

Gettin' Paid

The Truth in Fifteen Minutes

A Novel

J. Lewis Celeste

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2006 J. Lewis Celeste

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Ghetto \- a section of a city, esp. a thickly populated slum area, inhabited predominantly by members of a minority group.

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Phoenix \- a fabulous bird that after a life of five or six centuries immolates itself on a pyre and rises from the ashes to begin a new cycle of years: often an emblem of immortality or of reborn idealism or HOPE.

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Truth \- Ideal or fundamental reality apart from and transcending perceived experience.

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"The knights dared not disobey, so tying their bridles together, that they might be with him to the end, they led their brave master to the field. There when the battle was over, and the English were left on the field victorious, the Black Prince found the dead body of the blind King of Bohemia, his horse's bridle still tied to those of his knights, who lay dead beside him, his snowy plumes lying stained and crushed. The Prince gazed at his royal enemy, and at the useless plumes. Then he took the three white feathers, and kept them for his own, together with the Bohemian King's motto, "Ich dien," meaning "I serve."

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Not here, but in hearts dwell

SMURF, B.J., STED, KOA, FER

Brothers all

Brothers always

Preface

My original intent, when I began writing this story, was to capture a snapshot of life, as I knew it growing up in my hood, Washington Heights, New York City, from 1970 to 1993. This story was supposed to be short, but the flow would not stop and my pen kept moving. The story then would be a novella, but that also did not suffice for the pages kept accumulating. At some point, after a hundred pages or so, I discovered that the story could not be limited and would play out until complete. This implies that the story wrote itself, and to a degree, this is so. Often, when my pen touched paper, I would not stop writing until my hand cramped and I could no longer continue. The characters directed the scenes, events developing without design or anticipation by me (at least not consciously). This may sound far-fetched, but it is true. This story was simply meant to be and so it became.

The idea to write about the criminal life of an inner city youth is not original or unique, however this piece, written in two vernaculars that blend and switch with the scenes, offer readers a different approach and may even question some perceptions. I have intentionally blurred which city Nat and Poodle live in. This is based on my belief that a ghetto is a ghetto and the reader should be able to pick the city and even the neighborhood in order to maintain the realism and understanding necessary to fully appreciate the story.

Of course, there are a few hints that suggest the city I refer to, but my intention is to not limit the imagination, but rather allow you, the reader, to provide the background with your own streets, scenes and memories.

As to the language of the novel, it is natural for me to write in urban slang. The dialogue between the characters and some of the narrative are true to the street language of my generation, as I know it to be. One glaring discount is the exclusion of the slang term "nigga," derivative of the hateful and offensive word "nigger." In its place, I have chosen the almost equally disturbing term "motherfucker." This may seem asinine, but only for those of you who do not know inner city culture. The following explanation may not be acceptable to many of you, but then this novel may not either. Regardless, my reasoning is sound and my foundation is solid, for the culture of which I speak is my culture. Allow me to enunciate: motherfucker and nigga are synonymous in inner city neighborhoods. They are interchangeable and quite often neither term has any negative connotation when spoken within a particular group, or if referring to someone others in the group know. What many consider degrading in a broader sense is simply the way people speak in the hoods and ghettos of America. Not specifically from ignorance, or lack of education, but from a developed inner city culture.

In this sense, I no longer consider the term limited to Americans of African descent; nor do I consider its sub form, when used in the inner city, particularly offensive or negative. Up until the mid 1980's, I would agree that the term in any form was very specific, with crude and derogatory meaning. However, in the past twenty-five years, through an inner city Cultural Revolution spearheaded by Hip Hop, the term in its sub form has evolved into common hood slang for person, guy, or kid. As for motherfucker, many conversations in the inner city that refer to a specific person switch between nigga and motherfucker just as if someone in "the burbs" was switching from dude to guy. And for many reasons, to include the overall commonality of the term, motherfucker is actually more palatable for persons outside the inner city, and even more, for those who are trying to sublimate inner city culture.

I want to make it perfectly clear that I do not disregard the history of the word nigger in any written or spoken form, or the impact the use of the word invokes in many people. Nor do I condone the use of the word in any form by any group. However, progress requires society to overcome its painful history, not to forget, never forget, but to move constantly forward. If used archaically or by any persons to denote less value, for denigration or prejudicial purposes, then the term holds the shameful power of its origin. Nevertheless, as I've described, when applied in the cultural language created in the inner city, the word is commonplace with minor if any negative connotation.

If while reading this, you're reminded of that other often used derogatory word "bitch," yes, that term is also frequently used in the inner city, again though, without the specific negative inflection that may be attributable in other settings. However bold and controversial this piece may turn out to be, I purposely replaced nigga with motherfucker for these reasons. And whether you accept what I am saying or not, those who grew up in the hood, know the truth of the matter, but it is not my place to throw it in your face and I will not provide an opportunity to detract from this story because I happen to be white.

As for the other vernacular, standard literary prose, Nat speaks to you from a podium, he challenges you to think, agitates you to question your beliefs, your perceptions. He is a teacher, one with personal experience to support his position. It is not remarkable that intelligent minds in our prison populations spend a great deal of time reading and studying. And for the greater part of his life, Nat has been acquiring and retaining all sorts of knowledge. He can engage any crowd on any level. It was very entertaining watching Nat switch back and forth between vernaculars (even pointing it out when he fancied) and I think these transitions are seamless, and that in itself indicates something very profound.

There are many points in this story, too many to cover— not that I would anyway, but I hope that readers from different backgrounds: racial, cultural, socio-economic, religious, age . . . will gain something from this story. I think some will gain more than others will, but Nat's message is meant for the street thug, the ghetto kid, my inner city brothers and sisters. It is you Nat is speaking too. You need to realize that if you remove every negative influence that can cause you to make a bad decision, if you can reverse it even, and make every influence positive, the bottom line is and always will be choice, your choice. No matter how bad it seems, or how grim it looks, you will always have to reconcile your decisions. Don't live with regrets.

Nat and Poodle are a blend of people from my past. They are as much a part of me as they are a part of this story. As for the fantastic events that occur— it is up you to decide which are factual and which are not. There are many Nats and Poodles in our society, along with others that might not fit a convenient stereotype. Nevertheless, they are routinely labeled so that the public can point fingers with accusations and condemnations.

Throughout my life, I have listened to "experts" explain why inner city youth commit violent crimes. These experts usually focus on every reason other than the individual to explain the behavior. They are quick to highlight exterior influences and claim these are the principal factors for criminal behavior. Over the years, I have reacted in many different ways: shaken my head, snorted in derision, laughed, but most often I just walk away or turn it off. I finally asked myself why am I dismissing my own experiences, why am I standing by while these fools convince people that children in the ghetto are somehow unable to rise above diversity, that the external factors are so over-whelming that they can't escape, that those poor kids got no chance.

So Nat and Poodle came to me and said, "J, we got to explain some shit, we got to let them know that we choose, just like everybody else. So instead of looking around us, look at us."

Nat and Poodle want someone who got the creds to say to you— choose right motherfucker— in your language for your future. They want you to get paid.

Crime in the ghetto, as crime in any other environment, is based on individual choice. If you cut away all the excuses, a person who is truly guilty will lay down each night and no matter how hard he tries to point to other reasons, he'll end up realizing again and again that he fucked up by choice. So, regardless of your circumstances, regardless of how far down you are, the choices you make will determine your future. Stop the excuses— J

Chapter One

Name's Nat, Nat T. Johnson. The "T" is for Turner, though some say it stands for Terror. They also say I'm a reincarnation of my namesake, 'cept I ain't selective, don't got much religion, and care only about gettin' paid. My father named me, mom tried to change it to Nathan, but the ol' man wasn't having it.

"Fuck that yuppie name, my boy gonna be named after a bad motherfucker, a proud motherfucker, a motherfucker befo' his time. He gonna know that name too! He gonna love it, respect it, man he gonna be that fuckin' name!"

I wonder sometimes, why mom wanted to change my name. What's a name anyway? Lucifer, Adolph, Mao, does it matter? And Nat T, he wasn't evil or nothing, maybe a little nuts thinking he was talking with God and all, but just a man who didn't like his circumstances and tried to change them. What's wrong with that? Balls if you ask me. Had he been another color, fighting a different struggle, he'd probably be a few monuments 'bout now. Besides, if you're bound to be a bad motherfucker, then your name don't really mean shit. Whatever her reason, I'm sure she didn't push it too much, just putting on airs. Mom had more important things to think about— Heroin. Yeah, she was all about getting high to forget who she was, let alone worry about who I was gonna be. As I understand it, all she really cared about was how to score her next hit, a blowjob here, a hand job there, whatever. I heard she was a sight too, a walking wraith, hopeless, miserable, and surrounded by misbegotten burdens.

I'll never know why she wanted to name me Nathan, but I wonder sometimes if it would have changed things. I doubt it, I seriously do, but thinking about shit like that, helps pass the time. In any event, I carried my namesake down a real bad path, or maybe my namesake carried me, whatever the case, this story is my testimonial, my tidbit to society, a special message for my brothers and sisters living in the ghettos where I cut my teeth.

Pop was a crazy ol' bastard, purposeful in a singular way, like the "Terminator." His only goal, at least the only one I know of, was to have himself a son. He wouldn't give up. Try, try again, he was gonna have a boy no matter what. He plowed that wasteland, my mother, over and over again like a mad farmer. And when it was harvest time, year after year after year, he'd shrug off the disappointing yield and start all over again. He tilled that beaten earth silly to plant his boy child. Can you imagine? I mean can you really imagine. He was fifty-three when I was born. Some say 53 ain't old, but he wasn't no daisy, and he worked hard to see my dangling balls. Fate is a funny motherfucker sometimes; he likes to mess with stubborn folk, stupid folk, like Pop. Some shit just ain't meant to be, but if you push hard enough, Fate just might throw you a bone, but that don't mean it's a wishbone. Pop got what he worked so hard for, and maybe he felt like he earned it, all that toil and trouble and what not for his posterity. But the price was high, some say the price was too high, and they know who really paid, and it wasn't Pop, it was only his sweat. His efforts became society's burden, cause Natty was havoc from the get-go and that's the truth!

Countless people have crossed my path, one way or another, and all of them probably wish I had never been born. They curse a stubborn motherfucker for chasing a dream that became their nightmare. Shit makes me giggle when I think about it, what his effort brought into this world.

I was number seven in a string of eleven, but not in that order, let me explain: I was the last child seeded by the ol' bastard who lived beyond the age of two. Ten popped out before me, but four died. I would've had an older brother (actually, I probably wouldn't have been born), he was number four, but he never tried his lungs.

"Dead on arrival," Pop would say.

He was like that, Pop, always cracking witty phrases to explain shit. He'd say to me, "Nat, you my lucky seven! Four ain't no lucky number Nat, but seven, seven's the shit and everybody knows it!"

So I was the seventh surviving child and the only son, seven hungry mouths for a crazy old man and his junkie girlfriend. That's right, they never hitched— Mom and Dad. She spit out eleven puppies in fifteen years, each one another grimace for the ol' bastard, another grimy tear for her wasted ass, and another fucked up reality for society in general, but he wouldn't marry her, who would?

She stuck around though, at least for a while. I can't say it was for love, actually, I could probably guarantee that it wasn't. I can't say it was responsibility either, or honor, or anything else that might stroke your notion of maternal commitment. She stuck around because she was hopeless. She didn't give a fuck. She was just a lost drug addict with no place to turn, and no love to give. She hated us. She really hated me.

I guess her hold on any hope for a decent life slipped away after number eight bit it from crib death. That was when she started popping heroin. Number 8 was three before me, and the third dead kid before I made my run through her wasted body. I'm sure that nine, ten, and yours truly, were just farts attached to afterbirth (ten didn't make it either). She never cared much for Natty, I was the ol' bastard's goal, and likely in her mind, the shovel that dug her grave. I guess she didn't see the bright side, I mean had I not been lucky seven, she might have dropped baby girls until she had a whole Amazon tribe.

I guess she might have cared had I been number four. If that had been the case, the old man would've had his prize, and stopped his maniacal tilling. But that didn't happen, another seven grunting sessions before a pair of balls hung by the umbilical cord. So, she was bitter, a drug user, and a bad mother. It don't matter. Some like to say it does, some like to say if you're born in piss, you'll likely piss on people. I don't know, maybe so, I sure done pissed on plenty of people, but I can't say I was created that way, or became that way cause I didn't have no tit to suck. I can't even say that I'm a product of my environment. And like I've said, names make no difference. Nah, I was that bad motherfucker pop ranted about by choice, my choice.

Now I can bore you with heart breaking accounts of my infant years, but this ain't no sob story, and I ain't looking for no sympathy. I just want to give my piece. Suffice it to say, my two oldest sisters, numbers One and Three, raised me in infancy. After I took root, they both bounced, and I raised myself.

Number 1, Gwen, was fourteen when I was born and by all accounts, she was my real mother. Number 3, Kabira, was a sweetheart, a soul of honey, and she helped well enough, but Gwen, man, Gwen was Mom. I like to think of them at night sometimes when I'm staring at dark corners and remembering. They were warm and caring, and seemed to give a fuck, but we all got to live for ourselves eventually— wait for your set, your moment, and then you escape— just like that! That's what they did, Gwen & Kabira, and I'm glad, and I smile when I think about them.

My old man was a proud motherfucker. He liked his little posse, most especially his number 7. When he came around, we ate well enough, and had fun and shit, but pop liked to stray. Sometimes he'd be gone for months, and then show up for hugs and kisses. Don't get the wrong idea, he wasn't that bad, at least not for the twelve years I knew him. He was like that song— a rolling stone— but he found his way back a few times. My sisters told me pop was a truck driver and that was why he'd be gone all the time. Funny thing though, I never did see no truck. Like I said, he fed us well enough when he was home, but when he was gone we were forced on a diet, fasting like them crazy motherfuckers who think they see God in hunger visions. It ain't God jackass, it's just your brain screaming for food.

Maybe Pop sent money while he was on the road, maybe he thought we were all set, but then again, maybe he didn't give it any thought. I wonder about that too, but my memories are dim that far back.

He never made comment on how thin we were every time he came home. He never remarked on how we ate his pizza (he always brought pizza with him); like a pack of ravenous dogs. He never asked, he never questioned. If he did send money, Mom probably used it to get high, at least up until the moment she couldn't get high no more. I never found out. It didn't matter though, my sisters figured out how to survive without his money and without a mother. My sister's adapted and little Natty adapted too. We became good thieves, my sisters and me, at least those who stuck around.

Gwen left as soon as she turned eighteen, and she took Kabira with her. It was surreal how they left. One day I'm in a park playing tag with the both of them, and the next, they're gone— just like that! I remember sitting on the kitchen floor playing with some broken matchbox cars. Gwen came in the room, picked me up and held me in her arms for a long time. She squeezed me so hard that I felt her heart beat into my chest as if she was giving her life to me. Then Kabira walked in sobbing uncontrollably, and kissed me on my forehead fifteen times (I know cause I counted, and I count them still, every night, 15 kisses). After her last kiss, she shuddered, grabbed her mouth and bolted out the door.

Gwen whispered something in my ear as she held me tight. Her words, to this day, I cannot recall, even though I spend hours trying. I watched them leave, crying myself, but more out of confusion and a child's sense of empathy. I was confused and worried, but went back to my toy cars believing that they would be back. But they never did come back and I was too young to understand forever.

As the days passed without either of them showing up, I grew increasingly anxious. I became sick with grief and stopped eating the morsels provided by my remaining sisters. I shut down inside, my stomach cold. I asked God every night to bring them back, but He never answered. My other sisters tried to comfort me as best they could, but with a loss like that, you always go through the motions. In time, my bitterness lessened, and my heart forgave.

I was four when they bounced, and I haven't seen either of them since. I'm glad now, after all these years, cause they escaped. They were the only ones who truly escaped, and I'm proud of them, cause that had to be some hard shit to endure. And like I said, I smile when I think of them, and on many cold nights, their warm hugs still cuddle me.

They left two years after mom finally smoked herself. She jumped off a train platform during rush hour one dark November night. She splattered her ass all over the inbound. Kabira was there, so was I, in a rusty stroller that I still hear squeaking in my mind. I don't remember none of it; don't care to either. My sisters said that mom would take me to the train station to panhandle, displaying dirty little Natty for sympathy change. I guess on that day, she chose to highlight herself. So, since the age of two, I was mother-less by the flesh, and since the age of four, I was mother-less by the soul.

But I still had the ol' bastard, and when he was around, he told me all sorts of shit that made me mad. Shit about the "Man" and about how we get nothing, no respect, no equality, just crap and plenty of it.

He said to me, "Maybe you won't put up with that bullshit Nat; maybe you'll be a bad motherfucker!"

He was right, and I was, but I didn't lash out at anyone in particular, I went after everyone instead. He didn't get to realize his creation though; Fate had other plans for him. Pop died right before my teen spree. I call it my teen spree because that was when I evolved.

Chapter Two

As said, my remaining sisters and I became good thieves. We learned how to shoplift. We learned how to survive. We began to fuck the "Man!" Our game plan was simple: Hit a store, any store, and spread out like fleas— five desperate, don't give a fuck hoodlum kids. We'd scoop up armfuls of shit: clothes, shoes, food, whatever, and beeline for the door. Getting caught was a joke, nothing was done, just a lot of shit talking. Even when the cops showed up, just more shit talking. At first, being the smallest, I was the one who usually got caught. Each time I was bagged, I'd throw a tantrum and put up such a fight that the guards would finally let me go. We learned through repetition that the Man is hesitant to correct hopeless little ghetto kids like me. What would be the point? They would just waste time and energy and maybe some business too. We used that prevailing attitude as part of our game plan, and it always worked. Throw a loud fuss over a little hood kid getting roughed up and see how fast liberal do-gooders start bitching and pointing fingers. It's comical, and it helped us get away with mad loot.

Initially, I would get caught because I wasn't quick enough. But after we figured out how easy it was forcing them to let me go, we decided that I'd always take the fall. If any guards tried to flex, I jumped in the way. My sisters would bank out, stash the goods, then come back and make a scene.

Meanwhile I'd be hollering and crying and making all sorts of noise; not the sort of thing a department store wants the paying public to see.

More times than not, management would tell the security guards to let me go as the crowd thickened and my sisters started making accusations. I'd walk away sniffling, wiping my nose between winks at the security guards. We took our stash back to the hood, sold it at big discounts and felt very good about it. We were urban "Robin Hoods," making money while our customers got sweet deals. Designer jeans, sneakers, sports gear, etc. What the Man sold for $70 we gave away for $30— our own version of capitalism with a touch of urban benevolence— the American dream, ghetto style.

As I got older, I got bolder, nothing new in the inner city; progress where I come from, like a coming of age. Shoplifting to stick-ups, stick-ups to burglary, burglary to house jacking and finally, at least for me, robbing drug spots. Shoplifting was prime, and the perfect crime to wet my appetite, to fuel my ambition. I gradually moved up in rank during those early years of shoplifting, our family practice. Nadine, my eldest remaining sister (number 5) was sixteen when we started our thieving. Gwen and Kabira had been gone about two years by then. Pop was in and out as usual, so Nadine was in charge. She founded our shoplifting enterprise, and we never went hungry again. Nadine held the reins on our operations for about three years, and we tuned our skills under her guidance. Those were good years, and I learned a lot, but Nadine never really got the thrill of it. She would say it was necessary, but that was all, just something we had to do. But me, I loved it! It was much more than necessary to me- - it was exciting.

Nadine bounced one night unexpectedly with some kid named Eric. She didn't escape like Gwen and Kabira; she wasn't that lucky, all she did was move to another ghetto, in another city. She was still with us, just living on a different block.

Eventually, our local notoriety forced us to branch out into surrounding neighborhoods.

The play never failed though, whatever the store, wherever the location, we were unstoppable, invincible. I was pushing nine by then, and I was sprouting like a bad weed. I was becoming more and more violent as I grew, and let me tell you, I GREW. When I was eleven, I looked sixteen, and by then I was running the show. Too big to play possum anymore, I began to confront the rent-a-cops. Instead of running, I'd be swinging, and my blows weren't shy. This eventually became counter-productive, so I recruited young bucks from around the way, taught them the role, and things went on as usual. Except instead of waiting for liberal shoppers to cry foul, Nat would simply snuff the security guard. Hard to picture, isn't it? An eleven-year-old recruiting "little" kids, thumping grown men, sounds ridiculous, I know, but fantasy in your world is reality in the hood, so believe it.

Sheryl and Audrey were numbers 6 and 7. They were twins and they did everything together.

They were not identical twins, they were that other kind, but I'll tell you what, they were connected in more ways than looks could express. They were bad motherfuckers too, toughest girls in the hood, and I was proud of them.

