The Cook Up

by D. Watkins

  “Yo, we about to jam,” I told Nick as he parked in front of our crib. A lanky silhouette materialized from the alley. “D.O.C.” was tatted across a gray sweatshirt that approached our car. Nick reached for his gun but I stopped him—Hurk was back.

  We bear-hugged. He couldn’t have been freed at a better time. He didn’t have to hide anymore and we had the best shit in the city, or at least in east Baltimore, anyway. Nick made Hurk test-drive his car through downtown. Hurk was ready to talk business and said that he wasn’t going back to jail. He said that his reckless days were far behind him. Nick was eager to tell Hurk about my cooking skills. I just called Hope over and over again but no answer—straight to voice mail every time.

  “So what can I do, Dee? I’m ready to work tonight,” said Hurk. I didn’t want him to do too much in the city because he was scorching hot. His rap about never going back to prison was cool but words are just words—you had to show me.

  We rode back to my house and I immediately went to work. I cooked the other half brick that I had pulled out the previous day while Nick and Hurk sliced and capped crack rocks until their fingers bled. Gee came by and picked up his work.

  I called Hope one more time. The phone rang but she still didn’t pick up. I wasn’t sure why she was ignoring me; maybe she was angry. I just wanted to help and I felt like I did the right thing. She’ll come around, I thought, before I popped two Perks. One was really good, two felt like new pussy, or money—no, two felt like real love.

  ASHLAND AND MADEIRA

  Now I needed a spot to push this stuff. A nation, a place to call home. Ashland and Madeira was the first spot that popped in my mind. A bunch of different crews had acquired and lost Ashland and Madeira over the last ten years. Street fortunes were made and lost there. My uncle Gee had it for the longest.

  The highlight of my week back as a twelve-year-old in middle school was riding my little PW50 through there to kick it with him. A collage of forty-plus hustlers and countless junkies flooded his corner until you couldn’t tell who was selling what. They screamed the names of different products and prices like Wall Street bankers—with Gee running it all, squeezing a half-empty bottle of Hennessy and wads of cash poking out of his pockets.

  “Uncle Gee, what’s good?” I’d say, parking the bike by the curb, dapping his workers.

  “Nephew, sit and shut up, you need to hear this!” he’d reply before going deep into some story on how he was fucking with two of the three members from TLC or how he put a guy’s head in a car door before closing it—and always how the money would continue to flow through Ashland and Madeira.

  After the rants came handouts. Sometimes he’d hit me with a small bundle of tens and twenties that I’d stuff in my socks, then he’d wrap a tight blunt and I’d chill on the corner for hours, blowing weed with Gee and the rest of the big dogs.

  He made money, lots of it, but the place suffered from unorganized shifts, dealers fistfighting in the midst of sales, junkies being fucked in cars without tinted windows while us schoolkids watched, crack fiends with crack babies everywhere, long-ass dope lines, heavy overdosing, barefoot children, and terrified residents. It was the true definition of an open-air drug market.

  Cops would pull in vans and arrest twenty to thirty people at a time. It was easy for them because all of the crime was transparent and out in the open. The dealers sat on stoops next to half-empty forty-ounces of Olde English with pockets full of cash and drugs—no stash, no system, no strategy.

  And then there were the shootouts.

  I almost got my head blown off on Ashland Avenue a number of times. Crown Vics and Chevy Corsicas would roll up on us; automatic weapons would tilt out of the windows and blast. Gee and his goons would bust back while me and the rest of kids would scatter like roaches under a flicked light, diving under cars and balling up in between stoops. This didn’t happen every day, but it did happen enough for us to develop a routine. I’m still leery of limo tints and cars that drive past me with their headlights off at night.

  My uncle’s temper made the block a war zone. He was always slapping someone or shooting. Shooting to boost name, shooting for territory, or shooting just to shoot. A lot of rival crews wanted Gee’s head and we all knew that, but despite the obvious danger, I still came around, all the way up until Cherry was shot in 1993.

  Cherry was one of Gee’s workers. He was a skinny slick talker with a big face, who was always going on about moving to Atlanta to start a family and a business. We’d laugh, like “Nigga, you a going nowhere!” and he wasn’t. We all knew that Cherry spent his money before he made it.

