I Can Touch the Bottom (5 page)

He and Stackz laughed hard because they had no issues with killing nosey bitches. After gathering themselves from their good laugh, they both said “one,” then disconnected the phone line.

After hanging up his phone from talking to T. L., Stackz jumped onto the expressway. Dialing a number he had memorized in his head, he knew what had to come next in his plan to stay prison free. It was in the early hours of the a.m., but, the Detroit underworld never slept. Just like he knew the guy he was calling never slept and would answer by the second ring.

“Yeah, who dis?”

“Me, nigga; Stackz!”

“Oh, okay. What's good, fam? What's the deal?”

“A whole lot right now. I need to come through like ASAP. So I'm about to pull up on you in about ten or fifteen minutes tops.”

“Come on. We working now. You know our doors open twenty-four-seven. Only time they're not held up in this sweatbox motherfucker is when them boys turn the heat up on this side of the city. Then we go dark.”

Switching from the middle lane to the right-hand lane to exit the expressway, Stackz slowed his bullet-riddled Jeep down. There wasn't much going on at 4:45 in the morning, other than the normal crackheads shuffling about, lurking to come up on whatever change they could to get their next rock, so navigating to his destination was easy. Stackz just wanted to avoid any contact with the police, knowing there was no way in hell he could explain his window being shot out or the many slugs that were probably now housed in the body of his vehicle.

Stackz made a right on Canton Street and the boulevard. He was now in the heart of the Old Historic Packer District that once fed the city's hardworking people that were trying to make a living. Filled with abandoned houses, vacant lots, and dead bodies found in the run-down empty warehouses, no regular person not doing dirt ventured that way. Finally reaching his destination, a warehouse that used to be a semitruck repair shop, Stackz pulled up and cut his lights. Inching his shot up Jeep Commander in front of the laser sensor garage door big enough for eighteen-wheelers to drive through, he sighed in relief he'd made it clear across town, police-contact free. Looking up at a small, inconspicuous camera located on the high upper side of the graffiti-covered building, Stackz stuck his head out the window, throwing his hands up.

* * *

Inside the well lit warehouse, a skinny, dark skinned mouse of a man was preoccupied grubbing on a leftover piece of Popeye's he'd just warmed up. Seeing the red light blink on and off twice, he knew it was business on the floor. Pushing himself away from his any-and-everything-covered desk, he tossed the half-eaten drumstick on a stack of old newspapers. Standing up, he walked over to a shelf that held a nice-size colored security monitor. Getting a closer look at the image, a sense of urgency came over him as he recognized Stackz. Reaching down on his thick leather belt, he grabbed hold of the two-way walkie-talkie on his hip he ruled his lucrative illegal kingdom with.

“Hey, open up the main door. Let my people in and hurry up,” he ordered, heading toward the main area of the building.

* * *

Stackz put his head back inside of his whip. As the huge door began to slowly move upward, he put his truck back in gear. All he saw at first were lights and legs, inch by inch. One would never know a major chop shop was operating inside unless he or she was plugged into Detroit's criminal underworld like Stackz, of course, was. Careful not to run over any of the many guys that were running around doing this and that, he steered in with ease.

A dingy, light skinned mechanic directed him in like an airport traffic controller on the clock. “Come on, come on. That's it; you gotta pull it up right here.”

Stackz thought to himself Derrick had come a long way from his mama's garage chopping up cars, tagging them, getting petty money. Now he was dealing in the major league. From what Stackz could tell, there was at least a team of fifteen men that were taking parts off the vehicles and removing serial numbers or had blowtorches in hand. Stackz looked back over his shoulder at his Jeep and got prepared to say his final good-byes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his homeboy coming down a set of stairs that he knew led from the upper office. Stackz walked toward his childhood friend that also had a baby by his first cousin. When Stackz reached Derrick, the pair gave each other some dap.

“Yeah, what'sup, my nigga, Pissy,” Stackz mocked, calling Derrick by his nickname the kids had cruelly given him growing up. The now headman in the city making vehicles go
poof
never wanted to stop playing outside as a child and go use the bathroom, thinking he would miss out on the fun. So while they all played, Derrick would piss on himself, as if the other kids couldn't smell him.

“Yo, guy, don't be calling me fucking Pissy! That shit was so damn long ago.” Derrick muffled his voice as he looked around the chop shop feeling embarrassed.

