Authors: Erick Gray

Love and a Gangsta (17 page)

BOOK: Love and a Gangsta

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Demetrius was a greedy bastard. Everything was cool as long as he was making plenty of money off you. He hated problems and betrayal. My deal with the Amezcua Cartel would be a problem and a betrayal. I wasn’t in the position to war with the Jamaicans just yet. Demetrius had rained destruction on my former bosses and without the Mexicans support a war would be an uphill battle.

“You want me to set sump’n up?” Greasy asked.

My mind was in a spin. I had to do sump’n. The Jamaicans were a threat, but I needed to be an even bigger threat.

“Go ahead, set it,” I said.

“How you wanna play it?”

“I don’t trust that nigga, Greasy. Set up the meeting somewhere
mutual and in the public, but not too much public. You feel me?”

“I feel you. I’ll get back to you with that,” Greasy said then he hung up.

I turned off my cell phone thinking. It was game time now. I definitely needed Soul, but he was acting funny, still straddling the damn fence. He was a married man now. Prison may have actually changed that nigga. He needed a push, some kind of reason to come back in the game, but I couldn’t think of anything.

“You hungry baby?” Jazmin asked waking up and rubbing her eyes.

“Yeah,” I responded, my mind elsewhere.

She smiled and straddled me, gazing at me with her soft brown eyes.

“What you want for breakfast?”

“I don’t give a fuck… Cook anything.”

“Whatever nigga!” she retorted.

She hastily got her naked ass from off my lap and marched into the bathroom, slamming the door.

Around six that evening, Greasy called back and told me the meeting was set for eight tomorrow evening at Baisley Pond Park. It was close to home, in the public, but not too many people were around where they would be in the biz. It was a perfect spot.

Monday evening we pulled into the small parking lot of Baisley Pond Park. Dusk was settling, and Greasy pulled the truck into one of the many open spots in the parking lot. Biscuit sat in the back holding onto an Uzi, for that just in case reasoning. I had a .357 in a stash box, and Greasy carried a .45 concealed.

“Fo’ real, you should let me air out his greedy ass and see if that nigga bleeds green like his fucked up Jamaican flag,” Biscuit said.

He wanted to shoot everyone, but it couldn’t play out like that.
The game had to be played like chess; every move had to be strategic and careful. Believe me, I really wanted to just kill everyone and take over this muthafuckin’ city.

We sat and waited patiently, watching cars pull in and out. The parking lot was thin with cars. Around fifteen after eight, a black Yukon on polished 22” black rims came cruising into the parking lot. I nudged Greasy, pointing out the truck.

It pulled up about four spaces from us. The windows were tinted and we heard the system bumping reggae. It was Demetrius. I became even more alert—remembering how Tyriq and Tip was caught off guard and gunned down a few years ago. I wasn’t going to be caught napping.

The three of us stepped out of the truck and approached Demetrius. He slowly emerged from the backseat of the Yukon clad in a pair of beige cargo shorts, with a netted green, yellow and red tank top displaying a weed plant across his chest. He stood about six-five with a stout build and his long dreadlocks hung from his head, twisting like thick rope down to his back.

Demetrious and a crew of three, including his right hand man, Jagged approached us. I walked up to Demetrius feeling tension so thick; you could slice it with a butter knife.

“Brethren, why yuh bring da little youth to grown folks business. Him no need to be hurr. Mi will deal with him real soon,” Demetrius said, pointing at Biscuit.

“Fuck you, Ja-fake-can ass. Fo’ real, nigga! You see me smilin’?” Biscuit retorted, getting ready to wild out.

“Little one, you will come upon mi wrath real soon for killing me cousin Flop. Mi gwine teach ya a lesson,” Demetrious continued in his thick Jamaican accent.

Demetrious and Biscuit exchanged hard stares and I knew Biscuit was itching to take a go at him, but I had to restrain my dog.

Biscuit reached for his gun. Jagged and his men started to pull out. But I intervened and got Biscuit to be calm. The Jamaicans knew Biscuit was responsible for killing Flop.

“Omega, keep dat bitch on a blood- claat leash where it belongs, cuz him gwine see me vex real soon,” Demetrius warned.

“Let’s talk,” I said to Demetrius.

“Mi listening,” Demetrius responded.

We took a short walk. Before leaving, I looked at Biscuit and gave him a warning to chill. I knew Greasy had him under control. Demetrius and myself began walking down the cemented path that ran parallel to the lake.

The park was tranquil. The meadow covered with ducks. A soft breeze shook the leaves. This pleasant surrounding should put a nigga at ease, but dealing with the Jamaicans had a nigga on edge.

“Why ya fuck wit’ me, brethren? I’m da one that started yuh, and now yuh wan betray mi and leave da nest to get in bed wit’ dem raas-claat Mexicans. Mi run dis city. Yuh hear and yuh disrespect mi? Mi get rid of dem Columbians and yuh see what we did to yuh other boss, Tyiq. Brethren, I think da man smarta than that.”

“Your city?” I chuckled. “First of all, nobody owns me. Ya heard me? You owe me. I’m the one who helped build your shit, selling, and spilling blood. Now it’s my turn. I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ you anymore Demetrius!” I barked.

“Watch yuh bombo-claat mouth ‘round mi. Mi will chop yuh down. Yuh think da Mexicans will back yuh when I rain down war on yuh whole blood-claat crew. Mi cut yuh a good deal and now yuh stand here before mi and spit in Shotta’s face?”

“You finish? Business is business,” I said.

