Angel's Revenge (21 page)

“Jerome. Jerome Mills,” she said, wiping her teary eyes.

He gestured to the corner boys he was talking with to come over.

“Take this sister into the store and call Khadijah to take her to the hospital.”

“Rahman, please be careful. Jerome is crazy!” Jamillah sobbed, but it was like warning a bear about a rabbit.

Rahman opened his cell and called Salahudeen.

“Sal! Who is Jerome Mills?”

“I don’t know. But if he got a name, it won’t be hard to find out,” Sal answered.

“Find out who he is and where he is then meet me at the store, aiight?” Rahman ordered.

“Insha Allah,” Salahudeen answered, grabbing his Glock 9 and tucking it in his waist. He could tell by Rahman’s voice there
was a problem. The Muslims were like a ghetto Internet. Once the word went out, it crisscrossed the city like radar until
Jerome’s whereabouts were pinpointed.

Rahman, Salahudeen, and six Muslim shooters converged on the small housing project like a SWAT team.

They approached the building. When Rahman was close enough to strike, he barked, “Jerome!”

Out of instinct, Jerome snapped his head out of the window and gave away both who and where he was. Rahman grabbed him by
the collar and a handful of pants and dumped him face-first onto the hard concrete.

The other gamblers didn’t know what was going on so they moved for their concealed pistols. Before they knew it, however,
six weapons were aimed at them. Salahudeen stepped forward and disarmed them.

Rahman snapped. “You wanna beat on a woman, nigga?” he growled, bashing Jerome’s head into the concrete repeatedly until he
lost several teeth and his consciousness. He then slapped him awake.

“You touch Sonia again, and I’ll kill you. You hear me?” Rahman threatened, kicking Jerome in the ribs and groin until Jerome
spat up blood.

Blood.

It was the first time in years Rahman had seen blood, and his addiction to it made him instinctively reach for his gun and
aim it at Jerome’s head.

“Rah, no!” Salahudeen yelled, and grabbed Rahman’s wrist.

The jerk made the bullet strike the ground inches from Jerome’s skull.

“Ock, chill! Justice has been served, yo!” Sal urged, trying to get Rahman out of the zone he was in. “Chill, man. This is
not the place for that!”

“Then call an ambulance,” Rahman spat as he walked away from the scene.

“I want the block! The whole chunk, Sal, the whole chunk!” Rahman’s voice filled Salahudeen’s martial arts school.

He and Salahudeen had just come back from Lil’ Bricks.

“Listen, Ock. Calm down. I know you’re upset, but you gotta calm down. We’ve already got Jamillah moved. She’s stayin’ with
Khadijah for now.”

Rahman furiously paced the floor. He felt sick with guilt. He knew he had overdone it and he realized how close he had come
to going back to his old ways, the ways of the street.

“And what about him? You think it’s over? I shoulda murdered him right there!” Rahman replied.

Salahudeen shook his head.

“For what? He’s a nobody. He used to get a little paper in Irvington, but he ain’t major and none of his people are either.
After he gets out that coma he’s in… if he gets out his coma… he won’t be comin’ back no time soon. It’s under control.”

But Rahman was still furious. Everything was going beautifully on the streets he had cleaned up and he wanted more. Jerome
had given him a reason to take it.

“Sal, I feel you. But a Muslimah was attacked. Regardless of who or why, it won’t happen again,” he vowed.

“But this ain’t how we planned it, Ock. We planned to take the little blocks until we surrounded the hot spots. If we control
the perimeter, it’s easier to control the center. You know that. Hell, you taught me!” Sal protested.

He, too, wanted to rid the streets of Newark of the drug element but he thought it best to stick to the plan. Rahman was apparently
changing the game in the ninth inning.

“A hundred thousand.”

“A hundred thousand what?”

Rahman smirked and clasped his hands behind his back.

“One hundred thousand dollars for Irving Turner to High Street, north-south, and West Kinney to Elizabeth Avenue, east-west.”

“A hundred?” Salahudeen gasped, clasping his hands again. “Rah, they make that in a day! You know they ain’t gonna take that.
We might as well say twelve dollars and a Snapple!” Salahudeen shook his head. “Is our whole plan worth one slap, one bruise,
Ock?” he tried to reason.

