by Cash
I scooted up close behind her so that my joint was poking her in the butt.
“Oh, it’s like that now?” My voice on the back of her neck.
She turned over on her side, facing me, and asked if one woman was ever going to be enough for me.
I was like, “Girl, what are you talkin’ ‘bout?”
“Play dumb,” said Inez. “Yo’ ass oughta have enough of fuckin’ with trifling hos!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I frowned, figuring she was referring to Cheryl running off with my loot. If so, it was a low blow. It was unlike Inez to trip like that. Damn! Was she about to start serving a nigga baby mama drama, too?
“I take that back. I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m just saying, boo. You could have the decency to try to hide what you do. If you stop respecting me, what we gon’ have then? I ain’t tryin’ to be your bitch.”
“C’mon, shawdy,” I hugged her to me. “You know it ain’t gon’ be like dat. No matter what I do, I come home to you.”
“Hmmpf! I’m worried about what you gon’ bring home to me!” she huffed.
I reached down and picked up my jeans off of the floor, the ones I’d just taken off. I pulled out a roll of condoms and flashed them in her face.
“I ain’t raw dogging with nobody but my boo,” I said, hugging and kissing her all over the face.
“Still,” Inez said, fighting off my kisses, “I’ll be glad when you outgrow your ho-hoppin’.”
“I’ma chill, shawdy,” I promised, knowing I was lying as the words left my mouth.
CHAPTER 11
A major drug war jumped off in the city, but me, Murder Mike, and ‘em weren’t involved. The beef was allegedly between BCF, José and the Ese’s.
Two members of BCF got slayed outside of their recording studio in Buckhead. In retaliation, five ese’s were found murked in an apartment out in Gwinnett. It didn’t cost us anything to lay back and wait for the gun smoke to clear and then go after whichever crew was left standing.
We were recruiting young soldiers and killers who we could use to build strong traps in many of the known drug neighborhoods. Young niggaz who’d slang rocks all day and night, as well as light a spark in a nigga’s dome if they opposed ‘em or tried to take what they were out to earn.
We had to go to St. Louis once, Murder and me, to dome a coupla neighborhood superstars who fought Rohan a little too hard to keep their titles as the city’s major coke suppliers. In the end, I put half a clip in one of ‘em just for being stubborn, while Murder Mike’s eighth platinum nail said all that needed to be said about the other major supplier who’d fought hard, but in vain.
While things were at a peaceful existence, I got with Lonnie and we bullshitted a day away. We got blazed and talked about stupid ass Blue, who’d been found guilty of robbing and murdering the Rib’s Lady and her daughter. The Rib Lady’s grown children had pushed for the death penalty and got it. Now junkie ass Blue was on his way to death row, courtesy of his jones for crack.
Since I was no longer a robber, per se, Lonnie had started back to taking Shotgun Pete on licks with him again. I wasn’t mad at him about it. In fact, I understood his reasoning. A nigga’s life be on the line every time he puts on that ski mask. He had to have somebody with him he knew wouldn’t panic and leave him with no backup if shit got do-or-die.
I couldn’t be mad. Shit, Pete hadn’t done a thing to Lonnie. His violation was against me. Lonnie still had to get money. I was gettin’ mine, doing my thing.
Murder Mike was my partner and he didn’t like Lonnie. Well, he didn’t trust him. Which was one and the same in my head ‘cause how you gon’ like a nigga you can’t trust? And vice-versa. So I guessed if I could roll with Murder Mike and not be violating my friendship with Lonnie, he could roll with Shotgun Pete and not be violating me.
Whatever.
Lonnie spanked me all day at video games ‘cause I hadn’t played in a while, too busy defeating much more dangerous foes at games that were true life or death.
However, these days business was operating relatively smooth. My heater was getting a chance to go cold, and my primary job was watching Murder Mike’s back and picking up loot from different spots. I was trusted to be around the stash houses when the money from all the traps were being counted or when a load of dope arrived to be cooked into crack and dispensed to our dealers and workers, and especially when all four Dreads came to Atlanta once a month to meet with my main man and discuss the state of their respective affairs.
