Hassan was going for “Alekhine’s gun,” a move where the queen backs up two rooks on the same file.
Several men stood nearby quietly watching the game. The dayroom TV was on, but it was muted; both men needed to concentrate. Their authority in the jail was firm. The corrections officers didn’t run anything, these two men did. The guards were simply their pawns.
Perez was watching the chess match from the sidelines. He was still awaiting his trial date. He refused to take a plea deal. He would rather take his chances in the courtroom with a well-paid lawyer.
Perez was stewing about all the failed hits and all the money he’d lost. It truly angered him that Cash and Pearla were still breathing and free to live their lives while he was rotting away. There had to be some way to kill his enemies.
When Hassan came into the jail, Perez kept his distance from him. Almost every nigga in the jail knew about Hassan. He had been putting in work for many years. Perez had a little status inside the jail too, but it was nothing compared to the notorious drug kingpin. Perez refused to ride on Hassan’s dick like other inmates did, feeling the nigga was just a man. But he did feel that he and Hassan had least one enemy in common—Cash.
Perez continued to watch the chess match from a small distance, his arms folded across his chest and looking standoffish.
“Checkmate!” Hassan yelled out. He stood up proudly, and he and Sammy shook hands.
Sammy congratulated him. “Nicely done! You’re definitely learning.”
“I learned from the best,” Hassan replied.
The mutual respect showed heavily inside the dayroom. Sammy was probably the only man Hassan looked up to and whose opinion he respected. Sammy stood up from the table and proudly left the room. He was a private man—smart and quiet all the time.
As Hassan stood among his men, another man entered the dayroom with news to tell the boss. He strolled over to the man in charge and was allowed access to Hassan. He was one of Hassan’s lieutenants inside the jail, highly respected and always had his ears to the outside world.
Hassan looked his way and said, “You have some news for me, Comp?”
Comp went up to Hassan’s ear and whispered, “No Kwan yet, but Bimmy and our soldiers came close. They killed three of Kwan’s men the other day.”
“What about Cash?”
“He’s still MIA.”
Hassan told him, “I don’t wanna hear MIA, I wanna hear DOA.”
Comp nodded.
“Get it done! I want them niggas taken care of before I come home. You understand me, Comp?”
Comp nodded.
“What about that other thing?” Hassan asked.
Knowing what Hassan was talking about, Comp replied, “It’s happening right now.”
“I need to have a word with Lamiek, ASAP.”
“Everything’s in play. His transfer to this cell block has been green-lit. He’ll be here by week’s end.” Comp gave Hassan dap and departed from his boss.
It was the news that Hassan wanted to hear. Lamiek was his other codefendant in the case. Hassan requested his transfer closer to him, so he could politick with the nigga and have a word with him. What Hassan was asking for was best done face to face. He needed to see Lamiek’s eyes, and Lamiek needed to see his.
Hassan looked reflective about a few things as he sat alone. Once again, his mind was on Pearla. He couldn’t escape the feeling about her infidelity. He cringed at the thought of Cash pushing his dick into his woman while he was locked down. Thinking about it made Hassan grind his teeth and clench his fists so forcefully, he almost drew blood from his own skin.
The following day, Hassan walked into the dayroom with several of his goons. As usual, the path was cleared for him. If he wanted the TV, he had it. The weight room, it was his. The phones, the tables, the books, he had easy access to them. No one tried him. No one was stupid enough to challenge his authority.
He decided to take a seat near the TV and watch a few crime shows. He was engaging in small talk with a few of his goons, but seemed distracted.
Perez was in the dayroom. He was eager to have a word in with Hassan. He felt that he had something important that the man might want to hear. He struck up the courage to finally approach the drug kingpin and pull his coat to something. He also needed to know if Hassan had an inkling that he had anything to do with trying to murder Pearla, who at the time was Cash’s girl, not his. Perez wanted to feel him out and have a simple conversation with him.
