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Jihad cruised down South Salina Street in his champagne tan BMW 645 CSI coupe. The twenty-two inch chrome rims with six inch lips gave the gaudy Beemer a more aggressive stance. Terry sat comfortably reclined in the passenger seat. They took solace in the fact that although they could see out, no one could see inside due to the dark tinted windows.
“This drought is kind of fucking us up, T,” Jihad mentioned, referring to the shortage of cocaine in the city.
“Yeah, I didn’t think it was going to last this long. It’s been over three weeks.”
“I was reading the USA Today and they said the feds busted a vessel containing over two and a half tons of coke two days ago. That’s the second major bust this month.”
“We’re definitely feeling the effects of it. The entire East Coast is hurtin’. We’re losing a lot of fuckin’ money,” Terry realized.
“I’ve been doing the math, and it ain’t a pretty sight. We have to get our hands on something else in order to make up for the money we’re losing.”
“What you got in mind?”
“I was thinking about getting a ki of Boy.”
“Heroin?” Terry questioned.
“Yeah, I know this Puerto Rican cat that...”
Terry stopped him before he could finish. “I ain’t never fuck with heroin before and I don’t wanna start.”
“It ain’t nothin’ to it,” Jihad stated matter-of-factly.
“I used to sell heroin back in the day. As long as you got good dope you gon’ make good money. The fiends need that shit. They gotta...”
“I said I don’t want to fuck with it,” Terry shouted, interrupting Jihad.
“Nigga, you yell at me again, I’ma kick yo ass out of my car. Matter of fact...” Jihad slammed on the brakes, bringing the coupe to a screeching halt in the middle of the street. “Get the fuck out!” The cars behind him were forced to come to a stop. They began to honk their horns in frustration.
Terry remained calm despite Jihad’s antics. “Nigga, if you don’t drive this piece of shit I’ma whoop yo big ass.”
Jihad took his foot off the brake pedal and eased on the accelerator. “Ah, I scared the shit outta you, punk!” He laughed. “You thought I was gonna make you get out.”
“Yeah, okay.” Terry turned the music up and sat back in the comfortable leather seat. His mind reflected back to when he was ten years old.
––––––––
Terry had just come home from school. He removed the shoestring from around his neck, which held his house key, and opened the door to his home.
He walked into the house, tossing his book bag onto the couch. On his way to the kitchen to get something to drink, he heard the sound of his mother crying.
“You stupid, good for nothing bitch!” Terry senior scoffed at his wife and son’s mother, Anita. She was sitting on the edge of the bed when he hit her with a back-hand across her face that sent her sprawling to the floor. He stood over her in dominance with his hands balled into tight fists. “Didn’t I tell you to bring me two bags when you got off work?”
“I only made eighteen dollars today, Terry. I barely had enough to get you one bag. It was a slow day at the restaurant,” Anita managed to explain between sobs.
Her words fell on deaf ears as he straddled on top of her and began to choke her. “I don’t give a fuck what you made, bitch. You better do whatever you have to do to make me happy!” He tightened his grip around her neck, cutting off her air supply.
Anita desperately scratched and kicked in an attempt to get him off of her. “Not in front of little Terry.” Anita pushed the words through his vice like grasp.
With his hands still tightly wrapped around Anita’s neck, Terry looked behind him. His son stood at the doorway with tears streaming down his cheeks. “He needs to see this so he’ll know how to treat a worthless bitch.”
“Get your hands off my momma!” Little Terry flew towards his father, throwing a wild haymaker, hitting him in the back of the head.
“Oh, you think you’re a man now?” Terry senior rose off Anita and faced his son. “The next time you raise your hands to hit me, you better know how to fight.”
“Terry, no!” Anita cried from the floor. “Please don’t hit my baby.” Her plea came too late.
Terry had reared back and slapped his child with full force across the face. Little Terry stumbled as his bottom lip split open, but he refused to fall down. He was only ten, but he knew better than to fight a battle that he couldn’t win. Instead of going with his heart and attacking his father, he went over to his mother and cradled her in his small chest.
“Leave us alone!” Little Terry shouted.
“Look at this shit,” Terry said, glaring down at his wife and son. “I got two bitches.” He shook his head and walked over to the dresser, grabbing his bag that contained the material he used to prepare his fix, then walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom.
