by 50 Cent
Pulling over at a corner candy store beneath the Number 3 El, Baby Brother went inside and bought a soda and a bag of pretzels. When he came back out a bunch of kids were admiring Farad’s whip. He let them climb inside and blow the horn and push a few buttons and shit, then he got behind the wheel again and made his way back to The Ville, where his brothers waited.
CHAPTER 2
Priest had just finished his breakfast of buttery grits and eggs when the front door slammed. Three of Farad’s soldiers were posted outside, and relief flooded Priest as he heard familiar footsteps approaching. Baby Brother had stayed in East New York all night long, and even though the kid was eighteen now, Priest still worried about him, especially out there messing around with them treacherous Puerto Ricans.
“Zabu!” he called out, his voice heavy and full of bass. “You late, man. I told you I was gone take you to get some suitcases today, but if you wanna haul your gear to Cali in some black garbage bags, you can do that, you know.”
Despite his bark Priest’s eyes were full of pride as his youngest brother strolled into the kitchen. Just like his six brothers, Baby Brother was tall, with deep mahogany skin and amber eyes. He was muscled up and perfectly cut, and although they all worked out hard, the majestic physique was just part of their genetics.
Priest was the oldest and the most battle-scarred. He had raised the other boys after their mother died, and Baby Brother was his heart. His favorite. His salvation. Priest couldn’t help it. These days he served as an assistant pastor of a small storefront church, operated his own barbershop up on Rockaway Avenue, and gave Bible lessons at a youth center twice a week.
But he had a past that just couldn’t be wiped clean. He had pimped women, slung rock, slumped foes, organized gangs, and hustled the hell outta the game. But looking at Baby Brother killed all those past demons. His little brother was his pride and joy. Hard evidence that despite all the grimy capers Priest had pulled, all the prey he’d bitten, and all the upstate prison time he’d served, that somehow God had favored him and allowed him to redeem himself and do something right. Every time he looked at Baby Brother Priest saw the man that he himself should have been.
“What it do, ’Twan.” Baby Brother gave him some dap on his way to the refrigerator.
“You late, man. I told you we was leaving at nine.”
Baby Brother flashed him a grin and rubbed his stomach. “I’m hungry, tho’. Gotta stick something in my belly before we roll.”
Priest opened the microwave and took out one of four paper plates he’d covered in Saran Wrap. “Here.” He set it on the table. “Put ya face in this and hurry up. I gotta be back for services this afternoon.”
“Aiight. Yo, why’s it so quiet in here? Where is everybody?”
Priest shrugged. “You know the scene, man. When you do your work under the dark of night you gotta regroup when it’s light. The twins are both upstairs. Matter fact, Malik’s gone be here in a minute. Go upstairs and tell them two knuckleheads to get down here and eat.”
Ten minutes later Priest sat at the head of the table watching four of his young brothers grub. Malik had arrived dressed in his NYPD blues, and as they dug into the plates he’d prepared for them Priest couldn’t help but smile inside. It felt good to sit at the same table with his cats. Raheem had taken a trip for the long weekend, and Kadir was down in A.C. doing his thing, but with Baby Brother leaving for college in a couple of days, both of them would be showing up to see him off.
“Snatch ’em!” Malik hollered real loud.
“Guard ya plate!” Baby Brother threw his arms on the table, encircling his breakfast with wary eyes.
“Man, keep your hands off my damn food!” Farad complained, setting his fork down. “I ain’t playin that ‘snatch ’em’ shit today, dawg. You betta chill with that.”
Malik laughed and stuck the stolen slice of turkey bacon in his mouth. “You ain’t gotta play nothing but defense, man. You know the rules, muhfuckah! Lose ya heat, I snatch ya meat!”
Laughter rang out around the table and Farad reacted quickly.
“Snatch ’em!”
Finesse cursed as his twin snatched a crisp slice of bacon off his plate and started crunching.
“You getting slow, niggah,” Farad chuckled. “I coulda got me two pieces off you, yo.”
