Tone felt fortunate to run into the right person on his first trip to the hood. That was all Tone needed to hear. He was completely sold.
“Yo, Shorty,” Tone announced. “I’ll see you later.”
“New York, lemme holla at you for a second,” Shorty replied before Tone and Stew could drive away.
“Yeah,” Tone responded, taking a few steps away from the car.
“Say, New York,” Shorty began as humbly as possible. “You wouldn’t happen to have a few dollars on you that you could spare. I’m on e right now.”
Tone dug into his pockets and handed over the first bill he touched. It was a ten-dollar bill.
Shorty’s eyes lit up in anticipation of the bag of dope that she would soon be copping.
“Thanks New York. You alright, yo,” Shorty said.
Tone knew in the grand scheme of things, it was a small price to pay in exchange for all the helpful information Shorty had given him. He saw value in Shorty and it was way more than ten dollars. If no one else saw value in her, Tone certainly did.
“You’re welcome,” Tone told her.
“We gotta go,” Stew interrupted as he blew the horn. “Shorty, we’ll holla at you later yo.”
From the minute Tone hopped in the car and they pulled off, Stew began bragging and boasting about the sex he had just had.
“I tore that pussy up yo,” Stew told Tone.
“Yo, take me back to the crib,” he interrupted.
“Why?” Stew began. “I’m about to show you the strip. Introduce you to a few of my people so you can do ya thang out here yo.”
“We can do that anotha day,” he explained. “Yo, just take me back to the crib before ya cousin start buggin’.”
“Tone, I know you ain’t gone let no pussy get in the way of you getting’ some money, yo,” Stew told him.
“Nigga, look who talkin’?” Tone said sarcastically. “I’ma tell you what I ain’t gone do. Let another nigga fuck up my shit. I do a good job of that myself.”
Tone’s statement had been an excuse to get away from him. It seemed like he spent the entire day sightseeing, smoking weed or just chilling with Stew. He felt like he had wasted enough time with this dude.
In Tone’s book if Stew couldn’t be used then he was useless. He served no purpose. Stew acted like he didn’t want to make any money, so Tone didn’t want to be around him. He didn’t want to be sidetracked by Stew’s nonsense any more. He wanted to make money so he had to hang around like-minded individuals.
Stew laughed. “Alright Tone, I hear you. I’ll drop you off. I’ll holler at you tomorrow yo.”
Fuck you! Tone thought. Tomorrow he planned on striking out on his own. He felt the urge to make something happen by himself. Stew’s heart wasn’t into hustling. Tone could tell. A real hustler eats, sleeps and breathes the streets. Hustling was merely something Stew did from time to time. At the moment this was very much Tone’s life. Hustling was the only hope he had.
“Yeah, do that,” Tone replied.
On the way home Tone couldn’t stop thinking about Shorty. He hadn’t been this pumped up about a block in awhile. He felt like he had connected with her in a way he might not never have with Stew. He knew sometimes it took a lame person to bring two real people together.
Despite her flaws, her drug habit, Tone felt Shorty was a real one. But only time would tell.
5
Normally Tone wasn’t a morning person at all. However, on this day his body’s internal alarm clock had awoken him in more than enough time. He was already dressed by the time his girlfriend woke up. He could hardly contain his excitement, not knowing what today’s adventure would hold. Today would be his first taste of the action. Tone would get to see what the hustle was really like in the streets of Baltimore. He wouldn’t be observing any more. From here on, he would be a fulltime participant in the drug game.
“Whenever you ready,” Tone said through the bathroom. “I’m ready.”
“Okay,” Sonya replied as she finished brushing her teeth.
Tone walked back into the bedroom and inspected himself in the full-length mirror. He was concerned that his nine-millimeter that he carried in his waistband might be too revealing. He adjusted the weapon until he was completely satisfied the bulge was gone.
The thought of the gun remained with him as Sonya entered the room to grab her book bag. He moved cautiously away from her, not wanting her to have too good of a look.
“I’m ready,” she announced, grabbing her books off the floor.