Five minutes later, Terry senior called out to his son. “Little T, come here!”
Little Terry tried desperately to block the one voice that left a pang in his heart every time he heard it.
“Little T, bring yo ass in here before I have to get up and come get you!”
“Baby, just go see what he wants. He’s probably going to apologize.” Reluctantly, Little Terry left his mother’s side and walked into the bathroom. His father was seated on the clothes hamper. He had on the white tank top and brown slacks that he had wore the previous day.
“Do you want to be like me when you grow up?”
Little Terry shook his head in response.
“I don’t speak fuckin’ sign language, boy. You got a mouth, use it!”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I don’t want to be like you,” Little Terry said without concealing the anger in his voice.
“Good. I’m gonna show you what makes me the way I am. If you turn your eyes away from me for one second, I’m gon’ beat shit down your leg. You hear me, boy?”
Little Terry’s first reaction was to nod his head, but he remembered what his father had just told him about using his mouth. “Yes.”
Terry removed the belt from his pants and wrapped it tightly around his left bicep. He then picked up the syringe that lay on the sink and held it in the air. “Do you see this? This is what makes me who I am. This is my true wife. Ever since we first met, I fell in love with her. She’s a jealous woman. She makes sure that I love nothing or no one more than I love her.” He looked at his son whose eyes were transfixed on the needle. “Do you know what her name is, boy?”
“No.”
“Her name is Heroin. Now if you want to be like me, then, you fall in love with her. This is how you do it.” He stuck the tip of the needle into the vein that protruded down the length of his forearm and injected the liquid into his blood stream.
Little Terry stared at his father with growing hatred towards him and the drug that turned the man that he once loved and admired into the cold, heartless being that stood before him.
Instantly feeling the intense high from the heroin that traveled through his body, he slowly pulled the needle out of his arm. A trickle of blood seeped out of the tiny hole and slithered down his forearm. He then loosened the belt from around his bicep and slouched against the wall. “Now get the fuck out of here,” Terry ordered. His eyes stared off into oblivion.
––––––––
“Damn, T. Did you hear what I said?” Jihad asked, snapping Terry out of his reverie.
“Yeah, I heard you.” He lied.
“What did I say then?”
“You was saying something about how you was tired of paying for pussy and how you can’t wait to find a chick that’ll give you some pussy for free.” Terry joked.
“Oh, I know you ain’t talking. You so black, when you put on baby oil, it looks like you used Kiwi shoe polish!”
“Nigga, you so black, you gotta wear white gloves when you eat Tootsie Rolls so you don’t bite your fingers off.” Terry shot back.
“You so stupid, you thought Cheerios was donut seeds!”
“Fuck you!” Terry playfully jabbed Jihad in the arm. “Ride by the restaurant, let’s get something to eat.”
Terry owned a soul food restaurant with the help of his mother named, Inspirations. The establishment was well known for its delicious food and relaxing atmosphere. Three nights a week, Anita hired local poets to recite their poetry live, and two nights a week she invited jazz musicians to perform for the patrons while they ate and drank.
Jihad pulled over in front of Inspirations entrance. It was noon. The restaurant did not open until 3:00 p.m. but Terry knew that his mother, along with the rest of the staff, were inside preparing for the day.
Terry stepped out of the BMW handsomely dressed in a coffee hued cable knit cashmere sweater. The solid color was the perfect background for his thirty two inch total diamond necklace and matching diamond laced cross. His black Seven jeans and black alligator and leather trimmed Mauri sneakers rounded everything out.
Jihad was dressed in an exclusive green Retroactive hoodie, blue Japanese hard denim Retroactive jeans and a unique pair of grey and green Retro V Air Jordan’s.
Terry reached into his pocket and removed a set of keys. After finding the appropriate one, he unlocked the door and entered his establishment.
Is it a Crime by Sade, flowed through the air as Terry took a sweeping look around.
“Hey, baby. What’s up?” Anita came walking from the back where the kitchen was located. She was forty-nine years old with a vibrant look and demeanor.
“What’s good, ma?”
“What’s good?” Anita asked. “Everything we cook is good. What you talkin’ about?”
Terry giggled at his mother’s reply. “You know what I mean. How you doin’?”
