10 Crack Commandments

by Erica Hilton

  10 Crack

  Commandments

  by

  Erica Hilton

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  10 Crack Commandments. Copyright © 2009 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Melodrama Publishing, P.O. Box 522, Bellport, NY 11713.

  www.melodramapublishing.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2008940452

  ISBN: 978-1-934157-21-3

  E-ISBN: 978-1-6207801-14

  First Edition: June 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Book Interior Design and Layout by Candace Cottrell

  Book Cover design by Marion Designs

  Words and Music by Khary Kimani Turner, Chris Martin and Christopher Wallace

  © 1997 EMI APRIL MUSIC INC., WEBLIFE, HERTZRENTATUNE, GIFTED PEARL MUSIC and JUSTIN COMBS PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC.

  All Rights Controlled and Administered by EMI APRIL MUSIC INC.

  All Rights Reserved International Copyright Secured Used by Permission

  “Never let no one know how much dough you hold, ’cause you know the cheddar breed jealousy ’specially if that man fucked up, get your ass stuck up.”

  –“Ten Crack Commandments,” Notorious B.I.G.

  1984

  What’s today’s mathematics?” Blue Bug asked one of the local kids on the block. Lil Nut watched the exchange between his idol and the young kid.

  “Understanding,” the kid answered. “And knowledge brings wisdom, and wisdom brings understanding.”

  Lil Nut stood quietly and listened to their dialogue. He couldn’t wait for the opportunity to have his own private conversation with Blue Bug. Blue Bug was a major player in the drug game and had all of Brownsville locked down with this new drug called crack. He was the hood’s main supplier and had a flock of young cats who sold for him. At fourteen, Lil Nut wasn’t considered built for this game. His height of five feet two made him look twelve at best.

  Lil Nut approached the black Mercedes Benz 500SL with gold rims and trim and admired the leather interior. Kurtis Blow’s “The Breaks” blared from the Bose speakers. That song was the hood’s anthem. It resonated with so many people because everyone had rats and roaches in their cribs, and felt close to the edge. Lil Nut himself believed that if something didn’t give soon, he was about to snap.

  “What’s up, little nigga?” Blue Bug asked Lil Nut as he hopped out of the driver’s seat, his gold rope chains swinging wildly.

  “I wanna make money,” he stated frankly.

  “Word?”

  “Word is bond!” Lil Nut said and postured. He stiffened his back to appear taller while tilting his head cockily to one side.

  “What’s today’s mathematics?” Blue Bug quizzed the young boy.

  “Huh?”

  “Motherfucker, if you can huh, you can hear!” Blue Bug barked. “What’s today’s mathematics?”

  Lil Nut wasn’t a part of the Five Percent Nation that blanketed the urban areas. In fact, his mother was a Jehovah’s Witness and his father was a Baptist. Not to mention, Lil Nut loved eating pork. His daily lunch was a ham and cheese sandwich from the local bodega. Not wanting to miss out on his opportunity to make money, he tried to avoid the question.

  “Listen, my man, I want to sell your product and make my own money. I have my own crew—”

  “You think you a big man, huh?” Blue Bug interrupted. “You think you tough enough to handle these mean streets?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Damn right it’s a question, smart-ass motherfucker. You see that fiend over there?” Blue Bug pointed toward a crackhead copping from one of Blue Bug’s runners. “If that man is fucked up and needs a hit, you’re as good as dead if you’re standing in his way. You think you ready for that?”

  Lil Nut surveyed the scene and thought about what Blue Bug was really asking him. Lil Nut knew that Blue Bug was challenging his manhood. Was he man enough to handle the streets—the stickup kids, crackheads, and undercover detectives?

  With bravado Lil Nut replied, “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Again, Blue Bug asked, “What’s today’s mathematics?”

  Lil Nut shook his head. “I don’t know today’s mathematics. And not for nothing. I’m not a Five Percenter. I don’t follow that shit or any religion, if you want to know the truth. I follow me, and my crew follows me. End of story!”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be fifteen soon.”

