Cracked Dreams (20 page)

“On the real, you gotta give me your word that you won't try no shit like this again, man,” requested Spits of Trigger. “You almost gave me a heart attack, dog.”

“All right, my nigga,” Trigger agreed reluctantly. “My bad, son. I guess I just got a little homesick.”

Trigger didn't want to say those words, but he was left with no choice. If it would ever be possible for Spits to trust him again, he'd have to agree to the terms of the situation and abide by the rules that were set in place. With the Family's best interests in mind, Trigger got on the next flight out of New York to California without even a mention of the news he thought was important enough to risk his freedom for. Spits was too nervous about another interaction with the police to carry on any kind of conversation. He finally relaxed a little more when once they were in the airport and the ticket was purchased. He ultimately told Trigger that under different circumstances, his visit would be welcomed with open arms, but also stressed how careful they would still have to be. Truthfully, Spits couldn't be happier to see his lifelong friend, but they had to take care of business before pleasure. It took all of Trigger's strength to get on that plane without telling his best friend of so many years what had happened in California between him and Spits' sister Rachel.

YEAR — 2000

“Damn, what the fuck am I gonna do?” asked Ceelow to himself. “It's like all of our dreams are turning into nightmares.”

Ceelow, after spending a week in jail with little communication with the outside world, felt at a disadvantage. His best bet would be going home from this experience to get his mind together. He hadn't yet put two and two together and he greatly needed to figure out his next move. Ceelow wasn't the type to sit around and figure things out; he was the type to buss his gun and figure it out later.

Ever since he'd caught that first body back in the park that night, he hadn't once hesitated when it came down to it. He took the position that was set for him to the heart. He was to secure every member of the Time Bomb Family; even if it meant that he had to take a loss. Whatever was necessary to provide a sense of security for his partners was all that had ever mattered to him. But lately he'd felt more on the defenseless side. So many tragic things had happened to the niggas he called “his family” that he couldn't prevent from happening. That gave him an empty feeling inside and he didn't know what to do about it.

Now, alone in his apartment on the fourth floor of 666 East 224th Street, he could be left to his thoughts. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he spent the better half of this early morning on the fire escape that faced the back of the building. There he could watch the sun come up.
Ceelow was rarely without a drink so he sipped on a beer while he lit up a breakfast blunt to get his head on right. He smoked and smoked and smoked . . .until his thoughts came together like a puzzle. He still hadn't figured out who it was that had snitched on him, but his frustration made him blame the most obvious cause of all of his problems.

When he climbed back in his window, he stood there and stared at his bedroom. He stared at the walls that he had painted in his favorite color: royal blue. He looked at the floors where he kept carpet that covered the entire apartment spotless. He looked at his huge king-sized bed, made entirely of mahogany wood, where he laid his head every night. He looked at the wall opposite the bed where his 36-inch television sat on its stand, with numerous video games and DVD movies decorating the floor. He looked at his closet door which was half-open to display his large wardrobe. On all of these material items is where he placed the blame for his nightmares. For every bad thing that happened to him, he took it all out on his prized possessions. He let out a sudden roar of anger and lunged at his dresser where, with one punch, he completely shattered the mirror that was positioned on top of it. He snatched out every dresser drawer, emptying their contents on the floor. He lifted his mattress off of the frame and pushed it up against the wall next to it, sending the hanging picture frames flying. He then pushed himself to lift the television from its location before he threw it halfway across the room onto the floor. The screen exploded and the sound brought him back down to earth. He sat on the floor with his back up against the wall and put his head in his hands. Through his fingers, he saw a picture on the floor. It was of him, Trigger, Pop, and Spits that they took when Pop first got his own apartment. They'd popped bottles and sprayed each other with champagne to celebrate that occasion. It was a big step for them. They must've toasted to “Moe's, hoes and zeros” a thousand times that night and it was just the four of them. In fact, whenever it came down to it, it was always just the four of them. They always had each other's back one hundred percent. When he decided to call the only person left from this picture, he got Spits' voicemail. He left him a brief message, and then called El Don.

