Zion showed me the ropes. I didn’t concern myself right away with some of the more intricate details of the crack game like learning how to cut the product to maximize the profits. Instead, we got the ready-rock, which was already cooked and packaged. It cost us a little more, but I was still seein’ more money than a little bit. I absorbed the rules of the game and the pitfalls that surround it. I also learned that real men move in silence, so Zion and I stayed to ourselves and let no one else in on the specifics of our operation. The fiends amazed me, though, by how far they would go for that shit. Nothing was off-limits to them when they needed to get that fix.
Sometimes, we would double our prices at the last minute ’cause we knew they would pay whatever we asked. Zion had connections and clientele from all over, so we made deliveries all day. Soon, we were both making more money than either one of us had ever seen in our lives. The shit was crazy.
By the end of that year, we had stepped our game up. I learned how to cook up the shit, and soon Zion was calling me Chef Boyardee. We were hustling cocaine in assorted quantities. At first, we focused on the day-to-day street grinding. But soon, Zion suggested that we consider selling weight. That’s where the money was. Soon we were the niggas to see. Before you knew it, any major amount of drugs that was being sold in Shaolin had passed through us.
In New York, we could get about $800 for an ounce. We made good money from that. But it wasn’t long before we realized that the same ounces could bring us $1,200 to $1,500 in Virginia and Maryland. We began taking trips out of state to do business. Our product was always the best quality, and our clientele remained loyal and consistent. But there was a lot more risk involved.
Zion and I were intelligent hustlers. We learned from the mistakes of other muthafuckas. Most of them got bagged driving with product at night. We made sure to travel in the daytime, when we could see the police, and when there was more traffic and less chance for us to stand out. We also kept our time in each state to a three-day maximum—especially in Virginia. Police noticed New Yorkers quick and would watch to see how long we stayed in town. Anything more than three days would have aroused suspicion. Big-city niggas don’t spend weeks in small towns unless they’re gettin’ paper. Period.
I was learning the game and I was gaining street expertise. We had a few workers in New York—mostly young dudes in Staten Island and Brooklyn who were happy to make enough money to wear stylish shit. I learned quickly never to mix business and friendship. Our workers knew better than to ever be short with the money ’cause there would have been hell to pay. Having them respect me at all times was very important to me. But the one they really feared was Zion. He had a quick temper and an even quicker trigger finger. On more than one occasion, Zion had bust his gun at rival crews and laid a few niggas down for good. His reputation preceded him, and his actions taught me the importance of a nigga’s name in the street.
But, perhaps most important to me was the fact that I had begun to earn Zion’s trust. Zion trusted no one, and who could blame him? He had never known what it is to have a family. He was passed around like a hot potato for most of his life. He confided in me that the foster care experience had made him feel discarded. He learned not to allow himself to like the families he was assigned to, since eventually he knew that they would all let him go. I was the closest thing to family Zion
had ever had. And I felt honored that he would allow himself to consider me a friend. For that reason, I trusted him to roam Papa’s house like it was his house. He hung around with Olivia, and I didn’t mind. I knew that was a line that Zion wouldn’t cross, because he had become part of the family.
By the end of 1991, I had enough money saved to get my own apartment. Papa made it clear to me that he knew that I was up to no good. He didn’t approve of my lifestyle, and neither did my grandmother. I never disrespected them by bringing any drugs into their home, but I still felt like I needed to move out in order to make everyone feel more comfortable. I was also sick of Uncle Eli borrowing money from me all the time and never paying it back. It was time for me to branch out.
I got an apartment in Brooklyn. It was a nice, modest two-bedroom in Clinton Hill on Waverly Avenue and Zion moved not far away to an apartment on Hall Street. Many of our customers were located on Staten Island, so we both got cars to make the commute easier. Mine was a cream-colored Lexus with a matching leather interior. Zion opted for a black Infiniti, and the two of us took care of those cars like they were our women.
