“Dude, fuck what you talking about.” Justice banged his fist on his chest as they crossed Davison. “I’m out here alone and have been for years. I ain’t got no stankin’ bitch to be frying my black ass no bacon. I came from nothing.”
“Yeah, well, if you went on the east side, I bet your girl Greedy would hook you right up!”
“Yeah, well, I ain’t trying to hear shit Greedy saying. I ain’t got no time for that ‘in love’ garbage. Besides, thangs about to get hard around these parts when it come to slanging. Them boys about to start cracking down. Especially near election time. Like, look at this.” He paused on the corner and stared down at a copy of the Detroit Free Press. “Oh, hell naw! Please tell me they clowning.” Justice hocked, spitting a stream of saliva through the huge gap in his front teeth. “I been living in the city my entire life, and ain’t nothing ever happened good in this bitch to me! Ya feel me! Just poverty and hard goddamn living, but this here is outrageous! Reporters around here ain’t got jack else to do but blow that shit out they grills about any stupid-sounding mess they make up! They need to focus they asses on something else. They’re worried about the next man’s dick!”
Cree nodded in agreement. His boy kicked over the rusty red newspaper box, causing the cheap lock to pop open and a thick stack of Saturday’s thin edition to blow down Linwood. “Who in the hell you telling? Not only did them crackers shit on our ex-mayor and send him to the county for damn near a hundred and twenty days for lying about some dumb mess, but they wanna lynch the brotha.” Cree pulled up his sagging jeans as the pair kept it moving. “And oh, yeah, let’s not forget trying to charge him for conspiracy in killing some wild yesteryear G-string dancer who supposedly had the nerve to come to that man’s crib and not expect a damn serious, class double A beat down when wifey ran up on that disrespectful ass. Now the damn Feds wanna stick they nose in city business and label our stomping ground the number-one impoverished bloodthirsty spot around!”
“Look , it’s Malcolm X’s third illegitimate son!” Justice mocked, having heard enough of some crap neither he nor his homeboy could change. “I know where you coming from with ya wilded-out political ass, but right about now our only focus should be getting our pockets lined proper, not giving a damn about a stack of papers in an old-ass metal box or what some whitey sitting behind a desk done made up. Now let’s get this dough!”
* * *
Standing around the corner liquor store for a few hours, letting the hot July sunlight beam down on their heads, caused the young men to sweat buckets as they tried slinging the rest of the twice-over stepped-on powder they’d copped on credit from Moe Mack, the so-called neighborhood big fella. Each wearing wife beaters from straight out of the pack and Tigers baseball caps turned to the back, they waited patiently for dopefiends to find their way to them and make that shit happen. Only weeks prior they were clocking major figures with the package they were selling on their territory of the hood, DLA, but now the tide had turned, and they couldn’t seem to catch a damn break. It was downright ridiculous and an insult to dope sellers all across Motown what custos were saying. “Naw! Next time! I pass! We good! Nigga, please!”
Being forced to listen to complaint after complaint from crackheads gave them all the proof needed to bug out on their weak-ass connect, Moe Mack. Considering that the blow they’d originally nicknamed Head Banger wasn’t strong as a crushed-up baby aspirin, the word had definitely gotten around the west side Detroit neighborhood, bringing once-flourishing sales down to practically nothing. The arrogance of their clientele was unbelievable but still expected. For a group of broken down, poor, pimping drug addicts who roamed the Motor City streets, lived in vacant houses, and didn’t have jack shit to call their own, they were some of the hardest hustling, trash-talking, money-getting heathens around and picky as to what they sniffed, snorted, smoked, or stuck into the open wounds of their often-infected veins. That’s how life was in Detroit: serious.
“We should give the rest of this garbage back to that fake-ass baller!” Cree turned up an ice-cold Faygo Redpop and threw the bottle into an empty field. “That fool knew this was straight-up trash when he pawned it off on us!”
“Word! And now he wants us to pay him that high-ransom ticket on the package.” Justice lit a cherry-blend Black & Mild. He blew the smoke out and up into Detroit’s already-polluted air. “See, that’s exactly what I was talking about earlier. Ya boy Moe Mack supposed to be such a hellava mover and shaker around this piece, and look how he fucks over the little man! He foul!”
