Heaven and Earth
J.M. Benjamin
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Epilogue
Urban Books, LLC
300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109
Farmingdale, NY 11735
Heaven and Earth
Copyright © 2017 J.M. Benjamin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-62286-591-8
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.
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Chapter One
As Chill turned onto Remsen Avenue in his silver 645i, black top convertible BMW and parked, his eyes immediately zeroed in and locked on Twan. The lyrics of Jadakiss’s raspy voice blaring through the speakers of Chill’s Beemer was cut short as he shut off his car and hopped out. Chill took a quick glance down at his Black Label hooded sweatshirt, making sure the chrome .45 automatic concealed underneath it tucked in his waistband showed no indication of a bulge. Thinking that he had noticed a slight detection of his weapon’s presence, Chill smoothened out his sweatshirt before making a beeline over to where Twan stood.
“Ayo, T, lem’me holla at you for a minute,” Chill called out, walking up on Twan.
Twan was in the midst of puffing on a blunt when Chill rolled up on him. Instantly, he became agitated by Chill’s sudden presence. Twan was not surprised, having a good idea why Chill wanted to speak with him, but he was not in the mood, and he intended to make it known.
“What’chu wanna holla at me about?” Twan retorted aggressively. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” he added, taking a pull of the blunt to show Chill that he was, in fact, disturbing his weed-smoking session. Chill disregarded Twan’s words. A grin appeared across his face as he sighed. He knew confronting Twan was not going to be an easy task, but nonetheless, knew that it was long overdue.
“Ayo, Twan, why you keep stepping on my li’l man’s toes out here, dawg?” Chill blurted out, catching the attention of everyone within ear distance. “I know it’s enough paper out here for everybody, sun; you ain’t gotta be on no cutthroat shit,” Chill continued.
After receiving the disturbing phone call that had interrupted him in the middle of something important, it was Chill’s intention to maintain his composure when he confronted Twan, but as he spoke, he could feel his adrenaline stirring up inside him. And Twan’s reaction did little to minimize it.
“Mal, you see this shit? This li’l bitch-ass nigga gonna go run and call his daddy,” Twan chimed in disgust, directing his words to one of his street colleagues by the name of Jamal he had just been sharing the weed-filled blunt with. Jamal made no reaction or gave no indication that he condoned or entertained Twan’s remarks. He was cool with both Chill and Twan and remained neutral in the potential altercation, as he continued to puff on the blunt Twan had now passed him.
“Ain’t nobody cut that li’l nigga throat, B,” Twan barked in a DMX tone taking offense to Chill’s accusation. “I told that ma’fucka that was one of my regulars,” he continued in his defense, claiming the drug addict the dispute was over was a personal customer of his.
This was not the first time Chill and Twan had exchanged words over a drug sale. Chill was also not the only one whose workers had a problem with Twan’s tactics in regards to how he hustled on the block, known as Remsen Avenue. He was just the only one who had stepped to Twan. Everyone else was either too afraid of the ending result of a confrontation with Twan or felt that his antics were not affecting their own cash flow. However, Chill did not fall into either category. For him, it was merely the principle of the matter. It was about respect. Something he’d felt had diminished a long time ago in the game, but because he was old school, he still gave it, so, in return, he demanded it.
“Come on, dawg. He told me how shit went down,” Chill stated firmly, trying to hide his annoyance with Twan. He had believed all that was relayed to him by one of his workers over the phone prior to his arrival, despite the fact that he had known Twan longer. The only thing knowing Twan longer than his worker accounted for was the fact that Chill knew how Twan got down. He knew he was as guilty as sin and had done exactly what he was being accused of. Just as he had known Twan would deny it when confronted.
“Yo, he said that fiend nigga didn’t even know you, my dude,” Chill revealed, now getting fed up with all the word play between him and his childhood friend.
Twan’s facial expression grew cold. “I don’t give a fuck what that li’l bitch-ass nigga told you,” he quickly snapped. “That was one of my ma’fuckin’ customers, and he wanted to cop from me. Like I said,” he added, putting emphasizes on his last statement.
“Yeah, a’ight,” Chill replied dryly.
“I know it a’ight, nigga,” Twan said in attempts to chump Chill off.
Chill caught the sly remark but didn’t feed into Twan’s attempt; instead, he began to step off, seeing that he was actually fighting a lost cause. That is, until Twan’s next words caused him to pause in his tracks.
