It's Like Candy (21 page)

Monroe gave Yung Slim an unsmiling stare. “So we're back in business?”

“It never ended,” Yung Slim said.

“So no hard feelings?” Monroe asked, remembering what went down seven years ago.

“Even though your bitch ass hanged me out to dry for that murder beef, nah, there ain't no hard feelings. It's always business, right?”

“Yung Slim, you have to understand, shit was hot back then. You were on the rise too fast and making a name for yourself. You made enemies everywhere, even in my precinct. A lot of men wanted to see you dead, so be happy you got jailed for those seven years and get to see the streets today. I did you a favor, you remember that. If I had got involved with your case then it would have made it difficult for the both of us, and the DA would have fucked us both.”

“Muthafucka, I'm the one that got fucked! But it's all good, I'm home now, Monroe, and shit gonna change.”

“Yeah, well, remember you're still on parole. You violate that, and there ain't shit I can do for you.”

“Let me worry about my PO. I'm better now. These streets, I'm gonna own ‘em again, and you either gonna ride wit' me or die coming against me,” Yung Slim proclaimed.

Monroe took one last pull from his cigarette and tossed it onto the beach. “I see your mind is made up.”

“It's good doin' business with you again, Detective Monroe. Get that info for me. I'll definitely see you around,” Yung Slim said, back stepping away from him.

Monroe shook his head, knowing that they'd just paroled a monster back on the streets. He'd been a cop for twenty years and seen them come and go, and knew that Yung Slim was not the one to let out. The detective was in his midforties, a black man of average height, with a short haircut, trimmed beard, who dressed hip-hop style—Timberlands, baggy jeans, jerseys, leather coat, and so on. He knew that he was in Yung Slim's pocket for a long time, because the man had too much dirt on him. But the extra money was good coming in, and with him retiring next year, it would mix in very well with his pension. But Monroe knew that he had to watch his back with Yung Slim. They might be in bed together but he didn't trust him. And if push came to shove, then Monroe would take it that extra step and put a bullet in the back of his head if Yung Slim ever tried to turn against him or rat him out.

. . .

 

The folloeing night,
Yung Slim, Critter, and Donald sat in the same parked burgundy Escalade, observing the track on Rockaway Boulevard. They watched two young ladies in short denim skirts and stilettos strut up Rockaway Boulevard waving down cars and trying to get a quick date.

“Slim, there's definitely money out here,” Critter proclaimed. “Hoes be up and down here on a regular basis now.”

“I see,” Yung Slim uttered.

“Some of them rent out rooms at the Executive around the corner, make it safer to turn tricks,” Donald chimed.

“Who's workin' this area?” Slim asked.

“Some young pimp named Reality,” Donald informed him. “But his man Rome is the one we gotta watch out for. He got about eight hoes working out here, on South Road, and Brooklyn. He's back and forth from Atlantic City constantly.”

“Matter of fact, them two hoes that just passed, them his hoes,” Critter said.

“But some nights, cops make it hard out here for the ladies to work. They may constantly patrol the area, or do sting operations, scaring the tricks off,” Donald stated. “If we come in, we gotta come in smart.”

“I'll take care of that,” Yung Slim said, peering out the passenger window.

Yung Slim sat in the passenger seat and continued to observe the two young ladies in the miniskirts. He definitely liked what he saw and wanted in on the action. Critter was in his ear about this pimping business, continually telling him how much money there was to be made by selling pussy. Critter even informed Slim about Eric and his underground business with the parties and the strippers, and told him how much his cousin was profiting.

“Yeah, Slim, he be doin' his thang,” Critter would say to Yung Slim when they were alone.

“Cuz done stepped up a bit, huh?” Yung Slim would reply. “That's what's up.”

Yung Slim gazed out the truck, watching a white Lexus pull up to one of the girls. The ho with the long black hair walked up to the car, peered inside, and said a few words to the driver. Moments later she got in and the Lexus pulled off.

“Yeah, we in on this,” Yung Slim said. “I'm gonna bring Barnes and Bishop in.”

Critter turned and looked at Yung Slim with an uncertain stare. “You sure? Those two niggahs are crazy. I ain't tryin' to doubt you or nuthin, Slim, but they make the block hot wit' the murder game.”

