Trust in No Man 2

by Cash

  A brave heart approached the Nissan.

  “I got those double-up sacks. The—oh! Youngblood!” he shrieked after recognizing me. “Damn, nigga!” he asked. “You rollin’ on the creep tip?”

  I asked him if he’d seen Murder Mike but before he could come up with a reply, I saw Murder’s black Navigator whip up. I got out of the Nissan and walked over to where Murder Mike was parked. He was talking to a couple of his workers who stood a foot from his truck listening attentively.

  “If them suckaz want drama, give it to ‘em!” I heard him tell the boys, who nodded and walked away, ready to do just that.

  Murder Mike was opening his door to get out of the truck when he saw me. “Whud up, main man?” he beamed our customary greeting. “Hop in, we need to rap.”

  I walked around to the passenger door and climbed in. He honked his horn at his workers and drove off.

  Murder Mike said we were headed to one of his cribs in Lithonia to talk. He said one of like he had several cribs.

  Damn! Main man must be stronger than the streets realized.

  I left the thought silent as we drove east on I-20. I was guessing that Murder Mike had found out who had banged me up, and we were headed to one of his houses to discuss what I wanted to do about it. Or maybe he just wanted to show off his crib?

  It was all good. Murder was my dawg. My main man from the hood.

  The inside of the house was barely furnished, just a couch and big plasma television in the front room. The windows were covered with dark colored sheets, not curtains. Either Murder was just moving in or it was a stash house.

  When we got to the kitchen and he turned on the light, I saw that I was right. Ten kilos were stacked on the counter and another five were on the kitchen table surrounded by a pile of crack cookies.

  Murder took the kilos off the table and put them on the counter with the others. He put the crack inside large Ziploc bags and stacked them in a cardboard box on top of the refrigerator. He pulled another box down from atop the refrigerator and dumped its contents out on the table, revealing a huge pile of loose bills, of varying denominations and a bag of assorted color rubber bands.

  “Have a seat, main man,” he said, sitting down across from me. He began separating the pile of money into thousand-dollar stacks, mixing the denominations at random.

  I was packing heat, but the thought of jacking Murder Mike never entered my mind. Just like Lonnie was my tightman, my partner in crime, Murder was my main man, my nigga, my dawg.

  We were the same age, give or take a couple of months, and had grown up in Englewood playing everything together from stickball to truth-or-dare, elevating to stealing out of stores to stealing cars. I’d gotten caught a few times and was sent to YDC. Murder had gotten caught once and switched over to slangin’ rocks. We didn’t hang together when I came home from juvie, or even later, because he was always in the trap, on the grind. While I was out to get mine much faster, the ski mask way.

  Still, the love and respect was mutual. We were just doing our own things.

  Even though I was no longer sitting on grownup money, with my heater just a reach away, I wasn’t tempted to take what he had just exposed to me.

  He said, “Main man, I’m about to do major things. If shit goes as planned, the city is mine! I’ma take over the whole mafucka, whoady!” He paused. I guess he was giving his words time to register with me as he was still counting thousand dollar stacks. But I was silent, listening.

  Murder claimed to have people behind him that were dead serious about taking over the drug game, and not only in the ATL. He was talking big, like some coast-to-coast shit. The plan, he said, was for him to start in Atlanta while his people would be doing the same in other major cities spaced out all the way to the West Coast.

  “I want you on my team, main man,” he said.

  I replied, “I wish you luck, dawg, but you know selling dope ain’t my expertise.”

  “Naw, nigga.” Murder laughed, “You got the game twisted. I ain’t talking about putting you in no trap or even having you driving dope from here to there. I want you to be my right hand, my eyes in the back of my head. Oversee everything I put together.”

  I was listening. My interest was piqued.

  “You know,” Murder continued, “for us to rise, other niggaz gotta fall. We gotta take ‘em out the game. I know you ain’t scared to get a body, nigga.”

  I smiled. He didn’t know the half.

  Then he started naming mafuckaz we’d have to take off the shelf. Some of them I didn’t know. Some I knew well.

  “The first head to roll is Rich Kid’s,” he said. I knew he was challenging me. “His time is up! I’m the new kid on the block!”

