With great pride, and with his chest stuck out, Kalif stood his ground. He could care less where he was at. Or that he was at a disadvantage, given the number of potential foes in the room. He’d never let the next man hoe him, eight to eighty. As far as Kalif was concerned, he had learned the flipping-houses game and would make that do what it did. He was a hustler. Born to be in the streets and never go legit. So this denial of a favor was only a temporary minor setback.
Li’l James, Pit Boy, and Keys were hungry to put in work just because. Each of them was ready to get back to work. Although their pockets weren’t particularly hurting, they definitely could use a bump. Amir wasn’t hurting for cash any way it went. No matter what kind of dirt he did, he made sure that at 9:00 a.m. he was in class. He was now in the second year of his pursuit of a bachelor’s degree, and his parents made sure he was straight. Kalif was just as smart as Amir and Hakim, but he had decided long ago that the regular, straitlaced nine-to-five lifestyle was not for him.
“Old man, you funny as fuck with that mouth of yours. But dig this fly shit right here. I don’t give two hot shit fucks if your peoples over there got guns on they hips or not. Unless they gonna produce them bitches and put in work, then they best fall back, ’cause I ain’t scared to die. But I bet I skull drag all three y’all sand niggas around this bitch by them long beards first. Trust that.”
“You talk big,” Nieem managed to slip as Kalif ranted.
“Old man, I live big too. You better ask about me. And of course I don’t know what you and Ibn was saying in that old, secret squirrel language and shit, but I ain’t no dummy. Far from it. So if he don’t wanna do any more business with me, I’m good with that. Not half-assed good with that. All the fuck way good. Tell that fuck boy I said I’m gonna eat regardless. The struggle ain’t never that real for me to bow down to no man. I only lower my head to Allah.”
Kalif dug his hand in his pocket. After removing the stack with the royal-blue rubber band, he peeled off a ten, since it was the smallest bill he had. “And after you just came on me about that weak-ass processed juice you around here selling to my people, here you go. And your petty, crippled ass, you can keep my change. Just consider it my li’l contribution to that Taliban you probably funding. Stay up and don’t get deported.”
Kalif turned to leave with confidence. He was heated that the old man and Ibn thought that they could treat him as if he was a chump. He had never once tried to portray that he was the richest man in any situation, but he was in the game. And the game he played dictated that if there was a way to make money, a real man would make it happen.
After he walked out the door, he encountered the same set of people posted up on the revenue prowl. By the expression on Kalif’s face, the man wanting some spare change knew better than to try to push up on him for a contribution. That was a dead end and a no go for him. Yet, in true Detroit fashion, the guys trying to sell weed were relentless. No sooner had Kalif stepped foot out the door than they were on their hustle like flies on shit.
“Yo, we got that fire. Shit Kush,” one said, hyped.
“Naw. I already done told y’all I’m straight.”
Still, the other guy was persistent, hell-bent on not taking no for an answer. Cocky, he took his shot, cutting into Kalif. “Come on, dawg. Spend some of that bread I know you holding on to, to playboy with us. The play is good.”
Kalif slowed down. Then he stopped altogether. His mind clicked. Sometimes he would put up with some random bullshit; other times he wouldn’t. And the fact that these dudes had been on his head so hard and then had the nerve to call themselves sizing him . . . Well, he had a problem. Normally, he didn’t get headaches; he gave them. But after that round he had just had inside with the old man, who had also tried to insult his gangster, it was go time. He felt one coming on.
“What the fuck you just say to me? Do y’all know me or something?” Kalif growled.
Not expecting that reaction, both guys kinda fell back. By the way Kalif was dressed and by the whip he was pushing, they knew chances were good that he was strapped.
“It’s all good, my nigga. We was just trying to put you on, that’s all. We good, though,” said the second guy.
“So you slimeball bitches was trying to put me on? Imagine that. Where in the fuck they do that at? Y’all got me twisted.”
“We said our bad, damn playboy. You bugging.” The first guy threw up his hand as if he was dismissing Kalif.