“Nah, I'm gonna tell them to be cool wit' the gunplay unless it's necessary. But with their presence on the track, niggahs gonna know I mean business.”

“What about Rome and Reality, they ain't gonna like it too much you moving in on their turf,” Donald mentioned.

“Donald, I ain't worrying about these niggahs. I'm home now, if they wanna bring it, then let ‘em come. But starting tonight, I'm running this track, and if niggahs wanna sell pussy out here, then there's a percentage that's gotta be paid to the family. Y'all niggahs hear me? Any niggah or bitch grinding out here or on South Road, they pay us sixty percent of their profits, and if they don't, then we fuck them up till they understand we mean business. Get the word out.”

“Ayyite,” Critter said.

Yung Slim glared at Donald and Critter, and shouted, “Yo, what y'all niggahs waiting for? I said get the fuckin' word out!”

“Oh, you mean now?” Critter replied, giving Yung Slim a perplexed look.

“You see that bitch across the street—you think she knows about the new rules in effect yet?” he barked.

Knowing what he meant, Critter and Donald stepped out of the truck and made their way across the street to the young streetwalker.
She stood on the corner of Rockaway Boulevard and 137th Avenue in three-inch clear stilettos, a denim miniskirt and a tight T-shirt that accentuated her big tits.

She noticed two men coming her way, and got nervous. Not wanting to take any chances, she made her way down 137th Avenue into the back streets.

“Yo, shorty, c'mere. . . . We just wanna talk to you,” Critter called out, moving faster as he watched her move quickly down the block.

She got extremely nervous and started to run in her stilettos. Critter gave chase; he was faster than Donald, and caught up with her in the middle of the block and threw her against a parked car in the shadows.

“Bitch, why the fuck you makin' me chase you?” he yelled, having a tight grip around her T-shirt.

“Please . . . get off me. . . .” she pleaded with her soft babyish voice.

“Why the fuck you running for? I ain't tryin' to hurt you,” Critter said, pushing her against the car.

Donald came up to them; he wasn't a runner and was glad that he had Critter with him. He looked at the frightened young girl, and asked, “How old are you, ma?”

“Seventeen,” she answered.

“Who you work for?” Critter asked.

“Reality,” she quickly answered.

“How much you made tonight?” Critter asked, searching her for any money stashed away on her. He grabbed her breasts and then moved his hand up her thighs, pushing up her short skirt and felt in between her smooth, soft legs. He even took it a step further and placed his hand on her pussy, feeling that she didn't have on any panties. He got excited, feeling his dick getting hard as he molested her by pushing two fingers inside of her. She began to squirm, feeling the raw entry, and tried to move his hand from within her. But Critter was adamant, and said, “I'm checking to see if you ain't lying to me.”

He searched her, and she came up clean.

“Bitch, where you keep your money?” Donald asked.

“Dynasty holds everything for me,” she said.

“That's that bitch that got in the Lexus?” Critter asked.

She nodded.

“Ayyite, listen up. As of tonight, if you workin' this track, you and your girls choke up sixty percent—you hear?” Critter proclaimed.

“But Reality—”

“Fuck Reality!” Critter shouted. “You on this track selling pussy, you pay my boss sixty percent. Bitch, you fuckin' hear me! If not, then don't ever bring your ass on this track again.”

Critter lifted up his shirt and revealed a .45 tucked in his waistband. She nodded.

“Good. But we gotta come up wit' sumthin. Your girl Dynasty, where does she like to get dropped off at?” Critter asked. “Because we gonna need that loot tonight from y'all.”

At first, she was reluctant to reveal the information, but because of the looks on her two captors' faces she uttered, “Over by the Executive.”

“Good girl,” Critter said, taking control of the situation while Donald mostly stood by and watched.

Ten minutes later, Critter sat in the Escalade with Yung Slim and Donald waiting for Dynasty to be dropped off. All three men observed the white Lexus pull up in front of them at the Executive Motel and watched Dynasty step out, pulling down her skirt. She walked toward the motel entrance and glanced around for a moment. She was beautiful, with fair brown skin, long sensuous black hair, and a body that would make any man's dick get hard just by sight alone.