“Death or success, my brother. Never forget that. One slap, one disrespect, one violation upsets the plan. We have to stop
things like that from happening. I want all the niggas to know that if one of us is touched, then we touch ten of theirs.
You touch ten of ours, we touch a hundred of—”

“But is that justice?” Salahudeen interrupted.

“It’s an example, Sal,” Rahman shot back before turning for the door. With one hand on the knob, he added, “A hundred, Sal.
Not a dime more. They don’t accept my offer…” Rahman grinned. “Can’t say we didn’t try.
As-Salaamu Alaikum
.”

“
Alaikum As-Salaamu
.”

Not long after Salahudeen put the word out on the streets to Roll’s people, Roll got word. He called Angel.

“Ay, yo! You need to holla at your man ’cause he about to make me see him!”

Angel drove to Roll’s mortgage company in Paramus.

“Didn’t I tell you that muthafucka was gonna be a problem?” Roll growled as soon as Angel stepped through his office door.

“You heard what the nigga said? A hundred thousand for Irving Turner! Fuck! I wouldn’t take a million from his bitch-ass.”

Angel sat on the edge of his desk and lit a Newport. “What happened?”

“Fuck you mean, what happened? The nigga feelin’ himself! He think ’cause he can muscle them petty niggas off them pissant
blocks, he ready to fuck wit’ the thoroughbreds!” Roll huffed hard.

“He
is
a thoroughbred,” Angel reminded Roll.

“Was. Was. He was a thoroughbred,” Roll retorted. “He on some Mother Teresa shit now!”

Angel shrugged. “So I’ll talk to him.”

“You already tried that. Now, I’ma holla at his bitch-ass!”

Angel leaned forward toward Roll. “That was about family. This is about business. Let me talk to Roc. One last time, okay?”
Angel proposed, but her eyes said it was an order.

Roll eyed her. He knew that her business with Roc was personal. But she had proven to be one hell of an addition to his team.
Angel was invaluable to him now. Despite all his gun talk, he knew Roc’s caliber and he knew niggas like that didn’t just
change overnight.

“One last time,” he emphasized, holding up a chubby finger. “One time. After that, I handle it.”

“Tan bien.”

“Hello, Angel.”

“What’s up, Roc? Long time, right?” she asked as she stepped out of the Viper.

“Yeah, long time,” Rahman replied, cold and hard. “You said you wanted to talk? So let’s talk,” Rahman said, looking at Angel
seriously.

She had asked him to meet her at Port Newark, the same port they had robbed so many years before. She walked up to him and
threw her arms around his neck, hugging him playfully, then let go.

“All this gangsta shit between us, nigga… you need a hug.” Angel snickered.

He tried to hold his composure but being in her presence always strangely comforted him. He cracked a smile.

“Where’s Roll? What, he too scared to meet me so he sent you instead?”

“Naw. Nobody sent me. I wanted to see you. What Roll wanted was to send bullets through your kufi for trying to play him,”
Angel explained.

“Ain’t no play about it. There’s a hundred grand in the trunk of the car.” He gestured to the old Buick he was driving. “Tell
Roll he can take it or try and send them shots.”

Angel aimed her finger like a gun. “Bang bang.”

“Angel… I’m serious.”

“And you think I ain’t? You want shots, there you go. That’s what you want anyway, ain’t it?” she asked, but he remained silent.
She continued. “You want Roll to give you a reason to do what you’ve been wanting to do!” Angel accused. “You want a war.”

“What I want is that poison out of the community. What I want is a safe environment to raise kids in. What I want is—”

“Power,” Angel concluded quietly. “You want power, Roc. You wanna be in control.”

“Allah is in control,” Rahman countered.

Angel shook her head. “Yeah, you got a cause. But who don’t? You just like me, just like Dutch. You wanna control the streets,”
she surmised, turning to look out at the boats on the dock. “You think I don’t want the same things? What muthafucka in his
right mind wants to risk his life every day, runnin’ from a case, a stickup, or a hit? What muthafucka don’t want the good
life for their kids, huh? But for most of us, this is how we get it! You gotta go through hell to get to heaven. Have you
forgot that or are you so fuckin’ righteous now that you’re above all that?” Angel spat.

Rahman took a step toward her, arms open.

