Life

by Sullivan, Leo

  I had no intention of ever going back to prison. As he talked, I measured the distance to my gun. Desperation will make a man do some suicidal shit, like leap for a gun when he really doesn’t have much of a chance.

  “You shot that boy in Frenchtown and robbed him after he wouldn’t buy your fake drugs.”

  “That wasn’t me!” I quipped, easing closer to my gun. I could feel my palms sweating.

  “Shut up! And keep your hands where I can see them,” he snorted, as he continued to brag about himself, how brilliant of a cop he was to be telling me of my track record in his town.

  “You robbed that jewelry store and knocked the snot out of the security guard.” Someone once said that ignorance is bliss, so I did what Black folks are famous for whenever they were caught, cold busted. I played dumb and looked at that white man like he was speaking a foreign language.

  “Where did you get the money from?” he asked, nodding at the pile of money on the bed.

  I didn’t ever answer, just looked him in his eyes, and thought about prison bars and caged cells not big enough for dogs much less a human being. That desperate voice in my head was telling me, Try him! Go for your gun. Then something dawned on me, where was his back up? Something was out of place.

  “Today’s your lucky day boy,” he said mockingly. “I’m not going to turn you in, but I am going to help myself to some of this money here. He started stuffing his pockets with my money. He was robbing me. I jumped up from the bed taking a step forward.

  “Wha da fuck you doin’?!” I was enraged. This is why you only see white cops killing Black men in cold blood. In their eyes Black men were powerless against the system.

  “You make a move like that again, and I promise you boy, I’ll blow your goddamn brains out.” There was no doubt in my mind that he meant what he said.

  “Sit down!” he barked. My eyes shown optic slants of hate that back in the days of the slavery of my ancestors, he would have had me lynched for. Reluctantly I sat back down. My breathing was labored and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I was sick and tired of white men constantly taking from me. If it wasn’t my freedom, it was my money, and as I looked at that white man with blood in my eyes, I realized that it was just the principle of the thing. Even so-called criminals respect each other.

  “I’m here for a good reason,” he said.

  “What, to take my muthafuckin’ money?”

  “No, to make you money.”

  “Huh?”

  “As long as you’re selling drugs and killin’ each other in that jungle ya’ll call Frenchtown, I ain’t got no problem with that.”

  “I can’t muthafuckin tell! You come in here actin like John Wayne takin’ my muthafuckin money!”

  “That’s because crime does pay. It pays the judges, the lawyers, the FBI, CIA, the DEA and you just paid me.” With that, he smiled like Lucifer in the flesh. My blood boiled in my veins. Only history knows best the relationship of the white man stealing from Blacks in the name of the law. He continued, “America has built illegal drugs into the most powerful institution the world has ever known. Like the prisons, legalized slavery, check the stock market.” As he talked, I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, and didn’t care neither.

  “But on the other hand, I like you, you remind me of your so-called black leaders of today. You’re in it for the money, them boys back in the day …” Spitler stopped to think, and suddenly snapped his finger like he had a bright idea. “Martin and Malcolm X, all they did was stir up trouble, wasn’t no good to black folks. Now you, you think like a white man. You know how to take advantage of your race. From here on out you can sell all the drugs you like, just keep it out the white folks’ neighborhood. Them white kids is America’s future. You hear me?” He raised his voice. Something about what he said hurt me to the core, made me feel less than a man, less than human. White people have this uncanny way of making Black people feel awkward in their presence and all the time he talked, smiled, looking like a Catholic priest.

  “This is my cut,” he said stuffing more money into his pockets.

  “HELL NAW! FUCK DAT!” I stood up fast, stiff like a human rocket. “Listen, cracka, I don’t fuck wit no muthafuckin police, period!”

  “Sit down!” he commanded, pointing the gun at my head.

  I guess this is the way Black men get shot, because all I could see was red. Spitler provoked me, pushing me over the edge.

  “If you’re gonna shoot me, shoot me now! You ain’t finna come in here, take my muthafuckin money, telling me how to run shit!” I said standing my ground, fists clinched at my side. We stared each other down. I knew it was foolish of me to do what I was doing.

