Tokyo’s stomach was doing somersaults. She had nearly fifty thousand dollars on her person, and she couldn’t be more grateful to Hood and IG for vouching for her. They always treated her like a little sister, and because of them, she finally got out from under the oppressive environment she was in. Tokyo could do or buy whatever her heart desired, and it felt fucking great. She spoke, “Let’s go to the Diamond District first and get that out the way, and then we can hit Northern Boulevard.”
Both men nodded.
Joseph knew a drug dealer when he saw one, and these three individuals were about to make his slow-moving morning more profitable. He greeted them with warm smiles and respect as they approached his booth. He had two goals: the first was to not allow them to walk away to his competition, and the second was making a sale.
“Hello, my friends,” he announced grandly as if they were lifelong customers. “What can I help you with today?”
All three were already eyeing the expensive showpieces inside the display cases. Everything was beautiful under the fluorescent lighting. The dazzling diamonds mesmerized anyone who dared lay eyes on them, hypnotizing potential customers to spend all of their money no matter the consequences.
IG looked at the Hasidic Jewish man with his yarmulke and curly sideburns and smiled back. “We wanna look at some watches.”
Joseph didn’t even have to ask which brand. He jiggled the keys on his massive key ring and went straight to the men’s Rolex watches. He pulled out a case that held eight gold and platinum watches and beamed. Both Hood and IG rolled up their sleeves. This was a dream come true, the ultimate initiation into the big-boys club. They had finally made it.
Hood and IG both picked out gold watches flooded with diamonds. Joseph carefully placed watches on the men’s wrists and began to sell.
“These here watches represents status—they’re showstoppers,” Joseph said. “You won’t find anyone else in the city with either one of these watches.”
Hood wanted clarification. “No one got these joints?”
“No, sir,” he lied. “Rolex is a premium company. They made these one-of-a-kind watches for only the most elite customers.”
Both Hood and IG beamed. IG was already sold, but he liked hearing the history of the watches so he could repeat it to any and everyone he would come into contact with.
“Yo, how much?” Hood asked.
Joseph paused for dramatic purposes. He’d been at this a long time and knew how to play these naive fools. “Are you both going to buy these?”
They got amped, looking for a deal. “Yeah, and she gonna buy a watch too,” Hood replied.
Joseph eyed the young woman in her catsuit and smiled pleasantly. He exhaled. “Okay, then I could let these go for one hundred thousand each. And that’s only if it’s cash.”
Hood felt that was too high. “Nah, man. We spending a lot of money wit’ you. You gotta come better than that.”
Joseph scratched his head and pretended to be flustered. “She’s buying a watch too?”
Tokyo spoke up. “Yeah, but I don’t have as much money as them. I can’t go over twenty stacks.”
“Okay, if she’s going to spend twenty thousand, then I can let these go for ninety apiece, essentially giving the beautiful lady her watch for free.”
It went over everyone’s head that Joseph knew what twenty stacks translated to. But he was well-versed in street vernacular.
“Done,” IG said, but Hood wasn’t done negotiating. He didn’t want to seem petty, but IG had made them look thirsty. He shot IG a hard scowl, but IG didn’t care. There wasn’t any way he was removing the Rolex from his wrist; the bling, weight, and an aqua-blue crystal was every hustler’s dream.
It was now Tokyo’s turn. She picked out a gold presidential Rolex with a salmon-colored crystal and diamond bezel. The eighteen-carat gold against her dark-brown complexion popped. And within seconds she cried tears of happiness.
“What the fuck?” Hood said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nah, I’m just so happy. It’s something I always wanted.”
Now both IG and Tokyo had Hood looking stupid. He looked at Joseph and said, “Pardon us for a moment.”
He walked IG and Tokyo a few feet away with Joseph eyeing them intently. The watches weren’t paid for yet. Hood said, “Yo, I can’t take y’all anywhere. Y’all actin’ like y’all ain’t used to shit. You cryin’ in front of this cracker! All this money we ’bout to spend in here, he should be the one fuckin’ cryin’! From here on out, let me do the talkin’. Shut the fuck up if y’all know what’s really good.”
