by Askari
“But Carmine,” Alphonso started.
“But nothin’,” he interrupted his underboss. “I can’t afford that type of heat. Speakin’ of Romey Noodles, you need to have a talk wit’ him. This is the second time this month that he came short wit’ my fuckin' money,” he said while gesturing toward the stacks of money on his desk. “I did him a favor by givin’ him the docks, and this is how he repays me? By not payin’ me my fuckin’ money.”
Alphonso began to perspire. He was the one who petitioned for Romey Noodles to get the docks, and he knew that Carmine would hold him responsible.
“Don’t just stand there lookin’ stupid,” Carmine antagonized him. “He’s makin’ every bit of fifteen grand a week, and all I wanted was a measly 30%. Last week he brought me $2,500 and last night he dropped off $3,000. You tell that degenerate fuck that I want my goddamn money. That’s $3,500 he owes me.”
“Listen Carmine, I’m not exactly sure about what’s goin’ on, but he did tell me that the money’s been comin’ in slower than usual,” Alphonso spoke up on his behalf.
“Slower than usual?” Carmine banged his hand on the desktop. “The docks are one of our best money makers! You tell that fuckin’ hump to get his shit together, and that’s the end of it!”
As Alphonso lowered his head and left the office, Carmine’s cell phone rang. He grabbed it from the desktop, and noticed that the caller was his grandfather. “Yo gramps! What’s goin’ on?”
“This Miami weather, fugget about it!” Little Angolo chuckled. “But listen Carmy, you did a good job with Luca and Junior. Respect comes from admiration and fear, and in order for this family to move forward, it was something that needed to be done.”
“Alright,” Carmine nodded his head. “But I can tell from the sound of your voice that somethin’ ain’t right. So, quit the bullshit and lay it on me.”
Little Angolo sighed. “There’s not gonna be an indictment.”
“There’s not gonna be an indictment? What do you mean there’s not gonna be an indictment? This was supposed to be water under the friggin’ bridge.”
“Gervin’s back, Carmy.”
“How? I thought he was in Cuba?”
“That’s what we thought, but he’s back. He whacked Smitty, and the entire case was based on his testimony. I told Andy to put Smitty in a witness protection program, but he didn’t. He dropped the fuckin’ ball,” Little Angolo explained.
Carmine jumped to his feet and swiped everything off his desk. “Andy did what? You tell that Jewish piece of shit that I’ll rip off his fuckin’ balls! He’s got one month to fix this shit! One!”
***
At SCI Graterford
Daphney’s father, Alvin Rines, was sitting in his cell with his eyes glued to the pages of Cash’s debut novel, Trust No Man. A hot cup of coffee was clutched in his right hand, and the Super III radio that sat on his desk was tuned into Power 99. He wasn’t really paying attention to the radio, but when the music stopped and the disk jockey mentioned Sonny’s name, he laid down the book and turned up the volume.
“So Sonny, it seems like you popped up from outta nowhere,” said Mo Jeezy, the top disk jocky in Philly. “Go ‘head and tell the city who you are, and let ‘em know what you been up to.”
“No doubt,” Sonny’s voice eased through the speakers. “For those of y’all who don’t know me, I’m straight out the Bad Landz and I been doin’ my thing for a while now. I just kicked off my record label, Block Boy Entertainment, and my first artist is Coldplay Wu.”
“Yo, that’s what’s up,” Mo Jeezy shot back. “Coldplay Wu, that’s the young bul from Uptown. I’ve been seeing him on those Smack DVDs. He’s definitely bringing that heat.”
“Without a doubt,” Sonny cosigned. “My mission is to make him the next best thing to come outta Philly since Meek. Shout to Meek Mill by the way.”
“Alright now what’s the motivation behind this turkey giveaway?”
“This was somethin’ that my big homie Mook used to do back in the day, and I wanted to honor his memory by keepin’ up wit’ the tradition. I also wanted to do somethin’ positive for the hood.”
“Well, congratulations brotha. Keep up the good work, and make sure that I’m the first one to get a copy of Coldplay’s album.”
“No doubt, Mo, and thanks for covering the event.”