“Oh, I guess I’m alright. Some asshole came and stole three garbage bags of bottles from out back. I hate that shit. You know old man Leroy comes by once a week to pick up them bottles. I’ma get me a BB gun and as soon as I catch somebody takin’ them bottles, I’m gonna shoot ‘em right in their ass! You watch ‘n see.”
“Ma, you trippin’.”
“No, I ain’t either. You think I’m jokin’!” Anita looked to her right and saw Jihad giggling. “What you standin’ over there all quiet for, big boy? You can’t speak?” She placed her hands on her hips waiting for a response.
“Everything’s okay. How you doin’, Ma?” Jihad asked, revealing his pearly whites.
“That’s more like it. I’m fine, baby.” She turned her attention back to her son. “Did you do the accounting and balances?”
“Yes, Ma. I came in last night and took care of it. I also placed orders, restocking everything we’re low on. All I need you to do is sign the paychecks. Everyone’s completed work hours and hourly wages are on the computer.”
“You talkin’ to me like I just learned how to do this.” Anita smacked her lips. “You boys hungry?”
“Yeah, but I’m gon’ call a few more people over so we can talk.”
“Well, you need to hurry up. Ya’ll gotta be finished before two-thirty, ‘cause you know we open up at three o’clock.” Anita turned around and headed toward the kitchen. “Call me when you’re ready to eat!” she yelled over her shoulder.
Terry pulled out his phone and sent texts to Haitian, Boogs and Twan. He instructed them to come to the restaurant right away, so they could eat and talk.
Haitian was the first to arrive. He was thirty-two years old and from Brooklyn. His facial features were remarkably similar to the reggae artist Shabba Ranks. He used to constantly travel back and forth from Brooklyn to Syracuse to hustle. However, in time, he became so comfortable that he ended up making Syracuse his permanent residence.
Twan came to the restaurant second.
Boogs hadn’t made it in yet. Boogs was originally from Philadelphia. His true nickname was Boogie Man, but over time it was shortened and he stuck with it. At twenty-three years old, Boogs was by far the youngest of the bunch. However, his youth had never been a factor, because he was street smart beyond his age.
Everyone who was inside the restaurant heard and felt the vibration and rumble of heavy bass from outside. They instantly knew the source. Boogs pulled up behind Jihad’s coupe. He jumped out of his custom candy apple red BMW X5 M. The SUV was fully loaded with red and black suede interior, two fifteen inch JL Audio sub woofers, and gigantic twenty six inch Lexani rims.
He walked into the restaurant hyper as usual with his large white gold chain and diamond studded cross swaying back and forth. His platinum and diamond Cartier glasses commanded attention. Boogs’ skin was the color of creamed coffee. His charming round eyes, baby face and low cut Caesar contributed to his beguiling appearance. “What’s up, cannon?” He greeted everyone with enthusiastic handshakes, his Philadelphia accent prominent.
“What the fuck I told you about blastin’ that music so loud in front of the restaurant?” Terry scolded.
“Damn, my fault. I had that new Meek Mill in there. That bawh is the truth!” Boogs knew that Terry could never stay mad at him for long. He was the little brother that Terry never had. “Guess what, T?”
“What?” A hint of frustration still lingered in his voice.
“I was chillin’ in front of Club Roar last night. When it ended, this bad ass shorty came out. As soon as she saw all that candy and chrome she wanted to fuck...the broad was thirty-five!” Boogs professed proudly. “And I popped a Viagra. I beat that pussy like it owed me money!”
“Yo, you a nut, li’l nigga,” Twan said.
“Aaight ya’ll. We got some important business to discuss, so let’s get down to it,” Terry announced, bringing seriousness to the conversation. He called one of the waitresses over to the table. After taking everyone’s order, she left.
“Okay, ya’ll, we have a slight problem on our hands.” The men at the table discontinued their small talk and gave their attention to Terry. “As I’m sure ya’ll know, the coke prices are getting higher and the quality is getting worse.” The group mumbled in agreement. “It’s getting increasingly difficult to keep a steady supply.”
“Yeah,” Twan said. “The shit you’ve been giving me to cook up can’t take a hit, and still be good enough to put out on the streets. They’re cutting it up heavy before they sell it to you.”
