Street Fame (3 page)

It was three in the morning when Jennifer got dressed. She unfolded all of her money. The total was $517. Not bad for a Tuesday night. Tuesdays were usually slow and she averaged somewhere between two and three hundred dollars, so she was not complaining about tonight. There was nobody else in the locker room, and she knew she had to hurry if she wanted the bouncers to escort her to her car.

Five minutes later, Bobo the bouncer knocked on the door. “Come on, Jennifer, I gotta go home to wifey. Hurry up.”
“Bobo, hold on a second, sweetie. I just got to brush my hair.”
“Come on, Jennifer. It’s three in the morning. Nobody gives a fuck about your hair.”
“Bobo, I’m going to take care of you,” Jennifer said. She would give Bobo a twenty for being patient with her.
He was used to her being the last one, and he would wait on her because he knew she would tip him generously, something the other strippers didn’t do.
Finally Bobo opened the door and said, “Jennifer, I’m gone. I have to take my little girl to school in three hours. I need to get at least two hours of sleep.”
Jennifer stuffed all of her costumes into a designer overnight bag and followed Bobo out.
She fired up the black CLK, pulled out of the parking lot, then hit the interstate. She was bobbing her head to Lil John and the Eastside Boyz when she noticed a state trooper behind her. She switched lanes.
The trooper followed suit. She reduced her speed from sixty-five mph to fifty-five mph.
Moments later the trooper flashed his blue lights.
She pulled to the side of the road.
The tall, slender state trooper asked for her license and Registration.
Jennifer fumbled a bit in her glove compartment then asked, “Sir ,what did you pull me over for?”
“You were speeding more than ten miles over the speed limit, and you swerved.”
“Okay.” Jennifer smiled. “Can’t you just give me a warning?”
He covered his nose. “What in the world have you been drinking?”
“I had a couple of drinks, but I’m not drunk.”
“Where is your license and registration?”
“I can’t find the registration.”
“Out of the car, ma’am.”
Jennifer grabbed her sweater from the backseat then got out of the car.
“Okay, ma’am, walk this straight line,” the trooper said, pointing to the line on the shoulder of the highway.
Jennifer attempted to walk the line but stumbled slightly.
“Ma’am, I want you to take a breathalyzer.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“Are you refusing?” the trooper asked. He looked directly into Jennifer’s eyes.
“I ain’t drunk.”
A black Chevrolet SUV drove up. Agents Clarkson and Pratt jumped out of the vehicle. “Jennifer! How ya doing?”
“Heckle and Jeckle … I know you two had something to do with this shit.”
“And you are so fuckin funny. You must be Ellen DeGeneres,” Ken said.
“No, just trying to keep from cursing somebody’s ass out.”
“Trooper, did you search her car?” Mark asked.
“No, not yet.”
“I’m not consenting to a search or a breathalyzer.”
“You see, Jennifer, you really don’t have a choice in the matter now.”
“You motherfuckers! You had the trooper pull me over.”
“Prove it.”
“Trooper, can I borrow your flashlight for a minute?” Ken asked.
The trooper handed him the flashlight.
Ken opened all of the doors of Jennifer’s Benz. He searched the back seats and then the front seat. He pulled a half-smoked blunt from the ashtray, showed it to Jennifer, and smiled.
“That’s only a hundred dollar fine,” she said.
“Oh, yeah. I know you got plenty of money; you’re a showgirl.” He laughed.
“That’s right, cornball. I’m a showgirl, just like your mama was.”
He grabbed Jennifer’s purse from the front seat of the car. Two yellow pills with an X on each of them fell out of the purse.
“Jennifer, what are these?”
“Those are for my sinuses.”
Ken showed them to Mark. “Looks like X to me.”
“I don’t give a damn what they look like. They are for my sinuses.”
“We’ll have them tested, and if this is ecstasy … I will make sure you get indicted. You know what you can get for possession of X?” Ken asked.
“Five years per pill,” Mark lied.
Jennifer covered her face and began to cry.
Mark put his arms around her shoulder. “Jennifer, do you want to help us now? I want to help you. I don’t want to send you to jail. You don’t deserve that.”
Jennifer looked up at Mark. “What do you want me to do?” “We just want you to tell us the truth.”
“What do you want to know?”
Mark pulled a card from his wallet then handed it to Jennifer. “Come to my office tomorrow and we will forget all about the ecstasy. If you don’t, I will have to charge you.”
“What is the best time?”
“Two p.m.”
Jennifer wiped her eyes with her hands. “Thank you for not taking me to jail.”
The trooper wrote her a warning ticket. He ordered her to leave the car because he would take her home.

