Under the watchful eye of Nard, Black began to come up, but he was still a work in progress. Nard made it a habit to question him to see where his head was at.
“What you doin’ wit’ ya money, yo,” Nard asked him one day out the blue.
“Savin’ it,” answered Black sincerely.
“That’s good, yo. The sun don’t shine forever, sometimes it rains. The game is funny like that. So, you got to be careful, yo. Keep doin’ what you doin’ and stacking that paper,’cause you never can tell when this run gonna come to an end. You gotta save for that rainy day.”
He didn’t have to tell Black twice ‘cause Black knew the power of the dollar. Black watched it at work every day on the streets. The rich got richer (the hustlers), and the poor got poorer (the dope fiends). He knew what it was like to suffer after his father got killed and there was no way in hell he was gonna go back to living like that. He’d kill something first.
Four years later, Black began to look hard for something of value to invest part of his stash in. His heart became fixed on a car. He thought that if something ever happened to Nard or if he fell off, he could always sell the car and get back on his feet. To be so young, he was grasping the mechanics of the game faster than some grown men who had been hustling all their lives. He didn’t know how to go about buying a car, so he turned to Nard seeking his help and advice.
“Yo, Nard,” Black called, approaching him one day after the shop closed.
“Yeah, yo, what’s up?” Nard asked.
“You know how you be telling me to save my money, yo?” Black asked.
“Yeah, and?” Nard replied.
“Umm, I’m eighteen now, yo. And… I,” he said, his voice getting low. He was like a child afraid to ask his parent for something. He feared that Nard would try to talk him out of buying what he had his heart set on.
“I want to buy a car,” he managed to blurt out.
Nard couldn’t believe his ears. Did he just say he wanted to buy a ride? Like a proud teacher, he smiled at his star pupil. Black was ahead of the game.
These days, young hustlers are so lax with their money. Easy come, easy go. Half of these hustlers had habits of their own that were just as bad as a drug habit. Whether it was a weed habit, trickin’ habit, jewelry habit or a sneaker habit, a habit was a habit and a hustler usually had a few. No matter what the habit, it had to be fed. Black didn’t have any such vices. He didn’t gamble or get high. He did everything in moderation, except hustle and save money. He took those things to the extreme.
“How much cash you workin’ wit, yo?” Nard asked.
“A lil’ something, yo,” Black replied.
“Fuck you mean, a lil’ something,” Nard laughed.
“This me, I put ya young ass on, nigga, but you learnin’. Never let ya left hand know what ya right hand is doin’. In this game, you can’t trust nobody, no bitch or no nigga, and sometimes not even family” Nard reminded him. Before rolling out, he added, “If you serious, yo, tomorrow, I’ll take you down to Virginia and we’ll get you a car.”
It wasn’t until the next day, when Black whipped out twenty grand from his stash, that Nard became a believer. He offered to sell Black one of his five cars, but Black rejected that idea. He wanted his own car, his own identity. Not some car that Nard had previously driven around town. To him, it was sort of like sharing your main girl with your man. Nard understood where he was coming from with that, so they went to Virginia as planned. After all, it was his money.
In Springfield, Virginia, there was a crooked car dealer from D.C. where the majority of hustlers from B-More bought their cars. The main reason for traveling to Virginia, though, was because the sales guy never reported cash transactions over ten thousand. Anything over ten thousand had to be reported to the Feds. Instead, the sales guy would hook up paperwork to make it appear that they hadn’t spent that amount, when in all actuality they had. Through word of mouth, hustlers from B-More started buying their cars from him. Nard had copped two of his five cars from there: a Toyota Cressida and a BMW 325 convertible. After making those investments, he got too large to buy cars from car lots like these.
Having dealt with the car dealer before, they were pretty familiar with each other. As soon as they pulled on the lot in Nard’s Lexus, the dealer knew what time it was. They weren’t down there to browse. The greedy car dealer loved dealing with hustlers because they always paid with cash. He rushed Nard into his office while Black walked around the gigantic car lot.