  “Listen, lil man, I like you. You got guts. But if you want to work for me, then you gotta be down with the Five Percent Nation. That’s how I know you’ll be loyal. We have a code that we live by, and when the heat comes around that corner I gotta know that you won’t cop out and turn snitch. Right now you’re not built to stand on my blocks. If you’re serious about working for me, then you’ll learn your lessons.”

  Lil Nut was pissed. He’d been watching Blue Bug since he was thirteen years old. He watched him come up from driving a four-door Corolla to pushing a hot whip. He watched as he pulled out knots of money and wore flashy jewelry. Lil Nut reasoned only the crack game could get him what Blue Bug had. Although his parents provided a roof over his head and clothes on his back, they were still poor by anyone’s standard.

  Lil Nut stood there and watched as Blue Bug walked into the building. He watched until Blue Bug was out of sight, thinking about how he was gonna murder Blue Bug if he didn’t give him what he wanted. And then Lil Nut would take the block.

  It took Lil Nut three days to put his plan into motion. He knew that his father once kept an illegal Smith & Wesson revolver in the closet for protection, and after their apartment had gotten broken into twice in the past year, that gun was moved under his parents’ mattress. Lil Nut learned his lessons, but he took the gun just in case Blue Bug didn’t give him what he wanted. As the cold steel rubbed against his flesh, he wondered if he had the balls to pull the trigger. And if he did pull it, then what? All he knew was that Blue Bug better give him some product after he recited his lessons, or else tonight would be Blue Bug’s last night. And on that, Lil Nut’s word was bond.

  It felt like hours passed as Lil Nut waited for Blue Bug and watched the fiends walk up and down the streets, searching the ground for crumbs of the potent crack vials. Most who were already high did their crack jig dance, which consisted of hopping from one foot to the next to music no one heard. Overnight his neighborhood had become like the cult classic movie, Night of the Living Dead. These people were zombies.

  He watched his third grade teacher, with pockmarks dug deeply into her once flawless skin, searching for a hit. Her silky hair was broken off into a nappy afro. And she looked and smelled as if she hadn’t bathed in years. Yet, as he stood there observing the downside of the crack epidemic, the allure of the game was too hard to pass up.

  When Blue Bug drove up in his black Mercedes Benz 500SL, his dream was realized. Again, Lil Nut approached the passenger’s side of the Benz. Blue Bug rolled down the window.

  “What’s today’s mathematics?” he asked.

  “Peace, god. What’s today?” Lil Nut asked.

  “It’s July Second, motherfucker. Been July Secon
d all day!”

  “Today is wisdom, god.”

  “Who is the original black man?”

  “The original black man is the Asiatic black man—the Maker, the owner, the crème of the earth, god of the universe.”

  “How many Supreme Mathematics do we live by?”

  “There are a hundred and twenty Supreme Mathematics, also called degrees.”

  Blue Bug was impressed that Lil Nut had actually learned the Supreme Mathematics. And he had done so in such a small amount of time. Although he was leery about having such a young soldier on his team, Lil Nut’s drive and determination reminded Blue Bug of himself when he was that age. Truthfully, at eighteen, Blue Bug wasn’t that much older than Lil Nut.

  “OK, you’re in. Meet me here tomorrow morning at seven o’clock to start banging.”

  “I’ll be here at six!”

  “Motherfucker, I won’t be here at six!” Blue Bug shouted. “Learn how to follow directions.”

  “OK, I hear you. Seven. But why can’t you serve me now? I’m ready now.”

  “Because now I’m going to see my earth.”

  “Who? Lady Bug?”

  “You know it. Her wisdom (mother) isn’t feeling well, and I gotta take them to Kings County Hospital. But we’ll politick more in the morning.”

