The Cook Up

by D. Watkins

  “Yo, how you feel, Nick,” I said while wiping drool off of my own chin.

  “Amazing,” said Nick repeatedly as he threw jabs at the air in Ali motions. He shadowboxed for like ten minutes and then finally told me Gee called and would be here in five minutes. I looked at my watch and couldn’t believe that I had just slept for seven hours. What a pill—I think I like them.

  I washed the high off of my face and wrapped Gee’s half brick up in a pillowcase. I then told Nick to go out and get some baking soda, a bag of ice, and some bottles of aspirin because I’d be cooking later.

  As Nick was going out, Gee came walking in. They dapped each other up as Nick said, “I’ll see y’all lata.”

  “Dee, what’s up, how you feel?” said Gee as he walked in and surveyed the place. His eyes looked like clots. He smelled like a gallon of Hennessy and Popeye’s beans and rice.

  “I’m holdin’ on, missin’ Bip, but hey,” I replied, trying not to break eye contact.

  Gee then went into a story about how special Bip was and that I’m lucky to have spent those last days with him. He called us the best things that ever happened to him. I wasn’t sure if it was love or our ability to support him financially that got him talking that way—either way, it felt good to talk to a relative.

  “Gee, Bip left me a half brick of dope. It looks really good and I’ll give it to you for twenty racks even though it’s worth a lot more.”

  “I ain’t got shit, man, and I owe some people,” he replied, without blinking. His desperation stunk.

  “Well, what do you have? I know you don’t think I’m frontin’ you a whole joint. I ain’t Scarface.”

  “Yeah, boy but you ain’t no drug dealer neither. Fuck you gonna do with that?”

  Gee didn’t know. Shit, I didn’t know, but realistically I’m probably not going back to college. I’m in the game now.

  “Oh, Gee, I definitely hustle now. I just don’t wanna fuck with dope, it’s too complicated. Crack man, I’m a crack man.”

  I had Nick as my general, and we bump Jay Z all day so “Rockafella” would be my stamp. After tomorrow I’d have a rack of clients and maintaining that, or at least building that, would mean no freebies, even to family.

  Gee walked over to our couch and sunk into the center. His 250-pound frame made the cushions fold up like a V. I leaned my back against the wall and slid down to the floor. Gee had a look on his face. The kind of look people get right before they ask a really stupid question.

  “Gee, what you want from me, man? Like for real.”

  “I’m tryin’ to get that whole thing from you, boy, I can move all of it. I’m good for it, boy I’m ya—”

  I cut in and told him that I wasn’t even listening to that “I’m your family” shit, “you my nephew” shit. As far as he knew that’s all I had, and I wasn’t going to give him a chance to fuck that up.

  “Why you hit me for help anyway? How you know I could look out? I don’t have a job.”

  Gee said he wasn’t thinking drugs, he was thinking cash. He knew Bip had a bunch of it, probably left it to me, and he just thought he could borrow some buy-money and get us all right.

  The whole story made sense except for the fact that he owed Bip cash from back in 1996 when he was supposed to be in rehab but checked out early, relapsed and begged for money every day. Bip would mock him like, “I need helpppppp, y’all livinnnnnn, this shit is fuckin me upppp!” He lent Gee 10K when he came out of rehab and would always crack jokes on how Gee would probably never pay him back.

  “I’ll give you ten stacks and the rest when I get back in town. You a tough muh-fucker man. Got damn!”

  I said no and told him to give me fifteen now and nine when he got back since he didn’t have all of the money up front—that was my final offer. I knew that he could easily make a ton after paying his workers and me so I had to add that extra tax. If he wasn’t family, I wouldn’t have fronted him shit. We shook on it and I told him that he could pick it up tomorrow or whenever he had that fifteen on him.

  Nick came back about hour after Gee left. He stopped and got some chicken cheesesteaks but I didn’t eat. I was too excited and ready to work. Beating that extra money out of Gee ignited something inside of me, something I had never felt before. I grabbed the bag of supplies that I asked Nick to get and laid them across our countertop.

