by K'wan
Though their lives had taken two different paths, Don B and Black Ice had been friends since back in the PAL days. Even then it was apparent that neither of them would grow up to have regular nine-to-fives. While Don B’s uncles were teaching him about the drug game, Ice’s father was turning him on to the art of macking. Ice was in and out of the game all through his teenage years, but it wasn’t until his father was murdered that he jumped in the game headfirst. At twenty-three years of age, Black Ice was a respected and recognized player in every circle.
“I’m glad you was able to make it out, Ice,” Don B said, reclaiming his seat.
“You know I wouldn’t miss ya boy’s coming out party. What’s good, True?” He gave the young MC a dap.
“Trying to win,” True said modestly.
“Looks like you’re doing more than trying, baby boy. All these bitches do is pop their fingers to ya shit.” He nodded at the two girls. “Damn, where are my manners? Fellas, this is Wendy and Lisa.” He motioned to the black, then the white girl. They waved, but neither spoke.
“Don’t talk much, do they?” Don B mused.
“Not if it ain’t about a dollar.” Black Ice said flatly. “Ladies, take young True out there on the dance floor and let me and Don B rap for a taste.”
“Hold on, man,” True tried to protest, but the ladies were already pulling him to his feet. Giggling like two schoolgirls, Lisa and Wendy led True out to the dance floor.
IT TOOK A MINUTE, BUT after True had a few drinks he managed to loosen up a bit. He had a bottle raised in the air and was sandwiched between Lisa and Wendy, getting his swerve on. Don B and Black Ice watched from the sidelines in amusement.
“Look at that nigga trying to step,” Black Ice snickered. “Your boy is cold as hell on that mic, but he ain’t much of a dancer.”
“Shit, he ain’t gotta be. As long as that nigga move them units like I expect him to, he’s gonna be straight,” Don B replied. He had a blunt pinched between his lips and the last few swigs of his bottle dangling in his hand.
“Don, you know a lot of niggaz thought you was gonna fall short when ya boys got killed, but you’ve turned shit to sugar once again.”
Don B grinned. “You know I’m known to do the impossible, my nigga. I know how to smell a dollar.”
“Indeed you do, playboy. I swear you rap niggaz is shinning like you on the track or something.”
“All it takes is a little dedication and hard work.”
Black Ice looked at Don B as if he had lost his last mind. “Shit, I’m allergic to work, man. The hardest part of my day is counting that trap money every morning.”
Don B laughed. “Yo Ice, I never understood how a bitch could sell her pussy all night then turn around and give you every dime she made.”
“It’s a gift, baby.” Black Ice winked, downing the last of his drink. “See, a square nigga is always trying to get into a bitch’s drawers, but my interests lie elsewhere. I conquer a woman’s mind before I lay cock to her. That’s the sweet science of sin. I could give a fuck if you had a gold pussy and platinum titties—that shit don’t move me. Like my Pa used to say: “A bitch is only as good as the bread she checks in.” All I’m interested in is that cold cash, daddy.”
“I know that’s right.” Don B gave him dap. “Yo, speaking of cash, I got a proposition for you.”
Black Ice gave Don B his full attention at the mention of a dollar. “Talk to me.”
“You know, ya boy Stacks Green is in town shooting his video and promoting his album, right?”
“Yeah, I hear they been throwing money around like its water.” Ice nodded.
“You know, niggaz think they stunt game is up, but this is still the Don’s city. We got a few events lined up on some costal-love shit.”
“Costal-love, last time I checked you niggaz was supposed to be rivals? I even heard the mix tape with you and one of his boys going at it.”
Don B shrugged, as if it were nothing. “Just a little friendly competition. Personally I think the kid is an asshole, but you can’t deny the fact that both our camps are blowing up on the music scene. Big Dawg got a crazy buzz, but this nigga got Texas in a stranglehold. I’m trying to rock this nigga to sleep so we can see some of that paper down south too. While the nigga is in town we gonna show him a good time on some welcome to New York shit. We’re even having a celeb barbecue and basketball game. His five against my five on some winner-take-all shit.”
