Blow

by K'wan

  “We need that bread and whatever packs you’re holding,” the second gunman said.

  “Dawg, all I got is some paper and a few loose jacks in my pocket. I ain’t get a chance to re-up yet.”

  Menacing brown eyes stared out from behind the mask of the first gunman as he leaned in to whisper to Gene. “You fucking with me? Yeah, I think you fucking with me,” he tapped the barrel of his pistol against Gene’s forehead.

  “That’s word to everything I love, I ain’t holding much,” Gene went to empty his pockets but the second gunman grabbed his wrist.

  “Easy,” the second gunman warned him. “Wouldn’t want you trying to pull out on us.” The second gunman emptied Gene’s pockets and found about seven loose jacks and a little over a thousand dollars in cash.

  “Damn, that’s all you holding?” the first gunman asked. Gene nodded, but the gunman didn’t believe him. “I think this little nigga is lying.” He pointed his gun at Gene’s head.

  “Son, that’s all I got,” Gene told him, no longer able to hold back the tears.

  The second gunman motioned for the first one to lower his weapon. “Nah, he ain’t lying. Gene ain’t got the heart to lie at gunpoint.”

  Gene flinched when the other man called him by name, but neither one of the gunmen seemed to notice. The more he watched their body language the more familiar the gunmen seemed to him. Gene’s brain was whirling, but the fear kept him from thinking clearly.

  “A’ight, you get to keep your life, but in case you think about trying some funny shit…” the first gunman smashed his fist into Gene’s face. Gene stumbled but didn’t fall. But when the second gunman clobbered him with the butt of the pistol, he crashed to the ground. The last thing Gene remembered before he blacked out was the annoying ass laugh that echoed through the night.

  CHAPTER 3

  F elix Guzman was a thin Spanish kid with a receding hairline who thought he was God’s gift to the game. He was young and getting heavy money off heroin out in Corona, Queens, but two things kept him from reaching that pie in the sky. He couldn’t keep his nose out of the product or young pussy. Felix had disregarded the rules of the game he played, thinking that he could make them up as he went along. When you were married to the streets there was only so much she would take before filing for divorce, and unlike most scorned women she didn’t want half; she wanted it all. It was a hard lesson that Felix was sure to learn eventually, but for the time being he still managed to keep up the façade of a high-class nigga.

  At the present time he was sitting in his brand new Cadillac Escalade smoking a Newport, posted up in front of Monroe Community College, intently watching the young lady who had just exited the school. She had flawless olive skin and long black hair that stopped just above her ass. Her body was something straight out of a workout video, and the whole block noticed her as she passed. Felix smiled at the attention his boo was getting, but quickly threw on his thug face when she hopped in the truck.

  “You’re late,” Felix greeted her.

  “Well, hello to you too,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her eye.

  “You got that for me?” he asked, reaching for her knapsack.

  “Hold the fuck on,” she snatched the bag out of his reach. “You gonna pull it out right here in front of the school? Pull around the corner.”

  Felix was tempted to bust her in her mouth to let her know just who was boss in the relationship, but he played nice because he needed something from her. Once he got what he wanted, he was going to remind her who was running the show. Felix just smiled and did as he was told. They made two rights and pulled into a parking spot on a residential block. Felix put the car in park and looked over at his passenger.

  “Here,” she said, tossing him a paper bag. “I don’t see why you couldn’t just come by the apartment to get it instead of having me carry it around all day in school.”

  “Cause I got some moves to make in the Bronx, and I didn’t feel like coming all the way to Queens just to have to ride back here.”

  “I could’ve got knocked with that shit.”

  “But you didn’t,” he said, peeking into the bag. His leg shook involuntarily as he eyed the ounce of uncut heroin.

  “So, are you gonna take me home? I hopped on the train instead of driving my car cause I didn’t want to get pulled over holding that shit,” She told him.

  Felix looked at her as if he hadn’t heard the question. “What? Take you home? Nah, I can’t do that, ma. I told you that I got moves to make. Hop back on the train; the ride ain’t that long.”

