Authors: Treasure Hernandez

Back to the Streets (2 page)

BOOK: Back to the Streets

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“Hey, watch how you handling that thing,” Mimi said, carefully taking it from Tasha's hand. She then disappeared to get rid of the gun.

Tasha didn't pay Mimi any mind. She focused her attention on Halleigh, who began to shake life a leaf.

Halleigh looked down at the blood on her hand then at the bullet hole in the wall. “I could have . . .” Halleigh hesitated. “I could have . . .” Her cries built up in her throat as she struggled to contain her emotions.

“Shhh. Come here,” Tasha said, pulling Halleigh close and comforting her. “It's okay, Hal. Everything is gon' be all right.”

After a few moments, Tasha pulled away from Halleigh and looked at her. “I've told you that everything is going to be all right. You just gotta hold on, ma.” She put her arms around her friend again and rocked her slowly.

Mimi reappeared at the doorway after burying the gun in a drawer full of lingerie. She looked down at a visibly shaken Halleigh. “Is she all right?” she asked Tasha.

“Yeah, she's okay. She's gon' be fine,” Tasha replied, still holding Halleigh tightly.

Mimi was never one to get emotional. The only thing that made her cry was missing out on money, so when Tasha looked up and noticed Mimi's eyes full of tears, she outstretched her other arm to invite Mimi into the embrace. Mimi quickly bent down and filled in the circle and hugged Halleigh as well.

“It's time for this to stop,” Tasha stated, her voice cracking. “We can't do this to ourselves anymore. Manolo is the only person getting something out of all this.” Tasha looked around. “So he keeps a roof over our headsâWe can get that shit on our own.” She shook her head. “I can believe we've been selling ourselves short all this time. I mean, he's beaten Hal down to the point where she feels she needs to take her own life. This is bullshit. Nobody should have that much power over us. Nobody!” Tasha had to fight back her own tears. “You and me, Mimi, we're a different breed. We're strong. We can handle this life better than Halleigh, but look at her. Look what this is doing to her.”

Mimi nodded.

Tasha shook her head. “First she was trying to kill herself by shooting that shit into her body, and now she's trying to shoot herself, period. This is crazy.”

“When black people start killing themselves, oh yeah, you know shit done got too crazy,” Mimi agreed.

Halleigh was too distraught to reply. She had just attempted to take her own lifeâand she might have succeeded if not for the fact that her heroin-wasted muscles couldn't even hold the weight of the gun to aim properly. Otherwise, her two friends would've been weeping over a bleeding corpse. But that's what Halleigh felt like, anywayâdead, and bleeding on the inside.

“I hear what you saying, Tash,” Mimi stated, “but you know as well as I do that there ain't no way we leaving Manolo and living to tell about it. Ya heard me?” Mimi stood up. “You already know how he is, Tasha. You've been around longer than any of us. So you tell us what happens when a chick tries to walk away from Manolo.”

Tasha relaxed her arms to her side and just swallowed.

“Exactly!” Mimi said, smacking her lips. “So you can give your âObama speeches' all day long, telling us what we need to do, but I want you to show me how we're supposed to do it. Tell me, Tasha, how are we supposed to get out of this situation? And if we do make it out, how we gon' survive? All we used to doing is selling pussy. So what's the difference whether we're selling it for ourselves or Manolo? Selling pussy is selling pussy.”

Tasha knew that Mimi's words were true. They couldn't just walk away from Manolo without recourse. He was Daddy, and would kill them before he let them leave. And even if she did find a way to pull the girls out from under Manolo's clutches, what would be their means of survival? She was stuck between a rock and a hard place, but that didn't deter her from wanting to escape from Manolo's iron-fisted rule.

“What are we gon' do?” Mimi asked again.

“Let me think. Damn!” Tasha replied, aggravated that she didn't have all of the answers to Mimi's queries. She had never thought this tough about trying to dip out on Manolo, so, no, the answers weren't at the top of her head. But once she thought this thing through clearly, she was sure she'd figure a way out. “For right now, just shut up and help me get Halleigh up from the floor.”

Mimi gave her a questioning look, still wanting answers.

