by CJ Hudson
Street Banditz
C. J. Hudson
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Urban Books, LLC
300 Farmingdale Road, N.Y.-Route 109
Farmingdale, NY 11735
Street Banditz Copyright © 2020 C. J. Hudson
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: 978-1-6455-6081-4
eISBN 13: 978-1-64556-082-1
eISBN 10: 1-64556-082-1
First Trade Paperback Printing October 2020
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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Prologue
“Bulletproof” Bobby Walker and Michael “Red” Roberts sat in Red’s 2018 snow white Escalade in front of Kim’s Wings. Puffing on a blunt, they peered out the window. On a stakeout, both men were trying to catch up with Juice, a petty dealer from around the neighborhood, who copped from them from time to time. It was Juice who had beaten Red out of $200 two weeks ago by paying for some product with counterfeit bills.
Juice had run into Red at a bar, and when he saw that Red was slightly inebriated, he decided to make a quick come-up. He was supposed to go out of town the next day, but some personal business caused him to delay his plans. That delay was just enough time for Red to discover that he’d been had.
When Red leafed through his money the following morning, he became enraged. After informing his cousin Bobby of the funny money, the two of them conducted a search-and-destroy mission for Juice. Then, as luck would have it, the two of them decided to stop and get something to eat, and it was there that they spotted Juice’s money green old-school Chevy Impala.
“Yo, wassup, cuz? You wanna cash this nigga’s chips in or what?” Bobby asked while rubbing the barrel of a black 9 mm.
“It all depends on if this muthafucka got my money. If he comes up off them ends, then I might just pistol-whip his bitch ass. But if not, hey, I’ll holla at that nigga when I get to hell.” From their vantage point, they could see Juice standing at the counter, getting ready to gather his order.
“He’s getting ready to come out,” Red said with excitement. “Go ahead and jump in the back seat while I creep on this fool.”
After getting out of the front seat and sliding into the back, Bobby chambered a round, looked at Red, and nodded. Red trained his eyes on the front door of the famous wing spot. He remained in his truck until Juice had exited Kim’s. Since Juice was parked on a side street, he had to turn his back to the other vehicles parked in front of the place. This worked out in Red’s favor. As soon as Juice turned his back and headed for his car, Red snuck up behind him and jammed a TEC-9 in his ribs.
“Sup, nigga. ’Member me?”
Juice froze, cursing himself for not following his first mind and sending one of his boys out instead of going himself. He knew that Red would be looking for him, so he chose to stay holed up in his homie’s house until it was time for him to leave town. However, the grumbellies changed his itinerary and caused him to leave the safe confines of his hideout spot. His girl, who knew what he had done, begged him to stay in the house and have something delivered. But the fearful look in her eyes caused his pride to flare up.
“Fuck Red,” he’d screamed. “If that nigga wanna see me, then he can come and see me!” Although his mouth spoke the tough words, his heart said something totally different. He knew how Red gave it up, and he wanted no part of him. Red was a cold, ruthless, drug-dealing murderer who was working his way up the cocaine food chain and would kill his own mother before he let her beat him out of a dollar. The fact that he was only five feet eight inches tall with a “short man” complex made him that much deadlier.
People thought that he was called Red because of his skin tone, but in reality, his sister had given him the name because of his love of the long-running show Sanford and Son. Despite his age, he was a huge fan of the late Redd Foxx.
“Yo, Red, what the fuck?” Juice asked, trying to act surprised that Red was rolling up on him.
“Don’t be acting all surprised and shit! Like you don’t know why the fuck you getting dealt with,” Red spat, jamming the gun deeper into his side. “Walk yo’ bitch ass over there to that truck!”
For one second, Juice thought about running, but from what he knew about Red, he wouldn’t get far before a hot slug was put in his back.
“Move, muthafucka!”
“Okay, I’m going.”
When they got to the truck, Bobby opened the back door and waved Juice in with his pistol. No sooner had Red gotten in the driver’s seat and pulled off than Juice started trying to offer an excuse.
“I didn’t even know that dough was funny money, man.”
Red yanked over to the side of the road. Turning around slowly, Red stared at Juice with cold, dark eyes. “If you didn’t know that the money was funny, how did you know that was what I picked yo’ bitch ass up for?”
Juice almost pissed on himself when Red started screaming at him, raining spittle on his face. “Where the fuck is my damn money?”
Juice stuck his hand inside his pocket so quick he almost punctured the bottom of it. “I got it for you,” he said, handing the bills over. All the while, Bobby kept his gun trained on Juice’s forehead.
Red looked at the money and smirked. Even though he’d told Bobby that if Juice paid him, he was only going to pistol-whip him, he knew from the second the words left his lips that it was a lie. Juice had violated him, and for that, the repercussions would be more severe than a simple pistol-whipping.