  “Felix, you know I gotta take two trains and a bus to get home. That shit is gonna take me like two hours!” she shouted.

  “Who the fuck is you talking to?” he leaned over so that they were nose to nose. “I’ll break ya fucking neck.” He drew his hand back and she curled up in the corner, fearing the blow that never fell. “You’re fucking spoiled, that’s your problem. That fucking brother of yours has you thinking that your shit doesn’t stink.”

  “Don’t talk about my brother!” she said heatedly.

  “And what the fuck are you gonna do, tell on me? While you’re at it why don’t you tell him what we’ve been doing behind his back.” She remained silent. “That’s what the fuck I thought. You need to relax, shorty.”

  She folded her arms and glared at Felix. Tears wanted to stream down her face, but she had decided that she had shed enough tears for Felix’s ass. “What, I’m not supposed to be uptight? Felix, you were supposed to be flipping what I gave you, but you haven’t brought back straight money yet. We gotta get this right before…”

  Felix slapped her before she could finish her sentence. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? I know just what the fuck I took and what I’m supposed to bring back. What, you think cause you helped a nigga get his ones up that I owe you something? You better remember who you’re talking to.”

  “You didn’t have to hit me,” she sobbed.

  “Well, stay your ass up outta my mix. Listen,” he softened his tone, “I’m sorry I hit you, but you just made me a little angry,” he stroked her cheek. “You let me worry about getting the money right, and you just go back to the crib and get pretty for me. Daddy is gonna come knock the bottom out that pussy tonight, smell me?”

  “Whatever,” she said, hopping out of the truck and slamming the door.

  “Bitch!” Felix flexed like he was about to jump out, but the girl had already made hurried steps to the curb. “See, that’s the kind of shit that makes me go upside your head, you spoiled little cunt!” Felix threw the truck in gear and peeled off.

  The girl just shook her head. For the thousandth time she wondered what the hell she was doing with Felix’s tired ass. Her brother had warned her against getting involved with one of his business associates, but she was hardheaded. Felix had stolen her heart, and she allowed that to lead her instead of good common sense. She had tried to convince herself that Felix really loved her and that the drugs made him lash out, but she knew it was a lie. All he cared about was what she could do for him.

  Her China doll eyes threatened to storm, and it was only her strength of will that held the waterworks at bay. Felix wasn’t worth the tears. If he wanted to show his ass, that was fine with her, but that didn’t mean she had to stand for it. As far as she was concerned the shop was closed, and Felix could settle his own debts. She had covered for him long enough. Felix thought he was slicker than a pig in shit, but little did either one of them know he was living on borrowed time.

  “He’s pulling off, you wanna get at him now?” the driver asked his passenger.

  The man sitting in the passenger seat took slow drags from his cigarette. He thought about just snatching Felix and getting it over with, but decided to wait. He wanted to drop the curtain on the turncoat and his thieving-ass girlfriend at the same time.

  “Nah,” the passenger exhaled the cigarette smoke. “We’ll get the mutha fucka though. Pull off.”

&nb
sp; Prince and Daddy-O weren’t feeling much pain when they came out of the building. During the time it took them to cook the fifty grams of cocaine they had probably smoked about five bombers of sweet haze. They had left Sticks and Stone to chop and bag the rock while they went to see what mischief they could get into.

  The block was popping that night. The grills were still going and the number of people that had been in the courtyard had doubled. There were so many people out that night that the police couldn’t tell who was slinging and who was just hanging, so they fell back, at least for the moment. Someone had run an extension cord from their house and there were two stereos going at full volume. The projects were in full swing.

  “Yo, I’m hungry as hell,” Daddy-O rubbed his gut.

  “Nigga, you always hungry.” Prince threw two phantom punches at Daddy-O. “Nah, but I got the munchies too.”

  “Yo, lets hit the chicken spot and head uptown to see what up wit them hoes,” Daddy-O suggested.

  “I don’t know, kid, this product ain’t gonna move itself,” Prince said.

  “Nigga, get off that shit. You got at least five niggaz on deck right now; the product will be alright without you. Let’s hit the strip club and see about getting some pussy or something.”

