Life
Leo Sullivan
Life
Copyright © 2013 by Leo Sullivan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
Leo Sullivan | CEO/President
Sullivan Productions, LLC |
PO BOX 20323
Tallahassee, FL 32303
[email protected]
This book is dedicated to my mentor and best friend in memory of his son Tupac Shakur (God bless his soul). Mutulu, there aren’t enough words in any language to express my love for you, my teacher, my mentor, the father that I never had. You treated me like I was your own son. For me it was a blessing to have spent nearly ten years of my life under your diligent guidance. You forced my mind to go to another level, to a plateau outside the mundane box of limitations that unconsciously some Blacks have been trained to place on our minds. You embraced my writing, nurtured it. Had me writing lengthy essays and treatise. You had me on the radio doing poetry, speaking in front of packed audiences. I was scared to death! Remember? You told me that they had to let me in the door. We would argue, people would walk by and see us yelling at each other. I’ll never forget the day they moved me to another plantation (prison) after all those years of being around you, I was crushed! One day I set down to write you a letter and I just cried…and cried…well, finally, I’m here at the door just like you said, "Knock! Knock!"
Dr. Mutulu Shakur, I love you my nigga. I hope we meet again!
The author regrets the vulgar and degrading language used to depict the characters in this book. Especially those made in reference to Black women; however, he feels that it is a true and accurate account of the plight of Black life in terms of the vernacular and how urban impoverished Black Americans view themselves. Unfortunately, this book may be viewed as socially incorrect by today’s standards, thus tarnishing the rose colored glasses that most of today’s Black writers write from. The reality is men abuse women, and like it or not, Black America is caught up in the yoke of a severe AIDS epidemic.
How can America be the richest, industrious nation in the world, but yet choose to spend more money incarcerating young Black men than on the entire educational budget? Only by examining ourselves realistically within, will we be able to find a viable solution to help ourselves. Since time immemorial, someone has been determined to destroy us! Humanity.
"…I’m speaking as a victim of this American system. I see America through the eyes of the victim. I don’t see any American dream; I see an American nightmare…"
- Malcolm X, April 3, 1964
Acknowledgments
First, I would like to thank God. To my loving mother, I am your only child – I know that I have taken you through hell and back. One day you’re going to answer the door bell and I’m going to be standing there with open arms. I promise I’ll never leave you again. I love ya Ma!
Taya Baker, my confidant. You held me down. Every Black man is given one ebony angel in his life time, you are mine. You showed me that every real brotha has to have a strong sista in his life that balances like some rite of passage to manhood. First you must learn how to love a "Black Woman". Love ya Booboo.
To my nigga Lateef Varo, trapped behind enemy lines on Fed. We will continue to engage the enemy for our freedom. Keep yo head up!
To my sista Assata Shakur, Sundiata Acoli, Marilyn Buck and all the other comrades who dedicated their lives to our struggle, peace and blessing with God’s speed. Afeni Shakur, thanks for keeping Tupac’s legacy alive. Not to forget about dem Chi-Town 47th street G.D.’s my ole stumping grounds. Sarasota, Florida, the home team. Big props go out to dem niggaz in that ‘trape’ in Opa-Locka, Florida. Twon, wuz up!
Hellema publications, girl you ass in just too busy, thanks for being there. Tajuacla & Jack Parker and their book club. I would be remiss if I forgot to give mad love to my nigga Marvin Johnson, aka Blazack. May we never have to take a trip up that road again for dem ‘chips’. Iras in Hot Atlanta FM 89.3 get at me. To my partner Wayne Stone and his family and his son Jr. Communications is the key to winning any war. S. Lindsay, exhale and let it go. To my daughter Desire Monae Harvey that I have never had a chance to hold, I love baby girl. Ashley McMillion and Dwight Williams II thanks for your support.
To my dude Clifford Senter a.k.a. "Fateem" and his sis Laurita, also Professor Akinyele at Georgia State University African studies – y’all missing in action. To my dude Gucci out the bottom in Miami. To Phyllis Murphy, my baby mama, it ain’t over yet!
