by Nikki Turner
“Isn't the annual Kenmore block party the last weekend of July?” Twan questioned.
“No, it's always the first weekend in August,” Bossy corrected him. “I know it's two weeks away, but Danny Levy needs the finances to roll in now. Terry got him to let that rapper No-Joke headline the free concert, but throwing a block party costs money—big money.”
“What are you talking about?” Twan was puzzled. “Who the fuck is No-Joke?”
“You know, Sirenna Salas's husband, Felix. He's an up-and-coming Y-town rapper. He goes by the stage name of No-Joke. The boy is nasty and going places. After his performance, Ruffus Black takes the stage. The block party gets bigger and better every year.”
“Just like my bank account,” Twain bragged as he stood up in preparation to leave.
Bossy decided there was no time like the present to speak with Twan about his recklessness.
“Before you leave, have another quick drink with me so I can holler at you about a few things,” Bossy insisted.
“Anything for you, Bossy.” Twan winked as he made a beeline to the bar. “What's goin’ on?” he asked as he cracked open a new bottle of Belvedere.
“Word on the streets is that you and ya boy Ant are fiossin’ and puttin’ ya business out there. Slow down, boy. Everybody ain't ya friend, and we both know there are a lot of haters out there.”
“You worry too much,” Twan said as he walked back into the living room and refilled their glasses. ”But I hear you loud and clear.
“I hope you do, because if you get popped, that affects me and my girls. And let's not forget about that family you got out there in Boardman.”
“Bossy, don't worry about nothing. I'm straight, and won't nothing happen to any of us. That's what's up.” He nodded before holding his glass in the air in a toast motion and then drinking it down.
“Now that we have that out of the way, I want you to join us the weekend after the block party for a small, informal set. It's going to be here at the crib. You and Ant both are invited. Y'all both are more than welcome to bring a date; just keep in mind one thing—”
“I already know what you about to say,” Twan interrupted Bossy, as he could predict the next words that were about to come out of her mouth. “ ‘Be careful who you and ya boy bring into five thirty-nine.’ But you know you ain't even gotta worry about that. You know I don't trust nobody.”
“That's what's up. And while we're on the subject of trust …” Bossy took a sip of her drink before proceeding. “You need to slow your roll, Twan. I'm hollerin’ at you from the heart, baby boy. Be careful,” Bossy said with sincerity and concern.
She had never told Twan about the phone call she'd received months ago from Lajetia, so she didn't want to come straight out and talk negatively about his chick. Bossy felt that she was the main person he shouldn't trust. But she didn't even bother to waste her breath on that one. Bossy was experienced enough to know that Twan wouldn't hear anything she had to say about his girl, no way. Young love was blind, hazardous, and volatile. He'd see when he was ready and not a day before.
Bossy saw Twan to the door and then proceeded to package and weigh the product of another longtime associate. It puzzled her as to why Twan and others of his status would take the time to have drugs packaged for street distribution on someone else's behalf. In the end, Bossy decided that it didn't matter why they did it, only that they kept doing it. She preferred dealing with one top-notch person as opposed to six midscale players. So as long as she continued to play her cards right, it didn't matter what hand she was dealt.
3. TIME FOR A CHANGE
“You have to be fuckin’ around on me; otherwise you would be home at four in the morning,” Lajetia cried into the phone.
“Man, I'm so sick of this shit. Take ya ass to bed and I will see you when I see you,” said Twan, hanging up the phone in Lajetia's ear.
As Lajetia lay in bed recalling the argument she and Twan just had, tears began streaming down her face. The tears were flowing from a life of pain and neglect. In her heart she felt the love Twan and her children held for her was genuine and unconditional. But years of feeling neglected by her mother convinced Lajetia that Twan would one day betray her, just as everyone else in her life had done.
Lajetia had felt so alone and insecure her entire life. She always sought attention from strangers in an effort to feel love. Because it was foreign to her, she couldn't recognize the real love that Twan was offering her. Unlike most people, Lajetia didn't allow herself to dream about tomorrow. She kept her focus on today and today only.
