by Cash
Obviously, King had intimate knowledge of how his ex-boss operated. Perhaps King knew Rich Kid’s suppliers and stash spots.
Probably knew Rich Kid’s weaknesses, too. Had probably been skimming money from Rich Kid for years, waiting for the opportune time to make a break and start up his own crew.
What puzzled me was why had King not made his break with Rich Kid’s blessings? Why’d he put dope in spots to challenge Rich Kid? What weakness had King seen in his ex-boss that led him to break away and challenge Rich Kid? Or was it pure and simple greed?
I wondered if Rich Kid felt threatened by the secrets King knew.
No doubt, King knew where the bodies were, and could always use that info to barter with po-po if he ever caught a major case. That was indeed something Rich Kid had to worry about.
I strongly suspected King was shady in money transactions. But was he suspect to snitchin? My own experiences have taught me that if a nigga would steal from you, he’d cross you in every other way, too.
Or it could be the simple fact that he just didn’t like not having King under his thumb. Most dope boys were like that. They wanted to forever control a nigga. Like a pimp controled his hos.
Well, King had played ho for years for Rich Kid, jumpin’ whenever Rich Kid snapped his fingers. He’d reaped the rewards, if that was what it was called. But now he would have to pay the piper for betraying his pimp. I had no qualms about it. Shit, I was the grim reaper. The last mafucka King would see before going to see his Maker. That was the game. It spared no one.
My day would eventually come. I was peace with that. But as long as my number hadn’t come up yet, I wasn’t lettin’ no nigga put me in his crew and pimp me on the block. Put me on Front Street while he laid back and got fat.
Even as a shorty, I wasn’t down with that. Fuck a nigga taking me to the mall and buying me gear and kicks. Or taking me to trick loot at a strip club and then having me slang dope all day, every day of the week, winter, spring, summer, fall.
Yeah, I’d let the pistol bark for Rich Kid or any other nigga who needed work done and could afford my price, but I was independent. I wasn’t under anybody’s thumb.
King’s days were numbered. I knew I’d slump his ass one day, way back when he’d shorted me on that loot.
CHAPTER 23
Locating King wasn’t easy. The dope spots his crew operated wasn’t in the ATL, they were in Kentucky, where I had once went with King to help establish some dope traps for Rich Kid.
Hitting King in Kentucky had its advantages. One being he would not be expecting me up there, nor would anyone there know me.
However, by me not knowing my way around the city was a major disadvantage, which was why I told Rich Kid I’d rather wait and catch King when he came back and forth to Atlanta.
How did I know King would return to the ATL eventually?
Robbing dope boys was my bread and butter, it wa my steelo to understand their habits. A nigga that went out of town and blew up, would eventually return home to show off. I had no doubt King would soon return to Atlanta to style and profile, show niggaz that he was his own man now, no longer Rich Kid’s puppet.
It was just a matter of patience and keeping my ear to the streets.
In the meantime, I had other shit to deal with. Scout out future capers, find the bitch nigga who shot me, check on my seeds and my sister; shine on jealous niggaz and fuck with mad hos. Everyday G shit.
I was whippin’ the Lex’ truck when my pager started ringing. I pulled into a convenience store parking lot to use the pay phone
“Yo. Anybody page Youngblood?” I asked when the other line was answered.
“Yeah, I paged you,” the sweet voice said. “This is Inez. What’s up with you?” Fat Stan’s baby’s mama.
“Oh. I’m good, shawdy. What’s on yo’ mind?”
“Can I see you?” She sounded seductive. Hopeful. But it was time to make her beg, establish who needs who, at least who wanted who.
“That depends on how bad you wanna see me,” I said.
“Why don’t you come over and find out?” She sounded like she was already naked.
“Peep this, Inez. Let’s not play games with one another. You’re fly as hell and you got da bomb sex. But a nigga like me be on a paper chase and too much good pussy just gon’ slow me down. Fat Stan spoiled you and maybe you deserved everything you got from him, but I’m not the one. I like big faces…”
“Just come over,” Inez interrupted. “I’m gonna show you how much I want you and it ain’t gonna be about sex.”
