ANYTHING 4 PROFIT (ANYTHING FOR PROFIT) (9 page)

          The other masked man who was standing guard in the middle of the floor glanced at his watch, and noticed that they were already fast approaching the agreed upon three minute exit time. “Two and a half, two and a half!” he yelled to his partner. They didn’t have time to slow down.

          See, what a lot of people fail to realize is that robbery is a science akin to boxing. If you didn’t want to get your ass knocked the fuck out, or sent to prison for a long period of time, then you had to get in and out.  Stick and move, stick and move. The longer you stayed in, the higher your risk of getting caught was.

             With that thought weighing heavily on his mind, the masked figure behind the counter grew impatient. As soon as the young White woman was finished filling the bag with the fresh, crisp bills from the third drawer, he snatched it out of her hand, tearing off one of her French manicured nails in the process. He then half jumped, half slid back over the marble countertop. As soon as his hundred and sixty-five dollar boots hit the ground he was running for the exit; bag full of money in one hand, AK-47 in the other. His partner held down his rear until he was out of the bank, then he slowly backed his way towards the front entrance. Once he got to the glass doors, he turned and ran out of the bank too.

   He sprinted to a dark blue, beat up Toyota Tercel that was already running. He snatched open the rear right door and jumped in. “GO! GO! GO!”

   Immediately the car began to accelerate forward, and out of the parking lot. Not fast, not slow, but at a normal pace, so as not to attract the attention of any potential witnesses that would be willing to testify in court. The masked man on the passenger side reclined his seat all the way back, while his partner ducked down in the back to avoid being spotted from the windows.

The two masked robbers’ hearts’ were pumping fast, full of adrenaline. They both had to take a deep breath, and force themselves to calm down after the rush they’d just gotten from robbing the bank. They had experienced a new high. One that could never be duplicated by any kind of drug. 

           The robbers removed their masks and looked at each other, cracking Kool-Aid smiles. “Wooooo! We did it, muh’fucka!! We did it!!” The one in the back seat looked at the driver, and grinned at her.

   The female driver glanced in the rearview mirror at him, and said “What the fuck is you cheesin’ ‘bout, nigga? What’s so funny? You better be thinkin’ ‘bout my cut!” she said, her young voice belying her much older appearance.

          “I’m just trippin’ off that big crazy ass grey wig, and all that fuckin’ make-up yo’ ass got on,” he chuckled. “Yo’ ass look like a old ass woman fo’ real,” he said to the girl driving, who just happened to be his sister.

          “And them goddamn glasses…” said the passenger. He couldn’t even finish his statement before erupting into laughter.

The brown-skinned girl cracked a dimpled smile of her own as she took a glance into the rearview mirror at herself. The curly grey wig, heavy make-up, and large Coca-Cola bottle glasses she had on wasn’t a disguise that would fool Stevie Wonder up close, but from a distance it made the woman appear to be much older than she was. The disguise had served its purpose. Laughing at herself now, she said, “Nigga, fuck y’all!”

Mike lay on the couch reminiscing on all of the crazy shit he, Meka and Ant had done over the years. They had been traveling on the long and hazardous road to riches for a minute now. With no regard whatsoever for the repercussions and possible consequences of their actions.

              Over the years, Meka, Ant, and Ms.D had become the family Mike never had. The family he’d always wanted. And for his family, he would ride. And if it came down to it…die. As he drifted off to sleep, scenes from his extensive criminal career played through Mike’s mind as vivid as a high definition Blu-Ray movie.

Chapter 7

           Zulu calmly paced the floor of the empty warehouse, showing no signs of his emotions other than the murderous glare in his eyes. He walked with a noticeable limp, acquired from a shootout that had claimed the life of one of his closest comrades, Deemo, back in the day, and left Zulu in the hospital recuperating for months. 

              Back when he was young and trying to establish his reputation as a certified crazy mothafucka, which for him was far from an act, it was nothing for a gunfight to pop off. Or a knife fight. Or any kind of fight, for that matter.

              Zulu was the color of burnt rubber, with a wide, flat nose that reflected the African tribe his parents had descended from. Wanting a better life for themselves and their unborn son, Zulu’s parents migrated to New York in 1975. Like so many families, they were in search of that fabled American Dream. But instead, they only found American nightmares of discrimination and racial violence. That was the true reality of “America the Beautiful.” Land of the free, home of the slaves.

              The same year that they came to America, Zulu was born. His parent’s tried to instill in him the traditional values and principles of their tribal roots, but the streets were calling. That was a call that turned out to be impossible for young Zulu to ignore. At the tender age of eleven, he answered. He became a lookout for the notorious Supreme Team, a widely known, infamous drug organization that ran Jamaica, Queens back in the day.

              Over the years, Zulu gradually rose from a street corner lookout, to lieutenant in one of New York City’s biggest drug empires. As time passed, his ruthlessness and cunning became legendary. To cross Zulu was not only a stupid move, but also a fatal one.

              Once, an up and coming hustler from Harlem named Pretty Tony copped some weight from Zulu on consignment, and then brazenly refused to pay what he owed.  It was obvious that either Pretty Tony was crazy as fuck, or he just didn’t value his life that much. Either way, his ass wasn’t pretty much longer.

