Crackhead (12 page)

“Fine. Take me to get a burger and then put me in a cab.” Laci didn't want to be left on 145th either. Dink smirked. He'd won the battle.

“I don't know what you're smiling for. I'm paying for my own cab.”

“Okay, Ms. Laci. Whatever you want.”

D
INK AND HIS
partner, Marco, were posted up on the Ave. enjoying the weather. All of the honeys that passed by were checking for the two hustlers. Business was good and everyone knew it.

“Fuck is this lil' nigga at?” Marco complained. “Got a muthafucka standing out here waiting.”

Marco was a short fat dude with a flat-top fade with a bleach-blond stripe in the front. His clothes were always fresh and his jewelry game was tight. Marco wasn't the most handsome dude in the hood, so he had to depend on material things like his brand-new Acura Legend, a gigantic mobile phone (that cost $600, $1.39 a minute), and several high-raiser rings with his name spelled out in diamond chips.

“My lil' man will be here,” Dink assured him.

“I don't even know why you fuck wit' that lil' nut,” Marco said. “Muthafucka is angry all the time. That shit ain't normal.”

“Smurf is cool,” Dink snickered.

“Cool my ass. That little trigger-happy bastard is dangerous, D. You better keep a leash on that fool.”

“I don't need a leash with Smurf. I got a different way of controlling him.”

“And what the fuck is that?”

“Books,” said Dink, spitting sunflower seed shells on the ground.

“Books?” Marco twisted up his mug.

“Yep. The lil' nigga likes to read. When he's feeling antsy and I ain't got no work for him, I give him a book to occupy his time.”

“That lil' muthafucka can read?” Marco asked in disbelief.

“Don't judge a book by its cover,” Dink warned. “If you took the time to get to know him, then you'd see he's got some sense.”

“That's what
you
say. I say the nigga got issues. What is he reading now?” Marco asked.

“I loaned him
Behold a Pale Horse
.”

“Dink,” Marco was about to get heated, “I know you ain't give him
my
book?”

Dink sucked his teeth. “Why you always bitchin'? He gon' bring the shit back. Damn!”

“That ain't the point,” Marco said, rolling his eyes.

Dink turned and faced him. “Okay then, what
is
the point?”

“The book wasn't yours to give away.”

“If the nigga don't bring it back, I'll buy you another one. Matter of fact, how much was it? Never mind. Here.” Dink dug down into his pocket and pulled out a roll. He peeled a couple of hundreds off and gave them to Marco. “Buy ten of 'em.”

“That ain't the point. You just don't respect people's shit,” Marco said, putting the bills in his pocket.

“What you talkin' 'bout? I keep all of my shit tight.”

“Yeah, just like you said—
your
shit,” Marco pointed out.

“Whateva, yo. Hey, there he go,” Dink said, spotting Smurf heading their way. “Yo, Smurf! What up, baby?”

Smurf nonchalantly looked around and assessed everyone in the area. He knew exactly how many people were with Dink and what route would provide the best exit if something popped off. He always paid close attention to his surroundings.

“Ain't nothing,” Smurf said, giving him dap. “Another day in the hood.”

“What did you think of the book?” Dink asked.

“Yo, that shit is serious,” Smurf said, wild-eyed. “The muthafuckin' government is grimy.”

“That's the world we live in,” Marco said. “Now, give me back my book, shorty.”

“C'mon, yo. I'm almost finished,” Smurf said. “I wanna read the rest of it.”

“So you dig it, huh?” Marco asked.

“That shit is dope,” Smurf replied.

“Aiight, give it back to me when you finish,” Marco said reluctantly.

“Bet.” If Smurf had known that the book was Marco's he would have never borrowed it. Codes of the street said he had to respect the dude 'cause he'd been Dink's homeboy since the third grade, but still, Marco was suspect and Smurf didn't want to get too close to him. “What y'all gettin' into?” Smurf asked.

“Why? You wanna roll?”

“Hell yeah,” Smurf replied. “I ain't got nothing to do.” Dink looked at Marco and nodded.

The three of them walked over to Dink's car. Smurf made it a point to sit right behind Marco. He didn't trust the man, no matter how cool he and Dink were. If Dink gave the word, Smurf would gladly choke the shit out of him.