Instantly enraged by their blatant disrespect, he ran up on one of them. With a clenched fist, he fired up on the guy. His fist slammed into the man’s jaw several good times, and blood started to leak from his victim’s mouth. Kalif could easily see that the dude was dazed from the attack. Allowing him to fall onto the black tar pavement, he set his sights on his homeboy, who seemed to be frozen in his tracks. When the two locked eyes, the guy snapped out of his trance and tried to get in motion. Sadly, it was too late. Kalif snatched him up by the back of his collar. After slapping him twice, he body slammed him. With both weed salesmen now lying side by side on the pavement, Kalif warned them about fucking with people who didn’t wanna be fucked with. To add insult to injury, he then vindictively stomped on both their faces, rearranging their dental. Seeing even more blood spilled made his dick get rock hard.
Not fearing retaliation, Kalif turned his back. Slowly, he continued to walk toward his truck, praying that either of the men had the courage to want some more smoke with him. Kalif lived for days like this. If they had time for it, so did he. Before Kalif pulled off, he separated his money once more. After returning the original amount to the glove compartment, he was ready to roll. The cowards were still on the ground, nursing their wounds. Fake-ass pussies. He turned on the engine, and then he popped one of his Islamic speeches into the CD player. He wanted to get his mind right and centered as he drove. He’d tried to go another route with flipping the houses, but now it would be back to business as usual.
After pulling out into traffic, he weaved in and out as he drove down Joy Road. When he got to Greenfield Road, he made a left, then hit 96. He was headed back out to the room he was staying at. Once there, he would devise a plan and put a few irons in the fire and set a couple of traps. He would eat, and the streets would feed him, period.
* * *
Nieem went to the front area of the gas station, holding the ten-dollar overpayment for the juice. He peered out the door as Kalif, head held high, walked to his truck. He watched Kalif suddenly stop when he was interrupted by the pests that were relentlessly posted around his gas station. Nieem waited to see if he would purchase their product before he would pass judgment on Ibn’s associate. The three men appeared to be having some sort of verbal exchange. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Kalif lunged at one of the guys. Nieem witnessed Kalif putting his hands on the guy and then manhandling his partner. Holding on to his cane as his legs grew weak, Nieem got excited. It was like watching a prizefighter go to work. Nieem, a proud man dressed in Muslim garb and a fake good citizen was glad that the green light he had installed had been not working properly for months. Therefore, there was no video footage of the attack streaming to the police department, and the cops had nothing to post on Facebook or other social media outlets if they decided to pursue this lawbreaker.
Watching the slick-talking, brutal beast finally drive away, the elderly man smiled as he rubbed his beard, the very same one Kalif had just threatened to skull-drag him by in the storeroom. He was not angered by the way that beast had just spoken to him; he was actually elated. Kalif had all the makings of a true warrior. Nieem could see in his eyes that he had integrity and would not fold for any man, no matter what the circumstances or the situation was. He knew that this Rasul, whom Ibn respected and feared so much, had indeed raised his son properly, old school style. Something deep inside of Nieem was saying that he and some of his colleagues’ prayers had just been answered. After kicking the people begging off his premises, he headed back to the storeroom, then
to his office. Once behind his desk, he pulled a small bag out of a hidden drawer. Fumbling with the contents of the bag through the plastic, he reached over for his cell. In his homeland language, Nieem spoke by phone to three different people, two of whom were overseas.
“As-salamu alaykum,” Nieem greeted colleague after colleague, in great spirits and with blessed hope for the near future.
“Wa alaykumu as-salam,” each colleague replied, elated to speak to Nieem.
In each conversation, after asking about their family’s health and overall well-being and attending to other formalities, Nieem got to the reason for his call. “Yes, aetaqid ’anana darabna aldhahab. We have struck gold. Laqad altaqayat lltw bijandiin. Moments ago, I met a soldier. Hu fi alwaqie mutawahish. Yes, yes, he is indeed a savage.”