She couldn't help but ask herself why now, in her life, she was still so unhappy and angry To anyone looking at her life things appeared well. Twan had given her and the kids a nice home, clothes, cars, and all of the material necessities. If happiness were measured by material possessions, Lajetia should've been ecstatic. Twan was a great provider, but fell short when it came to giving of himself emotionally.
The more Lajetia recalled the last argument she'd had with her man, the more convinced she became that the late-night hours he kept meant only one thing—the fool was playin’ her. Lajetia could come up with a laundry list of reasons for Twan to walk away from her, the number one reason being she did not trust him.
Twan had had enough of Lajetia's insecurities. In the time he'd been in a relationship with Lajetia, he'd given his all. He couldn't understand why his best was never enough. Lately the weight on his shoulders had gotten so heavy that he was becoming physically ill. Twan knew his only option was to walk away from the relationship. He just couldn't figure out how to get Lajetia to understand that his leaving didn't mean he would be walking away from his responsibilities.
Things had gotten so bad that Twan dreaded going home on those nights he could get away and make it to the crib before the a.m. hours. He knew that an argument would greet him the second he walked through the door no matter what time it was. That was just how bad things had gotten. Home was supposed to be the place a man could lay his head and rest. Twan's home was a battleground, and it seemed that his mere breathing could ignite a fight.
Nonetheless, the next night when Twan returned home, he entered with caution and was surprisingly met with quiet and calm. The kids weren't running around ignoring their mother's threats of beatings if they didn't settle down, and Lajetia didn't attack him with a verbal assault, accusing him of sleeping around on her. After walking farther into his home, Twan heard the sounds of Teedra Moses singing about her man standing her up. Lajetia was sitting in the study with aromatherapy candles lit, and wearing a pair of lilac satin lounging pajamas.
“Hey, baby, what's up with you?” Twan asked cautiously.
“I didn't hear you come in,” Lajetia said. “Nothing's up; I'm just taking a minute to myself, since the kids are all asleep.” Lajetia turned to face Twan as she spoke. He could see evidence of recent tears on her face.
“Are you okay, Lajetia? Please tell me what I can do to make you happy.” Twan felt drained. He had to figure out a way to handle the situation with care, because Lajetia's emotional state seemed fragile. Looking at the mother of his only child, Trayvon, Twan began to rethink his decision to leave the relationship. Anyway, he was the only father her other two children had ever known. Seeing Lajetia like this caused him to fear that she might harm herself—or even worse, harm them.
“If I tell you, will you do it for me?” she asked sadly.
“Yes, what do you need?” Twan said, walking toward her.
“I need you to give me your time and attention. If you're not in the streets, you paying the kids more attention than you do me. I need you, too, Twan. Why can't you understand that?”
“Damn, girl, I'm trying to be as patient as I possibly can. Like I told you countless times before, the streets don't close down. I'm a hustler and I'm my own boss. Shit, I ain't punchin’ no time clock. If I'm home, you got ya hand out for money! How can I give it to you if I ain't puttin’ time in?”
“See, tha
t's what I'm talking about, Twan,” Lajetia snapped, throwing her previous cool, calm demeanor out the window. ”You don't listen to me at all. I may as well be a single parent, because you ain't helpin’ me raise these kids. You come and go as you please while I do everything around here by myself. You climb into bed and don't even touch me, so you must be touchin’ another bitch.”
“Come off that shit, girl. How many times I got to tell you I ain't fuckin’ around?”
“As many times as it takes!” Lajetia replied as she stood up and exited the study, stomping down the long hallway. Once inside their bedroom, she threw herself across the bed and forced herself to cry. She knew how it affected Twan to see her cry, and she was going to milk the situation until she got what she wanted from him.
Twan refused to run after her, but her crying seemed to echo throughout the house. Shit, this bitch must think I'm one of those weak-ass niggas from the jets she used to fuck with, he thought as he remained in the study. I'll chill at the crib tonight, but if she thinks she gon keep a nigga on lockdown, she got life fucked-up. And that's my word!
