20

Whistler curved over from the bed and placed the tightly rolled-up hundred-dollar bill into his right nostril and inhaled a line of cocaine from the small mirror on the nightstand. It was a definite pick-me-up. He did another line and felt the white girl straddling his mental and physical being and riding him into greener pastures at full speed. The bitch was a beast!

“Damn,” he muttered.

The drug hurled him into a euphoric state. The nigga almost felt like he was Superman! Cocaine was one hell of a drug. He was shirtless and clammy, and lying beside him was a naked, young whore. She cradled against him, and he felt her breasts against his back.

“Can I have some too?” she asked.

He eagerly welcomed her to the party. The pussy was better on cocaine, and the young girl was a freak. Whistler shimmied to the side to allow the girl access. She picked up the same C-note and inhaled a line of coke. It picked her up like a rocket taking off, and she giggled. It was high quality—some potent shit! She wasn’t done yet. She did another line. She had a nose like a vacuum. Feeling the influence of the white girl made her pussy spark and her body light up like a Christmas tree. She turned to Whistler and opened her mouth for him, and the two kissed fervently. She slid her tongue into his mouth and cradled his balls in her palm and massaged them.

The party was about to start, and they were the main attraction—the only ones on the dance floor. She lowered her face into his lap and enveloped his erection between her lips. He tilted his head back and enjoyed the moment. A moan escaped his lips as her head bobbed up and down.

“Oh shit,” he groaned.

“Relax . . . I got this,” she said evenly.

It would be an all-night thing for them. Neither of them were tired or ready to call it quits after several hours of fucking and cocaine—the ultimate Viagra.

Whistler felt like he was living that DMX song . . . I’m slipping, I’m falling, I can’t get up. He had been on a downward spiral since his abrupt departure from Scott and Lucky. His drug use was becoming more frequent, and he wasn’t as sharp on the streets like he was in his heyday. He was getting sloppy. His association with Deuce was an illusion. He thought he had a plan to thaw out Deuce and Jimmy and get out from under their thumb, but things weren’t working out as planned. They steadily had eyes on him.

It was after midnight, and Whistler and his chick were twisted in each other’s arms and legs once again, after doing more drugs and having multiple orgasms. The muscles in Whistler’s back, thighs, arms, and butt flexed repeatedly and he cried out into the night. “Oh shit . . . Ooooh God! Ooooh, right there!”

Their freak fest was interrupted by a hard and loud knock at the door. It brought a stop to everything and made Whistler climb out the pussy. He reached for his pants and his .45 and carefully approached the apartment door. The knocking didn’t sound too welcoming. He looked through the peephole and saw it was two of Deuce’s men. Seeing them at his apartment door at such an early hour had him worried.

He cocked back the gun and said, “What’s up?”

“Deuce wants to see you,” they said through the door.

“Now?”

“Right now, nigga,” the young goon exclaimed.

“Give me a minute to get dressed.”

“We ain’t got all night,” the goon responded.

Whistler went back into the bedroom and collected a few things, got dressed, and shoved the gun into his waistband. His young companion looked at him puzzled. “You leaving?” she said.

“I gotta go take care of something.”

Whistler left the room and left the eight ball of cocaine for her to enjoy. She beamed. For her, it was still party time.

Whistler followed behind the young goons and got into a black Chevy. It drove off with him the backseat. During the ride, he couldn’t help but to wonder how he’d gotten to this point. He was a god in New York and elsewhere. He was respected and feared, and now he was being summoned by someone he’d once considered inferior to him like some young boy on the block.

Crazy!

The drive to meet Deuce was on the other side of town. It was a warehouse near Browntown, and it was a stone’s throw away from the I-95 expressway. Whistler ascended from the backseat of the Chevy and followed the two thugs into the building. The cold night had everyone wrapped up in winter coats and ski hands. At the door, he was immediately searched and his pistol was removed from his person.

“What’s this all about?” he asked them.

They didn’t answer him. They were just following orders. He was escorted farther into the warehouse and to another room. Deuce, Jimmy, and several other men waited inside. The congratulatory vibe Whistler had experienced the other day now seemed cold and aloof. He was met with scowling faces. It was a nerve wracking moment, and he feared for his life. But regardless of what was about to go down, Whistler wasn’t going out without a fight. He was a man built for that life and had done seen it all and been through it all.

“What’s this about?” he asked in a stern voice. There was no bitch in him.

Deuce, who was seated in an old chair, stood up swiftly. Whistler noticed the money in his hand. They were all hundred-dollar bills. Deuce stepped toward Whistler in an aggressive manner and threw the money at him. It sprinkled everywhere. Then Deuce shouted, “It’s all fuckin’ fake!”

“What the fuck you mean fake?” Whistler questioned.

Deuce, scowling heavily at Whistler, said, “Every last dollar of it! It’s fake—fuckin’ counterfeit!”

Whistler was taken aback. He didn’t see that one coming. He marveled at the boldness of Scott, but he knew this was more Bugsy’s doing. Bugsy was the real brains of the organization. To set them up to rob counterfeit money, it was a priceless scheme. But where was the backlash? Once again, Whistler was puzzled by it.

“You fuckin’ knew about this, muthafucka?” Deuce hollered. He was livid.

“I didn’t know shit! But I told you it was too easy! We should have waited!” he countered.

“Fuck him, Deuce!” Jimmy chimed. “I’ll do him right now.” Jimmy was itching to put a bullet in Whistler.

Whistler didn’t flinch. He locked eyes with Jimmy and stood his ground.

“Fuckin’ counterfeit!” Deuce screamed, kicking over a barrel of the fake money.

Whistler found himself in a sticky situation. He knew it was too good to be true. A lot was going through his mind. Why would Scott keep the bins there with the fake money? They weren’t into counterfeiting or selling it. And it wasn’t a trap because they would have been attacked at the warehouse. Whistler didn’t know what was going on, but his situation with Deuce was looking bleak.

“Yo, I want y’all to burn it all—every last fuckin’ dollar,” Deuce instructed his men.

“And what about Whistler?” Jimmy asked him.

Deuce swiveled his head in Whistler’s direction with a menacing scowl. “He’s coming wit’ us. We ain’t done conversing yet. I need answers.”

The three men left the building while DMC soldiers burned the fake cash.

Outside, they got into a Suburban truck and sped away. Unbeknownst to everyone, there was unwanted company approaching the building.