by AP Jermaine
“Yeah. A bad, big dick black motherfucker. Now reach in my pants and hand me that tree and a Dutch. I ain’t through wit you.”
Chapter 31 “Young Pussy”
I put down four days of porn style fucking before I ventured back out. Monique worked at Duke Urgent Care as a Nursing assistant. And every morning before she got ready for work, I’d make sure to break that ass off something proper. When she got home in the evening, I’d get all up in them guts again. This morning she was whining that her pussy was sore. I laughed like a motherfucker. Mission accomplished. We’d moved out past the county line to a house on Mineral Springs Rd. It wasn’t shit fancy about it, but it did give us a little more privacy. My first stop when I left the crib, was Sears Hardware Store to see about a safe. After about thirty minutes, I found one to my liking, paid cash and was told that it would be delivered later that evening. Cool. The shit that Tamia had said to me about Shell, had been eating away at me. So I decided to see if I could run him down to find out what was really good. I couldn’t sleep another night without at least asking him about it. I rode over to McDougald Terrace projects and saw Flame, Hood, and a couple more cats out there on the trap. Hood was now greasy as grandma’s pork chops, and was nothing but a run boy for any nigga trappin. As it turned out though, Hood actually hadn’t snitched on me about shooting Big Joe. When I got my Motion of Discovery, a dopefiend named Jimmy Davis’ name was listed as the key witness. So that little stunt the detectives had pulled by walking Hood past the interrogation room was just that. A stunt. Actually, they’d played me better than I thought, because in fact, at the time of the shooting, Jimmy Davis was in rehab! But fuck it. That’s water under the bridge now. Flame told me that Shell was at his lil spot across the street from North Carolina Central, Durham’s Historically Black College. I saw Keisha sitting on her porch with some other duck as I rode by, and she almost broke her fucking neck when she saw my car pass. I acted like I didn’t see her, turned up AZ’s Sugar Hill and kept it moving. I marveled at all the hot new whips that cats were pushing these days as I passed by NCCU. Ranges, Big body Benzes, Jaguars, Audis and all different kinds of Coupes, and these were just the college students! I’m talking all kinds of foreign shit! Same year shit! My old ass BMW “Wont Shit”! Rounding the corner off Fayetteville Street, I immediately caught sight of Shell’s purple Benz wagon sitting in front of a tiny house with a screen door so raggedy and stained with dust, you couldn’t even see through it to the actual house door. I pulled up behind his whip, rolled a blunt of some Kush I’d copped from this dike chic named Puddin, lit it up and hopped out. Walking up on the porch I could hear Murder Mases “Double Up” playing inside. Yeah, we still rock a lotta the old hot shit. I knocked on the door and waited, but no one inside seemed to be coming. I knocked like the police the second time, and finally the door was snatched open by some baby faced broad, ice grilling me like I’d done something wrong. “Yeah what you want?” She asked me like I was a dope sell.
“Where Shell at?”
“Why? Who is you?” I looked at this dumb ass broad like she was retarded, pushed her outta my way and walked in the crib.
“Damn! You at least coulda let me hit the blunt,” she said with attitude as she slammed the door behind me.
The house was a shotgun crib. Straight through. From the living room, straight into the kitchen, straight into a small bedroom in the back. That was it. Nothing extra. The music was coming from a cheap looking CD player with two small speakers that sat on the floor. Shell was right there on the couch. Butt ass naked, nodded the fuck out. There was another young girl on the couch with Shell. She was nodded out too. She was small framed, medium complexioned with micro braids. She couldn’t have been a day over eighteen. She was naked from the waist down. Shell still had a condom hanging off his limp dick. The sight of the shit disgusted me as I looked over at the other young girl who was sitting in a busted up, leather recliner watching television like won’t shit new.
“How old are you?” I walked over and asked her.
“Eighteen. Why what’s up? What you trying to do?”
“You go to college at Central?”
“Yeah. I’m a freshman,” she answered proudly. “You gonna smoke some of that blunt wit me?”
