by Nikki Turner
I got a long day ahead of me, he thought to himself as he gazed in the mirror at his reflection.
“Damn,” he swore. He could see himself deteriorating right before his eyes. He was thin and his eyes were glassy with deep, dark circles around them.
“Fallen off, playa,” he reminded himself of his friend's words as he splashed water on his face. After washing up, he threw on the same Polo sweatsuit he had worn the night before and was on his way. Thirty minutes later he was cruising through the early-morning traffic along with his dog on their way across town to meet Charles, a dude from Farmville he saw once a month who purchased nothing under a half of a key. As he drove, puffing on his cigar, he couldn't help thinking about the guys that robbed him. He even saw them in his dreams. Their evil eyes under the ski masks and the deep voice often woke him out of his sleep.
He felt like a damn fool. Was it the heroin that caused this to happen? And what about the guy that caught him slipping at the barbershop? While he was in the chair nodding, this cat had been back and forth just waiting on him. How did he know? He got a call from his barber that same night. James said it was a good thing he left because someone had been shot outside the shop. He then added he remembered the man's face from earlier that day. Cojack's thoughts bounced back from the barbershop scene back to the guys who robbed him. They had to have been clocking him for a while to come to his home and duct-tape his mother.
“Muthafucka!” he cursed, bitterly coming to a complete stop at a red light at Broad Rock and Hull. His eyes fixed on two black guys driving a dark blue Quest minivan. For some odd reason he just knew the robbers were still watching, looking for another opportunity.
“Damn, I'm 'noid as shit,” he mumbled. Cojack had even brought his mother a .38 special, instructing her to go nowhere without it. He noticed a black sedan cruising beside him, the driver peering over in his direction. Were they the dudes who robbed him? How would he know? One thing for sure, he'd never forget that voice. It seemed everybody was watching. He noticed his paranoia when he wasn't high and he wasn't high now. The heroin he snorted earlier that morning was all that kept him from getting sick.
Finally, he arrived at his destination. As he drove up to the Amoco gas station, Killer barked at a white couple holding hands near the pay phone. Cojack was pleased to see Charles parked at the vacuum, cleaning out his car. He pulled into the middle car wash as always. After retrieving the coke from the toolbox he placed it inside the truck, and thoughts of his connect entered his mind. He couldn't wait to rip that sucker off.
“Washed up,” he recited the man's words. “We'll see who gon’ be washed up after tonight, Nigerian muthafucka!”
Charles pulled his Nissan Sentra into the car wash beside Co-jack. His kid's mother, a sexy brown-skinned chick with hazel eyes, was in the passenger seat. The exchange was quick as usual. They shook hands afterward, and Charles got in his ride and drove away. Cojack glanced at his Rolex Presidential and noticed that it was nine A.M. Willie's was about to open and he wanted to stop by and pick up the new Makaveli CD. From there he was going to pay his barber a visit. He jumped in his truck and no sooner had he put it in drive than the strangest thing happened.
A Quest van pulled in front of him while at the same time a car pulled up tight behind him. The white couple he'd spotted at the pay phone when he first arrived appeared from out of nowhere, pointing guns and flashing badges while yelling for him to throw up his hands in surrender. When he looked closer, it was the same van from earlier with the two black guys. The sedan was at the scene as well. What the hell was happening? Killer barked hysterically as ATF jackets surrounded him in the truck. The commotion was so loud that Cojack could barely make out what the agents were saying. Cojack kicked his Glock under the seat while Killer held the agents at bay. They threw a cover over the dog to restrain him and then ordered Cojack out of the truck. People slowed down in their cars. Employees from the gas station even stepped out to catch a glimpse as agents escorted Cojack in handcuffs to the waiting van.
They drove him to a white and gray brick building. He had never been locked up before but it was something about this place that spooked him the hell out. There was nothing but woods surrounding the area. No houses or apartments. Not even a business in the vicinity. He'd heard many stories about the Feds and how they had their own private offices somewhere hidden in the city. A person could ride past them a million times and never know they were federal processing stations.
