The Cook Up

by D. Watkins

  Long Tooth was looking down at his phone and almost hit a dude on Caroline Street. He swerved just in time to get around him. We saw him yell something with his arms up in the rearview.

  “Yo! Stop the car!” Mac yelled. Long Tooth slammed on the brakes. Mac popped out the back door and threw four shots at the guy and then jumped back in.

  “Yo! I’m not playin’ wit’ anybody!” he yelled, squeezing the smoking pistol. The rest of the car laughed. These dudes could definitely get me killed within hours. I sat in silence and didn’t really say much of anything until we reached the projects.

  “Yo, LT, buy me the tennis and I’ll pay you back. Hurk, you can get the money from Dog Boy and I’ll check y’all later, I’ma kick down here for a while. Welcome home, Mac,” I said before strolling over to the court. I took a few jump shots with some skinny kids. They called me crazy and phony for not riding out with them. I waved them off and stopped to watch the Jeep pull away. They’ll probably die or catch a thousand years today, I thought as I started a game of fifty. That bar is going to save me.

  CODED

  Lass called me up and said the deal went through. I just had to come to her office and sign some papers. Joan would also be there, so I would get a chance to meet her too. I had to go and see Mr. Pete. I knew he would be proud. He kept talking about throwing a party for me on my opening night. All the nurses said they were coming in their Coach and Dooney & Bourke. I was like, “Naw, those brands are wack! My people rock Gucci and Loui V!”

  I pulled up to the unit with some pictures of the property that I yanked off of the Internet. I had been carrying them around everywhere since I first looked that the store. I couldn’t stop looking at them and envisioning myself as the boss of the store, slapping high-fives and pouring shots.

  An ugly silence hit me when I walked into the unit. A few nurses lingered by the entrance.

  “Hey, Kim, Pete get here yet?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, baby, he coded and had been taken out earlier,” she said, giving me a big hug.

  “Okay, well, I’ll see y’all next time.”

  “Really? You’re still gonna come here?”

  “Of course!” I told her, Pete’s my OG. Why wouldn’t I? She asked to rap to me but I didn’t have time for small talk. I had just picked up a lot of dope from his worker a few days ago and it had to be bussed down. Getting off the block was the best thing that has ever happened to me. Even with all the Hurk stuff going on, not being on the block had just made me feel safe.

  Pete taught me how to think. How to analyze the system and everyone it affects on top of why cops respond the way they do. He told me that the police department and prison system are just an extension of slavery and the cops are the slave catchers. He said America runs on criminal justice and they use us dudes to sell smack so that the country can run. I never left him without a lesson; he’s a walking bookshelf, the Internet before the Internet. He’d say: “Dee, why do you think the dude who steals fifty million dollars in a white-collar scandal gets eighteen months in prison while the dude who robs a bar with a gun for three hundred dollars gets thirty years! Because the white-collar guy is going for a sting—he’ll never have to steal again—while the guy with the gun will probably have to pull a job later that day!” I got game from him and then gave it to my young boys.

  I called Troy to tell him that Pete coded and about my store. He was still too busy to answer my calls so hit him two more times. He picked up.

  “Yo, what’s good, bro?” I said.

  “Nothing, man. I’m fucked up over Pete, man, that shit hurt!”

  “Yeah, I just left the clinic, I heard he coded but we’ll see him when he back, bro. Chill out. We got work to do!”

  “Dee, coded means dead. You code and they can save you, but sometimes you die. Mr. Pete is dead and he ain’t coming back!”

  I pulled over and stepped out of the car. My stomach boiled, my chest crumbled. I bent over and I threw up brown shit all over the curb and my sneakers. A slide show of his life played in my head. I could see him as a young G on the avenue, leaning on his big Caddy, counting money in front of his club, not making a living but making a killing like he always said. I could see his smile and that vision put the brakes on my anxiety.

  Dude was a legend, and I was happy to know him. It’s gonna take awhile to get over this one. RIP, Mr. Pete.

