by Ca$H
“Dayum, Mika, what you tryna do? Drain a nigga?”
“You ain’t know? Making sure you don’t have nothing left for no other bitch,” she admitted.
Tamika knew that CJ had bubbled, and he had done it seemingly overnight. Two months ago, he was getting one or two birds at a time. Now he was getting so many it almost made her eyes pop out of her head. Last month, she saw him come up in her crib with thirty-five birds. Thirty-five!
“Wow! CJ, where did you get all of that dope?” she had asked him, wide-eyed.
“That ain’t shit. Stay down with me and you’ll see me with five times that many.”
“CJ, I’m scared. Did you jack somebody?”
“Shorty, you know I don’t roll like that. A nigga just connected now. Relax, you fuckin’ with a made man,” he told her, and the proof was in the pudding.
Tamika saw that with her own hazel brown eyes. CJ had gave her the Q45 and copped himself an Expedition. Now when he sent her to tear the mall up, it was with eight stacks instead of three or four. His ice had been upgraded, they were moving out of the hood, and CJ said that his Mom Dukes was next. Then maybe even Tamika’s.
She planned to hold on to CJ like the Jaws of Life.
Tamika had stopped playing with Malcolm, and didn’t have any holla for any other nigga that tried to get at her.
“CJ, promise me you won’t let the money change you,” she said, laying her head on his chest.
“Ma, I would never switch up on you, it’s you and me for life,” he promised.
Meanwhile, way down in Philly, CJ’s cohorts were executing a large drug bust.
Stan White had been getting money in South Philly since the late eighties when crack was king. He was one of the very few money-getters left around from that era. All the rest were either dead or in prison, or had been taken down by the same drug that had once gotten them rich.
Stan had escaped those downfalls because he didn’t use drugs at all, nor did he hit the clubs or flash his worth, and he didn’t do dirty business. Now he just wanted to make this one last big move and he was getting out of the game.
But Stan was less than a half hour away from falling victim to the game he was planning to get out of. Jay, his longtime and most trusted lieutenant had gotten knocked with three keys of heroin last month, unbeknownst to Stan. Jay had just come home two years ago from a ten year bid. At forty-three years old Jay didn’t think that he would live out the long bid that would come with a conviction for trafficking three kilos of pure heroin, so he offered to give Stan up.
“We want to bust him while a big deal is going down, that way we get him and the supplier. Otherwise, you’re going down,” the DEA agent had demanded, and Jay tap danced to the cracker’s music.
Stan and Jay waited patiently at Stan’s grocery store in South Philly for the connect to arrive with ten kilos of heroin and one hundred keys of coke. It would be delivered by someone driving a produce truck just like the one that delivered groceries to the store every few days. Stan already had the money stacked in boxes to pay for the shipment. Jay was trying to figure out a way to end up with one of those boxes after the shit went down.
The shit he had tossed onto Stan to save his own rat ass.
They unlocked the door when the truck pulled up and the driver hopped out. Then out of nowhere, unmarked cars and men with DEA across their chests swarmed in on them ready to blast anyone that moved.
“DEA! Don’t move!”
“Get down on the ground! Now!”
Stan’s reign was over that quick. The agents cuffed him, the delivery man, and Jay.
Stan didn’t realize that there was some shit in the game until the three of them were marched into an abandoned warehouse and forced to lay down on the floor.
“What’s going on?” he protested.
“Ole Jay here sold you out. Just thought you’d like to know before you go,” one of the agents said.
“Go where?” he asked.
Pow! Pow! Two to the back of the head was his answer.
“You’re next, bro,” a second agent said to the driver of the truck.
“Fuck you!” spat the driver.
“Fuck you back,” he replied after splattering the man’s head.
“Well, Jay, guess who’s next,” mocked a third agent.
“C’mon, man, please. I gave you these guys like you asked,” cried Jay.
“And look how I thank you, right? Some people just ain’t appreciative.” Pow! Pow! Pow! “Rat bastard!”
Back at the grocery store the others were driving off with the whole truck and the boxes of money that they had found inside Stan White’s Grocery.