“So you say, Pissy. My cousin told me you still used to pee in the bed when y'all was still fucking around.”

Derrick laughed, acting as if he was gonna swing on Stackz. “Whatever, guy, but on the real . . .” He headed toward the Jeep that had extremely visible bullet holes throughout the body. “What's the deal, fam; who the fuck tried to take your ass out of the game? This shit's crazy.” He stuck his finger in a few holes, surveying the damage.

“Look, guy, I need this truck to disappear off the face of the earth like magic. I need you to do some old 1, 2, 3, David Copperfield on this bitch. Make it ghost, you feel me?”

“Yeah, dawg, ain't no thang. I'm on you. I can do that, no problem.” Derrick rubbed his hands together, seeing nothing but more money on the near horizon.

Stackz saw the greedy gleam in Derrick's face and wasted no time setting him straight on what exactly had to be done. “Look here, motherfucker, I see them damn money signs dancing in them ugly eyes, and I ain't trying to entertain the bullshit. Now, I need this bitch ghost for real. Not no black market tagging, transplant situation. That's
not
what needs to pop off,” he demanded as he walked up, evading Derrick's personal space to make sure he clearly understood the words that were coming out of his mouth. “I need this Jeep gone;
gone
. All the way melted down, rebirthed into some fancy overpriced bedrails on sale on the West Coast; you feel me? Gone! Now, what's really good?”

Damn, this a gang of money he want me to just throw away.
Shaking his head, Derrick was more than disappointed none of the highly sought-after parts could at least be harvested and resold for cash. He hadn't grown so big in the chop shop not going beyond the call of duty. He'd resale, retag, or double sell his own mother's ride if he thought there was a slight profit in it. “Oh, you want the total breakdown. Well, you know it's gonna be a ticket on that.”

“And what, nigga? What's your damn point? I know you ain't playing me like I'm light in the pockets or something, is you? 'Cause you know that ain't never ever been the case! Don't act like you don't know me and how I move.”

Derrick shrugged his shoulders, not wanting to get Stackz started. He knew since childhood how his neighbor could go when heated, so he tried to diffuse any misunderstanding between the two by taking a cop off rip. “Come on, now; chill out with all that, fam. That back down memory lane history lesson ain't for me and you. We been better than that since. Now, I got you. And when I say I got you, then I
got
you.”

“All right, then, dawg, don't let me down,” he stated with a serious tone, deadlocking eyes. “We been rocking out a long time, Pissy, you feel me? And if you tell me you can make this go down, and you drop the ball . . . Put it like this; shit gon' get real ugly in the worst way possible, real quick. And just because you my cousin baby daddy, it still won't be personal, you know that, right?”

Pissy was shook, yet played it off as if he wasn't, taking the keys from Stackz. “Bro, I got this. Damn, I'm surprised it still turns over.” Derrick turned the key in the ignition. “. . . as many holes in this baby. Shit, how did you not take one of these slugs?”

“I'm blessed by them hustle gods all day and damn night,” Stackz replied while he drew an invisible cross over his upper body with his finger. “And, oh yeah, I need one more thing from you.” Stackz paused and looked around the building at the various cars. “I need a whip. And not no tagged, stolen, or hot shit. I'm trying to make it home not jail!”

Pissy felt exasperated but didn't dare show it. Rubbing his head with his filthy hands, he looking around the building himself wondering which car was which and which ones actually were still drivable. Stackz expressed the fact he only needed to borrow the whip for a few hours, and he'd have one of his people meet up with one of his to return the ride.

“Okay, I got you, fam; say no more. Follow me.” Pissy went through the door first. When Stackz stepped out the door, his supposed-to-be-childhood friend was standing next to a late-model Ford Probe.

“What the fuck is this?” Stackz barked, pissed off.

“This all I'm working with right now, baby. It's gonna get you where you need to, and it's low-key. Ain't nobody gon' suspect you to be in this right here,” Derrick replied, trying to sell Stackz on taking the old struggle buggy. “I would let you borrow my personal, but, well, you know the paperwork on mine ain't right either.”

Stackz shook his head in disbelief that a boss like himself had to be subjected to such a piece of shit on four wheels. Reluctantly opening the car door, he could tell by the worn leather on the seats the car's interior would smell just as it did—like stale corn chips and rotten cheese. Pulling off, he was exhausted and still hungry. He wanted nothing more than to go home and call it a night. Holding his breath as much as possible, hitting the freeway, he did just that.

