“Demetrius downstairs,” the Rasta informed them.
Tyriq nodded and the Rasta approached him and said, “Ya must get searched.”
“Whateva man,” Tyriq said raising his arms.
He quickly patted Tyriq down, finding no weapons on him. He then looked over at Bones and Bones lifted his shirt, revealing the .9mm he was carrying.
“Yo, you already know,” Bones said, far from being intimidated by the Shotta’s.
“Him stay…you go,” the Rasta said.
“Hold it down, Bones,” Tyriq said, and then made his way toward the back.
He hated being alone and unarmed, never knowing the outcome of any meeting. He’s been in bed with the Jamaicans for three years and made plenty of money. There were minor problems but none so major until now. The Columbians were moving in on their turf. Tyriq felt the guilt of it bringing in a friend who turned around and betrayed him. A war was brewing between the groups.
Tyriq went down the rickety wooden steps and made his way to a room where he heard commotion. Two more Jamaican bodyguards stood outside the door with a scowl on their faces. They glared at Tyriq like he had done wrong.
“Where’s Demetrius?” Tyriq asked.
“Wait here,” one said and walked into a private location.
He soon came back out and said to Tyriq, “Come.”
Tyriq walked into the room where Demetrius and his followings were engaged in a game of dominos. Four men sat at a small square table enthralled by the game.
The room was filled with many Jamaican gangsters drinking, smoking, gambling and playing dominos. It was like a different world underneath the restaurant—Bob Marley’s,
Is this love,
playing in the backdrop. It was an underground social gathering for Shotta, where they held important meetings, prepped drugs for street distribution and on occasions they dismembered foes.
Tyriq stood among the fearful Shotta and held his own. He looked into the eyes of Demetrius, “We need to talk.”
Demetrius was six-five, a strapping physique and long locks down to his back said, “Bredren, how ya let di blood-claat Columbians cut into me money. Ya losing control, Tyriq?”
“I ain’t losing control of shit,” Tyriq hissed.
A few of Demetrius men glared at Tyriq.
“Watch ya tone, bredren…ya in me place of business…me takes no disrespect from no man,” Demetrius warned.
Demetrius was iced out in platinum and diamonds. He sported a black tank-top and had tattoos running up and down his arms. He had an intimidating, powerful presence and was willing to murder any men or women who disrespected him or his organization.
“No disrespect to you, Demetrius. I got things under control. I just gotta deal with this one muthafucka then it’ll be all good, ayyite,” Tyriq said.
“Me hear, Vince used ti be a close friend, I see trouble,” Demetrius said.
“He ain’t trouble…just headache. I brought him in and I will take him out,” Tyriq assured.
Demetrius stared at Tyriq, unsmiling. He then continued with his game of dominos taking his attention away from Tyriq a bit.
“Bredren, yuh think its safe ti do business?” Jagged asked.
He was Demetrius right hand man and was as deadly as a venomous snake.
“Ya bringin’ ti much heat, Tyriq…yuh got di bumba-claat feds investigating us…yuh bring trouble,” Jagged continued.
“Like I said, I can handle things…now I made this organization plenty of money over the years, and I’m gonna continue to do that. This is only one bump in the road. I fucked up and I’ll fix it,” Tyriq sternly stated.
“Me don’t like problems, bredren…we wan yuh ti gwan and find dis blood-claat Vince and deal wit’ him and da blood-claat Columbians…mi gwan and send Rude Boy Rex and Nappy Head Don ti help yuh handle ya rassclaat problem,” Demetrius said.
“I don’t need help, I just need product. I just want to get back on the streets and let muthafuckas know we still in control,” Tyriq said.
“Mi only deal wit’ a blood-claat problem fi so long, me have no patient fi trouble,” Demetrius warned.
Tyriq hated threats, but he had to listen to the Jamaicans. He knew he wasn’t in the position to go against them—they were his life support. He ate the insult and lived to see another day.
“I’ll handle it, I promise you Demetrius,” Tyriq assured.
“Dat’s what me want ti hear, now leave me,” Demetrius said, and then went back to his game of dominos.