“What’s your name?”
“Jessica. Shell call me J-Love,” she smiled like that was supposed to mean something to me.
“Jessica, get you friend up and tell her to put her clothes on.”
“You aint gonna smoke wit me?” She asked stubbornly, folding her arms across her chest.
“Get your friend dressed and I’ll give you the blunt.”
“Okay!” She jumped, hurrying over to her friend. “Jasmine. Jasmine get up girl!”
“Huh? Oh, what’s up? You got some food? I’m hungry.”
“Me too girl. Here put your pants on.”
“Hey, what the fuck going on?” Shell grumbled, scratching his balls as he came outta his nod. “Banks what up? What you doing? How you get in here?”
“I let myself in. Get up I need to holla at you.”
“Oh. Aight.” He slowly got to his feet and staggered to the back.
“Okay she dressed. You said you was gonna give me the blunt.” Jessica looked at me skeptically. I reached in my pocket, pulled out twenty dollars and handed it to her, before also passing her the blunt.
“Yall go ahead and get something to eat. Me and Shell bout to bounce for a few.”
“That’s what’s up.” Jessica smiled with glee as she grabbed the money and the weed, while ushering her homegirl towards the door. “You gonna be here later on?” She looked back and asked me with a wink.
“I don’t know, I might be.”
“I hope so. You fine as hell.” She grinned and helped her high ass homegirl out the door.
“Damn nigga, why you run the pussy off?” Shell look confused as he walked from the back buckling his pants.
“Nigga, them young ass broads! They breath still smell like titty milk! You that desperate?”
“Nigga fuck you. I get more pussy than a tampon! They eighteen, they grown.”
“Yeah whatever. You got that young chic sniffing dope too?”
“Man, I aint no motherfuckin baby sitter! All them hoes over there at Central know this the spot. It’s their first time away from they parent’s, and they ready to get wild. They run through their little monthly allowance in a week, then they hungry as hell. That’s college girls bru. That’s life. Especially the freshmen. So, when they pop they hungry asses up over here, I feed em and fuck em. And if they wanna get high or try something new, I got that for em too. Like I said, I aint no motherfuckin baby sitter. I’m a nigga wit a hard dick and Dominos’ Pizza money.” Shell laughed at his own joke.
“Yeah, you a regular Tony Romeo aint ya nigga?” I laughed even harder at my own.
“Man fuck you. Everybody aint trying to wife these hoes like you.”
“Hoes? Yo who the fuck you talking about nigga?” The smile left my face as I waited for his response. I knew damn well this clown wasn’t trying to disrespect me, or my wife to be. Sensing my rising anger, he immediately laughed the shit off.
“It’s just a figure of speech dog. Aint no need to get all puffed up. I know you in love. You got lucky nigga. You got a good one.
“Yeah I hope so.”
“What’s up anyway bru? What you wanna talk about?” Suddenly it came back to me why I was there in the first place.
“Oh yeah, right. Come on nigga lets ride. I gotta go to Northgate and update my wardrobe.”
“Aight, hold on a second.” Shell dashed into the kitchen and came back tucking what looked like a nine millimeter into his waistband. “Can’t go nowhere without my girlfriend. Shit, I’m in love too nigga.” We both laughed like hell this time.
Chapter 32 “Real Talk”
As soon as we pulled off in traffic, I glanced in my rearview mirror and sure enough, there were three more girls walking across the street from
the college, headed towards Shell’s little titty milk tavern. All I could do was shake my head.
“So, what’s good bru? You need me to bless you with some work, don’t you? I knew yo ass won’t out the game. You love money too much nigga!” Shell laughed as we passed by Phoenix Square.
“Naw nigga I’m straight, but check it. You know I saw Tamia when I first touched down, and she was telling me some real crazy shit.”
“Oh yeah? What she talking?”
“She said she ran into you and some of the lames you be fucking with; and that you were talking some real greasy shit about the kid whenever she asked if you had spoken to me.”
“She said what?”