Cree cracked his knuckles, sticking his chest out as he watched a group of young females drive past, blowing their horn and flirting with him. “I feels ya, dawg! For real! We out here on the regular, pounding the pavement in the scorching, desert-ass heat trying to do the damn thang, and he playing us like two virgin pussies! We might as well grab some dresses and ride with them sluts, ’cause he straight fucking us over!”
“Yeah, Cree, but a guy like me can’t say I’m surprised. People from the D is so cutthroat with it. You know like me, they’d stab they own baby in the neck with a dull screwdriver if they thought there was profit in the outcome!” Justice chewed down on the plastic tip of his cigar. “But real talk, I’m ’bout tired of getting dry ground in the game! The next time we do business with ol’ boy gonna be that buster’s last time disrespecting our hustle if he don’t come correct, because I ain’t feeling this half-ass shit no more!”
As if on cue, Cree and Justice both looked up the block to the left, just in time to catch a glimpse of the red taillights of Moe Mack’s car bending the corner, sounds blasting, heading toward the freeway. Then, enviously leering at one another with a stare of contempt from their hearts for their supplier, they sighed, obviously thinking the same thought: look at this nigga. One day he gonna pay for fucking over us!
Hearing the loud rattling metal sounds of a shopping buggy barely held together, the two associates then glanced over to their right to see Last Chance, a smelly, dusty, seasoned head coming down Linwood Avenue. He stopped dead in front of the liquor store’s entrance.
“What up doe, Last Chance, my nigga? Holler at ya boy! We got that sho’nuff package for ya!” Justice proudly spoke up, putting bass in his voice and still chewing on his cigar’s tip. “Two for ones all day, baby! How’bout it?”
“Naw, young blood.” Last Chance confusedly riffled through his buggy in search of a few returnable bottles so he could buy a loosie. “I’m good on that.”
“Come on now and give us a play.” Cree threw his hands up, practically begging. “I see you straight proper ’cause you got damn near every piece of metal from the lamppost sticking out of this cart!”
Last Chance finally found what he was desperately in search of. Snatching five or six of them from the bottom of his buggy, clutching the semi-smashed, unclean bottles under his musty armpits, he smiled. Now satisfied he would soon have a smoke to calm his nerves, he was ready to talk shit.
“You right, youngster.” He grinned, showing off the four and a half crooked, rotten teeth he had left in his mouth. “I been at it all night. This here is about to be my third trip to the scrapyard! Detroit gonna go dark tonight!” he joked.
“That’s what’s up!” Justice nodded upward.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying!” Cree laughed, anticipating a much-needed and hard-sought sale as he rubbed his hands together. “So spend some of that bread with me and my manz! Share the love!”
“Can one of y’all playas do me a solid and watch my buggy until I get me a cigarette and a shot?” he grunted, changing the subject.
“Go on and handle ya business, old man! We out here on post!” Justice waved him off. “Ain’t nobody about to mess with ya moneymaking buggy. We got ya!”
Eagerly approaching several other crackheads, aka potential customers, the sad-faced partners on the come-up struck out with each sales pitch they delivered. Both depressed, with empty pockets to keep them company, Justice and Cree stood
to the side of the bulletproof glass door as the irate owner of the store suddenly strong-armed a defiant Last Chance out to the sidewalk, warning him to never step foot inside his establishment again.
“I’m not playing around! You go!”
“I swear to God, if you didn’t have that bat in your hand, I’d teach you a good old-fashioned lesson from back in the day for putting ya hands on me, raghead!” Last Chance vowed, staggering backward into his shopping cart.
“Get out of here! Get out of here! You people make me sick!” The first-generation immigrant started yelling in his native language at Last Chance, who was caught stealing two honey buns, a can of Spam, and a quarter-sized grape juice.
“Speak English, you dirty sand nigga!” Last Chance caught hold of the side of the cart to keep his balance.
“I’m dirty? You’s dirty, you old man!” he fired off loudly in response. “Get a job, you bum, instead of stealing all my stock! Stupid, dumb people!”