F
atboy had just dropped two kilos off at Twin’s house. J-Black tailed him in a white work van; two to three car lengths behind him.
Fatboy stopped at a gas station, and J-Black parked at the Waffle House across the street. Ten minutes later, Fatboy stopped and got a pedicure.
J-Black waited in another parking lot, reading the sports section of the
USA Today
. “Bitch-ass nigga.”
Finally, after Fatboy had run all his errands, he drove home.
“Damn, this muthafucka got it going the fuck on,” J-Black said to himself. He got out of the work van, which had
Lakewood Home Improvement
on the side panels. He walked to the house and rang the bell.
Fatboy came to the door drinking bottled water.
“Damn, you live here, bro?” He stood in wrinkled overalls.
“Yeah.”
J-Black smiled. “I love to see us brothers doing good.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean? But what can I do for you?”
“Actually, I have my own home improvement service, and I was just wondering is there anything that you would like to improve on your home, though I couldn’t imagine what. Man, this thing is amazing. How many square feet do you have here?”
“Forty-five hundred.”
“Man, my whole family could live in here.”
“So what’s your name?”
“Kenny. Kenny White.”
“Kenny, I’m Tommy. So what kind of home improvement do you do?”
“Floors … you know … painting, cabinets … you name it. I can do just about anything.”
“You do hardwood flooring?”
“I’m the best.” J-Black smiled. He’d never even polished a floor.
“Okay, I was thinking of putting some hardwood floors down. How much do you charge?”
“First I would have to measure your floors.”
“Cool.”
“A’ight. I’ll go get the tape measure from the van. I’ll be right back.”
In the back of the van, he retrieved a sawed-off pump shotgun and eased it down the leg of his pants, concealing it.
Fatboy’s door was still open. J-Black walked in and found him with his back turned, feeding fish in a huge in-wall aquarium. J-Black pulled the pump out and put it against Fatboy’s back. “Nigga, I will blow a hole in your back. Where is the goddamn money?”
Fatboy raised his arms.
“Put your arms down. I ain’t tell you to do shit.”
“What did I do to you, man?”
“Don’t say shit. Just sit on that chair over there by the fireplace.”
Fatboy complied.
“You see, nigga, you ain’t gotta do nothing wrong. It’s just the fact that niggas is hungry out here. You got it and I want it.”
“What do you want? Some money?”
J-Black stared at Fatboy. He could see the tears welling up in the man’s eyes. He’d seen that look so many times. He loved to see people in fear. “Damn right I want money. I want money, and I want dope. Where is the dope?”
“What are you talking about? I don’t sell dope.”
“You think I’m stupid? I know you ain’t got this mini mansion legitimately. Where is the muthafuckin dope?”
“I ain’t got no dope.”
J-Black walked over to the trembling man then placed the gun up to his temple. “You ain’t got no fuckin head if you keep lying. Now do you want to tell me where the fuckin dope is, or do you want me to scatter your brains out over this room?”
“In the kitchen ... The dope is in the kitchen.”
“Take me to the kitchen.”
In the kitchen, Fatboy reached underneath the sink and pulled out six kilos of coke and gave it to J-Black.
“Now this is more like it. Where is the money?”
“Upstairs.”
“Lead the way.”
Upstairs, Fatboy opened a small
Sentry
safe, located in the closet of his master bedroom, and dumped the money on the bed. “Twenty thousand dollars.”
“Nigga, is this all your bitch ass got?”
“Y-yeah, man, this is all I have.”
“I see your life don’t mean shit to you.” J-Black squinted his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“I’mma kill your bitch ass unless you come up with some more dough.”
“Listen, man, I got jewels and watches and shit.”
“I want that and I want at least twenty thousand more dollars, or I’ll blow your fuckin brains out.”
Fatboy pulled opened a dresser and removed a jewelry box. “Here is a watch that’s worth forty thousand dollars. It’s my girl’s.”
J-Black snatched the watch then slapped him across the forehead with the butt of the gun. “Now lay the fuck down and close your eyes. If you open your eyes, I’m blasting on your punk ass. You understand me?”
“Yeah.”

When J-Black pulled into a
Taco Bell
parking lot, Twin was sitting behind the wheel of a blue Benz. J-Black grabbed the bricks from underneath the seat then jumped in the car with Twin.

“So what you looking like?” Twin asked.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? The nigga only had six bricks. You was talking like he was Noriega or somebody. I’ve had bigger licks than this.”
“So where is my three?”
J-Black squinted his eyes. “Nigga, it ain’t even going down like that. I’m giving you one brick. That’s all you getting.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“I don’t give a fuck about no deal. Do you know the nigga saw my face? I’m the one at risk, so I don’t give a fuck about no deal, you understand?”
“Black … that shit ain’t right, man.”
“Life ain’t right; you either take it or leave it.”
“Give it here. I’ll just know the next time that you ain’t gonna play fair.”
J-Black handed him the brick. “You just better hope I don’t ever get the notion to rob your bitch ass,” he said, then hopped out of the Benz, got into his work van, and drove off.

Twin’s phone rang and he picked it up on the first ring. The caller ID displayed
Tommy Dupree
. “Yeah what’s up, Fatboy?”
“I’ve been robbed, man.”
“You bullshittin,” Twin said.
“No, I’m not man. I’m serious. Some nigga came over here dressed like a home improvement guy and robbed me at gunpoint, and JoJo is over here now.”
“So what did he take from you?”
“He took product ... He took product and jewels and money.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, man. I remember the nigga’s face. I’m gonna send a team after him.”
Twin began feeling uneasy. “Hey, listen, I have to go. I have to go see Jennifer’s family about something.”