“We out,” Tone said.
“You sure about this?” she wondered. “I mean, goin’ to a drug block to meet a junkie you just met yesterday? How smart is that?”
“I’m doin’ what I gotta do,” he replied strongly. “Lemme worry about that.”
“I’d feel way more comfortable if my cousin went with you,” she stated.
“Nah, Stew good right where he at,” he remarked. “I ain’t got time for his B.S today. I’m makin’ moves.”
Although Sonya voiced her concerns she knew she couldn’t tell Tone how to move in the streets. Tone was too stubborn to heed her advice or listen to her woman’s intuition. Still, his safety was her number one concern.
“If anything happens…..” her voice trailed off.
“Yo, stop talkin’ like that. I hate when you get like this,” he huffed.
Sonya felt bad that Tone was mad at her, but she hated when Tone made her feel guilty about caring so deeply about him. She merely was trying to imply she didn’t think it was wise to be making drug related moves on his own, without anyone watching his back. He knew she had a point. He had come to the same conclusion himself. Yet he’d rather not rely on someone so unfocused as her cousin Stew.
“Sorry Tone, that’s not what I meant,” Sonya apologized. She promised herself next time she’d keep her feelings to herself. It was just one of those things that she always thought. But this time she mistakenly verbalized it.
Sonya insinuating something could possibly happen to him really bothered Tone. He didn’t understand why she would put that negative vibe into the air.
Tone snapped. “Don’t be sorry, just don’t do it.”
Within a few moments things were seemingly back to normal, although the silence between them told a different story. After their verbal exchange, the vibe was noticeably different. Sonya noticed that the excitement that had been so apparent in Tone’s eyes had been replaced by apprehension. His mood had suddenly changed. Inwardly, she was worried for Tone’s safety, but she needed to keep up the brave act. However, she knew once Tone left her presence she’d worry about him all day long.
After exiting the apartment and getting in the car, Tone instructed his girlfriend on exactly where to drop him off. God forbid if anything happened to him at least Sonya would know where to come looking for him.
“Be careful,” Sonya told him as the car came to a stop.
“I got this,” Tone assured her as he kissed her goodbye. “See you later.”
“What time you’ll be home?” she asked.
“When I’m done,” Tone replied without looking back.
She shook her head. Sonya watched her boyfriend as he walked away. Tone’s over-confidence showed her that he needed protecting, if from no one else than himself.
“Yo, Shorty here?” Tone asked, staring at the skinny junkie who opened the door.
“Shorty!!!” the man hollered into the house. “Somebody here for you.”
“Let him in,” she called out.
Upon hearing her animated voice, the doorway opened up and Tone was allowed to enter. He was lead to the kitchen.
“You can have a seat. Shorty be right down,” the man said before rushing off upstairs.
Tone took a look at the raggedy dinette set and the flimsy mismatch chairs that looked too weak to hold up under his body weight. Immediately he decided against sitting. With no one around he was free to take inventory of his shabby surroundings. He looked up
and saw paint chips dangling from the ceiling, grease stained walls and roaches roaming freely almost everywhere he looked. Tone made a point not sit or lean against anything. He didn’t want anything to crawl on him or take any roaches home with him.
This place was a crack house, a dope spot, shooting gallery or whatever else you wanted to call it. There was no way any human being not under the influence of drugs would willingly live here.
In plain sight on the kitchen table, he saw dozens of loose, multicolored crack vials scattered about. They were probably leftovers from a recent drug binge. Nearby an ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts and ashes spilling on the table. A few empty bottles of fifths of liquor, the inexpensive, strong kind that winos and junkies drink, seemed to litter the floor, cheap liquor with names like Night Train, Thunder Bird and Wild Irish Rose.
Tone had been in more than his share of drug houses back in New York, but this was amongst the worst. He could only imagine what the rest of the house looked like. In fact, he didn’t even want to know. He was at the point where all he wanted to do was handle his business and leave.
“New fuckin’ York,” Shorty smiled, flashing a mouthful of missing or rotting teeth. “You ready to get this money this mornin’, yo?”
