“What?” Tone spat groggily into the telephone. “Say that again.”
“This nigga Sykes came through and robbed a few workers and shot up the block,” Mann repeated. “It’s crazy hot out here right now. Mad police.”
“What about the stash?” Tone asked. “Did he hit the stash house?”
“Nah, we good on that,” Mann told him. “Shop closed.”
“Where you at?” Tone wondered.
“I took a hack to my lil Shorty house out in Cedonia,” Mann informed him.
Tone advised, “Stay right there, I’m on my way.”
Damn, I can’t believe this shit is happening...FUCK! Tone cursed, hanging up the phone.
Deep down inside he knew it was his own fault. Tone may have thought that he put the fear of God into Sykes, but that wasn’t the case at all. He had gotten overconfident after the shooting and had forgot to call anyone and make his team aware of what had happened. Sykes made him pay for that oversight. The very next day he had swiftly retaliated against them, hitting Tone where it hurt, in his pockets. He felt fortunate because things could have been much worse.
Sykes was proving nothing was safe as long as he was around. He was playing a deadly game of hide and seek, in which whomever got caught would likely wind up dead. On the streets there was always someone out to get someone else, especially in East Baltimore, that was nothing new. It was just the way things were. Tone realized if it weren’t Sykes, he’d probably have an issue with someone else.
Frustration simmered inside him. Sykes was becoming a big pain in his ass. To Tone he was more of a nuisance to the neighborhood, albeit a deadly one, than anything else. Tone jumped out the bed, threw on some clothes, and grabbed his gun. He hopped into his car and drove past the block before going to meet Mann.
Once again they strategized on ways to solve their problem, none of which sat too well with Tone. They discussed putting a hit out on Sykes, but he was sure that word would get back to him. They also thought about bringing down a shooter from New York to carry out the plot. Tone nixed that idea too, since there was no telling when or where Sykes would be seen again. With the shooting incident, Tone had proven to himself and Sykes that he had enough heart to get down and dirty whenever the situation called for it. More than ever the situation was calling for it now.
Besides Sykes, he had another problem. He had gotten some cocaine on consignment and he had to pay that bill as soon as possible. His connect didn’t want to hear about his beef, all he wanted was his money. He managed to stash enough money to live off for a few months, and also to pay for whatever amount of cocaine he had got fronted. But he didn’t want it to come to that. Quickly, Tone had to find a way to get it to him in a timely fashion. Or he had to face the fact that things might get worse before they got better.
In the days following the robbery, Sykes went on the offensive against Tone and his team. He launched assault after assault, doing everything in his power to disrupt his drug business. He began shooting at all of Tone’s workers, anyone who had anything to do with Tone. If Sykes had it his way, he would run Tone and anyone who dealt with him from around Ashland Avenue and Madeira Street for good.
One by one, local dudes from the area quit working for Tone until his team dissolved into just him and his cousin Mann. He couldn’t understand it, how was it possible that not one person from that area wanted to get money with him? He couldn’t believe how much Sykes had the whole hood under pressure. He suspected that he had verbally threatened more than a few people’s lives. And after what he had done to Shorty, no one was actually hanging around Tone to become his next victim.
In response to their cowardly actions, what Tone really wanted to do was call them out for being pussies. He had every reason and yet no reason at all to be pissed off at them. But something held him back from doing that. He couldn’t think of what advantage that that would gain him. After all, this wasn’t their beef, it was his. He just needed time to process things, to think this thing out. Tone thought time away from the block was the best thing right now. It was best to lay low until the drama died down. All this back and forth shit was taking a toll on him.
Tone glanced into his bathroom mirror, seeing the severity of his circumstances staring him in his face. He’d been staying in the house so much lately he didn’t know what to do with himself. He replayed the events of the past two days yet again. He needed a solution and he needed it fast. Tone searched his brain for a long time, thinking about Sykes. He was beefing with a man twice his age. And way more dangerous. So he figured he had to be doubly as cautious. He knew Sykes’ weakness was shooting dope. But it was one thing to know his weakness, and quite another to exploit it. Yet even another thing to find him. Sykes would weigh heavily on his mind for the next few days. That was until he got a phone call that would change everything.