The trio walked back to the case and Hood and IG wanted to see the diamond chains. They wanted chains that hung as far south as possible. Whatever Joseph had that rested not too far from their dicks was what they wanted times two. As he threatened, Hood did the negotiating. No drug dealer’s makeover was complete without diamond earrings, so Joseph suggested they peruse his vast selection. IG passed. He wasn’t into men wearing earrings, and his ears weren’t even pierced, but Hood was ready.
Tokyo’s eyes yearned for a pair, but she had something more important to do with her money, which was buying a whip. Her pitiful look didn’t go unnoticed by her big bros, so they chipped in and bought her a five-carat pair to ball out in. She wanted to cry her appreciation but chilled this time. Overall, they spent a grand total of $520,000 with Joseph. It was more than double what an average consumer would have been charged. But what did they know?
They pulled up to the used car dealership stuntin’. Their newly purchased bling had all their heads swollen. They had money, and they wanted everyone to know this. The buffet of luxury vehicles on the lot had them salivating. They almost didn’t know where to begin. Should they test drive an Audi? Does the CLS 400 speak to niggas? Or, is the Range more practical in their line of work?
The overweight car salesman did a rushed trot over to the potential buyers before any of his coworkers got wind there were drug dealers on their lot. This trio stunk of cash buyers from a mile away. George greeted them with a wide, toothy grin. His cheap suit was ill-fitting, and his sensible shoes leaned despite his making a good salary each year. George’s money was poured into the large home he’d purchased in Amityville on the water and his most prized possession, his boat named Kick Rocks.
Introductions were made, and George summed up who he felt they were. He walked Hood and IG over to two custom Range Rovers just off lease with hardly any miles on them. He showed Tokyo a Lexus. It was sleek and sexy. When they all rejected his choices, he was visibly surprised. Perspiration trickled down the sides of his cheeks because there were ten other dealerships in the three-block radius.
He walked IG and Hood toward more exotic cars—an Audi R8 and Maserati—and he showed Tokyo a convertible BMW M8. It took hours of test driving before Hood, IG, and Tokyo ultimately settled on his first choices. He would be remiss if he didn’t feel the small sting of aggravation.
Hood traded in his old SUV and jumped in his new black Range. IG exited in his white Range, while Tokyo drove off the lot in her very own midnight blue Lexus. She was a bad bitch.
18
Blue’s West Indian restaurant was a trendy spot for dining and takeout. The Jamaican cooks worked their magic in the kitchen, creating authentic dishes the locals craved. Some of the most popular dishes were the beef patties with coco bread or oxtails with rice and sweet plantains. The décor was average, hardly on par with the owner’s net worth or the substantial amount of money she laundered through her books. The walls were covered with outdated wallpaper of scenic areas in Jamaica, and the wooden tables and chairs had names, penises, or gang signs carved into them. The flooring was ceramic tile, and the tan grout lines were so dirty they now were jet black. The ceiling fans circulated hot, dry air from the kitchen, so the front doors were usually left open during warm months, which invited flies to enter and have a me
al too. Yet, it was always packed. There was dining indoors and outdoors, and during summer months it was a local hangout for gang members.
Queenie’s men, those who loved West Indian food, ate there at least twice a day. They were street dudes, so going home for lunch and dinner wasn’t in their DNA. There was too much money to make, drug territory to infiltrate, and bitches to conquer to worry about eating from the basic five food groups. It was either Blue’s where they all ate for free, a Chinese restaurant, or Popeye’s chicken.
Rehab and Lord were eating at an interior table. Seven of their men sat outside, low-key, trying to blend in with customers and not wanting to attract any heat from the police cruiser that had just circled the block.
“Fuck they came around twice for?” one L.E.S. gang member asked another.
“How the fuck I know?” he responded.
“You think we should go and tell Rehab?”
“Tell that nigga what? That five-oh was here but now they not? You’s a paranoid muthafucka! Those pigs don’t want it. They know what it is,” he said confidently and made a few hand gestures repping his gang affiliation.
