by Carl Weber
The driver rolled to a stop in an alley behind the gym. East got out, and so did everyone else. When he turned and saw them all, an electric bolt of energy surged through his body. Hostile looks on the faces of each man fueled the tension in the air. He had come up with a few of them in Ricardo’s gym. Now they were all dressed in black, the color of death. East stared in each of their eyes, looking for the one who would be bold enough to step up and kill him. He was ready for whatever, trying to guess how it would happen, but to his surprise, no one made a move on him. He couldn’t understand why they were standing there, passively watching, but he noticed there was one face conspicuous in its absence.
“Where’s Tez?” East called out to no one in particular.
“Don’t worry about that,” one of the henchmen replied before nudging him forward, toward the back entrance.
The gym was dimly lit and eerily silent when East entered. It felt like the temperature had suddenly dipped, a cold chill sweeping over him. At first, there was only the sound of his own footsteps, then floating in from the back of the gym, the faint murmur of voices. In the distance, East spotted more of Ricardo’s men. They appeared to be enjoying a laugh. As he came into the light, East spotted Tez on a stool in the middle of the gym, hunched over, staring at his shoes like an athlete removed from a game that was hopelessly lost. His face was bloodied and battered. His jaw looked grotesque, swelling a great deal from the beating he had suffered. His lips were moving but whatever he was saying East couldn’t understand it.
Next to Tez, Ricardo leaned against the ring’s apron with both hands in the pockets of the Adidas tracksuit he wore. His sleeves were rolled up, his diamond-faced, gold Rolex on full display. Although his attire was understated, his piercing eyes exuded power, and his strong presence could be felt by all in the gym. Now in his forties, Ricardo sported a freshly shaved bald head and a thick, full beard. He had gained a small potbelly since his fighting days. In a weird way, it enhanced his bosslike appearance, representing the way he was eating off the streets. A “money gut,” he called it.
East could never forget the first time he walked into the gym. He was just a kid, eleven or maybe twelve, he thought. He had a similar feeling that day as he did right now.
Back then, the community saw Ricardo as a positive influence on the neighborhood kids. Little did any of them know, the gym was his own personal breeding ground. He had spawned the next generation of cocaine cowboys. His own personal army of killers and dealers, who had pledged their undying loyalty to him.
But that was then; this was now. Ricardo, flanked closely by Dos, slowly began to circle Tez on the stool. He took his time, wanting to choose his words carefully. Everyone held their breath waiting for him to speak. When he finally did, his husky Southern accent was cold and calculated.
“I knew dis nigga here since we were kids. That’s longer than any of you been alive. But I got a feeling you’re going to outlive our man, Tez,” Ricardo said while never taking his eyes off of East. “My momma had a saying, scratch a lie, find a thief. Meaning if a nigga’ll lie to you, he’ll steal from you, and if he’d steal from you, he’d kill you,” he explained, circling Tez with his hands still in his pocket.
Tez never looked up. Even when Ricardo placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled. A gesture of twisted reassurance that he was going to be dead very soon. Like a sledgehammer to the chest, it hit East what was happening. Tez had somehow crossed Ricardo, and now he was going to kill him, and maybe anybody close to him. East cursed under his breath, knowing that meant his fate was probably sealed too. Tez was not only his mentor, but he had become like a father figure to him. He held him in higher regards than he did Ricardo himself.
Ricardo walked over and stood directly in front of him. The two of them, toe to toe and eye to eye. “You know what I hate worse than a liar and a thief?” he asked rhetorically. “A disloyal-ass rat!” Ricardo’s voice echoed through the gym.
There was complete silence. Ricardo was so close that East could hear him breathing.
A rat? East thought to himself.
“Yeah, a rat. A fuckin’ snitch,” Ricardo said like he had read East’s thoughts.
Hell no, East thought to himself. In all the years he had been around him, he had never heard Tez say a negative word about Ricardo. He strongly doubted what was being said about his mentor although he had to admit, Tez had to be angered by the nepotism that was soon to make Dos second-in-command over him within the organization. After all, Tez had helped build Ricardo into a powerful man on the streets of Miami when Dos was still a little boy. During war times, the threat of letting Tez off the leash became a major part of Ricardo’s mystique, and intimidation, sometimes, was a better weapon than a gun. Even with all that, East could never see Tez pulling a move like that.