“Yo,” Mann spoke into the telephone. “I found out where that nigger Sykes is at.”
Tone’s ears pricked. “You know where the nigger rests his head?”
“Better than that,” Mann responded.
“Say somethin’ kid!” Tone demanded.
“City Jail,” Mann told him.
“What?” Tone exclaimed. “How you know?”
“Bumped into a dope fiend at Lexington Market and he told me he seen the nigger. Sykes got picked up on a retail theft charge,” Mann assured him.
“Word?” Tone added.
“Word!” Mann chimed in.
Tone sighed as he came to a sudden realization. “That information ain’t gone do me no good. I can’t get at him in jail.”
“Listen,” Mann began. “You can if you bail the nigger out.”
Suddenly a light bulb went off in Tone’s head. The wheels in his mind began to turn. Mann had said a mouthful. For all intents and purposes, he thought that the news of Sykes’ arrest had put their beef on hold. Up until now it had been impossible to pinpoint Sykes’ location, the dope houses he frequented, or where he rested his head. Now suddenly Sykes’ advantage had just slipped away. For the first time since their altercation began, Tone had the upper hand. Now he could get some closure. Put an end to this dangerous game that he had been playing.
By bailing Sykes out, Tone would know exactly where he would be and at what time. He could take it from there. The moment had come. Tone put the plan in place, and he knew what had to be done. Later that evening, he had one of Mann’s girlfriends pay the bond with a bail bondsman. Now all there was left to do was wait until the bail was posted and Sykes was released from City Jail on Eager Street. He would be right there watching and waiting.
It was a narrow window of opportunity, but Tone thought it was well worth the shot. He knew he had one thing in his favor, the element of surprise.
The conditions in Baltimore City Jail were deplorable; the place was unlivable, on a good day, unbearable on a bad day. Sykes thrived in these conditions, he was immune to them, having spent so much time in correctional facilities. He had lived in shooting galleries that weren’t much better than this. Fortunately for him, this wasn’t his first rodeo. He knew how to maneuver in jail.
The legal system was his personal revolving door. Sykes had spent more than half his life incarcerated in jails from Hagerstown to the Maryland Eastern Shore. He thrived in these conditions. He was well known throughout the system. He once bragged that he could do his time at Baltimore City Jail standing on my head, that he knew how to bid.
Sykes’ heroin habit had gotten the best of him, resulting in him attempting to steal soap powder from a supermarket to feed his habit. Arrested, he was sent to City Jail in lieu of bail, not because of the severity of the crime, but because of his lengthy criminal history. Sykes was a repeat offender.
Slowly, his cell door mechanically began to open, shattering the peaceful night’s silence that had engulfed the tier. The loud noise was enough to only make Sykes barely stir in his sleep. His cell door stood wide open for a few seconds without him so much as acknowledging it. Still in a deep sleep, Sykes hadn’t realized yet that his cell door was even open.
“Sykes,” a correctional officer called out. Sykes was like a famous basketball player, he was known on a first name basis.
No answer. “Sykes! Sykes!” He shouted again, this time louder. Sykes continued to lie on his back on his bunk, in a comatose state. He was enjoying the precious rest that jail afforded him. It was the same rest that evaded him whenever he was in the streets, and his drug habit kept him up for days and all hours of the night.
“Sykes! Yo!” An inmate from a neighboring cell called out. “Wake up! The C.O. callin’ you.”
He heard that.
Groggily, Sykes opened his eyes to discover his cell door wide open. This is strange, he thought. The minute he sat up on his bed, his large belly protruded over his waistline. Bare-chested and dressed only in a pair of dingy white boxers, he stumbled to his feet and walked over to the cell door. He leaned halfway out the cell as he looked down the tier.
“C.O., what the fuck is up, yo?” Sykes hollered down the tier.
“Pack ya shit,” the Correctional Officer began. “You made bail. Let’s go!”
“You whores better stop playin’ wit’ me, yo!” Sykes swore. “I just fuckin’ got here the other day. I ain’t even been to court yet. I ain’t made no fuckin’ bail, yo!... Now close my fuckin’ cell door and stop playin’ wit’ me!”