Tasha told her, “Look, all I know is that I'm gonna have us out of here by the end of the week, I promise. That's my word.”

Upon hearing Tasha's promise, an emotion finally registered on Halleigh's face. It was a look of surprise laced with disbelief.

Tasha noticed Halleigh's expression, and she wanted to remove her doubt. “I promise, Hal,” Tasha reaffirmed. She didn't know how she was going to pull it off, but she knew she had to at least try . . . for the sake of them all.

Chapter Two

T
ariq sat breaking down the buds of weed on the table as the hustlers that worked for him crowded around. They were listening to him talk mad shit about his superior.

“Fuck Jamaica Joe!” Tariq spat. “I'm the next big thing 'round this mu'fucka.” He filled the blunt with the goods, lit it, and continued to put on a show for his crew. “Just stick wit' me and you're gonna go places,” he stated.

They were all inside the crack house that Jamaica Joe had assigned Tariq to run. Drug addicts filed in to buy their preferred drug as Tariq sat at the table in the middle of the dope spot. For the past fifteen minutes, he'd been bragging about how he was going to take over the North Side drug game, and how nothing or no one would get in his way.

“Yo, and that ho-ass nigga Malek is done, nah mean? That nigga ain't a hustla anyway. Before Joe took that nigga in, he was a soft-ass ballplayer who didn't know shit about the streets of Flint. Now that nigga think he Rich Porter or somebody. I'm telling you, son, I got some shit about to pop off soon, and when it do pop off, that nigga Joe and Malek are gonna be outta dis bitch. Trust that!” Tariq said, jealousy overtaking his emotions.

For the past week, Tariq had been creating a plan to get Joe and Malek out of the picture. Unfortunately, his last two attempts to set up his former comrade had failed miserably. Tariq had provided Sweets, who ran the South Side and who was also Joe's biggest enemy, inside information on Joe in order to catch him slippin'. Neither time had Sweets been able to take out Joe. This third time, though, had to be a charm, or else Tariq was certain Jamaica Joe would be on to the fact that someone on the inside was setting him up. Since, besides Malek, Tariq was the closest and knew all of Joe's business, it probably wasn't going to take long for the finger to get pointed his way.

But Tariq's level of confidence was up so high, he shook off that thought. Matter of fact, he was so confident that he had no fear in expressing himself, knowing that Jamaica Joe wouldn't be around long enough to find out about it anyway.

Tariq and Jamaica Joe went way back in the street game, always playing on the same team. Until recently, Tariq had always been loyal to his superior, but now, as far as he was concerned, Joe shit on that loyalty thing when he let some punk-ass teen who hadn't put in no work in the streets come in and try to play his position.

As Tariq began to fill one of his closest workers in on the plan to take down Joe, a fiend approached the table, looking to cop a fix. Tariq was in mid-sentence when the fiend interrupted him.

“Excuse me, youngblood. Can I get a dime?” The crack-head stood before Tariq with a handful of quarters, dimes, and pennies.

Tariq slapped the change out of the crackhead's hands, causing all of the coins to scatter across the hardwood floor. The other users scrambled for the change and eventually left the man with only a few cents.

“Didn't you see me over here talking to my mans?” Tariq spat. “Don't interrupt me for a mu'fuckin' dime rock. You betta go and holla at one of them li'l niggas out front and cop,” Tariq said as he watched the man scramble for any of his change that hadn't already been confiscated.

Tariq and the worker he had been discussing his plan with laughed as they watched the fiend walk out of the crackhouse with no money and no drugs, a crackhead's nightmare. Once the fiend left, Tariq continued explaining his plan to take out Jamaica Joe.

By the end of the night, he was high off the bomb weed he had been tootin' and the anticipation that he would soon reign the North Side drug game.

Jamaica Joe and Malek sat in the spacious back seat of the all-black Bentley as they were chauffeured by one of Joe's henchmen. The curtains on the windows hid their faces from the public, but unless they had been under a rock or were new to the city, everyone knew who was inside the luxury vehicle. Typically, they would have been rolling in Joe's black Lincoln Navigator, but that had been riddled with bullets when someone tried to rob him. Unbeknownst to Joe, it had been one of Tariq's failed setups

Malek looked through the back window and then at Joe. “Yo, Joe, I think someone is following us. That car been on us since Ballenger Road,” Malek said in reference to the blue Ford Taurus with tinted windows behind them.

