by Omar Tyree
Polo already knew more about it than Shareef felt he should. He wasn’t even there. So Shareef listened to his instincts and commented on it.
He stood deadly still in his hotel room and asked, “Polo…you know what’s going on, don’t you? I mean, don’t bullshit me, man. This is serious. They were straight up trying to kill me last night. So who the fuck is after me, man?”
Polo took a deep breath over the phone line. That’s all Shareef needed to hear to know that he was right. His friend had been holding out on him.
He said, “Yo, son, I tried my best to get you to leave Harlem and go on back home to your wife and kids in Florida, man, but like…I’m sayin’, you just about the hardest-headed nigga I’ve ever known in my life, Shareef. I mean, you smart, man, but sometimes you fucking stupid. I told you, just leave that street shit alone. Make your book money, go chill out on an island somewhere, and stay away from these streets. They don’t care about you out here.”
He said, “But you just keep pressing for this shit, over some damn girl at that. I mean, you don’t know her like that. What’s wrong with you?”
Polo was getting sidetracked, but Shareef went back to his initial question.
“So who the fuck is after me, man?” That’s all he wanted to know.
Polo said, “Come on, man, you know who it is. This ain’t no damn mystery book. What, you been off the streets too long?”
Shareef was puzzled. He had no idea what Polo was talking about.
He said, “Come on, man, if I knew who it was, I would have stopped this shit. I would step right up and ask what the problem is to get this shit over with.”
“That’s what I told him,” Polo commented.
Shareef froze in his tracks. “That’s what you told him?” he repeated. “You know who it is then?”
OVER AT POLO’S APARTMENT in north Harlem, he was dressed in a long bathrobe, purple with gold trimmings. A black pistol hung heavy in his robe pocket.
He grimaced while listening to Shareef’s ridiculously naive responses. He shook his head and walked toward the hallway bathroom to get away from his young son, daughter, and their mother, who were playing video games and eating the last crumbs of breakfast on the living room sofa.
Polo walked inside the bathroom and closed the door.
He said, “What the fuck, I gotta spell it out to you, man? Who was the first one who said something about you talking to Michael Springfield in jail?”
Shareef paused and answered, “Trap.”
“Exactly,” his friend told him. “And y’all just alike, man. Hardheaded. So his whole thing was gettin’ you to drop the idea, and your thing was still trying to fuckin’ do it.”
Shareef said, “Well, how come he just didn’t come out and tell me that?”
Polo got excited. He said, “He did tell you that shit. How you just gon’ sit here on the phone and say that? He told you that shit in front of all of us. But as usual, you went right ahead and ignored him. That’s what you always do. I mean, you crazy, man.”
He said, “So now I gotta keep a loaded gun on me because you got this nigga ready to kill all of us. That was one of his cousins who got shot last night.”
BACK AT THE HUDSON HOTEL, Shareef couldn’t believe his ears. Trap was way too obvious. But it felt right. It had to be him. Trap knew everything.
Shareef stood with a dazed look in his eyes as he held on to the phone. So much for old Harlem friends. He then shook it off and said, “Well, yo, I’m just gon’ call Trap and get to the bottom of this. He just made the situation worse than what it had to be. All he had to do was tell me he was involved in some shit, and I would have left his name out.”
Polo said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, horsey, don’t do that shit, man. ’Cause you gon’ put my name up in it, and he don’t give a fuck no more. He don’t wanna hear that shit now. I wasn’t even supposed to be telling you this, Shareef, you was just supposed to leave.”
He said, “The streets is way more complicated than what you trying to make it out to be, man. So even if you left his name out of the book, like he said from jump, other niggas gon’ be concerned about their names. So you gotta leave it all out. Which means you can’t write that fuckin’ book.”
Shareef said, “But who’s to say that Springfield was even trying to drop names on me like that? He was just talking about his story. And Trap knew I wasn’t leaving. He know me better than that. I ain’t no bitch-ass out here, man. I’m from Harlem. All he had to do was talk to me about it. I’m standing right here.”
BACK INSIDE POLO’S BATHROOM, he burst out laughing and pulled his black pistol from out of his robe pocket. He looked at himself in the mirror while holding his gun out.
He said, “That’s just what the hell I’m talking about, B. So now you got me up in the middle of this shit, and I still gotta live here. But it don’t matter to you. As long as Shareef Crawford is after what he wants, he don’t give a fuck about nobody. He just a straight, hardcore, Harlem nigga, straight out the mansions and condos of Florida.”
Polo added, “If you wasn’t my nigga, man, I’d have to leave your ass out on the line to dry for this shit. But I love you, man, so I gotta help get you out of this…and hope I live through it.”
SHAREEF THOUGHT ABOUT POLO’S WORDS, and they finally stung him.
What the fuck am I doing, man? he asked himself. I’m not just putting my life in jeopardy, I’m putting everybody’s else life on the line with me. Damn! Polo got a point.
“Yo, you still there, man?” his friend asked him through the silence.
“Yeah, I’m still here. I’m just thinkin’ man. You right,” Shareef answered. “I gotta stop thinking about me so much.”