              Zulu was furious that a nobody ass nigga like Tony would even attempt to gain a rep off him. And since the beef was now personal, he wanted to be the one to exterminate that fucking roach himself. He would do it with his bare hands. Or maybe he’d torture Tony for hours, and then put him out of his misery. Zulu enjoyed torturing niggas. The sight of his enemies’ blood draining from their worthless bodies excited him the same way some got excited watching their favorite football player score a touchdown.  Pretty Tony would be no different.

              On a cold Christmas morning back in ‘99, Tony’s parent’s received a very special gift on their Uptown doorstep, courtesy of Zulu. It was a large box wrapped in shiny gold paper, with a big red bow on top. Inside the box was what used to be Antonio Lamont Gray, his body chopped into numerous pieces of flesh and bones. Tony’s mother fainted, and his father lost his breakfast.

              The heat from the crime, which the authorities dubbed “The Christmas Massacre,” caused Zulu to flee from N.Y. down south to Greenville, S.C.  He chose Greenville because he had a few family members that were moving work he was sending down there. 

              After a few years of laying low, Zulu opened shop back up. Soon every narcotic coming through the southeast either came through his hands, or he saw a percentage of the profit.

              So when his nephew and protégé’ Twan was found brutally murdered and burnt to a fucking crisp, Zulu had no idea where the threat was actually coming from. Success bred enemies, so whoever was responsible was irrelevant.

  Every nigga in the street knew that fear was the most valuable currency any man could have. Fear was more valuable than any amount of money. When people had no fear of you, then you became exposed to anybody with nuts big enough to try you.

   And there were so many niggas at the bottom who were starving. They were just waiting for an opening. Any sign of weakness became an opportunity for them to eat. So Zulu took this affront to his organization seriously. Very seriously.

   What troubled him more than anything was the fact that he’d introduced his sister’s youngest son to that life personally. He’d watched Twan grow up from a snot nosed, shy little kid, into an intelligent, cunning young soldier. And now all that remained was his fucking ashes! Not even a fucking body to bury!

              A trained warrior of the street, Zulu often saw ten steps ahead of his adversaries. He did this not by watching movies like “Scarface” and “Goodfellas” a hundred times, but by constantly educating himself on human nature, psychology, and behavior. He’d studied classics such as Sun Tzu’s “
The Art of War”,
Robert Greene’s
“
The 48 Laws of Power”,
and Niccolo Machiavelli’s
“The Prince.”
Not to mention, Zulu was an avid chess player, and he tended to apply those same principles to his everyday life.

   After hearing of Twan’s murder, he immediately assessed the situation, and calmly determined that some lives would be lost behind it. Plain and simple. And their deaths would be particularly painful, to send a message to anyone else that might be lying in the cut scheming.

             The rules of the jungle dictated that you were either a predator, or you got preyed upon. And Zulu had never been the type of man to be preyed upon. The streets were a game of chess, not checkers. Zulu played for keeps.                

              But now that he was older and less impetuous, Zulu felt little need to get his hands dirty in retaliation. Nor did he have to. He had a team of young guerillas who were always willing to prove their loyalty and mettle on the battlefield of the streets.

              Amongst these soldiers, in an abandoned warehouse on the west side of G-ville, Zulu spoke. “I want to make this short, and to the point. I don’t intend on repeating myself, so listen carefully,” he said in his deep New York baritone. Just like his face, his voice reflected no emotion.

   “As you already know, my nephew Twan is dead. What we don’t know is who is responsible for his death. That means that at this very moment, our entire organization is vulnerable. This is not acceptable. I want the people responsible for this transgression punished…severely. But make sure it’s the perpetrators who are dealt with. I do not believe in the innocent being hurt. It brings extra heat from the pigs, and it’s bad for business. So if that occurs, then the individuals responsible will be dealt with accordingly. Understood?”

              A group of about fifteen young men all replied in unison, “Yes sir!”

              “Now…find out who was behind this, and deal with it. Oh yeah… there’s a hundred thousand dollar reward for whoever adequately solves this problem to my satisfaction. Dismissed!”

              Though Zulu had never explicitly mentioned anybody being killed, it was very well understood what type of results he wanted.

Chapter 8

                It was Labor Day weekend, 2006. The last official holiday of what had been one of the hottest summers in recent history was getting ready to get even hotter. It was Saturday, September 1
^st
, almost a full month since Ant D and Mike had capitalized off of Twan’s weakness for Meka.

    The police investigation was at a standstill, with little to no leads for the pigs to work. Officially the investigation was still open, but unofficially nobody in the Greenville Count y’s Sheriff’s Office really gave a fuck about another dead drug dealer. Especially a Black one. In fact, some of the officers were overheard making jokes about the condition in which Twan’s body was found.

              The word on the street was that some jack boys from out of state were responsible. All of this misinformation relieved Mike and Ant D’s worries. They were getting restless with all that money just sitting around. They were ready to “ball ‘til they fall.” And what better time to ball than Labor Day weekend? Their original plan of opening a strip club was no longer even on their mind.

              That night at about 10:45 Mike pulled up to Glo’s house in his new ‘06 Cadillac Escalade. The truck ran him about 70 stacks alone, and not to mention the other 40 G’s worth of customization he’d had done. The truck was all black, with chrome accents and chrome 28 inch TIS rims, wrapped in low profile Pirelli Tires. The steering wheel and dash were a rare rosewood color, and there were TV’s in all the headrests and visors, and an Xbox 360 in the glove compartment. It had taken close to three weeks for all the work to be completed. And now that it was, Mike was ready to shine until mothafuckas went blind.