Murdergram
by Nisa Santiago
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Murdergram. Copyright © 2014 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Melodrama Publishing, P.O. Box 522, Bellport, NY 11713.
www.melodramapublishing.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014943095
ISBN-13: 978-1620780428
ISBN-10: 1620780429
eISBN: 978-1620780497
First Edition: January 2015
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Interior Design: Candace K. Cottrell
Cover Design: Candace K. Cottrell
Books By Nisa Santiago
Cartier Cartel: Part 1
Return of the Cartier Cartel: Part 2
Cartier Cartel - South Beach Slaughter: Part 3
Bad Apple: The Baddest Chick Part 1
Coca Kola: The Baddest Chick Part 2
Checkmate: The Baddest Chick Part 3
Face Off: The Baddest Chick Part 4
South Beach Cartel
Guard the Throne
Dirty Money Honey
Killer Dolls Part 1
Killer Dolls Part 2
Killer Dolls Part 3
Murdergram
The House That Hustle Built
One
Back then…
“Yo, pass the rock! Pass the fuckin’ rock,” the shirtless, sweaty ball player shouted to his partner on the basketball court.
He was posted up near the basketball rim, his arms outstretched and ready to take his opponent into the paint.
Four men were engaged in a pick-up basketball game in a Brooklyn park in East New York in the hot summer sun. They moved around the half court, dribbling, passing, and dunking on each other like young athletes ready for the NBA. The game was intense; the men were strong, skilled, and aggressive against their opponents. And they had a reason to play so intensely: one thousand dollars was up for grabs for the winner of the game.
The ball was passed to the player shouting out for it by the rim. He gripped the rock tightly and posted up near the paint with his back against his opponent as he dribbled the ball and threw his weight into the man behind him, almost pushing the rival off his feet. It seemed like he was toying with the man.
“Yo, take that shit to the hole, Pike. That nigga can’t guard you!” his teammate shouted.
“I got this!” Pike shouted back.
Pike swiveled while bouncing the ball to face his opponent. He glared at the man, who was taller than him, but Pike had more bulk to his physique.
“Play D, nigga! What you got? You can’t guard me, nigga. I’m like Jordan on this fuckin’ court,” Pike taunted, dribbling the ball between his legs and showboating for the crowd watching the game.
“Nigga, you wack,” his rival shouted.
His rival stepped toward him to defend the basketball rim. Pike crouched lower to the concrete court, bouncing the ball rapidly and showing how skilled he was. His handle on the rock was on point. He was like Allen Iverson out there. He’d been a point guard once for a champion team, but that was long ago. Now, things done changed.
Pike smiled and pressed forward like lightning striking, riding the baseline to the basketball rim. His defendant ran into action to guard the basket to prevent the final point from being scored. Five hundred dollars was a lot of money to lose. Pike crossed over and leaped into the air, getting ready to make the layup and score the winning basket. But he was quickly fouled while airborne, which sent the ball flying out of his hands. When he landed back on his feet, he shouted, “Foul nigga! You a fuckin’ butcher on this court!”
“Man, no blood, no foul, muthafucka!” his opponent returned at full volume.
“What? Nigga, you knew that was a foul. You practically took my head off!” Pike retorted as he jumped up in his rival’s face.
“You lost the rock, nigga. I ain’t fouled you. You just a scrub, nigga.”
Pike was clearly upset. His fists were clenched. He was ready to take his respect and win this game. Things were heating up. A small crowd watched the game nearby, including Cristal and Tamar. They stood on the side gawking at the shirtless men playing basketball, but their attention was mostly on Pike. He was the one all the girls wanted to be with.
Pike stood six-three with a powerful physique glaring in the sun. His six-pack and strapping chest were eye candy to the ladies around watching the game, and his midnight complexion, swathed with a few tattoos, glistened with the sweat that covered his body. He was twenty-two years old and had finished high school with a C average—one of the few neighborhood kids to actually finish high school. Pike thought that he had a shot at the NBA. All through high school, he was always the star on the team, the point guard averaging twenty-five to thirty points per game. They said he would become better than Allen Iverson, maybe become the next Michael Jordan.
However, with his love for the game also came his love for the streets—the same old cliché with kids growing up in the hood: Michael Jordan and the obligatory neighborhood drug dealer becoming their conflicting role models. In school and on the courts, he was known as Lightning Pike because of his speed and control of the ball, but on the streets, he started to sell weed to earn some extra cash. Then, in his senior year, a bullet that ripped through his knee changed all of his dreams. In a botched weed deal that erupted in gunfire, everything went downhill for Pike from there.
Georgetown, North Carolina, Syracuse, Notre Dame, St. John’s, and several other Division One schools were all looking at Pike closely and were willing to offer him a full scholarship if he would play for them. Once he couldn’t play anymore and the media slandered his name, all the scouts dropped him like a bad habit. They just gave up on him, like his parents had when he was young. He became an angry man after that—angry that he wouldn’t be playing college ball and then going on to the NBA to sign a multimillion-dollar deal. But he never gave up his day job: hustling weed to his peers. At first, it was low-level stuff where he didn’t get his hands too dirty because he didn’t want to jeopardize his NBA chances, still believing he could make it to the pros after everything that had transpired in his senior year.