“Ah, don't worry about them. That's just the Feds,” Joe said nonchalantly. “They been on me for the last couple of weeks. But I ain't pressed. They don't have anything on a nigga. They're just waiting for me to slip up. But it ain't gon' happen, feel me?” Joe didn't even look back once. Everything about him reflected that he wasn't the least bit worried. It showed in his actions and the tone of his voice. He knew that the FBI were on him closely, and he understood that the war he had with the South Side and Sweets was what brought the attention his way.

“Damn, fam, it's like that?” Malek couldn't believe how casual Joe was, considering that the authorities were just waiting for the opportunity to put him under the jail.

“Yeah. They can follow me all they want, though. My hands stay clean. I stay one step ahead of them mu'fuckas at all times.” Joe fixed his cufflinks. “They couldn't catch me if they wanted to anyway.”

Joe looked at the rearview mirror and locked eyes with his driver. He nodded slowly, signaling for his driver to speed up. He was ready to have a little fun with his tail.

The driver put the pedal to the floor, and the luxury vehicle weaved in and out of traffic at 100 miles per hour. The speed of the car was far too much for the Ford Taurus to keep up with, and within seconds, the FBI was MIA.

Joe pulled out a pre-rolled blunt and looked over at Malek. “See, I told you they can't fuck with me!” He lit the blunt and took a pull. Circles of smoke billowed from his mouth as he exhaled.

Malek grinned at how easy it was for them to shake the other car. “You a crazy mu'fucka.”

They pulled onto the block that Joe had assigned to Tariq. The next thing Joe and Malek knew, the driver hit his brakes abruptly, causing the tires to screech. Within seconds, they noticed the skinny man who had jumped in the middle of the street in an attempt to flag down Joe's car.

“What the fuck?” Joe's eyes darted toward the front.

The driver immediately put the car in park and jumped out with his gun in palm. He rushed over to the man, grabbed him by the neck, and pressed the gun to his temple. “What the fuck is yo' problem? I should blow yo' brains out.”

“Now hold up, youngblood. I just want to talk to Jamaica Joe for a second,” the man stated nervously.

Joe looked closer as his henchman pinned the man down on the hood of the car. That's when he recognized the familiar face. “Oh, that ain't nobody but Scratch, that crazy-ass fiend,” Joe said as he relaxed back on his seat. He knew Scratch from back in the day. Joe actually used to look up to Scratch in the '80s. Scratch used to be the dope man, but when he hit his own pack, he switched sides in the game. Instead of being the pusher, he became the user.

Figuring it was time to come to Scratch's rescue, Joe cracked his window a little bit and signaled for his henchmen to let Scratch come over to the car. “It's all good, man. Bring him over.”

When the henchman released his grip, Scratch immediately rose up and massaged his neck. “Damn, youngblood, you didn't have to do Scratch like that,” he said, talking about himself in third person, a habit that he always had.

Scratch walked over to the back door, and Joe rolled down his window, exposing his face.

“Scratch, you could've gotten yourself killed, fam,” Joe told him.

“Ah, nah. You know it take a lot more than a car to kill good ol' Scratch.” He smiled, displaying his rotted teethâwhat he had left of them anyway. “Look, man, I got some valuable information for you, ya dig?” Scratch said, scratching his arms and neck.

“Some valuable information, huh?” Joe asked skeptically.

“That's right. You know I wouldn't come at you with no bullshit, Joe.”

Joe thought for a minute and then nodded. “Get in.”

In all of Joe's dealings with him, Scratch had never tried to play or run game, so if Scratch said he had some valuable information, then nine times out of ten, he did. All Joe had to do was determine just who the information was most valuable to.

Jamaica Joe and Malek slid over, making room for Scratch to sit down. As soon as Scratch entered the car, a foul stench filled their nostrils as the horrendous body odor punched them in the face.