“I want my money,” Yung Slim said to Critter. “Make these bitches and niggahs out on this track understand we mean business.”

Hearing that, Critter stepped out of the truck and walked up to Dynasty. He stood by her near the entrance, and said, “What up, ma, how you doin' tonight?”

Dynasty gave him an unpleasant look, and said, “If you want a date, it's a hundred and fifty.”

“Nah, I'm not here for that,” he replied.

She sighed, and asked, “Then what are you here for? You a pimp?”

“We need to talk business,” he stated.

“Get the fuck away from me!” she barked.

With that, Critter quickly grabbed Dynasty by her arm and began pulling her toward the Escalade. She began fighting, shouting, “Niggah, is you crazy? Get the fuck off me! Get the fuck off me! I'm gonna get my pimp to fuck your ass up!”

The back door to the Escalade opened and out stepped Donald. He grabbed Dynasty as if she was paper and tossed her into the backseat and quickly shut the door behind him.

“Y'all niggahs know who y'all fuckin' wit'?!” Dynasty screamed. “I'm Rome's bottom bitch, and he gonna get Reality to fuckin' murder y'all niggahs for disrespecting me like this.”

Critter pushed his .45 into her face and told her to shut the fuck up. With that, Dynasty got quiet suddenly.

“Bitch, we know who you work for,” Yung Slim began to say. “That's why you're here.”

“Empty your purse, bitch,” Critter demanded.

Reluctantly Dynasty poured out the contents of her purse on the backseat. Donald quickly picked up the roll of twenties and tens and went through it. “Fifteen hundred,” he said, counting the cash again.

“Look, from now on, you sell pussy on this track, you give up sixty percent to my crew,” Yung Slim instructed.

“I don't work for you,” she scolded.

Slap!
Dynasty caught a hard right-hand slap from Donald in the backseat. Dynasty held the side of her face in shock. “Bitch, now you do,” Critter said.

Donald peeled off nine hundred from Dynasty's wad of bills and tossed her the remaining six hundred. “Here, you lucky you get that much,” Donald said, passing Yung Slim the cash.

“You spread the word to your girls, ayyite, Dynasty? You let them know I'm in town now, and I'm running things on this track. You're a cute girl, so I don't wanna fuck up your face by you being stubborn,” Yung Slim said, gazing at Dynasty with ice-cold eyes. “You take me serious, right, bitch?”

Dynasty nodded.

“I'm nobody to fuckin' play with. And if y'all want a job, come ask for me. I'll hook y'all up. Fuck that niggah Rome and his bitch Reality. If they want a job too, give them this number,” he said, passing her a small piece of paper with two cell phone numbers written on it.

Dynasty took the paper and placed it in her purse. Something about Yung Slim's demeanor made her extremely afraid. She knew that with him around, things were going to pop off really ugly. When she spoke Rome's name, he didn't flinch or cringe like most men would have done. He looked unemotional.

“Ayyite, get the fuck out my truck,” Yung Slim said. “I'm done talkin'. You pass the word around and give your bitch-ass pimp my number and tell him to holla.”

Donald pushed Dynasty out the door, almost causing her face to hit the pavement. She stared at the Escalade as it hastily drove down the North Conduit. She didn't take her eyes off the truck until it disappeared into the night. She then went into her purse, pulled out her cell phone, and dialed Reality's number.

The phone rang twice before Reality picked up.

“Dynasty, you better give me a good reason why you're callin' my phone and not out makin' my money,” Reality chided.

“Reality, we got a problem. I need to talk to Rome,” she said.

“He'sin A.C.”

“Well, you better call him. . . . I just got robbed,” she proclaimed.

Eric sat in the crib,
watching TV and having some solitude. He'd been distanced from everyone the past few days—not so much as a phone call or anything. He'd been hearing about Russell on the streets setting up meetings, paying off certain cops, and now he heard that Russell had moved in on Rome's territory down on Rock-away Boulevard, even demanding 60 percent from the key players on the block. Eric knew that the bottom was going to fall out quickly, and he knew that in a matter of time, all hell might break loose. His cousin had been home a little over a week and was already causing chaos in the hood.