In My Hood (3 page)

People, places, and things,
she thought.
I cannot associate myself with people, places, and things of my drug-used past.

She didn’t know what to do. She came back to Newark because that’s where she was from. She didn’t have enough money to stay in a motel. She needed a place to stay and food to eat. As she leaned against a wall, it hit her. She would visit an old friend of hers who didn’t use. Unfortunately she would have to go back to the old neighborhood, but what other choice did she have?

She went into her bag, pulled out her pack of cigarettes, and lit one. As she smoked it a derelict man walked up to her.

“You got one you can spare, miss?” he asked in his inebriated state.

His odor lit the hairs in her nose. She reached into her pack and gave the man a cigarette.

“Thank you, ma’am. Got a light?” he asked, holding the cigarette between his filthy fingers.

Desiree lit the man’s cigarette with her matches and shook the fire out, throwing the dead match to the ground.

“Thank you, ma’am. Do you have any change you can spare to get me something to eat?” the man asked.

She reached into her pocket and gave him the few coins she had. She walked away from the homeless man, thinking back on how she used to beg for spare change just to get high.

She headed toward a cab. She opened the door and got in.

“Where to lady?” the driver asked.

“Fifteenth Avenue.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
What the hell am I doing? Where else am I supposed to go? I just gotta be strong. I gotta stay strong. God, give me strength.

***************

“Yo, son, you musta forgot who I am. I’m dat nigga. You heard me?” a young boy named Rich boasted.

“Man, that’s bullshit. Ain’t no way in hell you twisted that niggaz spleen. You full of shit man,” a kid named Dale proclaimed.

“Word up, man. I’m tryna tell you. I bodied dat nigga and left his ass leaking,” Rich continued to brag.

“Y’all on a break?” a deep voice boomed from behind.

The two boys jumped and turned around.

“Oh, what’s up, Ish? Naw, man, we was just shootin’ the shit,” Rich stuttered.

“I don’t pay y’all mafuckas to shoot the shit. Is my paper right? Y’all outta work? What’s up?” he continued to question.

“Naw, man, we still got work,” Rich stammered.

“Explain something to me. Y’all tryna tell me y’all still got work, y’all ain’t got my ends ready, and y’all standing around holding ya dicks? Am I missing something?” Ishmael asked, folding his arms across his well-proportioned chest.

Technically Ishmael was
dat nigga
. He was caked up and well respected in the streets and getting money in South Carolina, D.C., and Virginia.

The boys looked at each other with their mouths hanging open, trying to think of something to say. Ishmael shook his head at the boys in disappointment. He reached into his pocket. The boys backed up out of fear. Everybody knew that Ishmael always carried a hammer.

“I’m not feeling this situation right now. I’m feeling violated,” Ishmael stated as he popped a piece of violet candy in his mouth that he had retrieved from his pocket.

“Naw, Ish man, it ain’t like that,” Rich said.

“Rich, you’ll never make lieutenant, let alone be one of my top soldiers at the rate you’re going.” He narrowed his eyes, and a frown came across his face. “Y’all mafuckas get back on your post. And my grip better be right,” he said, growling.

The boys took off running like scared rabbits, holding up their sagging jeans.

Ishmael looked back at his boy Derrick approaching and shook his head.

“Rik man, I don’t know what’s up with these knuckleheads. I need me some real soldiers,” Ishmael told his friend.

“Yeah, like the old squad we had back in the day,” Derrick agreed.

“Yeah, man, and the fucked-up thing about it is these little mafuckas constantly try me at all times. I see I’m gonna have to make an example outta one of them hard-headed niggaz to send a message to the rest.”

Derrick nodded in agreement and kept sucking on the toothpick that protruded from the corner of his mouth.

The two men continued to watch over the strip to make sure everything was on point. Most men in Ishmael’s position would send their lieutenants out to check on things, but not Ishmael. He was always on the grind, checking up on his blocks personally. He never wanted to be that type of cat who sent messages; he wanted his runners to know that he was still very much in the game. In fact, he and Derrick had just arrived back in town. They had been gone for two weeks from checking up on his territories in other states. He felt that hugging the blocks would boost workers’ morale and insure that business would be on point. His hands never got dirty by handling the product, but trust and believe he was there to make sure his grip was right.