He was mesmerized at the vast collection of automobiles. The Jaguars, Volvos, BMWs, Benz’s and Porsches in every make and model stared back at him. Black lusted hard after one of these status symbols until Nard came out on the lot and busted his bubble.
“Don’t even think about it, yo. You not coppin’ one of these rides. For a dude ya age, it’ll be more trouble than it’s worth,” Nard said firmly.
“How you figure?” Black demanded to know, his pockets right and ready.
“Look how young you look. You ain’t even got a mustache yet. Police gonna be pullin’ you over and shit, B-More ain’t but so big. There ain’t but so many places you could drive a Jag or a Benz without getting noticed. One of these cars will get you hotter than fish grease,” Nard said, trying to explain this without any disagreements between him and his star pupil.
It was settled. Black copped a black, slightly-used Toyota Forerunner with chrome rims, bumpers and crash bars. He thought this rough-looking truck would enhance his image.
The sticker price of the vehicle was $25,000, but Nard talked the dealer down to $20,000, which he already knew was in Black’s pocket. The dealer accepted the cash and took care of the paperwork. He placed the title and registration in Black’s mother’s name. Then he slapped the temporary tags on the rear window and they were off.
Black successfully managed to navigate his way back to B-More following Nard. He was the talk of the hood, styling and profiling on the block. Things were all good for Black. He was coming up in the game. But everybody knows what goes up must come down.
Chapter 11
What a difference a year makes. In that time span, Nard had handpicked Black out of all his workers to run a new dope shop on Preston and Bond Street. Besides this promotion, he had just recently purchased a brand new black convertible Porsche 911 Turbo. He was rapidly rising in the ranks of the drug world and in life. Now he had his own shop to run. Nard fronted him the weight so his come-up was a given. He had the responsibility of hiring and firing his own workers and runners, and you know he liked that.
Black set the pay scale and he paid them. He wasn’t a scrooge when it came to understanding the next man had to eat. However, Black ran a tight ship. Every worker was to be on the block before shop opened at 7 a.m. or they’d have their pay docked at the end of the day.
The dope Black had was raw and it was knocking other hustlers’ product out the box. He quickly became Nard’s number one moneymaker, which was impressive considering Nard had quite a few well-established drug shops running.
Being that dope fiends were known for being fiercely loyal to whom and where they copped their dope from, Black used all kinds of gimmicks to attract new customers. He played on their greedy nature, giving out free testers while others sold theirs. He understood that if he sold more of the product at a reduced price, he would still see a substantial profit. The money was in the quick flip and how fast he sold the dope.
Being boss doesn’t come without its share of headaches, though. When problems arose, Black had to personally nip them in the bud.
“Twenty-seven thousand, five hundred,” Black counted out loud. The money was still short by $1,500. He and his lieutenant, Stan, were counting and recounting last night’s take over and over again.
“The money was short yesterday, too, yo, by two-thousand. I didn’t say nothin’ because I wanted to see something. Now, I know for sure, yo, that somebody’s stealing,” he said as he looked at Stan.
Stan’s chick
en pox-marked face showed an expression of puzzlement. He arched an eyebrow and quickly replied, “Don’t’ look at me. You know I would never cross you like that, yo.”
Stan now had a worried look on his face. He knew who the culprit was. He was the one who had personally vouched to get the kid the job.
“Fuck you talkin’ ‘bout, yo. I put you in charge of these niggas. They answer to you and you answer to me! You supposed to be on top of this shit. I pay you to direct the traffic and you can’t even do that right. When I find out who the sneak thief is, I’ma take his head off and I should take yours right along with his, yo!” Black said, glaring daggers at Stan.
Stan was petrified of Black just like everybody else. Black was known for carrying a gun at all times and everyone knew he’d use it. Stan was scared he was about to use it on him, but on the contrary, Black didn’t suspect Stan. Actually, he trusted him to a certain degree. If he thought it was Stan, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. Black would have already killed him.
