Cracked Dreams (4 page)

Spits reached Daytona Beach International Airport at about 2 p.m. With no bags to claim, he headed straight outside to catch a cab to the hotel. Once in the cab, he couldn't help but stare outside the window at the sights in amazement. This was Michael's first time in Florida since he was a kid. An aunt of his had a house there, in Port Charlotte, where his mother would take him and his brother on vacation from time to time, but he didn't remember Florida like this. With the palm trees swaying from the slight breeze, and the clear blue sky, Spits could finally take a deep breath of the fresh clean air and relax.

He'd originally planned on booking a room at a Best Inn Hotel located on Bostwick Avenue—a couple of blocks from the beach—but given the exceptional mood he was in, he had the cabdriver suggest other arrangements. So they proceeded to the Hilton Daytona Beach Resort located on South Atlantic Avenue on the beach strip. While his first attempt to check-in was unsuccessful due to his age, he figured that a little cash would be more effective than a state ID, and it most certainly was. He then checked in and anxiously went upstairs where his suite was located. Once he found the door, he stuck the keycard in the slot until the green light lit up. He opened the door, and stood there in the doorway with his jaw dropped. He couldn't believe his eyes. It seemed as if he were in a dream.

The entrance was met on the left with a full-sized bar stocked with all kinds of brandy, cognac, vodka, whiskey, scotch and anything else you could think of. To left of the bar was the living area, and it was complete with two plush leather sofas, big wall-sized mirrors, a fireplace, and a television set inside a rotating pillar so that it could be directed toward the sleeping area.
On the right side of the living area were two doors that opened outward to the terrace. Next to that was the sleeping area that was laced with a nice big king-size bed, nightstands and dimming lamps. Then, there was the bathroom. The bathroom split into two separate toilet areas closed off by mirrored doors, with a huge vanity mirror in the middle, and double sinks. Behind one side was a toilet with a stand-up shower, and behind the other, a toilet and a Jacuzzi. Jet-black carpet flowed through the entire space with the Hilton logo placed in key areas of the floor. From the terrace you could see the entire beach strip and all of the other smaller hotels that sat to the right and left. Just looking at the sky from this point could calm a wild animal. As the sun set into that powder blue sky, it started turning orange and then red. Captivated in its beauty, Spits couldn't help but to just stand there, staring for a while until the sun was gone. He then got into the Jacuzzi to relax for a while and think. When he was done, he got into the huge bed and dozed off watching
Thundercats
, his favorite childhood cartoon, on the Cartoon Network.

Spits woke up early the next morning, and that day was even more beautiful than the last. He called room service to order breakfast, got a quick shower and, by the time he was done, his breakfast had arrived. He quickly ate and headed out. The first thing he wanted to do was hit the mall for some new gear, so he caught a cab to the Volusia Mall. He hit all the urban spots and designer clothing stores for the newest designs. When he finally felt like he had done enough shopping, he had seven or eight bags filled with Coogi, Iceberg, Armani Exchange, Timberland boots, and Nike Air Force Ones. Before he could leave, he stopped in a jewelry store called Atlantis, where he saw a gold Cuban link chain he liked. He put it together with a gold pendant in the shape of a dragon flooded with diamonds, and paid for it in cash with no hesitation whatsoever. He also bought a charm bracelet he thought that Ginger would like, and then he was on his way. The gift he'd bought for Ginger reminded him of how much he missed her. He called her as soon as he got back to the hotel to let her know he was safe, and that he was already having a great time. When he got off the phone with Ginger, he called Tone, and they made plans to link up later on in the
evening, giving him the opportunity to take a nap before they came to pick him up.

The time was ten o'clock when Tone called Spits in his hotel room to wake him up from his nap and let him know they'd be there in forty-five minutes. After a quick shower, Spits selected an outfit from his shopping spree earlier in the day. Spits looked at himself in the wall mirror and fell in love with what he saw. He picked out an Armani Exchange linen short set to wear along with a pair of Gucci sneaker/shoes. As he was tying his shoe the phone rang. It was Tone.

“What up, son?” asked Tone. “You ready, or what?”

“Yeah, I'll be down in one second,” Spits said, rushing him off the phone.

