Backstage: Street Chronicles (26 page)

“Yo, what up, dog? What’s good?”

“Melvin!” Crook heard the scratchy female voice from inside the apartment.

“That’s that sorry-ass Victor, ain’t it? Don’t have that sorry-ass nigga round my house!”

“Bitch, shut the fuck up. Don’t nobody wanna come in this raggedy-ass hole,” Larceny spat over his shoulders as he dipped his head back inside.

Crook didn’t necessarily like how Larceny climbed out the window and catted down the fire escape, then dropped to street level. Larceny was brown-skinned with wavy hair and stood a rail-thin six feet even. He had always been wiry, but after he started sniffin’ coke, smoking crack blunts and eventually crack, he had shrunk even smaller.

Yet, his size was deceptive. He could thump with the best of niggas and his gun game was treacherous. Larceny was also a Blood. When the gang fever had taken over Newark, he joined a clique of Bloods off High Street, mostly cats he had known for
years. Since he didn’t have love at home, the Bloods became like a second family, one he would die for. But Crook was his first family, and it was with him that he spent his time. Crook didn’t clique up. At first, some of the dudes tried to pressure Crook into affiliation. But he wasn’t with it and held fort. They eventually let up because Crook stayed in so much beef, they didn’t wanna deal with his bullshit, either.

Larceny walked up and greeted his man with a street hug and a pound. “What’s really good, dog? I heard about that kid last night.” Larceny smiled proudly showing his gold upper grill that gave his grin a sinister twist.

Crook just shrugged. “Fuck it. Coward was just my size,” he boasted, pointing to the sneakers on his feet, making Larceny laugh.

“You shoulda kilt him, on the real. You know them Avon niggas is sneaky!”

“Naw, yo. If I kill ‘em, I won’t be able to rob his ass no more,” Crook replied and Larceny concurred with a pound and an aiight!

The two of them had no job, no hustle, and really no secret pussy laid up, so they had nowhere to go except their spot in the basement of Larceny’s building where they got high and spent most of their time. The dark and dingy basement was like home to them, the spot they had grown up in. From breaking down and repainting stolen bikes, to running trains on hoodrats and splitting up licks, everything they ever did, ended up in the basement.

They had been down there for hours, sniffing coke and puffing weed, kicking the willie about this and that. Crook must’ve told Larceny about the incident the night before, detail by detail, ten times, when Larceny asked, “Yo, you got the pistol on you?” Crook handed him the gun, and Larceny inspected it under the light of the hanging bulb suspended over his head.

“This shit is sweet, dog! I love .40 calibers when they bark. Blow a hole in a nigga big enough to see though. You bust it yet?”

Before he could answer, Larceny pointed the gun out in front of him and squeezed off three rounds in rapid succession. The
sound of the gunfire was deafening in the hollow echo of the basement.

“Bitch, is you crazy?!” Crook exclaimed. “All these hot water heaters and boilers down here. Fuck around and blow the whole buildin’ up!”

But Larceny was in a zone. He stood up and said, “Man, fuck all these low-life muthafuckas in this building, yo! I don’t give a fuck if we all blow up, if the whole world blow up, I had to feel this shit!” He looked at the gun. Larceny was obsessed with guns. He still had every gun they ever used, body or no body on it. Big guns, little guns, fully automatics, and sawed offs—he kept a tight arsenal. He always joked with Crook that if he had a son, he’d show him the guns and say stuff like, “And this one is the one I kilt this nigga with at Ko-Ko’s party!”

“Yo,” Larceny began, eyes glazed with cocaine madness, “let’s go fuckin’ do something … Fuckin’ go rob some niggas and hope they flinch! Let’s go rob that nigga with his own gun!” Larceny laughed and Crook joined him.

“Come on then. Somebody makin’ money wit our name on it,” Crook replied as he stood up, feeling just as pumped as Larceny looked.

“Hold up, hold up, you know the drill,” Larceny reminded him. “I gotta hear some of that … that … Newark shit, nigga. That smack a nigga just for livin’ shit you be spittin’.” Larceny had already started bobbing to a beat in his head, so Crook just timed his bop and came like:

Larceny couldn’t hold back. He let the .40-caliber bark a full clip salute until it sat back, empty and smoking.