Marco had been on the scene since before Smurf's time, but Dink had only recently let him into the business. He had no skills when it came down to slanging in the street; however, Dink wanted to make sure his man ate. Smurf respected his boss's call, but he didn't like it. Dink caught the look Smurf was giving Marco in his rearview mirror. Suddenly, he remembered a conversation he and Smurf had a while back.

DINK WAS SITTING
in his car, impatiently looking at the clock. He was supposed to meet Marco and Smurf at five o'clock. Smurf was on point, but as usual Marco was late. Over the last couple of weeks, Dink had started to wonder about his boy's strange coming-and-goings. Sometimes Marco would disappear for days at a time, and no one would hear from him. There was no excuse; they both had beepers and car phones. Whenever Dink questioned him about it, on some concern tip, he either had a poor excuse or got defensive. But what could Dink do? Marco was a grown-ass man, served seven years upstate, and had made it clear to Dink that all he wanted to do was grind, make paper, and live large.

“Fuck is this nigga at?” Smurf sounded more annoyed than Dink. “Fat muthafucka always late. This is some bullshit, Dink, you need to check your man.”

“Take a chill pill, Smurf. Why you always trippin' when it comes to my peoples?”

“Sorry, cuz.” Smurf didn't want to upset Dink, so he changed his tone. “It's just that something ain't right with ya man. I can't put my finger on it, but something is just not right.”

“How you figure?”

“It's kinda like when my moms was bringing them niggas
through the crib. I'd look at each one of them and tell what kinda nigga he was—cheat, liar, punk, bully. I could smell it, yo.”

“And what do you smell on Marco?” Dink was genuinely interested in Smurf's observations.

“Larceny,” Smurf said with a dead serious look in his eyes. “Larceny.”

“SMURF,” DINK LOOKED
at him in the rearview. “This been my main man since like third grade,” he said, referring to Marco. “We fight like Cain and Abel sometimes, but this one of the real niggas out here. You know what I'm saying?”

“I hear you.” Smurf nodded nonchalantly, looking out of the window.

“Do you?” Dink asked, making sure that if Smurf really did hear him, the shit was loud and clear.

“Yeah, I got you.” Smurf caught Dink's stare in the rearview mirror.

“It's hard to find good dudes,” Dink said. “You can't trust bitches, no matter what they tell you. Whatever you do, never let a female know your business.” Smurf and Marco were silent. “I wonder if bitches will change their style in the 'nineties. New decade, new attitude maybe,” Dink said, thinking out loud. “Nah, they ain't gon' be no different . . .” Dink continued talking as if either Smurf or Marco was dying to hear what he had to say.

“What you talkin' 'bout up there, man?” Smurf asked, confused.

“The game,” Dink replied. “It makes you cold-blooded to a lot of shit that the average person would get all emotional about. Since you either constantly hustlin' or thinking about ways to hustle, you always think people hustlin' you.”

“Huh?” said Smurf.

“I'll give you an example,” Dink said, clearing his throat. “Sometimes when I hear someone say somethin' that don't make sense, my antennas go up and I starting thinkin' they tryin' to swindle me. That doesn't mean that they are. It's just that all the shifty shit you do makes you defensive like that. You have to be careful. You can ruin a lot of relationships with that bullshit. I'm still battling with that. It ain't easy.”

“He right, Smurf,” Marco added, finishing off the Devil Dog he was eating. “Niggas'll try to glaze you all of the time, but you have to be sophisticated enough to be able to differentiate between the straight shooter and the one tryin' to take you. You have to work on that balance.”

“Balance?” Smurf questioned.

“Yeah,” Dink said. “Niggas mistake kindness for weakness, so you have to be cool breeze but yet rule with an iron fist. You got to know when to go hard and when to finesse shit.”

Smurf absorbed every word. He knew how to be silent and let the teachers teach. This was by far his biggest asset.

“I can tell by what you just said that you's a smart nigga,” Marco said, turning down the car radio.

“Smart? I ain't said nothing,” Smurf protested.