Rehab and Lord were enjoying their meal. Both men were smacking their lips and licking the gravy off of their fingertips, but Rehab felt the tension. Things weren’t the same between the childhood friends once Lord was demoted. Rehab deduced that Lord felt threatened by his new status. Lord craved power; he needed to be the head nigga in charge, and being third in line to the throne had him vexed. Lately, if Rehab mowed down two enemies, Lord had to body six. He had to prove to everyone watching he was a heartless killer who gave no fucks. Lord wanted to be seen as the Shawn Carter of the group and he wanted Queenie to be viewed as Dame Dash, so if the Kanye Wests of the organization ever had to pick a side, they would unequivocally choose him.
Since he’d been with her crew, Lord knew Queenie was a ticking time bomb. Early on, he had tried to save her from herself. He wanted to avoid war so he would have time to fulfill his agenda, which was getting on a first-name basis with most of the cartel. He figured when it was his time to advance, he would have planted the seeds so he’d be able to step right in as head of the L.E.S. Crips.
Rehab drained a bottle of carrot juice and said, “Yo, our numbers are dwindling ’cause of that bloodsucking bitch Apple and her meddling. I’m lookin’ in to doing something innovative and contacting Big Meech for an assist.”
Lord eyed Rehab with a frown. Rehab was an airhead to him, and Lord hated dumb fucks with a passion. Big Meech was the head of the Uptown Bloods—their archenemies. Involving them wasn’t innovative; it was reckless and would make them look weak. Lord knew that Rehab was trying to fill his shoes—use brains and not brute force to impress Queenie.
“Oh, word?” Lord said. He never looked up as he scraped the peas and rice from his plate.
“What? You don’t think that’s a good idea?”
Lord shrugged. “I didn’t say shit. It’s your call, homie.”
Rehab hated his cavalier responses. “I mean, we sit back and let the Bloods do all our work while we continue to get this money. Apple won’t see them comin’.” Even as he explained it, Rehab couldn’t understand why he needed Lord to cosign. It was like he was a kid again looking for his daddy’s approval.
“A’ight,” Lord said dismissively, hoping that Rehab would just drop it.
“You and me on the same team—”
“Rehab, I ain’t your consigliere! Play ya position—” Before Lord could complete his sentence, the distinctive sound of a gunshot rang out.
Bak!
Outside, one of their goons was hit by a bullet. And then a hail of gunfire erupted.
Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak!
Pop! Pop! Pop!
“What the fuck!” Rehab screamed, going into battle mode.
Lord’s head was on a quick swivel as he reached for the Glock 19 he had on him. The gunfire sounded like it was coming from everywhere as patrons, bystanders, and gang members all scattered. The high-pitched, deafening screams of those shot clashed with the succinct, loud noises from the automatic weapons. Absolute terror was coming from the staff and patrons, growing fears that were laden with worry and the uncertainty of impending death.
Apple, Hood, and IG charged forward, meticulously aiming for any live body patronizing the establishment. This ambush was calculated, all designed to bring the heat from local authorities to Queenie’s front door. Apple needed Queenie distracted by trying to keep up the façade that Blue’s was a legitimate establishment. L.E.S. Crips shot back, and the scene abruptly transitioned into an all-out gunfight.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak!
Tables were overturned, and chairs were broken in the melee. Apple thought she had Lord cornered in a losing position, crouched near a table reloading his clip. Apple’s aim was center mass, but then he sprung forward and pushed a patron in front of his body to absorb bullets meant for him and then took off running. Lord dived between two parked cars for cover using a drop-and-roll technique. He was agile and hard to kill. Lord quickly recovered his bearings and shot back at Apple, bullets narrowly missing her vital organs.
IG and Hood tried gunning for Rehab. They wanted his murder to be payback for the attempted hit on Apple, but Rehab was protected. One of Rehab’s triggermen became a barrier between his second-in-command and Apple’s henchmen. He was fiercely firing their way, ready to die. Both running low on ammunition, Hood and IG had to retreat.