As the red-faced Arab disappeared back inside his store, still furious that one more black person was taking advantage of him and his family’s good fortune to own a business, Last Chance got himself together. Pissed at getting caught, he lit his Smokers Choice cigarette, which was now broken in two pieces. “They come over here from freaking Baghdad or wherever and think they own the world! Them honey buns wasn’t gonna kill they stankin’ asses!”
Cree wanted nothing more than to intervene and weigh in on the foul-ass choice of words the foreigner used, but he changed his mind when he realized Last Chance was rolling off without copping so much as a single pack from them. “Damn, guy! What’s up? You wanna holler or what?”
“Naw, youngster, I don’t want none of that,” Last Chance decisively mumbled. “I done heard it’s weak and ain’t gonna halfway get me where I need to be.”
Hearing that crucial statement was the last straw, making Justice pissed. Since Moe Mack had them so royally fucked in the game, right then and there on the spot, he decided he and Cree had to get revenge much sooner rather than later. Realizing that Last Chance was probably getting more money hustling copper than them, the down-and-practically-out Justice couldn’t wait to have a face-to-face sit-down with their supplier. Moe Mack was riding good, eating good, sleeping good, and even tricking good while they damn near starved. The time for payback was now! Giving up any more useless attempts to move the rest of the dope in their possession, the duo walked down Linwood, hit Davison, cut across the gas station lot where Reverend Marvin Winans got jacked, and went into the forever-crowded Coney Island Restaurant to grab some grub and politick.
“What up doe? Let me get a cheeseburger deluxe,” Cree said to the token black young girl they had working the cash register.
“And let me get an order of chili cheese fries,” Justice added. “Plus throw some chopped onions on them bad boys.”
“All right.” She smiled, handing them separate tickets. “Give me about ten minutes.”
After receiving their food and purchasing a few bootleg movies, both guys headed to the rear booth, where they plotted their devious revenge on Moe Mack. They vowed he was gonna give them their just due whether he liked it or not. In less than thirty or so minutes, the plan was totally calculated and minutes away from being put into full play. Unfortunately for Moe Mack and the rest of the residents of Detroit, after nightfall, the city would never be the same.
* * *
“Yo, my dude! Get two pairs of gloves and a couple rolls of duct tape,” Justice reminded Cree as they stood outside the local dollar store. “Matter of fact, you better get at least five or six rolls.”
“You right,” he agreed, thinking well ahead as he glanced at his watch. “It ain’t no telling how many wannabe heroes gonna be posted at that house, or how long we gonna have to wait for Moe Mack to show his face.”
“Bet money, but no matter how long we do end up waiting, when dude do show up it’s definitely gonna be on and popping!” Justice schemed as his lazy eye twitched. “I’m done messing around!”
“Say word!” Cree smiled before entering the store’s sticker-covered double doors. “Say motherfucking word!”
Chapter Nineteen
“Dang, G. When you stopping by the house? Me and your son miss you,” NayNay whined, finally getting an answer from her baby’s daddy after a rampage of blowing up his phone all afternoon. “Plus I need some diapers, some wipes, and a pack of Newports.”
“Come on, NayNay! You don’t miss me so stop with all the games! What ya really miss is this here knot in my pocket and some of this big, fat dick in my hands!”
“Oh, yeah?” NayNay sucked her teeth but didn’t deny his statement. “You really think so?”
“Hell yeah! And PS, instead of trying so hard to manipulate a brotha, what you need to do is potty train that li’l bad-ass nigga!” Moe Mack taunted as he twisted the top off a cold beer. He took a quick swig before swerving his wide-body BMW to avoid a few teenagers who were riding mopeds. “That’s why he don’t hang with me now!”
“You a man, so why can’t you just teach him to piss in that damn pot? He don’t wanna be listening to me!” NayNay scratched roughly at her head with a wide-tooth comb as huge white flakes of dandruff fell onto the shoulders of her black T-shirt.
“Girl, fuck you!” Moe Mack ridiculed as he continued to bend corners. “What the hell I look like, the nanny or something? Just fall back, go easy, and I’ll be through there in a few. Me and Keith just gotta handle some business first.”
