FOREIGN EXCHANGE
Abman Glaster
Copyright © 2011 by Abman Glaster
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consents of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
If you purchase this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Manufactured in the United States of America
Acknowledgments
I’d like to acknowledge all those who have contributed to the bird of Urban Legend Publishing, especially my sons Sequan and Abman Jr. for being the sources of both my inspiration and motivation.
Chapter 1
Amanda stood on the front steps at the door of Jackson’s funeral home, preparing herself. A tear ran down her golden-brown cheek as she stared at a brass plate on the door which was engraved: Abdul Williams.
At 20 yrs. old Abdul was gone on his trip into divine infinity.
Amanda got the disturbing call in her California home a week ago. A young lady claiming to be Abdul’s girlfriend contacted her and said he was shot to death – it was two Teflon bullets to the chest that had stamped his ticket to his final destination.
Sighing deeply, Amanda wiped her eyes, stiffened her backbone, and then stepped inside the crowded funeral home. She removed her coat and said a silent prayer as she walked down the aisle through a whimpering sea of sorrowful faces.
In the front row, near the open flower-banked casket sat a young lady who was being comforted by two older women as she wept convulsively.
Abdul’s girlfriend, Shalonda, Amanda thought.
Amanda took a seat in the front row next to the woman, who while cradling Shalonda in her arms was quoting bible scripture, as she rocked back and forth.
Shalonda caught a glimpse of Amanda as the deacon made his way up to the front; her look showed that she noticed the resemblance Abdul and she shared Amanda thought.
“Why? Why?” Shalonda burst out in a frantic cry.
Amanda reached out and held her hand. The feelings came crashing down on Amanda as she looked at Abdul lying in the casket.
All of this is my fault she thought to herself, as the stream of tears escaped her eyes.
After the soul-touching eulogy the choir sang, “It’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.”
The deacon returned, gave his final words, and then nodded towards the casket.
Shalonda, who was being guided by the two women and Amanda, viewed the body first.
After a few minutes she had to be removed.
Rows began to empty at the back of the funeral home as mourners formed a line to view the body.
A congregation of hoodlums was the last to get a glimpse of what the hood considered a good nigga!!
After the burial, a few friends, Shalonda’s parents, and other family members retreated to Shalonda’s house for food and drinks.
The home was handsomely furnished. The living room was decorated with a rusty-orange leather love seat and chair complimented by glass-topped cast-iron coffee and end tables. A 70-inch flat-screen TV hung directly in front of the love seat just above the fireplace and mantel. Hardwood floors were throughout the entire one-family home.
After the many people sympathizing with Shalonda calmed down, Amanda made her way into the dining room.
“Excuse me, Shareef,” Shalonda said when she saw Amanda coming in.
“No doubt,” he replied and then exited.
“Oh Shareef, this is Abdul’s sister Amanda.”
He looked Amanda up and down.
Amanda broke his stare. “Hello, nice to meet you,” she said offering her hand.
“Oh, um, same here,” he said shaking her hand. “Hey, listen sis holla at me if you ever need anything.” Shareef said as he headed back into the crowded living room.
“Abdul’s friends” Shalonda said to Amanda, who took a seat next to her.
Amanda replied with a speechless nod. “I want to thank you for contacting me.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m just glad I came across your information in time.”
“Yes. As you may know, me and Abdul weren’t that close.”
The two of them got better acquainted while refreshments were served. About 10 p.m. Shalonda saw the last of the guests to the door.
While reminiscing over Abdul, Amanda was introduced to everyone who attended the gathering. From the stories she was told, she took it that Abdul was somehow in the drug game; he had to be, she concluded. Especially after learning he owned this beautiful home in Montclair New Jersey along with a late model Mercedes S500 and a Range Rover, not to mention how thuggish Shareef and the rest of the hoodlums she met looked.
Who am I to judge she thought. After all, I abandoned him.
Later on in the conversation, Amanda told Shalonda about the last time she saw Abdul. “Three years ago, when our mother passed I tried to get him to move to California with me. But, like me he was too stubborn.”
Shalonda knew exactly what she meant; it was Abdul’s way or no way at all.
“Also,” Amanda continued, “he started criticizing me for not being there for my mother when she became sick.”
Shalonda sat wide eyed listening intensely.
Amanda stretched her eyes to prevent tears from falling, cleared her throat and continued. This was uncharted territory. This part she was not good at. “I left home when I was 16. Abdul was a baby around 6 months old. Since then we’d only seen each other twice.”
Shalonda just nodded as she began to tear up.
“Look at me,” Amanda said removing the hair out of her face. “Here I am adding my problems.”