However, as time moved on and he grew older, it all started to come clear to Pike that it was only a pipe dream and his chances of making it to the NBA would be as unlikely as a devout Muslim eating a pork sandwich. Now that those dreams were over, Pike expanded his small operation into hugging the block with cocaine and other drugs.
Cristal and Tamar waited patiently for the game to be over before they could run over and flirt with Pike. The small crowd surrounding the pick-up game knew Pike was going to win the cash. He hated losing. He was just too nice with his skills to lose on the courts. Even though he had been fouled and it was a close game, the crowd felt things were about to get very interesting.
Pike ate the foul and allowed the opposing team to take possession of the ball at the key. He scowled heavily at the man who had brutally fouled him. The look on his face revealed he was ready to take his revenge. The ball was passed and the man Pike was guarding took possession of the rock. He dribbled toward Pike, ready to blow past him and score. Pike was ready for him. Pike crouched low defensively with his arms spread, shielding the basket and timing that right mome
nt to embarrass the man.
“Nigga, you ain’t Kobe or LeBron, you just some washed-up, wannabe athlete with a blown knee who’s about to lose this paper,” his opponent mocked.
Pike remained quiet, choosing not to respond but staying focused. He was going to prove to everyone, like he always did, not to doubt him. He was always going to be the alpha on the basketball courts. Suddenly it became a one-on-one match as both players’ teammates decided to stand aside and watch the match-up. The man dribbled with his right hand. Pike immediately spotted his weakness. When his opponent drove hard to the right side of the court like a locomotive toward the basketball hoop, Pike went into action. He was on his opponent like white on rice, and when he went to score, Pike leaped into the air like he was on a trampoline and smacked the ball out of his hands so hard that his opponent went crashing to the ground. Pike’s teammate recovered the rock before it went out of bounds and threw a chest pass to Pike. Pike’s opponent jumped to his feet and saw Pike charging his way to score the winning basket. He sprang into defense mode quickly. Pike charged with intensity and leaped toward the basketball hoop with grace, his opponent doing the same, jumping up with his arms outstretched to block the final score. Pike dunked on him so hard, the entire basketball hoop shook like it was caught in an earthquake, and his rival went crashing toward the ground a second time. Pike lingered on the hoop with a smirk at his rival.
Everyone cheered and screamed. The game was over. It was a dynamic ending. Pike had won. He had embarrassed the other team. He dropped down to the concrete, gazed at his opponent and shouted, “Nigga, I told you, I’m the fuckin’ best out here, and don’t ever go against the inevitable. I’m the fuckin’ king on this court. And where’s my fuckin’ money at?”
Cristal and Tamar hurried over to Pike before the other thirsty bitches around could get up in his face. With five hundred dollars in his hands, Pike was ready to hit the club. He counted his half of the money out in the open, smiling—another hustle, another dollar.
“You gonna spend some of that on me tonight, right?” Cristal asked with a teasing smile.
Pike turned around and replied, “It depends. Are you worth it? Because you know what I like.”
“What do you like?” Cristal asked, placing her hand against his chest, feeling his muscles flex.
Cristal and Tamar were dressed like two young, sultry whores: tight, coochie-cutting shorts and tight tops that accentuated their breasts. They were beautiful. However, Cristal was an extremely beautiful woman with long, shapely legs and long, raven-black hair. Her eyes were framed by long lashes and she was slim up top, but a little curvier on the bottom. All the boys wanted her, but Pike was the man she wanted to sip on her milkshake.
Cristal threw a smile at Pike. “You lookin’ good, Cristal, gaining that weight in all the right places,” said Pike.
“And you can touch in all the right places,” she flirted.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Oh, you know, huh? And how you know?”
Pike smiled. “Cuz I always know.”
“You so conceited, Pike,” Cristal returned.
“What, y’all need a room or something?” Tamar asked with attitude.
“You want in on the action too, Tamar? Cuz you know it’s gonna take more than one to handle a nigga like me.”
“Like you can really handle us two,” Tamar said.
“You know I got hands and skills not just on the courts.”
The girls laughed. Pike was clearly arrogant and somewhat self-centered. He stood on the basketball court remaining shirtless and looking like a general that had just conquered a small kingdom. His winnings were still gripped in his hand, his accolades for the day.
“You know, you’re better than half these players in the NBA, Pike,” Cristal said. “And you have an ego like them too.”
Pike nodded, knowing Cristal was right. He was built to play in the NBA. He was born to make millions of dollars and become somebody important in life. He felt it was his destiny, and he was going to get his, either through basketball or drug dealing.
Cristal peered across the park and noticed Lisa, Mona, and Sharon coming over to join in the conversation. Cristal and Tamar became somewhat annoyed seeing the three girls coming their way; it meant that there was more competition coming over. They didn’t like competition, even amongst their own friends. It was already enough that the two of them were competing against each other.
“What y’all over here talkin’ about?” Mona asked, popping the gum in her mouth and staring at Pike.
“Nothing, we were just congratulating Pike on his game,” Cristal replied.
