From Harlem with Love

by K'wan Foye

  From Harlem With Love

  K’wan

  FROM HARLEM WITH LOVE

  “FROM HARLEM WITH LOVE”

  BY K’WAN

  Kwanfoye.com/Blackdawnbooks.net

  Copyright © 2010 By K’wan Foye. All rights reserved.

  Cover design Karoz Norman (karoznorman@gmail.com)

  PROLOGUE

  Blake snapped back to consciousness like a drowning man taking in his first sips of air. Through his left eye, which was the only one that wasn’t swollen, he scanned the room trying to make heads or tails of where he was. From the silhouettes of the cars he was able to pick out in under the few strips of moonlight that shone in the place, he knew he was in a garage, but where in the world was anyone’s guess. When the fog finally rolled from Blake’s mind and he was fully alert, he immediately wished he was unconscious again so that he could escape the pain that rocked every inch of his body. Blake flexed his aching jaw and could feel the dried blood around his moth from his broken nose being left to bleed unchecked for only God knew how long. When tried to lift his hand to asses the damage and noticed the plastic restraints that bound him by the wrists to the metal chair he was sitting in. Suddenly everything that had happened came back to him and Blake’s heart with gripped with terror.

  “That nigga sure looks scared.” He heard a familiar voice in the darkness.

  “Yeah, he sure does.” A deep voice snickered.

  “You scared, homey?” A third and slightly higher voice chimed in.

  “Whose there?” Blake called out. It was too dark for him to see but he could make out three silhouettes in the shadows.

  Suddenly the light above the chair flickered to life and temporarily blinded Blake. When his vision cleared he found himself staring at three familiar faces. The first was the youngest, and from the look in his eyes, the most hostile of the three. He wrung his hands around the grip of the small machine gun he was carrying, staring murderously at Blake. The second man was chubby, wearing his hair in a short natural that was almost perfectly round. Blake could see the anger in his face, but there was a kindness to his eyes that said he would be the one Blake would have to appeal to for his life. The third man’s eyes held no such hope. They were cunning and as dark as the night, blending almost perfectly into his coco face. The slender man leaned casually against television that was mounted on a rolling stand. His expression was a cold one that Blake knew all too well as he was the one who had helped him perfect it. When he looked into the eyes of his captors he no longer saw the bright young eyes that looked to him for guidance, but the eyes of wolves about to pounce on an injured animal.

  “Harlem, you got some big balls for trying to pull this off, real big balls.” Blake addressed the dark skinned youth through chapped and swollen lips.

  Harlem looked at Blake with a playful smirk on his face. “Blake, you have no idea how big my balls are but I’ve prepared a little presentation to give you an idea,” he clicked the television on.

  Blake watched in confusion as Harlem came on the screen, lying naked across a bed and while a woman gave him the blow job of his life. In the background he could hear a child playing, but at that angle he couldn’t tell if the child was in the room or not. At first Blake didn’t understand why he was being made to watch the little home movie but as the camera zoomed out and the whole room became visible the picture became perfectly clear. A tear rolled down Blake’s cheek as he recognized the tattoo on the girl’s shoulder as the one he had treated his son’s mother to on her last birthday. The sight of the woman he loved giving another man head was heart wrenching enough, but the real dagger was his two year old son sitting on the bed, less than two feet, away playing with his toys while she did it.

  “Yeah, shorty can do some real serious things with a dick in her mouth, but I’m sure you already know this,” Harlem winked at the stunned Blake. From the look on your face I can tell you had no idea, but you should’ve. She was a whore when you met her and just stepped her game up when you put her in pocket. That little bitch of yours done popped more niggaz than the police, and you wife’d her.” Harlem shook his head sadly.

  “I’m gonna kill you!” Blake thrashed in his chair, struggling against the restraints. His threats became screams of agony when a bullet tore through his kneecap.

  Harlem sneered at him, holding a smoking .22. “You ain’t gonna do shit but bleed unless I say otherwise. Now stop making so much got damn noise before the next one splits ya kufi.”