Tyriq turned and walked out the room—biting his tongue. The Jamaicans were very disrespectful, but he let the shit slide for now. He had his hands full without having to worry about Shotta as enemy.
Tyriq saw Bones seated at one of the booths. “We out,” Tyriq said, walking toward the exit.
Bones got up and followed his boss outside, sensing that Tyriq was upset. Both men got into the Benz and drove off, unaware they were being followed.
“Yo, I want y’all to get brutal on anything that moves against us, Bones. The Jamaicans think that we’re losing control.”
“Fuck them Jamaicans,” Bones cursed.
“Not yet, we still need them for the shipments. But when the time comes, we gonna run every fucking thing out here.”
“That’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ about. I’m ready to lay any one out,” Bones said enthusiastically.
“You will my nigga.”
The Benz moved westbound down Hillside. Both men were oblivious that, a dark four-door Impala with heavy tinted windows was two cars behind.
Bones stopped at a red light and took a drag of his Newport. He bobbed his head to a Biggie track. Tyriq was thinking about his foes and how to deal with every last one of them. He wanted them to suffer by his hands.
While they waited for the light to change, the Impala moved along beside the passenger side, and the back window quickly came down. Bones quickly took notice and when he saw the tip of the Heckler and Koch Mp5k unexpectedly emerging from the back window. He yelled, “Tyriq, get down!”
A loud burst of heavy gunfire shredded the pearl white Benz, ripping through doors, seats and shattering glass.
“Aaaaaahhh shit, I’m hit!” Tyriq screamed, as he ducked into his seat to protect himself from the intense gunfire riddling the car.
Bones floored the accelerator and blew through the red light, barely missing an oncoming car. The Impala drove after them, firing heavy artillery, shattering the back windows to the Benz.
It was sudden chaos on the streets. Bystanders ran for cover as the gunfire caused confusion on Hillside Avenue. Many ran for shelter behind cars, trees or ducking into nearby stores to avoid getting hit.
Bones sped down two blocks. A few rounds ripped through the driver’s seat, hitting him twice in the back. He lost control of the car and slammed into a parked car.
The men in the Impala were relentless. They sped to the crashed Benz and two men jumped out from the backseat, gripping the powerful guns and continued to squeeze rounds into the car.
Bones was killed. Bullets continued to rip through him and the car. Tyriq took cover and was shot in the leg. He wanted to bolt from the car but it was impossible for him to run without getting hit again. He was panting and bleeding heavily from the wound in his leg. He reached under the seat to grab Bones’ .9mm.
Tyriq could feel the bullets still penetrating the car, missing him by mere inches. He remained crouched on the floor, gripping the gun.
As the two men fired into the Benz, they didn’t notice the beige mini van speeding towards them. One of the gunmen turned around but was hit by the speeding mini van.
Nappy Head Don came leaping out from the passenger side of the van. A .50 Cal was in his hands and fired like a crazed madman at the last gunman and the Impala.
“Pussy-claat, batty-bwoy! Me come fi yuh, ya hear? Anything moving is dead!” Nappy Head Don screamed, firing.
They rushed to Tyriq, pulling him out of the riddled Benz and tossed him into the backseat of the mini van. Nappy Head Don covering them with gunfire.
The intense shoot-out on the Queens street lasted a minute and a half.
Soon police sirens could be heard blocks away. The Impala and the surviving gunmen sped off. The mini van sped off in the opposite direction with Tyriq clenching his right leg and cursing.
Cops swarmed the area within minutes, coming from every direction and drawing closer to the brutal crime scene, finding one man lying dead in the street and the second victim slouched down in the riddled Benz. Blood was everywhere.
The cops shut down blocks and began investigating the murders, collecting evidence and searching for the culprits responsible. Every news channel in the city was on the scene reporting live and showing the city the handy work of a vicious crime syndicate brewing.
Dangerous men were at war with each other and Queens would be paved with blood for men who craved control, letting greed persist in their hearts, and having money controlling them.
Thirty-Five
Two months in, and I was supplying Inf in south Philly, and Nikki Friday in West Philly. Money was coming in abundance and the bloodshed was on the rise. I was in Philly for two weeks, escaping the chaos that was happening in Queens and handling business. The violence happening in Philly was extreme.