Stackz made it home, thank God, without incident. Pulling the ready-to-be scrapped Probe in his two-car garage, he felt guilty leaving it parked next to his Range Rover. Finally inside, locking the door behind him, Stackz felt like he'd been through hell to make it back . . . and, in reality, that was not far from the truth. Immediately wanting nothing more than to relax and do what had to come on his list, he stripped all his clothing off before even leaving the living room. Going into the kitchen, he retrieved a huge trash bag from the cabinet. Heading back to the living room, he angrily gathered up everything he'd just taken off, including his shoes. Stuffing all of it in the trash bag, Stackz shook his head that one of his favorite shirts had to go. Sure, he had plenty of money to replace it, but he'd had it tailor-made right before the old Jewish man that owned the shop died. But being the thinker he was, he knew the outfit had to be got rid of. He knew the deal and knew CSI wasn't no joke.

After tying the trash bag up, he set it by the rear door so he wouldn't forget it when leaving again. Feeling like his body was still sweaty from the impromptu shootout in the parking lot, Stack knew it was about time for him to get right. Whereas some street players could go days without caring about their personal hygiene when they were on the grind trapping, Stackz couldn't cope. Money in the streets, business on the floor, or just going to run to the mall, Stackz prided himself on maintaining his look; the persona that he was famous for. People might have talked shit about him being a murderer, and for that label being placed on him, he could care less. That was true. Stackz had sent more than one motherfucker on his way. But he'd made up his mind when he was a small kid getting teased about the Salvation Army clothes he wore, that when he grew up and got right, then he'd be all the way right.

Going into the bathroom, he turned on the shower. Just as Stackz got the temperature good and hot the way he liked it, his phone he'd left on the coffee table began to ring as well as his doorbell. “Fuck! Who the hell!” Stackz said out loud to himself while snatching a towel off the rack. Wrapping it around his lower body, he was annoyed, hoping it wasn't the damn police. And if it was, Stackz had decided not too long ago as he sat in his prison cell that when he got released, there was no going back. Come what may, he'd die in a hail of gunfire before the man caged him back up like a wild animal on display.

Opening the cabinet beneath the sink, he reached inside, retrieving one of many guns that he had hidden around in his crib. Making sure it was loaded and ready to clap if need be, Stackz returned into the living room. There, he found his phone still ringing and the buzzer still chiming. Snatching it up off the coffee table, he looked at it and frowned. Realizing it's his brother and partner in crime, Gee, he pressed the green talk icon on his phone. “Get off my doorbell, nigga! Is you fucking crazy?” he said, at the same time making his way to open the door. “We don't do that ghetto bullshit out here in these parts! What the fuck, fool, making all that noise? My neighbors is respectable white folks with jobs and shit!”

Stackz was pissed that Gee was acting like an ass ringing the bell like that, but knew what his reason possibly was. Stackz could bet nine outta ten times, T. L. had put him up on game and unlocked his brother's rage. He knew how Gee would get when pissed off. Just like him, he'd be hyped up; ready for war. That craze gene was embedded in their DNA. Before Stackz could get the door open good, Gee rushed inside on a hundred, almost knocking him down.

“Man, fuck all that! Miss me with your white neighbors! Bro, why the hell you didn't call me?” Gee said, pacing the living-room carpet, punching his left palm with his fist repeatedly, clearly agitated with his big brother's secret squirrel behavior. “Who was them lames that tried it? Was it Dae Dae and them or that faggot Clint?”

“Chill out, dude. I'm good,” Stackz insisted, trying to calm his baby brother down. “It wasn't either of them cats. I'm a grown-ass man, and if I couldn't handle my own in these Detroit streets, I'd sit my ass down somewhere. Shit, get a job flipping burgers or something.”

“Look, Stackz, all I'm saying is we got soldiers to get at fools. Dedicated-to-the-team li'l niggas ready to put in that work. You on paper. You can't go back to the joint now, not when shit popping off like it is. Thangs fucking good with business. I need you out here to help me think, keep shit together, you know what I'm saying, bro.” Gee had his say before flopping on the plush leather sofa, finally beginning to calm down.