“Oh, no, no,” Shalonda said.
Amanda interrupted. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I know this may not be the right time and if you’re not up to it I’ll understand, but I have to ask. Can you tell me more about how Abdul was murdered?”
All Amanda knew is what Shalonda cried to her in that long distance phone call - that Abdul was gunned down in front of their house.
A couple of seconds passed as Shalonda prepared herself to replay the night of Abdul’s murder. “I had dozed on the sofa,” she said. “I never went to sleep fully until he came home,” Shalonda continued. “I always worried when he stayed out late, especially with the way he was living, if you know what I mean?” she asked locking eyes with Amanda.
Amanda nodded in agreement. She was more knowledgeable about the subject than Shalonda could imagine. After living in California for 20 years she came to learn a lot about the traps of the streets.
“I heard two gunshots. At first I thought I was dreaming; then I heard a car squealing away from in front of the door. As you may have noticed, this is a pretty nice neighborhood. Real quiet,” she added.
Amanda could hear her voice getting choked up.
Shalonda did her best to go on without breaking down, but the tears were already streaming.
“Listen, I’m sorry for asking you to do this.”
“No, I can handle it,” Shalonda insisted. She grabbed a napkin off the mahogany-oak dining table. After blowing her nose she continued, “That’s when I thought, Abdul!!! I jumped up, looked out the living room window and could see the brake lights of a car pulling away from the driveway. When I got to the door and opened it, I saw a black car with tinted windows turning out of the block. Then I looked over to our driveway and Abdul was…” sniffles and then a flow of tears followed as Shalonda leaned into Amanda, crying heavily “…he wasn’t breathing when I reached him.”
Amanda stroked strands of Shalonda’s hair and told her that everything was ok; that Abdul was in a better place now.
It was about 1:00 a.m. when Amanda left to go back to her hotel room. Even though Shalonda begged her to stay, she politely declined. There were some things she had to sort out before returning home Monday morning.
A half hour later Amanda pulled into the Marriott hotel parking lot, and before she could get out she broke down and cried her heart out.
THE ENTOURAGE
The crack of dawn invaded the ghetto’s polluted skies and it seemed as if every dope-fiend and crack-head came to purchase their “wake-up sack” or “blast” simultaneously.
On the corner of Armstrong and M.L.K. Drive (a.k.a. Jackson Ave.), Keith stood looking up and down the strip, raising up for the police while dope-fiend Jay posted in the middle of the block, at the side street of Rose Avenue doing the same.
This area is known as the Greenville section and is the main area that fueled the drug epidemic in this town for the last 20 years. Armstrong ran as one of the town’s banging dope spots for some time now; especially within the last 4 years, thanks to Ice and his crew.
“Come on, cop and go!” Keith heard echoing out of the hall as the building’s front door swung open making way for the group of customers to file out, only to be replaced by about 20 more going in.
Just outside the building Hutch and Akbar served all the car sales.
From the corner Keith yelled, “Yo-yo! Randy coming around!”
Randy was a white boy dope-fiend from Bayonne, N.J. who bought two bricks (100 bags) every morning faithfully.
Inside the building, Lil Bass stood mid-way up the first flight of stairs serving $10 jugs of cook-up (cocaine); while Omar stood at the back of the first floor hall distributing white bags of heroin with the label, “Over the Top” stamped on them.
On the second floor with a full view of the window and people entering the hallway, Jason stood with his brolic 6ft. 2in. frame leaned up against door #3. Under his black, North Face snorkel coat, tucked in the right side of his Omavi jeans were two 50 calibers with access to even bigger artillery in the apartment behind him.
Living in the times where niggas now created irreconcilable differences over red and blue colors, or because niggas didn’t share the same set oath, made shit 10 times worse in Jersey City; not to mention having a banging spot like this. 100 guns and 200 clips were necessary just to hold it down against all the “get-mine-the-ski-mask-way” niggas. And that wasn’t including if one had to go to war. Nevertheless, Ice made sure his crew was equipped.
“Yo, I need some more,” Omar called up to Jason from in back of the first floor hallway.
The noise in the hall grew. All you heard was “ah” this and that from the 15 or so people crowded around waiting to sniff that morning medicine up their nostrils.
Without a word, Jason took off up the 3rd flight of stairs.
Six a.m., an hour after they opened up shop and Omar had run through his first 10 bricks (500 bags of heroin).
Lil Bass was being bombarded by ready rock customers, while Omar slipped in apartment #2 on the first floor.
At the kitchen table, Mike was recounting the jugs he was dropping off.
“Here,” Omar said dropping the knot of money on the table.
