The Reason Why

by Vickie M. Stringer

  “We gotta time this shit just right,” Chino told Pam. “We want it to be hard, but we want to cut it and bag it as soon as possible so that we can get the benefit of the water weight.”

  “See that scandalous ass nigga you fucking with?” Rock said to Pam, laughing.

  Pam shrugged. She didn’t understand, but whatever it was, Chino was getting over on something.

  Chino took his razor blade and ran it through the large square cookie of crack cocaine, sectioning it off into squares. After making several deep gashes throughout, Chino took the tip of his razor blade and applied pressure to the center of the substance. It snapped right along the fault lines of the gashes he had carved into it. He repeated the process several times, until he had divided it into neat squares. He handed the squares to Rock one at a time and Rock weighed each of them.

  “Damn, nigga!” Rock shouted. “You a fucking math genius or something! You gotta show me how you do that shit!”

  “Do what?” Pam asked.

  “This nigga know exactly where to cut this shit so that each one of these squares ends up weighing exactly twenty-eight grams! That’s some creepy-ass shit!”

  Chino laughed. “Real street niggas know how to do that shit!”

  “That’s some old lucky guessing ass shit!” Infa chimed in.

  “It’s simple arithmetic!” Corey told them. “Three-inch dish. You just cut the square accordingly.”

  “Oh, shut up, silly-ass nigga!” Rock told him.

  “Yeah,” Infa said, playfully slapping Corey on the back of his head. “You couldn’t do it.”

  “I’ll bet you I could.”

  “You ain’t fucking my shit up!” Chino told him.

  The crew broke into laughter.

  “How much came back?” Chino asked Rock after handing him the last ounce.

  “A key and a half.”

  “Divide that shit up,” Chino said. “Each of y’all take nine ounces, and I’ll take the rest.”

  “Bet!” Rock told him. “Infa, check on that other shit in the microwave.”

  Infa looked in the microwave. “That shit bubbling. It’s done.”

  “Take it out,” Chino said.

  Pam thought about where she was and what she was witnessing. For the first time in her life she was inside a cooking house. She had heard about trap houses and dope houses, but never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that crack was cooked inside of nice two-story homes in the suburbs.

  She was learning a lot fucking with Chino. Maybe too much. Chino had promised her that being with him would never be boring, and he had certainly lived up to that promise. And she herself knew that it would probably be dangerous messing with someone in his occupation. But now she was all in. Chino had secretly stolen her heart, and now her future, her freedom, even her very life, were in his hands. It was too late for her to pull back, too late for her to leave him alone. She had stood at the precipice and fallen over the deep, dark, and dangerous cliff. The best thing that she could hope for now was that he would catch her. He was now her safety net.

  “You better have good hands, Chino,” she whispered. “You better catch me.”

  Chapter 17

  Making It Happen

  Chino strolled into his apartment followed by Young Mike. They both had arms filled with bags of merchandise.

  Young Mike was Chino’s go-getter and the crew’s adopted mascot. At sixteen, he hustled harder than most niggas twice his age. Young Mike was a street cat, in the truest sense of the word. He had no mother, no father, no family, nobody. All he had was the streets and the people he called his homeboys. Although Young Mike was a for-sure hustler, his biggest trade was boosting and fencing. He could steal the clothes off a policeman without the officer knowing about it. The kid could also sell snow to an Eskimo. He had the gift of gab that came with fencing his stolen materials.

  “Chino, what is all of this?” Pam asked, looking at what they had brought in.

  Chino lifted a silk kimonolike-gown from one of the bags.

  “Oh, that’s pretty!”

  “You like it?” Young Mike asked. “It’s yours, ma!”

  Pam reached for the gown, but put it down when Chino held up a brown leather Prada bag in one hand and a black Chanel purse in another.

  “Oh my God!” Pam shouted. “Let me see those!”

  With a grin, Chino handed her the purses. Pam bounced up and down examining the bags, quickly making them her own, discarding the paper from inside them.

  “What are you gonna do with these?” Pam asked.

  Chino shrugged. “What do you think I should do with them?”

  “Buy them for someone you love!”

  Chino laughed. “I already did that.”

  “Chino, no!” Pam squealed and wrapped her arms around him tightly.