“Well, one thing we gotta do is cut back on the size of our bags,” Boogs suggested. “How can we keep big bags when we paying so much?”
“You’re right,” Terry acknowledged.
Jihad chimed in. “And we’re gonna have to weigh the eight balls up at three-point-two grams instead of three-point-five.”
“Yeah, every little bit counts. But this is only going to be in effect while the drought is here,” Terry informed his men. “As soon as we find the connect we need, everything goes back to normal.”
“I think I might be able to help you with a connect,” Haitian said.
“Oh yeah? How’s that?” Terry asked.
“My man, Powerful.”
“What about him?” Jihad questioned.
“His brother, Justice, got locked up and now he’s running shit. They say that nigga got more birds than a pet store.”
“Listen, I already had one bad run in. I don’t have time to waste, or money to lose based on some he say/she say shit,” Terry explained.
“I used to buy weight from Powerful before I moved here. He been gettin’ money, and his brother had Bedstuy on lock for years. It ain’t like these some new niggas that just came around.”
“Alright, well, I need you to check it out.”
“You ain’t said nothin’. I’ll get on that expressway tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, this is what we gon’ do. Haitian, I want you to get in touch with your man, Powerful. I’m gon’ give you the money for a bird. If you come back with the work, and it’s good, then, we’ll fuck with him. Do you really think you can get down there tomorrow?”
“No question,” Haitian responded.
“Alright. Let’s see if everything pans out. But for now, we’re just going to do a little cutting back on the size of our bags and shave off a little on the weight we’re selling.”
“And I got to get on them niggaz about taking so many shorts. From now on, they can’t accept nothing less than nine dollars,” Boogs said.
“Yo, Twan, I need you to...” Terry cut his words short when he looked over to Twan and saw that his head was tilted back, his mouth gaped. This was not uncommon due to his narcolepsy. Boogs looked at Twan and released a devilish grin.
“Boogie Man, don’t do it,” Terry warned, realizing that he was up to something.
Ignoring Terry, Boogs grabbed the salt shaker, removed the top, and poured over half of the salt into the glass of water that was in front of Twan. He then took a bottle of tobasco sauce, twisted the top off, crept up the side of Twan, and poured a generous amount of the fiery liquid into his open mouth.
Still asleep, Twan closed his mouth and began smacking his lips. The sudden burning sensation brought Twan out of his siesta. Beads of perspiration quickly formed on his forehead as the heat forced him awake. He jumped out of his chair and onto his feet.
“Oh, shit!” He reached for the water in front of him and took two huge gulps. Suddenly his eyes grew even wider as he spit the salty water out of his mouth, causing it to land all over him and the floor.
The entire table burst out in uncontrollable laughter. Twan’s angry eyes scanned the table. He instantly knew who the culprit was.
“Boogs, I’ma whoop yo ass!”
“What did I do?” Boogs said, attempting to sound as innocent as possible.
Twan was not going for it. He headed towards Boogs like a bull out of the cage.
Boogs jumped up from his chair as if it was on fire. “T, text me when you’re ready for me!” Boogs yelled as he quickly darted past Twan and out of the entrance door, narrowly escaping a severe ass whooping.
––––––––
The following day Terry met up with Haitian. Just as he promised, a meeting had been arranged with Powerful to purchase a kilo of cocaine. Terry gave him a small duffel bag containing twenty six thousand dollars. He also gave Haitian the keys to the Navigator and instructions on how to use the stash box. Haitian got inside the SUV and headed towards Brooklyn, New York.
––––––––
“Uuugh...yeah... It feels good, don’t it?” Powerful grunted as his shoulder length dreadlocks danced wildly, and he pumped ferociously in and out of the slim, Latin woman in the doggy-style position.
“Mmm...Hmmm...” she mumbled, unable to say anything else because her face was buried in another woman’s pussy.
“Don’t be stingy, Marisol,” the curvaceous white girl said. “Let me get some of that big, black meat.”
Without saying a word, Powerful slid himself out of Marisol and easily moved her face away from the white girl’s pussy. Spreading her legs wide apart, he plunged himself deep into her unbelievably tight and moist entrance.
