by Mark Anthony
Paper Chasers
Mark Anthony
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Author’s note
The Funeral
Fourth Crew
Uptown—Harlem—125th Street
Kingpins
Stick-up
Ain’t No Stopping
The Purchase
The Delivery
Sold Out
Blow Up
Colombian Connection
I Don’t Know
The Wake
Favorite Pastimes
Ten Thirteen
Stool Pigeon
Jail House Talk
Revelation
Copyright Page
Dedication
In Memory of Richard Jones Jr. a.k.a Richie (Rest In Peace)
&
In Memory of Jason Mizell a.k.a Jam Master Jay (Before the public knew about this book, you believed in it!)
Acknowledgments
I want to make sure that I take the time to thank all of those who believed more in my ability to write than I did. I am always flattered and amazed that I can touch people with words. Without your encouragement my ideas and dreams would not have had the fuel to move forward.
To my wife, Sabine. Sabine, thank you for all of your support, understanding, and sacrifice during the hours that it takes me to accomplish the stories that I write. You are in my corner and you give me the confidence to help me believe that I can achieve and accomplish anything that I set my mind to.
A special thanks goes to Carl Weber. Your passion for books causes you to reach out and help those who are striving to be where you are. From Urban Massacre to this! And the empire that we are building. Wow! Who woulda knew?
Author’s note
Originally Paper Chasers was titled Urban Massacre. It’s a book that I had written on five subject notebooks in 1991 when I was just seventeen years old and that I’d self-published in 1998 with a horrible black and white cover where the pages constantly fell out of the book because it was manufactured so poorly. But since that time I have gone on to write Dogism, Lady’s Night, The Take Down, Reasonable Doubt, Harlem Heat (with G-unit Books), I have contributed to several anthologies such as Girls From Da Hood 3, Streets of New York, and Menace II Society, and I have many more books on the way. In addition, I have published countless books for other writers through my company Q-Boro Books. I hope you will read and enjoy Paper Chasers and when you read my other books I hope that you will be able to see my growth as both a writer and as a publisher.
However, before you read Paper Chasers please understand that this book represents the reality of the times in which I grew up in Queens during the late eighties and early nineties. And although it may not be the present reality, we all know that life goes through cycles and history has a way of repeating itself. Hopefully that history of drugs and violence will never again have to be lived through and experienced by anyone (especially not during my children’s lifetime).
The setting of this book is New York City in the year of 1991. In 1991 there were 2,571 murders and 112,342 robberies in New York alone! Those are real numbers and some of the highest crime numbers that New York has ever experienced. Those numbers were fueled by drugs, and crack cocaine in particular. To me those statistics were and still are more than just numbers on a page. There were real people and real events attached to those numbers and it is with that in mind that I wrote this book.
The Funeral
Not ironic at all was the fact that it had rained for the past three years on the same day that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was murdered. It also rained on the day that marked the death of Malcolm X.
It was June 8, 1991, and again it was pouring rain outside. I usually slept good when it rained, but I knew I had to get out of my bed and get dressed. I was never one to be lazy, but today was different. I felt like pulling the covers over my head and sleeping until eternity. I was hoping that I had a bad dream or something. Unfortunately, I knew that was not the case.
Reality for me was looking across my room and seeing a neatly pressed black suit. That reality made me feel grim. It was only 7:15 A.M. Usually at that time I would have been asleep, but not today.
The rain outside my window wasn’t what woke me. The fact that I was about to attend a funeral in three hours is what was keeping me awake. That same thought kept me tossing and turning throughout the night.
Richie was dead! I had just walked and talked with him five days ago, and now he was dead. How would his casket look? What would he be wearing? Would he look the same dead as he did alive? Would everybody be able to see the cut on his throat, the same cut that allowed every ounce of blood in his body to shoot out like a water fountain?
Oh my God! I thought to myself. I couldn’t believe it. Damn! Another one of my homeboys was dead. And for what? For no reason at all.
There was really no time to dwell on the many thoughts that were racing through my head. It was time for me to peel myself out of the bed and get dressed. Why was I moving so slow? Maybe because I was thinking of a way to bring Richie back, but unfortunately I just simply couldn’t think of one.
“I’m sorry, Richie. I’m sorry. You know I’d bring you back if I could.” In spirit I knew he could hear me.
Maybe it was Richie slowing me down, making me take twenty minutes to brush my teeth. I knew he didn’t want me rushing to see him lowered into the ground with all of the worms and maggots—the same ground that gets cold and as hard as a rock in the winter months, and the same ground where Richie’s body would return to dust. Yeah, I didn’t want to see Richie like that no more than he wanted to be murdered.
My thirty minute shower was finally coming to an end. Ten thirty was approaching faster and faster. My black suit looked good but it had seen better days. I guess that this was about my tenth time wearing it. Funny, every time I wore it I was going to see one of my homies put to rest. And this day was no different. Or was it?
I guess it was different simply because it was Richie’s funeral that I was going to. Richie was my nigga. The most jacked up part about him dying was the fact he had just graduated from college. Yeah . . . he had his B.A. in Criminal Justice. And only two weeks after getting his degree he was dead. As the saying goes, “Ish happens.”