“That's the point,” said Dink. “Most niggas know too much and can't take direction. They always tryin' to get you to believe how true they are. You just listen and sop it up like a mop.” Smurf had no comment. “That's why I gave you that piece back in the day. I don't just give niggas I don't know shit, especially without seeing any dough. In you, I saw loyalty and someone truly willing to do whatever it takes to rise above the dumb shit. That's why I put you down. You still got a long education ahead of you, but you're a good student. I wish my nigga Earl was here to meet you.”

“What happened to him?” Smurf inquired.

“Oh, he ain't dead or nothing like that. He doin' life right now,” Dink said sorrowfully.

“Life?” Smurf said with a deep sigh, lowering his head. “Shit, nigga might as well be dead. What did he do, anyway?”

Marco and Dink looked at each other.

“What you've been doing for the past two years,” Dink said. “You came along not long after he got knocked. Earl was thorough, too. You got big shoes to fill, kid.”

“Sounds like this conversation is long overdue,” Smurf said.

“Well, then I guess it's better late than never,” Dink said. “But listen up. You've got an edge over Earl, and that's your age and size. People don't even think you're old enough to piss straight, let alone drop a nigga. Even though you 'bout to be eighteen, you look like a baby. That's why they never see it coming. Police wouldn't even give you a second look. And if you do get bagged, it's a slap on the wrist. You won't even have a record.”

Marco turned the air conditioner up to max, and a frigid wind swept through the car. Dink looked at him like he was crazy. The weather was warm, but it wasn't burning up. Summer hadn't even begun.

“Marco, turn that shit down,” Dink ordered.

“Damn, it's hot in here,” Marco complained as he turned the air down. There were three things that you could count on Marco to be—hungry, hot, and out of breath.

“You know it's hot in this bitch,” he continued. “If you open the glove compartment, you'll see the devil in there sittin' on an ice cube.”

“Crazy muthafucka,” Dink said with a slight laugh.

“Say, let me ask you something,” Smurf said. “I've been down with y'all niggas for a minute, right?”

“Your point?” Dink asked.

“My point is, when am I gonna get to meet the rest of the crew?” Smurf said, leaning forward to the point where his head was almost perfectly positioned between Marco's and Dink's. “So far I've only met a couple of cats.”

“Yeah, and you don't need to know the rest,” Marco added. “You're the best-kept secret, so to speak. The less niggas you know, the less they know you, the better off you'll be.”

“That's right,” Dink cosigned. “They're gonna know who you are, but they ain't gotta know what you do. That's my business. Plus, those low-level, bottom-of-the-totem-pole niggas get replaced a lot. Never can tell who's gonna make it and who ain't.”

“What about that cat Dame I've been hearing so much about?” Smurf asked.

Dink and Marco exchanged glances.

“You'll meet him soon enough,” they answered in unison.

RICK YOUNG, A.K.A.
Dame, was well known for outsmarting the police a couple of years earlier. They thought they had him, but he had mastered a trick that some of the young hustlers weren't up on yet. When the police searched him, the drugs were nowhere on his person. Frustrated, they had to let him go. They couldn't figure out what the hell he did with the drugs. He had stuffed them in his ass. It was a trick he had learned from his brother while he was up North.

As a boy, Rick was made fun of by his peers. He was called ugly and females paid him no attention. His family ignored him, and his teachers neglected his needs in the classroom. If that wasn't enough, he was a fat boy except he didn't beat box. With a bad acne problem and breasts, he was nicknamed
Titty Ricky
. Needless to say, many fights were started over this.

Rick's self-esteem took a beating during his adolescent years with no father to turn to. He became violent, and his aggression was mostly directed toward women. Tyrone, Rick's father, was an average-looking country Negro with no talent. Rick had only seen him twice. He favored his mother, though, and blamed her for what he was told was his repulsive appearance. He despised her, and any female that reminded him of her, for his pain.

By the time he reached his late teens, peddling drugs had made Rick's confidence soar. He was the man when he was on the grind. For the first time in his life he had the attention of females, and he treated them all like shit. Anytime a female pushed his buttons, he'd take his deep-rooted personal frustrations out on her. And it wasn't just Rick's outward appearance that caused him so much pain. It was the fact that he secretly craved the love from a woman that he never got as a child.