by Beanie Sigel
No one in the room had ever had more than two ounces of cocaine at one time. The prospect of having kilos and thousands of dollars was alluring.
Butter thought about his current financial struggles. The fact that those struggles were likely to increase in the next two months when his first child would be introduced to the world was the deciding factor.
“Fuck it. Let’s do it.”
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Haitian exclaimed. “How many guns do we have?”
Butter had a .357 Magnum revolver and a sawed off shotgun, and Pook had a .380 semi automatic, which meant there were three guns between the four of them. “Aaight ya’ll, let’s go and get this money.”
Butter went and grabbed the guns, giving one to his friend and keeping one for himself. They went over the plan, then left the house. Haitian got into his car and the other four men jumped into a separate car.
Haitian dialed Lieutenant Shwarts’ number and put the phone on speaker so that the occupants of the other vehicle wouldn’t notice him on the phone.
“This is Lieutenant Shwarts.”
“It’s me, Shwarts. In ten minutes, you’re going to see my car followed by a maroon Dodge Magnum wagon with four dudes in it. They got the guns. We’ll drive down South Salina Street.”
“Alright. We’ll be ready to pull them over as soon as they pass us.”
Haitian pulled off. Butter followed. The Magnum was completely silent. Dreams of no longer having financial worries occupied their thoughts. Little did they know that a few miles ahead of them, their wonderful dreams would come to a startling halt. The nightmarish reality would hit them when they were dragged out of the car at gun point, arrested, and sent to prison.
Ten days passed since Haitian had been released from the county jail. Over that time he had set up two successful busts. They were both low level, so he wasn’t too worried about it coming back to haunt him. He also made more money in the past ten days than he’d ever made. He moved about a ki and a half in the streets. With over seventy thousand dollars saved up, and his cell phone constantly ringing, he finally knew what it felt like to be the man.
Haitian believed that the time to take control over Syracuse had come. But, in order for him to do so, he would have to think smarter and on a higher level. Instead of working for the police, he was going to change the tides and make them work for him. Anyone he deemed to be a threat or competition, he’d simply feed them to Lieutenant Shwarts, then take over their area once they were out of the way.
Nightfall had cast its dark shadow over the city. The different spectrums from the street lights, cars, store fronts and homes contrasted with the navy-blue skies to create an attractive ambiance. Haitian was on his way home from Destiny USA Mall where he spent a good chunk of money on expensive clothes. “I’m gon’ shut the club down tonight!” he shouted in a sudden outburst over the music as he drove to his apartment.
With less than a half kilo left, the time to purchase more drugs was fast approaching. He owed Powerful fifty-four thousand dollars, and he had no intentions of paying him. He knew someone else who could supply him the amount of coke he needed. Haitian had already made plans on using a portion of the money to buy a Camaro.
He pulled over in front of his apartment building, directly in front of a tan Yukon XL with tinted windows. His jovial mood caused him to pay little attention to the SUV. With bags in each hand, he used his hip to close the car door. With the music from the car stereo still lingering in his head, he bopped his way to the front door. In order to free his hands and single out his house key, he sat three bags down.
“Here. Let me get that for you, homie.” The familiar voice slithered into Haitian’s ear, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand. He turned to see Powerful’s dark brown and red veined eyes, bored deep into him. He tried to swallow, but his throat instantly tightened, making it nearly impossible. Sensing the presence of more men, Haitian half spinned in the opposite direction only to come face to face with Powerful’s two goons.
“P-Powerful, wassup, bruh? I-I was just gonna call you, my nigga.”
“Yeah, I know,” Powerful responded sarcastically.
“Come on, let’s go inside.”
Haitian did his best to remain calm, but his trembling hands revealed the truth when he struggled to insert the key into the lock. Finally, it went in and he opened the door. Once inside, Haitian dropped the bags onto the floor, and placed his keys on the coffee table. “Have a seat. Ya’ll want...”
Powerful rapidly delivered a hard, right hand to Haitian’s mid section, pushing all of the air out of his diaphragm. His legs went limp, and he fell to his knees, struggling desperately to inhale.
