As Black leaned against the countertop in the kitchen of one of the stash houses he operated, his right hand massaged his chin as he pondered what his uncle was saying in the echoes of the background. Nothing had gone right for him since the falling out with Nard. His main concern was getting a dope connection and that’s why he had called his Uncle Briscoe. Here they were in the kitchen, having a meeting, his uncle trying to convince him to make a move with him.
“That’s some faggot ass shit ya man did, you. Getting you cut off from your connect over some stink bitch. Wasn’t you taking care of that chump? What’s wrong with these niggas today? They sure don’t make them like they used to. Nowadays, niggas got the game fucked up! Fuck that coon, yo, one monkey don’t stop no show. I got peoples in New York. My man Carlos is up in Spanish Harlem. I did a bid with ‘em in the Feds. Yo, the nigga is large. He got that raw China White, so let me run up with there with a couple of gees and I’ll holler at him,” Briscoe said.
Uncle Briscoe was a fast-talking con man and ex-bank robber. He was short, stocky and dark-skinned. He was Fats’ baby brother whom he kept in contact with since his father’s funeral. Uncle Briscoe had done time in Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary and supposedly had plenty of connections.
“When’s the last time you copped from him, yo?” Black asked. Truth was he was only asking Uncle Briscoe cause that was his only hope. He was trapped between a rock and a hard place, and all his uncle had to do was tell him what he wanted to hear.
“I just copped from him about two weeks ago. He looked out for me. The more money I spend, the less he charges me for weight,” he said, lying through his teeth. Always looking for a way to make a fast buck, Briscoe told his nephew he had a connection that didn’t exist.
“My man Los got the bomb, yo. I’m telling you. Remember that dope that was killin’ junkies on the West Side a couple of months ago? That was his shit. That shit is takin’ at least thirty or better.”
“You mean to tell me I could step on it that many times?” Black asked, excitedly knowing damn right well dope taking that much cut was unheard of.
“I’m tryin’ to tell you, yo. You ain’t got to worry about nothing. I got this. I got two broads that’ll carry the money up and the product back. When we get back, you can take care of us,” Briscoe said, trying to endorse his imaginary connect and his imaginary plan.
What the hell, I ain’t got shit to lose, Black thought.
“All right, I hope you know what the fuck you doing, yo. My $35,000 means a lot to me, so I hope the dope is some real good shit. You straight with 35, right?”
“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m going to take care of it for you.”
“With that, you should be able to cop no less than three ounces, yo. Anything you get over that is yours. Just bring me mine, all of it. If ya people’s dope raw like you say it is, then we’ll do some more business. Then, you’ll really get paid, yo.”
With that Black left the kitchen, went in the bedroom, and returned carrying a large brown bag filled with $35,000 dollars wrapped in individual rubber bands.
Uncle Briscoe opened the paper bag and damned near began to slobber on himself. He hadn’t seen that much money in years. Now all he had to do was make good on his promise. Go to New York, find a connect, cop and make it back home.
“You need me to take that trip with you to the city, yo?” Black asked as he watched his Uncle rummage through the money.
“Naw, yo, I got this. Everything is under control.”
So, on the strength of his uncle’s word, and the prospect of coming up on some raw dope, Black parted ways with his paper. That was chump change to him. He had plenty more stashed away. He figured he’d let his uncle go ahead and handle things his way, this time. However, next time he planned on meeting his uncle’s connect face to face.
Off to the city Briscoe went, alone and in search of a sweet deal on some weight. He figured that in New York he’d easily find a dope connection. After all, New York was one of the main drug distribution centers on the East Coast. As soon as he got off the Greyhound Bus at the Part Authority, Briscoe hailed a cab. His destination, Spanish Harlem. That was where he made two mistakes that would ultimately cost him dearly. First, he went to cop alone with nobody to watch his back. Second, he was flashing his cash to the wrong people.
On 116th Street, a couple of Hispanics were able to lure him into an empty shooting gallery in a tenement building by giving him a free quarter-ounce of heroin. This was just enough to appeal to Briscoe’s greed. The deal was too good to refuse. As soon as they got him into the building, they flipped the script and killed him. He suffered multiple stab wounds to the back, head and neck. His body was found a few days later by the building’s superintendent.
Back down in B-More, Black caught a bad vibe about his uncle. He hadn’t heard from him since he left for New York. He specifically told him to call as soon as he got there. Black kicked himself for not going along with him. He should have played his first vibe and went with him. His worst fears were confirmed when the NYC Police Department notified the family of his uncle’s murder. Black was really stressed out now. The amount of money was a small thing to a hustler of his caliber, so that wasn’t what bothered him. It was the fact that he had no dope. With no possibilities of any on the horizon, he was desperate and desperate times called for desperate measures.
