Right next to the bodega a group of young men were shooting dice in front of the liquor store. For the most part they were a ragtag bunch that was known to dabble in one hustle or another around the way. They made up the knucklehead population of Jefferson, with their shenanigans constantly making the block hot. In the center of the group was a young man Dena didn't want to see. She tried to slip in the store, but it was too late, as she had been spotted.
“Baby girl, wha go on?” Roots asked, in an accent that was heavier than it needed to be. Roots was a tall kid, with peanut butter skin and
locks that stopped just above his lower back. He bopped towards Dena, smiling so she could see the cheap yellow gold in his mouth.
“Sup,” she replied in a very disinterested tone.
“Come sis, ya no sound happy to see me. Put a smile on that pretty face.” Dena gave him a fake smile and moved toward the entrance of the bodega, only to have him block her path. “Why you on it like that, sis? You know I check for you.”
“Roots, you know I don't fuck with neighborhood niggaz,” she said, trying to be as polite as possible. Dena, as well as most of the girls on the block, hated the pushy young Jamaican, but they tolerated him because he worked for Sosa, the local weed baron. Sosa had the best weed in a ten-block radius but didn't deal directly. If you wanted to get served you had to see Roots.
“Fuck you lie for, when I know you used to see the skinny kid down the way?” he accused.
“That was like five years ago!” she reminded him.
“Five years or five days, what should it matter? Listen, I know you like the big-money men, baby, so stop acting like you don't know what time it is.” He flashed his bankroll.
Dena looked at the short stack of mostly singles and sucked her teeth. “Son, I wouldn't care if you had Bill Gates's paper, I still wouldn't fuck you.” She tried once again to enter the store, but this time Roots grabbed her arm forcefully.
“Fucking tease cunt, you trying to play me?” he barked. “Bitch, I'llâ”
“You'll what?” a voice asked from behind Roots.
A cold chill ran down Roots's back. Even before he turned around he knew what he would see. Standing on the curb was the equivalent of a mail box dressed in a white T-shirt and shorts that stopped just above his ankles. The owner of the voice rocked his hair cornrowed straight back, held down by a black stocking cap. Empty black eyes stared at the Jamaican, daring him to do something stupid. Roots had disrespected Shannon's little sister, and Shannon wasn't happy about it.
“Go ahead, Roots, why don't you finish telling my little sister what you'll do to her. Talk some more of that rude boy shit you was kicking
a few minutes ago,” Shannon dared him. By now the girls from the stoop had rushed over in anticipation of a good ass-whipping.
“Come on, man, it was a misunderstanding,” Roots tried to plead out.
“That don't sound like the shit you was kicking when we walked up.” Shannon's companion taunted Roots. He was slim with chocolate skin and cunning eyes. Other than Shannon, no one on the block knew much about the kid named Spooky, except that he was from Harlem, and every bit as deadly, if not more so, than Shannon.
“Yo, son, this is between them.” A big-head kid from the dice game tried to come to Roots's defense against the foreigner.
Spooky spun on the kid and pointed a 9 mm at his face. “Shut the fuck up, before I dis ya stupid ass out here.” The big-head kid did as he was told.
“Like I was saying,” Shannon continued, looking from Roots to Dena and back again. “From what I hear, it seems like you've got a problem with my sister?”
“No problems, kid.” Roots raised his hands in surrender.
“Dena?” Shannon looked to his sister.
For a minute Dena just stood there. She knew how her brother got down, so the situation was sure to turn out ugly for Roots. She started to tell Shannon that they didn't have a problem, but when she thought about how Roots had harassed her as well as other girls from the block she decided that it was finally time for someone to check his ass.
Dena folded her arms and spoke very clearly when she said, “Yeah, we got a problem.”
Roots opened his mouth to dispute what she was saying, but never had a chance, because Shannon's fist came crashing into it. Shannon was shorter than Roots, so he had to swing upwards, but the blow landed true. Shannon hit Roots with a right then a left, and came back with another left. When Roots tried to cover his face, Shannon started working on his body, hitting his ribs with the force of a pro boxer.