The two goons grabbed each arm, and stood him up. One of them gave Haitian a thorough pat search. Making his way down to his pants pocket, he tossed Powerful a stack of cash and a cell phone. Once he reached Haitian’s ankles, he stood up and looked at Powerful. “He’s clean. No wires.”
Powerful dropped Haitian’s phone onto the floor and stepped on it, digging his heel into the screen. The crackling sound of the glass ensured that the phone was no longer operable.
Haitian wasted no time. “Powerful, listen, man. I got knocked. Everything got taken by the police. T-Lova is out of town. As soon as he gets back we’re going to get everything together and straighten you out. That’s my word.”
“That’s your word?” Powerful asked harshly.
“Yeah, we know we still gotta take care of you. We got you.”
“Man, sit your bitch ass down!”
Haitian was too scared to protest. He stumbled over to the couch and plopped down, holding his stomach.
Powerful pulled out his cell phone and dialed a few numbers. “Waddup? ...No question...Yeah, he right here...Hold on.” He handed the phone to Haitian.
With a bewildered look on his face, he accepted. “Hello?”
“Waddup, my dude?”
“T-Lova, wassup, bruh?” The sound of relief was heard in Haitian’s voice.
“Listen, I know you working for the police. The only chance of leaving that house alive is if you tell me the truth. You got one chance, nigga. I’m gonna ask you one time. What did you tell ‘em about me?”
“I didn’t tell them nothin’ about you. I told them about some other niggas.” Haitian instantly wished he could retract his words. “The things I told them wasn’t even true. It was just enough for them to let me out.” He did his best to minimize his actions.
“You know what, for some strange reason I believe you. Let me holla at Powerful and try to convince him.”
“T, I swear to God I’m not lying to you. I would never do no shit like that. You’re like my brother.”
“I know,” Terry responded. “Give Powerful the phone.”
Haitian wanted to say more. He wanted to be sure that Terry was totally convinced, but there was nothing more to be said. Reluctantly, he handed the phone over.
“Yeah...Aight...You already know...Peace.” Powerful said, glaring at Haitian.
“Did he tell you that he believes me?” Haitian asked wide eyed.
Powerful stuffed the phone into his pocket and drew a black .40 caliber Glock, aiming it at Haitian, who sat frozen with fear on the couch. “Nah. As a matter of fact, he told me to make sure that your mother has to give you a closed casket funeral.”
“Please...”
“The gun burst ripped through the air. Instinct caused Haitian to flinch. Because of the life saving move, the bullet grazed his temple, ripped his skin, producing a light flow of blood. He jumped up from the couch and darted towards the door. He grabbed the handle and turned it as soon as the next bullet was released. It tore through the back of his head, causing his body to fall like dead weight.
Powerful stood over him and pumped three more slugs into his skull. Blood spewed from the holes in Haitian’s lifeless body, permeating the cheap carpet.
“Hurry up and see if we can find the blow,” Powerful ordered.
I
t didn’t take long. The money and remainder of the drugs were in the closet. They planted the drugs under the cushion of the couch so that his murder appeared to be a drug deal gone bad. The trio, then, hurried to the Yukon and left Syracuse...
CHAPTER 9
It didn’t take long for Terry and his crew to learn the ways of South Philly. Reek had become his liaison to the streets. He introduced Terry to some thorough hustlers. Because of his new cartel connection, he was able to supply them with the best coke at unbeatable prices.
Jihad, Twan and Boogs also began networking in the streets. They weren’t flamboyant with their hustle, nor were they aggressive towards others. This method made other hustlers more willing to gravitate towards them. They also began setting up drug distribution houses.
Sunlight reflected off the chrome twenty-two inch Giovanni rims as the ice blue Mercedes CL63 eased to a halt against the curb on Capital Street. Mack slid his brawny, agile frame out of his coupe. He shook off a slight chill from the fall wind and adjusted the navy-blue Retroactive velour track suit. The white on white Buscemi sneakers were as exclusive as his outfit.