Mike looked back at him. “You done?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah, this is the last of the 100 bricks (5000 bags) from yesterday,” Omar replied.
“A’ight,” Mike said reaching for his grey Polo hoody and him snatching his car keys off the table along with the money.
Omar turned towards the door and looked in the peep hole because he could hear someone coming down from upstairs.
Before Jason could knock, Omar opened the door.
“Here,” Jason said passing him another 10 bricks. “Come on, you see all these people waiting,” Jason told him.
Omar shut the door behind him and then hurried out into the hall. He kept all 10 bricks on him especially with how fast the morning traffic came.
By the end of his shift he would finish 40 bricks easy, and he stopped at 1 p.m.
Mike came out the bathroom and headed for the door.
Out in the hall, Omar screamed at Akbar, “Come on, get the fuck outta here.”
Akbar and Hutch were only to serve the car sales.
Bass called him in to take care of those standing around waiting.
“Yo, Bass,” Mike called up to the second floor. “It’s 1000 jugs in there. That should hold you until tomorrow.”
“A’ight,” Bass replied while taking care of those still entering the hallway at an alarming rate.
“Ya’ll niggas be careful,” Mike said, and then bounced. Outside, he jumped into his black convertible Jaguar and peeled off.
Keith was leaving out of the Puerto Rican store on the corner with a coffee cup and a newspaper in his hand just as Mike started to turn the corner.
Mike stopped and rolled down his window as Keith approached.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Listen; make sure Hutch and Akbar stop around 10 o’clock. It’s Thursday and you know how them Erie Street. niggas be on it early on Thursday.”
That meant car sales wouldn’t get served unless they parked and came into the building. This would go on until Keith conducted his counter surveillance.
“A’ight,” Keith answered.
Without another word Mike spinned off.
Keith looked at the time on his phone - 6:20 a.m. He sent a chirp to dope-fiend Jay down the block. “Yo, how it look down there?” he said into the phone.
Jay was sitting on the abandoned porch looking like the fiend he was when his chirp crackled to life.
“It’s safe, but I’m a take a walk around the block anyway.”
“A’ight.” Keith answered. The purpose for paying Jay a brick a day was to have him sit on Rose Avenue (a side street leading to Armstrong) and make sure that the narcos don’t pull up and set up surveillance without them having a heads up.
Jay got off the porch, reached for the laundry cart that held the cans he collected, and then began to make his rounds watching out for the jake.
JIMMY THE GREEK
The Greeks is the hood eatery. Everybody from street numbers runners, boosters, pimps, big-time check and credit card scammers and all the dope slingers from the biggest down to the smallest frequented this place. Saturday morning, in particular, was the busiest. Friday night partying and tricking always worked up an appetite for the next morning and everybody came here to eat and discuss their affairs.
Jimmy the Greek, the owner, not only cooked but also served tables and could get a life sentence for conspiracy just from the conversations he overheard by mistake.
Lil-O made his way up to the counter after being greeted and dapped by nearly everyone in the place.
Even Jimmy expressed his condolences for his loss.
Most of the whispering at the tables was about why they didn’t see Lil-O at his man’s funeral.
“The usual?” Jimmy asked as he carried the stack of dishes behind the counter.
“Yea, Jim,” Lil-O responded.
It felt awkward for him to be here by himself. Since they partnered over a year ago, Abdul and he met here nearly every morning at no later than 7:30 a.m.
“I’m taking that to go,” he yelled at Jimmy.
“Gotcha,” the Greek replied and then told the cook to wrap the turkey bacon and scrambled eggs with cheese.
From where Lil-O was seated, he could see outside. The sight of the nigga Mike made his blood boil.
It was no secret that Mike became Ice’s top man once Abdul stopped fucking with him. And something in Lil-O’s heart told him that Ice pussy-ass was responsible for his man’s death; as a matter of fact, he was sure of it. There was nobody else in the hood crazy enough to cross the grain.
Pay back is a bitch, he mumbled to himself as the black Jaguar pulled off.
“Here you go,” Jimmy said breaking his train of thought. “It’s on the house.”
“Later, Jim.”
Outside, Lil-O jumped in the passenger seat of his shorty’s ride and stared with much hatred at the corner of Armstrong.
Ice slipped from underneath Sabrina’s arm without disturbing her sleep and headed for the shower. He checked the time on his custom made time piece - it read 8 a.m. Ten minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom, drying himself off and found a seat on the side of the bed.
Sabrina peeked her head out from under the cover, “In a rush, are we?” she asked.
Ice continued to remove clothes from the black leather Prada carry-on bag. “My flight leaves in an hour,” he responded.
