Cracked Dreams

by Michael Daniel Baptiste

  “Cum for me, Daddy,” she said with the sexiest, most sensual voice I could imagine. That’s all it took. Within seconds I was ready to explode. The intensity grew with every movement. I felt a rippling wave flow through my body as I began to erupt. With her hands clenched into my chest, her grip grew tighter and tighter as she came right along with me. When we were both through, she laid her head on my chest, and fell asleep to the sound of my heartbeat.

  All over again, my mind started to race as I lay in Ginger’s bed smoking a cigarette, while she slept beside me. All of the stress from when I’d first hung up the phone with Trigger came rushing back. I’d need to get a lot of money together for this shit. Bail money was the least of my worries. We were going to need a good lawyer for Trigger, and for any one of us that caught a case. It was time for grind mode.

  I called Tone first. I had to see if he was really serious about all that shit he was talking in Daytona. If I was sure of his dedication, I’d call Louie and Rob next. I had to set up a meeting with them to propose that they transport in and out of the States through me for a reasonable price, while I purchased directly from Mr. Ortiz. That shit would be perfect.

  CHAPTER 5

  YEAR — 2000

  Here this mu’fucka go again,” Spits said to himself as he spotted the ol’ timer from earlier approaching. He looked to the left, and all he saw was the blackness that consumed the Bronx Park at 4:15 a.m. He looked to the right, and there was nothing but a blinking streetlight on the other side of the overpass. That was it. It was just him, the darkness and the damn blinking streetlight. Considering the limited resources, Spits started to look at this ol’ timer as his only option. He got his attention and signaled for him to come over to where he was sitting. Once he got there, he began to run a little game of his own.

  “What’s up, Money?” said Spits.

  “Money?” he said with uncertainty.

  “Uh-huh, that must be ya name, nigga. You said you gonna make me rich, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. But you young bastards nowadays think you know every fuckin’ thing.”

  “Listen, mu’fucka,” Spits said as he brandished a chrome .45mm pistol. “Don’t think for a second that you can’t get it. My kindness is not to be mistaken for weakness, pussy. Just cuz you don’t know me, don’t mean I ain’t known. Now, I got a proposal for you,” he said, now raising the pretty pearl-handled cannon to the side of the guy’s head. “Either I could let you have it, or I could let you hold sumthin’. Make a choice.”

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean any disrespect. What do you want me to do?” the man asked with obvious fear in his voice.

  “Yeah,” Spits said, lowering the gun. “You gonna do some legwork for me. For every ten sales you bring me, I’ll let you hold sumthin’. Feel me?”

  “Sounds good to me, sir. Sorry for the disrespect, young m-man—I mean, sir. Umm, what should I call you?”

  “Call me Spits, Money.”

  “Spits? You’re Mike Spits?” he asked, realizing whom he had been bad-mannered toward. Realizing that his shit-talking could’ve just gotten him killed, a little ass-kissing couldn’t possibly hurt.

  “Yeah, now go ahead and make me some paper.”

  At first, Spits felt better when the ol’ timer realized who he was, but that quickly faded. It actually made him aware of whom he had become in such a short time period. Four or five years ago, he wouldn’t have cared whether or not some nobody crack-fiend knew his name. His priorities had changed completely, and he regretted every decision he’d made since that summer of ’96. For the first time in years, Spits was actually genuinely considering retiring from the game. The day had to come sooner or later. Better sooner, than later.

  “Damn, it’s already four-fucking-thirty, and I ain’t moved shit out here yet,” said Spits, beginning to show his frustration. As he sat there on that park bench for all of those hours, he started to realize that the park hadn’t changed much at all since they’d first started. Still, it sure wasn’t like it used to be.

  YEAR — 1997

  “Yo son, turn that shit up,” said El Don from the back seat of Michael’s brand-new Lexus LX450, as they breezed past their old spot on Gun Hill Road without even giving it a second thought.