“What you need to do is find you some real ma’fuckas who can hold their own out here to hustle for you and get rid of them three pussies you got on your team,” Twan spat.
Chill caught the combination of blatant reproach and humor at his expense in Twan
’s tone, and it instantly caught his vein. For the life of him, he could not understand why his childhood friend was trying to provoke and force his hand. Chill had been in the game for a long time. He had been through his share of trials and tribulations in the process, and in his opinion, had made it through just fine on his own. No one had ever dictated or schooled him on how to move or conduct his business in the streets—or anywhere else, for that matter. He simply learned and taught himself, which is why Twan’s words had bothered him so much. He did not take too kindly to someone trying to tell him how to run his operation or handle his business, especially someone who knew nothing about running one or being a team player.
Chill spun back around. He was now an arm’s length away from Twan.
“Don’t worry about who the fuck I got on my team or what I’m doin’,” he said, gritting his teeth through clinched jaws.
“Well, nigga, then, don’t be worrying about what the fuck I’m doin’ then,” Twan spit back. “And back the fuck up anyway unless you tryin’a see me fo’somethin’,” he added in a high-pitched tone.
“It’s whatever, yo,” Chill replied with no intention of backing down.
“Whoa, whoa, yo, both you niggas chill the fuck out,” a kid named Troy intervened. “Niggas tryin’a eat; fuck all that other shit. Twan, go ’head with that, man.”
If looks could kill, Troy’s family and closest friends would be dressed in black sobbing over his casket the way Twan had shot him a rock stare.
“Mind ya ma’fuckin’ business. This don’t have nothing to do with you,” Twan ordered.
Troy started to respond but thought it best not to comment on Twan’s remark. Not while he was without the nine millimeter he normally kept on him. His only intent was to defuse the rising altercation between his two street colleagues, but he knew that Chill was capable of handling himself in any situation. Troy also knew that both men were just alike and neither would back down, which is why he was not surprised when Chill began to speak.
“Yo, ever since you came home from Rahway, you think you run shit around here, dawg, but, yo, you ain’t Deebo kid, and this ain’t Friday. You can’t keep tryin’a muscle dudes and think that shit gonna fly,” Chill stated sternly. “Those days are over, baby.”
Chill’s words only fueled Twan’s fire that had been slowly igniting inside him.
“You say that to say what? You threatening me or somethin’?” asked Twan, with a distorted expression on his face, chest swelling up as his right hand grazed the butt of his gun. He could feel his own adrenaline beginning to kick into overdrive at the thought of what could possibly happen next. Despite him being aware of how everyone viewed him around his hood, Twan knew that not everybody on his block feared him, and Chill was one of the ones among that small percentage. Like himself, Twan knew that Chill too had a reputation for being strapped at all times, not to mention a reputation for busting his gun when necessary.
As he towered over Chill’s five feet seven, 165-pound frame, there was no doubt in his mind that Chill was packing heat. There was no way Chill would ever roll up on him the way he had without bringing backup, thought Twan. Not unless he was just plain stupid, had a death wish, or both. Twan was sure of that. No matter what the case, he was growing tired of Chill’s cockiness and was ready to put an end to the verbal sparing match. In the past, he had put bullet holes in dudes for less, but Chill was an exception because they had a history, a good one before the drug game, but as the situation progressed, Twan was beginning to block all of that out. He had been on a mission since being released from prison, and Chill was trying to come in between him and his business.
“Yo, kid, I don’t threaten. All I’m sayin’ is—”
“Fuck what you sayin’,” Twan interrupted in a baritone voice, cutting Chill’s words short. “I helped pioneer this ma’fuckin’ block and damn near raised most of you jokers in the game out here. You niggas got drop-tops and all types of trucks and shit while I’m pushin’ an old-ass Millenia. Bottom line, I’m doin’ what the fuck I wanna do out here until I feel my paper right, and if a bitch wanna test me, then that’s their ma’fuckin’ funeral, smell me?” Twan growled adjusting his hammer in his waistband.
His words drew attention in his direction. Every hustler on the “ave” had heard what he had just said and felt some type of way about his statement, but no one dared to step up and voice their feelings on the matter. However, in their minds, each man plotted and anticipated the day they or someone else caught Twan slipping. Troy was the only one who was tempted to intervene for a second time but thought better of it once again, seeing the visual daggers between Twan and Chill being thrown at each other.