I’d even gone along with Murder Mike when the monthly meeting was held in D.C., St. Louis or Cali. I was being groomed to hold down a whole city, in case we eventually expanded our operation or if tragedy should claim one of those already in that position.
Still, I felt I lacked a few of the natural instincts in that area that true dope boys, like Murder and ‘em, possessed to the max. I never got hyped about a new shipment of dope like Murder would. I didn’t like anything but one aspect of the dope game—the Benjamin’s. The rest was too much fuckin’ work and there wasn’t no end in sight.
Where was the finish line? After we erased those from our hit list, could we consider the game over and won? Not hardly. We’d have to be even more ruthless to remain on top.
The way I figured it, there was always gonna be some mayhem on the horizon with us pushing yayo. Niggaz wouldn’t let us live in peace. Somebody gon’ want what we got bad enough to come after it. Plus, when your shine glows the brightest, who the Feds gon’ aim at?
From what I sensed, Murder Mike thought the dope game was like a job with the state, lifelong. Or like a couple’s wedding vows, ‘til death do us part, unless it parted in a costly, messy divorce, but never without great loss and pain. I guess true dope boys couldn’t see that. They were like a love-sick nigga who couldn’t let go of a no-good, trife-ass bitch. Me? I wasn’t love-sick over no bitch or the game. So my commitment wasn’t infinite.
But I kept that to myself.
CHAPTER 12
José caught it leaving the ESPN Zone sports bar on Peachtree. The streets said that a coupla BCF niggaz Swiss-cheesed him and four other ese’s. I was reading about it in The Atlanta Journal/Constitution while chillin’ with Inez, her daughter, Bianca, Lil’ T, and Tamia, who was growing as fast as a chicken on steroids.
Inez was asking me if I would mind if she sent Bianca’s father, Fat Stan, some money for commissary.
“His mother called over here saying he needs some money and she’s on a fixed income and ain’t got…”
I looked up from the paper, “You can send him your money,” I said and then made myself clear. “Out of the check you get from work, but you bet’ not send that nigga one penny of nothing with my blood and sweat on it!”
The reason I didn’t trip over Inez sending Fat Stan some loot was because, number one, if it was in her heart to send it, she’d find a way to do it without my knowing. Number two, she did show respect by asking if I’d mind. And, last but not least, to not allow her to send the fat nigga a lil’ help would’ve been training Inez to allow another nigga to stop her from throwing me a rope if I ever needed her help and we weren’t together anymore. A nigga had to think ahead, even if the way he was living doesn’t promise tomorrow.
My pager started beeping.
I saw Murder Mike’s cell phone number flash across the tiny screen. I would’ve normally gone to a payphone to call Murder back, but Tamia was running a summer fever and would cry her lungs out when I tried to lift her up from my lap.
“Lemme use your cell phone,” I told Inez.
She handed it to me. I flipped it open and dialed Murder’s number.
“Main man, whud up?” I asked as soon as he answered.
“Turn on the news!” he said excitedly.
I quickly grabbed the remote off of the coffee table in front of me and aimed it at the flat screen TV against the wall. Inez sat down beside me on the sofa and watched as a serious-faced reporter spoke live from
outside of Street Life Productions recording studio.
“Just about an hour ago, federal agents, along with ATF agents, raided this studio and arrested five men believed to be members of the Black Crime Family, an alleged drug gang with ties to the music industry,” the man reported.
He went on to report that, “In coordinated raids at two other allegedly-owned BCF businesses, more than two dozen arrests were made, including the arrest of Antonio ‘Baby Boy’ Williams, the reputed crime boss of the family,” the reporter concluded as the picture of Baby Boy appeared on the screen.
“Back to you, Monica.”
“Thank you, Dan,” replied the anchor woman. “Police say that the BCF is responsible for the gang-style murders outside the ESPN Zone last week. They believe…”
I clicked off the television, putting an end to the report.
“Damn!” I exclaimed to Murder Mike.
“I’ma holla back, whoady. Lemme call Crazy Nine.”
With José slumped and the BCF cased-up, we were now the strongest crew standing, and we’d already prepared for the day.