No kid ever expected a one on one if she, or he, had beef with one of them. They fought like men, and they always fought together. I've seen some serious beat-downs by them, they were ruthless and they were feared. You could say they were my inspiration. When Nadine left, they took over, but only for a short while, maybe two years. They preferred hanging out with the older kids in the hood, dealing drugs and shit like that. They kept tabs on us though and they always got their cut.

Tasha was number nine. She was the closest in age to me, but the farthest in attitude. Tasha was quiet and timid. Some would say the odd one in the family. She ran with us because we gave her no other option. I feel bad about that because maybe, if we had let her, she could have escaped too. Tasha stayed with me when the twins stopped boosting. She was scared of the older kids and she knew if she hung out with the twins, she'd be used and abused. At least with me she was a player. Funny thing though, sticking with me landed her ass in juvee. Maybe she would have ended up there anyway, but with me, it was a guarantee.

So, by eleven I was the man. I even had older kids working for me. The twins made sure my crew stayed in line, at least when I was trying my wings, but soon enough they didn't have to. Age in the streets doesn't mean shit. What matters is experience and by eleven, I was full of it. Kids 14 and 15 followed me like puppies. And we rolled like a wolf pack with me in the lead, the alpha male. We'd rush a place hard, like a blitzkrieg. I'm talking fifteen to twenty kids in drawn up hoodies, sporting backpacks, and wielding mace. The Ghetto Column, call us number six, storming into your evening shopping hour taking everything we wanted.

We'd clear out a store in thirty seconds flat; five, ten thousand dollars worth of gear, just like that! Anyone stupid enough to get in our way got maced or stomped, and sometimes even slashed with a razor. Then we'd be out, like a flash, laughing and joking and hauling away mad loot. What we called gettin' paid.

Before I continue, I feel it is necessary to stop my narrative and offer you some insight that may, or may not, be gnawing at you. It depends on whom I'm addressing. If you happen to be a reader familiar with the inner city, a former ghetto kid, or thug, please skip the next two paragraphs, they are unnecessary for your reading pleasure. If however, you are foreign to the "mean streets," a person who has only seen ghettos on television, or driving down a highway, allow me to clarify some things for you. The ghettos, the hoods, those scary inner city slums in this, or in any other country for that matter, hold many children who are fatherless, motherless, homeless, hungry, lonely, angry, bitter, et cetera.

Kids that seem to have the cards stacked against them. Kids that learned men would say don't have a chance in hell. This is rhetorical bullshit because anyone could be dealt a straight flush and everyone has a chance. Choice is the motherfucker though, not the chances you get. The problem with choice is perception, and perception is strongly influenced by environment. What one person considers a winning hand, or a good choice, isn't necessarily the same for another.

Kids like my sisters and I are doing just fine in the hood. However, instead of counting fluffy bedtime sheep on clean flannel sheets, we go to sleep counting gunshots on piss-stained mattresses. But what we got, instead of soft dreamy bubbles floating over our heads, is a keen respect for survival, street survival. The skill sets we develop aren't geared toward careers in management consulting, accounting, or computer programming. They are meant for survival, and they're based on getting paid at any cost.

So the next time you're mugged, or your house is robbed, or your car is missing, understand that we all want to better our lives, and perhaps the choice of some to get paid is chanced upon meeting someone like you and becoming your very own nightmare. So instead of feeling sorry for the inner city youth, you should count your blessings, watch your own back, and shut the fuck up. Cause you don't really want to do anything about that far away ghetto problem, preferring to limit your interest to an occasional comment when you're chatting with your golfing buddies or snipping roses at the garden club.

Chapter Three

I learned about my old man's death one lazy summer day. I was hanging out on the corner sipping a 40oz and shooting dice. I was twelve and full of Mac-daddyism, preening myself because I was catching some sweet rolls. There was about seventy dollars in the pot and I was smoking hot. Audrey appeared right when I was rolling for the bank and I watched snake eyes bite my streak in the ass. Audrey's face was stone and she spit the news without any tears. Pop was never coming home again. She said he died in an accident somewhere on the west coast. She said his truck took a wide turn around a tight bend on a cliff without a shoulder. I guess he sailed down the backside and caught some snake eyes of his own. I remember feeling bitter, I remember the heat, and I remember the warm beer I poured down my throat, washing away nothing. I don't think about pop much anymore.

My first arrest took place when I was thirteen, about six months after my father died. I like to think of it as my christening. Thirteen, the danger year, the unluckiest number, appropriate for the beginning of my teen spree. Lucky number 7 bagged at 13. By that time, I was running a lucrative shoplifting business. My operation was so tight and organized that I rarely went on missions anymore, didn't have to. My crews would rack up and bring the score back to me. Local businesses would buy my shit wholesale and sell it in the back of their stores. This arrangement saved me time and effort, all I had to do was kick back, wait for the daily catch, divvy up and make some bank. The kids who worked in my crews took their cut in gear, which was what impressed in the hood, your clothes. It's funny, in a sense, every kid in my neighborhood was decked out in the best threads: top brand sneakers, leather coats, designer jeans, they dressed like royalty but they all lived in tenements— Kings and Queens sleeping in crumbling castles.

I feel it is necessary once again to add some more insight for you. You might be perplexed, wondering, how a hood kid can write using such BIG words. Perhaps (you hope), I am actually an educated writer who has simply chosen this vernacular to catch a market. Or, that I am offering a parable using language that transcends our youth, so that they might glean some wisdom from a character to which they can relate. Would that make you cozy? Would that help strengthen your faith in the established order of things? Unfortunately, I am your worst nightmare, a career criminal that can mingle at your dinner party too.

My message is real enough, and this story is actually meant to keep others from my fate, but I am that anomaly you fear, the street thug who can discuss Artoud's insanity with the best of you. The ghetto criminal who might be more sophisticated than you.

Scary huh? I am uneducated, at least in the formal sense: minimal grade school, even less high school, and absolutely no college. However, life in prison offers plenty of educational opportunities and I have taken advantage of every one. Suffice it to say, that throughout my existence in various correctional facilities, I have devoted my free time to self-education. And based on my stretch, I currently have thirty-four years of education without any fancy paper to show for it. However, the mind doesn't need no printed acknowledgment.

In the pursuit of education, I believe that self-acquired knowledge is much more appetizing than that gained by lecture. I dare say you retain more when you control the speed and the content.

Unlike university fabricated curriculums where old men in polished wooden boxes dictate what you must know to receive a piece of paper with fancy print. Fuck that. I learn what I want and I apply what I need. If my style confuses you- switching from ghetto slang to plain English (whatever that is), understand that I write to a diverse audience, and what one from around the way might gain by identifying with my characters and the flow of urban language, another from across the boulevard might gain by vivid descriptions and subtle intimations.

While my crews were making me money, I'd be chilling on the corner with my sisters' friends. We spent our time smoking weed, drinking old E and playing cee-lo or craps. They liked me, the older crowd; I hooked them up with gear and hung out with them whenever I wanted. They respected me too and treated me like an equal. In the hood, it's all about your heart, big Nat wasn't no punk, and on more than a few occasions, I had to flex on some stupid bastard.

When I did, that sorry motherfucker was hurting. No one dissed Natty or tried to play me cause I'd respond with the quickness and the older cats admired that. This one kid, Poodle, who was Sheryl's man, even took me under his wing. He became my mentor and eventually my crime partner. He was a mulatto kid but instead of being latte, he was cappuccino, half Black and half Hispanic. His hair was thick and wiry like shredded lettuce. He kept it under control by using lots of hair gel, forming his crop into a thick patch of Gerri curls (hence his nickname). You might think it's an insult, Poodle, some sort of pansy reference, like calling him a little doggie, but you're wrong, way wrong, Poodle was a bad motherfucker, even worse than me! He had mad respect too; one of the top players in the crowd, Poodle had a hand in everything— selling drugs, stealing cars, all sorts of shit.

Poodle's dad was Puerto-Rican and they looked a lot alike (except for the curls). His father was a heroin addict, like my mom, and perhaps that was one reason we bonded. We would often see him lurking in the alleys or on the rooftops when we rolled together. His dad was always trying to scam money out of Poodle, and when cornered, Poodle would usually cave in and throw him a few bucks. I saw the disgust in Poodles eye every time his pop showed up begging, but I saw the pain also and it reminded me of mine. Not willing to show any weakness Poodle would often joke with his dad, asking him why he ain't dead yet, while laughing and winking at me. I never laughed or smiled back, I understood. But his dad would laugh, he laughed with Poodle while holding out his hand. He didn't last long. I think he overdosed during my second stint in juvee. I heard the cops found him curled up inside an abandoned pigeon coop, no more feed for him. I think Poodle was glad when it was over. He seemed to walk around less anxious, less agitated; he didn't have to worry about bumping into his dad no more.

In my neighborhood, perhaps thirty percent of the kids know both of their parents, and in that group, at least one of the parents is fucked up, and often, both. Jail, drugs, alcohol, mental problems, you name it we got the representation. But we had some real gems too. Poodles' mom was a beautiful person. She always had a huge smile and a warm hug. She would often lecture me when I dropped by to pick Poodle up.

She would tell me to stay in school, stay off the streets, go to church, be civic, and shit like that. She never laid it on to thick, just enough to get you thinking. I listened to her at first, not wanting to be disrespectful, but Poodle always zoned her out. Soon enough I didn't hear her either. I remember her kind smile and wise words and I regret not listening. I wish I could still hear her.

But who really listens in the hood? My sister Nadine left us to go where, another city, some other ghetto. It's all the same, you gotta be lucky to be one of the few who escapes.

For me, number 7, I ain't had no good luck; I haven't been luck to no one since I was a single digit. As for Poodle, he was my scoutmaster; he guided me toward crimes that made shoplifting seem like jaywalking. He liked the shit we done too. He did it for fun, for kicks, he was a bad motherfucker. But I'm getting ahead of myself, Poodle wasn't involved in my shoplifting schemes, and this story has a timeline, my union with Poodle comes later.

Now then, I was making a killing, and didn't have to do shit but wait for my crews to return. But I often grew bored just hanging around the way so I'd occasionally run a crew for fun, just for something to do. One day in February, I didn't feel like rolling dice or smoking a spliff with my sister's friends, so I headed downtown with nine of my boys instead. Sporting a triple fat goose, with an empty knapsack strapped to my back, I hit the train station eager to get myself paid. I hadn't run with the pack for a good while so I was excited and a little edgy. By this time in my enterprise, the security guards at all the major stores prepared as best they could for my crews to come rolling by.

They often had a street patrol waiting for us. It was a game, it was priceless and it was fun. Once spotted, the street patrols would call out our location and then move with us around the building from door to door. Meanwhile guards on the inside would gather in each vestibule and together in a huge entourage, we would circle the building like a fucking merry-go-round. The guards outside were usually veterans, guys who knew the game and didn't take it personal. If we made it, we made it. Occasionally one of my boys caught a beat down, flexing on a specific guard. But most of the guards were thugs like us, just trying to stay straight, trying to escape. We generally shared a grudging respect. When I showed up it was a major event cause they knew I was the man. Once seen, I would always get special treatment, a personal escort while I circled the building. Around and around we'd go testing the fortifications.

Usually, when they made me, I would have my boys go through the motions just to cause anxiety. Eventually we would bounce to another store and test their skills, doing our rounds so to speak. We used different tactics of course, and sometimes confused them enough to make a big score. Splitting up, making kamikaze raids, or flash hits on a specific door where we would rush them like an army vanguard before they had a chance to set up. It was all in the timing. Once inside we were committed, some got caught but that was expected. The rest of us got away with mad shit.

When we rolled that particular day, we went straight to Macy's, our favorite target. Ed, the Security Supervisor was on the corner with two veteran guards, Paralta and Mronsky. Ed was a street kid done well from the east side, he did the rounds with us often and we rarely made an attempt while he was there. The consensus was, piss Ed off and you would get knotted up. Paralta was a thug from the Heights.

He would scrap if we fucked with him, but I had already wooed him over and we did some good business together. He worked with us on the sly (you can never take the street out of someone raised in the hood).

I guess he became disgusted with the job, or they screwed him in some way, he never said, but one day he started letting my boys hit his door for a cut. He would snag one of us for show, and then meet me later for his take. Mronsky on the other hand, was mean as shit, didn't give a fuck, and didn't play. He was a huge motherfucker and believed in what he was doing, protecting the merchandise, guarding the Man. We hated him, but respected him enough to stay out of his reach. We named him the white ape, that scary motherfucker. I heard that he became a cop, bad news for some motherfuckers I'm sure. With that group on street patrol, we had little chance of pulling a hit. It was early though, and we knew the three of them would be clocking out at 4:00.

That was when the part timers took over, and that is when we made our money. But it was fun playing the game while we waited, and it was always good to agitate the enemy. My crew rolled with their hoods cinched up, knapsacks tight against the back, sneakers double laced in battle dress. We crossed the street and stood with Ed on the corner, a bunch of wolves circling two wild cats and a big white ape.

Ed smiled at me and said in a cool even tone, "Not today Nat."

I winked at him, spun the Gillette in my mouth so they could see it and said to the boys "We out."

That's how it worked, respect me, and I'll respect you back, his personal acknowledgment was as good as a bow. We worked the Gap, A&S, Lord and Taylor, nothing happening though. We weren't interested in the Gap, they were on the downslide, A&S was always a big challenge and never really worth much effort. The store was in a mall, which meant two sets of security guards to get by and the only door that exited street side directly from A&S was always stocked up. We played cat and mouse with them for a while, just to let them know we were around. Lord and Taylor was slick, they kept everything we were interested in on the top two floors. We couldn't rush in and out in our signature flash hits. We got in easy enough, but getting out was a gauntlet. We made a few passes for fun, but were just killing time, waiting for the switch at Macy's.

Chapter Four

Around six in the evening, when after-work shoppers were bustling in and out of stores and rush hour commuters raced by oblivious to everything but their wallets (ever vigilant for the pickpockets who also clocked in for the evening shift) we began our operation. We pulled a feint on the two 7th Avenue doors, just to test their reaction, see who was on post. Most of the second shift guards were short term, rotating part-timers who quickly lost interest in a job that offered little pay and major headaches.

The part-timers usually bounced in 2 to 3 months. I sent half my pack straight through one door, and waited outside the second, eyes glued on the guard. When my boys rushed, the guard from the second door ran over to help. As soon as he left, we struck, slipping through the now abandoned door. We headed straight for Polo, which was midway through the store on the back end of the building. Sometimes they have a guard stationed in Polo, as if Ralphie pays extra for that worthless service. It didn't matter, it never did, one guard, three, ten, once we were in raid stage we were gettin' paid.

On this particular evening, a new kid happened to be there, tall, gangly, and moving in awkward jerks as he fumbled for his radio to call for help; I remember his bad acne and his ridiculous earring. Why someone would wear face jewelry when he looked like he got smacked with a cactus is beyond me, but there he was, a sun burnt scarecrow between us and gettin' paid.

I saw the fear in his eyes as we fanned out through the racks of clothing heading straight for him like guided missiles. We split up, synchronized, a coordinated squadron of five raiders zipping around the merchandise stuffing each other's backpacks with gear. We worked in teams, first one pack, and then the next. It was efficient, it was quick, and man, it was art! We grabbed jackets, jeans, and shirts; whatever, as long as it was name brand. Those silly security devices never mattered, we weren't worried about setting off alarms on the way out, and we had the tools to remove them later.

The gangly guard grabbed Eddie, the smallest kid on my crew, an easy catch. I played this situation a little different from normal, usually we would continue to load up and let whoever got nabbed struggle alone. But this guard was new and seemed easy to intimidate, so once my pack was filled I moved toward them. I spit out my razor and told the pimply guard that I'd slice his ass if he didn't let Eddie go.

The kid looked at the Gillette in my hand and stepped back so fast he knocked over a rack of discount shirts. He fell to the floor still staring at my razor. We all laughed as we jetted out, especially little Eddie, who threw a hanger at him.

We split into two groups, Eddie and I headed straight for 6th avenue, while the others aimed for a side door through Cosmetics. We knew the D-units (under cover guards) would be right behind us closing quickly. Our plan was to barrel through the doors and rendezvous a couple of blocks uptown, our usual routine. Whoever made it, made it. My pack was heavy. The straps dug into my shoulders and the weight pulled at my lower back. A good score, maybe eight or nine hundred dollars worth of gear. As we neared the door on 35th street, I saw three guards shuffling about with radios stuck to their faces trying to get a bead on us. We were weaving in and out of the aisle, doing our best to keep customers in front of us. It was going to be close.

I pulled my pepper spray out and ducked into slippers. There were no cameras in slippers, who would worry about slippers? I hid behind a clear plastic cubby filled with fluffy pink clogs. I had a clear view of the exit and waited to see what little Eddie would do. He had cut toward the middle of the store near women's accessories. I was hoping the guards would head that way thinking we were going to make a break up the center. The 6th Avenue side of the building had three entrances, one on each corner and one in the middle. When we looked to break out on that side of the building it was always like "The Price is Right," which door holds the prize? You gotta understand the rush was fun, but the flight was the best, it was exhilarating. No rules, it was every man for himself, and how you make it out is chanced upon the luck you drew, the skill you used, and in a pinch, how ruthless your intent.

I watched two of the guards bolt toward the middle entrance, and immediately made my move. I flew down the aisle moving toward the left entrance. I hit a side door, one of two that allowed people to enter without going through the revolving doors that dominated the middle of the entrance.

The remaining guard saw me and ran into the vestibule to cut me off. We met there and I paused. He was one of the Christmas part-timers kept on after the season because he had made some good collars. I think his name was Talbert, a big black athletic kid, with lots of pride. The kind of brother who tries to preach to you, steer you straight, sorta like Poodles' mom. You know the type. Preacher or not, at that moment he was just an obstacle to me gettin' paid and his shit wasn't happening. He lunged at me like a linebacker. Had he caught me, I'm sure it would've brought me down, but I was quick, even with the heavy backpack.

I knew he was going to lunge, call it intuition, or experience, or just common sense, but the speed he generated bolting into the vestibule gave him no other option. He went with the momentum. Because I had done the exact opposite, pausing, I was able to dodge and sidestepped him. He flew by me and vainly reached out with his left hand, hoping to snag my leg. Now normally, I wouldn't spray a guard unless I absolutely had too, and in this case, I didn't; I could have continued out the door and headed uptown. But Talbert had grabbed some of my boys during the holiday, and I heard he was rough, so I made a snap decision to teach him a lesson. I waited near the outer door for him to turn around and come at me again. I saw another guard running down the hall toward us, but I gauged the distance and knew I had enough time to educate Talbert. Unfortunately, I never looked behind me. As expected, Talbert turned around and rushed at me again. I smiled while I raised the pepper spray. He saw the spray can but didn't stop, which surprised me, scared me a little too, but I knew the power of the can, and trusted it like a beat cop trusts his nightstick.

I sprayed a thick stream right into his face when he was no more than two feet away. A direct hit, his head smothered in a gray fog. Simultaneously, I pushed out the door backward as the second guard burst into the vestibule. As I pivoted to run, I felt a rush of air behind me, immediately followed by a hard thump, as a big body slammed me against the open door. I wasn't outside yet, I was sort of in-between, on the threshold. The force of the blow snapped the door back against the hinges and sprang me, and the motherfucker that hit me, into the vestibule like a whip. As I fell, I felt a sharp sting against my wrist above the hand that held the pepper spray. I watched my hand release the can as I slammed into the floor. The large body that pummeled me into the ground belonged to a cop who just happened to be walking up the street as I was exiting the store. He must have seen me spray Talbert and timed his attack perfectly.

Two very unfortunate results occurred from his impact. First, because we used knapsacks with a large main compartment, nothing extra, no frills (more space for merchandise) my pack didn't have any padding. Upon contact with the floor, the cops' weight drove one of the hard plastic security tags into my spine. I think the fucking thing actually burrowed in like a tick. It hurt like hell, and ever since that day, I've had an occasional pain in that very spot. Second, the unexpected jolt loosened the razor in my mouth. Normally, it sat comfortably between the inside of my right cheek and my back teeth, but it must have slipped on impact with the door as I involuntarily flinched. Briefly loose in my mouth, it found a home deep in my tongue as I was driven to the floor.

Aware that I'd been hurt I tried to spit it out, but I didn't have the wind. Instead, it jabbed upward into the roof of my mouth and wedged there, vertically, for the hard landing. The razor bit deeply and embedded between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. And when we landed on the floor, it hurt like a motherfucker. When the cop rolled off me, the second guard put his knee on my neck and pressed down hard, the pressure caused my mouth to open and I saw thick blood pour out. Since I had no air in my lungs, I panicked, struggling to breathe. I tried to push up off the floor but the guard pinned me down. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and I was bleeding heavily from the inside of my ruined mouth. I thought for sure I was going to die. The cop cuffed me roughly, then, I guess, he looked at my face, because he immediately told the guard to back off. After another few seconds of agony, rolling back and forth, I got some air into lungs and made a weak attempt to spit the razor out. But the thing was stuck and I was too scared to stretch my mouth open, afraid my tongue might fall out.

