by Nikki Turner
C-Note was happy when he saw the sign that read RICHMOND 38 MILES. The sign gave him that extra burst of energy he needed and confirmed that he was home free. See, many had traveled this same route. Some had good runs, while others, well, they weren't as lucky as C-Note had been. The bottom line was that most cats in the street game knew that I-95 could be the missing link to a baller's success. However, it could be his downfall as well. The traps, the police, the crooked cops, and the women could all be considered the perils and pitfalls of a typical run in the game.
The I-95 stretch had made it possible for plenty of money to be made, babies to get fed, bills to get paid, and countless numbers of women and men to live the glamorous life. The route saw to it that fiends got what they longed for to run through their veins and experience that high they felt they needed. Right off the interstate, plenty of robberies were conspired and played out: an undetermined amount of body bags were needed each year as a result of countless drug deals gone bad up and down this stretch. I-95 was, at times, referred to as Cocaine Alley and at other times as the Gateway to Riches. Hustlers up north traveled from New York down south to the small cities, counties, and towns where the drug prices might be double, sometimes triple what they were up north, and the competition was almost nonexistent. On the flip side, I-95 had been the ticket for many southern hustlers who went up to New York or down to Miami to get drugs at dirt-cheap prices and bring them back home to make tens and hundreds of thousands, and if they were both lucky and smart, ultimately millions. And it just so happened that I-95 had made it possible for C-Note to go from a mediocre hustler, going to his older brother to re-up, to a dude making major moves in the drug trade. C-Note had been going to Miami for six months now, ever since he met Hassim, his drug connect, at last year's Source Awards.
C-Note turned up the volume on his CD player and blazed the old NWA song “Dopeman” as he focused on the last thirty minutes of his trip back home to Richmond, VA.
Stay focused, C-Note thought as he drove, bobbing his head to the music. A nigga really ain't home free until I pull up in my driveway and get in the motherfuckin' house. These state troopers don't be bullshitting. Niggas always talking 'bout “watch out for those Georgia and North Carolina troopers, ” but shit, Virginia troopers ain' t nothing to fuck wit' either.
As C-Note drove up I-95, he thought how life could change in the blink of an eye. He smiled when he thought about how things could sometimes go sour before shit could get sweet, which was how the cards were dealt to him. He went from getting robbed to having one of the sweetest connects in the city. It wasn't too long ago that C-Note had gotten caught slipping. It was Source Awards weekend 1998 in Miami, Florida. C-Note was outside of a trendy Miami club checking out the scenery, which consisted of tricked-out cars and half-naked, beautiful women on the prowl. Although it was 2:00 a.m. on an October night, the temperature was still a muggy eighty-five degrees. This was nothing in comparison to how hot the women were. Everywhere C-Note looked—to his left, to his right, behind him and in front of him—eye candy surrounded him. If he wasn't used to having some of the baddest bitches that Virginia had birthed flocking to him, then that night he would've been super fucked-up in the game, not to mention rolling back to VA broke as a broke-dick dog, falling victim to having his cash, jewels, and his riches tricked away. He was out by himself because his boys were up in their room tricking and treating themselves. They couldn't resist making some pimps rich: and these chicks didn't look like the ordinary prostitutes. Nope! These weren't the average hookers standing on the corner trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents. These bitches looked like superstars or models. The fashion of the day was the “come fuck me” lace-up-the-leg sandals. Every top-flight pimp in the country had brought their hoes to Miami for this event to walk the halls of the luxurious hotels, hoping to find a paid baller who liked what he saw and didn't have any problem paying to play And C-Note's homeboys, especially his right-hand man, Jus, had fallen victim to the game.
