Larceny (8 page)

It was October 1991, and Bilal was due to come home the next month. Jovan couldn't wait, but what he didn't know was that all his plans to welcome Bilal home would soon come to an end.

In early October, there was a coke shortage, and Jovan was still getting bricks, but not as many as before. The prices were sky high, and Jovan's connect had to divide whatever he could get with all his major clientele. The city was at its lowest point; only a few niggas had bricks stashed, and they wasn't servin' nobody who wasn't in their crew.

The only nigga out there who was still on top was Big Head Larry. Jovan didn't know Larry personally, but Bilal and he went to school together, and they were real cool back in the day. At the time, Larry was hangin' out with this New York nigga named Po, and Jovan didn't like Po because he came to his city when they were vulnerable and used it to his advantage. He got up under the most feared nigga in the city at the time, a nigga by the name of Big Silk. He knew he had to get Big Silk on his team, 'cause if he didn't, those niggas out there would have torn his ass to pieces.

In Jovan's eyes, Po was a bitch. He turned friends into enemies, he used real niggas for protection, and he hid behind a mask; but when that mask was pulled off, it was too late. Jovan found out that Po was down with the feds, and this bitch-ass nigga emptied his brain to the government and turned state's evidence on all those who held him in high regard. To Jovan, Po had committed the ultimate sin.

Niggas out there were hungry. Ounces were going for eighteen hundred a pop, and you couldn't find nobody selling anything for less than that. Then came the break Jovan needed—at least that's what he thought. His connect called him and told him he was back in action.

“Okay, slim, I'm on my way up!” Jovan said, excited to hear from him.

“Naw, money, you ain't gotta come up. I'm on my way down there 'cause I got a few more people I gotta see,” Jovan's connect said.

“Shit, cool. C'mon, slim, I need you,” Jovan said, needing to cop bad.

He told Jovan that he only had a few bricks and that he should try to cop as many as he could get. The price Jovan used to pay wasn't happening. It was a little higher, but not as high as niggas were paying out there. He was going to give 'em to Jovan for twenty-six. Out there they were going for thirty or better.

Jovan went to his townhouse in Clinton to count his stash, and all he had was a hundred and eighty thousand. He usually never copped with all his bread, but this time he had to, because he was gonna make a killing during this drought. He had enough to cop seven bricks, and his plan was to break 'em down to ounces and sell 'em for sixteen hundred apiece, two hundred lower than the going price out there.

Four hours later, Jovan's connect called him and said that he was staying at the Ramada Inn in Virginia, across from Pentagon City.

“Okay, slim, I'm on my way,” Jovan said, about to hang up the phone.

“Yo, hurry up, money. They're going like hot cakes. I can't hold 'em for too long.”

“A'ight, slim, I'm on my way,” Jovan said, hanging up the phone.

Jovan packed the hundred and eighty thousand in shoe boxes and placed them in two big-ass Banana Republic bags. He got into his MVP and popped the hydraulic stash, placing the money in there, and then he headed to the hotel where his connect was staying.

When Jovan reached the Ramada Inn, he didn't bother to park his mini van because he was so anxious to be copping that he just pulled in front of the hotel, put his hazards on, and jumped out.

As he was walking into the hotel lobby, his pager was blowing up like shit. Everybody was trying to cop before the first of the month. Jovan was all smiles because this was going to be his big come-up. All he could think about was the money he was 'bout to get and how right his bank was gonna be when Bilal came home.

When Jovan got off the elevator and knocked on his connect's room, he heard two voices. Now, whenever Jovan used to cop from this dude, he was always alone. Although sometimes he would mention his partner, Shorty, he would still do business by himself.

When Jovan heard the two voices, naturally he was on his guard. He put the two bags of money into his left hand and kept his right hand free, close to his side, as close to his Beretta 9 mm as possible. He prayed this nigga wouldn't try to pull no move on him, because he already had a hate for cruddy niggas, and if they even thought about violating him, he guaranteed there would be two niggas in the hotel dead, and he wouldn't be one of 'em. He'd killed before, and would kill again if necessary.