As Red counted up the money, Bobby hauled off and slapped Juice in the mouth with his gun.
“What the fuck was that for?”
“That was for thinking you could steal from us and get away with it, muthafucka!”
Juice opened his mouth to say something, and Bobby hit him again. Blood flew from Juice’s mouth and landed on the edge of the windowsill. “And that was for whatever stupid-ass shit you were about to say outta yo’ mouth just then!”
Juice slumped over semi-conscious and laid his head on the wi
ndow.
“You want me to throw this half-dead muthafucka out into the fucking street?”
“Nah. I got a better idea for this nigga,” laughed Red.
* * *
Crushed-up beer cans, smashed cigarette butts, and other forms of debris littered the old softball diamond behind the Thurgood Marshall Recreation Center. Once a place where youths went to live out their LeBron James and Mike Trout fantasies, the center now lay dormant because of city-wide budget cuts. Neighborhood residents and local tenants loudly voiced their displeasure over the move, citing a guaranteed increase in drug activity and violence if the center were to close down. Ignoring the people’s concerns, the mayor closed it down anyway. Within six months, crime had increased by 55 percent. By the time the mayor realized that he’d made a huge mistake, he was well on his way to being voted out of office.
Sitting in the parking lot, clutching his weapon, Red was in deep thought. It was only seven short years ago that he was on the inside of the now-vacant building, dreaming of highlight-reel dunks and all-net jump shots that he would make when he went to college. But when everyone around him experienced growth spurts and he didn’t, Red knew that it was time for a different game plan. Knowing that he wasn’t a nine-to-five type of guy, Red hooked up with some of the local knuckleheads from around the way and started slinging rocks on the corners of Hough. A year later, he graduated to selling weight and had been on his grind ever since.
“What the fuck we waiting for, dawg?” Bobby asked, breaking his train of thought.
“Just thinking about something. A’ight, pussy-ass nigga, get the fuck out,” he yelled at Juice.
“Come on,” Juice started to beg. “You got ya money. Ain’t no need to—”
Crack!
Before another word could leave his mouth, Bobby slammed the butt of his gun into it for a third time. Six of Juice’s teeth were dislodged from his gums and took up residence in the pit of his stomach.
“Get the fuck out,” Bobby ordered.
Juice staggered out of the truck, holding his mouth. A stream of blood ran from his palm to his elbow. After all three of them had exited the truck, Red and Bobby walked Juice over to the softball field.
“Stand right here,” Red told him, pointing toward home plate. “You know I been looking for yo’ ass for two fucking weeks? That’s fourteen punk-ass days!”
Red didn’t even give Juice a chance to plead for his life as he pointed the TEC-9 at his chest and squeezed the trigger. As a symbol of how long it took him to find Juice, Red held the trigger for a full fourteen seconds. By the time he released it, Juice’s body looked like ground-up hamburger meat dipped in red paint.
“Out at the plate,” Bobby yelled, gesturing with his thumb like he was an umpire. Everyone in the hood knew about the fast one that Juice had tried to pull on Red, and this would serve as a reminder to all that if they fucked with Red’s money, they would surely meet their Maker.
Chapter 1
Bobby Walker sat in the interrogation room with a smirk on his face.
“What the fuck is so funny, eggplant?”
“You and yo’ silly-ass partner. Y’all ain’t got shit on me, so y’all might as well let me the fuck out of this bitch.”
Detective Brian Stone glared menacingly at Bobby. If looks could kill, Bobby would be lying in a casket. Stone wasn’t just pissed because of Bobby’s cavalier attitude. That was just part of it. He was also upset because he knew Bobby was right. They didn’t have anything to hold him on. At least, not anything serious. The lightweight possession charge against him would only serve to piss the DA off. She’d told Stone not to come back to her with petty shit. She was up for reelection, so she wanted something that was going to stick on these gangbangers and put them away for a while, not just some little slap on the wrist.
Stone’s partner, Detective Eugene Dryer, stood behind Bobby, playing the bad cop. Every ten seconds or so, he would blow cigarette smoke at the back of Bobby’s head.
“What’s up wit’ yo’ partner blowing smoke at the back of my fucking head? You know how much them bitches be charging to twist my shit up?”
Dryer laughed so hard that he almost choked on the Winston in his mouth. “You mean to tell me that you actually pay for your hair to look like a pile of shit?” he said. “Boy, you’re crazy as hell!”
Bobby immediately stood up and turned around. “Who the fuck you calling ‘boy,’ peckerwood?”
“I’m calling your black ass a boy,” Dryer shouted. “A man would help himself in a situation like this.”
“No, a man would tell you to suck his dick, so suck my muthafucking dick, pig.”