To my editor, Cynthia Parker and to Mia McPherson and the entire TCP family, thanks for letting me shine. I came so close to signing with another company that I just found out that did not have my best interest at heart. Leon Blue, it was you that sparked the flame for this joint. Good luck with your company, "Infra Read". Also, to Victor Martin and Jason Poole, thank you for paving the way. Camille Renee Lamb
Most importantly to my readers: Thank you! In this book I am giving you my very best. This was the closest I could take you into "that world" and keep it gangsta without catching another federal indictment. Also, it was important for me to make a statement in my writing, to be conscious and with a message. To those I forgot to mention on paper, don’t worry, you’re in my heart.
Chapter One
“The Set-up”
1992
I watched her as she slept. The rise and fall of her brown succulent breasts beckoned me. A beacon of light shined through the worn out curtains, illuminating the pellucid curves of her beautiful body. Nubile femininity captured on the cinematic screen of my mind. Once again I thought about rolling off into her, burying myself in her moist womanhood. The mounds of her sensuous flesh I could molest as from a mental escapism, she could be my sanctuary, at least for that infinite moment in time.
I was 26 years old, not even four months out of the joint and was back to throwing bricks at the chain gang as the old folks used to say–meaning, I was hustling with little regard for the law.
As I lay in bed, in a fleabag hotel room, with a broken air conditioner and no immediate plans for the future, I dreamed as all hustlers do. If I could just hit that one big lick, I would get out of the game.
On the dresser was my best friend–my gun. A big ole .44 Magnum named Jesus. Actually, it wasn’t me that named it Jesus, its victims did when they were forced to look down its long intimidating barrel. Next to it laid eighteen cocaine rocks and about three hundred dollars–my entire life savings–and the keys to Lil Cal’s tricked out Chevy, along with a pack of condoms. Cal was out of town and I was responsible for his ride.
Lying next to me in bed was Kim, a bonafide freak. I reached over and caressed her nipples. She stirred in her sleep lassoing a long leg on top of me. Her elbow came to rest on my morning erection. She crooned groggily.
“You asleep?”
“Naw, I was just lying here thinking.”
“Thinking ‘bout what?”
I felt her fingers walking across my thigh toward my morning glory. It was hot, stuffy and we were nude. The bed sheets stuck to our bodies. Her hand found its destination, stroking me with a determination, trying to rekindle an ember of passion from the night before. The gold bangles on her wrist jangled, signaling in chimes, her urgency. In one quick motion she climbed on top of me positioning herself to take me in. Her sultry breath a whisper against my cheek.
“Want me to serve you?” she flirted–meaning oral sex.
A hot, salivating tongue trailed my chest as she lowered her head. You see, at 30, Kim could do things with her mouth that made men curse God in ecstasy. She had a gorgeous body with generous curves, a small waist and a plump behind. She was light skinned, with a smooth complexion and a slight Bugs Bunny ov
erbite that somehow gave her beauty an alluring sexual appeal. However, she was the kind of broad that made a brotha appreciate tinted windows, cheap hotels and late night creeps. Kim had one major flaw–she was a powder head. Over the years it looked like the more cocaine she snorted the finer she would get. What made her so interesting to hustlers was the fact that she had a college degree, a good job and she knew how to talk proper like white folks with all them big words. She ran through all the dope boys like water. She had two vacuums that could suck you dry, the one in her mouth, and the other one in her nose. Both were lethal.
So I guess by now you have figured it out, I was in this sleazy ass hotel room tricking with Kim. She was about to gobble me up, her vacuum was on my stomach. There was a knock at the door. I had to wrestle her off of me as I got up, grabbing my gun while putting on my pants. I padded over to the door and looked over my shoulder placing my finger over my lips to quiet Kim. No one was supposed to know I was here. A large cockroach labored across the door as I looked through the peephole. Dre’ and some other dude were standing outside the door. I removed the chair from underneath the doorknob, and then I remembered to put on my shoes and shirt. Placing the gun in the spine of my back, I opened the door. I had not seen Dre’ since I went to the joint and from the look on his face, he was not happy to see me. He owed me a few grand.
“Wha …What …What’s up L?” he stuttered. “I saw Lil Cal’s car out front. The lady at the desk said he was in here.”