  THE NEW OWNER

  Lass recommended that I wear a tie to my first settlement. She said it was good luck. I decided to go with sweatpants and an Air Jordan tee. Troy went to Mr. Pete’s funeral a day before but I skipped it. He was a great guy, but I just felt like that was something for his real family. I wanted to be there, but instead I viewed his body and sent flowers.

  Joan met me at the title company. She rolled in looking like the mom from The Sopranos with a fur jacket and two ringing cells. She was a walking call center.

  “Hey, nice to meet you finally—you are a cutie and so young. What are you, fourteen?” I laughed.

  Buying this property was everything to me. I knew Mr. Pete was smiling down on me from heaven or cheering me on from hell. Either way, he taught me that America is about ownership and I was finally joining the club.

  The dude at the title company said that the owners had already signed their papers and all I had to do was sign the same docs and drop off the down payment which ended being $67,000. Giving myself a small business loan was a great feeling. I brought cash to the table—some fifties and hundreds. My agent shrugged and the title guy looked at me like I was crazy. “You know, Dee, people usually bring us certified checks from the banks they do business with!”

  “Okay, I’ll do that the next time.”

  I signed papers until my arm was sore. They gave me the keys and I did it. I owned my first piece of land. I couldn’t wait to have a grand opening with all of my family and friends—even though I bought the spot, I planned on it being a place for everyone. I told Troy to meet me at my bar. He was hitting me all day and I knew why. Mr. Pete is gone now and he wanted a backup plan, just in case the connection stopped.

  The bar looked good on the inside. It was a little dirty and tacky for my taste, but that was an easy fix—other than that, it was fully stocked and everything worked. The inside was a little tighter than I remembered, and three huge poker machines had clogged the pathway. I thought I could move them and create some space for people to dance.

  I walked up the stairs to see the two units advertised in the listing—apartments over the bar that I could rent out for around six hundred dollars apiece, which would cover the mortgage. They were stinky and shabby but again, nothing that a dope fiend cleaning crew couldn’t fix. This business stuff seemed almost too easy. Buy low, sell high.

  Troy pulled up.

  “This look good, bro!” he yelled. “I’m proud of you, man!”

  “Come on, bro, check the inside out!” I told him.

  We sat at the counter and I poured us two big cups of Absolut. Troy began telling me about Pete’s funeral and how OG’s in Lincolns and big Caddy’s were all over the place. He said that beautiful women stretched across the room and he felt’s Pete’s spirit gracing the crowd.

  “Damn bro I should’ve went.”

  “On another note Dee, if we don’t have a connect, I’m taking this half of brick to the block to buy some time.”

  “Chill, man, I’ll find you a connect. Relax; don’t you have some money saved?”

  He tilted his head. “Yo, I’m flat broke, man. All I got is these drugs, shit, I ain’t know Pete was gonna die. I been fuckin’ money up, and what you mean find me a connect?”

  “Yo, I’m out. I don’t sell drugs anymore. I’m done!”

  Troy laughed and paused. “Are you serious?” he said, standing up. “And what the fuck I’m post to do, nigga!”

  “Well, one, you gonna calm the fuck down! You gotta half a brick of heroin, that’s more than enough to be straight. Stop feeding them girls and buying those silly c
lothes. I’ll find you a connect, but I’m done, man. I ain’t plan on doing this forever!” I climbed on the countertop and held my red cup into the air. “I’m done!”

  I felt like I won—like the American Dream was really happening for me. My family has been here for hundreds of years; however, I was the first real American citizen because I owned a store, could create jobs, was with a woman who was finishing college, and I could go to college if I wanted to or buy more land. I have credit, I’m legal, and I’ll never go to jail.

  I made it.

  Good-bye to the game.

  Even though I said wouldn’t hustle forever, a huge part of me thought I’d do this drug shit forever. Probably because you were the only game I knew. Not just me, black kids everywhere. Ain’t no STEM around here, all we learn is you and hoops. And if you know like I know, everybody can’t hoop.