Sabrina slid up behind him and let the cover drop to expose her firm breasts. “Um,” she moaned as her arms wrapped around his waist and stroked his manhood through his boxers.
She leaned her breasts against his bare back and then whispered in his ear, “We have time for a quickie.”
Sabrina felt him instantly grow in her hand.
Ice turned back and kissed her forehead. “You trying to wear me out?” he asked. Then he added, “You know I gotta go.”
Sabrina slipped from under the cover all together, pinched his shoulder and said “Too bad.” Then she pranced her flawless figure-eight body across the hotel’s plush carpeted floor.
It was almost impossible for him to resist her remarkable beauty. He stared at her while slipping into his T-shirt. “You know how to get me going?” he said.
At 5ft. 2in. and 130 lbs., Sabrina’s body would put Beyonce’s body to shame. Being the product of an Irish mother and African American father, she was blessed with supermodel beauty. Her facial structure was like “Vanity’s” the singer/actress, but her looks were more compared to Salle Richardson’s (Denzel Washington’s wife in the movie “Antoine Fisher”), only she had natural, light grey eyes and a bit more color to her skin giving her a rich cocoa complexion. Simply put, she was amazing. And to top it off she had the wits to match the beauty.
At 36 years old, Ice had 9 years on Sabrina. What really attracted him to her besides being his accountant, was that she didn’t pressure him into being in any kind of serious relationship; she found pleasure in being a booty call every now and then.
Ice had a few ladies in his circle but his soft spot was really for Sabrina, little did she know. Besides, she was literally his biggest “asset.”
In the 3 years that he’s been slinging dick to her and paying for her professional accounting services, she had laundered over $2 million dollars through his heavy equipment leasing and real estate development company which now held ten properties throughout New Jersey. Plus his money was put up well and taxes were paid up to date. Not even the IRS could touch him.
Ice was fully dressed by the time Sabrina stepped out of the bathroom with her body wrapped in a towel and cap covering her short hairstyle.
“Give me 5 seconds and I’ll be ready,” she said as she removed the towel and grabbed her mustard-colored Calvin Klein Collection pantsuit.
From inside of his carry bag, he removed the two small stacks of $10,000 in cashier’s checks. Each stack held $200,000.
Sabrina had already slipped into her pants and white silk blouse, grabbed her suit jacket off the chair and slipped on the Oscar De La Renta shoes. She said, “Ready when you are.”
Ice double checked the count of his cashier’s checks. Satisfied, he said “Let’s go.”
Before they left the hotel room, he emptied his pockets and handed Sabrina his driver’s license and cell phone. Cell phones weren’t good to travel with in his line of business. Police could easily trace where you’re from according to who the phone is registered to and their address.
The identification he traveled with said he was Darnell Sanders with a Las Vegas address.
Minutes later Sabrina pulled Ice’s forest-green Bentley G.T. coupe out of the Marriott hotel parking lot, and headed to the airport to drop him off.
After Amanda used the hotel’s exercise equipment for an hour, she found her way to the café for a light breakfast, which consisted of 2 granola bars, a mixed fruit salad and a liter of spring water. A strict exercise routine and diet kept Amanda aging gracefully. At almost 37 years old, she could easily be mistaken for 27.
Sitting at the table, she thought about how familiar the guy who just left the hotel looked. It was almost like de-ja-vu seeing his face. Stress will do that to you, she thought.
Now she focused her attention on the task that lay before her. There were some loose ends she needed to tie up before she could get any sort of closure. Satisfied about the approach she would use; Amanda paid her bill, and then headed up to her room for a nice hot shower.
LIL-O
Lil-O leaned over and kissed his girl Danielle. “See you later,” he said as he climbed out of her car.
“Be careful,” she called through the passenger window as he made his way to the driver’s door of his white 650i BMW. Danielle knew her man was still grieving Abdul’s death and hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid or get himself killed.
Minutes later he sped up Kennedy Boulevard. His mind was set. All he had to do was give the word. The only reason he let a whole week pass without retaliation was because he wanted them niggas to think “shit was sweet.”
But really, it was because of how hard it would be to catch the nigga Ice out there slipping. He didn’t play the hood close.
Lil-O thought about the night down at club Café Newport when Ice and Abdul had words, and shit got kind of heated. Ice was with a few of his boys, but outside Lil-O had the drop on him.
Abdul talked him out of moving on Ice that night, which was the same reason he was killed, Lil-O felt. Abdul always talked about how beefin’ and getting’ money doesn’t mix.
Lil-O was the opposite. He addressed any small situation so it wouldn’t become a problem later, and he would definitely handle his business tonight.
