True to the Game I

by Teri Woods

  “You know, there will be another courtroom and he won’t be so lucky the next time. We’re gonna get him. Don’t worry, we’re gonna get him.”

  Forty just kept rolling. They would never get Jerrell. They would never stop the Junior Mafia. The boy was too large. He was untouchable.

  “It’s not going to open,” said Gena feeling all hope was lost. Then she heard the click. It was definitely a click, she heard it, and when his hand reached up and grabbed the handle on the safe door, Gena knew that all was not lost.

  “Oh my God, where did all that money come from?” His eyes were totally focused on the inside of the safe. Gena was about to faint. Booyah kept flashing in front of her like a neon light. For one brief moment, Gena thought of this strange looking locksmith killing her and taking her fortune. Of course, she didn’t know that the locksmith was also getting paranoid, wondering if she might kill him. It was just too much money for him not to be suspicious.

  “Okay, what’s your name?”

  “Chris,” he answered nervously.

  “Chris, here, I think this should cover you for your troubles.” Gena reached in the safe. Taking a large stack of fifties, she handed them to him. The guy just stood there, looking like a plucked bird unable to accept her generosity.

  The guy was just staring. He couldn’t believe it. Gena rushed him to the door. “Thank you for everything, Chris,” she said as she closed the door behind him.

  She went into Qua’s bedroom and she got some pillowcases out of his closet door. She started stuffing the money in the pillowcases and sat them neatly by the door. When all the money was out of the safe, Gena had thirteen pillowcases neatly lined up by the door. It was unbelievable. She couldn’t think straight. She was nervous and wanted to leave. She understood how Quadir felt having this money. Shit, how could he sleep? She looked around the apartment. And she thought of Quadir. She had loved him with all her heart, had been faithful day and night, sacrificed with patience, and even though he had cheated, it didn’t matter, understanding why as if he were right there with her explaining everything. “Qua, I know you’re here, ’cause your money is here. Come with me. Please come with me.” Gena felt him, she felt him all around her. She knew he heard her. She knew, ’cause there was no way anyone could rest with all that money left untouched. Oh, no. Qua was there, he was definitely in the apartment. But now, he could rest. She would be okay with that paper. He had hustled for seven years. Seven years of hustling and grinding out there in the streets. Seven years of dodging jealous enemies. Seven years of dope fiends and pipers. Seven years of the streets. There was no one he wanted to take care of more than Gena. There was no one but Gena who was entitled to what was in that safe. And she finally found it. He had waited on her a long time, but she got it. She got it all.

  Gena took the poster size picture of them in a platinum and gold frame off the wall. She looked at it for a moment, thinking about the times they had shared. “I don’t know how I’ve made it this long without you, baby.” She looked around for a moment as she walked to the empty safe and locked it back up. She quickly loaded the car with pillowcases, and with her pocket book straped around her shoulder and last pillowcase of money in her hand, she blew a kiss into the air, hoping that in the breeze Quadir could feel her love. She turned and opened the door, but felt something pulling at her shoulder. She turned around, but nothing was there. “I love you, Quadir. I always did, and I always will.” Gena closed and locked the door to apartment 307.

  She didn’t know what to do, where to go or who to call. For the first time, Gena trusted no one and on the strength of Quadir, she never would with his paper. Not even Rik. If Qua didn’t, why should she? She got in her baby-blue Mercedes-Benz and sat there trying to collect her thoughts. She wanted to go somewhere, but where? She definitely wasn’t going to the projects with thirteen pillowcases filled with money. Not, she thought to herself.

  She picked up the cellular phone and called Gah Git. “I’ll be staying with Tracey,” she said.

  “Okay, baby. Thanks for calling me, I was starting to worry about you. You be careful, you hear me?”

  “Yeah, tell Khaleer he can sleep on the top bunk.”

  “Knowing that fool he’ll be in a closet somewhere or in the tub.”

