Block Party

by Al-Saadiq Banks

  “Listen, Big Time! They want the best of both worlds. You can’t be mad at them. They want lots of money and a good, stable relationship. Is anything wrong with that?” He asks. I don’t answer. “Huh, is it?” he asks again, in a demanding type voice.

  “Nah, I guess not,” I mumble.

  “You’re just mad because she’s right. You want to be the husband she’s always dreamed of, doing all the husbandly things, but you can’t because you’re a drug dealer. You can’t have a houseful of friends over. You can’t let everyone know where you live. It’s hazardous to your health.” I just sit back listening. He’s hitting the nail on the head with his little speech.

  “Slim, how do you know that?”

  “Bang Man, I used to be the same kind of nigga, just like you! Did you forget? Don’t look at me in the present! Look at who I was in the past, then compare me to now. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up just like me! A has-been. When I was your age, no one could tell me I would end up like this. I was the richest nigga in this town, but look now. It’s over! Listen Big Time; you have a wife who loves you. Don’t lose that. Get this money and get out. Remember when you first came home and you said all you want is one more run?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have to be careful with that, because the funny thing about a run is that while you’re having one, you don’t realize it. Being that shit is moving so fast, you don’t have time to sit back and think. You don’t realize it until the run is over and you’re sitting in someone’s prison somewhere, telling stories about how you were running things. Listen to me!” he demands. “You might don’t see it, but I do, so let me tell you. Right now you’re having a run. So play the game; don’t let the game play you. I scored my last point already. I’m retired! You still have a couple of good games left in you. Remember, I told you this. Ten years from now, I don’t want you to be sitting somewhere saying, “I wish someone would have told me” cause I told you!”

  “Big Time, get what you can and get out. You’re a good guy. You got a good heart, but guess what? It ain’t no room for good guys in this game. The streets swallow up dudes like you. Think of all the successful guys you know in the game. Name one who isn’t sheisty or who isn’t a back-stabbing motherfucker. Just name one!”

  I think for a second. Before I can answer, Slim interrupts. “You can’t name one because there isn’t one. In order for you to be successful in this game, you have to be willing to step on motherfuckers or wipe out anyone in your path.”

  “Big Time, you ain’t built like that. I’m not built like that. That’s why I wasn’t successful, because I wasn’t willing to do anything for money. I had a good heart. In order to win in this game, you have to be heartless. You can’t give two fucks about a nigga. Don’t get me wrong, I made a lot of money, but I couldn’t get to the next level because I wasn’t willing to cross niggas. Niggas who I knew would cross me in a heartbeat, but I still remained loyal. Look at me now. It might look like I don’t have shit, but I do. I still got my morals, and I still got my dignity. A lot of niggas lose that in the game, but I still got mines. When it’s all over, will you be able to say the same?”

  “Big Time, remember this; it’s not if you win or lose, it’s how you play the game. I played fair. I can go to the grave today with no remorse about the game. Sure, I’m not rich like I should be, but I played fair. I never snitched on no one. I never robbed anyone, I never set anybody up, and I never hurt anybody who didn’t deserve it. I played by the rules. That rule book is played out now. The jitterbugs got a new rule book. Their book teaches them to do anything and everything to make a come up.”

  I look over at Slim in admiration. He made a lot of sense. He really has lived it. He is definitely proof of the end results of the game if things don’t work out in your favor. Everything he talks about, he really has lived it; this is why I love him and keep him with me. He keeps me on point.

  “Big Time,” he calls out.

  “Huh?” I reply, as I look him in the eyes.

  “I love you,” he shouts.

  “I love you too Slim.”

  When I pull to the traffic light, who do I see? Junebug is directly across from me. He’s in his Benz, and his goons are behind him in the black Pontiac Grand Prix. I can see him squinting, trying to see who’s driving this car. He hasn’t seen me in it yet.

  Yes, finally, I will get him back for all his smart remarks about my car. I just want to see the look on his face.