Richie was a young black man. He was the type of person who wore gold teeth, let his pants sag below his butt, and drank forties. I guess you would call him your stereotypical hoodlum, only he knew what time it was. His mind was always focused. Half of the world would look at him and wouldn’t think of him as college material. And that’s because he was constantly stereotyped. I’ll never forget what he told me one day when we were just sitting around talking shit.
“Holz,” Richie said, “I’m gonna change the minds of society so that black men won’t all be stereotyped, stereotyped just because of the way we look, or because we’re always killing each other. See, I’m gonna finish college, but not so I can come out and make a lot money, because anybody can do that. I could do that by just standing on the corner slinging dope. See, Holz, I want to finish school so I can better myself. Once I better myself I’ll be able to better the people around me. That’s what college and an education should be all about. It’s about bettering yourself as well as the people around you.”
Richie always talked about ending black on black crime in New York. Little did he know, as fate would have it, that he too would later be killed by a brother.
I was finally dressed. My father was going to drive me and some of the other cats from Fourth Crew to the funeral. That’s the same crew that Richie
belonged to. We picked up Randy, Dwight, and Tee. They were down the block at Tee’s grandmother’s house. The next stop was Kwame’s house. We got Kwame and we were ready to roll to the funeral. The funeral was being held in a church located on Linden Boulevard.
On the way to the church we passed the spot where Richie had been slain. As we drove past the spot, the sight of his throat being slashed replayed in my mind over and over again like the scene from a movie. Everything had happened so quickly that day. On the day of his death, Richie and I both had just gotten haircuts. We went to pick up his girl Elizabeth. Elizabeth was the older sister of my girlfriend, Sabine.
You could tell that Richie was excited about the fact that he had finally graduated from college because that’s all he conversed about. I was happy for him because no one actually thought that he would make it. The truth was, nobody believed he would actually finish except Fourth Crew. All Elizabeth, who we called Liz, kept saying was, “I’m glad you got your degree, ’cause now you’re gonna be making mad money and I wouldn’t let myself marry you if you didn’t get your college degree.”
Richie kept trying his hardest to explain to Liz that the reason why he’d pursued his education had nothing to do with dollars. Liz didn’t understand. She just thought it equated to dead presidents.
After leaving Elizabeth’s house, which was located in Hollis, Queens, we caught the number five livery van to my house. Sabine was supposed to come by my house after she left work. Then we were all going to go out to the movies that night, but we never made it.
Liz had on these turquoise biker spandex shorts and this black spandex tank top which revealed her belly button. It was the type of outfit that showed off every curve and accentuated the gluteus maximus. She had a slammin’ body, so you knew she was looking good.
When we reached our stop we stepped out of the van. All of the guys who were on the corner hanging out were clocking Liz. They were all scoping her big booty. I wasn’t worried about any niggas out there that day trying to play us by flirting with Liz because I knew just about every head that was on the corner.
Richie and I went into the bodega on the corner. Liz stayed outside and waited for us, but after a couple of minutes she came into the store looking irate. She told us that one of the guys outside had squeezed her butt. Richie, who had a quick temper, quickly stepped outside.
“Yo, who the hell squeezed my girl’s butt?” he yelled.
There was silence. No one said a word. Annoyed, Richie exhaled as if he were exercising and he repeated his words in a more stern, serious, parent-talking-to-a-group-of-bad-kids kind of way.
“Yo! Who the hell squeezed my girl’s butt!?” Again there was silence. Nobody said a word. The heads on the corner just kind of lamped and twisted their upper lip as they sniffled a fake runny nose.
“Yeah, all y’all fake ass punk niggas is playing like girls now, and ain’t saying nothin’!” Richie yelled into the crowd. “That’s a’ight, though, ’cause y’all can’t do me nothin’ anyway!”
Finally Liz pointed out the guy who’d felt her butt. I had never seen him before, or maybe I had seen him once or twice but I knew for a fact that he wasn’t from our part of town. After a moment or so it finally hit me. I did know who he was. His name was Cory. He was from South Jamaica, Queens. He would come to Laurelton every now and then to knock off some work, aka, sell drugs.
“Yo, money did you touch my girl?” Richie asked in a screw-faced kind of way as he stepped up to Cory. Cory put his hands in Richie’s face.
“Yo, potnah, get out of my face. Don’t try to play me in front of your boyz, ’cause I ain’t having it!”
“If you disrespect my girl, then you’re disrespecting me, and I ain’t trying to hear that, potnah!” Richie yelled back.
Cory said again, “Don’t try to play me. I’m not the one. Now get outta my face, a’ight!”
Then Cory just swung from outta nowhere and snuffed Richie. He clocked Richie in the mouth. Richie stumbled back a little, regained his composure, and went buck wild, throwing a barrage of punches. In an instant he was whipping Cory like he’d stolen something. It seemed as if all of the people on the corner were magnetically drawn to the fight. They converged on the fight, making a jagged circle and leaving just enough room for two people to get at each other. Everyone watched and jeered as Richie proceeded to whip Cory’s black behind.
