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Terry sat recumbent in the passenger seat while Jihad piloted his coupe through the lively streets of South Philadelphia. The mild temperatured, bright day slowly began to descend as evening approached.
“I can’t believe that everything is going so good for us out here,” Jihad said, focusing on the road.
“Yeah, Philly is making it a lot easier for us to do our thing and stay below the radar.”
“Boogs and Reek is movin’ that work like it’s nothin’. I gotta see them again before the night’s out.”
“We’ve been grinding since we came here. It’s time for us to have a little fun. We’ll get back to work tomorrow,” Terry stated.
“I’m with that. I heard a lot about Club Roxy. You wanna go there?”
“Yeah. They say that jawn is live. Let’s go pop a few bottles.”
Jihad drove over to South Street and pulled over in front of Dr. Denim, an urban, high-fashion boutique that was becoming his favorite place to shop. About thirty minutes and over two thousand dollars later, they left with a couple of bags filled with high-end apparel. They tossed their bags into the trunk and got inside the car. Then, an ice blue CL 63 pulled up on the side of them and parked. A brown skinned, bulky man got out, gave a quick glance at the BMW, and then headed towards Dr. Denim.
Damn, that Benz is official. That nigga gotta be gettin’ money,” Jihad said.
“That color is crazy. He put that jawn together right,” Terry said as Jihad pulled off.
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Later on that night, Terry’s gleaming Mercedes eased into the large parking lot surrounding Club Roxy, followed by Jihad. Vehicles were pulling in by the minute. Terry stepped out of his car dressed to impress in a powder blue Burberry sweater with its iconic print covering the elbows, blue Seven jeans, and sky blue Prada sneakers. His diamond studded chain and Hublot watch rounded out his attire.
Jihad sported black Tom Ford frames, a black Gucci sweater, black fitted Rock & Republic jeans exposing the shiny golden buckle of his Gucci belt, along with a pair of black Tom Ford loafers. A gold Cuban link chain and Audimoire watch contrasted perfectly against his outfit.
They made it into the prodigious, lavish club. The festive atmosphere and upbeat music, combined with the well-dressed men and women, created an exceptional atmosphere. Terry and Jihad strolled around, visually ingesting the club as D.J. Flow kept the crowd active with his selections.
Jihad stopped by the large bar and ordered two bottles of Ace of Spades. After paying for the champagne, they found a table on the outside of the dance floor and took a seat. Jihad noticed a crew of men in the VIP section popping expensive bottles as if they were going out of style. “Who’s them niggas in the VIP?” Jihad yelled over the loud music.
“I’m not sure, but I think its them SP cats,” Terry responded.
A few minutes later, D.J. Flow’s voice blared through the speakers. “Shout out to the bawh, Mack, and the whole SP squad. They see you, but they can’t be you...it’s levels to this shit!” He, then, played the song Levels by Meek Mill. Mack stood up and raised his shiny gold bottle into the air, acknowledging D.J. Flow’s salute.
“Yo, that’s the kid who pulled up next to us at Dr. Denim,” Jihad said.
“That’s our competition,” Terry said.
“We might have to eliminate him before he becomes our problem.”
“We ain’t ready to go to war with him, yet. Right now, we’re outnumbered, and out gunned.”
“It won’t be a war, it’ll be a hit.” Jihad took a swig from his bottle. “The advantage is in our corner. If he don’t have a clue that we’re plotting, it’s impossible for him to prepare a defense.”
Terry leaned back and bobbed to the music, doing his best to memorize the faces of everyone partying with Mack. Not wanting to devote too much time to his potential opposition, he shifted back to party mode.
Women constantly passed Terry and Jihad’s table, throwing them flirtatious glances of approval. They loved the attention, but the night was still young. There was still plenty of time to select a candidate worthy of leaving the club with.
“I gotta take a piss, then, I’m going to get us two more bottles.” Terry got up and walked to the restroom. Inside, he saw two men who appeared to be scheming on something. Paying them little attention, he went directly to the urinals. The men were oblivious to him. They continued on with their conversation in barely audible voices.
“I’m telling you, we gotta get that nigga, Mack, tonight. He murdered Shalik, and we’re out here actin’ like everything’s all good.”
“Yeah, but you was plotting on Shalik yourself,” the other man said.
“So, what! That bitch ass nigga is eatin’ too fuckin’ much anyway. Come on, we gon’ catch him when he go to his car.” They shook hands, and then left the men’s room.
A moment later, Terry exited and headed towards the bar. After replaying the two strangers’ conversation, he spun around and walked towards the VIP section. Once there, he approached the heavy-set man who was enjoying himself. “Pardon me, is your name, Mack?”
The stranger’s question caused Mack’s demeanor to shift instantly. “Do I know you?”
“Nah, you don’t know me. I just came to give you a warning. I overheard two dudes in the bathroom plotting on killing you.”
“What?” Mack responded stone-faced. He leaned in closer, not wanting to miss a single word.
