. He didn’t even see Kerrick gash him. How did he move so quickly?
The girl Riley was keeping time with bolted up the block to save her own life. He wasn’t her man anyway. He was too fucking cheap.
Riley’s eyes widened and he yelled, “You cut me!”
“You won’t need more than two to three stitches. But if you desire, I can give you something a little wider to complain about.” Kerrick reached out his finger, touched the wound and looked at the blood. He rubbed it on Riley’s shirt and said, “What’s it gonna be? I ain’t got all day.”
“Can I…I mean…can I at least clean my face first?” Riley asked.
&nb
sp; “Make it quick.”
Needless to say, neither Riley nor Mox caused him any more problems. His next conquest was Jameson. But this situation was different. Kerrick actually liked Jameson and respected him. He felt that if Riley or Mox weren’t frolicking around on the job, Jameson would have taken his duties more seriously. So instead of approaching him at all, Kerrick elected to wait. He waited until sales went up and the business got respectful. He waited until Jameson could see the other two taking things more seriously. And two weeks later, as Kerrick predicted, Jameson came to him.
Jameson was a tall ex-high school basketball star who injured himself on a layup and lost his career. Being unable to tolerate college without a future career in ball, he took to the streets instead. Besides, he’d gotten used to the idea of having money and he couldn’t go back. He was already nourishing his dreams. He and Kerrick had similar pasts in that regard.
Kerrick was standing against the building watching the operation run smoothly when Jameson walked up. “Say, man, you wanna grab a drink later?” Jameson asked. “I’m thinking about going to the pool hall.”
“I don’t see why not,” Kerrick responded as if he didn’t care either way. Actually, he could’ve used the male companionship. He hadn’t had it since he left Zimbabwe.
“So I’ll meet you at the Hall on Liberty Road later tonight.” Jameson took a few steps but stopped short. “Oh…and I ‘preciate you getting shit straight around here. If we got hit for our stash again I had plans to start my own gig. So whatever you need to keep shit smooth, let me know.”
CHAPTER 7
KERRICK
September – 1976
“Talkers are no good doers.”
-William Shakespeare