Ten minutes later Lil-O turned into the Duncan project parking lot. He was greeted by two of his soldiers who stood on post at the corner of the driveway keeping an eye up the street and down the highway. He cruised around back and parked behind building number one, or as he called it - the “New Carter.”
Not only did Lil-O have the hunger for money like Wesley did in the movie “New Jack City,” he kind of looked like him, too.
He pulled into the parking space and jumped out.
Coming through the back door were 3 more of his soldiers. “Yo,” they screamed together.
“What up, Homey?” the tallest of the three added.
Lil-O zipped up the brown leather Andrew Marc jacket that was laced with mink lining. A smile crossed his face. “The sun, the sky and everything in between my niggas, and ya’ll know I’m not trying to see the dirt. What the deal is?” he replied.
He dapped the tall one first. That was Holla, one of his main soldiers.
Then he dapped the other two - D.T. and Shaggy.
None of them seen him since the night Abdul was killed.
The group trailed off into the building. The scene inside was really like something from the movie “New Jack City.” The nearly darkened first floor hallway smelled of piss and the faint smell of crack lingered throughout.
Some fiends were cracking bags and sniffing them right there on the spot, while others rushed outside after purchasing.
The fiends from the projects hustled customers out of a hit, by providing them with a place to get high on one of the upper floors or the use of somebody’s apartment.
The projects was seeing money like back in ’88, and O by himself supplied nearly every hustler down there with work. Now that his right-hand man got pushed; Booheem, Tee-Tee, and Ya-Yo were the only niggas who wasn’t on the team.
Lil-O was a life-long resident of the projects, unlike Abdul who took his show on the road and ended up on Armstrong a few years back; however the two of them stayed tight and when they partnered they damn near locked the city on the heroin tip.
He was already supplying wholesale bricks (50 bags) for $225 to everybody on Monticello Avenue down Marion projects, Booker T, the New Houses and them niggas on Communipaw.
Abdul parting from Ice added to that. Abdul use to run Ice’s whole operation, with the help of the niggas he employed under him, that is.
Through Abdul, Ice supplied damn near every hustler on the hill with wholesale bricks and ounces. On Ocean Avenue from Carteret down to Neptune, and on M.L.K. Drive (Jackson Avenue), from Union Street to Warner Avenue, everybody bought from Abdul, except Carteret and Randolph, Wegman and Stegman on Ocean, and Grant Ave. on M.L.K.
Abdul knew partnering with Lil-O would cause hard feelings with Ice, but fuck that he thought. I’m breaking bread down with this nigga and it’s practically my clientele that got him rich. Abdul took half of that clientele with him. During the first month of their merger, Lil-O and him moved 1,600 bricks of dope (80,000 bags), and 6 kilos of cook-up. A lot of it they moved wholesale, but most of it bag for bag was sold right here in the pj’s.
In a good week, they moved 400-500 bricks and a kilo and a half in bottles.
Lil-O stepped off the pissy elevator on the 11th floor and knocked on door #6. The music he heard coming out of the apartment silenced.
“Who is it?” the male voice asked.
“It’s me.”
The door quickly swung open.
“Nigga, what the fuck is good?” Shareef asked. You could see the concern written on his face. Shareef was the nigga that ran shit for them down here.
Ski jumped off the couch, and gave him piece pulling him inside. “Yo, mutha-fucka, you ain’t answering no calls or nothing. What’s really hood?”
All the shit wholesale was done by Ski.
Lil-O took a seat at the table and before he could respond, a tall light-skin dude came out of the kitchen with binoculars swinging from his neck.
On this shift, Flip zoomed in at the park and down the highway. That’s where the narcotics squad would watch from.
“What’s up?” Flip asked.
Lil-O dapped everybody. “I’m good. Ya’ll know I’m not with that funeral thing,” he answered.
Flip, who was also one of the niggas who put that work in said, “You know this shit can’t go unanswered for too long, right?”
Lil-O normally stayed away from the projects as much as he could, even before Abdul’s death; that was Abdul’s doing. We too valuable to be showing our faces down here too often, Abdul use to preach.
He looked around at the group, “Well, I’m not down here for nothing,” he said and for the next hour Lil-O laid out his plans.
Chapter 2
The smoke-grey tinted-out Grand National pulled up quietly in front of the sky-blue house on 71st Street just off of Boulevard East in West Newark, New Jersey.
The world was asleep at 3 a.m. and not a light shown from any of the houses on the block.
To be sure the driver circled the block twice. Him and his man leaped from the car both in masks, and ran up the driveway crouching alongside the turquoise Expedition and white Acura T.L.
He took the steps that led to the back door while his partner leaned against the side of the house, as he watched back towards the street.
