URBAN: Chosen By A Kingpin (56 page)

“You know if you keep up the good work, this could be you.” Marco said placing his arm around King. Normally King would have been irked by that gesture, but he knew Marco was all man. Still, something felt funny about his extreme fondness. For the longest Bokine was his guy, his number one. King couldn’t see Bokine giving up his spot for a newbie. His intuition was on high alert.

“I see a big future for you and it all begins tonight.” Marco said reaching into his drawer pulling out a box of cigars. He offered one to King then lit up. “Have a seat.”

King sat in the huge lazy boy across from Marco. He hadn’t himself lit up, because he was not really a fan of cigars, but he did unwrap it and place it in his mouth, just like all the homeboys did when they posturing up. Sure, he was thinking, this could be me. Who wouldn’t want this type of lifestyle for the rest of his life, but King also understood that drug dealing for life would encounter some risks and plenty of setbacks. It was a cutthroat world in which he only wanted a moment in.

Marco leaned over his desk, handing King a slip of paper. He rubbed his beard and then his ear. Something King had seen him do time after time, especially when making a big decision.

“I need you to do a pick up for me and before you say anything I know you don’t usually do this type of shit…but this one is special and it requires someone I can trust. What you have right there is the address and time. I’m sending Bokine with you just for protection, but he won’t be going in with the suitcase, only you. You feel me?”

King nodded, thinking this would be his big chance…his first job as First Lieutenant or it could possibly be his last chance.

***

Bokine was in the driver’s seat while King rode shotgun. It was well after midnight, so the streets were nearly empty of drivers. Bokine was a seasoned killer and Marco’s go to whenever he needed a dirty job done that would require muscle. He was easily over 6 foot 5, slim and swift. King had witnessed him hurdling over 5 foot fences in one leap. Bokine wasn’t much of a talker so, as he would expect there was no conversation being had on this ride.

The warehouse sat on the outskirts of town where warehouse after warehouse sat. There was Chicos, Black Market/White Market and some other unknown retail outlets. Bokine pulled up behind Black Market/White Market and awaited the signal for us to proceed further. King gripped the case like he was holding his own child. He couldn’t quite describe what he was feeling, maybe a mixture of nervousness, anxiety and excitement altogether. Despite it all King remained calm.

Bokine was the first to break the ice. “You cool?” He asked.

“Yeah, so what’s the signal?” King asked. Before he could get the words out of his mouth he noticed flashing car beams in front of him just up the road. Funny how he didn’t see them coming, nor did he hear a car motor.

Bokine turned to him. “That’s it. You should go”

King stepped out of the car with the case and headed towards the lights and car ahead of him. This could be suicide and he didn’t even have a piece. Nothing. Just this damn case. He couldn’t help but think about a backup plan; no one discussed a backup plan.

Shit, what was the backup plan?

He made it to the other car and two Hispanic guys stepped out. He could see one other person still in the car, but just barely.

“Yo pass the case,” the first one commanded.

He was the shorter of the two. King thought he could easily take him if need be, but the other one was around Bokine’s height and he looked just as vicious.

King stood sternly and responded. “Don’t you have something for me?”

The short one whipped out his gun and said, “Yeah, I got this, now hand over the case?”

King began to think. O
h hell naw he was being robbed. How was he to alert Bokine? Should he just give them the case and what would Marco do to him if he did? What the fuck was in the case?

The two SA’s moved in, taking the case from him and then the third guy stepped out the car, and for some reason King thought he knew him from somewhere. And it was not a case of all Hispanics look alike. He knew this guy from somewhere.

The taller one dropped a bag at his feet. King felt a well of relief at that. He picked up the bag and proceeded to head back to the car when Bokine revved his engine and creeped forward. King thought.

Good, he is coming to get me.

King kept looking back afraid to take his eyes off the SA’S with guns. They were too busy counting money to even notice Bokine creeping closer. Bokine flooded the gas pedal and drove full speed ahead into the SA”s vehicle. King barely had a chance to get out of the way and found himself face down in the dirt with the case over his head.

