by AP Jermaine
“Uh huh. So, what about the contract you were talking about?”
“Our contract is verbal Teddy. We never deal in paperwork. So, do we have a deal?” My rational was simple. What the fuck did I have to lose?
“Yeah we got a deal.”
Chapter 55 “Bubba”
In North Carolina, you have four levels of custody for prisons. Maximum, Close, Medium, and Minimum. Maximum has only one facility in the entire state. The infamous (C. P.) Central Prison. Home to the gas chamber. Yeah, pine oil heaven. It’s designed to house the most dangerous criminals, and with the most time. Mostly years in the hundreds and lifers. Close Custody is designed to be the next step in promotion from Maximum, or the next step in “demotion” from Medium, and so forth and so on. I started my sentence in Maximum, and then went to Close. When you’re in Medium they always threaten you with Close. In reality though, it’s the please don’t throw me in the briar patch situation. Close Custody is some of the sweetest time you can do. Even though it’s full of gang members, and houses some of the most dangerous inmates in the state; as long as you stay in your lane, and aint no snitch or baby raper, you got it made. The officers are ninety percent female, and respect a real motherfuckers gangsta. It was in close custody at Lanesboro Correctional that I met my nigga Bubba. Bubba was doing eight to ten years for trafficking heroin. He was from Wilmington. The second largest heroin selling city next to Durham. Bubba had just finished his bid about a month ago. I’d already spoken with him twice and told him I’d be seeing him soon. In the pen, Bubba was known to be a money getter in the streets, although he never boasted or bragged. Nine times out of ten, if you got some lame ass nigga always bragging about what he’s got, and where he’s been, Ladies; he’s insecure, and probably not worth fighting for. Slide off. My first night in D- Block cell #28, fresh in with a sixteen to twenty - year sentence, Bubba walked outta cell #26. There were two tiers. We were on the top.
“What’s up bru?” He asked me as I stared over the rail at the action going on below. “Where you from?”
“Bull City. Why what’s up?” I was wondering what the fuck this clown wanted. I hoped he wasn’t making the mistake of thinking that I was a rookie. Unknowingly to him, I removed my foot from the rail, and planted it firmly on the ground, so when I swung, I would go for the knockout!
“Word. You from Durham? You got a homeboy next door in C-Block. Pusha. He good people. I fuck with him sometimes. He keeps some bud. I’m from Port City. Call me Bubba bru.” He held up his fist for some dap and I dapped him up.
“Banks.” I was still on point for the knockout though.
“Ay yo Banks, what they hit you with dog?
“Sixteen to twenty. What you got?”
“Shit bru, I got two years left, on an eight to ten.”
“For what?”
“Trafficking that “boy.”
“That boy? You mean heroin, right?”
“Yeah. Heroin.”
“Oh Okay.” For a brief second I thought this nigga was a sex offender.
“What they get you for?” Bubbas asked me.
“Murder.”
“Word up? It’s a lot of that around here. Shit bru, it’s over a thousand - years worth of sentences, in this block alone! Shit you came off good.”
“Ain’t no way in the fuck you gonna tell me that twenty years is good. One day is too long in this motherfucker.”
“True indeed. True indeed.” Bubba laughed. “Ay yo, ya’ll be selling a lot of dope up there in the Bull City. Port City flooded too.”
“Yeah, I heard. I don’t fuck wit it though. Coke was my thing.”
“Shit, bru I’m telling you, that coke money aint go shit on that heroin money. With the right dope, and the right hustling skills, a nigga can get rich in a year or two. Just like Jeezy said. Do it right and you can leave the whole summer off!”
“Yo Bubba. You still got some of that?” A cock diesel nigga wit tats all over his arms yelled upstairs.
“Yeah Scratch, I got one more. You got cash or stamps?”
“I got cash bru. Hold that for me, I’m on my way up.”
“That’s Scratch right there. He good people but he crazy as fuck. That nigga got like twelve bodies. They say when the police finally caught the nigga he had a list of names with the ones already dead scratched off. The newspapers made a big deal outta the shit and when he hit state everybody started calling him the Scratch Man. Scratch for short.” A minute later Scratch was up the steps and headed into the room wit Bubba. “I’ll be right back Banks. Don’t dip yet I wanna holla at you about something.” A few minutes later Scratch came back out of the room and stopped beside me.
