by T J Edwards
King of New York 4
Lock Down Publications and
Ca$h Presents
King of New York 4
A Novel by T.J. Edwards
Lock Down Publications
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Copyright 2019 by King of New York 4
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First Edition May 2019
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Chapter 1
Showbiz
The constant tick, tick, tick sound of the jump rope skipping across the pavement sounded in my ears as the little girls double dutched on the playground behind me. The bouncing of a basketball along with the smack talking of the two teenage boys that were playing each other one on one in a battle for supremacy. The sun beamed in my face, causing me to squint my eyes. Sweat slid down my forehead and dripped off of my chin. A slight breeze from the wind offered a small chance of relief from the hot spring day in New York City.
I made my way across the small parking lot with my heart thumping in my chest. My .45 was tucked safely in my waistband loaded with ten hollow points. I had visions of using every bullet. I closed the distance between myself and Flex with nothing but anger and frustration on my mind.
It had been more than three months prior that I fronted Flex three kilos of heroin. He gave me his word that once he popped the dope, he’d give me fifty a piece for each kilo, which was a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The dope was more than ninety percent and in the city of New York, to find any type of product that was more than seventy percent was a steal. I could have easily charged him sixty thousand a piece and never fronted him in the first place. But you see, Flex and I had history.
Back when we were in high school and I’d just stepped off of the stoop, we’d lay niggas on their stomachs and put gats in their mouths until we emptied their safes, taking anything of value we wanted. He also stood beside me and bust his gun on numerous occasions.
Even though he was a Brooklyn nigga and I was from Harlem, somehow we managed to get along. In the city of New York, that was unheard of. Most niggas stayed in their own boroughs, repping their own hoods. But one summer, I served three months in juvenile hall. Flex and I had met up on the inside and just clicked. That’s before we found out where each other was from.
After that revelation, we found out that we had a lot in common and had even fucked some of the same hoes. After we got out, we started hitting licks together. Over time, we lost contact because of the life we lived individually. Then a little over three months, he’d rolled up on me. We had kicked it for a few hours when he had asked me for a favor. He needed help getting back on his feet. Even though I hadn’t seen him in a while, it was hard for me to forget how he’d always stood by me when we were kids, bussing niggas down.
I had five kilos of my family’s heroin in my truck at the time and against my better judgment, I wound up giving him, or should I say, “fronted” him three kilos. After that day, I hadn’t heard from him since.
I didn’t give a fuck how cool we were, I wasn’t the type of nigga to play about my money. I was Juanito Vega but known to the streets as Showbiz. A living muthafucking legend and I was getting ready to put my stamp all on this nigga’s ass.
Flex, a dark-skinned nigga with long dreadlocks, saw me coming across the parking lot and jumped to his feet. He dropped the bottle of Armor All he’d been holding, while buffing the rims on his Cadillac Escalade.
Flex’s eyes bucked. “Yo, Showbiz. Look, I know I ain’t got up wit’ you, but I just been on some other shit. I should have that bread for you in a few weeks. I mean you know how it is out here.”
I shook my head. “N’all, fuck nigga. It’s been more than three months already. You gon’ give me my shit right now.” I upped my .45 and smacked him across the face with it, splitting his shit. He fell to one knee and held his face.
He looked down at the blood on his fingers. “Fuck, man! Shoot this bitch ass nigga. What the fuck y’all waiting on?” Flex hollered.
Two of the niggas standing outside of the trucks with him, opened the doors to the Escalade and reached inside of them. I saw one of them come up with a nickel-plated Mach. He cocked it and slammed the door that blocked his view of me, before leveling his weapon and aiming it in my direction.
My eyes got as big as paper plates. I aimed at him and pulled the trigger.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The bullets flew out of my .45 and slammed into his chest, filling it with big bloody holes. He threw his arms into the air before falling backwards and dropping the Mach. Before I could turn around to break away from them, Flex stood up and aimed at me.
Bocka! Bocka! Bocka! Bocka!
His bullets punched into my torso and threw me backwards on the pavement. The stinging in my torso told me that at least one of them had penetrated my bulletproof vest. It felt like a flaming nail was burning me. I placed my hand on my chest and struggled to get up as I heard more shots rang out along with the screaming from the little girls on the playground.
“Get down!” someone yelled.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
I saw sparks fly from the Escalade in front of me. Flex ducked behind one of them before bussing toward the playground.
Bocka! Bocka! Bocka!
