Lass called me up and said the deal went through. I just had to come to her office and sign some papers. Joan would also be there, so I would get a chance to meet her too. I had to go and see Mr. Pete. I knew he would be proud. He kept talking about throwing a party for me on my opening night. All the nurses said they were coming in their Coach and Dooney & Bourke. I was like, “Naw, those brands are wack! My people rock Gucci and Loui V!”
I pulled up to the unit with some pictures of the property that I yanked off of the Internet. I had been carrying them around everywhere since I first looked that the store. I couldn’t stop looking at them and envisioning myself as the boss of the store, slapping high-fives and pouring shots.
An ugly silence hit me when I walked into the unit. A few nurses lingered by the entrance.
“Hey, Kim, Pete get here yet?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, baby, he coded and had been taken out earlier,” she said, giving me a big hug.
“Okay, well, I’ll see y’all next time.”
“Really? You’re still gonna come here?”
“Of course!” I told her, Pete’s my OG. Why wouldn’t I? She asked to rap to me but I didn’t have time for small talk. I had just picked up a lot of dope from his worker a few days ago and it had to be bussed down. Getting off the block was the best thing that has ever happened to me. Even with all the Hurk stuff going on, not being on the block had just made me feel safe.
Pete taught me how to think. How to analyze the system and everyone it affects on top of why cops respond the way they do. He told me that the police department and prison system are just an extension of slavery and the cops are the slave catchers. He said America runs on criminal justice and they use us dudes to sell smack so that the country can run. I never left him without a lesson; he’s a walking bookshelf, the Internet before the Internet. He’d say: “Dee, why do you think the dude who steals fifty million dollars in a white-collar scandal gets eighteen months in prison while the dude who robs a bar with a gun for three hundred dollars gets thirty years! Because the white-collar guy is going for a sting—he’ll never have to steal again—while the guy with the gun will probably have to pull a job later that day!” I got game from him and then gave it to my young boys.
I called Troy to tell him that Pete coded and about my store. He was still too busy to answer my calls so hit him two more times. He picked up.
“Yo, what’s good, bro?” I said.
“Nothing, man. I’m fucked up over Pete, man, that shit hurt!”
“Yeah, I just left the clinic, I heard he coded but we’ll see him when he back, bro. Chill out. We got work to do!”
“Dee, coded means dead. You code and they can save you, but sometimes you die. Mr. Pete is dead and he ain’t coming back!”
I pulled over and stepped out of the car. My stomach boiled, my chest crumbled. I bent over and I threw up brown shit all over the curb and my sneakers. A slide show of his life played in my head. I could see him as a young G on the avenue, leaning on his big Caddy, counting money in front of his club, not making a living but making a killing like he always said. I could see his smile and that vision put the brakes on my anxiety.
Dude was a legend, and I was happy to know him. It’s gonna take awhile to get over this one. RIP, Mr. Pete.