“They’re going to be waiting by your car when you leave the club, so be on point.” Before Mack could ask any additional questions, Terry slid off, disappearing into the thick crowd.
Mack decided not to reveal the news to his comrades. They were all intoxicated. If he told them that someone was plotting on his life, they would surely react out of anger. He was aware that if moves were carried out in anger, mistakes would be made.
He pulled out his phone and sent a text to Sandra: I miss my two babies. I need to see them ASAP. You know where I’m at. Replacing his phone in his pocket, he continued enjoying himself as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
At around 12:30 a.m. he received a text. After reading it, he told his crew that he had to go. He gave them dap, strolled through the club one final time, and then left.
As soon as he stepped outside, Mack was greeted by Sandra. He gave her a hug as she tucked two royal-blue .40 caliber Glocks into the waist of his pants. He pulled his Armani sweater over the handles to conceal them.
“Thanks, baby.” Mack kissed Sandra softly on her lips. “Go home. I’ll be there soon.”
“Are you sure?” She looked up at him puppy eyed.
“I’ll be there within the hour.” As he spoke to her, he surveyed the parking lot. It was desolate. Everyone was inside enjoying themselves.
“Okay baby. Be careful.” With a quick kiss on the cheek, Sandra walked to her car and left.
Mack, then, began to wobble in the direction of his car as if he was inebriated. “SP for life!” he shouted, slurring his words. “I’m the mutha fuckin’ boss. I got money to blow!” He continued, walking with unsteady feet.
“Aye Mack!” a voice yelled out aggressively.
The drunken swagger immediately disappeared. Mack spun around with a semi-automatic gripped in each extended hand. The blaring gun shot and bright flash caught Mack’s eye. He responded by firing multiple .40 caliber rounds at the source. The windows of an Escalade that Mack was crouched behind were blown out from the shooter’s return fire.
Mack dropped down flat on the pavement. Looking under the parked cars, his eyes locked on two sets of feet scurrying in an attempt to get closer to him. He raised his gun and fired a single shot into the air. Just as he expected, the feet paused. He, then, repeatedly squeezed the triggers sending eight slugs beneath the cars, striking the men in their legs. Loud shrills pierced the air as the attackers collapsed in agony.
With astonishing agility, Mack, rose to his feet and trotted over to the shooters-turned-victims. Without coming to a complete halt, as soon as they were in range he began firing bullets into their bodies. The Full Metal Jacket slugs dismantled their organs ensuring death.
Hastily, Mack made it to his Mercedes. After a quick and careful scan for potential witnesses, he pulled out of the parking lot.
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Taylor Street was active as usual. Pedestrians were en route to their destinations and the hustlers did their best to meld in, while simultaneously being on alert for both customers and the police. Reek sat in his Jaguar casually thumbing through the stack of money that was given to him by the young man in the passenger seat. “You sure this is straight? It’s a lot of counterfeit money floating around.”
“I heard about that. That’s why I double check everything that touches my hands,” the young man responded.
Reek reached under his seat, pulled out an ounce of cocaine and handed it over.
The buyer quickly stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
“Alright,” he said, looking out the window instinctually, “I’ll be calling you for more before the day’s over.” With that said, he slid out of the car and blended into the streets.
Shortly after, a black on black Jeep Wrangler Rubicon swerved to the curb in front of Reek’s car. Mack hopped out, walked directly to the passenger side of the Jaguar and got in.
“Wassup, cannon? I ain’t heard from you in a minute. You stopped hustlin’ or something?” Mack said, while delivering an imposing look to Reek.
“Nah, I’m still getting’ money,” Reek confessed.
Mack shook his head and chuckled. “I help you get on your feet and this is how you repay me?” His temper was clearly rising.
“It’s not that I cut you off. My cousin and his man’s came up from New York with that work. They fronting me a half a brick at a time. How can I turn that down?”
“Do one of them drive a BMW coupe?” Mack asked, remembering the car he parked next to at Dr. Denim’s with the New York State license plates. He thought about the accent of the man who gave him the warning at Club Onyx. Mack described him to Reek, who reluctantly confirmed. “What’s this nigga’s name?”
“Come on, Mack. You know I ain’t with that. I can’t give you information on him. Snitching is snitching no matter how you look at it.”
Mack’s first thought was to pull out his gun and smash it into Reek’s face, but after consideration, he had to respect the kid’s thoroughness. “I’ll tell you what, call him and ask if he hollered at me at Club Onyx. If he say yes, then tell him I want to talk to him.”
“Alright, I’ll do that.”
“Now!” Mack demanded.
Feeling the pressure, Reek grabbed his phone and dialed Terry’s number. He spoke to Terry momentarily. Upon Terry’s request, he handed the phone to Mack.
“Hello?”
“I would ask you what’s good, but seeing that I’m talking to you today, I see that life is good,” Terry said.