“That’s what I’m talking ‘bout! That’s that shit! That killa shit!”

“Stupid muthafucka,” Crook growled with attitude. “Why you empty the clip? I ain’t got no more bullets, dumb ass!”

“Never mind all that dog,” Larceny replied. “That verse was sick! You gotta get on. Yo, the world need to hear that there, for real!”

Crook pulled out a cigarette and fired it up.

“I’m tellin’ you, dog, you know Ike havin’ his birthday party Saturday and everybody gonna be there. You gotta get up in there and let niggas hear that fire,” Larceny said.

It was definitely a good look if he could get it, because Crook knew whoever was with Ike was the move makers but like he said, “Ike don’t fuck wit me like that.”

“Damn,” Larceny shot back, having a brainstorm. “Let’s go holler at him and get you up in there. Ike ‘bout that cheddar, and you is platinum. What up? You wit it?” Larceny asked, but didn’t even let Crook answer. “Come on, Crook, we goin’ to see Ike.”

Ike Spencer was an older Newark head that had come up through the game, started promoting plays around the country, and had even opened his own church, all while still getting money in the streets. So at forty-one, he was financially set for life. He was a Blood for “political” reasons. The lay of the land had changed, so in order to capitalize, he changed with the times. The only color that really mattered to Ike was green, so whatever color he had to claim was cool as long as his pockets were his favorite color.

Ike usually held court at his church every Wednesday night, conducting “Sister Services,” where he counseled women out of their dough and even their panties. To him, everything was a hustle, so what Larceny had in mind was right up his alley.

Larceny and Crook approached the church on Astor Court and
climbed the stairs. Two cats stood outside and closed ranks when they approached.

“Women only,” one of the men told them sternly.

“Naw, we ain’t here for that,” Larceny answered. “This Larceny, yo. Tell Ike I got that, what we talked about.”

Crook looked at Larceny’s profile by the light of the setting sun. One of the men went inside the church.

“What you got for Ike?” Crook whispered.

Larceny smirked, speaking out the side of his mouth. “Nothin’, but that’s what you always tell a nigga you tryin’ to see. If he think you got somethin’ for him, he always bite.”

A few moments later, the man emerged to confirm Larceny’s philosophy.

“Ike said go in and wait in his office.” Larceny and Crook walked by the man and into the large cathedral Ike had built off to the side. Crook could see a group of women in a side room, and he could hear Ike’s voice massaging them with scriptures of game.

Some mu’fuckas do anything for money
, Crook thought to himself, but he was too hungry to knock the next man’s hustle. They walked into Ike’s office, looking around at the pictures of Ike with political figures and famous celebrities. Ike was definitely the man to see. Ike came in minutes later, took off his tailor-made suit jacket, and hung it up on the coatrack. Larceny and Crook turned to him and they all shook hands.

“What’s up, Blood?” Larceny greeted Ike and Ike returned his greeting.

“What can I do for you, Larceny? I know you don’t owe me nothing. Do you?” Ike chuckled, referring to the game he ran to gain entrance.

“Naw, dog, naw. You know I’m always straight wit you. But I do got somethin’ for you. Meet my man Crook.” Ike took a seat behind his desk. Since he and Crook had already shook hands, he just nodded a subtle acknowledgment in his direction.

“You family?” he questioned Crook, but Larceny answered.

“Naw, but he’s my family, and he nice.”

“Nice?” Ike echoed.

“Rhymin’, dog. He sick as a mu’fucka, he—”

“Hey, hey,” Ike cautioned him, “we in a church.”

You drug dealin’, gangbangin’, bootleg-ass preacher
, Crook thought,
talkin’ about we in a church
. But he kept his mouth closed.

“My bad, dog. But yo, he fo’ real,” Larceny explained.

“And?” Ike questioned. “I ain’t got no label, dog, you know that.”

“You ain’t gotta have no label. We just tryin’ to get in your party and mingle. Maybe you could introduce him to the right people, you know? Money is money, and I’m tellin’ you, Crook is millions waitin’ to happen,” Larceny boasted.

Ike looked Crook up and down. He knew the name Crook and the trouble it brought, but if he was nice then being the man who put him on couldn’t hurt.

