Moon pulled up to the corner of Eager Street in an all-black and dark-tinted Yukon Denali. Two stolen vans followed him. Both driven by other men who were loyal to both Nasty and Soulja. All of the men were dressed in black Tims, black sweat suits, and black knitted caps. The six men were nothing to play with. All of them had put in plenty of work and were always ready for war. Moon got out of his truck and walked up to the other trucks which were sitting side by side. Then he walked between them.
“Tee, you get out. Watch both corners. The rest of y’all sit tight and wait for my signal.”
Cars were going up and down the two-lane street, not paying them any mind. A few locals were across the street. A man bouncing a basketball. A dog barking, and two older cats drinking Colt 45 malt liquor out of large cans, half-concealed in rumpled up brown paper bags. A typical Baltimore scene on a typical Baltimore day.
They pulled up on the side of the federal holding facility in Baltimore. It was a vulnerable place. They were on the side of the building where prisoners could see the streets. The old window above on C-Block that was only about 8 inches wide had an infamous crack in it. It had been that way for years. People from the street would call out to inmates all the time. It was just something to do. But tonight, that crack would serve a real purpose.
“Ay, yo,” Moon called out from his truck with the window half open. “Somebody get Shorty 55 for me.”
A random inmate had gone to get Shorty 55. But the way the windows were set, the inmates could see out and the people outside could not see in. All they saw were shadows. It was the yelling that allowed communication to happen.
The prison was back in full swing. Everybody was confused because even the guards had expected some kickback over Mo Garrett, but everybody was jive fucked up that nothing happened. People were starting to wonder if Nasty had gone soft since Mo and Soulja were gone. The only thing that had gotten around was that Nasty sent word to Shorty 55 asking for Mo Garrett’s chain.
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Sitting in his cell all alone, Nasty felt like he would explode from all the pressure. Everyone had expectations of him, but he was trying his best to be loyal to Soulja’s wishes, even though it was killing him, and he felt people were questioning his gangster. Every time someone came back and told him what was being said in the penitentiary streets, it felt like a sledgehammer was banging against his skull. He wouldn’t be able to hold back for much longer.
His boy Rocky came into his cell. “Listen, shit not looking good right now, fam. Them two niccas that came in here yesterday and copped from you didn’t pay. They got it on some I-owe-you shit, but them two always pay. They testing you, Nasty. We gotta let it be known that we not playing with these cats.”
Nasty shrugged Rocky’s words off as though he didn’t care. But he did. “They’ll pay. They’ve never let me down before, so why would I overreact now? You’re paranoid.”
“I’m telling you . . . People think we went soft or some shit. They killed a man who was practically like your father, and we didn’t do shit. I understand your reason for delay, but we gotta act now. I mean, come on. This is going against honor. The hell with what Soulja’s talkin’ ‘bout. “
“Watch it!” Nasty said pointing at Rock. He valued Rocky’s opinion, but there was still rank that needed to be respected. Rocky just shook his head and walked out. Frustrated. Everybody was frustrated. Nasty stood in his doorway and observed the prison. From his cell, which was on the third floor in the middle of the tier, he could see most of the movement around the prison.
For most of the prison’s 2,000 residents, looking out that old window onto Eager Street was the biggest piece of freedom many of them would get for at least a decade. Some, for the rest of their lives. That window, with its old beat-up-looking frame and rusty bars, was the most beautiful sight to so many of them. You could hear the cars honking, emergency sirens, shouting, laughing, crying, and if you were important enough, maybe even someone calling your name.
“Yo, tell 55 he got a social at the window,” Nasty heard someone say. He perked up, wondering who was calling his enemy. The window could only be looked out from the east side of the prison from the auditorium. The “Freedom Window” as they called it. Just like that, Rocky was back at Nasty’s cell.
“Yo, who is calling that weasel?”
