Cracked Dreams (9 page)

Before Johnny could even respond to the offer that Spits had laid out, he got a phone call and dropped him back on Burke Avenue before speeding off. He still had other matters to attend to that superseded the importance of these “Chosen” dickheads. Before anything, he went to go check this
nigga he knew from his high school days. Some dirty nigga named Tec.

Now, Tec got his name from . . .well, it's obvious how you get a name like Tec, but it's one thing to just say “yeah, call me Tec,” and it's some completely different shit to never even have to ask anyone. If you'd ever heard about him or met him, you'd know why that was his name and you'd call him nothing else. Tec was the gun man. Any kind of toaster you could think of, he bussed it before and would have it for sale if you requested. He could explain in detail everything about any gun, but the only thing was he wasn't exactly “all there” upstairs. Tec had supplied the basic needs of the TB Family in the past, but Spits had put in a special order and was just notified of its availability.

When he reached Tec's block, he made a right turn onto Laconia Avenue, between 229th Street and Grenada Place, and double-parked in the front of the house that he lived in. As he turned the engine off, he saw Tec walk past his truck on the right side. He tried calling to get his attention, but his shouts fell short of Tec's ears. In a hurry, he jumped out of the truck and went after him. Finally catching up to him halfway into the block, he realized he had a shiny black shotgun under his coat. When he attempted to give him a handshake and ask him what was going on, Tec raised the polished cannon and pointed it directly in between Spits' eyes and cocked it. Ultimately realizing who it was that he'd just pulled a shottie on, he quickly lowered the shotgun and apologized.

“Oh, shit,” said Tec with a chuckle. “My bad. I didn't even see you there. Where the fuck did you come from?”

“You didn't see me?” Spits asked sarcastically. “Where did I come from? Nigga, I was calling your fuckin' name from down the block.”

“My bad, son. I was just on my way to . . .uh, I was on my way down the block to . . .” he said with a blank look on his face. Then, when he finally looked down at the huge gleaming shotgun he had tucked under his trench coat, he said, “Oh, that's right! I was on my way to 228th right quick. Yo, just wait for me in my crib. I left the door open. I'll be right back.”

Before Spits could even reply or attempt to probe as to why he was walking down the street in broad daylight with a fucking monstrous shotgun underneath a trench coat, in the middle of April at that, he was gone.
So Spits, being the curious mu'fucka that he was, went up to Tec's house to wait for him. He walked up one flight of stairs and straight to the door of the room Tec rented. As he entered the unlocked room, he almost tripped over a .44-caliber black Desert Eagle that Tec had just laying on the floor in the front of the door.

This dude is crazy
, thought Spits to himself before picking the pistol up off the ground. He shifted the shaft back enough to see a slug in the chamber, then removed the clip. As he examined the fully loaded clip, he heard gunshots go off that didn't seem too far from him. First, a clutter of small shots fired, and then three loud booms could be heard. After that, silence. He inserted the clip back into the pistol and put it back down on the floor, but realizing his fingerprints were still on it, he quickly picked it back up and rubbed it off on his shirt. When he was done he got up to take a little peek out the window, and he caught a glimpse of Tec running around the corner. He had a look on his face that considered to anyone watching him that he didn't even know why he was running, but that he just had to be. He made a sharp turn into the gate in the front of the house, and in seconds he was in the room standing in front of Spits, breathing hard and coughing with sweat running from his forehead. He shut the door behind him and dropped the shotgun on the floor next to the bed.

“What the fuck did you just do?” Spits yelled with a shaken voice. “That was you bussin' off just now?”

“Yo, calm down, son,” said Tec, wiping the sweat from his brow. “That wasn't nothing, kid. Those niggas had it coming. Look how much paper them niggas was holding, son.”

“Son, you buggin' the fuck out, or what?” asked Spits. “There's ways you do things, nigga. You can't just be running up on niggas in broad daylight. There's only a matter of time before you gonna get it, too. You can't be so reckless, dog.”

Tec paused for a bit, looking as if what Spits said had started to sink in, and then said, “Whatever, nigga. You want the thing, or not?”

“Yeah, nigga,” said Spits, giving up hope. “Let me get that so I can bounce before the police run in here shooting shit up.”

Tec reached under the bed and pulled out a silver briefcase. He laid the
briefcase down on the bed and opened it, facing Spits. When it was opened all the way, two chrome pearl-handled .45 Magnum pistols stared up at Spits. He was hypnotized at the sight of them. Engraved in the pearl handles was the exact logo each member of the Time Bombs had tattooed on their forearms. Immediately satisfied with what was presented to him, he instantly paid Tec the suggested price and left in a hurry with the briefcase under his arm.

As D. pulled back up to Bobby's place, he saw someone exiting the house holding on to a silver briefcase for dear life. It took him a minute but he finally realized who it was, and when he did, all of the hate he had in his heart for him came rushing back. “That's that bitch-ass nigga, Mike Spits,” he said to himself. “What the fuck he doing coming out of Bobby's crib?” All the pain and frustration from their first encounter came and hit him like a ton of bricks. “I knew I should've bodied all them niggas when I had the chance.” Before D. got the proper opportunity to make his move, Spits had already jumped into his truck and sped off. His first instinct was to follow him, but reluctantly changed his mind. He decided that it would just be smarter to tell Bobby in detail what had happened, so that they could plan something out together.

