Blow

by K'wan

  K illa-E sat with his back to Daddy-O, facing the kitchen where there was another man standing over the stove. E was a pale Puerto Rican kid who wore his hair in a buzz cut that never seemed to grow beyond a certain point. He had a tender jaw and a long pointed nose that made you wonder if white wasn’t somewhere in his genetic makeup. He cast his red-rimmed eyes behind him to Daddy-O and smiled. Though the smile was innocent enough, Daddy-O knew that E was more than he appeared to be.

  “What’s good,” E said, extending his hand.

  “Sup,” Daddy-O said, giving him a fist-pound. He knew E through Prince, and though Prince seemed to trust him, there was something about E that never sat right with Daddy-O. Prince said that Daddy-O had never gotten over the fact that E fucked his high school sweetheart, but Daddy-O never admitted to it.

  “What’s good, daddy?” the man standing over the stove smiled at Daddy-O. He was tall, but not too much more than average. His mahogany skin had taken on a milk chocolate glow from the summer temperature and the added heat from the stove. In one hand he clutched a coffee pot with contents that had begun to turn a milky white, while a cigarette burned in the other.

  “What it is, Prince,” Daddy-O raised his fist in the air.

  “Trying to get this cookie right for E,” Prince said, lifting the pot to eye level so he could examine the rice-cake-shaped object at the bottom of it. “I’ll be finished in a minute, but in the meantime why don’t you twist that bag of five-six on the table.”

  “Fo sho,” Daddy-O said, sliding into the chair closest to the kitchen and Prince. He began breaking the weed up on a CD case trying not to think on how much E’s presence was offending him. He cut his eyes up from his task and found E looking at him. It wasn’t a malicious look, but a curious one. E knew that Daddy-O didn’t like him, and he had an idea why, but he didn’t know for sure. E got off on being able to read people and therefore play to their egos, but it didn’t work with Daddy-O and it irked him.

  E had lived in the projects longer than Daddy-O, but didn’t have as much street credibility. Daddy-O had been knocking cats on their asses for the last couple of years, while E’s only claim to fame was being a flunky for any Spanish nigga with a team, and a petty-ass con-man. In the mid to late nineties, E had run with a crew of wild ass Spanish niggaz from 106th that had butted heads with the project crews several times over the last few years. Prince had even taken a bullet during the conflict, so Daddy-O never understood how he could get close with E. Even though E wasn’t the kid who shot Prince, he was a part of them. To Daddy-O, E was still the enemy, but he tolerated him on the strength of his friend.

  “I didn’t know this was a full-service kitchen,” Daddy-O said to Prince but kept his eyes on E. “You forget how to cook?” he asked E.

  E’s eyes glazed over in anger, but he kept his voice neutral. “Not at all, but Prince’s whip game is better than mine. I’ll be out of your way in a minute so you can have your boss back.”

  “You got jokes,” Daddy-O gave him a dangerous chuckle. “You better keep in mind that I ain’t Prince, my dude. Ain’t but so much I’m gonna let you slide with.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that. And that’s why I wouldn’t deal with you like I’d deal with Prince. Some cats,” E shrugged, “you just can’t reason with.”

  “Yo, why don’t you two niggaz both shut up and light something?” Prince interjected, coming over to the table with the dripping cookie clutched between two tongs. He placed the cookie on a glass plate and cut the tiny fan on so it would dry the mix.

  “Yeah, that shit is looking right,” E said, staring at the cookie. “I can break this shit down and get right at the Hotel.”

  “You still fucking wit them crackers?” Prince asked.

  “Hell yeah, kid. Yo, for what you niggaz get ten for I can get twenty fucking with these cats. One thing I’ve learned about dealing with these white folks is that they don’t mind spending paper on a high, especially if the shit is butter.”

  “You know you ain’t gonna get no bullshit over this side, E,” Prince took the chair that sat in the entrance of the kitchen.

  “Prince, you ain’t gotta say it for me to know it. I know that anything you put in my hand is gonna be proper. That last shit you gave me had the heads bouncing off the walls.”

  “Yeah, Diego be getting that real deal,” Prince said.