The initial impact sent two of them flying into the air. The third one, the one that he knew looked like he was trapped in the car.

“What the fuck?” He shouted at Bokine, but Bokine was on another mission, one evidently he wasn’t privy to.

Bokine exited the car with two guns drawn. He shot the down men, not once or twice but several times. He heard one of them beg for his mercy, but there was not mercy here and King couldn’t help but wonder if he was next. Shots continued to rang out, one, two, three, four…6. It was so much gunfire that a cloud of smoke hung between King and Bokine. Then Bokine walked out that cloud of smoke like a gunfighter from one of them old western movies, carrying the case he had just delivered.

King knew without a doubt them motherfuckers were all dead, but what haunted him the most, he was a witness to it all.

4 years later…

They say there are only two days you remember about prison, that’s the day you go in and the day you leave, the rest is a blur. Or maybe not so much a blur, but one bad memory, horrid nightmare that plays over and over in your mind. King couldn’t wait to smell some good old fresh polluted air. He couldn’t wait to breathe again. Traveling down that long dark corridor seemed different this time and yet the same. He was leaving one jail, traveling to another for the next 8 years of his life. Probation sucked but it was better than staying in that hell hole.

From the time he stood before that judge until this time the one thing that he kept going over in his mind was where was Marco? Where the fuck was Marco? During the trial his name was never brought up, like he was some kind of ghost and figment of Kings imagination, but he wasn’t. Bokine was taken down hours before him and he didn’t go down without a fight. During his arrest he took down two cops until they shot him to death. That night he remembered Bokine dropping him off at his house and leaving with the two bags, supposedly dropping them off at Marco’s, but King never knew what really happened because that morning they arrested him and carried him off.

“King! King!” Deandre screamed from his cell.

He could barely see him through the bars, funny how your whole vision changed on the day you are set free. But Deandre was hard to forget. That swollen-headed nigga was one of the first to push on him when he arrived. He nearly beat the shit out of King, but he held his own and eventually they became cool. Although the truth is, you ain’t got friends in prison, hell everybody there was here for doing no good at all and they would use that shit against you in every which way.

“What up bruh! See ya in the free world!” Deandre said, reaching through the bars for a dap.

King kept it moving. Trying not to be too happy, too high or too smug. Niggas would jump you, beat you up for shit like that. Hell, some of them would plant some shit on you if they wanted to extend your stay. He made it out without that, that’s because he kept to himself and plus everybody knew he was King. Born King Penn Ivory, but known in the streets as King. Sad to say his reputation preceded his incarceration…but then again sometimes having a bad rep gets you rep in the joint.

Another nigga hollered. “King! Hook me up when I get out bruh!”

Yeah, yeah, he pumped his fist in agreement, but honestly he didn’t even know where he was gonna stay or do. Mom’s is good for a few weeks, maybe even a month but she ain’t about to deal with no bullshit and his boys all hooked up with women, so that’s a no.

“In here”, the CO ordered, pointing towards the door while handing him a bag of fresh clothes.

King immediately thought about his clothes back home and how he used to dress. Him and his boys was some of the cleanest niggas around. You would never find them wearing hood shit, pants hanging past their asses. They were dressed for success in Armani suits and Italian shoes. That is something that Marco expected of them. He always said “they would never see you coming if you dressed like them.” And truth be told he was right from the get go.

He opened up the brown paper bag and found a white collared shirt, one pair of pants and some cheap ass fake Converses. It’s funny but he was actually happy to be wearing civilian clothing. He checked himself out in the mirror and damn, He looked good! Got a fresh new cut, goatee shaped, bulked up a little. Shit, he thought.
I’d fuck with me if I was a woman!
Speaking of women…Carmen, fine ass Rodriguez…that’s what he had waiting on him back home, that and a brand new life. A life he wasn’t fucking up again, cuz aint’ no damn way he was coming back to this or any other jail. Jail is hell!

