Block Party

by Al-Saadiq Banks

  Block Party

  Block Party

  Al–Saadiq Banks

  True 2 Life Productions

  Block Party

  All Rights Reserved © 2003 by True 2 Life Productions

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, actual events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended to give the fiction a sense of reality and authencity. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  For information contact:

  True 2 Life Productions

  P.O. Box 8722

  Newark, NJ 07108

  E-mail: True2lifeproductions@verizon.net

  Website: www.True2LifeProductions.com

  Author’s E-mail: Alsaadiqbanks@aol.com

  ISBN: 0-9740610-1-8

  Printed in Canada

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  DEDICATION

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Comments

  R.I.P. SHELDON DEAS November 20, 1972 – October 24, 2003

  Introduction

  Today is my first day home. The last time I saw the streets was August of “93” when the judge sentenced me to 108 months in federal prison.

  I was released about 26 months before my time was up. I’m the first one from my crew to make it home. In total, seven of us were busted. They charged us with everything including organized crime, money laundering, and tax evasion. You name it, we were charged with it.

  Being that I had no prior convictions and they didn’t have any recorded phone conversations with me on them, I got off the easiest. At the time of my departure, I was 28 years old. The others ranged from 31 to 38 years old. We were nabbed through our cellular phones. The leader, the eldest member of the crew, ignorantly started doing business with a federal agent. He was welcomed with open arms. We fully trusted him, and we were thrilled that he sold kilos to us so cheap. That was the bait he used to reel us in. At that particular time, kilos were going for $21,000 a pop; we were getting them at $14,000 a piece. Greed made us accept him without a doubt.

  He knew everything about all of us. He knew where everyone lived, and he even knew each of our girlfriends personally. Everything was fine until he supposedly came across a cellular phone connection and gave every member of the crew a phone.

  We never did business with him directly. The only two who did business with him were Big Jake and Ab. They’re never coming home. The feds have them on tape negotiating a deal consisting of 50 kilos.

  Big Jake and Ab were the leaders. They bought the work and distributed it to me and the other four guys. Each of us controlled our designated part of the city. Jake and Ab were selling kilos all over the planet. Never did I imagine how much money they were making until we were on trial and all the evidence was brought up.

  One thing Ab always told us was to mind our own business and only worry about what we were doing. His saying was “Never look in a man’s mouth while he’s eating.” I always took heed; besides, I had too much on my own plate. I was only a baby in the game, and I was already getting major loot. Ab always told me how much love they had for me. They admired the way I handled my business and stayed out of theirs.

  I learned so much from those guys. They taught me all kinds of money getting tactics and strategies. But now it’s over. They’re never coming home. No more Jake and no more Ab. Just me, “Cashmere,” and I’m going to make it to the top one way or another.

  Just watch me!

  CHAPTER 1

  June 2000

  “Baby, are you ready?” Love asks as she hurries to the door.

  “Yeah, here I come,” I reply. “Where are my car keys?”

  “On the top of the refrigerator,” Love answers.

  Love is my wife. We got married while I was in prison four years ago. Don’t ask me why such a beautiful person would marry a prisoner. At times I ask myself that same question. She has so much going for her. She has beauty and brains, not to mention that she has the cutest little shape- petite but sexy. She’s built sort of like a ballerina. She only stands about 5 feet 4 inches.

  Love is an English teacher at a high school. I met her when she was in college. We would hang out every now and then, but it was nothing serious. Back then I had too many women to take one seriously. Shit, I was only 20 years old, and I was already ghetto rich.

  For the entire first year that I was away all my chicks came to visit me, and they wrote to me faithfully. But eventually, they all faded- all except Love.

  When I was upstate, she would visit me every weekend for years. I was totally shocked when she proposed to me. I mean, I felt the same way for her, but I didn’t want to play myself by proposing to her and getting rejected. I accepted, and she’s been holding me down ever since. That’s why I promised her a big wedding and the biggest ring I could afford, just to show her my gratitude.

  “Damn baby, you look good this morning,” I compliment.

  “Thank you,” she replies, blushing from ear to ear.

  She does look good this morning. She’s so beautiful. Like I told you earlier, she is 5 feet 4 inches and she only weighs 105 pounds. She is very petite, but she fills out in all the right places. She has hair well past shoulder length. Her complexion is a reddish-Indian colored tone. She has big brown eyes and the prettiest smile you could ever see. She is so attractive. She doesn’t have to wear tight clothes to get attention. Her natural beauty alone turns the heads of everyone in her presence.

  “Give me a kiss,” I suggest. (Smooch) “Give me another one,” I demand.

  “No, come on. I’m going to be late,” she says as she opens the front door. “Come on!”

