Authors: Noire
“Nah, I’m good,” the teenager said, keeping his eyes glued to the action on the street. Posted up with his hands thrust into his pockets, he looked just like all the other life-hardened sons of the ghetto who sold tan goods in Harlem.
“I know you good, man. But you could be even better. You could shine out there!”
The kid shrugged again as he stepped forward to get at a customer. “I’m shining pretty bright right here where I’m at.”
Trey didn’t respond. He watched as the sixteen-year-old transacted some quick bizz with a bone-thin, fast-walking girl who couldn’t have been much older than he was. Their transaction was a slick blur as money and drugs changed hands in just a fraction of a second.
Trey peered up the block and spotted a squad car coming down the ave.
“Yo, Jake is riding,” he warned as he eyed the police cruiser approaching at a fast clip. “You prolly gon’ wanna stash that work.”
Maleek turned and jetted, walking briskly in the opposite direction.
Trey held his ground as the cop car slowed down. The officer who was riding shotgun aimed a menacing look at Maleek’s retreating back, but the car kept on rolling.
Trey chuckled as he watched them go.
Bum muh’fuckas.
As much as the local police were gunnin’ for young’uns like Maleek who populated the streets with illegal drugs, they hated Trey and his partners even more.
It was understandable when you considered that businessmen like Trey fucked with the side stash in the police force’s pockets. The local grocery store, your favorite deli, even your friendly neighborhood funeral home had to pay up for protection in this town.
But the little bit of cash that was strong-armed from small businesses was just the cherry on top of the police force’s sundae. It was the big willies who paid out the ass. Ice Man Reynolds, Big Sonny Dawson, Granite McKay, Hurricane Jackson…all of Harlem’s major kingpins had laid out premium dollars to keep their protection up and the local police force in pocket.
And since shit rolled downhill, of course the willies had to get their money back, so they robbed small business owners to reimburse themselves for what they had dished off to the cops.
But entrepreneurs like Trey refused to cough up the kickbacks. Instead, they formed their own security coalition and handled their own bizz.
Trey walked the few short blocks to the community center and gym he had founded. He stopped out front and looked up at the illuminated basketball logo that was superimposed over a bridge and read, The Crossover Community Center.
He’d started the center so he could help local kids and athletes learn job skills so they could stay off the streets. Trey did all kinds of things to make sure that every kid who wanted something better was given the opportunity to have it. He took up collections from local business, organized fundraisers and clothing drives. He put his money where his heart was too. Almost every barber who worked a chair at one of his shops had come through his center. Trey paid their tuition through barber school, and gave each one of them a full set of barber’s tools as a graduation gift.
The Crossover Community Center had cost Trey a nice hunk of change to get it up and running, but what went on inside the building was worth every dime he’d spent and more. Although the hypnotic lure of drugs, gang banging, and easy money reigned supreme all over Harlem, under Trey’s guidance The Crossover Community Center had become a life preserver for Black and Hispanic youths who were drowning in the gutters of New York City.
It was more than just a gym. The Crossover was a memorial to the friend he’d lost, and a bridge between a past life of crime and hopelessness, and a future filled with promise and potential.
Trey unlocked the front door to the center and stepped inside. For a long moment he stood in the foyer and stared up at the front wall. Centered on a basketball mural was a huge, custom-framed oil print that had been painted from a photo taken years earlier.
The picture was of two happy-go-lucky athletes sporting haircuts from back in the day. They wore matching yellow jerseys and their sweat-drenched brown faces were practically exploding in smiles.
Mayhem and Messiah. M&M. Double Trouble. The Twin Towers. The Dynamic Duo. Whatever you wanted to call them, they had been two peas in a muh’fuckin’ pod.
Trey had gotten the name “Messiah” because he was a savior on the court who always delivered, and him and his man Mayhem had wreaked havoc on the hardwood from junior high school all the way through college.
Trey shook his head as the memories flooded him. His boy Mayhem had fought a battle with the streets and the streets had won. But it was just another tragedy in a highly tragic town. Another waste of talent and another waste of life. It seemed like so long ago, but at the same time it seemed like just yesterday….
It was halftime and the cheerleaders had just run out on center court when Mayhem made his move toward the side door. It was a local hoop tournament and he played in it every year over the winter break. They were up 67 to 42, smashing the shit out of a team that nobody else in college hoops had been able to beat. The coach was giving a rah-rah speech, and the sound of the screaming crowd was still echoing in his ears when Mayhem faded toward the back of the locker room and disappeared into the shadows.
He was coming right back. He was still in his court shoes, and he’d be back in the gym before anybody noticed he was gone.
Except somebody did notice.
Somebody had eyes on him. And when Mayhem dipped out the door and into the cold New York City night, that somebody dipped out right behind him.
Messiah Jackson just didn’t get down like that. A man could only push his luck so far before that shit ran out. For almost four years his nig Mayhem had been playin’ both ends of the bridge between his future and his past. They had less than three months to go before college graduation, and there was a lotta buzz going up about both of them getting into the league as top-tier second-round draft picks.
That NBA cream was finally about to rise, and it was gonna rise for both of them. All they had to do was be patient for a little while longer. Just hold off until graduation. Leave the streets behind and put everything on the basketball court.