“Mega, yuh in over yuh head. This a man’s game.”

“It’s a new day. I’m stepping up, and I no longer need your services. Ya heard me, dreadlocks?”

“Brethren you realize there’s no turning back.”

“Do what you gotta do, muthafucka.”

Demetrius shot me an evil smirk that would put fear in the average man, but I wasn’t average.

“Mi will find yuh and gut yuh like da blood-claat pig.”

“You and your cousin better watch your back. This my town, nigga. I’m running shit now! I ain’t fuckin’ Tyriq or Vincent, ya heard?”

“Yuh made yuh own blood-claat bed, now yuh gwine bleed in it. Tell Biscuit mi gwine finish what he started wit’ mi cousin. Mi nah feget this,
Mega.”

“Yeah, whatever nigga. Fuck doing business wit’ you too!”

I started to step away from him, never taking my eyes off of him. His eyes stayed fixed on me with a cold chilling stare. A war was brewing. It was only a matter of time before Queens became Iraq. I motioned to Greasy and Biscuit. It was time for us to go.

“Batty-boyz unu better behave,” Jagged said in his thick Jamaican accent. “I don’t wanna have to take off my belt and spank yuh lickle asses…”

Before I jumped into the truck, I looked fiercely at Jagged and held his stare for a beat without responding. I got in and Greasy drove out the parking lot.

“Why we leave ‘em breathing?” he questioned.

“Chill, Biscuit,” I urged.

“Even Stevie Wonder could see that Demetrius wasn’t too happy,” Greasy laughed.

“Fuck that nigga. He want war, I’ll give him fuckin’ war,” I said.

“What about the Mexicans, they gonna have our back on this?” Greasy asked. “We gonna need extra guns.”

I had to come hard to show that I’m somebody you didn’t want to fuck around with. I was in this game to win it all. I had to go hard or I was gonna die trying.

Absence is to love what wind is to fire
it extinguishes the small, it kindles the great…

America

I kept my pregnancy quiet. My music career had suddenly zoomed off. There was a buzz on the streets about my CD that Kendal dropped. I was also booming, doing hooks, verses, and ad-libs for rappers, mostly underground.

My sudden exposure came with an emotional price tag. Everyday after work, I was in the studio, and on weekends. I was seeing less and less of my husband because my career was growing. I spent more time writing and had so much to say and felt that there was so little time to say it.

I was now two months pregnant and knew I couldn’t hide my pregnancy from Kendal and friends for too much longer. I was worried that my pregnancy would intimidate my rising fans and sudden admirers. I loved being pregnant, but felt that now it came at a bad time.

Kendal kept me running everywhere. I was doing shows with him and his crew, recording in different studios. Everywhere throughout the city, listeners were in awe and my beauty and charisma had them digging my style.

Independent record companies had their eyes and ears on me, looking to sign me. Kendal happily informed me that an A&R from Def Jam wanted to meet. It was happening so fast, my talent was causing a buzz. People started thinking that America was my stage name.

Omar appeared happy for my success, but being on the go constantly started to wear on him. He worried about my health and the baby’s. Omar often warned me about going so hard. We’d argue and he’d be so angry that he’d shout then leave for hours. I was spending more time with Kendal and Omar was becoming jealous.

My dreams of breaking into the music business were coming through. I just couldn’t walk away. Omar had a job at the community center. So it seemed he was finally getting his life right and leaving the streets alone. We were becoming a family, and I prayed every night for us to stay together.

Friday evening, I was hanging with Joanna. We planned on shopping in the city along Fifth Avenue followed by a late lunch. Joanna did most of the shopping. She spent over two grand in four different stores. Later, we dined at Magic’s Chef.

“So bitch, when are you due?” Joanna asked.

“Excuse me,” I replied incredulously, choking on my sandwich.

“America, how long have we been friends, and you think I don’t notice. Why are you trying to hide it?”

I smiled.

“Are you smiling? So how far along are you?”

“Two months,” I answered meekly.

“Two fucking months? We ain’t friends anymore,” Joanna barked. But I knew she was kidding.

“So bitch, you just got married and right away, a baby? I’m hearing you’re starting to do big things with your music. So I assumed this meal is on you since you couldn’t tell me the good news.”

I chuckled. “I wanted to keep my pregnancy a secret for the moment.”

“Why?” she questioned.

“Because my career is starting to pop off. Who’s gonna want to sign a pregnant singer. You know how it is in this business? Sometimes as long as guys think they could hit it, they ready to open all kinds of doors. Once they see that I’m about to have a baby, they gonna try to find the next—”

“America, bitch please. That’s nonsense. You got talent, girl. True fucking talent, and if niggas tryin’ to put you on because they only want to fuck you, then leave them alone,” she said cutting me off.

Diners at the neighboring table turned to look at us, shocked to hear Joanna, who appeared to look like a rich white girl used the N-word to me.

“What, y’all muthafuckas shocked because I said nigga; well I was born in the hood and got Spanish blood running all through me, so get the fuck over it and mind y’all fucking business. I swear America, muthafuckas are nosey up in this piece,” she spat.

I laughed, seeing these people blush with embarrassment.

“But anyway, like I was saying bitch, keep doing you and remember when you walk up on that stage to collect your Grammy. Bitch you better have me standing right next to your ass and thanking me first,” she laughed.

“Girl, you know it.” I slapped her five.

We continued to dine and I paid the bill. Joanna only had plastic on
her, so I paid cash and gave the waiter a ten-dollar tip.