Within seconds he was passed the fragile lock. His partner caught his signal to proceed, and together they tip-toed through the kitchen and into the living room with pistols drawn.
When they reached the top of the stairs they heard the sound of a couple making love. He pointed at the floor where the light was peeking beneath a door at the far right end of the hall.
“Do you love this pussy,” the girl asked as she let out a loud moan.
That’s when he kicked the door in.
Dude tried to get up, but he was up on him quick with the 45 automatic in the man’s face.
“Let’s make this easy and you live,” he said over the girl’s scream.
She tried to roll under the bed.
“Unh unh,” his partner said as he pulled her up by the hair.
“Please don’t kill me,” she pleaded.
That’s when he motioned his victim to sit in the chair, next to the bed.
“Listen you can have it all, just don’t kill me,” the man said.
“The money mutha-fucka,” he said through clenched teeth.
“The safe is in the closet right behind the clothes rack.”
He could hear the nervousness in the man’s voice. He nodded to his partner, who went over to the walk-in closet.
“I need the combination,” his partner called out from in the closet.
“The numbers,” he demanded as he placed the gun right at his victim’s temple.
“33 right, 23 left, 16 right,” he stuttered.
The girl sat on the edge of the bed shaking quietly.
He read the numbers off again to be sure his partner got them right.
“It’s all good,” the yell came back. “I got it,” he said as he came out of the closet.
When he looked up, his partner tossed the bag to him and that’s when it happened.
The man lifted up as he fired his weapon at his partner, hitting him in the face and somewhere in the mid-section. He was almost paralyzed from what took place, but when the man tried to turn the weapon his way, he splattered his brains all over the room.
The girl screamed at the top of her lungs.
He ran over to help his partner. First, he lifted his partner’s shirt and saw the thick burgundy blood covering it.
“The fucking vest,” he said.
With the bag in hand and his partner in tow, they made it downstairs and out to the front porch.
He waved and whistled to alert the driver and the car jerked out of the parking spot almost immediately.
Coming down the porch steps his partner slipped and fell to the ground.
“Shit,” he cursed.
The sounds of sirens were approaching fast.
“Come on,” the driver shouted while pushing the passenger door open.
His partner held on to his pants leg with a death grip. The sirens were getting nearer.
“Let’s go, he’s not gonna make it,” the driver screamed as he looked up and saw a police car turn into the block
“Don’t leave me like this” his badly wounded partner cried struggling to his feet.
He had to think quickly. There wasn’t many options - it was either go down for a robbery homicide, or leave this mutha-fucka.
He kicked the wounded man off of him and made for the car.
The driver got out and met the speeding cop car with a rain of A.R. 15 bullets.
The cop car braked and came to a crashing halt with two parked cars.
The A.R. bullets tore the hood off and blew out two front tires.
The two police officers fired back but they had to bail out the damaged squad car for cover. Their Glocks weren’t enough fire power. The driver ran back to the car, jumped in and peeled out. By the time the two other cop cars turned in the block they were a good ways away.
ICE
The ‘please fasten your seat belt’ announcement jarred Ice out of his dream. It took him a few seconds to gather himself. He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and looked out at the beautiful sky as the plane made its landing approach. For a second he thought about Vee and what it would be like if he were still alive. So much for wishful thinking.
Within minutes, Ice was walking through the Las Vegas airport. He noticed her walking towards the exit from his right. Beautiful was an understatement. This was all world cover girl material. In the stiletto heel she was Tyra Bank’s tall. Copper-tinted would best describe her radiant skin tone but her looks were incomparable. This might be the most irresistible woman he’d ever seen in person he thought, unbelievably.
Once, he saw a special about Ethiopian women possessing the most beauty out of all the other races. Yes, that’s what she reminded him of. Ice slowed down to get a full view of the backside, and boy - did her body language tell a story. Her slim waist had to be 22in. with a 36in. base line. Her Honolulu-hairdo was draped to the sides, exposing her full features. She was perfect. An introduction was definitely necessary.
Outside, the goddess stood in line waiting for a cab. Ice slid up after throwing his black leather Fendi waist jacket over his arm. It had to be at least 80 degrees out here.
“Excuse me. Do you need a taxi?”
She turned towards him. Damn! Absolute beauty without a touch of make-up, just silverish lipstick covered her full edible lips.
The woman stared at him with a curious look.
Ice was dressed in a charcoal grey v-neck cashmere sweater, blue polo, relaxed fit jeans, and all black low top air force ones. His 360 wave pattern was neatly tapered, and his full beard laid 5 o’clock shadowed against his mild brown skin. The sun gleamed off his watch and caused a rainbow effect.
