The air blew hard and whistled a fine tune as Dre walked off the football field. He watched a limo pull off, and thought, I hate these rich pussies. His quads were cramped and made practice intolerable, so he cut out early. Besides, why should he practice, if the quarterback was not?
Coach Cramer was disgusted by his star running back’s faux complaints and barked, “Shape up, Bezel, or be shipped out!”
Who the fuck does he think he’s kidding? Dre thought as he paced across the school grounds. He was unfazed by the ultimatum. Five-feet-ten and solid 170-pounds, Dre was the districts only recognized all-American. Local media and alumni idolized his cocoa complexion, wavy hair, dark brown eyes, and sly grin, which he showcased each time that he made a big play in a game. He was the school’s touch down record holder, and dubbed Dre Bezel the Great. And the coach was not shipping any damn body out.
He entered the locker room, with its characteristic smell of stinking sweat and Lysol. He sat on a wood bench, kicked off his cleats, and pulled off his tights and jersey. He exposed an overdeveloped physique that screamed ex-convict. Ladies, both young and old, adored his sculptured body, which was why he dated the head cheerleader.
Dre reached into his locker to fetch a towel when in his peripheral, he observed BG approached him. Dre jumped to his feet defensively, and thought, this cat had to be crazy to think that he caught me slipping. He hated BG, as did most of the students at the school. In fact, most people in that suburb nestled fifteen miles away from Philadelphia, could not stomach BG off the football field. He had mentally controlled many impressionable minds; Andre Bezel’s was not one of them, contrary to BG’s belief.
When BG was in arms reach, Dre, with cobra-like speed, grabbed BG with both hands and choke-slammed him hard against a wall of lockers. He proved his company was unwanted.
BG tried to speak, but Dre was not having that.
“Look—Brent,” Dre said, insulting BG by calling him his birth name. No one did that. Breathing hard in his face, Dre continued, “All I want to do is play ball and get out of here. I didn’t set you up, and warned you not to go down there. I’m telling you, stop the fuck running around spreading shit about me.”
Avery Snobli, BG’s second-in-command stepped toward Dre.
Dre tightened both of his hands around BG’s throat as he spat, “Tell your little fuck boy to back off, or I’ll break your fucking neck.”
BG quickly held up his hand, waving Avery off. BG was aware that the Bezel brothers took Judo, and that Dre was very capable of carrying out the threat. BG did not desire to find out. Avery backed off and then Dre tossed BG toward him and they both stumbled.
“Dre, you have it all fucked up. I come in peace.” BG pleaded, massaging his throat. He flamboyantly snapped his finger and Avery left the locker room.
Dre could not believe what he had seen. He snapped. Avery disappeared. Who the fuck is this guy, Houdini? Dre thought. With the locker room to them, Dre spoke calmly. “I don’t know why you have been threatening me, but this shit right here, better be kosher.”
“Listen, Dre, I have a proposal for you to make some good money—”
“I’m not interested in being your body guard.”
“Funny,” BG said. “I need you to use your influence and cop for me in Philly.”
Dre’s face turned angry. “You mean my blackness. What the fuck I look like letting you set me up? Fuck my chance up to go to USC, because I was caught up in some dope bullshit. Picture dat!”
“Set up! I’m talking about $800 a run to get down with me. Hell you’re talking all this Lakers and Hollywood shit. Your people got cash, but not Beverly Hills cash.”
What, dis mutha-fucka got my people bank account statements? “Come on. Why is it all of a sudden you need me? I’ve been in this school for two years and you’ve been doing your thing without me. You don’t need me.”
“Look, I’m not explaining myself, but, bottom line, Trigger got booked crossing the Mexican border with 1,000 bricks of fish scale in his trunk. I can’t, as you know, take my ass back down North.”
“I helped your silly ass once and you swear that I set you up. So why ask me again?” Dre shook his head and said, “This shit seem funny.”
“Ain’t shit funny. Trigger claimed that some dude named Ice probably had them young nigga’s rob me. He wired my money. My bad for accusing you.”
“First off, cracker,” Dre said and pointed his index finger hard into BG’s chest. “White boys cannot say nigga. Fuck what you see on TV and hear in raps.” Dre let that sink in and then said, “I’mma help you out.” He had sold his soul to the devil.
“I’ll cop for you, but I want $1,000 a run along with a rental car for each run. And you better not tell anyone this shit,” Dre said sternly.
Without any hesitation, BG jumped on it. “No problem. Here’s my new cell number.” BG pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Dre. “Meet me in the Sears parking lot at the mall tonight at nine o’ clock.”
“No doubt. Be there, alone.” Dre warned. ***
Outside the locker room, BG pulled out his cell phone and dialed it. When the call was answered he said, “You were right. Enlisting a monkey was easy.” He then added, “And it’s true, all of them want to make a quick buck.”
“And prisons prove they’ll do anything to get it,” the man on the other end remarked and then chuckled. The man ended the call, and then pressed stop on his recorder.