All Or Nothing
Authors: Blake Karrington
All or Nothing
A Novel by
Blake Karrington
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission from the publisher or author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. It is not meant to depict, portray or represent any particular real persons. All the characters, incidents and dialogues are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or person living or dead is purely coincidental.
Editor:
Tiffany Davis
Cover Design:
Marion Designs
www.mariondesigns.com
Book Layout:
Lisa Gibson-Wilson
Renaissance Management Services
First printing January 2007
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 13: 978-0-9752589-5-8
ISBN 10: 0-9752589-5-8
This book dedicated to:
Viola Nash,Krystol Nash,Kayhla Nash,
and
My Nephew Patrick
(Keep your head up, and you will be home soon)
The Present: An Everyday Hustle
“Damn! Pass the blunt, nigga.” Shantell suggested. “I want to get high, too.”
Shantell Bryant, the local stripper, sat in the passenger seat of the car. Currently she was on her way home from a long night at the strip club. Business at the club had been a little slow that night. In an effort to take her mind off everything, Shantell called the weed man so that she could buy some marijuana.
At least if she got high, the night wouldn’t be a total waste. Of course, she had no real intention of purchasing any weed from him. She would work something out with him, just like she always had. It was nothing for Shantell to swap sexual acts for drugs or anything else she wanted. She saw nothing wrong with it, to her it was “fair exchange no robberies.”
Paul, the weed man, currently had that bomb-ass weed in the hood. He made money hand over fist from the Purple Haze that he sold; it seemed like everybody and their mother was smoking.
It also seemed like Paul got all the pussy. Since he made house calls at all times of night, all kinds of opportunities came his way. One would be surprised to know who he was sleeping with. It wasn’t just strippers, but also classy professional women with nine-to-five jobs. Paul had a variety of pussy to pick from.
Shantell grew irritated at having to wait for the blunt. “Damn can I smoke?” She fussed at Paul. “We already did you. Can I do me now?”
Shantell was tight. She didn’t like waiting on anyone or anything. Dudes usually waited on her, not vice versa. Now, with her body slightly turned in anticipation of receiving the blunt, she was a little pissed off by Paul’s selfishness. From the sweet aroma of the blunt she could tell that it was some quality shit; this wasn’t any of that home-grown nonsense. One would have to be a real smoker to know good weed from bad weed, just by the scent. Shantell had a nose for it. It was sort of an acquired skill that came with lots of usage.
“My bad, Shawty!” Paul said. Before he passed her the blunt, Paul inhaled deeply one last time, then blew out a gigantic cloud of smoke. This further annoyed her. Shantell fanned the smoke with her hand to keep it from irritating her eyes. She didn’t want smoke in her eyes, but rather in her lungs.
“I’m sorry bout dat shawty. Here you go. Take that to the head; that’s all you. You deserved that after that bomb ass head you gave me. Shawty, you da truth. fa real!”
As Paul spoke, all Shantell could see was his mouth full of gold teeth. He had shiny, gold fronts on all of his teeth, which had suddenly become the rage in the South. His skin complexion was jet black and he had a head full of baby dreadlocks, which he proudly sported. He was a down-South nigger for real. Paul represented the Dirty in everything, from his choice of clothes to his car.
Paul shook his head slowly at the mere memory of the blow job Shantell had performed. There was no doubt in his mind that she was a beast when it came to that. It was always a pleasure doing business with her.
Being a stripper had its advantages for Shantell. She knew all the movers and shakers of the underworld. At one time or another they came through the strip club in search of a good time. In life, most times it’s not what you know, but who you know. Associations, often could take a person far in the streets, just like in the cooperate world.
“Nigger, don’t talk me to death.” She replied. “Just pass da fuckin’ blunt.” Shantell snatched the blunt from his hands
almost before the words left her mouth. She fell back into his custom–made, butter-soft, red-and-white leather seats and took a long pull on the blunt. She held her breath for so long that she began to feel light–headed; then, and only then, did she exhale. From there on out, her breaths became shorter and her tokes on the blunt became longer.
Shantell was an avid weed smoker. It seemed like her day didn’t go right unless she had something to smoke. She used the drug to take her mind off her miserable circumstances. Meanwhile, Paul smoothly maneuvered his cherry-red, 1986 Chevy Impala through the streets of Charlotte, North Carolina. It was nothing for him to drive while he was high because he had built up such a high tolerance for weed. He drove all the time and never worried about getting pulled over by the police. It took more than one blunt to impair his driving skills.
He drove with great care. His car was raised by hydraulics, so it sat ridiculously high in the air. Its windows were so darkly tinted that it was virtually impossible to see inside. The wheels were 24-inch TOYO tires, with sparkling chrome deepdish rims. The vehicle was Paul’s pride and joy.
“Paul, where you get this shit from?” Shantell asked. “This that shit, right here.”
“Shawty, you know I can’t tell you that! Then what would you need me for?” Paul announced. “Those that know don’t tell; those that tell don’t know.”
“Whatever, nigger!” Shantell thought to herself.
The recent influx of Mexicans to the populace of Charlotte had bought not only an increase of people, but also an increase in illegal drugs; marijuana and heroin the two most notable. Now, good quality drugs weren’t as hard to find. No longer did drug dealers from Charlotte have to depend on outoftowners for potent product. Paul was one of a select few drug dealers who had tapped into that Mexican drug pipeline.
“Shawty, wanna ride wit me…” Rapper Young Buck of Gunit chanted. “…we can get low.”
