The Fix

by K'wan

  The Fix

  K’wan

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  PART 1 - DADDY WAS A GANGSTA

  CHAPTER 1 - Harlem 1990

  CHAPTER 2 - 1995

  CHAPTER 3

  PART 2 - THE PRINCESS AND THE PAUPER

  CHAPTER 4 - 2007

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  PART 3 - FRIEND OR FOE

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  PART 4 - UP IN SMOKE

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright Page

  My mother always told me that my goodie

  box was a home, not a rest stop.

  —Persia

  PROLOGUE

  Persia felt like she was falling forever. The wind felt good, like it was caressing her tenderly. For a few seconds all was right with the world and she was wrapped in her mother’s love. That came to a crashing halt when Persia hit the ground and it felt like she broke every bone in her body.

  She lay there, in too much pain to move, watching the snowflakes fall across the glare of the dirty yellow streetlight. It made them look like pretty yellow diamonds. She wanted to reach up and grab a handful, but her arms didn’t seem to work anymore. As she lay there, feeling her life drain away, she thought about her mother and how she’d treated her. She wished she’d understood that all Persia wanted was a little love and one grand adventure. Persia would’ve given anything to be able to hug her one more time and tell her that she loved her and wished that she had been a better daughter, but she would never have the chance. She also thought of Chucky, and how he hadn’t been there to save her from this horrible fate. She wondered if he would cry when he found out what happened. There was so much that they still hadn’t had a chance to do. Tears of regret began to roll down Persia’s face. She didn’t want to die alone in the snow.

  The bells of the church rang loudly. It was midnight . . . her eighteenth birthday.

  She began to weep heavily and sang. “‘Happy birthday to me . . . happy birthday to me . . . happy birthday, dear Persia . . .’” Her words trailed off as the darkness claimed her and ended her adventure.

  PART 1

  DADDY WAS A GANGSTA

  CHAPTER 1

  Harlem 1990

  Face sat in the passenger seat of the Audi, staring aimlessly out the window. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window, black ski hat rolled up, sitting cocked ace-duce on his head, bloodshot eyes from the weed he’d been smoking and an unmistakable look of uncertainty on his face. For the millionth time he wondered what the hell he was doing in the car that night.

  “You nervous?” Monk asked from behind the wheel. He was a brutishly built man, with long arms and hands the size of baseball mitts. He had gotten the name Monk as a kid because of his close resemblance to a monkey, but when puberty hit he blossomed into a full-grown gorilla. He and Face had been friends since they were ten years old.

  “Nah, I’m good,” Face lied.

  “Bullshit.” Monk gave a throaty laugh that sounded like something out of a scary movie. Face hated when he laughed. “You been my ace since free lunch, you know I’d never put you in harm’s way.”

  “I know it, Monk, but it just seems like we’re taking a big risk doing this shit all out in the open,” Face said.

  “Yeah, it’s risky but it’s our best chance. If we try to do it in the building we can get trapped off,” Monk explained. Face still didn’t seem convinced. “Dig, I know you ain’t no stick up kid, Face, but we need this paper. I got a kid to feed and you got one on the way. You’re always talking about how you don’t wanna raise your seed in the hood, but you ain’t gonna get out no time soon selling packages for Neighborhood. We need this paper . . . our kids need this paper.”

  Face thought of his girlfriend, Michelle, and his unborn child. When Michelle told Face she was pregnant, he started hustling like a man possessed. He made decent money hustling coke for Neighborhood, but it wasn’t enough to build the type of life that he wanted for his family. For as long as he was eating from the next man’s hand, he would be behind the eight ball. He needed to gain his independence, but to do that he needed seed money, which was what placed him in the car with Monk about to pull a caper.

  “Yo, that looks like his whip right there,” Monk said, pointing to a green Jeep that just pulled up in front of the building they had been staking out.

  The kid they had been plotting on was named Sonny, a dealer from Harlem. He ran a few spots north of 145th Street. He wasn’t a heavyweight, but he tried to carry himself like he was one. Sonny thought he was a made guy and had a tendency to treat people like they were beneath him, especially his workers. One night he’d slapped one of his workers around in front of a bunch of people, and as revenge the worker told Monk about Sonny’s collection route and the bag of money he retired with every night. It was said to hold between $10,000 and $20,000 nightly. It wasn’t much, in comparison with the competition, but it was enough to put Monk on his ass and drag Face along for the ride.

  Sonny was just climbing out of his Jeep, when Monk rolled up behind him, brandishing the .44. “You know what it is, nigga. Let me see those hands,” Monk ordered.

  Slowly Sonny turned his head and looked at Monk, and Face, who had just joined them. He knew their faces, but not their names. “You little niggas know what you’re doing?”

  “Yeah, robbing you! Now hand over the money,” Monk demanded.

  “I got a few hundred dollars in my pocket. You can have that,” Sonny said, keeping his voice even so as not to provoke the young gunmen.

  “You think I’m stupid? I want that drug money you’ve been riding around all night collecting,” Monk told him.

