Crackhead II: A Novel (4 page)

Laci chuckled. “Subjective reasoning?” She stopped and faced Dink. “I didn’t even see you take notes.”

“I have everything right here,” Dink pointed to his forehead. “How do you think I made it this far? You can’t take notes on the
street, sweetheart. I may be a college student now, but I’m a hustler at heart. I bet Giencanna was a hustler back in his day,” he joked.

Laci frowned at the thought.

“The greatest lessons learned come from the streets, baby, and you can’t trust everybody, so you have to use more than just common sense to peep game.” Laci loved to hear him talk with such passion. “On the streets, baby, a hungry nigga would do anything or say anything just to get put on and come up. But for me, I listen to what’s being said. When I hear something that don’t make sense, my radar goes off and I automatically think someone’s try’na fuck me. It doesn’t necessarily mean that they are, it’s just that with all the shady shit folks do, you can’t trust just anybody and those that can be trusted, you keep close to you. I fucked up in the beginning, but as I grew with the streets, I started looking at stuff differently. I became more defensive, on guard, and more aware of what was going on around me. In the game you have to be careful, because one fuck-up, it’s over. It all boils down to being able to spot the real from the bullshit,” Dink told Laci. “Besides a broke hustler, ain’t nothin’ worse in the game than a wannabe hustler, because shit bound to go down.”

Dink’s thoughts went to Marco and Dame. He was still shocked that his boys would try to play him shady, but repercussions in the hood were a muthafucka. Disloyalty was honored by death. “Niggas will try to get at you all the time, but you have to be sophisticated enough to be able to differentiate between the straight shooter and the nigga tryna take you. You have to work on that balance, and that balance is called . . .”

“Objective reasoning,” Laci said out loud.

“Exactly,” Dink confirmed. “Niggas take kindness for weakness so you still gotta be cool, all the while, ruling with an iron fist. There’s a time to be hard and there’s a time to finesse shit.”

Laci looked at Dink in awe and with respect. She didn’t realize that hustling required that type of thought. “Do you miss it, Dink?”

“Do I miss what?” Dink replied.

Laci was studying the look on Dink’s face as he talked about his former life. “Do you miss being on the streets?” she asked.

He paused momentarily. Everything was still fresh and new to him. “Nah, not really. That was just something to do for the time being. But things happen for a reason. I’m where I want to be now.”

Dink stepped toward Laci and put his arms around her waist.

Laci smiled at him, and then placed a tender kiss on his lips.

“I knew there was more to you all along,” she confessed. “You are truly a smart man.” She kissed him again. “And guess what?”

“What?”

“You’re all mine,” she smiled back at him. “But right now,” she looked at her watch, then grabbed her backpack from Dink’s grasp, “I’m late for my next class, and this isn’t the way to start the new school year. I’ll see you after class, baby.” Laci quickly kissed Dink and ran in search of her second class.

Dink loved Laci’s innocence and smiled while he watched her scurry away. He was glad he was a part of Laci’s rehab and saw how much it had helped her. After she had disappeared from his sight, Dink glanced at his schedule, then shoved it in his pocket and flung his backpack over his left shoulder. He strolled through the campus with the swagger of a man who owned the world. It was a new day, and Dink saw that there was another life outside of being a dope man. Of course, the game had given him cash and material things, but now he had the opportunity to exercise his mind. Dink realized that he had it all. Money at his disposal, a girl he loved, and now he was legit. Giving the “what up” nod to those who passed him, Dink confidently walked to his next class, now living the white man’s American dream.

S
MURF SAT INSIDE
Dink’s apartment on Gun Hill Road contemplating his next move. It had been a couple of weeks since Dink had left the Bronx, and Smurf needed to make sure that he had everything on lock just as Dink had. He wasn’t a sentimental cat, but he couldn’t believe that Dink had given him his entire empire—the South Bronx. He was no longer Dink’s best-kept secret . . .
he
was the dope man now.

He started exploring the apartment. Although Smurf had been to Dink’s place before, he’d never really tripped off of all the luxuries he had because he’d been so busy taking in everything Dink taught him. Dink was a street philosopher and in order to learn, Smurf had had to listen.
Maybe he was schooling me on all of this all along so he could get out the game,
Smurf thought to himself,
but does a hustler ever truly get out of the game?
He remembered arriving at the apartment when Dink called, and seeing the huge Louis Vuitton traveling trunk near the front door.

