by D. Watkins
I hadn’t been in the street for a few months. Running the bar was a seven-day-a-week, seven a.m. to two a.m. gig, so I really didn’t know what was happening with my friends. I was busy learning how to create a schedule, hire good employees, renovate the units, and basically build my business.
“So y’all wanna kill Hurk?” I said.
“What we post to do?” Nick said.
What were they supposed to do? What was I supposed to do? My childhood best friend shot another one of my best friends and I’m in the middle. Hurk hit an all-time low; we were a family. How could you shoot your brother, someone you said you loved, over something ridiculous as money? The money changes everybody. And now I’m in a car full of my brothers ready to kill one of our brothers over money.
“Yo, I can’t let y’all kill Hurk, man. This can’t go down,” I said.
“Well, don’t be surprised if that nigga kill you!” Long Tooth replied, exiting the car.
“What’s the move then?” Mac asked. “I’m fucked up and he ain’t put me on after I got locked up for his bullshit! I got my reasons for wantin’ to rock that nigga, he a whole rat!”
I told Mac to relax. A part of this wasn’t even about Dog Boy, it was about money. Mac was ready to kill Hurk—his real lifeblood—over money. Tyler and Troy barely called me after I stopped selling drugs. Hurk and Mac are as worthless to each other as I am to Tyler and Troy because they want money and the love fades as soon as the cash does—pure, innocent relationships gone flat over something as simple as a dollar.
“Look, Mac, I can’t put you on with drugs because I don’t do that anymore but I can give you five thou until you get right.”
“So what I gotta do for that?”
“Just don’t kill Hurk, and give me a chance to squash their beef.”
“Man, I swear you the best nigga I ever met, Dee. Real life, I ain’t never gonna front on you. Don’t worry ’bout LT, I’ll rap to him.”
I pulled back over to Madeira Street and let Mac out. Nick just slept in the car for another half hour or so. Angie came out and said that Dog Boy was good but she still made him rest. We sat together on her chipped steps. I wanted to tell her that I loved her but I didn’t know how—I was still learning how emotions worked from Soni—and Miss Angie’s from the same slum as me.
“The neighborhood changed a lot since you left. It used to be fun round here, Dee. It felt like family. Now these young kids is crazy.”
“Everybody always say that. Like every generation gets more and more crazy!”
“It’s true boy! Now take me to your bar, and I want to meet your pretty girlfriend again,” Angie had told me. I nodded yes. She was right; the neighborhood was different—new fiends and new drug crews. Packs of kids I never saw. Even they were new to the block or shot up really quick in the time I left. The game doesn’t stop. A lot of these dudes don’t know me or probably care about what I did on these streets. And they’ll last a summer or two and then a new set will move in. I’m lucky enough that I was able to move on.
240 WILSON STREET
Joan picked Soni and I up on a Sunday to look at houses in Bolton Hill. A few more popped up since our last conversation. Dog Boy tagged along. I couldn’t talk him out of warring with Hurk, but we still hung out every free moment I got. Joan parked on Park Avenue and told us that there were three houses we just had to see—all walking distance from one and other. The first was 240 Wilson Street.
We walked in and it felt like home.
The living and dining room was connected by endless walnut colored hard woods like a NBA regulation basketball court and making the kitchen look a mile away from the front door. The ceilings had to be like twenty feet high with low hanging double bladed fans chopping in each room. I had seen those same fans at Home Depot before—they operated by remotes and went for $400 apiece.
Soni and Dog Boy were on mute as the listing agent gave us the tour. Their jaws hung as their big eyes drank everything in sight. The agent showed us that Viking Stove Joan was raving about—saying how the burners were brass flames and boast like 20,000 BTUs across the front with multiple 15,000 BTUs and one 8,000 BTU burner across the back in addition to a bunch of stuff I never heard of. I played it cool like, “That’s nice man that’s really nice.” The kitchen also had a matching Viking wine rack and a Viking fridge that was taller than me all sitting on a collection of huge marble slabs. I imagined myself strolling through in a white Polo robe lighting a Cohiba on the stove and then pouring a half glass of some aged wine from South Africa or something like a boss.