“Yeah. She said you was on some motherfuck Banks type shit.”
“What! Man, that ho lying like a motherfucker! Man don’t trust that trick. That bitch jealous of you and Monique. Yeah, I saw the bitch and she asked about you, but I won’t on no shit like she telling. Bru I’m telling you don’t trust that ho. She sheisty. I hear she be setting niggas up and the whole nine. That bitch aint all sweet and innocent like she tries so hard to portray. You know you can trust me bru. I got your back. Nigga why didn’t you ask me that shit from the jump?”
“Beause I tried my best to ignore the shit nigga. But that shit been on my mind heavy, so I’m asking you now. The question keeps popping in my mind, why the fuck would you be hating on me of all people?”
“Man, fuck that! Let’s go see this bitch right now!”
“Nah fuck it. You confirmed the shit was false so let it be. She probably just looking for a way to weasel her way into a niggas good graces like you said. You know that broad always been straight psycho over a pimp.” I laughed and Shell did too.
“Aight nigga if you say so, I’ll leave it alone. But that bitch better know, she’s treading on thin ice wit me.”
“Yeah aight. Straighten your face up though. We here.”
Chapter 33 “A New Day”
I hit up Lim’s and went stupid! I copped damn near the whole line of True Religion shit, threw in some Sean Jean, two Gucci belts and a pair of Prada loafers. Before I knew it, I’d spent over five bands! Hell, the shit would have cost me considerably more, but the Asian cat who owned the joint, cut me a deal since I was buying in bulk. My next stop was Foot Locker. You know I had to keep my shoe game sick. Just because I was about to put my legal hustle down, didn’t mean I wasn’t still gonna stay fly. I’m a fly nigga. Can’t help it. While up in Foot Locker, I snatched up two pairs of Timbs, two pairs of Jordan’s, two pairs of Uptowns, and a pair of Delta Force that were so sick I had to have em. I dropped almost a stack in there, and then took off to the jewelry store. I had so many bags, I needed Shell to help me carry em. Not without him talking shit of course.
“Nigga you need to hurry the fuck up so we can bounce. I aint feelin this carryin yo fuckin bags shit like I’m yo bitch.”
“Here nigga, just take the shit to the car for me.” I threw him my keys so he could stop bitching. The Arab manager standing behind the display cases in New York Jewelry recognized me as the one who’d dropped all the bread on the ring for Monique, so of course he was showing all thirty - two teeth when I stepped to the counter.
“My man! Wha’ts up?” He asked trying to sound hip. I just laughed at his ass. I still had a chain, so all I really needed was a piece to help it hand down to the dick. It was longer and heavier than the one Big Joe had snatched from my neck. Along with other obvious reasons, he’d died for that chain. I hope he got his money’s worth. Shell walked in behind me returning from the car, and as soon as I glanced over at him with his mouth turned down like he was sad, and him scratching like he was a dog with fleas, I knew he’d been snorting that shit. Probably in my damn car!
“You didn’t leave no bags in my car did you?” I asked him.
“Yeah I put em in the trunk.” He answered looking in a ring case.
“I aint talking about those bags.” I stared his simple ass down, letting him know I was hip to his bullshit.
“Hell no man! Quit trippin. What you getting bru?” He asked, about to scratch the skin off his arm.
“I need a piece for my chain.” I told him, shaking my head with disappointment as I turned back to the display cases.
“Can I help you sir?” The dark-haired owner asked me smiling.
“Yeah. Im looking for a nice piece with some ice in it.”
“Ohhh… I remember you sir! You’re a man of great taste! I have exactly what you’re looking for. Step this way please.” He spoke as he led me to the back corner of the store, pulling a black velvet box from underneath the counter that wasn’t on display. The tray was full of gleaming iced out pieces. Crosses, money bags, Jesus pieces, and all kinds of other shit. He even had an iced-out microphone. His selection was abundant, yet only one piece called out to me. It was a piece
made up as the angel Cupid. Iced out bow and arrow and all. The entire piece was iced the fuck out!