  Gena could hear Brandi crying in the background. “I got to go, there goes the baby. Call me tomorrow,” said Gah Git.

  “I love you, Gah Git,” she said, disconnecting the cellular line. Gena didn’t want to tell Gah Git about the money. Gah Git didn’t keep no secrets. She would be on the phone calling the ghetto gazette telling Gena’s business.

  “What to do?” she asked out loud, wanting guidance. Sitting in the car, Gena thanked God for his blessings. He had truly been merciful. But a reality struck her that life was about change. The funny thing about it was no matter how much you change, memories always stay the same.

  Qua was gone, and the money couldn’t take his place. It would never take his place. Nothing would ever take his place, and there would never be another love like Quadir’s. When she sat back and thought about it all, his life and the time that they spent together, and how his life brought her more riches than the contents of those pillowcases. It was incomparable with the money she found in that closet. If she could give the money back in exchange for his life, in exchange to have him back, she would in the wink of an eye.

  Gena took the diamond Q key chain and turned the car’s ignition. She took a long look at the apartment building before pulling off toward the Ben Franklin Bridge and the New Jersey Turnpike. Her destination, Exit 16, the Lincoln Tunnel, New York City.

  JUST A LITTLE NOTE

  In a world where evil lurks on every street corner and peace within oneself is a hard thing to come by, we must travel beyond mere existence and live our lives to the fullest, the best we can.

  Things have been so hard for a race of misused and rejected people that our African American families today are still suffering. The streets can make you and the streets can break you. The way you play the game is up to you.

  To those caught in the trap of temporary pleasures, let me tell you this: the root of all evil, which is the love of money and the next man’s pain, will surely come back to haunt you. We have a choice. I believe everyone has a heart, and within our hearts is a conscience. And I know the inner peace we are lacking in ourselves can be found. I know all the burdens we carry can be lifted. I also know our perseverance, our will to survive.

  Love yourselves and love one another. Give yourself time to grow and open your minds to education because it is a key to the way out. Whatever you do, make it worth something. All your consequences in life are dependent upon your behavior. If you know what the consequences are, why do you still exhibit detrimental behavior?

  Because . . . you’re true to the game.

  When I wake up to travel what is unknown, yet certain for me and for my life, throughout the day and night, I give thanks for all the many, many blessings embraced upon me.

  Forever protect me, forever guide me, and forever love me. You are the most merciful, the most beneficent, the most gracious. I love you.

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  A Letter to Readers

  Discussion Questions

  Excerpt from True to the Game II

  Dear Readers:

  I think back to the beginning all the time. Before the business of publishing became my business, before it became my life. I knew back in the early nineties that I’d have to do something to get my life together. I never dreamed it would be this. I never thought I would ever write a book, let alone sell one. I was told countless times that there was no market for a book like True to the Game. No market? Well, I guess we made that market, didn’t we?

  People ask me all the time how I did it. How did I sell a million books by myself? I always tell people I’ve done nothing by myself. I try all the time to explain the power of my people and how they demanded this book and how they made corporate place it on those big
shelves of Barnes and Noble and Borders. I love you so much for that because I could never have done that by myself. I tell people how, when I started selling True to the Game in Philadelphia, it was handmade with the white cover and the gold gun on the front. People bought that book from me for twenty dollars, even though it fell apart once they opened it because it was really handmade. To this day, they’re holding that book in a plastic bag thinking it will be worth money one day. I love you for that.

  I tell people how I came to New York and stood under the Mart 125, selling my book hand to hand in the freezing cold. The lady from the YMCA on 135th who let me, a stranger, sleep on her sofa. Amil from the Roc, who let me stay at her house, wear her clothes, and drive her BMW so I could be fly and do New York. And even Lenise (aka Queen Pen), who introduced me to Brooklyn, who let me stay in her home with her children, whenever I needed. I love you guys so much for that.