Alvin shook his head from side to side, and then took a deep breath. “This nigga’s doin’ too much,” he said to himself. He grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper, and began to write Sonny a letter.
Chapter Seven
A Week Later...
In the basement of an undisclosed location, Sonny, Easy, and Rahmello were sitting at separate tables using money counters to double check the buy money for their November shipment. This was their ritual ever since they linked up with Poncho. They would get together on the first Saturday of the month, count the buy money, and then drive to Poncho’s bodega in three Cadillac Escalades. Easy and Breeze would lead the convoy, Zaire and Egypt would take the rear, and Sonny and Rahmello would ride in the middle with the buy money stashed inside of a hidden compartment. After purchasing their monthly shipment of 100 kilos, they would return to the stash house, and breakdown the work. Specifically, they would remove 9 ounces from a 100% pure kilo, and replace the weight with a liquefied cut. Next, they would place the kilo inside of a mixing kettle, and blend it to a thick paste. After that, they would pour the paste into a hydraulic compressor, and compress the kilo back together. In the end, they would have 132 kilos with 75% purity and 1 remaining kilo with 100% purity.
The l kilo with a 100% purity was put aside for Sheed, and 100 of 132 was given on consignment for $30,000 apiece, generating $3,000,000. Breeze, Egypt, and Zaire each received 30 keys, and Pooky received 10.
The remaining 32 were distributed on the street corners at $35 per gram, generating a total of $1,128,960. They had four corners, and each corner was manned by a caseworker, two runners, and two shooters. Each worker received a weekly payment of $2,000, and Easy took care of them every Sunday.
In conclusion, the net from every shipment was roughly $1,468,000, and they split the proceeds three ways.
After counting the buy money and confirming that it was $2,500,000, they loaded the money in two briefcases, and then left the house. Their destination was Papi Land. It was time to see Poncho.
***
In Northeast Philly
The Philadelphia Industrial Correctional Center, also known as PICC, was the most violent jail in the state of Pennsylvania. Unfortunately for Sheed, for the past twenty months this desolate environment was the place he called home.
“Food cart on the block! Food cart on the block!” Corrections Officer Jasmyn Logan announced over G Unit’s intercom.
She was a beautiful fusion of Black and Cambodian, and could easily pass for the R&B singer Cassie. She had a high yellow complexion, slanted eyes, a sharp nose, rosey red cheeks, and juicy pink lips. She was 5‘4”, petite, and had the cutest little bubble butt that Sheed had ever seen. As a single mother who received her job through a welfare program, since her first day on the job, she made it extremely clear that if the money was right, she was willing to make moves. She knew about Sheed’s reputation for getting money, so obviously he was her first target. They struck a deal that required her to bring him a weekly package of Newports and weed, but somewhere along the line they fell in love. Despite the fact that he was sitting in jail, he paid her bills and spoiled her with everything from Chanel sandals to Birkin bags.
As the inmates stepped forward to receive their food tray, she looked down the tier and saw Sheed standing in front of his cell. “Sheed come here for a minute!”
Upon hearing his name, he strolled toward the center console with a dope boy swag written all over him. He was freshly dressed in a brown and beige Louis Vuitton pajamas set, and gold framed Louis Vuitton eyeglasses decorated his chiseled face. As he approached her, he licked his lips and adjusted the semi-erectio
n that formed in his pajamas pants.
“What’s up, ma?”
She smiled at him and fanned an envelope in front of his face. “I found this when I was cleaning under the console. It’s a letter addressed to you. It must’ve fell under there when I was passing out the mail yesterday. Here,” she handed him the envelope. “And just so you know, I’m about to go on my lunch break so you know what that means.”
“Facetime!” they laughed in unison.
This was their thing. Every day on her lunch break, she would go into the faculty bathroom, and use the Skype ap on her iPhone to give him a sexual performance.
He examined the envelope and saw that it was a letter from Pooky. He placed it in his back pocket, and then looked Jasmyn in the eyes. “I’m sayin’ though, a nigga try’na taste that. What’s up?”
“Taste that?” she looked at him like he was crazy. “Daddy, you know we can’t do that with all these cameras watchin’. Plus, we only got one more week until you come home. You can wait.”