  Before the light changes to green, he speeds through the intersection. As he gets close, it’s all eyes on me. He blows right past me. He’s going so fast, he doesn’t even realize it’s me in here. Beep, beep, beep! I hit the horn. I won’t miss the chance to get even, for anything in this world. I can see his brake lights in my rearview mirror. He stops and puts his car in reverse. When he finally realizes it’s me, his mouth drops open. He didn’t expect to see me riding like this. He thinks he’s the only guy who can ride in a brand new Mercedes. Not only does my car cost $20,000 more than his, mine is much faster. Mine’s the sport, coupe version of his.

  In his passenger’s seat sits a beautiful girl, not the Chinese girl he’s usually with. This one is a long, blond-haired, white girl. She’s really beautiful. He must have snatched her right out of a magazine. One thing about him, he has taste. Every time I see him, he has a better-looking chick than the one before, unlike his brother Dre. Dre could have had any chick he wanted, but he always chose the ugliest ones.

  “Damn Cash, you riding, huh?” he asks.

  “Yeah, a little something,” I answer modestly.

  “She looking good,” he admits. “What size are those rims, 18s?”

  “Na, 20s,” I reply. “I couldn’t play myself and put 18s on here.” His mouth drops even lower. “What size are yours?”

  “Eighteens,” he whispers.

  Got him.

  “Shit must be picking up for you, huh?”

  “Yeah, shit all right, but I bought this with old money. I’m still spending money from the late 1980s. If you think this is something, wait till you see what I do with that money from ‘92. 1992 was a good year!” I shout. “This is that back-in-the-day, 15-year-old money. You don’t know anything about that. You were nothing but a little baby back then. You couldn’t even buy yourself a soda at that time. I said to myself, “self, you better spend that money before the numbers fade off and you can’t tell if it’s a $100 bill or a $5 bill.” He gives me a half ass smirk. All my bragging is getting to him. He doesn’t find it funny, but his white chick is laughing hysterically. He looks over at her and gives her a dirty look until she stops laughing. She’s been watching me the whole time we’ve been talking. I can’t help but notice her big blue eyes. I know she would play if I gave her the opportunity.

  Junebug is speechless. I take a quick glance at the car behind him. Me and the kid Spook lock eyes. We begin our staring contest, the same way we do every time we see each other. I turn back to Junebug. “I’ll holler at you later!” Before he can respond, I speed off. Screech!

  “Bang Man, I don’t like the way he was looking at you! He had a lot of hate in his eyes. You better be careful.”

  “Fuck him! Now, he finally got a taste of his own medicine.” It feels so good to finally get even with Junebug.

  Ring, ring! My phone is ringing. “Hello?”

  “Yo!”

  “Hello?”

  “Yo, Cash!” This is Mike. “Where are you? I need to holler at you.”

  This is something serious. I can tell by the sound of his voice. “I’m tied up right now,” I reply. “Why, what’s up?”

  “When will you be free?”

  “Mike, what’s going on?”

  “Cash, I don’t really want to talk on the phone.”

  “Is everything all right?” I ask. Mike has me worried. I’m anxious to find out what it is.

  “No, everything ain’t all right!”

  “What is it, Mike?”

  “Cash, I
just heard some crazy shit!”

  “Some crazy shit, like what?” I ask. What the hell is he talking about?

  “About Little Wu!” he replies.

  Oh shit. I wonder who told him.

  “Is it true?” he asks.

  “Is what true?” I ask, as if I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  “I heard Wu played you the fuck out! I know that ain’t true, is it?”

  “Yeah, he got that off,” I mumble.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” he asks. “How can you keep something like that a secret from me? Cash, I feel disrespected! I thought I was your man.”

  “You are my man,” I shout. “I just didn’t want that shit spreaded all over the street. That can ruin my reputation.”

  “Too late. It’s already all over the street.”

  “Who told you?” I ask.