D. got out of the car and before he could cross the street toward Bobby's crib, he suddenly saw police cars approaching from both sides. His immediate thought was to flee as he assumed they were after him for one of the many crimes he'd committed in the past, but they weren't headed in his direction. He made a sharp left away from Bobby's gate as the officers blew past him and into the house. Seconds after they were in the house, wild gunshots started going off. The shots would last for no longer than five seconds, before they came to a complete halt. That was it. It was all over now, and neither D. nor Bobby could've ever seen it coming. He knew then that his man Bobby was gone, and his entire body started to feel numb. He couldn't even focus on anything that mattered. All he thought about was the times they'd had, and the fortune they'd seen together. They'd never
get a chance to catch up and reminisce about those old times, and it would never again be how it used to be. The sky seemed to get dark directly over his head, and a cool breeze came through the block. D. felt a slight chill run up his back that made his shoulders shiver. He zipped up the velour jacket that he had on and put his hands in his pants pockets. As he walked back in the direction of his car, his immediate feeling was to take it all out on Spits. He blamed what had happened to Bobby on him, as he hadn't known what Bobby, a.k.a. Tec, had done just a few minutes ago down the block on the 8th. It was no one's fault but his own that he was gone now, but that was the furthest thing from D.'s mind.

“When I catch up to that nigga Spits again, it's on,” he said, pulling away from the curb. “It's on.”

“Please stand. Court is now in session. The honorable Judge Marilda Rosenberg presiding.”

“What?” asked Trigger in disbelief. “Who the fuck is she?” he asked as he stared at his attorney to wait for a response.

“I'm not sure, Mr. Beckford,” said William. “This is very unorthodox.”

“Well, you better do something quick, Doberman. That's, of course, if you like your fucking job.”

“I'll get to the bottom of this, sir,” said William as he stood to request the attention of the judge. “Please, Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”

“There will be no need for that,” said the judge. “I'll answer any and all of the questions you may have once I am through.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” responded William as he sat back down.

“Now, I know that this may come as a surprise to many of you. And I know that this may not be considered conventional practice, but I will be acting as judge for the remainder of this trial. There are details regarding this situation that will not be revealed at this time, due to an ongoing criminal investigation surrounding interactions between the defendant, Peter Beckford, and the previous judge, Edward R. McHullan.”

“This is an outrage,” said William, as the rest of the courtroom came to an uproar.

“Order, order in the court!” yelled Judge Rosenberg. “I will have order in my court or you will all be escorted out of the building.”

“Your Honor, I would like to go on the record as objecting to . . .,” said William before the judge cut him off.

“Your objection is duly noted, counselor, but I was not yet through. This case will be under strict observation, as well as any connections to criminal involvement on the part of the defendant. Now, I will need until tomorrow to get up to speed as far as deliberations before my arrival. Court is now in recess until eight o'clock a.m. tomorrow morning, May 11th.” When she was done, she got up and walked back into her chambers, where she could get ready for the morning. All Trigger and the Doberman could do was stare at one another in awe.

I got the call that morning from Trigger, and he told me what had just happened as he exited the courtroom. Things were all messed up now, and we needed to have a roundtable meeting as soon as fucking possible. I told him to call everybody, and have them all meet me at my crib at noon. When I hung up the phone with Trigger, I sat out on the terrace, and thought for a while. Things had to go down with complete precision or it would not work at all.

They all arrived together promptly at twelve o'clock noon. We sat around my dining room table and officially began our meeting.

“Everything is all fucked up, Spits,” said Trigger, opening the meeting. “What the fuck we gonna do now, son? Damn!”

“All right, calm down, my nigga,” I said, trying to slow down the pace of the conversation. “Just fill in all of the blanks for us, Trig.”

“Listen,” he said in a calmer voice. “This new judge they got on my case just put our progress in reverse. Son, they launched a criminal investigation on the judge that me and the Doberman paid off. Now you know that nigga's gonna rat. Before anything, we need to find his ass, and put him to sleep before he start flapping his lips.”

“Nah, listen,” said Spits, disagreeing. “The way that all went down left no paper trail back to us. We sent a nobody to make the proposal on the Family's behalf. There's no way he can tie us to the money he took. Now if he turns up dead or missing all of a sudden, then they'll really be in our asses. We'd just be making ourselves hot.”

“Yeah,” agreed Trigger. “That's true, but what about this new judge? You think we can turn her, too?”

“I doubt that, son.”

“The thing is, with the judge in our pocket, we controlled the whole trial. Without that, they're just going to readmit all of the evidence that our judge deemed inadmissible. All of his rulings are going to be fucking overturned and shit. I'm fucked, dog!”

“Relax, Trig,” I said in a calm and collected voice. “We gonna figure this shit out, son.”

“Yo, you a little bit too much on the nonchalant side of this shit, son,” said Trigger, implying that I wasn't as worried as everyone else. He was absolutely right. I wasn't as worried as everyone else was because I'd already anticipated this situation. I knew exactly what we were going to do.

“All right, fuck it,” I said, finally letting my thoughts out. “I know what we can do.”

“What?” asked Trigger while everyone else waited for my response.

“You,” I said, pointing at Trigger. “You gonna be the new boss of our West Coast operations.”

“What the fuck you talking about?” asked Ceelow.

“That's the only way this problem can be solved. Now, we all know that if this trial gets a brand-new judge to start poking around and looking for an example to set, that even the jury won't rule in our favor. Fuck the money we paid those cocksuckers; they'll shit on us real quick when faced with the possibility that they could do time. The only way to beat this shit is to outrun it. I don't give a fuck how much money we throw at this courtroom, this new bitch ain't letting it stick to her pockets for one second.”