So Black went on a rampage, a robbery spree with no picks about who he robbed. If you had it, he was coming to get it. This was a life or death situation to him. It wasn’t a game or at least he wasn’t playing one. Selling drugs was more than his livelihood, it was his life. He had to maintain his lifestyle by any means necessary. He robbed to replenish his own heroin stash.
One group of hustlers in particular, who felt his wrath, were the New Yorkers. He mainly targeted any brothers from New York down in Baltimore trying to get their hustle on. It was his own personal attempt to seek revenge for his uncle’s death. He formed a deep-seated hatred for all New Yorkers. By robbing, shooting and killing as many of them as he could, he extracted a measure of his revenge at the same time. His entire mindset was money and murder. His rationale was, they didn’t belong down there anyway, so he was personally going to run them outta there. One by one, he was gonna send them home in a body bag.
Slowly, Black pulled his Toyota 4Runner into the McDonald’s on North Avenue. Ordering some lunch at the drive-thru, he never noticed the stolen golden Maxima creeping up on him.
“Black,” a voice said in a friendly tone.
Sipping, he turned toward the direction of the familiar sounding voice without even thinking. Immediately, he knew he had made a serious mistake. Two angry black faces stared at him. Unable to place them, he ducked for cover. Hitting the lever on the side of his seat, he laid flat and covered his head with his arms.
Simultaneously, the two hit men began unloading their weapons. The automatic gunfire made the drive-thru seem like the 4th of July. Bright muzzle flashes could be seen, and nonstop thunderous gunfire could be heard. Black was defenseless the way he laid in the truck ducked down for safety. Not to mention, the cars in front and in back of him in the drive-thru line had him boxed in. He was a sitting duck. His truck was riddled and rocked by bullets. He didn’t know what type of guns they were firing, but from the sheet volume of bullets that hit the truck, it had to be Uzi’s or Mac 10’s.
Bits of metal and glass rained down on Black as he lay motionless. His adrenaline was pumping but he didn’t panic. Slowly, he eased out his .40 caliber from his waistband. If he was gonna die, he was gonna take somebody with him.
As the last bullet was fired and the shooting stopped, Black heard the sounds of clips hitting the ground, as the hit men pulled out more clips to load their weapons. Instinctively, Black sprang from his hiding spot blazing his gun.
Boom! Boom! Boom! The gun roared, putting the hit men on the defense. They panicked, realizing that the shootout was no longer one-sided. The driver put the pedal to the metal and they fled the parking lot. Tires squealed as they sped off. Black continued firing at the car until he lost sight of it.
Horrified, the patrons and innocent bystanders began reversing and shifting their cars into drive in an effort to distance themselves from Black and the madness. This allowed him to flee the scene of the crime as well. Miraculously, Black survived this attempt on his life, suffering only a graze wound to his upper right arm. The angle from which they shot combined with the height of his truck saved his life. Had they approached his truck on foot, he would have been a dead man.
Safe in his house, Black was getting so high he could kiss the sky. It was beginning to distort his thought process. He was paranoid and was busy reevaluating everything and everybody around him. Despite the circumstances, business was good. Ty was running the show like clockwork. He proved to be a valuable addition to his team. His family was safe; nobody knew where they lived. Yet, there he was, one of the richest hustlers in all of B-More, wildin’ out and robbing people. One would think he was a broke ass hoodlum. The chinks in his armor were starting to show. Dope was his only weakness. This was even clear to him.
There were two things that really bugged him; namely, Michelle and Nard. The predicament he was in could be directly attributed to the both of them, as they were the source of his problems. Michelle turned Nard against him and Nard got him cut off from his connect. It never dawned on him that he was his own worst enemy.
As he contemplated his next move, his cell phone rang unexpectedly interrupting his thoughts. It was Michelle.
“Black,” she asked.
“Yeah, what up, yo?” he replied.
“Hey boo, I’m sorry about what happened between us the other day. It was all my fault, I was wrong. You was right, I shoulda stayed in my place.”
Black kept silent while she copped a plea. He knew what was coming next. She was about to crack for some dope. He could see right through her weak ass game. This shit wasn’t about him and it wasn’t about Nard. It was about her, all about her.
“I miss you, Black. When you comin’ over?”
“I’ll be over later,” he replied calmly.
“When?” she asked.
“Later,” he snapped.