Sheed chuckled. “I’m sayin’ though, all you gotta do is play wit’ ya pussy real quick, and then let me taste ya fingers.”
A mischievous grin appeared on her face as she glanced around the dayroom. Satisfied that none of the inmates were watching, she slipped her right hand inside of her pants. After sliding her G-string to the side, she dipped her index and middle fingers inside of her honey pot, and swirled them in a circular motion until they were coated with her juices.
Sheed’s semi-erection was now a fully loaded hammer. He loved the fact that his woman was a freak. “Yo hurry up, I’m try’na taste them jawns,” he encouraged her.
She removed her hand, and he couldn’t believe how drenched her fingers were. She spread her nectar across his mustache, and then slipped her fingers inside of his mouth.
“Damn Jas! Ya pussy smell like water and taste like chicken!”
“Boy, you’s a mess,” she laughed and playfully smacked him on the shoulder. “Now, go to ya cell and get ready. I’m goin’ on my break.”
As she left the cellblock, he went to his cell, and told his cellie to give him some private time. After locking the door and covering the window with his towel, he pulled the envelope from his back pocket and began reading.
Dear Lil’ Bro,
How you holdin’ up in there? I apologize for not coming to see you last week, but shit been a lil’ hectic out here for me. After sittin’ in a cell for 18 years, I’m still try’na adjust to the ways of streets. I took a lil’ loss, but don’t worry about it, I’ma bounce back on the next flip.
Oh yeah, I put Rahman in position, and we set up shop on Chew and Locust. That Germantown money ain’t as fast as this North money, but you know how that go.
Anyway, hope you beat that mutha'fuckin’ case next month. It’s fuckin’ me up that after 18 years, I finally made it home, and now you’re the one that’s locked up, and facin’ 15. SMH!
Just stay strong and stay focused, lil’ bro.
One Love, Pooky G’s
After reading the letter, a huge smile spread across his face. “Fuck a 15 year bit!” he said to himself. “Big bro gon’ be fucked up when I touch down next week!”
He placed the letter on his footlocker, and then plopped down on his bunk. He imagined his first day back on the streets. First, he would surprise Pooky and Rahman. Second, he would pay a visit to Sonny and pick up the $875,000 that he was holding for him. Finally, he would spend the rest of the day eating his favorite foods and making love to Jasmyn.
His Samsung vibrated through the pillow, snapping him out of his daydream. He reached inside of the slit and retrieved the rectangular shaped phone. Damn, I love this lil’ bitch, he thought to himself while staring at her image on the LED screen. He grabbed a bottle of Jergens from his shelf, and then accepted the call. Let the games began!
***
In The Fairhill Projects
Heemy was awakened by the cold sensation of the .32 snub that was pressed against his forehead. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see that his best friend, Twany was the one holding the gun. “Yo Twany, what the fuck is you doin’ dawg? Stop playin’ all time!”
Twany laughed. “Nigga, stop bitchin’.” He removed the gun from Heemy’s forehead and held it in the air. “It ain’t even loaded.”
Twany lived a block away from Heemy in the Fairhill Projects on 10th Street. Just like Heemy, he was 17 and came from a broken home. His father was long gone and his mother was a heroin addict. The only person who loved him enough to look after him was his 21 year old brother Nipsy.
Basically, Heemy and Twany were two peas in a pod. They fought together. They stole together. They skipped school together, and most recently, they started selling weed together. Every day after school they would go to 7th Street and sell weed for Nipsy. Their shift was from 3-ll p.m., and at the end of the week they both received $250. Everything was going smooth until last week when Heemy arrived on the block with tears in his eyes. He told Twany and Nipsy about his altercation with Pooky, and Nipsy invited him to stay at their house with him and Twany. Obviously, Heemy accepted. Why wouldn’t he? The living conditions at Nipsy’s house were ten times better, and most importantly, he wouldn’t have to worry about Pooky and his bullshit.
“Yo Twany, where you get that ratchet from?” Heemy asked while sitting up on the top bunk. “I know it ain’t yours.”