Up in Newark, New Jersey, Cujo received the call from his brother-in-law, celebrated federal Agent Michael Solaski, that he’d been waiting for.
“Mike, how did it go?” asked Cujo.
“Like stealing from the blind.”
“That easy?” Cujo laughed.
“Yep, they didn’t even put up a fight.”
“Did y’all get everything that you were expecting?” asked Cujo excitedly.
“Yep, can your boy move all the stuff?”
“We’re about to see,” he replied.
NINE
Rah was back in ATL, back in school and still maintaining a 4.0 GPA. Academics had always come very easy to him. However, he did study and take his classes seriously in order to keep up a perfect grade point average. Everyone at school was glad to see him back and doing well, they had heard about his near tragedy.
Stephanie, the snow bunny who lived next door to him, was morbidly fascinated when Rah recounted the brawl in the club, and being shot afterwards. She wanted to know how it had felt to get shot, but Rah couldn’t articulate the feeling.
“So, is your homeboy CJ going to go after the guys who shot you?” she asked naively.
“Nah. I told him to let it go.” Rah lied.
“He doesn’t sound like he would do that,” said Stephanie, not knowing how true her words were. “Anyway. I’d like to meet CJ, he sounds so exciting, in that bad boy way, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean…shorty want a thug. A black one at that,” Rah teased.
“I do not,” giggled Stephanie.
“Whateva, ma,” Rah laughed. He could see through her denial.
“No, seriously, I’d just like to meet CJ, not date him. I’d also like to meet Kayundra. I’m pulling for her, you guy’s story could turn out so beautiful if she overcomes her addiction.”
“Maybe so,” acknowledged Rah.
“Now Tamika, I am so not wanting to meet. I think she and I would have beef,” Stephanie said, adopting the black vernacular.
When Rah wasn’t in class, studying, or chopping it up with Stephanie, he was back on his grind. The Tahoe had been replaced with an Infiniti SUV, which he was driving now on his way to drop some work to DaQuan.
“What it do, shawdy?” asked DaQuan, sliding into the SUV as soon as Rah pulled up.
“I’m good, fam. Grab that foot locker bag out the back, that’s you right there. Three pounds of purp’ and two hundred pills.”
“A’ight. Look, shawdy, I’m a coupla stacks short ’cause I been taking losses like a muhfucka since you been gone. But—”
“No explanation needed, yo. I fucks wit’ ya. Got ya weight back up, nigga, and pay me what you’re short on the re-up,” said Rah. DaQuan was good people; Rah wasn’t sweating two stacks.
DaQuan handed him a shoe box full of money, grabbed the bag of work off the backseat, and gave Rah some dap.
“I’ma fuck with you later,” he said.
“One,” replied Rah.
Later that night Rah was at the strip club Strokers getting his mack on with Cream, a stripper with an ass that should’ve been illegal. Cream was tryna charge Rah a stack to go to the motel with him and spend the night.
“Ma, how many times I gotta tell you I don’t do no tricking?” Rah checked her.
“You know w
hat they say, lil daddy, it ain’t trickin’ if you got it,” Cream sang.
“You know who say that shit, don’t you? Trick ass niggaz. I ain’t gon’ charge you for the dick, and I’m not paying for the pussy. I dig that you’re about ya paper, ma, but I’m about mine too.”
“So why are you even up in here?” she asked.
“I’m just politicking.”
“And sweating pussy for free?”
“Nah. I’m just chillin’, yo.”
Cream peeped that Rah wasn’t a trick so she pushed on.
“What’s good, whoady?” said N.O., a hustla from New Orleans, whom Rah had bumped into a few times around the city. New Orleans niggaz was deep up in ATL ever since Hurricane Katrina tore up their spot.
“I’m good. Sup?” replied Rah.
N.O. slid into the booth Rah occupied. He was a tall skinny nigga; red, with freckles and green eyes. Rah didn’t know N.O.’s hustle but he knew that dude was in the life, N.O.’s swag told him that.
“I’m not tryna get in your business, dawg, but I be seeing you around, and it looks like you’re doing some things. They call you Rah, don’t they?”
“They might.”