  “My nephew told me. Someone pulled his coat to it. I heard that kid is bragging to everyone. He said you were begging for your life.”

  “Begging for my life?”

  “Yeah, you and the old man. He said the only reason he didn’t pop you was because the old man was there. That’s why he just pistol-whipped you.”

  “Pistol-whipped me? That punk motherfucker ain’t pistol-whip me! It didn’t even happen like that! Yeah, he played me, but he did it like a coward. I would have respected him if he pistol-whipped me and all that other shit. But instead he pulled a dope fiend move. He didn’t do it like a man!” Now I’m pissed! “I’ll tell you all about it in person! I’ll hit you as soon as I get back in the area.”

  “All right Cash!”

  “All right, later!” Click! “Slim, did you hear that bullshit? Wu is running around telling motherfuckers he pistol-whipped me and we were begging for our lives!”

  “Nah man, he ain’t say no shit like that!” Slim responds.

  “Yes the fuck he did! Slim, I swear, when I catch him I’m going to deal with him just like he did all the shit he said he did. He should have killed us!” Slim sits quietly. I can’t believe this shit. This young motherfucker is fucking up my reputation. He’s trying to gain fame off of my name. I’m going to kill him! Fuck his father! This shit is personal, now! I’m thinking he’s somewhere regretting what he done, and he’s out here bragging about the shit; straight disrespecting me. Now niggas might think shit is sweet. Soon everyone will be asking for consignment thinking I’m soft and they don’t have to pay me back. I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to bust his ass, broad daylight, in front of the world. These motherfuckers are going to know not to play with Cash!

  CHAPTER 17

  It’s a long aggravating ride to Connecticut. Besides the ride, the shit with Wu makes it even worse. I can’t wait to catch him.

  When we arrive at the bar, Slim is knocked out. He’s snoring as loud as he possibly can. I have to turn up the volume on the radio just to drown him out.

  As I’m turning into the parking lot, I see Juan and his translator standing in the doorway. I get out and walk over to them. Juan looks upset. He immediately starts speaking. Now the translator starts to speak.

  “Juan said he’s disappointed in you.”

  “Ask him why.”

  “He says take a good look at the parking lot and tell him what doesn’t belong.”

  I look around once, then twice, then three times. I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. “I don’t know.”

  Juan starts to speak again.

  “He said take a look at the cars in the lot,” says the translator.

  I look around. I see the old Celica the translator drives, and I see Juan’s old blue Camaro. Across the parking lot are a couple of Firebirds, an old Chevy Blazer, and two raggedy pickup trucks. “Yeah and?” I ask.

  Juan speaks again. This time he speaks with a sharp tone.

  “Juan said don’t ever bring that car to this bar again,” he translates. “He said you’ll make him hot.”

  Juan speaks again.

  “He said he has never had trouble with the law in all his years of business. He keeps a low profile, and he’s not going to let you get him busted by driving around here with that hot ass car.”

  Juan speaks again.

  “He said if the cops ride by here, they would want to know who the black man with the Mercedes is and what his business is here. Whenever they see the black people and the Spanish people together, they already know what is going on.”

  Juan speaks again.

  “He said that is the problem with the black people. They love to show off,” he translates.

  Juan speaks again.

  “He said in this game, you have to keep a low profile. You will last longer. Then after you’re done, you go legal, then you can do all the showing off you want. They won’t be able to touch you because you are clean.”

  Juan speaks again.

  “He said you were in federal prison all those years, you should know better. Did you learn anything from that?”

  I’m getting pissed. Who the hell does he think he is? Matter of fact, who does he think I am? I don’t care how much money he has, he’s not going to be talking down to me. He ain’t nobody. He just happens to know somebody that I don’t. If I had his connect, I would be in charge. “Tell him to lower his voice when talking to me! I don’t talk to him like that, and I’m not going to allow him to talk to me like that,” I shout, as I look Juan right in the eyes. He mellows right out. He turns his head the other way. He can’t look me in the eyes. He’s used to everyone jumping when he says ‘jump.’ That’s how it is when you got money. But guess what? I been had money.