“Damn, we missed you playing, Pike.” Mona sucked her teeth and continued with, “We came all late cuz you know we had to stop by and get some smokes. I need to get high tonight.”
“What you got?” Pike asked.
“Some Kush. You know Brooklyn got that good oohwee shit out here,” Mona joked.
“Nah luv, Harlem is where it’s at, believe me,” Pike argued mildly.
“Pike, the Jamaicans out here have some of the best quality weed that will have a muthafucka like ‘Whoa.’ Fuck Harlem. Brooklyn in the fuckin’ house. Wait till you start smoking this Kush, it’s gonna make you feel like Superman.”
“I’m already the man of steel,” he joked back, grabbing his dick.
“Whatever…”
Mona was always the party girl and heavy smoker in the crew. She had sarcasm and attitude like her peers. And she knew her weed like Einstein knew his E=mc2. She was steadily ready for that next rush and yearned for that push into an exhilarating lifestyle, the one she always saw on TV and in the movies. She and her friends were all looking for the same come-up.
The girls’ forte was boosting, either keeping the items they stole for themselves or fencing pricey goods to earn a living. They were good at what they did and made it into a criminal career.
Pike stood among the ladies, holding court like a pimp on the streets. He knew he could have any bitch he wanted. Being the heartthrob of the hood, and over the years he ran through dozens of women—sowing his royal oats, and surprisingly, having no kids. Bitches were trying to get pregnant by him, to no avail; Pike stayed with condoms or would always pull out. He had a street reputation that preceded him. He was fine, and word throughout was that he had a really big dick and knew how to use it. Like a diamond, he was a bitch’s best friend. Pike’s small operation on the block was picking up, and with his business partner, Rich, he had street dreams.
As the girls chatted and flirted with Pike, music blaring from a Honda Accord caught their attention. It was Pike’s partner Rich. Jay Z and Drake’s “Light It Up” played from his car. He stepped out nodding his head and rhyming to the track like he was a rapper himself. He was always affable despite being a drug dealer. His stout frame was clad in a black-and-white Nike velour sweat suit and his round head topped off with a gleaming bald scalp. He wasn’t a very attractive man, and he wasn’t an ugly man—mediocre in appearance, but his personality was magnetic.
He walked toward Pike with his genuine smile and hollered, “Ladies, ladies, why y’all crowding around my dude like some chickenheads? He can’t get all of you pregnant at the same time. Share some for me too. I need loving, too.”
“Fuck you, Rich. You just mad because ain’t nobody crowding around you,” Tamar barked out.
Rich rubbed his protruding stomach and replied, “Look at me, I’m crowded enough already. But I’ll tell you what, Tamar, why don’t you get on ya knees and suck some air out of me? I can lose some weight like that.”
Laughter stirred up, but Tamar didn’t find Rich funny. She frowned and gave him the middle finger.
“C’mon Tamar, ya lips around my dick, with you sucking it, I probably can lose more weight than being on Slimfast,” he added.
There was more laughter.
Rich flicked his tongue at her, being the nasty and lecherous pervert that he was.
Tamar scowled. “Nigga, you don’t have enough dick for me.”
Tamar flipped him the bird again. Their witty insults back and forth were a common thing. Even though they cracked on each other, there was a mutual respect between them.
Rich was a drug dealer, but he always brought humor and fun around. He was a different type of hustler. Originally from the Bronx, he had made Brooklyn his new home several years earlier when he’d started betting heavily on basketball games and befriended Pike at a Brooklyn tournament. Pike threw a game for Rich once, and they came up on ten thousand dollars. Pike hated to lose on the courts, but he hated being broke even more.
“So where we gonna smoke at?” Mona asked.
“Back at my place,” Pike suggested.
“Harlem? Why we can’t stay in Brooklyn?” Lisa spoke out. She was the Aaliyah of the bunch, a sweet, slim, and pretty young girl. She was the only girl in the crew who came from a two-parent home. Her mother worked for the Board of Education, and her father was a conductor for the MTA. She grew up more privileged than the others. However, Lisa had her ways, too—always carrying a razor, following behind her friends, and ready to ride or die for those she loved.
“My apartment is small, but it’s set up nice, and I just got the flat screen put in.”
“But that’s Harlem. Who wants to travel to Harlem?” Sharon protested.
“Y’all gonna be with me and Rich,” Pike added, like they were Jay Z and Kanye West.
Sharon was the least pretty out of the girls, the darkest one with her tarlike complexion, round eyes almost like a bug, and natural hair in an afro. She was a slim girl also with a nice booty and ample tits, and like so many of her friends in Brooklyn, came from a broken home with both parents being on drugs.
“Y’all get to chill with me for the night. I’m telling y’all, y’all gonna love my crib.”
While Pike boasted about his small apartment, Cristal gazed across the park and noticed something unusual: Tank. He was never in the park. His business wasn’t long walks in the park or recreational activities with others, but only murder. When he was around, bad things happened. And today, on a sunny afternoon, he marched toward the basketball courts with an emotionless gaze, like he was on a mission.
Murdergram, Part 1 Page 1