There were three huge bedrooms on the second floor with the same quality wood floors and high ceiling fans as well. The smallest room could be my private study. I didn’t really study anything but I thought I’d have to if lived in this place. The third and largest bedroom on the second floor had a midsize Jacuzzi. Dog Boy leaped in “I’ma be in here like Puff singing, I love it when you call me Big Poppa! Throw ya hands in the air, If you a true playa!”
“Actually the Puff Daddy style tub is up another level,” the agent said.
We followed him up to the brilliant master suite. It was a loft style floor with an even larger Jacuzzi and bidet. I asked the agent what that other toilet was for and Dog Boy said “Don’t you watch cribs? It rinse your ass after you shit for real!” Soni agreed but said, “Watch your mouth man!”
I was sold. I didn’t even need to see the other houses. We looked at them but I can’t remember them. 240 Wilson Street was the spot. I thought about the house every second of every day—it became the topic of 90 percent of my conversations. Every friend, customer and family member heard, “Yo the floors! Yo the kitchen! Yo the square feet!”
Joan and Lass didn’t make it any easier. Together, they both kept telling me that I was preapproved for the $600k and all I had to do was pull the trigger.
Yeah it was $600k.
THE SIGNS
You think we need that house?” I asked Soni.
“No, but you really want it and I want it for you, plus I know you won’t stop until you buy it! I’m not even going to front, that is the nicest place I ever been in! Straight George Jefferson status over night!”
Owning this place would be easy if I sold drugs—a few thousand a month was change. The bar wasn’t really generating as much money as I thought it would. The lounge was empty and the Koreans up the street had cut rate sales on lock. They mastered the game with prices that were Walmart low—I wasn’t even sure how they stayed in business. I had cash saved up and a small rental property income coming in but that wasn’t nearly enough to justify that purchase.
I stalked the house for two weeks wondering how it could be mine. No one had bought it; they didn’t even get an offer so I knew it was for me. I racked my brain and came up with a plan of hiring party promoters to pump up my bar so that we could generate more traffic. They take the door money and I could jack the liquor prices. A few promoters had been reaching out to me but I never really set anything up. I called some of the most popular dudes and the city and they told me that my place was too small—unless I got rid of the poker machines.
The poker machines were clunky, dusty, and unplugged. Each machine had the same tin label on the back that read John Goldman (410) 555-5755. I remembered Miss Lonnie, the previous owner, telling me that the machines didn’t come with the bar, so I hit the owner up and told him to come get them.
A day or so later a Wall Street–AIG–stock–broking–looking white dude walked into the bar and peeked threw the window. I thought he was lost—a clean junkie in the early stages of addiction or a federal agent. I walked to the front window.
“’Sup man, can I help you?”
“Why, yes you can. I work with Mr. Goldman, and I’d like to be buzzed in please.”
I hit the switch and let dude in. He rubbed his hand across the glass. “All this bulletproof glass is a nice touch. I also like how it’s so foggy. You can’t see anything back here.”
“Yeah, I�
�m changing that, but where is your crew? Doesn’t look like you are dressed to move machines.”
He pulled up a chair. “Please have a seat, Dee. Could I please borrow a moment of your time?” I pulled up a stool. He had on Gucci loafers and shiny cuff links that gleamed a little brighter than his Yacht-Master Rolex.
“So Mr. Goldman sent me here because he wants to keep your business. We are willing to offer a $5,000 loan if you keep the machines in here. You don’t have to pay us out of pocket, we can take your payments directly from the proceeds of the machine. Whadoya say! I’ll have a check dropped off in an hour or so.”
I told him I didn’t need a $5,000 loan and I was kind of offended at the way he waltzed in giving orders and rubbing glass.
“I deeply apologize, Dee, how’s $7,500?”
“Why are you so eager to loan me money I’m not asking for, and what’s the deal with these old machines? Do they even work?”