He walked toward Hassan but was quickly stopped. One man pushed his hand against Perez’s chest, daring him to try and pass him.
“I just need to have a word with Hassan,” Perez said casually.
“You know him, nigga?”
“Nah, just by name, but I have some news for him.”
Hassan signaled his men to allow Perez to come through. He went by the protective thugs and took a seat next to Hassan. It was a tense situation for Perez. It was like he was the lone hyena and Hassan was the male lion. Both animals were vicious and carnivorous, but Hassan was the king of the jungle.
“You got three minutes, nigga. Talk!” Hassan said.
“You and me, we both from the old school, right? And Brooklyn is always gonna be our home.”
Hassan didn’t respond to the statement. He was just listening.
“I have nothin’ but respect for you, Hassan, and I’m not tryin’ to waste your time.”
“Two minutes!” Hassan abruptly uttered, indicating to Perez that he was wasting his time with small talk.
“Look, we both have a common enemy, and that’s Cash,” Perez said, finally getting to the point.
Hearing Cash’s name pour from Perez’s mouth made Hassan lock eyes with him.
“I hate that nigga just like you. And I want him dead.”
Hassan said, “Who says I want him dead?”
“C’mon, it’s out there in the streets—y’all got beef! I got beef wit’ the nigga too. I know he put me in here, snitching on me, that rat muthafucka! I tried to take him out a few times, but that muthafucka got like nine lives,” Perez declared in a frustrated tone.
Hassan was still listening.
“I just wanted you to know, I’m with you when it comes to killing Cash.”
Hassan looked dumbfounded by Perez’s words. “Yo, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he replied civilly.
Perez stared at Hassan like he was crazy. “What you mean? Cash is a problem to us both. He always gonna be a problem, Hassan. I want him dead, and I know you want him dead. I was thinkin’, maybe we can help each other out.”
Hassan said, “Once again, I don’t fuckin’ know what you’re talking about. Cash is my nigga. We cool.”
Hassan nodded to one of his goons, and suddenly, they all came over to Perez and instantly picked him up from his chair and patted him down like he was a snitch. For all Hassan knew, the man could be wearing a wire and trying to incriminate him for conspiracy to commit murder. It was common for inmates to snitch on other inmates to receive a reduced sentence.
Perez was clean, no wire. But Hassan was done talking to him. They kicked Perez out and warned him to stay the fuck away.
Sixteen
Avery and Dalou walked out of the county jail in the early morning and thanked their blessings that they both were free men on charges of disorderly conduct. Considering their long, violent rap sheets, it was a slap on the wrist. The county jail was a familiar place to them with their many transgressions against the state of Georgia. The fight in the strip club had escalated out of control, and their actions had almost cost them ten grand. Still, they were determined to drive to New York, commit the murder, collect their pay, and have some more fun.
Avery lit a cigarette while standing outside of the courthouse. He took a few pulls and exhaled. He then looked at Dalou and said, “We
need to leave town right away. I was fo’ sure they were gonna keep me. A nigga got warrants.” Avery knew it was human error that prevented the system from keeping him inside.
“I’m wit’ ya,” Dalou said.
“We need a car. That minivan ain’t gonna make da trip to New York.”
“What is it? Ten, eleven hours?”
“Somethin’ like dat,” Avery said.
“We gon’ need guns too.”
“I know. I’m gonna reach out to Preach, see if we can get some pistols and machine guns.”
“Machine guns?” Dalou asked with a raised brow. “For one bitch?”
“Nigga, this is New York. Ain’t no tellin’ what we might run into in dat city.”
“Fo’ sure.”
“You be on da car, and I’ll be on the guns,” Avery said.
Dalou nodded. “Let me get some of dat,” he said, reaching for the Newport.
Avery took another pull and shared it with his comrade. The two were ready to leave immediately.
They walked away from the county jail cursing its existence, spitting on the ground, and tossing their middle fingers up at the place. They climbed into an idling cab nearby. It was time to earn their payday.