  Rich Kid was major and I questioned whether Murder Mike had the guns to go to war against him or the guile to catch Rich Kid slippin’.

  “Yeah, well, Hannibal was major, too,” he reminded me. “Still, him and his right hand man turned up floating face-down in a lake.”

  As I was recalling reading about the incident months ago, he flashed his right hand inches from my eyes, the two platinum fingernails making his point loud and clear. Murder Mike had somehow caught Hannibal and his man slippin’ and took ‘em off the map. His point: Rich Kid could be gotten, too.

  Platinum nails stood for bodies with Murder Mike.

  He said, “I know you say you’re not down with Rich Kid, but if you are, you’re on the losing team.”

  Like a well-rehearsed play, four dreadlock-wearing mafuckaz came into the kitchen and surrounded the table, each of them packing sawed-offs. Murder didn’t flinch or stop counting and separating the pile of money, so I knew it wasn’t a stickup. They had to be part of his team.

  I looked to my right and saw the big Dread who’d thrown me inside of the van and had delivered most of the punishment to my jaw and ribs. To my left was the one who’d scooped up my burner and had helped toss me out the moving van. Next to him was a real skinny, pocked-faced Dread. Directly in front of me, and at Murder’s side, was the mafucka who’d pointed the sawed-off at me from inside of the van.

  Again, he had a shotgun pointed squarely at my chest. Once again he barked, “Don’t be stoopid, mon!”

  I looked across the table at Murder Mike, my main man. My nigga. My dawg. I couldn’t believe it! I had never even suspected him. It didn’t make sense, but now I understood. He hadn’t believed me when I’d told him I wasn’t pushing weight for Rich Kid. He’d also been in Englewood the night the Dreads had snatched me up from outside the music store. It was he who’d let them know when I had left the horseshoe. Perhaps they’d been waiting somewhere close by. He would have known I was holding down Inez and where she lived.

  He was smiling at me from across the table. “It was business, main man,” he said. “Nothing personal.”

  My hand was itching. I wanted to reach for my heater so mafuckin’ bad! How wasn’t it personal when he had ordered me to get banged up? Or at least went along with the plan? I was so mad, my face started twitching.

  Don’t be stoopid, mon! kept reverberating in my mind.

  I knew the odds were against me. It would’ve been nearly impossible to pull my burner and kill four crazy, shotgun packing Dreads and Murder Mike, without getting slumped myself. This wasn’t a Hollywood movie. This shit was real! And Murder must’ve known I wouldn’t try to buck on those odds, which was probably why he hadn’t bothered to search me for a weapon.

  I was mad as hell, but I had to respect his gangsta. Now things made sense to me, even his strong bond with Cita.

  I recalled that Cita had an aunt who was married to a Dread. If my memory was correct, it was the Dread with the pocked-marked face. I’d seen them together once.

  “So what you say, mon? You join da winning team?” the big Dread asked. Like I was stupid enough to say no and get splattered all over the kitchen walls.

  “I’m down,” I said because a different answer would’ve ended my life. I was just buying some time.
r />   Murder smiled platinum, then reached across the table to dap hands with me. “I know you stay strapped, main man,” he said all of sudden. “Let me put your gun up until you calm down and hear the rest of our plans.”

  Yeah, nigga, you bet’ not slip! I thought.

  Four shotguns remained trained on me until Murder Mike picked my heater up off of the table, where I’d just placed it. I stood up and lifted my sweat shirt, proving to them that I wasn’t packing more heat. Still the big Dread patted me down.

  Murder clasped his hands together behind his head. I focused on his short dreadlocks and leaned back in his chair.

  “Sorry about that lil’ beat down. They weren’t gonna kill you, though. I told them you’re my dawg, and we could use you on our team,” he explained.

  One of the Dreads had fired up some ganja and passed it to me. I put the fat joint to my lips and sucked in the smoke through my teeth. I hit the joint a few times and passed it to Murder, who shook his head no, so I passed it back to the Dread who’d passed it to me.