  Again Lil Nut watched as Blue Bug walked off into the night. He couldn’t understand why he now had a deep resentment for the man he had always regarded as an icon. The pit of his stomach churned as Lil Nut replayed their conversation. It was the way Blue Bug spoke down to him like he was a bitch or something, constantly yelling at him in ways only his parents did. And he hadn’t been yelled at like that since he turned thirteen. He was too old for such shenanigans.

  Lil Nut kicked rocks on his way back to his crib. When he got inside he realized that something wasn’t right. His door was unlocked and he heard his parents arguing. Fear crept into his mind, because out of all the families in his hood, his parents were considered the Huxtables. Although they didn’t make much money with his father working a city job and his mother being a stay-at-home mom, the fact that he had a two-parent household was enough to make most envious.

  “I’m telling you that I am not giving it to you!” Lil Nut’s mother yelled.

  “You will give it to me, because it’s my property. I bought it!” his father yelled back.

  “You bought it for me, so that makes it mine!”

  “Julie, don’t make me raise my hand to you, but I will.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Dad, Mom, what’s going on?” Lil Nut asked as his eyes darted from each parent.

  “Your father done lost his mind. He wants me to give him my wedding ring because he claims he owes someone some money!”

  “Nelson, go in your room,” Lil Nut’s dad said. “This is grown people’s business. I can handle it from here!” Milton demanded.

  “Who do you owe money to?” Lil Nut asked.

  Ignoring his son, with glassy eyes and a dazed look, Milton reached out and back handed his wife. She fell to the ground. That was the first time in their twenty years of marriage that he had ever put his hands on her. As Julie cowered in the corner, Milton began to rip off her wedding ring.

  “Bitch, didn’t I tell you to give it to me! Look what you made me—”

  The cold barrel of the Smith & Wesson stopped Milton mid-sentence. His already large, dilated pupils expanded to the size of saucers.

  “Son, what are you doing with Daddy’s gun?” His words were precise and steady.

  “Touch Mommy again, and you’ll find out!” Lil Nut spat.

  Julie stood to unsteady feet and began to reason with her son. “Nelson, your father isn’t worth throwing away your life for. You have a bright future ahead of you, and I don’t want you to ruin that. Give Mommy the gun,” she said and held out her hand in a weak attempt at exerting authority.

  Lil Nut stood firm. His broad nose flared, and he almost couldn’t contain the rage and power he felt. One part of him wished he had the guts to pull out his pistol on Blue Bug, but the other part of him was glad that he was now able to put an end to the one thing he hated the most—men who beat women. He never would have guessed his father would stoop so low.

  “OK, I apologize. I’m cool,” Milton sang. “It’s all a misunderstanding. I’ll get the money some other way.” Milton began to back out of the apartment, yet his eyes held firm on Lil Nut’s face. “You think you a man now, huh?” his father asked as he made his exit. “Lesson number one for being a man: Never pull out a gun on someone unless you’re prepared to use it.”

  By morning Lil Nut and his mother realized that Milton was smoking crack. He had looted their whole apartment. The television, stereo, and Walkman Lil Nut got for Christmas were all gone. And this time Milton couldn’t blame burglars as he’d done in the past. Lil Nut shook his head. How could he have missed the signs?

  ***

  Three weeks worth of slinging crack for Blue Bug, and Lil Nut was chilling. He bought a few pairs of Lee jeans, two pairs of Adidas sneakers, and a sweatsuit, and had also given his mother money for groceries. His next move was to save up enough money for a new Walkman, a rope chain, and an Atari. He was glad that it was summertime because he could work twelve-hour shifts, selling from sunup to sundown. Lil Nut hadn’t gotten a haircut, barely showered, and wore the same work outfit every day—black jeans and a black T-shirt.

  When he emerged from his house on his fifteenth birthday with a fresh haircut, white-on-white attire, and a knot of money in his pocket, everyone recognized the change. His round, expressive eyes gleamed as he strolled a few blocks to meet his crew. He nodded his head as he bopped down the street listening to a boom box blaring UTFO’s latest hit, “Roxanne, Roxanne.” The rap was just what he needed to complete his day. A local break dancing crew began doing body movements that Lil Nut only wished he could do. He stopped for a moment to watch as a guy spun around on a large cardboard box and then began doing the caterpillar.