  Sniff! Aghh! This ghetto air sure smells good. This is one of the things I missed the most. Spending seven years cooped up in prison made me realize how ungrateful I was. I mean, it’s a blessing just to be able to walk out to your porch and take a big sniff of this polluted air. I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

  I couldn’t have come home at a better time. Today is such a beautiful day. Today is the first day of summer. The temperature is perfect; it’s not too hot. It’s only about 76 degrees, with a nice breeze.

  As we reach the porch, I notice a junkie all huddled up on my bottom step.

  “Pardon me, are y
ou waiting for someone?” I ask.

  “Huh?”

  “I said, are you waiting for someone?”

  “Nah,” he answers quickly.

  “Well, I would appreciate it if you don’t block my porch.”

  “The Mayor instructed me to sit here,” he replies.

  “What?” I ask.

  “The Mayor, he told me to sit here and watch over the block.”

  “The Mayor?” I ask. “Who the fuck is the Mayor? Listen, the Mayor don’t own this house, I do. I bought this house for my grandmother nine years ago for $160,000 cash. Me, not the Mayor, not the fucking president. Now get the fuck off my stoop.”

  “Calm down honey,” Love insists.

  “Nah, fuck that!”

  “Whoa, whoa, I don’t want any trouble with you. I’m getting up,” shouts the man as he rises and starts crossing the street. “You’ll have to settle this with the Mayor.”

  “Fuck the Mayor! Tell him I said it. My name is Cashmere.”

  “All right, I’ll tell him,” he replies arrogantly.

  “Baby, baby, calm down,” Love whispers as we walk through the alleyway toward the garage.

  This is my first time in my car in seven years. It’s a 1993 S-500 Mercedes Benz with a walnut colored interior. I bought it brand spanking new. Back then it cost me $70,000 cash. It doesn’t look quite the way I remember it, with seven years of dirt covering it.

  As I get out to jump my battery with my wife’s car, I notice the filthy rims. Never would I have let my rims get this dirty. I still remember the exact day I bought them. At that time, Lorinsers were going for $2,500 a tire. I was so in love with this car. I used to hand wash and wax it myself every morning.

  “Baby, try to start it up now,” I shout. “There we go. Rev it up a little bit.” (Vroom, Vroom!) As I sit behind the wheel letting the car warm up, I go back in time. I envision Love and me back when we were just dating. You couldn’t tell me nothing, riding around the town in a brand new Mercedes. I was just barely 20 years old. Niggas was hating, but they couldn’t do anything. They knew better than to cross anybody from our crew. Big Jake didn’t play. He was the muscle. He loved to put in work.

  “Come on Donald. I’m going to be late!” Love interrupts my thoughts. Oh yeah, Donald is my government name-Donald Pierson. Cashmere is my nickname.

  As we bounce down the avenue, I turn on the cassette. You wouldn’t believe what came out of the speakers- Miss. Jones singing on Ron G’s back- to- school- mix tape. Whoa, that definitely takes me back. My favorite tape is still in the tape player.

  Love laughs. “I haven’t heard that song in a long time.”

  “Word up,” I agree.

  “I was so tired of you and that tape,” she admits. “Every time you came to pick me up, you always had that same tape playing.”

  “Yeah, this was my favorite joint.”

  “Pull over right here,” says Love. (Smooch) “Bye baby. I’ll see you at this exit at 3 o’clock.”

  “All right,” I confirm. As I watch her walk through the door, I realize how lucky I am to have a wife like her. For seven years she has held me down, and she also took care of my grandmother while she was sick. After Big Ma died, Love kept the house up. Big Ma died from throat cancer my first year into my bid. She loved to smoke cigarettes.

  Big Ma raised me. My mother and father are both strung out on drugs somewhere in who knows where. Actually, who cares? I haven’t seen either of them since I was about 5 years old. I probably wouldn’t recognize them if they were right in my face. After they walked out of my life, Big Ma took all the pictures she had of my mother off the wall. It was like she never existed. As for my father’s side of the family, I don’t know any of them.

  As I get closer to the house where my kids live, I get nervous. I haven’t seen them in three years. We lost contact once I left from upstate. Prior to that, my sister always brought them to visit me. From there, they shipped me off to Indiana. You know, I didn’t get a single visit while I was out there.

  What will I say to them? Will they remember me? We have a lot of catching up to do.

  I have two boys. Ahmir is the older one. He’s nine, and Ahmad is eight. The mother, well that’s another story. Her name is Desire. She’s a money- grubbing weed head, whom I spent most of my time and money with. I couldn’t shake her. Everywhere I went, she always ended up too until my last day on the street. I haven’t seen or heard from her since I’ve been away. Any dealings that I had with my two boys were through my sister.

  Desire had a baby by some cat that everyone called Rah-Base, who later turned out to be Rah-Base head. Now he’s a straight crackhead. I’ve heard he’s running around here smoked out, weighing about 125 pounds. He was a big nigga, about 185 pounds solid. He’s from across town. He supposedly was big time. I don’t know him. He wasn’t big time when I was home. The only niggas who were moving out was us, and if you weren’t with us, you couldn’t eat. There were no stragglers; Jake made sure of that.