However, C-Note was different. He wasn't paying for any pussy. Every now and again he might jerk off a couple of dollars on a broad, but only when he felt like it. It was never because some trick-ass broad roped him in and set the price. In the past niggas might have robbed him blind because a killer he wasn't, but nobody's ho was about to jack him for a little bit of his paper for a sexual favor. It just wasn't happening, especially after being raised by a mother who was a first-tier gamestress herself. Observing all the trickery his mother, Lolly, dished out, he became well schooled when it came to female game, and he decided at a very young age that he wasn't going out like a lame. Besides, his older brother had schooled him to the power of his magic stick. Between C-Note taking notes from his mother and brother, he was certain that he was doing a chick a favor by blessing her with some of his good dick game. Plus, he felt that he had enough charisma to pull any broad he desired, so paying for pussy was definitely out of the question.
C-Note sat in the cut of Los Bravos Nightclub, observing and playing the background like he always did. Handsome, he was a dark-skinned chocolate specimen. Black as tar with the prettiest white teeth, and boy could he wear a baldhead. He had big round eyes and long eyelashes that gave him sex appeal. He was tall, slinky, and had big feet. Now, any woman from the hood or the suburbs knew what that meant.
C-Note was dressed good enough to taste in his all-white sweat suit, and his spanking new, “straight out of the box to his feet” white-on-white Nikes. The necklace he had borrowed from his brother sealed the deal. The eight carats of flawless diamonds dripping through the “Richtown” pendant were worth more than his 5 series BMW. Although C-Note was exactly what most of the women in the club were looking for, the average chick didn't spot him because he stayed in the shadows, positioning himself where he could conveniently see what he wanted to see. Two foreign beauties caught his eye as they sat in a corner. He tried, but couldn't figure out what their exact nationality was—Dominican, Panamanian, Puerto Rican, or what? But he was certain of one thing: Those two women were bad! He was intrigued with the way they were all over each other.
Damn. Dem bitches is lesbos, he thought, shaking his head. Seems like that shit is a fad, the in thing.
C-Note couldn't keep his eyes off of them. Once the girls noticed him looking, they held eye contact with him and put on a show, just for him, that had him so caught up his eyes were glued to their performance. For a minute he thought about breaking his main rule. If a nigga was gon' trick, it was gon' be with some original broads like them. It was like picking out furniture. He didn't want the shit that he could get at any ol' department store that everybody seemed to have in their front room. He wanted that shit that a mothafucka had to get shipped from overseas.
The two exotic women continued to perform for him, kissing and licking each other. One put her finger in the other's mouth, and the one doing the licking stared at him the entire time. The two girls smiled, whispering in each other's ears, then pointed at him between their bewitching laughter. The more docile one whispered something in the aggressive one's ear, who smiled, giving her friend a high five. She then looked over at C-Note and seductively mouthed the words, “Want to join us?”
With a mischievous smile carved on his face, C-Note headed over to the girls' table so they could make the necessary arrangements to take the party elsewhere. He never noticed the two cats watching him the whole time he was distracted with the chicks. Before he knew it, the two guys were up on him.
“Whad' up, VA?” one of the dudes asked.
C-Note didn't even look up, because he was still caught up into the broads. Besides, his name wasn't VA. The other dude said it again, a little louder this time.
“Whad' up, VA?” he said.
C-Note then gave them the universal hood greeting, the “was-sup” nod. As he threw his head up to acknowledge the jokers, he noticed the imprint of a pistol through the guy's shirt. C-Note was sure that shit wasn't right, but he didn't let on. He decided to try to play pas
t them.
Damn, how the fuck I let these niggas get up on me? he wondered. These bitches got me slippin' like a motherfucker fo' real. My momma ain't never lied when she said that pussy is power.
“You got me at a disadvantage. Do I know you?” C-Note said, locking eyes with the aggressor.
“No, but you can get to know me,” the spokesman of the two replied to C-Note's comment. He then pointed to C-Note's necklace. “Slim, that's a nice piece. What you tryin' to get for it?” At that moment, C-Note knew for sure that these were some grimy niggas and they were on a greasy mission.
C-Note arrogantly replied, “Naw, I don't sell jewelry.” Just then he felt the cold steel of the pistol press against his side.
“Run the chain, niccka,” the spokesman said through gritted teeth.