  “What better way to show my love than to spring for some fresh gear?”

  Pam kissed Chino all over his face. “Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” She turned and immediately began rummaging through rest of the merchandise. “Is all of this mine?”

  Chino nodded. “Most of it. Some of it is mine and some belongs to Young Mike.”

  “Where did all of this stuff come from?”

  Both men exchanged glances and laughed.

  “You know your boy be on his grind,” Young Mike told her.

  “You stole all of this?”

  “Not by myself. I got some other boosters I work with,” Mike told her.

  “Boosters?” Pam asked. She had heard the term before and she knew it had to do with stealing, but not of this magnitude.

  “Boosters. You know, boosting merchandise?” Mike tried to explain. The look on Pam’s face told him that she was still unsure. “We go into stores and we steal stuff.”

  “Why don’t you just call it stealing?” Pam asked.

  “Why don’t people just call boxing, fighting?” Young Mike shot back. “Boostin’ is an art, girl. It takes style and talent. You have to know which technique to use, and when to use it.”

  “Technique?” Pam recoiled, and then laughed. “You got different techniques for stealing?”

  “Yeah,” Young Mike said incredulously. He couldn’t believe how square Pam was. “You steal gum, shoelaces, and shit. Shit you can fit into yo pocket, but with boostin’ you getting quality shit, so there’s techniques. You got the run-and-grab technique, where you just run into the stores, grab a bunch of shit, and run out. You got the decoy-and-grab, where a partner keeps the salespeople occupied while you grab shit. You got the double stunt, where your partner pretends they having a medical emergency, and while the salespeople are panicking, you grabbing shit. You got the change out, where you take shit into the dressing room, pull off the alarm tags, and wear the shit out like you wore it in. You got the snowman, where you take the shit into a dressing room, put that shit on beneath your clothes, and walk that shit out. You got the pregnant woman, where the female boosters wear a specially shaped backpack in the front beneath their maternity dresses and stuff that joint with merchandise. You got—”

  “Okay, okay,” Pam said, holding up her hand. “I get it. Damn, y’all are crazy.”

  Young Mike pulled a black fedora out of a bag and twirled it and placed it on his head. “Crazy, but getting paper.”

  “So, you sell all of this stuff?” Pam asked.

  Chino began trying on a charcoal gray Geoffrey Beene suit.

  “Yep!” Young Mike told her. “That’s called fencing.”

  “Fencing?” Pam asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Why can’t you just call it selling?”

  “That’s so lame,” Mike said, shaking his head and laughing. “We fence shit. That’s how we get paid. Some people hustle, some people fence. I do both, but remember, all fencers ain’t boosters. Some fencers are just go-to guys. Niggas like me can get anything, for anybody, for the right price.”

  “Is that like being a loan shark?” Pam asked.

  “Girl, I ain’t loaning no money!” Young Mik
e laughed. “Loan sharks loan people money at crazy interest rates. I just get shit for people.”

  “Can you get me some Chanel Number Five?” Pam asked. Although she laughed at her request, she was serious.

  “All fucking day long, baby girl.”

  “How do I look?” Chino asked, turning toward them.

  “Like the muthafuckin’ dapper don of Columbus, nigga,” Young Mike told him.

  Mike and Chino laughed.

  “You look sexy, baby!” Pam grinned, admiring her man in the expensive threads.

  “Okay, how much for the suit?” Chino asked.

  “Half the ticket price,” Mike told him.

  Looking at the price tag, Chino negotiated. “I’ll give you four hundred for it.”

  “Nigga, I can add!” Young Mike shot back. “Four hundred ain’t half. I said half.”

  “All right, all right.” Chino laughed. “You drive a hard bargain for a homeless muthafucka.”

  The two men laughed. Turning to Pam, Chino put his hand on the small of her back. “Baby, let me talk to you for a minute.” He led her to the bedroom.

  “What’s up, baby?”

  “You know Young Mike, right?”

  “Of course! He’s right there in your living room.”

  “He’s going to be staying with me for a while.”

  Pam recoiled. “Why?”

  “’Cause he don’t have no place to go,” Chino explained. “He was living with this girl and her mom, but the mom’s new boyfriend kicked him out. He don’t got no family, no nothing, and he hustles hard for me.”

