by Askari
Sonny laughed. “A’ight lil’ mama. Dada gon’ take you to see mimaw and paw-paw.”
She kissed him on the forehead and wrapped her arms around his neck. The man who she loved so much was wrapped around her little fingers and she enjoyed every minute of it.
***
At The Federal Building
Clavenski was sitting in his office with his old college buddy, Philadelphia District Attorney, Steven Williams.
“So Steve,” he sipped from his coffee mug then sat it back down on his desktop. “I heard from a little birdie that I’m the laughing stock of the Criminal Justice Center because I dropped the ball on the Gervin Moreno case.”
“Aww come on Andy,” D.A. Williams smiled. “It was just an in-house joke! Everyone knows you gave it your best shot. This shit happens from time to time. We’ve all had that airtight case that we knew we’d win, and outta nowhere had the carpet snatched from under us. Get over it. It happens,” he continued, attempting to ameliorate his best friend’s embarrassment.
“Oh yeah,” Clavenski smiled. “Well, since you state guys have so much to gossip about, the next time you decide to have an in-house forum,” he used his fingers to indicate quotation marks, “be sure to mention that a new judge, Justice Arroyo, just signed off on my Title III wiretaps.”
D.A. Williams playfully punched him on the shoulder. “Atta boy Andy!” He smiled, and then took a sip of his coffee. “So what’s next? I’m assuming you’re gonna tap Gervin’s cell phone?”
“Nope,” Clavenski beamed. “This time around I’ve got a completely different Moreno in the midst of my crosshairs.”
“Oh yeah,” D.A. Williams folded his arms across his chest. “Who? The only Moreno I know that’s worth mentioning is Gervin.” He looked at Clavenski skeptically, eager to hear about the Moreno he was referring to. “You mean to tell me there’s another Moreno? A son or a nephew?”
Clavenski reached inside of his desk drawer and retrieved a manila envelope. He opened it and pulled out a picture of Sonny sitting on the hood of his Rolls Royce Ghost.
“Here,” he handed the picture to D.A. Williams.
“Who the hell is this?” D.A. Williams asked while examining the 10 x 12 inch picture. “He looks like a friggin’ rapper or somethin’. Is this that kid from Berks Street?”
“Nope,” Clavenski smiled. “He’s Sontino Moreno. Gervin’s grandson.”
“No shit?” D.A. Williams exclaimed.
“And get this,” Clavenski continued to smile, “him and his crew The Block Boys are the biggest thing since Alvin Rines and the YBM. The only difference is that Alvin made his competition Get Down Or Lay Down,” he stated while using his fingers to indicate quotation marks. “This kid, he laid down the top dog, his own grandfather, and as a result the rest of the dealers in the city got down willingly.”
D.A. Williams rubbed his chin and examined Sonny’s picture from his jewelry to his Rolls-Royce.
“Interesting. I want you to keep me posted on this one, Andy. A kid with this type of power and influence may very well be the missing link in a slew of my unsolved murder cases.”
***
About Forty Minutes Later...
Pooky and Mar-Mar were parked in front of Rahman’s house on Locust Street. They were delivering the four and a half ounces of crack that he ordered earlier that morning.
“So Pook, what we gon’ do about gettin’ some more work? After this,” he held up the four and a half ounces, “we only got 9 ounces left, and wit’ Sonny on his bullshit, where we ‘posed to cop from?”
“I don’t know,” Pooky answered while shrugging his shoulders. “I guess I’ma have to holla at Sheed, and let him know what’s goin’ on.”
“Well you better hurry up and make that happen ‘fore Sonny throw some shit in the game.” Mar-Mar suggested, and then passed him the Optimo he was smoking.
“Man, fuck Sonny! Sheed wasn’t even feelin’ that nigga ‘fore he got locked up. He was about to branch off and do his own thing, anyway.” He rolled down the driver’s side window to pluck the ashes off the cigar, and out of nowhere a forest green Mazda 929 pulled up beside his Range Rover. When he looked down and spotted Sheed sitting in the passenger’s seat with a huge smile on his face, he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Yo, get the fuck outta here!” he shouted.
Sheed told Jasmyn to park in front of the Range Rover, then he hopped out to embrace his brother. This was the first time that the two of them had been on the streets together in over eighteen years. As he walked over to give Pooky a hug, he noticed his swollen nose and two black eyes. “Yo, what the fuck happened to ya face?”
