Chapter Nineteen
Mula eased the big truck through traffic on their way back to the block. It was silent, save for the sounds of The Stylistics humming though the speakers. Jonas wasn’t a fan of old school, but Mula loved the throwback music. He played it whenever they were on their way to or from a job. He claimed that it soothed his nerves. It only irritated Jonas. Give him some 2Pac or Biggie, and he was ready to rock.
As they got closer to their neighborhood, the mood in the car lightened. Mula rolled the driver’s-side window halfway down so that people could see who was behind the wheel. Certain blocks they passed, people smiled or waved, while others, dudes shot them mean mugs. You either loved Jonas and his crew, or you hated them, but everybody knew them. They had been making quite a name for themselves over the last few years as both hustlers and killers.
Jonas couldn’t help but smile as he passed the familiar blocks . . . his blocks. He and his team had come a long way since their days of selling dime bags of weed in the park. This was due largely in part to his relationship with Detective Ceaver.
For the last few years, Jonas served the detective in whichever capacity was required of him. Ceaver used Jonas to carry messages he didn’t trust delivered on phones or put people in line who had forgotten their place. Jonas had broken more than a few jaws and various other bones in the name of progress. His status had increased, but in the beginning, he had been little more than a glorified errand boy.
This wasn’t to say that having a cop in his pocket hadn’t come with perks. Ceaver was always good to give him a heads-up when the block was going to be raided or point him in the direction of easy marks for him and his crew to rip off. The most value came from his get out of jail free card. Jonas could pretty much do whatever he wanted, within reason, and Ceaver would smooth over any legal troubles that would arise. That was cool, but he was still waiting for all the bells and whistles he had been promised. This would come later in the way of a tip that would prove to be the turning point for him in his criminal career.
The night Eight-Ball had been killed, the detective promised Jonas that he would change his life. If Jonas had been expecting immediate results, he was disappointed. Months had gone by, and he hadn’t seen nor heard from the man. He was beginning to think that it had been an empty promise . . . until the day he came across an article in a newspaper he was reading while riding the subway to school one morning. It detailed the story of a black man who had been shot by a cop, which was nothing new. Police killed black and brown kids every day, especially in the ghetto. Jonas was about to skip over the article and continue to the Sport’s page . . . until he spied a picture of the victim. It was an old prison mugshot of a face Jonas was all too familiar with. It was Bruiser.
Jonas had been avoiding Bruiser like the plague since Eight-Ball’s death. Word on the streets was that he hadn’t taken his best friend’s murder too well and was out for blood. There was a $5,000 bounty placed on the head of Eight-Ball’s killer. Besides the detective, no one could place Jonas at the scene of the crime, but he reasoned it was still best to keep a low profile for a while. He stayed close to home, going only to school and back. He had even stopped hanging around with Ace and Mula too. He wanted to remain hidden until things blew over, or he graduated high school and left for college. Whichever came first.
According to the newspaper, Roderick Joseph, aka Bruiser, had been gunned down while attempting to rob a liquor store. An off-duty detective happened on the scene and foiled the robbery. While attempting to escape, Bruiser fired on the detective, who returned fire, killing him.
Jonas closed the newspaper, trying to process everything that he had just read. None of it made sense. For one, Bruiser was a thug and a drug dealer, not a robber. When Eight-Ball died, it was Bruiser who took his place at the head of their crew. He wasn’t as good a hustler as Eight-Ball, but he managed to hold the crew together enough to where the money didn’t stop flowing. With that being said, why would Bruiser be robbing a liquor store? Something even more perplexing was the name of the detective who had gunned Bruiser down: Louis Ceaver. There was no way in hell it was all a coincidence. There had to be more to the story, but Jonas would not receive the final pieces of the puzzle until later that day when school let out.
He and Prince were walking from the train station on 135th Street, discussing a fight they had seen that afternoon when an unmarked white Caprice started coasting alongside them. From the missing hubcaps and long antenna on the back, they knew it was a police car long before the driver hit the siren. Prince took off running. He had a knapsack full of stolen goods and had no intention of getting busted with them. Jonas stayed where he was. He hadn’t done anything and didn’t have anything on him. When the window rolled down, he found himself staring into a pair of familiar blue eyes.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite almost murderer,” Detective Ceaver greeted him. “Get in.” He pushed the passenger door open.
Jonas didn’t move. He just kept looking up and down the block suspiciously. The last thing he needed was anyone from the neighborhood seeing him getting into a police car, and he wasn’t under arrest. He’d be branded a snitch, even if he weren’t.
“I don’t plan on asking you twice,” the detective said in an icy tone.
Jonas knew that he would create a bigger problem by not getting in than he would have if he did. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath before jumping in.
“For a minute, I thought I was going to have to make a scene,” Detective Ceaver said, peeling away from the curb. “Is that any way to treat a friend?”