Nieem explained what he wanted to do, and all the men were in agreement. They trusted Nieem’s opinion and knew he would not steer them or their consortium in the wrong direction. The stage was set. After placing the calls, Nieem sat back in his chair. Locking his fingers, he rested his hands on his large stomach. After closing his eyes, he replayed the encounter that had just taken place in the storeroom. A slight smirk graced his face. Allahu Akbar. We will soon meet again, young Kalif. Very, very soon.
Chapter 16
After retrieving his personal items from the locker in the prison’s waiting room, Rasul headed to his vehicle. Blessed that he had not been forced to see the inside of a prison cell in over twenty years, he looked up to the heavens and thanked Allah for His saving grace. His homeboy was not as fortunate: he had just come from Baraga Max up north and was now being housed at Ernest C. Brooks Correctional Facility in Muskegon. S. P. Black was doing his third tour of duty. The first was for capital murder, and this go-around was for felon in possession of a firearm. Which to Rasul and many others was straight-up bullshit. How could any man that lived in the black-hearted city of Detroit not be expected to be armed at all times? It didn’t matter what time of day or night it was, Motown had it jumping where crime was involved.
With real business on the floor to handle, Rasul knew he needed a face-to-face with his peoples. Besides hello and goodbye, there wasn’t much of anything he chose to say over the phone or in letters. Fuck GTL’s good recording asses and double fuck JPay’s handwritten statements. Conducting anything on either one was an indictment waiting to happen. So when need be, a road trip to the Feds’ joints take up north, down below, or even across state lines was nothing to take. Having gotten a clear understanding of matters with his fam, Rasul was now ready to head back to the city. Before pulling away from the prison, he grabbed his cell phone from under the seat, where he had it stashed. He hit the side button, and the phone’s screen was illuminated. Rasul saw he had eleven missed calls, as well as five text messages and a few voicemails.
Damn! What in the hell is going on with all this? Fatima, Hakim, and Kalif? Let me make these calls.
He called Fatima first. No more than two complete rings sound before his irate wife answered.
“Hey, Fatima. What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“You didn’t listen to the voicemails I left you?”
“Naw. I just saw you called, and I called you right back. I didn’t even read these text messages I got. But what’s the deal? Tell me now.”
“The deal is that horrid monster came by here earlier.”
“What monster? What in the hell you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Kalif. He just showed up here out the clear blue sky.”
“Okay and . . .”
“What you mean, okay and? Okay, and didn’t you tell him he was no longer welcome over here?”
“Yeah, I did tell him you felt that way.”
“Oh, so after all he did, you telling me you don’t feel that way too? You just threw me under the bus? Wow!”
“Wow, nothing. What about forgiveness, Fatima? It’s been months. I mean, after all, he is your son.”
Fatima was silent for a moment as she chose her words. She knew her husband wasn’t going to like her response. “No, Rasul, he is not my son. He never really was. No matter how much I tried to accept him as being so, he never was. Kalif is your son. Truth be told, he is the love child you and that rotten bitch Kenya wished y’all had had. Well, at least you wished. Now tell me I’m lying. You think I forgot how you played me over her back in the day? Remember?”
Rasul was silent as he recalled the conversation.
“Look, Fatima, I already told you, there’s no way in hell you gonna talk to me the way you did, let alone tell me what to do.”
“You act like that’s your woman, not me,” Fatima cried out through his cell, which was on speaker.
Rasul continued to fumble with the bassinet he’d just purchased for the newborn baby boy, not really caring about what she was saying. “Where is this conversation going? You gave me my keys back, so that’s what it is.”
“So okay, Rasul, you choosing her over me? Are you kidding me?”
After a few seconds of dead silence, Fatima regretfully got her answer. “Yeah, I guess so.” He lustfully thought about Kenya, who was upstairs, in his shower. “So go do you. I’m straight.”
“You act like you wanna fuck that dirty bitch!”
“Maybe I do. So, like I said, do you!”
The sound of Fatima’s voice brought him back to the present. “Yeah, Rasul, my supposed loving and forever devoted husband, remember that conversation we had? Yeah, of course you do!”