“I feel you. Anyway, I got that work, and I’m always looking for solid niggaz to do business with. Ask around about me, and get back at me. I be at this spot a lot, my girl Satin dances here,” said N.O.
“Oh, Satin your girl?”
“Yeah, one of ’em.”
“Shorty fly,” commended Rah.
Him and N.O. chopped it up for a while then Rah left the club and went to holla at one of the many young chicks who was on his jock. All of that pussy up in the strip club had his joint on swole and he needed to get straight.
There was no strings attached between Rah and the jump off that he ran up in. Rah always kept it one hunnid with the chicks he kicked it with, letting them know that he was too young to be tryna wife any of them. If a chick started to catch feelings, he stopped seeing her.
Returning home from the jump off’s house the next morning, Rah stopped to check his P.O. Box. Back inside his whip, he tore open the envelope and began reading the letter he received from Kayundra.
My Dearest Raheem,
I am doing very well in my recovery. The one aspect that is pure hell is that I do not get to see you or even talk to you on the phone. I think about you so often and miss you so much, I wonder how I managed to live without you in my life the past four years. I had to be high right? LOL.
I am writing a song about my feelings for you and how my refound love gives me new hope. Otherwise, I’ve just been attending meetings here and doing a lot of self examination. I talk to the other women in the program to try to understand how each of our stories led to addiction. There’s this one girl named Porcelin who I talk to a lot. Baby, she is wild! The other day…
Rah continued to read Kayundra’s letter detailing some of the things that her friend Porcelin said or done. When he concluded the letter he found himself worried that Kayundra’s emerging friendship with the girl might lead to them both relapsing.
Rah didn’t want to harbor doubts about Kayundra’s commitment to overcoming her addiction so he quickly pushed the negative thoughts out of mind. As he started up the SUV and drove the mile from the post office to his apartment, he wondered what the future held for him and Kayundra.
His cell phone chirped as he parked in front of his building, interrupting his thoughts.
“Sup, fam?”
“What’s good, baby boy?” said CJ.
“Same ol’” responded Rah.
“Go to Western Union, I just sent you eight stacks, yo.”
Rah started to protest but he knew that CJ wasn’t tryna hear it. The love between them was deep like that; if Rah had CJ’s hand, he would do the same type of shit for his man.
“It’s all love, dawg,” said Rah.
“I’m coming down your way soon.”
“That’s what’s up.”
“A’ight, son. One.”
TEN
CJ was pumpin’ crazy work. Cujo had hit him off with one hundred blocks of coke and ten kilos of heroin that his corrupt cohorts had garnered from the drug heist down in Philly. Now CJ’s name was ringing all over Newark as “that nigga” cats was tryna see to cop weight from or to get put on.
CJ planned to sell two-thirds of the yayo in weight at eighteen a block, a three stack profit after he paid Cujo fifteen a piece. So CJ stood to clock almost two hundred gees profit off of sixty-six blocks of coke. The other thirty-four he would whip into about fifty blocks of crack—he had a sick whip game—chop ’em up and put stupid sized rocks stones on the block. Off of this work he would profit even more. Of course, some of those profits would be used to pay his squad, but he would still be sitting lovely, and the gravy from the ten kilos of heroin would be mad crazy.
“We just need a spot to pump the heroin from. Someplace where it’s already jumpin’,” he told Guru.
“Kendall and nem got a bubbling spot over on Avon Ave. We could go over there and put that joint under new management, yo,” suggested Guru, who was feeling himself because he knew that he was on a squad of head bangers.
“That ain’t Bloods territory, is it?” asked CJ, aware that Bloods were starting to claim many areas in The Bricks. He didn’t fear the notorious gang but he respected the fact that they had numbers.
“Nah, not the spot Kendall has, and yo, that piece is a million dollar joint. You know dude, he got that black Escalade with the Batman doors.”
“Yeah, I know who you’re talking about. Let me check out his spot to see how it’s pumpin’. If it’s worth the drama we’ll get at him, if not, we’ll just pump the shit outta our own joints, nah mean?”
After just three days of watching the traffic at Kendall’s spots on Avon Avenue CJ knew that the location was a gold mine. He had to have that spot as his own, so he sent Guru to holla at Kendall.