  “What the fuck is this all about, man?” Blake whimpered.

  “Blake, I think you know exactly what this was about.” Harlem took his time, tapping a cigarette out of the pack and firing it up. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and glared at Blake. “We’re soldiers so we know what it is when we take the battlefield but civilians are supposed to be off limits. Y’all crossed the line when you got at mine, B.”

  “Harlem I swear I didn’t know that they were gonna come at ya fam like that. I knew they were in their feelings and wanted to get at you, but I didn’t have any parts in it and that’s on everything I love!” Blake proclaimed.

  “You didn’t do anything to stop it either, did you?” Harlem pointed the .22 at Blake’s face, making him cringe.

  “Harlem don’t do it to yourself, man. If you cut me loose now we’ll call it even, but if you pull that trigger you already know how its gonna play out.” Blake warned. It was a weak threat, but it was all he had.

  Harlem thought on it. “Yeah, I know. Everybody on payroll is gonna be on me and my niggaz in retaliation. That’s a problem I can live with. Blake, I told you off the muscle that I ain’t want no problems with you, but you did what you did to make a point. It’s all good, because I got a little point I wanna make too.” He flicked the lit cigarette into Blake’s face, and stepped aside for Pie who was holding a .38.

  “No, no, no…” Blake stuttered but Pie had already pulled the trigger.

  The bullet tore through Blake’s stomach and went out his back, tearing holes in his intestines as it passed, but he was still breathing. Harlem nodded at Pie, who handed the .38 to Sol. The youngster looked at the gun and hesitated.

  “If one burns, we all burn,” Harlem reminded Sol of their pact.

  “Fuck it,” Sol took the gun and fired twice into Blake’s chest and shoulder. Blake was now a twisted mess of exposed flesh, hanging awkwardly on the chair. His chest still heaved, pushing squirts of blood from the holes, as he held on to life as tightly as he could. The sight proved to be too much for Sol who passed the gun to Harlem and went outside to throw up.

  Harlem walked over to Blake who was mumbling incoherently. “Look at me,” Harlem slapped Blake’s face so that he was facing him. Harlem braced the .38 under Blake’s chin and leaned in to whisper into his ear. “When you see the rest of my enemies in hell… tell them that Harlem sends his love,” he kissed Blake on the cheek and blew the top of his head off.

  1

  One week earlier:

  Harlem looked out the dingy project window lost in his own thoughts. It was the middle of the afternoon, but the gloomy skies made it look more like twilight. The brief patches of sunlight that were able to penetrate the thick clouds kissed off the project asphalt, giving the thick droplets the appearance of shattering crystals when they connected. It had been raining all day and most people sought the shelter of their homes, but the rain did nothing to curb appetites of Harlem and his young crew.

  The few base heads he employed played benches and lobby entrances serving death to all who craved it, while the young boys steered the lost souls to the demise. He watched little Sol pace back and forth to try and keep warm as he sneezed into the arm of his army jacket. He looked cold and miserable but he was determined to stay o
ut because his daughter couldn’t eat excuses. Though each man had their individual reasons for being out in the storm, they shared a common goal which was to get the hell out of the hood!

  “Yo, come here son. You gotta see this shit!” Lamar called from the couch where he was watching 300. The king was about to have his last stand with the Persian army. Lamar’s eyes stayed glued to the television until the last arrow pierced the king’s flesh. “That’s my word to everything, that’s how you gotta go out when a nigga is stepping to yours,” he slapped the couch for emphasis. Lamar was a brown skin, animated cat who got easily excited.

  “Fuck that movie, son finish counting that money.” Pie called from the small dining room table he had been hunched over for the last hour or so. He was chopping small pieces of rock off a cocaine cookie with a Gemstar razor. Littering the table top around him were baggies boxes of baking soda and to dirty coffee pots. “Yo, you gonna stare out the window all day or help me out?” he called to Harlem. “Y’all niggaz think it’s my job to do everything.”