“Naw, Lil Cal gone out of town. I’m keeping the car,” I said, sensing something. I stepped to the side as I invited them in. Dre’ was hesitant. I noticed the big dude nudge him in. He had on some jewelry, too much for this side of town. Dre’ read my mind as he fidgeted.
“This is my cousin, Big Mike, from California.” The platinum chain on his neck must have cost a fortune. Mike looked like a dark skinned version of Suge Knight, only taller and with an athletic build like the kind of man that works out a lot. I couldn’t read his eyes because he was wearing dark shades. That disturbed me. One thing was for certain, dude had cheddar. He stroked my curiosity, Kim’s too. She could smell cocaine and money like a police K-9. From the look in her eyes she was on to his scent. Her greedy eyes flashed dollar signs as she got up from the bed wearing only the sheet like a sexy toga. Giving them an “I go good with coke and a smile” pose, she stood, standing back on her legs displaying a lot of peek-a-boo cleavage and the flaming red hair on her crotch left little doubt in anyone’s mind as to what was what. As she sashayed to the bathroom, there was a moment of silence, the way men give homage to a nice round ass.
“Yo, wuz up,” I said, trying to get a feel for what was going on.
“Nuttin’. I was lookin for Lil Cal,” Dre’ said. It looked like his eyes were trying to tell me something. The thought of money made me ignore him. Big mistake.
“Ya’ll trying to get some yae?” I questioned, meaning cocaine.
“Yes,” the big man replied.
“No,” Dre’ said simultaneously.
The big dude took the lead with Dre’ looking as uncomfortable as a nigga at a Clan demonstration. I was thinking of the five grand he owed me and now I got his ass trapped in a raggedy ass hotel room. Wasn’t it Tupac that said, “Revenge is sweet as pussy.” A lot of nights I used to lay up in my cell in the joint thinking about all the niggas that had crossed me. Dre’ did not even send me a dime. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. The Suge Knight-looking cat fired up a blunt. Between puffs he said, “We trying to cop a couple ounces of crack.”
“Crack?” I repeated incredulously because real hustlers never refer to dope as crack. Dre’ just rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. I thought I had it figured out; Dre’ was about to take this lame for his scratch and did not want me in on it. Just then, as if on cue, Kim strutted out of the bathroom. Her hair and makeup were immaculately done as if she were ready to pose for one of those glamour magazines. She was scantily dressed in a black sequined miniskirt and high heels. She was the poison to the dope game.
Money, whores, cars and clothes are all accentuates that lead a brotha to prison or worse. Kim’s perfume fumigated–all eyes were on her as she sat on the bed, crossing her long legs seductively. In the back of my mind, I was plotting on how to relieve Dre’ and the big lame of their cash. Kim was working her charm on the lame like a boa constrictor charming a bird. His eyes were glued to the meaty exposure of her thighs as she gave him that “pussy for hire” smile. The whole time Dre’ was looking at me with something in his eyes, something that later on, I would regret that I did not recognize.
I walked to the door opening it wide. “Kim, I’ll holla at you later.”
Her brow frowned at me as if to say, I know that you can’t possibly be talking to me. She opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. With hands poised on her hips, she just looked at me.
“I’ll be down in a second, wait for me in the car.”
Her nose was running, she needed a snort. She took one last look at the big dude, did her mental telepathy thing that whores do when they are trying to catch a trick. She turned to me, “L, don’t keep me waiting,” and spun on her heels. I shut the door.
“How much money you got?” I asked, talking to no one in particular. The big man shifted his weight uncomfortably. Dre’ knew what was about to go down. I had blood in my eyes.
“Yo, L, man I stopped by your mama’s crib and wasn’t no one home. In fact, I did not even know you were out until just now.” He tried to smile, but all his face unveiled was a mask of fear. There was an adrenaline like raw energy, it started with the heartbeat, sweaty palms and it completely seized control of a man as well as his victims. The kind of power that only a gun can bring.