“Where we going?” he remembered asking.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Dink had said. Smurf was confused. “I’m going. I’m leaving this place. I’ve done all that I can
do for you, Marco, Dame, shit . . . even Crystal. I got to do for me now.”

Smurf realized that doing for him meant following his heart, which meant starting a new life with Laci—a crackhead. He remembered how deeply Dink was wrapped up in her and how he’d always had a smile on his face, even when he saw her at her worst. Smurf knew that leaving was the right move for Dink. He only hoped that one day a woman would make him feel that way as well.

Walking slowly around the apartment, Smurf admired the black art that graced the walls and small African figures that were placed strategically throughout. He looked at the picture that hung above the fireplace. It was a close-up of a beautiful black woman’s face, and there was something about the picture that he connected with. There was so much sadness in her eyes that he could relate to. Smurf’s thoughts traveled back to his mother. He’d always wanted a good life for her and with him being the man now, he would make sure she would have nothing less.

Smurf stood and studied her for what seemed like hours, as if he was staring right into her soul. Then he remembered that behind the picture was a wall safe. He removed the large picture and leaned it up against the wall next to the fireplace. Remembering the combination that Dink gave him, he slowly turned the dial to the right, to the left, then back to the right. He grabbed the handle gently and turned it.

Click.

Smurf’s heart beat rapidly as he looked at the perfect rubber-banded stacks of dead presidents that lay before him. He reached his hand inside and took one out.

He fanned through the stack, inhaling the fresh, crisp scent of money, then a smile crept across his childlike face. Smurf took out the remaining stacks just because he could. A brand-new, shiny Beretta .380 that sat just behind the money shocked him. He took the piece out and walked over to the full-length mirror by the front door and posed. First, he stood with his legs apart and the gun pointed at his reflection as if he were the bad guy. Then he turned to the side to check out his profile with the new piece. Smurf liked how he looked, and the new gun made him feel invincible.

“Yo, Dink—” Smurf yelled, only to remember that Dink was truly gone.

He looked at his reflection, and the tear that he had tried to suppress crept down his sepia-colored cheek.

“Don’t be mad, Smurf, I’m gonna always take care of you.”

“How you fuckin’ leaving . . . leaving me here? What am I supposed to do? This is all I know.”

“Naw, my lil’ man, you know way more. That’s why I’m leaving this all to you. You’re the man now.”

“What? Leaving what to me?”

“The South Bronx, baby.”

Smurf roughly wiped the tear away. For the first time since he’d started working for Dink, he was all alone. Smurf never knew his own father, so he looked up to Dink as a father figure. It was Dink who’d taken him under his wing and taught him not only the code of the streets, but also about life, which sharpened his mind. Smurf’s mother had tried to do the same but as he got older, she became too busy with men to make sure he stayed on the right path. Truth be told, Dink had lasted longer in his life than the men his mother had running through her.

Dink gave Smurf credit because he was hungry and eager to work, and he actually listened and learned. Smurf was his most loyal comrade; and because of that, they’d formed a tight bond. Even though Smurf had never actually worked with Dink in his business, he ended up being the muscle Dink needed and the eyes to see what he couldn’t. Smurf saw a lot and knew that he could hold Dink down if need be. He’d already got rid of the dead weight when he got rid of that snitch Marco and that bitch-ass nigga Dame; now it was time to get the rest of his soldiers together. But who could he trust?

Smurf remembered all he’d brought with him—clothes, cassette tapes, and sneakers. He shook his head pitifully at what little he had, but then remembered he was the man now, and soon he would have more.

Thank you, man,
he thought.
How can I ever repay you?
One phone call had changed his life—from rags to riches—and young Smurf vowed never to live in poverty again.

Smurf looked in the mirror and saw his come-up. With the profound confidence he had gained, he turned and happily sauntered toward the stacks of money and put them back into the safe.