***

Seeing his mom drive up in her most prized possession, her creamed colored Navigator had him smiling from ear to ear.
Man, this was really it!
He tried walking coolly because the CO was escorting him out but he damn near skipped like a girl seeing his mom. Even though she was the only one who visited him at least every 3 months or so, seeing her this time and not having to watch her leave held a special meaning.

“What up momma!” He said giving her a great big hug. The CO commenced into giving him his last speech about not coming back, straightening up his life, blah, blah, blah. But he wasn’t hearing any of it. King was ready to get the fuck on out of there.

His mom hadn’t changed a bit, still had that long hair with a touch of grey, still smoking and still cussing up a storm.

“What took you so damn long? I’ve been here since 6am. Them motherfuckers wouldn’t let me come in, told me they were gonna walk you out. You look good baby! Oh my God, I’m so happy!” Mom said hugging him tightly. She still wore her signature perfume and it smelled good, even with the cigarette smoke.

“Thanks ma, I’m good. You look good too!”

They chatted like that for the nearly 4 hours it took for them to get home. At some point he knew he passed out on her cuz a nigga ain’t been to sleep in 48 hours, not one eyelid closed. He was too nervous, too ready to go home. Niggas don’t sleep when they are going home. Not a wink.

King was having this great dream about Carmen. She looked just like she looked in High School with her long black hair, dimples, cute shape. She was telling him she loved him over and over again. Everything was going good until Mook showed up, then he did like he always did…and woke up. It was a dream that haunted him for the past few months. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, least of all Mook. He couldn’t have them thinking he was crazy or gone crazy.

Mook was King’s best friend, brother, homie from way back. They met in grade school and have been close ever since. There was nothing he would not do for that nigga. Nothing. They were down like that. Together they started the ATL Heights Gang when they were both 12 years old. It wasn’t about shit back then. They did stupid things like paint graffiti on the bathroom walls, which is how they ended up being kicked out of school and attending one of their so called Alternative Schools. His mom was fucking pissed about that, just one of the many things he would fuck up. The next year they stepped it up and recruited some more guys, started breaking in cars and shit. A nigga by the name of Marco recruited them to sell drugs for him, and King did that shit right at school. He was Marco’s number one seller and so he gave him the name King.

His mom pulled up in front of a nice ass house. “This you?” He asked, eyeing the brick ranch with the winding driveway. It was like something out of a magazine. Now grant it their last house wasn’t bad, but this was a definite improvement.

“Yep. You like it?”

“Hell yeah! I gotta room?” He asked jokingly, but you never knew with mom. He was keeping it real.

“Yes, of course…you know for as long as you need. Oh!” She said turning towards the house. “Lance is here.”

King turned around and saw this big, burly, black motherfucker walking towards the car. This man was about 6’5, 300lbs of pure flesh. King looked from him and then to her and he knew that his stay wouldn’t be long, not with this motherfucker.

“What’s up young man? I’m Lance, your mother’s fiancé.” He said reaching his hand through the window.

“What’s up?” King said returning the handshake, the one that was already too tight and seemed to emphasize some “I’m the man of the house type of shit.” It was cool, he thought.
Shit a broke man can’t complain about nothing and everybody knew he was broke as hell.

After mom got him settled in his room, he decided to take a walk around the neighborhood. It was quiet, nice. To King, It felt good to see some scenery other than a jail cell. He had already mapped out his plan on how he was gonna get his life back, but waking up to those same grey walls stole some of his thunder. Every day like the next, full of chaos. It was going to take some time to get those midnight screams out of his mind, and images of niggas beating beat on the daily. He swore to himself that he was gonna make it out and he did.

“Bruh, stop daydreaming!” Mook hollered from his car.

“Man! Oh fuck, bruh!” King said nearly sprinting towards the car. “Man, I ain’t ever been so happy to see another nigga in my life! “

They slapped palms, and hugged right there in the middle of the street. Mook was one of them pretty niggas. He had everything working for him, tall, dark with a shaved head. He was the dark version of Boris Kodjo, that actor all the women swooned about. Always a dresser, he showed up looking like he was about to go on a job interview.