“Oh, God!” she screamed from the sudden burst of pain. After adjusting, her screams turned into moans of pleasure as she worked her pelvis, meeting him thrust for thrust.
Marisol was growing tired of rubbing her own clitoris. She straddled her leg over Amy’s face. Her pussy was instantly greeted by a skilled tongue.
Ding-Dong! Powerful heard the sound of his doorbell ring, but there was no way he could pull out. He didn’t even allow it to break his rhythm. After ten minutes and five more rings of the doorbell, he felt his orgasm building up.
“Oh, shit...I’m ‘bout to cum!” As if on cue, Marisol and Amy quickly turned around to greet his rod. Each one took turns licking and sucking. With a mellow moan, Powerful released on the eagerly awaiting faces and breasts of both women. “Damn,” he said with a hint of frustration. “Let me see who in the fuck’s at my door.”
“Wait a minute.” Amy reached out and grabbed his shaft in her hand. “I don’t want you to spill anything.” Using her mouth, she engulfed his dick issuing long, even sucks to remove the remnants of semen from his penis.
“Damn, baby. You’re the best. Ya’ll go take a shower.” Powerful slid on a pair of jeans and removed a .45 semi-automatic from his nightstand. The chime from the doorbell rang again. “Shit,” he mumbled. He stood to the side of the door out of precaution, with his weapon in hand. “Who is it?”
“It’s Haitian.”
Powerful opened the door. “Come in.” Perspiration lingered on his face and chiseled chest.
“Damn, nigga. What was you doin’, working out or something?”
“Nah, I was in some pussy until I was rudely interrupted. You’re early.”
“I’m only an hour early, and I know this money is more important than some pussy.”
“Is that the dough?” Powerful asked, gesturing towards the bag that Haitian carried.
“Yeah.”
“Hold on a minute.” He tucked his gun into the waist of his pants and walked away to the coffee table where a few cell phones lay. After sending a text he waited a moment, then received a response. He then placed the phone down and walked back over to Haitian. “You got twenty-five G’s in there?”
“It’s all there, counted and wrapped.” Haitian reached into the bag and pulled out a few stacks for Powerful to see. He had told Terry that the price was twenty-six thousand. The extra thousand dollars was pocketed. What the hell, he thought, I’m the one doing the transporting and risking my ass for him. I should be charging him more.
Powerful took the bag. They sat down at the kitchen table while he removed the money and casually thumbed through it. “Who you coppin’ this brick for?”
“I’m coppin’ for myself, nigga. That’s all my paper.” He lied.
Powerful chuckled. Doubt was visibly etched on his face. “Nigga, please. You couldn’t save up two thousand dollars, now all of a sudden you got ki money? Get the fuck outta here!” He couldn’t contain his laughter.
Just then, Amy walked into the kitchen. Her long brown hair accented with blonde streaks was pulled up into a bun. She was wearing nothing but a navy blue bra and matching lace cheekies. “Excuse me.” She said it more towards Powerful. She walked past them and removed a set of glasses from the cabinet, opened the refrigerator, and bent over to peer inside for a moment in contemplation of what she wanted to drink.
Haitian could not take his eyes off the beautiful, young, white girl with the slim waist, plump, round butt and thick thighs. He had never seen a white woman with such a shapely figure in person. Powerful noticed Haitian lusting after Amy, but paid it little attention. To him, it was like Haitian was staring at a car he could never afford.
“Yeah, P,” Haitian began in a cocky voice just loud enough to be heard by Amy as she poured orange juice into the two glasses. “That twenty-five G’s ain’t shit. If I like what you got, I’m comin’ to get seven more next week.”
Powerful stared at him incredulously. “I hear that, big boy.” He responded with a hint of sarcasm. Haitian didn’t notice it. He was too busy watching Amy’s ass sashay from left to right as she sauntered out of the kitchen, heading towards the bedroom.
“Damn, P. She’s shaped like Coco. You can’t just find nothing like that strolling around. She had to come special ordered!”
Ding-Dong! The doorbell rang. Without saying anything, Powerful got up and left the kitchen. When he opened the door there was no one there, only a backpack. He scooped it up, locked the door, and returned to the kitchen table. Without inspecting its contents, he simply handed the backpack to Haitian. He unzipped it and marveled over the kilo of cocaine. This was the first time he had one in his hands.