  I’m hot under the collar, but I’m not going to argue because he’s totally right. I just don’t like the way he said it.

  Juan speaks again. This time he’s speaking civilized, like he’s talking to another adult.

  “Juan said, please park your car in the back and come through the back door of his office,” says the translator.

  I jump in the car and pull to the back. It’s secluded back here. It almost looks like a forest.

  When I walk through the door, Juan starts speaking immediately. Then the translator speaks right over him. “He said he would appreciate it if you don’t ever bring that car up here again.”

  The translator then walks over to a closet, pulls out a small box, and hands it to Juan. Juan speaks as he fumbles inside the box. After he finishes talking, the translator begins to speak. “Juan called you up here because he wants you to see something.”

  Juan reaches over and drops something into my hand. Then he speaks.

  “Juan said, do you know anything about this?” he translates.

  I open my hand to see what it is. I don’t have the slightest clue. It’s a tiny, off-white, egg-shaped rock.

  “It’s raw dope,” says the translator. “Heroin.”

  “I know that,” I lie. I never knew dope came in this form. Actually, I never cared. I never sold dope. I’ve been selling blow all my life.

  Juan speaks.

  “He said can you do anything with this?” the translator asks. “He has a lot of it, and he needs it moved.”

  I pause for a moment. I don’t know shit about heroin. I should take it. But what if I can’t move it? Then I’ll be stuck owing this man money. But damn, Slim did say this is where the money is.

  “Tell him yeah!” I shout. “I can move it. I’m a hustler. I can move anything.”

  Juan speaks again.

  “He said are you sure?” the translator asks.

  “Of course, I’m sure,” I lie again.

  “He said if you can move it, he has a half a kilo for you.” My eyes stretch open. A half a kilo? What the fuck am I getting myself into? “He said he wants $45,000, for it.”

  Damn, $45,000 for a half a kilo? I start calculating. That’s $90 a gram. Hell no! How much can I make off of it at that price? They’re both staring at me, waiting for my response. I don’t want to look dumbfounded, so I’m just going to roll with the punches. />
  Juan speaks again.

  “He said that comes out to $90 a gram. It’s pure, untouched. You won’t have any problems moving it,” he claims.

  That’s what you think. I don’t know about this. I should just back down while I have the chance, instead of getting it, knowing I don’t know the first thing about it; $45,000 is too much paper to be playing with.

  “Do you know how to cut it?” the translator asks.

  “Nah, but I know somebody who does,” I reply.

  “Good,” says the translator.

  Juan speaks again.

  “He said he’ll get the package to you in the morning. He said he doesn’t want you to drive it home in that car of yours. You won’t make it to the highway before they pull you over. What time will you be ready?”

  “Tell him to come first thing in the morning,” I reply.

  “All right, 9 o’ clock,” he affirms.

  “All right then. Adios, hasta manana,” I shout.

  “Manana,” Juan shouts back.

  I proceed out the back door. What the fuck did I get myself into? I don’t know shit about dope, and my greedy ass gone take a half a joint. I hope Slim knows what to do with it.

  Slim is still knocked out. I knock on the window, to wake him up. Tap, tap! He wakes up and looks around. He has a confused look on his face. He doesn’t know where he is. He reaches over and opens the door. “Bang Man, where the hell are we?” he asks, as I sit down.

  “At the bar in Connecticut. I parked in the back. Slim, do you know what to do with raw dope?” Please say yes.

  “Do I know what to do with it?” he asks, as if I just spoke French to him. He starts picking in his teeth. Psstt, psstt.

  Oh boy, he doesn’t know. He’s taking too long to answer. If he has to think about it this long, he’s as clueless as me.

  After a few seconds, he finally answers. “Yeah, if you a junkie, you shoot it, and if you a hustler, you sell it,” he answers sarcastically.