“I was born ready,” Tone stated.
“Show me what you got,” Shorty told him.
Quickly, Tone stuck his hand inside his hoodie pocket and removed a clear sandwich bag. He handed the doubled sandwich bag over Shorty. It contained around a half an ounce of powder cocaine.
“That’s it?” she wondered as she took possession of the drug.
“For now,” he replied, seeing no need to explain himself further.
Shorty untied the knot from the outside bag then removed the bag that contained the cocaine. She held it up toward the light. Her eyes seemed to light up when she saw the silver shimmering particles of Fishscale cocaine. She opened the bag, dabbing a little bit on her finger to test its purity. It instantly numbed her tongue.
She proclaimed loudly, “New York, we gotta winner here!”
Tone was happy that Shorty thought so highly of his coke. If she felt that way about it, chances are customers on the streets would too.
Immediately, Shorty went to work. She quickly rinsed out the remnants of some left over Kool-Aid in a dirty jelly jar that lay in the sink. Then she went inside the refrigerator and grabbed a box of baking soda. Next, she dumped half of the product into the jar, along with a small amount of baking soda that she carefully measured with her eyes. Shorty poured some water inside the jar from the faucet, turned on the front stove pilot and sat the jar on the stove.
“We gone rock half of this up for the smokers and leave the other half just like it is for the shooters,” Shorty advised.
“Shorty, you ever did this before?” Tone asked, knowing there was a risk involved whenever coke was transformed to crack.
Shorty sucked her teeth. “I do this shit in my sleep, New York.”
The only reason Tone asked was because he was well aware that he could lose more than a few grams of cocaine in the process if Shorty didn’t know what she was doing. Tone was in no position to lose anything.
“I cooked up kilos for some of the biggest dope boys in the city,” she swore.
Tone had some reservations about that statement. But then again, he knew she had no reason to lie to him. Since she seemed to be telling the truth about everything else, he had no choice but to have faith in Shorty.
Tone’s eyes were transfixed on the stove where the water inside the jar began to bubble. Shorty began to stir it repeatedly. Once the baking soda burned off and the cocaine began to gel, she removed the jar from the stove and filled it up with cold water. When the cocaine hardened, Shorty placed it on a paper towel. She had successfully transformed Tone’s powder cocaine into what was known on the streets of Baltimore as Ready Rock.
“Waalaa,” she announced. “This what I do.”
“I see,” Tone remarked playfully.
“Brought it all back,” Shorty added, admiring the cookie shaped piece of cocaine inside the jar.
Tone nodded his head in agreement.
No sooner than the words were out of her mouth, Shorty did something strange, at least from Tone’s point of view. She produced a small crack pipe from her back pocket and broke off a small sample of the drug, placing it inside the stem.
“Ain’t no shame in my game, I do what I do,” Shorty said as she lit the drug and inhaled deeply. “Don’t you ever let me hear about you fuckin’ wit’ this shit, yo.”
“Never that,” he assured her.
With sympathetic eyes, Tone stared at Shorty, as if to say to each his own. This wasn’t a surprise to him at all. He had suspected as much all along. But to know someone is getting high is one thing. To see it is something totally different.
Getting high was Shorty’s weakness just like hustling crack was Tone’s. Truthfully, Tone didn’t care about her addiction, as long as it didn’t interfere with them getting some money together. Shorty could do whatever, as far as he was concerned, she was grown.
For Shorty life wasn’t always like this. She once was a law abiding, tax-paying citizen who suffered a severe broken leg on her job as a mail carrier. At the hospital she was prescribed morphine to help her cope with the pain from her injury. From the first time she tried the drug, Shorty got hooked. A monster was created. Her life began to spiral downhill. Drugs got a hold of her and never let go. Essentially, Shorty sacrificed a good life with her close-knit family for a dark, lonely life of addiction.
“That’s some good shit there, yo,” she swore while exhaling a thick cloud of crack smoke in the opposite direction. “Time to rock and roll yo.”