“Black… could you bring me a little of that thing when you come?” she meekly asked.
“What the fuck I tell you about talkin’ on the phone? Damn, what you tryin’ to get me killed and indicted, too?” he asked sarcastically.
“Oh, my bad. I’m sorry,” she pleaded.
“Bitch, you always sorry, yo,” he snapped, ready to hang up on her simple ass.
“Thank you, Boo. I swear I’ll take care of you when you get here. I promise…”
Black hung up the phone. He wasn’t trying to hear that shit. It was time to kill two birds with one stone.
On the way over to Michelle’s crib, he thought about what he had to do. In his mind, he came to the same conclusion every time. Michelle had to go, there was no way around it. She served no purpose anymore. She was just a leech. Sure, the sex was sweet but fuck that. A nigga had lost too much already. All she was doing was pulling him down. She was the one who turned him on to snorting dope, and more importantly, she was the reason he almost got killed today. Michelle was no good. Wasn’t no woman in the world worth dying for, except his mother.
Arriving in Michelle’s Towson neighborhood, Black parked his dark blue hooptie several blocks away from her townhouse and walked to her complex taking the back blocks. When he reached her complex, he climbed over the eight-foot wooden fence, made his way to her door and let himself in. He was greeted by the sound of running water. She was taking a shower. I caught her ass off guard. Good, he thought. He crept silently into the living room and sat on the sofa, looking like the Grim Reaper dressed in all black with his hoodie pulled way over his head.
Shortly, she exited the bathroom naked and walked down the hall and past the living room area. From his vantage point, Black could see Michelle’s silky triangle of pubic hair as she made her way to the kitchen to grab a snack. On her way back to her bedroom, she stumbled across Black sitting in the dark living room.
“Oh my God!” she yelped, getting her breath as her heart dropped to the floor. “Black, you scared the shit out of me. How long you been here, yo?”
“I just got here, yo,” he replied, taking a snort.
This motherfucker is trippin’ for real. Why did I even ask him to come over? Maybe it’s time I stop fuckin’ with him? This nigga is bad news. How the hell am I going to get my house keys back from him? She questioned herself as she looked at Black. He was giving her the creeps.
“Here, yo,” he said, tossing her a bundle of dope.
She caught the bundle then she clicked on the lights. Tearing open the glassine bag, she dumped the dope on the mirrored coffee table. Her attention was solely on the pile in front of her. Greedily, she temporarily forgot about Black sitting across from her. Finding a matchbox by an ashtray on the table, she ripped it in half and began to use it to snort the dope. Slowly the pile began to disappear.
Black sat back digging Michelle while she did her thing. Junkie bitch, Black thought. What a waste of some really good pussy. That sentimental thought didn’t stop him from doing what he had come to do. He had to kill her. She was dead weight who suddenly got too heavy for him to carry.
Quietly, he rose from his seat and walked up behind her. He began to fondle her breasts while she hogged the dope.
“Hold up, Black. Let me sniff a lil’ more then I’ll take care of you,” she told him, pushing him backwards.
He stopped feeling on her as if he were honoring her request. Michelle went right back to snorting. Black pulled out a small .22 revolver from his back pocket. As Michelle was leaning over the coffee table, he placed the gun to the back of her head right behind her left ear at point blank range. He looked down at her as she continued sniffing the dope off the table. So preoccupied, she never saw it coming as Black pulled the trigger, killing her execution style.
In a fraction of a second, Michelle was dead. Her limp and lifeless body crumpled to the floor.
Black stood over her and shook his head in disgust. How did I let myself get into all this shit with your dumb ass? Talking to himself and mumbling, he proceeded to ransack the apartment to make it look like a burglary gone wrong. Before he exited the apartment, he left the bedroom window wide open, just to make it look good. Now, for part two of his plan.
In the cover of darkness, Black drove past Nard’s mother’s house in Randallstown. He knew someone was home because the lights were on, and from the street, he could see silhouettes moving about inside. Circling the house again, he cut off his headlights and slowed the car down to a snail’s pace. Then, like the quiet before the storm, he emptied his .45 automatic, drive-by-style into the windows of the house. This was a message to Nard to call off his dogs in retaliation for the attempt on his life.
I may not be able to reach you, but I can reach your family, nigga, he thought, as he turned the corner slowing his car down as if nothing had just happened.