After a careful inspection, her eyes met his. With a smile she said “Wait let me guess, you’re a cab driver right?” Her look was playfully questioning.
Her accent was definitely foreign; he was sure of that, however slightly Americanized.
The lady broke his eye contact to rummage in her bag.
He had that dominating effect over most women he encountered. Ice possessed handsome qualities that most ladies found hard to resist; plus he was slick in his demeanor.
His being seven-figures rich complimented him even more. Not to mention his physical appearance that was preserved by an 8-year stretch in prison his last time around. At an even 6ft. and muscularly built, weighing 195 pounds, he was considered an A-frame male.
Holding no punches, he shot back with “actually, I’m out here for a few days to relax, unwind and see where my luck is. I wouldn’t mind being in good company, that’s all.”
She was impressed by his straight forwardness. “Oh, and you’ve automatically assumed I’m good company?” she asked.
Just then a cab pulled in front of where they stood.
“I’d find it hard to not have fun with you around,” Ice fired.
Grabbing the handle of the taxi’s back door she replied, “Well try it.” Then she slipped inside the cab and was hauled off.
“Oh shit,” he thought to himself laughing. I just got turned down he thought. This was something new for him.
He walked back into the airport feeling no way about what just happened.
The old man at the car rental agency took his information and said “Ah yes, right this way sir.” He led Ice through the side door and out to the parking lot.
Minutes later Ice had the Porsche racing on the expressway, heading to the Bellagio casino/hotel.
LIL-O
The night crept in on the evening as Lil-O drove down Newark Ave., headed to Newport Centre Mall. At the traffic light, he reached into his glove compartment for his phone charger and plugged it in.
He dialed the New York number from memory. After the 4th ring, the Spanish male’s voice answered. Lil-O lowered the volume on his radio. “Yo, what’s up?” he asked.
“I’m turning into the parking lot now,” the man responded, keeping the conversation short.
Lil-O had passed Dickerson High School and was driving up Newark Ave. when in the opposite direction he saw the only Bentley G.T. in the hood.
“Oh shit,” he cursed with the phone still clutched to his ear.
“What?” the man on the other line asked.
“Hold on, hold on, one second,” he answered as he tossed his phone on the passenger seat.
His car was passing the cemetery just as you pass the school. He watched through his rear view mirror and saw the Bentley turn onto the block where the school was. Lil-O hurried and made a u-turn. Accelerating, he brought the car to 60 mph in less than 6 seconds. He turned into the block and saw the car cruising at a low speed.
“Damn!” he said grabbing the phone. “Weech?”
“Yeah, I’m here. You a’ight?”
“Yo, check this out. I’m running a little late but I’ll be there.”
The line went dead. He followed the car up state highway and onto Kennedy Blvd. From there, he followed at a safe distance. Lil-O could feel his heart racing; that’s how excited he was. Lil-O was desperate to know where this nigga Ice rested.
For twenty more minutes he followed up Blvd. East. In between 68th and 69th, the Bentley pulled into a parking lot.
He wished he had the ratchet on him. Lil-O never traveled with it when he was going to meet the connect, because they were in a very public place. He kept driving and pulled over a half a block ahead and watched in his rear view.
A chic got out of the car instead and walked in the Galaxy apartment building. His girl, Lil-O thought kind of disappointed. He cheered up a bit as he pulled off. This had to be one of his spots, or at least he’d be coming here to see that fine piece of ass, he concluded.
Either way it didn’t matter. Tonight Ice would feel his wrath.
Lil-O relaxed a bit more as he drove off listening to D.J. Green Lanterns’ best of Beanie Siegal. “I can feel it in the air!!!!”
A half an hour later, Lil-O was making his way through Newport Mall up to the Cineplex. He bought a movie ticket for whatever the fuck was playing in theater number two.
His eyes adjusted to the dark. Luckily the place wasn’t crowded. Walking down the aisle, he spotted Weechie in the fourth row watching the movie.
“Pardon me,” he said walking down the aisle and stopped right behind his main man.
The sound of his voice made Weechie turn around. The fat-face Dominican greeted him, “O, what’s up baby?” he said in a half whisper.
Lil-O threw his arm around Weechie’s right shoulder, and his left hand brought the two foot locker bags to rest on the man’s lap; each contained a sneaker box. Inside each box was $75,000, totaling $150,000.
He and Abdul were the youngest niggas in the hood getting money on this level. Lil-O was 24 years old but moved like an old head. His pops who was serving a life bid for a king-pin drug case up in Rochester New York, taught him everything he knew about the game.
“It’s all there, fat boy,” he said in Weechie’s ear.