  I thought I’d hustle, pitch, trap, get rid of, jug, sell, move and slang drugs forever. I got in with the intention of making a lot of money. And I did. I got that.

  I got that. I got real estate, I got a bar. I also got jackers watching, I got enemies, I got shot at, I got a new gun, I got dead friends, I got demons, I got dependents, I got stress, I got funeral bills, I got happy customers, I got bails, I got bills, I got mad customers, I got a drinking problem, I beat a Perk problem but I got problems, I got real problems.

  I got people that count on me being a criminal and I have to let them down because I got reasons to live, and playing this game only guarantees death.

  But I’ll always remember that dope-boy feeling. Buying that chain in the display case, pulling that new Benz off the lot, hooping in brand new two-hundred-dollar sneakers and giving them away, just giving shit away for the sake of giving shit away—giving money away, giving money to people who needed it and to people that don’t. Living.

  Being the car show, the fashion show, and the provider, the guy you could get tuition or a small business loan from. The center of my community. Some of those preachers never gave back, they parked Benzes in the hood and never gave back, but us, the dope boys—we gave back. Jobs, money, and opportunity: the only company that always hires felons.

  I’m gonna miss that dope-boy feeling, that sharp fade, those new sweats, and those two phones with no space in my voice mail because everybody reached out all of the time.

  What a feeling, but I’m sure I’ll have new experiences. I’m gonna fly straight and push for a real life. I ain’t never coming back.

  Peace,

  Dee

  P.S. I’m leaving my trap-phone to Troy. That little Nokia is a goldmine. Sales call it all day and all night so he’ll be great. One Love.

  HEALTH CARE

  I was down Angie’s waiting for Dog Boy to meet me so I could set up something with him and Troy. I dozed on her plastic chair covers till Joan called me up to tell me how Soni was going to love the Viking stove that came with the place she had just found me, because it could bake a whole turkey in an hour. “Wow! I wonder how long would it take to make a grilled cheese?” I asked.

  Joan and I had a real working relationship. She sold me two properties in a month—the bar, a rental on Belair Road, and now we are working on my castle, a home in Bolton Hill, but not like Tyler’s family. I want all three or four thousand square feet to myself—a Cosby-like brownstone with modern features.

  “Okay, Joan, take Soni to see it and if she likes it, draw up the contract.”

  Dog Boy spilled through the door leaking. His red drippy hands wrapped his own torso as he fell toward me. He collapsed with bug eyes before tilting his head toward heaven. Miss Angie saw the blood from the top of the steps.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God!” she screamed like a lottery winner. Cops, ambulance. I’m calling them,” Miss Angie said, trembling. I grabbed both of her meaty arms.

  “Calm down, Angie, get some towels and water. Don’t call anyone!”

  We never call police unless we need reports for insurance purposes. Hero cops are fictional like Santa Claus and affirmative action. Plus we were on Madeira Street—pizza guys and cops never come when you call.

  “What should I do with these towels?”

  “Throw them over the blood!” I replied. Dog Boy moaned and rocked on his side. I told him to stay still.

  “Done, what do you want me to do with this water?” said Miss Angie—still shaking. I didn’t even know why I told her to get water; it just sounded right.

  “Sit here with Dog Boy while I go get Disco. Don’t open the door for anyone, he’ll be okay.” I sprung out of the front door and hopped off the steps. Nick waited at the bottom.

  “Go back in the house, boy, I was coming in. Them niggas that shot Dog Boy circled the block!” said Nick as he pulled me down low to the ground. I got on all fours and leaned my back against someone’s car.

  Nick looked horrible—like a functioning junkie—and he smelled like shit. Those Perks had him all messed up. His skin was soggy, he scratched until blood surfaced, and his eyes were piss-colored.

  “Yo, I gotta go and get Disco. Dog Boy’s bleeding like a muthafucka!” I said, peeking up to see if the coast was clear. “Who shot him? Who he beefin’ with now?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me. Dog Boy slapped some nigga and he came around here three or four times today bangin’ guns like Rambo. Take this and go back in the house. I’ll get Disco,” replied Nick as he handed me a .45. It was black, gray, two-toned, and cocked.