  “Man, we supposed to be stacking paper, not blowing it,” Prince told him.

  Daddy-O shook his head. “Look, tomorrow is the first. Whatever we blow tonight we’ll make it up on the come around.” Seeing the hesitant look on Prince’s face, Daddy-O pressed it. “My dude, how long has it been since we went out and got stupid? Let’s take this shit back to 2002,” Daddy-O nudged him. “But yo, lets go over there and see what Keisha got popping on the grill.” Daddy-O nodded toward the benches.

  Keisha was a short chick with cocoa skin and wore her hair in a bob-cut. She was one of the few chicks that hung around the crew but no one tried to fuck. She was like one of the fellas as far as Prince and Daddy-O were concerned. There was a rumor that she had given Stone some pussy back in the days, but neither of them had ever admitted to it.

  “Keish, Keish,” Daddy-O sang, smiling at the girl who was turning a pork link on the grill.

  “What’s good, Daddy-O?” she nodded.

  “One of them burgers,” he said.

  “Damn, nigga do you do anything besides beg?”

  “Sure, I knock the bottom outta pussies.” He busted up laughing. “But what’s up with one of them burgers though, for real, ma?”

  “Here, wit yo fat ass,” she slapped a burger on a bun and handed it to him. “You want one, Prince?”

  “Only if you got it to spare,” he said.

  “She got it, my nigga,” Daddy-O said, stuffing the last of his burger into his mouth.

  “Shut up, Daddy-O. I know one thing, you better have some money for a bitch the way your fat ass is slamming those burgers.”

  “Prince of the ghetto!” a familiar voice called from behind them. The three of them turned around at the same time to see Scatter shambling towards them. Scatter was a dude who had lived in the projects longer than either Prince or Daddy-O had been alive. He was around their mothers’ages but always kept the lines of communication open with the young boys. His yellow face, which at times seemed to be dripping off his skull, was pocked and bore the signs of a hard life. His trademark shopping bag hung from his thin arm, weighed down with God only knew what. Scatter was one of the hood’s most seasoned boosters. Dressed in a three-piece olive colored suit and matching snakeskin shoes, you wouldn’t know he was an addict unless someone told you.

  “What it do, y’all?” Scatter asked, giving both the men pounds.

  “Ain’t nothing, Scat,” Prince said. “What you getting into?”

  “Out here shucking and jiving, trying to get this monkey off my back, dig?” he replied, scratching his neck.

  “You know we got that good-good in the building, son; go see my little man.” Daddy-O told him.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just trying to get my money up so I can go cop me a taste. Then I’m going uptown to get me a bag of that poison. You know I gotta get my cocktail on.”

  “Boy you love running in the fast lane with that dope-coke combo. What, that white don’t get you right?” Daddy-O asked.

  “Shiiit, barely. Man, y’all know I ain’t no mutha fucking coke head by nature. I like to dance with the devil.”

  “Yeah, dope was the shit back in y’all day, kid.”

  “It was more than the shit; it was God to some of us. Man, a good hit of dope is sweeter than head from the most skilled bitch!” Scatter said, doing a little dance.

  “Well if the shit is so good, why even bother with the coke?” Prince asked.

  “Ah,” Scatter twirled, “that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Back in the days if you had some boss dope, you had the world at your fingers. This paper y’all see off crack ain’t shit to a dope man’s bag.”

  “So what the fuck happened to the dope game, in all its glory?” Daddy-O asked, sarcastically.

  “Same thing that happened to the real coke game; we let the young boys play it, and they ruined it. There used to be rules to this shit, but the greedy mutha fuckas running the show now ain’t got no sense of honor. Back in my day every mutha fucka holding a good bag was nigger rich, but that was a long time ago.” He schooled them.

  “Yo, I remember hearing stories about niggaz becoming millionaires off that shit,” Prince said.

