True to the Game II

by Teri Woods

  “The problem is too many dudes be snitches!” Beverly said angrily. “Bitch-ass niggas wanna do the crime, but don’t wanna do the time.”

  “That’s right!” Tina shouted, high-fiving Val. “These snitching-ass niggas want to run and get everybody else caught up. Hell, we need to make a new rule. No pussy for snitching-ass niggas!”

  “That’s right!” Beverly chimed in. “Hell, these niggas don’t want to go and do they time, ’cause they want to stay out here and get some pussy and eat McDonald’s, and ride around on rims, bumping they systems. Girl, no pussy for the snitches. I don’t want no crying, telling-ass nigga up in my shit anyway!”

  Veronica wiped her tears again and started smiling. “Thanks y’all. I know y’all trying to make me feel better, and I appreciate it.”

  “We are, but, girl, we serious too,” Beverly told her. “Girl, we putting out a new rule. No pussy if you’se a snitch. Show us your transcripts, your presentence report, your affidavit, and give us three witnesses!”

  Laughter shot around the beauty shop.

  “Girl, and if they got arrested and ain’t never went to trial, that’s automatically a bar on the pussy!” Tina added.

  “For real!” Beverly wailed. “Nigga, how in the fuck you get busted last year with ten ounces, a machine gun, and two scales in your trunk, and you ain’t went to so much as a mutha-fuckin’ evidence hearing, let alone a trial!”

  Tina pointed to a blank spot on the wall. “Right there is where we need to hang our No Pussy Board! Put the board up, and start putting these niggas’ names on it. I betcha they’ll cut that bullshit out then.”

  Beverly handed Gena a hand mirror. “All done, mommy.”

  Gena rose from the chair and turned and stared into the big mirror on the wall. She used the small mirror to check the back of her hair. Beverly hooked her shit up. She was ready to be in a hair magazine. Gena reached into her purse, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to Beverly along with her phone number, wrapped around the money.

  “Keep the change,” Gena whispered.

  Beverly glanced at the hundred-dollar bill and tucked it away inside the pouch on her apron. Gena walked to Val, who did Markita’s hair, and handed her a hundred-dollar bill as well.

  “You ready?” Markita asked her.

  Gena nodded, gathered her purse, and headed for the door. At the door she turned back toward her friends.

  “It was good seeing y’all again,” Gena told them. “Veronica, tell Rik to put me on his list.”

  “Bye, girl,” Tina and Veronica said at the same time.

  “See ya, Gena.” Bridgette waved.

  “Bye, y’all. Hey, Tracey, I’ll call you later.” Gena waved and headed out the door.

  Outside, Gena and Markita climbed into her Porsche and pulled away. Again, she did not notice the black Range Rover pulling off into the traffic just behind her.

  SKIP TO MY LOU, MY DARLING

  Skip unlocked the door to his flat and walked inside. He set his bags of groceries down on the counter and pressed the button on his answering machine to check his messages. No one had called him, and he loved it. He loved his privacy, and his anonymity. It was for those reasons that he had chosen his flat on the industrial side of town, away from the majority of Philadelphia’s other denizens. He was surrounded by nothing but a few other flats, numerous industrial buildings, and railroad trucks. His neighbors minded their own business, and no one really cared about what went on in his neighborhood. In fact, nothing really ever did go on in his neighborhood. And even if something did, it was unlikely that anyone would be able to hear it. The constant passing of trains blocked out most noises.

  Skip walked to his stove and turned on the front burner. He then walked to his cabinets, opened the door, and pulled out a steel pot. He was hungry, and he had a taste for some oatmeal. Apple-cinnamon-flavored oatmeal, to be exact. He walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and filled the pot halfway. He then returned to his stove and placed the pot on the lit burner.

  Skip was tired. His feet hurt, his bones ached, and he felt fatigue tugging at his entire body. A nice big bowl of oatmeal would certainly seal the deal for him, and give him the full stomach that would put him into a deep all-consuming sleep. It was some sleep that he desperately needed. He couldn’t wait to hit the sack.