“Sounds like you got ya hands full, baby boy, but I know you didn’t wanna talk to me about no basketball game. Shit, I ain’t touched a ball since I took to the track,” Black Ice told him.
“Nah, I ain’t talking about you playing, I’m talking about you investing. Son, we got fifty gees riding on this game!”
Black Ice eyed him suspiciously. “So you called me down here to crack for some bread?”
“Black, you know I’d never come at you like no pauper, the Don ain’t hardly popped,” Don B said, flashing a large wad of money. “Dawg, I got wild paper tied up in True’s album, not to mention the advance I fronted Lex and that stupid mutha fucka Pain, so you understand my situation.”
“How much you trying to get me to throw down, Don?”
“Son, throw in twenty-five and we bust the winnings down the middle. I’m telling you, throw in with me and you’re guaranteed to make yaself a nice piece of change.”
Black Ice took his time responding. He did this partially because he was weighing it, but mostly for the theatrics. He wrapped his pack of cigarettes on the bar before coolly sliding one out. With slow and deliberate motions he took a deep pull of the cigarette, before addressing Don B’s proposal. “That’s a lot of bread on the table, Don. I’d sure as hell hate for them niggaz to be getting their grills upgraded on my dime,” he said seriously.
Don B looked at him like he had just said something foreign. “Man, I got some of the coldest young niggaz from New York playing on my squad, Ice. Ain’t no way we can lose!”
Ice thought on it for a second, and then nodded. “A’ight, Don, lets trim these suckers. Twenty-five apiece and we’re partners; but you gotta do something else for me to sweeten the pot.”
Don B grinned. Ice had a lot of nerve asking for more than he was already getting, but Don B knew that’s what he was used to, so there was no slight. Ice made his money off the backs of other people, so in his mind everyone was a stepping-stone to further his own goals. Don B would’ve been a fool to think otherwise. Ice was pushing it, but for the sake of winning fifty-gees, and bragging rights over the Houston crew, Don B would at least listen.
“What you need, Daddy?”
Ice spoke to Don B, but kept his eyes focused on the swirling clouds of cigarette smoke. “Me and a friend of mine been throwing these locked door events. We get twenty to thirty of the freakiest bitches we can round up and turn em loose on suckers who don’t mind spending for a taste. Every party is thrown at a different location and by invite only. It’d be nice if you make sure them Texas boys and their money were in the spot Saturday night to spend some of that paper.”
A broad grin spread across Don B’s lips. “Come on man, I thought you needed a favor?” Don B joked. “A’ight, send the time and address to my two-way and I’ll make sure I get Stacks and them to the spot. As a matter of fact, come through the block tomorrow. Stacks is shooting his video in Harlem and I’ll introduce you to him.” He gave Ice a pound.
“Not a problem. I’ll roll through with a couple of my bitches so these niggaz can see what I’m working with. As far as the twenty-five stacks, Wendy will drop the bread off to you Friday.”
“Damn, you don’t do nothing for yourself, do you?” Don B teased him.
“Not unless it’s wiping my ass.” Feeling a presence at his back, Black Ice spun around on the bar stool. Standing directly in front of him was a five-two, cinnamon thing, with what could only be called childbearing hips.
“What’s up, big time?” She took in his red suit and heavy jewels. S
horty knew she had it going on, and was hell-bent on showing the well-dressed cat at the bar.
In his most sincere tone he said, “Cash, bitch. If you bout that then I’m bout you.” The girl looked at Black Ice like she didn’t know whether to slap him or continue the conversation. Both Don B and Black Ice fell over the bar laughing.
IT WAS ABOUT FOUR-THIRTY IN the morning when the last few partygoers came staggering out of the club. Traffic was so thick that the cars couldn’t get through the block doing more than five miles an hour. Men and women paired or tripled off in search of whatever other mischief they could get themselves into. True’s listening party had set the summer off properly.