“Yo, what up, Cee?” asked El Don as he answered his cell phone. “Where the fuck you been at, nigga? You heard about all the shit that happened out here on these streets?”

“Nah, dog,” Ceelow responded with a dead voice.

“This shit is for real out here, man,” continued El, trying to sound like there was nothing wrong. “Niggas is getting popped left and right.”

“Yo . . .” began Cee. “You ever just stab a nigga in the neck and watch him bleed to death?”

“Wha?” responded El, completely confused.

“You ever just poke a hole in a nigga's throat while he's asleep, and just sit there and watch him? Then when the nigga start coughin' up his heart, just ask the nigga if he's all right?”

“Yo, what the fuck you talkin' about, man?” El asked, still trying to understand Cee's line of questioning.

“I had to body some nigga on the Island the other day, just cause,” he said.

“Just cause what, nigga?” El asked. “What the fuck were you doin' on Riker's Island? When did you get out?”

“The nigga tried to play me, son . . .” Cee simply stated. “He tried to play me! I just got out this morning. I'll probably spend the rest of my life in jail for the shit they got me for. Ain't no hope for me, dog; not if I don't find this nigga that snitched on me.”

“The nigga that snitched on you,” El said sarcastically. “Yo, son, just come through the crib so we can build about this shit. I don't want to have this conversation over the phone. I'm with Poncho. We got you, my nigga.”

“All right then,” responded Ceelow. “One.”

“Yeah,” El said. “One.”

YEAR — 1999

Finally, the year was 1999. It was only August, and the streets had already heard about the Time Bombs' plans for the New Year's bash that would end the nineties and shoot every super-thug nigga in attendance straight into the New Millennium. Talks of expenses flooded the avenues of the Bronx
as everyone asked themselves, “How much money would be spent on this shindig?” Some thought hundreds of thousands; others thought in the millions. With rumors in circulation that range from there being enough Cristal for every guest to have up to five bottles, to a performance by none other than the king of pop, Michael Jackson, everyone had their own predeterminations.

From the beginning, Spits just knew that this year would be their best ever. With money coming in from every direction, the Time Bombs as a unit had accumulated tens of millions of dollars. Besides the delivery service they'd started, they were represented on street corners all over the South and North Bronx. They had three apartments and a small house that they used for drugstores where they cooked, cut, and bagged up work. Everything was going greatly and Spits thought it could only get better, until . . .

“What you mean you goin' away for New Year's?” asked Spits as he screamed into the phone at Ginger.

“What do you want me to do, tell my mother that I can't go?” answered Ginger. “I don't see her enough as it is, Daddy. All she asked was that we spend New Year's together, with my family in Orlando. I have to, Honey. Things haven't been the same since we moved in together and you know how close we used to be. Please, don't make me feel like I have to choose between the two of you.”

“Yeah, I know,” admitted Spits. “But damn, New Year's? You will be here for Christmas though, right?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Ginger responded as she grinned. “I promise I'll be here for Christmas with you.”

“Damn,” began Spits. “We got the hottest shit planned for this New Year's party, too!”

“Don't worry,” said Ginger. “You won't even realize I'm gone.”

“Yeah right,” Spits said with a giggle and then a sigh. “Anyway, that means that we have to go all out for Christmas. What's up with Hawaii, or maybe the Virgin Islands?”

“You're crazy!” Ginger said.

“What?” asked Spits. “What's wrong with that?”

“Do you know how long the flight takes to get to Hawaii?” Ginger asked.

“Aw, here we go again,” Spits said.

“I had to beg my mother to rent a car just to drive to Florida,” stated Ginger. “I don't know if I could go twelve hours on a plane, Daddy.”

“Aw, come on, Gin,” responded Spits. “You're gonna be with me. Now, would I ever let anything happen to you?”

“Yeah, yeah . . .” responded Ginger, recognizing the premise of this conversation. “I know you won't let anything happen to me, but . . .”