Niggaz now said the Dreads ran the city, acknowledging that Murder Mike was the Dreads number one-point man. I was viewed as a lieutenant and right-hand man. The streets bowed down to our power. I could see it in mafuckaz eyes, everywhere we went. I was seeing so much money pass through the stash houses, I saw dead presidents in my sleep.
There were other, less powerful crews operating around the city. Some dudes pushing weight, but they were no real threat to our throne. Either they were clocking what we now considered minor figures, or their dope came from us directly or indirectly.
It was impossible for any one crew to supply all the dope to a certain city, especially one as large and welcoming as the ATL. So unless a crew began to hurt our pockets, we didn’t sweat ‘em. Besides, I agreed with Crazy Nine when he explained to Murder Mike that if we were to become the only supplier in the city, we’d also be the only mafuckaz who could get busted. Our plan was to remain the major supplier, the main dog in the drug flow.
The longer the Big Dogs in the BCF remained locked up awaiting trial on federal racketeering charges, the more arrests were being made throughout the city. Niggaz were turning on their own blood, tryna get the best plea deal possible.
Me and Murder Mike bounced to N’awlins in case the Feds’ dragnet in ATL had us in their sights. Crazy Nine wanted us to remain there until the city cooled off.
Inez understood the game, trusted a nigga’s heart and asked no questions. “Just call me when you can,” was her only request.
On the other hand, Cita wanted to come with Murder Mike. “Why can’t you take me with you?” she cried. “What you got to hide?”
“Look, girl!” he said, frustrated with her drama. “Being with me ain’t too safe right now.”
“So!” she protested.
“You ain’t goin’ and that’s all to it. Now, you can either chill the fuck out or get your eye blacked!”
Of course Cita chose the black eye.
In N’awlins, as soon as our whips pulled into Francisca’s driveway and Murder Mike saw her and the twins, Michael and Michelle, he transformed from Nino Brown to Cliff Huxtable. I kidded him about it when Fran wasn’t around, but I made the same transformation when I was with my shorties.
Fran was such a contrast to Cita. My nigga had to have had split personalities to deal with both of them. Fran was definitely worthy of the wifey title bestowed upon her. As for Cita, I understood why my dawg fucked with her, but he put up with more of that bitch’s theatrics than I would have. She was a nigga’s downfall waiting to happen.
Even though Fran seemed perfect, I wondered if she had a nigga on the side to keep her company when Murder was in the ATL.
Again, Lolita was the first to get the dick when I got to N’awlins. The next day, I hit Audrey off with a little sex, but I backed up from shawdy when she said, “Don’t make me put roots on you, nigga, to keep this dick all to myself.”
“Roots? Girl, that shit don’t work.”
“Yes, it does. My girl put roots on her baby daddy. Now his dick can’t get hard with no other bitch but her,” Audrey swore, laughing.
I laughed right along with her, but the more I thought about it, the more afraid I was to kick it with Audrey, so I began ducking the bitch like she was my PO.
It was still on and poppin’ in N’awlins, especially since it was around the time for the Bayou Classic. Grambling University and Southern University were meeting in their annual football game, and the city was swamped with shawdies. The drop top Benz attracted the hos and my swagger reeled ‘em in.
When I wasn’t running up in one chick or another, I was chillin’ in my hotel room, blowing purp’ and listening to CDs. Tupac would have me wanting to murder something or wanting to hunt down Cheryl and her Haitian nigga, and do ‘em both.
I’d think about my two lil’ princesses, Eryka and Chanté, trying to recall every little detail about them. Savoring the memories, as my heart ached for them, I felt tears sliding down my face.
I miss y’all so much.
The pain almost made a young G sob fo’ real. I thought about calling Inez, shawdy would’ve understood. I didn’t make the call, though. I didn’t want her to hear the tears in my voice. Instead, I called Toi, and we talked well into the night.
Finally, I said, “I’ll call you when I touch back down in the city. I’m ‘bout to lay it down and get some sleep.”
“Okay. Bye. I love you.”
“Love you, too. And thanks, sis.”
“Boy, you ain’t gotta thank me. I’m family. Anyway, you need to stop tryna act like don’t nothin’ bother you. Everybody got feelings,” said Toi.