Paul turned up the volume of his car stereo system. The silence in the car had been killing him. His trunk and back windows rattled violently as the music flowed out of the kicker box and speakers. Both parties involved seemed to be enjoying the music thoroughly. Shantell smoked and bobbed her head to the beat. For the moment, she was carefree.
Shantell was so high that Paul could have put on some rock music and she would have jammed to it. The Chevy’s expensive sound system wasn’t no joke. To them, it felt like they were in a night club. Shantell was in a zone. The everyday worries that usually dogged her out and depressed her, didn’t even cross her mind now.
Despite the lack of customers at the club, Shantell managed to get hers. She had a nice piece of change in her pocketbook, and now she was high off some of the best weed money could buy in Charlotte. She couldn’t think of a better combination. What more could she ask for? This was the life for her.
This might have been the “high life” but this wasn’t the good life that she desperately sought. Shantell wasn’t living. Right now, she just existed. She had stopped living at the tender age of ten; that’s when her world began to turn upside down.
As the car crossed the highway overpass, Shantell suddenly came back to her senses. She was now entering her hood, and it was back to the harsh reality that was her life.
As they drove up the hill, on Willis Avenue, Piedmont Courts came into view. Paul glanced over at the dozens upon dozens of ominous–looking, two-story, brick-faced buildings that dotted the landscape. Piedmont Courts was one of the most feared and infamous housing projects in all of Charlotte. It was a breeding ground for lawlessness.
Paul looked over to his left and began to wonder exactly just what he had gotten himself into. I should have never agreed to drop this bitch off here, He thought to himself. What was I thinking? I musta been higher than a motherfucker, for real!
“Nigger, could you turn that muthafuckin’ music down?” Shantell demanded. “I ain’t tryin’ to let the whole hood know I’m home. Niggers is nosey out here.”
Without saying a word, Paul reached over and turned his music down, giving Shantell the silence she so desperately sought. At this point, he was happy just to get rid of her. Paul didn’t like to be told what to do in his ride. What really bothered him was her tone of voice. But he bit his tongue in order to keep the peace.
Rolling down the window, Shantell flicked what was left of the blunt to the ground. She began to brush ashes from her clothes as she prepared to exit the car.
When Paul got to Siegel and 10th Street, he turned and entered the projects. From that point, Shantell’s whole attitude seemed to change for the worst. She knew what awaited her inside her home: pain, poverty and despair. Suddenly she wished she didn’t have to go home. Shantell would have laid up all night with Paul if she could have. That was, if she didn’t have a responsibility to take care of.
If? The word rang in Shantell’s mind. What if? Her whole life had been a series of questions. In fact, it was one big riddle with no answers. Often Shantell pondered the question, What if I never was born?
“Alright, stop right here!” Shantell insisted. “This is good.”
Piedmont Courts was well lit. Bright street lights shone everywhere. This cast a dubious glare on the cast of characters who were currently outside at this hour of the morning. There were only two kinds of people out in Piedmont Courts right now: drug dealers and drug users. They were the people who lived their lives outside all governing bodies of the law.
Paul drove his Chevy past all of the illegal activity. Piedmont Courts was one big, open-air drug market. Sights like these weren’t new to Paul, since he originally hailed from Fairview Homes, a housing project that was thought to be as
equally dangerous as Piedmont court. So it must have been the fact that he was in someone else’s hood that left him awestruck and uneasy. Paul didn’t come around here much, if at all.
The residents of any housing project were more territorial than a dog. They didn’t take too kindly to strangers coming around. It was best just to stay where one belonged, wherever that was. Outsiders, or even the police, had been known to be chased away, by force, from Piedmont Courts.
Shantell’s home address was 915 East 10th Street, apartment 16. This was never her home, rather a place where she rested her head. She just lived there. If home was where the heart was, then her heart was elsewhere, far, far away from the ghetto.
Paul hit the brakes and pulled over to the curb. He cautiously scanned the projects for any signs of danger. The drug game was so crazy these days; drug dealers were robbing drug dealers.
He wasn’t has worried about Shantell setting him up, but in his line of work, one could never be too sure. One thing Paul had learned from dealing with strippers was that they were basically mercenaries. Their services usually went to the highest bidder. Strippers usually left the club with the guy they felt could give them the most money, whoever they perceived as “that nigger” or a hustler. In Paul’s book, there was one thing for sure and two things for certain: money made people do strange things. With that in mind, he wasn’t trying to become a statistic of a homicide, or even a robbery, for that matter.
“Yo, Shawty could you hurry up? I’m dirty. I got some shit on me. And the way it’s poppin’ off out here tonight, the police could be rolling through here at any minute.” Paul used the false statement to hide the fear he already had begun to display. He was prepared to say or do whatever to get the hell out of there.
Shantell ignored him. She busied herself taking off her high-heeled shoes. There was no way in hell she was going to get out of Paul’s hydraulically-raised Chevy without first removing them. One, she would probably break her neck if she got out the car with them on. Two, her shoes were too expensive to be breaking them or messing them up.
“Bye!” She said before jumping out of his car.
As soon as the door closed, Paul made a U-turn and peeled off. The car made a loud-ass noise and left skid marks in the street. If Shantell was trying to be inconspicuous, she didn’t have to worry about it anymore. Paul’s hasty retreat attracted lots of attention. His screeching tires woke up half of Piedmont Court.
“Punk-ass nigga!” Shantell cursed as the car raced off. She weaved her way through the obstacle course of crack heads, dope fiends, drug dealers and prostitutes. As she did so, she said a few hellos to some of the resident drug dealers and selfrespecting drug addicts that she knew.