All the color drained out of Dryer’s face as his body trembled. Bobby looked at Dryer’s balled-up fist and smirked.
“I wish yo’ ass would,” he said, taunting Dryer.
Stone quickly stepped between Bobby and his partner. “Look, Robert,” he said, trying to defuse the quickly escalating situation, “we don’t even want you. We want that piece of shit murdering-ass cousin of yours.”
Bobby sat back down and threw his Timberland boots on the interrogation table. “Let me get this straight. Y’all mean to tell me that y’all busted me for smoking a joint ’cause y’all want me to sell out my own flesh and blood?”
“We ain’t asking you to sell anybody out,” said a cooled-down Dryer. “We just want you to tell the truth and help yourself.”
“Okay, here’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I don’t know what the fuck y’all talkin’ about! Now, if y’all ain’t gonna arrest me, I’m out of this muthafucka. I feel like getting my dick sucked today. Hey, Dryer, you got a daughter?”
Rage filled Dryer’s eyes as he rushed toward Bobby in an attempt to do him some serious bodily harm. Stone grabbed his partner in a frontal bear hug and held him at bay.
“You son of a bitch!” Dryer yelled. “You keep fucking with me and I’ll find out if your ass really is bulletproof!”
Bobby laughed all the way out the door.
* * *
Since Rite Aid was only a couple of blocks down and across the street from the precinct, it took Bobby just five minutes to jog there. By the time he reached the parking lot, his side was hurting him from giggling so hard. He didn’t know if Dryer had a daughter, but seeing the look on the cop’s face was priceless.
After buying a pack of Newports, Bobby walked out of Rite Aid with the cancer sticks in his pocket and a forty-ounce of Olde English 800 tucked under his arm.
“Fuck,” he yelled as he scratched off a losing lottery ticket.
Bulletproof Bobby looked like a darker version of John Henton with braids. He’d earned the nickname two years ago when he was shot by rival drug dealers from the west side of Cleveland. The doctors said that it was a miracle he survived given his slender frame.
Throwing the scratch-off ticket on the ground, Bobby headed over to the Subway restaurant next door. Before he took two steps, a raspy baritone voice called out to him.
“Yo, man, pick that shit up! The fuck you think this is?”
Bobby looked around to see if anybody else was standing there.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you, throwing shit all on the ground and shit!”
Bobby looked at the short, five-foot six-inch security guard with thick, wavy hair and dark brown eyes, and he lost it. He laughed so hard that he almost threw up. “Who the fuck is yo’ short ass talking to like that?”
“I’m talking to yo’ litterbug ass!” replied the guard.
“You betta take yo’ rent-a-cop ass back in the fucking store before you catch a headache! ’Cause the only thing you’re gonna get out here is fucked up!”
“What? I’ll beat yo’ ass like you was one of my bitches.”
“Knuckle up then!” Bobby said as he threw his hands up.
“You ain’t said shit!” The two combatants circled each other in a feeling-out process when, all of a sudden, the security guard shot a lightning-fast jab to Bo
bby’s left shoulder and followed that up with an even faster right cross.
“Ah, shit!” screamed Bobby, grabbing his shoulder. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I ain’t know you were gon’ hit my ass for real.”
“Oh, my bad,” the security guard, whose name was Hank, said. “But yo’ ass was laughing a little too hard over there. What’s good with you?” he asked as the two embraced.
“Not much. About to hit up this Subway over here. Five-oh had a nigga hemmed up for like three hours and shit. You believe them muthafuckas tryin’ to get me to roll over on Red?”
“What? Fuck them pigs,” Hank said as he fired up a Newport.
“I see you still got them skills,” said Bobby, still rubbing his shoulder.
“Listen,” Hank bragged as he started shadowboxing, “I got skills to pay the bills, ya heard?”
Five years ago, Henry “Hank” Blue was Cleveland’s boxing sensation. He was so good, in fact, that some experts predicted that he would make the U.S. Olympic team. But that was before a scandalous groupie set him up. Upset at Hank for screwing her but not liking her enough to make her wifey, a neighborhood sack chaser named Sharia cried rape. Hank was so pissed that he broke the girl’s jaw and ended up doing two years in the joint for felonious assault.
His defense lawyer tried to argue that it couldn’t be felonious assault because Hank didn’t have a weapon, but the prosecutor reminded the judge that Hank was a boxer and, by law, his fists were lethal weapons. While in jail, Hank worked out religiously. When he finally did get out of jail, his body resembled that of a bodybuilder. If he had resumed his career, there was little doubt that he would’ve made a big splash in the boxing world.
But unfortunately for the boxing community, Hank had no interest in climbing back into the ring. The only thing on his mind was making money, which was why he hooked up with Bobby and Red. Even so, he was as dangerous as ever, because no regular street dude could come close to matching his skills.