The day I moved out of my grandparents’ house, Papa called me into his study once again.
“Lamin, I wanna tell you something.” Papa looked serious. He continued. “I know you ain’t getting all this money by walking around with your hands in your pocket.” He paused, letting the meaning of his words sink in.
I felt like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“I may be old, but I ain’t stupid.” Papa lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke. “When I was your age, I used to shoot dice. Crooked dice,” he said.
I was visibly surprised. “You, Papa? I can’t believe that.”
Papa nodded. “Well, believe it. We called it ‘shootin’ crooks.’ I kept a loaded dice between my thumb and my index finger like this. That
dice always had a seven or eleven.” Papa demonstrated his technique and I sat mesmerized by the man I thought was an ordinary grandfather. Little did I know that Papa was a hustler!
“One time, I was shootin’ crooks—playin’ against this sonofabitch who lost damn near all his money. I had his rent money in my pocket, and he was trying to win it back, but I was done playing. He got suspicious and he looked at me and said, ‘I know you’re cheatin’. If I catch you cheatin’ I‘ma kill you!’ I told him, ‘I’ll make sure you don’t catch me then!’ That night, I went home with all that man’s money!”
I laughed and Papa did, too, at the memory of that day. “When your grandmother got pregnant with your Uncle Eli, I had to get a legitimate hustle. The money I made shootin’ crooks paid for this house and damn near everything else I owned. The thing is that if I would have got caught, my life would have been over.”
Papa looked me in my eyes. “I’m telling you that because the drug game is the same way. Do what you gotta do to make your money, Lamin. Nothing I say is gonna stop you from doing what you do. But just have sense enough to know when it’s time to walk away. I know the money is good and it’s easy. But don’t get so used to easy money that you can’t see the enemy creepin’ up from behind.” He took another drag on his Pall Mall. “Use your head, son. Come up with a plan to do something better with your life. Don’t make the streets the last stop on your journey.”
Papa put his cigarette out in the ashtray, stood up, and walked toward the door, leaving me sitting in my seat speechless. Just before he left, he turned back toward me.
“This conversation is between us men. Your grandmother wants me to talk you out of leaving. I know the streets like she knows the church so I realize that it’s useless for me to come to you like that. So, even though I want you to do something better with your life, I want you to know that I understand. Just keep your eyes open, Lamin.”
And just like that, he was gone.
I moved on to my bachelor pad in Brooklyn and I kept my grandfather’s advice tucked away in my mental Rolodex.
In the meantime, Olivia was growing up and was now in her senior year of high school. She had never been more stunning, and she was learning to use her looks to her advantage. Most of the suckers who tried to get with her were foolish enough to start lavishing her with gifts. She became a spoiled brat. She went out with a couple of cats, but I knew she still had a crush on Zion. Zion didn’t seem to notice, though.
What my mother noticed was the fact that I was beginning to give Olivia large sums of money. I felt that my little sister should reap the rewards of my hard work. I made sure she had all the hot shit as soon as it came out. Guess, Karl Kani, Phat Farm, Tommy Hilfiger, and Cross Colours was a big deal back then, so she had every outfit in every flavor. She was always fly. One day, she told me that my moms had asked about me. That piece of information made me laugh since that only meant one thing. She wanted something. I wasn’t about to forgive her for what she’d done. Fuck her.
Curtis was still locked down, and I continued to accompany my grandparents and Olivia to see him once a month. The only difference was that I would drive my own car and Olivia would ride with me. My grandparents followed us in Papa’s newest car—a Cadillac. I wasn’t going to church with Grandma like I used to, and since I stopped going, Olivia didn’t go, either. Grandma had us both on the prayer list.
