Street Pharm (2 page)

Rob Monfrey had a mouth full of metal and bad personal hygiene. His hair was so nappy, I didn’t even wanna think about what was lost in there. But he was a good employee because he stuck his snotty nose in everybody’s business. He knew who was doing what, where, when, and who their mother was screwing. No one kept their mouth shut around him because no one took him serious.

Big mistake.

Monfrey hustled rock
and
information. He was more important to my business than Clarissa could ever be.

For helping me out, I kept his cash flow going and his weed habit satisfied. He’d cut off his right arm before he’d lose this sweet deal.

“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you here, Ty,” Monfrey said while he was trying to cover me. “Thought you was kicked out.”

Another thing about Monfrey: He spent most of his days hanging around the guidance offices, keeping his ears open.

“I
was.
”

“What you do this time?”

“Nothing. Edelstone thought that was a problem.” I caught a pass, dribbled twice, and sank a jump shot.

“Nice shot!” one of the guys said.

“Wow!” Monfrey clapped his hands, looking like a jackass.

After the game, Monfrey and me talked business, then I headed for the bus stop.

I had enough money to buy me a shiny, fast ride, but I took the bus. Why?

Because I was smart. Because buying those things would give the cops an invitation to go digging. They knew I was Orlando’s son, and they’d be fools not to suspect I was dealing. The second
I slipped up, the second I got cocky, they’d be right there waiting. My dad’s biggest weakness was the way he flashed his money. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake. Eventually I’d open a legit business that would give me a cover for all my green.

In the meantime, I practiced one of man’s most important skills.

Patience.

I
didn’t own no gun.

Having a gun wasn’t gonna change my chances of getting shot. You don’t hear about people saving themselves from drive-bys by shooting back. If you shoot back and you lucky enough to survive the drive-by, you still got the cops charging your ass.

Worse, you killed a bystander.

The best way not to get hit was to have homies. I got Blood homies and Crip homies, brothers who respected my business and knew I didn’t take sides. Brothers who heard of my father
when they were little. Brothers who knew the Johnsons were an institution.

That ain’t to say they hadn’t tested me. But I never faced a test that me and my two fists couldn’t handle.

I
came home around midnight to something I hated.

A surprise.

I found her sitting in the kitchen, drumming her fake nails on the table. She was still in her work uniform and had a glass of soda in front of her.

I recognized the look on her face.

The look of mean.

“Where the hell were you today?”

“School. Then work.”

“Ha!”
She slammed her fist on the table. “I ain’t buying this shit from you! I know you wasn’t at school today. Maybe I should
call that manager of yours to see if you was really at work, too! How am I to know you ain’t running the streets like your good-for-nothing daddy?”

“Mom, you tripping.”

“
Sit
down, Ty. Don’t stand over me like you the big man. Sit down.”

I got comfortable, knowing this would take a while.

“Your guidance counselor called today. He said you been kicked out of Sheepshead and you were supposed to start this morning at one of those”—she twisted her lips—“
alternative
schools. Not only did you not tell me any of this, you didn’t even show up! They say you tried to convince the secretary that you was an older brother and there was no transfer!”

I stared at the floor. With Mom, I had to play it cool. “I messed up. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry don’t pay the rent, damn it!” She leaned so far over the table that our foreheads almost touched. “You gonna finish high school whether you like it or not. After that, do whatever the hell you want. Don’t forget, you under my authority till you turn eighteen.”

That was less than seven months away. Fact was, I hadn’t been under her authority since I was a kid. Sure, she asked questions like any other mom. But I was such a good liar that she usually believed my answers.

“They expecting you Monday at nine. Be there, or you can pack your bags.”

“I will, Mom.” I meant it. Living at home was a damn good cover for my business. And who knows? This new school could be a chance to get new customers.

Mom stared at me, hard. “You walk that line, baby boy. I know you don’t like school, but you promised me you’d stick it out. I don’t wanna be doubting my own son. But Ty, if I find out you be dealing or gangbanging . . . ”

“Chill, Mom, chill. You know it ain’t like that. Monday, call the school to see if I showed up.” I put my hand over hers and gave her my best smile. “Pack me peanut butter and jelly, yo?”