  “That’s that shit,” Poncho said in agreement. As Spits reached for the knob, realizing what song was coming on, he bumped the stereo to its maximum volume. As the beat started to settle, and the hook came in, they all began singing along.

  “You belong to the city . . .You belong to the night . . .In the river of darkness . . .He’s the man of the nigh . . .t”

  Jay-Z’s new album, In My Lifetime Vol. 1, was crucial to have bumping in your ride; especially a ride like Michael’s new Lex truck. It was a silver ’97 LX450 with a tan leather interior, a six-CD changer, set in a cherrywood grain dash. It had a power sunroof, tinted windows and it was sitting on some 20-inch Pirellis. It was his new toy, and he loved it. Needless to say, his new ventures into the drug game had been most profitable.

  His idea to transport for Louie and Rob Ortiz had gone over well with the brothers; they’d been extremely excited to get started as well as Spits. Between September of last year and now, Louie and Rob had brought over 50 kilos of cocaine to the States from Puerto Rico through Tone and Spits. That’s not even counting the bricks Spits flew in for TB distribution. They’d become an enterprise worth millions of dollars collectively.

  Now that the TB Family was worth a little paper, they’d started to act like it. Just as planned, they’d all gotten tattoos on their right forearms that illustrated the love and dedication they had for each other. They had an insignia designed that fit them perfectly so that no one else could have it that read: “T.B.T.B.T. – Time Bombs the Bronx Terrorists.” They’d also followed through with their original plans to get TB rings flooded with diamonds. They’d also gotten their own apartments respectively. It was definitely their time to shine.

  With all of the success, the Time Bomb Family had become a crack-household name all over the Bronx, including the police departments. They often had to grease off numerous police officers from two or three different precincts just so that they’d turn their heads a bit while everything transpired. They didn’t have any particular officers on the payroll, but whenever they were faced with that type of situation, they gave no hesitation. Everyone on the streets of the Bronx knew who the Time Bombs were. Their reputation spoke for itself, and it was so thick you could feel it whenever any one of them walked into a room.

  It took only a few days after Spits had gotten back from Daytona for them to get the money together to post the $100,000 bail for Trigger, and he’d been awaiting trial ever since. The lawyer Spits had retained for Trigger, William D. Oberman, had gotten his trial pushed back so that they’d have sufficient time to get his defense ready, or if worse came to worst, construct a contingency plan if he had to go on the run. But the courts wouldn’t wait much longer, no matter how good his lawyer was, and he was good.

  William, or “The Doberman” as they called him, was the lawyer for all of Mr. Ortiz’s associates in the States. TB had become of some importance to his organization, so he plugged them in. It was in both of their best interests. The Doberman had over fifteen years of experience under his belt. He’d spent a substantial amount of his career as a district attorney in Columbus, Ohio, but soon discovered his love for money was greater than his passion for justice.

  Anyway, until that date came for Trigger to come before the judge, he was free to roam the streets. In fact, they were on their way to pick him up at that very moment. With Spits driving, Don and P. riding in the back, and Ceelow up front, they were going to scoop up Trigger at his crib so they could go meet some prospective buyers in Washington Heights, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

  “Where this mu’fucka at, dog?” asked Spits, worrying that they might be late for their meeting. “Yo, Cee, you called this nigga before we left the crib, right?”

 
“Yeah, nigga. You was standing right there when I called him!” responded Ceelow as Spits tried to shift the blame to him. “He probably up there with some bitch.”

  “Word up,” agreed El Don as he passed a newly lit blunt to Poncho. “My nigga always got a broad buffing his tip.”

  Don’s comment made them all laugh; except for Spits. He got angry and didn’t think it was a joking matter.

  “Yeah, well that’s gonna be his downfall,” said Spits with no humor in his voice whatsoever. “The day you let a piece of ass get in the way of business, is the day you might as well hang it up,” he said, now directing his words toward the rest of them.