Approaching the sidewalk, he was immediately greeted by the crew of the young men hanging out in front of a row home.
“I smell it, so let me inhale it,” Mack said, referring to the blunts being smoked by his SP comrades.
Without hesitation one of the men passed a blunt to him. After taking two pulls, he blew the smoke out and looked at the blunt in disgust. “What the fuck is this? Ya’ll know I’m allergic to regular weed.” He pulled out a sandwich bag containing light green, fluffy buds. “Roll up some of this Lemon Skunk.” Mack handed the dude a nice sized bud and replaced the bag into his pocket. “Shawn, let me holla at you, cannon.” The two stepped off to the side.
“What’s up, Mack?”
“Are you finished with that work, yet?”
“Man, it’s been slow as hell. I only moved about four ounces in the last couple of days. Niggas ain’t been coppin’ no weight,” Shawn explained.
“What the fuck is goin’ on? It’s Saturday afternoon. None of the sack spots sold out, and you hardly moved anything. Either the fiends stopped smoking or somebody else is getting the money.”
“The bawh, Fruit, came up to me this morning telling me about some niggas from out of town who sold him an eighth of powder for thirty five hundred.”
“That nigga is lyin’. As dry as it is out here, can’t nobody afford to sell coke that cheap.” Mack shook his head at the news.
“Not only that, he said it was the best coke he had in years. I don’t think the bawh is lying. Think about it. Within the last couple of weeks money has been coming in slower and slower.”
“Find out who these mutha fuckas is,” Mack demanded.
“I already asked Fruit. He said the bawh’s name is T-Lova.”
“I want to know everything about him. What he’s sellin’, who he’s running with, and where he stay. We’re going to have to show him how SP gets down.”
“Get down or lay down.” Shawn said with a sinister grin.
“Nah. He’s doing too much. This might be a special case of lay down and stay down...”
CHAPTER 10
Terry sat recumbent in the passenger seat while Jihad piloted his coupe through the lively streets of South Philadelphia. The mild temperatured, bright day slowly began to descend as evening approached.
“I can’t believe that everything is going so good for us out here,” Jihad said, focusing on the road.
“Yeah, Philly is making it a lot easier for us to do our thing and stay below the radar.”
“Boogs and Reek is movin’ that work like it’s nothin’. I gotta see them again before the night’s out.”
“We’ve been grinding since we came here. It’s time for us to have a little fun. We’ll get back to work tomorrow,” Terry stated.
“I’m with that. I heard a lot about Club Roxy. You wanna go there?”
“Yeah. They say that jawn is live. Let’s go pop a few bottles.”
Jihad drove over to South Street and pulled over in front of Dr. Denim, an urban, high-fashion boutique that was becoming his favorite place to shop. About thirty minutes and over two thousand dollars later, they left with a couple of bags filled with high-end apparel. They tossed their bags into the trunk and got inside the car. Then, an ice blue CL 63 pulled up on the side of them and parked. A brown skinned, bulky man got out, gave a quick glance at the BMW, and then headed towards Dr. Denim.
Damn, that Benz is official. That nigga gotta be gettin’ money,” Jihad said.
“That color is crazy. He put that jawn together right,” Terry said as Jihad pulled off.
Later on that night, Terry’s gleaming Mercedes eased into the large parking lot surrounding Club Roxy, followed by Jihad. Vehicles were pulling in by the minute. Terry stepped out of his car dressed to impress in a powder blue Burberry sweater with its iconic print covering the elbows, blue Seven jeans, and sky blue Prada sneakers. His diamond studded chain and Hublot watch rounded out his attire.
Jihad sported black Tom Ford frames, a black Gucci sweater, black fitted Rock & Republic jeans exposing the shiny golden buckle of his Gucci belt, along with a pair of black Tom Ford loafers. A gold Cuban link chain and Audimoire watch contrasted perfectly against his outfit.
They made it into the prodigious, lavish club. The festive atmosphere and upbeat music, combined with the well-dressed men and women, created an exceptional atmosphere. Terry and Jihad strolled around, visually ingesting the club as D.J. Flow kept the crowd active with his selections.