“Yo where you from young?” He asked as he opened a sandwich bag and sniffed the contents.
“Durham.”
“The Bull City.” Scratch grinned. “I used to fuck with this chic from Cornwallis Projects. She dead now though.” I wondered was he the reason for her demise. Every nigga in the penitentiary knows that Durham is infamous for two things. Drugs and Murder. It goes without saying that we got ultimate respect on State. “Yo holla back at ya boy Bull City. I gotta go talk to the clouds.” In a flash, Scratch was back downstairs lost in the crowd of niggas that were playing cards, watching T.V. and working out doing push-ups and dips.
“Yo Banks. Come in here bru.” I heard Bubba call from his room. I was still checking out my surroundings and wasn’t trusting nobody, so slowly and cautiously I stepped into his room. “Come on in and sit down my nigga. I don’t let just anybody up in my castle, but I read the vibes off people good, and my intuition tells me you a real nigga.” Reaching inside his pillow Bubba pulled out what looked to be about a quarter ounce of some tree. “You wanna burn wit me bru? You smoke weed, don’t you?”
“Hell yeah!” Now he was talking my language. I walked in and sat on the stool at his steel desk. “Yo the cops ain’t gone be tripping about two to a room?”
“Man, this close custody. We run this shit not them. They don’t fuck wit us, and we don’t fuck wit them. They know most of the niggas in here aint never going home, so they’d be fools to get us riled up.
Around here you don’t see many fights. Just cutting and stabbing. And they aint trying to get cut or stabbed. You got a banger? If not, I can get you one for cheap. You may not even have to use it, but it’s better to get caught with it, then without. Feel me?”
“I’m feeling that.”
We were halfway through a blunt of Purple Haze, and I was high as the Empire State building, when somebody yelled out, “Man down! Top tier!” Before I had a chance to react, the door slid open and a short, dark - skinned woman with short blond hair, and an ass that she seemed to have to turn sideways just to get in the door, stepped into the room.
“What yall doing in here?” She asked as she locked eyes wit me. Fuck! Day one and I’m going to the goddamn hole! I knew I shouldn’t have fucked with this clown.
“We aint doing shit Ms. Hatchett. Just talking about some things.” Bubba grinned at her. Now I knew this nigga was crazy.
“Oh yeah. Well it smells like yall been smoking in here. Yall do know this is a non-smoking facility, don’t you?”
“Yeah, we know. But why you trippin?” Totally ignoring his question as if it were absurd, officer blond haired Hatchett, walked past me to Bubba’s bed, threw back his blanket and “BAM!” There lay a pile of fives, tens and twenties.
“Uh huh. Just like I thought. Who money is this?” Officer Hatchet asked as she looked back at me.
“That’s my dog right there. He good. Go ahead and grab that.” Shocked, I watched as Ms. Hatchett scooped up the cash and stuffed it in her bra. Just as swiftly, she reached down the front of her pants into what I assumed to be her panties, and pulled out a cucumber sized package wrapped in black tape. “Thank you babydoll, I’ll call you tonight,” Bubba told her as he took the package from her and kissed her on the lips.
“Make sure it’s after nine. I got training.”
>
“Ten four.” Bubba smiled and smacked her on the ass as she headed back out of the room and slid the door shut behind her.
“Oh, so that’s how it is?” I grinned as soon as she was outta the room.
“That’s my lil boo. Bitches in here recognize and respect a real nigga. They deal with so many niggas on the daily, they become accurate at deciphering the real from the fake. Didn’t you see how Hatchett was eyeing you?”
“Yeah and she had me shook too.” I admitted.
“Nah bru. She was just sizing you up. I saw the twinkle in that bitch eye too. Fucking slut.”