She gave a sad smile. “All right.”

N
ext day. Sonny’s fly ride—a 1980 Cadillac with pimped-out rims—swung into the parking lot, where I waited for him. Sonny never came within a mile of my crib. If Mom ever saw us together, she’d know what’s up. She knew Sonny from his days as my dad’s right-hand man.

I could tell by the loose turn that he was on his damn phone. He braked just inches from my shoes. The tinted window came down. “What’s cracking?” He grinned, gold teeth flashing. “Gimme a sec. Old lady’s got PMS.” Into the phone he said, “Nah, baby, I didn’t mean it like that. I ain’t making no fun. . . . ”

I got in, slapping him five. I leaned back against the leather
seat as Sonny drove out of the parking lot and headed for the city.

Sonny Blake was twenty-eight years old. When my dad got locked up, he gave control to Sonny until I was ready to take charge. That time came sooner than they expected. By the time I was sixteen, I was a pro.

Sonny saw himself as a bad boy. He had the clothes, the ride, the bling. Problem was, he was all mush when it came to the women in his life—he totally spoiled his mama and sister, and he was crazy devoted to his girlfriend, Desarae.

Sonny didn’t get off the phone until we walked into the restaurant. La Tranquilla was one of the swankiest Italian places in Lower Manhattan. Two homies strolling in always made jaws drop. That’s why Sonny loved going there in the first place. He got off on being noticed.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” The hostess, a slim white girl with shiny black hair, led us to a choice table.

“Excellent table, Jeanine.” Sonny winked at her as he sat down.

“I’m pleased you like it, Mr. Blake.” She smiled and walked away.

Sonny glanced around. “I know what they thinking.”

“The only brothers who can afford to eat here must be hustlers.”

He laughed. Loud. “They be fucking right!”

I scanned the menu for something with chicken and then
snapped it shut. Sonny spent a good five minutes looking, but in the end he went for filet mignon, as usual.

After we gave our order, I said, “Let’s talk Schultz. We both know it ain’t Michael Brown they want, it’s the guys at the top.”

“The guys at the top are in fucking Colombia! But I know what you saying. Met Schultz at Woody’s Pub. He put the word out that he wanted to cop some rocks, so I went up to him. He didn’t know who I was.”

“Good.” I took a sip of water. “Why’d you tell me you got his name from another customer?”

“I never said that. . . . You assumed it.” He hiked his chin. “Know what happens when you assume?”

You make an ass outta you and me. Fucking comedian, Sonny.

“Why’d you let me assume it, then?”

“I thought he was legit.”

My hand tightened around my glass. “Yeah, well, I’m glad you didn’t convince me.”

Sonny nodded. “Me too.”

“You watch your back, Sonny. Schultz knows your face now. Po-po’s looking for you.”

“The fuck I care. I bet he wouldn’t even be able to pick me out of a lineup. To white guys, all black guys look the same. I ain’t scared.”

“I ain’t saying be scared. Just be careful. They wanna know who Michael Brown’s really working for.”

Sonny grunted. “They gonna grill that boy bad. Don’t matter. Michael know it don’t pay to be a snitch.”

“Fo sho.”

The waiter returned with a basket of bread. Glad to forget about Michael Brown, we dug in.

E
nemies are a gift, not a curse. Enemies force a brother to be on top of his game.

Back in junior high, I swiped a copy of
The Art of War
from the public library. My Tae Kwon Do instructor used to quote it all the time. It was written hundreds of years ago by some Chinese guy named Sun Tzu, but I felt like it was written just for me.

I used some of what I learned in that book to make up my own personal code.

1. Know your enemies. Understand them. Figure out their next move before they do.

2. Never show weakness.

3. Rely on number one, no one else.

4. Control your physical instincts. Don’t let anybody pressure you into sex or into a fight unless you’re in control of the situation.

I lived by those rules every day of my life.

*  *  *

Sunday I met an enemy I didn’t know I had.

Like most other Sundays, I went to the mall, my homeboy Cheddar by my side. He was one of my oldest friends. We been hanging since he moved to Brooklyn from Atlanta in the fourth grade.

