Dollar Bill (7 page)

It was a few days before Dollar returned to general population. He hated that every time an inmate walked by him they hissed and laughed at the back brace he sported.

“Damn, Dollar,” this faggot-ass dude named Shawny said as he brushed by Dollar with his little T-shirt tied into a knot at his belly button. “If I had known you put your back into it like that, I would have tattooed your name on my ass years ago.”

The inmates within ear distance laughed as if they were watching
Def Comedy Jam.
Dollar just brushed that shit off and went on about his business.

He passed a table where a game of chess between Romeo and some other inmate was taking place. As Romeo began to make his move, he spotted Dollar walking by. A grim grin took over the bottom portion of his face as he declared checkmate against his opponent without taking his eyes off of Dollar.

Dollar stared him down all the same.
Fuck it!
Dollar looked at it this way: both them niggaz was going to die in jail anyway. They might as well go out gangsta. Although Dollar was in no position to battle, he wasn't going to bow down to no man. The look he gave Romeo confirmed such.

Ironically, Dollar's life always seemed to come full circle. Like déjà vu, one night, right before lights out, Romeo appeared outside of Dollar's cell. Dollar was ready for the old man this time though. Earlier that day, while Dollar was shaving, he removed the blade and placed it under his tongue. When he returned to his cell, he inserted it into the bristles of his toothbrush and secured it with tape. Fuck buying a dozen cans of soda pop and loading his pillowcase with them to blast Romeo with. Dollar was going for the jugular. The old man had brought out something in Dollar that he had managed to bury deep inside his soul: the killer in him.

“I bet you think that was me who busted up your back in the shower,” Romeo said, tooting on a cancer stick.

“Look, old man,” Dollar said, raisin' up off of his bed. “Fuck you and the mind games you playin'. If you got beef, then come on wit' it. Like I said before, let's do the damn thang.”

Romeo couldn't help but burst out laughing. “You little niggaz kill me. What is it y'all call yourselves? Hard? Ain't nothin' hard about you hoes except for your dicks when you wake up in the morning. Put the Old Gs back on the street and we'll show y'all dumb bitches how the game is played.”

“Well from the looks of all the Old Gs occupying these prison cells, y'all lost the muthafuckin' game.”

“Yeah, but that's when the teachin' comes in,” Romeo said, exhaling two synchronized streams of smoke from his nostrils. “When you lose, you have time to sit back and think of where you fucked up along the way. Mentally, you can correct that shit. Of course you can't go back in time and change things, but you can school the next muthafucker tryin' to come up in the game. Take you, for instance. You sat with your back against the world. What kind of shit is that? The world is your enemy and you turn your back to it. You assumed because you Dolla Dolla Bill that shit is tight for you. Son, even Jesus was crucified. You grubbed on your slop thinking there wasn't one nigga up in here wishing you dead.”

Romeo shook his head and then continued. “You never forked through your food for foreign objects; you just sat down and ate like it was the last muthafucking supper. Do you really think that if I don't fuck with nobody they ain't gonna fuck with me bullshit works? Jealous-ass niggaz want you dead 'cause they think your dick is bigger than theirs, but a nigga scream ‘truce' and throw up deuces and you think everything is all good. Just because a muthafucker say they cool with you doesn't mean they cool with you. Just because a muthafucker wanna roll with you don't mean they down for you. Half these niggaz trying to be up in your corner don't wanna be down for you. They only want to be you, recognize.”

“So what the fuck, old man?” Dollar said, becoming agitated as if he was attempting to put a Rubik's Cube in order. “Why you telling me all this shit? I've survived in this piece this long. I'm doing something right.”

Romeo laughed again. His laugh was beginning to infuriate Dollar.

“Back in the day, that Wojo shit,” Romeo recollected. “Do you really think them niggaz didn't draw blood out of your asshole because you shouted out a threat or two? When it was all said and done and your asshole was still as tight as a virgin's pussy, didn't you think that God must have been watching over you?”

Dollar thought back at the close calls he had and could have had. He thought back at how he knew God must have been on his side. He looked up at Romeo speechless, not willing to give him the gratification of being right.

“Well, little nigga,” Romeo said as he put the lit cigarette out with his index finger and thumb. “I'm God.”

One would have never known Dollar and Romeo had ever had beef. Nowadays, they were joined at the hip. Although Romeo had a twisted way of doing it, he taught Dollar how to survive. He taught Dollar how to constantly watch his back and never, under any circumstance, trust anyone; not even himself.

Even though Dollar might not have 100 percent trusted Romeo, he trusted the words he was schooling him with. Besides, finding out Romeo's respect behind the bars had been part of the reason for Dollar's survival, Dollar at least owed him a listening ear, never once questioning why, why him? Why had Romeo chosen to take Dollar up under his wing? But then again, Dollar had always had a way of gaining his own level of respect as well.

Romeo spent hours crowning Dollar with all of the street knowledge he had in him. This was shocking to other inmates. No one knew too much about Romeo personally, not even his given name. He was never one to brag and boast about his dirt. He never put his business in the yard. But for some reason he had found something in Dollar that made him vocal.

Dollar spent endless hours listening to Romeo's “old school” tales. Romeo did everything from snatching gold chains off of college girl's necks, to mackin' hoes, to robbing banks. Romeo broke down all the things he would have done differently to keep from catching a case, like keeping his eye on the prize instead of getting greedy. He even schooled Dollar on other inmate's fuck-ups: how they had picked the wrong crowd to roll with; how they should have detected that, in the end, backstabbing muthafuckas wouldn't be down for them.