“That’s what I’m sayin,” Polo agreed. “But don’t call that Trap nigga, man, I’m telling you. I’m gon’ have to lay low from him myself now.”
That made Shareef think about the safety of his friend.
“Yo, you think he gon’ come after you for real?”
Polo said, “Why wouldn’t he? And if not him, then all them niggas who know about it. I mean, you done put us on the other side now. They not gon’ let me stay neutral. He gon’ say the shit is my fault. You my boy.”
“Man, my actions are not your fault,” Shareef told him.
Polo responded, “The streets don’t care, man. Either I’m with you, or I’m with them. That’s how they gon’ look at it. And you know I’m not gon’ get down with Trap’s niggas over you. You family. Trap knows that shit. So he gon’ put me in the same boat you in and sink both of us. So, I mean…I don’t have no choice at this point. I gotta keep my gun on me.”
Shareef fell silent again. “Damn, man, my bad,” he whimpered.
Polo said, “It’s too late for that shit now, B.” Then he chuckled and added, “Just make sure you put my family in your will.”
That one didn’t sound like a joke. Shareef shook his head, thinking it all over.
He said, “Yo, I’m gon’ make all of this shit work out, man. I just need a couple minutes to think.”
Polo told him, “This ain’t no novel, man. You can’t just think about it and type the shit in. I mean, what are you gonna do? Them niggas gon’ be after us now, me included.”
Shareef nodded and said, “Let me call you back in a few minutes.” He couldn’t concentrate while still talking to Polo on the phone. He needed quiet time.
“Aw’ight, son, I’ma be right here with my lady and my kids. So call me back. Let me see what you come up with.”
Shareef ended the call and took a seat on the edge of his hotel bed. He stared into empty space, toward the small office desk and swivel chair, while he thought about his dilemma. He felt like he needed a pen and a pad to write it all down.
“Shit!” he cursed himself.
He stood up and grabbed a black, ballpoint pen from the desk table and found a small, hotel notebook next to the telephone on the nightstand.
He told himself, “I’m gon’ work all this shit out.
I’m gon’ work it out right now.” And he wrote the word “Solutions” on a clean page at the top of the notepad.
“Okay, first off, I can’t call Trap and let him know what I know because that puts Polo in trouble,” he told himself out loud. Then he wrote it down under “Problems” on a second clean page.
He said, “Now, I could have Baby G and his boys to knock Trap off and get it over with, but what would I owe them if I did that? And how would I feel about that?”
He started to pace the room again.
He said, “The cops already think I had something to do with last night, but I didn’t. So how would having Trap killed make me look? And what if somebody dimed on me. I would be a real accomplice to a murder. That’s premeditated.”
He wrote those notes in the small pad below their proper headings.
“Now if I leave New York altogether, then Polo has to deal with Trap trying to get revenge for his cousin, and Baby G and his boys look at me like I’m a bitch.”
He thought about that and shook it off.
“I don’t really know them guys like that. I have no idea what he wants. I mean, does he really want me to write a book about him? And if he does, and they link him to last night’s murders on my behalf, then I write a book about him, how will that make me look?”
Shareef thought about it and wrote more notes in his small pad. So far, his notes all added up to a dead end. He had more problems than solutions.
He tapped the pen into the palm of his left hand and said, “All right, what if I make a deal with Trap to let this shit slide? What would he want from me to do that?”
He wrote that idea down.
“Then again, if that nigga’s already sheisty, then there’s no way of knowing if he would leave Polo and his family alone,” he argued. “And if Polo is right that other guys are involved, then doing a deal with Trap may not include them.
“Shit!” he cursed again at his dilemma. “How ’bout I just move Polo and his family the hell out of New York? Or at least move them to a safer spot.”
Before he wrote that note down, he added, “But that would really make Polo a target.”
He shook his head and mumbled, “Damn! I might have to break down and move his whole family out of state then. He did tell me his girl’s people are from Jersey.”
Then his conscience started to speak to him.
Fuck that! I thought you said you wasn’t no punk. Well then, you handle this shit yourself. You go back up to Harlem, you get yourself a gun, you wait for these motherfuckers to make their move, and you hit ’em off with some Clint Eastwood shit. Then you can call it self-defense and you’ll look like everybody’s hero. That’s how you handle it.
You can’t run from this shit. You gotta make your stand like a grown-ass man.
Shareef heard his radical conscience speaking to him and smiled it off.
He shook his head and said, “Nah, that’s crazy.” Yet he continued to think about it. It would put all of the weight back on him. And his decisions would be all his own responsibility.
“Man, I never even shot a gun before,” he admitted to himself. He didn’t want to do it, but what other options did he have? Would he tell the police that someone was after him and let then handle it?
“Fuck no!” he told himself. “I’d look like the bitch of the century if I did that. Niggas would revoke my whole Harlem card. They already think I’m a book-writing playboy with no heart.”
As he continued to think things though, his cell phone went off. He looked at the screen and read Jacqueline’s number calling him from Florida.
He grimaced and muttered, “Shit. I don’t have time for her right now. I gotta figure this shit out.” He ignored her call, only for Jacqueline to ring him a second time. He looked at his phone and ignored it again. Exotic pussy was not on his mind at the moment. He had much more urgent issues to deal with.