Priest laughed along with them, but his heart was heavy. He had prayed for a better life for his brothers. Nothing would make him happier than seeing Farad and Finesse out of the game and doing something legitimate with their skills. He’d dreamed of opening a chain of barbershops and installing one of his brothers at the helm of each operation, but Raheem and Malik both had good jobs with benefits, Kadir was hooked on card tables, and neither of the twins was interested in a nine-to-five. Priest stood up and refilled Baby Brother’s glass from a container of juice on the counter.
“So,” he said, looking around the table before nodding at his youngest brother. “Everybody ’bout ready to get rid of this lil son? Ain’t but two days left, then he’s out.”
Finesse shrugged. “I’d rather see him bounce for a minute than have him scrambling yay like them niggahs on the stoop. Damn, B-Brother. You gone be on some real West Coast shit when you get back. You sure you can’t go to school somewhere in New York? Maybe upstate?”
“I can go almost anywhere I wanna go,” Baby Brother said. “But Stanford is giving up the best scholarship package, man. Plus it’s a top school. I’d be crazy to let something like this slide by me.”
Malik nodded, wiping his mouth. “That’s what’s real, man. Graduate from Stanford with a degree in shit shoveling and you still considered a heavyweight in the corporate world. Fuck around with one of these city schools and you might end up working for Transit or coming on the force, or worse—following Ra down to Corrections and getting on over there.” He tossed his plate in the trash. “Cali is a good bet for you. Go for it. We got your back.”
“Yeah,” Farad said, standing up with his empty plate in his hand. He reached over and punched Baby Brother on his shoulder, then mushed his head like he was ten years old again. “Just make sure you put some damn gas in my car before you fly, though. Shit! I’m glad that niggah leaving. I’ma finally get a chance to push my own whip.”
Malik headed for the door. “Yo, Ant, what time we flying outta here on Monday?”
“Seven. I already told Ra to be here by four. That’ll put us at JFK way before five.”
“Cool.” Malik nodded. “I’ll get wit’chall in a few. They got me pulling a double shift so it’s gone be a long night.”
Fifteen minutes later two of the Davis brothers were ready to hit downtown Brooklyn. Priest let Baby Brother drive. He couldn’t bring himself to get behind the wheel of Farad’s drug-bought car. Negativity was all up in it, and he wanted no part of that.
As they pulled out of the driveway, Priest looked back at the four-bedroom home his mother had scraped to buy for them after their father’s murder. It shamed him to remember all the hoes and drugs and hot gats he’d brought in and out of these rooms back in the day when he was living like a dog and didn’t give a damn. His brothers Raheem and Malik shared a crib in Crown Heights, and Kadir was living down in A.C. These days it was the twins, Farad and Finesse, who were shaming their mother’s house, running a drug empire from her very bedroom, but there wasn’t much Priest could do or say about it. Hell, he’d set them up in the game. Taught them how to hustle on the success tip, and helped them earn their deadly reps.
But when Priest got knocked and sent upstate, things changed. He was locked down for almost two years before the Lord touched his soul and changed his heart. The prison chaplain had mentored him and helped him adjust his outlook on life, and by the time he was released that monstrous killer inside him was dead and Priest had been born. Ministry lived in his heart where menace and mischief had once run amok.
He sat back in his seat and glanced at Baby Brother. California was a long way away and he was gonna miss him, but i
t was a life or death thing that he go. Zabu was untouched by the poisons of their world. Unaffected by the lure of the streets that seemed to strangle Brooklyn boys like him by the tens of thousands.
Priest ran his hand down his sweaty face and let out a deep breath. He’s almost there, Mama, he thought. Like his other brothers, Priest had made a promise to his mother on her deathbed. They’d stood over her wasted body and held hands and vowed that no matter what happened to them, they’d stay together and make something good come outta their lives. They had told their mother not to worry. Said everything she needed to hear, easing her heart so she could die in peace. And at the very end they had promised to do the last and most important thing that she had asked.
They promised to take care of Baby Brother.