Embarrassed, Pooky lowered his head and stuck his hands inside of his pockets. Sheed reiterated his question, but this time around his words exuded anger. Pooky took a deep breath, and then looked him square in the eyes. “Ya man Sonny snuffed me out yesterday.”
“Sonny snuffed you out? Fuck you mean he snuffed you out?” He flexed his jaw muscles and balled up his fist. “What happened?”
“This nigga came through Delhi Street to pick up his bread, and—”
“And you had his money right?” Sheed asked, cutting him off mid-sentence.
“Of course I had the money, but the nigga went crazy when he caught me fuckin’ the lil’ bitch Nahfisah from 8th and Diamond.”
“Nahfisah?” Sheed screwed up his face. “Nahfisah Thompson? Tommy’s baby mom?”
“I don’t know who baby mom she is, but if she's from 8th and Diamond, then that’s the Nahfisah I’m talking ‘bout. This nigga came in the spot, and the second he realized I was fuckin’ this bitch, the nigga snuffed me.”
“Pooky you better not be lyin’ to me. You sure all of this happened over a bitch?” Sheed asked, completely overlooking the fact that Nahfisah was Sonny’s sister.
“What the fuck I gotta lie for?” Pooky shot back and held out his arms. “Matter of fact, you can ask Mar-Mar.” He pointed at the Range Rover and the chubby young man climbed out the passenger’s side door.
“Yo Sheed, that’s real shit,” Mar-Mar said, backing up Pooky’s play. “The bul was on some real live goofy shit. He even ran down on Beaver Bushnut, and threw a couple shots at me. I ain’t gon’ hold you, I was about to park him, but the only reason I gave him a pass was on the strength of you.”
Sheed scowled at him. He could tell that Mar-Mar was exaggerating. Irritated, he returned his attention to Pooky. “Yo, gimmie ya phone.”
Pooky reached inside of his hoody and grabbed his cell phone. Sheed snatched it fom him and called Sonny.
Sonny answered on the second ring. “Stop callin’ my phone, Pooky.”
“This ain’t Pooky. It’s Sheed. Where you at? I need to holla at you.”
“I’m rippin’ and runnin’ right now, but we definitely need to talk. Meet me at the barber shop around 5:30.”
“More or less,” Sheed replied, and then disconnected the call. He returned to Jasmyn’s car and tapped on the driver’s side window. She rolled it down, knowing he was about to ditch her. “What Rasheed?”
“Bae, it’s some important shit that I gotta take care of so I’ma have to get witchu later on tonight.”
“I had the whole day planned out for us, and here you go wit’ the nut shit,” she complained.
“I know, but some unexpected shit just popped up. I really need to take care of it before it goes too far.”
She looked into his hazel eyes, and her heart throbbed for him. “A’ight,” she sighed, “but you better bring dat ass home tonight and I’m not playin’ witchu!”
He leaned inside of the window and kissed her. “I’ma be there. I promise.”
When she pulled off, he looked at Pooky. “Go in the house and tell Rock that I’m out here. Tell him to bring me a burner.” He looked at Mar-Mar. “I need you go back to Pooky’s house and bag up whatever work y’all got left. We gon’ meet back up witchu later on tonight.”
***
It was 2:28 p.m. when Sonny pull
ed up in front of the Benjamin Franklin High School. He’d just left the car wash, and the paint job on his Ghost, coupled with the sparkle of his rims, made the large sedan appear as if it were glowing. The early December weather was a warm 65 degrees so he rolled down his windows and blasted French Montana’s, I Ain’t Worried ‘Bout Nothin.
Strapped up wit’ that work, riding ‘round wit’ that Nina/ Two bad bitches wit’ me, Molly and Aquafina/ Huhn, I ain’t worried ‘bout nothin.
As the students exited the building, they couldn’t help but to stop and stare at the shiny Rolls Royce. The school's security guard was standing by the exit scowling at the plush automobile. Sonny noticed his demeanor and smiled.
He looked at the old man and rapped along with Frenchie, “I ain’t worried ‘bout nothin’.”
When Heemy and Twany emerged from the building, they immediately noticed the pandemonium that Sonny was causing, and their faces lit up like Christmas trees. As cool as an ice cream Snickers bar, they strolled toward the Roll Royce and made sure that all of their classmates could see them.
