Love and a Gangsta (29 page)

I glared at him, and saw the butt of the gun peeking from his shirt.

“She said step off nigga.”

“Fuck you!”

That muthafucka sucker-punched me in the face. I stumbled back but quickly regained my balance. I went berserk on the nigga, two piecing him swiftly. The first caught him in the left temple and the second blow caught his right jaw. He stumbled back, dazed. I kept on him with a ferocious force building in me and continued my brutal onslaught of punches and kicks to his body and face.

He was out of his element, caught off-guard by my hand skills. He tried to protect himself by swinging wildly. I had the upper hand and saw him trying to reach for his gun concealed under his shirt. I charged forward and he grabbed me viciously and we both fell on the hood of a parked car. We wrestled with each other and he kept trying to reach for his weapon. And I wasn’t about to give up the advantage.

I tried to remove the weapon from his waistband myself. We struggled for the possession of his gun. Then the nigga unexpectedly head-butted me and I fell back, losing whatever reach I had on his gun. When I quickly came to, I saw the 45 in his hand aimed at me and knew I was dead.

From out of nowhere a champagne bottle smashed over the nigga’s
head. He fell forward from the blow and I had another chance of redemption. It was Greasy striking him, and before I knew it, Omega was on him too, both beating the man severely with bottles and a brick in the street.

It happened so fast—before I knew it, there was a rumble of violence in the street. About a dozen men came out. Each man was down with either of the two crews’ fighting. My rival came with support and they had his back in the fight, so did my niggas.

I was being pulled into the whirlwind of the brawl and went in swinging, striking at whoever was unlucky to come against me. I knocked down two with the boxing hand-skills. Soon I was outnumbered and found myself falling on the pavement. I had to curl into the fetal position from being stomped harshly by about three pairs of Timberlands. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand what would transpire next.

Baka! Baka! Baka! Baka!

Gunfire exploded and people quickly scattered for cover. I couldn’t tell who was shooting, I just heard the shots lighting up the night. I hugged the cold concrete for my cover and kept my head low. I was badly bruised and beaten, and felt paralyzed in the fetal cold position under the blanket of violence.

After the crowd scattered, I didn’t see Greasy or Omega and wondered if they had ran after hearing the shots. The sound of police sirens pierced the night. I knew that I had fucked up and could hardly move. I felt myself being roughly pulled off the pavement. My arms were twisted behind me and my wrists encased in handcuffs. I was quickly placed under arrest and detained.

My heart dropped, my eyes had shed agonizing tears, as I sighed heavily with my thoughts on America. This would devastate her. The police put me in the back of a marked car and I knew with my record that I would be seeing Riker’s Island.

Several hours later, I was still at the 103
^rd
pct. being charged with an assortment of charges. My freedom was looking bleak with every passing hour. There was no going home and my marriage was in jeopardy.

Reality was setting. I wanted to be mad at the world, blame others, but I only had myself to blame, for being so fucking stupid. I’d been doing better now I was wondering what happened? Where did I go wrong? Shit, I had a long time to think and contemplate. I was where I didn’t want to be, back in a jail cell awaiting my fate.

Always accept the challenges.
Feel the exhilaration of victory…

 

 

 

I got the phone call about Omar being in jail and I was devastated. Joanna called me. I had to hang up. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I cried long and hard that night and became sick. Nauseated, I spent an hour in the bathroom vomiting.

What went wrong between Omar and me? I contemplated with tears of hurt, betrayal, and anger trickling down my face. I was upset with myself for kicking him out. Maybe if he had stayed, he would’ve still been home and out of trouble.

“Oh God, what have I done?”

I was scheduled to take my first sonogram in a few days, but now I didn’t have my husband by my side. It hurt me that Omar wouldn’t be there. I just wanted to lock myself in the apartment for as long as I could. Joanna kept calling, but I wanted to be alone. I needed time to console myself. I felt so cursed.