  My Pyrex was big enough to cook a whole bird so making an eighth would be really easy. I wiped down the counter with a warm cloth. Everything was clean and clear. In front of me was a Pyrex of boiling water, a cloud of mist, a few ice cubes, a box of Arm & Hammer, a sack of cocaine, a pitcher of Kool-Aid, a cup of vodka, and bunch of opportunity. I never really cooked before but I saw it done at least a million times, so I knew I could do it. I was hard-wired for this.

  I dumped the coke on top of the boiling water—and watched the oil set up. I looked to left, to right. Nick forgot the aspirin—fuck!

  “Nick, you forgot the FUCKIN’ aspirin,” I yelled, busting a lung.

  Giving out high quality testers is the most important part of being a great dealer. You have to build that hype like in any other industry. It introduces your product to the world. As I explained to Nick plenty of times: you don’t need aspirin to cook crack but adding it makes the rocks burn slower, giving fiends the illusion that their high is lasting longer than the standard eleven minutes.

  I had to think quickly or risk fucking the batch up, so I blasted up to the medicine cabinet… nothing but toothpaste and Proactiv gel for Nick’s acne. The Tylox!

  “I’m running to get aspirin now, Yo, my bad!” shouted Nick as he fell out the front door. I ground up the small pills and sprinkled the powder into the pot. Baking soda came next; I whipped it hard with my right hand and quickly tossed the ice chips in with my left. The end result was golden—similar to the color of Kellogg’s Corn Pops.

  It was a little darker than what I was used to, but almost half more than I started with, and the fumes smelled right, a little funky, but right. Cutting it with Tylox could be genius or a fuck-up—I guessed I’d see tomorrow.

  Nick came back in with a bag full of Motrin. I told him that he was too late and the batch was done—oh, and I asked what was up with the Motrin? Together Nick and I capped up a nation of crack samples. Two bitty shaved rocks in bottle after bottle. Our tops were black and we were ready. We were bringing a whole new element to the street and the pressure was off because I didn’t pay for the product. I could afford to fuck up a batch or two.

  I fixed us some cups of vodka and continued capping. Our little black-topped bottles covered the table. Vials are deceiving, just like the crack inside. Crack is this over-hyped drug that fucks up lives and makes people crazy in exchange for an eleven-minute high. Vials are magnifying glasses that make it seem like you are getting more drugs. You aren’t. They both promise more while giving less.

  “Ah, Dee, one day we’ll have naked bitches baggin’ up for us like Nino Brown at the Carter and shit,” said Nick.

  “Man, you watch too much TV.” I told Nick that I knew there were three target areas where we could sample this stuff other than Hope’s block, including Highlandtown, Latrobe, and 21st. He had a few spots as well and we had more than enough product. We capped up about a ounce of testers, as we call them, and almost a quarter brick of nicks and dimes.

  “After we tee to other niggas, I’m a find us a block too. We gonna get our own spot, man,” said Nick, making his way over to the couch.

  Nick popped two Perks and fell asleep. I ate one and walked around the neighborhood. I stopped at Bocek Park and thought back to the days when my dirt bike ripped through the grass there and my only concern was being the best rider. I sat there in my state of Percocet-driven nostalgia and faded into the shadows. I loved the park at night. It’s consistent—pitch black and empty and remains that way until dawn, every day.

  ROCKAFELLA

  I called my boy Carlos the cab driver and told him that we needed him from seven a.m.
until a little past noon. He’s tall and dark-skinned with huge white teeth that always smile at you. His cab was as clean as his grill. No trash, no smell, and really no evidence of customers. Los had always been a neat freak since we were kids, with creases in his school uniform khakis draping over scuffless shell-toe Adidas.

  It didn’t take long for our scent to stink his cab up.

  “Damn, y’all ain’t playin’, huh? I knew y’all ain’t smoking so I bet y’all got a bunch to sell!” said Carlos, peering through the rearview.

  I tossed him three hundred dollars and named our destinations. The conversations I had with the dealers from each area were identical: “Yo, I’m giving samples out for your best customers so hit me later and let me know if you want some.” I played Little League with most of the young dealers and the rest of them knew Bip or Nick. We rode around to make Nick’s drop-offs as well and picked up the cash from Gee. I told him that he could pick up his half brick after I counted the money. He said, “Only because you are you. Anybody else wouldn’t touch the money until I touched the product.” I told Carlos our last stop was Seth’s Auto in Dundalk.