The only thing that saved Roots was the bodega owner, Ralphy, coming out of the store. Ralphy was a Puerto Rican throwback to the Beat Street era. His socks were always pulled up to his knees and his
white-on-white shell toes were cleaner than a nigga's who had just gotten out of the joint. Back in the day, Ralphy had Bushwick flooded with coke. He and his brother Juan had come down from the Bronx and clocked heavy paper in the fresh Brooklyn hood; but eventually the snitch factor came into play and both brothers found themselves property of the feds. Juan cut a deal with them, offering to take the weight for the drugs and the five murders they had them on if his brother would be shown leniency. He ended up with life plus sixty-six years, while his brother was released after serving ten. Since then Ralphy had been operating the bodega and running numbers out of the building next to it. Both were properties he had purchased before his incarceration.
Ralphy grabbed Shannon around his arms and pulled him off Roots. Shannon snarled at Ralphy, but didn't attack him. The kindly Spanish cat who owned the store had known Shannon and his family since the eighties, so there was a line of respect that he wouldn't cross, even in a blind rage. Spooky went to draw on Ralphy, but Dena gave a quick explanation of who he was, and the killer fell back.
“What the fuck, Shannon!” Ralphy yelled, looking at the bloodied Roots lying across the entrance to his store. “Did you have to beat him up on my stoop?”
Shannon took a minute to catch his breath. “My fault, Ralphy, this nigga just got a big mouth.” Shannon kicked Roots for emphasis.
“Come on, come on.” Ralphy pushed him back. “Shannon, get your ass up outta here before the police lock you up. Dena”âhe looked to the girlâ“get your fast ass off to school and stop causing trouble.”
“Ralphy, I didn't do nothing!” she protested.
Ralphy looked from Roots, who was having trouble getting to his feet, back to Dena. “You never do. Just go, Dena.”
Dena opened her mouth to say something but knew it was useless. “Come on, Mo,” she called to her friend and started in the direction of the train station.
Mo hesitated, looking from Yvette and Mousy, who were laughing hysterically at Roots, back to Dena's departing form. “But the blunt ain't dead!”
“YEAH, YOU AIN'T POPPING THAT SHIT NOW, IS
you nigga?” Jah stood wide-legged in the middle of the plush living room. His arm was fully extended and locked in place at the elbow. In his hand he held a high-tech pistol with an incredibly long barrel. The anticipation of the kill made his heart beat slightly faster in his chest. He always got butterflies before he popped off. As cool as the other side of the pillow, he pulled the trigger and hit his mark.
“Blood, that was a lucky shot!” Tech accused, watching the low-bit digital duck go bug-eyed and spiral into the video grass. Busting out the old school Nintendo and playing Duck Hunt was a favorite pastime of theirs.
“What I tell you about that âblood' shit, Tech?” Jah placed the plastic gun on the table.
“Come on, man, it's just something I say,” Tech smirked.
“Dig, I ain't blood or cuz, so stop kicking that backyard boogie shit to me.”
“I forgot that the only set you respect is the green side.” Tech waived a dollar in the air, which Jah quickly snatched.
“Muthafucking right. Cash over colors, fool!” Jah pushed Tech playfully.
Tech was a few years younger than Jah, but had proven
to be wise beyond his years. It was good for Jah to have someone to keep him occupied, since Spooky was still running wild and kept a low profile. He was on fire in Harlem, so he spent a good deal of his time in Brooklyn with his brother Nate and his crew. The Brooklyn heads were jacking shit left and right, but only a few of them put in
real
work, until Spooky came along. When Jah asked him what was up he simply said: “I'm giving them a swagger.”
The previous summer had taught him a painful lesson: Tomorrow isn't promised to anyone. His brother had killed himself in prison after murdering his son's mother, or at least who he thought was his son's mother. As it turned out Rhonda had ran a dirty game on Jah's brother, Paul, and in the end both their lives were the price; and then there was a little boy that had no parents. The grandmother stepped to the plate and took in all three of Rhonda's children. Some say that the guilt of the way she had treated her daughter in life moved her to do so. She got a monthly check from the government, and every so often an intern from Big Dawg would drop money off. Most shrugged it off as True or Don B just feeling sorry for the kids, but a select few suspected otherwise, since the paternity of little P.J. was never really figured out.
Thinking about Rhonda often made him emotional. Clearly, she was a pain in the ass, but Rhonda had her moments. For all her fucked-up ways, she loved her kids and made sure they were good. Rhonda just had a fucked-up perception of life. In the end, greed and ignorance caught up with her and she paid with her life.
All the deaths he had been touched by or brought down on himself left a bitter taste in Jah's mouth. He still made moves with Spooky, but his heart wasn't quite in it anymore. As much as he wanted to completely leave the game alone, he knew he still needed to eat. Luckily, his lady, Yoshi, was a chick whose mind was always on paper, so she taught him a way to capitalize on it.