A week passed, and I sat in my doctor’s office, trying to hold my head up. I couldn’t help but to notice a few other pregnant women in the waiting room with me. They had their husbands or mate looking happy and elated. I felt myself becoming emotional again. I was trying to be strong, but Omar was deep in my thoughts. One woman looked over at me and smiled. She was with her husband I assumed, and she looked about ten years older than me.

“Boy or girl?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” I replied.

“I was wondering if it’s boy or girl?” she repeated.

“I’m sorry but I have no idea yet,” I replied.

“You’re carrying well. How many months are you?” she asked.

I looked at her for a moment, wishing she would stay out my business. I was becoming jealous of her. I wanted to be her. I wanted my husband sitting next to me, keeping me company and making me laugh.

“Four months,” I said.

“Your first?”

“Baby, I’m gonna run across the street to the store, you want
anything?” the guy she was sitting with asked.

“I’m okay, sweetheart.”

“Be back in a minute.”

I watched him leave and was thinking that should be me too, having Omar look out for me and catering to my needs.

“Is this your first?” she repeated.

I didn’t answer her. My mind was miles away off in a zone, with my emotions soon to erupt. I needed to leave.

“I have to go,” I uttered, stood up and bolted from the doctor’s office.

Once outside, I walked as quickly as I could, trying to separate myself from the doctor’s office as far as possible. I couldn’t do it without Omar. We promised each other that we would know if it was a boy or girl together.

Strutting down the busy street, I found myself in tears. I didn’t care who saw me. I just needed to be out. I couldn’t walk any further, I was becoming winded and a serious wreck. I leaned against a brick wall, and fell to the floor.

As I lay there, I heard a female shouting, “Is she alright?”

A few good Samaritans tried to help me up, but I wasn’t hurt, at least not physically anyway. I just wanted a normal, peaceful and loving life with my husband, and that was snatched away from me because of my stupidity.

Someone must have called 911. Because moments later, an ambulance pulled up. Paramedics were standing over me, asking if I was okay. They told me to nod. I nodded meekly, and soon they helped me to my feet. They put me into the ambulance and gave me some oxygen to help me breathe better. When everyone was sure that I wasn’t giving birth, they relaxed but I couldn’t.

I was taken to the hospital to undergo observation. I didn’t resist. I wasn’t in any rush to get home. I called Joanna and she met me at Marry Immaculate hospital. She stood by my side the whole time, comforting me. I didn’t know what else I could do. I had to be strong and get through this difficult situation for my baby.

His heart grows cold.
As his days grows old.
The streets he calls home.
Ruthless until the day he dies.
His life is but a curse and a lie…

 

 

 

I felt bad for my dude, Soul. He caught a bad one that night. Greasy and I happened to escape before the police rolled up. I was looking for Soul, but couldn’t find him in the mix. I didn’t know who fired first. I shot back and hit some nigga in his chest. But my nigga Soul, he was back in the system. He needed a good lawyer. I couldn’t do nothing right now, I was having my own problems on the block.

Since Tiny’s departure, his territory was open market, and I was moving in to set up shop with that meth, so was every other crew that wanted in on his turf, and that brought more beef, and gunplay.

Tiny’s death hadn’t been confirmed yet, but other niggas caught the drift. He hadn’t been seen in several days, and when a nigga is missing for that long, chances are, he ain’t never coming back.

My name was definitely ringing and my reputation was on the rise. In the streets, I was the man to see for kilos of crank, coke, and guns. I was feared and got lots of pussy. Putting the murder game down with my fierce crew had my rep spreading like the virus.

With Tiny out the way, I only had to worry about his cousin Demetrius, and a few small up-and-coming crews that wanted to take over his turf. Those small crews had to be dealt with before they became a bigger headache for me.

Crystal Meth became the new drug in South Jamaica, Queens. Crack was still selling, but meth had every fiend hooked. My clientele ranged from the middle class blue collar working man, like sanitation and construction workers, cab drivers, college students, teachers, and every other drug fiend. Even doctors, cops, and lawyers were strung-out.