“I’m sayin’,” Ike began, “I ain’t makin’ no promises or nothin’, but I’ll make sure you on the list. I don’t want you in there sweatin’ me every five minutes or harassin’ my guests. Keep yo mouth shut and if I get an opportunity, I’ll see what I can do, aiight?”

“No doubt, dog. No doubt. That’s all we askin’, yo,” Larceny assured him.

Ike turned to Crook. “And no guns,” he emphasized, pointing to the bulge in Crook’s waist.

For the rest of the night, Larceny was so amped about the meeting with Ike and the upcoming party, that Crook had no choice but to share his excitement. He knew he was hot, and all he needed was a chance to prove it, but could it be this simple? After all this time, toiling and struggling, begging just to be on local mix tapes, could one party change all that? Crook couldn’t help but let himself hope so.

It didn’t even matter that the two dudes they stuck up didn’t bring them but a petty $275.00 a piece, or that they were robbing
muthafuckas with an empty gun. None of that could kill Crook’s spirit.

He decided to go home early to be with Sheena and the kids and tell her about the party. So he cut out and headed to the Chinese restaurant to get Sheena some beef and broccoli, little Tameek and Syasia chicken wings, and some shrimp fried rice and egg rolls for himself. He floated into the restaurant high and daydreaming about what could be. How he’d jump out of the double-parked G-series BMW with his joint pumping out of the system, all eyes on him.

What he didn’t realize was that all eyes were on him. Crook never saw the two dudes in the corner booth start whispering to each other when he came in. He didn’t see one of them go out to the car and return a few seconds later. He didn’t see any of this until he paid for his food, then grabbed his bags to leave.

Crook never expected to see a man rise up out of the rear booth and start shooting. But he did and he caught Crook slippin’ bad. The only thing on Crook’s side was that the two cats weren’t live enough to just run up on Crook and body him point-blank. They knew his rep and figured he’d be strapped. What they didn’t know was that they had picked the right night and the bulge peeking from under his belt had an empty clip.

Plus, they weren’t ace shooters so their first two shots ricocheted off the bulletproof glass that partitioned the counter. People scattered, screamed, and ducked, and Crook ducked right with them. The cats kept coming, emboldened by the fact Crook hadn’t fired back. Crook looked around from behind the booth where he was crouched and made a dash for the kitchen door, exploding through and followed by several more shots that peppered the door. The Chinese cooks shouted and yelled as he ran through, knocking over pans and people to make his escape.

He barely got through the back door before the two cats, figuring he wasn’t strapped, came in hot pursuit. Crook dashed along
the rear of the building and leaped for a dangling fire escape ladder. He pulled himself up just as one of the shooters yelled, “Up there! Kill that mu’fucka!!” Crook could feel the heat off the bullets as they whizzed past, causing sparks as they hit the rusted steel of the fire escape.

He threw himself through an apartment window and landed in someone’s living room. A woman in the kitchen screamed as he pulled his gun, and ordered, “Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up!”

He glanced over his shoulder expecting to see the two cats climbing through the window to murder him in this strange woman’s apartment. He jiggled all three lock bolts open, then dashed down the hallway and down the back steps to safety.

Two blocks away, he finally stopped running, but he couldn’t stop shaking. He slid down the wall holding his side that ached from all the strenuous exercise. He had been shot or shot at on numerous occasions, but never had he slipped like this. He tried to replay the restaurant in his mind and picture the shooters’ faces, but he couldn’t. It dawned on him that it could’ve been anybody. He had robbed so many cats and his name and face were so well-known, beef could come from anyone, anywhere, and at any time, and he’d never see it coming. Crook knew then, if he didn’t get on in this rap shit and get out of Newark, he wouldn’t last another year alive.

Crook walked through the door to find Sheena and his two kids on the living room floor, reading a children’s book. Tameek, five, and Syasia, six, were the spitting images of their mother. They both had big hazel eyes and her caramel complexion. Their appearance came from her, but their attitudes were entirely Crook’s. They were quick-tempered and mischievous, so Sheena definitely had her hands full.

“Daddy!” Syasia cheered as she ran up to Crook to be scooped up in his arms. He gave her a sloppy kiss that made her giggle.

“Have you been good today?” he asked her.

“Have you?” she shot right back, looking and sounding just like her mother. She had heard Sheena and Crook argue many a night about what he was doing in the streets, so she only reflected her mother’s concern.