Messiah had watched his friend drift toward the back of the room while the coach gave his half-time speech. Even though he loved his town he didn’t love everything about it, and the greed and impatience that drove Mayhem to transact drugs in college was something he had no love for at all.
“Yo, come off that hustle,” he had warned his nig. “Give it up. That little change you be makin’ ain’t shit compared to how you gon’ be rolling when you get to the league, man. Don’t let this little street grind throw you off ya game. It ain’t worth it.”
“I got mouths to feed, niggah,” his boy had shot back. “I gotta look out for my moms and Lil Leek too, ya know?”
Nah, Messiah didn’t know. But when his boy dipped outta that locker room he’d dipped too. He’d hung back in the shadows and watched his friend jog across the street to an overflow parking lot where a black Hummer waited. It had chrome rims and a sports pack, and Messiah had seen it many times before.
A U-Haul truck sped past him. He used it for cover as he crossed the street too. He was standing behind a Toyota van when he heard the words he had been waiting to hear.
“Nah, I’m done,” Mayhem told the two dudes who had been his links to the street life for the past four years. “You can keep that package Peedee ’cause it’s a wrap. It’s over, man. I’m out.”
One of the dudes just laughed. “C’mon, my niggah. You been around long enough to know how we flow. You don’t just walk up outta this game, baby. You get carried out.”
Shit moved real fast after that.
Them niggahs pounced and violence exploded in the cold night air. Messiah didn’t even remember moving his feet. But somehow he got over there. They fought in a blur of tussling bodies, with Mayhem and Messiah swinging killer blows on K-Dawg and Peedee, two of the most feared drug dealers in Harlem.
It was Double-Trouble time, and just like on the court, they attacked. Mayhem handled one and Messiah handled the other.
It wasn’t until he had Peedee pinned against a parked car that Messiah saw the gat in dude’s hand. He lunged for it, and a shot rang out behind him before he got close enough to touch it.
It was about survival of the fittest after that. He clenched his big hand around Peedee’s gun-fist, and with both of their trigger fingers fighting for position Messiah came out the winner.
He swung around just in time to see his manz clutching his stomach and rolling around on the cold ground. Mayhem’s yellow jersey was dark with blood as K-Dawg stood over him and prepared to take aim again.
“Noooo!” Messiah screamed into the darkness, but not so much as a whisper came outta his mouth. Crushing Peedee’s hand, he swung the pistol toward K-Dawg and squeezed one off. Then he jerked his arm down and dug the barrel of the gun into Peedee’s gut and squeezed again.
By the time the boom of the bullets stopped echoing in the bitter night air, there was only one man left standing in that cold, inner city parking lot. One man left to tell the tale of how the streets could wrap their hands around ya throat and strangle your dream before it had a chance to take its first breath.
And that man was Trey “Messiah” Jackson.
CHAPTER 15
Rita undid her seat belt the moment the car came to a stop. She had spent the past few days grinding hard for Juicy and for Nooni too.
“You sure you’re gonna be okay up in there?” Dutchy asked. Instead of parking on the other side of the bridge and taking the bus over, they had just pulled up in a private parking area not far from the Rosie building on Rikers Island.
Dutchy was worried about letting his baby go inside on a visit by herself. Rita was just too precious and fragile to be stepping behind the walls of a violent jail.
“Yeah.” Rita nodded, keeping her eyes down. “I’ll be fine.”
Jail didn’t scare her. She’d had a little bit of contact with the justice system herself. Rita had vivid memories of her fifteenth birthday when her father came into her room in the middle of the night just the way he usually did.
She could still feel his blood on her naked body as she held open her sheets and, for the first time, welcomed him in. He had been coming to her for ten whole years. But this time, instead of suffering another incestuous rape, Rita had thrust a butcher knife into her father’s chest and held it there.
“I just wanna get Juicy out of there…” Rita stared toward the red brick building and said in a small voice.
Dutchy agreed. “I know, baby. Just a little while longer. We gotta keep working on it until something looks good.”
Rita nodded. As much as she had been relying on Dutchy over the past couple of weeks she had also been doing her own homework and trying to come up with some of her own resources too. If it was up to her she would have taken Juicy straight to her crib and guarded her friend with her Glock 24/7, but Dutchy told her that shit would be like committing a double suicide.
“The last place we wanna stash Juicy is up in your crib, baby. That’s the first place they’re gonna look for her. Them niggahs get a hint that you’re hiding her and they’ll pull a kick door and lay your whole house down before you can get off a single shot. Nah, Rita. Juicy can’t come to the crib, baby. It ain’t just you and her we gotta worry about. You got Chub up in there too, remember?”
As much as it hurt, Rita had to admit that Dutchy was right. She couldn’t bring Juicy home with her. It was way too dangerous for everybody. But Juicy couldn’t stay in jail forever neither.
“Yeah, we had to pay off a few officers to make sure Juicy stays safe on the inside, but my sister-in-law said they ain’t gonna be able to keep her off the radar much longer,” Dutchy had warned. “It’s only a matter of time before some square peeps what’s up and drops a dime on her, so we need to hurry up and figure out our next move.”