Chapter 16
“Chris!” Sylvia yelled from the bedroom, attempting to get her son’s attention.
“Huh!” Chris replied while giving his undivided attention to the PlayStation’s NBA Live ‘95 that was displayed on the floor model television, located in their living room.
“Don’t huh me! Get cha’ mind out that damn game and come’re for a second!”
“Ugggghh!” Chris gave a long sigh before setting the game on pause and reluctantly walking his way toward his mother’s bedroom.
“Wassup, Ma?” Chris asked with an irritable tone and expression on his face.
“I need you to run to the store for me.”
“Why you ain’t ask Daddy? He lying right next to you.”
“‘Cause that’s what we got'chu for,” Steve abruptly interfered while lying on his back, controlling the channels on the television. “Now quit giving your momma all that lip and do what she asks.”
He been getting’ on my gaddamn nerves since he been staying home lately, Chris thought to himself as he listened to his mother’s order with his hand out to collect the money. To Chris’s surprise, Steve responded, “I read minds too, so you better watch it.”
Chris stood there stunned with his mouth half opened, staring at his father. He looked as if his ole man actually knew what his previous thoughts were.
The second Chris stepped foot outside onto the front steps, he inhaled the excruciating heat from the ninety-degree summer afternoon.
“Damn, it’s hot as hell out here,” Chris mumbled to himself in an unspirited way as he proceeded down the steps. Even though Chris had on a Nike tank top and a pair of basketball shorts, to no avail, the humidity made him feel like he was fully dressed. As Chris strolled his way down Hamlin, on his way to the Arab-owned corner store on Nineteenth and Pulaski, he noticed that the block was fairly empty, with the exception of a few young girls playing double Dutch and a couple of kids riding their bikes. Before making it to the corner of his block, a voice came out of nowhere from afar.
“Chris! Wassup, Jo!” A young voice yelled from one of the houses in the middle of the block.
Chris stopped in his tracks and turned to see who was calling his name. After squinting his eyes to get a location on where the voice was coming from, he recognized it to be Bernard Jackson a.k.a. “Bae Bae.”
“Slow up!” Bae Bae insisted while racing down his front steps heading in Chris’s direction.
“Where you on yo’ way to?” Bae Bae asked, inching closer toward Chris’s presence.
“Fenna’ walk up here to the store for Moms ‘n’ shit. Wassup?”
“I’ll walk up there wit’chú,” Bae Bae said as they shook up with each other and went about their journey.
On their walk to the store they made a lot of small talk about what had been going on in the neighborhood and also witnessing the “slick boyz” harassing some young hustlaz along Nineteenth Street.
“They always fuckin’ wit’ somebody,” Bae Bae complained as they passed a normal scene of dirty detectives stretching out a few teenagers along the side of a building. “Muthafuckas ain’t got shit better else to do,” he mumbled while staring at the action.
As they continued to walk, Bae Bae interrupted their attention from the police activity by blurting out, “Aey, Chris, you ain’t decided what high school you wanna play for. I know you been getting a lot of letters from different schools ‘n’ shit.”
“Hell naw. I kno’ I’m tired of this Catholic school bullshit. Gotta wear uniforms ‘n’ shit and follow all them stupid-ass rules. All the letters I got been from all-boy Catholic schools!” Chris explained.
“Aw, hell naw!” Bae Bae expressed dramatically with disbelief. “No hoes? I couldn’t do that shit!”
“I know, man, I ain’t feeling that shit either. That’s why I ain’t chosen a school to go to, yet.”
“Thats all I’m tryn’a do when I start high school is fuck all the hoes and make my name known all ova’ that ma’fucka,” Bae Bae expressed himself in an eagerly fashion while easing a half-smoked blunt from out of his pocket with a lighter. “You wanna hit this shit?” he asked with a mischievous grin on his face.
“Nawl, I’m straight.”
“You sho’! This that good shit your brotha’ ‘nem got ova’ there on Avers,” Bae Bae said, trying to sound convincing.
“Gon’ ‘head ‘n’ get high, I’m good,” Chris insisted.
Bae Bae was the type of kid that was destined for destruction. He lived a few doors down from Chris and lived under some of the same scenarios that most teens were faced with in most ‘hoods, the lack of good parental guidance. Even though Chris experienced smoking weed before with a few of his teammates, he refused to expose that side of him to Bae Bae; besides, they weren’t even close friends. By the time they made it to the store, Bae Bae had already saw a group of young guys from the area to follow up behind, which looked more of his type of crowd.