I slowly got to my feet and took off running toward my car. I looked up toward the basketball courts and saw my little brother, Tristian, bussing his gun at Flex and his crew. Then he took off running, diving on top of one of the little girls that was at the park as more gunfire came in my direction. Bullets slammed into my Porsche. I ran and jump into it, then over it. I stood up and fired three shots in Flex’s direction.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
My son, Maine, sat in the back seat of my Porsche with his hands over his ears. “Ahh! Ahh! Help! Ahh!” he hollered.
I peeked o
ver the side of the Porsche as one of Flex’s men with a Tech .9 in his hands began to spray my whip. Then he sprayed the playground where Tristian was bussing. He ran in their direction, unloading his clip. I aimed and tried to squeeze my trigger, but it wouldn’t budge. I squeezed it as hard as I could but nothing happened. “Fuck, why this shit gotta happen right now?” I begin to panic.
“Daddy! Daddy! Help me! Help me!” Maine hollered, reaching out for me.
Bocka! Bocka! Bocka!
Flex’s bullets rocked the side of my drop top Porsche. “It’s Brooklyn, nigga! You should of never came over here, Showbiz! Now yo’ bitch ass is about to die! You and your son!” he hollered.
He stood up and got to bucking at my ride again, making it jerk from side to side. I ducked down and bit into my bottom lip. I didn’t know what to do. I’d given my brother, Tristian, my last gun out of the glove box. I was stuck. I had to get my son out of the line of fire. It was the least I could do as the sun seemed to become a million degrees hotter.
I opened the passenger’s door and pulled Maine out of the Porsche beside me. He was crying his little eyes out. Flex reached into his Escalade and came out with a Mach .90. He ran into the middle of the parking lot and got to spitting at my ride bullet after bullet. I could hear the bullets tanking into the paint job.
“Aww, you must be out of bullets, son. Oh, that’s yo’ ass, Money!” He ran back to his truck. “Come on, son. Let’s finish his bitch ass,” Flex ordered his shooter.
The gunmen holding the tech ran and jumped into the truck along side of Flex. Their Escalade backed out, crashing into my Porsche. I peeked over the top of my whip and saw Flex’s window roll down. He stuck his arm out of it along with the Mach .90. Before he could start shooting, I jumped up and took off running. There was a big dumpster about fifty feet away. I knew if I made it to it, I could shield myself from his barrage of bullets.
So that’s where I was headed. It didn’t dawn on my me until I got half way there that my six-year old son was with me who probably needed me to carry him to safety, as well. But when it clicked, I stopped in my tracks and turned around. “Maine! Aww, shit!” I took off running toward him.
The sun seemed to shine directly into my eyes. All of the wind felt as if it stopped. There was a low pitch hum in my ears. My heart pounded louder than it ever had before. I felt like I could feel it in my throat. A big smile spread across Flex’s face as soon as Maine jumped up to run to me. He bit his bottom lip and aimed.
Bocka! Bocka! Bocka! Bocka!
I watched the bullets spit out of the barrel of his Mach as if it were in slow motion. The first series entered into the side of Maine’s head and knocked massive chunks out of it. They spun him around before he fell on his back. The second series filled his torso with holes before the third series sprayed along the concrete, missing him entirely.
I continued to run toward him. Flex’s truck sped away, it’s back bumper scraping against the pavement after they sped out of the parking lot and hopped the curb. I ran over and fell beside Maine.
“Son! Son! Aww, shit!” I picked him up into my arms and looked down at him, feeling my heart tear into two. His face was half gone. His brains leaked out of the opening Flex’s bullets had caused.
He felt lighter than usual. There was a constant gurgling sound coming from the holes in his midsection. It was enough to make any man go crazy. I felt the tears sliding down my cheeks. My heart was hurting. I felt like a victim. I felt betrayed. I knew I had let my son down, that because of me, he had been killed.
Had I never approached Flex with him in the car, he would have still been alive. What kind of a father failed their child the way I just had? I felt lower than scum. I broke into a fit of tears, holding my baby. He’d lost his life only a few weeks after his sixth birthday and it had been all my fault. I slowly laid him down on the pavement and closed his eyes.
I looked toward the playground and saw Tristian was still laid out on his stomach. Him and the little girl that he’d jumped on top of for whatever reason. I could smell the gunpowder in the air and hear the sirens in the distance, causing me to panic. I jumped up and ran over to my brother. “Tristian! Tristian, get up, man! The police on their way!” I hollered.
He moved slowly and looked up at me. “I’m hit, Showbiz. Them bitch niggas hit me,” he groaned. “And she is, too.” He looked down at the little girl that was in his arms. Her eyes were closed. She whimpered and took deep breaths. Blood oozed out of the holes in her lower back.
