by Cash
I saw Shotgun Pete sweating her on the low.
Without provocation he said, “You got beef with me?”
I mean-mugged him for a full minute before I spat back. “If I had beef with you, you wouldn’t have to ask me. Bet blood on that.” My voice didn’t waver. I was strapped. I assumed he was, too.
He got in his hooptie and drove off. Probably going to swell Shan’s face up again, taking out on her what he wished he could do to me.
I wasn’t a bitch, though. He knew our next encounter was gonna end with one of us dead.
I don’t know what Shotgun Pete’s problem was. It couldn’t be jealousy. I didn’t have shit he couldn’t get with one good caper.
Well, I had one thing Shotgun Pete didn’t have and couldn’t get with a pistol.
I had principles.
I wouldn’t snitch on my partner to get his bitch. Pussy come and go. True dawgs were blood in, blood out, which proved to me Pete wasn’t true.
Niggaz told me as soon as I caught my bid, slimey ass Shotgun Pete began checkin’ for my bitch. Well, him and Shan deserved each other, they were two peas in a pod. Neither one of them were fit to be on my team.
Snake bastards!
CHAPTER 18
Everywhere I went niggaz were talking about one thing, and one thing only. It was all over the news, too.
Freddie La Mint DeFabio, a woman named Erline Brown, and her four-year-old son, Joshua Brown, were found shot to death, execution style in Erline’s house. Police suspected robbery as the motive.
The streets did, too.
Rumor had it that Freddie’s uncle, Hannibal, was offering big loot for the identity of his nephew’s killer. I didn’t like hearing that ‘cause I wasn’t sure if Rich Kid believed he could trust me not to drop a dime on him for the dough. But he could. I didn’t roll foul like that.
But did Rich Kid believe that? That was the million-dollar question. Whether, it was a life and death situation, Rich Kid’s ace, King, knew where I laid my head and I wasn’t hard to find in the city.
My comfort was in knowing I was true to my principles and hoping Rich Kid had no doubts about that after I’d refused a fat payday to hit Freddie because I’d once done work for him. I hadn’t even warned Freddie his life wasn’t worth a crackhead’s credit. I was out of it from both ends.
When I hooked up with Cheryl that night she was like CNN.
“You heard about Freddie?” She hadn’t been in the car two seconds.
“Naw,” I lied, of course.
“They found him dead! They say somebody blew his whole head off. He gon’ have to have a closed-casket funeral. And the girl they found dead with him, they shot her in the head three times. She wasn’t but nineteen years old! They even killed her four-year-old son!
“That’s a shame. You think Freddie’s uncle, Hannibal, gon’ find out who did it and do the same thing to them? I hope he do, ‘cause whoever did it should’na killed that girl and her baby. They ain’t sell no dope.”
I didn’t say shit.
Cheryl said, “What if somebody killed me ‘cause you be selling dope?”
“You ever saw me sell any mafuckin’ dope?” My words had acid on ‘em.
Cheryl came right back at me. “Nope, but I ain’t ever seen you go to work, either.”
“So,” I said. “Tommy ain’t have no job, and he wasn’t sellin’ dope.”
“Tommy who?” Cheryl asked.
“Tommy on the Martin Lawrence show,” I countered, trying not to laugh.
“What?” Cheryl said instinctively before catching on. “Aww, shit! Why you play so much? That was a damn comedy show! I’m serious. Dag.”
Niggas said, “Freddie’s funeral was da bomb.”
Ain’t that a bitch? Only fools out the hood would say some ill shit like that, mostly bitches.
Dude was dead. Gone forever. His peeps probably crying and mafuckaz all they can think to say was Freddie’s funeral was da bomb ‘cause he was buried in an expensive casket with mad flowers around it.
The church was packed with fly hos and many players, big and small. Outside was a car show—Benzes, mad custom SUVs, Acura’s, tricked-out Lexus’ and a few double Rs. Freddie’s babies’ mamas were trying to outcry each other. Two of them got into a fight at the cemetery. But a third girl was five months pregnant with another one of Freddie’s kids.
I heard all of this from Cheryl first, her nosy ass wouldn’t have missed the funeral for shit. But the streets were saying the same thing.
