Street Pharm

by Allison van Diepen

  * * *

  Thank you for downloading this eBook.

  Find out about free book giveaways, exclusive content, and amazing sweepstakes! Plus get updates on your favorite books, authors, and more when you join the Simon & Schuster Teen mailing list.

  CLICK HERE TO LEARN MORE

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com/teen

  * * *

  For Elizabeth van Diepen,

  a.k.a. “G.” The coolest grandma ever.

  My heartfelt thanks:

  To Michelle Nagler at Simon Pulse for her

  unflagging enthusiasm and faith in this book.

  To my family for their love and support.

  To my former students at Sheepshead Bay High

  School in Brooklyn for a lifetime of inspiration.

  And to Dan Hooker, my extraordinary agent, who

  passed away several months after the sale of this book.

  Thank you for helping me realize my dream.

  TYRONE JOHNSON, SELF-MADE MAN

  What are you gonna be when you grow up?” That’s what most kids got asked.

  Not me.

  Mom always asked me what I wasn’t gonna be, and you know what she wanted me to say?

  A dealer, stealer, free-wheeler, player, hater, a downright dog—that’s what my dad was.

  When I came home from school, Mom was on the couch watching Dr. Phil. As usual.

  “How was school, baby?”

  “Good.” No way I was gonna tell her I got kicked out. Really ass-to-the-curb kicked out this time. Starting tomorrow, I was supposed to show up at some alternative school.

  “You working hard?”

  “Yeah.” Sweet, clueless Mom never noticed that I hadn’t carried a book bag since the ninth grade.

  “There’s beef patties in the oven.”

  I checked the clock: 3:37 p.m. She’d be getting up from the sofa in about three minutes, getting ready for fifteen, and out the door in twenty.

  When the commercial came on, Mom went to her room. I attacked the patties, only stopping to add more ketchup. A few minutes later, she came back into the kitchen in her grocery store uniform, her name tag already pinned on like she was proud or something. “You working tonight?” she asked me.

  “Yeah.” I gave up my cheek for a kiss while guzzling o.j., and she threw on her coat and hurried out the door.

  Mom thought I worked at the Flatbush Sports Club on Atlantic Avenue. I ain’t worked there a day in my life—but the manager owed me. He was one of my customers.

  Time to get down to this brother’s real bread-and-butter.

  I took out my cell and speed-dialed Sonny.

  “Ty! What the fuck’s going on? Why’d you turn off your cell?”

  “Mind your business. What’s going on?”

  “I need your help, son. Tonight we got us some deliveries.”

  “Already got some.”

  “Well, I got more for you.”

  “Go on.”

  I wrote the stuff in my phone.

  “Hold up,” I said, “who’s this Schultz guy?”

  “A new customer I met last week. Told him we was getting a shipment with the hottest shit this side of Bogotá. He gonna drop five Gs!”

  “You ain’t kidding. How’d he find out about us?”

  “In the fucking yellow pages.”

  “Seriously, Sonny, who told him?”

  “Who? Shit, like he was gonna tell me! What, you think his friend wants a finder’s fee or something?”

  “Listen, if you so confident about him, you make the delivery.”

  “Can’t, I promised Desarae we’d see a late movie. Schultz wants the stuff at ten.”

  “I’m not making this delivery unless you gimme some reason to think he ain’t a cop.”

  “Ty, this guy ain’t 5-0. Don’t you think I can sniff out a cop by now?”

  “I ain’t risking my neck on your sense of smell, Sonny. Tell Michael Brown to make the delivery.”

  Michael Brown.

  That little brother’d win the award for the most eager young hustler in Flatbush.

  Quick, reliable.

  Fourteen years old.

  “A’ight, I’ll tell Michael,” Sonny said. “He can drop some stuff off at the Wilkes place too.”

  That was what I liked about Sonny. He talked the shit, but when push came to shove, he always backed down. He knew the game was in my blood.

  A SIMPLE BUSINESSMAN

  Brrrrrinnngggg!!!