His urge for a sniff was steadily increasing as he sat in the lonely interrogation room, cursing Charles for setting him up. He observed his surroundings for the first time since he arrived. The small room was dingy. The walls looked dirty and the light was dim. There was one door with a huge glass window that he stared though, wondering if they were watching him.
“Bitch muthafucka!” Cojack stated in fury. “I can't believe this shit. I got the worse fuckin’ luck in the world,” he said dejectedly.
What was happening to his life? Was someone trying to tell him something? Suddenly, the door opened and a black guy walked in holding a Ziploc bag in his hand.
“Look familiar?” the man said, flashing a grin as he dropped the coke in front of Cojack.
“What the hell is that?” Cojack backed away as if a snake was in front of him.
“It's yours. I'm Agent Boston,” he said.
“Ay, you need to get that shit from round me. It ain't mine,” Co-jack announced. Boston roared in laughter as he sat on the end of the table watching the remarkable performance. He glanced over his shoulder at someone behind the glass.
“Mind if I call you Cojack?” He chuckled. “Look, man, cut the shit. Your buddy in the other room talking so much we had to put a sock in his mouth.” Cojack dropped his head just as a cleaned-faced white guy walked in. The same dude he saw at the pay phone with the lady.
“My man Cojack, finally we meet. I'm Agent Whitehead.” Co-jack stared at both men and couldn't help feeling as though he'd seen them before. “You don't remember, do you, Cojack?”
“Remember what?” he asked puzzled.
Boston looked at his partner and grinned. “Pier Seven about six months ago.” The agents shared laughs as if enjoying some type of private joke. “I meant to thank you for the drinks but you had to rush off.” Boston smirked. “You weren't feeling too well that night.”
Whitehead cleared his throat. “Yeah, man we've been watching you for a little over a year now.” He seated himself in a chair across from Cojack, his blue eyes beaming directly at him. “We know all about your crew.”
Cojack started to say, If you know so goddamn much, who the fuck robbed me then? But he decided to keep his thoughts to himself.
“This here is a lot of time,” Boston said, holding up the bag. He flashed a devilish grin. “Crack, too, not to mention the currency and the gun we found in the truck.”
“You looking at a shitload of time, man, no bullshit,” White-head interrupted. “Got any kids?”
“Naw, I don't got none of them,” Cojack replied.
“Well, hell, you may have twenty to thirty years in you.”
Just the thought of doing time gave Cojack stomach pains. There was no way he could go to prison, especially with a dope habit.
“So, Cojack, what's it gonna be? You gonna play ball or go hard?” Boston asked.
“I can't go to jail, man,” Cojack answered.
The agents exchanged pleased expressions. “You're a smart man,” Whitehead said. “So what do you have? Must be something real good for us not to lock you up.”
“Tell me something,” Boston interjected. “Did you see who killed the guy outside the club that night? You and Mason were …” The agent paused to observe Cojack's expression at the sound of his friend's name. He continued, “You two left around the time of the shooting.”
“Naw, I ain't see it,” Cojack answered.
“By the way—” Boston glanced in his partner's direction. “—I think it's only fair to inform you
that Mason and the others will be picked up, too. We have units on them.”
“Look, man,” Cojack cut in. “Let me work the streets and keep my niggas out there.”
“I don't know about that, Cojack. I mean, that's a lot of work, man. We got four of you on conspiracy charges. Let's not forget the gun.” Boston shook his head, looking at the other agent. “That's one heavy load.”
“I don't care,” Cojack said, his nose running profusely. “Look, I got niggas who will sell me five keys. Nigerians, man. Just put me back on the streets and let me work. Don't nobody know I got arrested.” The agents looked at each other as if they were pondering the thought. “Look man, I'll put on a wire or however you wanna do this.”
“When is the soonest you can make a buy?” Boston asked.
“Tonight, but you gotta let me go.” Cojack told the agents how the Nigerian only came around once a month. They agreed to work with him but said their superior had to make the final decision. As they left the room, Cojack's mind worked overtime trying to think of a good lie.
