True to the Game II Page 4

  Jordan’s condo was located on the third floor of his building, overlooking a nearby state park. The views from his pad were some of the most beautiful and most breathtaking in the entire state. The condo had cost him a few hundred thousand, which he had his lawyer move for him so eyebrows wouldn’t be raised and questions wouldn’t be asked.

  He had furnished the luxurious bachelor’s pad with some of the most ultramodern furniture that could be found this side of the Atlantic. His caramel-colored round sectional had been imported from Sweden, while his metal entertainment center, metal coffee table, and metal end tables where shipped from Morocco. A stainless-steel Martin Bauer pool table sat in the middle of the room, just beneath an intricately designed, stainless-steel chandelier with Swarvoski crystals from Jay Strongwater. Soft, crème-colored recliners sat in front of a massive marble fireplace, while authentic paintings from Jacob Lawrence, Charles Bibbs, Sharon Wilson, and William Tolliver graced the condo’s snow-white walls. A massive stainless-steel and glass dining-room table with overstuffed crème-colored leather chairs sat on the opposite side of the room. Beyond the dining-room table was the ultramodern kitchen, where stainless-steel Wolf and Sub-Zero appliances and crème-colored granite countertops could clearly be seen. The glass and stone sculptures throughout the condo screamed money, and lots of it. The game had clearly been good.

  Jordan turned the knob and removed his key from the lock. He had been out shopping all day, and he was dead tired. He needed a shower, rest, and then he would hit the streets and pick up his money. And he had plenty of that to pick up. Business had been good.

  The first time he heard the faint sounds of moving water, he had dismissed the thought as being ridiculous. Now that he heard it again, he knew that his ears were not deceiving him. There was definitely another person in his house.

  He reached inside his gym bag and pulled out his nine-millimeter Beretta. He pulled back the slide, chambering a round, and then quickly ejected his clip and checked it. Yeah, it was full. He quickly slid the magazine back into his weapon and quietly crept over his marble floors into his bedroom. He couldn’t believe that someone had the nerve to break into his crib. Of all the cribs in Philly, some stupid motherfucker had chosen his. Well, some stupid motherfucker was about to die.

  The splashing sound of water told him that the asshole was in his bathroom. You got to be kiddin’ me. And that was when he noticed the soft hum of the jets from his Jacuzzi whirring. What the fuck! Somebody’s bathing in my tub? He just couldn’t figure it out.

  Jordan crept to his bathroom, shoved open the double doors, and quickly lifted his weapon.

  “Jerrell!” Jordan cried out. His heart raced like a NASCAR driver around Charlotte Speedway. “What the fuck? Man, what the fuck are you doing here? I almost did you!”

  Jerrell laughed and waved his arm, dismissing Jordan. Bubbles from the tub flew through the air. “Nigga, quit being paranoid.”

  “What the fuck are you doing in my crib?” Jordan asked. “What the fuck are you doing in my tub? How did you get in here?”

  “Damn, thanks for all the love, partner,” Jerrell told him. “I just figured that since we was homies and shit, you wouldn’t mind if a dirty nigga like me washed a little bit a that jail filth off of my skin. I mean, seeing as how you got this great big old Jacuzzi tub and all.”

  “Yeah, well, my girl got a promotion,” Jordan told him.

  Jerrell smiled and nodded. “They moved her up from fries to milkshakes, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, why don’t you join me in a toast, then.” Jerrell lifted the bottle of Dom Perignon that he had next to the tub. “Go and get you a glass.”

  “I’m not thirsty,” Jordan told him.

  Jerrell shook his head. “Hmmmph, that’s sad. Not going to toast to your girl’s newfound success. What kind of a relationship you got?”

  “We’ve already celebrated.”

  Jerrell nodded. “I’m sure you have, baby boy. I’m sure that you have.”

  Jerrell lifted his hand to his lips and blew some of the suds in the air. “You, Khyree, Mont, Ran, all y’all did a whole lot of celebrating while I was gone, huh.”

  “It’s not what you think,” Jordan told him.

  “Oh, it’s not?” Jerrell asked. “Tell me then, how much money did you send me while I was locked up?”