“I stole it from the Timberland box in Nipsy’s closet,” Tawny bragged. “That nigga’s got so many burners that he probably won’t even it’s know it’s missin’.” He looked into the full length mirror on the back of his bedroom door, and aimed the gun at his reflection. “Yo, this that Dirty Harry shit right here,” he started laughing.
“Lemme see that jawn,” Heemy requested, and then held out his hand.
Twany handed him the .32 and a powerful feeling washed over him. It was a feeling that a 17 year old boy should never experience. It was the power of knowing that with this small piece of iron he could play the role of God and decide another man’s fate.
“Yo, Nipsy ain’t got no bullets for this jawn?”
“Yeah, he got bullets,” Twany answered. He reached inside of his pocket and pulled out a handful of Winchesters. “I got ‘em right here.” He handed Heemy the bullets, and gave him a funny look. “What you need bullets for? You ain’t gon’ shoot nuffin.”
“Yah huhn,” Heemy shot back as he tried to figure out how to load the revolver.
“Man, you don’t even know what you doin’,” Twany teased him. “Here, give it to me so I can show you.”
Heemy handed him the gun and the bullets, and like a trained expert, Twany opened the cylinder with ease. He loaded the pistol, and then handed it back to Heemy. “A’ight, it’s loaded. I bet you $20 you ain’t got the heart to shoot somethin’.”
“Yes I do!” Heemy perked up, and stuck out his chest. “Come outside and I’ma show you!”
They left the house without washing their faces or brushing their teeth, and posted up in front of the projects.
“A’ight, we out here. Whatchu gon’ shoot?” Twany challenged. He folded his arms across his chest, and looked to Heemy for an answer.
“You got fiddy cents?” Heemy asked in a calm voice.
“Fiddy cents?” Twany looked at him like he was stupid. “What the fuck fiddy cents gotta do witchu shootin’ somethin’?” He shook his head from side to side, and then fell out laughing. “Nigga, you pump fakin’! Ya ass ain’t try’na shoot nuffin!”
“Nigga, you got fiddy cents or not?” Heemy snapped.
“Yeah, I got fiddy cents!” Twany shot back. He reached inside of his pocket and pulled out two quarters.
“A’ight, go in the Chinese store and get me a pack of cupcakes.”
“A pack of cupcakes?” Twany teased. He leaned forward and stretched out his arms. “What the fuck you gon’ do, go and shoot a pack of cupcakes? Nigga I’m hungry as shit! We can eat them jawns!”
Heemy pushed him
in the chest. “Just buy the fuckin’ cupcakes, damn!”
Still not understanding his best friend’s logic, Twany strolled across Cumberland Street, and walked into the Chinese store. A couple of minutes later, he returned with a pack of chocolate cupcakes in his hand. He tossed them to Heemy. “A’ight cupcake killa. Whatchu gon’ do now?”
Instead of responding, Heemy walked down the block toward the abandoned row house that was parallel to his backyard. Together, he and Twany crept around the side of the house, and approached the rusted fence that separated the two properties. Again, Twany questioned Heemy’s logic. “What you gon’ do, stick the cupcake in the fence and shoot ‘em? Man you gon’ fuck around and shoot up the back of ya house.”
Heemy checked him. “Yo, chill the fuck out dawg. I know what I’m doin’.” He whistled and called out for Pooky’s pitbull. “Animal! Come here, boy!”
The muscular, tiger striped pitbull emerged from his doghouse, and trotted toward the fence. He looked at Heemy, and began to growl. His cropped ears stood at attention, and white foam dripped from his mouth. He rammed into the fence head first and desperately tried to bite through the rusted wire.
Twany nervously stepped back. “Damn, Heemy, how ya own dog comin’ at you like dat? If it wasn’t for this fence, he woulda fucked you up.”
“He ain’t my dog. He’s Pooky’s dog, and I hate his ass just as much as I hate Pooky,” Heemy spat. He pulled the .32 from his waist, and then handed Twany the cupcakes. “Open these and hand me one.”
Twany did as instructed, and Heemy placed one of the cupcakes on the barrel of the pistol. He then, grabbed the second cupcake and pressed it against the rusty fence. Animal stopped barking and sniffed the chocolate cupcake. Once he was satisfied that the cupcake was edible, he stuck out his tongue and licked the pastry.