Carl Weber's Kingpins

by Marcus Weber

  Mo seemed amused as he waited for him to finish making a fool of himself. Jackson hadn’t swayed the kid one bit.

  “Shit, everybody gotta learn. You ain’t got no choice but to teach him what he needs to know, or you will be out of the business, and your father won’t be fucking happy,” Mo said dismissively, raising his hand. “Now, it’s clear who I plan to deal with from now on. And, one more thing. Now that I’ve agreed to take y’all on, Max King will be coming down on y’all hard. That nigga hates me, and I hate him. He’s like a tick on my ass. Just let Emil know that I warned y’all. This war requires all forces of whatever army y’all got. I don’t make many partnerships either, so consider ya’selves fucking lucky,” Mo said with deadly intent. He balled his fist and held it out in front of Antonio.

  Antonio looked down at the little fist and wondered just how many men and women this little punk ass kid had killed with those hands. He shivered just thinking about what a kid like this might do to someone who crossed him. He was definitely a bold little dude.

  “You got my word that your enemies are our enemies. We look forward to this business arrangement,” Antonio assured while Jackson looked on, brooding.

  “The cost of the next shipment is two million. I will take it in cash, or you can adjust prices of the next consignment to make up for it. Either way you choose to do it, I don’t care. Just know that I need to be paid on time. That is how this business works.”

  Before he hobbled off, Mo turned his sights to Jackson.

  “Teach him good and do right by him. Maybe one day, you’ll even be able to earn my trust.”

  * * *

  It was eerily silent on the way back to Jackson’s car. Jackson sucked in his bottom lip and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his pants like a kid who’d lost his favorite toy to his brother. It was all he could do to keep himself from putting his hands around Antonio’s neck and squeezing until he passed out, or getting his gun and ending Antonio’s threat to his position in the family.

  Antonio knew his survival in this new endeavor depended fully on Jackson’s mentoring. He had to keep the lines of communication between himself and Jackson open. Admittedly, Antonio didn’t know the first thing about drug shipments—kilos versus bricks, consignment, distribution and percentages.... He needed to get humble quick, or he’d be in big trouble. He was good at putting himself in a means-to-an-end mindset, and right now, Jackson was his means-to-an-end. Swallowing hard and putting his usually stubborn pride aside, Antonio reached out and touched his brother’s arm. Jackson bladed his body toward Antonio, his fists clenched and ready. Antonio snatched his hand away and put both hands up, a peace offering.

  “C’mon, Jax. You know I have respect for you, man. I didn’t expect things to go like that. Hell, I didn’t expect Emil to even put me in this position so fast. I had no control over how that little kid acted and how he wanted to proceed with business. Trust me, I’m not into stepping on toes. I’m here to learn, to grow. I need you now just as much as you need me. You have my word. I’m not trying to take your place, man. I just want to get in where I fit in and for all of us to eat,” Antonio said in his sincerest voice.

  Jackson contemplated his brother’s little spiel. His jaw loosened, and his eyes softened a little bit. He wanted to scream and curse about his father. This wasn’t the first time Emil had slighted him for someone else. For Jackson, it was like his father was constantly subliminally telling him that he wasn’t proud of him. But, in that moment, father’s wishes or not, Jackson knew he held all the cards, because if he told Antonio to fuck off, they’d all be screwed—including that little bastard, Mo. Jackson also knew that he would be screwed too, which made his decision to go along with the plan a bit easier. He loved the fast life too much. The money, the women, the popularity . . . he was addicted to it all in a dangerous way.

  “Whatever, nigga,” Jackson said, lightening up. “Just don’t ever say I didn’t warn you before you jumped off the side of the building into this shark tank. It ain’t no place for a soft-ass ball-playing nigga like you. Once you’re in, you can’t ever get out, unless you go out the way a lot of soldiers do . . . the grave,” Jackson said ominously. Then he stalked toward the building’s exit. Antonio bit the inside of his cheek and followed closely behind. It was too late to think about it now. He was already all in.

  Once inside the car, Antonio reached down and turned Jackson’s music off. Jackson’s eyebrows shot up into arches.