Twan’s words tore into Chill like hot slugs. He knew this moment would someday come. He had tried his hardest to avoid a clash with his childhood friend. The fact that there was not a person within ear’s distance that wasn’t paying attention to what Chill and Twan were saying to each other only heightened the situation. Reputations were now at stake. Most of the other hustlers were glad that Chill had enough heart to say what they had felt but kept to themselves, while others feared the worst.
It was no secret that Twan had come home from East Jersey State Prison, which was one of the roughest prisons in New Jersey, six months prior after serving six years. He had been on a paper chase since his first day of being home. Originally, he was only supposed to have served four years for the shooting case he went to prison for, but while doing his bid, he stabbed a kid from Camden in the neck in the mess hall over a verbal dispute about a basketball game. Luckily for him, the kid survived, but the incident landed him in solitary confinement for two years and a loss of two years’ good time, causing him to serve an additional two. The word had spread throughout the entire New Brunswick how Twan from “Remsen” put “work in” in the joint, and those from his hood knew that when he came home, he would be the same, if not worse, than before, and they were right. Coming home six inches taller and nearly a hundred pounds heavier, at six foot, 240 lbs, Twan tried to flex his muscles, literally, in attempts to intimidate other hustlers who he felt stood in the way of fattening his pockets. He even toted a snub-nosed .44-bulldog revolver in his waistband in plain view to let everyone know that he stayed strapped. That is why everyone knew he would not allow Chill’s words to ride. His rep and status on the block depended on it.
Judging by the situation at hand, Chill felt there was no way of getting around what he had foreseen today. Feeling the tension and knowing the caliber between both men, everyone began to fade into the background in attempts to stand clear of the potential harm and imminent danger that existed. What started out as a minor confrontation was steadily erupting into something major. All eyes were locked on Twan and Chill—from a safe distance, of course. Everyone was, in fact, so focused on the two that no one ever noticed the unidentified SUV parked a short distance up the street.
Chapter Two
The stolen navy-blue 2008 Cherokee pulled alongside the curb on Remsen Avenue and parked.
“That’s him right there,” the backseat passenger of the Cherokee pointed out.
“Which one?” the driver asked.
“The big, tall, dark-skinned one with the velour sweat suit on.”
“It don’t even matter which one he is,” the front-seat passenger interjected.
“It ain’t like these niggas just gonna let us walk up on their man and do something to him, then walk up outta here.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” said the driver.
“So what are we gonna do?” asked the backseat passenger.
“You ain’t gonna do shit. You gonna stay ya ass in the truck while we handle this shit. If he see ya ass, he gonna remember you.”
“Look,” the driver said to the front-seat passenger, “something’s about to go down over there.”
The front-seat passenger immediately drew their attention to the commotion.
“Not without us, it ain’t,” the front-seat passenger
said, snatching open the door, just before pulling down the black mask.
“Get behind the wheel and be on point,” the driver instructed the backseat passenger as that individual did the same with a mask just before exiting the SUV to back up his partner.
Chapter Three
“Yo, T, you must think shit sweet, dawg,” said Chill, standing his ground. “Ain’t nothing pussy about me, kid, so all that shit you poppin’ is extra. Ain’t nobody tryin’a test you, big homie. Dudes know how you get down, but just like I know you not gonna let nobody carry you like a sucka, you gots to know that neither am I. So, what are we gonna do? Huh?” Chill attempted to reason with his friend. “We gonna shoot each other over a punk-ass hundred-dollar sale, ’cause I got my strap on me too, daddy,” Chill informed Twan, lifting the Black Label hoodie up enough to reveal his .45 automatic. “And if you reach for ya joint, that’s exactly what’s gonna happen, my nig,” Chill added, giving fair warning. He had hoped that Twan used what little sense he had, the benefit of the doubt for having and seen the bigger picture, causing him to make the right decision. The last thing Chill wanted was to catch a murder charge or be killed over a petty drug dispute, but he knew that in the streets, people had killed and died for less, so he was prepared for whatever.
Twan grilled Chill intensively while pondering over his words. He was already contemplating on drawing his weapon, and there was no doubt in his mind that when he pulled it, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. But there were two things that caused him to second-guess himself. One, was he ready to go back to the one place he despised the most? The second, would he actually be able to beat Chill to the draw? It was those two reasons, and them alone, that caused Twan to make a rational decision to let sleeping dogs lie. For the moment, anyway, but he made a mental note and a promise to himself that he would finish what Chill had started some other time.
“Fuck that hundred dollars,” Twan spit, reaching into his pocket.
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