I remember everything going hazy. The gray slacks of the milling guards around me muted into one canvas; mechanical radio voices initially shrill from excited communications dulled into a low whine; the scent of pepper in the air grew faint, and the sour taste of my own blood was not enough to keep me aware. I think I was still rolling back and forth trying to get more air into my lungs when I finally passed out. I don't recall getting up. You remember shit like that when you got enough time on your hands. You remember everything. I got somewhere in the range of sixty to seventy stitches for that incident. My tongue split almost in half, forked like a snakes. The Doctor in the emergency room said the inside of my mouth looked like a ruptured appendix. They took pictures for some medical journal and told me it would have been worse had the razor lodged in my throat. I don't know how much worse, but I didn't care, the pain and swelling in my mouth was enough for me. I remember how I couldn't talk for a whole month, and I was only able to drink food. It was horrible. I was in juvee lock-up and faced a number of charges, the worst being first-degree assault. I regret that move, spraying Talbert, had I been less inclined to make a point, I would have seen the cop and had a better chance of getting away. As is, I ended up with a little over three-year's juvenile detention (the actual sentence was 40 months).

I didn't have a chance fighting it, so I pleaded guilty to all counts. I was a minor so it was just child time anyway, no big deal. A juvenile record didn't mean shit, felonies or not. I only served 22 months anyway; even in juvee, beds are a problem. The rest of my sentence, I served on probation. I was also banned from being within five blocks of the store (whatever), ordered to serve 240 hours of community service, and other bullshit stuff. But basically I got twenty-two months and 60 stitches.

Chapter Five

That was the last time I carried a razor in my mouth. It was also the last time I shoplifted. I still ran the show for a while after I got out, received my share, and so on, but that Talbert shit kept me at a distance. Moreover, the other kids who had stepped up while I was gone resented my return.

If it were not for my sisters, I wouldn't have had any weight at all. My reign was at an end and that was just as well, it was all part of the process; besides Poodle helped me move on to bigger and better things. Little Eddie became my successor and he carried on with exceptional talent and innovation. The bodegas continued to be well stocked, and I often received gifts of choice gear out of respect for my prior leadership. As far as I know, the bum rush is still going on, hood kids gettin' paid and raising hell. You're welcome.

I was 16 when I got out of juvee. My twin sisters were 21, and they were able to take custody. Social Services (DSS) had major reservations, but my sisters had money, a decent place to live, and they were blood. Who could fuck with blood? The courts were not going to send me to a group home when there was family willing to give some love. My probation officer was a dyke bitch who thought controlling inner-city kids kept her in touch with her maternal instinct, if you know what I mean, but her manliness kept interfering. I would have preferred jail instead. At least in juvee I knew the score. That bitch showed up at all hours, ensuring I was home before the end of my curfew. She also visited my school, to make sure I wasn't playing hooky. School was an obvious part of my sentence, stupid fucks were always trying to rehabilitate. I had to stay in school or I would violate. I could barely read, only knew street math, and special education always had the worst teachers. I don't know if the system will ever get it right, or maybe they got it just the way they want it— a sinister plan. Profess to help the hoods, but give them "gave-ups" as instructors. I remember sitting in a room with a bunch of other delinquents reading Dick and Jane books; it was depressing.

My sisters were also pissed at Miss, or better, Mr. Crenshaw (that dyke bitch), her comings and goings were a major concern. The twins stashed their drugs at our place and that bitch was unpredictable. Could you imagine her showing up during business? Crenshaw was a fucking annoyance and had to go. The twins complained to DSS that she was overzealous, that she was trying to find a reason to throw me back in juvee. They told the Director that Crenshaw threatened them, a boldfaced lie, but one that got the needed results. The Director transferred my case to another Probation Officer, a more disinterested PO, indifferent, the kind we liked. We were all glad, but it took four months before it finally happened, four long months of Crenshaw prodding me with her pitchfork. On my downtime (that was any time she wasn't snooping around), Poodle was introducing me to more lucrative ways of gettin' paid. My next step in street crime progression: stick-ups, a 50-50 split and a relatively easy process once you get the intimidation factor down.

I pulled my first stick-up with Poodle about two months out of juvee. We scoped an old lady cashing her SSI check at a local numbers spot. Poodle said he didn't like robbing the old folks, but since I was a cherry, he wanted an easy target, at least to start with. Personally, I didn't care who I was going to rob, I just wanted to get paid.

It was all the same to me, I mean why should I care who the victim is. But Poodle, he taught me to respect the elderly in the hood, to never hurt them, and always leave them something, never take it all. I have to admit I didn't understand this exception; I was sixteen, heartless, and didn't give a shit for anyone- elderly, child, puppy, whatever! I didn't give a fuck, but this was his show, so I listened to him. And I have to say, all these years later I'm glad I did, cause you got to have some morals, even just one, and hurting innocent people ain't something you want to live with when you got all the time in the world to be thinking about it.

I remember watching her walk from the numbers spot to a little grocery store on the corner. She shuffled along slowly, stooped over with her purse clutched tight against her chest. I remember thinking that she must've been robbed before. After she finished shopping, we followed her down the street into an apartment building. We hung out near the entrance pretending we were waiting for someone, waiting actually, until she entered the elevator. Then we pounced. When the elevator door closed, we raced up the stairs to the second landing and pushed the button. My heart was beating with excitement, the thrill of it, and the eagerness. When the door opened, she knew, her eyes went dim and she bowed her head. We entered the elevator, with Poodle telling her not to worry, that we weren't going to hurt her. She muttered something about not having any money. Poodle told me to take a look. When I reached for her purse, she drew back. I raised my hand and was going to flex, but Poodle intervened and said that wasn't the way. He ordered the woman to hand over the purse and stop fussing. He said it cold and even, and I swear I would've handed him my leg if his eyes were leveled at me.

She held out her purse reluctantly and said we should be ashamed of ourselves. I rifled through her bag and told her to shut the fuck up. Poodle barked and slapped me in the head, not hard, but enough to startle me. He told me not to talk to her that way that it was disrespectful. I stared at him momentarily stunned.

I mean, what the fuck were we doing anyway? The whole fucking thing was disrespect, but I didn't take offense, I was the student and this was his game. I shook my head though, to let him know I thought he was bugging out and continued my search.

I found about four hundred and sixty dollars in bills, some loose change, and fifty dollars in food stamps. I showed it to Poodle. The lady started to cry, and told Poodle it was all she had. Poodle asked her if she needed to buy any medicine. She said she needed to buy blood pressure medication, about sixty dollars worth. Poodle considered for a moment then took $160.00 out of my hand and told me to put the rest back in her bag.

"That should hold you till next month," he said.

I didn't say shit, I was surprised, but I held my tongue. It wasn't my game, at least not yet, so I just went with the flow. Can you believe that she thanked him, as if we were doing her a favor? I don't know, maybe we were, but all I learned from that incident was that even a bad motherfucker like Poodle had a soft spot.

After my initiation, Poodle and I pulled stick-ups regularly but we didn't rob old people anymore. We were hitting the trains, robbing businessmen, professionals, preppie teens, shit like that. Sometimes we scored big; cash, jewelry, watches, and then sometimes it was slim pickings. On an average day, we banked a grand each. The most we ever took from a single victim was $6,200.00. That was a real good day. Poodle carried a 25 automatic that he pulled if someone tried to front, but usually just our presence and threats of violence were enough to make motherfuckers strip. The mere mention of a toolie kept even the boldest victims in line. We only flexed twice. The first time, this kid tried to be tough in front of his girlfriend, he didn't want to give up his sheepskin or his Gazelles. When Poodle pulled the gun, he still resisted, so I ended up slicing him across his cheek with a box cutter. I remember the thin red line marking the cut before blood shot out and his glasses flew off his face. Poodle thumped him on the head repeatedly with the 25, and kicked him mercilessly while the chick screamed. The train was pulling into a station and we needed to jet, so I grabbed the gazelles and we ran to the side door that connects the cars. Before the train came to a complete stop, we jumped off and made a clean getaway. Poodle was mad though, he said it was stupid slashing the kid.

"Once they're holding their face Nat, you can't get the coat off, and even if you do the jacket will be full of blood."

Well, I thought, at least we got the glasses. The second time we flexed, Natty got locked up again. We were looking for a big score; we had been on an empty streak for a while and needed to get paid. It was around nine on a weekday, Wednesday or Thursday, I can't recall exactly. We were passing through the train cars looking for prey. It was a warm spring night and the cars were empty, nothing interesting. In the second to last car, we finally found a good target. Sitting alone, staring at nothing, sat a white male about thirty years old sporting large rimmed glasses. Perfect! He had a peevish look about him, a book type, nerdy. He wore a dark blue blazer and gray slacks. A briefcase lay across his lap. He sat stiffly, eyes ahead with his hands planted flat on top of the case. What an easy score, I thought. How wrong I was. We made some serious mistakes during that hit, mistakes that cost us big. We should have known better.

First, we should have waited, watched him more closely, looked around a bit, but we didn't. Second, we should have wondered why he was in the back of the train. No peevish, book type rode in the back of the train at 9:00 o'clock at night, especially if the train was empty.

People like him always ride in the middle cars near the conductor, always. A third mistake was not walking by to check the last car, standard protocol. But we were in a hurry to pounce; we were cagey and frustrated at our dry luck and forgot our heads. We must have meant to fuck up like it was fate or something cause we didn't hesitate, we didn't think, like cocky motherfuckers we moved right in.

We walked past our target and stood opposite each other at the next set of doors. Poodle was on the target side of the train, I was across. If you have ever ridden on a metro subway car, then you know the general layout. But for those of you who don't, the subway car we were in (technically known as a model R32, for you train buff's out there), was about sixty feet long by ten feet wide with benches stretched down the entire length on each side. In between each section, automatic double doors opened and closed at each station. Poodle and I stood at the doors just past the bench our target was sitting on. He was approximately a body length from us. He was still, looking straight ahead, but I knew he was aware. I remember thinking to myself that he must be countin' seconds, anxiously pushing the train with his will, hoping to get to the next station before the inevitable, but then it was an inevitable, and we all knew what train we were riding.

We all knew we were alone and would be for the length of time it would take. We had opportunity and he had no chance. Poodle placed a cigarette in his mouth and pretended to look for some matches; he turned toward our mark and casually asked him for a light. We should have suspected something right then, because the guy looked right at Poodle and gestured no, then glanced at me briefly, as if to size me up, and then straight ahead again. I don't mean we should have suspected something because he responded, I mean we should have suspected something because of how he responded. He knew the question was directed at him even though he had been looking straight ahead. He also responded smoothly and actually looked at us. A real mark fitting his description would have kept staring straight ahead paralyzed, unable to answer because tumbleweed was in his throat, unable to move because fear locked him in place. We fucked up because red flags were all over the place and we missed them. We were the real marks.

Poodle gave me a look that meant let's do it, so we moved toward him. He didn't budge; he didn't even tap his briefcase or shake his leg, or break a sweat. He sat still, looking straight ahead, as calm as pool water. When we reached him, I took out my box cutter so he could see it. Poodle smacked away the briefcase and barked,

"Give us all your shit motherfucker!"

We were on either side of him, ready to stomp the shit out of him if he moved. I was so edgy I wouldn't have hesitated slicing his ass. Poodle startled me with his sudden move; we never worked like that before, that strong-arm shit. He must've been wary. He must've had some sense that this stick-up was going to be bad. But he blew it off, as did I. Like I said, we fucked up.

The man was calm. His hands were up, palms out, as he leaned back against the bench seat.

"Easy man, no problem," he said. But his eyes said something else. I'll always remember how I looked at those eyes and failed to notice the last big flag waving in my face. How anyone, wearing thick birth control glasses like his, not have magnified eyes? He should have looked like a cartoon character with huge eyes flooding the lenses, like looking through a fishbowl. This motherfucker, his eyes were normal, as if he didn't have glasses on at all. Snagged, we were snagged already having missed every clue.

The man reached into his blazer pocket with his left hand while watching my box cutter closely, professionally. Poodle didn't like the way he moved so he smacked him across the head in a sharp vicious swing. The man's glasses flew off his face, but instead of cowering, he lunged. He rushed me, grabbing my razor hand and barreled me back against the opposite bench. He must have braced himself right before his lunge because he hurtled into me with such force that my feet left the floor. I remember hearing him yell out "Police, freeze!"

A silly kind of response being that we were in motion, but it worked on me, at least it froze my mind. The back of my head hit the windowsill above the bench with a loud crack. As my head spun in a painful merry go round, I vaguely remember hearing the side doors open and running footsteps. I barely remember bouncing off the bench and sliding onto the floor, but as I faded into unconsciousness, the commotion I heard was an unmistakable ass kicking. I guess Poodle shouldn't have smacked the cop. I'm sure I caught a couple of courtesy blows too, but I wasn't awake to appreciate them. When I woke up later, shit was hurting all over, my bandaged head throbbed with a separate heartbeat, and my left side felt like Play-doh but hey, those are the breaks when Fate blinds your senses.

Chapter Six

A throbbing head was the least of my concerns. I seriously violated probation and faced additional felony charges that practically guaranteed a long stretch in jail (at least that was what I initially thought). Police in general, aren't always stupid, the media likes to point out dumb cops and shoddy police work every chance they get, but for the most part, cops that work stings, undercover operations, "real" investigations, are relatively smart, they just fuck up every once in a while. They're often over adrenalized and move too soon. When cops work an undercover gig like the sting they pulled on Poodle and me, they must ensure that each element of the crime is met before they move in; the law demands this. A missing step often results in dropped charges, much to the irritation of the cops. Prosecutors have big egos and prefer clean cases so that their career paths don't get muddy. If the shit ain't tight, it generally gets cut.

Now, I'm obviously no fan of the lawman, but I would have to agree with their general motto "safety first," fuck the elements when you're in danger. Cop or crook or even a little kitty cat, knows that saving your ass always comes first. Hesitating at that fine line is the biggest reason why cops get smoked and criminals get away. In my case, the undercover cop made his move before the criminal act was complete, now common sense tells you a robbery was going down, but property wasn't actually taken before the cop attacked. Therefore, according to my lawyer, armed robbery wouldn't stick. He was sure of it.

My lawyer did say they had solid cases on attempted robbery, assault, menacing and a number of other charges, but the big one wasn't even on the table, so the eight to twelve years I was dreading was gone, just like that!

My lawyer said I was in good shape. Realistically, I was only looking at attempted robbery, menacing, and possession of a weapon to commit a crime. All felonies, but he was sure he could get them reduced on a plea bargain. He told me the prosecution would probably insist that I plea to at least one felony, and he was absolutely sure they would demand I testify against Poodle, but all in all, I was just looking at 15 to 36 months, plus the remainder of my previous sentence. Poodle, unfortunately, was fucked. He wasn't no juvenile, he hit the cop, and he had the gun. My lawyer said if I was willing to cooperate, we could pin the whole thing on Poodle and I might even walk with nothing more than violating probation. He admitted that I would have to sell Poodle out, and I would have to convince a jury that I was only along for the ride, which would be a hard sell with my previous conviction, but the DA might go for it.

I was not sure how to play my hand, Natty ain't no rat, but I saw the benefit of blaming it all on Poodle. But how would that turn for me? Was Poodle willing to take the fall alone, or would he mention other robberies we pulled to fuck me back? How about the cut I gave that kid with the sheepskin, how hard would it be for the cops to tie that in. I could see Poodles aces if I started pointing the finger. Now don't get me wrong, criminals do have a code of honor, albeit a loose one, but when it comes to paying for your crimes, we are all just looking out for number one. The big question was what was down the line. If I ate the charges and told the DA to screw, would I be fucking myself for no good reason? Did it make a difference? After careful consideration, I decided that selling Poodle out was not in my best interest. I already had felonies under my belt and the bitter taste of treachery didn't appeal to me— fuck the Ides of March. Besides, the more I looked at the case, the more I realized cooperation wasn't going to help me in any significant way. The judge would likely run my sentences concurrently, so what difference does the number of felonies make when the time is the same. Fuck the Ides and fuck the DA too!

I pleaded guilty and ended up with eighteen months on top of my violation, which just happened to be another eighteen months. I ate two felony convictions: One for attempted robbery and one for possession of the box cutter; the other counts were dismissed. The judge reduced both felonies to class C's and ran them concurrently. The total sentence was thirty-six months with all but eighteen suspended plus the remainder of my previous sentence, which was another twelve months. All told, twenty-eight months.

I was in juvee since the arrest, some joint that was more constructive than punitive, a reformatory rather than a jail, a place that wanted to build a brother up. I kept a low profile while I waited to see what happened with my case. I was respectful, followed orders and kept to myself. I guess my humble disposition impressed the staff cause they hooked me up on the pre-sentencing report. The report painted a picture of a Nat I didn't know, and surprised the shit out of me when my lawyer read it out loud even, but I was grateful all the same.

They asked the judge for leniency, citing my quiet disposition and the fact that I admitted my guilt. They felt I could still be rehabilitated so they implored the court to spare another hopeless ghetto kid. I ain't gave them no cause to help me, I just minded my business, but hey I thought, let them say what they see, whether it's blind bullshit or not, as long as it reduced my sentence. Thank God, I didn't go back to the Privett House (that was where I served my time for the Talbert thing). Had I been sent back there, I'm sure the report would have had an arrow pointing down to hell. I wasn't no humble kid in that joint, rather, I was, and I quote "The worst motherfucker ever!" Some of the counselors at the Privett House lost more than a few golden years, and at least one— I laugh when I think of him— lost a whole damned decade because of me, but that was then and I ain't going to elaborate. The goal of the report at hand, according to my lawyer, was to keep me out of the adult prison system, in hopes that I could turn my life around before I really fucked up.

The way the numbers worked out, I would serve the majority of the sentence (approximately fifteen months), in juvee, about six months shy of my eighteenth birthday. Then, depending on my behavior, I would go into a halfway house for another five months, then probation for the remaining eight. After that, my debt to society would be paid in full, no strings attached. The catch was, if I fucked up along the way, the possibility existed (hovering like a floating devil), that I would be transferred to an adult facility to finish my sentence (including the eighteen months that were suspended). There was a mandatory regulation on the books that said an incarcerated juvenile upon reaching the age of eighteen, will be transferred to adult prison forthwith.

It didn't matter where you were in your sentence, a day, a year or ten, your ass would bridge the system inside a week of your birthday and then you'd get a real nice gift.

The original idea, I guess, was meant to limit juvenile sentencing and to a lesser degree, to deter further juvenile delinquency. I mean the threat of going to "real" prison scared some kids straight. Of course, the shit didn't work on everyone and plenty of eighteen year olds became bitches for guys named Killa or Dread before they had a chance to wet their own dicks. I remember the stories when I was in juvee the first time, the older kids were scared shitless as they approached the big 18. Younger inmates would bust their balls constantly cause those sorry motherfuckers wouldn't risk flexing and screw up their out date. Worse than that, were those poor mofo's with a bridge sentence, they walked around in a death row haze and spent their time praying and lifting weights, counting the days till spit and stiff welcomed them to their new home. Many juvee plea bargains hinged on keeping the jail time limited to juvee lock up, and like I said, I was very grateful.

Poodle wasn't so lucky; he was twenty-one with a prior robbery conviction. He had hit the cop and made the verbal threat, which cemented intent. And they found the 25 auto on him. He was looking at a mandatory minimum for the gun, at least three years for assault and three more for the attempted robbery.

My lawyer said if the DA wants to close the case, he'd probably offer a deal where Poodle will get about seven years. If Poodle declines and goes to trial, he can get up to 15 years upon conviction. Poodle wasn't no fool and he knew they had him dead to rights so he copped the plea and took the seven-year bid.

I did my time quietly; I followed the rules and stayed out of trouble. One could say Nat was a model prisoner. I spent my free time working out and watching television. School was mandatory, but education was optional. Sure, there were some do-gooder counselors and teachers at the detention center, who tried to get us interested in learning, but there were no penalties for failing, all we had to do was attend. I listened to the lessons but I never really paid attention. At that point in my life education wasn't my gig. That came later, after wisdom and experience counseled me.