  Heading to buy a car, Carlos said, “Damn, Dee, new whips, Yo, wassup? Throw a nigga some work, boy. You know I got kids and shit.”

  “Oh yeah, how’s Kyra?” I asked. Kyra was Carlos’s lady and elementary school sweetheart.

  “Kyra’s fucked up and wantin’ money, nigga, throw me some work!”

  I told Carlos that we were building and I could probably fit him in somewhere.

  One thing that gave me pause is that Carlos had a rep for being a shooter. Uncle Gee is a shooter, and Hurk—he’s the shooter of all shooters. I have no interest in murder. I’m not into that homicide life at all. Hustling and committing murders doesn’t work—you have to pick a side. I understand that the two worlds can’t exist with each other, in Baltimore anyway. I was determined to not war with anyone. Death hurts and I’ve seen too many. I had enough shooters around me, but I liked Carlos so I tried to figure something out.

  A whole line of dirty pearl and rusty-gold broken-down Acuras were spread across the front of Seth’s Auto.

  “Dee, what’s this the lemon factory and shit. These buckets beat,” said Nick while observing the lot.

  I told him that the good cars were in the back, and if nothing was good enough, Seth could take us to the auction. Seth buzzed us in. His office was a trailer without wheels, packed tight and made out of paperwork—paperwork on the desk, paperwork busting out of the file cabinets, overflowing with folders. His lot looked cheap as his suit but he was loaded. Seth gets cars for everybody who is anybody. Big-time guys get 600 Benzes and 700 series Beamers. Real big guys get Bentleys and vehicles that we can’t even pronounce. He had a couple of E Class Benzes and some Lexus ES 300s that looked pretty fresh and in our pay grade.

  “Hey, Dee, glad you stopped by,” said Seth with both arms extended. His nose owned his face and was probably the only nose in the world strong enough to hold up the set of thick frames he had on.

  “No disrespect but I’m not a hugger,” I replied as I opted for a handshake. Nick had eased off to check out the rest of the inventory.

  “So what are you looking for? Benz, Lexus, I just got a nice Rover in. Wait, is your car still on hold?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even want it back. I’m just lookin’ for a GS for Nick and I don’t even know what I wanna drive yet. I do want something nice, though, eventually.”

  Seth asked me how much I wanted to spend. I told him that it depended on the car. He then said that his friend had a nice 1996 black-on-black GS 300 over on Belair Road.

  Nick leaped in front of me. “Dat’s me, how much, unk?”

  Seth pulled out his cell to get a price check. I wasn’t going to let my friend ride around in a ’96. I told Nick that he needed to chill when doing business with car dealers because most of them are spineless rats, including Seth. I didn’t care if Seth looked out for Bip or any other street dude, he still wanted to make as much money as possible, like any other hustler. Excited people like Nick always fall victim to the “ignorance tax.” A guy like Seth smells your ignorance, so they tax you! Car dealers, lawyers, and payday loan crooks are notorious for this.

  “Okay, guys, follow me,” said Seth. We walked around back to an emerald green GS 400 with tan leather. Nick was speechless.

  “How much for that?” I asked, poker face on.

  “That’s a ’01 with about twenty thousand miles. I need at least thirty-two thousand and that’s because you are such a great guy.”

  “Naw, fuck that! That’s too much,” said a frustrated Nick. I told him to chill again.

  “Nick, take a walk, man, lemme holler at Seth.”

  I told him that I was flat broke but I’m about to make a run and that we were goin’ to be doing a lot of business.

  “Dee, make me an offer. A good one.”

  “I got twenty-three thousand cash, in the bag. And I’ma buy another car like next week. Let us take it.”

  Seth paused for a minute, let out a deep breath, looked at his feet, and then tossed me the keys. He said I’d owe him a big one. I thanked him and told a now gleaming Nick to cash him out.

  “Yo, you gotta new GS now, boy, it’s on!” yelled Nick with face pressed against the driver’s side window, admiring the interior and caressing the side of the car.

  “Naw,” I said. “You have a new GS. I said this was for you. I wanna thank you for holding me down!”