Across the street, huddled in the shadows, two sets of eyes watched the crowd. The first set belonged to a dark-skinned kid whose head looked like it was too heavy for his gooselike neck. The second kid was dark, but not as dark as the first. A tattered toothpick rolled back and forth between his large lips. The line of his jaw looked like a stone carving as he bit down on the toothpick.
“You see that nigga?” Gooseneck asked.
“Nah,” Toothpick replied. “But I know the nigga ain’t leave yet, we been watching the door for two hours.”
“Sha, it’s hot as hell out here man, how long we gonna wait?”
“Until I say, Charlie.” Sha took the toothpick out of his mouth to make sure he was clear. Charlie didn’t press the issue. Sha was someone you didn’t want to argue with unless you were ready to get physical.
Ignoring Charlie, Sha went back to watching the front door as he had been for the last few hours. He was beginning to wonder if maybe Charlie was right and they should come back another day, until he saw his mark. A low growl escaped him as a red haze formed over his eyes. He wanted to run up on the man and make him strip before he popped him, but there were too many people. He had to do it as he had planned or it was pointless.
“Come on,” Sha said, checking the clip on his .380 before tucking it back into his pocket. Charlie followed, but made sure he didn’t get too close just yet. It’d look funny if they both approached him. Sha kept his eyes on the young man as he moved coolly in his direction. From the way he was swaying and trying to balance himself against the wall, Sha could tell he was drunk. It would take the fun out of it, but oh well. By the time the young man even noticed Sha, he was right on top of him.
THE MAN OF THE HOUR came half stumbling out of one of the side doors. Don B had told him to stay close until they gathered the rest of the entourage, but he had managed to slip off. The Hennessey was mingling with the champagne in his gut and it wasn’t a pleasant meeting. If he was going to throw up he damn sure didn’t want to do it with hundreds of people watching.
True managed to maneuver himself over to the wall and lean against it for balance. The world wasn’t spinning as fast as it had been, but his head still felt like it was wrapped in plastic. The sound of crunching glass drew his attention to the street. He looked up just in time to see a dark-skinned kid coming in his direction. The kid had a square face with a wide, flat nose that looked like it had been broken a time or two. Drunk or not, True wasn’t foolish enough to let a stranger roll up on him like that. He didn’t have his gun on him, but the butterfly knife he had slipped from his pocket to his palm would have to do.
“Got a light, money?” Sha asked, tapping a cigarette on the back of his hand.
“Yeah,” True said, using his free hand to dig in his pocket for a lighter. He handed the Bic to the stranger, careful not to get within arm’s reach of him. There was something about the kid that made True uneasy. He wasn’t sure if it was the fact that the kid kept staring at him or the fact that he looked familiar. True was about to ask what he was staring at when a voice called from behind him.
“Yo, fuck you slide off for?” Don B asked as he approached. He was flanked by two large bodyguards and about ten people bringing up the rear. He glared at Sha, but didn’t acknowledge him. “You a’ight?” Don B was talking to True but he kept his eyes fixed on Sha.
“Yeah,” True said.
“Thanks for the light,” Sha said, giving True back his lighter. He gave Don B and his entourage the once-over before disappearing back across the street.
“Fuck was that all about?” Don B asked, watching Sha leave.
True just shrugged. “Nigga said he needed a light.”
SHA’S LEGS THREATENED TO GIVE out on him before he had made it completely across the street. It wasn’t because he was nervous; it was because he was angry. Rage shook Sha’s body so intensely that he looked cold. He could almost taste victory, but the unexpected arrival of Don B had snatched it from him. He could’ve kicked himself in the ass for toying with True instead of just handling his business. He had wasted precious time and undid his own plan. It was okay though. The next time he would be swifter and True would be a statistic.
Chapter 3
THE BLOCK WAS QUIET THAT MORNING, WHICH was a relative miracle for the Brooklyn strip. The first pigeons were beginning to gather in front of the buildings to pick over the scraps left from the night before. Somewhere in the distance a tattered shade flapped in the light wind, applauding the coming of the new sun. The warm breeze washed over the curb, spinning a lone Budweiser can that had been abandoned by its five brothers. It wasn’t even eight o’clock and the air was already humid. Just another sign of what a hot summer the inhabitants of New York could expect.