  “I ain’t fucking wit that nigga, son. Ya boy be acting like he’s John Gotti or some shit.”

  “Diego is cool,” Prince thought on it. “He’s just funny about who he deals with.”

  “Man, funny is one thing; Diego is paranoid. I tried to pull him to the side the other day to holla at him about some business, and he looked right through me. Then his peoples roll up on me like I’m trying to get at the cat. Ya boy was acting like I was five-O or some shit!”

  “Diego is a man that goes with his gut,” Daddy-O said sarcastically.

  “Don’t wet that shit, E, you got what you need right there,” Prince pointed to the cookie.

  “See, that’s why I fuck with you Prince; you’re a man that knows how to do business. Yo Diego has got access to all the work in the world, but he ain’t gonna be shit because his business sense ain’t right. Yo, Prince, I know me and you can go downtown with our own product and get shit popping.”

  Prince knew that was coming. For the last few months E had been trying to get Prince to make a move with him. He started with the idea of them getting money together in the projects independently, but Prince wasn’t really with it. When that didn’t work he invited Prince to come down to 59th Street where he was selling crack and coke out of a small hotel off of 12th Avenue. Though the offers sounded very lucrative, Prince always declined.

  E probably thought that Prince kept telling him no because he didn’t want to dis Diego, but that was only part of the reason. From 100th Street to at least 110th Street Diego was the man, but he ended up being so sort of by default.

  Back in the late eighties, early nineties, the streets had turned into a battlefield over crack money. The greed had gotten so out of control that you had dudes making sales on other cat’s corners to rope in their customers, totally forgetting the rules of conduct. All of the crews were going at it, trying to become the dominant factors on the west side of Manhattan.

  At this time Diego was the second in command to a man named Sonny, who hailed from 201st and Broadway, but got money on 114th and Saint Nicholas. He was a seasoned cat who spoke little English and would let that thing go in a New York minute. He had a small team around him and held his five-block square with authority, until somebody caught him laid up with a broad and put one in his cabbage. His crew eventually disbanded, but Diego continued to make moves here and there, steering clear of the war, and maintaining most of Sonny’s old contacts.

  In the months that followed, the war started taking heavy casualties. Niggaz was dying, going to jail, or snitching. Either way the numbers on all sides thinned out. Diego had continued to do business with Sonny’s connect, so it was easy for him to get his hands on product, but solidifying his position would prove to be a different story. Though most of the original bosses were either killed or doing time, there was still their protégés and predecessors to deal with. A few backdoor deals and the assassination of several key figures, and the competition thinned out considerably. Before you knew it Diego became the man to see if you wanted good coke.

  Prince was one of the first to come under Diego’s wing when his greedy hand touched Douglass. He started him out pitching but would eventually increase his responsibility. From the beginning Diego saw that Prince was about his money. The fact that he knew damn near the whole projects and brought his own crew to the table made it easier for Diego to move in.

  Diego was the kind of dude that would only let a black man rise so far in his organization. Prince was the boss where his crew was concerned, but when it came to Diego’s organization as a whole he wasn’t that nigga. The executive positions were always reserved
for Spanish cats. Diego never said it out loud, but he felt that blacks were mentally inferior. No, both he and E knew that he would never be a boss in that organization, and E often played on that. He thought that if he kept pushing, Prince would come around. He was half right.

  Prince knew he would have to bust a move sooner or later, but he wanted it to be on his terms. He wasn’t willing to cut off his primary source of income unless he found another one that was more beneficial to him. When he left, it would be on his terms.

  “We’ll do something together soon, E,” Prince said.

  E gave him a disbelieving look. “You’ve been saying that since P.S. 75, poppy. You’re out here making a ton of cake for Diego, and he’s the only one seeing real paper. Son, we’re from these projects, so why should we have to settle for scraps off his table?”

  “Diego is out here killing ’em, son. Even the cats from 107th ain’t clicking like the projects these days,” Daddy-O said, reminding them that he was in the room.

  Prince gave him a surprised look. He and E tolerated each other for the sake of him, but there was not a lot of love between them. Having Daddy-O co-sign something E said was unexpected. Maybe it was time to get out from under Diego’s thumb, but how? Diego got the coke for the best prices so they couldn’t outsell him, and he had more soldiers so they couldn’t muscle him out. For as much as he would’ve loved to be seeing more paper, he refused to sacrifice his team to the soup line.