C-Note's first instinct was to pull his own burner, but then he thought again. Never do irrational things on fucking impulse. Let me think this shit out. C-Note's brain was working in overdrive. I'm on a major strip with a good'five hundred people, which translates into five hundred witnesses. Three things can happen: I can give up the chain, be forty thousand late, and have to explain to my brother that his chain is gone. Or I can pull out my burner, lay these motherfuckers out here and now, and take the chance of going to the penitentiary for the rest of my life for a piece of money. Or three, I can get killed in the process.
C-Note made a decision that night that some might have thought was the soft, sucker route: He gave the chain up, which made him able to live, and fight another day.
“Empty dose pockets, too, niccka,” the less vocal one said after C-Note proceeded to hand over the necklace. C-Note noticed his tattoo, the five percenter symbol on his hand.
The beauties watched the whole episode as it went down. Once the two bandits walked off with C-Note's goods, the more aggressive of the two women strutted over to C-Note.
“Damn, papi, we was trying to get with you,” she said, rubbing her hand down the side of C-Note's face. “We couldn't help but notice you, I mean with that eye-catching chain and all. But since that shit is long gone along with your money, you probably ain't in the mood to pay what we cost. So I guess we gon' have to holla back another time, Richtown!” Just then her girlfriend walked up, put her hand around her waist, and the two walked off.
Damn, these motherfucking bitches done got my chain taken and won't even give a nigga no play, he thought. For the first time in his life, he felt like a lame. That couldn't be what Jay-Z meant when he rapped about a chain reaction.
“Bitch, go suck a dick!” C-Note shouted as he made his way into a nearby bar to try to gather his thoughts and convince himself that he wasn't really a sucker after all.
He sat at the bar and ordered a drink with the few hundred dollars he had in the other pocket, which he hadn't turned over to the two stick-up kids.
“Let me get a double shot of Henny” C-Note said to the bartender.
A guy who looked to be in his late thirties came and sat beside C-Note. The guy ordered a drink.
“Rough night, huh?” the man said, noticing the disgusted look on C-Note's face.
C-Note gave a slight chuckle. “Hump!” he grunted. “That's an understatement.”
“Well, you can't let shit get you down,” the guy said.
“Yeah, funny you should say that. Man, I just got robbed a few minutes ago.”
“No shit?” The guy had a Spanish accent, but he spoke good English.
“For real.” C-Note nodded.
“Did you make a police report?” the guy asked.
“Fuck the police! I don't call them sons of bitches for shit,” C-Note spat.
The guy smiled and said, “I like yo' style.”
“However, my momma might be calling them after my brother kills me.” C-Note picked up the drink the bartender slid in front of him and took a sip.
“Why yo' brother going to kill you?”
“Because niggas robbed me for his shit. His chain cost a lot of money. I had no business with it.”
“Don't worry; it's only material. Plus you can get a hundred more chains, but you can't get yo' life back.”
“Now all I got to do is convince my brother of that,” C-Note responded.
“Look, I'm Hassim,” the guy said, extending his hand.
“C-Note.” They shook hands.
“C-Note, huh? Ah …,” Hassim said, nodding his head as if something was on his mind.
A guy walked by and acknowledged Hassim. “Peace,” the dude said.
Hassim acknowledged him back with a nod, and C-Note laughed.
“Let me in?” Hassim asked, wondering what C-Note found to be so funny.
“Thinking 'bout the greeting ‘peace.’ That's all. Funny how people quick to say ‘peace,’ but a nigga can't really have peace.
Every time I try to have peace of mind, a nigga is trying to get a piece of mines.”
“It's like that from time to time,” Hassim said nonchalantly. “So, what you going to do about them guys that got your chain? You gonna give them beef?”
“Naw, man. My name is C-Note, and I'm about money. I can't get money and fight a war at the same time.”
There was a long silence between the two men before Hassim looked into C-Note's eyes and said, “Look, man, I like your style. I saw that bullshit go down, and I liked how you handled yourself. You put your mind before your ego.” He nodded, never breaking eye contact. “My friend, you have a good head on your shoulders, and I know I can help you get a thousand more of them chains.”