Power, I was feeling it. I reached into the small of my back pulling out Jesus, the savior. For the first time, big man removed his shades. He was severely cockeyed. I couldn’t tell what the fuck he was looking at. Dre’ mumbled something about he thought we were tight. I started to smack his ass upside the head with the barrel of the gun.
“Just let me get them chips you owe me, it should be about five grand with interest,” I said with a menacing scowl on my face.
Dre’ dug into his pockets removing a large wad of cash.
“Where is the rest of it?” I asked, pointing the gun in his face.
“Swear to God, that’s all I got.”
“Nigga get flat on the floor,” I barked. Dre’ did a belly flop. If there had been any water I would have given him a ten. I turned to the big man. I still don’t know if he was looking at me, the floor, or what. Beads of sweat were cascading off of his forehead. “Let me get that up off of ya big man.”
“Noooo!” Dre’ screamed. I thought he was more worried about the big lame than he was about himself. I thought that was strange. Everything was moving fast and this big nigga looked like he was thinking about bucking, so I cocked the gun.
He flinched, then slowly he reached into his pants and removed a pouch. Casually, I took a step back as he tossed it to me just in case this Suge Knight-looking nigga got any bright ideas and I had to bust a cap in his fat ass. I looked inside the pouch, bingo! Nothing but hundred dollar bills.
Dre’ was still on the floor whimpering, “No, no, L! Cal, not you! Cal, not you!” His jabbering was inaudible to me because I was focused on the lame with the fat chain on his neck.
“Big man, let me get that ice off of ya,” I insisted, pointing with the gun. His eyes shot daggers at me.
“I’d beat your little ass if it wasn’t for that gun.”
He took a step forward.
“Yeah, and my aunt would be my uncle if she had balls. Save the rap and un-ass that ice.”
He took the chain off, a little too slow for my liking, but I stripped his ass like a stolen Chevy and made him lie on his stomach on the dirty-ass carpet. I heard tales where dudes got killed doing robberies for failure to search the victims during a hasty getaway. While I was patting big man dow
n, I found a loaded .380 pistol in a holster strapped to his leg. The last thing I needed was to get shot in the back. While I was searching Dre’ he was shaking like a leaf on a tree. I felt something taped to his body; it ran from his back, around his stomach and taped to his chest. A police wire. Dre’ turned informant and I was being set up. My heart skipped a beat. Alarmed, I panicked as Dre’ began pleading.
“L, it wasn’t meant for you, they want Lil Cal … Lil Cal …”
My life flashed before my eyes. I was going back to prison, big time. I could visualize cell doors slamming. I had just robbed an undercover Narc Agent. Shit! In a fit of rage I kicked Dre’ in the face, threw the wire across the room and ran over to the window and looked out. Sure as hell the police were everywhere. I felt like a trapped animal. With only one way in and one way out, my mind raced in a million different directions. Quickly, I grabbed the old oak dresser and dragged it in front of the door creating a barricade between my destiny and me. As soon as I turned around the cop was getting off the floor in an attempt to tackle me. I pointed the gun at him. “Don’t make me kill you!” He got back down on the floor. There was a thunderous noise at the door. A battering ram.
“POLICE!” came the shout from behind the door.
Wood was flying from the door like sharp metal. I ducked down and suddenly remembered the bathroom. I ran in there and kicked the door behind me. There was a small window over the toilet. I could hear footsteps as the front door came crashing down. Police were screaming, “Stay on the floor, stay on the floor!” to Dre’ and the Narc Agent. I broke the window, and cut my hand in the process. The police were at the bathroom door. I was moving fast. It was a two-story drop in a small gangway with a spiked fence at the bottom. Just as I got out of the window the bathroom door burst open. I jumped, descending downward. I fell inches from the fence and injured my ankle, as shots rang out, ricocheting above my head. As soon as I cleared the gangway I saw an elderly white man cleaning the windshield of his car. A platoon of cops turned the corner heading straight for me. I bum rushed the old man and knocked him down. I dipped into the car, which was an old Caddy, but in mint condition. The tires screeched a complaint as I pulled out, pedal to the metal. In the rear view mirror I could see a cloud of smoke and angry cops running behind me as I distanced myself, heading for Highway 301, doing a hundred miles an hour.
Life Page 1