The Last Street Novel (43 page)

The older sister frowned and said, “Now that’s a damn lie.”

The younger girls overheard her and laughed again.

T remained calm. He smiled and said, “It’s a good one though, just like this book is good.”

The older sister asked him, “It’s two for twenty, and one for twelve.”

“Yeah.”

She said, “Aw’ight, well, give me two of ’em,” and pulled out a twenty. “My girlfriend like to read these kind of books.”

T got out two more books, and the younger women were ready with their money.

“Aw’ight, we’ll buy two. And it better be
good
or we’re coming back out here to find you.”

T took their money, pulled out two more books, and told them, “Just make sure y’all bring more people who got money in their pocket. ’Cause I know y’all gon’ like it.”

His understated demeanor was effective. People seemed to gravitate to him without much solicitation.

“What’s that book you selling over here?” an older man asked him. He looked to be in his mid-fifties.

T told him, “
To Live and Die in Harlem.
It’s about people who ready to live or die for theirs.” That was the simple speech Jurrell had told him to make.

Jurrell said, “You let everybody else be your hype man. But you just sit tight, stay calm, and count the money. I notice that people respect young guys like that. It makes it look like you used to gettin’ money. That’s what you want them to think. When they think you always gettin’ money, more people want to give it to you. The shit becomes contagious.”

He said, “That’s how G did it. Remember? Well, you up next, Truth. You next in line. Just do what I tell you to do.”

Right before the older man was ready to turn away and walk off uninterested, T’s group of helpers returned to the table with more money out.

“Yo, they just bought up them books we had, son. Give us three, four more of ’em.”

T took the forty dollars and dug up four more books for his helpers. He figured they must have sold the books for real. They didn’t have that much money on them earlier. They had already given him most of their money to run their sales games for the crowd.

T whispered. “Yo, B, y’all sold them books for real?”

His helper told him, “Yeah. As soon as we turned the corner with them, people started asking what the book was about, and as soon as we said, Baby G, they wanted to buy ’em.”

T nodded. “Aw’ight, that’s good. This first box ’bout to go then.”

When he set more books on the table, the older man had his own twenty-dollar bill out. Young guys selling books inspired him.

He said, “You know what, I need to get my two grandsons to read this book. Now are they gonna learn a valuable lesson from it?”

T had to come up with something on his own to close the deal.

He said, “If you can’t learn a lesson from dying too young, then I guess you don’t want to learn no lesson.”

The older man nodded and agreed with him. “Yeah. If it takes you to die before you learn a lesson in life, then you just a damn fool. Give me two of them books.”

Before T knew it, he had a full crowd in front of his table. He had to tell some of his helpers to stay with him.

“Yo, get some more of them books out the box and open up that second box,” he told them.

The crowd became real specific about which book they wanted, too.

“That’s the book about the boy who was killed last summer in the St. Nicholas Park shoot-out?”

T didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing for them to be so specific. The book was not an exact, tell-all story, it was only as much of the truth as they could get away with writing about him. But would reader curiosity lead to another investigation of the case? One thing was for sure, the cat was out of the bag.
To Live and Die in Harlem was beginning to sell from that table like hot cakes. T’s helpers even had a carload of guys pull up in the middle of the street.

The Truth didn’t like that idea. Things were getting out of hand.

A guy in the passenger seat of a dark blue Chrysler hollered out the window, “Yo, give me five of them Baby G books.”

T looked at him and didn’t budge. He whispered to one of his helpers, “Yo, man, go get the money first. Then when you come back with it, you get him the books.”

“Does this book say who shot ’em?” someone asked from the crowd.

T spoke up immediately and looked the guy in the face.

“Nah, man.”

He didn’t like the sound of that question. He even wondered if it was time for his crew to move on and get out of Dodge for their safety. But once he looked the kid in his face, the boy quickly looked away from his glare, and T could tell that he was only being a smart-ass.

So the Truth told the entire crowd in front of him, “Yo, when we say
To Live and Die in Harlem,
this ain’t no game. Ain’t nobody coming back out here like no Xbox. That was my man who was killed. How many of y’all had friends and family who got killed in Harlem?”