Then suddenly Cory pulled a knife and slashed Richie’s throat. He did it so quickly that I didn’t even see if it was an actual knife or if it was a box cutter. After he cut Richie’s throat, he took flight like Carl Lewis. He hauled ass down Merrick Boulevard. Nobody tried to chase him because everyone was in shock, myself included.
The knife had hit his jugular vein. There was blood everywhere. The blood was literally shooting out of Richie’s neck like the fountain of youth. I had seen niggas get split wide open in street fights before, but I had never witnessed anything like I was witnessing with Richie. I remember Richie grabbing his throat and running around panicking. Everytime his heart would beat, another stream of blood would literally shoot out of his neck. It was chaotic. Females were screaming and guys were howling in disbelief.
Before I knew it, Richie had collapsed. I ran over to him and put my fingers on his wound. In seconds my hands were slippery from all of the blood—too slippery to hold his neck. There was so much blood. I just couldn’t believe it. My shirt, pants, and sneakers were red from all of the blood.
Richie was soaking in his own blood. It was one of the worst sights a human being could possibly see. He was literally drowning in his own blood. I was doing the best I could to slow down the rush of blood. As I sat on the concrete and cradled Richie’s head in my arms, I heard Elizabeth in the background screaming hysterically.
“Richie! Richie! Richieee!” I pleaded for someone to call an ambulance.
Each time Elizabeth screamed his name, her voice would echo in my head. Tears rolled out of her eyes as she hopelessly watched Richie’s blood roll along the curb and into the sewer. Her man was dying a senseless death right in front of her eyes, and there was nothing that she, nor I, nor anyone else could do to help Richie. All we could do was hope for the best.
Finally someone grabbed Liz and tried to calm her down. By this time the whole block was filled with onlookers. Traffic on Merrick Boulevard was stopped in both directions. All eyes were on Richie. Richie’s eyes were open and he was silent. He had such a look of fear in his eyes—fear that I’d never seen before in any man. Then again, that was the closest in physical proximity that I’d ever been to a dying man.
Richie’s eyes stayed glued on Elizabeth. Wherever she went, his brown eyes followed. He didn’t even look at me when I told him that he was going to be all right.
“Richie, you’re gonna be a’ight,” I kept saying. “Just try to relax. The ambulance is coming for you. Just hold on, Richie.” People were everywhere.
“Where is this ambulance? My man is bleeding to death!” I yelled.
Finally, after what seemed like fifteen minutes or so, I heard sirens blaring. Sirens were coming from all angles. By this time Elizabeth had gotten lost in the sea of people and Richie’s eyes shifted away from the crowd. With the sound of sirens blaring in the background Richie looked at me. He was struggling to talk. All of the life was just about drained out of him.
“Yo, Holz,” he said. He was talking in a real slow and low tone. “Yo, Holz, don’t let me die, man. Please, Holz . . . Holz, am I gonna be a’ight? Don’t let me die, man.”
“I won’t, Richie!” I promised. “Richie, come on, just don’t die on me! Man, I won’t let you die, but you gotta help me out! Rich, be strong and hang on! Reach inside man. Man, hang on. I know you can do it! Richie, if anybody can do it, you can definitely do it! Just like you’re always telling me, Richie, you can do anything that you put your mind to!”
At that point, police came burling through the crowd, yelling.
“Everyone get back. Back the hell up! Give hi
m room. Please, back up!”
“Officer, officer,” I screamed, “he’s been cut. He got slashed. Help him! Y’all have to hurry up, ’cause he ain’t gonna last much longer!”
The cops and paramedics started working on Richie’s neck. The paramedics cut all of his blood soaked clothes from his body, leaving him in his underwear. After working on him in the street for about five minutes, they lifted him onto a stretcher. His neck was packed with mounds of white gauze and all kinds of Band-Aid looking material.
As they prepared to lift Richie into the back of the ambulance he looked at me. His eyes locked onto my eyes. You promised I’d be all right, his eyes seemed to be screaming at me.
The moment they lifted the stretcher, I put up four fingers across my heart, which indicated the Fourth Crew sign. Richie just looked at me, then his eyes closed.
That was June third at around 5:00 P.M. That was the last time I saw Richie alive. Unfortunately, after his funeral I knew that I’d never see him again. All that would be left would be the memories.
Again and again, the entire tragic incident kept replaying itself in my mind. I just kept wishing that I could have done something to have prevented Richie’s death. Why did we choose that day? That time? That route to go to the movies? Why?
He asked me not to let him die. He asked me and I couldn’t help him. That was the most jacked up thing that kept racing through my head. It was as if I could still hear him saying, “Yo, Holz, don’t let me die, man.”
We finally reached the church where the funeral was being held. You could tell that Richie was well-liked because there were so many people entering the church. Black limousines draped with flowers were parked all along the street, and more were parked on a grass lot that was located nearby. For as far as the eye could see, people and cars were everywhere. Everybody had come to pay their last respects to Richie.