Cheddar—I gave him that nickname because he used to get off on cutting the cheese in class—was the anchor of the Sheepshead Bay High School track team. His life was all about sports, and I gave him props for that.

It was good to have homies outside the business. I wanted to keep it that way. So when Cheddar asked questions about my dealing, I didn’t say much. Eventually he stopped asking.

The mall was crowded with shoppers. Cheddar and me smiled at the girls. We gave real big smiles to the girls carrying those sassy pink and white Victoria’s Secret bags. We knew
exactly
what they were trying to say.

I bought Sean John gear and a pair of kicks. Total price tag: $634.

On our way out of a sports store, a girl stepped in my way.

“
Ty Johnson.
You ain’t easy to track down.”

“Do I know you?” I didn’t recognize her, and she had a face you wouldn’t forget. She had a too-wide nose, too-thick eyebrows and a tight little mouth. Maybe it was the expression on her face that made her so ugly.

“You don’t know who I am, Ty Johnson. But I know
you.
I know all about
you
!”

This was gonna be bad. Time to bounce. I turned to walk away. Then I felt my jersey yanked so hard, it cut into my Adam’s apple.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me. You wanna know who I am? I’m Shanequa Brown. Michael’s sister.”

“Shanequa who?”

“You got a helluva lot of nerve playing dumb to my face. My brother went down for you,
bitch.
”

If she was a guy, she’d be tasting my fist. But she knew I wasn’t gonna hit no girl, especially with a whole lot of people watching.

“I think you got it wrong, honey.”

I knew the slap was coming, but I didn’t try to block it. “You think you
all dat
, but you just a fool.
I
ain’t afraid of you, Ty Johnson.
And I’ll enjoy watching you go down.” She spit on my shoe and walked away.

Everyone stared at me. I could feel their eyes burning all over my body like cigarettes. Fuck them. Fuck
her.

Cheddar said, “Yo, let’s go grab some eats.”

E
ven when I was a kid, Dad didn’t hide the ugly side of the business from me.

Once, when I was nine, I went with him to a run-down apartment building in East Flatbush. It was a cold night in January, and I tried to keep my Jordans out of the slush as I got out of the car and followed him up the sidewalk.

“This gonna take long?” I asked in the elevator. “I’m hungry.”

“This’ll be quick.”

We got off on the third floor, turning down a gloomy hallway. “Remember, watch where you step in there,” Dad said. “There could be needles or cat crap on the floor.” He knocked on the door.

It swung open. A stick-thin white lady with messy brown hair leaned against the door jamb. “It’s about time, Orlando. Get in here.”

I looked around. The place was disgusting. Pizza boxes and take-out food wrappers were scattered over the floor. The litter box, right beside the door, overflowed with cat shit. Two cats, so skinny it looked like they hadn’t eaten in weeks, eyed me like I was dinner.

The woman pulled a wad of cash from her pocketbook and stuffed it into my dad’s hand. He uncrumpled the bills and counted them. “Hundred short, honey.”

She ran a bony hand through her hair. “Don’t have it. I barely got customers anymore. It’s too damn cold. No one’s out.”

Dad made a
tsk-tsk
sound. “Ain’t my problem.”

Movement caught my eye. A little kid waddled out of the bedroom. I watched as the kid climbed onto the torn-up sofa.

“Dad.” I tapped his shoulder and pointed to the kid.

He shrugged off my hand.

“But, Dad—”

“Quiet.”
He handed the lady her rock. “If you don’t have the difference for me next week, I’m cutting you off. Got me?”

She nodded.

We walked out.

I kept quiet all the way back to the car.

Dad started the engine and turned to me. “You done?”

“What?”

“Sucking your teeth.”

“But didn’t you see she had a kid in there? It’s just, she a ho, ain’t she?”

“None of that be our business.” He pulled onto the road. “Tell me, what do you think would happen if I stopped supplying her? You think she’d go to rehab?”

“I guess she’d get it from somebody else.”

“Right, she’d find any old hustla and throw cash at him. You know what would happen then? He’d see her for the cheap crack whore she is, and give her his worst cut. She’d O.D., and the neighbors would find her cat-eaten body after a week, when the smell got so bad, they couldn’t take it no more.”