  “For two thousand dollars a week you can sell all the dope you want. Just keep it out the white neighborhood. Hell, it would be like you have a license. I can make sure you and your people never get caught, as long as you’re working out of a house.” Spitler was talking a mile a minute, non-stop. “I’ll actually be working for you.”

  I sat back down on the bed, rubbed the waves in my head, thinking about what he said. I knew I had no out with him; I was in a no-win situation in this deadly game of crooked cops. One thing was for certain, once a hustler had a cop in his pocket that changed the whole game. Things could turn from sugar to shit. I took a chance and tossed a gambit at him. “OK cop you work for me now.” He smiled like he had just sold me a comfortable cell in Sing Sing prison. “That money that you just took off the bed, that was your first month salary and I’m payin ya one grand a week, not two,” I said as the smile died on his face.

  “I’ll take fifteen hundred a week or I’m taking your black ass down to the station.”

  He took the bait, I thought as I tried to my best to look disappointed, frowned like he was taking advantage of me. I looked at him, saw all the greed of his ancestors in his little beady eyes. I went for the evident, this white man wasn’t no earthly good.

  “You got a deal,” I said, and looked at the bed at the pile of cash. For some reason he did not take all of it; that only meant that he was serious about wanting to be on my payroll.

  There was a knock at the door. Startled, he flinched. Scary-ass cracka, I thought to myself as he waved his gun and told me to answer the door. I walked to the door, and while I tried to keep my eyes on him, he picked up my gun emptying the bullets out on the rug. I looked out the peephole and saw Black Pearl standing there. She looked worried, and continued to glance over her shoulder. I opened the door. Spitler rushed by me out the door, damn near knocking Black Pearl down. That white man scared the hell out of her. She walked with one hand on her stomach, the other over her heart. She grabbed my hand holding it tightly.

  “Lawd have mercy! Pah-leez tell me that was not that nasty-ass cracka police, Spitler,” she said, exasperated. I could feel her hand trembling. “Look outside the window,” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper as her starry eyes searched mine asking me what was going on. I pulled the curtains back in the window just as a huge bolt of lightning lit up the sky. Eerily, I saw my reflection, jagged edges of a man. Down below in the parking lot, six black unmarked police cars sat idling. I watched as Spitler scurried out into the pouring rain and signaled a thumbs up and dashed into the car. One after the other, the cars trailed out of the parking lot.

  Black Pearl tugged my shirt. “You’re going to have to leave here. I know a place you’ll be safe.” To the average hustler, a pregnant woman is about the purest form of good luck a man can have. So as the thunder and lightning clapped, I was listening to this pregnant woman like Moses did the Ten Commandments.

  We packed in a hurry. Jumped into the hoopty and drove forty-five minutes outside of Tallahassee to a small rural town called Quincy. For me it was love at first sight. As country as you can get but the town had a serene peacefulness about it. As I continued to drive, I was overcome by the beautiful landscapes, like the ones you see on a postcard–peaceful and serene with a dazzling sun that bathes
the scenic green pastures. In the distance, I saw an old mansion with plantation style shutters and sprawling green landscape that must have dated back to the seventeenth century. I slowed the car down, looked at the “For Sale” sign hanging askew in the wooden fence. It said, “Twenty acres for sale.” I turned to Black Pearl and dreamed out loud.

  “I’ma buy that place, fix it up real nice, name it Chateau G.P., short for Gangsta Paradise.”

  In response, Black Pearl hitched a ride to my dream and asked excitedly, “Oh please! Please let me do the decorating and interior design.” She was a true-to-heart sixteen-year-old. Anyone else would have told me I was crazy. The place was not worth a rusty nickel.

  *****

  I drove back to town and rented two rooms, one for myself and the other for Pearl. Dirty hit me on the hip. I checked my beeper, 911. I called him and he said it was an emergency, something to do with Blazack. I agreed to meet him at Denny’s Restaurant. When I got there he was seated all the way in the back. He looked like a nervous wreck, chewing on his fingernails. As I approached, he smiled up at me wearily.