Frustrated, Sykes re-entered his cell and laid back down on his bunk. He shook his head in disbelief.
“I made bail? Yeah right,” he said to himself.
His luck didn’t run like that. He didn’t have a get-out-of-jail-free card in his back pocket. Sykes had done too much dirt to the people that loved him for them to ever come get him out of a jam. The only person who would come get him out of jail, his mother, had died over ten years ago. At any second, he fully expected his cell door to shut close and he could resume his slumber. Yet he watched and waited for something to happen that just didn’t.
Click-Click, Click-Click.... His cell door methodically moved back and forth before moving back to an open position.
Angry, this time Sykes jumped out of bed barefoot and marched over to the cell door.
“C.O., stop playin’ wit’ me, yo!.....” Sykes yelled.
The Correctional Officer snapped. “Sykes, you wanna go home or what? If so, let’s get a move on now. I got other inmates to process out on bail. If you don’t wanna go now, then you can try your luck on the next shift. The choice is yours. Make up your mind quick my man.”
There was honesty in the man’s voice, which led Sykes to fully believe him now. He saw past all the tough talk to the heart of the matter, the truth. Now something told him that the Correctional Officer wasn’t playing at all. Sykes rushed back into his cell, quickly got dressed, grabbed a few meager belongings, some commissary items, and exited his cell.
Suddenly the tier was in an uproar. Prisoners began to call out to Sykes from nearby and down the tier as they bid him farewell.
“Sykes, stay out there this time, yo!....” someone yelled.
“Sykes, this Bey, holler at my people for me,” another man shouted. “Tell ‘em I’m short. All I need is a thousand dollars to get me out yo!”
“Alright, Bey!” Sykes lied, knowing damn well it would be the last thing on his mind once he hit the streets. “I got you, yo.”
Happily, Sykes rushed down the tier, not believing his luck. In the back of his mind he thought it was a clerical error and it might be discovered once he got to admissions. He still was unsure. So on the way off the tier, he stopped at an old comrade of his that he had done some serious time with in the old jail in Hagerstown, Maryland.
“Chicken!” he shouted. “Here yo! I’m leavin’ out. I just made bail. Take this commissary. If I come back, I want my shit. If I don’t, it’s yours, yo.”
“Alright yo,” Chicken replied, accepting the prison items. “Stay strong soldier. I’ll see you when I get uptown.”
“Sykes!” the Correctional Officer shouted. “We ain’t got all day!”
“Alright, here I come,” Sykes announced as he walked away from the cell door. “I’ll holla at you niggas later yo. Y’all stay up!”
“You’ll be back!” someone hollered out.
“Fuck you, you jealous whore!” he yelled back while strutting down the tier.
Sykes was still in denial by the time he got down to the admissions area of the jail. He was placed in a holding cell along with a few other inmates fortunate enough to make bail. Sykes exhibited a nervous energy that made him very talkative.
“Hey C.O., I wanna know, who bailed me out?” Sykes inquired nicely, with his face pressed to the steel bars.
“Listen Sykes, for the umpteen time,” the Sergeant groaned, “you’re not going to keep bothering me. I’m very busy. I have a job to do and that’s to get you guys out of here and off the morning count. And, I don’t have that information in front of me. End of story.”
He continued to press. “Could you find out who it was? Please?”
The Sergeant snapped. “Jesus Christ! You wanna go home or what? If so, excuse me while I get back to work. You’re about to go home now, that’s all you need to know. If you really want to know, take it up with your bail bondsman tomorrow.”
“Sorry Serg,” Sykes spoke. “I just was wonderin’, that’s all.”
The Sergeant was right, Sykes mused. He decided to give the man a break, relax and wait for his name to be called so he could go home. Suddenly his mind began to race about the things he wanted to do when he got home. The first thing he planned to do was get a shot of dope. That had been on his mind since he got arrested. So much so he had dreamt about it several times, even while he was dope sick.
Soon those thoughts would manifest themselves into reality as Sykes planned on visiting his old haunts in search of some good dope. A few days in jail weren’t enough to kick his heroin habit. He had been shooting heroin on and off for twenty something years. The swelling in his hands and the nasty abscesses and scabs on his forearms were proof of that.