  “I got you my nigga, stop beefing,” Harlem joined Pie at the table, and plucked a razor from the box. “It’s coming down in buckets out there, son,” he said, cutting a piece off a cookie that was cooling on a plate under a table fan.

  “I can’t tell from the way this work is moving,” Pie wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, careful not to get any of the coke residue from his fingers on his face. Because of his weight he tended to sweat a lot and sitting in the hot apartment didn’t help. Most people thought that Pie got his nickname because he was fat, but it really came from the fact that by the time he was nine he could whip up a perfect pie of coke better than most grown folks. “Sol and them niggaz are running back and forth for packs damn near faster than I can bag em up,” he took a hand full of packaged rocks and stuffed them into an envelope, which he tossed on the pile with the others. “You know we gonna have to make another trip uptown before the day is out.”

  “Its just like I told you, my nigga, ya boy Harlem knows how to get it.” Harlem boasted.

  “Church!” Lamar chimed in from the couch where he was counting stacks of money on the coffee table. “Son, we came up quite a bit from the lil niggaz we used to be; out there trying to get it any way we could.”

  “Nothing stays little forever.” Pie said and went back to his chopping. “Not for nothing,” he looked up at Harlem, “opening the shop back up in the projects was a good move. We were getting a little spot money the way we were doing it before, but now we can really stretch our legs, feel me?”

  “No doubt, that small time shit gets old real quick. Niggaz got kids and habits,” Harlem raised the Dutch Master. “Lamar, twist that up right quick,” Harlem tossed the Dutch and it bounced off Lamar’s head.

  Lamar sucked his teeth because the interruption had thrown his count off. “C’mon B, what am I, the human blunt roller or something?”

  “Lamar ain’t nobody trying to son you, but my hands ain’t really equip for that right now,” Harlem raised his hands for Lamar to see the coke residue on them.

  “True, I don’t need to be that high,” Lamar conceded and began rolling the weed. “My nigga, I meant to ask you if y’all ever got to the bottom of that thing wit shorty?”

  “Shorty who?” Harlem looked from Pie to Lamar and back.

  Pie waved him off. “You know the lil big head nigga we had getting it up in 145 Park. A few niggaz from that side caught feelings cuz he was snatching fiends from in front of the store, so they pressed him about not being able to get money on Amsterdam. You know how Sha-Money and them be in they feelings sometimes, they ain’t really trying to do nothing though. ”

  In Pie’s mind it was nothing, but Harlem was a cat of a different kind of thinking. Anything that came between him and the pursuit of a dollar was something. Harlem thought on his problem. The dudes who stepped to his little man were older heads who hadn’t heard the final curtain call. It was over for them and at best they were only moving a few grams here and there so the move was obviously not over territory, but jealousy. Harlem started to let it slide, but he knew if he let one offense go then it left the door open for them to try something else.

  “Tell the lil nigga to take it down for a night or two and then come back out, but keep it to the Park. If Sha or his people come back at him we’ll make our presence felt. “

  Lamar’s Boost phone chirped on the coffee table, followed by a mechanical voice. “Yo.”

  Lamar looked at the caller ID and smirked. “Talk about it.”

  “My G, I need to get to the store but I can’t get out right now because I’m here with the lil one. I need a can of the six ounce powdered Similac.”

  Lamar looked over at Harlem who shook his head and held up two fingers. They barely had enough coke left over to hold down the fort until the re-up and filling the order would cut into what they had left. “They ain’t got the six ounce cans down where I’m at, but I can grab you a two ounce can to hold you over and swing back with another can in a few hours.” Lamar relayed the coded message.

  “That’ll work. Come through.”

  “Bet, I’ll see you in about a half hour or so.” Lamar switched the phone off. “My G we gotta go see homey ASAP. This phone has been jumping all day and the delivery service is missing money.”

  “We can’t do it right this second, the block is popping and we gotta make sure we feed the animals.” Pie told him.