Back in the day, Ishmael and Derrick terrorized the town. Not that they weren’t still feared, but over the years, they had matured and were more educated in the game. Back then they were wild gun-busting, didn’t-give-a-fuck type dudes who were on the come-up and did whatever it took to get money.

Ishmael had a squad of real soldiers behind him then. Their loyalty was unbelievable. Most of his soldiers would take a bullet for him like they were secret service men and he was the president. He treated them well and kept their pockets fat. Everybody who was linked to Ishmael ate well. But those times were gone. Most of his loyal soldiers were either dead or doing crazy numbers in prison. Ishmael kept their commentary laced for those who were locked up.

The two men stopped in front of the local bodega.

“Rik man, go cop me some more candy and a Black and Mild.”

Derrick nodded, twirled the toothpick in his mouth, and disappeared into the store. Ishmael leaned up against the building and continued to survey the area.

Ishmael was thirty years old, and he stood six-two. His body was built like a running back. His complexion was dark and smooth. He had a thin mustache and long, thin sideburns that connected to his thin-shaved beard. He had shoulder-length zig-zag-designed cornrows all going to the back. He was laced with an iced-out necklace with a cross medallion covered with tiny diamonds. His attire was thuggish but stylishly neat. He was a lady’s chocolate dream.

Ishmael saw one of his loyal workers approaching.

“What’s up, Ish?”

“What’s good, D?” Ishmael said to one of his last committed soldiers whose name was Damon.

The two men shook hands and bumped shoulders.

“It’s all good, baby.”

“That’s what’s up.” Ishmael nodded. “You heard anything from that kid Rallo?”

“Naw, man. The crew still out looking for him.”

“Get the word out that as soon as he’s located that I want him brought directly to me.”

“Yo, Ish, let me push that nigga’s wig back,” Damon said eagerly.

“Easy, D. Never let your emotions get the best of you. I schooled you about that before.”

“Yeah, I know, Ish, but—”

“But nothing,” Ishmael interrupted. “You wanna hand in your stripes? So what, you wanna be a part of security now?”

“Naw, Ish, it ain’t dat,” he said, lowering his head.

“Listen, D, you the last of the best clique I ever had. You know the game. Slow your roll. You the student and I’m the teacher. You feel me?”

“No doubt, Ish. I feel you. Good looking.”

“You straight?”

“I’m good, Ish,” Damon said as he gave Ishmael dap and moved on.

Derrick returned from the store and handed Ishmael his requested purchase. A hunter-green Cadillac hugged the curb as it turned onto the avenue. It came to a full stop in front of the bodega where Ishmael and Derrick stood. The back window lowered, and Ishmael approached the car.

“OG, what’s good?” Ishmael asked with a wide grin.

“Ain’t nothing, youngblood, I’m just struggling and striving, tryna survive. Whatchu know good?” The husky voice filtered from the backseat of the car.

“You, OG. I’m tryna get where you at,” Ishmael stated.

A hearty laugh boomed from the car.

“Get in, youngun. I want to rap with you for a minute.”

Ishmael gave Derrick the sign to look out for him until he got back. Derrick nodded and twirled his toothpick.

Derrick was about the same height as Ishmael. He was much bigger than Ishmael was in size—whereas Ishmael was the running back, Derrick was built like a line backer. He sported long dreads, which he kept tied in a knot in the back of his head. He had brown skin and bore a striking resemblance to actor Duane Martin. He kept his face shaved clean. He liked it like that because no one knew his real age. He looked to be about twenty-three but in actuality he was thirty-five.

Derrick seemed to be the quiet type. He always looked like he was in deep thought, contemplating things. His body size and humility created the illusion of him being a gentle giant, but in reality Derrick was any human being’s worst nightmare. His low, quiet demeanor and captivating vibe caused people to underestimate him, and that very same thing had cost many victims their lives.

He wasn’t always Ishmael’s right-hand man. He use to have his own crew called the Mob Squad. They weren’t stickup kids, but they were enforcers. They were paid by different organizations to go collect debts, security, and clean-up crew. If you wanted someone to disappear then the Mob Squad was the crew to do the job. If there was a body to get rid of, they came and cleaned up the mess, leaving no traces.