I got quiet for a minute as I contemplated her offer. Curious about what she wanted to show me, I finally agreed to roll through and holla at her.
“A’ight, I’ll be over there in a half hour, or so.”
“Okay, baby. I’ll see you then. Bye.”
“Bye.”
When I got to Inez’ crib everything was proper. In fact, the atmosphere was lovely. R. Kelly was crooning out of the system in Inez’ living room.
“You can have a seat,” she said, directing me to a plush white sofa.
The living room was fly, snow white sofa, loveseat and chair with overstuffed pillows, glass end tables, cocktail table with powder blue designs. African art decorated the tables and walls along with an assortment of pictures in blue frames of Inez and, I assumed, her and Fat Stan’s daughter. I didn’t see a single picture of Fat Stan, though.
I took off my jacket and Inez hung it on a coat rack in the corner.
My gat was poking me in the thigh when I sat down, so I removed it from my waist and put it between my feet on the carpet.
“You want me to put that up for you until you get ready to leave?” Inez asked. I guess a nigga packin’ heat wasn’t new to her.
“I feel more comfortable with it within reach,” I said. And I wasn’t frontin’.
“That’s cool.” She placed a bowl of weed on the cocktail table and some sticky brown rolling papers. “Roll one for me, too,” Inez said. “I’m gonna finish cooking. I hope you ain’t ate yet.”
“What you cookin’?”
“Chili. Unless you want something different.”
“Chili is cool.” I watched Inez walk toward the kitchen.
She had on a pair of jeans that grabbed her phat ass like a pair of hands. The oversized T-shirt she wore was tied up in a knot at her navel. She had on her chillin’ at the crib gear, accentuated by bling around her neck, wrists and on her fingers.
Fat Stan had treated Inez well.
I looked around and wondered where their daughter was. I was thinking Inez had sent her off to a babysitter so we’d be alone.
Anyway, I rolled two fat stickies’ and then I thought about what old heads said about bitches putting roots on a nigga. Puttin’ a curse on him by putting their period blood in chili or spaghetti.
So I went into the kitchen and watched Inez prepare the pot of chili.
I doubted if a bitch could really have a nigga’z head fucked up by putting her period blood in his food, but I still didn’t want a slick ho trying no trife shit like that.
I leaned on the kitchen counter, smoking the joint with one hand and holding my heat with the other. I held the joint to Inez’ lips while she busied herself with tomatoes and ground beef and other ingredients. She choked on the smoke, turning her head away from the ingredients and pulling away from the joint.
“Why you gotta hold your gun in my house? You don’t trust me?” Inez asked, a little annoyed.
“I don’t trust nobody,” I firmly stated.
“You’re too paranoid. You must do a lot of dirt to a lot of people.” I let the remark rise up to the ceiling with the weed smoke and then the only sounds in the kitchen for the next fifteen minutes was of Inez adding the ingredients to the pot on the stove. When she was finished, she washed her hands and dried them on a towel. “Follow me,” she said. So I did, gat in hand.
After we’d gone from room to room, upstairs and down, checking closets and unde
rneath beds, we returned to the living room.
“Now you know ain’t nobody here but us, maybe you can put that gun up and relax.”
I checked the front and back doors, peeked out the window and saw nothing out of the ordinary. I sat back down on the sofa next to Inez and slid my heat up under the coffee table.
“Nigga, you a trip,” Inez said, shaking her head.
“Don’t take it personal. I don’t know you too well, and I don’t trust people I don’t know. You’ve been with a hustler before. You know if we get caught sleepin’, we end up with our dick in the dirt.”
“Baby, I got something way better than dirt your dick can end up in. I’m not with all that cross out stuff. I’m trying to choose you, not set you up.”
“I’m listening,” I said, cool-like. “Spit yo’ game.” Inez ran it down to me, precise. Like she’d rehearsed it for weeks.
Inez told me she had a major weed connection and to maintain her lifestyle while her trick nigga, Fat Stan, was doing time she was selling much weed, OZs and up. She needed a nigga to hold her down, claim her as his, so niggaz wouldn’t be too quick to try to rob her or disrespect her spot.