Later that night Eastern Parkway was packed. Everybody in Brooklyn knew that the biggest and hottest event on Labor Day weekend was the West Indian Day Parade. Cameron Davis, Baby Brother’s father, had been from Jamaica. He had come to New York as a teenager, and even though he’d been killed when Baby Brother was just a tyke, his brothers had painted a colorful picture of their father and made sure that shit was cemented in Baby Brother’s mind.
Cameron was a true hood legend. Even to this day, just the mention of his name could strike awe in an OG’s eyes. He’d been a slick gambler with a fearsome rep. They had lived in the projects, but Cameron kept his family in the finest condition and they didn’t want for a damn thing. Reva Davis was known for the African diamonds her husband draped her in. Her mink coats were legendary, and some said she had a different one for each day of the week. Others went even further than that. They said Cameron had stacked so much paper down in A.C. that the feds were hounding him for tax evasion because he was technically unemployed, but kept at least three late-model cars on the curb at all times.
Out of all the tales Baby Brother had heard about his father, one fact stayed consistent. He had loved his sons. He called his boys his lucky seven, and he would have died for them and their mother if need be.
But as hard as Cameron was, he still wasn’t bulletproof. He’d gotten popped behind a jealous niggah and a shady bet, and life for the Davis crew had taken a downhill turn from there.
Eastern Parkway was live when Baby Brother and Sari rolled up. After circling around side streets for almost an hour, Baby Brother found a parking spot on the far side of Lincoln Terrace Park. It was hot and sticky and festive as hell. The steel bands were pounding out that melodic island rhythm, and calypso music played loudly in the air, and dancers and revelers spilled down the middle of the street. There were endless floats and sound trucks inching down the middle of the large urban parkway, and crowds of people lined up along the service road, drinking brew, smoking sticky, and getting wild.
They stopped at a food stand and Baby Brother got Sari a taste of jerk chicken, a piece of coconut bread, and some mauby to drink. He pointed out flags from Trinidad, Jamaica, Barbados, and Grenada. They came up close near a band wildin’ out on steel drums and started dancing with the crowd. Baby Brother grabbed Sari’s shoulders and turned her around. She had on a bright pink clingy halter top that showed the imprint of her nipples, and a pair of pale pink shorts that set off her brown skin just right.
“Come on, girl.” He laughed, trying to make her smile. She was still on that “why-you-gotta-go” shit and he wanted her to chill and have a good time. “Wind that shit up!” he told her, eyeing her firm hips. “Do that thing you be doing when you stand over me on the bed.”
Sari laughed and turned around so he could see her round ass. She started winding her thick wicked like an island girl, working that heavy West Indian beat like she had a few drops of Jamaica in her blood.
“Yeah, that’s it, mami,” Baby Brother said, biting his lower lip as he watched her move. He stepped up behind her, letting that bouncy ass rub against his hardening dick. He never got tired of looking at her or digging in her either. She was brown and dimpled and sexy as hell. Phatty ass, bomb titties, tiny waistline with a tight stomach and a deep navel. He loved the hell outta her, and already he was thinking about getting back to New York for Christmas. He was gonna be doing plenty of pillow-fucking until then, though, ’cause he wasn’t planning to slum around on his honey.
“Sell that shit!” somebody yelled nearby. “Hold up—I think I already bought some a’ that stuff last night!”
Baby Brother took his eyes off Sari’s ass and grilled the cat that had spoken. He recognized him immediately. Borne Reynolds. Baby Brother kept his hands on Sari’s shoulders, but his lips had turned down in a hard frown.
“Yo, who the fuck you talkin’ to?” he barked, his voice heavy with bass. Unlike Farad and Finesse—dealers who lived and breathed their hustle from the trenches—Borne was one of them bitch rollers. A high-bank slanger who kept his hands clean and let his crew do all his dirty work. He was becoming a real headache on the streets and Baby Brother had heard his brothers discussing how to handle him. Borne ran a rival drug click on the border of East New York and Brownsville called the Brooklyn Bornes, and not only was Sari’s brother Tony and his click gunning for him, the Davis brothers were getting tired of him and his crew too.