“You sure this is straight?” he asked, less out of concern, and more because he simply didn’t know what else to say.
The question caused Powerful’s anger to instantaneously surface. “Mutha fucka, are you insulting my character?”
“No, man, I was just...”
“Nigga, you just disrespected me in my own goddamned house?”
“Come on, P. It ain’t like that,” he pleaded.
“Get the fuck out!”
“Man, I...”
Powerful removed the .45 from his waist and laid it on the table. His hand was still tightly wrapped around the handle. The barrel was facing Haitian.
“Do I have to repeat myself?”
“Nah.” Haitian eased out of the chair, clutching the backpack and headed toward the door.
Powerful followed. “When you come back, bring some fucking respect with you!”
Haitian narrowly made it out before the door was slammed behind him. Powerful walked to the living room window overlooking the street just in time to see Haitian scurrying to a Lincoln Navigator, and after a moment, pull off. “Lying ass nigga.” He was going to find out who Haitian was buying for later. But for now, he had some unfinished business to attend to in his bedroom.
––––––––
When Haitian was within fifteen minutes of reaching Syracuse, he sent Jihad a text message letting him know that he was on his way to the house. Terry, Twan and Jihad were driving together when he received the message. He then drove directly to the spot.
A few minutes later, the Navigator pulled into the driveway. Haitian hopped out carrying the backpack over his shoulder. He trotted to the back door and began pounding. Twan jerked the door open, completely blocking the entrance with his massive frame. “Nigga, what the fuck is wrong with you, banging on the door like you’re crazy?”
“I just made it back, T,” he stated proudly. “I got the work right here!” He held the bag up as if it was a grand prize.
“Gimme that shit.” Twan snatched the bag out of his grasp while giving him a cold stare that crushed his pride. He stepped to the side and Haitian darted inside hoping that Twan didn’t use his ham sized hand to smack him in the back of the head as he passed.
Terry and Jihad were in the living room watching a Smack DVD when Haitian stormed in, stopping directly in front of the TV blocking their view.
“I told you I was gonna come through, T. I made it, baby! It wasn’t nothin’, kid. Everything went like clockwork. Once my nigga, Powerful, saw me, he rolled out the red carpet for ya boy. He was about to start poppin’ bottles and...”
“Are you made of glass?” Jihad asked.
“Huh? No, why?”
“’Cause your simple ass just came and stopped in front of the TV like I can see through you. Move the fuck outta the way!”
Haitian briskly stepped to the right. He knew better than to take a chance by arousing Jihad’s anger. Terry and Jihad got up and walked past him and into the kitchen. Haitian followed them like a lost puppy.
“Yeah, my man was gon’ front us an extra bird, but I told him we don’t need nobody to front us nothin’. We got paper.”
Twan was already in the kitchen. He began to pull out the materials and ingredients to convert the powder into crack.
“What you think, Twan?” Terry asked, completely ignoring Haitian as he babbled on.
“I’m about to find out right now.” Twan sliced open the plastic wrapped kilogram with a box cutter. He removed and weighed exactly ten grams of cocaine on a scale. He then took a bottle of clear ammonia and poured about eight ounces into a small bowl. He dropped the powder into the ammonia. The cocaine fizzed up as the impurities rose to the surface, and the pure powder rocked up into crack. Twan removed the crack rock from the bowl, ran it under water, and allowed it to dry. Once completely dried, he placed the crack rock on the scale. It weighed almost seven grams. He picked up the off white rock and studied it. “It ain’t bad. It’s over sixty-five percent pure. It’s not no helluva good shit, but it will hold enough cut for us to stretch it a little. But it’s better than the shit we was getting before.”
“Probably better than anything else around here,” Terry added.
“I’ll probably turn it into a thousand and seventy grams of decent work,” Twan said.
“I know you’re gonna make magic.” Terry had total confidence in Twan’s ability. He, then, turned to Haitian. “I have to admit, I’m proud of you. Tomorrow, I’m going to give you a grand. In two days, I’m going to need you to go back up there to get four more. Do you think you can handle that?”
“No question!” Haitian beamed. He was already imagining pouring all that money onto Powerful’s table. He ain’t gon’ believe it when he see me with all that dough, he thought to himself...