Her job as a stylist kept her in contact with paper. Yoshi rubbed shoulders with some of the elite in the entertainment industry. A lot of these cats felt like moving around with a bodyguard would damage their street credibility, but muscle was always necessary when dealing
with paper. This is where Jah came in. He could blend in with the entourage and didn't mind laying something down if the paper was right.
This kept paper rolling in for Jah, when he chose to work, but he didn't really like playing the roll of guard dog. Some of the cats he worked for were cool but the rest he could do without. To him, most of Yoshi's clients were pussies with money, trying to stunt. Jah was of a different breed and just being around them was a task.
“Why are y'all making so much noise out here?” Yoshi barked as she stormed out of the bedroom. Long dark hair with flecks of gold hung loosely around her face, curled slightly at the ends. Looking at her exotic features, you'd never have guessed she was beaten within an inch of her life less than a year ago.
“My fault,” Tech said sheepishly.
Yoshi placed her hands on her almost perfectly curved hips. “Tech, what are you doing by here so early anyway, when you're supposed to be in school?”
“Come by? Shit, he never left,” Jah chuckled, gunning down another duck.
Yoshi stormed across the room and stood in front of Jah, blocking his view of the video game. She was wearing a white linen shirt and tan skirt. Over her arm she had her blazer of the same color and a large makeup case was in her hand.
“Jah, why do you have Tech sitting up in here, when you know he's supposed to be in school? Its bad enough that he's getting left back again, but you're encouraging his bullshit.”
Jah tried to peer around her to see the screen, but she moved with him. “Tech is a grown-ass man; I can't make him do nothing.”
“He's seventeen!” She cut the television off. Yoshi turned her attention to Tech, who was watching the whole thing with an amused look on his face. “Tech, you my man fifty grand, but you know I don't condone the bullshit. Now, you ain't gotta go to school if you don't want to, but you ain't gonna lay up in here all day.”
Tech shrugged his shoulders and got up off the couch. “A'ight Yoshi, I ain't trying to get that man in trouble. Jah,” Tech turned and
gave him a pound, “I'm out.” Tech snatched a cigarette out of Jah's open pack and headed out the door. When Jah turned to go back to his video game Yoshi was shooting him a menacing glare.
“What?” he asked defensively.
“You know what!” she shot back.
Jah sighed and placed the plastic gun on the coffee table. “Yoshi, what did you want me to do, kick him out?”
“Yes. Tech needs to have his little ignorant ass in school instead of sitting up in here smoking weed and playing video games with you. You need to be more responsible.”
“Whatever,” Jah got up and headed into the kitchen.
Yoshi glared at his departing back. She looked around her tastefully decorated living room that now resembled a club house with empty beer bottles and overflowing ash trays. She loved Jah, but sometimes his irresponsibility and lack of motivation got on her damn nerves.
For as much of a pain as Jah could be, Yoshi couldn't deny that he had won over parts if her heart that no other man could think of sniffing. Back in those days she was shaking her ass at various strip clubs and trimming cats for their bread. Her mentality back then was “I don't give a fuck, if it's about a buck.” Her outlook was drastically changed when she was beaten and gang raped by a scorned trick and his minions. After that she felt so low in life that nothing could pick her up, until Jah.
Up until then she had never seen him as much more than Paul's wild-ass little brother, but Jah showed her a much deeper side. It touched her how he could give so much of himself and not ask for anything in return, but it was his passion that made her love him.
After the rape, death rode Harlem like a dark horseâwith Jah holding the reigns. All of Yoshi's attackers and those close to them met horrible deaths. Though Jah never admitted to it, the word on the street was that his vengeance was of legendary proportions. When he put her mental demons to rest he helped her reconstruct her physical self. He hovered over her like a guardian until Yoshi felt like she was ready to face the world again, but this time she wouldn't have to do it alone.
Yoshi loved having a man to pamper her the way Jah did, but she sometimes felt selfish about it. Jah was a wolf, and she knew the call of the pack rang heavy in his ears; but he still put her first, which was no easy task for a man like Jah. He was a predator, and the block was his jungle. Being away from that was, in a sense, removing a piece of who he was, and it showed in the way he hung around the house smoking weed with Tech. He and Spooky still made moves, but Jah wasn't in the thick anymore.