  “Bobby!” they heard someone shout through the open window. Harlem and Pie ran over and peeked through the shades to see what was going on. Sure enough two uniformed officers were chasing a crack head named Bay into the lobby of 875. They doubted if the police would catch the swift crack head, but it meant that the block was getting hot and they would need to shut down for a few.

  “Looks like y’all will be having some free time after all. Take a ride with me.” Lamar smiled devilishly.

  The rain was even worse than it looked when they got outside in it. The wind whipped through the tunnel of project buildings so fiercely that it made the raindrops fall sideways. As Harlem’s fatigues began to become heavy with water he wondered why he had even bothered to leave the confines of the apartment. As they passed 875 the police came out of the lobby wearing twin looks of frustration.

  “They should’ve know they wasn’t gonna catch no crack head in the projects.” Harlem said more to himself than anyone else. Ignoring the officers, who were now sizing them up, Harlem and his crew continued through the projects to the Ave where the car was parked.

  Crossing the courtyard Harlem spotted a tasty chocolate morsel that was just waiting to be devoured. She was five-five and thick with a glint of cunning in here eyes like she knew some great secret that she wasn’t ready to share. Fatima wasn’t technically a part of Harlem’s crew, but she might as well have been for all the business they did. Fatima and her little friends were experts at every thing from chopping up work to smuggling contraband into prisons undetected. Harlem had tried to crack, but Fatima liked to play with it and that’s part of what turned him on about her. She was his Ace and his heartache all rolled into one.

  “What’s goodie?” Fatima gave Pie and Lamar dap, but Harlem got a hug.

  “Shit, bout to make a run right quick. Where’re you off to?” Harlem asked.

  “Bout to take it in the house because this rain is blowing mine,” Fatima adjusted her umbrella, splashing a little water on Harlem.

  “If I had a choice in the matter I wouldn’t be out here in it either.” He told her.

  “Harlem, you’ve got choice. You just chose not to exercise those choices.” She winked.

  “Stop fronting Fatima, you know I’ve been trying to see what that’s about for a minute.” Harlem smiled.

  “No, you’ve been trying to fuck me in stair cases and crack houses.” She shot back. “Now let me get up outta this rain so I can go upstairs and cook.” She made hurried steps towards the building.

  “What you got on the me
nu?” Harlem called after her.

  “Curry chicken and rice with steamed cabbage. You should come by and get a plate.” She said before disappearing into the building.

  “I just might do that.” Harlem smirked to himself.

  “Harlem, hold up for a second.” A chick named Doreen called to him. She was tall and thin with model’s features but her eyes were hard and worn from the horrors she had seen in her travels. At one time Doreen was one of the baddest chicks in the hood, now she was just a washed up booster looking for a blast.

  “What up Doreen?” Harlem nodded.

  “You, big daddy. I’m still waiting on the infamous Harlem to let me see what it is all these lil bitches are gossiping about.” She ran her hand down his chest, but he grabbed her by the wrist and held her there.

  “Knock it off, D. I heard about that poison you serving from between them thighs and I’m good. I don’t think my young heart could take it.” Harlem laughed and hugged her playfully.

  “Probably not, youngster. Back in the day I had all ya daddies and uncles loosing they cool and tipping on they ladies.” Doreen addressed all three of them. “But fuck the small talk, what’s good? I’m just coming out and I need to get off E,” she wiped her nose with the back of her jacket. Doreen’s body language said that she was on the verge of becoming sick.

  “I don’t touch that, ma; go see my lil man’s and them.” Harlem told her.

  “You know I know where to get that snap, crackle, pop but I came to you with a lil business proposition,” Doreen held her shopping bag open for Harlem to see what she was carrying. “That’s a pound and I’m willing to let it go for a nice price, talk to me daddy.”

  “Doreen, I sell coke and crack.” He reminded her.

  “That’s your specialty, but you got the heart of a hustler so that means you can get down and sell anything if it’ll turn a buck.” Doreen said. “Look, it ain’t nothing but some Arizona but with the way these flaky niggaz is selling weed around here I’m sure you can get it off. Shit you’re named after the hustler’s capital, Harlem.” She stroked his ego.