Think, nigga, shit! I gotta tell these niggas something. The connect got arrested. Naw, I can't tell 'em that, he reasoned with himself. He had to go out of town for something. Cojack sat there in a deep trance trying to decide. Yeah, that might work. The robbery was definitely off. The pains were growing sharper by the minute and perspiration was building on his forehead. He felt like crying out. “Goddamn, I need some dope,” he mumbled.
Thirty minutes later his head lifted at the sight of the two agents.
“All right, Cojack, it's your lucky day. You'll be working closely with Agent Boston and myself.” Whitehead explained that he'd have to wear a wire so they could monitor the transaction.
“Is there a problem?” Boston asked, observing the concerned look on Cojack's face.
“Y'all not gon’ arrest him while I'm there are you?” Cojack asked with a slight degree of concern.
“Of course not, Cojack,” Boston replied. “We wouldn't put you out there like that.”
“If all goes well, you and your friends get to stay on the streets,”
Whitehead added.
“How soon can I get back out there?”
“We gotta get your fingerprints, sign some paperwork, and the necessary BS. You all right, Cojack? You don't look too good,”
Whitehead said. “A little shook up, huh?” He grinned. “Well, don't be. It's always this way in the beginning. You'll do well.” Cojack's mind drifted off, thinking about how good he'd feel once he had some heroin in his system.
“Let me warn you, Cojack,” Boston said. “Don't cross us or you'll be back in custody before you can blink.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point.
“Just trust me, man. I got you. Whatever I gotta do, it's done. Long as me and my niggas out there, fuck the rest,” Cojack said sincerely.
“That's the spirit,” Whitehead stated. He glanced at his partner, winking his eye. “I guess we're about ready. C'mon, buddy. Let's sign some papers and get you printed so you can be on your way.”
Later that night Cojack drove across the Chamberlayne bridge. The radio was off so all he could hear were his thoughts that seemed to drown out everything else. Feeling the wire attached to his chest, he couldn't help from laughing.
“Ain't this a bitch!” In just a matter of months his life had done a 180-degree turn for the worse. He began to contemplate the many possibilities. What if something went wrong? Did anyone he knew witness the arrest? What if the Nigerian wanted to search him?
You trippin', nigga, he thought to himself. He turned on his music and tried to relax. He thought of Mason and knew he was upset about the robbery being called off. He hated that he had to lie to his boy, but if only he had a clue Mason'd probably thank him. Even still, he didn't like having to lie to him. Cojack decided to pick up his cell phone and call him just to make sure things were still cool.
“Yeah,” Mason said, answering the phone.
“What's up, man?” Cojack asked. “I was just calling to make sure you was cool. I could tell you wasn't feelin’ the shit being called off and all.”
“I'm good,” Mason replied.
“I'm just as pissed. But ol’ dude had to leave town for a family emergency. Shit happens. But don't worry. It will all work out,” Co-jack said in an attempt to give Mason some reassurance. Mason didn't trip so he figured it worked.
“It's all good.”
“Alright then.”
“Holla.”
“Peace.”
When Cojack arrived within two blocks of the detail shop where he'd purchased drugs on numerous occasions, butterflies began to surface.
“Just stay cool, man. Everything gon’ go smooth,” he assured himself. The place was located directly across from Burger King, behind a run-down motel. Cojack parked on a deserted side street and got out. He knew his man was there because the burgundy Maxima was parked in the alley as always. He observed two Nigerians posted up at the entrance, smoking a joint and speaking a language he couldn't understand.
A seven-foot-tall black brother led him inside and instructed him to wait. Cojack took a seat with three other dudes in front of the TV, watching soccer. Neither of the men spoke English and it kind of bothered him. He wondered what they were saying. Were they talking about him? Almost twenty minutes later, he heard his name called in a familiar Nigerian accent. He got up and trotted to the back room, where he was greeted by his connect.