  “Whuz up yo?” I said, sliding into the booth with him. A waitress with a foreign accent and a nice figure gave me a menu and said she’d be right back. I watched her hips as she walked away.

  “Man, you gotta stop this fuckin’ nigga Blazack! He done lost his fuckin mind and some shit,” Dirty said. I sat there and listened to a horror story about how Blazack murdered both T-Bone and Jackie Boy in cold blood. In the early morning, Blazack went to Jackie Boy’s mother’s house and shot him in the head right in front of her and two younger brothers. That same day, the entire crew abducted T-Bone from the work release center and took him down to the basement of the house that we rented. To everyone’s utter shock and dismay Blazack appeared with an ax and made T-Bone bow down to his knees and began to hack his head off with the ax. Afterward, Blazack threatened all of them, if they told, they would be next. Then he showed them how to cut up a body. The art of making people disappear. Now for the past few days Blazack had been driving through Frenchtown with T-Bone’s head in a bag showing it to all the hustlers, not just as evidence of revenge for robbing a member of his crew, but also a means to intimidate drug dealers for their money. I was reminded of Stevey D’s earlier call. Blazack had him shook, scared to death.

  Now shit was starting to make sense, the mystery phrase, “Your homeboy missing, Ax Blazack.” For the past few years, secretly, Blazack had been making people disappear, including his own baby mama and her boyfriend. Now as I sat there in the booth, it dawned on me like I’m sure it must have dawned on the rest of the heads of the crew, I was going to have to step to him. I knew that I could not underestimate him, but there was one thing that stood out in my mind back there in his room when he described having to kill Dre’ with his bare hands. All killers have a weapon of choice. Knives, guns, axes. As I remembered, Blazack was not good with his hands in battle, at least I hoped in preparing for the confrontation.

  Perplexed, I frowned and asked Dirty, “Damn, you don’t think the nigga smokin’ or sometin’ do ya?”

  “Hell yeah he smokin’,” Dirty shot back.

  “Huh, smokin’ what?”

  “Smokin niggas wit dat 12 gauge shot gun,” Dirty retorted. “Man you ain’t hearin’ me! Dude out there on a killin’ spree. When you find him have your burner witcha, I ain’t one to be startin’ shit, but not just dude, but the whole crew been grumblin’ bout all that fuckin money you been makin’.” With that, Dirty raised his chin like it was connected to his pride, his way of telling me he too was pissed about the money I was paying him. I walked away from him wondering when the shit went down between Blazack and myself, just whose side would the crew roll with.

  *****

  Chapter Thirteen

  “A Deadly Confrontation”

  – Life –

  As soon as I walked into the house, I knew that something was terribly wrong. All I saw were somber faces. Gucci, Mad Ball and Twine. The kind of faces you see at funerals. Twine looked up at me as he stopped rolling a blunt.

  “Why the fuck ya’ll niggas ain’t at work?”

  “Ain’t no work!” Gucci shot back in disgust, throwing up his hands frustrated. “Cats been coming out of town to buy our shit and taking it back and reselling it. The dime bags of powder, too. Shit selling like hot cakes my nigga.”

  It was Trina’s idea to sell the dime bags of powder. On just a Friday alone, we could sell five bricks or more. That was over a million and some change.

  The vibe in the room wasn’t right. I reflected back on what Dirty warned me about at the restaurant, the crew being unhappy about the chips I was paying them, so I tried to read each man’s face, and they all looked the same, like mutiny waiting to happen. Then I heard a blood-curdling scream come from the basement.

  “What da fuck was dat?!”

  “That’s crazy-ass Blazack!” Gucci said. “Look man, shit getting crucial. We thinking about bailing back to the crib, a nigga ain’t making no money and Blazack runnin’ round here actin’ like he psycho, cuttin’ muthafuckas up with an ax and shit.”

  “Where in the fuck he at now?” I asked.

  “Down in the basement, he got Major down there, said he stole a bomb of rocks from him.”

  I took off in a hurry down the stairs to the basement. Major was our all-purpose man. Every crew had one. If it was broke he could fix it, whether it be a motor or installing a car stereo system. I had a lot of respect for Major; even though he smoked he still carried himself like a man, always wore clean clothes and took care of himself.