  “What you hear is the real deal, my man. Dope money is sweet as honey. Shiiit, ask Diego; he’ll tell you. The only reason that snake ain’t flooded the hood wit that shit is probably because he ain’t got a good connect, cause he was damn sure out here when it was jumping. When dope was the thing, the street was paved with gold, Jack,” Scatter said with a dreamy look in his eyes. He drifted for a second before he remembered why he had even run up on the two of them. “Check it though, I know you niggaz is trying to get drunk this weekend, so pony up the bread and let me hook you up?”

  “What you got, Scat?” Daddy-O asked, looking at the bag.

  Scatter rummaged around in the shopping bag and came up holding a bottle of champagne and a magnum of Hennessy. “I’ll let the yak go for fifty, but I need at least a sixty-cent for the bubbles. You know that Roseau ain’t cheap.”

  “Come on, Scat, let ya boy rock for the thirty-five,” Daddy-O protested, clutching the magnum by the neck of the bottle.

  “Daddy-O, why we gotta go through this shit every time we do business? I give y’all niggaz better deals than I do anybody else, but you still try to Jew me. Come on, man.”

  “A’ight, I’ll give you forty-cent for it,” Daddy-O said, fishing two twenties out of his pocket and dangling it in front of Scatter.

  “Fuck it, you cheap bastard.” Scatter snatched the two twenties from Daddy-O’s hand. “But the least you could do is throw me a bag for fucking me up the ass.”

  “You got that, my nigga,” Daddy-O said, placing the bottle on the bench.

  “What about you, Prince; you gonna cop that bottle?” Scatter asked, now anxious to spend the forty dollars he had just earned and collect on his free bag.

  Prince was staring at the bottle, but his mind was elsewhere. “Huh?”

  “The bottle, man, what’s good?”

  “Oh, a’ight, let me get that.” Prince handed him three twenties.

  “My nigga, can’t get no bigger,” Scatter sang, slapping his palm. “Yo, I got some fly-ass silk shirts coming in this week too, see about me my nigga!” Scatter said, gliding toward the building.

  “Whatever, nigga,” Prince said. He watched Scatter slink away with his words of wisdom still ringing in the back of his mind.

  “Well, since y’all niggaz is going in on my grill, let a bitch go in on the bottle,” Keisha said, grabbing three cups from the shopping cart that was leaning against the gate.

  Daddy-O filled his, Keisha’s, and Prince’s cup to the line with the dark liquor. Prince and Daddy-O took deep swigs bu
t were upstaged when Keisha downed her cup in one shot. She made a fuck-face and tossed the cup into the trash. It was said that Keisha could outdrink most niggaz in the hood, and watching her throw the cup back was proof of that.

  “You better be careful with that,” Prince teased her.

  “Nigga, this ain’t gonna do nothing but take the edge off. Me and my bitches is stepping out tonight, and I need to be drunk when we get there. You know the drinks in the club be too damn high,” Keisha informed them.

  “Word, what’s going on tonight?” Daddy-O asked.

  “It my girl Sharon’s twenty-first birthday, so we’re going to the Sugar Shack.”

  “Sharon with the phat ass?”

  Keisha looked at Daddy-O and shook her head. “Nigga, you is too thirsty. Yeah, that Sharon.”

  “Yeah, we need to see about that, kid,” Daddy-O rubbed his meaty hands together. “What time y’all rolling?”

  Keisha checked the time on her cell phone. “Probably another hour or two.”

  “Cool, that’ll give us some time to make our rounds and change clothes. What’s good, my dude,” he turned to Prince. “We at the Sugar Shack?”

  Prince looked around at the bustling projects and weighed the sight against the last time he had stepped out with his man. “Fuck it,” he shrugged.

  CHAPTER 4

  P rince and Daddy-O exited the projects on 103rd and headed north on Columbus Avenue. The avenue was just as alive with people as the interior of the projects. Kids mobbed around the ice-cream truck spending their parents’ money on belly aches and bad teeth, happy to be free of their hot-ass houses after dark. Several young men were huddled on the side steps of the center shooting dice. They all acknowledged Prince and Daddy-O as they walked by. The two were legends in the projects, and all the young dudes wanted to grow up to be like them.