***
Several hours later, Dalou pulled up to the dilapidated home in Decatur in an inconspicuous blue Ford Focus. He exited the stolen vehicle and walked into the house and saw Avery seated on an old sunken brown couch in the living room with pistols displayed on a small table.
Dressed in a wife-beater, cigarette dangling between his lips, Avery sat there inspecting each weapon. He had just come back from visiting Preach, a local gun dealer in the hood. He was able to negotiate three automatic pistols for a thousand dollars. He tried very hard to get at least one machine gun on consignment, but Preach was no fan of his. It was cash now, no credit.
“You got the car?” Avery asked Dalou.
“Yeah, it’s parked outside. I picked out something nice. A Ford.”
“A Ford?”
“Nigga, it was da best I could do on a last-minute thang.”
Avery nodded. “Fuck it! Pack ya shit. We leavin’ early tomorrow morning.”
“Let’s do this!” Dalou said, getting himself hyped up.
To them, it was a simple task. Drive to New York, shoot this bitch a few times, and leave. Avery promised his cousin that it was going to be a sure thing.
The two men ordered Chinese food and remained inside the entire night. They couldn’t afford to get arrested again.
***
It was two hours before dawn, and Avery was up and dressed, ready to leave Georgia. Dalou, on the other hand, was still sleeping like a baby. He was cuddled up on the mattress in the corner, snoring loudly.
Avery went over to him and kicked him awake. “Wake up, fool!” he hollered.
Dalou moved around on the mattress, hesitant to get up, but slowly opened his eyes and looked up at Avery standing over him with the .9mm tucked into his waistband.
“What time is it, nigga?” Dalou asked groggily.
“It’s time fo’ you to get ya ass up! We gotta hit the road. I got a bad feeling dat somethin’ ’bout to come down.”
“What feelin’, nigga?”
“Just get ya ass up and get dressed. We got a long ride ahead of us.”
Dalou lifted his drained body to his feet and moved sluggishly to get himself dressed. He had never been a morning person, and especially not when the sun wasn’t even up yet. He yawned and headed for the bathroom.
Avery hurried to get their things packed into the Ford. They had everything they needed: guns, cash, and a motive to kill.
An hour before dawn, the men were pulling away from the house. Avery took the first drive. He sniffed some cocaine and was ready to soar northbound.
***
As Avery merged onto I-20, the warrant squad came rushing to the house and kicked opened his front door. Over a dozen cops came to execute an arrest warrant for various charges, from a traffic summons to a search warrant for drugs and guns. Avery had gotten a ticket for speeding and never showed up to court. His license was suspended, and a bench warrant was issued. The search warrant for guns and drugs was executed because of a reliable snitch. The cops were very disappointed that Avery wasn’t home and their search produced nothing.
The whole town knew of Avery’s and Dalou’s reputations, and that meant the cops did too. Anytime a horrible crime had been committed, both men were dragged into the police station for questioning. This time, the men were nowhere to be found. Lucky for them, they were on their way to New York to share some of their violent ways with the Big Apple.
***
Several hours later, Avery pulled into a gas station a few miles outside of Greensboro, North Carolina, right off I-85. Their gas tank was running on empty. Avery had done most of the driving. The cocaine he sniffed had him up and animated. The sun was high in the sky, and the weather was warm and gentle.
Avery climbed out of the Ford smoking a cigarette, jeans sagging and his T-shirt looking soiled. His nappy hair looked even nappier. His ragged appearance was an eyesore, but he didn’t care.
Dalou climbed out of the car, stretching and yawning. He had taken himself a nice nap while Avery did the driving. He looked around and saw they were in a quiet hick town. “Yo, where we at?” he asked.
“North Carolina.”
“A nigga hungry as fuck,” he said.
Avery turned toward him and said, “Go get me some gas. We on empty.”