  Pam nodded. “I mean, if he don’t have anyplace to go and he’s your friend, I understand.”

  “You gonna be cool with it?” Chino asked. “I mean, if you not comfortable with him being around, then I won’t let him.”

  “I’m good.” Pam nodded. “Besides, he’s young and needs you. I can tell he looks up to you like a big brother. This is the right thing to do.”

  “I knew you would understand,” Chino said, pulling her close and kissing her. “You have a giant heart, Pooh.”

  Chapter 18

  Keep Movin’, Don’t Stop

  Chino pulled up to the convenience store for a bite to eat in his convertible 944 Turbo. Once inside, he grabbed a strawberry Welch’s soda, a bag of Munchos potato chips, a pack of Sixlets, and a box of Boston Baked Beans. As soon as he stepped out of the store, he noticed an ice blue Buick Regal by the gas pumps, full of dark faces, with wide eyes all focusing on him.

  When the driver stepped out of the car with a pistol in his hand, Chino recognized him to be one of the city’s notorious jackers—a guy named Jo Jo. He had cost the city’s dope boys more money than the local police department. Chino went for his pistol. He kept his nine millimeter Beretta in a holster in the small of his back. He drew and dove for cover behind his brand-new Porsche in one swift motion. Jo Jo the Jacker lifted his pistol and the two exchanged fire.

  While Jo Jo’s bullets raked the side of Chino’s new Porsche, Chino aimed his gun and fired, sending his bullets into the driver’s side door of Jo Jo’s two-door Regal. He could hear a couple of the passengers cry out in pain.

  Gunfire came from the Regal as well. Sparks flew off the ground near Chino’s hand, and concrete chips flew up off the ground, stinging him in the face.

  “Fuck!” Chino cried out. He was happy that none of the concrete flew into his eyes, but still, the shit stung. He lifted his weapon and fired over his Porsche again. This time, there was no return fire. He lifted his head and found Jo Jo running for cover and fiddling with his gun. It had jammed!

  Chino opened the door to his car, hopped inside, started up the motor, and burned out.

  “Let’s go!” the passengers said, shouting at Jo Jo. “He’s getting away, nigga!”

  Jo Jo raced for his car.

  Chino stared into his rearview mirror, and sure enough, the Regal was after him. He needed to find a straight road, fast. He headed for the freeway.

  Gunfire erupted behind Chino and a bullet struck his dashboard.

  “Fuck!” Chino shouted again. “Muthafuckas!” His Porsche was full of bullet holes. How would he explain that to a body shop? And would the body shop report it to the police? This whole thing was fucked up.

  Another bullet struck his dash, blowing open an air conditioning vent. The close call reminded Chino that he wasn’t out of the woods just yet. In order to take the car to a body shop, he would first have to survive, and survival meant getting away from the assholes shooting at him.

  Usually jackers kidnap you and take you back to your safe and make you give them all your money and drugs before they kill you. Or in a lot of cases, they even let you go, so that they can jack you again. That was Jo Jo’s MO. He liked to jack people over and over. Every dope dealer in the city feared him and every dope dealer in the city wanted him dead. They would kill him if they ever got the chance, but the thing is, they never got the chance. He didn’t go out to clubs or to the movies or anywhere else. No one knew who he was, where he came from, where his family lived, or anything else about him. He just showed up one day, like a great white shark that had found a new feeding ground, and starting preying on the local dope dealers.

  Chino came to the expressway and took the on-ramp. He accelerated to breakneck speed, determined to get away from Jo Jo ’n dem. The only problem was, Jo Jo was a professional jacker, which meant he anticipated car chases. He had been in them before, sometimes chasing drug dealers, sometimes escaping from the police himself, so what Chino did was nothing new. Jo Jo had changed out the stock engine in his Regal for a small-block Corvette engine that he had transformed especially for racing. Despite Chino’s best efforts, he wasn’t going to lose Jo Jo on a straightaway. Although his car was lighter, Jo Jo’s engine was more powerful. Chino’s best chance would have been to use the Porsche’s superior handling and cut some corners to lose Jo Jo, but getting on the highway had eliminated that option.