When his cell phone stopped ringing, Shareef got on the line and called Cynthia back.
“Hello,” she answered.
He went straight to the point. “Yo, you still got them things from yesterday?”
“Things? What things?”
“Those heaters.”
Cynthia paused for a second. Then she asked him, “What are you planning to do?”
He backed her down and said, “I’m just asking about them. I mean, you know, I may need to have something with me. Just a little something for protection,” he told her.
Cynthia responded, “No, Shareef, what you need to do is go back home to your wife and family. And I’m really sorry, again, for getting you involved in all of this. But I know that I still have time to make it right. And this is wrong. I don’t want you out here like that.”
Shareef was already shaking his head in defiance. He was a man of conviction. Once he made his mind up to do something, that was it. He figured he had to face the mess he had started.
He said, “Look, it’s too late for that now. Too many moves have already been made for me to just walk away like nothing happened. I gotta make things right.”
Cynthia became hyper. She said, “No you don’t, Shareef. I’m serious. You don’t have to do anything but keep writing and keep breathing.”
He ignored her and asked, “So, you don’t have them anymore?”
“I’m not giving them to you,” she answered.
“I guess I’ll just go out here and get all shot the fuck up then,” he told her with a chuckle.
“This is not a game, Shareef.”
“Well, give me what I need then.”
“Why? You don’t need to do that. I was wrong. I should never have even did that. And I’m glad you turned me down yesterday.”
“But what if I had gotten shot up last night?” he asked her. “Then what? Then you would have been blaming me for not taking them.”
“But you didn’t get shot. And if you had them on you, then maybe you would have done something stupid instead of running. Maybe you would have had a shoot-out and gotten yourself killed. So you did the right thing last night. Just run away from it all,” she warned him.
Shareef still had time to think. It was only a little after ten o’clock in the morning.
He said, “Sometimes, running is no longer an option. This thing is more complicated than that now.”
He was thinking of his friend Polo and his family. Who knows what kind of guys Trap was involved with?
Cynthia said, “Trust me, it doesn’t have to be that serious, Shareef. You guys are forever beating your chests.”
Shareef shook his head and grinned. Cynthia was making a complete about-face from her earlier position.
He said, “You were the one who called me a pussy for backing down from this shit in the beginning,” he reminded her.
“I know, and I was wrong. I’m admitting that now.”
“Well, that don’t change the fact that niggas were shooting at me last night.”
Cynthia stopped arguing and got to the point. “Look, are you trying to get yourself killed now or what? Because I would never be able to live with myself if something happened to you. I mean, you are really a good person, Shareef.”
She said, “I admit, you’re a little headstrong, but you’re still a good brother.”
Shareef didn’t know what else to say to her. She wasn’t helping his problem. Running wasn’t part of his solution.
He said, “Aw’ight, well, let me get some breakfast up in here and I’ma call you back later.”
“Shareef,” Cynthia addressed him before she let him go.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t do anything stupid. Please. I’m begging you. Go home.”
He wasn’t attempting to ignore her plea outright, but he was interested in exploring the rest of his options. So he called Jurrell Garland for his opinion. And he assumed that Jurrell would have an opposite perspective from Cynthia.
Jurrell answered his cell phone as if he had been waiting for Shareef’s call all morning.
“Hey, p
layer, the word on the street is that you had a rough night last night. Are you cool, man? Everything all right with you?”
Shareef was caught off guard by it. The speed of street news was still alarming to him.
He answered, “Yeah, man, somebody tried to make a move on me last night. What you hear about it?”
Jurrell laughed and told him, “I just heard you showed niggas some football skills and took off running.”
Shareef chuckled with him. He said, “Yeah, and then your boy Baby G picked me up and took me out of there. He just popped up out of nowhere. At first I thought he was another carload trying to kill me.”
“Oh yeah? What he talk to you about? What he want?”
Jurrell seemed interested in it. Shareef took note of that. He said, “He was just talking shit, basically. Seem like he wanted to be cool with me to write a book on him or something.”
“To write a book on him?” Jurrell laughed again and responded, “Man, what’s up with all these kids wanting book deals all of a sudden?”
Shareef said, “That’s what I’m thinking. And ain’t nobody gon’ even read it when I’m done. They gon’ all want the movie instead.”
Instead of laughing it off, Jurrell went silent for a spell.
He said, “Why not? You think you can get a movie deal out of this?”
He sounded interested again. Shareef wasn’t counting on that. He fumbled and said, “I mean, um, I haven’t been able to get no film deals done, man. Hollywood don’t respect us like that. It seem like only white authors get film deals.”
Jurrell said, “So you telling me the only way to make a black book into a movie is through white people, with all the fuckin’ money we got out here now? I mean, yo, get some of these hip-hop niggas involved with your shit. You need to write a book they’ll relate to.”
“That’s what I was trying to do with this Michael Springfield story until all of this other shit started happening,” Shareef explained.
Jurrell said, “Yeah, I see what you mean. These street niggas are out here getting in your way.”