Her crib was in a middle-class hood, away from the inner city mayhem. But since a lot of her clientele were street niggaz, Inez feared that someone would eventually cross her.
Needless to say, niggaz were quick to try a bitch on some robbery shit.
If they knew a thug nigga was holding Inez down, they’d hesitate to run up in her spot.
My rep’ wasn’t large on the street, but niggaz who knew me knew I’d let the pistol bark. And then some only knew me from rolling with Lonnie.
Still, they knew Lonnie wasn’t to be fucked with, which gave me props by proxy. Regardless, I saw no drawbacks to holding Inez down. She’d do all the weed selling, all I’d do was be her nigga, letting niggaz know the bitch had muscle behind her. For that I’d get 40 percent of her profits. I was good with that.
The real clincher came when Inez went upstairs and came back with a shoe box.
“Here.” Inez handed me the shoe box “I’m choosin’, so here’s my choosin’ fee.” I removed the lid from the box and estimated about four grand inside.
We talked and got high for an hour and then the chili was done. I ate two bowls of chili and three thick slices of hot garlic bread, drank some beer and counted my blessings. Sometimes loot just fell in a real niggaz’ lap. I was sure if I hadn’t handled Inez the way I had a few weeks ago, she would’ve never chosen me.
I suspected Inez had come to the game room that day looking for a real nigga to hold her down. I was sure this weed hustle of hers wasn’t new. Bitches like Inez got game, too.
I stayed over Inez’ crib for three days, only leaving to go get a change of clothes.
I watched mafuckaz come by and cop ounces and bigger weight from Inez. She had a steady clientele and strict business hours, noon ‘til 6 p.m. No exceptions. The only flaw in her setup was that she had to invite the clients into her crib to serve them. This made her easy bait for a robbing, which I guessed was why she needed me to hold her down. Still, if somebody felt there was enough loot inside Inez’ crib, my holding her down wouldn’t stop serious stickup kids from plotting.
Inez’ defense against that possibility was to only deal with people she knew and somewhat trusted, which was no defense at all. ‘Cause nobody could be trusted where there was enough loot around. Shit, I was even wondering if I should just rob the bitch and get ghost, to hell with holding her down.
I decided to let it play itself out, for a while at least.
I saw a few niggaz that I knew come by and cop from Inez. Before long, the streets would know she was my bitch now. I guess that was the point of me being present while Inez served them.
I fucked Inez in every position and in every opening known to man for those three days, especially the third day, making sure I busted a nut in her mouth. ‘Cause I knew she was going to visit Fat Stan in prison the next day. If he kissed her, he’d be sucking dick by proxy.
Let me back up. Inez told me a lot about herself over those three days and nights. I listened, but I didn’t store it as fact, knowing a bitch would lie to make a nigga see her the way she sees herself, which wasn’t never the true picture.
But I hoped that time would show that Inez was a real one, true to her claims. Of course. there was no way to know that then.
Her daughter was living with Fat Stan’s mother. “I don’t want my baby around while I’m selling weed,” Inez told me. I respected that.
Three days had me feelin’ the bitch. Her style was so on point I couldn’t understand why she had fell for Fat Stan, other than the dough he’d given her.
In just three days, I knew he hadn’t deserved the bitch. See, the way I was taught, a nigga wasn’t no better than the bitch that represented him and vice-versa. If Fat Stan was a trick and Inez claimed him as her nigga, then she was a trick bitch.
Only, her style contradicted that.
I’d wait and see if these three days were flex.
So far, though, Inez seemed like a down bitch. If her profile changed, I’d still hold her down long enough to case-out some of her clientele and maybe her weed supplier and then I’d jack ‘em all. After they’d copped some weed, it wouldn’t be too difficult to get Lonnie to follow them from Inez’ crib. Maybe they’d unsuspectingly lead Lonnie to their money nest.
The way I saw it there was no way I’d come out a loser by fuckin’ with Inez. I hadn’t paid it much attention before this come up fell right into my lap, but the streets were flooded with down-ass bitches looking for a real nigga to hold ‘em down.