Curtis didn’t look the same. Gone was the tall, skinny boy with the high-top fade. He was now about two hundred pounds, bald and full of muscles. He looked downright scary. He got into some beef with a gang—the Latin Kings. These muthafuckas broke the lock off of Curtis’ locker and stole his food. That was a wrong move. Curtis waged an all-out war on them clowns—stabbing them, beating them, robbing them—one by one. Eventually, the head of the gang called a meeting with Curtis in the chapel. They tried to see if they could squash the beef, but the guy made the mistake of telling Curtis that there was no way he could win a war against their gang. Curtis cut the guy up so bad that they sent him to the box for twelve months. It
killed me knowing that my cousin was going through so much bullshit. But I was proud of him for standing up, even if that meant that he was standing alone.
One day, when I was making a trip to one of my Staten Island customers in Stapleton, I decided to stop inside the Sneaker Asylum on Canal Street. I was trying on a pair of Jordans when I noticed the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on—this girl wearing a Catholic school uniform. She had long legs, long hair, and copper skin that just glowed. She looked Hawaiian or something, but the way she was popping her gum and windin’ her neck while talking to her friends let me know that she had some black in her. I was intrigued. This honey in a schoolgirl’s uniform had my full attention.
I walked over to the cashier to pay for my sneakers. While he was ringing up my kicks, the girl approached the counter with her sneakers in hand. Our eyes met, and neither one of us turned away.
“Will that be all?” the guy behind the counter asked me.
I kept looking at the pretty girl, and she gave me a shy smile. I smiled back and turned to the guy behind the counter. “Nah, that’s not all. I’m paying for her sneakers, too.” I flipped through some bills in my wallet and handed him two one-hundred-dollar bills. Then I took the sneaker box out of her hands and handed it to the cashier.
The girl gave me a look of suspicion. “Now what do I have to give you in return for you buying me sneakers?” she asked me. Her friends were giggling and acting all silly. I guess they’d never seen a playa of my caliber before. They were cute, too. But this girl had the oooh-wee!
“I just want one thing,” I responded. Her friends whispered among themselves. “I bet I know the one thing he wants!” one of them said.
“What is that?” she asked me.
“Your name.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “My name is Laila. But my friends call me Lucky.”
I handed her the bag containing her sneakers. She took it, thanked me, and said, “What’s your name?”
“Lamin,” I told her. Her skirt was short enough for me to see how thick her thighs were. She definitely had a nice body. Her eyes were so pretty, but the uniform made me nervous. “How old are you?” I asked.
“I’ll be eighteen in March,” she said. I breathed a sigh of relief. That meant that she was only a year younger than I was.
“What school do you go to?” I asked.
“Notre Dame,” she answered. That was a real prestigious school, so I was impressed.
“Lucky, we don’t have time for all this,” one of her jealous girlfriends interrupted. “Just get his number and let’s go.”
Lucky was blushing now. “I gotta go,” she said.
“Why?” I asked her. “I’ll take you home.”
She shook her head. “I don’t even know you. I’m not about to get in a car with a guy I just met.”
That showed me that she had a good head on her shoulders. “Then I’ll walk you home,” I replied.
She smiled again. She had perfect teeth, too.
“Lucky, are you coming or not?” the rude one asked.
I answered for her. “Nah, she’s coming with me. Y’all go ahead.” The friends looked at Lucky for her approval. She nodded.
“I’ll walk with Lamin,” she said.
Her friends seemed surprised by her decision. I smiled at them and waved them off.
“He ain’t all that!” the shortest one said, loud enough for me to hear. I ignored her jealous ass.
“Where do you live?” I asked her.
“In Rosebank.”
Now, Rosebank is not the most “brother-friendly” part of Staten Island, so I wasn’t too excited about walking her home after all. But when I got a glimpse of her big ass and those thick thighs, the idea of walking her home didn’t seem so bad.
I put my sneakers in my car, locked it, and activated the alarm. I could see the admiration in her eyes as she looked at my car, although she tried to hide it. We walked toward Bay Street, and she struck up a conversation. I was happy to see that she wasn’t shy.