In an hour or so, Sykes was released after signing the necessary legal documents. He was given some court paperwork, telling him his next scheduled appearance in court. In the wee hours of the morning, he and a handful of other prisoners were released back into society, onto a dark block, on East Eager Street in East Baltimore.
“Lemme get a cigarette, yo,” Sykes asked another recently released inmate who was smoking nearby.
The man handed over a cigarette and a lighter, which Sykes placed between his lips and lit. He handed him back his lighter and proceeded to go about his business.
“Thanks, yo,” Sykes stated through a cloud of smoke.
“No problem,” the man replied.
Quickly, Sykes began walking away from the jail as fast as he could, trying to put as much distance between him and the correctional institution as possible. He was nervous that his release had somehow all been a mistake, yet he was anxious to get to a dope spot. He knew an all night shop up on Greenmount Avenue, where he could get some credit or at the very least bum a blast. He had no inclination that he was being watched, followed, and stalked from the moment his feet hit the concrete pavement.
The further away he got from the jail, the more at ease he became. Sykes stopped looking over his shoulder for a police car a few blocks ago. At the moment his actions were primarily being dictated by his insatiable thirst to get high. The anticipation of his drug use put Sykes in a very vulnerable state. He wasn’t moving as safely as he normally would.
Tone crept through the dark alley, gun drawn. In the near distance he heard a loud voice, which he identified as belonging to Sykes. He knew the sound of his loud mouth ass anywhere. Using an acute sense of hearing, Tone followed the sounds a few yards to a nearby row house. There a light from the kitchen window illuminated through the darkness. Tone cautiously approached. Carefully, he walked through a beat-up metal fence. Quietly, he approached the window. Tone walked gently on the ground, careful to avoid any sticks, glass or bottles, anything that would make noise. After accomplishing that feat, he settled into the shadows.
When Tone was close enough to sneak a peek inside, he carefully raised his head until his eyes were clear of the windowsill.
From his vantage point, he could barely see inside. A thick film of grease and dirt covered the windowpane of the scarcely furnished kitchen. Everything was blurry. He couldn’t see much in terms of facial recognition. What he did see were two men standing next to each other, in stark physical contrast of one another. One was fat, with a big belly, which Tone knew to be Sykes. The other person was skinny and frail in appearance. This person’s identity was unknown to him.
Tone continued to look in the window with great interest, waiting for the precise moment to strike. He had shadowed Sykes from the time he was released from jail to the house where he went to cop his dope, to this house, where he was about to shoot his dope. It was safe to say that Tone didn’t come this far to stop right here. If need be, he’d shoot or kill the other person too. As far as Tone was concerned, the man was in the way. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“C’mon yo. Gimme a lil sumthin’,” the man pleaded with Sykes. “I’m lettin’ you shoot up in my house. This late at night man, I usually don’t even open the door. I only did it cause it’s you.”
“Damn, I hate a whinin’ ass nigga, yo,” Sykes snapped. “That’s all you do.”
Now the man was having second thoughts about letting Sykes into his home. Sykes was trouble. He was known for not giving anyone a fair shake, especially when it came to sharing dope. With Sykes, the man felt he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. Had he not opened the door for Sykes, tomorrow, the next day or whenever they saw each other again, Sykes would lay hands on him, humiliating the man wherever he saw him.
“Huh!” Sykes exclaimed, throwing a bag of dope on the kitchen table. “You and yo bitch better be happy wit’ that, cause that’s all the fuck you gettin’ from me, yo.”
Hurriedly the man snatched the bag of dope up off the table before Sykes could change his mind and take it back. He gripped the bag in the palm of his hand as if his life depended on it.
Sykes continued, “I need a set of works. You gotta extra set?”
“Yeah,” the man replied. “Follow me upstairs.”
Obediently Sykes followed the man as he exited the kitchen. Patiently, Tone waited in the darkness. Silently he debated in his mind when and where to make his move. He knew timing was everything. He decided to keep a close watch.. Tone felt now wasn’t the time to strike. He’d let Sykes get high first before he decided to do anything. Then Sykes wouldn’t know what hit him.