“Go get that work from downstairs! Shit, I might as well count that up too, and see how much of my shit is missing,” Black instructed.
Like a flunky, Stan went and fetched the dope that was hidden in the basement of the stash house. When he returned, he passed Black the bundles of dope. They were taped together so they now resembled a brick. Black unwrapped them and began the painstaking process of recounting them. Stan looked intently over Black’s shoulder praying that shit was there. He was in enough trouble as it was. Please let it be right, he thought to himself.
“This shit is short too, yo,” Black growled, as Stan began to move away from him.
There’s only four hundred bundles here. It’s supposed to be five hundred. Who the fuck been in here besides you?” Black asked, ready to tear shit up.
“Myles, this the only nigga I ever let up here, yo,” Stan quickly confessed, hoping Black wouldn’t be even more upset.
“You ain’t supposed to have nobody up in here, yo. No bitches, no workers, not even ya mother. This ain’t no fucking hangout, motherfuckers ain’t ordering take out in this motherfucker. This is a stash house. You only come here when you have to put up the money or get some more dope. You supposed to be protecting this shit, motherfucker. From now on, don’t bring nobody with you. Matter a fact, we changin’ houses. Too many people know about this one, thanks to you!” Black said, frowning his face as if to say ‘why’.
Stan just stood there. He couldn’t say anything to really defend himself. Truth was, he was too busy trying to play boss around Myles, who ended up turning around and robbing him. Myles knew he fucked with Black, but to hear Stan tell it, he was the man. Now look how the tables had turned.
“Where the fuck is Myles at?” he asked Stan.
“I don’t know, yo. He ain’t show up today,” Stan muttered.
“I guess the fuck he didn’t. Motherfucker done robbed my stash and shit and you don’t fuckin’ know,” Black said heated, as he walked past him and rolled his eyes. “What the fuck do you know motherfucker?”
“I don’t know,” Stan said, truly not knowing at that moment.
“Well know this. Both you motherfuckers gonna be taught a lesson. You, I’m docking your shit for a week’s pay for being so fuckin’ stupid. This week you work for free. Maybe puttin’ in work and not ballin’ will help you get your mind right,” Black said, knockin’ that nigga back down to size.
“But, Black…,” Stan weakly protested.
“But, what? What, motherfucker?” Black said, shooting him a cold hard stare, letting him know that he wasn’t playin’.
“Nothin, yo,” Stan dejectedly said, accepting the monetary loss. It could be worse. His ass could be standing with Myles meeting their maker together.
Success hadn’t made Black soft. If anything, he was harder and hungrier than ever. The more power he got, the more he wanted. He couldn’t believe somebody had the audacity to steal from him. There was no way Myles wouldn’t be made an example of what would happen if you fucked with Black. The streets were watching and waiting to see how he handled this situation. If he didn’t lay down the law, every dope fiend and their mother would be lining up to rob him too. Murder was the only deterrent, the only message he wanted to send. The only message the streets respected.
Later that day, Black cruised Myles’ Patterson Park neighborhood. He was looking high and low for him. He checked all his usual hangouts, but he had no luck finding him. The more he searched, the madder he became. Day turned into night, but Black still wasn’t ready to give up the hunt.
Like loose change, an old enemy dropped right into his lap. It was inconceivable all the times he thought he had seen him. For Black, this was nothing more than payback. For him, it would be a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Walking right in front of his car while Black was stopped at the light looking for bitch ass Myles was Squirrel. The man who killed his father was right there, plain as day.
Black was positive it was him. He could never forget his face. How could he? Though Squirrel had aged badly over the years, which could be attributed to his heavy use of heroin and years of neglect, he still had those same sleepy eyes. His eyes were a dead giveaway. Here he was looking bummy and straggling along in search of an all-night shop.
The streets were somewhat deserted at this hour of the night. Only the cops and criminals were out, both trying their best to look inconspicuous. Black quietly parked his car and started following his intended victim. He waited all these years to avenge his father’s death and now finally, he would.