He hung up and took one more look at himself in the mirror. He polished off the face of his watch to make sure it carried the proper gleam, adjusted his new chain so that it fell correctly on his shirt, and gave his reflection a grin and a wink before leaving.

Tone, along with one of his boys from school named Will, took Spits to a new club he had heard about out in Orlando named The Palladium. At the door Spits paid for all three of them to get in with VIP passes and after they did a couple of rounds around the dance floor, they headed upstairs to get a booth in the VIP lounge.

“What can I get you guys?” the waitress asked.

“Yeah, give me a crown and Coke,” requested Tone.

“Yeah, I'll have some Henny straight up,” said Spits.

Will would order the same but the waitress cut him off before he could finish.

“Y'all got to buy bottles to sit here. If not, you'll have to go downstairs to have your little mixed drinks,” she said in a tone that suggested they wouldn't be able to afford it.

“Okay then, let us get three bottles of Moet then, i-ight, shorty,” Spits said, pulling a knot of hundred dollar bills out of his pocket. “That will be all, for now!” he said, waving her off.

“Damn, son,” Tone said, showing his amazement at the stack of money Michael had revealed. “You holding like that?”

“Yeah, I got this. We gonna make this bitch feel like a real dumb-ass tonight.
Who the fuck she think she is?” said Spits, still showing a little bit of anger at the waitress' comment.

“Oh, fuck that bitch, son! Where did you get all that paper?”

“My nigga, I told you we killin' 'em up top,” he responded, referring to his recent narcotic escapades in the Bronx.

“I heard you when you said it, but I didn't know it was like that though, son,” said Tone in disbelief.

“Yeah, it's a serious situation now. We got a tight little crew, too, son. We gonna make some real noise in a minute, kid,” said Spits, referencing the plans they had for the future.

Tone showed much interest. “Word? You gonna have to put me on, my nigga. This school shit is fucking my pockets up.”

“I don't know about that,” Spits responded, disinterested in corrupting a family member. “That might not be a good idea.”

As they discussed things further, Tone went on to mention that he'd already obtained his private pilot's license with the hours of experience he had. That would be perfect if Tone was going to set up shop down in Daytona. He could charter planes without a problem, and security was minimal. He also pointed out that his school was predominantly filled with, “white boys who only did drugs,” to quote his words exactly. He wouldn't even have to cook or cut the coke. He could sell it to them raw, and for the prices they were already paying, he'd make a killing. Although Spits took it all in, he didn't let on how fascinated he really was. He'd already planned out what they could accomplish in his head, but he needed more time to think about it before he told Tone anything.

“Calm down, cousin. We'll have all the time in the world to talk about this shit,” Spits said. “I came down here to get away from all that temporarily. Feel me?”

Tone agreed and they continued to drink.

It had passed midnight while they were talking and it was now officially Tone's birthday. They lifted their bottles for toast to “Moe's, hoes and zeros” and just as Spits was about to take a sip from his glass, he got a page with the code for emergency: 9-1-1.

T
he day I got that page was one of the worse days of my life. I couldn't believe that while I was having the time of my life in Florida, something that fucked up could be happening back home. When I finally got to a payphone to call the number that was left on my pager, I found out that the room we were renting on 219th Street had been raided by the police. As soon as I heard the voice on the other line, I knew something was wrong.

“Yo, what up? Somebody paged Spits?”

“Hello, is this Michael?” asked the man on the other line with a very shaken and cracked voice.

“Yeah, who's this?” I said, confused.

“This is Peter Sr.,” he said. “I'm Peter Jr.'s father. He said that you'd be able to help us get him out of jail.”

“Jail?” I asked with a puzzled look on my face. “What the fuck is he doing in jail? Um, excuse my language, Mr. Beckford, but you can understand my confusion,” I said to give a responsible impression.

“Don't worry about it, son,” he said, trying to make me comfortable. “He told me that you were out of town, and that he needed to speak to you directly. He's currently being held on one hundred thousand dollars bail. He was charged with possession of an illegal substance, intent to distribute and resisting arrest. Look, there are a lot more details that I'd rather not tell you over the telephone. How long will you be out of town?”