Soon Sykes returned to the kitchen. He sat down at the kitchen table and prepared himself to shoot heroin. He laid his hypodermic needle on the table next to a few bags of dope, a cigarette lighter, blood stained cottons balls, a soda bottle filled with water and a large silver spoon. Tone spied through the window as Sykes tied his belt around his arm in an effort to locate a good vein. Eventually, he found a vein that was suitable enough to use.
For the next few seconds, Tone watched and waited, praying no one would enter or exit the house until he was ready to spring into action. He reminded himself how easy Sykes would be to kill once he got high. His mind would be in a stupor and his reaction time would be slow at best. Tone clutched his pistol harder, just thinking that his target lay just beyond the cloudy glass. He lay in wait, watching for the precise time to attack.
Just as Tone raised his pistol and prepared to make a move for the backdoor, a large rat scampered across his foot. The rodent startled Tone, causing him to knock over a nearby trashcan. The noise from the alley attracted Sykes’ attention. He got up and made his way over to the window to take a look. Quickly Tone pressed himself flat against the row house in an effort to conceal himself.
Sykes squinted his eyes in an effort to see through the dirty windowpane, but his vision was obstructed by the filth on the glass. He looked around in the darkness briefly before chalking the noise up to a stray alley cat.
Tone exhaled slowly when he saw Sykes’ shadow suddenly disappear from the window. He knew he had blown a chance to shoot Sykes, but Tone would rather look Sykes in the eye, man to man, so he could know who did this to him and why. Once the shooting began, he wasn’t worried about Sykes or anyone else seeing his face, because it would be the last face they would ever see.
Sykes busied himself, carefully dumping the brown contents of the pill into a spoon, along with a few drops of water. He grabbed the lighter and put the flame to the bottom of the spoon. Quickly, the brown powder and the water merged to form a dark, gooey substance. Sykes watched as the dope began to boil and bubble, dissolving the cutting agents. Satisfied it was ready, Sykes turned off the cigarette lighter, carefully placed the spoon on the table, and reached for a cotton ball and his needle. He stuck his cotton ball onto the spoon and then inserted his needle into the cotton ball, using it as a filter, as he slowly drew up the entire contents of the spoon into his syringe.
Gently, Sykes placed the hypodermic needle between his teeth as he slapped his arm, looking for the perfect vein to invade. When he found one suitable enough for his purpose, he took hold of the needle, stabbed his flesh, and slowly released the poison into his bloodstream.
Tone studied Sykes’ every movement until he was sure he was completely under the spell of the dope. He saw Sykes’ eyelids begin to droop until they closed as his chin slumped into his chest. Periodically, his head jerked as he began going into a deep nod.
Silently, Tone walked toward the back door. With a sudden burst of fury, he raised his leg and with all the strength he could muster, he exploded in the direction of the flimsy door. Fragments of wood spewed into the air as Tone burst into the kitchen. He stood before Sykes, gun drawn, prepared to settle the score once and for all.
“What’s up now, muthafucka?” Tone said through clenched teeth.
Sykes’ eyes displayed a look of surprise. He didn’t plan on running into Tone, definitely not now. Sykes did the only thing he could do at the moment. He begged for his life.
“New York, it ain’t gotta go down like this,” Sykes stated, with droopy eyes and a slurred voice.
Suddenly, Sykes knew who bailed him out and why. He had been caught slipping.
Tone gave Sykes an evil grimace as he approached. He noticed Sykes’ eyes open wide. There was a flash of fear in them, although his pleas were less than convincing. The fact of the matter was, Sykes was too dangerous to be left alive.
Tone announced, “It’s too late to cop a plea!... This is for Shorty.” Tone winced as he let off a barrage of shots from a nine-millimeter. The first shot caught Sykes directly in the middle of his chest. The impact of the bullet sent him sprawling onto the kitchen floor. Sykes staggered to his knees while one bloody hand clutched his chest. Tone pumped slug after slug into Sykes’ body until the impact of the shots forced him to lay on his back. Then he walked over to his body and dumped at least three more shots into his head and face. When the shooting was done and there were no signs of life left in Sykes’ body, Tone fled, leaving just the scent of gunpowder and blood in his wake. He disappeared into the chilly Baltimore night, assured that his nemesis was dead.