  Cherry may have bluffed on moving away but he didn’t bluff on friendship. He lent cash to anyone, took shorts from fiends who was always a buck or two short, and protected his boys. Cherry covered Gee midway through one of those drive-by shootouts and caught one in the chest. He spun around and landed facefirst on the concrete. We ran up on him as the shooters sped off.

  “Cherry, you good? Get up!” I yelled. His cousin Li’l Bo flipped him and propped his head. Cherry spoke, and blood came out. Li’l Bo yelled for help. It wasn’t the first time I saw a murder, but it was the first time I felt one. My heart dropped past my sneakers. A crowd had formed. I guessed the ambulance drivers were on break because minutes flew past without sirens.

  I saw Cherry and me hooping the other day. I saw us sharing sunflower seeds; I spit the shells out, he chewed and swallowed them, and I told him that was weird. We had both stood on line for Air Jordan 3 Retro a week before. I saw my uncle putting him in the headlock and us laughing. We were friends. Ten years or more apart but we were the same. I looked at him lying on that ground and saw myself spitting that blood up, gurgling on it as it wrapped my chin and spilled down my neck.

  “Get him out the street!” Gee ordered. We hovered around his body and picked him up; blood soaked our t-shirts and stained our jeans. We laid him on the sidewalk by Mrs. Gina’s house. She squeezed her grandbabies, biting her lip, covering their eyes. Sirens pulled up a few minutes too late. RIP Cherry.

  I indirectly learned everything I needed to know about hustling from chilling around them. I knew my block would look nothing like the shit my uncle ran.

  MY BLOCK

  My wholesale game was intact because of the weight I had sold off to some other crews, and now it was time for me to rebuild Ashland and Madeira. I didn’t even have to fight anyone. The block was completely vacant—a bunch of dudes had slaughtered each other or got locked up or found Jesus. Either way, I slid right in.

  The first time we handed out testers was on a Sunday. Hurk, Nick, and I had been putting the word out all over east Baltimore, letting all the fiends know that we birthed Rockafella, had the best ready-rock, and would be giving away jumbo tester’s. Most dudes only sampled off of the residue from their Pyrex, but I inherited this, so it was only right that I gave away the good stuff.

  8:00 a.m.

  I popped up and drove to Pete’s Grill on Greenmount. A bunch of turkey sausage, some eggs and cheese, and a rack of pancakes is what I carried out. The day was going to be huge and I couldn’t have anybody hungry. Everybody was awake when I got back to the house. Nick eyed the bag of food so hard as I crossed the room, you’d think a naked chick was in there.

  We inhaled our breakfast. I threw on a new white tee and thought about sneakers. My room was a sneaker gallery. I’d been in the shoe game forever and had thousands and thousands of dollars in boxed Jordans and untouched Barkleys. My sneaker collection might have cost more than a Harvard education. I had bags and bags of Dope-Dealers, or Dopes, which were Nike Foamposites, Rockport boots, or any shoe costing two hundred dollars or more. The logic was that you’d have to be selling dope to afford shoes like that. Silver Duncans would be good for the day.

  10:00 a.m.

  Hurk banged the horn as Nick I came out. Project Pat ripped through the speakers. We were really about to be the young boys on top. Hurk had the samples tucked in a JanSport. I hopped in th
e back and we cruised up Ashland Avenue.

  10:15 a.m.

  We had to circle the block and come back. I had left my pistol. I’d leave my glasses, I could leave my coat, hoodie, or my sweater but I wasn’t leaving my gun. I tucked my .45 by my waistline and hopped back in Hurk’s car. We rode up Ashland Avenue until we hit Madeira and parked a block away. A real hustler should always park at least one block away.

  10:30 a.m.

  A line of fiends gathered well before showtime. They were a diverse group of scabby-faced muthafuckers, nine-to-fivers, some whites, some single moms, absent fathers, ex–ball players, bus drivers, fat junkies (which I don’t understand), and church niggas. Hurk leaned on a lamppole that was about as thin as he was, dangled an aluminum bat over his left shoulder, and locked eyes on the crowd. Nick climbed on top of someone’s Honda and yelled, “Tees of that shit! The best shit out chea hoe!” He lifted the JanSport well above his head. Some children looked on in awe even though they knew what was up as old women watched from their stoops in despair.