“I ain’t gotta want nothin’ no more. Now I can get a nice ride, get me some hip gear, and take care of my moms. Shit, I can even pull a fine-ass bitch instead of these corner hoes,” he said as he stashed away the last stack. Right before he closed the door, he decided to take two stacks for himself. He closed the safe, put the picture back in front of it, and prepared to leave to meet Dirty, Dink’s play cousin who was the big man in Harlem, at the corner store.

Just as Smurf was about to leave, he saw the knob on the front door move. He stopped in his tracks and became quiet. He
flipped the light switch off and stood to the side of the door with his gun drawn. Smurf hadn’t silenced anyone since Marco.

Smurf had cut across a back street in the West Village when he thought he saw a familiar car in the alley. When he looked closely, he confirmed that it was Marco’s ride. Wondering why he was in the Ville, Smurf’s thoughts were quickly interrupted when he saw an unmarked Lumina pull up. Smurf wasn’t dumb. He knew it was a cop car. When the driver of the Lumina flicked the high beams twice and killed the lights, Marco got out of the car holding an envelope, then jumped in the front seat. Smurf knew Marco had to be a snitch, just as he had suspected all along.

It was unfortunate that Smurf would have to put someone asleep in his own apartment, but whoever it was obviously had a death wish. He heard the person fiddling with the door, then heard something slide into the keyhole.

Click.

The door opened cautiously and the light from the hallway illuminated the glass table in the entryway. Smurf saw the large shadow of someone, but couldn’t make out who it was. He raised his gun to the edge of the door so when the person tried to shut it, he would be head to head with his gun. The light came on.

“You got three seconds before I smoke you,” Smurf spoke. “Three, two . . .”

“Aye, yo cuzzo, it’s me,” the man said in haste.

“Who is you?” Smurf spoke menacingly.

“Shit, who
you
is?” the man spoke as he turned around. “I’m lookin’ for my muthafuckin’ play cousin.”

“Play cousin?” Smurf repeated. He put the safety on his gun and tucked it away in the small of his back. Smurf had never seen Dirty until now.

Dirty had the reputation of a smooth businessman with
major playa status. He had connections that were hard to come by in the drug world, making him the only distributor for the Bronx. Little did Smurf know that when he killed Marco and had Dame sliced, he’d done Dirty a favor as well.

Smurf looked closely at Dirty. He was a short specimen of a man, standing only a few inches above him. He was also slightly older than the average hustler in the streets, somewhere in his early thirties, brown-skinned, with a noticeable scar on the lower right portion of his chin. Fresh razor cuts outlined the hairline of his low-cut fade. He was dressed nicely in a red and black Troop jogging suit with a pair of Troop sneakers. He wore two gold rope chains, one plain, the other with a cross dangling from it, and on his left hand he wore a gold nugget ring. He had a reputation as a ladies’ man, with women all over the South Bronx, Harlem, and Manhattan. He knew that money talked and bullshit walked, and he didn’t mind putting a woman in her place, either.

The larger-than-life image that Smurf had of Dirty quickly vanished, but he looked all of a nigga who knew how to take care of business. His body was muscular, as if he’d done time in prison at one point in his life. Regardless, this was the man and the reason he ate.

“What you doing here?” Smurf questioned.

Dirty looked at him quizzically, as if he should know.

“No, I meant here in my apartment.”

“
Your
apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“I always crash here when I’m in town.” That explained why he had a key. Dirty thought for a minute. “Cuzzo told me to meet you here.”

“Anyway,” Smurf extended his hand. “I’m Dink’s right hand. I’m—”

“Smurf,” the man said, still cautious but more-so pissed that a gun had been held to his head just seconds ago.

“Right, and I’m the one you’ll be dealin’ with until further notice,” Smurf smarted back, upset that Dirty had cut him off.

Dirty sized Smurf up and wondered if he was as bad as Dink claimed. He didn’t look like a ruthless killer, but he knew that looks could be deceiving. Dirty knew that Smurf had got rid of the weak links in Dink’s crew, and for that he was glad; but he and Dink had put a key player in their operations in a most unexpected place. Now it was time for it to pay off and to take shit to the next level. Dirty walked over to the wet bar, grabbed a glass, clunked two ice cubes in it, and poured himself a glass of Absolut. Sitting down on the couch, he swirled his drink in the glass and took a sip.