  I try to tell people there were times when I had nowhere to go and so I would simply sleep in my car, but you best believe even then, I had street angels and the brothers would watch over me so that nothing happened to me. I love you for that. I try to tell people all the time I never expected others would relate to what I had written, that I had no idea my ghetto fabulous lifestyle was understood in such a way that it would transform itself into this great big business of urban fiction. I had no idea that my brothers and sisters out here would follow me and independently publish their stories and make money and have a better way of life for themselves, but you did and I love you for that. This letter is not to say thank you, but it’s to let you know that I humble myself to you and I am so grateful. I want you to know that I will never take you for granted and I will always love you for all that you have done for me.

  Truly,

  Teri Woods

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1. Why do you think Gena was attracted to Quadir?

  2. Do you think Gah Git should have had a stronger influence in Gena’s life?

  3. Do you think Gena was affected by Sahira’s death?

  4. Do you think Gena’s attitude toward life is indicative of a certain generation?

  5. What do you think was Gena’s biggest mistake?

  The following is a sample chapter from

  TERI WOODS’S

  eagerly anticipated sequel to

  TRUE TO THE GAME.

  TRUE TO THE GAME II: GENA’S STORY

  will be available in November 2007

  wherever books are sold.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The second time Gena saw the black BMW in her rearview mirror, she thought it was a mere coincidence. The third time she saw the Beemer, she thought that it was just another car traveling east, amid a plethora of other vehicles. And then she saw it a fourth time, and then a fifth. It was deliberately trying to keep its distance, trying not to be noticed, trying to blend in with the other vehicles on the highway. But she noticed it. And now she suspected that she was being followed. Who the fuck is behind me?

  She stomped on her gas, only to see the BMW increase its speed. When she slowed down, it too slowed. And now, she was about to conduct the ultimate test. She was about to exit the turnpike and turn back around toward Philly. If the BMW exited the highway and turned around with her, then she would definitely have her answer.

  Being followed was a frightening thing any day of the week, but being followed when you had millions of dollars in dope money in the trunk of your car was something else entirely. Maybe someone seen me; maybe someone else knows. Niggas had killed for less. And niggas had went hard in the paint to get paid. But this, this would be an easy come-up for anybody. She had taken the treasure out of its safe hiding place, and now someone had painted a great big fucking X on her fucking forehead. It would all be so simple for someone to rob her right now. She wondered if they even had instructions on how to do it. Peel back cap, dump bullets inside, take money, congratulations, now go live happily ever after, motherfucker.

  Gena switched on her turn signal, slid over into the exit lane, and left the highway. Her eyes were glued to the rearview mirror. The BMW took the exit. Fear bordering on panic overtook her.

  It’s not supposed to be like this! Gena thought. Who the fuck is following me? They must know I got the money. She hadn’t asked for this. She didn’t deserve to get fucked off, just because she claimed what was rightfully hers. Qua was her man. He was going to marry her after all, and she was entitled to the money that he left behind. I should have never took that key chain. She had put up with a lot of bullshit for this money; bitches calling, bastard children, and ho’s sweatin’ her man all the time. Yes, I shoulda took them keys. Quadir wanted me to have them, so he must have wanted me to have this money. She had lost her best friend, she had lost her fiancé, she had lost Lita. She had earned that fucking dough. And nobody had the right to take it from her. Not jackers, not the Feds, not the Philly PD, nobody. Fuck this.

  Gena turned onto the access road, and accelerated as hard as she could. She would head back to Philly, where she could lose this motherfucker in the tiny, narrow side streets she knew like the back of her hand. At worst, whoever it was behind her wouldn’t be so stupid as to risk following her back to Gah Git’s house. Niggas weren’t trying to run up in Richard Allen and cause no static, especially at Gah Git’s house. Gah Git was too well loved by everybody in the hood for that shit to happen. Naw, she would run back to safety, and worry about stashing the dough later.

  The black BMW accelerated hard, trying to keep Gena in sight. The driver didn’t want to be detected but could tell he had been spotted by the way Gena was driving.