“Well, Dee, they do work, very well when plugged in. You see, they are digital slot machines that pay out. Your customers can come in, have a drink, and then play the slots, just like they are in Vegas! You’ll be responsible for cashing them out when they hit, I’ll reimburse you, and then we split everything else fifty-fifty.” He spoke slowly and finished with an enthusiastic stir. I sat still for a second and thought about all of the poker machines in Baltimore. They were right in front of me my whole life and I ignored them. I knew who played them but I never knew they were lucrative. You can find one in every corner store from African-owned to Asian-owned and I guessed addiction was the reason, like everything else.
“So, why would I pay you? Why can’t I just buy my own?”
“Great question, Dee. You should do business with us because we are going to give you a $10,000 loan to be paid back by the machines, fix them whenever they break and if the police raid you for paying out, which happens all of the time, we’ll get you new machines within the same day. Do we have a deal?”
“So wait, you can go to jail? Forget that man, I don’t need the hassle and stop talkin’ that loan shit man.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of business cards. “I apologize, sir. We can sit here and call any of my clients or visit them. I will guarantee that you will never ever do a day in jail for anything related to these machines. When the cops raid, they just take the machines and the money out of your register. You may get a fine, and we’ll pay that plus reimburse you for the money they take. We’ll also give you $10,000, not to be paid back. Think of it as a gift from Mr. Goldman.”
“A $10,000 gift? Really?”
I asked for the cards. I wanted to call some of these owners for myself. I checked out a few of his locations on the east and west side—the dude was legit. Mrs. Lonnie also gave me a call and said the guy was cool. I trusted her the most; she reminded me of an innocent grandma and knew Mr. Pete.
The dude came back through a few days later with an even better suit on. I stopped scraping crud off of the aging floor tile to buzz him in.
“Dee, I have a check for you in the amount of $10,000. Are you ready to move forward?”
“Aye, what’s your name?”
“So pleasant of you to ask. I’m Ron, Ron Franklyn.”
“So listen Ron, you guys checked out but 10 ain’t enough.”
He asked if he could have a minute to call his boss. I sat back and lit a cigar. The first pull burned my chest and made me hack until some tears spilled. Cigars were new to me, but I liked the taste and the dizzy spell they gave me—not as good as weed but legal and cool looking.
“Dee, I’ll write you a check for $15,000 and we can start tomorrow. Some of your customers have been going to other locations because of the change in ownership. But once the word gets out, you are going to make a lot of money. This is a great location!”
“One thing, though,” I said, “I don’t take checks.”
Ron came back with a contract and $15,000 in hundreds. I didn’t sign the contract, but I took the money. We plugged them up and he gave me a quick tutorial on how they worked.
“Well, Dee, we are in business now!”
“I guess so.”
THE BUSINESS PLAN
It took a few months to get it, but when I got it, I got it, and what I mean by got it is that I was getting it on all four levels of my store. The basement stored alcohol, wine, beer, malt liquor, and the potato-skin hooch that my second-floor tenant Mrs. Yancey made. It all lined across the back wall in Hellmann’s jars next to my La-Z-Boy because that was also my chill spot where I wrapped and rolled, and puffed, and sipped.
The steps were hidden under a panel behind the bar. I’d scale down into the stock room to get away from all of the bullshit on the first floor. Opening that freezer door kept it chill in the summer and the sweaty pipes that extended out from the furnace warmed up my winters. I loved that spot; I would stay in there alone for days.
The first floor was all lounging, partying, ass-clapping, overpriced cut-rate over-the-counter shit, fried dinners, drinking, fighting, regurgitating, gambling, shit talkin’, shit taking, watching the fight, starting the fight, networking, stealing, stripping, sleeping, stinking till reeking, baby showers, bridal showers, repasts, after hours, after after hours, bachelor parties, bachelorette parties, drug abuse, drug sales, and drunks pissing everywhere but the inside of our toilets.