“How much for that one?” I pointed to the angel. He looked around, pulled me to the side and whispered like it was the world’s biggest secret.
“For you my friend, give me five thousand.”
“I got three.”
“Oh, my god! You’re trying to put me out of business! I tell you what, give me four thousand and promise me you’ll be back with more business.”
“I got thirty - two hundred dollars to my name. If you don’t want that I’m gone.”
“Alright, alright sir. Thirty-four hundred dollars and I promise you my kids are going to have nothing for Christmas.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at the motherfucker. “Aight man. Thirty- four. Wrap it up.”
Chapter 34 “AZAR”
After copping some boxers, t-shirts, wife beaters and socks, we bounced out and headed to North Durham. Shell wanted to check on his trap spot on Canal Street. The heroin central of North Durham. Since the sixties, billions of dollars have probably been made on this one street alone. Yeah, I said “BILLIONS,” because millions get made every year! I wasn’t trying to get my car hot on credit fucking wit this nigga, so I parked around the corner in the parking lot of Juniper Square apartments and we walked the couple blocks over to Canal. As we walked he told me about his connect that kept him flooded.
“Yeah bru like I was saying, I met my connect Azar while I was locked up at Whiteville. The nigga loves to gamble, but can’t gamble worth shit. He was always bragging about all this money and shit he had, and about his Mexican baby mama whose brother in Texas had more coke and dope than the government. Check it though, one Friday night the nigga ran up a card table bill to about three hundred dollars and didn’t have but a hundred of it. He kept saying that as soon as he got through to his wifey he was gonna have her bring him some big faces to visit on Sunday and he’d straighten it then with interest. It was some Blood niggas who ran the game and they won’t trying to hear it! They gave the nigga till dinner time to get the bread or he was gonna get stabbed the fuck up! Won’t nobody believing that shit about he was rich and all that, but for some reason I felt it was some truth to the nigga. The nigga kept it gangsta and didn’t go to the police or nothing. I talked to him, and he said that when they came, he’d just have to fight until he couldn’t fight no more. He didn’t want it to go like that though because he knew the shit would get ugly and he had two little daughters out there. I said fuck it and took a chance and went to the Blood niggas and put the shit on my face that he’d have the money by visitation time in two days. With interest. They agreed because my face was good. We all knew that if the nigga didn’t get the money, we both was gonna get cut the fuck up! So yeah, I took a big chance. I went and told him what I did and he was grateful. He asked me to walk with him to his locker, he needed to get something. When we got there, the nigga pulled out his money receipt and showed it to me. He said,
“You know I really don’t be letting cats up in my business like that, but that was some real shit you did so I wanna show you I’m re
al too.” I looked down at the receipt and this dude had over 40 stacks in his motherfuckin account! “I aint got but three more weeks and I’m through with this shit.” He told me. “I’m gonna leave you my number and I want you to get at me when you touch. I got whatever you need my nigga.”
“The rest is history. I hit the nigga when I touched, and he hit me with six ounces of boy out the gate! Bru, the nigga came to McDougald in a motherfuckin brand new Grancabrio Maserati, wit a bad ass Spanish bitch ridin shotgun! His man was behind him in a raggedy ass Nissan Sentra with the work. I’m telling you the nigga a gold mine! I get my coke from him too. Fucking wit him, I can’t lose. The numbers too sweet. I aint got to do shit but hit niggas, sit back and wait on my bread.” Suddenly Shell stopped walking and faced me. “Bru, I know a lot of shit I do you aint down with. I know that. But bru I aint you. Yeah, I got a few kinks I need to iron out, but don’t look down on me aight. You my brother and you probably the only motherfucker that I give a fuck about what you think. Just be proud of me dog. I’m finally seeing some real paper, and if you want it, you know you in there like swim wear. Aight bru?”
What could I say? The nigga came real wit it. “Aight nigga.”
“That’s what’s up.”
“I’m proud of ya.”
“Thank you bru.” We dapped each other up and kept stepping.