Fatima went on, refusing to give him a moment to speak. It took him nearly five minutes to take control of the conversation, and when he did, his words were powerful. Rasul was aggravated. Fatima would not let go of the past, and he was sick and tired of begging her to do so. “I’ma tell you what. I’m done hearing you complain and whine. I’m over all your throwing up the past in my face, and I’m damn straight tired of you dragging that boy every chance you get. You never liked him from the jump, and it showed. I don’t know what I was thinking about in the first place even marrying you. So guess what? You don’t need to threaten me anymore about taking the girls and leaving. I’ma do you one better. I’m gone. I’ll be by later to get some of my things. Shortly after that, you can expect that I will divorce you and move on. I will take care of my daughters, but I will move on. So yes, my dear, you are free.”
After that exchange, Rasul didn’t give his wife a chance to respond. Instead, he hung up on her so she could absorb what he’d just said. If she stepped to him in the correct manner, maybe he’d rescind what he’d said, or maybe he wouldn’t. But one thing was for sure. The way she was treating Kalif was ending now, today, this second. She knew the deal when she said “I do” years ago. She knew that he and Kalif were a package deal.
Not giving Fatima any more thought, he left the prison premises and parked at a nearby McDonald’s. There he read his text messages, which were all filled with empty threats from his wife. Delete. Delete. Delete. And delete a few more times. Then he proceeded to listen to his voicemails. Two of the most important ones, he replayed. They were from Kalif. He said he wanted to speak to him. He said it was very important. Damn. See? Mystery solved. He didn’t just pop up out of the clear blue sky. Kalif had called a few times, trying to get at me, and couldn’t. So yeah, he came by the house. Big fucking deal. My son came home. Fatima be doing the most overreacting.
After grabbing a coffee and filling up his tank, Rasul jumped on the highway. The next call he would make would be to his youngest son, Hakim. After hearing Fatima’s version of what happened, Rasul did not find it hard to guess what Hakim would have to say. After taking a nice-size gulp of the hot adrenaline booster, he dialed Hakim’s number. His son picked up right away.
“Hey, son. It’s me. What’s going on? How you feel?”
“Not much, Dad. I’m just heated. Have you spoken to Mom yet?”
“Yes, son. We just spoke briefly. But what’s going on that has you so up in arms?”
“Mom d
idn’t tell you Kalif came over here, looking for you?” Hakim’s tone was sarcastic, and his father sensed it right away.
“Matter of fact, she did. But why would that have you heated? Did he put his hands on you or something?”
“Well, no, but he was trying to show out in front of Stacy like he was some kinda big shot or something. Telling me to watch how I was speaking to him, like he was a boss.”
“So he showed out in front of that girl you insist on running with, huh?” Rasul slowed his speed down when he saw a state boy lurking. “Yeah, okay, but once again I asked you, Did he lay hands on you or bring any harm to you, your mother, or the girls?”
Hakim had been down this road before. He knew it was no more than a dead end. His father would never change when it came to Kalif. And just as he was done with his brother, he would now add his father to that short list. “Never mind. I’m good. My bad for even bringing my issues with that bloodthirsty lunatic to you anyhow.”
“Look, Hakim, you need to man up. You need to be responsible for you and how you carry your own self as a young man. Stop focusing on your brother and his faults, before I shine the light on yours. You do know you’re human, don’t you? We all are.”
“Yeah, I know we all human,” Hakim said begrudgingly.
“Okay, and just so you’ll know, nine outta ten times moving forward, you probably won’t have to worry about Kalif stopping by there, looking for me. So that’s one less thing on your plate to worry about. Now you can have free time to read your Bible.”
Hakim was done talking, as was Rasul. They ended the conversation before it got more out of hand. It had definitely been headed in that direction. Hakim’s resentment of both Rasul and Kalif had only gotten worse. As it stood now, he wished them both to hire fire. As for Rasul, he next prepared himself to get back in touch with his oldest boy, who he always felt needed him the most. He’d heard from some of his Muslim brothers that Kalif was heading toward a lengthy prison sentence or down what could end up being a deadly trail. Rasul dialed Kalif’s number, but after four or five rings, he met with a voicemail that wasn’t set up yet. He’d try again later.
Carl Weber's Kingpins Page 13