The Truth spoke it with pure heart and a grown-man’s character. He had to grow up a great deal in the last year. He didn’t need anyone to tell him how he felt about it either. And his truth only made the crowd want to buy the book with more zeal.

His helpers pulled the remaining boxes from under the table and began to sell the books straight from the boxes.

The comedian approached T at the side of the table and told him, “My bad, man. I ain’t mean it like that.”

T started to ignore him, but instead of doing that, he said, “Yeah, you need to read this book, too, and get something out of it, son. Real life ain’t no damn comedy show. Comedians make jokes to get away from the pain. Ask Dave Chappelle about that.”

The boy nodded his head in agreement and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

T took it from him and said, “Matter of fact, you need to pay me twenty for this book so you’ll know how serious it is.”

He looked the boy in the face and dared him to try and assert himself. But T already knew that he wouldn’t. The boy didn’t have the edge in him. He was nowhere near ready to die yet.

So he told T, “Aw’ight, you can have that, man.” And he walked away with his book from The Street King, while looking back behind him to make sure he didn’t receive a kick in his ass to go along with it.

As T’s helpers began to chuckle at it around him, the incident only reminded him of how much he missed the presence, courage, and wisdom of his idol, Baby G.

He thought to himself,
I hope you proud of me, man. I just hope you proud of me
.

S
HAREEF TOOK A SIP
of raspberry lemonade on the second floor of Friday’s restaurant in the heart of Times Square. His friend Polo sat across the table grinning with his own drink in hand, a strawberry daiquiri. It was nearing eleven o’clock at night.

“So, they sold three boxes of books in one day?” Polo asked Shareef for clarity.

Shareef set his tall glass of lemonade on the table and grinned.

He said, “Jurrell wants me to order ten new boxes from the publisher tomorrow.”

“How many books is that?” Polo asked him.

“Four hundred, with forty in each box.”

Polo laughed and took a sip of his drink. He said, “And you was all concerned about how he was gon’ sell ’em.”

“I mean, selling books and drugs is two different things.”

“Is it really though? I mean, it’s all about how bad the people want it, right?” Polo suggested. “Maybe the people want this book that bad.” He said, “I’ll tell you this though, that Michael Springfield book wouldn’t have done the same thing. Baby G was the right kid to write a book about. He was still young and on his way up, so people’ll miss him. But Michael Springfield? I mean, he been in jail a long time, man. Them young guys ain’t feeling him like that. And the young guys are what make shit hot nowadays.

“Jurrell right about that,” Polo added. “That’s why he only dealing with them young hustlers. And a lot of these young guys wanted to be down with Baby. So now they gon’ wanna buy his book.”

Then Polo smirked, knowing that Shareef would sweat him over his next revelation.

He mumbled, “And umm…I mean…you did your thing on this book, man.”

Shareef eyed him across the table and asked him, “You read it?” just as his friend knew he would.

Polo started laughing again. He said, “I already know what you thinking, man. I didn’t read none of your other shit, but I read this one. But look, man, them other books you write just make me mad about relationships, and then they make my dick hard when you get to the sex scenes. I mean, I tried to read them books, it just wasn’t my thing.”

He said, “But this book here, it held my interest. What you want me to say? You don’t watch no relationship movies. You watch the same crime and action movies as every other guy. So this is the kind of book you always should have written.”

Shareef continued to grin and shook his head. He said, “And you know that young reporter I’ve been beefing with from the
Amsterdam News,
he even gave me a good review on this one. They’re publishing it this week. My publicists showed it to me today. It said, ‘Finally, an urban book with heart and soul to match the gritty action.’”

Polo agreed with the review. “Yeah, man, we all know you can write. You just gotta write shit that we can read. We not women.”

Shareef didn’t want to get into another male/female story conversation. What was the point? He would write for both audiences now.

Polo asked him, “So, the next book is based on Jurrell. How you think that one gon’ do?”

“I’ll let you read it once we have it in galley form. But it’s more like a mystery/thriller kind of book than this one. My editor called it the urban version of
The Usual Suspects.”

Polo’s eyes got big. He said, “Now that’s what I’m talking about, that was a good-ass movie.”

The waitress arrived with their food, Monterey Jack, barbecue chicken, and shrimp for both.