  “I hear you, my nigga,” Prince said simply. E and Daddy-O knew to leave it alone, but the idea still hung in the air.

  E poked at the cookie with his finger to see if it had dried yet. Satisfied, he dropped it in a baggie and wrapped that in a plastic bag. He took the entire package and stuffed it down his pants. “I’m gonna try to flip this like twice before my son’s birthday.”

  “What’s up with little E?” Prince asked.

  “That nigga chilling. I was trying to take him to the game the other day, but his mom is on some bullshit. Word, I think that nigga she fuck with be putting shit in her head. Imma fuck him up one day.”

  “Leave that dude alone, E. I think you just wanna fight him because he’s fucking your son’s mother,” Prince said.

  “I don’t give a fuck about that bitch,” E said defensively. “She could fuck the whole hood and I wouldn’t care. I’m just worried about my seed. Yo, little E told me that son be in there play wrestling with him and shit!”

  “So what, do you expect him not to like the kid because his father’s an asshole?” Prince asked.

  “Fuck that,” E continued. “That’s my seed and ain’t gonna be no nigga laying hands on him but me.”

  Not able to hold his tongue any longer, Daddy-O added his two cents. “Listen to the proud father. Not too long ago you was talking about making her get a paternity test.”

  Prince shot Daddy-O a look, but he ignored him, keeping his eyes on E’s face as it melted into a pool of shit. Daddy-O had touched on a very touchy subject in E’s life. Everybody knew what E never seemed to pick up on, that his baby mama was a jump off. For the most part she was faithful to E in their relationship, but she had also had quite a few moments of weakness. E had very pale skin and his son’s mother was almost yellow, so when little E came sliding out of the birth canal looking like a chocolate brownie, it raised a few eyebrows. Though E never entertained any of the rumors, he knew they were out there.

  “I hear you, son. I guess today must be clown E day?” E said trying to act as if he wasn’t infuriated by the statement.

  “Come on, E, you know Daddy-O was just fucking wit you, right?” Prince said, trying to defuse the situation. Both the men were his close friends, so he was uncomfortable being tossed into the middle.

  E glared at Daddy-O for a few seconds, letting the anger slowly bleed from his eyes. “I don’t know, Prince, sometimes Daddy-O doesn’t sound like he’s joking.”

  “It’s all love, fam,” Daddy-O said, less than sincerely. Ignoring E for the moment, Daddy-O put a flame to the end of the blunt and inhaled. The haze was sweet, rolling across his tongue like wisps of cotton candy. The backs of his eyes stung from the smoke, but he held it. Only when it swirled in his chest like storm clouds, threatening to make his heart skip, did he exhale.

  “Yo, can I smoke wit y’all niggaz?” Stone called over from the couch. He had to strain a bit to get up from the milk crate. Unlike his brother who was rail thin, Stone was bulky. He was almost as wide as Daddy-O, but not as tall.

  “I don’t see you burning nothing,” Prince nodded to the blunt that was tucked behind Stone’s ear.

  “You know I pay like I weigh,” Stone said, plucking the blunt from behind his ear and placing it between his lips.

  “If that was the case your ass would be broke,” Daddy-O teased him.

  “You don’t look like you’ve missed too many meals,” Stone poked him in the gut. “White boy, let me get a light,” Stone slapped E on the back way harder than he had to. E just glared at him and handed Stone a book of matches. “Good looking, my nigga.”

  “Stone, why you play so much?” Prince asked, clearly not feeling the way the younger man had played E.

  “Come on, Prince, me and Killa-E play like that all the time.”

  “Niggaz don’t always wanna play, Stone, be easy.” Prince’s voice was soft, but Stone didn’t miss the order beneath the surface. “Oh, did y’all take care of that thing?” Prince distracted everyone from the confrontation to help Stone save face.

  Stone’s face was suddenly pleasant again. “Yeah, that shit went off real smooth, yo.”