  Skip peered around his flat, seeing what needed to be done. He was a borderline neat freak, so very little was out of place. In fact, if one didn’t know better, one would have thought that a woman lived there and kept the place clean. The only thing that needed to be done was to take out the trash. He would do that before he ate, but after he took his medicine.

  Skip walked to his refrigerator and opened it. He removed a tiny vial of insulin and an injection needle. He closed the door and made his way over to his dinette set. Skip seated himself at his dining-room table, leaned forward, and rolled up his pants leg. He then tapped his tiny insulin bottle, shaking up the medication, and stuck his needle into the vial. He pulled back the stopper on his syringe until he had drawn in the correct amount of insulin, and then removed the needle and examined the contents. Once he was certain that he had the right amount inside his syringe, he carefully stuck the needle into his thigh and injected the insulin.

  His diabetes was something that he had hidden from outsiders for most of his life. He had become a Type 2 diabetic at the age of ten. His body simply failed to produce enough insulin. This insulin deficiency slowly worsened until diet and exercise were no longer enough. And after a few years, even pills were no longer enough. He now found himself a slave to insulin injections, which the doctors said he would need for the rest of his life. The good news, to him, was that his diabetes was well under control. The bad news was that he could never let another member of Junior Mafia find out about it.

  That Junior Mafia would kill him if they ever found out was a foregone conclusion. They hated weakness. And to them, he would personify weakness. If he couldn’t fight off a sugar cube, how could they trust him to fight off some niggas rolling in on their turf? If word of his condition ever got out, he would be a target not only for Junior Mafia, but for every other dealer in the city who wanted his territory. They would all come after him, thinking him sick and weak. He would have a big fucking M on his forehead, for mark. Easy mark. So he definitely had to keep his condition to himself.

  Skip rose from the table, walked to his kitchen trash can, and pulled the bag of trash out. He set the trash bag on the floor, tied it closed, lifted it, and headed for the door. His water was close to boiling, and he would be ready to pour it into a bowl filled with oatmeal and enjoy one of his favorite dishes. His affinity for oatmeal was a product of his youth. He had been raised in the projects on fried bologna sandwiches and big bowls of Frosted Flakes, and equally big bowls of oatmeal had been a staple in his household. If it hadn’t been for fried bologna, grits, and Kool Aid, lunch would have been practically nonexistent. And if it hadn’t been for cold cereal and oatmeal, breakfast would have been a dream. He still loved all of those things to this day.

  Skip lifted the trash bag and headed out the door and around the corner of his house, to where his larger trash cans were kept. He lifted the lid off his large sixty-gallon trash can and tossed his white kitchen trash bag inside. He replaced the lid and made sure that it was on tight, so that the cats wouldn’t be able to knock the trash can over and cause the lid to fly off. When this was done, he turned to head back into his house. When he turned, however, he found an unexpected guest.

  “Jerrell!” Skip said, surprised. “My nigga! What’s happening?”

  Skip peered down and saw the black semiautomatic in Jerrell’s hand. It was pointed at his stomach.

  “Yo, J!” Skip said. “What the fuck’s up with the pistol, B?”

  Jerrell nodded toward Skip’s apartment. “Why don’t we go inside and talk about this.”

  “Yo, this shit is foul, my nigga,” Skip told him. “What the fuck kinda shit you playing, yo
?”

  Skip headed back into his flat, with Jerrell following just behind. Jerrell locked the door just behind himself. Skip turned and faced him.

  “Okay, now you wanna tell me what the meaning of this bullshit is?” Skip demanded.

  “It’s about my money, Skip,” Jerrell told him. “All of you niggas fucked off my money!”

  “I ain’t fucked off shit, nigga!” Skip shouted. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Okay then, where’s my money for the shit that I fronted you before I got locked up?” Jerrell asked.

  “I got your money, nigga!” Skip told him.

  Jerrell exhaled. “Don’t tell me, you got it, but it’s not here. We got to go and get it, right?”

  “I got your money right here, nigga,” Skip told him.

  “Okay, where is it?” Jerrell asked.

  “It’s inside of that old broke-ass stereo,” Skip told him, nodding at an ancient, circa 1980s console stereo. “The speaker cover pops off, and the money is inside.”

  Jerrell peered at the stereo and then back at Skip. “Get it for me. And no funny business either. And don’t try no tricks, no reaching for no pistols, no bullshit, Skip.”