Before she walked off, she smiled and asked Shareef, “I hate to bother you, but…could I possibly come back and get your autograph?”

She looked hesitant as if Shareef would turn her down.

He smiled and said, “Of course you can. As soon as you collect the bill, just bring an extra piece of paper for me to sign for you.”

“Oh, thank you. I’ve read several of your books, and I like them all.”

“Well, thank you,” Shareef told her

When the waitress walked off, Polo asked Shareef, “How are things with you and Jennifer now?”

Polo hadn’t asked his friend about his marriage in a while. He understood that his partner was going through enough already.

Shareef shrugged his shoulders. “I mean, so far so good, man. I just learned that you can’t get too imbalanced with a marriage. If you expect too much, you settin’ yourself up for a letdown. And if you accept too little, then the same thing goes. So I’m just trying to keep myself balanced in the middle somewhere and take care of family.”

Polo nodded with his first bite of food.

He mumbled, “That’s a good way of looking at it.”

“Yeah, writing all these romance books ought’a teach me something,” Shareef commented.

“So, what ever happened to that girl Cynthia?”

Shareef took a bite of his own food. He finished chewing and answered, “I talked to her a few times during the whole court process, just to make sure everything was cool. But her idea was Michael Springfield’s story, so I couldn’t really talk to her too much about Baby G and all that.”

Polo sized things up and began to laugh. He said, “Yeah, you couldn’t tell her that you fucked up Jurrell’s money and he was a lot more dangerous than her. I mean, you don’t have to explain it to me, man.”

Shareef stated, “Yeah, so, that’s pretty much how it went. She gave me the whole idea to write the street book, but now she’s out of the loop with me.”

Polo sat quietly for a minute while they enjoyed their meals, but he couldn’t help thinking about how Trap and Spoonie chose the other side and ended up dying because of it.

Finally, Polo forced himself to mention it. He shook his head with his fork in hand. He stated, “Man, it’s just fucked up the way things went down with our people. I mean, you think you know some people better sometimes.”

Shareef looked up from his food and nodded. He understood what Polo was getting at. He had been forced to think about it all himself.

He swallowed his food, took another sip of his lemonade, and responded, “What can you do, man? I wasn’t giving up my life for theirs. Nor was I willing to give up your life. So, I wrote the shit down and came up with my options. And the shit may sound insensitive to some people, but that’s just how life is. Sometimes you gotta write niggas off.”

Then he looked Polo square in his eyes. “But like you said, some of us get to that point where we become family. And you ended up having to put your neck out there for me, man. All on account of me being hardheaded,” Shareef commented.

Polo shook it off. “Man, you dun’ put your neck out plenty of times for me. I don’t know where I would be all of these years without you. Whenever I needed something, you was there for me. And that’s love.”

He grinned and added, “Yeah, but if you didn’t come up with what you came up with, they damn sure was coming after me next. I ain’t even gon’ front. But like always, Shareef, you found a way to handle that shit.”

Shareef couldn’t argue with that. He had been overachieving his entire life, and he’d become comfortable with figuring his way out of jams.

Polo asked him, “But now, how you really feel about this Jurrell shit you involved in? I mean, I know you, man. You don’t like a ma-fucker telling you what to do. And he already acting like he your boss now, so imagine how he gon’ act if these books become bestsellers. Or not even
if,
but
when.
Because I know everybody gon’ feel this book.”

Polo hit the nail right on the head. The forced partnership with Shareef’s childhood nemesis, of all people, looked like a slow cancer that was sure to kill him.

Shareef took a deep breath and tried to explain things as best he could.

He said, “My grandfather had to remind me after all this shit went down that I’m not alone in this world, man. And no matter how independent I like to be, or we
all
like to be for that matter, we still owe allegiances to people whether we like it or not. So, with that in mind, it’s like this whole thing has become a life lesson for me. I gotta look out for my family. I gotta look out for my grandparents. I gotta look out for your family. I gotta look out for the women who read and support my books. And now I gotta look out Jurrell and his family, and all the street niggas who need to understand more about the consequences of that lifestyle.”