Derrick and Ishmael hooked up when they met in the county when Ishmael was booked on a drug charge and Derrick caught a gun charge. The two hit it off instantly, and the rest was history. They’d been friends for more than twelve years. They had a tight bond. Ishmael was the only person who understood Derrick’s demeanor and his strange ways.

Ishmael climbed into the car and settled into the soft, plush seats. The hog pulled away from the curb like a graceful ballerina.

“So you still hanging out on the corners, huh, youngblood?”

“Well, you know how that goes . . . I gotta keep my eye on my operation.”

“What I tell you about that, son? That’s what you got lieutenants for.”

Ishmael sat in thought as the smooth sounds of Marvin Gaye crooned from the car’s speakers.

“Leroy, I was thinking about what you told me the other day . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna pass on that, man. I got my own thing going, and I like the way it’s flowing. I been in this game for a long time.”

“You said it right there, youngblood,” Leroy said. “You been in this business a long time, and you still doing the same ole shit. You can’t be out there in the mix of things. That’s how you catch them big figures doing time in the joint. You need to come on board. How do you think that I’ve manage to stay out of the joint all these years?”

“I don’t know. I never really gave it any thought,” Ishmael responded.

“Because I was smart. I used my head.”

“I feel you, Leroy, but I ain’t for all that politic shit. I’m from the hood, and that’s where I’m comfortable.”

“I’m from the hood, too, nigga. You think I was born rich? No, I had to get mine the hard way. But with politics the way they are, you ain’t gonna last long in this business, son.”

“Leroy man, I know what I’m doing. When they bring the heat and rolled up on me, they never have nothing to stick on me,” Ishmael reasoned.

“Yeah, youngblood, but you’re not listening. They want you bad. You don’t think they know what you’re doing, son? They know every move you make. All they got to do is get one of them little punks you got running for you to talk, and it’s all over for you, son.”

“Naw, man, my peoples are loyal,” Ishmael assured.

“Shit,” Leroy said, laughing, “these little sperm donors out here don’t know shit about being loyal. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

“Naw.”

“Well then hear me out. I can help you. I know a lot of people downtown. They can protect you. They can make it easy for you to keep your empire going.”

“Yeah, but what I gotta do to get that?” Ishmael asked.

“Shit, youngblood, ain’t nothing for free in this world,” Leroy said, lighting a Cuban cigar.

Ishmael stared at the cigar as it protruded from Leroy’s mouth, looking like a huge tree trunk. The pinky ring he sported glistened, almost blinding him.

Leroy was one of the big doggs. He was an original gangster with more than forty years in the game. He was well groomed and didn’t look a day over forty, although he was sixty-two. He owned most of the car washes, Laundromats, and Super food stores and had real estate all over the tri-states. He still had his hands in the drug game as one of the top suppliers, but for the most part, most of his businesses were legit.

“What you getting outta the deal?” Ishmael asked, breaking the silence.

Leroy laughed and continued to puff on the cigar. Huge clouds of smoke filled the air. Leroy cracked the window, and the smoke bellowed its way out into the night air.

“Well, the kind of protection I’m gonna be giving you is worth some compensation. I gotta grease palms to get you that protection, so naturally my palm will need some greasing,” he said, looking over at Ishmael.

Ishmael looked out the window as the hog cruised the streets. He liked the smooth ride of the car. He wasn’t a Caddy man, but he liked the way it felt.

“So what do you say?” Leroy asked.

“I’ll let you know. Let me think on it some more.”

“Your dime and your time, youngun. Don’t be so stupid that you can’t see the forest for the trees.”

Ishmael looked at Leroy, confused. Leroy bellowed out yet another hearty laugh. “Think about it and get back to me.”

“A’ight.”

The Caddy pulled up to the curb just two blocks from where it had picked up Ishmael. He got out of the car and watched the car trail down the street. Ishmael started the walk toward the corner where he left his friend Derrick standing.

“So what was that about?” Derrick asked, handing him the Black and Mild.

“About that shit I told you about before with them downtown mafuckas.”