  The big Dread was called Rastaman. The one who’d scooped up my burner the night they’d snatched me was called Jamaican Rick. Cita’s aunt’s husband, the Dread with the pocked-marks, was Rohan, and the one I interpreted as the leader was called Crazy Nine.

  Now that I knew who banged me up, I was no longer worried about the enemy kicking in Inez’ door and bringing the ruckus. I had told them I was down with their team, and I couldn’t see a way to reverse my decision. They knew where I laid my head, while all I knew was where one of Murder’s stash houses were at and that he had workers in Englewood.

  I could warn Rich Kid that they were about to come after him, join teams with him and go after them, but I was no longer sure how to read Rich Kid after what my sister had told me.

  Glen had caught Toi with Rich Kid twice. Once having dinner at a restaurant and the second time getting out of Rich Kid’s car in the parking lot of her condo.

  Rich Kid had been fucking my sister all along, had even known why Glen had jumped on her. Yet he’d left me in the blind. The day he’d taken me to the hospital to pick up Toi, he’d acted like nothing had ever existed between my sister and him. They had played me for a fool!

  Did that mean I couldn’t trust Rich Kid? I wasn’t sure. It certainly meant he wasn’t on the up-and-up with me. Why hadn’t he checked Glen for beating up my sister? His indifference showed that he thought my sister was just another bitch. If my peeps was just another bitch to him, then I couldn’t be more than just another nigga. ‘Cause if he had respect for me, it should’ve extended to my blood, Toi.

  Yet, Rich Kid had always played fair with me concerning business. I wasn’t sure I could take him off the shelf just ‘cause he’d been fucking my sister without telling me. On the other hand, I’d have to do Murder Mike if I didn’t slump Rich Kid. Or I could go wherever Juanita had gone to escape from the streets. But that would be like tucking my tail and running. I’m a dog, not a mutt!

  I wanted to holla at Lonnie and see what he thought of my options, but Murder Mike had made it clear that he didn’t trust Lonnie. He didn’t want him in his business. He said that he had a gut feeling that Lonnie wasn’t as solid as niggaz thought. I hadn’t debated with him about it, but I couldn’t think of another nigga in the world who felt that way about my tightman. Lonnie had never shown me any sign that he wasn’t the solid nigga he claimed to be. Like me, he was a stickup kid, but he never targeted those he swore loyalty to. Nor did he have loose lips.

  My dilemma was real ‘cause I’d sworn loyalty to Rich Kid. At least, I sort of implied it when I told him I never did work against those I’d done work for. That was the code I lived by and Murder Mike was asking me to break it. But how real would I be if I didn’t honor the codes I believed in? I’d be no better than Shotgun Pete, who let pussy make him violate the code between partners, an unspoken code that was supposed to be respected.

  The only question was whether Rich Kid had surrendered his immunity from my gun when he started fucking my sister and keeping me blind to it.

  Toi wasn’t hands off but out of respect for me, Rich Kid should’ve respected her. He wasn’t respecting her by fucking her behind her man’s back, like she was nothing more than a jump off. The same way I treated hos like Fiona. He couldn’t have love for my sister if he knew her nigga had fractured her jaw and he didn’t do nothing about it. In fact, he sat back and let me go out on the limb over some shit he helped create.

  Why should I have more concern for his welfare than he had for Toi’s? Or was I just looking for justification to go along with Murder’s plan?

  The plan was for me to hit Rich Kid on a certain day, at a specific time. At the same time, Murder’s Englewood crew would be hitting Rich Kid’s peeps, who worked by the basketball court in Englewood, while the Dreads would be down in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, hitting Rich Kid’s Cuban supplier.

  Murder even knew about Rich Kid’s Kentucky crew, who were regulating their hood since King’s demise. A plan was devised to have them blasted at the same time the other hits were taking place.

  Murder was taking a crew up to Kentucky himself. He told me, “Main man, it’s gonna be just like that Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre shit that the mob pulled off!”

  The stakes were definitely sky high.

  Deep down, though, I wanted to warn Rich Kid. I just liked the nigga. I simply had to decide what my next move would be after I warned him.