On their ecstatic trip to the nearest hospital, everyone that jumped in the car with Marcus was trying their best to keep Mikey resuscitated. By the time they arrived at the emergency room and rushed Mikey in on a stretcher, he was still fighting for his life as he attempted to take deep breaths while blood consistently pumped from his mouth and blood also filled his clothing. Marcus and the rest of the crew, followed by a few others, sat patiently in the waiting room while the doctors operated on Mikey in the intensive care unit.
“Is the family of a Michael Robinson present?” A tall slender white surgeon with surgical equipment as his attire asked as he stepped foot inside the waiting room.
“Yeah. That’s my ma’fuckin’ cousin!” Lil G snapped as they all stood up with dried-up bloodstains covering their clothing.
“Well, is there any immediate family available? As far as a mother, father, brother—”
“What’chú sayin’, Doc!” Lil G angrily interrupted the doctor’s statement as he began to approach him with aggression until everyone held him back. “We all the family you need to be talkin’ to right now!” Lil G stated emotionally with his voice on the verge of cracking and his eyes seconds away from being filled with tears.
“What I’m saying is,” The doctor hesitated with a slight annoyance. “After several attempts of trying to revive Mr. Robinson, I’m afraid a main artery was hit that caused a tremendous loss of blood. I’m sorry but—”
Before the doctor was able to finish his statement, the room went up in a horrific roar! The doctor’s body language told it all after mentioning the damage done to the main artery. From that point on, everyone in the room sensed the bad news.
At approximately 5:03 a.m. early Sunday morning, Michael D. Robinson a.k.a. “Mikey” was pronounced dead in the emergency room of St. Francis Medical Center, ten minutes away from the club.
“I don’t usually meet this nigga out at his crib, but once I told him ‘bout'chu and what we tryn’a do, he definitely wanted to meet up. It helped that I mentioned we had enough paper to grab two keys,” Shawn conversed with Marcus as they drove on Interstate 80 expressway heading toward the far south suburbs to Shawn’s connect. Majority of the ride, Marcus was quiet while listening to Shawn explain the situation. It was obvious that something was bothering Marcus because he barely commented on anything Shawn was saying.
“Y’all still ain’t found out who did that shit, huh?” Shawn asked with great concern, referring to the unsolved murder of Mikey, sensing what was going through Marcus’s mind.
Marcus answered with a simple nod of the head that indicated no. It ate him up inside that they weren’t able to retaliate on anyone specifically, especially after seeing how devastated Mikey’s family was at the funeral a week earlier. Shawn showed up at the funeral to pay his respects, so he witnessed how hysterically the women of the family were crying and how Marcus and the rest of the crew were trying their best to console his mother and three sisters. The stale expressions on the crew and other vice lo
rd brothers’ faces showed revenge, but everyone was helpless without a lead to who had done it and where it came from.
“What’chú say this nigga name was again?” Marcus asked, obviously changing subjects.
“We call’em Kunta. He’a black-ass nigga from Nigeria,” Shawn began to explain. “He coola’ than a fan and he’s a loyal ma’fucka too.”
“Oh yea,” Marcus simply replied as he began to fill an empty Phillies blunt with some lime green reefer.
All that was going through Marcus’s mind was a consistent heroin connect of his own that he could not only use with Shawn but also use to supply half the west side, if the product was as good as Shawn claimed.
After a forty-five-minute trip from the west side to the far south suburbs, Shawn finally exited off of 183rd Street and made a quick right onto Pulaski Rd, that led him directly to Kunta two level all brick estate. They drove along the Spiral drive way that led them toward his four-car garage. Real millionaire status shit!
“Gaaaddamn! This nigga gettin’ it, ain’t he?” Marcus exclaimed.
“Yea, he better be, how much money we been bringing him ova’ the years,” Shawn responded.
As they exited from Shawn’s BMW, heading toward the front entrance of Kunta’s empire, they were admiring everything the home had to offer—from its water fountain statue in the front yard, all the way to the indoor/outdoor Olympic-style swimming pool in the backyard. Approaching the front-door steps, they noticed a huge crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, which had them mesmerized. Shawn was inches away from pressing the doorbell when the front door slowly began to open.
“Welcome!” a beautiful dark-skinned woman that looked to be in her early forties opened the door with open arms.
“Thank you. How you been doing, Mofie?” Shawn asked, acknowledging the woman with a half hug and a formal peck on the cheek.
“I’ve been making it, Shawn, how about you?” Mofie asked in her strong African accent as she rested her hand on Shawn’s shoulder.
“Same here, same here,” Shawn replied while turning his attention to introducing Marcus. “Mofie, this is my best friend Marcus. Marcus, this Kunta’s beautiful wife, Mofie.”
“Nice to meet you,” Marcus said, reaching out for her hand. Marcus was temporarily startled at the different decorations that filled the main floor. The walls were covered with expensive African paintings, and different kinds of unique sculptures were throughout the entire area.