  “Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I have on me is the money in my pocket,” Sonny said.

  Monk swung one of his meaty hands and slapped Sonny. The force of the blow sent him crashing into the Jeep. “Stop playing with me and set that cake out before I put a hole in you!”

  “Leave my brother alone,” a voice startled them. A teenage boy, who they hadn’t noticed, jumped out of the Jeep and rushed them.

  “Chill, shorty.” Face grabbed him in a chokehold.

  “Tim!” Sonny yelled and made to move for the boy, but Monk’s gun to his head stopped him. “Chill out, man, don’t hurt my little brother.”

  “I’m gonna put this ugly little nigga in a bag unless you give me what I want. I know about that bag of money you bring home every night,” Monk said sinisterly.

  Sonny calmed himself before speaking again. “Look, I don’t know who you’ve been getting your information from, but they’re wrong. I don’t have any money, but I can get you some. I just need a few hours.”

  “Unfortunately, time is not your friend,” Monk said. “Check the Jeep,” he told Face.

  Still with Tim in a chokehold, Face backed up toward the Jeep and peered inside. When he saw the black duffle bag on the floor his eyes got wide. “Jackpot,” he said, shoving Tim on the floor and retrieving the bag. It was heavier than he
expected, which meant there was potentially more money in it than they had been told.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Sonny said.

  “Shut the fuck up.” Monk slapped him to the ground. “I should shoot your bitch ass just for lying to me. How much you think is in there?” he asked Face.

  Face nervously unzipped the bag, and when he peeked inside his face went slack.

  “How much?” Monk asked. Seeing his partner’s facial expression made him anxious.

  “You gotta see this,” Face said, still staring into the bag in shock.

  Keeping his gun on Sonny, Monk moved to looked over Face’s shoulder into the bag. Sonny hadn’t been lying about having any money, but what he did have was about several neatly wrapped packages of cocaine.

  Monk’s lips parted into a wide grin. “Santa done bought a white Christmas to Harlem.”

  Sonny felt like the bottom of his stomach had just been ripped out. He had been given the assignment to deliver the drugs by a very powerful man, as a test of his loyalty and he had fucked it up. Not only was he getting robbed for his package, but he’d gotten his little brother caught up with him.

  “Listen, y’all can have my money, my jewels, and my Jeep, but those drugs belong to Pharaoh,” Sonny told them.

  At the mention of the name Pharaoh, Face immediately began having second thoughts. Pharaoh was an urban legend in the hood. Nobody was quite sure where he came from or what his story was. It was as if one day he and his crew had just popped up out of thin air and started moving major weight. More than few cats had tried to challenge Pharaoh’s claim and it ended ugly for all of them. Pharaoh’s men murdered his enemies in the most gruesome ways, and always made sure the bodies were left in plain sight, so that it sent a message to everyone else who thought to test him. After a while, cats either steered clear of him or got down with him. Nobody fucked with Pharaoh, not even the police.

  “You mean they used to belong to Pharaoh,” Monk corrected him. “You and that nigga better chalk this up to the game.”

  “Pharaoh is gonna kill you when he finds out what happened,” Sonny spat.

  “Good thing you ain’t gonna live to tell him about it,” Monk said, before pulling the trigger and blowing Sonny’s brains out all over the sidewalk.

  “Sonny!” Tim scrambled over to his brother.

  “What the fuck did you do, Monk?” Face grabbed his friend.

  “Dead men tell no tales.” Monk shoved him away. “I should’ve beat him to death instead of shooting him for making me go through all this trouble and not having no paper on him.” Monk kicked Sonny’s corpse.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Face scooped up the duffle bag full of coke.

  “A’ight, let me just tie up the loose ends.” Monk aimed the gun at Tim.

  “He’s a fucking kid, Monk,” Face said.

  Monk looked at Tim, who was cradling his brother’s corpse and staring daggers at Monk. “Kids grow up to be men.” He cocked the hammer.

  Face laid his hand on his friend’s arm and lowered it. “We got the bag. Nobody else needs to die tonight,” he said softly.

  Monk cut his eyes at Face then back to Tim. After a few long moments, he lowered the gun. “You got that, Face,” he agreed, right before he kicked Tim in the face, knocking two of his teeth out. Tim lay on the ground, unconscious and bleeding. Monk turned to Face, who was looking at him like he was stupid. “Just a li’l something for him to remember me by.” He snickered. “Let’s boogie.” He darted back to the car with Face on his heels.

  The whole ride back to the block, Face kept looking over his shoulder as if the police would jump out behind him at any moment, or worse, one of Pharaoh’s hit squads. His heart had been in his ass ever since they’d left the crime scene. Monk had gotten Face into some messes, but this one trumped them all. It was too late to cry about it at that point. What was done was done.

  “When we get back to the block, I’m killing John for that bogus tip,” Monk said casually. “This nigga told me Sonny was gonna have cash on him, not powder. I ain’t got time to stand around and try to sell all this shit off. I got some homeboys in New Jersey I can call and maybe they’ll buy all this shit from us if I give them a deal on it. I’m thinking for seventy cents on the dollar. We won’t get street value for the coke, but at least we’ll be able to get rid of it all in one shot and have some money in our pockets.”