  “Nigga, stop lying,” Sticks called from the door. “Prince, you know Stone had to go overboard with it.”

  “What done happened now?” Prince asked, taking the blunt that had somehow skipped E.

  “Yo, this nigga made son walk home naked!” Sticks went on to recount what he and his brother had subjected the kid to, exaggerating a bit for effect.

  “Get the fuck outta here,” Daddy-O looked at the twins.

  “That’s my word, kid, butt ass,” Sticks said. “Yo, I wish I could’ve seen his girl’s face when he walked in wit a newspaper wrapped around his ass.”

  “Yo, y’all some foul niggaz,” Prince said. Tears were running down his cheek from laughing so hard.

  “Man, that nigga is stupid; there ain’t no way in hell I would’ve walked home naked!” E slapped the table laughing.

  “You’d have did whatever the fuck I told you to do if I had that bulldog behind your ear, white boy,” Stone told him.

  “Fuck outta here,” E tried to laugh it off. In the back of his mind he knew that Stone believed what he said. Sticks and Stone were the youngest of the crew, but by far the cruelest. While Sticks was the twisted one, Stone was just brutal. A fine pair they made.

  “Prince, I’m ’bout to dip,” E said, getting up from the table. “Give me this walk to the elevator,” he gave everybody in the room dap, and motioned for his man to follow.

  “A’ight,” Prince said, coming around through the kitchen. He and E walked down the hall in relative silence. When it was just the two of them E was cool, but when they got around Daddy-O and Stone he tensed up. He knew that E didn’t like Daddy-O and was just flat afraid of Stone, but he couldn’t really help him with it. You either had to take a stand or be someone’s meat, simple as that.

  For the most part E was a good nigga. Much like Danny, he wasn’t really cut out for the streets, but fate had put him there anyway. E was one of the smartest cats he knew and the dude could’ve been just about anything in life that he wanted, but he let his dick lead him down the wrong road. E had first started hustling to keep up with his baby mama’s taste, but once that rush of power that came from the hustle ran through him, it was a done deal. He had had his little run, but now that it was over he found himself in limbo. The Latinos didn’t want him and the blacks didn’t trust him.

  “Good looking out again on hooking this shit up for me, Prince,” E said.r />
  “That ain’t nothing, my nigga,” Prince patted him on the back. “Mable said that shit is pure fire, so you shouldn’t have no problems with it. I’m ’bout to cook a quick fifty more so these niggaz will be good for a minute.”

  “Prince, let me ask you something. About how much money do you think Diego makes off these projects on a daily basis?”

  “Come on, E…”

  “You know what, don’t even answer that,” E cut him off. “Just think about the figure, double it, and subtract what you’re getting now from it,” E stepped on the elevator and smiled at Prince. Before the doors had completely closed he had some parting words. “When you come up with that number you tell me how long it will take you to see a million dollars getting one percent of the pie.”

  A few yards south another scene was about to unfold. Gene was a young foot soldier who had only been working for the organization for a few months. He was sixteen with his eyes on the prize and seeing decent money in the projects. He was a quiet kid who never came up short, and Prince could count on him more often than he couldn’t to do the right thing.

  Gene was sitting on a parked car in the lot, killing time. Business was slow so he figured there wouldn’t be any harm in taking a short smoke break. He had scored some boss haze from the Spanish cats down the way and was eager to go to the head on the blunt. Good haze wasn’t something you could share with a lot of heads on a blunt and still appreciate. He had taken two good pulls off the blunt when he heard a clicking and felt something cold against his neck.

  “That smells like some killa shit,” the gunman whispered into Gene’s ear. He stepped around so that the young man could see him, but his face was hidden by a mask.

  “True indeed,” another masked man said, stepping around Gene’s left side to stand in front of him. “Set that out,” the man ordered, jamming a .38 into Gene’s gut. Scared shitless by the thought of being shot, Gene did as he was told.

  “What y’all niggaz want?” Gene asked in a shaky voice.

  “Don’t get cute, son. You know just what we want,” the first gunman said, stepping around to where Gene could see him. As he spoke, Gene noticed a faint glint coming from the man’s lower teeth. Gene’s face remained the same, but he made a mental note of it.