  “Here this nigga come,” said Poncho, pointing toward Trigger’s front door. “Yup, and there’s the hoe that he must’ve been smashin’.”

  Trigger walked toward the car, after dismissing the female he’d come out of the building with, and then jumped in the car. As they drove off, Spits shot him a disappointing look as he described the perverted activities that had kept him too busy to realize how late it had gotten. He went on to express to the crew his deepest apologies and they all, including Spits, brushed off the incident entirely.

  When they finally arrived they were twenty minutes late, and if these Dominicans were anything like Spits, they wouldn’t tolerate tardiness. They met at a place called Fernando’s Coffee Shop on 153rd and Amsterdam Avenue. They were there to meet up with Pitto and Willie Hernandez, two Dominican coke-pushers looking to take over the Washington Heights drug trade via the TB organization. When they pulled up, they were greeted by four large gentlemen standing in the front of the establishment. It may have been an attempt on the part of Pitto and Willie to look intimidating, but that shit didn’t work a bit on Spits and the rest of the crew.

  “Look at these mu’fuckin’ oye’s tryin’ to look hard over here,” said Spits. “Fuckin’ amateur night and shit . . .who they supposed to be scaring?”

  “I don’t know,” Cee answered. “But I know if one of them try and pop off, I’m gonna knock somebody ass the fuck out.”

  “Anyway,” Spits said. “Let’s see what these mu’fuckas is talking about. Yo, just in case, make sure all of ya’ll got a slug chambered, and if I say ‘let’s get down to business,’ start blazing, i-ight?”

  They all nodded in agreement, and then Spits, Trigger and Cee got out while Don P. waited in the truck.

  As they walked toward the door, without any words being spoken, the four guys parted for their entry. They were then directed to the rear of the coffee shop where there was a table set up for their meeting. When they arrived at the table, Pitto and Willie sat there staring up at them as if disgusted at the sight of them.

  “Pitto,” Willie said. “Tome este como una lección aprendió a no tratar con Negro,” he said as he looked Spits up and down.

  “Oye mu’fucka,” said Spits, showing a little rage. “No me subestime apenas porque soy Negro. We here, ain’t we?”

  “What did he say?” whispered Ceelow to Trigger.

  “He said ‘that’s why you should never deal with Blacks,’” answered Trigger. “And Spits told him not to underestimate us. These mu’fuckas is basically trying to play us.”

  “Now,” Spits said. “If we’re through playing childish games, don’t we have some things to take care of, so we can get the fuck outta here?”

  Aside from the way the meeting began, it turned out successful. They came to an agreement to take fifteen kilos of pure Colombian coke that they’d purchase quarterly throughout the year (every three months). Now, this deal was just for openers, but it would still bring the Family approximately $1.8 million over the course of a year, and every year that followed. The first payment was due in one week at a location that would be later determined. This relationship looked promising for the Family, as all they would be were middlemen for an extremely generous fee. While they paid $10,000 per kilo, they were charging $30,000. The price was high, but the quality of the product suggested that price to be a suitable one. Besides, once they had a sample, they couldn’t even pronounce “too much money.” Plus, Spits reassured them that they’d handle all of the transportation involved. They couldn’t be more satisfied.

  By now, the TB Family was moving two kilos monthly through Tone down in Daytona Beach. They transported approximately twenty-five kilos for the Ortiz Brothers every month. Along with some street corners they had under control along Bronxwood Avenue that they called “The Woods” they had an apartment set up for hand-to-hand sales and a phone number that you could call for weight volumes. And now with this deal set in motion, it put their average gross at about $2.96 million every three months (give or take a few hundred grand). Whoa!