  “Get in a single-file line! Get in a straight line or y’all ain’t g’ttin’ shit!” I shouted. They were like kids, happy kids, because we had their candy.

  11:00 a.m.

  Nick dug his hand deep into the bag, gripped a handful of vials, and whaled them into the sky. Rockafella rained on the bunch. Rocks hit the concrete, bounced off the curb, fell into hands and everywhere. Customers dove into the concrete. They fought and stepped all over each other for loose vials. A dude in a post office uniform headlocked a woman. Hurk leaped off the pole and cracked his back with the bat.

  “Chill, bitch!” yelled Hurk, cracking him again. “Let the lady get some!”

  The dude howled like he was giving birth. Another blow across the back of his head silenced the screams. No one else acted up after that, they got their free samples and were back in minutes to cop.

  11:15 a.m.

  And just that quick, Ashland and Madeira went from being dried up to flooded with crack money.

  A DRUG CREW

  Sometimes the lines wrapped the corner, and we had to move them into the alley to shift attention away from the front of the block. We couldn’t cut and cap fast enough. Our pockets and socks couldn’t contain the cash. Me, Nick, and Hurk couldn’t run Madeira Street on our own. Sure we could move weight and run small operations, but I had a lot of drugs to sell. I needed a few good men who wanted some dough and were down to earn it.

  Now, don’t let TV shows and hood movies lead you to believe that drug crews only consist of childhood friends with crackhead parents who came up poor in some housing projects and, frustrated with their living situation by the age of sixteen, so they decide to be kingpins. And don’t let the news fool you into believing that we are all bloodthirsty killers who only sell dope and stay ready shoot shit up. Fox and MSNBC and CNN like to portray us as B-roll footage of skinny teens in sweat suits with gold teeth and AK’s. That’s not the case, either. It doesn’t work like that. A hustler staff could include eight-year-old kids who play with Ninja Turtle dolls, awkward teens, Comcast employees who hate their shift managers, mothers who really want to find work but can’t, grandmas raising three generations of kids at the same time, asshole cops, the prettiest girl from your high school, the Little League basketball coach, for sure, city workers who want a little something extra at the end of the week, junkies, and basically anyone else who seems loyal—because you can never really tell.

  Everybody has a breaking point, and even dudes who have been tested fold. A stranger could take thirty years for you while your best friend is in the next room ratting, crying, gargling on his own snot while explaining the whole operation. The no-snitching thing is a façade, and it’s evident when you look at the incarceration rates. The street-corner retention ratio is too low to be building lifelong relationships and unbreakable bonds—y’all could be on today and off tomorrow. I’d even argue that it’s better to work with strangers just in case you have to throw them out of a window one day. Who would you rather throw out of a window—some Comcast nigga or your childhood best friend?

  I know Gee ran through multiple crews and Bip had a new clique like every two months. It wasn’t about being a real friend or a fake one—it’s just that jail and death were guaranteed and you had to survive. You had to focus on you.

  Selling dope is a team game on the surface but you’re really alone. The game is like dodge ball—you start with a team and you want to protect them but that’s not always the case as things move along. People will be hit, and finishing with the cast that you started with is a rarity. You really have to be able to stand on your own in the mist of the ten, twenty, fifty employees and friends that surround you every day. Some quit and some expire but the game doesn’t give a shit. Losing friends hurts and thick skin is needed. There are no therapists on the street and pain is only mended with music, sex, pills, yak, weed, and the shit that we were out there selling.

  But by a month in I had a solid team of seven: Nick, Li’l Bo, Tone, Fat Tay, Young Block, Miss Angie, and Dog Boy.

  TONE, DOG BOY, AND US

  Tone: AA Male, forty-something years old, maybe fifty.

  Occupation: Shooter, meaning he’ll shoot you.

  Salary: $400 a week plus room and board.

  I don’t know where I found Tone at. He was known in this hood or that hood for the same things, which was talking a whole bunch of shit and then backing it up, being trigger-happy and never having any picks or choices—he’d go to war with anyone.