The dope game and thug living had claimed so many lives and sent mad niggaz to prison. Now the streets were short of real niggaz, true players and thugs a bitch could respect. That was probably why mad hos were dyking these days, not enough real niggaz to go around. I guess bitches figured they’d rather get with another bitch than get with a bitch nigga.
But, being a jack boy, true and true, the way I processed everything concerning Inez, her hustle and her clientele was mostly from a stickup kids point of view. Had I been a dope boy I probably would’ve thought in terms of expanding Inez’ weed business or using her to push some hard white for me. Had I been a nigga with a tender head on my dick, weak for a bitch with good pussy, I might’ve wanted to replace Fat Stan forever. But I was all about the come up. Inez, with her good pussy and all, was no more to me than a hustle. The way I saw it, I would be robbing the bitch at her insistence.
The bitch had much about her a nigga could lay his hat on. If nothing else, Fat Stan had taught her how to get on the grind. I doubted that Fat Stan had ever actually sat Inez down and schooled her on the hustle game. He was too much of a Captain Save a Hoe type nigga to deliberately school his woman about the game. He’d rather risk his own life and freedom than put Inez in harm’s way one single time.
I presumed Inez had learned the game simply by observing. Instead of banking on finding another trick to take care of her while Fat Stan was on locks, she was wise enough to go for hers.
Atlanta was full of players, niggaz who weren’t tryin’ to lace no bitch’s pockets. Still the tricks outnumbered the players twenty-five to one.
Which meant it would’ve been real easy for a fly bitch, like Inez, to replace one trick with another one. So I guess she deserved some props for choosing a real nigga like me and hustling to maintain on her own.
Nevertheless, I understood the game, all of it. Inez was Fat Stan’s woman. She was my bitch. Sitting on locks, his fat ass might not have understood that, but I did. My bid in the pen had force-fed me that reality back when I was behind bars and Shan was on the turf fucking other niggaz.
When a nigga was on locks, no matter how good he treated his girl before he got popped, she was gonna give another nigga some pussy. Trife hos like my baby mama, Shan, used a niggaz past transgressions as an excuse for their fuckin’ around while he was on locks. But that shit wa
s just an excuse they used to be the ho they were all the time.
When a bitch was ‘bout business and had mad respect for her nigga, she did what she had to maintain, but she fucked on the down low. ‘Cause above all else, she knew that her nigga had pride. And if she disrespected his rep in the streets, the bitch was on timeout forever.
Like Shan.
Well, Inez was trying to do the right thing by the code of the hood, but in my eyes, Fat Stan’s rep didn’t deserve respect.
CHAPTER 24
Just when a nigga’s life was beginning to look sweet, things got even sweeter. I had dropped in at my lawyer’s office to hit him with a coupla’ grand for the case still hanging over my head. After pocketing my loot, he told me that he’d be able to get the charges against me dead docked, which was good with me. To have a criminal case dead docked meant that the DA agreed not to prosecute the case if the accused stayed out of trouble.
Just another way of puttin’ a nigga on probation. I agreed to it just to get the charges from hangin’ over my head. Though it was mad stupid for them crackers to wanna charge me with gun possession and I was the mafucka who got shot!
A few days after I’d gone to my lawyer’s office and dropped that loot in his grip, I met him at the courthouse to sign some papers and make the dead dock deal official.
If he hadn’t guaranteed me that there was absolutely no chance I’d end up in cuffs, there wasn’t no way I would’ve walked inside of that courthouse. I was not frontin’, my next trial was gonna be held in the streets, gangsta style.
When I bounced from the courthouse it was still kinda early and the streets weren’t jumpin’ yet. I whipped over to Inez’ crib and let myself in with the door key she’d given me.
“Hey?” she said, rubbing her eyes.
I noticed the sexy negligee, the way it accentuated her figure and barely covered that phat ass when she walked back upstairs after realizing it was just me coming in her crib.
“What’s up?” I said, sitting on the edge of her bed. She was already back under the covers.