  More gunfire rang out and a bullet penetrated Chino’s front windshield. “Goddamn it!” Chino yelled as shattered glass flew everywhere. He was spooked because only a couple of inches to the left, his ass would have been cooked, but he was getting pissed off.

  “Fuck this!” Chino said, grabbing his burner. “Them muthafuckas doing all the damn shooting and I’m ducking like a bitch? Time to play, you black bastard!” He pumped his brakes and brought the Regal in closer.

  Seeing that Jo Jo was now up on his bumper, Chino swerved side to side to keep his pursuers from getting a good shot at him. It was apparent that the front passenger was doing the shooting, while Jo Jo drove the car. Chino swerved and hit the brakes, bringing the Regal alongside him. He raised his pistol and unloaded on the driver. He could hear shouting coming from the Regal, just before it began to swerve uncontrollably. He could see someone from the back seat reach over into the front seat and attempt to steer the car as it crashed into a concrete highway divider.

  “Yeah!” Chino shouted. “Take that, bitches! Jack this dick, you punk muthafuckas!”

  The faint sounds of sirens were in the air and Chino took off. He needed to hurry up and exit. The next exit was one that he was not familiar with, and he took it too fast. Two of the Porsche’s wheels lifted off the ground, and the car skidded across the exit, jumped a curb, and landed in a concrete drainage ditch. Chino and his pistol were thrown from the car into a nearby field. His head landed on a large stone and blood poured from his face.

  “Pooh . . . ,” Chino called out weakly. He could see his Pooh’s face in the distance. “Pooh.”

  Chino slowly lifted himself onto his hands and knees and crawled to his Porsche. He reached into the shattered driver’s side window and struggled to grasp the car phone bag in the center console. Using all his remaining strength, he lifted the bag out the window and dropped it on the ground. Lying next to phone, he dialed Joe Baby’s home number.

  “Hello?” Joe said when he picked up.

  “Pammy . . . ,
” Chino whispered.

  “Chino? What the fuck? Where the fuck are you, man?”

  Chino closed his eyes. “Joe Bub, I need help. I’m off two-seventy. Fast, my nigga.”

  “All right, my man, I’m headed out. Sit tight.”

  “Pooh . . . ,” Chino said weakly. “I need you, Pooh . . .” And then he blacked out.

  Chapter 19

  They Smile in Your Face

  “Revenge is mine, sayeth the Lord,” Pam said, quoting the Bible and changing the bandage on Chino’s head. “Let the Lord take care of them, Chino.”

  “Yeah, He can, I’m just gonna give Him an assist,” Chino retorted. “The Lord’s gonna be MJ and I’m gonna be Scottie. I’m just gonna give an assist.”

  Pam couldn’t help but laugh. She applied peroxide to the wound and Chino winced because he was still in pain.

  “Ooooucchh!” Chino cried out. “You did that on purpose.”

  “Boy, that did not burn. It’s only peroxide.” Pam held up the bottle to show him. Cleaning off the wound, she continued. “You mocking the Lord the way you are, Christonos, He’ll have something that’s really going to make you hurt.”

  “Baby, I’m not mocking the Lord. I just said that I was going to give Him a helping hand.”

  “He does not need your help, mister.”

  “I want to help. Me and my nina ross is going to send them niggas on a trip to the other world. They moms might as well pull them black dresses out the closet.”

  “Christonos!”

  “What?”

  “It was by the grace of God they didn’t shoot you coming out of that store. It was by the grace of God they didn’t shoot you while you were driving on the highway, and it was only by the grace of God did Joe Baby find you before the cops did. Just say your thanks, and move on.”

  “I’ll move on after I kill that bastard. Pooh, this is personal.”

  “I thought you hit him. I thought that’s why they crashed?”

  Chino shook his head. “I thought I did too, but I ain’t see shit in the Dispatch. I’ve been checking the papers and watching the news, and that son of a bitch ain’t been in it. If any of them was dead, then they would have said so. No, those assholes made it, and the fucked-up thing is, I know they had to go to a hospital somewhere. How the fuck they get shot and get medical help without the police arresting their asses is beyond me. I don’t understand it. Them niggas got angels looking over their shoulders.”