“Big Time! Calm down,” Slim laughs. “You losing your cool. That was the horniest face I ever saw!” he jokes.
I snap back into reality. For a second, I almost forget about the crowd of young niggas in here who are all watching me like I’m a pervert or something.
I can see why this is the hot spot. There are some bad chicks in here- not the average trampy- type dancers either. I see some who are definitely wife material. I mean, if you met them on the street, you wouldn’t have a clue what line of work they did in the wee hours of the night. And the way some of them look, I think the average dude would be willing to forget what her occupation is. The barmaids look just as good as the dancers. Each barmaid is topless, wearing only a thong and stilettos. All races of women are in here, Black, Asian, Spanish, Jamaican and White, - one big melting pot. The prettiest one of them all is this tall, Russian chick. She stands about 6 feet tall. She has long slender legs, blue eyes, and short blond hair. She has little doorknocker tits, but she has the biggest and tightest ass in the entire bar. She is so beautiful; these guys are tipping her without getting the slightest touch of her. Huh, that’s funny. The sisters have to let a nigga damn near fuck them while getting a lap dance, just for them to give her a dollar bill, while all this white chick has to do is wiggle her no- rhythm- having ass to the beat as close as she can, and they’re just throwing fives and tens onto the stage.
I notice the barmaid walking in our direction with a big bucket of ice with a bottle of Cristal in it. She stops right in front of me and places the bucket on the countertop. I don’t know why she brought that over; I’m not paying $300 for no champagne. She must have me mixed up with these young boys. Yeah, she has me horny, but I’m not that damn horny.
“This is from the kid in the corner with the New York Yankees cap on,” she says.
“For me?” I ask cluelessly.
“Yeah, for you!” she shouts sarcastically.
I look over in the direction she pointed to. I see a small crowd of kids with about six bottles of Cristal in front of them. They’re bugging. They’re spitting champagne on the dancers. They’re pouring it all over the girls as they lay on the counters with their mouths wide open letting the champagne drip down their throats. One kid even pours champagne on one of the dancer’s pussy and licks it dry. I squint so I can see exactly who the barmaid is talking about. But I don’t see a Yankee baseball cap until a little frail kid stands up and waves at me with one finger in the air. I recognize him, but again I can’t place his face. I wave back, but I’m trying to figure out where I know him from. Was I locked up with him? Was he one of my soldiers back in the day? I can’t place him. I’ve been away for so long and through my travels I’ve met so many people, it’s impossible for me to remember everyone.
The kid steps away from the crowd so I can get a better view of him. Now I know who he is. It’s that nigga, Ice, Desire’s little friend. I stop smiling instantly remembering what he told my two boys about me being broke. I slide the champagne away from me and shake my head no. He begins to walk toward me.
As he approaches us, he shakes Slim’s hand first. The sight of him infuriates me. I’m about ready to get at him. As he gets closer, I can see the fear in his eyes. He extends his hand for a handshake. I hesitate until he says, “Peace!”
“Peace!” I return. I wasn’t going to acknowledge him until he stated he’s coming in peace. That’s one thing I respect is peace. If a cat comes to me using that word, I have to trust him but only to a certain degree. The majority of the time I can look in a joker’s eyes and tell if he’s coming in peace or not. His eyes tell me he doesn’t want any trouble.
“You know me, right?” he asks. “I’m Ice.”
“Yeah, I know, and?” I ask sarcastically.
“Listen Cash, I don’t want no trouble with you. I’m about getting paper, just like you about getting paper,” he states. “Desire told me what you said. I ain’t with that shit,” he explains. “I don’t have a problem with you.”
“Then why did you tell my sons that bullshit? You don’t know me to be playing with me,” I state with a sharp tone. “I’m a grown ass man! When I left you were only a baby; you’re too young to respect my gangster. That car shit, I been there and done that. If I don’t buy another car in my life, it won’t matter to me because I’ve driven everything already. I was driving BMWs when I was 15 years old. Don’t try to compare yourself to me!”