Chapter 35 “Mr. DopeMan”
As soon as we rounded the corner onto Canal Street, right off the top I knew which spot was his trap. Dopefiends were standing around everywhere like zombies in a horror flick. Once again let me remind yall that when I say “dope,” I’m speaking about “Heroin.” That “H,” “Horse,” “Dog food,” that “boy.” In the Bull City, we never call cocaine or crack, dope. The first time I’d ever heard anyone refer to crack as dope, I was in prison. You know in the penitentiary you’ve got niggas from every corner of the state. Durham also wears the nickname Lil New York, by the many New York cats that have come through to get money, and proclaimed that the way things moved so fast in Durham, it was just like being back home in New Yitty. Anyway, when I first got locked, I’d hear cats saying “Oh yeah, I’m in for selling dope,” or “he smoking dope.” I was like “Yo, who the fuck smoking heroin?” (Usually pronounced “hare-on”) They’d be like nah, I’m talking about “crack.” Then I’m like “Oh. I thought you said dope.” He’s like “Yeah. I did” Looking at me like I’m loony as hell. But then I started hearing rappers say, I’m a “Dopeboy,” and “pushing that dope,” and shit like that. And they were referring to cocaine or crack. The shit was new to me, but over time I adjusted to the phrase. As they say, “When in Rome, you have to do as the Romans do”. But yet and still, if you come to Durham looking for some coke or crack, don’t say you looking for dope. Because if you do you’re gonna get some heroin brought to you. If you’re looking for coke, then say that. Nobody in the Bull City calls coke, dope. And aint shit slow. Too many cats from up top and out of state, have come through, and been left stinking somewhere for having that misconception of the south. Durham, N.C. to be more exact. If you come straight up, and play fair, you might just make it back to wherever you came from. But if you come down with that “I’m slicker than ya’ll” bullshit, thinking shit sweet, then your life span probably ain’t that long. We are the drug, money, and murder capital of North Carolina. Like I said, ask around. Anyway, as I was saying, it was all too easy to spot Shell’s trap because of all the fiends hanging around outside. Some nodding, some scratching, some wanting to nod and scratch. The whole scene looked retarded. The nigga Cream was standing at the edge of the street talking to the broads who looked like they should have been in school somewhere. Cream was a six foot four, ashy black nigga with cornrows. He was a known stick up kid and had been shot on at least five different occasions. The nigga was lucky to be alive. He’d also had his face cut up while doing a three-year bid. Supposedly for snitching on a mule to get out of a dirty piss test write-up. For those of you who may not know, a “mule” is a correctional officer who brings in coke, weeds, pills, cell phones, etc. for a price. It’s the American way. So, to put it frankly, Cream was not a pretty sight to look at. His ugly face looked like a checkerboard. Parked in front of the house was an old ass yellow station wagon with the hatchback up. The back of the wagon was full of clothes with the tags still on em, along with a bunch of other miscellaneous shit. A short fat black woman with an orange scarf tied to her head, was standing at the back of the wagon trying to wheel and deal. As I’ve told you before, a lot of dopefiends make their daily get high money, by stealing all types of merchandise and selling it cheap in the streets. In street terminology, it’s called “boosting.” Clothes, shoes, hats, pills, tampons, razors, diapers, whatever. Anything that people use in daily life, they’ll steal. Sometimes they’ll take orders that morning and be back with your shit by noon! They’re masters at their craft. They have to be. They gotta have it. There’s usually always a fence that they can take their shit to and sell at a rock bottom wholesale price. They get less money but they get it all off quicker. The quicker they can sell their shit, the quicker they can get high. They’ll always make sure they boost enough shit to still come out with enough bread to cop em a bundle, or two, or three, depending on how big of a habit they’re dealing with. A bundle, is ten bags sold at a discount for bulk purchase. Walking over to where Shell stood, I reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. “Yo kid, is this yo trap? What the fuck is this? Why all these motherfuckers standing around here? Nigga tell these motherfuckers to cop and blow, this shit look like a case waiting to happen.”