Chapter Seven

I was five months shy of eighteen when they released me to a halfway house (I served exactly fifteen months). I kept the same low profile I had perfected in juvee, playing one of those "trying to stay straight roles." The counselors thought I was legit so they let me come and go as I pleased. My only restriction was that I had to be in house by ten each night. They didn't push school on me because in less than a year I could choose if I wanted to go or not. Instead, they let me do my own thing, as long as I wasn't causing any trouble. For five months, I had to keep my nose clean, and then I could move out. I would have an additional eight months of probation to serve, and dreaded getting another Crenshaw, but I would be on my own and felt I could handle that.

Since Poodle was unavailable, I shied away from stick-ups, he was my partner and I didn't feel like I could work those jobs solo. I needed money though, so I went to work for my sisters. Audrey and Sheryl had moved up during the two years I was locked up. Crack had become the shit and they had three busy spots that were making mad loot.

They let me hustle for them. I worked a corner for $2,000.00 a week. I had four to five workers under me who would do the real hustling; I managed the stash and counted the cash. Crack was a crazy fucking get-high. I ain't ever tried it, but watching how motherfuckers bugged out over it, I knew its power. Often, crack fiends would bring us stolen goods for a hit. We preferred cash, but we definitely weren't a cash only business. Addicts would bring us everything for some rocks and they never got a fair exchange.

I would take a $300.00 VCR with the receptacle still attached from getting ripped out of some poor bastard's wall and offer a $20.00 jumbo. If the fiend bitched, we'd beat him down and take the VCR giving him nothing but lumps for his troubles. This one crack head, nicknamed Pan Doblado pronounced POND-DOE-BLAH-DOE, meaning, "Bent bread" (when he walked he looked like a loaf of bent bread), would catch a beating almost every day for acting up. Instead of finding somewhere else to score his crack, he continued to come back with new shit to trade. He'd show up all knotted up, smiling as if he didn't get his ass whipped the night before. We got a lot of practice on his dumb ass. That was crack though, a different kind of high. I'll bet it even cured some heroin addicts, but the remedy wasn't any better, just a different misery for them lost motherfuckers.

When I finally got out of the halfway house, I had enough bank saved up to get my own place. My sisters had an apartment that they were going to give me, but I had to see what kind of PO I got before I made any moves. My sisters used the spot to stash some of their shit, and I didn't want another curious PO snooping around. In the meantime, I lived with Audrey and her man Winston. Like Poodle, Winston was a street name. They called him Winston cause that's what he smoked. Everyone in my hood smoked Newports, but Audrey's man- he liked Winstons. He was all right. I ain't ever had a problem with Winston. My PO turned out to be all right too. He was in his fifties and been doing corrections for thirty-two years. He had seen it all and didn't really give a fuck. Unlike Crenshaw, he didn't make no spot checks, or try to catch me out there. He told me when we first met "Son, if you're gonna fuck-up then you're gonna fuck-up."

His reasoning was fine by me, I took that noose and slung it over my shoulder, it eventually wound its way around my neck, but I had some fun before that happened.

I appreciated my sisters' help but I was anxious to do my own thing. Hustling drugs wasn't bad or anything, and it definitely lined my pockets, but it wasn't my gig, too many hours standing around watching and waiting. Nat needed to be mobile. Besides I missed the power and excitement I felt when robbing people. Crack heads just weren't that much fun.

I was young and angry and gettin' paid had to have a thrill to it, turning chumps for their gear beat smacking drug addicts any day. Poodle got out of prison about a year after I left the halfway house. He served 36 months and had four years of parole to look forward too, but that wasn't no deterrent. We hooked up immediately. I was still running a corner for my sisters but I was bored sick. I was off my own probation four months by then and really wanted to get it on.

We started stick-ups again, but only did a few when I mentioned how the crack heads were always bringing me stolen shit. I was interested in doing some burglaries; I told him that it must be exciting.

"Hell Nat, you crazy like me, sure we'll do some break-ins, and it'll be fun as shit!"

We started small, stealing tools and equipment from the janitors in local buildings. They usually stored their shit in the basement and as long as there weren't any dogs, we didn't have problems breaking in.

At first, we took as much as we could, but that stuff is heavy and even big ass Nat had problems carrying some of that shit out. We learned what sold and what didn't, so we limited our selection to power tools and special equipment. We discovered that there was a huge market for power tools and we did surprisingly well. But we lost interest soon enough, not much fun breaking into basements, and the word was out among the landlords so they started getting dogs, and there ain't nothing like a dog to keep your shit safe.

We moved on to small businesses. It was more dangerous and required precise planning, but it sure was fun, and after some practice, it became quite lucrative.

Poodle knew how to read much better than I did, he was cunning smart too, the kind of smart that (with a specific purpose in mind) can retain all sorts of useful shit. He studied books on security stuff: alarm systems, motion detectors, safes, lock picking. He learned, and then taught me, and together we applied. We took our work seriously and became good enough to fantasize about hitting more expensive stores uptown— real thieves, professionals, with the gumption to go for the diamonds.

But we were smart, cautious, and stuck to the small Mom and Pop stores in the hood: electronics repair, pawnshops, hardware stores. We discovered that many of the owners of these smaller shops kept all sorts of additional valuables on premises. Many of them actually trusted their meager security measures, trusted them more than a bank. What the fuck is up with that FDIC? Out of maybe fifteen burglaries, we scored more than expected ten times. How 'bout those numbers? You would think that street-smart businesses would put their valuables in a bank or a safety deposit box, especially people running stores in the ghetto. But time after time we would drill through a safe in the back of a dive and hit pay dirt: cash, jewelry, bonds, personal documents, even secret shit like love notes and dildos, those stupid fucks!

When we marked a likely target, we cased the joint and studied the daily routine. We tracked when deposits were made, when deliveries arrived, if there were any unusual late night activity, shit like that. We developed Intel that would impress a spy ring (not bad for a couple of hood thugs). We were also very disciplined. If we spent two weeks watching a place and then decided it wasn't worth hitting, we would simply move on, no whining, no bitching, just a professional decision to shit can the operation. We each had equal say in the scores, we were partners and the split was always down the middle. This arrangement compelled us to listen to one another. We walked away from a number of scores because either Poodle or I caught a bad vibe. We always erred on the side of caution, ingrained, you can say, since that fateful stick-up. When we pulled a job, it was always worth the time and effort, and those two weeks we lost here and there, we made up in spades, and never regretted missed opportunities.

We regularly scored ten grand a hit each, often more, but rarely less. We only took small items, things we could carry on our persons: jewelry, cash, and small electronics. We carried hockey bags that could hold a lot of stuff, which we strapped to our backs as necessary. We never stayed longer than thirty minutes, and were careful not to leave traces. We used new tools on every job and left them on scene when we bounced. Tools stolen of course, sometimes even from previous scores. Always gloved, we never touched anything with bare hands and constantly changed our entry methods to confuse the cops. We knew that they would eventually find a pattern, but we weren't helping them much.

We fenced our goods through my sisters' network. Audrey and Sheryl were now big time around the way, and they knew people all over the place: drug dealers, gun dealers, gangs, we never had a problem liquidating our take. We were having fun and making mad money. Shit was going smooth. Sheryl was still with Poodle but after he got locked up on our stick-up thing, their relationship cooled. She wasn't serious about anything but her business no more, and Poodle wasn't interested in working for her. They still hooked up now and then but it wasn't the same as before. As for Tasha, she ended up becoming a gopher for the twins anyway. After she spent a year in juvee, thanks to me (she had been caught in Lord and Taylor's with a bag full of fragrances about four months before I got hooked on the Talbert thing).

It's a shame, actually, because she had branched off from me about a year before the Talbert mess to do her own boosting. She had a nice gig with the neighborhood salons. She stole name brand cosmetics; perfumes, nail polish, and stuff like that, and then sold it wholesale around the way. But that year in detention fucked her up, and she didn't shoplift anymore after that. I never asked, but I suspect she was abused in juvee. She was quiet and timid before she got locked up, but she was even more recluse when she got out. Tasha was pretty and well proportioned, and being easy to intimidate, it didn't take much speculation to figure out that someone took advantage of her.

Since Poodle was on parole, he had to maintain a legitimate job for appearances. He worked evenings as a Porter in an office building uptown and actually made some decent ching. He also lucked out by landing a lazy PO; as long as he stayed employed and didn't get into any trouble, he was all set. As for me, I landed a stockroom job in a name brand clothing store before I got off my own probation (I can't tell you the store name for reasons to be explained later). I worked steady hours during the day while Poodle worked the nights. It was a perfect arrangement for our real work. When we marked a target, I would stake it out during the evenings and Poodle would watch it during the day. When I finished my probation, I could have left that bullshit day job, but I didn't, it was a good front. We had a good thing going, and I didn't want to change anything.

Chapter Eight

Before long, I set my eye on the very store I was working for, and like the Grinch, I was forming "a naughty idea, a nasty idea, a naughty and nasty idea." Thinking back, I truly believe that this shit set itself up, as if Fate orchestrated it. I mean I already had this thing for apparel theft, and with all our recent burglary experience, it was only a matter of time before we gave it a go at a real store. By the way, if you're wondering how I could land a job in retail, especially in a clothing store, it's easy enough to explain. The liberal philosophy of rehabilitation with all of its good and righteous intentions sometimes shames a person, or an employer, into dismissing common sense. This particular company built on the shoulders of hippy ideals back in the 1960's had a policy of helping the under-privileged and misdirected. They had an agreement with the state to employ rehabilitated juvenile delinquents (in menial go nowhere jobs) to show their commitment to fair chance and equal opportunity. It was bullshit, demeaning policy, which reeked of pomposity and ostentatious philanthropy.

Because I worried that Poodle and I would eventually get reckless with the Mom and Pop burglaries (it was just a matter of time before we caught some bad luck), and because I felt that I had good cause, I toyed with the idea of making a real score with our thieving enterprise. I was genuinely disgusted at the constant patronizing I felt working at this store, also, I believed that the yuppie fucks in charge were just as dumb as those who owned the smaller shops we robbed. Therefore, I came up with a plan to completely clean out this particular store. I nursed the idea for a long time, keeping it to myself while Poodle and I worked other gigs. I knew it would bring the heat on, I also knew I would be the prime suspect. I weighed the worth, the robin-hoodiness of it. Was it worth the after-math? I hadn't decided yet, but it was constantly on my mind like a bad thought that itches to be shared. I mulled over my plan for an entire year, in which time me and Poodle must've pulled five or six burglaries.

During the wait, I had become a trusted employee for the very yuppies I so despised. I received a number of employee incentive awards and management often praised me for my dedication and reliability. But of course, they never considered me for a supervisory slot. I was just a fucked up hood delinquent too dumb to be in charge of anything. When Larry left (the Stockroom Supervisor), I had my chance, they had no choice but to let me handle things for a while. I ran the show for two whole months. I was in charge of the deliveries, counting and sorting the inventory, and prepping the merchandise for sale. I had six employees reporting to me, and let me tell you, shit got done. Everyone thought I was going to get the promotion; instead, they gave the job to some new kid that transferred in from another store. He wasn't even in the stockroom; he worked in sales upstairs, in the denim department. I felt betrayed; I guess you can say I felt like Paralta. Those yuppie fucks, they'll never know that that could have been the key to my future, a way out, trust, real trust, a crossroad where I might have made a better choice.

Instead, they pushed me to scratch an itch, and I did. I ain't never wanted no handouts since, and from that moment on, whatever I wanted I took. Of course, they tried to downplay the slap in my face, standing in their oxford button downs, and penny loafers, feigning surprise.

"Nat, this guy Dustin, he was selected by Region. It wasn't in house; you know you were our man." As if to mollify, as if to sooth.

Fuck that bullshit. I talked to Dustin; I asked him whom he knew. He told me that Maude was his brother's girlfriend. He said he only worked for the company about four months, and didn't know anything about the stockroom, he said that I was supposed to teach him— him, my new boss. Maude was the Senior Manager in my store, the queen bitch herself. Not in house, huh?, no problem I thought, one day soon, Dustin was going to come to work to supervise a stockroom and find out that he didn't have any stock!

What initially caught my interest, a year or so before, was an old stockroom entrance from a by-gone era, which was still accessible to someone in the know. A pair of old metal doors that laid flat against the outside pavement of the alley that ran behind the store. The kind of doors you suddenly meet as you stride down city streets aware of nothing. When marking time to the dull thud of worn soles on cold sidewalks, a sharp clang vibrates through your body and invades your lonely thoughts. Fallout shelter doors that once waited to receive our parents and grandparents for a long winter night, when our country was playing tit for tat with the Soviet Union and everybody liked Ike. These doors appeared unused for years, if not decades.

So forgotten, they were virtually invisible. I studied them inside and out countless times. When I found myself alone in the stockroom, I would sneak up the rusty metal steps and examine the thin welds and the old rusty lock. On breaks, I would stroll down the alley and step onto the metal doors to test their strength; bouncing up and down softly, cautiously. I was convinced that with a little prep work I could get those doors to swing up like new. Swing up and down with no one the wiser until it didn't matter no more.

The stockroom of this particular establishment was actually three adjoining rooms interlinked by open entryways. Each room held different merchandise separated by type. We kept all the intimates, accessories, socks, shit like that in the front room. The middle room had all the jeans and khakis, while the back room held the shirts, sweaters and outerwear. It was an easy and convenient layout. In the rear of the back room, a door opened to a closet that held the electrical panels, boxes of extra hangers, and the flight of old stairs that lead to those two forgotten doors. I can't tell you why they were never sealed, those doors, maybe it had something to do with the fire code, but if that was the case, they would have been usable, but they were not. Besides, we had a fire exit in the front stock room. Whatever the reason, or lack of reason, they were soon gonna get used. There were only three things securing them: the welds already mentioned, which, by the way, were thin and brittle and already cracked in a number of places; a bolt latch that ran across the inside partition; and the old padlock which wasn't even hardened steel. The lock secured the latch and the welds kept out most of the rain, but as far as protecting the store, they were smoking crack. They could have put a big neon sign above those doors that read ROB ME PLEASE! For what their effort was worth.

They never bothered to install a simple contact alarm, a motion detector, or even a fake camera; they must have expected that everyone would be as blind to those doors as they were. Their set-up was embarrassing, and the opportunity was irresistible. That store begged for a major loss of inventory. For a year, I chewed on my lip and held my tongue, keeping my idea from Poodle. For a year, I robbed that place a hundred times in my dreams, sometimes waking up not sure that I hadn't actually done it. For an entire year, I expected to come to work one day and find out that someone beat me to it. That never happened though, cause this shit was my gig, it waited for me like a faithful dog waiting for a walk. Fate was patient and so was I, and after Maude screwed me by promoting that yuppie geek, I put my plan in motion.

The store was located in an affluent part of town. The neighboring buildings were impeccably maintained abodes, housing the finest blue bloods. The alleyway in which the doors opened out to was perfect for my scheme. As if, providence was shining on young Natty, as if Fate was smiling behind my left ear. The lavish buildings in this area of town were designed for pomp and display. The windows that faced the alley were small casements meant only for circulation, definitely not for views. The alley did not connect to any others; it simply separated the corner building (where my store was located) and its neighbor. It went back about fifty feet then joined the other building in a noticeable seam of contrasting brick facades, one tan the other red; basically, just a long nook between the buildings. Other than the pair of metal doors that led into the stockroom, the only other feature that caught my attention was a delivery entrance for the neighboring building. This doorway was approximately ten feet beyond the storm doors and probably the main reason the alley existed in the first place. Contractors, deliverymen, and repair trucks used this entrance periodically. During the year that I watched and waited, I noted that trucks would back into the nook and use the entrance. I also noted that the trucks would sit in that nook for extended periods.

It did not appear to me that the alley was kept clear by the building management, and that, I told myself was hopeful, because my plan was all about that alley. To successfully pull this hit off, I would need some luck and some careful timing; a calculated risk that involved backing my own truck into the alley at a specific time and hoping that it would not be noticed, or worse, in the way of a scheduled delivery. I planned to back a truck into the nook a couple of times, sort of dry runs, and leave the truck for a while, then drive the truck away. I wanted to test the waters, get those nosy enough to notice used to seeing a truck sitting there at all hours. I hoped that by the time we were ready to do the job, even the cops would dismiss a truck being there at odd hours. I chose a 24 ft U-Haul because they are inconspicuous. Also, renting one was relatively easy where tracing one was exceedingly difficult.

I figured that the whole operation would take between four and five hours. I decided that a Sunday night would be the best time to pull the hit. If you ever happened to be wandering about the city on a late Sunday night, then you know how abandoned the streets are. Consider this: city life ticks to a metropolitan internal clock; Mondays through Thursdays, there is always moderate graveyard traffic. Fridays and Saturdays, unless there is a blizzard, the nightlife is just as busy, if not more so than daylight hours. But Sundays, around midnight, leading into the 9-5 workweek, the streets are as empty as an alcoholic's liquor cabinet.

Chapter Nine

When I finally pitched my scheme to Poodle (one evening in late autumn), I laid it out so completely, so convincingly, that all he could do was gape at me. He was in without a question, and over the next few days, he often remarked on how perfect my scheme was. I appreciated the praise, I still considered him my mentor, and his approval of my plans was important to its success. Poodle knew however, and graciously accepted, that this was my game, my risk, that I was the sole mastermind. Poodle did not attempt to amend or change the operation, he simply rode shotgun. My plan required another person it was an absolute necessity. We never had to bring another player in before, but we understood that a score like this needed a third body. I recruited a neighborhood thug that Poodle and me felt we could trust. Danny was Puerto Rican, a pretty boy that could easily fit in uptown. He was the perfect body for dropping off and picking up the truck. He was about Poodle's age and was a seasoned criminal with a penchant for burglary. He jumped at the chance and rounded out our crew just fine. We did our first dry run in late January. We were very careful how we rented trucks. Danny rented the trucks out of town using a fake license and always paid cash. In all, Danny and Poodle rented four U-Hauls over the course of the operation never using their real identifications. In fact, obtaining fake Drivers Licenses, Social Security numbers, and any other I.D.'s were so easy that we each maintained multiple aliases as a matter of general course. Shit, I had two other I.D.'s myself: one I used to get my liquor, and the other I reserved for trouble.

Danny backed that first U-Haul truck into the alley nook one Saturday evening in January around five. I watched him from inside the store, my heart thumping madly. He sat idle for a few moments pretending to write something down on a clipboard, shut down the engine, got out of the cab, and walked deliberately toward the building's main entrance as if he had somewhere to go. Instead of entering the building, as if anyone noticed but me, he continued walking down the street and out of sight. For more than two hours, our truck sat in that nook with no one taking notice. Danny came back around 7:30 (a half hour before we closed), got in, revved it up, and pulled out. Twice more Danny pulled into the alley and twice more he drove away hours later without a problem. Things were looking good and we set a takedown date.

I worked the closing shift every Sunday since we seriously began planning the job. I was able to make my own schedule because Dustin was scared to death of me and let me to do my own thing. I wanted things to appear as normal as possible when the investigation began, so working every closing shift on Sundays for about two months prior to the hit would not necessarily draw suspicion regarding why I worked that particular Sunday. I was going to be a target anyway, but I wanted to plant reasonable doubt all over the place. More importantly, I had to be the last employee out, so I could throw the bolt on the metal doors.

The store closed early on Sundays, 8:00 rather than 9:00, but that didn't mean people weren't working. Sundays were our turn-around days, where the managers would switch things around on the selling floor so the customers would get a new view. In addition, Mondays were when new inventory was introduced, so the stockroom was FULL! Generally, people would be working until around 10:45 Sunday nights, with the manager finally locking up at 11:00.

On our target date, everything was set; Danny had pulled the truck into the nook around eight and was waiting with Poodle somewhere in the general area. Preparations were over; I was just counting minutes until the manager locked up. It's just desserts that on that particular night the closing manager was none other than the bitch Maude herself. Fate was continuing to show us favor, and even provided us with some snow that very night for extra cover. Not much, only about four inches, but it fell thick and steady; enough of a hindrance to lock down the police who seldom patrolled during snow, preferring, rather, a warm hooch somewhere to cuddle up with their coffee and donuts. We would strike around midnight. At around 10:30, Maude told the few of us remaining in the store that we were going to lock up in about fifteen minutes. I was the only stockroom employee still there so I spent those next 15 minutes making sure everything was ready one last time. I had been secretly spraying the door hinges with oil for about two months by then, and I had broken most of the old welds by carefully pushing up on the doors over the same period of time (they gave about an inch before pressing against the bolt latch).

With a pair of bolt cutters that I had previously stashed, I carefully cut the lock off the latch. I sprayed more oil all over the hinges, enough that the smell caused me concern, as if anyone would need an extra hanger ten minutes to closing. I hid the bolt cutters and the oil, stuffed the lock in my pocket and pushed up on the doors to make sure they gave.