  Cursing, I grabbed the phone beside my bed. “Yo.”

  “Is this Tyrone Johnson?” A white woman’s voice.

  “He ain’t here. Who’s this?”

  “This is Ms. Bregman calling from the Les Chancellor Institute of Career Opportunities. Tyrone was expected here at nine o’clock this morning, but he hasn’t arrived.”

  “He’s at a meeting of the YDDA.” Young Drug Dealers of America. Ha-ha.

  “The what?”

  “It’s a co-op placement. You know. Sheepshead Bay High School arranged it. Hasn’t your school been told that he ain’t transferring no more?”

  “Uh, no.” Papers shuffling. “I was under the impression—”

  “I know, ma’am, you just doing your job. But my younger brother is being watched over by an excellent team at Sheepshead, like Mr. Otto, the school psychologist and Mr. Edelstone in Guidance. I think he’s better off there. I worry about the sorta kids he’ll meet at Les Chancellor.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize that was a concern. At any rate, I’ll be in touch with Sheepshead to confirm that he’s not transferring.”

  “I’m sure they sent you a fax about it yesterday. Finding that might save you some phone tag. Have a good day.”

  “You, too, Ty.”

  Click.

  I blinked. Did she just say Ty? Or did she say, You, too, bye?

  Ah, I was just being paranoid. Women always bought the shit I sold them. She was going to spend five minutes looking for the fax, not find it, and then call the house of the next kid who didn’t show up, and not follow up on me until next month, if ever.

  So much for all that no child left behind shit. I counted on being left behind, and left alone.

  Seeing my cell blinking, I got out of bed, adjusted my balls, and reached for the phone.

  Two messages.

  Both from Sonny.

  “Ty, have you seen Michael Brown? He was supposed to drop the money off an hour ago. This is making me real nervous. What the hell are you doing? You in bed or something?”

  Next message. “Man, oh man, thank God you didn’t make the delivery! You won’t believe the shit that’s gone down! Michael got locked up. You were so damn right about Schultz! I stopped by Michael’s project to see if anybody’d peeped him, and they told me that the po-po was just there talking to his mom. Scary shit! Whatever, Michael ain’t got no record, so he’ll be in juvey a few months, it’s no biggie. He won’t talk. He knows our deal. Holla at you later.”

  I put down my phone.

  My instincts came through.

  Too bad about Michael Brown.

  Well, Michael knew what he was getting into. I’d warned him myself. Anyway, we gave our runners a good deal: If you do time and keep your trap shut, we’ll pay you ten Gs when you get out. It was fair. And my conscience was clear.

  I took a shower, then put on a UFC DVD as I was eating breakfast. I loved this shit. Ultimate Fighting was real, unlike most of the garbage on TV, and man, was it bloody. Anderson Silva was one of the best fighters, and it wasn’t because he was a big guy. No, he just had the right moves.

  I got my height (all six feet two inches) from my dad, and I was getting more muscular every day. I took Creatine and ate prot
ein bars all the time. Of course, you gotta work out, too. I go to the gym at least five times a week.

  I looked at my genuine Rolex. I put it on every day after my shower, before I even put on my clothes. It reminded me that time is money.

  Time management is everything. If a brother wanna get ahead, he gotta use every minute to better himself. Everything I did made me better—tougher, stronger, richer, smarter—or I didn’t do it.

  Take high school. A waste of time. Nobody there taught me what I needed to survive on the streets.

  I learned all the math I needed by the seventh grade, and a calculator helped me with the rest.

  History class didn’t teach me nothing I couldn’t learn by watching movies like Glory or Malcolm X.

  Gym class didn’t show me sports skills I couldn’t learn on the court or on TV.

  My point? By the time I was fourteen, I knew school wasn’t gonna be nothing but a place of business.

  NETWORKING

  Sheepshead Bay High.

  Population: thirty-eight hundred students, two hundred staff, and eleven security guards.