  Dog Boy had the living room smelling like baked scabs. Miss Angie said the bullet went through the right side of his chest. This was the first time I ever saw him speechless. It hurt because I was powerless. I kneeled down and scooped the back of his head with my palm. “Miss Angie, get me another cold washcloth! I gotta clean him up; you’ll be okay, Dog Boy. Stay with me.” I had to make sure he stayed still because I didn’t know if a bullet was still in him. Angie could’ve been wrong. Moving a body with a bullet in it could cause it to pop around and hit a vital organ or something. Nick and Disco were taking forever. I had to talk to Dog Boy. I thought talking would calm him—it definitely calmed me. I joked about his speech impediment. I rubbed the cloth across his temple and reminded him of the house raid when Fat Tay dumbass tried to flush a small pistol down the toilet. I reminded him of the time he fucked Liz with the peg leg and then stole it for proof and how we used to ride our dirt bikes through Pat’s kitchen, do doughnuts in her living room and then wheelie out the front door.

  Miss Angie said Disco was outside. “Yo, let her in!” I yelled. Disco walked in with a multicolor windbreaker on with two-strapped Reeboks and a glittery bag to match. She looked like a pack of Life Savers.

  “Gib him a pill for da pain. Dis ain’t shit but a hole, baby!” said Disco, lighting a Newport and analyzing the wound. I didn’t have any strong prescription pills, but there was a bottle of Motrin, so she spoon-fed him that. Dog Boy had the same drug tolerance as some of these fiends he served—too high to catch a buzz off of ibuprofen, but something was better than nothing.

  Disco dipped into her bag and started dabbing the hole with rubbing alcohol–soaked gauze. Dog Boy squeezed my hand, making my complexion as red as the blood on his damp tee. Miss Angie prayed to Jesus.

  Disco started sewing his skin like fabric. She wove the needle in and out in perfect equal stitches. Dog Boy quailed with every poke but got used to it as she started on his back. I interrupted Miss Angie’s prayer and told her to call around for some pain pills. Her tears were enough to wash the blood off of the floor—I could’ve put a “Wet Floor” sign down.

  “Take my belt off, Yo. Don’t let shit hit my belt. I love you, Disco, but you ugly as shit!” mumbled Dog Boy. Disco laughed and patted the back of his head. I unlatched his black Damier belt. The LV buckle weighed at least a pound, I thought as I pulled it off. I wiped the belt down with tap water, dried it, and rolled it up like it was new. Miss Angie ran in the kitchen and told me that LT had a line on some Oxys for Dog Boy’s pain.

  “So Dog Boy
is stable?” she asked.

  “Yeah, he’s gonna be okay,” I replied.

  “You’re not going to do anything crazy, are you?”

  Twenty minutes later I got up with Mac, Long Tooth, and Nick. We strapped up with heavy artillery and loaded up in the Camry. My family sedan was a tank with choppers, handguns, extended clips, and cartons of bullets. I blasted the radio to shake Nick out of his nod.

  “Yo, you rockin’ on a mission, that’s crazy, Dee!” Long Tooth yelled from the back. Mac was silent. Nick drooled in and out, head knocked back every time we hit a bump, only waking up to scratch and rub his nipples. “So who did the shit?” I yelled to the car.

  “He my cousin, but fuck that clown!” said Mac.

  “Your cousin?” I pulled over. “Nick, get up!”

  Nick was out of it. Long Tooth said that Dog Boy got into an argument with Hurk over a hundred dollars and Hurk shot him. An awkward silence entered and then chilled the car for a few minutes.

  “Yo, so y’all gonna kill Hurk?”

  Mac said hell yeah because he has work and doesn’t pay, he’s goes to clubs just to start fights, and borrowed money from everybody in the car—saying he needed it because he’s on the run, but he’s always out every weekend throwing money, trying to impress girls, and he just bought a new car.

  Nick rose from the dead. “I tried da tell you but shit was crazy!”