Not only did their security system lack any kind of safeguard against the entrance we were soon going to exploit, but also, they never bothered to cover the stockrooms. There was only one motion detector in the entire stockroom area. They did have a contact on the door leading down from the selling floor, and the fire exit in the front stockroom was definitely secured, but except for the single motion detector in the middle stockroom, they failed to concern themselves with the biggest part of their inventory. Perhaps they felt that the stockrooms were so far away from the store entrances that they were secure. On the other hand, maybe they thought that the only loss they would suffer downstairs was an occasional petty theft of a shirt or a pair of jeans from some disgruntled employee. Whatever the reason, I was grateful, because bypassing a motion detector was simple. A motion detector involves two criteria: motion and distance. A sensor inside the device captures any motion within its designated range. If you simply obstruct the sensor, it will continually send a signal that it is blocked, thus raising suspicion and eventually inspection; however, if you deflect the sensor but keep the range clear, the sensor will operate normally. The trick is deflecting the sensor when the detector is in shunt mode; in other words, changing the coverage area, but not the distance, when the system is inactive.

The motion detector was in the upper right corner of the middle stockroom, slightly above the top row of jeans. During my shift, I moved the top half of each stack of jeans on that shelf (maybe 5-6 pairs each) and placed them on top of the jeans on the next lower shelf. This created a clear path for the sensor beam to reach the end of the room. Then, right before I left, and right before Maude set the system, I placed a homemade glass screen designed by Poodle on the shelf next to the detector. The screen curved up and to the right, redirecting the beam safely over the short stack of jeans. Poodle told me that the infrared sensor cannot see through glass, and the angle of the screen will cloak most of the stockroom, minimizing coverage to the upper area of the room.

As I huddled with the other employees by the front door, waiting for Maude to set the alarm, I suddenly remembered that I had left my book downstairs in the stockroom. Maude looked irritated but refrained from setting the alarm so I could go get it. I rushed back downstairs, ran to the closet, hurried up the short flight of stairs and with a huge grunt threw the bolt open. The sound of the bolt awakening after so many years of inactivity was loud and grating. I flinched, fearing that Maude and all of the other waiting employees heard the indignant bolt screech. But I quelled my anxiety knowing that the sound didn't travel that far, that I was only getting the heebie-jeebies. I shivered briefly, shook it off and checked the give one last time. I smiled to myself as the doors rose up easily. I pushed far enough to see the snow covered alley floor and even snuck a peak at the rear of the U-Haul. My smile grew because I knew this shit was going to be sweet.

I rushed back through the adjoining stockrooms; briefly glancing at the motion detector to make sure my shield was in place, and grabbed the paperback I bought for the sole purpose of having a reason to go back downstairs. I rejoined my fellow employees and held up the rag as if someone would challenge my intent. That happens with kids from the hood, always paranoid that people don't believe them. In this particular case they would have been right not to believe me, but usually they're wrong and suspicious cause they were taught that way. Had anyone asked me to read a paragraph they would have laughed, cause I probably couldn't clear a sentence. If someone would have bothered to read the title as I held it up, they would have laughed even harder, what was I doing with a supermarket romance novel featuring a blonde Conan and a lot of silk? Instead, good ol' Fate was backing me up and the most I got was a derisive "all set?" from Maude before she programmed the alarm and we all walked out.

I met Poodle and Danny a half hour later in an all night deli three blocks away. We bought coffee and waited until about 12:10 before we headed back to the store. The snow was comforting. It hides business that should be hidden. Clandestine operations, moving armies, burglaries, dog shit. The snow was sticking, maybe two inches deep when we left the deli. We noticed that some plows and salt trucks were already out. That was good cause we wanted a cleared street when we pulled out with our F-A-T load. We moved in at intervals, Danny and me going first. We walked straight up to the alley and hurried past the truck to the rear of the nook. Danny checked the delivery entrance to the adjacent building to make sure it was locked and the interior lights were out. I knelt down behind the truck and scanned the street for any passersby or approaching vehicles, nothing, just soft comforting snow.

The nearest street lamp was about 30 feet east of the alley entrance; the yellow glow cut across the mouth of the nook, but did not intrude very far, maybe three feet at an angle that reminded me of a guillotine. The nose of our truck was a good six feet behind that line, hiding in the shadows. Danny knelt beside me and whispered "all clear." I nodded and we waited silently for Poodle to join us.

The plan was for him to arrive about five minutes after us as long as no one was around. We waited a full ten minutes, and for the last five or so I was sweating like a pig.

When he finally darted behind the truck, he told us that some guy had been walking his dog across the street and he decided to wait. I couldn't argue with that, but that extra five minutes of second-guessing shot my nerves to hell. Danny had left the rear door of the truck open when he parked to avoid making extra noise. You all know how loud those fucking doors are don't you. Inside were three boxes of black garbage bags, gloves and the tools that we needed to work on the doors.

The doors, as I expected, were eager to rise up off that dirty alley floor without much assistance from us. However, just because the doors were easily opened didn't mean that we weren't going to work on them. After ensuring that they lifted up, we carefully laid them back in place and got busy. I worked the bolt back across the seam. Poodle hacked away at the cracked and broken welds with a hacksaw while I bent the inside corners of the doors where they met in the middle with heavy pliers, then scratched them up with a rusty crowbar. We wanted everything to appear to be an outside job, so we made tool marks all over the doors to suggest that the thieves cut and pried their way in. When I was done with the doors, I went to work on the latch bolt with another smaller hacksaw. I cut, nicked, and scarred that bolt with as much fury as someone who was up to no good and in a hurry could muster. Meanwhile, Poodle sprayed an entire can of oil through each of the hinges to cover any existing oil from my previous lubrications.

It took twenty minutes to prep the doors, but when we were done, it looked like a break in. We had been on site for at least forty minutes, but instead of rushing in, which an inexperienced crew might have done, we spent precious time setting up the crime scene. Before we lifted the doors again, we put the tools back in the truck and Danny passed out rolls of garbage bags. Unlike our previous jobs where mobility was essential, and we left tools scattered about with impunity, this time we weren't going to leave the cops any extra clues. This was a job that was going to get a lot more attention than the five and dime joints we hit in the hood.

When we pulled the doors up for the second time, they whined in protest. The sound was audible, but not as loud as they would have been without the dripping oil. When they were fully open, canted outward like a woman's open legs, we paused staring at the boxes of hangers at the bottom of the stairs as they got a light coating of snow from the unfamiliar night sky.

In that brief moment, right before we descended and began our late night shopping spree, the only sound that hailed us was the pitter-patter of soft snow and the low drone of plows in the distance. The comfort of that silence calmed my nerves and I knew that this score was as good as done.

We worked in shifts; Poodle and I went down first. We went all the way to the front stockroom, confident that the motion detector would not pick us up. We loaded bag after bag of merchandise, clearing the front stockroom in ten minutes. We took everything, not only because we could, but also because I wanted to make a point. Sixteen stuffed bags we dragged back into the rear stockroom. We worked ferociously, each bag must've weighed forty pounds, but we brought good bags with us, not the cheap shit, and they were strong enough for the weight of the goods they held and the abuse they received.

Poodle began bagging denim in the middle stockroom while Danny and I started loading the truck. I threw the bags up the stairs and he put them in the trailer. Poodle caught on and started sliding the bags of jeans toward me and we cleared the middle stockroom in twenty-five minutes, twenty-five hard minutes. The jeans were much heavier than the shit we took from the front room and Poodle was stuffing the bags just as full. I had to lift each bag over my head and go up a few steps before Danny could take it. I think I passed up thirty bags and when I was done, I was done. I switched places with Danny and welcomed the cold snowflakes that landed on my face. It was approximately two in the morning and the snow had settled into a light flurry that swirled around me in the darkness. Poodle and Danny were in the rear stockroom bagging the rest of the merchandise, so I allowed myself a few seconds of rest. I could hear the plows and salt trucks making their passes on nearby streets and recalled that Danny mentioned that they had driven by our location twice already. The street was cleared and I figured they would wrap up about the same time we did. But where would our brilliant caper be without a little extra drama?

As Fate would have it, we faced an unexpected visitor, and had he (Fate) not been rooting for us, this visitor might have arrived at the worst possible time. I was rearranging the bags that Danny haphazardly placed in the trailer, and didn't hear the plow until the vehicle stopped near the alley with a sharp hiss of air brakes. I quickly jumped off the truck and ducked underneath to see what was going on. The back end of a plow truck was peeking around the alley and I could see a blinking yellow light indicating that the hazard lights were on. Could the driver be curious about our truck? Could he have seen something that caught his attention? What was I going to do? If he came into the alley I would have to thump him, there was no other choice. I glanced behind me at the wide open doors and could hear Danny and Poodle faintly. To my horror, I heard someone coming up the stairs at the same time I heard a car door open and shut from the street. From my crouched position under the truck, I leaped out and scrambled over to the doors. I must have made it to the opening in two seconds flat and I got there just as Danny, huffing and puffing with a bag balanced on his shoulder was about to toss it on the ground. I caught the bag with my right hand and motioned frantically for him to shut the fuck up with my left.

I pointed over to the truck and he understood immediately. We were both frozen staring under the U-Haul at the entrance to the alley.

A man wearing a red plaid coat and smoking a cigarette turned the corner and stepped into the alley. He glanced briefly at our truck, and then turned toward the wall fumbling with the front of his pants. I heard him unzip and watched him piss against the wall. The stupid fuck spelled something out with his urine and then laughed. He spit his cigarette out, went through the process of re-situating himself, and belched. I don't think I breathed the entire time. I remember the bag in my right hand was getting very heavy, I was holding it over the opening in between Danny and the stairway; I was too scared to move, afraid that the sound of the plastic would be heard. Danny must have seen my arm twitching cause he gently raised the bag and propped it back on his shoulder. The seconds passed like molasses, and I hoped that Poodle had figured out something was up. I knew it was always moments like these where someone fucks up; someone trips, or drops their fucking head, always something stupid and avoidable. I remember thinking that if this guy suspects something and gets into his plow it's all over. All he has to do is call it in and then every hibernating cop in the area would be on us like the snow on our truck. But Fate was just funning with us. The "rolling writer" concluded disgusting his secret audience, and left the alley in the direction of his plow.

When the truck left, I tossed the garbage bag onto the ground and laid back to stare up at the sky. Danny let out a rush of air, patted me on the leg and went back downstairs. A few minutes later, we were working frantically to get the remaining bags inside the truck. There comes a time during every burglary where one has to decide when to stop. Usually a narrow escape will prompt you to bail out. A professional crew will only take what they're after and nothing else, that's discipline. Amateurs are generally greedy and often are caught with their hands in the cookie jar. On this particular gig, we were not exactly greedy, but we wanted to clean the place out because of the idea of it. Of course, the more loot the better, but clearing the place was the goal because it was legacy.

In a quick huddle, we decided to continue until the place was gutted. Overall, we were on a lucky streak. Sure pissboy rattled us, but we were ahead of schedule and felt we could finish the job in less than an hour. We were right and we did. We finished loading the truck and were ready to roll by 3:00. The snow had stopped by then and the plows were all gone. The streets were deserted and we were anxious to bounce, but one last thing needed to be done.

To complete the ruse that this was an outside job we had to remove the shield I placed over the motion detector. It was a risk, but leaving it in place was out of the question. We knew that the police would figure out that we blocked the sensor anyway, and we were certain that they would be leaning toward an inside job, but like I said, we wanted to leave doubt. Besides, I didn't wear gloves when I placed the screen, and there was no way I was leaving it. We concluded that the chance of a response to a motion hit without any contact breaks, or alarm trips was unlikely. Rats routinely set motion sensors off and if that's all that happens, the security firm monitoring the system will probably reset it and log it as rodent activity. At the very least, they wouldn't call the police without closer monitoring, which would give us the time needed to be history.

Just in case, we made sure everything else was ready to go, especially the truck. How many times have you heard of the fucking getaway car not starting? We made our final walk through making sure we didn't forget anything, and set up for our exit. We planned our out like a relay race, I stood at the bottom of the stairs while Poodle lowered one of the doors and spread snow over it. Danny started the truck up and when it kicked over, Poodle gave me a nod. I hurried to the middle stockroom, removed the screen and backed out as quickly as I could. I rushed up the stairs and Poodle lowered the second door kicking snow over it as soon as he laid it down. I jumped into the back of the truck and pulled the door down, hiding myself in the still darkness with the result of our night's labor. I heard Poodle trot to the front of the truck and climb into the cab. I felt the gear engage and Danny pulled the truck out. The truck turned left and moved down the street as if it had been heading down that street all night long.

Chapter Ten

I leaned back against the overstuffed bags, sinking into them, the cool plastic easing my tension. We weren't clear yet, but we were out of the alley and headed for our own turf. I was in the trailer because three men driving around in a U-Haul truck in the middle of the night would definitely draw suspicion. I heard the radio click on and felt weak bass vibrate through the truck. After a few turns and one brief stop, the truck picked up speed and I knew that we were entering the highway. Poodle was hooting and hollering in excitement. He kept banging on the back of the cab yelling "Natt-taaay! Natt-taaay!" I tilted my head back and let out a whoop of my own. I felt like a King, what a heist!

In jeans alone, we had about 50 G's worth, with the sweaters, shirts and whatnot; I estimated we made off with over 200K worth of merchandise. The day before, my sisters loaned us a spot to stash our take. They knew we planned a job, and I told them it was gonna be a big load, so they hooked us up with an apartment they weren't using.

In the hood, a person who has the need could have as many spots as desired. It's a simple scam, getting yourself an apartment, it goes something like this— a section eight family sells their subsidized apartment for straight up cash. Four, five grand, whatever they could get. They move out, often shacking up with nearby relatives, but maintain the lease as if they still live there. As long as no one drops dime, whoever bought the place got a new spot for whatever they need. The twins had more than a few spots for many reasons. Some were working spots, where customers bought the product, some were stash spots, where money, guns, and other shit was stored, and some were kitchens, where the crack is made, prepared by special chefs that can guarantee powerful cook back from the powder coke they baked. The most talented chefs were always in high demand and jealously coveted by dealers who paid huge fees to get them to work their magic. And magic is exactly what they do. A good chef can produce a decent pancake even if the blow has too much cut. And in the ghetto, the final destination for most drugs, the quality is as bad as the reason to use them, so a good chef was essential.

The twins loaned us one of their stash spots, and this particular place had been empty for at least six months. My sisters rotated their stash spots every couple of months to confuse and mislead the cops.

If the police made a mistake during an investigation and hit a place on a search warrant and got dick, meaning what they said would be there wasn't, then they would probably never be able to convince a judge to give them a warrant for another place involving the same targets. The apartment was on the second floor of a typical ghetto building where residents mind their own business.

Most drug spots in the hood were located on the second or third floors for two important reasons: if raided, you could jump out the window, and if forced to flush your product, the drain was closer to the sewer line. I was grateful because carrying all those bags was a motherfucker and any higher floor would have been a nightmare because the elevator was broken. We were done unloading the truck by 5:30; by 7:00, Danny had dropped the U-Haul off at a distant location before they even opened. We weren't worried about the truck, even with the impact our score was going to have we doubted the cops were going to canvas every U-Haul place in the city. Besides, we rented the truck under a false name and hundreds of trucks rented out daily. Even on the off chance they found the truck, and the rental contract, they would have to put a name to a face and I wasn't going near Danny for a long time. It was time for patience, the waiting game where we agreed not to go near the stash, or even talk about it for months. It was also time for the heat and we all knew that the cops would rake me, but Poodle and Danny had faith in me and I did too. Only my sisters knew about the score, but they were on the level and gave me the keys for as long as needed and they asked no questions.

I arrived at work for my next scheduled shift the following Tuesday at 4:00. The store was open for business with only a few customers browsing the racks. I wasn't surprised to see the store open, it was two days later and I figured the main office would have wanted things to appear as normal as possible, closing down for a couple of days would not be good for business. Besides, all the damage was downstairs, no need to keep the shoppers out. I felt the tension in the air as I strolled through the front doors. Excitement tickled my stomach as I reviewed the different scenarios I had been imagining for the past two days. Maude's beet red face when she walked into the stockroom, Dustin's bewildered shrugs when grilled by salivating cops, the yuppie gasps in the corporate office while the executives point fingers with lightning bolt finality. I walked up to the main register area and read the faces of my co-workers: rattled nerves, worry, shock, surprise that something dirty entered their privileged uptown lives. I almost laughed.

Erica, one of the floor supervisors saw me approaching and her eyes opened wider than her green tinted half glasses could frame. She motioned to me frantically and asked if I had heard what happened. My first act, I thought briefly, knowing I had to sell some surprise. I knew the next couple of weeks were going to be filled with Oscar caliber performances and I was eager to start the role. I feigned a puzzled expression, and shrugged. Erica explained what had happened the day before. Although she was speaking rapidly, almost without breath, and was flushed with excitement to a ruddy shade that I hoped paled in comparison with Maude, she covered everything rather well.

At least the parts that I cared about: all employees were interviewed; not sure if an outside or inside job; cleared all three stockrooms; well over $200,000; old door where the hangers are, Maude is sick with worry; Corporate was here; stern faces . . .

I cut her off because I had to clock in, I didn't want to be late, what with my exemplary record and all, but I made sure I put on a show— shock, anger, disbelief, enough to convince but not over the top.

I went downstairs and heard voices in the office. I recognized Dustin and Nancy (another manager) and Maude. I also heard some others that I did not know, but I was sure they were either cops or corporate loss prevention people, or both. I made a snap decision that I would walk right into the office and ask what happened, explain that Erica gave me the gist, but I couldn't believe it. Show my buddy Maude that I was full of care and concern. I put on some airs, a perfect balance for my first extended audience. I loved it! I pretended to empathize with Maude who looked like she hadn't slept in days. As Dustin rattled on about the specifics, I glanced around the room in expected surprised. I was careful to look directly at each person there, especially the three men that I did not know. They were watching me closely, sizing me up, I knew they were there exclusively for me, I knew I was their target and I made sure I gave them just the right blend of fear and discomfort.

When Dustin finished filling me in, one of the men introduced himself as Mr. Welby, from Corporate Headquarters. He told me he was the Director of Loss Prevention and I recalled his face on a little security brochure I was given during new hire training.

He explained that the two other men were police detectives and that they would like to interview me. He added that I was one of the few employees left not interviewed. Of course, I agreed to talk with them without any hesitation. I knew the drill and had prepared myself for that moment. The two detectives introduced themselves as Lieutenant Nitch and Sergeant Riley from the Major Crimes Division. Their names struck me as funny; I was going to get worked over by Nitch and Riley. Mr. Welby asked Maude if we could use the office, she graciously agreed, so everyone cleared out except the two cops, Mr. Welby and me.

We sat down in a semi-circle; actually, they sat down in a semi-circle around me. The interview was informal, just general stuff; they weren't ready to play hardball yet. Nitch opened with the usual: Name, DOB, address, how long with the company, etc. It wasn't long before he asked the have you ever been arrested question. I smiled, I definitely didn't want to front cockiness, but I had to let them know I knew the game. I acknowledged my history, and I mentioned that the store knew all about my past, that I was hired under their second chance program. They all nodded, not wanting to seem eager, but nodding to show me that they knew the game also. Sergeant Riley added that they knew all about my shoplifting career, how I was a legend in Midtown. Nitch, who assumed the buddy role, said he was glad that I was keeping my nose clean. He said that the store had nothing but good things to say about me.

There was a slight pause after he said that because there is always an uncomfortable moment when a person hears a compliment that he knows is bullshit. I locked eyes with Riley because I immediately sensed that he was the motherfucker in the group and said to them collectively that I was keeping my nose clean and that I would have to be a fucking idiot to shit in my own backyard. I told them that I wasn't in the mood to fuck my life up again and that I had given that shit up. I felt that I was convincing because they all nodded again, but slower, a yeah I hear you sort of nod. Riley even lowered his eyes. After another pause, where I caught them glancing at each other, Nitch asked the direct questions: when did you leave, where did you go, can anyone back your story . . . Right when I thought the interview was wrapping up, Riley pulled a "crazy Ivan." Had I not been on point, I might have choked when he suddenly asked me why I ran back down to the stockroom seconds before everyone left on Sunday night. My mind raced, but I didn't hesitate, I told them that I had left my book in the stockroom and that I went to get it. He then asked me what I was reading, pretending to look for a book that I might have put down when I first entered the office. I kept cool, admiring his acting almost as much as he admired mine. There was no doubt that I was uncomfortable, but I forced myself to stay visibly calm, to keep my voice even. I became defensive on purpose; I had to, in order to maintain my front. I raised the tone of my voice, looking back at Nitch, and asked him why they were making implications. I told him I wanted to help, but I wouldn't if they were going to try and fuck me. Nitch glared at Riley and told me I was right and that that question was bullshit. I almost chuckled as Riley bristled at the rebuke, but maintained my composure and kept my eyes on Nitch. Riley was working on instinct, and his hunch was dead on, but he didn't have shit. I knew that as soon as they wanted to talk, if they had me we wouldn't be talking like that, I'd be hitched up and asking for a lawyer.