“Nigga you tripping.” I laughed my ass off as Bubba went on about his and her penitentiary relationship, and how he and her would fuck in the mop closet every Friday when he waxed the floors third shift. From day one, me and Bubba were tight. We got high all day, reminiscing about the trap. And from day one, I’d told him I had to find a different way. His thoughts were the opposite. He was going to holla at his amigo, and in his own words, “Get that gwap!” After six years in, he still had a wifey, and a handful
of jump-offs that stayed loyal. As best as you can expect loyal to be anyway. Some niggas are too sentimental. If you love a chic, cool. But if you got 3,4,5,10 years to do, then don’t worry about if she’s going to fuck somebody or not. Because the answer is Hell Yeah! As long as she riding through the years with you and doing her part to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible, then whomever it is, must not be fucking her that good. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Cause she’s still riding. A real ride or die bitch is extremely hard to find. We all know, that when a nigga catch a bid, them bitches run for the hills! Get ghost like Casper on that ass quick! The two years me and Bubba bidded together before his release, was some of the sweetest time I did. He was already plugged in and as fate would have it, Officer Hatchett’s, superior officer and bff, was one Sergeant Nichols! A short thick caramel colored cutie with a Toni Braxton haircut and lips like Angelina Jolie. And she’d been asking about me. But that’s another story. Me and Bubba kept it real from the jump. We smoked tree, worked out, gambled, and fucked wit the female officers who were all ratchet in their own right, no matter how pretty or thick they may have been. The two years went quick. Bubba finished his sentence and went to the crib. I myself still had thirteen and a half years left to do at the time. Bubba turned out to be the real nigga I’d already given him credit for. A week after his release, I got a scribe from him, with a number for me to call. I hit him up and he hit me with the tree, and whatever else I needed through his penitentiary love. Ms. Hatchett. He was home with his wifey now, but he still had grips on the C.O. chic. This kept me from having to make Monique pack that pussy and come on through them gates. Either way I had to have my tree. It was my medication. It was the only thing that kept me from losing it. Still is to this day. Bubba would send pictures of bad ducks and club scenes. Always wit a lil scribe telling me what was new on his scene. He kept it all the way trill wit a nigga for the next two years, all the way up until my unexpected release from the joint. I hit him up when I touched down and the nigga was estatic! He wanted me to come down to Port City. Said he had some shit to turn me on to. He was back fucking wit that “dog food” money heavy, and at the time I was trying to stay as far away from the trap as possible. Now shit is a lot different. All I want is paper. By any means necessary. A sleeping motherfuckin giant has been awakened.
Chapter 56 “Oh Boy”
I took four ounces of powder cocaine with me into Keisha’s apartment, while Latifah waited for me out in the car. The two knew nothing of one another. Dropping the coke off with Keisha I told her to bring me back three grand for the four ounces, leaving her plenty of room to make herself a couple bands easily. Even though I’d informed her that I was in a hurry, immediately after I dropped off the coke, Keisha begged and whined, until finally I let her suck my dick. “I’ll get it quick baby.” She’d told me enthusiastically. And true to her word, she sucked me off so hard and fast I readjusted her price to twenty - five hundred, instead of three grand!
Four hours later Latifah and I pulled into the parking lot of the Sheraton Imperial Hotel in Wilmington, N.C. “Port City”. Latifah looked the part, and carried the credentials that I needed in a driver. Square. No need to be stupid now. I looked at her as she came back to the car, and I became aroused. Does this make me a nymphomaniac, simply because I can’t seem to satisfy my never - ending thirst for pussy? Don’t judge me. Now, Bubba was on the way. He knew I had something, but not exactly what. I said, “I had a boy,” and that’s all that needed to be said. Latifah kicked off her shoes, enticing me with her perfectly pedicured feet.
“You want me to massage your back wit my toes daddy?” My dick was hard, but my mind was on the money.
“Not right now. Later. Business first.”
“Okay baby. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
“Well, right now you can go get me that fifth of Hennessey out of that bag and bring it here. Where my weed at?”
“It’s right here baby. I put it in my lingerie case inside my bras.” Latifah responded as she came running back to the bed with the ounce of Granddaddy Kush I beckoned for. I reached over and tossed her a box of Dutches.
“Roll me something.”
“Okay baby.” She answered eagerly.