Jihad stopped by the large bar and ordered two bottles of Ace of Spades. After paying for the champagne, they found a table on the outside of the dance floor and took a seat. Jihad noticed a crew of men in the VIP section popping expensive bottles as if they were going out of style. “Who’s them niggas in the VIP?” Jihad yelled over the loud music.
“I’m not sure, but I think its them SP cats,” Terry responded.
A few minutes later, D.J. Flow’s voice blared through the speakers. “Shout out to the bawh, Mack, and the whole SP squad. They see you, but they can’t be you...it’s levels to this shit!” He, then, played the song Levels by Meek Mill. Mack stood up and raised his shiny gold bottle into the air, acknowledging D.J. Flow’s salute.
“Yo, that’s the kid who pulled up next to us at Dr. Denim,” Jihad said.
“That’s our competition,” Terry said.
“We might have to eliminate him before he becomes our problem.”
“We ain’t ready to go to war with him, yet. Right now, we’re outnumbered, and out gunned.”
“It won’t be a war, it’ll be a hit.” Jihad took a swig from his bottle. “The advantage is in our corner. If he don’t have a clue that we’re plotting, it’s impossible for him to prepare a defense.”
Terry leaned back and bobbed to the music, doing his best to memorize the faces of everyone partying with Mack. Not wanting to devote too much time to his potential opposition, he shifted back to party mode.
Women constantly passed Terry and Jihad’s table, throwing them flirtatious glances of approval. They loved the attention, but the night was still young. There was still plenty of time to select a candidate worthy of leaving the club with.
“I gotta take a piss, then, I’m going to get us two more bottles.” Terry got up and walked to the restroom. Inside, he saw two men who appeared to be scheming on something. Paying them little attention, he went directly to the urinals. The men were oblivious to him. They continued on with their conversation in barely audible voices.
“I’m telling you, we gotta get that nigga, Mack, tonight. He murdered Shalik, and we’re out here actin’ like everything’s all good.”
“Yeah, but you was plotting on Shalik yourself,” the other man said.
“So, what! That bitch ass nigga is eatin’ too fuckin’ much anyway. Come on, we gon’ catch him when he go to his car.” They shook hands, and then left t
he men’s room.
A moment later, Terry exited and headed towards the bar. After replaying the two strangers’ conversation, he spun around and walked towards the VIP section. Once there, he approached the heavy-set man who was enjoying himself. “Pardon me, is your name, Mack?”
The stranger’s question caused Mack’s demeanor to shift instantly. “Do I know you?”
“Nah, you don’t know me. I just came to give you a warning. I overheard two dudes in the bathroom plotting on killing you.”
“What?” Mack responded stone-faced. He leaned in closer, not wanting to miss a single word.
“They’re going to be waiting by your car when you leave the club, so be on point.” Before Mack could ask any additional questions, Terry slid off, disappearing into the thick crowd.
Mack decided not to reveal the news to his comrades. They were all intoxicated. If he told them that someone was plotting on his life, they would surely react out of anger. He was aware that if moves were carried out in anger, mistakes would be made.
He pulled out his phone and sent a text to Sandra: I miss my two babies. I need to see them ASAP. You know where I’m at. Replacing his phone in his pocket, he continued enjoying himself as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
At around 12:30 a.m. he received a text. After reading it, he told his crew that he had to go. He gave them dap, strolled through the club one final time, and then left.
As soon as he stepped outside, Mack was greeted by Sandra. He gave her a hug as she tucked two royal-blue .40 caliber Glocks into the waist of his pants. He pulled his Armani sweater over the handles to conceal them.
“Thanks, baby.” Mack kissed Sandra softly on her lips. “Go home. I’ll be there soon.”
“Are you sure?” She looked up at him puppy eyed.
“I’ll be there within the hour.” As he spoke to her, he surveyed the parking lot. It was desolate. Everyone was inside enjoying themselves.
“Okay baby. Be careful.” With a quick kiss on the cheek, Sandra walked to her car and left.