The next day, Nard got the message loud and clear when his people came to visit him over at City Jail. They were nervous and jittery as they told him every detail of what happened. This thing with Black had gotten out of control. Black was out of control. Nard hadn’t counted on him being so ruthless. Black put shit in the game by bringing the beef to his mother’s door. Nard had two choices, either he could raise the price on his head and pray they succeeded in killing him the next time or he could cancel the contract. He was unwilling to jeopardize his loved ones lives any further. His hands were tied, Black had won, and Nard stepped down.
Still in need of dope, though, Black decided to make a power move to New York City himself. As much as he hated New York and New Yorkers, he still knew that the city held the best opportunity for him to cop some weight. He snatched up Ty, two chicks named Lisa and Stacey, a dope fiend named Lala and a small arsenal of guns. He was ready to ride. He had no intention of making the same mistakes his Uncle Briscoe had.
The move was well thought out, as Black was extremely cautious. They drove to the city in two separate rental cars. Black, Lisa and the money were in one car, while Ty, Stacey, Lala and the guns went in the other. Everybody was formally dressed in suits to avoid being stopped and searched by an overzealous State Trooper, especially on the New Jersey Turnpike. But instead of driving directly to New York, they detoured into Ft. Lee, New Jersey, where Stacey and Lisa rented two different hotel rooms. One room would be for Black, Ty, the money and the guns. The other room was for everybody else. Black, Ty and Lala quickly changed clothes, replacing their suits with street gear in order to blend into the environment they’d be in. Then Black grabbed $10,000 in cash, two handguns and Lala and went cruising the streets of Harlem.
Across the George Washington Bridge, they drove into Washington Heights. After a thorough search for heroin, they soon discovered that this area was populated and controlled by Dominicans who strictly sold cocaine. They moved on down Broadway crossing 125th until they got to the eastside. Then they traveled a few more blacks until they entered Spanish Harlem. There, they checked out all the known dope spots that they heard of or could find. Going spot to spot, block to block, project to project, they left no stone unturned. The first few days of doing this proved to be futile. As hard as they looked, they didn’t come across any good quality dope. By the time Black tried to step on it, the cut would have eaten up all the dope and turned less of a profit.
Black was patient though, he hadn’t come all this way to go back home empty handed. He was willing to search every dope spot and shooting gallery in NYC for the rawest heroin, something that would catch a few bodies. He questioned every nodding junkie that he saw. He demanded to know where they got their dope from. On the fifth day of his mission, Black’s persistence paid off. A dope fiend directed him to some dope that was killing people up in the Bronx called Murder I.
That’s exactly what I’m looking for, that right there. He went and copped a bundle. Then they drove back to the hotel to let Lala test it. Inside the room, Black and Ty watched closely as Lala cleaned her works and cooked up some dope. She looked like a mad scientist about to make a startling discovery. When she was finished she desperately searched her arm for a vein.
“Damn, I can’t find a good place to hit. Can one of y’all hit me in the neck?” she asked, looking up at their faces, which were twisted like, why?
“It’s either there or my pussy,” she said, letting them know shit got worse.
“Gimme that hype. Bitch, I’ll put this motherfucker up ya ass if I got to,” Black said, not playing.
Lala knew that crazy motherfucker was serious.
“I’m just bullshittin’. My neck is a good spot, but don’t stab me, Black. You got to be gentle. Just prick the skin, okay?” she said, wishing Ty was doing it instead of Black’s crazy ass.
She drew up 50cc, then handed Black the dope-filled syringe. Black pulled her shirt collar away from her neck and looked for a suitable portion of skin amongst her track marks. Finding what he was looking for, he carefully injected the hypodermic needle into her jugular vein. The dope entered her bloodstream and raced to her heart. Her eyes quickly rolled up in the back of her head and her chin dropped to her chest. The drug had taken effect. She blacked out falling first face to the floor.
“Damn, this some good shit,” Black said, gently nudging Lala with his right foot, looking at the hypodermic needle still in his hand.
“Daaamn?” Ty said, sounding like Chris Tucker getting closer for a look at her. “You think she all right?” He bent down to check her wrist for a pulse.
Murder I was that shit! It was too strong for even an experienced junkie like Lala. She couldn’t handle it. Murder I was the truth. Black knew right then and there he had some powerful stuff. Feverishly, he and Ty worked on Lala trying to bring her to. They dumped a bucket of ice down her pants and underwear and Black slapped her repeatedly.
“Give her mouth-to-mouth,” Black demanded, looking at Ty.
“Hell no, you give her mouth-to-mouth,” Ty said, having no idea where Lala’s lips had been.
“Damn, Murder I done murdered Lala,” Black said. “They damn sure named it right, I know that much.” He continued to smack Lala around until she came to.