After greeting Marcus, she stated, “Well, let’s not prolong this matter any longer. That husband of mine been expecting you, gentlemen. This way, shall we?” Mofie began to lead them down a long hallway to where Kunta was stationed. They walked up to a room door that had the word “private” engraved inside the fine wood grain. “Honey, your guests have arrived,” Mofie informed in an elegant fashion after three light knocks at the door.
“Come-on in,” The voice from inside the room demanded.
As they made their entrance, the room was noticeably Kunta’s office space. Kunta sat in a plush maroon leather rocking chair behind a huge cherry oak wood desk with four security cameras that sat counter corner on top of the desk, showing all sections of his home.
“Shawn! My main man!” Kunta greeted his company proudly with open arms. “What’s goin’ on, my brother!” he said in his strong foreign accent while walking up to embrace Shawn with both arms.
“Nuttin’ much, Kunta. Same ole shit, different toilet, ya kno’,” Shawn replied with a gracious grin on his face, still shaking hands with Kunta.
In the same notion, Kunta glanced over at Marcus. “And I take it this must be the infamous Marcus,” he said while turning his attention toward Marcus. Marcus raised one eyebrow at the comment.
“Honey, did you need me to bring you guys anything before I leave?” Mofie kindly interrupted.
“As a matter of fact, you sure can,” Kunta assured. “Bring me the usual. You boys don’t mind having a shot or two with me, do ya?” Kunta asked with a curious smirk on his face.
“Not at all,” Shawn answered for the both of them.
While Kunta’s wife was gone to fulfill his wishes, the three of them continued to make small conversation. Marcus was being more observant, while Shawn seemed to be comfortable as if he was amongst family. In Marcus’s eyes, Kunta seemed like the smooth businessman type. Despite Kunta’s strong accent, he still had a sense of humor. It was obvious that he’d been around some brothers from the streets by the way he conducted himself.
Ten minutes later, his wife arrived with some expensive tequila along with three shot glasses.
“Thank you, sweetie. That’ll be it for now,” Kunta said as he dismissed his wife with a nod of the head.
As Kunta began to pour the liquor in the shot glasses, the mood of their conversation gradually turned more into serious business talk than their previous “getting acquainted with each other” conversation.
“Sooooo . . . Ya’ uncle tells me you tryn’a start your own operation,” Kunta announced in the midst of handing them their shot glasses.
“Well, I’m jus’ looking for a little more independence. Besides, my family is focusing more on that new construction company we’re tryn’a get off the ground,” Shawn said before the three of them gulped the shots of tequila at the same time. Shawn talked with much sense to be a twenty-two-year-old hustler.
“Construction! Legal and you can earn great money. Why not choose that path!” Kunta spoke in broken English with his heavy accent, showing signs of concern for Shawn’s well-being.
“Later on down the line, maybe. But right now I have a master plan that I want to put together so I can get one good run in,” Shawn expressed himself with confidence.
“One good run, huh! Well, I hope so ‘cause this is it for me, Shawn, “Kunta replied while pouring another round of tequila shots. “I made good over the years, and it’s only so long before things could start going wrong.”
As everyone threw back their second shot of tequila, Kunta turned his attention to Marcus as he sat his glass down on his desk.
“So, what about you? What’re you gonna do after this is over?” Kunta asked, staring Marcus directly in the eyes with his bloodshot-colored eyes.
“Well, I have a few things up my sleeve,” Marcus answered, not really knowing what to say at the time.
“I don’t know if Shawn told you, but him and his uncles are family to me. They’re like my brothers! Now that he brought you around, I look at you the same way, unless you show me otherwise,” Kunta explained himself with different hand gestures.
Marcus gave his undivided attention while Kunta continued to express his feelings toward Shawn’s family and the hustling game. Marcus, feeling tremendous warmth from the liquor, stayed focused with the discussion because he knew they were on to something big. After everything was said and done, Kunta stated, “Shawn!” He spoke loudly, obviously feeling the liquor as well. “Within five years, I’m wiping my slate clean. I have too much going for myself to get caught up, ya kno’! And I have some great investment opportunities that I’m gonna put you young brothers on so that both of you could do the same. All I ask for is . . . loyalty!” Kunta lectured while glancing at them both eye to eye in his most serious mug.
Before they left Kunta’s presence, he gave them two grams of hard cocoa brown raw heroin to put a mix on so they could give samples to some dope fiends to check the potency. He instructed them to hit the dope with no more than ten Dormin pills, even though it was able to stand up to at least twenty-five pills. The less mix, the stronger the product. The more mix stretches the dope further, and it still would be very good, but it wouldn’t be the best in the city like Shawn and Marcus were eager to have. Marcus left feeling real good about the situation and was anxious to get it going.