  Nick flipped, turned around and squeezed the wind out of my chest in one motion; he was so excited that he dropped the open bag of cash on the ground. We calmed him down and did the paperwork. Seth had a fictitious company set up with license numbers and a real insurance policy. We just had to endorse the documents and screw on the sixty-day cardboard temporary tag.

  Fifteen minutes later and we were cruising on Route 40, headed back down the hill. Nick was at the wheel with a low Orioles brim. His seat leaned back far enough to touch the rear chair. I checked my phone. Thirty missed calls—a few random girls, five from Gee who wanted his work, and about twenty from Hope. I tried to call her back but got no answer.

  “Yo, Nick, you got a strap, right?”

  “Always, what’s wrong?” he replied.

  “Okay, stop by Hope’s, Yo.”

  PROTECTOR

  I called Hope again when we were about five minutes away. She answered on the first ring.

  “He hit me and I’m bleeding, can you come and get me, please, Dee?” was all she said before hanging up. I couldn’t get a word in. I pulled my pistol off of my waist, and sat it on my lap.

  “Yo, Brock slapped Hope, split her shit too,” I said as I popped the clip in and out of the gun.

  “Why she wit his li’l ugly ass anyway? Ellwood, right?”

  “Right,” I replied as Nick parked about a half block away from her house. I told him to stand by the back door just in case he tried to run. I walked around front and tried her door—it was open. I held my weapon and slowly crept up to their apartment.

  Knock knock knock…

  “Go away, I fuckin’ hate you!” came from the opposite side of the door.

  “Naw, it’s me, Dee!” I said, tucking the pistol.

  She opened the door. He had left her face all lumpy and red. Her skin was puffy and bruised, covered by a mangled head of hair. I couldn’t tell where the tears stopped or the blood started.

  “Yo, pack some clothes and come with me,” I said.

  Frantically she started throwing some of her things into a trash bag as I waited. Brock came in through the front door laughing and headed up the steps. I opened their apartment door and stood behind it.

  “Hope, baby. Ha ha, I love you, girl, where you at?”

  He walked in and shut the door, and my pistol met his face. He raised both of his hands straight over his head.

  “Chill, Dee. Hold up, what’s goin’ on?” said Brock as he backed up into the wall.

 
“Get on your fuckin’ knees. Hope, hurry up!” I shouted as I patted Brock down and checked him for a weapon.

  Hope saw me holding the pistol and dropped the bag.

  “Oh my God, what are you doing? STOP!”

  I spun around. “Get your shit Hope!”

  Brock grabbed the gun and we tussled. My hands locked on it but I couldn’t pull it away; he was three times stronger than me. We hit a wall and knocked some stuff on the floor. Nick ran in and slapped him across the head with his gun. All three of us fell, but only Nick and I got up. I rolled him over.

  “Hold his face!”

  Nick put him a chokehold, similar to the ones that cops sometimes used on us, and angled his face in my direction. I gathered myself and gave him a series of pistol-saps across the mouth, enough to cause a splatter on my sneaks and tee. Hope’s screams narrated the beating. Nick pulled me off. Hope said something about calling the cops, and Nick yelled, “Nigga, she buggin’, let’s book.” I didn’t say a word. I just ran down the steps behind Nick, jetted up the block and hopped in his car.

  “Fuck is up with her? Callin’ the cops on us and he split her shit, dat’s dumb,” said Nick as we rode up Madison. I told him to stop at the CC’s Carryout so I could grab some more vials. I dialed her number and it went straight to voice mail. We hit CC’s five minutes later. Todd from Greenmount—one of the dealers I gave samples to—was standing in the doorway when I exited the car.

  “Todd, wassup, man?”

  “Nigga, you wassup!” he replied. “Nigga, you that nigga!”

  He went on to say that Rockafella was the best crack that he had ever sampled in his life. Junkies who hit it were dancing, rejoicing, throwing up, racing all over the street, and begging for more all day. They even told their junkie friends who told their junkie friends. His block must have looked like a casting call for “Thriller.”

  And it wasn’t just Todd, everybody was looking for me all day, and he wanted to buy ten thousand dollars’ worth of whatever I could get him that night. Nick and I had three more similar conversations on the way back to the house. East Baltimore had gone Rockafella crazy that quick.