  “Nigga, you—” Jackson started.

  Antonio cut him off. “You know, it’s been over two months since I started working with y’all, and we’ve never really gotten a chance to know one another. Me and you. Brothers. Man to man. We will be stuck together like glue now, so I think now is that time,” Antonio said. He meant it, but he also needed to get Jackson to reveal things Antonio would never get from Emil and Hayden. Jackson may have been a loose cannon, but Antonio had sensed that he was the most honest of the three. There was still something missing from the stories Emil shared, and Antonio had a feeling that Jackson had the answers.

  Jackson rubbed his chin as he contemplated Antonio’s request. A part of him didn’t want to share anything with this outsider. His life was his business. Another part of him wanted Antonio to know who Emil Cartwright really was, since Antonio seemed to believe their father was this great man and not a ruthless drug kingpin hiding behind legitimate businesses. With one hand on the steering wheel, Jackson thought about it all.

  “When we started in the business, I was eighteen and Hayden was just sixteen. Pop had always provided a nice life for us. He was already established as the man in every business he touched . . . legal and illegal. Pop didn’t believe in sending us to the white man’s schools. He schooled us at home. Back then, my moms wasn’t feeling that shit. She used to preach to Pop about how our customers were our own people—somebody’s mother or somebody’s deadbeat-ass father. Pop sold to our own with no qualms about it. Pop looked at it like this: he had started out from the gate trying to make his life better. Back in his day, nobody was giving him shit. He had to scrap and struggle to move up. He told us stories about when his family came up north from the South and he was so broke he couldn’t afford simple shit like a haircut, clean clothes, or shoes with soles in them. Pop said his mother used to work for them white people cleaning until her hands bled. He got tired of watching that shit, so he started hanging around the cats back then that had the Cadillac cars and the tailor-made suits,” Jackson looked over at Antonio. “Most of them niggas was pimps, and Pop said he had too much respect for his mother to make a woman sell pussy for his come up. He started in the dope business instead.”

  “Just like that? It was that easy back then?” Antonio questioned, truly intrigued to be learning his father’s back story.

  “Pop was unique,” he replied. “Nobody could even hold a match to Pop in certain areas. He was smart—real book smart and street smart. Some of the dudes he came up in the game with couldn’t even do basic math or read and write, but Pop had taught himself. The other guys were getting robbed blind by their suppliers. Pop had survival skills. He was always explaining stuff to dudes on the street, real analytical-like. Pop read a lot of books, even them boring ass textbooks. As he got older, Pop learned to play the middle so well that he was able to have the best of both worlds. He could mix in with them white folks and talk all proper and shit, but he told us he would come home and hang on the block with the cats that wasn’t fuckin’ with the white man’s world. Pop was smarter than all them niggas back then—black or white. He knew the keys to the game were in knowing how to expertly play the game,” Jackson continued.

  Antonio understood that all too well. He’d had his fair share of having to play the game to navigate life. Like now—he didn’t really want to be a part of the Cartwright family, in fact, he hated that they had everything he never did, but his mastery of game-playing had gotten him this far, and he had no other options left to provide for his wife and child.<
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  “I knew he was smart,” Antonio placated so he could hear more.

  “Smart? Nah, that nigga was a genius. Did you know that he was so genius, he played himself down? The nigga was already nearly a millionaire from the streets, but he wasn’t satisfied with that. He knew shit could be bigger and better. Pop became a custodian in them tall, shiny, white people business buildings in Manhattan and he caught on that most of them rich working people were addicts. The dude started selling to them, and he would make a grip daily just off two or three of his white customers. As we got older, Pop would tell us the only difference between us and them was they had way more money to spend, which also meant we had way more money to make. He was making his paper daily, round the clock, and those white motherfuckers ain’t even have to leave their desks. Pop was hitting them off with that eighty percent pure white at the time. It was top-of-the-line shit. Pop told us how word of mouth about him spread all over Manhattan like a fucking plague. Them white boys loved him. He charged top dollar, and for the convenience of having their dealer deliver, they paid whatever he asked. If they ain’t have the money, Pop made deals. Big deals. But you know, as with anything, deals, money . . . that shit breeds jealousy and envy.”