“Yeah, Moe, but I’m serious. Maurice needs some damn diapers, so come the fuck on!”
“Bitch, watch ya mouth and just chill out.” Fed up with all the back-and-forth, his tone changed. “I said I’ll be there! Now peace!”
“Okay, but don’t forget my Newports!” NayNay, who’d spent all of her welfare check the moment it touched her greedy hands, managed to blurt out once again before hearing the line go completely dead.
Removing several hairpins that were barely holding her $9.99 synthetic burgundy and blond streaked ponytail in place, a stressed-out NayNay, desperately in need of a cigarette, headed toward the kitchen sink. Of course, it was overflowing with filthy dishes, pots, pans, and two skillets with burnt bottoms. The fact that she, her sister, and her sister’s grown daughter were living there, plus all their kids combined, still didn’t help matters any when it came to keeping the household clean. All three women had one main agenda, and that was begging men for that revenue, not being Holly Homemakers.
Rinsing out a red plastic cup to get a drink from the pitcher of cherry Kool-Aid in the refrigerator, home alone with her sick baby, she started thinking about her life. That punk-ass Moe gonna miss me when I leave him the hell by himself. Disgusted, NayNay swore she meant it, looking out the cracked living room window, which had sheets tacked up that doubled as curtains. I ain’t gonna be sitting around looking stupid while he do whatever with the next chick. I’m better than all that! He must not know who the fuck I am! She searched through the ashtray, hoping to find a butt with at least one or two more pulls on it.
As time ticked by, NayNay fell asleep but was almost immediately awakened by several quick knocks at the front black steel gate. Damn! Assuming that it must’ve been Moe or one of the kids since her sister and niece were out of town, she felt at ease. Wiping her eyes groggily, she twisted the lock, swung the door open, and turned away, walking back to the couch.
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Before the single, young, unfit mother knew what hit her next, she was ruthlessly shoved flat on her stomach with her face smushed down into the worn-out carpet.
“What in the hell?” She tried struggling as the stinging feeling of a huge carpet burn across her forehead kicked in. “What you want? Oh, my God! What in the fuck?”
“Shut ya big mouth before I body ya ass!” Her assailant’s hot, onion, stank breath filled her ear. “Calm the fuck down or else! You hear me? Calm that ass down!”
“Why is you doing this?” NayNay continued t
o speak as if his threat were idle and she was in control. “Is you crazy? Do you know who my man is?”
“Listen, ho! I said calm ya ass down! You must really want me to put these paws on you!”
“You hurting me.” She yanked, still attempting to break free.
Justice had no choice whatsoever but to apply more pressure to her neck as his knee pressed deeper into her spine. “Look, I ain’t playing around with you! Don’t make me snap this son of a bitch in two!” he threatened as he ripped a long piece of duct tape off the roll. He wrapped it forcefully around her mouth and head. “Now shut up! I mean it!” He pushed her on her side. “And FYI, fuck ya man!”
After securely binding her wrists and feet together, Justice removed his gun from his blue jean waistband. He then started easing his way through the rest of the house. Cautiously lurching around each corner, his heartbeat increased with every passing step. Luckily discovering room after room empty, he finally stumbled across NayNay’s sleeping son on a fluffy pallet of blankets on the side of a twin bed. Knowing the small, diaper-clad child didn’t pose a threat to his and Cree’s game plan, he sympathetically chose to let the little boy be as he went on his way to secure the rest of the perimeter.
After finally reaching the side entrance located off the driveway, he unlocked the three security deadbolts on the flimsy door with a set of keys that were conveniently hung on an old rusty nail. He quietly allowed his partner in crime Cree to enter the house so they could totally put the scheme of revenge on Moe Mack into full force.
“What up doe? Is we good? Is the coast clear?” Cree quizzed, looking around to see if any neighbors had seen him perched by the door.
“Yeah, dawg! We good for sure,” Justice affirmed. “Ain’t nobody here but Moe Mack’s ho and her baby.”
“That’s what’s up,” Cree nervously responded. His palms dripped with perspiration as he held his pistol at his side. “But we still need to get ready in case any of the rest of them decides to come back before ol’ boy shows.”
The System Has Failed Page 11