  Jordan shook his head and looked away.

  “Exactly,” Jerrell told him. “You niggas was out here living large, buying new condos and shit. Everybody got new cars, new clothes, new jewelry, just everything, brand fucking new. But me, poor old Jerrell, I got to hustle in jail just to make a commissary on Tuesdays. What if I would have been desperate, J? What if I had to sell ass for cigarettes, or some shit like that?”

  “C’mon, J, you know it ain’t even like that,” Jordan protested. “If you would have asked me, you know I would have looked out for you.”

  “Ask you? You had my connect, my spot, my runners, my car, my guns, my ideas, my everything, and yet, I had to ask you?” Jerrell slid down further into the Jacuzzi, closed his eyes, and relaxed. “Okay, so I’m asking you now. Where’s my money?”

  “Is that what all of this is about?” Jordan asked. “Some money? You gonna break into my crib, jump up into my tub, drink up my champagne, and trip with me because of some money? Whatever happened to Junior Mafia? Whatever happened to us being family? What was all of that shit about us being family? What was all of that shit about us being brothers?”

  “Are you your brother’s keeper, Jordan?” Jerrell asked with a smile.

  “You muthafuckin’ right I am!” Jordan said forcefully.

  “Then go and get the money that you kept for your brother,” Jerrell told him.

  “It’s at the safe house, where I keep all of the dough,” Jordan reassured him.

  Jerrell laughed. “All you niggas got the dough somewhere else. The dough ain’t never nowhere around, it’s always a muthafuckin’ drive away. You got fucking priceless-ass paintings and shit in this bitch, but no fucking dough. What, a thief a steal my hundred Gs but not your hundred-thousand-dollar painting? You got a muthafuckin’ original Paul Goodnight over your fucking fireplace. That bitch had to cost a couple of meal tickets, but you’re afraid to hold my chump change in this bitch?”

  “So what are you saying, J?” Jordan asked.

  “I’m saying that you muthafuckas are full a shit, that’s what I’m saying!” Jerrell shouted. “The only reason I’m still in this muthafucka is to kill you.”

  Jordan smiled and lifted his pistol in the air, showing it to Jerrell.

  “I think you forgot something.”

  “What’s that?” Jerrell asked.

  “I’m the muthafucka holding the pistol,” Jordan told him.

  “Glocks can shoot underwater,” Jerrell told him, squeezing the trigger of his ten-millimeter Glock semiautomatic.

  The bullet struck Jordan between his eyes, causing soap suds to mix with the blood that ran slowly down his nose as he fell silently to the ground. Jerrell climbed out of the Jacuzzi, wrapped a towel around his waist, and walked to the closet where he had Jordan’s girl tied up. He opened the closet door.

  “I know that I promised you that if you opened the safe and cooperated, I would let you live,” Jerrell told her. “Well, the only problem is, I lied.”

  Tears flowed from Nina’s eyes as she shook her head.

  “I’ll give you another chance to earn your life back,” Jerrell told her. “You want to do that?”

  Nina shook her head frantically.

  “Let me wax that fat Latino ass of yours, and then we’ll take a bath, and then we’ll leave together, comprende?”

  Nina shook her head.

  Jerrell helped her out of the closet, led her over to the bed, and threw her down. He ripped off the buttons on her bluejean skirt, yanked the skirt off her, and threw it to the floor. Next came her panties, which he quickly ripped off and discarded. He climbed on
top of her and plunged into her, causing Nina to cry out.

  Jerrell had not been with a woman since he had gotten out of jail, and he took all of his frustrations out on Nina. She bore the brunt of his anger with the Junior Mafia, his anger over losing his money, and his anger over having been locked up in the first place. He pummeled and twisted and gyrated and thrust like a demon possessed. He hammered at her as fast and as furiously and as deep as he could, causing her to scream and shout at the top of her lungs. He threw her legs over his shoulders and pounded as hard as he could. He had to get it out of him, he had to get all of the frustration, the anger, the fury out of his body. He had to exorcize the emotional demons that had become so pent up inside. He stroked forcefully, furiously, fanatically, until his release came. Nina could feel it shooting up into her stomach. She screamed, while he let out a deep, guttural growl.