Once Yoshi was well again she was back on her paper chase, but she wasn't stripping anymore. True had gotten her a job doing wardrobe and makeup on video sets, to try and make up for what had happened. Though he wasn't a part of the act, he felt guilty because they were his crew. It didn't take long for record execs to recognize Yoshi's fashion sense, and she found herself doing plenty of freelance work. Yoshi became known as an up-and-coming stylist and everyone wanted to work with her. In no time, Yoshi was back to doing what she did best, stack cheese.
Being that Yoshi was now in the entertainment business, she rubbed elbows with a lot of heavyweights, some not being the most savory characters. She instantly saw the potential in it for Jah and plugged him. Jah was making anywhere from three to five thousand a night just to hang around. Every once in a while he might have to slap somebody, but hell, he'd been doing that for free since Yoshi knew him. Things went well at first, but after a while Jah seemed to lose interest and withdrew to the apartment. Now, Jah did his part and they weren't strapped for cash, but having him around the house 24/7 was starting to blow hers.
“Where're you off to,” Jah said as he came out of the kitchen with a forty-ounce in his hand.
“Work,” she said, snatching her keys off the coffee table. “Stacks Green and his crew are shooting a video in the city this week, and they've got that grudge match with Don B's team at the King Dome next weekend. He said he tried to call you about doing security but you haven't called him back.”
“I'll get around to it,” Jah said unenthusiastically. Jah had indeed
gotten the message Stacks's assistant had left him, but he chose not to return the call. Stacks Green was an up-and-coming dude from Houston's rap scene. His single, “Golds and 44s,” was getting heavy rotation on every station and he had already shot two videos without even having a record deal. Who needed label money when you had the block?
Word had it that Stacks Green put the
D
in Dope Boy. He had North Houston leaning and rocking off the shit he was putting on the streets. Still, Stacks was wise enough to know that the streets wouldn't be forever, so he ventured into music. He had started out as just being the CEO, but after loosing his main act to federal prison he had to put on another hat. The bugged-out thing was that the boy was dead nice. He had a New York flow, with a twang of the south. The best part was that he never ran out of material, because he was still heavy in the streets.
Stacks and his crew were certified street niggaz and he always paid like he weighed, but Jah just didn't like him personally. Stacks was loud, arrogant, and sneaky. More to the point, he didn't like how the man looked at Yoshi. An admiring look he could tolerate, but there was a hunger in his eyes that Jah didn't like, especially after what Yoshi had already gone through. Stacks was an arrogant muthafucka who thought his paper entitled him to any- and everything he wanted. Jah knew that if he ever got out of pocket with Yoshi he was going to kill him, so he saved himself the trouble and just avoided him.
“What's with this chip you've got on your shoulder?” Yoshi asked.
“What you talking about, boo?”
“Jah, you know what I'm talking about. Every time you get around Stacks or someone mentions his name you get all funny style.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, Yoshi. If I don't like the nigga, I don't like him. Ain't no funny business about it.”
“I hear that Jah, but let me give you some advice: Stacks might be an asshole, but he's got long dough. For some reason you make him feel safe. Now, I don't know what done crawled up your ass, but you better pull it out and call the nigga back. These lights ain't gonna keep themselves on.”
Jah turned around and glared at her. The storm clouds brewing in his eyes made her take a step back. “Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?” He slithered out of the chair and in her direction. “Yoshi, don't I do what the fuck I gotta do to hold us down?”
“Calm down, Jah, I'm not saying you don't, butâ”
“But shit!” he cut her off. “You standing here telling about why the fuck I should be so quick to accept a handout from that fat muthafucka. When did you become president of the fan club?”
“Slow ya roll, Jah.” She matched his tone. “First of all, I ain't the president of nobody's fan club but my own. Furthermore, all I'm trying to tell you is not to let your feelings fuck with your pocket, that's a fool's move.”
Jah bit his bottom lip. “Well, pardon me for not having long dough, but I ain't hurting for no change, know what I mean? Even sitting in here playing nursemaid I do a'ight for myself.” He regretted it as soon as he said it.
“Word, Jah?” Her words were just above a whisper.
“Yoshi, I didn't mean it how it sounded.” He tried to correct himself but the damage was already done.
“Nah, you meant it just like you said it. But let me tell you something, Jahlil, I am now and always have been an independent bitch. Whether I was shaking my ass or shaking a nigga's pocket, I did it on my own. Now, I love you and appreciate everything you've been to me, but if you don't wanna be here I ain't gonna hold you.” Yoshi didn't even give him a chance to respond before she was out the door.