Sonny looked at them and laughed. He could vividly remember the days when Mook would pick him up from school in his Bentley.
When they opened up the suicide doors, and climbed in the car Sonny said, “Yo, y’all know y’all pussy rate just shot through the ceilin’ right?”
“Yeah,” Heemy chuckled. “I was thinkin’ the same exact shit.” He was sitting in the passenger’s seat and Twany was behind him.
“Me too,” Twany chimed in. “But yo, I ain’t even gon’ front, this mutha’fucka look like a big ass candy apple. How much this mutha’fucka cost?”
“A couple hunnid,” Sonny replied. “But next year, I’m hoppin’ in somethin’ bigger. I heard Meek and Spade been tearin’ up the city in back to back Phantoms, so I’ma have to step it up on these niggas,” he continued while heading toward Roosevelt Boulevard. “So what’s up wit’ y’all niggas? Y’all ready to get this bread or what?”
“Hell yeah!” they replied in unison.
“A’ight,” Sonny nodded his head. “From here on out, y’all gon’ hold down Delhi Street. Tomorrow, my lil’ brother Rahmello gon’ bring y’all a brick of raw. That's 1008 grams. Every gram gotta get bagged up, and he’s gonna show y’all how to do it. I’ma need y’all to move ‘em at $35 apiece, and y’all should move every gram in about three days. When y’all done, I’ma have Mello bring y’all another one. Every Sunday, I’ma pay y’all $2,000 piece.” He looked at Heemy. “You’re the case worker, so your job is to manage the block, and Twany,” he looked in the back seat, “I’ma need you to be one of the runners. In a day or so I’ma send y’all another runner and two shooters to secure the block. Y’all each gon’ make the same amount of money so it’s no need to feel like it’s a competition. We all playin’ for the same team. So what’s up? Y’all good wit’ that?”
“Yeah,” Heemy replied for the both of them, “but its one thing I’m not feelin’.”
“Oh yeah,” Sonny looked at him skeptically, “and what’s that?”
“Twany’s big brother, Nipsy. That’s our ol’ head, and we want him to be the caseworker. We wouldn’t be loyal if we didn’t include him in our plans. So without Nipsy,” he shrugged his shoulders, “ain’t nothin’ jumpin’.”
Sonny nodded his head and smiled. Loyalty. This was one of the words that Mook had drilled inside of his head since a little kid. Everything’s based off of loyalty, Mook would often say. And before you can be loyal to a mutha’fucka, you gotta love a mutha’fucka, and you’ll never truly love a mutha’fucka until you respect a mutha’fucka. These three words are the key to life, Sontino. Respect. Loyalty. Love. Without respect there’s no love, and without love, there’s loyalty. In this life, this is the only way to measure the integrity of a mutha’fucka. This is the standard that must be applied when you judge the character of the niggas in ya cypha. The second one of ‘em falls short when it comes to these three words, you cut his ass off. Quick!
He continued smiling, and then turned to look at Heemy. “A’ight young bul, I respect ya position. Ya ol’ head can manage the block and you and Twany can do the runnin’. The only thing left is the shooters. I’ma send y’all two.”
“Naw Sonny,” Twany interjected. “All you gotta do is send us two runners. Me and Heemy gon’ be the shooters.”
“Oh yeah!” Sonny laughed. “And what y’all gon’ shoot wit’? That lil’ ass .32 that Heemy flashed on me the other day?”
Embarrassed, they both remained silent.
“Don’t even sweat that shit,” he assured them. “I’ma have Mello bring y’all some real heat to hold it down. Two Mack lls, two Glock 40s, and a sawed off shotty. In any event, y’all don’t know how to use ‘em, trust me he gon’ make sure y’all niggas is good.”
They nodded their heads in unison.
“More or less,” Sonny nodded his head, and then sparked up a Backwood. “Yo, y’all know where we goin’ right?”
“Naw,” they replied.
“First, we gon’ hit up Roosevelt Boulevard to visit my connect at the dealership and see about gettin’ y’all some new whips. Then, I’ma take y’all clothes shoppin’ and get y’all niggas fresh. After that, we goin’ to the barber shop. Y’all wit’ it?”
“Hell yeah!” they replied in unison.
“More or less.”
He turned up the music and French Montana told them all about his days of hustling raw throughout the streets of The Bronx.