When Jovan's connect opened the door, he had a smile the size of Texas on his face.

“Yo, money, what's up!”

“Ain't shit, slim. Still doin' my thang.”

As Jovan entered the hotel, he got a glimpse of the other dude sitting on the bed counting money.

“Yo, Jovan, this is my partner, Shorty.”

“What up, money? I heard a lot about you,” Shorty said.

“Yeah, and vice versa,” Jovan said.

After the introductions, Jovan and his connect got right down to business.

“Yo, Jovan, what you trying to get? You know I ain't gonna be in town that long.”

“Slim, I'm working with one eighty.”

Jovan connect's eyes got as big as shit when he heard how much Jovan had. Usually Jovan copped only four or five bricks at a time. Jovan guessed the sound of extra money excited him.

“Yo, this is what I'ma do: I got ten bricks left. I'ma give you eight, and you can owe me the difference until the next time you cop.”

Damn, that was a sweet deal. Jovan immediately handed over the money and placed four bricks in each bag. He stood there for a second so that his connect could count the money, but it looked to him as if he was getting ready to pack up.

“You gonna count that?” Jovan asked curiously.

“Naw, money. I've been dealing with you for six months now. You ain't never been short. Your bank has always been right,” Jovan's connect said.

As Jovan left the hotel, he felt like nobody in the city could fuck with him. All he kept thinking about was how much money he was gonna make.

His pager was still blowing up like crazy as he headed back to his townhouse as fast as he could to cook up and move this shit like a fat turkey on Thanksgiving. Jovan then started counting figures in his head. He had eight bricks at sixteen hundred an ounce. That would come out to at least three hundred and eighty thousand. He had his 535 BMW worth forty-two thousand and his MPV van worth twenty-five. All together that was four hundred forty-seven thousand. His jewelry was worth about four hundred eighty thousand, and with the little money he still had out in the streets that niggas owed him, he figured he was worth about a half a million dollars. He'd have more than enough when Bilal came home. He wished that bitch Dee-Dee could see him now, he thought, smiling to himself.

When Jovan got to his townhouse, he pulled his van in the garage, popped the hydraulic stash, retrieved the bricks, and went into the house to start cooking them up; but first he called all his clientele back and told them he'd be ready in a little while. Then he got the ceramic pie plate and baking soda out to cook the coke. He didn't bother to whip it. He wanted this shit to be Grade A butta! He wanted the city to know he had that bomb shit, and plus, he was selling it two hundred dollars cheaper than the going price.

When Jovan busted open the first brick, he could see that it wasn't the good shit he used to get. He didn't see them icy-looking snowflakes, and the smell was dull. When he placed the coke in the pan and waited for it to dissolve, the shit fell straight to the bottom. He stirred and stirred it, but it still never came together. Instantly Jovan started to get mad, and he grabbed the phone. He was about to page his connect but decided not to. He thought maybe it was just one bad batch outta the eight.

So Jovan went back into the kitchen and popped open the next brick. It was the same shit, and after opening all of the remaining bricks and seeing they were all the same shit, he came to realize this mu'fucka had sold him eight bricks of cement. This bitch-ass nigga had violated him, and he already hated cruddy niggas, and now it was his time to express that hatred.

Jovan grabbed his Beretta 9 mm, jumped in his BMW, and headed straight back to the hotel where those bitch-ass niggas were staying. He was going to kill both of them whores right there in the hotel.

He was so mad that he was running red lights, speeding, and not bothering to turn on his blinkers. As Jovan got on the 495 highway, he was still speeding, dodging in and outta traffic, and the only thing that was on his mind was murder in the first degree. To him, it was going to be justified. They had violated him, and they deserved what they were soon to get, just like that fiend in the alley on Orleans Place back in '85.

