Shamoney had just pulled off from one of Black’s trap houses after dropping off eighteen ounces of cocaine to one of his female clients, Tamara, when he received the call he had been waiting for.
“Youngin’, what it is, my nigga!” Shamoney answered as he slowly cruised through the hood in East Stuart, where the cocaine moved faster than any other drug that a hustler pushed in the trap game.
Shamoney had just flooded the main strip of Tarpon with more of Black’s addictive product.
“When will you be ready, soldier?” T-Zoe asked Sham-oney, who was a known hit man for the Haitian Mafia.
Bitch-ass nigga ain’t no soldier over here. It’s boss, nigga! Shamoney wanted to tell T-Zoe, who was his equal in age.
He hated T-Zoe with a passion, and once even got a chance to rough him up, but Pat had saved the nigga’s day. Shamoney looked at his gold Rolex with scintillating blue and green diamonds, and saw that it was shortly after 3:00 p.m.
I gotta go pick up Real from the DMV in an hour. Then maybe I can bring him to the gambling house on Tarpon and come back in an hour flat, Shamoney thought about how he would evade Real to handle business with Pat.
“I’m ready, but I gotta handle something before I come that way, so I’ma hit you back in an hour when I’m on my way,” Shamoney told T-Zoe.
“Alright, soldier. I’ll tell ya, brah, what time is it?” T-Zoe said before disconnecting the phone.
As Shamoney slowed at a stop sign, he saw a Stuart cruiser pull in behind him. He made a left and then another quick left on Bahama Street with the police still behind him.
Cracka wants to pull over a nigga, Shamoney thought as he came to another stop sign on Bahama. Good thing I’m clean. No K-9 unit hitting.
“What the fuck!” Shamoney yelled at seeing the police lights twirling red and blue, informing him to pull over.
“Shit!” he exclaimed as he removed his Glock .19 from his waist and tossed it under his seat.
Shamoney wasn’t driving the conspicuous Chevy that day, so he had no idea why the police officer had pulled him over in his luxurious all-black .745. He calmly pulled over to the side and let down the window.
No smoke. Nothing! Why is this cracka pulling me over? he thought.
Shamoney watched the slim, six foot four redneck walk up with his hand resting on his service revolver.
“Sir, what is the problem?” Shamoney asked.
“The problem is that your tag says St. Lucie County and you’re driving in a high crime and drug neighborhood,” the officer said as he spit a glob of tobacco juice from his mouth.
“And your point is? I have family here,” Shamoney retorted.
“Do you have any warrants?” the officer asked, avoiding answering Shamoney.
“Do you have probable cause?” Shamoney retorted sarcastically.
“No, but I need to see your license,” the officer said with an impish smirk on his face.
Shamoney noticed a K-9 unit pull up behind the police cruiser, and smiled and shook his head.
“Don’t you think it’s time for the dog to go lay down,” Shamoney said impertinently.
“Yeah, do you have something for him to hit, boy?” the officer asked furtively, dropping a bag of cocaine outside Shamoney’s driver’s side door when he reached over to grab the registration out of the glove compartment.
“If that dog hits anything on this car, I’ll suck his dick!”
“Step out of the car, boy. We have reason to believe that you’re concealing drugs in this car after seeing you leave a known drug area,” the officer ordered.
“Man, are you kidding me?” Shamoney exclaimed, heated. He became more furious when he saw more cruisers pull up to the scene. “All y’all for a traffic stop?” Shamoney said as he opened the door and stepped out, never seeing the small baggie of crack on the ground.
“Sir, please turn around so I can check you for weapons.”
“What we have, Jed? Is he dirty?” another redneck officer asked, with more tobacco in his mouth than his partner.
The officer was walking up while putting on gloves to help assist with the search.
“We’re about to see now. He says if he’s dirty, he’ll suck Buddy’s dick.”
“Wow, I’m sure my dog will love that. Ain’t that right, Buddy?” the owner of the K-9 unit exclaimed, getting two barks from his dog.