I shook my head at it all. Niggaz in the streets got killed so often it didn’t phase mafuckaz anymore. The shit was damn near like a movie, entertainment. I wondered why people had funerals at a church when the mafucka laying in the casket hadn’t gone to church since church came to him.
Is there a heaven for a G? I wondered.
Several days later that thought was still on my mind. Me and Lonnie were headed down to a little country town in South Georgia called Valdosta to do a reverse caper on some country ass dope boys.
Usually, a stickup kid robbed a dope boy by pretending he wanted to buy some weight and then he jacked the dope boy for his product. But in a reverse caper, the stickup kid pretended to be the dope boy selling the weight and did the robbery from there.
I didn’t know how Lonnie found his marks because because he never told me anything I didn’t absolutely have to know. All I knew was we were headed to Valdosta in a fly ass whip that didn’t belong to either of us. The Porsche we were pushing couldn’t have been a rental ‘cause it was tricked-out, chrome rims and all. A fly whip was necessary to convince the country dope boys that we were big-time dealers from the city, which really was some backwards shit.
We were rockin’ ice, fly gear and carrying cell phones all arranged by Lonnie. We looked like the absolute perfect picture of kingpins.
But if that was really the case, would we roll into a little country spot like Valdosta broadcasting it by our appearance?
No.
We’d roll low-key, not wanting to attract attention, but most dope boys didn’t see it like that. They figured the nigga with the flyest whip and most bling-bling had to be true in the game or he wouldn’t have so much shine. It was like the average nigga wasn’t gon’ trust a man to hook him up with a honey if his bitch was wack. Lonnie understood that mindset and he played on it.
When we reached the motel in Valdosta, Lonnie’s girl, Delina, was already there. She let us in the room, gave Lonnie the room keys, and jetted.
Boxes and bags were stacked in a corner. Later, I watched Lonnie open those boxes and bags, and he pulled out rolls of wide red tape, squares of drywall, a triple-beam scale and other shit needed to hook up dummy kilos of cocaine. It took hours.
Lonnie made sure each kilo weighed precisely one thousand grams and wrapped perfectly. He made six perfect kilos. Then he reached under the bed and pulled out a bag that contained the one real kilo of cocaine. The bait.
Lonnie used the cell phone to call the marks. I was sure the cell phone wasn’t registered to Lonnie or anyone who could be traced to him and would be destroyed as soon as this caper was over.
“It’s on for tomorrow,” Lonnie said after he ended the call.
He ran down the caper again, explaining what we’d do if different situations developed. If we handled it correctly, the worst that could happen was the marks might not bite because we refused to let them inspect all of the kilos. But if shit went smoothly, we’d get $126,000.00, eighteen G’s per kilo, which would be a sweet lick for Lonnie and me. But a bad day for the Valdosta dope boys. They’d have one real kilo and six kilos of drywall and lactose powder.
The plan was to meet with the Valdosta dope boys outside at a park or in a small parking lot. That way we all would feel comfortable by the casual passerby. A robbery planned by either side was less likely to go down in a public place, in the light of day, where there would be dozens of witnesses.
Most sell-and-buy robberies took place indoors, but we didn’
t want the Valdosta boys to know we were at the motel and we definitely didn’t want to invite them to our room and try to jack them from inside. No doubt they’d come strapped. At least two of them would want to come inside while others would probably be parked outside, ready to blast anyone coming out the motel room without their Valdosta partners.
Taking the money from niggaz wasn’t but a third of the game. The other two-thirds was getting away from the scene with the loot and not getting hunted down and killed over it later. The last part being more difficult, in this instance, ‘cause we wouldn’t be wearing ski masks. We were gonna jack these country niggaz without using a mask or a gun.
Of course we weren’t gonna use our real names, and they wouldn’t know where to begin looking for us in Atlanta. If they just came to the city asking a bunch of questions, describing Lonnie and me, we’d find them before they would find us.
I had to hand it to Lonnie, he had it well planned out. I just hoped the one real kilo would make ‘em bite.
The next morning, we cleaned up the motel room, checked-out and met the Valdosta dope boys at a restaurant in a mall. I didn’t know if there was more than one mall in Valdosta, but Lonnie found it with no problem.