“I don’t know, but let’s go stand over on the west side and find out.” They weren’t being nosy, just trying to stay on point. Information could get twisted up faster than gossip at a woman’s hair salon in the pen. Men were lip runners too. Sometimes worse than the chattiest females. Nasty didn’t want information unless it was firsthand. He’d rather hear for himself than through inmate.com.
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Shorty 55 was seated on the edge of his unmade bunk with a wicky over the window. He’d just did a li’l dope and had his dick out and was stroking himself into ecstasy when he heard his name being called. He was just a few moments away from the climax when someone knocked on his door. They fucked up his high.
“I’m taking a shit. What?” he said, holding back his moans of pleasure as he stroked himself. He sped up the momentum because he didn’t want to miss a good one. “Uggh, ahh!” he said lowly as his bodily fluids jolted into his hands. He flushed the toilet, and then wiped his hands on the sides of shorts, leaving sticky residue everywhere. Finally, he opened the door.
“Yo, 55, somebody want you at the window.”
55 stepped out of his cell and let the man lead him to the window. He was soon met by his protection. Four huge-ass dudes that should have been playing for the Baltimore Ravens’ defense line instead of doing life in prison.
“Who is it?” 55 asked his man. Apple, the man who delivered the message and 55’s top security guy, shrugged his big-ass shoulders.
Shorty 55 made his way to the window. High on heroin, he struggled to make out the figure 75 feet away from him, outside, standing behind a barbed wire fence. He squeezed his ugly face between the bars as best he could and squinted his eyes to get a better look. But it was useless. The black-clad figure was too hard to make out.
“Yeah, this 55. What’s happening?” he asked screaming down to the sidewalk.
“Have you spoken to your sons?”
“My sons? What you asking ‘bout my sons for? Who you?”
“Listen, 55—and listen to me real good . . . You fucked up.”
“I fucked up?” 55 said smiling, revealing two missing front teeth. The rest of his grill looked like the color of a rotting banana.
“Yes, you did. You see, you took a chain from a very good friend of mine. And you need to give it back. You got 24 hours to return it. You can simply give it to his son. Because if you don’t, each one of your sons will die, one by one.”
Shorty 55 snapped his head back.
“Hold the fuck up! You threatening me, clown? Muthafucka, you putting a death threat on my sons over a chain?” Shorty 55 smiled. “Y’all trying to play me like a bitch! You got the wrong nigga. I run this pen.”
“You might run the pen, but we run these streets!” Moon said.
“What if I told you I already sold that chain? I ripped the little ugly-ass picture off and sold that gold.”
By now, the whole west wing was listening to their open-air dispute. Even people on the street were listening. But Moon was through talking. He turned his head toward the van that was parked behind him and signaled for it to pull up.
“Bring ‘im out!” Moon said. His man opened the van door. He dragged a man out and stood him up straight. It was John, Shorty 55’s little brother. “Say hello to your brother!”
“My brother? John! John, that’s you?” 55 asked. But there was no response other than the sound of the MAC-10. John’s head exploded into shreds as the clip was emptied into his dome and chest, bloodying up the sidewalk.
“Twenty-four hours, bitch!” And they jumped in the trucks and sped off.
Nasty heard the shots . . . the whole conversation, for that matter. He smiled to himself knowing that his man Soulja had not let him down. Nasty had nothing to do with orchestrating this. It was Soulja. And just that fast, their reign had been solidified, killing off any lingering doubt because there was no retaliation. It was done in such a way that it could not legally be brought back to Nasty or any of his men. This was street shit. By the time the police came running to lock down the prison, Nasty and Rocky had exchanged nods. They were not to be fucked with by any means. Shorty 55 knew that whoever did this meant business. He could assume it was Nasty and/or Soulja, but Mo Garrett had so much love in the pen and in the streets, it really could have been anybody.
Nasty closed his eyes and spoke to Mo Garrett. “I know none of this can bring you back. But I know if you’re watching, you can damn surely say we tried to level the scales.”