Cracked Dreams (11 page)

“Yeah, yeah. That's what I like to hear. Well, I'm over here at my sister's crib right now, but I don't want no meetings over here. You know, I'm trying to leave this spot untainted.”

“Oh, that's cool with me, homeboy. Where you want to hook up?”

“I don't know. This is your hood, dog. Where's a good place to get a beer and chill?”

“Well, we can kick it up in Armadillo Willie's over there on Camino. They got some slammin' ass ribs up in there, dog.”

“All right, I'm with that. Meet me there in about an hour.”

“Cool. I'll be there.”

After they'd hung up, Spits went to take a hot shower to relax before he left. He had a lot on his mind, and he didn't want anything to be left open. If anything fucked up, Trigger would feel the repercussions ten-fold. Aside from Trigger, so many people's livelihood depended on his actions. With all of the fun it was to still being a teenager and have so much at your
fingertips, it took all the strength in the world to stop yourself from running around just capping people for no reason. It took an adult's mindset to control all of the bullshit that surrounded Spits' lifestyle. He was controlling it now to the best of his ability, but it would only be a matter of time before he just flipped also. But for now, he was the most calm and collected mu'fucka you could meet.

“What up, son?” Spits inquired as he pulled into the parking lot of Armadillo Willie's.

“What's happenin', fool?” asked Red, unable to conceal his happiness to see Spits again; even though it had only been a short while since he'd been there. Red had anticipated the moment for what had seemed like years. It had only been a few months since he and Spits had first met, and he couldn't wait for the day he'd be back. He knew what would come shortly after his arrival, and he was ready for it. “Long time no mu'fuckin' see, nigga,” Red said as Spits got out of the car to give him a pound and a hug.

Red was a husky nigga. He weighed about two hundred-sixty pounds and stood about five-nine. He'd gotten the name Red from his father. He was some badass that was deeply affiliated with a gang out there called the Bloods and was infatuated with the color red. Red gave Spits a bear hug that could've temporarily cut off his blood circulation. It wasn't hard to tell that he was sincere. From the moment they'd met, Spits had known that Red was someone that he could trust his life with.

They first came across each other outside the Galaxy nightclub on Haight Street in the Bay Area. Through a cat Red knew in Rachel's apartment complex, he'd heard about Spits and that he was all about money. Red was that down-for-whatever Cali nigga, and Spits had been looking for people in his sister's complex like him. Initially, Spits just wanted someone real enough to make certain that nobody fucked with his sister without being dealt with, but everybody liked making money, you know? Red wanted to get at Spits but didn't want to just come across like a fan, so he played the cut. It wasn't until some niggas from a rival gang were heard to be plotting on Spits when Red saw his opportunity.

Red just happened to be in the Galaxy while Spits was there. Spits walked
past him as he exited the establishment, and Red noticed that he had two niggas following him that didn't look too friendly. When he finally made it outside the club to see what was up, they were already creeping up behind Spits as he fumbled to get the car door open. Before Spits knew what was going on, Red had the drop on them. After a brief gunfight that forced an unarmed Spits to duck for cover behind a dumpster, they'd taken off running. When it was over Red and Spits introduced themselves, and became a unit for the remainder of his trip. Spits had given Red his word that once he returned, he would bring fortune and he was ready to honor that promise.

“Yeah, whatever nigga,” Spits said, returning the love that was received. “It's been too long, huh?”

“What's going on, man?” asked Red.

“Ain't nothin, son. You ready to get this paper, my nigga?”

“Always ready to get that paper, dog. Always!”

“Well, it's time now, son. Things are about to be for real. Let's go in here and get some food, so everything could be straight for when my nigga Trigger gets here.”

They went into the restaurant and immediately requested a table in the back for privacy. The place wasn't crowded at all so they could also have some silence while they spoke. They went through every last detail three times over before Spits was comfortable that the information was burnt into Red's brain. The first detail that was discussed were the locations. They wouldn't go out on the street at all here. They'd deal directly from apartments that were rented strictly for work. Again, Spits figured if these fucked-up ass apartment complexes housed all of the addicts, then they'd house the dealers as well; just like in the park in '96. The next detail would be labs. If they were going to steer clear of suspicion, they'd use hotel rooms for stash spots. It wouldn't be wise to have the drugstore in the same place as the stash spot because you didn't need all that traffic where all of your work was kept. Of course the hotels would be affiliated with TB, but that wouldn't at all be public knowledge. They'd also adapt the same delivery process they used in New York. The next detail was the money. Ultimately, all of the money left after payroll would be in a safe that only Trigger and
Red had access to. It would stay there until it was time for packages to be sent home to New York. Red would exclusively handle the work to keep Trigger away from a direct connection. He was the front man and Trigger was his dictator. With the perfect plan set in motion and assistance from Tone and Mr. Ortiz, Spits had all that he needed to ensure that this expansion was successful. This shit would be perfect. He could call Trigger immediately. He stopped at a payphone on the way back to Rachel's place.

“Yo, what up, son?” asked Trigger as he answered the phone with anticipation. “Everything all good out there?”

“It's all good, dog,” responded Spits. “Listen, you gotta be at LaGuardia Airport at ten o'clock sharp. Your flight leaves at eleven-thirty. All you have to do is show your ID at the front desk to check-in. They should have an electronic ticket for you under the name Nathaniel Evans. There should be no problems, right? I mean, Mr. Ortiz did send one of his guys with all of the papers you need, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Trigger, reassuring him that everything was going according to plan. “The shit look mad official, too. I'm tellin you, ain't nobody gonna know the shit's a fake ID.”

“Oh, okay. That's great. I had a little convo with my man Red. Yo, son is ready to die for the Family already, kid. He's on some dedication shit, for real. Besides that, you know he's always like thirty deep. He's going to be a good deputy.”