“Trust me, I know what you saying. I ain't trying to see the inside of nobody's cell again either, if I can help it. We out here in these streets, doe, bro, and shit is bound to happen; so if, and when it do, I'm gonna handle shit accordingly. If that means body bagging a duck, so be it. I ain't got no ho card a nigga can pull at will. Fuck I look like? I got this.”

Gee stood up and got on damage control. “Dawg, you already know fam hit me and put me up on game. He did what he was supposed to do.”

“Yeah, you right,” Stackz agreed, knowing that's how their young soldier was trained to move.

“Yup, yup. He on his way out here now. Matter of fact, I'm about to call him and see where he at with the video so we can do this homework. We need to get on top of this shit like now.”

Stackz still had the towel wrapped around his waist and still felt mad sticky. Seeing a mist of steam float out of the bathroom snapped him back to what he had to do. “Cool. Well, let him in when he get here. I'm about to jump in this shower real quick; then I need to take my ass to sleep. I'm spent, bro. But first things first, I wanna see my movie. I be telling ho-ass lames I'll make 'em famous,” he joked as he walked away.

* * *

“Fam, where the hell you at? I'm already out here with this lunatic posted.”

T. L. laughed, knowing Gee's assessment of Stackz was 100 percent correct at times. He could be a nut when need be. “Yo, chill. I'm about to pull up now. Shit, you might as well say I'm at the door, so come let a nigga in.”

* * *

“What up, doe?” Gee barked, swinging the door open.

“You know what it is, my nigga,” T. L. replied proudly, pulling the flash drive out of the inside pocket of his jacket, waving it back and forth. “See, you play checkers out in them streets. And a beast like me . . . Shiddd, I play chest,” he taunted Gee. Always trying to outdo him at any and everything, whether it's serious business or just fucking around; the two knew it was all in fun.

“Fuck outta here,
li'l
nigga,” Gee snapped with a smile on his face. “Remember who bestowed that swag on you son-son. I'm the original beat maker!”

“That's your story?” T. L. looked at Gee with a puzzled expression plastered on his face.

“Yup, and I'm sticking to it, lame,” Gee replied while snatching the flash drive out of his boy's hand. “Well, let's get ready to peep this shit out.”

“Where dude at?” T. L. questioned Gee before hearing one of the doors in the rear of the crib open.

Just then, Stackz entered the living room fully dressed, fresh out of the much-needed shower. Although he was exhausted, he was ready for whatever would have to be done after watching the footage. He greeted T. L., and then grabbed the television remote off the coffee table. Gee had already put the flash in the drive and was ready. He sat in the matching leather recliner chair and pulled the lever to raise his feet up as if he was about to watch a Netflix movie. Stackz then pressed play on the remote control and anxiously waited. The tension grew in the air as they waited for the television to go through the motions to start playing the main feature.

T. L. sat on a stool he'd grabbed from the kitchen. Rubbing his hands together like he was trying to warm them up, he anticipated seeing Stackz's reaction to be violent footage. The high-grade quality video began to play. It was clear Rank, Mickey, and Devin had been intimidating customers and raising hell from the time they walked into the restaurant. After watching the team of idiots clown and the back heads of two females that were sitting at the table with them, Stackz had enough. Picking up the remote, he fast-forwarded the surveillance up to the moment he walked in the restaurant in search of some chili fries. As Stackz watched, he felt enraged all over again, tasting blood boil in his mouth. In a matter of minutes, it was obvious the band of would-be thieves set their sights on Stackz.

Gee was momentarily silent, wanting to leap through the 55-inch flat screen and fire on one of the dudes that he knew was about to try his big brother.

T. L. showed his age as he loudly rooted Stackz on, as if he has looking at an action movie and wanted the underdog to win. T. L. yelled this and that at the television, waiting to see the part when ole boy he'd seen laid out in the parking lot got his ass handed to him.

Gee couldn't seem to contain himself or his emotions, either. Unlike T. L., who was just shouting obscenities at the otherwise silent footage, Gee leaped out of his seat to get closer to the big screen. Not sure this was real, he rubbed his eyes again and again. He couldn't believe who he thought he was seeing.

“Yo, back up, boy; we can't see! Back your big ass up. You not made of glass, motherfucker.” T. L. moved from side to side, trying to make sure he didn't miss a beat of the feature film.