Apple wanted more death and destruction but knew that the window of opportunity had closed. Her bloody message would be like a postcard to Queenie that they were coming for her, and it would definitely make the news. Before retreating, Apple took one last look at Blue’s. The restaurant now looked like Swiss cheese for a mousy looking bitch.
Blue’s had turned into the Wild West. The shootout left four L.E.S. gang members dead, but the innocent bystanders and patrons weren’t so blessed. At least nine were gunned down, and five were seriously injured in the senseless act of violence in and around the shabby eatery. Uniforms and detectives descended onto the scene, collecting evidence and questioning eyewitnesses. The assailants had gotten away. The city was going to hell in a hand basket with all of the recent gang stabbings and shootings. There was a rise in petty larceny and misdemeanor crimes committed by heroin and cocaine addicts, and the reemergence of The Huntsman wasn’t helping the situation.
None of the recent crimes seemed connected. They happened in different jurisdictional areas of Manhattan and the Bronx, but the boroughs were suffering overall.
Lord and Rehab arrived at Queenie’s posh building within seconds of each other. Both hoodlums were amped up off pure adrenaline, the type of high that only all-out warfare could produce. Blue’s was Queenie’s baby, and they were there to tell her that it was dead. Queenie was annoyed that they were at her front door unannounced, but she moved to the side to allow them entry.
“Who died?” Queenie asked.
“Lil’ Roc, Lil’ Mo, Rodney, and Manny,” Lord said. “That Apple bitch came at us!”
“I figured she would,” Queenie said with a giggle. “Rehab, make arrangements to pay for their funerals.”
Lord was annoyed that she hadn’t addressed him. “What’s so funny?”
“We’re even now. Mi came at Apple once, she came at me once.” Queenie took her index finger and made invisible checkmarks in the air. “The next time we go at her, she’s dead. It’s a mathematical equation. We are in favor with the gods.”
“What are you talking about?” Lord barked. “Gods and numbers and shit. Our men are dead, Queenie. Dead! And speaking of numbers, you went after her twice, so that means she owes you one.”
Queenie knew Lord’s outburst was predicated upon her placing him lower in the pecking order. It was such a basic strategy that she th
ought someone as cerebral as he claimed to be would pick up on it, but each time he played right into her hands. Inside she was cracking up at his heavy scowl and shifty eyes, but disrespect was disrespect.
Queenie clicked her switch and turned dark. “Don’t ever speak to mi like that again, puta!” At that moment, Stone came from out of the back bedroom, adjusting his jeans. Rehab and Lord looked sickened by the thought of them fucking. Stone gave them daps and then joined the conversation.
“Now what had happened?” Stone asked.
Rehab smirked. Just because Stone was fucking their boss didn’t mean he had to answer to him. He addressed Queenie. “There’s more. The shootout took place at Blue’s. It’s bad—a lot of causalities. Five-oh ain’t gonna let this shit go.”
Queenie became irate and transitioned into full Trinidadian patois. She stormed around her luxury apartment, screaming and throwing shit at walls. She screamed, “I want ah murda! Murda dem all! Badras bummboclaat kill ’em all tonight! Kill Hood and IG, ’em pussyclaaat’s sweet like sugar!”
She screamed at everyone, including Stone, like she was a mad woman. She thundered, “This is your fault, Lord!”
“How you figure that?”
Queenie thought for a second. Visions of her beloved being violated in the horrific way that chaos, bullets, and shooters could accomplish had her sick. Blue’s didn’t look like much, but that was intentional. Some of the best dishes were made in dumps, and now she had nothing. Sure she could rebuild, remodel, and patch up the holes, but it would just be a replacement—the second child after your firstborn dies.
Queenie cleared her throat and spit phlegm on to Rehab’s throwback Adidas sneaker. “This your fault! Mi left you in charge, niggah, and you couldn’t hold Blue’s down?”
“C’mon now, Queenie. Chill. I got this shit under control.” Rehab felt disrespected, but it was better than what had happened to Killer Mike. “She not gonna get a second chance to get at us. We on it.”
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