Trap House (33 page)

“Look, man, drop them two niggas off and get out here! This is important!” Real snapped and
hung up his office phone.

Cash could tell by Real’s actions that it was a serious matter, so he hurriedly dropped B-Low
and Jesse off and navigated his brand new burgundy 600 SEL Mercedes Benz through the night
traffic to Real’s house.

A half hour later, Cash was pulling up in front of Real’s million-dollar home. Cash was lost
for words every time he went out to Real’s place. The six-bedroom home sat on ten acres of well-
manicured land. Behind the home sat an Olympic-sized swimming pool, full basketball court,
tennis court, and guest house. Adjacent to that was a custom-built garage that housed Real’s lime
green Lamborghini Murcialago LP460, snow white Rolls–Royce drop-head Coupe, and black on
black Range Rover Sport. Next to Real’s expensive collection were Constance’s lavender Bentley
GTC, bright cherry red H-2, and midnight blue Ferrari 360 Spider that she barely drove.

Cash stepped out of his Benz into the cold night air.

Ding! Ding!

A few seconds after ringing the bell, Constance appeared at the door. “Hey, Cash,” she said.
“Come on in. Real’s down in his office.” She stepped aside, letting Cash in.

“What’s up, sis? You good?” Cash asked as he entered.

“Just fine. Just see what’s up with Real,” she told him as she closed the door behind them.

“All the time,” Cash replied as he hurried through the house to Real’s home office.

On the way to Real’s office, Cash thought back on the times when Real had stayed in a humble
two-bedroom condo out in College Park. Now, his crib had marble floors, two full kitchens, an
elevator, three fire places, and a bad ass home theatre.
Man, my boy’s come a long way,
Cash
thought to himself. “What’s up, bro?’ Cash asked as he entered Real’s office.

“A lil’ problem from the cartel,” Real answered, rearing back into his oversized leather desk
chair.

“What kind of problem?” Cash sat down in the oversized office chair positioned in front of the
desk.

“A couple Italians came down to the club tonight with a message from a Mr. Rossi. This Rossi
says I work for him or don’t work at all.”

“Work for him or don’t work at all!” Cash spat.

“Yeah. He got to be playing!” Real fired back.

“Who the fuck this wetback think he is? He don’t run shit!” Cash yelled as he jumped out of the
office chair and started pacing the floor.

“I just put in a call to my connect, the Morettis. If they don’t handle this Rossi fool, I’ll do it my
damn self,” Real said sincerely.

“Bro, just get me this spic’s location, and I’ll eliminate all of this tough guy talk! Fuck them
slick heads!” Cash shouted as he continued to pace the room.

“I’m going to see what the Morettis do first. There may be no need for us to bother. What’s the
word on the street?” Real asked, changing the subject.

“Everythang moving lovely. I had to chastise a lil’ nigga this morning about an overdue debt, but all in all,
everything moving like clockwork,” Cash said as he sat back down in the office chair.

“Well, you know I got a shipment coming in this week, and it’s mandatory that it go quicker
than the last. Oh, by the way… I hear Deuce and them on the west side are putting down real
heavy. What’s up with that?” Real inquired.

“Yeah, word is they got a new Colombian connect out of Miami. My crew and I were just
discussing that yesterday. We are working on eliminating that problem before the end of the week,”
Cash assured Real.

“A’ight. We don’t need to be sitting on this shit no longer than a week,” Real said firmly.

“I got you. I’m getting with my niggas tomorrow to handle that west side problem, and also
I’ll connect with my folks in New York and L.A. with some good numbers to make that shit
disappear.”

“A’ight. And about that west side problem, let them niggas on payroll handle it. Don’t get your
hands dirty. They expendable, and you ain’t,” Real said firmly, knowing all too well how Cash
liked to get his hands dirty.

“I’m just calling the shots, bro. Let me know if you need me to handle that slick back,” Cash
said as he stood to leave.

“Get at me tomorrow.”

“Fo sho,” Cash replied as he exited.

En route home, Cash picked up his cell phone and called B-Low, not realizing that a black
crown Victoria driven by a federal DEA agent followed close behind.