4. STREET LIFE 101
The private life of Anthonie “Ant” Quarles was in vast contrast to that of his street life. Before Ant went to work each day, he checked in on his mother to ensure that she was safe and wanted for nothing. This particular summer morning was no different from any other.
“Hey, Mama, do you need anything done before I head out to work?” Ant asked between bites of the homemade sausage burrito, sitting at the kitchen table eating, while his mother sipped on a cup of coffee, reading the morning paper.
“No, baby, ya mama is fine,” Ant's mother replied. “I keep telling you not to worry about me; the good Lord will keep me safe.”
Olivia Quarles was a strong, God-fearing woman who was known for her kind spirit and enduring faith. She had dedicated her life to serving the Lord after the senseless murder of her oldest child, Davis, who was an innocent bystander shot during a bank robbery. That was almost twenty years ago, and her youngest child, Ant, was still trying to come to terms with the loss of his brother.
Ant had been only four years old at the time of the murder, and Davis was the only father figure he had known. As he grew older, Ant began running the streets, dealing drugs, and robbing people for sport.
Every day Ant headed to the only job he'd ever known: slinging dope. After being in the game for seven years and getting away with so many crimes, Ant felt invincible. Any true hustler knew the future held only one of two things: prison or death. Ant wasn't afraid of either, which made him a menace. The streets of Youngstown, Ohio, didn't allot any young black man the option of fearing the unknown.
As Ant drove down Warren Avenue he cracked open his second forty-ounce of White Mountain citrus wine cooler as the clock struck nine a.m. The powerful sounds of Parliament coming from the charcoal-gray deuce-and-a-quarter could be heard coming three blocks before he reached the drug house. Everyone in Youngstown had one thing in common—the hypnotic sounds of funk. George Clinton, Bootsy Collins, and Roger Troutman and Zapp had contributed more to the rearing of young men than their absentee fathers.
“What up wit’ ya, dude?” Twan greeted his boy of fourteen years.
“Ah, man, I can't call it. How ya livin, Pimp? Ready to do this?” Ant questioned between sips. The partners in crime were up early to meet with their runners and tally up the week's earnings.
Sitting inside the two-bedroom drug house situated on the corner of Warren Avenue and Overland Street was Ant's south-side chick, Shadaisy Davis. She was a high school dropout, dope-dealing mother of four, and a money-hungry freak. She kept her dirty brown hair covered with a cheap blond weave and her ass hiked up in leather pants whether it was winter, spring, summer, or fall. Because of her lifestyle and lack of stability, the state had removed all four of her children from her care two years ago. Her mother got custody to keep the children from being lost in the system, and Shadaisy had no plans of getting them back.
“Come on, girl, let's move this shit. You already rollin’ and ain't even washed ya ass yet. Shit, you knew I was coming,” Ant snapped at his ghetto queen. Shadaisy was tagging along to double-count the money collected and play chauffeur for the day.
“Ah, nigga, fuck you. We got three hours to do this; why you sweatin’ me? I just got in a minute ago.”
“Ain't nobody tell ya hot ass to close down the after-hours spot. Go wash that ass before I tap that ass,” Ant threatened as he finished off his liquid breakfast.
Ant kept his work car, a 1986 Ford Escort, parked at the Warren Avenue drug house. The car needed some bodywork and a paint job, but the engine purred like a kitten. Before making their rounds, the trio headed north to hit up Perkins restaurant for breakfast.
After scarfing down enough food to feed a small country for a week, the trio made their way to the various drug houses Twan kept around the city. After all of the money was collected and bills were paid, Shadaisy was dropped off at home and the partners headed to Sharon, Pennsylvania.
Shortly after Teddy Bear was killed, Ant put the wheels in motion so that one day he would be able to break away from Twan and stand on his own feet. He loved his boy like a brother but Ant was tired of standing in the shadows while Twan received all the glory on the streets. Today was their first meeting with Ant's new contact. The product wasn't as good as what they were getting from their Florida connection, but Ant needed this relationship if he was going to make his move. It took a lot of doing, but he was able to get Twan to go along with the deal. Ant reasoned that Pennsylvania was a lot closer than Florida, and expanding resources was a good thing.