  Location: Avenue X, between Bedford and Batchelder. Big as Yankee Stadium, the school takes up a whole city block.

  As I walked through the metal detectors, one of the guards stopped me. “What you doing here, Johnson? Heard you got transferred.”

  “Yeah. I gotta clear out my locker.”

  He waved me in.

  I got there just before the bell rang to end sixth period. I went to a back stairway going from the basement to the gym. Lots of kids passed me, some actually trying not to be late for their next class. When I saw my employee, I grabbed her arm. “How you doing, Clarissa?”

  “Hey!” She gave me a hug, squashing her big titties against my chest. The chick was dripping with perfume. “What’s popping, Ty?”

  “Me, if you keep doing that.” I looked her up and down with a grin. She loved that. Clarissa Sanchez been trying to get with me for years.

  With those pouty lips and that diamond stud in her nose, she was a hottie. But hooking up with an employee was too risky. Piss her off, and next thing you know she was snitching to the po-po.

  “Did you hear about Michael Brown getting locked up for making a delivery to an undercover cop?” she said, like she was the shit because she knew what the whole neighborhood knew by now.

  “What you say his name was?”

  “Michael Brown.”

  “Should I know him?”

  “No, he just a kid, no one even knew he was dealing. Serves him right for tryna be big-time.”

  Clarissa had no idea that Michael Brown was on my payroll. Hell, she didn’t even know that I had a partner named Sonny or that I had another hustler in this school.

  “Listen, Clarissa, you got enough stuff to last the week?”

  “Yeah, but I’m working on a couple new customers. If I need more, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’ll find you next Friday night at The Cellar for the cash.”

  “Right. I’ll be there with my new man. He’s twenty-five.”

  “Stop, you making me jealous.” I patted her ass. “Get to class, sexy lady.”

  “See ya, Ty.”

  I watched her swing her ass as she went upstairs. I walked away, shaking my head.

  * * *

  I found my next contact ten minutes later on the basketball court. I took off my shirt and joined the game, working up a good sweat. The hoops lost their nets years ago, but it didn’t matter. I liked the solid sound of the ball bouncing off the backboard and dropping through the basket without the catch of the net.

  Rob Monfrey had a mouth full of metal and bad personal hygiene. His hair was so nappy, I didn’t even wanna think about what was lost in there. But he was a good employee because he stuck his snotty nose in everybody’s business. He knew who was doing what, where, when, and who their mother was screwing. No one kept their mouth shut around him because no one took him serious.

  Big mistake.

  Monfrey hustled rock and information. He was more important to my business than Clarissa could ever be.

  For helping me out, I kept his cash flow going and his weed habit satisfied. He’d cut off his right arm before he’d lose this sweet deal.

  “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you here, Ty,” Monfrey said while he was trying to cover me. “Thought you was kicked out.”

  Another thing about Monfrey: He spent most of his days hanging around the guidance offices, keeping his ears open.

  “I was.”

  “What you do this time?”

  “Nothing. Edelstone thought that was a problem.” I caught a pass, dribbled twice, and sank a jump shot.

  “Nice shot!” one of the guys said.

  “Wow!” Monfrey clapped his hands, looking like a jackass.

  After the game, Monfrey and me talked business, then I headed for the bus stop.

  I had enough money to buy me a shiny, fast ride, but I took the bus. Why?

  Because I was smart. Because buying those things would give the cops an invitation to go digging. They knew I was Orlando’s son, and they’d be fools not to suspect I was dealing. The second I slipped up, the second I got cocky, they’d be right there waiting. My dad’s biggest weakness was the way he flashed his money. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake. Eventually I’d open a legit business that would give me a cover for all my green.

  In the meantime, I practiced one of man’s most important skills.

  Patience.

  A SHORT PIECE ON PACKING

  I didn’t own no gun.

  Having a gun wasn’t gonna change my chances of getting shot. You don’t hear about people saving themselves from drive-bys by shooting back. If you shoot back and you lucky enough to survive the drive-by, you still got the cops charging your ass.