“Yeah, life is definitely good. Listen, I appreciate you giving me that heads up. I’ve been hearing a lot about you, and I created a perception of you based on that. It wasn’t a good one. Last night, you did something that you didn’t have to do, and that changed everything. If you don’t mind, I want to have a talk with you.”
“That’s cool. We can talk.”
“Do you know where Warm Daddy’s restaurant is?” Mack asked.
“I think so. It’s on...Delaware Avenue and Reed Street, right?”
“Yeah. Can you meet me there within a half an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
They hung up. Mack gave the phone back to Reek.
“So, where does that leave us?” Reek questioned.
“You’ll know after I talk to the bawh.” Mack left Reek, hopped into his Jeep, and then left.
Reek sighed and slid the compact 9 mm he had concealed in his left hand back under his thigh, relieved that he wasn’t forced to use it.
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Inside of the restaurant, Mack took a seat next to the window. From that location he was able to see everyone who neared or entered. The waitress delivered his order of marinated grilled steak, scrambled eggs with cheese and seasoned home fries. He wasted no time tearing into his food.
A moment later, Terry stepped inside, Mack waved him over with the fork still in his hand.
He approached the table and extended his hand to properly greet Mack. “Wassup, bruh? I’m T-Lova.”
His greeting was accepted with a handshake. “I’m Mack. Have a seat.” Terry sat down. “My bad for ordering before you came, but I’m a big boy. I can’t be around food without eating.”
“It’s alright.” Terry chuckled. He signaled for the waiter who immediately came over and jotted down his order of baked turkey wings, macaroni and cheese, and greens.
“I’ma get straight to the point. I asked you to meet me, because you made the decision to give me that warning last night. That decision might have saved my life, but it definitely saved yours.”
“Is that right?” Terry responded without displaying too much emotion.
“It’s some niggas out there looking for you as we speak.” Mack popped a slice of steak into his mouth and chewed while his comment lingered like a dense cloud of smoke. “You see, I don’t have a problem with you gettin’ money, but I do have a problem with you taking money out of my pocket.” Terry remained stone faced. “Under any other condition, I would have allowed your life to be taken. Consider my warning a returned favor.”
“So, you’re telling me that I have to stop hustling in South Philly?”
“Yeah,” he answered plainly.
“I appreciate the warning, but packing up and running away is not an option for me.”
“You’d rather get killed in a city you barely know than leave?”
“I’d rather kill than get killed. But I’d rather die as a G than live as a coward.”
“I gave you the warning. Once this conversation is over, it ain’t no turning back.”
“I respect that,” Terry said, “but you have to respect the fact that I’m not out here hustlin’ because it’s cool. I’m providing a way for me and mine’s...just like you. We’re more alike than you think, Mack. Let’s not be like these other niggas and kill each other over a block when we don’t even own the buildings on them. Money is gon’ continue to be printed whether we live or die. It’s enough money for everybody to eat. If we come together, we can run this city.”
“For one, what makes you think you can catch me slippin’, and rock me to sleep?” Mack asked, no longer concerned with the food. “And two, what sense would it make for us to get together when I already have South Philly on lock, and you’re just trying to get your foot in the door?”
“To answer your first question, no one is bullet proof. You never know, I could have the drop on you right now.”
“And, it could be a gun pointed at you as we speak,” Mack countered.
“It could be,” Terry acknowledged. “As for your second question, there is something valuable that I can bring to the table. I have a Mexican connect. I’m paying fifteen stacks a brick and he fronts me whatever I buy.”
Mack’s eyebrows rose with interest. “Are you serious?”
“No question.”
“Damn, I’m paying double that for a jawn. I’m making this Dominican muthafucka rich, knowing he’s stretching the coke.”
“The birds I’m getting is untouched and my plug is cartel connected. Like I said, I’m not in this game because it’s cool. My ultimate goal is to make enough money to switch my hustle and make the same amount of money, or more, legally.”
“I’ve been brain storming on the same thing,” Mack admitted.
“You see, we’re more alike than we are different.”
“I can tell that you have morals and integrity. I don’t see any deception with you. With loyalty, we will become monumental. With deceit, we will be nothing more than memories.”
“I’m not driven by greed, Mack. In this game, greed only brings a long prison bid, or an early death.”
“I like the way you talk. We’re both thinkers. If we get together and hustle with a common goal, not only will we reach it, but we will run circles around all these niggas out here,” Mack stated confidently.
“Do you smoke weed?”
“No question.”
“Let’s bend a couple of corners and see if we can put a master plan together.”
“Aaight.” Mack slid his Beretta Pico .380, he held under the table at Terry, back into his pocket.
He stood up just in time to see Terry sliding his Kahr Arms compact .380 into his pocket. “What was you doing?”
“Nothing that you wasn’t doing,” Terry responded as he stood up, pulling out a stack of bills to pay for their meals.
“You’re right.” Mack issued an approving smile. “We are more alike than we are different...”