There was only one problem resulting from the new connection—where to house the additional weight.
Twan, what the hell is all of this? I know damn well you're smarter than this. Just like a little kid, you got ya hands in too many cookie jars!” Bossy had tried relentlessly over the past six months to calm Twan down. He was acting like a teenager rebelling against his parents because he thought he knew all of the answers to the world's problems and everyone else was just getting by in life.
“Come on, Bossy, don't trip on ya boy. You like gettin’ that paper just as much as me. All I'm doin’ is stackin our paper higher and faster.”
“Twan, this is already fast money. What type of race are you running?”
“The same one as you and the rest of these hustlers in the streets. You know how it is out here—every bailer for himself.”
Twan was right. Bossy understood firsthand what it was like on the streets. That was exactly why she'd bent over backward to continue teaching Twan about the streets after Teddy Bear was killed. Frustration grew daily for Bossy, because Twan refused to listen to her teachings, to recognize her experience. It was one thing for Twan to increase the amount of weight he was moving, but he was stepping into an arena he was totally unfamiliar with.
Like a carryout restaurant, Twan's products could now be listed on a menu: powder cocaine, crack cocaine, heroin, weed, Percocet, OxyContin, Valium, meth, and the list grew weekly.
“Listen to me, Twan, because I'm only going to say this once.” Bossy paused for effect. “You are making too many trips up and down the highway. You are making too many dropoffs and pickups here. Every day it seems like your name is mentioned at the shop, because the night before you and Ant were out flossin’ at the clubs.”
“Not this again.” Twan sighed.
“I wouldn't be surprised if some wannabe gangsta is measuring you up, looking to take your place. For that matter, I wouldn't be surprised if five-O ain't already on ya trail. And if that's the case, you might have unknowingly led them here to me.”
“What you trying to say to me, Bossy?”
“Slow the fuck down or I'm gonna stop fuckin’ with you!”
5. BUSINESS IS
BUSINESS-PERSONAL AIN'T
Terry walked out of her office to hear two familiar voices engaged in a heated discussion. She had no idea what Aisha
could possibly be arguing with Twan about.
“Excuse me, but would the two of you please join me in my office?” Terry's statement was more of a demand than a request.
Aisha sprinted into the office and immediately began pacing the floor. “Terry, do you know Twan has the nerve to want us to keep some of his shit here until Bossy's ready for it?”
Terry couldn't believe what she'd just heard. Twan knew better than to make such a request. In the beginning, KAT69 turned bad money into good money, but since then no illegal activity ever took place in the hair and nail salon.
“Why y'all trippin'? Tryin’ to act all brand-new like y'all hands ain't dirty. Shit, it's only this one time,” Twan tried to reason.
“You must have lost ya damn mind, Twan. I told you no outside, and I'm telling you no again,” fumed Aisha.
“Come on, girl, y'all know I ain't bringing no heat up in here. Just let me stash a couple of keys here till Bossy ready for ‘em.”
“Terry, you talk to him. The longer I stand here, the more my head hurts.” Aisha slammed the door behind her and walked toward the phone to call Bossy. She knew Terry could and would handle Twan and his careless request, but Bossy needed to know what was going on.
Twan stood contemplating his next move. He knew he was wrong for asking this of his friends but he felt he had no choice. He and Ant had made a deal with the new supplier, Clifton “C-Lok” Boyd, without thinking ahead. Ant had made the deal sound so inviting, there was no way Twan could have said no. Now they were stuck.
Before approaching his friends, Twan had contemplated hiding the stash in his basement, or even at Ant's mother's house. His conscience wouldn't allow him to deceive Ms. Quarles, and he didn't want to take the chance that one of his kids would find the drugs at home. He would ride around with the drugs in his trunk before he stored them at home and put his kids in harm's way.