  “Fuck!”

  There was no doubt he had been spotted and there was no doubt that Gena was trying to lose him. The good thing was that the mouse was heading back to the mouse hole, and that was exactly where she needed to be. She would be easier to catch that way. And so would the money.

  Gena raced down the highway, trying to get away from her pursuer. She could still see the halogen lights of the BMW in her rearview mirror. And with each passing mile, she became more of a wreck. She had her whole life ahead of her, and she didn’t want to die; not like this.

  A yellow light blinked on, and a soft chime rang out, causing Gena to look down at her dashboard. It was her fuel light. She had millions of dollars stuffed inside pillowcases in her trunk, and no gasoline in her tank. Damn, I ain’t never got no gas when I need it. What the fuck am I going to do now? Pull over, all alone, on the side of the road, with a gank of money in the trunk of my car, be robbed or, even worse, murdered. No, that bitch ain’t me, Gena thought, while shaking her head. She was going to find a gas station. Maybe the motherfucker wouldn’t risk popping her in front of so many witnesses; especially if she found a big gas station. An Exxon, Mobil, Valero, Shell, or even Luk Oil. Fuck it—we’ll take Wal-Mart out this bitch! Just somewhere where there’s a bunch of people around. She spotted the red, white, and blue Exxon sign just down the road, and a smile slowly spread across her face. She was going to make it.

  Gena exited the turnpike riding on nothing but fumes and raced into the gas station parking lot. The black BMW exited with her, and followed her into the gas station parking lot. Gena pulled up to a pump, while the Beemer pulled into a faraway corner and sat idling. The black sedan’s dark tinted windows prevented her from seeing who, or even how many, were inside of the car. She climbed out of her Benz, hit her alarm so that her trunk would lock, and raced inside of the store.

  “May I help you ma’am?” the store clerk asked rudely.

  Gena rubbed her sweating palms on her pants. “I . . . I . . . I . . . think that I’m . . . I don’t know.” Gena stuttered so bad and her mind raced so fast, that she could not form a coherent sentence. “I . . . think . . . Help me.”

  “What’s the matter, pretty girl?” a voice asked from behind.

  Gena turned in the direction from which the voice had come. She swallowed hard and shook her head.

  When Jerrell saw her, he rec
ognized her instantly. Although he didn’t know her name and he couldn’t place her face, he knew that she looked familiar.

  “What’s the matter, ma?”

  Gena shook her head. “I’m just . . . having a rough day, that’s all.”

  Jerrell smiled at her. “Well, what can I do to make it better?”

  Jerrell’s smile was infectious. It made Gena crack a slight smile.

  “There you go, pretty girl,” Jerrell told her. “That’s the way I want to see you looking. You feel better already, huh?”

  Gena exhaled and peered out of the glass window. “I think I had somebody following me.”

  Jerrell frowned, as thousands of thoughts raced through his head. Why would someone follow this broad? She ain’t even wearing no jewelry. Let me find out this bitch got a stash. He would certainly stick around and find out. If not for some dough, then at least she would be a good fuck.

  Jerrell clasped Gena’s hand. “Show me who they are, ma. I’ll take care of them niggas.”

  Gena was startled. The nigga was fine as hell, mad cute. But even beneath his good looks, a motherfucka could tell that he wasn’t to be fucked with. Thank God. I’ve been saved. This nigga look like he can go round for round, and he talks like he might have a little gangsta up in him. Yeah, he can handle this shit, Gena told herself. And suddenly, she began to relax.

  “It’s that black car right there,” she told him feeling every bit of a snitch.

  Jerrell walked out of the store and peered in the direction that Gena had pointed. The black BMW was pulling out of the store parking lot and turning back toward the direction of the turnpike. Jerrell counted to ten and then walked back into the store.

  “Did you see it?” Gena asked nervously.

  “I took care of them, ma,” Jerrell told her. “You don’t have to worry about them no more.”