Black watched Squirrel wander from spot to spot, following him within a two black radius. Squirrel was going from what looked like one shooting gallery to the next, which was merely your average abandoned building that served its purpose as a dope spot. Black was close enough to him to put a bullet in his back. He could kill him like a coward and Squirrel would have never known what hit him, but Black was no coward. He wanted to look at him in his eyes and see his fear. He wanted Squirrel to know why he was going to die. He wanted him to see his pain and what he took from him. He wanted Squirrel to die like his father had, shot dead like a dog in the street.
“Yo, old head, hold up!” Black shouted, thinking quickly.
Approximately a half block ahead of him, Squirrel could barely hear him through the dirty knit cap he had pulled down tightly over his ears. It was a nippy fall night. Signifying, he spun around toward the direction of the noise. From that distance, he thought Black was the dope man. Chasing, he was desperate for some dope. He stopped and waited for Black to catch up.
Faking like he was out of breath, Black said, “Damn, old head you movin’ pretty fast, yo. I been tryin’ to catch up wit’ you for a couple of blocks. Old head, you wanna make some money, yo?”
“Hell yeah!” Squirrel said, immediately thinking about how broke he was and how high he could be. Presently, he was looking for another dope fiend to go half with him on a bag of dope. He only had $3 dollars to his name.
“Umm, what I got to do?” Squirrel asked, thinking his dumb luck couldn’t be changing even though he was ready to do anything for some money or a bag of dope. Squirrel was ill; he had swallowed his pride a long time ago. He was living a foul life, doing any and everything imaginable except fucking and sucking dick for a blast.
“I’m getting evicted tomorrow, yo. I gotta be out in the morning. I got this floor model television I need help lifting into the back of the U-Haul truck. Help me out and I’ll hit you off wit’ a couple of bags of dope and ten bucks,” Black said, throwing in the dope to spice up the deal.
He went in his pockets and peeled off a ten-dollar bill, handing it to Squirrel. The stack of money caught his eye, further enticing him. He took the bait, hook, line and sinker.
“How far we got to go to ya house?” he asked excitedly.
“Oh, it’s right around the corner. We just gotta take the alley, old head, I’m dirty, yo. I don’t want no knockers running up on us while I�
��m carrying all these bundles of dope,” Black said, emphasizing the word dope, running his game.
“Damn, youngin’, can I get mines now?” Squirrel greedily inquired.
“Slow ya roll, yo. I’m gonna take care of you, old head, as soon as we’re done. I got some raw, too. It will be worth your wait.”
That was all Squirrel needed to hear. That alone was reason enough for him to go along with Black. He would have followed him to west hell and back for a bag of raw. Briskly, they walked through the alleys until Black found the deserted area he was looking for. They were halfway through the alley, just deep enough so no good Samaritan could see them.
Pretending like he was home, Black climbed up a few steps that led to a house. With his back turned, he went into his pockets, faking like he was taking out some keys to open the door.
Where’s the U-Haul truck, wondered Squirrel, about to ask. Then, seemingly from out of nowhere, Black turned with gun in hand. Squirrel almost had a heart attack as fear suddenly gripped him. His mind flashed back to all the shiesty things he had done to burn people out of dope and dollars. Stunts he pulled last week alone were memorable.
Is this the dude I sold those bad VCRs to, the ones with the cement brings in the back? Or maybe he’s the one whose stash I stole from behind the trash can.
The chrome .357 Magnum that Black clutched stared at Squirrel with a vengeance. Even in the shadows of the alley, he could see the cannon’s outline and it made him beg for his life.
“I’m sorry, yo. Please don’t kill me,” he pleaded. Squirrel was sorry and he didn’t know what he’d done. “I got a wife and kids to feed. Don’t shoot me.”
Squirrel was seeking some sympathy by bringing up the very people in his life that he neglected every day while chasing dope, but Black wasn’t swayed by his emotional pleas. His father had loved ones, too.
B-More Careful Page 13