Borne laughed as Baby Brother stared him down. “Oh, my bad. Sorry, my man. I didn’t see who you was for a minute. I ain’t tryna disrespect your little taco or nothing, homey, so don’t go running telling them bitch-ass brothers of yours nothing tryna start no war.”
“Man, fuck you,” Baby Brother said as Sari backed up into him, pushing against him as she walked backward, putting distance between him and Borne. Baby Brother never even associated with the happenings between Borne and his brothers, but he knew these streets were mean and it didn’t matter. He had to either stand firm for his, or be disrespected by fools like this. “Just watch what the fuck comes outta ya mouth when my lady is present, dig?”
Borne laughed again, backing away and into the crowd. “I’m feeling you, chief. You got that good Puerto Rican yummy on lock and don’t want nobody else to get none. I swear to God she look like this bitch I had on a leash this morning, though. Look just like her around the muzzle, yo!”
Pushing Sari aside, Baby Brother lunged into the crowd.
“No!” Sari screamed, clutching his shirt and pulling him back. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and lowered her weight, digging her feet in. Baby Brother stared at the spot where Borne had just mocked him. The crowd had swallowed Borne’s laughing face, but had not erased the sound of his voice from Baby Brother’s ears.
“That motherfucker need to chill….” he growled, his chest heaving. “If I see his ass out here again, it’s going down.”
Sari continued to hold him from behind, and when he turned around and put his arms around her in return, she looked up into his face and spoke. “You didn’t come this far in life by charging after every sucker who pops shit, Z. You know how it goes down out here. We’re targets, baby. My brother’s got crazy enemies in this game, both your brothers got crazy enemies in this game. There’s always gonna be somebody trying to press them by fuckin’ with us. Just let it go, Zabu. We came out to have a good time, right?”
He nodded, then grinned.
“Good,” Sari said, smiling in return. “So fuck Borne. He wasn’t in them sheets while you did your thing this morning, now was he?”
“Nah.” Baby Brother laughed and slapped Sari on the ass. “And he ain’t gonna be in them with us tonight neither.”
With the drama over, they moved onward through the crowd toward Franklin Avenue, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells while Crown Heights got its party on. Baby Brother was in the lead as they wormed inch by inch through the thick, boisterous revelers. He was pulling Sari along with her hand grasped firmly in his when he felt a jerk and his hand was empty.
“Sari!” He turned around and saw her craning her neck, looking through the crowd. She was holding her shirt up to her neck, and the strings of her halter were dangling by her arms.
&nbs
p; “Motherfuckers!” she spat. “Somebody untied my strings!”
“Did you see who did it?”
She shook her head no.
Baby Brother scanned the crowd wildly. There were so many people doing so many different things that it was impossible to pinpoint the culprit, but after having those words with Borne he was about ready to wild out and start swinging on any damn body.
“C’mere,” he said, turning her around and taking her pink halter strings in his hands. She lifted her hair and he tied a double knot behind her neck, making sure it couldn’t be pulled free with just a tug.
“Walk in front of me,” he said, guiding her through the crowd ahead of him. They made it down past Nostrand Avenue without any further problems, and by the time they got to Franklin Avenue they were in a good mood again and enjoying the atmosphere.
They partied on Eastern Parkway until late night, then drove over to a club in Bed-Stuy. Sari had switched up from the Coronas she’d bought from a bodega near the parade, and was now drinking Patrón. Baby Brother wasn’t about to take a chance on fucking up Farad’s whip. He let his woman get her head buzzed while he drank Pepsi and stayed straight.
“I’ma get my dance on right now!” Sari said, rocking her hips like a brown-skinned Shakira. Niggahs in the club was clocking her, but they did that shit from a distance because Baby Brother was all up on it, making his status known. “’Cause I ain’t coming to the club no more until you get back home for Christmas.”
He laughed as she killed her pink shorts, making his pants brick up. “The way you like to shake that ass girl? Nah, baby. Don’t stay home waitin’ around on me. You like to dance, mami. Don’t matter if I’m gone. Come on out and dance.”
Sari stopped dancing and stood still in the middle of the crowd. Her eyes flashed.