There were three dudes waiting for us inside of Piccadilly’s. We sat at a table in a corner, all of us. Lonnie introduced me as Popeye. I already knew the Valdosta dudes thought Lonnie’s name was Tennessee.
The dude doing the talking for the Valdosta crew said his name was Disco. I wondered if he was gonna break out with some John Travolta shit.
We all ordered burgers, just to not look suspicious.
“Everything all right?” Disco asked Lonnie.
“I got seven pretty ass pit bulls in my trunk,” Lonnie said. “You got the paper?”
Disco bit into his burger and chewed and talked at the same time. “Yeah, I got the loot. But I’m ‘bout ten G’s short.”
Lonnie stood up from the table and said to me calmly, “Let’s go, Popeye.” He then turned to Disco and said. “Get in touch with me when your paper is proper, like we agreed on. I came a long way for nothing, I guess.” We both started to walk off.
“Tennessee!” Disco called Lonnie back to the table. I followed.
“Loosen up, playboy. I got the whole one-twenty-six.” Disco smiled. A mouth full of gold.
The Valdosta crew ate their whole orders. Lonnie ate most of his.
I was too amped-up to eat. I just sipped on a Sprite.
After eating, we all walked out together to the parking lot. The biggest nigga out of the Valdosta-three stayed at our car with us, while Disco and the other one went to get their car and pull it around next to ours.
The two pulled up in a Ford Expedition, followed by a third dude in a small black car. He stopped four or five car spaces away from us all, their last line of defense.
We were outnumbered four to two.
Lonnie popped the Porsche’s trunk and then reached in the trunk and unzipped a tennis bag, displaying the seven kilos. I stood shotgun, hands folded over my waist, inches from my heater.
Disco peeked inside of the trunk at the kilos.
“Can I bust one of ‘em open?” he asked Lonnie.
“Do it fast, I don’t wanna get jammed in y’all lil’ country town,” Lonnie said with cool. Then he reached in the tennis bag and handed Disco one of the kilos.
I touched my heater, just in case Lonnie had grabbed one of the fake kilos. Disco leaned over into the trunk to keep from exposing the kilo of cocaine to any passing shopper. He dug a hole in the side of the kilo and his finger came out crystal white. He tasted the substance on his finger and then nodded his head. The car that had been five spaces away slowly approached. The driver handed Disco three bags out the window, and Disco passed them to Lonnie. I was missing not a move by no one. Neither was Disco’s crew.
Lonnie peeked inside of each bag, sticking his hand inside each to feel through the money. There was no way he could count it out there in the parking lot, which was perfect for Lonnie and I, ‘cause it also meant there was no way Disco could check each of the seven kilos. That’s why Lonnie wanted the sell to go down outside. In a motel room, Disco would’ve checked each brick.
Lonnie tossed the bags of money inside of the trunk and handed Disco the tennis bag with the kilos in it.
He said, “I’ll call you if the loot ain’t proper.”
“It’s proper,” Disco answered Lonnie.
“Peace, then.”
“Peace.”
And that’s how we robbed them Valdosta niggaz without ever pulling out a heater. Now we had to make it back to Atlanta with all that loot in the trunk of a Porsche. Two young black niggaz in a tricked-out Porsche traveling I-75 cocaine lane. Po-po would be itching to pull us over.
Lonnie didn’t take I-75 back to Atlanta, he drove back-routes and shit. It took twice as long for us to reach the ATL, but we made it.
Lonnie, me, and $126,000!
Lonnie had paid twenty G’s for the real kilo of cocaine, so, after he deducted that expense plus some others and broke Delina off a little something, we split ninety grand down the middle. I put thirty-five grand in the freezer and ten in my pocket. I got in fresh gear and went to scoop up Cheryl. When I got to Cheryl’s house, her mother answered the door and asked me to come inside.
“Cheryl’s upstairs. She’ll be down shortly,” her mother politely informed me.
It was my first time meeting Cheryl’s Ma Dukes and I could see where Cheryl got her body and looks from. Her mom was a dime, beautiful and fine like that old broad Pam Grier. Moms was so pretty it didn’t matter if she had kids with an ape, the kids would come out good-looking.