Gee gritted his teeth, shaking his head in disbelief. “Not these hoes,” he blurted out loud with contempt in his tone. Standing with his arms folded across his chest, glaring at the screen, he was visibly heated.

Up until this point, Stackz had been quiet, in no way trying to celebrate having to put in felony numbered work. But easily recognizing his brother's demeanor, Stackz knew something was off. Hearing his last remark made him speak up. “What's up with you? You know these clowns or something, Gee? Put me up on game!”

Gee took the remote out of his brother's hand, then pushed pause so he could get a still shot view of the females. “Naw, the niggas don't register. But the females, yeah, I know them hoes. They sisters. That's Leela and Ava from our old hood we used to stay in.”

“What?” Stackz frowned his face up as if to say, “Nigga, I don't know these broads.”

“Naw, you was in the joint when they lived up the block from us. I've been fucking the bitch Leela off and on since I was in middle school. She the light skinned one with little ass T-shirt on.”

T. L. busted out laughing at Gee. “Damn, dawg, she look kinda busted on this shit. Please tell me it's the lighting or the camera ain't catching her good side.”

“Come on, nigga, ease up on all that. She just a neighborhood rat, and you know like most rats, she got a snapper on her.”

“Whatever. From what I can see from where I'm sitting, she's just a waste of light skin. Give me the sister. Now, I'd break her back.”

“Dawg, ole girl can be grimy. I done used her to get under a few niggas that had to be dealt with in the past. For a few dollars and some tokens for her kids to jack off at Chuck E. Cheese, she good to go.” Gee ran down Leela's colorful, petty, and sometimes treacherous résumé, then followed it up with the 411 on her sibling as Stackz and T. L. listened carefully.

“Now, Ava, she ain't out there like her sister. Matter of fact, I'm surprised to even see her hanging with her sister and these bums. That bullshit is straight outta character. She usually be in her own lane. Last I know, she was deep off into school and running scripts out of this doctor's office she work at to finance the shit.”

“Shit, you know like I do, any good girl got it in her to turn bad with the right dude whispering in her ear.” T. L. acted as if he knew everything there was to know about every female that ever walked the face of the earth. Eager to please, he was thirsty for blood. “Look, just get me an address. I'll pay these bitches a visit and make sure they ain't gon' be a problem. I'll do my thang; I'm in and out just like that. I might even let schoolgirl suck my dick,” he vowed with a sinister grin on his face.

“Chill, dude. They ain't no real threat. All I got to do is pull up on they ass and tell them what it is and they gon' follow the script. No problem,” Gee pledged, trying to convince them his word was law with the sisters.

T. L. wasn't trying to hear what his homeboy was saying. He respected most of the moves he'd made over the years and always backed his play; but this time was different. He felt he had to push the envelope and go the extra mile. “Come on, Stackz, just give me the green light and it's go time on them broads. Gee dealing in his feelings, and this shit serious. These hoes can fuck up everything we got on the table just by placing a call.”

Gee and T. L. argued with each other until Stackz had heard enough. He finally stood up, taking charge like a boss, barking orders to his right-hand and left-hand man. “Okay, dig this here. This what's gon' happen.”

Gee sat back down, giving his brother his full attention. T. L. did the same, focused on his mentor, waiting for his instructions which would, of course, be law.

“Gee, I want to talk to these girls face-to-face. I'll be able to read the bitches then. Now, if I sense any fuck shit in 'em, then, T. L., you'll step in and do your thang. For now, let's finish watching this footage and see if we can place them fuck boys! After that, T. L., get on the horn, make sure everybody got that bread on deck, and if they need work, get 'em together.”

After watching the action-packed footage several times and applauding Stackz's gangster themed-styled handiwork against three shooters, they came to the conclusion that none of them could put names with the faces of the idiots. Gee knew later on, one of the sisters, who were obviously riding shotgun, could do that—or risk T. L.'s impending wrath. Each having a mission to tend to, they all started moving around the front room. Gee paced back and forth, going through his phone until he found Leela's number. T. L. got on his phone calling everybody holding a bag. Stackz found a pair of J's and stepped into them. After gathering a few things he'd need out in the streets—money, phone, gun, house keys, and, of course, an extra clip—he was ready. “Yeah, Gee, we in your truck today. I had to make my shit disappear,” Stackz informed his brother.