I booked a bunch of parties and events. We rocked seven days a week—didn’t matter if we had one customer or went over the zoning capacity—we rocked from six a.m. until two a.m. or three a.m. or four a.m. or whatever. We had strippers on the first Friday of every month and the popularity led to us having them every week—just because we could. It could have been a slow Wednesday or a snowy Tuesday, but everybody in that hood knew that it might be stripper night—any night could be stripper night—or dollar crabs, or buy one get one, or something. I took care of the locals and the regulars, and they took care of me.
The second floor was Mrs. Yancey’s, and she held it down. She knew me from the neighborhood, and told me that she needed a spot to crib and that she got a check from the state which she would sign over to me. I knew she was a fiend but I didn’t care because most people are, so I rented her the spot for $510 a month and she charged other fiends $300 a month to stay—six to be exact, so that’s $1,800 a month for Mrs. Yancey minus my $510—everybody won.
Mrs. Yancey was the best tenant ever. She was dope and on dope and sold her methadone prescriptions to buy dope. She would get high at five a.m. and clean the shit out of that building—every inch, every speck, leaving my corner, my car, and my bar spotless, and it only got better when she sublet her spot. More fiends on morphine means the more clean everything is what I used to say—literally. My big homie Donnie—Mrs. Yancey’s boyfriend—lived there too, and he was cool as shit with a broke-off Kangol hat. He called me his block-headed nephew. I gave him a new job every day ranging from my doorman to my DJ to the trash man to the guy who I sent to the store. Fiends like him checked for me more than their own kids because I kept money in their pockets.
The top floor was like a ho house, but not really, because I didn’t house hos, I just left it open for sex—meaning that fifty-five dollars would allow you to BYOG (Bring Your Own Girl) for one hour in a room with an air mattress, a blanket, a flat-screen (TV), a variety of lotions, a can of Febreze, a mirrored ceiling, and bootleg cable. And I always—I repeat always—kept a fishbowl full of Magnums by the door. And of course the locals and regulars got to use the room for extended amounts of time at a discounted rate—because they kept me from being robbed or shot every night.
COP UP
Bo chugged back a pint glass of Jack. “I had a clothing company and it failed! A nightclub and it failed! And it’s all because of these hatin’-ass niggas in this town, crabs in a barrel in Baltimore!”
Soni rolled her eyes and walked out. Baltimore’s known for crabs and we normally buy them live in barrels. If you open the barrel and look in, you’ll see t
hem pulling each other down so that no crab reaches the top. Many in the Black community feel like their brothers and sisters pull them down in the same manner and use the “crabs in a barrel” as an analogy to justify their shortcomings.
I pulled him another cup. “Maybe your clothes were corny and your nightclub was wack,” I said. “I’m sick of everybody in this city blaming that crabs in the barrels crap for their failures without self-reflecting! I know a bunch of people with clothing lines and clubs here getting money! If my bar fails, I gotta figure a way to make it pop!”
“No Dee, you’ll see. Baltimore people are crabs and they want to see you fail! Now give my check nigga!”
“Well, Bo, you ever think that a crab’s natural habitat is not a barrel? And do you know what’s on the other side of that barrel? A steaming pot of death! Think about that. $14.50. The last one was on me.” Bo knocked back his last drink and waddled his musky three-hundred-pound frame sideways through the front entrance. Bo and about six guys just like him became our regulars, plus our overall traffic increased a little. Enough for me to hire a few barmaids.
I noticed I’d left $2,000 in the payout box of one of the poker machines and it was gone in two days. A few people won $30 or $40 while I was around but I didn’t get how and why so much money was disappearing. One the barmaids, LaShay, said, “The same four or five people have been coming around the time you leave out. They win a lot, boss, but I swear they put it right back in the machine.” I decided to do a surprise visit. A visit during the hours when they weren’t expecting me to be there.
Three customers were scattered in the lounge. A balloon-shaped woman with shiny features named Pearl sat at the machine. She was in a soiled housekeeping uniform that was as brown as her skin. Her name tag dangled. “Ya got some more quarters? Get me dem quarters girl!” she said every few minutes. Her hair was finger waved and thinning around the edges—like she was one perm away from being bald.