“But you don’t have to get it that way! All that talk about somebody gotta sell it is garbage! What if you don’t sell it and
don’t allow it to be sold. What do you think happens to all that money? It’s still in the community. It can still be made!
Look at the Italians, the Irish, the Asians. You don’t see that bullshit in their communities, do you? Yeah, they started
out as criminals to establish themselves, but now most of their money is legit. Niggas been on the corner for fifty years
and what we got to show for it? Platinum chains? Slaves’ chains!” he cried with passion. “It ain’t too late, yo. Ride wit’
me. Yeah, we are just alike. We understand power. Let’s use it to build, not destroy.”

Angel silently acknowledged his point, but she had a personal vendetta that her heart wouldn’t let her abandon. “Do you still
trust me, Roc? Regardless of where we stand, do you still trust Dada?” she asked him, using the nickname Dutch had given her.

Rahman remembered it, too. Dutch called her that because he said she was as vicious as
Jaws
and nicknamed her after the theme music. Dada… dada… dada… Roc smiled at the memory.

“Yeah, Dada. I trust you. I trust your heart.”

“Then trust me when I say my thing with Roll is almost over. He’s finished. All I gotta do is put the icing on the cake. When
it’s done, then we’ll talk, okay? For now, let this bully thing go, and we’ll respect your territory to the fullest. I got
the coke up on Springfield. I’ll clear the block and relocate. It’s yours. Just let this go and don’t expand on Roll. This
way we all happy. You get a drug-free zone, and we get our paper. Do it for Dada.”

Rahman looked at Angel and hesitated before he spoke. In his heart they would always be family but he couldn’t subject his
plan to his emotions. He replied, “A hundred grand. Take it or leave it.”

Angel closed her eyes, then slowly opened them.

“If you do this, Roc, I can’t help you.”

“Help me?” Rahman chuckled. “I don’t need help. Roll does.”

“You can’t win, Roc. You… can’t… win,” Angel emphasized because she knew his weakness.

“But I can die tryin’.”

The conversation was over. There was nothing left to say. Angel hugged him again and this time he hugged her back. They broke
their embrace and went their separate ways.

“Two for five! Two for five!”

“I got that fire over here, yo!”

“Gimme one for fifteen!”

“No shorts!”

The block was booming despite the hour. It was 2:00 a.m. Hustlers and scramblers, crackheads and dope fiends filled the sidewalk
in front of Brick Towers. Expensive whips were double-parked and shorties in tight skirts and bootie shorts leaned through
windows and on car hoods. Everyone was so caught up in the rhythm of the night that they paid no attention to the U-Haul truck
pulled up in the middle of the street.

Until it was too late.

Rahman, Salahudeen, and seven other masked Muslims came out of the bed of the truck and opened fire with automatic extended
clips.

“They shootin’!”

Everybody finally looked. Girls screamed and ducked while hustlers ran for cover, pulling weapons from bushes and stash boxes.

Bullets tore through flesh, glass, and brick, sending blood, shattered fragments, and sparks flying.

The Muslims stood mercilessly in the middle of the street, blazing the block, taking no prisoners, while on the roof, three
Muslim snipers picked off hustler after hustler, painting the streets with blood. Police sirens filled the air. Rahman shouted,
“Let’s go!”

The Muslims continued to fire, backpedaling into the U-Haul, and closed the bed.

Seconds later, police cars from everywhere converged on the scene and surrounded the U-Haul.

“They in the truck. They in the fuckin’ truck!” a wounded nigga snitched in agony. “Call an ambulance! I’m hit!”

The police turned their weapons on the U-Haul.

“Come out now! Throw out the guns and come out with your hands up!” an officer with an itchy trigger finger bellowed.

The U-Haul remained silent.

“Last chance! Get out of the fuckin’ truck!”

Silence.

The commanding officer gave the nod and the police pumped the U-Haul with so many shots that the truck rocked back and forth
on its axles. The police continued to fire until the U-Haul looked like a hunk of Swiss cheese. They were certain no one inside
it could have survived, but took no chances and slid up on the side of the U-Haul with guns aimed, locked, and loaded.

In one fluid motion, they threw open the bed’s door and screamed, “Don’t move!”

All they found inside was gunsmoke and street light bleeding through the bullet-riddled truck body.

“What the fuck?”

“No way!”

“Move! Move! Move!”

“They aren’t here!”

Completely baffled, the police didn’t see the board on the truck’s floor for a full five minutes. Under the board was a hole,
and directly under the hole was the escape route.

An open manhole.

“Son of a bitch!” a policeman cursed and mobilized his units to block off the area for twelve blocks.