  Skip walked to the stereo and kneeled down. He popped the cover off the right speaker, reached inside, and pulled out a bundle of money wrapped in plastic. He tossed the bundle onto a chair next to where Jerrell was standing.

  Jerrell lifted the money and examined it. There was a light cover of dust on it, telling him that the money had been wrapped up and waiting for him for a good little while. He shifted his gaze to Skip.

  “How much is this?” he asked.

  “All of it,” Skip told him. “Every red cent that I owe you.”

  Jerrell’s mind was fucked up now. He should have known that Skip would have his money. Skip wasn’t like the rest of them niggas. Skip was old school. He didn’t live lavishly, he didn’t try to be flashy, he didn’t wear jewelry or drive a fancy car. Skip lived in an old flat next to a train track and drove a banged-up old Jeep Cherokee. Skip had never, not once, come up short with his money. He had always done what he was supposed to do, when he was supposed to do it. He was the most loyal nigga in Junior Mafia. Skip took it seriously. And now, he had shown up at Skip’s pad with a pistol and forced him at gunpoint to give him something that he was going to give him anyway.

  “Why didn’t you come to any of my hearings, or to my trial, Skip?” Jerrell asked. “Why didn’t you show me some love? Why wasn’t you there for me when I needed you?”

  “What?” Skip asked, surprised. “Nigga, have you bumped your muthafuckin’ head or something?”

  Jerrell frowned.

  “Is that what this bullshit is about?” Skip asked. “You felt like niggas wasn’t down for you? You felt like your Mafia family abandoned you? Nigga, I ordered everybody to stay away from all of that shit. Are you crazy?”

  “You ordered them to?” Jerrell asked.

  “Jerrell! You were facing a conspiracy charge!” Skip shouted. “They wanted you for being the head of Junior Mafia. If you would have had a bunch of Junior Mafia niggas show up to your trial, those jurors would have hung your black ass! We stayed away so that you would have a chance of getting out of that shit! We didn’t want to go and visit you in jail ’cause we wanted your black ass out of jail! We stayed away so that you could be free, nigga!”

  Jerrell closed his eyes. It was too much for him and he didn’t know what to do. Skip was right. And Skip had done the right thing. He was truly a soldier. He had every dime of Jerrell’s money and had been waiting for him to come home to give it to him. He had done everything right and had showed Jerrell nothing but loyalty. But Skip’s loyalty was to the Junior Mafia, not him, and that brotherhood was dead to Jerrell. All those niggas were a bunch of snakes. They had fucked him over, turned their backs on him, and not one of them tried to slide him a dime when he stepped out.

  “You killed them, didn’t you?” Skip asked. “You killed our brothers because of this bullshit, didn’t you?”

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Jerrell told him, wishing that he’d just stop and not say anything else.

  “I do know what the fuck I’m talking about!” Skip yelled. “You killed them, you fucking snake! How could you do that? How could you betray your brothers over something as trivial as money? It’s just money, Jerrell. We are your brothers!”

  “Brothers!” Jerell shouted. “Brothers? What kind of brothers spend all of their brother’s money? What kind of brothers don’t give money to their brother’s lawyers, or let their brother’s family go without? How many of you niggas went to my mom’s house and dropped off some bread? How many of you took any money to any of my kids? How hard would it have been to find a dope fiend, give him a twenty, and have him cut my momma’s grass for her? You niggas are snakes! You’re a bunch of users, riders, muthafuckin’ passengers! Well, the free fucking ride is over! It’s time to get the fuck off of the Jerrell express! No more muthafuckin’ gravy trains here, nigga!”

  “Fuck you!” Skip shouted. “When we started this shit, we was all supposed to be equals. You’re the one who made yourself into a god. You the one who set yourself up to be the leader over everybody! You did! You stopped being our brother, and tried to be our daddy! You did that shit, nigga! You can’t force people to love you like a brother, you have to be a brother. You can’t force someone to be loyal, you have to win a nigga’s loyalty! I can’t believe you killed them.”