The three of them went back to the Bronx to find the runner who sold them the bundle. The runner wasn’t hard to find. He was on the same corner where they’d left him earlier.
“Yo, my man, can I holla at you for a minute?” he asked.
The guy looked at Black and remembered him from earlier. He clutched his side, checked out Lala and proceeded toward Black.
“Yo, son, you want some mo’ of that thing?” he asked.
“Yeah, that shit almost lived up to its name. Shorty, check this out. I’m trying to cop some of that on the weight tip. I want the exact same shit,” Black said.
“What you working wit? A couple of grams or a quarter?” the runner asked as if it could be handled.
“More than that, but I ain’t really trying to put my business out there like that, yo. I’d rather discuss that wit’ ya boss. I’ll break you off something for pluggin’ me in, yo.”
Black went into his pocket and pulled out a knot of money. He peeled off five hundred-dollar bills and handed it to him. The runner could hardly believe his luck.
“Good lookin’, son. Yo, you about ya business, word up. Wait right here. I’ma go get my man,” he said as he ran around the corner.
You go do that, so I can get the fuck outta this motherfucker and go back home, thought Black. He couldn’t stand no New York City. The people, the traffic, the streets, the tall ass buildings; all that shit got on his nerves. You couldn’t tell them niggas up there shit, neither. They walked around like they owned the world. Black was peeping it all. They just didn’t know Black would kill them without a moment’s hesitation.
Thinking about his Uncle Briscoe, he felt his gun by his waist. He wasn’t worried about getting robbed. He was strapped, Ty was strapped, and if anybody wanted to go to war, the arsenal was back at the hotel. They were taking a risk standing there on this Bronx street out in the open though and Black knew that. What he didn’t know was if the runner was actually gonna go get his boss or some stick up kids. In the game, Black had gambled with his life on several occasions; this was just another one of them.
The runner returned minutes later strolling with an old timer. Black wasn’t surprised. He knew that some the richest and largest cats in the game were old timers.
“What’s up, yo?” Black said, extending his hand first to shake the older man’s.
“What’s up, young blood. I’m Sonny. My man was tellin’ me you trying to get some weight,” he said, trying to feel Black out.
“I am, if it’s the same thing y’all was selling in them bundles.”
“It is. How much you coppin’? A quarter or a half ounce?”
Black suddenly became aware that he was conducting his business in front of two workers, Ty and the runner.
“Can I speak to you for a minute in private, yo? My business ain’t everybody’s business,” he said.
Slowly, they walked down the block talking business. Black convinced Sonny he was about money, simply by the way he conversed about drugs and the life. Sonny could tell he was from out of town by his accent and by his frequent use of the word “yo” at the end of his sentences, which was getting on his nerves. They quickly struck a deal. Sonny agreed to sell him an ounce of dope for $9,500. He also gave him a verbal money-back guarantee. He could return it if his customers weren’t satisfied. Sonny was always eager to establish ties outside of the city. He knew from prior experience that out-of-towners spent that paper. Knowing this, he always played fair with them.
Black on the other hand, didn’t trust Sonny. He was leery of all New Yorkers after his Uncle, and just because Sonny seemed nice, didn’t mean diddly. Black merely suppressed his ill feelings in order to get what he wanted, raw dope. He wasn’t about to let his personal feelings get in the way of him making some money. But, if Sonny ever tried to do anything underhanded like short change him on some weight, then and only then would he be killed. As long as he was supplying Black with that raw shit, he could live.
As a precautionary measure, Black only bought two ounces at a time. Back and forth, he and Ty crossed the GWB to cop, until they purchased all the dope they came for. After copping a couple ounces here and a couple ounces there, Black’s mission was complete within weeks. He sent Ty and Stacey back home on the Amtrak train with the product and the guns, while he, Lisa and Lala rode back home clean.
Back in B-More, the drama had died down, mainly because Black calmed down. Now that he had a legitimate connection, he didn’t have to rob and terrorize the streets. Instead, he laid low and let Ty run the show.
From the outside looking in, it appeared that Ty was happy. After all, he had it all. A small fleet of luxury cars, a ton of jewelry and flocks of pretty women. But, it wasn’t enough. He had aspirations of being his own boss and pumping his own dope. It seemed like Black wanted to keep him under his wing, forever. Being as Black wasn’t giving up anymore profits or sharing equally as Ty wished he would, Ty seriously began saving his money. He had already stashed away a decent amount. Soon, he’d go solo already preparing for his own future. He knew who Black’s connect was and where Black copped from. What did he need him for? His answer, nothing. But, how could he tell Black?