My climb to the top was subtle but far from peaceful. It became more violent once I cut out the middle man.
I had money, women and cars. I had a house in Penn Valley, the outskirts of Philly. A second in upstate New York and I had power. I would wake up and say to myself,
how the fuck does a baggage handler from JFK become a drug kingpin in almost a year
. I knew I was smart but never thought that I would reach this status. I didn’t ask for this, it just fell into my lap and I ran with it, losing myself on the way.
One friend was dead and another close friend was now a foe, gunning for each other. I had to watch my back. Queens became a hostile place but I had family out there. As long as Tyriq and the Jamaicans were alive and in power, my family would be endangered. I had to move against them—and going against the Jamaican mafia was suicidal.
I sat with Lil’ Goon, Inf, and a few other hoodlums in this private strip club on City Ave, in West Philly. We were popping bottles of Cristal and Moet got high, fucking naked bitches that were entertaining. Money was spread all around. It was as if a bank vault exploded littering the place with
hundreds, fifties and twenties. We were rich men and enjoyed the fruits of our labor. My lifestyle was like a rock star, mixed with a bit of Hugh Hefner and some Tony Montana.
Cashmere was three months pregnant and I had my wifey, Shae living in a lavish and well furnished three-bedroom apartment in Rochdale, Queens. I was fucking around on the both of them. It was like a fucking disease. I had so much lust in my heart that I began to yearn for it and in time I started to kill for it.
Lil’ Goon was only five-seven, but stocky and a heartless muthafucka. He was getting paid through me and had my back. He was cool but ruthless nigga. We became closer in the two months of my ascension. His crew knew how to put in work on the streets. He became my number one guy after Soul got locked up.
“Vince, you good, man…?” Lil’ Goon asked, as he drank beer and threw money at bitches.
“I’m okay,” I lied.
I should be having a good time but my heart and mind wasn’t in it. Tyriq knew everything about me. He knew where my mother lived, where Chandra was staying. I knew Shae was in danger if she remained in Queens. If anything happened to my family because of my actions and choices in life, I’d be devastated.
“Yo, we head back to Queens tomorrow,” I told Lil’ Goon.
“Everything alright…?”
“I gotta make sure my peoples are safe,” I said to him.
“I got you,” he said.
The party continued with me thinking about removing my family from Queens. Philadelphia’s murder rate was high and the drugs were prevalent. I knew I played a major role in that—distributing kilos to the dealers who ran the streets. I wanted to continue to get rich and ignore the downward spiral of the black communities. Every night, I watched the news and read the newspaper daily trying to keep up with current affairs. I wanted to know what was going on. I hated to be in the dark with things. The other morning, a five-year old boy was killed on his way to school, walking with his mother in West Philly. Two blocks away from his school, rival drugs crews got into hostility and the crews released a barrage of bullets at each other in the cold early
morning. The boy, Nathaniel Walker, was hit once in the neck. He died in his mother’s arms. City hall was relentless in arresting the men responsible. I was saddened by this, because he was my son’s age.
The mayor addressed the senseless murder in public and vowed to uphold justice.
A week after Nathaniel Walker was killed; a family of four was burned to death in their own home on Spruce Street. They captured the killers two days later and it was discovered that one of the victims owed a local dealer twenty-dollars, and the victim has been ducking his debt for weeks.
The dealer and friends broke into the home while the family slept, bounding everyone with duct-tape at gunpoint. They dowsed the victims with gasoline setting them on fire.
The city was appalled by this action, and they were even more disgusted by the ages—the three offenders were only fifteen and sixteen years old. They were getting younger and the crimes more heinous.
But I was eating lovely off the drug trade and worried about violence and troubles of my own. Sitting back in a chair, watching the Knicks play against the Heats, my thoughts were doing laps. I kept the .45 on me and eyes in the back of my head. I had five-thousand dollars cash on me and had a polished black Escalade sitting on 24” chromed rims parked outside.
Ari was coming my way. I had my eyes on him. He was from Queens but lived in Philly working the blocks, getting my money.