  As I pull up in front of the house, I notice a black Denali with big rims parked in the driveway. It’s fully loaded. It has televisions, running boards, chrome pipes- the works.

  My heart is pounding so hard as I walk up the stairs. Before I can ring the bell, the door opens up.

  “What’s up Big Time? Bang Man! They finally let your ass go, huh?”

  This is Desire’s father. He’s my man. He’s a junkie has-been. At one time, he was the shit. Back in his day, he really had it going on. He had more money than you could imagine. In the 70s, any drugs that came through this town came through him. The only problem was that he loved to shoot dope. After his wife left him, he went haywire. She always complained about his lifestyle, and then one day, she picked up and left him and Desire. Her whereabouts are unknown.

  This guy knows everything. Anything you need to know, just ask him. He schooled me about these streets. Had I listened to him, I wouldn’t have gotten cased up. He told me over and over again to stay away from Jake and Ab. He had known them ever since they were little kids, and had watched them grow up. He always told me their greed would be the cause of their downfall. He would say “Boy you keep running around here with them, you’re going to go to jail forever.” I didn’t want to hear it. I was living the life.

  “Slim, what’s up?” I ask.

  “Bang Man, I’m so glad to see you!” he shouts back.

  “I’m glad to see you too.”

  As I look Slim over, I notice that his hands and feet are much bigger than they were. They’re also swollen from shooting dope. His feet are busting out of his sneakers. He cut slits in his sneakers so his feet could fit in them. And his hands, they look like 14-ounce-boxing gloves.

  “Where are you headed?” I ask.

  “Bang Man!” That’s how he starts the majority of his sentences. He says it’s a habit. He’s done that ever since I first met him. “I’m about to go down the hill and do me. I’m on E.” E means he needs his morning dose of dope. “Let me get $10 Big Time,” Slim begs. “I’m sick. If I don’t get my medicine, I’m going to shit on myself.” That’s the effect the dope has on some people. If they can’t get it, some will throw up or even shit on themselves. They can’t function without it. The majority of them will just lay around, cramped up, suffering with aching bones until they get a hit.

  “Here you go,” I offer. “Get two bags.” I hate to see Slim sick. He’s done so much for me. Anything I can do to help him, I’ll do it. I know giving him dope isn’t really helping him, but if I don’t give it to him, he’ll be in a world of pain. What am I supposed to do?

  “Bang Man, thanks. I didn’t know how I was going to get off E. I might have had to pull my razor on a motherfucker, he admits with a smile. He’s smiling, but he’s serious. A dope fiend can get violent if you have what he needs and won’t help him. I’ve seen it done a million times. Dope isn’t pleasure; it’s a necessity. Users have to have it by any means. Never forget that.

  “When are we getti
ng back in business?” Slim asks as he limps down the stairs.

  “I don’t know yet, but I got big plans,” I reply.

  “Bang Man, that’s what I’m talking about!” he shouts. “Big Time, let me give you a word for the wise. No more cocaine. The dope game done took over.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he answers. “Did I ever steer you wrong?”

  “You know I don’t know nothing about the dope game,” I admit. “All I ever fucked with was that powder.”

  “What do you think I’m here for?” he asks. “I know all about it.”

  “All right Slim. We’ll kick it later. Are my boys in there?”

  “Yeah, they’re in the back. Desire is in the room with some little chump. This is his truck right here. I’m glad you’re home; maybe you can knock some sense into her head. She’s out of control. She won’t listen to me. She’s a damn go-go dancer now.”

  “Yeah?” I question as if I didn’t already know.

  “Yeah, little gold-digging hoochie. I take the blame though. It’s all my fault. I gave her too much. I spoiled her. Back when I was rich, I gave her whatever she wanted. She was only six years old, wearing mink coats and riding in the back of Cadillacs. She’s used to the finer things in life. Then you came along and added more fuel to the fire. She never had to work for anything. All she knows how to do is put on a sad face when she wants something. But the game has changed. These young boys are a lot smarter than ya’ll was, Big Time. You gotta fuck and suck these young niggas before you get a soda out of them. Ain’t shit free!”

  “I hear that,” I agree.

  “Bang Man, let me get moving before I pass out right here,” Slim says.

  “All right, later Slim.”

  I thought about what Slim just said. It was partly my fault; I did help spoil her. Instead of pushing her to do something with her life, I just gave her money to tear up the mall. Now she’s almost 40 years old with three kids and no skills. She’s resorted to shaking her ass for a living and letting niggas stick their dirty fingers in her pussy for one lousy- ass dollar.

  I had heard about her. My sister told me back when she first started dancing.