I knew from Cheryl that her father had been a doctor before he was killed in a car accident. I saw pictures on the end tables and mantel of an older man whom I assumed was Cheryl’s deceased father.
In the pictures, the man had his arm around Cheryl’s mother. He looked to be at least twenty years her senior. I also knew from Cheryl, that her father had been dead five years. And that Ma Dukes and Cheryl were provided for by the large insurance policy Cheryl’s mother had collected on.
Cheryl came down the stairs, not her usual hyped self. She sat down next to me on the couch, her mother sat in a chair to our left, smoking a cigarette.
“Cheryl has something to tell you,” her mother said in a tone that made me brace for the worst.
Cheryl looked at me and blurted it right out. “I’m pregnant.” Cheryl gave me the news raw dog just like she’d given me the pussy.
Her mom hit me with the next punch.
“Cheryl ain’t but fifteen years old. How’re y’all going to raise a child? She’s still a child, herself.”
Now I was really buggin’. I mean, I never asked Cheryl her age, but fifteen? That’s bananas! And now her mother was sitting here telling me Cheryl was just a child? It seemed to me, the bitch should’ve mentioned that when she was allowing her daughter to spend nights with me. Or she should’ve made sure Cheryl was in school instead of the game room!
The way I read it, Cheryl’s mother was so busy trying to find an old man to replace Cheryl’s father and pay the bills, she hadn’t kept an eye on her fifteen-year-old child. The situation really was no different than when I had gotten Shan pregnant with Lil’ T. Except I hadn’t gotten Cheryl pregnant in her mom’s crib.
I looked at Cheryl. “What do you wanna do?” I asked with genuine concern.
Her mom’s spoke for her. “Oh, we don’t believe in abortions.”
I wanted to say, “We? Bitch, I ain’t get you pregnant!”
Cheryl’s mother interrogated me for the next hour, asking me my age, place of residence, family history, level of education, place of employment, criminal history, everything but if I loved her daughter.
I lied about everything but my name. Fuck her! I should’ve been interrogating her for failing to supervise her daughter.
“Damn, shawdy. I didn’t know you were just fifteen,” I tea
sed Cheryl as we drove to the mall.
“You should’ve asked.” Not sounding ashamed.
“Yo’ fast ass would’ve lied, anyway,” I told her.
“Lied for what? Nigga, you wouldna cared! Age ain’t nothing but a number, no way.”
I guess she was right. It didn’t matter none now, she was carrying my seed.
Cheryl was mad cool about the situation. She didn’t try to over-crowd me all of a sudden, or blow up my pager any more than she did before she got pregnant.
She was like, Look, I ain’t ‘bout to be acting all crazy like other girls do over their baby daddy. I know a man gon’ be a man, just tell your other bitches to respect me when I’m with you. And anytime you don’t want me no more, I ain’t fixin’ to be trying to hold you down just ‘cause I got a baby by you. As long as you do what a man supposed to do for his child. I ain’t gon’ ever be mad at you. Cheryl wasn’t but fifteen, but she had understanding way beyond her age.
CHAPTER 19
Summer kicked in like somebody had turned on a big ass oven in the sky. I stayed in the crib most days until evening, just to avoid the heat.
My bank was solid still, ‘cause I really didn’t splurge much. I had got two small televisions installed in my Lex truck, but I hadn’t had to pinch my stash to pay for that.
Rich Kid had sent me to Kentucky to help King and other members from his crew to lay down the law and establish dope traps up there. Of course, I was part of the muscle. It took a month to get shit established. Rich Kid paid me decently and I touched a few Kentucky niggaz for some change during the process.
I had to admit I was a little spooked to meet with Rich Kid and then go to Kentucky with King. But the way I figured it, if I didn’t meet with Rich Kid when he paged me and asked me to, he might’ve thought I had a reason for ducking him. And if they were planning to take me to Kentucky and kill me, well, Rich Kid could have easily put out a hit on me right in Atlanta.
That was why I didn’t trip it when I got in that car with King to go to Kentucky and help establish shit for Rich Kid. Besides when it was my time to die, I would be out, like every other nigga whose number came up. I wasn’t trippin’ death, no matter how violent mine came. See, I could kill a bunch of mafuckaz, but mafuckaz could only kill me once.