  Sweating heavily, Jerrell climbed off his victim, pulled her up by her wrist, and pushed her into the bathroom. She stepped over her boyfriend’s dead body and began crying heavily.

  Jerrell pointed toward the toilet. “Sit down and piss.”

  Nina seated herself on the toilet seat and urinated. Blood, semen, and urine poured out of her sore and aching vagina.

  Jerrell pointed toward the bathtub. “Now, go and get in the tub and wash yourself good.”

  Nina rose from the toilet, pulled off all her remaining clothing, and climbed into the tub. Jerrell flushed the commode and tossed Nina a bar of soap and a face towel.

  Nina began crying as she cleaned herself. “You’re not going to let me live.”

  Jerrell smiled. “I have your money, I have your jewelry, I’m going to take all of your paintings and other valuable shit. I’ve fucked, I’ve eaten, I’ve killed the nigga that I came here to kill. What else is left for me, ma? Why would I let you live?”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Nina said, with tears pouring down her cheeks. “I’ll leave town. I promise. I’ll go back to Puerto Rico, even! I give you my word, I won’t tell, I won’t tell a soul!”

  Before she could speak another word, Jerrell silenced her as he lifted his Glock.

  “No, please, no!”

  Those were her last three words before Jerrell fired one shot at Nina’s head. The bullet penetrated her raised hand and entered her nose. She slid down into the bathwater with her eyes still open.

  “I know you won’t tell,” Jerrell whispered. He turned and left the blood-filled bathroom.

  HEAR NO EVIL,

  SPEAK NO EVIL

  Reds wiped the sweat from his brow and slid down off the hood of his silver S500 Benz. It was hot on the block today, in more ways than one. The sun was beaming down on the curb, and the exhaust from the passing traffic only made things worse. But he had to be out there. His boys were grinding hard, and their packs were moving fast. He needed to be around to keep track of everything and to manage his young horses out beating the pavement. Today had been a good day so far, and it was only twelve-thirty. He still had the rest of the day left to get his weight up. His crew had moved half of the packs that he had brought to the trap, and the way things were moving, he would have to shoot to the crib and re-up soon.

  “Damn, baby,” Rasun said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Shit is rolling today!”

  “I know,” Reds agreed. “It’s like the fiends all hit the lottery or something. It’s fucked up to say, but crack is the best thing that ever happened to my life. I swear, thank you, God, thank you,” he said, kissing a handful of money and holding it up to the sky.

  Rasun walked to his candy orange ’69 Dodge Charger, opened the door, and turned on his stereo system. The thunderous boom of the deep bass notes resounded throughout the area. Rasun had hooked the system up with eight eighteen-inch subwoofers, ten midrange speakers, and ten tweeters. A total of ten amplifiers helped to push out the system’s awesome power. Rasun had the most powerful and best-known system in all of Philly.

  “Pass me a beer,” Reds shouted.

  Rasun reached into his passenger seat, pulled a beer from the cooler, and tossed it to Reds. Reds caught the beer, popped the top, and turned it up, consuming fizz and all.

  “Yo, you hear about that boy, Khyree?” Rasun asked.

  Reds nodded. “Yo, that shit was ill. The boy got popped in his own joint.”

  “You think Rik had something to do with that shit?” Rasun asked.

  Again Reds shrugged. “Who gives a fuck? He doing his thing, we doing ours.”

  “Damn, shit ain’t been the same since Qua’s been gone,” Rasun said, shaking his head.

  Neither of them, nor their crew members, noticed the two black vans making their way down the street. Reds looked up, only to peep the scene too late. Fuck, I know that ain’t ola.

  The Drug Enforcement Task Force leaped from the vans and raced toward Rasun and Reds. Other members of the task force leaped out of the delivery vans that had been parked across the street, while others raced from unmarked cars that had been in traffic. It had been a well-planned, well-coordinated raid. All of Reds’s and Rasun’s runners were gathered up within seconds. The task force had showed up in large numbers and they were all over the place before anyone knew what was going on. The task force moved like cockroaches when you turn the lights on. Everybody ran for cover like Olympic contenders. You never seen no niggas run so fast in your life. Reds turned the corner with Rasun following close behind. Reds hopped three steps to a front porch and started banging on the door of a girl he knew who lived on the block. She peeked out of the second-floor window.