A sharp knock at the door caused me to reach for my gun lying on the table. It was the one girl I knew I could depend on. “See who’s at the door.” I stood and walked behind Latifah as she changed course in mid stride and pranced up to the front door.
“Who is it?” Latifah asked through the door.
“It’s Bubba, Banks. I got two testers wit me.”
“Unlock the door Latifah.” I lowered my pistol but still held it at my side. It was Bubba, and as he’d said, two dopefiends, that we’ll just cal1… Jack and Jill.
“My nigga!” Bubba grinned, gave me dap and threw his arm around my shoulder. “You know I told you I get it in out here in these streets my nigga. Holla at ya boy. What you working wit?”
“I got some boy. I need it cut. You know something about that?”
“Oh, nah bru, you aint got to cut it, cause whoever you got the shit from already did that.”
“No they didn’t.”
“Bru I’m telling you, all the shit is cut. Unless you getting it straight off the boat it’s gonna be cut. These two is my testers,” Bubba said pointing to Jack and Jill. “They know dope. They both twenty, twenty - five years into this shit, and they’ll tell you the same thing. How many grams you got dog? I can probably get you a hundred fifty a gram.”
“I got nine ounces of raw boy and I need the shit cut. Now, can you or can’t you make it happen?” Latifah had retreated to the bedroom while Jack and Jill waited anxiously to the side. Jack was black as tar, about six three, six four and had a dead eye. Probably in his mid to late forties. He was noticeably underweight. Jill wore dreadlocks almost to her shoulder. Although her hair was almost all gray, she couldn’t be a day over forty. Her face showed too many hard nights, and just as many struggling early mornings. A dopefiend’s identity.
“You said you got what!” The look of astonishment on Bubba’s face, told me immediately that he wasn’t dealing with that kinda weight. My hand still rested on my girlfriend. Six sure shots, if I have to shoot my way up outta this bitch.
“I ain’t got nothing man. You bullshitting. I don’t have nothing. I was just fucking wit ya.”
“Hold up Banks. Come on dog. You know me. I’m real bru. I’ll ride. I fucks wit that dope money but I just cop a couple ounces. There aint a lot of heroin or coke right now because it’s election time.”
Every big nigga knows to lay it down during election time. Large Drug Raids bring in votes. The candidate will happily show, how over the course of say their…. “three - month” investigation, they snatched these hardened drug dealers from the streets and cut off millions of dollars worth of crime. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be that headli
ne. Lay low during election time. It’s gonna be almost dry anyway. “I got nine ounces. Raw nigga. We gotta cut it at least three times. That’s what the Haitians I fuck wit said.”
“Haitians?”
“Yeah. Some Haitian niggas I met outta Florida. I think they on the run for some murders. They pop up, hit me off and I don’t see them until they right in my face. Old voodoo ass motherfuckers.” I had to give Bubba his own story. Never let your right hand know what the left is doing.
“Oh Okay. I know if you fucking wit them Haitians, then you know them niggas will try to kill you. They get down and dirty.”
“Yeah. See now we got an understanding already.”
“Oh, no doubt my nigga. So, what you wanna cut it wit?”
“Shit, I thought you knew nigga!”
“I can cut the dope.” Jill spoke out for the first time.
“Are you sure you can do the job.” I was tired of playing games.
“I’m sure.”
“With what?”
“Milk sugar.”
“No.”
“Wait hold up Banks. Bubba stopped the conversation. If you trying to take over this shit, then use morphine base. I got a white boy at the hospital who be getting it to me for bread. That’s what I cut my shit wit. That’s how although I aint got the most work, my shit sells cause it’s the best.”
“How much can you get?”
“Well, I aint never copped more than a couple ounces at the time but he always has it and he wants to sell it.”
“How much is an ounce?”
“I get three for three thousand. No capsules. Straight powder.”
“Can you get him on the phone.?”
“Speed dial my nigga.” Bubba whipped out his phone, scrolled down some names then hit the call button. “Yo Walter? What’s good man? Oh, you at work? Yeah Yeah that’s what I’m trying to do. Hold on a sec.” Bubba held the phone down to his side and spoke to me. “How much you want?”