I purposely played into Nitch, I remember my exact words, and I remember the scene like it was yesterday. You can say that since I have a lot of time on my hands, moments like that, my first real mind dance with cops, and many others just like it, make up my poetry, my life.

"Lieutenant Nitch, my history screams this shit here, I know it, you know it, and your boy here, he's already convicted me. But I didn't do nothing. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't, not here; I'd have to be the craziest motherfucker in the world."

I paused for effect, and gestured at Riley "Your boy says I'm a legend, whatever, that was a while ago, check my methods, call your buddies in Midtown, this shit here is out of my league. I'm impressed though, sure nuff, them fuckers had some balls."

For a moment, the three of them simply stared at me, Nitch had a bemused look, Riley more glared than stared, maybe he was mad at me calling him boy, and Mr.Welby was impassive just like me. Nitch thanked me for my time, told me that everyone is a suspect until ruled out. He said they might want to talk to me again. He suggested that I don't take anything personal, that they would be the dumbest cops in the world if they didn't explore all possibilities. He hedged me into acknowledging that if I were they I would definitely be a target. With that remark, I knew that the Lieutenant lowered me on his list, at least at that point. I walked out of the office confident. That book shit could have nailed me, but I was quick enough to throw it back on them. That good cop, bad cop stuff is relatively easy to play off, and I was proud of how I handled Riley's twist.

Chapter Eleven

An emergency shipment of merchandise was coming in around 6:00. Maude had every stock clerk and even some sales associates ready to receive it. Can you believe they used the fallout shelter doors? The very doors that up until Monday morning no one in the store knew even existed except for Natty. I almost laughed at the irony, but I maintained the same somber mood that everyone else had. The cops had cleared the entire crime scene and the company wanted to re-stock as soon as possible. I noticed brand new motion detectors throughout the stock areas and I heard that they were going to install cameras. What's that phrase— better late than never— ha! Maybe when it comes to drinking water, or a toilet, but not that time, late was too late. I didn't hear anything for the next few days and went about my business.

I found another book that looked similar to the rag I used to get back down into the stock room that Sunday night. Obviously, I couldn't pretend that I was actually reading a supermarket romance; I wouldn't be able to convince myself of that let alone anyone else. Besides, I had chucked that book as soon as I left the store that night. The new book was perfect, an "X-Men" comic book, not a regular comic magazine though, that wouldn't work, but the kind that looks like a reader's digest magazine. In juvee, I liked looking at the comics, and the X-Men were my favorites.

If questioned about the book, I would be able to produce. It was a great move cause the cops ultimately pulled a squeeze that I guess in hindsight I was expecting. I quickly became suspect number one, I don't know if they actually ruled out all other possibilities or if Riley convinced Nitch that it was me. Whatever the case, they came at me hard and fast. Not more than a week after the hit, my sister Sheryl told me that they showed up at Poodle's weekly meeting with his PO and grilled him mercilessly. She said that they were fishing, but that they told Poodle they knew we did it and it was just a matter of time before they took us down. She said they put the screws to him but he didn't tell them shit. Poodle told the cops that he had been home all night that Sunday and since his mother didn't know one way or the other, she corroborated.

As for me, I was with my sisters, ironclad. The cops watched me, they followed me around even when I didn't see them, and trust me; it's easy to spot them. We planned for that, we knew they would be on me hoping to make connections, but we were careful not to go near each other and we stayed far away from the stash spot. I went about my business as if nothing ever happened, and hey, if the cops wanted to waste time and money following me around, I didn't care. About two months went by when they finally contacted me to set up another interview. This time they requested that I meet them at the police station. I knew this would be their final attempt to crack the case cause they didn't have dick. They wanted to corner me on their own turf. I agreed, but failed to tell them that I was going to pull a crazy Ivan of my own.

When I showed up for that second interview, a lawyer, a good one, a liberal bigwig who despised cops and loved to do pro-bono work where he could fuck with them, accompanied me. He was popular in the hood and well acquainted with the police. Nicknamed "Viper," Mr. Finklestein was the motherfucking man!

As soon as we walked in he spoke; and the look on their faces indicated that they knew the Viper, and knew that their last ditch effort to make a case just hit a brick wall.

"Gentlemen" he said, holding up three pudgy but well manicured fingers, "three things: I understand my client was kind enough to speak with you once before, however foolish that was on his part, but from this point on, if you have anything to say to him you will say it in my presence. I trust my reputation precedes me, so I expect full professional courtesy and prompt notice of any action you intend to take against my client. Any digression and I will gladly pull teeth. Second, this is a voluntary meeting of course, and as such, it will not be recorded with any device other than your pens, and when you submit an official report of interview, I expect a copy to be sent to my office without any undue delay. Furthermore, my client will not answer any questions that go beyond the verification or elaboration of the previous interview. Third, unless you intend to charge my client with a crime, you will not contact us again, and then if you do, you will notify my office immediately. Now then, when you're ready, my client is more than willing to give you his full cooperation."

I loved it, the Viper was on point, and he was incredible! The cops, silent and sullen, nodded darkly and we began their second and final round of questioning. This one was more formal, and after the first few questions, I knew they were done. They were shooting blanks and everyone in the room knew it. They tried to rattle me with the Poodle connection, but I was stone and the Viper jumped all over that insinuation. I told them the exact same shit I'd said before, and we were wrapping it up in forty-five minutes.

Of course, Riley had to make a last ditch effort, and I'll always remember his final question. He asked, in an offhand way, as if it was an afterthought, "Oh, one last thing Mr. Johnson, how was that book you were reading?" I smiled, I guess I smiled with a satisfaction that burned into his face because his eyes narrowed and he couldn't help but cross his arms waiting for my response. Riley was one smart cop, he knew the truth and he knew that I knew that he did, so I smiled at him like a cat circling a sparrow with a broken wing.

"Well, I don't read so well Sergeant Riley, in fact I don't read much at all."

I traced the lines in his face as they shifted with the hope that I was going to fuck up, and I enjoyed the feeling I had in my stomach.

"But I sure like comics, especially those X-Men, and in the end of the story, Wolverine beats the shit out of Sabretooth and walks away smoking a big fat spliff."

My stomach tingled as his frown advertised his obvious disappointment. And that was that, I walked away like Wolverine. No charges were ever filed; the insurance company took the loss, and me, Poodle, and Danny we got paid.

My next step up the crime ladder ultimately landed me in real prison for my first tour as an adult, and eventually my current tour unto death (that still hasn't arrived), but I suspect it ain't too far off. It also introduced me to real violence in the streets and in the prison system. I cut my teeth in the realm of prison yard bravado, and learned that I was that bad motherfucker pop had talked about. I wasn't no rebel though; I was violent for my own sake, at first out of necessity, but then later simply because I liked it.

A year or so after the store thing, maybe eight months after we were free to mingle again, Poodle and I began robbing drug spots. We didn't start hitting spots as an idea, like the stick-ups or burglaries; we got into it after doing my sisters a favor. Sheryl and Audrey were having trouble with competition in the area and they needed to send a message to another dealer who had moved in. This Dominican kid opened shop near my sisters' busiest corner. He was moving good shit and taking some of their business. He went by the name Flaco, because he was tall and thin. Known in the hood for Grand Theft Auto, rumor had it that Flaco was one of the best car thieves during his time, somewhat of a legend in his own right. Word was that he could boost any car in under a minute. Mercedes, BMW, whatever, a tank even. Pinched in a 500SL, he did five years. When he got out, he decided to get paid through the crack phenomenon. Rock cocaine was the new stock in town and he bought himself some shares. Unfortunately, he opened a spot near my sisters' best corner and that was a mistake. Now if Poodle wasn't enough of an indication that nicknames in the hood don't truly characterize what they suggest, Flaco is another example. Although he was skinny, Flaco was one tough motherfucker. Flaco didn't do one-on-ones, he didn't do razors, knives or bats, he was strictly a gunman.

Rumor also had it that he already smoked a few people, including a rival dealer in another area when he first began his drug business. Allegedly, this new spot next to my sisters was his third location. He knew the score, my sisters were well known. He also knew what he was doing, knew that he was dissing them by moving on their clients; but he was a bold motherfucker and didn't scare easy. Audrey told us his new spot wasn't established yet, and we could probably get between seven and ten thousand cash and maybe five G's worth in rock and powder that she would buy from us. My sisters wanted us to hit his spot sooner than later, hoping that the message would be clear. Poodle and I needed some convincing before we committed. We liked the idea of quick money, especially dirty money, but this kind of thing could get us killed. If we got into that shit, we knew we had to go all out, no pause, we had to be willing to kill and I ain't never thought about killing someone before. We talked about it, Poodle and me, and we ultimately decided that the money was worth the risk and the rush had to be prime. Fuck it, why not. Besides, if we had to smoke someone, a drug dealer wasn't no big thing, just another criminal. As we toyed with the different ways it could go down, we realized that it was going to be fun and exciting, and our initial hesitation dissolved in our zest for this new thing.

Thus began our most ruthless and rewarding enterprise. Later on, you may wonder who ultimately won the biggest prize, as I so often do, but the ride was prime, the ride was so prime! For this kind of gig, we decided to trust no one but each other. We worked alone, and we worked our targets like we worked our mom and pop marks before, mad research, mad planning, and stone cold execution. We knew guns, we fooled around with them before, but for this new game, we practiced for real. Rooftops were our shooting ranges. If you go to any roof in the hood, you are bound to find bullet holes on the doors leading into the building, and if you look closely, you will be able to tell the difference between those who practice and those who spray and pray. Poodle, and me we practiced, and I'll bet you can still find our scores all over the place.

We went about our business professionally. Based on our prior accomplishments, we knew that good preparation meant good results. Since robbing drug spots kicked it up a notch, we prepped and prepared as if it was an Olympic event. Every consideration, covering even the smallest detail including back-up plans was made. Rendezvous points were chosen, and practice runs were timed. We left nothing to chance, only Fate could fuck us, and for a stretch he let us cruise, shit he even rolled with us.

Timing was everything. We had to be in and out quickly, we had to hit them at the right moment, and we had to control them immediately, no hesitation, and no complications. We pumped each other up, we focused our intentions and we prepared ourselves to kill if necessary. We bought 40's instead of 9mm's, cause killing power was essential, we didn't want to light a motherfucker up and not end him. 9mm's were glorified BB guns, check the stats, a motherfucker could take ten rounds from a nine and still survive. But not with a 40, that shit got too much power, it'll hit you and take half of your body with it on the way out, especially with hollow point bullets.

We also bought a 357 revolver in stainless with a four-inch barrel to intimidate motherfuckers who might try to resist. It's an amazing thing, putting a barrel in a motherfucker's mouth; a motherfucker who a moment before might've been a big shot, all of a sudden reduced into a crying little bitch gagging on cold steel. I read once that the ancient Romans would make motherfuckers suck dick as a condition of surrender. It wasn't gay or anything, it was strictly done to degrade and humiliate. To show the victim that he wasn't worth shit. Now that's fucked up, as cold as it gets, and I guess, in a way, so was shoving a revolver in someone's mouth. If some dumb ass flexed, he'd quickly be sucking our silver dick cause he didn't mean shit either, and you know what, they didn't.

Our standard gear included knives, duct tape, large canvas bags, flashlights, ski masks, and a police scanner. We developed our own silent code, like sign language so we could communicate without talking. Voices can always be recognized, so we were careful not to give our victims any opportunities for revenge. If we had to speak, to give orders, and shit like that, we faked a "Spanglish" accent (a broken English-Spanish polyglot) and hoped for the best. We wore painter's jumpsuits when we pulled a hit for two reasons: first, when we bounced, we could easily lose the suit, split up and blend into the crowd. Second, if shit went bad and got messy, we wouldn't walk away wearing it. Our method was solid and after our first few jobs, we had it down pat.

Generally, we watched a target for about three weeks; identifying all the workers, the major players, the drop-offs, the pick-ups, rush hours, shit like that. We also studied the building's layout, we learned the apartment size, made sketches, and planned our movement and timing. Usually, we entered the building from the roof, gaining access by an adjoining building.

Waiting until a hustler came in with a customer, snuffing them somewhere in the hallway, and after making an example out of the customer, forced the hustler to knock on the target door as if we were the actual customers, then open sesame!

Of course, resistance varied and sometimes we were brutal, but we always kept the hustler's face clean and made sure he could talk cause that was our ticket in. I am not going to get into every hit we pulled; actually, I'm only going to showcase three, the three most important ones: our very first job at Flaco's spot; our second to last hit, which landed me in real jail; and the final one, that is still talked about today as if it happened last week.

Chapter Twelve

After casing Flaco's spot for an entire month, and sneaking into the apartment right above it to learn the layout, we were ready to hit it one cold Sunday morning in late October. It was early, around 7:00, we were crouched on the roof, waiting for our moment. Sunday mornings are always a good time to hit a drug spot because Saturday nights are usually very profitable and cash was immediate ching, while selling stolen blow took extra work. For the previous three Sundays, we watched the same worker walk out of the building around eight in the morning and return with breakfast for the entire crew. He bought all sorts of shit at a local diner, and then struggled back to the building with overstuffed bags and spilling coffee. The routine never changed, and the time frame was consistent; thirty minutes to get the food and return. At 7:50, the kid walked out of the building and headed up the block. We knew he would buy six cups of coffee. Two for the lookouts on the corner (the same two lookouts we marked during previous surveillance); then enter the building with the four remaining cups. We planned on taking down four marks.

The drug spot was on the third floor toward the back of the building. There were two sets of staircases in the building, one main staircase in the front, and another in the back. The spot was two doors down from the rear staircase. We didn't know which staircase gopher boy used, so as soon as we saw his familiar shape returning down the block, and confirming that he had six coffee cups, we descended into the building and waited on the fourth floor. I remember the pangs of excitement and fear pinging inside me as we waited. Like goose bumps in the belly, or how your balls feel at the end of a fast elevator ride. Poodle was calm and reserved and kept patting me on the shoulder and pointing to his ear, gesturing for me to listen closely. I heard the front door open with a metallic yawn and then faint footsteps and a low whistling. We moved as soon as his foot touched the second floor landing. I remember bounding down the stairs, trying my best to land lightly in an attempt to muffle the sound of our charge down the dingy marble steps.

We reached him before he even looked up. He was whistling some Merengue tune, staring at the coffee tray as if he could prevent any loss of the hot liquid by song, as if the coffee cups were cobras. Unfortunately for him, Poodle and I didn't care about no spilled coffee, and we were the real snakes. The kid was short, maybe 5'4"; I must've seemed like a giant apparition when he looked up and saw me descending.

He seemed to be in the process of allowing his chin to drop at the sudden realization of hell before him, when I clamped my left hand behind his head while simultaneously cupping my right hand against his mouth so that I held it in between my hands like a soccer ball.

With the momentum I generated leaping down the staircase, I slammed him hard against the wall with a reverberating thump. Because my left hand was behind his head, my knuckles suffered most of the impact. The initial sting was quite painful, but it beat the shit out of steaming coffee running down your legs, which was the immediate result that the kid unfortunately experienced. I guess he should have been humming some hot salsa instead, but scorching coffee was the least of his problems. When he dropped the tray of coffee, his hands rose in a feeble attempt to dislodge the devil's grip, but to his continued misfortune, I held his head tight, bruised knuckles and all, as if I was Pele at the World Cup.

The sound of full coffee cups hitting the steps wasn't as loud as I expected, and remarkably, only one lid came off, of which most of the contents was seeping through the kid's jeans. Two of the cups actually remained in the tray, while the lidless one fell at the man's feet and continued to empty its steaming contents onto the steps. The hot liquid chased after the only escaping cup, which rolled and fell, rolled and fell, rolled and fell, until it stopped in the corner four steps down. Stopped only because the curve of the cup would not allow it to roll straight, which, had it done so, it would have escaped the pursuing coffee and disassociated itself from the entire occurrence.

I only mention this particular sequence because for that brief moment, all three of us, were transfixed on that cup's progress. I don't know why, what with all the drama and excitement and fear during that violent exchange, but somehow, for some inexplicable reason, we all became completely absorbed with the movement of a damn coffee cup.

Poodle placed his 40 against the kid's head and told him in broken English to shut the fuck up and he wouldn't get hurt. I guess it was the first thing that came to his mind, cause had he thought about it, Poodle would have realized that the kid wasn't able to say a thing with my hands wrapped around his head. We waited like that, the kid pinned to the wall in my grip, with Poodle's gun denting his forehead for about twenty seconds listening. I heard nothing but muffled breathing and dripping coffee. When we were sure no one was curious, we moved up the flight of stairs to the top of the landing on the third floor. Poodle asked the kid if he knew why we were there. The kid nodded. Poodle said if he didn't play hero he'd be able to come back later and pick up his coffee. The kid nodded and I took my hand away from his mouth. He glanced up at me and shuddered. I think he was scared of Nat more than Poodle's Gat!

"How many in the spot" Poodle asked.

The kid looked down and muttered "three."

"How many guns?"

"Two, I think."

Poodle asked where the bodies were. The kid began to fidget. He mumbled something that sounded like please don't kill me. Poodle smacked him on the head.

"Answer my fucking question!"

The kid winced, and sputtered:

"Tony's the boss; he's in the bedroom sleeping. At least he was when I left. Skitzed and Dino are in the living room watching TV."

"Who got the guns?"

The kid hesitated but when Poodle gestured to smack him again he blurted:

"One is with Tony, he's always packing and the other one is in a drawer in the kitchen."

Poodle thought for a second and then asked:

"What kind of guns?"

The kid mumbled:

"The one in the kitchen is a nine mil; Tony's got a two-five."

Poodle paused, thinking again; we knew the layout, it was a single bedroom apartment, we knew where the bedroom was and that we would have to get in there quick. Poodle asked one last question:

"Is this Tony a crazy motherfucker?"

The kid thought about it for a second.

"I guess so."

Poodle went back down the stairs, retrieved the tray with the two remaining coffee cups and handed it to the kid.

"What's your name?"

The kid reluctantly took the tray.

"Jose."

He was scared, his mouth was dry, and you could hear his lips pull apart when he spoke.

"Listen Jose, you do what I tell you, don't try to be bold, no tricks, and you'll walk away. Fuck around, warn your boys, anything like that, and we'll smoke everyone, got it!"

The kid nodded, his eyes glued to the coffee tray. Poodle turned to me and said:

"I'll run up to the fourth floor, go down the back stairs and come up on the other side of the door, when I get there bring him down the hall at a normal pace." Poodle looked back at Jose—

"You'll knock like usual and act like everything is fine, see? When the door opens and we rush in, hit the floor and stay there. If you get in the way you will get hurt, got it!"

Jose nodded again, stiffly.

Poodle said to me:

"I'll go straight to the bedroom, you take the other two."

I nodded anxiously, we had already covered all of this and I wanted to get on, besides the longer we waited the more likely someone would open a door to go get the Sunday paper, or walk a dog. I wanted out of the hallway and I told him that with my eyes. Poodle winked at me and rushed up the stairs. I tightened my grip on Jose's arm.

"Don't fuck this up" I whispered into his ear in my own broken English.

Jose didn't look up from the tray, I guess he didn't want to catch my eyes, of course the only feature on my face he could see were my eyes and I guess he saw enough of them when I erupted on his ass moments before. I liked that, I liked the way he feared me. When I saw Poodle against the wall on the other side of the door, I yanked on Jose's arm to get him to look up and we started walking down the corridor nice and slow.

What followed was the most addictive rush of power I ever felt. Jose played his part perfectly, and why not, when I was his escort! Motherfucker would have done anything we told him. I guess when your life is at stake and slim hope is your only friend you'll do whatever it takes to keep his hand in yours. The door opened without hesitation. Skitzed and Dino were either starving, or more likely blind, to the possibility of a hit at such an early hour, those stupid fucks! Dino opened the door while he was in the process of telling Jose how he was kicking Skitzed' ass in some video game. Poodle was point, and before the door was completely open, he reached in with the butt of his gun and cracked Dino across the face. I shoved Jose through the doorway as Dino fell back, and we stormed in like the plague.