  “So how did he get a hold of the blow to begin with? Who was his supplier?” Antonio asked, intrigued by this other side of Emil.

  “That’s what made Pop so powerful in the streets. The mystery behind him. He never talked about where he got his product from and we never asked. When he was making his money in Manhattan, he eventually caught on that moving up to the Bronx would make his money even longer. So that’s what he did. As we got older, he showed us the ropes. But you know he always preached about wanting more. He would have me distribute to his street-level niggas. His product was so good that it only took a little to make what they were putting out there. Even if them niggas broke it all the way down, people loved the shit. Everybody was happy.” Jackson said, smirking like he was off in some far away fairytale land that didn’t exist anymore.

  “Was he happy then?” Antonio pressed.

  “After a few years, we learned that this old head, Max King, wasn’t feeling Pop moving in on his territory. Pop was fearless, and he even moved in on Max’s legal shit. Pop was washing his dirty money and found out one of his clients had invested it in some stocks. Pop wanted to build his own shit. He used to work in the business buildings, and he moved up to owning them shits. Me? I was a boss in my own right. Pop told me it was a mistake to trust those young kids to work for me, but I told him I could handle myself. I told him let square ass Hayden run the legit shit and let me stick to this street. I don’t know, shit just kind of changed for me and Pop along the way. It’s like he wanted me to be something I’m not—a square nigga. He kind of dissed me a few times over the years,” Jackson’s voice was full of regret. His mood swung like a pendulum from happy, to sad, to angry as he recalled the past.

  “If it makes you feel better, he’s always said you were smart . . . real street smart,” Antonio said, almost feeling sorry for Jackson.

  “I can admit, I am stubborn, and sometimes I didn’t follow his advice. That shit led me to the system, and if it wasn’t for Pop, his clean money, and them lawyers, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to your ass today. That’s facts.”

  “One of Pop’s first legitimate businesses was a bar called Ladies and Gents, right in the heart of the hood. It was like a ‘fuck you’ to the Feds and the police that had been tracking Pop’s every move. He was like Bumpy Johnson, the urban Robin Hood and shit. The first night of business, everybody ate and drank for free. I thought that nigga was crazy. It hurt my heart to see how much money Pop was letting slip through his fingers. But that method in the hood worked like a fucking charm. From that day forward, Pop had loyal customers and lookouts and protectors. The place was always packed, even on the nights when there was fucking snowstorms and shit.

  “That same month, things went to shit for me. I got caught up in a sweep on the street. Even though I had eased off the hand-to-hand sales, I had a few kids still working for me. Just like Pop had warned me against. Life had been good for me up to that point. I was out from Pop’s shadow, but that also meant I was out from under the cover of his protection. All it took was one worker to get knocked. That snitch nigga told the cops all about me pushing weight, about the re-up spots, and about the blocks I had my people holding down. Thanks to that nigga, I ended up walking right into a narco trap. Pop never visited me, but he sent a top-notch team of lawyers to work on my case. I was on the inside going crazy, thinking that Pop and Hayden had turned their backs on me until them fucking lawyers showed up, sharp as shit and ready to get me out of there. I can appreciate that shit now. Pop was smarter than me. An old head that knew better. He wouldn’t dare bring heat to himself by visiting me. Too many eyes on him, enemies and cops alike. Trust me, to this day and always, Pop thinks all of his actions through. He was never a fly-by-the-seat-of-ya-pants type of dude,” Jackson said, his head rocking in earnest.

  Antonio shook his head in agreement. Learning this fact about Emil made him slightly uncomfortable, because Emil’s decision to thrust him into this business seemed to be a knee-jerk decision. Why would he all of a sudden be making quick decisions? That question nagged Antonio. His thoughts were broken up by Jackson’s voice.

  “I wasn’t behind bars for longer than a hot minute. I got off. My dream team of lawyers fried that fucking snitch on the stand. By the time they finished, his credibility was like a pile of horse shit,” Jackson chuckled.