C-Note looked over Hassim's clothes, trying to figure exactly how a man in some dirty white Adidas and a Marlboro T-shirt was going to help him. Then it popped in his mind that a book could never be judged by its cover. He took into consideration Hassim's swagger and the way he talked so authoritatively, and C-Note knew what was up and asked, “What's it going to cost me—I mean your help?”
“Loyalty.”
Is this motherfucker bullshitting or what? C-Note thought at the time, but from that day forward, Hassim had been dishing out bricks at rock-bottom prices, and like a gymnast, C-Note was flipping them with ease. So far, so good. Neither one of them never put any bullshit in the game.
“Hey, Don Corleone, you out there? Breaker-breaker, Don Cor-leone. Come on in,” C-note heard as he snapped back to the present. He was swiftly brought back to reality when he heard a trucker over his CB radio. Riding down the highways and byways, C-Note had always thought that he didn't need anybody or anything except for his faithful Ford LTD work vehicle. He quickly learned that the truckers were the true rulers of the highway, and especially of I-95. No four wheels were able to compete with their eighteen wheels. Since they were the governors and the chiefs, it paid to be in their union.
C-note quickly grabbed the mouthpiece to his CB and pushed the button to reply. “Go ahead, Lil' Lost Chicken,” he said.
“Keep your eyes open and look over your shoulder, because two full-grown bears are coming up fast through your back door,” Lil' Lost Chicken said from an eighteen-wheeler that was riding about three miles behind C-Note.
“I'm on it,” C-Note said. Then he heard the trucker make a long whistle before he heard the voice of another trucker come over the radio.
“Shaggy Dog, what bones you got?” C-note asked the animated trucker who was about five miles ahead of him.
“I'm up here. Just blazed exit sixty-nine at the cigar plants, and the Bandit is in the cut,” Shaggy Dog replied.
“Is he rolling or taking pictures?” C-Note asked. He realized Shaggy Dog had just passed the Phillip Morris buildings.
“He a sitting bear, taking plenty of snapshots.” Shaggy Dog informed him that the trooper was lying in the cut with his radar on.
“A'ight, keep the front door open for me, Shaggy Dog,” C-Note said.
“You ain't got nothing to worry about. I'm up here three exits ahead with my eyes wide open. I'll keep the doghouse dry for you.” He ended with a long dramatic whistle and then sa
id, “This Shaggy Dog on the run to the end of the stretch,” letting his fellow truckers know that he was going to Canada.
C-Note checked his speed and his car's secret compartments and smiled at the heads-up from his trusty newfound trucker friends. As much as C-Note wished he had someone who could ride along to keep him company or share the driving, there was no one he felt he could trust. There was no way he was going to risk giving his connect up to a soul. Who would blame him, as sweet as his prices were? He was getting keys at thirteen g's a pop when the going rate was anywhere from eighteen to twenty g's. On top of that, Paula—his right-hand, get-money ride-or-die bitch— had a priceless “whip” game. She cooked coke so good that she could easily take ten keys of this 93-percent raw and turn them into twenty. So not only were his prices low, but his product was the best in town. C-Note's money flowed like the Jordan River. By no means would he jeopardize that bringing along some local clown playing cutthroat with him, or even worse, being able to sing like the damn Pips if Smokey got lucky for the ride.
Damn, I wish my brother was here so we could do this shit together, C-Note thought. His brother, Lynx, had introduced him to the game and was now in prison doing a five-year bit.
C-Note arrived into Richmond at approximately eleven o'clock in the morning on the fifteenth of the April. He knew he couldn't drag his feet on dumping the work, because he planned on taking another trip down to Miami before the first of the month. Dressed in the same matching brown khaki Dickies work uniform with the same wheat-color Timberland boots he wore every single time he made his trip, he stopped first at a mini-mart to get a Red Bull. Just as C-Note got back in his car, his cell phone rang. He looked down at the caller ID and then answered it.
“Yo, I'll be there in thirty minutes,” C-Note said into the receiver.