  When Lil Nut finally made it to Pitkin and Belmont Avenues where his crew—Lite, Lamiek, Fuquan, Butter, and Triny—were all hanging out, they gave each other pound handshakes. Lil Nut had known them all most of his life. He got along best with Fuquan, Butter, and Lite, because they allowed him to exert authority. Lamiek, on the other hand, was always a problem, and Triny wasn’t even on Lil Nut’s radar. Triny came around in the summers with his Jamaican accent and funny way of dressing, and he began to influence Lil Nut’s crew. Before he realized it, Lite and Lamiek were walking around with red, green, and yellow bandanas and eating oxtails and beans and rice. One thing Lil Nut hated most were followers, unless, of course, they were following him.

  The crew couldn’t believe their eyes when they saw their friend.

  “Hey, man, where have you been?” Fuquan asked. “We’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve been on the low-low,” Lil Nut replied.

  “Well, we’re glad that you’re back. It’s been boring as hell out here without you,” Butter said.

  Lil Nut noticed that his light-skinned friend had a really dark tan, and he asked him about it. “We’ve been at Rockaway Beach almost every day getting with the honeys,” Butter explained.

  Triny stood in his usual stance—feet spread way apart—making awkward hand gestures when he spoke while twisting his lips toward one side. “Mi hafta ’old dem ofa Jah ros clout.”

  Lil Nut didn’t even bother to acknowledge Triny. He didn’t have a clue what he’d just said anyway. “Well I’m back, my niggas,” Lil Nut said, feeling the love.

  “I see ya pop’s been spoiling your ass!” Lamiek said.

  The mention of his father put Lil Nut in a sour mood instantly. He was embarrassed that his father was so weak that he would fall victim to a drug. His mother put his father out last w
eek, and they had changed all the locks. His mother worried about paying the rent, but Lil Nut reassured her that everything would be fine. He was now the man of the house.

  “Nah, my pops ain’t have shit to do with this right here. This all me!” Lil Nut boasted.

  “Whatchu mean all you? Where you get that type of money from?” Lamiek asked.

  “I’ve spent the better part of the summer working for Blue Bug.”

  “You mean you selling that shit to your people?” Lamiek asked.

  “My people?”

  “Yeah. Your people. Our people. Your customers! Don’t you know you’re committing genocide?” Lamiek twisted up his lips in disgust.

  “Don’t preach that bullshit with me,” Lil Nut spat back. Lamiek was the main reason he hated Five Percenters. They were so phony to him. They all went around preaching lessons and called themselves “schooling” the youth, yet they were the biggest crooks. Lamiek was a notorious stickup kid, smoked blunts, drank forties, and beat on his earth. But at the drop of a dime, he would call on Allah and look down on motherfuckers.

  “Motherfucker, what you call what the fuck you be doing, shoving guns in ‘our people’s’ faces? You just jealous that ain’t nobody give your sheisty ass a job!”

  Within seconds the tension between the two was palpable. In a crew where both Lamiek and Lil Nut wanted to be the chief, and no one wanted to be the Indian, fists were bound to fly. Lamiek took the first swing and connected with Lil Nut’s left jaw. Lil Nut rebounded and gave him a two-piece—a left jab to Lamiek’s right eye, and an uppercut to the ribs. Lamiek doubled over quickly, but regained his composure and began swinging wildly. He mostly caught air, but a few good punches landed. Lil Nut, who was heavier and stockier than the slim-framed Lamiek, was able to handle himself. He went after Lamiek as if he was a beast with an untamed rage. When Lil Nut looked down at his white-on-white outfit, now stained with blood, he went berserk.

  He reached inside the waistband of his sweatpants and pulled out his chrome Smith & Wesson. No longer did he call it his father’s gun. The gun made everyone scatter as he flailed it around.