  He didn’t care if you were a beat cop or a known gangsta—he’d run you down, put three in your dome, and then piss on you in broad daylight. I was lucky to have him on our side. And if he thought you were telling, he’d get you too.

  Tone would stare out of the second-floor window on North Madeira Street with a shredded toothpick in his mouth and a raised eyebrow. He was like my guardian angel because he had the drop on everyone. His skin was all nasty and discolored and spotted like a leopard, mostly from the years of heroin and prison. All of his veins were dry and shriveled up. Disco Joe had to show me how to shoot him up with dope so that he could work. I used to strangle his ankle with a tourniquet until the little veins popped out, from there I’d pump him with enough heroin to get through his day.

  Sunup till sundown he sat in the window with a sawed-off shotgun resting on his chest like a newborn. Handguns lay on his coffee table, ammo filled his sock drawer, and he had no fear in his heart. Rob my workers, and get your head knocked off by him.

  Li’l Bo: AA male, seventeen.

  Occupation: The Money Man.

  Salary: $750 a week on average.

  Li’l Bo had a slick face and slicker walk; he was just slick in general.

  He was Cherry’s little cousin. I used to fuck wide-ass Wanda on Lakewood back in middle school and Li’l Bo had the big sister, who had a wide ass too. We’ve been friends and plugging each other with girls ever since, so it was only right that I hit him up when I grabbed the block.

  I trusted Li’l Bo with the money because he was never a hater. He didn’t talk shit when he saw me in nice cars or badmouth me when we were fucking the same girls. Li’l Bo once said the idea of hating made his mouth ache—I agreed. He had faith in himself, meaning that he could stand seeing others shine, even when he wasn’t. Li’l Bo would hide stacks of cash in a Mickey D’s bag by the trash can on the corner, have bundles tucked by his nuts, stacks in his socks and puffed all in his jeans. He was stick bony but the bulky cash make his pants look like he had an erection and childbearing hips.

  Li’l Bo collected the cash from customers, stashed it, and then signaled Fat Tay the amount of drugs that the customer was supposed to receive. Signals changed hourly—they were head taps or nose rubs or hand gestures or a combination of all, making up a hood sign language only we could decode. Li’l Bo collected cash all day. And since Li’l Bo handled the bread, he never, ever touched drugs under any circumstances, because cops can take all of your
cash if they can prove that it’s drug related.

  Fat Tay: AA Male, thirty-five but looks forty.

  Occupation: Hitter, a person who controls the ground stash.

  Salary: Depends on how I felt or if he showed up.

  I hate Fat Tay. He’s sloppy in both stature and work ethic. He’s built like a bowling pin with feet and has small, perky breasts that are visible in everything he wears, even his coats. Tay’s grown, looks grown, and dates high school girls. They don’t like him—they lack fathers. He fills that void and buys them all of the shit that they don’t need.

  Li’l Bo talked me into hiring Fat Tay because they are first cousins, so I employed him as my hitter. Hitters are disposable like pawns or those infantry dudes they throw into the line of fire. Tay kept dimes of ready tucked in the inside of tennis balls we bounced off of the brick walls that surrounded us, loose vials in paper bags near the trash, more crack in the rusty downspouts, and some more loose capped vials of crack stuffed in Tay’s big fat ass. His ass held a lot of crack. It was like a mini fridge. Most cops didn’t want to check there but the fiends didn’t care if their glass bottles were smeared with shit from Tay’s ass—they just wanted to get high. Tay’s job wasn’t always held by Tay. Sometimes kids would do it, sometimes junkies do it, and, really, anyone who wanted to make a couple. It was really easy to find hitters because the job required zero trust or skill.

  Dog Boy: AA Male, maybe twelve, who knows.

  Occupation: Lookout.

  Salary: $100 here, $100 there, and new kicks.

  Dog Boy was best friends with my little cousin Scola. They were equally learning disabled, loved Power Rangers—the red one to be exact—and both enjoyed eating lead paint chips. Most of the kids where I come from, including myself, loved to eat lead paint chips. You can peel them right off of the wall and they are sweet and sticky like taffy. You can have as many sweet sticky chips as you like because they are everywhere and free and you don’t have to ask your parents for them.