Malek frowned his face and put his hand over his nose, trying to avoid the smell. “Damn, man,” he said, waving his hand and then rolling his window down a bit. “I got some priceless information for your ass tooâSoap and water works.” Malek stuck his head out the window.

Jamaica Joe grew irritated at the odor and couldn't wait to rid himself of Scratch's presence, but he had to see what info the fiend had for him. He wasn't trying to make small talk with or smell Scratch for longer than he had to. “Yo, what you got to talk to me about, fam? Make it quick, 'cause you smell like death,” he barked.

“Look, youngblood, Scratch was in the dope house, ya dig. And that cat, Tariq, was talking all greasy and stuff, saying he was the next big thang on the North Side and that you ain't gon' be the boss for much longer. He didn't notice Scratch, though. He was too busy talking. I heard everything he was saying. He said he was going to set you up to get you killed so that you'd be out of the way . . . and some other li'l nigga you been joined at the hip wit' these past days.”

That last comment had gotten Malek's attention. He knew just what li'l nigga Tariq had been yapping about. He turned and faced Joe and Scratch.

An angry expression covered Joe's face. “What the fuck you talkin' 'bout, Scratch?” Joe grabbed Scratch by his collar.

“I ain't say it,” Scratch said, raising his hands in surrender. “Don't kill the messenger. Scratch just repeating what that nigga Tariq said. He gon' set you up, man.”

The thought of someone setting him up instantly enraged Joe. Malek remained calm and silent as he watched the scenario unfold.

Scratch was shaking uncontrollably as his eyes shot wide open. “You know me, Joe. Scratch wouldn't lie to you, man. You know that. Scratch ain't never came to you wit' no bullshit. You know that, man. You know that, right?” Scratch swallowed hard as he tried to read the expression on Joe's face. Unable to, he decided to keep talking. “Tariq was saying something about setting you up with a fake buyer from Detroit and taking you out once you got there. Scratch is keeping it real, man. You've got to believe me, Joe,” Scratch pleaded, talking so quickly that his words ran together.

Joe paused and thought about everything Scratch had said. Just earlier that week, Tariq had informed Joe that he had a potential buyer that was looking to cop heavy weight from him. He also said that it was a cat from Detroit, and mentioned that dude insisted that he wasn't gon' fuck with nobody but Joe in closing the deal.

“What is this nigga talking about?” Malek finally asked as he looked at Joe.

“I don't know, but I'm about to find out.” Joe took out his cell phone and pushed the speed dial button for Tariq. The phone rang a couple of times before Tariq picked up.

“What's good, fam?” Tariq answered.

“Ain't nothin',” Joe said, trying his best to keep his cool until he got to the bottom of things. “Yo, about that trip this weekend, though, I can't make it. I'm-a send one of the little niggas with you to watch your back, just in case some shit jump off. You know what I'm saying?”

There was a pause. Joe could hear Tariq take a deep breath, as if his brain was churning, trying to come up with his next words to say.

All Tariq knew was that he had to make the deal go down as planned. He had already lined up his soldiers that he was going to take with him to the top. What would he look like if his word wasn't bond? As far as he was concerned, Joe not coming through was not an option. He had to make it happen.

“Fam, I'm telling you, he ain't fucking with nobody else.” Tariq used the most convincing tone he could muster. “He said he wants to deal directly through you. He a real paranoid mu'fucka, nah mean?” Tariq lied. “You know how it is when niggas be hatin'. He gotta watch his back, so he only wants to deal with the head, not some cat who might be trying to take his spot.”

The irony of Tariq's words were killing Joe, but he maintained his composure. “Yeah, fam.” Joe chuckled. “I know exactly what you mean. Nonetheless, I can't fuck with it. I got to shoot to Miami for the weekend on business.”

“Joe, I really think this cat is a major player. He upped his order to fifty bricks, rather than thirty,” Tariq said, thinking fast.

“Word?” Joe said, hearing the nervousness that laced Tariq's voice. Hell, he was even starting to talk just as fast as Scratch, if not faster.

BOOK: Back to the Streets

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