“Nah, it wasn’t like that, Cash,” he interrupts. “I know who you are! You used to mess with my big sister.”
“Who is your sister?”
“Reyna.”
“Reyna?”
“Yeah, a long time ago. I was like four years old. I remember you coming to pick her up in BMWs. I respect your gangster. I used to see you doing you. I wasn’t trying to assassinate your character. I was playing with the kids. They were telling me your car is better than my truck and how you’re rich and you have more money than me,” he explains. “True indeed, I shouldn’t have said what I said, but I was only bugging. Trust me, I know you ain’t broke. I used to hear my sister tell her friends how she used to help you count money and how you had $100,00 stashed in her room back in the day.”
“Oh, that Reyna?” I interrupt. “Double R!”
“Yeah. Reyna Richardson!”
“What’s up with her?” I ask.
“Man, she’s doing good. She’s married and the whole shit. She married some Muslim dude from Philly. They got a big house out there and everything. She got her own beauty parlor.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, the dude is supposed to be rich. You know, money in the millions. He sells a bunch of real estate out there.”
“Yeah? That’s all right! Reyna Richardson, that was my heart! I raised her. She was a good girl, but at that time I wasn’t looking for good girls. I was busy trying to find me a skeezer to run up in.” Ice laughs. “You know?” I ask.
“Yeah, I feel you.”
“Yo, check this. I don’t know what’s up with you and Desire. Actually, I don’t care,” I admit. “Our thing is over. I’m a married man. I’m not trying to be a threat to you. I’m not attracted to Desire. I have no feelings for Desire. But I do love those two boys. All I’m asking you is not to get in the way of me loving my two boys. That’s the only way we’ll have problems. You feel me?”
“Yeah, I feel you.”
“Cool!” We shake hands and hug. He goes back to his side, and I continue to do what I was doing.
It seems like the crowd accepts me more after they see Ice and me kicking it. They even stopped staring at me. Judging by the way people make it their business to run over and shake his hand, he must be somebody. He also has his own VIP section. One of the dancers went over there and stayed for almost a half hour. He’s tipping big, too.
It makes me feel good to know that this kid knows who I was. Finally, someone respects and remembers me. These young cats have really taken over, and I was starting to feel extinct like the dinosaur.
Me and Slim sip on the champagne. Normally, I don’t drink. I’m not a drinker. I’m afraid to drink. Alcoholism runs in my family. My daddy was an alcoholic, my grandmother, and my great- grandmother, a whole family of drunks. I’m drinking in celebration. I’m finally home after seven long years.
The door opens real wide, and a big shadow covers the entrance. The security guard looks up as the darkness of the shadow gets closer and closer. I can tell that whoever is coming in must be huge. I can tell that by the way the security guard has to look up while talking to him. There must be controversy at the door because the security from the back is running to the front. I can hear someone yelling.
“I ain’t got no fucking ID! Listen man, you better ask somebody in here about me! Move out my way Bro!”
Whoever it is has a deep voice. The crowd opens up for him as he backs in. He’s pointing in the security guard’s face. This dude is huge. His back is almost as wide as the doorway. His arms look like the arms of
a wrestler. The sleeves of his bright white T-shirt are choking his biceps. The crazy part is his tiny waist; as big as he is up top, his waist can’t be any bigger than a size 29.
The music goes low. The crowd becomes tense. The 6-feet3 inch monster turns around and stands in the middle of the aisle. I look him in the eyes from across the room. He looks back with the meanest stare. I stick both of my middle fingers up at him. He taps his chest as if to say, Who me? I shake my head yes and whisper “Fuck You.” He reads my lips. He’s furious. Now he’s coming toward me. Slim looks at me like I’m crazy. “Bang Man, what the fuck you doing, Big Time?” I don’t respond. I take notice of Slim. He already has his straight razor open, concealing it in the palm of his hand and hiding it inside his cuff.
As the Gorilla gets closer, I slide my drink away from the bar and grab an empty beer bottle. He’s coming fast.
When he gets up to me, we stand face to face. “What?” I ask. He cracks a rotten- tooth smile. He doesn’t have any front teeth, and he has the flattest nose.
