He watched the young kids shoot dice across the way in the lobby of the building and Charlie Rock remembered the day.
There were large bills littered the floor. Two parallel lines of hustlers formed the parameters of the dice game. A crush of bodies inadvertently blocked the buildings entrance.
“Hmm, hmm, head-crack!” someone shouted.
“Hot damn…!” another player cursed.
“What’s the bank, what’s the bank?” someone else asked.
The man picking up money from off the ground looked up to see who was inquiring about his hard earned money.
“My main man, Charlie Rock… What’s good? You want some o’ this, fly-guy?”
“You what’s up, Ace… That’s as far as I can see,” Charlie Rock replied in an upbeat tone. “I want in,” he said, puliing out a couple bills.
Ace let Charlie Rock know what the bank was amongst other things. The two laughed and dicussed events like old friends shooting the breeze. Then it was back to business.
“Whatcha got? Whatcha got…?” Ace suddenly asked, surveying the crowd while shaking the dice in his right hand. Quickly he pointed to each player with his left hand.
“I’m takin’ all bets. Put your money on the ground. If it’s a bet lay it down. Whatever’s down is a bet.
Ace threw the dice down and rolled a point. His eyes lit up and Charlie Rock watched intensely like everyone else. He saw that the bank had blossomed into a nice amount of money, but refrained from going in large on the first roll. The feeling that Ace was going to have a hot hand crept in. His gut told him to bet with Ace, and not against. Gambling provided an adrenaline rush for Charlie Rock. This was one of Charlie Rock’s vices. He was in his zone and enjoyed the way the game was going on.
“Umm, plenty niggers fell to the deuce,” Ace said. “You push, you pay.”
Two players simultaneously reached down to grab the dice that lay harmlessly on the ground. Their over anxiousness caused their heads to collide. Ripples of laughter broke out.
“Niggas too eager,” Charlie Rock chuckled. “You know what happens when you rush the dice. You ain’t gonna have no luck but bad.”
One gambler took heed to the warning. Another young gambler, Edgar, shot Charlie Rock a cold stare. He wasn’t about to adhere to some foolish superstition.
Charlie Rock was too cool to even feed into the youngsters foolish. He had a notion to leave the game at that very moment, but he didn’t. His pride prevented him from doing so. He wasn’t about to let some young punk spook him with a hard stare. Everybody knew if it came to a fistfight that Charlie Rock would wipe the floor with this kid.
Charlie Rock wouldn’t normally be within fifty feet of these young dudes. He disliked the younger generation with a passion. Getting money wasn’t enough for them, they had to be violent too. All the gunplay was making it hard for everyone to eat. Charlie Rock did his best to stay out of these young kids way and hoped like hell that they stayed out of his. Charlie Rock felt it was his generation didn’t get the respect due for laying the groundwork so these kids to eat.
Edgar picked up the dice, shook them in his closed palm for a few seconds. Then he let them fly, snapping his fingers when the dice left his hand. Much to the astonishment of the crowd, the dice settled and Edgar had rolled an ace.
“Feel that! Stupid ass niggas don’t know shit! Watch his face when I ace this again!” Edgar shouted, pointing in Charlie Rock’s direction.
“Young boy, you best watch your mouth and save your muthafuckin’ teeth,” Charlie Rock shouted, firing back.
Laughter echoed through the building lobby. The other gamblers may have found the statement amusing but Charlie Rock wasn’t laughing. He didn’t take too kindly to disrespect in any form or from anyone.
The dice luck suddenly changed on Edgar. On his very next roll of the dice, he rolled one-two- three, an ace in the worst way.
“Alright, you know what it is, pass the dice,” Charlie Rock confidently said, taking a shot at Edgar. “Let a real gambler roll!”
The losing hand left Edgar feeling frustrated. He got so mad he didn’t bother to pass Charlie Rock the dice, but left them on the floor. Another player passed the dice to Charlie Rock. Edgar glared angrily when Charlie Rock took possession of the bones.
Charlie Rock’s face lit up with an arrogant smile. He loved the fact that Edgar was pissed off.