Kill Ricardo and take over, maybe . . . but snitch? . . . Nah, he thought to himself.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” If Ricardo asked a question, he most likely already knew the answer.
East had always been good at tests, and his gut feeling was telling him to be honest. So, he did. “Nah.”
“You sure about that?” Ricardo pressed, clearly trying to read him.
“Very sure,” East answered strongly. There was no change in his demeanor or dent in his conviction. He had already accepted there was a chance he wouldn’t make it out of there alive. He had nothing to lose, so he spoke his mind. “I don’t think Tez would do—”
Ricardo cut him off with a look. He could be a very intimidating person, but as he searched East’s eyes, he found no fear or deception; only the truth. “You always been a solid li’l nigga,” he said, putting his hand on East’s shoulder. Ricardo saw him as likeable and shrewd for his age, with tons of heart. He was as tough as Dos but with none of the recklessness.
“I wanna see what you really made of,” Ricardo declared, removing a Glock .40 from his waist. “Kill Tez.” Ricardo ordered murder effortlessly, like it was a number three on a fast-food menu, his eyes piecing through East as he handed him the gun.
Ricardo’s words lingered in the air for a moment. He knew how close East was to Tez. He wanted to break that bond. He was the boss, the only voice that really counted. He had made a mistake letting Tez mentor East. Now he was going to fix it. If East showed any hesitation to follow his orders, Ricardo would know he could never fully trust him. It didn’t matter how much he liked him, East would have to die along with Tez.
East took a deep breath. His stomach sank, although his outer appearance remained unchanged. He had never killed anybody before, and now Ricardo was going to make him kill Tez as a test of his loyalty. He locked eyes with Dos hoping to find some type of support but found none. Dos refused to hold his gaze, turning his eyes away. East had always followed his head and not his heart. The heart was just a motor. The head was meant to drive. Although just eighteen years old, East always envisioned there would come a time when he was set financially, that he could retire from the game. Now looking at Tez, a man twenty-plus years his senior, he realized that would never happen. You didn’t retire from the game; the game retired you—most times with a bullet. Tez had lived his life governed by the same rules and honored the same codes he taught East, and where had it gotten him? Here. A young man who genuinely loved him was being forced to end his life. It was then that East realized what Tez had been mumbling under his breath the whole time.... “It wasn’t me.” East wondered how long Tez had tried to explain his side of the story to Ricardo. He also knew better to think Tez would ever beg for his life. He wasn’t built like that. He was a gangster in every sense of the word. Right or wrong.
East took the gun out of Ricardo’s hand and slowly walked behind Tez. He was stopped by the sound of Ricardo’s commanding voice.
“Nah, not like that. In front. Look a man in the eyes when you send him to God,” he instructed. Ricardo didn’t have a gun in his hand, but East knew he wouldn’t leave the gym alive if he shot anyone besid
es Tez. That still didn’t stop the thought from crossing his mind.
Just then, Dos walked over, gun in hand. “Look up, fuck nigga,” he taunted Tez. “Be a man about it.”
East cocked his head and glared at Dos. He felt that no matter what Tez was being accused of, he deserved more respect than he was being shown. Still, Tez didn’t say anything and did as he was told. He looked up with not a tear in sight, staring directly at East.
When their eyes met, East could feel his heart wrench. He was consumed with emotions, causing him to hesitate for a moment. Ricardo was having none of it. He quickly nodded at Dos, who raised his gun, aiming it at East’s head.
“It’s him or you, Eastwood,” Ricardo stated, letting East know that if he didn’t kill Tez, he would die also.
East eyed Dos intensely. He couldn’t believe he was pointing a gun at him. Dos unsympathetically shrugged his shoulders, fully prepared to follow through on his father’s orders. No matter what happened, after tonight, their friendship would never be the same. East remained unfazed and unafraid by what he was facing. His biggest flaw was his lack of fear. Whatever was coming his way, he would be a G about it.