  As I walked down the darkened stairway, I felt for the .380 pistol in my pocket, thought about what was about to go down with my confrontation with Blazack as the smell of death and Pine Sol reeked in my nostrils. It kind of made me want to vomit. At the bottom of the stairs in the dimly lit loft I saw Blazack standing over Major holding a hot iron, one of them old fashion kinds used for ironing clothes. Major’s shirt was torn off, he was bleeding badly, his face was discolored and bruised. Blazack had him tied to a chair. I walked up without either of them hearing me. I was fully prepared to kill Blazack. I had to be, because I knew without a shadow of a doubt, he would kill me just for the sport of it, if the time suited him right.

  “Yo, that’s enough Blazack! Untie him!” Blazack spun around to face me. I saw something in his eyes, wild and untamed.

  “Fuck dat! Dis nigga done fucked up a package. I’ma havta make an example out of him, too!”

  “L, pleeeese man, stop him,” Major pleaded through swollen lips. His skin was pink and red from the burn marks from the hot iron.

  I walked up to Blazack. “Let him go!” I said louder this time.

  “What part of no you don’t understand?” he asked with in venom in his voice. I was conscious of him swinging the iron at me. In my mind I was thinking, this nigga ain’t never been known to be good with his fists. I thought about how he damn near cried when he was telling me about how he had to kill the snitch Dre’ with his bare hands. Take away his gun, he probably wasn’t shit. It was plenty of cats like that, real gorillas with a gun, but hoes when it came to their fist. Major whimpered again for me to help him. I bent down to untie him. Blazack dropped the iron and grabbed my arm, I shoved him. My instincts told me to go for my heat.

  “Don’t make me havta bust your ass in here nigga,” I said, feeling the adrenaline rush of a fight.

  “My nigga you really ain’t tryna see me,” Blazack’s mouth said, but his body spoke a different language as he took a step back, sizing me up, his eyes registering the surprise of my boldness. From the corner of my eye I saw the rest of the crew, watching, waiting. I guess the jury was still out with them in choosing whose side they were on.

  “Yeah, you right, I ain’t trying to see you. You need to go! I ain’t paying your bitch ass five G’s a week to be runnin’ round here torturing and killin’ niggas,” I said, pointing a finger in his face. I went to finish untying Maj
or, at the same time, I kept my eyes on Blazack.

  “I’ma be the muthafucka putting the fear of God into these niggas,” Blazack shrilled angrily. “Nigga, you couldn’t sell a fuckin’ bird until I got here!” With one swift kick, Blazack sent the chair with Major still in it toppling over onto the floor. Major got up and ran to the stairs. I told him to meet me at my car. He needed medical attention. There was no way in hell I was going to let him leave looking like a creature from the horror show.

  “You think we don’t know how much money you makin’ and that Brooklyn bitch breakin’ ya. Trina playing ya like a sucka. While you paying us fuckin’ pennies, you got the bitch pickin up the drop off.” I held my temper in check while Blazack vented. As he talked, I was surprised to learn this was some shit he wanted to get off his chest.

  “Every day, I give that bitch five or six hundred G’s, and some days more and you trustin’ a bitch like she sincere.”

  A sacred rule of the dope trade is to never let the right hand know what the left hand is doing. They didn’t know that it was because of Trina that I was not only locked in to a major dope sup-ply, but she organized and carefully set everything into to motion, including her advice on how much I should pay my workers. I wasn’t going to tell him that.

  Right then as I looked around at the crew watching me, waiting for my reaction, I could smell the larceny simmering in the air like a hot pot of treason about to boil over. Also I understood where Blazack was coming from, but I could not let him get away with all the senseless shit he had been doing.

  “Yo, you gotta to go, or stop the dumb shit,” I said coldly.

  “Dat nigga beat us for ten G’s in dope,” Blazack said, disgruntled.

  “Naw he beat you for ten grand in dope. You knew the nigga was a smoker in the first place,” I reasoned, took a step closer and dropped the bomb on him. “Beside, you been taxing niggas. I believe you been servin’ my dope and the dope you takin’ from niggas, too.”