A week later, Dre rolled down the driver’s window as he drove up the Schuylkill Expressway from his new Southwest Philadelphia secret bachelor pad. He and Chino were on their way to meet Ice. The night air seeped through the window and created a whistling sound as he sped 85 mph. The two street pharmacists rode in silence inside of a rented Silhouette mini- van.
Dre realized that he was wrong for walking out of that restaurant. He was equally wrong for letting seven whole days pass without kissing Kareem’s ass with apologies. He was worried about Kareem, even though, he knew that Kareem was very capable of taking care of himself. Dre was obstinate, and he hated when his brother proved to be smarter than him. He now had to fend for himself. Kareem helped him think. He had already sold enough crack cocaine to get the ten-year minimum mandatory sentence. No need to stop now, he thought.
He reached 17th and Jefferson Streets and parked. Chino moved to the back seat, so that Ice could hop into the front. Ice passed a blunt to Chino. Dre did not smoke. Dre was not easily persuaded, so he never succumbed to the smoking frenzy. He couldn’t adhere to his brother’s wise advice, so peer pressure didn’t fly either.
When Chino slammed the door shut, he asked, “Dre, whose briefcase is this back here.” He held the case in the air.
“Leah’s,” he responded, confidently, but he looked at the case puzzled that she had forgotten it. He knew women played silly games, and felt that Leah left the case for Tasha to find. He was sure that Leah was not a McKenzey operative, but she was no less a monkey wrench. This had been the second thing that she left in his car. A hotel receipt with all of her personal data on it was the first.
After negotiating a deal for Ice to cop the first batch of dope from Dre, the men had stepped out the Silhouette to have a tester sample the pure Colombian product. Dre had Ice under the impression that he had Chino under his wing and that Chino had ripped off another drug dealer for the product. By Ice’s estimation, if he had someone else’s dope that was good and they had nothing: win-win.
The tester jogged into the crack house as happy as a pedophile in a school yard. All of the other feigns reacted, scattering about frantically, as they all knew the deal.
Suddenly, Dre fell to the ground and crawled under an abandoned car parked behind the minivan. The drive-by shooter’s gun spat out rounds rapidly. Bullets ricocheted and penetrated the minivan in groups, not allowing room for a shoot-out.
Ice was pissed.
Dre was pissed.
The weapons used had a firing rate resembling a Cobra 12 gauge, viciously given the ghetto moniker, the “street sweeper.”
Ice crawled to an abandoned house, narrowly escaping with a grazed shoulder. Crack-heads and corner boys dove to the ground and recited their Our Fathers and Hail Mary’s.
Twenty seconds passed, and the power punch of the Cobra continued to spray gravel up under the car. The gunmen were not marksmen and the night darkness did not prove the best light. Yet, the bullets continued to pour. Dre lay there, wondering how long he would survive before the gunmen noticed that they were not being fired upon, get out of their vehicle, and start shooting directly at their targets.
The firing ceased when the car tires were heard racing off. The tires kicked shells under the car assaulting Dre. Good thing that they were not shot from a gun.
Dre pulled himself from under the car and found his orange Akademik sweat suit stained with oil and dirt. All of the Silhouette’s windows were gone and the panels were severely penetrated. His body hurt badly, but Chino was in worse shape.
Chino held one hand on his chest and the other hand wrapped around his gun. He mouthed, “Dre, help me.” He had been shot in the throat.