“I’m sorry,” Tez suddenly uttered. No one in the gym knew who his apology was meant for. Ricardo, East, or God. Maybe it was meant for all three. East didn’t want to know which, but in his heart, he knew it was for him.
East raised the gun pointing it at Tez’s head. Both of them were sickened but grateful for the sight of each other on the opposite ends of the gun. If it had to be anybody, Tez was glad it was East. He had groomed him to be unflappable. Even now, his protégé’s hand was steady as he felt the barrel of the gun press against his forehead. In a strange way, he found pride in that. He would be his first kill. Tez didn’t move, blink, or flinch. “Love seldom. Trust never,” he stated. The words caught East by surprise. Even in death, Tez offered a lesson. It was the last he would teach East but probably the most important.
East squeezed the trigger. Tez’s body flew backward off the stool, so hard that his knees made a cracking sound and his body made a thud as it hit the ground. Blood splatter smacked East in the face. The scent of Tez’s blood in the air mixed with the smell of his shit. East felt a wave of calm wash over him, erasing the hesitation he had felt. Strangely, he felt nothing . . . no fear, no disgust, no anger. He had been trained to put bad things that happened out of his mind quickly.
Ricardo nodded to Dos who lowered his gun. He rubbed his beard as he approached. East had passed the test with flying colors. He was exactly who Ricardo thought he was, a no-nonsense young nigga, all about his business with the heart to kill. He had a star pupil on his hands. “You did good, Eastwood,” he said like a proud parent, grabbing East by the shoulders and shaking him. There was a joy in his voice that wasn’t there before. “Your future is bright, believe that,” he proclaimed. Dos wasn’t so happy. He didn’t like his father openly doting on East all of a sudden.
East forced a smile and passed the gun back to Ricardo, sure he was no longer in danger of being killed. He sneered at Dos. “You put a gun to my head. You should’ve pulled the trigger, pussy.”
“Fuck you. Next time, I will,” Dos boasted.
“Won’t be a next time,” East assured him. Then with a final glance down at Tez’s dead body, he walked out the back door of the gym. He got into a waiting car, and Ricardo’s men drove him home. East wasn’t sad or even angry. For now, he was only numb, staring straight-ahead the whole ride.
Chapter Eight
2017
East pulled his black ’66 Chevy Impala into the Annie Coleman housing projects in Liberty City. Since the night of Tez’s murder, the dynamics of his relationship with Ricardo had changed. He was no longer hired muscle, protecting Lauryn. Now, Ricardo was supplying him with bricks, and he was flourishing. East and Dos was another story. They remained at odds, their relationship permanently damaged by the events of that night.
Still, East was doing well for himself, controlling a few spots of his own. This one was inside the projects, known as The Rockies, that was making about $7,500 a day. He needed a two-man team to run the spot, making sure everything went smoothly. East was big on loyalty, so naturally, he chose Screw and Ques. They had all come up together like a family. The two of them had no problem playing their position. They all understood that gunplay was part of the game. East made sure his team stayed fully loaded and instilled in them to play no games whatsoever. On more than one occasion, they had to put in gun work to defend the turf.
East grabbed the shopping bag from under his seat, then slid the Glock .40 in his waist. He checked his surroundings before getting out of the car. There was a lot of foot traffic moving up and down the street. The courtyard was lined with junkies. East made his way through them all, his chain swinging back and forth on his shirt, walking up to the apartment on the second floor. Things seemed to be moving the way he liked it, and he made sure his spots never ran out of work. He knocked on the door and immediately heard barking coming from the other side. A few seconds later, Screw let him in.
“What’s up, whoa?” Screw said, slapping five with his comrade, then shutting the door. He was holding a vicious pit bull at bay on a leash. “Sit,” he instructed the dog, and it did. Screw, being mixed with black, Jamaican, and Puerto Rican, had a very light complexion and a slim build with long, matted dreads. He had gold slugs in his mouth and was unmistakably Dade County raised. His pants sagged off his ass, exposing a gun on his waistline. At nineteen, he was a year younger than East but a few inches taller and a lot wilder.