The drug was popular, it gave a high for up to eight hours or more, and stimulated the body—gave muthafuckas energy for work, overtime, sports, and sex. Taken orally, methamphetamine stimulated the brain cells, by increasing the release of dopamine, which in turn initially enhances mood. A meth user experienced increased wakefulness and physical activity, and decreased appetite.

Everybody wanted some, and I had the supply. With my Mexican
connection, I released unlimited crank and meth into the streets making my money hand over fist. But with my vast richness came rival crews, haters, and more trouble. I wanted Tiny’s turf to expand my operation and I was ready to lay down any nigga the hard way.

The corner of Foch Blvd and Guy R. Brewer became a hot spot. It was Tiny’s old turf and with that area, you could make close to five-hundred thousand a week. I put Biscuit and Monk on it, told them to hold it down and drop any nigga that opposed us. We had the muscle and the guns. Biscuit worked with the SMG PK machine gun—that shit could air-out a corner quick. I was making so much money, that I had several money counting machines and was weighing thousands and thousands of bills in garbage bags on scales. I owned a 3400 square feet bricked home in New Jersey, with the master suite on the first floor, a vaulted ceiling in the family room, a gas fireplace, eat-in kitchen with a large dinette and breakfast area, bay windows and a two car garage. The neighborhood was quiet and far from Jamaica Queens.

I had six cars, including a red Ferrari 360 Modena spider and a silver Continental GT. I had it all, and was still climbing my way to the top.

The bitches, yeah, I was still fucking Judy, Jazmin, and my new bitch, Cindy, plus a few other bitches on the side. I took care of them and they all took care of me. I moved my ride-or-die bitch, Jazmin into my home in Jersey, and kept Cindy in a two-bedroom condo out in Queens. Judy did her and had her own little place. She was still my source down at the 113
^th
.

Jazmin was a month pregnant by me, and I was cool with it. I wanted a son. I wanted to teach my son the streets and have him be my little prince. She was nervous telling me at first, because she didn’t know my reaction. I needed a seed to carry on my legacy out on the streets when I’m gone. I wanted a new generation of me.

Despite a few set backs and bumps in the road, life was good. I was willing to bleed these streets red. Money was coming into my organization by the truckloads, and my relationship with the Mexicans was getting stronger on the daily. I was feeling untouchable.

Friday night, I was in the master suite lounging butt naked on my king size bed. Jazmin was sprawled on top, giving me the best blowjob ever. She had me hard like steel and grunting as I felt myself about to cum in her
mouth.

The television was on, but I wasn’t paying attention to it. I was in bliss, with my fingers tangled in Jazmin’s hair and swelling in her mouth. I glanced at the news that was airing and the backdrop looked familiar to me. Suddenly the ten o clock news caught my attention as I stared at the charred Escalade in the wooden scene. It was Connecticut. I reached for the remote and turned it up.

“We’re here in Connecticut, a few miles from New Haven where state troopers are investigating the remains of two charred bodies in this truck behind me,”
the female reporter broadcasted.
“As you can see, the area has been confined, as state troopers investigate the remains of what seems to be of a man and a woman burned alive in the wooded area. Now police believe that the couple may have been dead for a little over two weeks, and were found bound to the seats of the vehicle. They have not been identified yet, and a full investigation is underway.”

I was surprised it took that long to find Tiny and his girl. Jazmin stopped sucking me off, as she looked at the TV and then at me and asked, “Everything cool, baby?”

“Ah… Yeah. Ugh… Oh yeah don’t fuckin’ stop now,” I said.

I continued to watch the news while Jazmin kept doing deep-throat. The police finding the bodies didn’t bother me none. I wanted them to be found. Jazmin was sucking my dick good, but I wanted to know if they had any more information. The police were left without clues. I knew soon, that the streets would find out that it was Tiny and then word would get around, and Demetrius would know I ain’t the one to fuck with.

Fall was on its way. That meant school was starting soon. And meth was being demanded everywhere on the campus and even in high school as athletes used the stuff to get pumped up before a game. Scholars used the stuff to stay up for studying and working. I was the king of Queens, and on my way to becoming the king of New York.