Shorty put her makeshift crack pipe down and sprung into action. She went upstairs and retrieved a clear sandwich bag filled with black top vials. At the kitchen table the duo proceeded to bag up the entire batch they cooked up, placing the contents inside the vials. Whatever crumbs remained, Shorty convinced Tone to hand out as testers to a select group of drug addicts. Initially, it was those free testers that caused a buzz and sparked a cocaine feeding frenzy.
From his experience of hustling on the streets of New York, Tone knew people didn’t sell drugs. Drugs sold themselves. All one had to do was be there to exchange the product for the currency. It was commerce, albeit an illegal one, supply and demand. The same business principles applied.
Tone sold out quickly, with Shorty working the streets. The news about the good coke traveled fast. He had to return home to get more drugs and repeat the process all over again. This time Tone brought even more cocaine than he had before. He had the idea that he was going to make more money than he did last time. And he did.
All day long Tone stayed inside the dope house guarding the stash, while Shorty sold the drugs, hand-to-hand on the street and in the alleys along Homewood Avenue. He had no idea if Shorty was tapping the vials or shorting him on money. Nor did he care. Everything went smoothly; he seemed to make money hand over fist. At the end of the day, just before all of the vials were sold, Tone paid Shorty in product and cash, at her insistence.
“I told you we was goin’ to kill ‘em, yo,” Shorty bragged as they exited the house through the back door and walked through the alley toward the main street.
It was nighttime when Tone finally emerged from the stash house. The darkness that had descended over the city had suddenly made him realize the drastic shift in time. It was then that he came to the realization just how long he had been cooped up in the stash house. That didn’t amaze him, it was the couple thousand dollars he had in his pockets that really impressed him.
Today was a good day, he thought. Tomorrow gone be even better.
With Shorty escorting him, they matched each other step for step as they walked a few blocks in search of a hack. Then suddenly Tone’s search for a ride to take him home turned into looking for the first place they could find to get off the streets.
Tone
heard it before he ever saw a thing.
“Yo, what the fuck is that?” Tone asked.
The loud chopping sound of a police helicopter’s rotating blades flooded the area as people began to scatter. A spotlight soon encircled Tone and Shorty, dousing them in a bright light. Suddenly, Tone had his answer.
Oh my fuckin’ God! he thought.
Never in his life had he experienced anything like this. This was something straight out of a movie. His heart sank to the pit of his stomach. As hard as he focused on staying cool, a nervous energy began surging through his body. Tone had no idea of what was going to happen next.
Ain't no way in hell I'm goin' out like this. I'm not gettin' arrested on my first day on the block, he vowed.
Shorty saw the look of concern on his face and quickly addressed it.
“Don’t look up, New York,” Shorty warned. “It’s the police. Put ya head down and keep walkin’ yo. Just follow me.”
That was easier said than done. Tone found himself sneaking a peak upward through his peripheral vision. However, the spotlight was blinding and he couldn’t get a good look at the helicopter. So he had to settle for feeling its threatening presence instead.
Tone’s thoughts raced. Inwardly, he shook his head at his sudden reversal of fortune. One minute he was feeling like he was on top of the world, and the next he was feeling like he was going to jail. Tone abandoned his instinctive impulse of running. Instead he chose to take Shorty’s advice. Something told him she knew what she was talking about.
The police helicopter continued to follow them as it hovered above, barely atop of the power lines and the rooftops of the row houses, sending trash and dust swirling around them. Yet side by side they continued to walk, remaining cool.
As quickly as it had started, it ended. The police helicopter suddenly raised its altitude, turned off its spotlight and disappeared into the East Baltimore City night skies. At the very last minute, Tone was able to lift his head and catch a glimpse of it.
Instantly Tone was relieved that the heat was off of them. Slowly he was able to pull himself together. The weird reaction he experienced to his first encounter with a Baltimore City police helicopter was understandable. It was then that Tone came to the realization that the drug game in Baltimore was a different kind of beast and nothing that he had experienced in his hood could have prepared him for it.
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