Guru and Kendall went back to when the Prince Street Projects was the shit in Newark. Back then they both worked for a nigga named Hump. After Hump caught mad fed time, Kendall and Guru parted ways. Kendall had bubbled while Guru never could seem to reach Willie status. Still Kendall respected Guru, so he was open to listening when Guru put word out that he needed to holla.
Kendall came through Little Bricks and scooped Guru up.
“Long time, Duke. How you be?” Kendall greeted Guru as Guru slid into the passenger seat of his Escalade.
“Been maintaining, yo. How you?”
“Tryna stay a step ahead of the haters, nah mean?” replied Kendall, who at forty acted like he was twenty-five. He was rockin’ a Yankee fitted, Eviso jeans, and Timbs.
“I feel you, baby. Anyway, shit ain’t like it was when we was on Prince Street doing our thing. Those were the days, yo,” Guru reminisced.
“Word. I hate that they blew those projects up. A nigga was eating real lovely off that joint,” said Kendall, reflecting back.
“You eating well now.”
“Oh, I ain’t complaining, shit is sweet. I hear you doing a’ight yaself, done clicked with some young wolves,” Kendall said as he fired up an Optimo, hit it strong, then passed it to Guru.
They were just chillin’ in the Escalade, parked outside of Guru’s crib in the projects in Little Bricks.
Guru took a pull on the Optimo filled with goodness. “This that shit, yo. Anyway, what I wanted to holla at you about is this: my people wanna buy you out.”
“Say what?”
“Your spots on Avon Ave, my people wanna buy you out,” repeated Guru.
“Or what?” asked Kendall, who was a vet and understood how the game went.
“Naw, son, it ain’t even like that. My people sent me to holla in peace.”
“Yo, this me you’re talking to. I been doing this shit since the eighties,” said Kendall as he put the whip in drive and pulled off, turning on his headlights because it was dark out. “I know how the game goes, I turn down you man’s offer the
n it’s on some gunplay shit, ’cause he wants my spots bad enough to take it there.”
“Man, you overreacting, yo,” Guru said.
“Naw, I’m just peepin’ game. I guess you with that youngun CJ whose name is ringing all over The Bricks, huh?” asked Kendall as they left Little Bricks.
“Yeah, them’s my people.”
“Dayum, Guru, we go way back. You know how I get down. I’m surprised you choosin’ sides against me to clique up with a young nigga who thinks he can strong arm the game.”
“Fam, I’m tryna tell you I’m not coming to you on no rah rah shit,” Guru stated again, although he knew that if Kendall flat out refused CJ’s offer, gunplay was definitely the next option.
Kendall didn’t utter another word until they reached Avon Avenue. He drove past his spots pointing and talking. “You see all that traffic, the fiends lovin’ my shit. I’m clockin’ crazy cake. Now why would I wanna give all of this up?”
“I feel you,” said Guru.
“No, you don’t. But you will,” replied Kendall, parking in front of one of his dope houses. He pulled a banger from his waist and put it to Guru’s temple. “Call ya peoples and tell him I wanna holla at him. And if you pull out anything but a cell phone I’ma splatter ya head up on the windshield.”
“Yo, dawg, you buggin’.”
Guru unclipped his cell from his waist and called CJ.
“Sup, unc?” CJ answered.
“Fam, I’m with those people you asked me to holla at, and dude ain’t feelin’ your offer. Madda fact, it got him heated. Nigga got a strap to my head right now, talking crazy,” explained Guru. Sweat poured down his face.
Kendall snatched the phone from him but kept the nine pressed against Guru’s head.
“Youngun, I’m hearin’ ya name in the streets but apparently you haven’t heard mine. You wanna buy me out, huh? Well, here’s your answer listen real close.” Boom! Boom!
The sudden gunshots echoed like a cannon inside the SUV. Guru’s head was splattered all over the window and the seat. The gory sight didn’t even cause Kendall to blink in regret at what he had done. “Buy a casket for ya man, its game over for him. Let that be your warning to fall back, youngun. I’m not the one to press. Ask around,” he said as calm as can be.