  “Why is you banging on my door like you crazy?”

  “Let me in,” screamed Reds.

  “Boy, wait, The Young and the Restless is on,” the girl shouted out the window.

  “Bitch, open the door.”

  Just then Rasun peeped the task force rounding the corner and took off haul-assin’, leaving Reds standing on the porch.

  “Fuck,” Reds uttered as he saw the uniformed enemy and took off behind Rasun. They made it no more than five hundred feet down the block before they were both thrown to the ground and handcuffed without being read their Miranda rights, as in most cases in the hood.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Reds and Rasun,” Lieutenant Ratzinger told them. “Ms. Clair is going to be real disappointed in you boys.”

  “Fuck outta here, muthafucka, talkin’ ’bout my mom!” Rasun shouted.

  “I just raided your mother’s house. You know what I found, Rasun?” Lieutenant Ratzinger asked.

  “You ain’t find nothing,” Rasun said, knowing that his mom’s house was clean. He began to twist and turn and try to get up. One of the officers put a foot on his back and shoved him back down onto the ground.

  “That’s right,” Lieutenant Ratzinger told him. “We had your mother facedown on the ground in handcuffs, just like we got you. But she offered to give us some pussy if we let her go.”

  “You muthafuckas!” Rasun shouted. He tried to spit on the lieutenant, but it fell short.

  “I went first,” Ratzinger told him.

  Rasun was foaming at the mouth. “I’ll kill you, pig!”

  “You can’t threaten an officer,” Lieutenant Ratzinger told him. “Especially one who’s going to be your daddy.”

  “You muthafuckas make me sick. If I wasn’t handcuffed I’d choke the fucking life out you muthafuckas!” Reds shouted.

  The other officers piled the packs that they found onto the ground in front of Reds and Rasun. They had even managed to find Reds’s stash spot behind the dumpster on the side of the cleaners that they were standing in front of, and Rasun’s stash spot inside a box of laundry soap in the cleaners.

  “Do you know how much time the Feds are going to give you for all of this crack?” the lieutenant asked.

  “What crack?” Reds asked. “I don’t know nothing about no crack. I was doing laundry, pig.”

  “Oh, a wise guy?” Ratzinger asked. He placed his shoe on the back of Reds’s neck. “Let’
s see how smart you are, when you’re sittin’ in court, in front of an all-white jury, and I get up there and tell them how you said you wanted to sell drugs to all of the white kids you can find.”

  “Fuck you, pig. This the hood, ain’t no fuckin’ white kids around here!” Rasun told him.

  Detective Ratzinger turned toward Rasun. “Tough words from a guy who just got his mom a federal sentence. Like it fucking matters; all that matter’s is what the fuck I say.”

  “Leave my moms outta this shit! Ain’t even nothing in my mom’s house,” Rasun shouted, speaking the truth.

  Ratzinger turned to the other officers. “Get these two losers out of here.”

  The masked officers lifted Reds and Rasun off of the ground, walked them to one of the black, windowless vans, and threw them both into the back of it. About twenty minutes later Reds and Rasun felt the van moving, and within another hour they were at the precinct, fingerprinted, photographed, and thrown into separate holding cells.

  It seemed like days, even though it had only been a matter of hours, before two uniformed officers unlocked Reds’s holding cell and escorted him to an interrogation room. Reds entered the room and quickly noticed the large mirror hanging on the wall. He held up his right hand and gave the mirror his middle finger, knowing that there were detectives behind the glass watching his every move.

  “Hey, listen, we’re just here to help. So you don’t have to be so negative.”

  “Fucking help? You not here to help. You muthafuckas never are,” said Reds, wanting to spit in the officer’s face.

  “So, there’s nothing I can get you?” asked the officer, again showing Reds pretend concern.

  “How about a suitcase full of money from out the evidence room?”