As Jovan dodged from the left lane into the right and back to the left, he didn't notice the red-and-blue lights flashing until he finally, for the first time since he had gotten behind the wheel, looked into his rear view mirror. Damn, the fucking police! As bad as he wanted to outrun them, he couldn't. Anyway, all he was doing was speeding. Plus, if he gave them a chase, he definitely wouldn't make it back to the hotel in time to kill those bitch-ass niggas, so he went ahead and pulled over, put his pistol under his seat, and grabbed his license and registration from the glove compartment. Jovan planned not to argue with the police. He figured he would just take his ticket and then go kill those bitches before they left town.

When the officer got out of his car, Jovan could see through his side mirror that he was saying something into the radio. After he finished talking into the radio, he unsnapped his holster and put his hand on his gun. When he reached Jovan's window, he asked him to turn the car off. Jovan did as he was told, and when he turned his head back to ask what he was being pulled over for, all he saw was the barrel of the officer's gun.

“Don't move! Put your fuckin' hands up!” the officer said to Jovan.

As Jovan was literally being arrested while still sitting in his car, another cop pulled up and blocked his BMW in.

“Get out of the car slowly,” the officer said.

Both of these crackers had their guns pointed in Jovan's face, and for a second he thought they were gonna shoot him right there on the spot. When Jovan got out of the car, one officer put his hands behind his back and handcuffed him, while the other one searched his car. They found his Beretta, which he didn't have a license to carry, and that gave them more reason to go through his car. They sat Jovan in the back of one of their cars and continued searching his car for drugs or whatever else they could find. Jovan sat there for about an hour watching those crackers rip his BMW apart. They even called in drug-sniffing dogs. When they finally saw that there was nothing else in Jovan's car, they transported him to the D.C. jail.

Since he had been on an interstate highway, they had jurisdiction to charge him in federal court. Here Jovan was in the D.C. federal court. At trial, he was sentenced to five years for carrying an unlicensed firearm, and his man Bilal had just come home two weeks before his sentencing.

 

 

 

Jovan's answers to my questions were interesting, but what I really wanted to know about Jovan was his family.

“Okay now, Mr. Lawyer, tell me about your mother,” I said, because if he had a lot of respect for his mother, then I knew he had respect for women period.

Before Jovan could open his mouth to answer my question, the waitress came over and asked, “Would you two like anything else? Some dessert, a glass of wine or champagne, maybe?”

“No!” I snapped.

The waitress turned and walked away with a serious attitude. Jovan looked at his Movado watch to check the time.

“Hey, Sonya, why were you so mean to the waitress?”

“'Cause she keeps interrupting my interview.”

Jovan smiled and looked at his watch again.

“Do you have something to do?” I asked.

“Naw, sweetheart,” Jovan said.

I wished he would stop calling me that.

“It's only one-thirty. I've got all day. What about you?” he asked.

“I'm cool. I'm chillin', and if I get bored, I'll let you know.” We both laughed, and then I went right back to my question. “So, Jovan, tell me about your mom,” I said again.

“Well, my mother passed away when I was in school,” Jovan said with a sad look coming over his face.

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry,” I said.

“It's okay. Although I don't talk about it much, I do feel comfortable talking about it with you. I was in school taking my paralegal course. When I went to school, my mother was diagnosed with diabetes and she never told me. I don't know why, but I guess she didn't want me to mess up my education worrying about her condition. When she passed, I was at the end of my paralegal course, and I knew she would have wanted me to finish, so even though her death fucked me up, I still finished the course.

“She was a good woman, but I always thought she worked too hard. She was a waitress at the NCO Club on Bolling Air Force Base. She was loyal to my pops even after they divorced. I never saw my moms with another man.”

Damn, Jovan's moms musta been strong or madly in love with his pops
, I said to myself.

“She used to take me places and buy me all the latest gear. Even though we lived in the hood, Moms always had enough to get me the things I wanted. I mean, I wasn't spoiled, but I wasn't neglected either.”