“Twin is acting all nonchalant, like he don’t give a fuck that I’ve been robbed.”
“He probably don’t give a fuck, as long as it wasn’t him,” JoJo said.
“If it had been him who got robbed, I would be at his house trying to find the muthafucka who did it.”
JoJo walked to the kitchen, grabbed a cranberry juice, then said, “See, that’s what your problem is. You always think he gives a fuck about you. Listen, man, just ‘cause you would do something for somebody don’t mean they would do the same for you, you know? Twin has been a grimy-ass nigga since we were kids.”
Nia entered the kitchen. “JoJo, I’ve been telling his ass this since day one, but he seems to think that people care about him. Twin ain’t your friend.”
“He damn sure ain’t.”
Fatboy made eye contact with Nia. “Would you let me and JoJo have some privacy, and stay in a woman’s place.”
Nia folded her arms. “That’s why you got robbed, nigga.”
“Fuck you! Get out of here.”
Nia burst through the double doors that led to the living room.
“Back to what I was saying. Twin grew up with us, but he ain’t your friend.”
Fatboy glanced at JoJo. “I just get a funny feeling about this whole incident.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know … Maybe like somebody told this guy who I was and where to find me.”
“You think it was Twin?”
“Naw, I don’t think Twin would do something like that. I really don’t.”

Jennifer was a little uneasy about going to the DEA’s office to meet with Agent Pratt, but she didn’t want to be charged with possession of ecstasy. She’d remembered one of her customers, Gino the Italian, who was busted for X and got twenty-five years with the state. Gino was a tough mobster type who could do time with no problem, but she wasn’t even trying to be tough. Hell, she was a girl.

Agent Pratt stood and greeted her when she entered his small office. “Good to see you, Jennifer.”
She smiled but didn’t say anything.
“So how was your day?”
“It’s just beginning.”
“Please have a seat.” Mark pulled a chair out for her.
Jennifer sat down and crossed her legs. “Do you have any water or something to drink?”
“Will bottled water work?”
“That will be fine. I’m just a little thirsty, that’s all.”
Mark left and Jennifer examined many pictures of him throughout the office. Most were pictures of him and an older man. Jennifer assumed that the man was Mark’s father. There were pictures of Mark at his college graduation and pictures of him playing little league baseball. It was obvious to Jennifer that Agent Pratt had come from a stable family, unlike many African-Americans she’d come in contact with.
Mark returned with the water, and Agent Ken Clarkson joined them. “Hello, Jennifer.”
“Him again.” He wondered what led her to be with a drug dealer.
“Jennifer … I’m your friend.” Ken smiled then grabbed a yellow legal pad from Mark’s file cabinet.
“Yeah, whatever.”
Ken pulled up a chair and sat beside her, legal pad resting on his lap. “Okay, Jennifer, let’s start with Twin.”
Jennifer took a deep breath.
“Jennifer, you don’t want to talk about Twin?”
“Well, Twin is my man.”
“You wanna get tried for that ecstasy? I’m telling you, the judges ain’t nice to cute little blonde white girls anymore, especially when it comes to ecstasy. Trust me, Jennifer, we can send you away for at least ten years.”
“Let me start with Tommy—he’s the Big Man.”
“Who the hell is he?”
“I think his name is Tommy Dupree. They call him Fatboy.”
Mark’s eyes lit up. “I’ve been investigating him for about two years.”
“Yeah, he’s the man,” Jennifer said. “He has the big house on the lake, Porsches, Benzes and shit...”
“So you work for Tommy?” Ken asked.
“No, I work for Twin.”
“Twin works for Tommy?”
“Not exactly. I mean, Tommy has the most money and the connection. Twin doesn’t work for him.”
“So it’s Twin, Tommy, and…who else in this little crew?”
“JoJo … Joe Ingram.”
Ken scribbled on the legal pad.
Mark stood and paced. “Do you think you could help us get some audio on Tommy or Twin? I’ve been trying to get him ever since we closed the book on Jamal Stewart.”
“Hell no. I’m not wearing a wire. Are you fuckin crazy? If Twin discovers me doing some shit like that he will kill me.”
“We will be near to make sure everything goes okay.”
“I’m not wearing a wire. That is final.”
“So you’d rather go to prison.”
“Yes, of course I would rather go to prison than get killed.” Jennifer stood. “I don’t know why I came in here in the first place. I should have gotten myself an attorney.”
“Jennifer, sit down. You don’t need an attorney, and you don’t have to wear a wire,” Ken said.
“What we need are the phone numbers of these people,” Mark added.
“Twin’s number is 555-0563.”
“Who is the service provider?”
“Nextel.”
“Twin’s real name is…?” Ken asked.
Jennifer hesitated. She thought about how good Twin had been to her. She thought about the diamonds, the furs, and the luxury cars that he’d bought her over the years. But then she thought about the ten years she would get for the ecstasy. “Brandon. Brandon Agurs.”