Bam and another cat were seated at a table smoking weed while a money machine counted a table full of cash. It had to be over a quarter million. Cojack fumed with anger, wishing the Feds hadn't intervened and spoiled his planned heist. As Cojack handed Bam $75,000, he told him how fucked up it was that he would simply cut him off after their long business relationship. Bam laughed.
“C'mon, Cojack. I was just joking, man. You didn't take me serious, did you?” Having been in the States for so long, Bam spoke the language exceptionally well.
“Get the fuck outta here,” Cojack said in surprise. “You mean it was a joke?”
“Yeah man. How could I cut you of all people off? You one of my best customers. Just to show you everything is still love, I'm gonna match the five kilos 'cause I wanna see you get back on your feet.”
Cojack could not believe his ears. He wondered how long the Feds would wait before they picked him up. Hopefully they'd give him enough time to stack some real paper. He would definitely keep a few kilos for himself.
They started loading the bricks up when suddenly a thunderous blast sent the men careening to the floor. Bam yelled something in his native language to his partner, who leaped up clutching the longest Desert Eagle Cojack had ever seen. Bam's bodyguard let off several rounds just to let the intruders know they were packing, then slammed the door. Immediately, Cojack began to think the worst.
The Feds. Muthfuckas lied to me! What the hell did I get myself into? Cojack thought.
Slugs were tearing through the walls. It sounded like machine guns.
“Cojack, help me put the money in a bag,” Bam said in a desperate tone, his eyes full of horror. “It's a back door. We can get out through there.” They moved swiftly, staying low while clearing the entire table. They stuffed the cash in a leather Gucci bag. The Nigerian bodyguard had the door covered. Through the commotion, Bam and Cojack, with both of their hands full, broke for the back door that led to the alley where his car was parked. Cojack just knew agents had the place surrounded. His plan was to throw up his hands in surrender to avoid being killed once he was outside.
When Bam opened the door, Cojack's heart nearly jumped from his chest at the sight of the ski-masked figure standing before him. It was as though he was living in a horror movie, watching in awe as the man leveled his weapon at Bam's head and squeezed the trigger, taking the top of Bam's skull completely off.
Cojack dropped his bags and retreated in the opposite direction only to run into another dude dressed in similar attire. He stopped in his tracks
and threw up his hands but it was all in vain. The first slug struck him in the chest. Another ripped into his midsection before he could hit the floor. Suddenly, the shots had came to a screeching halt and all that he could hear were voices. One voice stood out over all the rest as he ordered his men to clean the place out. At that moment Cojack realized these were the same dudes who had robbed him. He could feel himself losing consciousness; labored sounds came from his heaving chest as he pressed his hand against his torn flesh. Eyes clouding with tears, he saw one of the men stand over him and aim his weapon.
“Please don't kill me,” Cojack droned out in a weak tone as he stared down the barrel of the Glock. He begged for mercy through pleading eyes.
“Let's go!” a voice ordered from across the room.
Cojack's breathing increased and his eyelids were becoming heavier by the second. A picture of his mother entered his mind as he imagined her crying over his casket. Then he thought of his good friend Mason. He should've listened to him from the start. Was this the way he would go out? Cojack opened his eyes and found no one there. Then he passed out.
THIRTEEN
THREE DAYS LATER, Cojack opened his eyes in the hospital room, feeling the pull of the IV line stuck in his arm.
“Thank God, Corey Anderson,” Janice called out to her son. Cojack strained his weak eyes and saw his mother smiling down at him. She kissed his forehead. “Boy, you scared me to death. How do you feel?”
“Weak,” he replied. “I'm a'ight though. How long I been here, Ma?”
“Three days,” she leaned over and whispered. “The police been back and forth up here since you got here.”
Cojack tried to sit up but couldn't because his body lacked the strength.
“You all right? Need me to do anything for you?” his mother asked. Cojack thought for a minute, then shook his head. The door opened and a white petite nurse walked in followed by two men in suits.
“Hello. How do you feel?” the nurse asked in a friendly voice. Cojack just nodded. “I'll bring you something to eat shortly. You must be starving.”