December 25, 2001

T
he sixteen year old twins, Twon and Qwon, rose from their beds, anxious to see if their
mom, who very rarely kept her word, just happened to keep it and got them those Jordan’s
they had been hounding her for. As they looked into the living room, two shoe boxes wrapped in
newspaper sat under their tree, which was really a plant with some hand-made school ornaments
on it they had made when they were younger. It was what it was in the projects. As they raced
across the living room, damn near knocking over the coffee table that already had one leg held up
by books, they wasted no time ripping in to the packages. Within seconds, they emerged with their
Jordan’s that they thought they would die without.

“Momma,” the boys yelled simultaneously. There was no response as they approached her
bedroom door. The smell of stale Newports filled their nostrils as Qwon slowly pushed the door
open with Twon right on his heels.

“Momma, you woke?” Twon said, pushing his brother aside.

There was no response from the motionless body in the bed. They continued to call out Momma
as they made their way around the bed. They simultaneously noticed the belt tied around her arm
tightly and just below, a needle hanging. “Momma,” they yelled frantically as her eyes stared
straight through them. Their attempts at reviving her failed. It couldn’t be happening to them, not
today. It really sank in quickly that the woman that gave birth to them was dead. Twon reached
down slowly, closing his mother’s eyes for the last time. Qwon then noticed a letter lying on the
floor marked Twon and Qwon on it.

“Twins, I know right now you’re confused and hurt, but it’s important that you stay strong for each
other. Always know I love y’all with all my heart and I will always be there, no matter where y’all go.
Just know I couldn’t go on a slave to this heroine any longer, and eventually my habit would become a
liability to what the future holds for y’all. Now, this is where I need y’all to pay close attention. In the
picture frame of y’all on my night stand, there is a key. This key is going to open a part of y’all life that
can’t be closed once it is opened—it is in your bloodline. Today is the ten year anniversary of the night
those pussy ass police took your father away from us. Ten long years I’ve waited to give y’all this key.
The key to y’all’s destiny, and now the time is here. I want y’all to go to our old house. It is boarded up
now, but y’all will find a way in. Once inside, go up to your old room. Remember that mural of Michael
Jordan y’all Dad had painted for y’all on the wall? It is time for y’all to find out the real reason it’s there.
Boys, there is one thing left…promise me you won’t let those police ever take y’all away in handcuffs
and lock y’all up, ever. Now go reclaim the throne your father left behind. You’re the sons of King and
boys, your father is waiting.

Love,

Mom.

P.S. I hope y’all like the shoes I got you for Christmas.”

As they stood there trying to take in everything that had been put before them, strangely, they
never shed a tear. It wasn’t the first they had seen of death and it sure wouldn’t be the last.

December 30, 2001

S
ocial Services took no time stepping in and placing the twins in a group home. It was only temporary
because it would only be a matter of time before they planned their escape. It was there mother’s funeral,
and the Social Worker took them and sat with them the entire time. As they sat in the church, they watched as
hundreds of people made their way in and out, paying respect to Debra Scott, also known to the streets as Queen.

“Momma sure look good, huh, Qwon?”

“Sure do. She almost looks unreal,” Qwon replied.

The years had taken a toll on Queen. Ten years ago, she was the baddest thing in the hood at one hundred-
fifty pounds, with a five-three frame. Thick was an understatement. Her creamy black skin was complimented
by her hypnotizing brown eyes that seemed to take complete control over their dad. He’d buy her the world if
he could, and he sure did try. From minks, to diamonds, to clothes—you name it, she had it. Once their dad got
locked up, it seemed like part of Queen died. The first couple of years were straight, but by the time they were
nine, they noticed all her nice things their dad had bought her slowly disappeared. There were days at a time their
momma wouldn’t even come home, so they learned to take care of themselves. By their eleventh birthday, she
had blown through a couple hundred thousand dollars that their dad had left her, and she was unable to continue
paying the property taxes on their house. They were then forced to move to the Marion Jones housing projects.
To some, it was unreal to hear Queen was living in the same projects her husband’s legacy began in. At first,
everything was going good. Momma walked around like the world was still hers. People jumped around doing
whatever she asked, whenever she asked. As the months passed, Queen’s ugly secret could no longer be hidden.
Heroine called Queen night and day, and she answered. The people she once looked down upon, began to look
down upon her as she’d sit on the stairway and nod off as the heroine stole her soul gram by gram. It was hard
to believe the woman lying in the casket was once the Queen married to the infamous Tyler Scott, known to the
twins as pops, but to the world as King.