“I'll be there in the morning,” I responded. “When you speak to Trigger, I mean Peter, tell him to call me at my girl's house, anytime in the afternoon. I'll be waiting for his call.” I figured no one knew where Ginger lived, so I could avoid being greeted by the authorities upon my arrival.

“All right, Michael,” he said, sounding pleased. “I'll let him know. Peace.”

“Peace.”

I immediately got Tone to take me back to the hotel so that I could get my things. When I got there, I called Ginger and told her that I'd be at her house in the morning. I told her that it might not be safe for me to go straight home, so it was important that someone be there when I arrived. When we hung up, I checked out of the hotel and went straight to the airport from there. I got a ticket for the next flight out but it wouldn't be departing until seven-thirty. I'd reach New York with only a little bit of time left to get upstate to Ginger's house by noon.

The flight was on time and it landed at LaGuardia Airport at 11:30 a.m. A cab from the airport got me to Ginger's by 12:10 p.m. If I'd gotten there a minute later, I would've missed his call since the phone rang as soon as I walked in.

“Hello?” I said with anticipation. An operator came on the line and informed me that there was a collect call from Peter and I quickly accepted.

“Hello?” said Trigger, sounding very distant and emotionless.

“Yeah, son. How you holdin' up in there, kid? Ain't nobody fucking with you, right?” I inquired, trying to come across relaxed and in control of the situation. “I'm gonna get you outta there, son. Don't even worry about it.”

After a few seconds of complete silence, he spat, “Yo, he just kept shooting, son.”

I was without a clue. I waited for him to finish, but he didn't. Then he said, “He just kept shooting, and shooting, and shooting. I tried to tell him, ‘Yo, son! Don't! We already caught! They got us!' But he didn't listen. He just kept shooting, and shooting, and shooting.”

“Who are you talking about, dog?” I asked, trying to understand.

“You don't know?” he asked confusingly. “They didn't tell you. I'm talking about Pop. He's gone. They sent him back to his essence, kid.”

My heart stopped. I couldn't even breathe. It didn't hit me until I looked up at Ginger, and she had tears in her eyes. She thought I knew. I couldn't contain myself any longer. Once Ginger looked at me, I saw the pain that she felt for me and for Pop and for Trigger. As the tears that began forming in my eyes, I quickly buried the emotions deep inside me as Trigger continued telling me the story.

“He came to pick me up early yesterday morning. The night before had been real good for our spot on 219th. Shit was moving like water. We thought it would be best to keep it fully stocked. So that morning we cut up half a brick to re-up the spot with. On our way out, we weren't even halfway out the door before the police rushed us. When I saw them approaching, I went to shut the door, but they beat me to the drop. Pop had already run back upstairs for the Mac-10. Like eight of those pigs went upstairs after Pop, and as soon as the first one hit the top step, the shots started. They had me pinned down at the bottom of the stairs when I screamed to him that we were caught. All I could hear was the rattle of the shots being let off from the Mac, one after the other, while Pop screamed like a maniac.”

“What happened next?” I asked in suspense.

“He took out like six of those mu'fuckas before they got him. He gave it to five of them upstairs, and then he got away from them to come back toward the stairs where they had me pinned down. He hit one of the dudes holdin' me down in the head twice before another cop caught up to him from behind. Yo, I saw his brains hit the fuckin' wall, my nigga. He went out like a straight-up gangsta, dog. After I saw that shit, it took five more of them to hold me down. When they finally got me to the precinct, those punk mu'fuckas beat the shit out of me for what seemed like forever. I guess for their partners and shit.”

“Yo, I'm gonna get you out of there, son. I got you; don't even worry about it. I got you,” I said with redness in my eyes. I wasn't playing one bit either. Whatever it took, I was going to get my man out of there.

I reassured Trigger that I'd hold him down like steel. In turn, he reassured me that the police wouldn't be waiting for me when I got back to the Bronx.
I should've known that he wasn't a rat; especially as long as we'd known each other, but sometimes you have to put your brain before your heart. Besides, I didn't even know who'd snitched to begin with. How the fuck did they know about our little organization anyway?