“Oh, so we’re friends now?” Jonas asked sarcastically.
“I thought so. Friends do favors for friends, right? Last time I checked, I had done you a huge one. Or have you forgotten about our rapist friend?”
“So, you gonna hold that over my head now?”
“No, blackmail isn’t my game, Wrath. You don’t have to ever worry on that account. Though, I do believe that a word given is a word kept,” Detective Ceaver said, running through a red light and almost hitting a woman who was crossing the street with her child. He never even spared them a second look.
“You mean like how you gave me your word that you would change my life but left me hanging?” Jonas questioned.
“Wrath, one thing you will learn about me is, even when I’m late, I’m always right on time. I would’ve come to pay a call on you sooner, but I’ve had my hands a little full. So many moving pieces on the board that it can sometimes get overwhelming. Do you play chess, Wrath?”
“No,” Jonas replied.
“You should learn. Chess is a thinking man’s game. A game of strategy and anticipation. Every great ruler in government and the streets has had at least a working knowledge of the game. It will help you to stay one step ahead of your enemies.”
“I don’t have any enemies.”
Detective Ceaver laughed. “You were born black. That automatically puts you at odds with the world. Do you know why 2Pac was murdered?”
“Over the East vs. West beef,” Jonas replied as if the answer should’ve been obvious. You had to have been living under a rock if you didn’t know the story of the tragic rise and fall of Tupac Shakur.
“So the media would have you to believe. 2Pac getting killed by a rival crew is a far easier explanation for the public to digest rather than the truth. I won’t say that his affiliation and antics hadn’t put him in a dangerous position, but it isn’t why he had to die. 2Pac was assassinated because he represented something that threatened to upset the natural order of things . . . hope. Millions of young eyes watched as he rose from poverty to almost godlike status. In him, kids from the ghetto saw someone who looked just like them beat the odds. One man can inspire thousands, and a thousand men can inspire millions. Had Pac lived long enough to reach his full potential, he could’ve shifted the balance of power. All it takes is one spark . . . and game over. Those in real positions couldn’t have that. There’s more money to be made from hopelessness than there is hope.”
That was heavy.
“Sorry, I’m going off topic again,” the detective continued. “I tend to do that sometimes when I have a lot on my plate, and right now, my plate is full.”
“I wish mine was too,” Jonas said.
“Aren’t you the direct one these days?” Detective Ceaver smirked at him. “That’s actually why I’ve come calling on you today. I’m sure you’ve heard through the ghetto grapevine by now that Bruiser is no longer a thorn in anyone’s side. With him gone, that erases the final stain of Eight-Ball’s reign. When conquering, it’s never enough to kill whoever is holding on to what you’re laying siege to. You have to wipe them from the history books completely. Don’t forget that. Now that it’s been taken care of, it’s time to start your ascension.”
This was music to Jonas’s ears. He’d been waiting a long time for the detective to make good on his promise. “So, you gonna put me in control of Eight-Ball’s old territory?” he asked eagerly.
“Slow down, Scarface. That’s been promised to another. You’ll get your turn to sit in the big chair, but you’ll have to crawl before you walk. I’ve got a way for you to get some quick start-up, though.” Detective Ceaver fished a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Jonas. On it, an address was scribbled. “Be there at 5:45 p.m. tomorrow.”
“And what I gotta do when I get there?” Jonas asked.
“Nothing. Just make sure you’re on that corner at that exact time. Not a minute later, understand?”
“Yeah,” Jonas said with a frown.
“Now get out. I’ve got something to handle.”
Jonas looked up and realized they had ridden fifteen blocks from his neighborhood. “What? Am I supposed to walk?”
“Unless you’ve sprouted wings since you got in here. Now go—and don’t forget to be on time tomorrow.”
The next day, Jonas went to the address the detective had given him. When he arrived, he thought he had been the butt of a bad joke. The building was abandoned and looked like it had been for a while. What could be there that could put some money in his pocket? He reasoned that maybe the detective was sending someone to meet him, so he waited. A few minutes had gone by, and he was thinking about leaving when he heard the screeching of tires, followed by the sounds of police sirens. A black car bent the corner so fast that it almost jumped the curb. A blue and white squad car was on its ass. The window rolled down, and a plastic bag came flying out as the car sped past him.
Jonas waited for a few minutes before going to the spot where the bag had landed. He didn’t look inside, just tucked it into his book bag and got out of there. When he was a safe enough distance away, he dared to peer inside. A broad smile crossed his face. The bag contained a bunch of small vials of crack. There was at least a thousand dollars’ worth. Jonas didn’t know much about selling drugs, but he knew someone who did. Ace. With Ace’s help, they sold all of the crack. They then took part of what they had made and went to see Drew, who gave them a good deal on an ounce of cocaine. They were officially in business.