When we returned to ATL, the city was dryer than a desert. It was just as hard for a smoker to find a rock as it was to hit the Lotto. A nigga had to smoke homegrown if he wanted some weed. The feds had snatched up most of the city’s major playaz.
Only a month had passed since BCF got snatched up. Their fall, other subsequent arrests, and our little hiatus had crippled the city’s drug flow, but not for much longer. Crazy Nine arrived in town with a trailer of werk, and we put our hustle down strong. Me totin’ that steel and watching Murder’s back every step of the way.
When winter turned into spring, I moved into a big five-bedroom house with three bathrooms, a den, a large eat-in kitchen, a patio and a pool in back. It was out in the ‘burbs and would’ve cost three hundred grand had I bought it. But I was thinking that whenever I walked away from the game, I was walking far away, so why waste loot on buying the crib?
Now I was living in the suburbs, a necessary precaution to keep potential enemies from locating me too easily. Inez still kept her crib but she was with me more than not. Her presence wasn’t stopping me from hittin’ other pussy ‘cause I was never about taking hos to where I laid my head anyway. As long as they had motels, hotels and backseats in whips, I was never short of a place to bone a ho.
Speaking of hos, they had already been choosing a young nigga. Now they acted like groupies when I showed my mug on the scene, and not just the bitches in the hood, the professional bitches were all on a young nigga’s dick the few times I hung in their circles. Those hos were as phony as the rocks crackheads be selling to stupid white boys that come to the hood and give their money to the first mafucka they see posted on the curb.
I understood why Murder Mike wanted to fuck with females that had more class than Cita, but I’ma just be real about it. Give me a shawdy from the hood any day over those fake hos who grew up in neighborhoods where every house had a daddy in it. Just as long as my hood shawdy ain’t alley and dumb.
Still, I boned a few flight attendants, a paralegal and too many bitches with their own businesses to remember. When a nigga had loot, he was radiant and hos of all backgrounds could spot it.
I was convinced that females were born with a sixth sense, the ability to spot a nigga with loot. Hos that I had absolutely nothing in
common with were willing to overlook that small incompatibility since I pushed a Benz drop and had laced pockets.
I had sold my Lexus truck and copped a brand new Cadillac Escalade, pearl white exterior, 26-inch rims, pearl white and black swirl leather interior, suede visors, door panels and headrests with Panasonic flat screens and DVD player. I also expanded my wardrobe, but it was all urban gear.
I had hooked up with Tabitha a coupla more times, but that shit fizzled quickly ‘cause I wasn’t feelin’ no chick but Inez.
Murder Mike was now pushin’ a black Ferrari. His wardrobe was versatile and ran extensive from faded baggy jeans to custom tailored Armani, depending on the occasion.
For the past five or six years mad mafuckaz in the rap and music industry at-large had been migrating to the Dirty South. Now Atlanta was home to mad superstars in that industry. Plus, the ATL had its home-bred superstars, like Jermaine Dupri, Outkast, Goodie Mob, T.I., Toni Braxton, Monica and a slew of others. We’d bump into them all at certain clubs or restaurants. Mad video hos would be at the hot spots, all on major players’ dicks.
I wasn’t sitting on a mil’, but my shine was still bright. My rep attracted those type of hos, too. Most bitches were mad attracted to a nigga with enough power to rule the streets because they knew he had to be way above the average dude. They were curious to share that thug passion with a nigga who was rumored to rule over other thug niggaz and murk his enemies.
Although we occasionally partied and enjoyed our spot on top of the game, neither myself nor Murder Mike made club-going a habit or routine. We understood how disastrous that could be. Besides, Rich Kid was still alive, and there was no telling when he’d resurface and strike back.
CHAPTER 13
Summer came around after months of no major drama in the game, or in a nigga’s life.
I’d been in St. Louis for the past week, where I met with all four Dreads and discussed business while Murder Mike was on vacation in N’awlins.
The Midwest was cool, but I was glad to get back home. With Murder on vacation, it fell to me to handle his duties while he was away. I hated fuckin’ with dope, even when I was giving it to the niggaz who dispersed it out to our traps and our other workers. It was just too easy to get setup.