“What you got young boy?”
“Nigga, I’m out!” Edgar confessed.
“Move out the way then. Let a player who got some real money occupy that spot,” Charlie Rock’s body shook with laughter.
“Fuck You!” Edgar announced.
Charlie Rock landed an open hand, flushed on Edgar’s right cheek, smacking him in the face and flooring him. It left him dizzy and Edgar didn’t know what to do. He shook his head like a knocked down boxer, trying to regain composure and never responded.
Charlie Rock leaned over him, his fists balled up, ready to strike. The fight was already taken out of Edgar. It was clear that he wanted no parts of a fight.
“Who is this lil’ nigga? I don’t even know him and he be talkin’ all reckless like that to me. If y’all like this nigga, y’all better get‘em‘fore his lil ass get hurt…”
A couple of the gamblers helped Edgar off the floor. He wore a mask of shame when he scrambled to his feet. Edgar hurriedly exited the building. They played on as if nothing happened. Charlie Rock didn’t expect any retaliation. He was after all, the legendary Charlie Rock. This was his project was and he had been holding it down before a lot of these kids were born.
After the altercation, Charlie Rock immediately caught fire with the dice. He had the hot hand, rolling winner after winner. Taking all the other gamblers money was Charlie Rock’s only thought. Edgar wasn’t even an afterthought.
No one noticed Edgar slipping back inside the lobby, blending in with gamblers, but staying in the background. Having changed clothes and donning an oversized baseball cap, Edgar effectively hid his facial features.
Charlie Rock was talking that talk at the other gamblers while taking all their dough.
“You lil’ niggs sweet like young deer meat…! This shit too easy… I swear you lil’ niggas call yourself gamblers, huh? I can’t tell!”
The crowd roared, laughing and not watching Edgar inching his way ever so close. He discreetly made his way through the crowd. Finally, he was within arm’s reach, but just out of Charlie Rock’s eyesight. Most of the gamblers who had witnessed the altercation had left. Their luck had run out long before their money. The ones who remained were wrapped up in the dice game and paid no attention to Edgar.
“Git ‘em girls…!” Charlie Rock shouted, after intensely blowing on the dice.
The dice rolled from his fingers and Charlie Rock, along with all around him, followed the bounce of the bones with their eyes.
“Yeah, I done bust the bank open with that!” Charlie Rock said, leaning in closer to get a better view.
Caught up with awaiting the result, put Charlie Rock in a vulnerable position than ever. Edgar seized the opportunity to strike. He drew a nine-millimeter from his waistband and fired three shots in rapid succession.
“You ain’t so bad now, huh Charlie Rock,” Edgar said, holding the smoking gun.
Charlie Rock felt three sharp pains exploded in his back. A burning sensation unlike anything Charlie Rock had ever known engulfed him. His paranoia spread, when his body shook uncontrollably. He was going into shock and gamblers rushed to the elevators, staircase and the building’s exit. They were running out of fear that they might get shot also.
Edgar used this moment of temporary bedlam to flee the building. He brandished his weapon at anyone who dared to get close to him. When a few brave friends of Charlie Rock tried to give chase, Edgar turned and let off two shots in their direction. They ducked and gave up the chase. And that was the end of that.
Charlie Rock meanwhile, lay, in a semi-conscious state, motionless on the
floor. His clothing was soaked in blood. Residents quickly placed frantic calls to the authorities. Help was on the way, but Charlie Rock didn’t look too good. Miraculously the man known as Charlie Rock survived.
A short time later, Edgar’s bullet riddled body was found in one of the projects dumpster. Members of the Edenwald’s underworld reportedly settled the score for Charlie Rock.
Rumors still continue to swirl about who made the hit. No one was ever charged with Edgar’s murder. The incident shattered two lives. Edgar was confined to a coffin for eternity. Charlie Rock left to live in a wheelchair, pondering the thought of walking again for the rest of his life.
Over the course of his street life, Charlie Rock had been shot, stabbed and cut. He perpetrated these same criminal acts against others. Nothing can compare to the pain he now felt, the anguishing depression of knowing that he was a cripple. It was like his soul had died. Charlie Rock turned his body over to heavy drug abuse.