“Word? That's peace. Yo, I can't wait to get out there, son.”

“I know, son. I can't wait until all of this is over either. Listen, I'm about to motor. Me and Gin gonna see what we can get into tonight. I'll see you tomorrow, son.”

“All right, God. Peace.”

“Yeah, my nigga, peace.”

Once their phone call came to an end, Spits hung up the receiver of the payphone and felt a bit of serenity pass through his body as he breathed in and out slowly. Everything was moving on schedule, and the confidence Spits had in himself came creeping back slowly, but surely. Soon, he'd be back to the extent of his controllability and arrogance as he felt he was yet
to be defeated. When this mission was completed, there would be no stopping the Time Bomb Family. Of course, he would no doubt come across some speed bumps in his race to the finish line, but any real hustler could just move right through those.

After a minute of thinking to himself, Spits went back to the apartment to scoop Gin for a night on the town. They would go out for dinner, and then to a nightclub for drinks and dancing. As this was the first time Gin and Spits had actually gotten some sort of a vacation together, they had an immeasurable amount of fun that night. In all of the times they'd gone to nightclubs in New York together, they'd never imagined how much they enjoyed one another's company. Partying was different back home. They usually went out to get all dressed up and blow up the spot, basically to impress everyone they knew would be there. They never went out and just enjoyed themselves. It was purer away from home. Here, they didn't have to be image conscious, or put on a show. All that they were concerned with were each other, and nothing else.

Spits made sure to show Ginger the best time of her life so that she'd never be skeptical about another vacation idea. Also, he knew that starting the next afternoon, when Trig arrived, it would be all work and no play. Keeping that in mind, Spits woke up early the next morning, despite a hangover, and took Ginger out shopping.

They proceeded to the Great Mall of the Bay Area. Once inside, they hit the BCBG outlet, Nine West, the Off 5th Saks Fifth Avenue outlet, Donna Karan and Christian Dior. When Gin suggested they go to Mikasa to pick something up for Rachel, Spits recommended they split up and meet at the Outback Steakhouse for lunch. Ginger agreed and they parted ways. Although Spits gave off the impression that he'd gotten too tired to go on shopping, he'd been a bit deceiving. He wanted to surprise Ginger with a little something from Tiffany & Co. When they finally met up at the Outback, Spits already had a table for them. After they ordered, he laid a little box on the table. Her face lit up when she saw it, as she knew exactly what it contained. She loved those little blue boxes with the white ribbon. If she knew Spits, and she did, he'd gone all out for her. When she opened
the box, she found a gleaming platinum bangle bracelet with 103 round brilliant diamonds in it that totaled 3.45 carats. She absolutely fell in love with it as soon as she laid her eyes on its beauty. She looked up at the love of her life with glossy eyes and simply said, “I love you, Daddy.”

Just then, Spits got a call on his cell phone.

“Peter Beckford,” beckoned Judge Rosenberg. “Please stand and face the jury.”

Trigger did so with no hesitation, and he suddenly became very ill. He got a sharp pain in his stomach and sweat started to form from his forehead. His hands started to shake uncontrollably as he wiped the sweat that had built up on his brow. Up until now, Trigger hadn't once regretted any of the decisions he'd made that would bring him to this point. He knew that how he'd chosen to live his life was wrong, but he'd never once thought that he could've made a difference. Now, with his life left in the hands of twelve strangers, he'd finally had those thoughts. It was now when he would develop a conscience, and actually feel some sort of remorse. But, unfortunately for Trigger, it was too late. He'd now be held responsible for all of the bad things he'd done. Now, he would pay his debt to society with interest.

As the bailiff handed the jury's verdict to the judge on a small piece of paper, Trigger felt like the room's temperature had risen to 130 degrees. Judge Rosenberg read the verdict on the paper to herself and nodded to the jury, signaling that she was ready for the verdict to be read aloud.

When the juror began reading the verdict, his voice seemed to get lower and lower until it sounded like a subtle whisper. Trigger closed his eyes and all he heard was silence. Then, he heard the word that he had been praying he wouldn't . . .GUILTY! It seemed to have come out of the juror's mouth in slow motion and it echoed over and over again in Trigger's ears. GUILTY . . . GUILTY . . .GUILTY. His head sunk into his chest and he felt tight all over.

“Peter Beckford,” began the judge in a bold and emotionless tone. “You
have been found guilty of the charges that were brought against you, by a jury of your peers. For these crimes, you are hereby sentenced to serve a term no shorter than twenty-five years, and not exceeding the span of your life, in a maximum security prison.”

Trigger screamed out loud, and when his thunderous yells came to an end, he found that he had been in his bed and the whole terrifying scenario had only been a terrible nightmare. The only things that were authentic were the nervous twitches, the sharp pain in his stomach and the sweat on his brow. He inhaled a deep breath and blew it out slowly to calm himself. He attempted to roll over to get some more sleep, but his attempts had failed due to a sharp feeling he had in his stomach. So he reluctantly got out of bed and proceeded to get ready to leave. Trigger hadn't been comfortable enough in New York to get a good night's sleep since that morning the courts saw the last of him, and he was more than ready to leave. On his way out of the door, he grabbed the two small bags that he'd packed for his move, and he was on his way. When he got outside, he spun around slowly to take one last good look at the place he had called his home for so many years . . .the Bronx. He looked up at the sky and realized how beautiful the day was. When you'll probably never see something again, you take a better look at it and it doesn't seem the same. The sky seemed more pure. He didn't see the Bronx for the piss hole that he'd seen it as before. He recognized the exquisiteness in the building designs and the perfection of its imperfections and knew then, that he would miss it.