  Worse, you killed a bystander.

  The best way not to get hit was to have homies. I got Blood homies and Crip homies, brothers who respected my business and knew I didn’t take sides. Brothers who heard of my father when they were little. Brothers who knew the Johnsons were an institution.

  That ain’t to say they hadn’t tested me. But I never faced a test that me and my two fists couldn’t handle.

  SURPRISES

  I came home around midnight to something I hated.

  A surprise.

  I found her sitting in the kitchen, drumming her fake nails on the table. She was still in her work uniform and had a glass of soda in front of her.

  I recognized the look on her face.

  The look of mean.

  “Where the hell were you today?”

  “School. Then work.”

  “Ha!” She slammed her fist on the table. “I ain’t buying this shit from you! I know you wasn’t at school today. Maybe I should call that manager of yours to see if you was really at work, too! How am I to know you ain’t running the streets like your good-for-nothing daddy?”

  “Mom, you tripping.”

  “Sit down, Ty. Don’t stand over me like you the big man. Sit down.”

  I got comfortable, knowing this would take a while.

  “Your guidance counselor called today. He said you been kicked out of Sheepshead and you were supposed to start this morning at one of those”—she twisted her lips—“alternative schools. Not only did you not tell me any of this, you didn’t even show up! They say you tried to convince the secretary that you was an older brother and there was no transfer!”

  I stared at the floor. With Mom, I had to play it cool. “I messed up. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry don’t pay the rent, damn it!” She leaned so far over the table that our foreheads almost touched. “You gonna finish high school whether you like it or not. After that, do whatever the hell you want. Don’t forget, you under my authority till you turn eighteen.”

  That was less than seven months away. Fact was, I hadn’t been under her authority since I was a kid. Sure, she asked questions like any other mom. But I was such a good liar tha
t she usually believed my answers.

  “They expecting you Monday at nine. Be there, or you can pack your bags.”

  “I will, Mom.” I meant it. Living at home was a damn good cover for my business. And who knows? This new school could be a chance to get new customers.

  Mom stared at me, hard. “You walk that line, baby boy. I know you don’t like school, but you promised me you’d stick it out. I don’t wanna be doubting my own son. But Ty, if I find out you be dealing or gangbanging . . . ”

  “Chill, Mom, chill. You know it ain’t like that. Monday, call the school to see if I showed up.” I put my hand over hers and gave her my best smile. “Pack me peanut butter and jelly, yo?”

  She gave a sad smile. “All right.”

  LUNCHING IT UP

  Next day. Sonny’s fly ride—a 1980 Cadillac with pimped-out rims—swung into the parking lot, where I waited for him. Sonny never came within a mile of my crib. If Mom ever saw us together, she’d know what’s up. She knew Sonny from his days as my dad’s right-hand man.

  I could tell by the loose turn that he was on his damn phone. He braked just inches from my shoes. The tinted window came down. “What’s cracking?” He grinned, gold teeth flashing. “Gimme a sec. Old lady’s got PMS.” Into the phone he said, “Nah, baby, I didn’t mean it like that. I ain’t making no fun. . . . ”

  I got in, slapping him five. I leaned back against the leather seat as Sonny drove out of the parking lot and headed for the city.

  Sonny Blake was twenty-eight years old. When my dad got locked up, he gave control to Sonny until I was ready to take charge. That time came sooner than they expected. By the time I was sixteen, I was a pro.

  Sonny saw himself as a bad boy. He had the clothes, the ride, the bling. Problem was, he was all mush when it came to the women in his life—he totally spoiled his mama and sister, and he was crazy devoted to his girlfriend, Desarae.

  Sonny didn’t get off the phone until we walked into the restaurant. La Tranquilla was one of the swankiest Italian places in Lower Manhattan. Two homies strolling in always made jaws drop. That’s why Sonny loved going there in the first place. He got off on being noticed.