Poodle raced past the bleeding Dino heading straight for the bedroom. I kicked Dino to the floor, and still holding Jose by the arm, flung him over Dino where he sprawled to the floor with the coffee tray now really empty, flying out of his hands. I slammed the door shut behind me and bolted into the living room pointing my gun at Skitzed who was standing straight up like a flagpole with a joystick in his hand. The fear on his face exhilarated me. I heard commotion in the bedroom, but not the kind that gave me any alarm. I heard Poodle yell out shut the fuck up, followed by some sporadic thumping. I also heard Dino moaning next to my right leg. Still staring at Skitzed, who in turn was staring at my gun, I reached down and grabbed Dino by the hair. I dug deep into his thick black mane and pulled him into the living room never taking my eyes off Skitzed' frightened face. I felt, more than saw, Jose doing exactly what he was told to do— face down on the floor. What a rush! At that moment I was invincible, I had absolute power over those three motherfuckers, power that coursed through my veins like a drug. I told Skitzed to drop the joystick, which he promptly did. I told him not to move, while I pushed Dino's head to the floor.

Poodle entered the living room pushing a large Hispanic kid before him. The guy wore nothing but boxers, a thick gold rope chain, and a cheesy fade. He had a lump on his forehead that was getting bigger with every unsteady step. He stumbled forward groggily, not appearing to be fully aware of his situation. Poodle held his 40 against the back of the motherfucker's neck. When they reached the middle of the room, Poodle kicked his legs out and pushed him to the floor. That big fuck fell hard and I almost laughed at the sight, drinking in the overall situation.

Poodle was panting, but definitely in control, his eyes glinted like wine and he said to me:

"This fat fuck is Tony," kicking him in the side as if I didn't know who he was talking about.

I took out the duct tape and started to wrap Dino. Poodle motioned Skitzed over, but he was frozen.

I don't blame him; we were inside and wreaking havoc before he had a chance to respond to Dino's gloating. Poodle was able to convince Skitzed to move with a vicious kick to the leg and soon enough we had them lined up in a row like sardines. I used the entire roll of tape; each one wrapped tight, legs, arms, mouths. All trussed up, they looked like stuffed sausages, and with so much tape wrapped around their heads they whimpered like caged puppies. I smelled urine and chuckled to myself. The overwhelming sense of power was still fresh in my blood and I was high with the thrill of it. That one of them actually pissed himself was icing to say the least. After they were secured, we started loading up. We found crack and some powder cocaine in a drawer in the bedroom, a decent amount after a Saturday night, more than we expected.

The coke was fish scale, about six ounces worth, and freshly cooked crack in four separate pancakes (I guess they were going to package it later that day). A good score, the crack alone was worth about seven G's on the street. We also found four grand in a sock under the mattress, but were disappointed with the amount of cash. We expected more, we knew Flaco hadn't made his pick up yet, and four G's was way short. We pulled Tony up from the floor and dragged him over to the couch for some private time.

We were coming up to the time limit we set for ourselves: twenty minutes, but we weren't leaving without all of the cash. Poodle ripped the tape away from Tony's mouth and asked him where the cash was. Tony shook his head but didn't say anything. I took out our 357, jammed the barrel into his mouth, and said:

"Where's the fucking money bitch!"

I wasn't gonna play with the motherfucker, he had to know we were going to hurt him if he tried to hold out, so when I stuck the gun in his mouth I intentionally scraped the front-sight along the roof of his mouth. He winced in pain and shook his head violently in an attempt to spit the gun out. I was inspired by his pain and stuck the barrel in deeper, I rammed that motherfucker down his throat until the cylinder was pressed up against his nose. He was gagging and jerking and tears welled out of his tightly shuteyes. I'm sure if we had stopped right then he would have told us where the money was, but he asked for that abuse, asked for it by trying to be the man when we were on such a new and addictive high. Poodle and I were at that moment more interested in watching him struggle, than letting him tell us where the money was.

Poodle held Tony's head with all his might as I rolled the revolver around, careful to let the sight rub all over the inside of Tony's throat, he was heaving and moaning and right when he might have vomited all over us, I pulled the gun out and Poodle twisted his head down and to the side. The barrel was wet with saliva and blood. I was disgusted, but also thrilled at the sight of it. I wiped the gun on the back of Tony's neck as he heaved and shuddered.

He sniveled, spit, and cried. He begged, pleaded, and repeatedly said:

"OH-POD-RAY, OH-POD-RAY, OH-HAY-SUICE . . ."

We gave him about twenty seconds to recover, and then Poodle said:

"I bet you wish you would have told us where the money is straight up, huh?"

Tony was still blubbering in Spanish and didn't react to Poodle's taunt, so Poodle brought him back to reality by yanking his head back sharply and spitting words into his ear:

"WHERE-IS-THE-FUCKING-MONEY-FAT-BOY?"

It was at that point I realized that the smell of urine was even stronger than before and glanced down. Tony's boxers, stained, and steaming, his legs were quite wet. Tony was the one that pissed his self before, and Tony done pissed himself again. I laughed with the realization, laughed at the irony; always the tough ones that cry like little bitches. Tony was a big pussy with plastic peacock feathers, but I bet he was a real bully around his boys.

Chapter Thirteen

Sure enough, Tony told us which floorboards to pull up in the bedroom. He was satisfied with his lesson and definitely did not want to go another round. Poodle patted him on the head, winked at me, and disappeared into the bedroom. I heard a ruckus and within two minutes, Poodle re-entered the living room smiling like Pan. He looked at me and said:

"We good."

I re-taped Tony's mouth and we prepared to bounce.

We found both guns, the 9mm was right where Jose said it would be, and the other one, the 25 was in the back pocket of a pair of extra large jeans in the bedroom. We also found the front door keys and $300 cash (not a bad little bonus). Right before we bounced, I snatched the rope chain from Tony's neck. I said, loud enough for all four of them to hear:

"A punk bitch like you shouldn't be wearing something like this. If you're gonna sport a fat rope, you gotta be able to wear it!"

We left them then, four whimpering sardines stacked in a row. Our exit was smooth and flawless. We walked out, locked the door, broke the keys in the locks, took the back stairs to the roof, crossed to the next roof, and then the next roof after that, stripped out of our gear, split up and met at my place exactly one hour later. We got paid. Nine grand in drugs and fourteen grand cash money, one gold chain worth about $700 and two throwaways, maybe a buck fifty each. Not bad for our first stint, but more than the catch was the rush. We couldn't stop talking about how much we dug that rush. The power trip was even more rewarding than the cash. We definitely found a game we wanted to play for a long time. We were never going back to burglaries or even stick-ups, this shit, robbing drug spots, was mint on both levels— cash payout and personal satisfaction! Something about robbing other criminals was thrilling and fun and we didn't see it as a real crime, in a way we even felt like we were doing something good, although we never admitted that.

We kept a low profile for the next couple of weeks. Only three other people knew we pulled the hit, the twins and Audrey's man Winston. Winston was in deep with the twins, he actually had a share of their profits. He was their main muscle and I trusted him as much as I trusted my sisters. We were confident word on the street wouldn't pinpoint us. Flaco was going to suspect my sisters anyway, it was logical, and they expected it, but luck would have it that Flaco was blaming a rival Dominican gang from his own neighborhood instead. That was good for Poodle and me, but my sisters wanted Flaco out and this didn't help their cause too much. I laughed at the turn of events, Poodle and I were turned onto a new gig, we got paid, and my sisters, who put the bug in our ears, would have to resort to some old-fashioned turf war to push Flaco out of their area. We didn't feel too badly for them, but to help them in their new effort we gave them the two gats we took from the spot free after we sold them the drugs for a nice profit of course.

Over the next year, we fine-tuned our operation. We usually hit our targets in the early morning hours after a busy night. We learned that drug dealers were extremely independent and paranoid. They were unwilling to share information with competitors. This made our job easier. Although drug spots were robbed regularly (we weren't the only crew who focused on drug spots), our methods would be easy to counter if motherfuckers knew what to expect. Had word got out for spots to be extra careful on weekend mornings, we would've had to change tactics. And once you got the game down, you don't want to change nothing. As it was, we settled into a routine where we pulled a hit every six weeks or so. We scored between thirty and fifty grand per operation and other than some initial thumping; we never really had to hurt anyone. And the rush was always prime, a high intensity power trip.

But as is the case in almost anything in life that involves danger and violence and risk, our run was bound to end. We knew this, we knew that eventually we would have to up the ante, go for broke, maybe smoke a motherfucker, or move the fuck on to something else. That's just the way of things— never settle.

After hitting drug spots for about a year and a half, pulling at least ten successful jobs, we began losing our edge. Things had been going so well that we started cutting corners. We were getting sloppy. On one job, Poodle even stopped using his fake Spanish accent. We talked it over and realized that we were getting bored with the same routine; we agreed that it was time to upgrade. We had been targeting low-end dealers; the dime a dozen spots, which we knew could be turned easy enough. We started considering bigger scores, real spots where we might bank enough loot to chill for a year or more; gigs for real money with even greater risk. But with risk like that, the rush must be way prime, and we were definitely down for that!

We marked a spot uptown, way outside our operating area. It wasn't a working spot; this joint was a depot, a distribution center where small timers bought their product. This kind of score was raising the bar on future ambitions, but we felt ready to make a run at something like that. My sisters told us on more than one occasion that they could move more weight if they had it. They were happy with the success of their business, but were willing to step it up if the opportunity presented. And why not? Like any good business, you only flourish if you expand, and my sisters were ambitious.

We learned about this particular distribution spot during a previous hit. As part of our routine, we stripped anything of value from each of our victims. Poodle found a piece of scrap paper on some kid he searched that listed the address uptown. Normally we tossed everything that wasn't worth shit, but a word scribbled next to the address had caught Poodle's eye. The word was "Reina" and anyone in the know, knows that Reina means top shelf Colombian blow: the best that you can get. After pumping that unfortunate kid about the address, we realized that we found that which we hunted. The location made sense, a quiet apartment building on a residential block in a middle-class neighborhood, far removed from the everyday drug scene.

We cased the place for ten weeks, which alone was a tricky mission. Poodle and Nat didn't exactly fit that neighborhood. The locals may have adjusted to the occasional ghetto visitor, especially in the building we were scoping, but regularity draws attention and we didn't want to be remembered. We went to great lengths to cloak our visits. We became ghosts who may have been seen once or twice by the insomniac dog walkers only to be dismissed as hallucination and forgotten like the pieces of shit their miserable pets left for the morning commuter. We swooped into the area each night, and traveled across the connected roofs, our personal highway, to perch like vultures near our target and watch with greedy eyes the ways of our next meal. We identified the major players, the security, and the routine. They were smart, much smarter than all the previous spots we had hit. They changed operations each week, when shipments came in, when they transported money, who worked which shifts and so on. Their routine was no routine, an excellent way of protecting their profits.

Poodle felt that they might have been ripped before, or at the very least, were well aware of the potential interest some crazy motherfuckers like us would have in relieving them of their burden. Their problem was that we weren't deterred by their efforts. In fact, we were inspired. They conducted active counter surveillance; we watched them watch the streets and communicate with one another by hand signals. They took down license plate numbers of unknown vehicles, and followed strangers throughout the neighborhood.

Their appearance and manner were unobtrusive; they groomed themselves to fit the area, and wore the right clothing. They never clustered and were independently kind and friendly with the locals. We counted twelve men that worked the spot. Each of them, clean cut and unassuming; the perfect cover for their business. We were impressed, their shit was tight and for the first few weeks, we couldn't find an angle. But we were stubborn and diligent, and believed that we would ultimately out-play them.

We discovered our advantages right about the time our patience was wearing brittle thin. Four weeks of surveillance and we had little more than changing patterns. We weren't sure when to hit the place, or more importantly, how? Poodle, was even joking about going in "SWAT" and get what we get, if just to let the neighborhood know what kind of goody-two-shoe motherfuckers they really had in their midst. But we knew that was just silly frustration talking, cause that spot was tight. But Fate would have it that the key angles we needed began to present themselves right when we were about to give up.

For weeks, we noted that customer traffic, although low key, and spread out, increased on Thursday and Friday nights. Dealers would secure their product right before they needed it, and for any urban drug trade, the week's end was party time. So even with their attempts to have no routine, a routine there was. We established when the spot was likely to have the most money, and we pinpointed when best to strike. As far as our plan of attack, that surfaced soon enough in a most remarkable way.

We knew instinctively that this hit was going to take more than the hint of violence. We had to bust heads, maybe even smoke motherfuckers. A fucking massacre if they thought they were aces. They were packing guns—guaranteed. And with the weight they were moving, it wasn't for show. We were going to roll on real players for real stakes, men with strong wills, men with something to lose. We expected to break motherfuckers.

We couldn't learn the layout of the spot by busting into another apartment in the same line (a method we often used) because they had spotters all over the place. If seen, we would stand out like Arabs in a synagogue. We had to rely solely on our observations, our reconnaissance. We found a great spot to watch the place from the roof of the adjoining building. A skylight, above the rear stairwell, which was in effect, a roof on top of the roof, provided us with a clear and open view. Our position was so well hidden that we could talk and even move around without fear of notice. It was a great location. We spent many nights watching shadows crisscross behind drawn window shades.

Had they covered their windows with heavy drapes, we wouldn't have learned shit, but they only hid their business behind cheap vinyl shades, a stroke for us— and a soon to be realized in the worst fucking way— mistake for them. We were able to tell how many people were in the apartment at any given time, and we were able to make out the general layout of the place.

We decided, relatively early (even though Poodle grew frustrated during our long nights of watching and wanted to rush the place for the sake of action), that any type of forced entry was suicide. With this class of drug dealer a bum rush would only get us killed. We also scratched a ruse, or a buy and rip, or any other direct attack. As I said, their shit was tight and even with a hit squad; the result would be a shoot-out and then take our chances on the exit. That wasn't bold it was just stupid. Soon enough though, we found their weakness. Our partner in crime, Fate, hooked us up once more, so he could watch us pull another crazy hit. The bathroom window, one space to the right of the fire escape, small and seemingly secure in its fortress thickness, so secure that they never even closed it. Perpetually cracked open to air out the one room that really needs it, a necessary opening perhaps, but also, access for a person to reach in if that was his goal. A chink in their armor, perhaps, but then who would have thought Spiderman was going to rob them. The apartment was on the fifth floor of a sixth floor building, not orthodox, as far as drug spots go, but because theirs was a clandestine business (selling weight to select clientele), it was a reasonable exception.

The apartment lay out like a train; each room running into the next from left to right: Kitchen, Dining Room, Living Room, Bedroom, Bathroom, and then another Bedroom. The living room and the first bedroom were the only rooms that had windows facing the fire escape. The bathroom window was approximately three feet to the right of the fire escape with nothing but air between the windowsill and the concrete alley sixty feet below. The bathroom window was our only real option; it would be risky, but it provided the only perceivable access. The two windows facing the fire escape were gated from the inside and the other three were out of reach.

Our plan was crazy and packed with danger; we could fall climbing through the window, get caught in the window, get caught in the bathroom, get shot, get dead, and get boxed up. Alternatively, get shot, get arrested, and get locked up—, which is just another type of box. But we didn't think too much about the what ifs, that's not what gettin' paid is all about. We didn't think about the negatives, the implications, the right or wrong. We weren't going to wait for prosperity; we were going to take it! Too many motherfuckers settle for an average life, and in the ghetto, where real opportunity comes around as often as the tooth fairy; an average life ain't much of a life at all. So fuck all that bullshit! Poodle and me were gonna get ours. Now some of you might say— you wrong Nat— and shake your head in sad disapproval and condemnation. But you're wrong, you're just holding onto fool's hope, waiting for change, change that never has come, and ain't about too. I don't give a fuck about what you think or what you hope for, cause the shit is what it is, and only a few lucky ones escape. The rest of us, we got to find another way, and me and Poodle, we were gonna get paid.

Chapter Fourteen

Sun Tzu's "The Art of War" says, among other things, "Attack him (your enemy) where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected." Moreover, "The good fighter will be terrible in his onset, and prompt in his decision." Ghetto translation: catch a motherfucker by surprise and beat his ass ruthlessly! We understood that surprise and ferocity were essential to the success of this hit. Throughout our planning phase we pumped each other up, constantly telling one another that the hit would be a piece of cake. As the days went by, we fine-tuned our operation, becoming increasingly confident and eager to get it on. We were the Macs and ain't no motherfucking pretty boy uptown drug dealers gonna stop us from catching our dimes. That was word!

During hours of surveillance, we never saw anyone look out the back windows, ever. They must have trusted their gates and their locks like the Trojans trusted their high walls. But as the lesson goes, there is always a way in, you just got to find it. What they considered a secure backside, we saw as a big fat ass and we were gonna give it a hard smack.

In addition to surprise and ferocity, we knew that we had to move fast and take them down as quietly as possible. We had to be urban ninjas. In that neighborhood, we couldn't take the chance that the denizens would mind their own business. Unlike the ghetto, we assumed that people expected peace and quiet every night and any kind of noise would receive attention.

We needed something that would put them down long enough to gag and bind them. We considered using stun guns but that would take one on one contact and we didn't know how many motherfuckers would be in the place. We thought about pepper spray, and decided to bring some, but only as backup, too many risks of getting sprayed ourselves, and from our many experiments, most people panic when they're sprayed and that would make as much noise, if not more, than an actual shootout. We found our solution one late night while watching a fucked up B movie, blitzed out of our minds on some Thai stick.

The movie was about some farm animals: ducks, pigs, cows, and an angry goat that unite to fight back against an old tyrant farmer who constantly beats them. The animals ultimately kill the farmer with his own pitchfork in a silly revolt in a barn. For whatever reason, we watched the entire flick (probably because we were high as motherfuckers). But it was in one of the opening scenes where we found our take down solution. The farmer was having problems with a lazy cow who thought she was the Queen of beef. The motherfucker used a cattle prod to light her fat ass up, and every time he tapped her with it, she would shake like a bovine belly dancer then take off running as if a butcher was chasing her. It was funny shit and we wondered what kind of reaction a shock like that would have on a human. We did some research and realized that an electric cattle prod with certain modifications would be perfect for our needs. We made a rough design, a custom prod more powerful than a stun gun and retractable, like an antenna, to light some punk bitches up.

After some searching, Winston's contact found someone that could get the thing done. We ended up with a prod that could spark a motherfucker up with about 1,600,000 volts. We had the trigger modified, so if held continuously, the charge would stay at maximum. This way, we could go from one target to the next without recharging if the opportunity presented itself. We were hoping to wand the motherfuckers in a group, like a big bitch slap. The price was high, way high, but the shit was hot, and we had some fun with it. We tried it a couple of times on some crack heads and it worked great, barely a peep, just some twitching, smoking, and foaming at the mouth. The shit worked most nicely.

Of course, we would bring our usual gear: guns, knives, duct tape, zip cuffs, ski masks, bags, coveralls, gloves, etc. We were gearing for battle with a mindset to win. We also made a grim resolution that if necessary, we would smoke everyone in the apartment. You can say that bleak commitment was our reality check during our long hours of planning. It wasn't personal, and I wasn't looking to snuff anybody, but if we fucked up, they fucked up, and that was that, Nat and Poodle were going to get away with mad loot, or take everyone down with us.

We learned through our surveillance that the deals went down in the last room. A nightly pattern of shadow activity moved back and forth behind the illuminated window shades. When customers arrived, figures would walk into the back room and stand around a table where one or two other figures sat down weighing the blow, after a few minutes, the figures would exit the room as a group.

This was important cause knowing where the stash was would save us valuable time and time was crucial. We also noted that the light in the back room never went out. All day and all night a yellowish haze illuminated the drawn shade thus allowing us to tell when someone was in there.

We studied the bathroom window for a long time, estimating its width, its length, its formidability. Poodle carefully sketched it so we could find a similar one and practice our entry. As Fate would have it, we found the exact same window in a home improvement store. A double hung removable type where two pegs at the top of the frame pulled out so you can push either window panel up and completely remove it. This of course was to facilitate cleaning the outside glass, which even in that fine neighborhood was rarely done. We bought one and took it back to the hood, where a building hasn't seen a new window in forty years. We set it up in Poodle's room, propped it up on the floor and wedged it tight with all types of shit to keep it as steady as possible. We practiced; Poodle crawling through the opening as is, then removing one of the panels, passing it to me approximately three feet away, and then me crawling through the now larger opening. We practiced forever. We couldn't duplicate the height or the angle, or the fear factor, but we became comfortable with the window and that was huge.

Poodle got his timing down to thirty seconds flat (from crawling into the opening to handing me the detached window). Being essentially half monkey and half cat, Poodle could crawl or climb his ass anywhere. I got my time down to ninety seconds because I had to go slow.