Melquan and Mike Copeland began to implement their plan the next day. Early the night before they started rallying the troops who were necessary. From trusted soldiers who had worked for them in the drug trade mixed in with some neighborhood tough guys, the recruit drive was successful. In a matter of hours, a dangerous team made up of a dozen dudes, were assembled. Those who didn’t have a gun of their own gun were immediately issued a handgun. With the required soldiers behind them, Melquan and Mike Copeland began spreading the word. This was a movement. Move with it or get moved on.
First they tracked down every major dealer that they knew. Those capable of posing a threat and offering resistance, from the North side to the South side of the projects, were the first to be hit.
Unless you push our product as of today you are no longer allowed to sell drugs in Edenwald.
Their message hit each person with the same clarity. Drug dealers who balked at the idea were pistol-whipped and or shot on the spot. Others whose cooperation was doubtful or those with unknown allegiance, were pressed constantly, roughed up, harassed and robbed.
The team’s objective, primarily Mike Copeland, was to make the opposition feel like they should have never left their apartment that day, let alone sell some drugs.
A harsh message was sent using brutal violence, extreme at times. Dealers quickly realized that this was not some rag tag takeover attempt, and they quickly began falling in line, one after another. Melquan and his team were for real, applying a suffocating full court press on the projects. There proved to be no drug dealer immune to this form of pressure.
Having stepped to everyone they targeted, Melquan and Mike Copeland turned their attention to the drug dealers in the horseshoe, the most lucrative open-air drug market in the projects at the time. It was time to pay them a visit.
From every possible entrance, Melquan, Mike Copeland and their small army of black hooded goons entered the horseshoe. They descended on the horseshoe, guns drawn. They pushed their prey, drug dealers, into a mini-playground enclosure, while letting children and innocent by-standers escape. Guns were produced to get everyone’s undivided attention and assure everyone’s co-operation.
“Yo, pat these niggers down,” Mike Copeland ordered. “Make sure none these niggas got gun on ‘em.”
One by one, from their waistline to their ankles, persons in question received a thorough frisk. From the look on their faces, no one liked what was happening. With weapons trained on them, they were in no position to object.
“Mike, I found a ratchet on dis nigga,” a soldier shouted.
Mike Copeland calmly walked over to the dealer in question. His worker handed him the gun, and he quickly examined it then stuffed it in his waistband.
“So what was you gon’ do with that?” Mike asked the dealer.
There was no response. The dealer defiantly stared at him, triggering raw emotion. Mike Copeland viciously bitch-slapped the guy’s face.
“Nigga, you ass…!” Mike Copeland spat. “You couldn’t bust a grape in a fruit fight. That’s my gun now.”
Two things were achieved by Mike Copeland’s public humiliation of this dealer. One, they confiscated a firearm, gun were becoming increasing harder and harder to come by in New York City. Now there was one less gun in the projects and one less weapon in the enemy’s hand. Two, now let them worry about getting shot with their own gun. This negatively affected their mental and gave them a defeated attitude. They were now less capable of defending themselves.
After everyone was searched, a sweep of the vicinity was conducted. This was to ensure that no one had stashed a gun nearby that they could have accessed. It could mean more than just the end of a meeting. Melquan, Mike Copeland and any of their soldiers, this could mean lost of life.
When the search was over, everyone was forced to sit down. Melquan, Mike Copeland and their crew were the only ones standing up.
“Ga ‘head, homie,” Mike Copeland announced. “It’s on you.”
Melquan waited for the rumble to subside. Then he addressed his captive audience.
“Lemme first of all say, ain’t nothing personal ‘bout this. Dis bizness! I know all y’all, and y’all know me… I’m a keep it brief. This is what this is, y’all who heard, maybe didn’t hear… We takin’ over da projects! So from this day forth until we say so, this is what it is…”
Back talking and rumblings were heard coming from amongst dissenters. The noise grew, drowning the speaker’s address. Mike Copeland quickly dispatched himself to put a cease to it.