“Tomorrow, one o’clock,” he said after he slammed a handful of goobers in his mouth.
Without another word, Lil-O got up and bounced.
AMANDA
Amanda found Ferry Street easy enough and then drove two blocks back the way she came from.
In front of the restaurant Iberia Peninsula and Shalonda was waiting.
Amanda parked around the corner.
Shalonda greeted her at the car.
“Hey,” they said almost simultaneously. After the embrace, Amanda pulled back holding Shalonda at arm’s length. “Girl, give me those boots and this jacket, she continued.
Shalonda had on a pair of brown, thigh-high boots, a blue jean skirt and a tan silk blouse. Her brown leather jacket had mink sleeves.
Amanda looked just as good the lavender suede jacket and blue jeans that showed off her figure, with a white cotton blouse and a pair of suede lavender boots.
Laughing, they made their way inside the restaurant.
“A table for two please,” Shalonda said to the man behind the counter.
Instantly another man appeared out of nowhere. “Right this way, please.” He led them into the place and over to a well lit area, where he placed menus on the table before pulling out an ordering pad. “Can I start you off with drinks ladies?” he asked politely.
They both ordered water.
The waiter took off and returned almost immediately with their drinks.
“Nice place,” Amanda complimented while removing her jacket.
“Yeah, Abdul and I used to eat here a lot. This is where he took me on our first date.”
The waiter came back and placed a basket of freshly baked bread, two house salads, and a bottle of oil and vinegar dressing on the table.
They dug into their salads right away.
Amanda tried to loosen up. “So Shalonda, how long were you and Abdul an item?”
From there the conversation was non-stop through dinner and a couple of drinks.
Amanda learned that Shalonda was almost 26 years old, a college graduate and worked as a social worker for her family-owned hospice in Montclair and that she might be pregnant.
“I don’t want to jinx myself but I’m two weeks late.” Shalonda also told her more about the lifestyle Abdul led and how successful he was at it.
“I mean, don’t take it the wrong way or like I’m glorifying what he done.”
“No I understand. You loved him regardless of what he was in to,” Amanda replied.
“I just wish he would’ve taken my advice and stopped. I mean, we didn’t want for anything.”
When it was Amanda’s turn, they talked more about her moving to California 20 years ago.
A cell phone ringing interrupted them.
“That’s you,” Shalonda said.
Amanda quickly reached for her purse. She anticipating it was the number she was trying to get through to all day returning her call. She received Mrs. Turner’s phone number from the information directory. After 20 years Mrs. Turner still lived at the same address on Wade Street. Mrs. Turner didn’t remember her, but she still gave Amanda a cell phone number to reach her nephew, Daryl.
Amanda pulled her phone out. Looking at the number she was disappointed. Why is my job calling me, she thought quietly. “Please excuse me,” she said as she got up heading towards the restaurant’s lobby.
When Amanda returned to the table, Shalonda asked “Is everything o.k.?” She thought Amanda looked a little distant.
Amanda shook it off. “Oh yeah, I’m fine. That was my job,” she offered.
Shalonda started to inquire but thought it was best not to be nosey.
SKI
Ski pushed his burgundy Escalade up Communipaw Avenue and headed downtown. Hit the niggas on Van Horne, then shoot over to Booker T, he thought.
Ski kept the three ounces of cocaine on his lap, just in case he had to toss it and make a get away from the police. In a brown bag in his hand were 20 bricks.
As he cruised along; he thought about what Lil-O, and what he said to him earlier before he left the store. Keeping it on the street was by getting at Ice and his crew. Ski didn’t feel bringing innocent people into this.
“Kidnap that nigga girl,” Lil-O said adamantly.
He thought about the heat that would bring - Feds and all that coming for shit like that. It’d be better just to kill the bitch instead of kidnapping her, just to teach the nigga a lesson. But whatever, he was riding with his man no matter how it went down; especially for Abdul’s sake.
His phone rung on his hip. After checking the number he answered, “Yo, I’m two blocks away,” he said into the phone. “Yeah nigga, I’m on Woodward and Communipaw right now. Where you at?” Ski listened for a few seconds. “A’ight, come downstairs now. One.”
LIL-O
Down in his and Danielle’s Society Hills condo, Lil-O tried not to get an attitude, telling his girl that her staying with her parents for a couple of weeks was just for her to get away for a while and that everything was ok.
“What’s going on baby? Why can’t we just leave all this behind us? You and me relocate somewhere south, anywhere away from all this non-sense,” she pleaded with sad eyes. Danielle took a seat next to him on the bed.
He couldn’t look in her eyes. “Listen baby I promise you everything is ok.”