Chapter Fourteen
It was a little past 5:30 p.m., Sonny pulled up in front of the Philly Finess Barbershop on Broad and Rockland. Heemy and Twany were behind him in their new whips. Heemy was pushing a jet black 2008 Chevy Impala and Twany was right behind him in a snow white 2009 Buick Lacrosse. Both cars were equipped with 22 inched rims and their backseats and trunks were filled with shopping bags from the Cherry Hill Mall. They parked behind Sonny’s Ghost, and hopped out their new whips feeling like a million bucks. When they entered the barbershop Sonny greeted his barber.
“Ted, what’s up, big bro?”
“Sonny, what’s goin’ on, him?” the stocky, light brown skinned man replied with a smile on his face. Ted was from 12th and Huntingdon, also known as Beirut, and his entire swag North Philly personified. At first glance, his charismatic nature and bright smile would lead one to believe that he was the nicest dude in the world, but in all actuality he was a certified goon. His dark, cold eyes told a story of hardship, struggle, and pain, and under the right circumstances he wouldn’t hesitate to put something in the cemetery. He came from behind his barber’s chair and embraced Sonny with a brotherly hug.
“What’s up wit’ Daph and the kids? They good?”
“Yeah they good,” Sonny smiled. “As a matter of fact,” he glanced at his Rolex. “I need to hurry up ‘cause me and Daph got plans for later, and I still gotta get dressed.
“Say no morzies!” Ted replied in his trademark comical slang. “Just let me finishin’ cleaning these clippers, and I gotchu him.”
Sonny looked at Heemy and Twany, and then returned his gaze to Ted. “Damn, my bad bro, these my young buls right here,” he introduced them. “They from up ya way too. On Delhi Street.”
“What’s goin’ on, him?” Ted greeted them.
“Ain’t shit, ol’ head,” they replied in unison, then shook his hand.
Sonny walked over to the empty station next to Ted’s, and began brushing his hair in the mirror. While stroking the waves on the left side of his head the thumping sounds of 50 Cent’s, Many Men, interrupted his movements. He glanced out the front window and spotted Pooky’s Range Rover double parked beside his Ghost. Sheed was hopping out the passenger’s side door, Pooky was walking around the front of the truck, and a husky dark skinned man with a baldhead and a Sunni Muslim beard was climbing out the backseat.
The three men barged inside of the barbershop and Sonny could feel their hostility. Heemy and Twany could feel it as well. H
eemy quickly stood to his feet and inconspicuously gripped the handle on his pistol. He looked at Pooky and ice grilled him.
Sheed approached Sonny. “Damn Blood, how you call ya’self puttin’ ya hands on my brother?”
Sonny laid his brush on the counter and looked at him with pure hatred in his eyes. “Nigga, how the fuck you call ya’self puttin’ ya hands on my sister and my niece?”
“What?” Sheed asked, completely caught off guard.
He then remembered the night when Sonny told him about Nahfisah being his sister.
“Nigga, you heard what the fuck I said!” Sonny shouted at him. “And what about them 24 bricks you took from her? When was I ‘posed to hear about that?”
Feeling guilty and embarrassed, Sheed quickly down played the situation.”Man fuck dat! How the fuck you gon’ pop off on my brother?” He snapped. “So that’s what we doin’ now? We puttin’ hands on each other’s family?”
Sonny took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “Nigga, I know you ain’t just threaten my mutha’fuckin’ family?”
“A threat?” Sheed retorted. “Nigga, fuck a threat! We pass that already! You shed the blood of my brother!” He threw a right hook, but Sonny slipped it and caught him with a straight right. The punch burst open his lip and he stumbled backwards. Rahman reached for his .45, but stopped when Heemy aimed the .32 at his face. “Pussy, I wish you would,” the young man snarled through clenched teeth. Rahman raised his hands in a defenseless posture. “Nah, you got it young bul. You got it.”
Sheed wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand, and then examined the blood. Infuriated, he took another swing at Sonny’s face but Sonny tucked his chin, and blocked the punch with his left shoulder. He then, countered with a right jab and a left hook. Sheed crashed to the floor and reached for the Desert Eagle that was tucked in his waist. As he went to pull it out, Twany ran over and kicked him in the side of his head.
Pooky and Rahman ran toward Twany, but stopped in their tracks when Sonny aimed his FNH in their direction. Ted followed his lead and pulled a Glock .40 from under his smock.