“A yo, money,” he said, stepping up to the biggest dude. “Don’t you hear my man talkin’? So why is you fuckin’ talkin’ huh?”
Before anyone knew Mike Copeland had quickly sucker-punched dude in the face. Embarrassed, the dude placed his face inside his palms and fell back. Mike Copeland momentarily, glared with evil intentions at him.
“Melquan, go ahead and continue,” Mike Copeland said. “You won’t have any more interruptions outta none of these niggas. That’s my word!”
Melquan paused, and invitingly staring down at a few of them, he waited but no one dared utter another word. If they had a problem with what was being said, then they kept it like a deadly secret.
“Yeah, so like I was sayin’,” Melquan continued. “Things getting outta control out here in da shoe. Niggas wildin’ but ain’t gotta single dollar to show for it. It’s only a matter of time ‘fore po-po come shut this shit down. So before they do, I will… Y’all goin’ ta buy all y’all weight from me. No more goin’ ta Broadway, Amsterdam or wherever ta cop. You git it from us or you don’t git it at all… I got it all, eight balls, quarters, halves and ounces of that Hard White. It’s a slightly higher price than you use to… But the good thing is y’all don’t have ta hop in no cab and take a risk of gettin’ knocked… We’ve already done it fa you. Da work’s already here in the projects.”
“So how we know that shit is official?” someone asked.
“Cause I said so. You got my word that the work is flavor. You won’t git no complaints from the heads. We got samples for anyone interested.”
There was a rumbling amongst the crowd. Dudes sighed while others sucked their teeth to express disinterest. Mike Copeland and the rest of the goons were ready to crack their heads if necessary. Melquan waved them off. He waited for the voices in the crowd to be silenced before he continued.
“Yo, like it or not, this is what it’s goin’ ta be. If any of you nigger’s not down ta kill or die over this shit then shut the fuck up…” Melquan barked. “Fa’ all y’all who can’t afford no weight we’ll front y’all sumthin reasonable… Start y’all out with packs before movin’ y’all to some weight… Y’all won’t be workin’ fa me… Rather with me.”
Melquan let his words resonate amongst his distinguished guest. He watched the stares of disbelief registered on their faces. Loving or hating his idea didn’t matter to Melquan, they would respect it.
Warning was issued to all of them. There was nothing else for him to say. The meeting came to
an adjournment. The ball was now in their court. The next move was theirs to make, if they had the balls to do it.
“I ain’t rockin’ wit dat!” someone said in the distance. “Those niggas got to be fuckin’ crazy. Ain’t nothing in dat shit fa nobody but them.”
Melquan heard the accusation and immediately he heard his lieutenant’s response.
“Pussy-ass niggas…!” Mike Copeland shouted. “Tell ya fuckin’ story walkin’. I see you out here pushin’ that shit I’m tax dat ass!”
Nashawn was conspicuously absent from the meeting. It bothered Melquan. He wanted to see the look on his rivals face when he flexed his muscle. That wasn’t to be so he sent him a message.
“Hey yo,” he said. “One a y’all tell Nashawn we wanna holla at him. And it’s in his best interest if he sees us before we see him. Feel me?”
The crowd soon dispersed, drug dealers piled out. Some hurried to get guns and others ran to make phone calls about what just transpired. Melquan, Mike Copeland and their goons withdrew from the horseshoe too. Expecting retaliation, they re-strategized and reinforced their ranks with additional troops.
Mike Copeland puffed on the Newport, staring at Melquan as they walked. He seemed to be deep in thoughts. He glance at Melquan’s eyes and exhaled then he spoke.
“A wise man once said, ‘You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink it.’”
“But he ain’t say nothing about force feedin’ ‘em,” Melquan replied.
A big sarcastic smile made its way across Mike Copeland’s excited grill. He enjoyed beef. This was a way to enhance his already lengthy reputation as a shooter. It didn’t take Mike Copeland long to come to terms with the violence associated with his chosen profession. His code of shoot or be shot, was what he lived by and the latter wasn’t appealing.
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