In the doorway of the fourth building from the corner a figure appeared. She was a brown-skinned cutie who let the front of her shoulder-length hair flop over her high forehead in bangs, while the back was flipped and pinned in place. A pair of cream-colored Capri pants hugged her hips and thighs as if they had been designed specifically for her. Removing a small mirror from her Gucci knapsack, she examined her face, making sure she didn’t apply too much eye shadow, nor that the lip gloss was painted on too thick. To her, appearance was everything. Confident that she was killing everything on the streets, Dena Jones stepped off her stoop to face the world.
Dena was the youngest daughter of her mother’s, and hadn’t spent enough time with her father to find out where she fit in on the chronological scale of the scores of bastard children he had fathered. To her, the only siblings she had were the ones who had come out of her mother’s womb, regardless of who their fathers were. She was the youngest child of three, and in her opinion the only one not like the others.
There was Shannon, her hotheaded older brother. He was what you would call a career criminal, spending most of his teenage and young adult life in someone’s detention center. Shannon was amongst the elite, as far as street niggaz went in Brooklyn. Everyone knew he wasn’t to be fucked with and tried to steer clear of him for the most part. Standing at about five-six, Shannon had what some people called a Napoleon Complex. He had long ago earned his hood stripes, but being insecure about his height made him feel like he always had something to prove.
Dena couldn’t say that she agreed with Shannon’s lifestyle, but she also couldn’t knock his hustle. He never shitted exactly where he lived, and he broke his mother off before the weed man or one of his bitches ever saw a dime of his money. Since Joe, Shannon was the closest thing they had to a man in the house.
Joe was a guy that Dena’s mother had hooked up with a few years after Dena’s father had taken off. He was a Puerto Rican cat who made his money between driving a delivery truck and slinging cocaine uptown. He treated all of the children as if they were his own, never trying to overshadow their fathers, no matter how fucked up they were. Joe had lost his life when Dena was about twelve or thirteen years old. Nostrand Avenue, formerly known as N.A. Rock back in the day because it was always rocking with one thing or another, would be Joe’s final resting place. He had been on his way to visit them one night when he lost his life. A young man shot him in the back while he was coming out of the Nostrand Avenue train station. He didn’t take Joe’s money or his jewelry, just shot him and ran off. The police would later discover that it
had all been a part of a gang initiation and Joe had the misfortune of being a random target. Though Dena never admitted it, the scars from Joe’s murder had never really healed.
Then there was Nadine, the oldest of the three. Behind her back Dena referred to Nadine as one of their mother’s greatest mistakes. At the time she had become pregnant with Nadine, their mother had been in her last year of high school and scheduled to leave for college in the fall. When she found out that she was pregnant things changed considerably. In the beginning she planned to just go to school at night and work during the day, but when Nadine’s father took off she was forced to work two jobs just to make ends meet. By the time she realized what was becoming of her life, Nadine was four and her mother was pregnant with Shannon.
Nadine was well into her thirties but still couldn’t seem to find a place of her own, or a clue as to what life was about. She was content to coast off government income and an on-again, off-again supply of sugar daddies. No one could deny the fact that Nadine was fine—ugly was something her family didn’t do—but she had about as much get-up-and-go about her as a six-hundred-pound man looking at a Stair-Master. Dena saw her as an example of what she didn’t want to become.
Careful not to twist her ankle in the high-heeled Gucci sandals she wore, Dena made her way down the stairs. On the last step she almost tripped over a beer bottle that someone had left on the stoop. She looked down at the almost empty bottle and sucked her teeth. It was bad enough that the building was fucked-up and the landlord refused to do anything about the recurring rodent problem, but the nightly stockpile of trash was getting ridiculous. People would party on the stoop all night and leave their trash wherever it fell. It was just one more reason why Dena was determined to finish school. She knew that completing her education was her best chance at getting off Jefferson Avenue.