Authors: Shareef Jaudon

TYCE (2 page)

BOOK: TYCE

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"Wait up nigga!" He shouted after me, “You a fast ass mafucka, but you was ‘bout to get got when you almost hit that stroller!"

I just calmly stared at him. He pointed his finger at his chest.

"What I wanna know is...why you stealin' from “
Foot
Locker,”
when you work there?" He said between laughs.

I grinned at him and shook my head; he was talking about the black and white striped shirt I was wearing. I had an official “
Foot
Locker”

employee outfit on.

"Man I don't work there! I got hired jus’ to get tha outfit." I schooled. "I been to seven different malls in tha last two weeks, havin' this outfit on makes it easy to slip in tha back and jack em." I held up the black trash bag full of new “
Jordan's.”
“Here,” I reached in the sac and handed him a pair, "You look like you a size 12, good lookin’ out my nigga." Silence replaced the giggles as he recognized my young genius.

He held up the shoes, "Yo how much you be sellin' these shits for?"

"Seventy five dollars and I got eight pairs in here." I answered.

"I sold a hundred pairs in tha last two weeks." I said still grinning.

"Niggas be callin' me “
Jordan
."

Omar was impressed. Shit all the niggas he knew was trying to sell dope to get paid, including him, and here I was slanging shoes, making the average corner nigga look broke. Omar said to himself,

"This dude can sell his shit on the blocks and not give a fuck about the holice!"

After putting Omar up on game, he and I became tight and we started slanging shoes together. I had him go cop a “
Foot
Locker”
outfit the same way I did, and we got busy. We were making over 10g’s a month, and we split the money 50/50. Couldn't nobody tell us shit, we was 17 years old pushing brand new “
Acura
Legend”
coups. Our pockets had a constant case of the mumps, we was little thousanairs. However, with the money, came bitches, and with the bitches came niggas. In my eyes, niggas fit the bitch profile better than women did most times.

Our activity caught the attention of one of the neighborhood bosses. Biz was a slick ass nigga whose stock was on the rise. He was looking for some solid soldiers to hold down a few spots he wanted to control. Biz didn't want some dumb ass greedy niggas; he needed some mafuckas with intelligence and heart. He knew everything that went on in the hood, and little did we know he'd been secretly watching us for months.

I sold my last pair of “
Air Force Ones”
to a single mom with a teenage son, put the 50-dollar bill in my pocket, and headed up the block to my whip. Omar's car was parked in front of mine. He was sitting on his hood talking to a chick that made herself comfortable between his open legs. I walked up on them and the girl began grinding on him when “
Adina Howard's
,”
T-shirt and My Panties On
, blasted from his speakers. While she was winding and rolling her body to the beat, she used a cherry flavored blow pop as a mic and sang the words. Omar was too busy enjoying the free concert to notice the pearl white “
Mercedes
Benz”
500 pull up next to us. I stopped and eyed the car; my right hand was already obeying my brains order to grab my piece...so I was ready for whatever! A big Debo looking dude got out the driver’s side and just stood there in the street.

"Tell dat lil' nigga to turn dat shit down!" He barked.

That finally got Omar's attention as he turned around to see who said it. He grabbed the girl by her waist and gently pushed her away from him. He hopped off the car and never took his eyes off the giant as he moved toward me. Omar pressed the volume button on his stereo remote, placed it in his back pocket and slowly pulled out a 9mm. Omar cocked his bald head to the side and glared at the linebacker. I however had my attention on what I couldn't see.

"Nigga who tha fuck is you?" I said evenly.

"Mafucka, don't worry ‘bout who tha fuck I am!" The linebacker shouted.

I gave him an easy grin, "I wasn't talkin’ to you”.

I shifted my eyes to the back door and waited for the person behind the black tint to join the party. The back window slid down silently and a shadow leaned forward. "Relax ya back fellas, we don't

mean no harm." It said.

The door opened and almost in slow motion, a cream-green alligator shoe pressed against the street.

"Yo cat daddy, we aint got no gators." Omar joked.

The stranger got out, stepped around the door, and walked easily toward us. He wore a beige sharkskin suit and a butter cream silk shirt with no tie. A green handkerchief peeked out his coat pocket.

"I jus' wanna talk to you fellas for a few ticks if that's alright." He extended his chocolate brown manicured hand, "I'm Biz. The large man over my left shoulder is Bruce."

Biz stood about 6.2, if I had to guess, I would say he was about 45. He had short black wavy hair and a smooth goatee. His deep tanned complexion was absent of any bumps. Everything about him said...money. When I shook his hand, I could tell he never worked a hard day in his life; he had hands as soft as surgical cotton. Biz looked us up and down and side to side. I was beginning to get agitated with this whole scene, when he spoke again.