“Oh shit! Oh shit!” he shouts. He embraces me. He almost squeezes the life out of me as he picks me up off the ground like I’m as light as a feather. He twirls me around. Slim doesn’t know what to do. He’s dumbfounded. I wink at him and gesture for him to put his razor away.
That’s one thing about Slim; he doesn’t go anywhere without his razor, and he’ll cut a motherfucker in a heartbeat. Everybody in this town knows that much about him.
“Cashmere! When did you get home?”
“I’ve been home a couple of weeks,” I reply.
“Damn, I ain’t know who you was! I was ready to go up top on your ass!”
“Yeah right! My old head already had the drop on you. He already had his razor out and the whole shit. He would have cut your big ass too short to shit.” He looks Slim up and down before smiling at him.
This is Mike Mittens, a.k.a. Puffy Paws. This nigga is no joke. His real name is Michael Jones. He got the nickname Mittens because of the size of his hands; they’re huge, and he’s deadly with them. He can box his ass off. He was a pro fighter, but being that he can’t stay out of trouble, he was always going back and forth to prison. That ruined his career. When he’s in prison, he’s a trainer. That’s how he survives in the joint. He trains the young jokers for a fee. When he’s on the street, he survives by extorting the same young jokers that he trained in prison. No one plays with him.
In the ring, none of his fights go past 30 seconds. He’s big, strong, and quick. His specialty is trick boxing. His moves are so creative. I’ve watched him totally embarrass guys on the street. One time I saw him flurry a guy, then he paused to let the guy throw a punch at him. He slipped it, bent down, and untied the guy’s shoe laces. Then he rose back up and knocked the guy out.
Then there was the time another slick fighter called him out. He let the dude shoot an eight-piece combination at him. He slipped all eight punches, grabbed the guy by the elbow, spun him around, grabbed hold of his waist, and pumped on his butt like he was buttfucking the man. Then he spun him back around and hit him with a left uppercut, followed by a quick right hook. That finished him. The man fell over backwards. Mike let him sleep for 60 seconds as he counted the seconds out one by one. Then he further disrespected the dude as he stood over the man and pissed on him. The man woke up to a golden shower.
Everyone fears this guy in jail and on the streets; he’s well aware of that. He uses that to his advantage. One thing about him is that if he likes you, you know, it and if he dislikes you, he’ll definitely show you.
“What’s going on Mike?”
“Nothing much, I just came home today,” he replies.
“Yeah?” I question. “How long were you away?”
“Six months, parole violation. I knocked my punk ass parole officer out!”
“Mike you’re still crazy!” He laughs.
“So what’s up Cash? What are you doing?”
“I aint doing too much, I’m trying to put a plan together, but first I have to see what’s going on, who doing what, you know how it goes.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Let me brief you on what’s going down. I know all the major players,” says Mike. “It’s only two major players in this town right now. You see the kid in the corner over there, with the Yankee hat?” He ‘s pointing at Ice.
“Yeah.”
“That’s Ice,” says Mike. “He’s in your line of business, that cocaine. He’s heavy in it. He run a little block up the hill. They getting a bunch of money. All they sell is 20s. But his main thing is the weight. He tearing them up in the down states, Virginia, Carolina and Georgia. He killing them.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “You see that little truck he got? You see it has North Carolina plates on it right?” he asks. “He doesn’t live up here. He was making so much money down there, he bought a house and moved his whole family down there; his mother, his grandmother, the dog, everybody. He’s a pussy though. When I came home the first time, I didn’t know him from a hole in the wall. He approached me on some punk ass scary shit and gave me $10,000. He told me to get right with that. Every time his punk ass sees me, he gives me a grand or two. That’s why I came in here. I was on my way home and I saw his car out front,” he admits. “Then on the dope tip, you got the Mayor. That young boy is rich.”
“Yeah, I heard,” I reply. “What’s the deal with him? Is he soft or what?”
“Nah, he’s a cool dude. He real. If he’s feeling you, he’ll look you out; if he ain’t feeling you, he’ll tell you ‘fuck you’ to your face. You have to respect that.”