  Jerrell thought quietly for a split second. Skip was right and everything he was saying was right. Skip made perfect sense and Jerrell was doing everything he could to not sway in his decisions. Do I have to kill Skip? He’s been so loyal, but he knows I killed everybody else. He knows that I came here to kill him. I can never trust this nigga again. And I know he’ll never trust me, never. Fuck, Skip, why’d you have to have my money? Why’d you have to be right? Damn, I wish I didn’t have to, but this nigga just knows too much.

  “Fuck that shit!” Jerrell shouted. “I gave you niggas everything! I took care of y’all. I put you niggas on top! I organized Junior Mafia, I planned the campaigns and the hits to seize those spots, I set up the distribution, I got us the contacts! I took care of everything, and you niggas benefited from it! I showed love, and I got nothing back! I got nothing!”

  Skip fell back onto the couch and shook his head. Sweat began to pour from his forehead. “You demanded our loyalty, J. You can’t demand a person’s loyalty. You wanted to take care of us by handing shit out to us, like it all belonged to you. We all worked hard for that shit. We got out there in those streets, and we killed niggas, and took the risks, took the bullets from taking over those spots. We did it, and we did it together.”

  Jerrell stood quietly and examined Skip for several moments. “What the fuck’s wrong with you, nigga?”

  Skip swallowed hard and shook his head. “I just need to eat something, that’s all.”

  “You need to eat something?” Jerrell shifted his gaze toward the kitchen table, where he spied Skip’s insulin and syringe. He walked to the table, lifted the bottle, and read the contents. He turned back toward Skip. “Why you lying, conniving, sick muthafucka, you!”

  Skip leaned back onto the couch, growing weaker by the moment. His head was pounding and sweat was pouring down his face. “I need something to eat. Some . . . fruit . . . anything. Please . . .”

  Jerrell nodded. “I’ll give you something, all right. My brother.”

  Jerrell stuck the needle back into the insulin bottle and pulled the stopper all the way to the top, filling the syringe. He walked to where Skip was now lying on the couch, yanked Skip’s shirt up, and stuck the needle into Skip’s stomach. He injected the full syringe of insulin into Skip.

  “No!” Skip knocked the empty syringe away and tried to get up. He found himself tumbling onto the floor. “Help . . . me . . .”

  “Fuck you,” Jerrell told him. He stepped over Skip and
walked to the stereo, where he pulled the rest of Skip’s money out of the speaker.

  “Please, you can have all of the money,” Skip pleaded weakly. “Just help me. Orange, in the icebox.”

  Jerrell walked to Skip’s other speaker and yanked off the cover. This speaker was packed with blocks of money wrapped in plastic. It had to be millions. He had hit the fucking jackpot.

  Skip began convulsing, and foam and slobber began pouring from his mouth.

  “So which one is it, Skip?” Jerrell asked, as he removed the money from Skip’s speaker. “Are you having a diabetic stroke, a diabetic heart attack, or is it just a really bad reaction? You look pretty bad, Skip. You’ll probably have been in a coma for way too long before anyone finds you. And that means, even if you survive, you’ll most likely be a vegetable. Sorry, B. But shit happens.”

  Jerrell rose, stepped over Skip’s motionless body, and headed into the kitchen, where he grabbed a trash bag so that he could carry out all of his newfound wealth. By the time he finished loading his car, he realized that Skip had saved every single penny he had gained from hustling. And it was a damn pretty penny. Skip had been over five million strong. Skip’s money, combined with the money that he had taken from all of the others, now made him over ten million strong. He was back on top again. Almost as rich as the old Jerrell.

  Jerrell loaded the last bag of money into his Range Rover, peered around the quiet, nearly pitch-black neighborhood, and lit up a fat Cuban cigar. He wasn’t a daily smoker; in fact, he only lit up on special occasions. Tonight was a special occasion. Jerrell exhaled, blew the smoke into the cool Philly night breeze, and allowed himself a big, wide grin. It felt fucking good to be the king again.

  VISITING HOURS

  The county jail was a massive concrete structure with long narrow gun-slit-style windows that were covered over with a thick steel wire mesh. The imposing facade gave the entire complex an air of foreboding. That, and the sharp, thick strands of concertina wire that surrounded the entire establishment, caused goose bumps to appear on Gena’s arms.