I didn’t give a fuck about her. I didn’t even know whose kid she was. My son was dead. As far as I was concerned, nothing mattered more than that. Not even my brother being wounded at that time. Her face was scrunched into a ball. I could sense she was in some serious pain.
“Bruh, Maine is dead. He’s dead, Tristian. That fuck nigga shot my baby! What am I supposed to do?”
I took off running after hearing the sirens that seemed to have gotten closer. When I got back to Maine’s body, I picked him up and placed him on the back seat of my Porsche. I got behind the wheel and stormed out of the parking lot.
* * *
After running every red light and speeding past every car I could without crashing, it took me ten minutes to make it to my crib. I pulled up into the back alley, jumped out and put Maine into my arms, before running with him to the back door. Once there, I began to kick on it. His blood ran down my arms and dropped off my elbows. “Tori! Tori! Baby, open the door! Maine is hurt!” I hollered.
I looked down at my son as another portion of his brains dropped into the back yard. I felt sick on the stomach. Tori looked out of the back window first before running down the back steps and throwing the door open. “Oh my God! Jehovah, no! Please Father, no!” she screamed, trying to take him out of my arms. “What happened to him?”
I released him from my arms and led us into the back hallway where I closed the door and fell to my knees. “Baby, it was Flex. That bitch ass nigga from Brooklyn. He shot me up, too. See?” I showed her the holes in my shirt before pulling it over my head and unsnapping my vest. There were three bleeding punctures in my chest where the bullets had pierced the kevlar.
Tori fell to the ground with him. “No, Showbiz! Why? Why would any man want to kill a child? He was just a baby. This isn’t fair!” she cried, rocking back and forth. I crawled over to her and placed my arm around her shoulders.
“He ain’t gon’ get away with this shit, ma. This nigga ain’t gon’ get away with killing my son. Everybody he loves, everybody he fuck wit’, I’m killing all of ‘em. I won’t rest until all of them bitches are in body bags. That’s on my mother!” I hollered, looking down at my son with tears running down my cheeks.
Chapter 2
Maine’s funeral was held a week later. Instead of contacting the authorities and going through that whole process, I called up my oId man and asked him how should we go about handling the whole ordeal. He assured me that it would be taken care of. I didn’t ask him what that meant. All I knew is that the police never contacted me. Had I been, I still would have never opened my mouth.
In my opinion, this wasn’t a matter for the police to sort out. Maine was my only child, my first-born son. There was no way I would have gotten any spiritual relief if the police had locked up Flex before I got a hold of his ass. I had plans for him and I knew I would not be able to sleep until they were brought into fruition.
I looked into my baby’s casket and wiped away the tears that slid down my cheeks. I had on a pair of triple tinted Ray Ban sunglasses that offset my black on black suit. There was a black net over his face to shield the family from the sight of his injuries.
My father and I made sure his funeral was a private affair just for our closest relatives. If a person wasn’t related to my son by blood, they were unable to attend. Tristian came up behind me and placed his hand on my shoulder. “Bruh, how are you holding up?” he asked.
I shook my head and continued to look my baby over. I was wishing tha
t I had spent more time with him. I couldn’t believe I had been such a terrible father relationship wise to my kid. I hated I allowed my utter disdain for his mother to affect the relationship that he and I shared. That was petty of me.
I knew that I would never forgive myself. I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. “I lost my kid, bruh. I don’t know how this shit gon’ effect me down the road. One thing I do know is that I’m about to bring New York to its knees over my seed, Dunn. That’s my word.”
I blinked and more tears fell out of my eyes. Instead of wiping them away, I just let ‘em flow. I heard a bunch of murmuring behind me, then Tristian smacked his lips. “Aww, shit. Here we go with this bullshit.”
“Dang, can y’all let somebody else see my nephew? Y’all been up here long enough,” Ebony quipped. She bumped Tristian out of the way and tried to do the same to me.
I took my glasses off of my face and mugged her yellow ass. “Bitch, you already know I ain’t the one. You can take that punk shit somewhere else. Sit yo’ ass down until I’m finished up here or else.”
I slid my glasses back on to my face. I ain’t feel like going through that drama with Ebony’s ass. Out of all of baby mother’s sisters, she was the one that kept up all of the bullshit. After Punkin, Maine’s mother, had passed away from complications with her pregnancy, I’d allowed Ebony to take custody of my son because I wasn’t really ready to be a single father.
I was still a dope boy, running wild in the streets of New York. I couldn’t see myself having some kid attached at my hip twenty-four seven. I had way too much beef and not enough patience for all of that shit. It wasn’t until I started to fucking with my baby mother’s sister, Tori, that I’d wanted custody of my son back. And that was only because Tori and my son had a strong bond and relationship.