  When they left Fernando’s, they parted ways once back in the Bronx. They all had to get back to the crib to get ready for that night. A celebration was in order and if they knew how to do anything, it was party. When Spits reached his apartment, he went fumbling through his closet for the perfect outfit. When he was finally satisfied, he had a jet-black Iceberg leather pair of pants laid out with a jacket to match jean-suit style. Under that he would put a charcoal gray and black Iceberg sweater and the skull hat to go with it. On his feet would be a crispy pair of Wallabee Clarks, black with the sides dyed charcoal gray. He posed for himself in the mirror while adjusting his sleeve on his new Cartier watch so that the diamonds in the bezel could be shown. He polished off the ice on his right-hand ring finger where he wore his Time Bomb crew ring, and he was ready to do it up until sunrise.

  They’d all meet on the Block for a little fashion show before they were off. Spits insisted on reaching there after everyone had already showcased their gear so that he could blow up the spot. He pulled up in his newly waxed Lexus LX450, with the streetlights gleaming off the hood. As the driver’s side window came down Spits let his hand hang out, and the ice sparkling from his watch was even more blinding. When he smiled out of the window, they all began to holler in awe at the show he was trying to put on.

  Capone -N- Noreaga were supposed to be performing at Jimmy’s Café in the Bronx that night, and Spits intentionally had their debut album War Report bumping from his system. When the door opened, the song playing was suited perfectly for the situation. After they’d all given each other pounds and hugs, they began singing along with the music.

  “T-O-N-Y . . .Invade NY . . .Multiply . . .Kill a cop . . .Me and you . . .You got beef . . .I got beef.”

  It had become the new street anthem in the Bronx and every other hood you could imagine and for good reason, too; especially for the Time Bombs. The streets had been eagerly awaiting this type of bomb since the Infamous album in ’95. As laid-back as the vocals were released, it still brought the animal thug out of you. As the crew went on chanting, Spits took a long hard look at their circle. He looked at them all closer than he’d ever looked at them before and said to himself, “This is my family.”

  They had more fun that night than they’d ever had. It was like a new life party, or like a huge weight had been lifted off their shoulders. They finally could relax in knowing that they’d be financially set for the rest of their lives. It was the most comforting feeling to have.

  The night was temporarily saddened at the news that Capone wouldn’t be performing, as he was picked up by the police on a robbery charge, POSSIBLE LEGAL ISSUE but Noreaga still came out and did his thing. When the crew was tired and sweaty from going crazy on the dance floor, they all met back at a booth in the VIP area. As the best night of their lives together came to a close they gathered around the table, each with a bottle of Cristal in hand, and still toasted to “Moe’s, hoes and zeros” for old times’ sake. They also vowed that the next toast, and from then on, would be to “Dom P’s and palm trees” respectively.

  CHAPTER 6

  Monday, March 17, 1997 was the day Trigger’s trial was set to begin. It was a cold and rainy day in New York but you couldn’t have asked me, because I was in sunny California. My intentions weren’t completely politica
l; I mean, I had no desire to be anywhere near the courtroom, but for a while I’d wanted to visit my sister, Rachel. Rachel and I hadn’t seen much of each other during our childhood, but we’d gotten closer to one another as we grew.

  While I was there, I stayed with her at her apartment complex in Sunnyvale, California called Oak Pointe Apartments. It was a real shitty neighborhood and the complex security was some real bullshit, but she had a duplex three-bedroom apartment to decorate, and it was decked out top to bottom. Her living room consisted of two cream-colored leather sofas with a light-gray trim and pillows that matched. A glass coffee table was set in the middle of the room in front of a big-screen television with a satellite connection and DVD. Wall-to-wall carpeting flowed through the entire apartment, also cream-colored with a light-gray border, and vertical blinds shielded the apartment from the sun. She had a master bedroom, a guest bedroom and turned the last room into an office that she mostly used for her schoolwork. She attended California State University pursuing a degree in nursing, and also maintained a job at the San Jose Hospital as a nurse’s aide. Her father mostly paid for her education expenses, while her bills were up to her to handle. She had a nice little setup out in Cali, and she made her little brother proud.