“Loyalty and betrayal are muthafuckers,” Romeo said to Dollar as they sat in the yard rapping. “There are times in life when your head gets all fucked up trying to figure out who you need to be loyal to and who the fuck you just might have to cross. It's even harder trying to figure out who is actually loyal to you and who just might cross you. Eventually you'll have to play both roles. You gotta be that backstabbin' nigga to one muthafucker in order to stay loyal to the next. But you gotta be careful because if you get it twisted, one or the other, loyalty or betrayal, might destroy you . . . sometimes both.”

 

 

Dollar would spend his nights dissecting Romeo's words. Romeo had so much he wanted to hammer into Dollar's brain. The main lesson Romeo tried to teach Dollar was to be low-key. The less people who knew him and the less people knew about him, the less people to be jealous of him and the less people to try to put salt in his game.

“Take the game of basketball for instance,” Romeo said to Dollar. “Half them niggaz ain't about the team. They about showboating, making a tight play that's going to bring about recognition in the game. They want ESPN play of the week and shit. Them same muthafuckers be the first ones in the spotlight when shit ain't right: rape charges, failing drug tests, shootin' they babies' mamas and shit. Now take that cat who just gets out there and does what he's supposed to do, sticks his man, passes the ball, and shoots only when he knows he has a sure shot. We hardly know that cat's name. His house is just as big as the next baller's. His wrist is just as iced, yet we wouldn't even recognize his ass walking down the street. That's the muthafucker you want to be.”

Now that Dollar had been let in on the medley of hustles that existed, he wanted to stick his spoon into every pot of hustle there was on the streets and scoop up a taste. Unfortunately, that was no longer an option for Dollar.

Still, that didn't keep Romeo from spoon-feeding Dollar knowledge, making him fiend for the streets, making him want to give his left nut to be back on the streets again.

“So how did you finally get caught?” Dollar asked Romeo while they sat at the chessboard.

“Fuckin' round with other muthafuckers,” Romeo said. “They was some iffy cats. I should have known to just do the damn thing without them. Whenever a cat gets iffy on you, like they wanna bitch out, cut 'em the fuck off. They useless.”

“So why didn't you take your own advice and cut 'em off?” Dollar asked.

“Because I didn't know then what I know now, li'l nigga,” Romeo answered sternly. “I robbed plenty of spots by myself. I don't know what in the hell made me think I needed to pull them niggaz in on that hit.”

Dollar continued to listen to Romeo as he went on about how his nervous-ass partners botched what would have been the biggest lick in Romeo's criminal career.

Dollar could tell by the way Romeo spoke with such passion that he, too, wished that he could be back on the streets to do shit all over again. He could tell by the intensity in Romeo's tone every time they talked. Dollar and Romeo found that they were so much alike. Hell, they even started to look alike.

“Damn,” Dollar said one day while attempting to be taught the game of chess by Romeo. “With all the shit I know now, if I was on the them damn streets today, I'd be a Don.”

“Fuck that!” Romeo said, becoming angry. “You'd be your own man, not a made man. You little niggaz watch too many Al Pacino movies. You think them Mafia muthafuckers running around talkin' 'bout they wanna be a nigga? Hell no, but you niggaz always want to be them. All y'all worry about is being fly and making sure everybody knows who y'all is. Well, that's where y'all fuck up. The bling-bling brings too much attention from the wrong people. Why a hustler would want everybody to know who they are and what they do is beyond me. It's a stupid, egotistical mistake. You don't wanna do too much in the game. The less you stand out, the longer your chances are of remaining a player. Get in the game, do what you came to do, and get the fuck out! Take your championship ring and retire.”

“You right,” Dollar agreed. “I'd be my own man. Fuck trying to show off to these wankstas. It's all about me.”

Dollar dazed off, envisioning what he used to know as freedom. Romeo could see the look of desperation in Dollar's eyes. It was as if Romeo was living the street life once again through the dream in Dollar's eyes. Romeo knew that the time had finally come. His work was done . . . well almost.

“What if I was to tell you there was a way for me to put you back on the streets?” Romeo said, pausing from the chess game.

“I'd say, damn, you really are God.” Dollar laughed.

“Seriously,” Romeo said with deepest sincerity.

“I'd say do that shit.” Dollar turned serious.

Romeo bowed his head and ran his hand down his face. He took a deep sigh and looked up at Dollar. “I got something that the state wants. If you give it to them, you're a free man.”

“But that don't make sense,” Dollar said. “If you have something that could make me a free man, then why wouldn't you just use it to free yourself?”

Romeo smiled a huge grin. He patted Dollar on the shoulder, who was clearly confused at this point. “You finally analyzing shit,” Romeo said. “See what a game of chess will teach you?”

“Come on, I'm serious,” Dollar continued.

“All right, calm down,” Romeo said. “Because what I have that the state wants is me,” Romeo replied.

“The state already got your black ass, old man,” Dollar said.

“They got the Romeo who shot and killed a guard and two tellers during a bank robbery,” Romeo said. “They ain't got Romeo aka the Midwest Serial Killer.”

Dollar's mouth dropped. He had heard of those killings from years and years ago. Dead bodies of young white females were being found throughout the Midwest. There were a couple of Latino and black chicks, too, but the FBI didn't want to taint the Caucasian killings with the minority ones. Each victim's case had similarities. Profilers couldn't piece together a suspect because nothing corresponded with their typical serial killings.

“That's you, man?” Dollar shouted.

“Shhh,” Romeo ordered.