  As fate would have it, a week later I ran into Rich Kid at a car wash on Moreland Avenue, up the street from the game room. He was in a sparkling new Chevy SS truck with big chrome rims and small TV screens built into the rear bumper. Not only was niggaz fawning over the truck, they were sweatin’ the hell out of the chick with Rich Kid.

  Straight up, shawdy had a face like a young Vivica Fox, a small waist and an ass like Buffy the Body. How she got all that booty inside those Baby Phat jeans she was wearing was a mystery to me.

  Rich Kid saw me pull up in my truck. He left his eye candy leaning against his whip and came over to where I’d parked.

  “What’s up, fam’?” he asked, giving me dap.

  “I’m good.”

  We both leaned on the hood of my trunk.

  I gotta tell big homey how it’s ‘bout to go down. Fuck Murder Mike and ‘em, tryna force my hand and shit.

  I was still peeved that Rich Kid hadn’t come clean about him and Toi, but my code of loyalty was weighing on me.

  Maybe he does have some love and respect for my sister but didn’t want to get caught up in no shit with her nigga, I considered, for the sake of giving him the benefit of the doubt.

  “You a’ight, ain’t you? Rich Kid asked. I guess he could tell that something was on my mind.

  I was about to tell him that he was livin’ on borrowed time unless we hooked up and rode on Murder Mike and his clique first ‘cause they would definitely be gunnin’ for him real soon, but for some reason I just said, “I’m a’ight, playboy. Other than my shit being wired up. But I’ma straighten that in a lil’ bit. Anyway, those TV screens in the bumper of your SS is some real fly shit.”

  “Yeah, niggaz ain’t ready fa dat,” he smiled.

  “Shawdy you’re with is fly, too. Look at all them niggaz sweatin’ her over there.”

  “Yeah, that ho thick wit’ it, ain’t she?”

  “Thick to death! But then that’s how you roll. Straight up, she’s the finest I’ve seen you with yet. You might wanna wife that one.”

  “Wife her?” Rich Kid asked, looking at me like I had said something about his mama. “Man, I wouldn’t wife that bitch if she came with a ten-million-dollar inheritance. Anyway, the ho already married. I’m just dickin’ her on the side.”

  “Well, her nigga must be pussy ‘cause you ridin’ lil’ mama around like it’s all good. What if her man was to ride up on y’all?”

  “Shid, that’ll be shawdy’s problem. He could snatch her outta my truck and kick the ho’s ass all up and
down Moreland for all I care. Just as long as the nigga don’t get fly out the mouth with me.”

  “You wouldn’t even check the nigga?” I forced a laugh.

  “Check him for what? Any ho who fucks behind her man’s back deserves a beat down. I ain’t got love for a ho who’ll creep.”

  So that’s how you felt about my sister, huh? I thought.

  “I feel you, playa,” I replied halfheartedly.

  Later that day, I called Toi.

  As soon as she answered the phone I said, “I just want you to know while you was creepin’ around with that nigga Rich Kid, causing Glen to fuck you up and causing me to wet him up, Rich Kid ain’t give a fuck about you.”

  “I figured that out when he didn’t even offer to step to Glen,” Toi acknowledged. “That’s why I told him to fuck off when he called asking to hook up again.”

  “Oh, he tried to holla again after you got out of the hospital?”

  “Yep.”

  Grimey ass nigga! I thought. Nigga tryna treat my peeps like a straight ho!

  “Anyway, why you bring all that back up after all this time?” Toi asked.

  “No reason. I’ma holla later.”

  I hung up the pay phone, hopped in my whip, pushed in a Scarface CD and drove around the city with some heavy shit on my mind. I had one helluva decision to make.

  For the next few days, my son came to stay at Inez’ crib with us. I was spending time with him and Inez in case my decision meant I wouldn’t see them for a while. My mood was kind of sullen, and Inez commented on it more than once.

  My mood improved the day before I took Lil’ T back to Shan, and I got the wire taken out of my jaw. I was trying to make up for lost time I hadn’t spent with him over the past months.

  After I took Lil’ T home, I bought some pizza and went back to Inez’. It had been months since I’d been able to eat solid food, so I pigged out so much my jaws hurt. But they didn’t hurt too bad to stop me from doing another thing I hadn’t done in a while.