He nodded in my direction, "You must be Tyce? And I don't buy my gators off the street...Omar." He said narrowing his eyes at

him.

I always like to listen as people talk, ‘cuz when your mouth opens your brain is on display. Omar on the other hand wasn't as patient.

He blurted out, "What tha fuck are you a stalker?"

"Naw young blood, I jus’ recognize good shit when I see it." He responded calmly. "Listen, ya'll wanna make some money? I'm ‘bout to get into some shit, and I could use some young brothers like you." He cut to the chase.

Right on cue, Omar spoke while I just listened. I was always cautious when somebody said they could "use me.”

"Man we makin’ money, do we look hungry to you?" He bragged.

"I aint talkin’ ‘bout no sneaker doe, I'm talkin’ ‘bout so much money you get tired of countin' it. I'm setting up shop in San Diego; ya'll can give them shoes to the niggas you'll be runnin' down there. I got mafuckas weed wackin' niggas right now, makin' room for my shit." He paused checking my reaction.

Now I'd heard of Biz from a few niggas I knew in Oakland. They said he was on the rise and moving

down south...guess they was right.

"You said ya name was Biz, right?" I asked

making eye contact.

"That's right." He confirmed.

"Look Biz...if ya "bizness" is dope, you talkin’ to tha wrong two niggas. We aint got time for that shit!"

He leaned in a little closer to me, "What you mean you aint got time?"

“Holice givin' niggas all day for that shit, we aint got time to waste sittin' in a cell tryin’ to play catch up when we get out." I leaned in a little closer this time, "You gotta come with somethin’ a lil' better than that to fuck with us."

Omar shot me a quick look of protest, which I ignored. Biz noticed it, but didn't say shit. I never liked the dope game it was over crowded with bitch ass niggas. Fake ass niggas that claim to be solid, but would fold up like lawn chairs under pressure. I wasn't trying to be locked up ‘cuz another mafucka was afraid to be. Biz smiled and stroked his goatee; he strolled back to his Benz and put his hand inside. A petite feminine hand placed a pager in his palm. The diamond tennis bracelet she was wearing winked at me as the sun hit it. He walked up and gave me the pager,

"Get back when I hit you...I think I might have a lil’ somethin’ better."

That was nine years ago, Omar and me had been working for Biz ever since. Now here we were both 26 years old posted up on a California block. We were waiting for Biz’s new man to show up with some money Biz owed us. Yeah, we were hanging on a street corner but understand we weren’t your average everyday corner niggas.

All Grown Up

I walked in my kitchen holding a bag of take-out from Shabazz restaurant. I ate my dinner on a 5,000-dollar mahogany table that was placed on top of a 40,000-dollar marble floor. I had a two-foot shark swimming in a 500-gallon fish tank in my bedroom. I sat on heated toilet seats with built in air suction when I took a shit and wiped my ass with 20-dollar toilet paper…yes there is 20-dollar toilet paper. Life was good. I had no kids and no wife. You don't lose bitches chasin' money, but you lose money chasin' bitches. I believe that shit. Now don't get it twisted; I love the ladies! I just don't get side tracked; I put business first. I mean what woman wants a broke ass nigga. Shit, I was far from broke and I love being wanted.

My wet feet pressed against the slate tile as I walked out the shower room, and looked in the bathroom mirror. I got some baking soda out the medicine cabinet and started brushing my teeth. That white powder kept my shit gleaming even though it tasted like feet. I was what old people called “paper bag brown” not to dark and not to light. However, I had the dark features of a

Dominican or Cuban nigga. I kept my hair short

and faded up…’cuz afro’s was outta style and braids were for girls. I had a solid frame from eating well that was nicely cut up. Being 6.1 and weighing 190 looked good on me. I didn't want to be all buff and shit...I liked being underestimated. I enjoyed seeing the surprised look on niggas faces when I flashed on em. I was the nigga you didn’t see coming. I kept a low profile and stayed in the shadows. Yeah, I got loud and live at times but I kept that shit to a minimum. Shit, the “
IRS”
used new potential employees to get info on tax dodging niggas. They would post up at the local clubs and write down the license plate numbers of expensive cars, so the “
IRS”
can run the info and see who was legal and who wasn’t. So I wasn’t trying to get a letter in the mail talking some bullshit about tax evasion. I got dressed and drove into the city. I was passing by “
Marcus Garvey's”
school when I seen Lil’ Flash. Niggas called him that ‘cuz he'd get the crack to the fiens in a blink, and holice couldn't catch that nigga on foot. I pulled over and honked the horn.