“How much, nigga?”
“Nigga, fill it da fuck up. It ain’t like we anywhere near close to New York.”
“Damn, muthafucka! Ain’t you da cheery one.” Dalou walked toward the gas station’s convenience store.
Avery lingered near the gas pump and decided to light up another cigarette as he waited, not caring that it was dangerous to smoke at a gas station. He stared at the Waffle House across the way. His stomach was growling.
“Yo, you good, nigga!” Dalou hollered as he exited the building.
Avery started to pump the gas.
Dalou walked over and said, “Let me get some of dat,” and Avery handed him the lit cigarette.
The two men stood openly as their car was being filled up.
Dalou noticed the Waffle House across the way too. “Fuckin’ North Carolina. Remember the last time we were in this state, it got crazy.”
“Because you were an ignorant fuck.”
“Nigga, I’m ignorant? It was you who shot dat nigga in da ass because you wanted to talk to his bitch.”
“Dat bitch was fine though,” Avery said.
“Hells yeah! But you ain’t fuck her, though.”
“I ain’t had the chance. Things got too crazy.”
Dalou said, “You shoulda kidnapped dat bitch. I knew her pussy was probably dat good. Fuck it! We shoulda shared dat bitch.”
Avery laughed.
Their gas tank was finally full. They climbed back into the Ford and went to the Waffle House. The minute they walked into the establishment, they were already being judged by the employees and customers. They took a window booth and pulled out the menus. Already they were scoping out the restaurant, and the cute waitress in the cooking area already had them drooling like hound dogs.
“Dam, dat bitch is cute,” Avery said.
Dalou agreed.
She came over to take their orders, and Avery wasted no time trying to hit on her. She let it be known to them clearly that she had a boyfriend.
Avery said to her, “What ya man gotta do with me? I know you can do better.”
“Excuse me?” she blurted out.
“C’mon, baby, what time ya get off? I can wait. I got one helluva a tip fo’ you if you give me dat lunch special.”
Avery took her hand, and
she snatched it away from him. She started to get offended. It showed on her face.
Dalou instigated the situation, and before they knew it, they were making a rude scene at the Waffle House.
The manager had heard and seen enough. He marched over to their table and exclaimed, “Gentlemen, this is a restaurant, not a place to hook up. You can either order and eat your meals peacefully, or leave this place.”
Avery and Dalou laughed.
“Is this nigga serious?” Dalou said.
“I will be forced to call the police,” the manager said.
“Fuck you callin’ da police for?” Avery shouted.
“Leave now!” the manager said in a stern voice.
Out of the blue, Avery stood up and punched him in the mouth.
The man hollered, clutching his bloody mouth, stumbling backwards.
“Someone call the police!” a customer shouted.
“We gotta go!” Dalou shouted.
The men hurried toward the exit, but a customer jumped in their way, trying to prevent them from leaving the restaurant, but Avery and Dalou weren’t having it. There was no way they were going to be locked up in North Carolina.
Dalou punched him in the face, and Avery hit the man over the head with a coffee pot that was in his reach.
The man tumbled to his knees, screaming out in pain from the hot brew and shards of glass that went upside his head.
Quickly both men stomped on him, shouting, “Get da fuck outta the way, nigga!” They left him beaten.
They rushed to their car, started it up, and sped away from their violent handiwork like bats out of hell. The two men had a knack for getting themselves into brainless and ludicrous situations.
Seventeen
Cash smoked a blunt in his motel room as he watched the evening news. It was the same thing every night: murders, corruption, President Obama, and sports. Tired of the news, he turned off the television.
He focused on the blunt between his lips and relished his quiet surroundings with the .9mm by his side. He looked at the time; it was six in the evening. He was waiting for Pearla to show up. Though she’d said she never wanted to see him again, once again, her anger had subsided, and she was driving to Staten Island. Cash had promised to make it up to her.
The House that Hustle Built, Part 3 Page 9