“What up, nigga? You always stuffing your fuckin’ face,” East joked to Ques, who was sitting on a fold up chair feasting on some jerk chicken, rice, and peas. Ques nodded in agreement and smiled, his boyish good looks and dimples on full display.
The small apartment that they were hustling out of had nothing more in it than a couch, a TV with a PS4 hooked to it, a table with drugs on it, and a chopper laying across the couch where Screw had been sitting.
“How’s this shit movin’?” East asked, setting the shopping bag on the table.
“Faster than a muthafucka. We’ll probably be done with dat dere in a few hours,” Screw said confidently.
“Yeah, money coming through here faster than we can count the shit,” Ques added while licking the tips of his fingers.
“Yeah?” East questioned like he didn’t believe what he was hearing, although he knew he was getting the best coke in the city from Ricardo.
“This shit is butter. The junkies loving it. We just made fifteen hundid in a half hour,” Screw boasted. A knock on the door grabbed their attention and made the dog start barking again. It was a sell and another one followed right behind it.
The sound of the toilet flushing grabbed East’s attention. He turned in the direction of the bathroom. “I know y’all niggas ain’t got no hoes in here?” he barked, clearly not feeling the fact that Screw and Ques probably had some young freak from the projects in the trap spot.
“Nigga, that’s Twin,” Screw dismissed. “She brought niggas some food. We ain’t ate shit all day,” he continued to explain. “Twin,” as he referred to her, was his twin sister, Shantelle.
Seconds later, a short, light-skinned female wearing a tied-up wife beater and cut up jeans emerged from behind the bathroom door. She had a pretty face with long, black hair and almond-shaped eyes. Her eyebrows were perfectly arched, and her nails freshly manicured.
The fact that she was a familiar face did nothing to melt the icy stare on East’s face. “I don’t want nobody in the spot. I’on care who it is.”
“Hello to you too, East,” she said. “I just had to use the bathroom. I wasn’t staying long,” she spoke up before her brother could explain further. “Just give me my money for the food so I can go,” she huffed, sucking her teeth and sticking out her hand.
East didn’t say another word, but all in the room could see he was still angry. Screw dug in his pocket and pulled out
a knot of money. “Thanks for the food, sis,” he said. “Here, this is for Momma. She called and said she needed some money.” He passed his sister two crisp hundred-dollar bills.
“You need to take it to her yourself,” Shantelle said, stuffing the money in her handbag.
“Yeah, I know,” he admitted, then kissed her on the cheek. Shantelle left without saying good-bye to anyone else. Screw turned to East after shutting the door behind her. “My fault, whoa. Moms needed—”
East lifted his hand and cut him off. “You ain’t gotta explain that shit to me. Moms always come first. I understand.” It had been more than five years since he had lost his mother. Not a day went by that she didn’t cross his mind. Ms. Angela had become like a second mother to him in Ebony’s absence. Just the mention of her made East’s angry stare disappear. “Y’all got that bread for me?” he asked, rubbing his hands together, getting right back to the business at hand.
“Don’t we always,” Ques answered and rose from the chair. He set his food on the counter before entering the kitchen. Reaching inside one of the cabinets, he pulled out a plastic shopping bag that was full of rubber banded stacks of money. He walked over to East and handed it to him. “We gon’ sell out before the morning, though, I’m tellin’ you.”
“Y’all should be good with that,” East assured him, pointing to the bag on the table. It contained enough coke for the spot to run for at least another 24 hours. He never kept more dope in the spot than needed. That way, if police raided or the spot got robbed, he wouldn’t take a big loss.
He looked down at his phone. He had a text message. He read it to himself, then looked back up at Screw. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I got some shit I need to take care of right now. I’m gonna need you to ride with me to go see Ricardo tomorrow.”
“Bet,” Screw said. He knew that meant East was going to re-up and needed an extra set of eyes and gun with him. Screw was East’s right hand. The one he trusted more than anybody because he never hesitated to swing his iron in a tight spot.