When the officer opened the back door to his squad car, Buddy the German shepherd exited. He had been on the force for nine years.
Woof! Woof! Woof!
Buddy barked as he ran to Shamoney and then sat down in front of him and the baggie.
Woof! Woof! Woof!
Muthafucka! These crackas done set me up! Shamoney concluded when he saw what Buddy was sitting next to.
“Damn, Buddy, what have we found?” the K-9 officer exclaimed as he knelt down and picked up the small baggie of crack.
“Man, that’s not mine!”
“Shut up, liar!” Officer Jed said as he pushed Shamoney over the hood of his car, kicking his legs apart and then handcuffing him.
“Man, that’s not my shit!” Shamoney yelled.
“Yeah, yeah, we know! Be quiet. You’re under arrest, and you have the right to remain silent.”
“Oh shit! He has a burner, because I know you’re a convicted felon,” the K-9 unit officer said as he held up the Glock .19.
Shit! Shit! Shit! Shamoney thought, knowing that this case could definitely land him in prison, a place he had been dodging for years now.
* * *
Real had been calling Shamoney’s phone for the past two hours and getting no answer from him. When Johnny pulled up in a Tahoe Chevy truck on twenty-eight-inch Forgiato rims instead of Shamoney, Real knew that something was amiss.
“What’s up, lil brah?” Real asked Johnny as he climbed inside his brother’s truck.
“Shamoney just got popped. He’s been in booking for two hours now. Crackas won’t give him no bond until he sees a judge,” Johnny explained.
“Damn! What did they get him with?” Real asked.
“Nothing too major except the gun.”
“Gun! He got caught with a burner?” Real exclaimed, knowing how Martin County was the wrong place to get caught with an illegal firearm.
“Yeah, that’s what I told him,” Johnny added.
“So where you got to be at? Did you get yo’ license?” Johnny asked Real as they pulled out of the DMV and into traffic.
“Hell yeah, nigga! I got it,” Real exclaimed, showing off his driver’s license that he had just obtained.
“Well now it’s time to go get you a whip,” Johnny said as he merged onto I-95 northbound and accelerated.
“Yeah, I guess so, lil brah!” Real agreed.
He had more than $50,000 to his name that Johnny and Shamoney had put together to put in his pocket. But that still wasn’t enough to hold him down when the free life was moving so fast.
I gotta get on my grind, and I mean soon, Real thought as he listened to Rick Ross’s “Port of Miami” emanating from Johnny’s thunderous system.
Almost there, my nigga almost! Just a couple more days, Real thought.
* * *
Man, I can’t believe these muthafuckas done tried me with that bitch-ass move! Shamoney thought furiously.
He was still sitting in the holding cell at Martin County Jail waiting for his booking process to complete. He’d talked to his wife, Chantele, and told her to be in court first thing in the morning with a bail bondsman. He didn’t care how preposterously the judge would set his bail, because he was sure that he had the 10 percent and collateral to move him.
“These crackas can’t stop no getting-money-ass nigga,” Shamoney said to himself out of frustration.
Despite the self-encouragement, Shamoney was seriously worried about the firearm charge, because he knew how strict the Martin County system was against them. He was in the middle of the tri-county’s Murderville, where unsolved murders were in the highs. So every nigga with a gun charge, the judges were definitely throwing the book at them.
Damn! I can’t let these crackas convict me on no gun case, man. I’m getting too much money right now to fall short, Shamoney thought.
At his home that he shared with Chantele, he had a total of $150,000 in his name from pushing for Black, who had the entire coast on lockdown. He knew that with all the work (kilos) that had touched his hands, he was supposed to be sitting on a million or better. But he was like every other penny hustler getting what he could. He was just fortunate to be on a different level from a lot of the other hustlers. He was connected to the mafia through Pat, and that was the only reason Shamoney was the man in Martin County.
“Damn, I gotta get out of this shit!” Shamoney persistently stressed.