“True,” I agree.
“He looks out for a lot of niggas, but he doesn’t have to. He don’t look out because of fear. He looks out cause he got a good heart. He really don’t have to fear nothing. His little crew is serious. Them juveniles wild. I don’t know where he got them from or who raised them like that, but they really ain’t to be fucked with.”
Damn, Mike Mittens even sounds scared of these niggas. This really discourages me. I sort of looked up to Mike ever since I was a kid. He’s one of the most treacherous, if not the most treacherous old head around. Mike has to be at least 42 years old, and he’s been bringing the noise ever since I can remember.
“That’s about it right there. He got the coke and baby boy got the dope. Are you still messing with the blow?” he asks.
“I ain’t sure yet.”
“Well, let me tell you like this. It’s still a lot of coke money to be made, but the dope is rocking right now. If you get the right food, you can do you,” he adds.
“I’m thinking of fucking with what I know,” I interrupt. “I know powder; I don’t know shit about heroin. If I did I would say ‘Fuck Junebug’ and do me!” I shout.
“Nah, you can’t say fuck the Mayor,” says Mike. “Right now, he’s in control. I like the kid because he doesn’t ask for respect. He demands it. I never saw him back down from anybody. The kid is real.”
“Man, fuck him and the goons!” I shout.
“Cash, you have to respect the game. It’s a new day and time. It’s their turn.”
“Mike, you sound like you have softened up.”
“Nah, I ain’t softened up!” Mike shouts. “I’ve just smartened up. Them teenage niggas, they fresh off the porch. They fired up. I’m 40 years old. My flame is dying down. Some of the shit I used to do, I don’t have the heart to do anymore. Think about some of the crazy shit you’ve done. Could you do it all over again?” he asks. “You got kids, right?”
“Yeah!”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“All right, two kids and a girl?”
“Nah, a wife.”
“OK, two kids and a wife who love you and need you at home every night. Them kids don’t have anyone at home waiting for them. They don’t even care if they make it home or not. Jail or home is the same for them. Think about the heart you had before the kids. Stone cold, right?” he
questions.
“Yeah!”
“Well, think about this. They’ve just developed that heart. What’s more dangerous is with that big heart, they don’t have any smarts. They’re not smart enough to know they have to pay for their actions. They don’t realize the seriousness of their acts until ten years into their 30-year sentence. I mean, I know you hold your own and all but it’s hard to beef with them and still use your common sense. These young boys will cause you to get 30 years. I know you might say, ‘I’ll do mines different. I’ll do mines smart, I’ll do mines in the dark when no one is watching.’ But guess what. They’re doing theirs broad daylight. If they catch you slipping, you’ll have to handle it right then. What if they don’t let you make it till later when no one is watching? Picture this: It’s 12 in the afternoon, broad daylight, the block crowded as hell. You got your banger on you. You see the young jack reaching for his gun; you beat him to the draw. What are you going to do? A, let him live and take a chance of him killing you later? Or B, kill him in front of everyone and get 30 years? Before you answer, think about your wife and kids. You got too much to lose. They don’t have shit to lose. You feel me?” he asks. “I’m not telling you to fear them. I’m telling you to respect what you’re up against. Cash, the game has changed.”
I sit quietly as I think about what he just said. He’s absolutely right, but my stubbornness and my ego won’t let me admit it.
“Cash, these young niggas can murder a motherfucker and get sentenced to ten years. They can do their time and still come home in their early 20s. They’ll still be young enough to start their lives over. Let us get caught, and we’re finished! Ten years will fuck us right on up; coming home in our 50s, what the hell can we do?”
“I feel you, but I ain’t going to let these young niggas dictate to me what I can or cannot do,” I shout.
“Nah, I ain’t telling you to do that, cause I ain’t going to let them dictate to me either. I mean, the Mayor can get it just like anyone else. I just want to make sure you know what you’re up against. And any way it goes, I’m rolling with you; you know that!”
Block Party Page 6