  “Then what?” Antonio asked.

  “Then I came home. Ready to work. Pop was different toward me after that, though. He wasn’t the same toward me ever,” Jackson said, his voice going low.

  Antonio couldn’t figure out if he was sad or mad at the revelation that his father changed toward him.

  “I found out later too that Pop was stressed because he’d gotten word that your moms was dying,” Jackson blurted.

  Antonio’s heart immediately throttled up in his chest. He whipped his head to the side and stared at side of Jackson’s face. Antonio’s breath came out in jagged puffs.

  “The one thing Pops didn’t do was lie to us. He married my mother, but he told us point blank, he was in love with yours. I’m talking like, he was with our mother for years and never stopped professing his love for your mother.”

  Antonio cleared his throat. It was all he could do to keep from cursing and screaming, If he loved her so fucking much why did he leave her broken-hearted to struggle? Why did he leave us to struggle?

  “For a dude like Pop who could buy his way out of every situation, it was real hard to stand by totally powerless. And on top of that, our mother wanted out of the marriage. She had had enough of playing second fiddle to Pop’s real love. He was doing good in business, but his personal life was falling apart. Pop ain’t want nobody to show him no sympathy. He wanted to roll solo. His businesses kind of suffered, but he didn’t care. We were all mad at him, but he didn’t care. All the years growing up, I had never seen him show no real emotions, but he cried like a baby the day your moms passed. He just wanted to be left alone. Pop disappeared for about a year after your moms closed her eyes. But before he left, he made sure he told us about you,” Jackson said, following up with a long sigh.

  Antonio was speechless. What was he supposed to say to that? He wanted to change the subject. He didn’t want to hear any more about his mother and her pain. He had lived it. He had worked years to bury that painful experience.

  “Back to the business . . . Emil disappeared, and then what?” Antonio pressed. He just wanted to get off the topic of his mother.

  “In the year Pop took off from the business, shit had changed drastically. There was a whole new system out on the blocks that used to be mine. It was like some underground sales shit—no more standing outside, hoodies on, stashing your shit in a brown paper bag, hand-to-hand transactions. Nah, there was an elaborate code of cash exch
ange and transfer system. Nobody was allowed to speak on the phone about anything at all. It was all official, roundtable meetings and shit. That’s when I met all of the distributors, and everybody wanted to become like the mafia. They were working the new system like pros. It had all been set up by Pop, but I didn’t even know. They respected him like he was the next messiah. Yeah, to this day, even with his shortcomings, Pop is the fucking smartest businessman in town. He turned corner sales into a well-oiled business machine. Even the fiends knew how shit worked, and they respected it,” Jackson recalled, his tone changing again.

  “So where did that leave you?” Antonio asked the obvious question.

  “For a while, that left me nowhere. Pop never left me hungry—that’s a fact. He made sure I still had finest clothes, jewelry, a spot to lay my head and shit. I would never take that away from him. But, when you grow up in the game, somebody taking your shit over, even your own father, is like taking the air out of your lungs and holding a gun to your head to force you to breathe.

  “When Pop got over your mother’s death, he came back on the scene and we had a big blow up about my role in the business. I told him how fucked up I felt about him snatching up my business. But, you know his style. he is a smooth-talking old motherfucker that could shut you down with your own words. He told me he had bigger plans for me and Hayden. Told me, I was better than that penny street corner business. Pop convinced me that he wanted me to be his right hand, a position that would make me a lot more money and gain me a lot of respect.

  “I was hesitant at first. I ain’t want to be no square. Wearing a suit and shit ain’t my thing,” Jackson said, raising an eyebrow and looking over at Antonio’s suit. “Pop assured me that he would never lead me wrong. For the first time in my life he told me he loved me. I was twenty-fucking-one years old before my own father ever told me he loved me. I felt that shit, too. From that day forward, I did whatever Pop asked of me. I would’ve followed him into the pits of Hell if he asked me. I was loyal. Loyal like a dog. But, you know, as with everything, all good things get fucked up when other shit come into the mix,” Jackson said, his emotions raw.