  “We keeping it,” Face said, unexpectedly.

  Monk took his eyes off the road and looked at Face. “A little while ago you was acting like you didn’t want nothing to do with is, now you talking about we keeping it?”

  “It’s like you said, hustling for Neighborhood ain’t gonna get me and my family where we need to be, but what we got in that black bag will,” Face said coolly.

  Monk smiled. “Spoken like a true gangsta. We about to own all this shit, Face.”

  Their moment was broken up when Face’s pager went off. He looked at the screen and saw Michelle’s number, followed by the numbers 000.

  “Oh shit, take me to Harlem hospital,” Face told Monk franticly.

  “Something wrong?” Monk asked.

  “Nah, everything is right for once. Michelle is in labor. I’m about to be a father,” Face said proudly.

  “Hot damn, it’s about time,” Monk said, making an illegal U-turn as if they didn’t have a bag full of cocaine in the back seat. “I guess it’s true what they say, huh?”

  “What’s that, Monk?”

  “One life leaves the world, so another can enter it.”

  CHAPTER 2

  1995

  “What do you think of this one, Persia?” Face held up a tiny pink fur coat that he had pulled off the rack. He had cut his braids and now wore his hair in a low Caesar, with a half-moon part. His face was covered in a faint coat of hair, but he still didn’t look a day over twenty-one. Dressed in a fitted black button-up shirt, blue jeans, and Timberlands, which he refused to tie, Face looked more like a male model than the trafficker of poison he had become.

  Persia cocked her head to one side, causing the white beads braided into her hair to rattle. Her lips twisted like she was in deep thought, making her look even more like her father. “I think that one is really pretty.”

  “If you like it then it’s yours,” Face said, which made Persia clap excitedly. She loved when her daddy bought her gifts.

  “Face, put that coat down because we’re not getting it for her.” Michelle came from the back, wearing a tight-fitting, off-the-shoulder dress she was thinking about buying. She was a pretty, light-skinned girl, with short cropped hair and a bright smile. Since Michelle had given birth to Persia she had put on a little weight, but mostly in the breasts, hips, and thighs so it looked good on her.

  “Why not?” Face asked.

  “Because, it’s a waste of money. You brought her a fur coat last year and by the time she got around to wearing it, the coat was already too small,” Michelle reminded him.

  “Hush and let that man spoil his child if he wants,” Charlene said. She was behind the counter ringing up some items a lady had just picked out. Her long box-braids were pulled back into a ponytail, drawing attention to her angelic face. She was as dark as onyx, with smooth, blemish-free skin, an ode to her Kenyan heritage. Charlene was Michelle’s best friend and the mother of Monk’s son.

  “You mind your business. Of course you don’t care if he blows money unnecessarily in here because it’s going into your purse,” Michelle said.

  Charlene’s was Charlene’s love child: a boutique on 125th Street that specialized in customized women’s and children’s clothing. While Monk had been spending money, Charlene had been stacking it and managed to save up enough to open the boutique. Monk always felt like it wasn’t necessary because he was getting enough money in the streets to support them, but Charlene was no fool. She knew that fast money didn’t last forever and she wanted to make sure they had something to fall back on.

  “Okay, let’s g
et a neutral opinion. Li’l Monk, what do you think about this coat?” Face asked the little boy who was sitting on the stairs near the register with dazed look on his face.

  Li’l Monk jumped. He was pretending to be reading a comic book but was secretly watching Persia and he thought they’d caught him. “I dunno.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. He was only six years old and already the biggest kid in his class. He had his father’s brutish genes and thankfully his mother’s good looks. He was a handsome young man with thick black hair and long, dark eyelashes.

  “Of course he doesn’t. All boys are dumb except for my daddy,” Persia said.

  “I ain’t dumb,” Li’l Monk said heatedly.

  “Are too,” Persia taunted.

  “Shut up, Princess P,” Li’l Monk called her. It was a nickname the kids on the block had given her when their family moved from Harlem to their new house in Queens. Persia hated the name.

  “Don’t call me that, dummy!” Persia said heatedly. Tears formed in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

  “Okay, the both of you knock it off,” Michelle ordered.

  Charlene came from behind the counter, smiling and shaking her head. “Those two argue like an old married couple.”

  “Might be a sign. What do you say, Li’l Monk? You gonna make an honest woman of my baby girl when you’re all grown up?” Face asked teasingly.

  Li’l Monk’s brow furrowed and for a minute it was almost like looking at his father when he and Face were that age. “Make an honest woman of her? How am I supposed to stop her from lying when it’s her mouth?” he asked, obviously not getting the joke.

  The adults laughed while the children looked at them as if they had lost their minds.

  “I swear if he ain’t his father’s child.” Charlene kissed Monk on the forehead.

  “Speaking of which, where my nigga at?” Face asked.