“But what?” asked Spits cutting her off. “You can't say no.”

“I'm not saying no . . .well, not yet anyway,” answered Ginger. “But, I can't just say yes right now, either.”

“Okay, Gin,” said Spits, giving up hope. “I hear ya talkin'. I'd rather not talk about this now anyway. We're supposed to be celebrating. Now, hurry up and get ready.. I'll be home to pick you up in about an hour and a half. I won't be long. I just have to go past the Block first; then I'll be right over.”

“Okay, baby,” said Ginger. “I'll see you then.”

Today was Spits and Ginger's five-year anniversary and Spits had the perfect evening planned. Ginger didn't know exactly how much work he'd put into it, but he'd made sure to tell her to dress her best or as he put it, “I'll look better than you.” Spits had never once thought that he could ever find someone as perfect as Gin and as often as he could, he let her know how he felt. Now, five years had passed like nothing and it was time to remind her how he felt.

For Ginger it was the same thing. When it came time for her to give Spits his gift, she surprised him by showing up on the block to pick him up and treat him to a weekend in Atlantic City. They always had the best of times together and when Spits saw how much work Ginger had put in for him, he knew that when his turn came, it would have to be big.

When Spits reached the Block, he parked his car by a fire hydrant. As he hung up the phone with Ginger, he took a peek at his rearview mirror and saw Pop's mother coming down the block with a shopping cart full of groceries. It made him think of Pop. Seeing her always made everything that he'd felt and forgotten since Pop's death come back. That whole entire
situation could have never reached closure in Spits' mind, as there was no way to avenge his killers. The only thing that could be done was to try and do for his family what Pop would have, if he were still there. Spits only wished that Pop's mother saw it the same way. She'd never liked Spits or any of Pop's childhood friends, and when they'd tried to reach out to her after his death, she couldn't bring herself to accept their help. She hated them even more now, as they'd taken the blame for what happened to her only son. Spits wouldn't ever be able to close that chapter in his book.

After a deep breath, he came back to reality and saw Cee pull up in his navy blue Beemer. Ceelow saw Spits and jumped out so that they could exchange a pound and a hug. “What up, my nigga?” Ceelow asked. “What's the occasion, dog? You lookin' all snazzy and shit. Ha-ha,” he said, commenting on Spits' attire.

“Oh, you know,” began Spits. “We're doing the anniversary thing tonight. I was just buggin' out about this nigga Pop again. When I saw Mrs. Black, I had to hold myself back from approaching her, you know?”

“Oh please,” Cee responded. “Now you know that old lady got no love for us. All she goin' do is start that ‘you're the devil' shit, and about how we need Jesus and if we don't start going to church and shit, we goin' to hell? I told you a long time ago, that shit is a lost cause.”

“I know, but for Pop . . .”

“Yeah, I feel you,” Cee said, understanding what Spits was going to say before he even said it. “But mu'fuckas is only gonna let you do but so much. You can't do for another mu'fucka what that mu'fucka won't do for they own self, feel me?”

“Uh-huh.” Spits wasn't really capable of probing as to what the fuck Ceelow was talking about. “But anyway, what's been poppin' over here, son?”

“Same shit, same shit,” responded Cee. “Ain't nothin' ever poppin' over here, son.”

“Oh, okay,” said Spits. “I just wanted to check up on . . .”

“Oh shit!” Ceelow exclaimed as his attention was shifted. It seemed as though an altercation was developing amongst some younger niggas across the street in front of 666. It looked like it was about to go down between these niggas Jacob and Winston.

Jacob was some little half-ass aspiring “pack-holder” nigga. Every once in a while Ceelow, or somebody like that, would give him a little something to make a run or to hold a gat when it was hot, and that made him think he was a hustler. Jacob was basically one of those niggas that would just sit there and stare at the older niggas getting money like that's all he ever wanted to do. It didn't help anything that they used to send him on runs when there was an emergency, but fuck it. When he reached the appropriate age and had some smarts with him, they could put him on, but for now he ran errands.