He said, “So, if this Underground Library imprint ends up employing another ten, twenty, thirty people, and giving them a better way to live, then who am I to complain about having to write these books. I mean, don’t get it twisted, I’m still getting paid from all this, and that’s good money for all of us. Because if I got more money, and I know who I’m responsible to, then we all in good shape. The same thing goes for Jurrell. As long as he’s connected to people like he is, then he got money to get, and he can’t chance not getting that money. So he knows how much he needs me, if just to get this shit started. But if he finds someone else to write shit for him, or to do business with him, then we’ll have to make a decision of where we go from there.”

Polo nodded his head and cracked a slow smile. Then he extended his hand across the table. When Shareef took it in his, Polo told him excitedly, “Shareef, you my nigga, man. That’s word to my whole fuckin’ family. You know why? Because you always figure the shit out. No matter what it is.”

He said, “And niggas can hate on you all they want, B, for going for yours. But at the end of the day, we need niggas like you. Straight up and down. Because if we don’t have anybody of our own, who can figure shit out, then who do we have? You know what I mean, Shareef? Who else can we count on?”

Polo released his hand and added, “For all them people who like to front on you, man. ‘Shareef think he the shit. Shareef think he know everything. Fuck Shareef!’ Nah, fuck them niggas, man! Fuck everybody who think that way. Because if we didn’t have no Michael Jordan, no Puff Daddy, no Damon Dash, no Spike Lee, Suge Knight, or Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, then who would the people look up to to be inspired by, man? Fuckin’ Muhammad Ali was important out this bitch.

“And I see you in the same way that I see them, man. You just doing it in the book world,” Polo told him. “So, no matter what, Shareef, you just keep doing you. Don’t slow your roll for nobody. Make them catch up. And if they can’t catch up, then that’s their problem. But if you slow down…”

Polo looked at him intently and pointed with his index finger. He said, “If you slow down, on
purpose
, and know you ’sposed to win, and you
don’t,
then you just fucked up for all of us, man. That’s how I see it.”

He said, “If you got a gift in this world as a black man, then you ’sposed to
use
that shit. Don’t stop your shine for nobody. ’Cause what niggas need to understand, man, is that, as long as one black man is shinin’, then we can all shine by supportin’ him. But if nobody’s shinin’. I mean, like,
nobody.
Then what the fuck we get out’a that?”

Polo stared across the table for Shareef to take it all in. And when he did, Shareef just shook his head. He was surprised by it all. Polo had his back, all the way to the graveyard.

Shareef looked at him and said, “Damn!” He paused for another minute and said, “Damn!” a second time. Polo had blown him away with his words.

Polo laughed and decided to help him out.

“Yeah, B, I picked up a li’l something from being around you all these years. You ain’t expect me to say something like that, right? You think I been sleepin’ all these years?”

Shareef laughed and said, “Obviously not, right? But, um, I thank you for saying that to me, man. Word. ’Cause sometimes I start to feel like I’m wrong for pushing forward. I start to feel like I’m wrong for wanting more, for
all
of us. You know? Sometimes I ask myself, ‘What’s wrong with what you have right now? What’s wrong with just getting by?’”

Polo shook his head before he even finished. He said, “Man, fuck that just-gettin’-by shit. That’s for them other niggas. You a winner, Shareef. You always been a winner.”

He chuckled and added, “I wanna be on a yacht in five years, and you the only one who can get me there. You feel me? And I want my son to be right there with your son.”

He said, “But all jokes aside, it’s not just the material things, man, but aspirations,
period,
that you go for in life. For most successful people, it’s not really about the materials anyway. They got ’em all. You already got shit down there in Florida. So shut up, man, with all that everyday-black-man-struggling shit, and tell me your big plans for tomorrow. ’Cause see, that boy Jurrell ain’t gon’ let you slow down anyway. He ain’t try’na hear that shit. That ma-fucka gon’ want a private jet off ya’ ass next year. So let me get you back home and back to work.”

Polo looked over and yelled, “Hey, waitress, my boy Shareef is ready for the bill now and that autograph you want.”

Shareef smiled at him and laughed it off. He was ready to pay another bill, as the weight on his brown shoulders continued to increase. But it was all right. He had been gifted with enough energy and smarts to deal with it. And even if others failed to understand him, he realized that he was born to do what he had to do and be who he had to be, and there was no turning back from it. The game of life goes on with more wins to get.