It was a tight fit for big Natty, and especially with all the gear. What you didn't think we practiced in costume? After six weeks, we had our game plan down and we were ready to hit the place. We practiced everything, our entrance, the take down, the exit, every angle we could think of. Of course, we also planned on the unexpected and knew that anything could happen. As far as our out went, that would be based on the take down. If things went well, we planned to go back up the fire escape, if things got messy, we'd bounce by any means necessary. We wouldn't climb back through the bathroom window, because, of course, we wouldn't need to sneak out. Instead, we would leave through one of the gated windows facing the fire escape. We didn't consider the gate too much; even locked it wasn't going to slow us down. On our way out the only thing that could slow us down was death.

We chose a Friday night for the hit, Fridays were big days for their drug business and we preferred cash to coke. We weren't being picky just practical, cash is an immediate gain, whereas the coke would have to be sold; a time consuming process that is subject to trust (contacts) and the market. Cash is liquid. We checked our gear and then checked it again, plans reviewed, routes confirmed, our individual tasks verbalized, timing, exit, meet time, meet place, and our grim resolution if shit went bad . . . . We were ready, and we were soul-less, perhaps one of us more than the other, but in hindsight the scene remains the same, and though I often look back, I can't change a thing. It is what it is.

It was a midsummer night and the steady drone of air conditioners comforted me. The rattle and hum of over achieving compressors filled the alley and masked our descent down the fire escape. Two hours before we were crouched at our regular perch watching the windows dance with shadows, and noticed that the bathroom window was open extra wide. Was it an omen? Was Fate giving us another nod, beckoning us to enter the mouth of hell? I wonder. It was a hot fucking night after all, oppressive hot. By the time we headed toward the fire escape my shirt and coveralls were glued to my back like saran wrap and I reached behind often to pull them away from my skin. Whether they opened the window wider because of the hot night, or whether the devil raised it up for the heat sure to come— it was open like a whore's legs, and it is was inviting.

It was a good night for the spot, which meant, if all went as planned, it would be an even better night for us. Mad (meaning many) dealers filed in and out of the place buying weight to sell, in turn, to the real consumers; greedy, dirty, hopeless motherfuckers in the hood or those just visiting, but just as hopeless, all to score some get high and forget their miserable lives. The night's business definitely thinned the product and thickened the wallet, exactly what we wanted, and my eyes glinted with thoughts of loot. It was 11:30 and those inside the apartment were partying, winding down from their hard work. Our goal was to be on our way out of the apartment no later than 1:00. We timed the whole thing, and added thirty minutes for what-ifs. We felt that we could finish up and bounce within an hour, but shit happens and thirty minutes could mean the world.

Our notion of good luck dimmed abruptly as we passed the sixth floor landing. Poodle accidentally kicked an empty flowerpot, which fell on its rounded side and rolled across the iron slats of the fire escape about two feet before I was able to reach out and stop it. Because the pot was hollow, its movement was amplified and it sounded like it had rolled two hundred feet. With the force of a fucking loudspeaker, our presence announced. We froze, forever, staring at the sixth floor windows less than a whisper from our faces. There was no movement, no curiosity, just a dusty set of blinds and the steady hum of air conditioners. We finally worked up the nerve to take the next set of steps, which put us right outside the drug spot's gated windows, but we moved slowly and scanned every window expecting to see some nosy bastard watching us with a phone plastered to his ear.

When we reached the fifth floor, we took a breather, crouched near the bedroom window. I could hear salsa music playing on a stereo inside. The music was loud enough to fill the apartment and maybe annoy the tenant's right below them, but nothing like a stereo in the hood. I appreciated the music; it would help mask our entry. The bathroom light was out, as were the lights in the room we were facing. Of course, the rear bedroom was lit up, as well as the living room, dining room, and kitchen. We moved to the side railing next to the bathroom window, and immediately looked down. Not intentionally, not for kicks, not for any reason I could think of, we just did. Poodle leaned out and spit softly. I watched his spit fall gracefully, like a drop of rain, and land far below without a sound. Poodle smiled and whispered in my ear:

"That ain't how you'll fall bro."

A knot tightened in my belly, an extra knot that didn't have much room because of all the other knots already there. I remember that it wasn't just the idea of falling five stories that gave me that knot, it was the sudden realization that Poodle was not only a crazy motherfucker, and that he got a thrill outta robbing people, but that he didn't have an ounce of fear in him. I knew this at that moment because who else could have saliva in his mouth moments before crawling into a motherfucking drug spot with the bad intentions we had. Not I, my mouth was an ashtray. Don't doubt Nat, I was always game, but like any normal person, I tense up before the show, especially when the show could be the last one you see. Not that motherfucker, he was relaxed, like a swaying hammock.

Chapter Fifteen

We checked our gear one last time, Poodle had the pepper spray, and I had the cattle prod. We both had our 40's, knives, tape, zip cuffs and everything else we needed (I also had our trusted 357). Once we were inside the apartment, I was point. We planned to rush into the living room and erupt on them during their festivities. Poodle would trail me and only use the spray if we didn't get immediate results from the prod. But we were confident that they would go down like bowling pins. After we had them all cinched up and gagged, we would load up. We opted for traditional knapsacks to carry the stash, we considered the amount we could carry, and if necessary we could stuff pockets too, but we needed to stay mobile and bags with handles although easy to throw in a hurry, were too restrictive when moving. We wore the knapsacks in front of us, tight across our chests like a papoose for maneuverability and access to its compartments.

Without the least bit of hesitation, Poodle swung his legs over the railing and reached out toward the bathroom window ledge to test the distance. He turned toward me and we locked eyes, silently acknowledging that the game was on. Poodle turned sideways facing the building and stretched his right leg out, bracing his foot against the brick facade about three feet under the windowsill. He reached toward the window with his right hand while holding the rail with his left. I held the back of his coveralls as he stretched out over nothing. His right hand disappeared inside the window opening and after a moment, he nodded his head, signaling that he was going to release his left hand from the railing.

This was our beyond return moment because once Poodle hung outside the window alone, we were fully committed. If someone went to take a leak, we were fucked. If Poodle slipped, we were fucked. Anything other than both of us getting inside undetected, we were fucked. For the next couple of minutes, Fate would be our partner, not just a fan. I gripped Poodle tightly as he released the rail and slid his hand across the wall until it was also inside the bathroom window. Poodle pulled back slightly to test the strength of the window frame and nodded to me again. This second signal meant that he was going to step completely off of the fire escape and that I should let him go at the same time. A moment later, Poodle was on his own, hanging outside the bathroom window five floors above his own spit. The bottom window panel was so far up, that Poodle had only to shoulder his way through the opening. He moved slowly to minimize noise. All I could do was hold my breath. What a crazy motherfucker I thought, as I watched him calmly enter the bathroom.

It seemed like a lifetime before his legs slipped into darkness, but they did, and I quickly moved into position, swinging my right leg over the railing to straddle the fire escape. I focused on the window, forcing myself not to look down. I heard the familiar snaps as Poodle removed the window panel and held it out for me. I reached out and grabbed it, bringing it over the railing and placing it carefully on the bottom slats of the fire escape.

I took a deep breath, swung my other leg over the rail, and held still for a second wondering if my weight was more than the side railing could handle. Knowing that time was crucial, I swallowed my fear like a golf ball and stretched my right hand out until it rested on the bathroom window ledge. My entry was going to be different. I was bigger and heavier than Poodle, so that finesse shit wasn't going to work. Besides, three feet for someone my size wasn't nothing but an arm's length. I could probably get halfway inside the bathroom without removing my feet from the fire escape. Be that as it may and it was, it was still a scary fucking maneuver, one wrong move and I was in for a quick ride down.

With my right hand on the ledge supporting my body I released my other hand and slowly brought it over to the window so that I was canted out at an angle between the windowsill and the railing. I transferred my weight to my left hand which was now also on the sill and reached inside the bathroom with my right grabbing the inside ledge of the window just above the toilet bowl. I leaned forward and placed my chest as far as I could onto the sill, laying my body out in a modified push up position, stretched out across the space between the fire escape and the window. I reached in with my left hand searching for something to grab onto, while my feet braced hard against the lower part of the railing, which I swear to this day, I bent from the pressure I applied.

The window casing was recessed, so the walls, which cornered at the window, offered a convenient hold. I gripped both edges death tight and lunged while pushing off the railing with my feet. I shot through the opening like a cannon ball, instinctively opening my legs wide to prevent my body from flying over the toilet and crashing into the bathtub, which I'm sure, would have made enough noise to fuck everything up.

As it was, I dangled on the ledge like a seesaw with my face as close to the toilet water as I ever want it to be. I heard Poodle whisper a hush in my direction from somewhere near the bathroom door as I struggled the rest of the way through the window. After some grunts and soft curses, I was standing next to Poodle listening to Latin music, garbled conversation, and occasional laughter coming from down the hall. I extended and charged the cattle prod and nodded to Poodle letting him know I was ready to go. Poodle was holding his 40 and smiling at me. He leaned forward and whispered:

"I got an idea."

I bent over to hear what he had in mind.

"We'll wait for one of them to take a leak, I'll stand by the door, you get in the bathtub and hide behind the curtain. When someone walks in, I'll snuff him, and you light his ass up. That'll be one down, and when we come out of the bathroom they'll think it's him."

I was skeptical, things could go wrong and then it would be mayhem, we could lose the element of surprise, and that would be disastrous. It was a huge gamble. Besides, I was amped up and wanted to get it on waiting would drive me crazy. However, as I thought about it, the opportunity to take one of them out early, and maybe even get some information was definitely worth the wait.

"What if the electricity travels through the motherfucker? We can't risk that, so you take the prod, hit him from behind and I'll catch him before he hits the floor."

Poodle nodded and took the prod.

"Remember," I said, "if you keep your finger on the trigger, juice will be flowing, don't waste any charges, just a tap!"

Once we hooked a crack head for twenty seconds to see what would happen. We thought we killed his ass, smoke even came out of his mouth, but we only fried whatever brain cells he had left, no big deal. But we weren't experimenting here, we were in game, and we couldn't waste our primary weapon on one target.

I stepped into the tub and waited. I spent fifteen minutes behind that curtain. Fifteen minutes staring at dirty tiles and listening to lyrics I didn't understand. I realize now, that those fifteen minutes that quarter of an hour were the most valuable yet wasted minutes that I ever lived. I wish I could have them back. I wish I could rewrite that scene, change it, get a second chance like George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life," but I'm as deaf as he was, actually worse, stone-deaf, cause I ain't heard shit, nor ever did, and now all I hear is my own howling soul.

I wish I was smarter back then, I wish I had been patient, and took the right steps for a good life, a happy life, but that can't happen now, illusionary hindsight— reach for it, taste it, in your dreams take it and shape it like clay, but change it . . . that will never happen. To think that the biggest segue in my life actually lasted for the same length of time Warhol coined as every man's finest moment, our highest moment, our "tell" for posterity, and I fucking blew it.

I thought of nothing during those fifteen minutes, other than when was one of them motherfuckers going to take a piss! Now, whenever I find myself in a tub, I think of nothing else but how I wasted those precious minutes. Where I fucked up my life, where I fucked up my afterlife. I still see the blackened grout coated in soap scum, and I see the yellowed tiles completely enclosed, some cracked, and some worn, and I realize that it is the representation of my life: closed boxes and dirty decisions. That last chance will always stare me in the face for fifteen minutes, and I can't do a fucking thing about it.

In my nightmares, I see my guardian angel locked behind that tiled wall looking through the showerhead yelling at me to climb back out the window, that I would be better off if I climbed out that window. That even falling five fucking floors was better than where I was heading. But Nat didn't hear no angel, and Nat didn't think of shit, all Nat wanted to do was get paid, and soon one of those motherfuckers that stood between my loot and me was gonna need to take a leak, and when he does, he was gonna lose more than what was in his bladder.

Finally, after forever, footsteps approached. I tensed, bracing myself for the rush that would occur in the next few seconds. I heard the doorknob turn and dim light entered from the hallway. I was moving as soon as I heard a faint pop. I swung the curtain to the side and caught a falling, jerking body. Darkness quickly returned as Poodle pushed the door shut. In my outstretched arms, I held a mass of no significance that twitched and shuddered violently. I laid the body down as quietly as I could and immediately wrapped duct tape around its head, covering a drooling mouth in three quick tight passes. I pulled the flailing hands behind its back and locked them with a zip strip, and then repeated the process with the uncooperative feet, tightly binding the ankles. The entire time I worked, the body flopped around of its own accord. After it was secured, I hefted the weight and dumped it in the tub where it thumped around like a large tuna.

Poodle turned on the overhead light and leaned close to me.

"Keep the motherfucker quiet."

The convulsions were slowing down but the knees kept knocking into the side of the tub and it started moaning in a low drone. I pressed the legs against the tub with my left hand and placed my right hand down on the side of the head pushing hard. I bent down until my mouth was almost touching its ear.

"Shut the fuck up or I'll cut your throat."

The moaning stopped, but the breathing was harsh and rapid. The spasms grew faint and as my eyes adjusted to the light, they met fear staring up at me. I searched the clothing and found $200 in small bills, a booch of coke, maybe a gram or two packaged in a $20 bill, four gold chains, a gold link bracelet, a black and gold Movado watch and a pager. I shoved everything except the pager in my front pocket; the pager I turned off and tossed into the nasty toilet bowl.

As I was stripping the body of all its wealth, it jerked and whined in a low whimper, the kind of whimper a scared motherfucker lets out when he becomes suddenly aware. Poodle came close and told the body to stop fussing or it will get zapped again. The body froze, more afraid of being shocked again, than getting its neck sliced. Poodle smiled.

"I thought so," he said.

Poodle asked it how many others were in the apartment.

"Nod your head for each one."

The body, in a momentary surge of courage, shook its head defiantly. Poodle reached over with the cattle prod and waved it a hair's breadth away from the body's face. The body squirmed and turned its head side to side in a silly attempt to ward the prod off. Poodle asked again, as he spit on the prod, also hitting the body's face, but the spit didn't offend the body, at least it didn't give no indication that it was. Instead, it watched with large blinking eyes as Poodle's spit sizzled and smoked down the length of the prod. The body began to nod, and nod, and nod. The motherfucker nodded five times. We made it repeat the sequence twice more just to be sure. We were skeptical; someone must've left while we moved into position because we were sure we had counted seven shadows before we made our move. We decided that the body wasn't trying to trick us and that some lucky motherfucker would not be meeting us that night. Five was better than six, but more than enough to fuck our plans up all the same. Poodle asked if they were all in the living room. The body nodded once. Good, I thought if we move quickly we could get them all together.

We looked down at our first victim who stared back at us with hard eyes. Poodle patted it on the head and said:

"Relax fool, unless your boys flex and get you all killed, you got nothing else to worry about. You're done for the night, just don't go anywhere!"

Poodle chuckled, I smiled, but the body just stared at us with those hard eyes. Poodle closed the shower curtain, hiding the body in the tub, leaving it alone to consider its unfortunate situation. I often find myself wondering if it ever considered those tiles. I wonder if it realized that all that mattered in its life up to that point was hidden behind the milky soap scum, watching, imploring, silently beseeching, as with I moments before. I wonder if the body heard, I wonder if it didn't waste its Warhol minutes.

Chapter Sixteen

Poodle and I readied for our grand entrance. Our first catch had been in the bathroom with us for about five minutes by then, long enough for them to start wondering. Although from the looks of the toilet bowl (that I had the misfortune to meet up close and personal), them motherfuckers were not afraid to take their time on the shitter. They probably thought their Compadre was just losing some weight. Poodle gave me back the cattle prod and winked, it was game time! I reached over and flushed the toilet, Poodle turned on the faucet, and we huddled by the door for a couple of seconds looking at each other in predatory anticipation. I gripped the prod tightly and stepped back so Poodle had enough room to swing the door all the way open. He turned the water off, grasped the doorknob and pulled.

For the next few minutes, I seemed to be watching a movie. Although I knew I was one of the actors, a part of me felt removed. I know I was there, moving, working, hurting . . . but at the same time, I was off to the side, watching, cringing, and turning away. Our entrance into their world was Armageddon. Like death coming out of a sunset. Their surprised faces, their silent protests, it was a warped Charlie Chaplin movie without the fake smiles. It was epic; it was cinematic, a real-time silver screen thriller starring me! I wish it were just a film. I wish it were just some Hollywood flick that I could watch from a comfortable seat. I mean I wish that now, after hindsight has repeatedly kicked me in the ass, but not then, then, I wouldn't have switched places with no one for nothing, it was fucking EPIC!

Is it shame, I ask myself, or is it grim realization, now, later in my life, after thousands of dry tears and hundreds of "what the fucks," that compels me to concur that power is the biggest addiction of mankind. That it trumps life, always has, and always will. I don't know, but for those next few moments, after we blazed out of that bathroom, I was giddy-high with the thrill of absolute supremacy; so stoned from it that I became two separate beings, the one wreaking havoc and the one along for the ride. I had my window, I had my wall of tiles, I had fifteen minutes to change my course, to jump, to bail, to do anything else, but that did not happen, that would not happen, because hindsight is for reflection in jail cells and that is the truth! Instead, I lived for the mayhem, for the moment, and as to my two selves that seemingly split in all that confusion, well, they just couldn't mingle, and I won't read too much into that.

I exploded into the living room. In front of me, just slightly out of line with the hallway, a black leather love seat occupied by a dark haired man. On my left, along the back wall was its big brother, a black leather couch. In between stood a glass-topped coffee table covered with empty Heineken bottles that ringed an ashtray holding more butts than a Brazilian beach. By the window, a low bookcase housed a stereo that was pulsing with some Caribbean beats that accentuated my movements with independent eagerness. On the far wall, the one facing me, a large television screen was showing what naked bitches do with dildos. Without breaking stride, I wheeled left and reached over the loveseat with the cattle prod, smacking the neck of the dark haired man while he sipped a bottle of beer. Before the bottle fell from his rigid hand, I was playing conductor with three other startled men sitting on the couch. My finger never left the trigger and I slapped all three across the face in a wide hard backhanded swing. I actually had to raise my hand as I connected with the third face because out of all of them, he was the only one with time to react. His reaction was to rise up, when, as I am sure his hindsight reminds him every time he thinks of that day, he should have ducked.

This movement by "Reaction Guy" fucked up my performance. Had he stayed still, all three of them would've simply stiffened and convulsed quietly on the sofa. Instead, he fell sideways into the bookcase. His crash landing was deafening. Exactly what we didn't want, noise on a level that could draw attention. Simultaneously, as if to ensure that every damned neighbor would hear us, a wailing yell erupted from the kitchen area the moment the music stopped when the stereo hit the floor.

The howling abruptly cut off seconds later with an unmistakable thump. Poodle must've made a quick head count and by-passed the living room to find the remaining target somewhere in the dining room or kitchen. I was convinced that the noise was too loud to dismiss. My two selves were crashing into each other trying to unify, the watching one screaming RUN, the acting one mouthing KILL! I was on the verge of panic, torn in two, one half wanting to bolt, while the other half wanting to carry out the grim resolution. My fear and confusion driven by the neighborhood we were in. This wasn't the kind of area to let the noise we just produced go unreported. This wasn't the hood.

As I struggled with panic, Poodle came back into the living room. My back was to him, so when he stepped up I didn't recognize. At the sound of his approach, I swung the prod around and almost smacked him across the head. He jumped back and yelled "Nat!"

The sound of my name brought me back to my senses, somewhat. I looked at him curiously, not exactly sure what was going on. I heard him repeat my name, (this time from a safer distance). Who the fuck was he talking too? After a few tense moments, I began to recover, my two selves finally merged, and I saw the situation for what it was— a cluster fuck. I looked at Poodle who stood well out of reach and said to him:

"We need to bounce . . . Too much noise . . . We gotta get outta here!"

He stared at me curiously, as if I was someone else.

"Nonsense, Nat, you just a little spooked, calm down, it's all good, wait and see."

So we waited, standing in front of the TV, neither of us much interested in the bitches and rubber dicks moving silently on the screen.

But we stood there just the same, looking at each other while the four bodies on the floor convulsed less and less. I don't know how long this took, standing there in that surreal moment with the twitching bodies spread around the room and the twitching bodies on the screen, but the silence dragged, and my fear ebbed, finally Poodle winked at me and said:

"See bro, not a thang, let's work!"

A city is a city is a city. Perhaps some old lady sipping her late night Metamucil raised an ear, or a yuppie in wire rimmed glasses, pouring over NASDAQ's close (cause he ain't got nothing better to do) might have gotten annoyed at those damned Mexicans who had moved into his building and were making noise— what was the world coming to! Whatever the case, if some people turned a head or not, the reality was that this was no close-knit community where folk looked out for each other. Just another city block, with city cells called apartments, where just like in the hood, everyone minds their own business.

I made another pass with the cattle prod, poking all four of them again for good measure. Poodle retrieved a limp figure from the kitchen, dragging it into the living room with some effort. This body was significant, big and fat and everything. The large motherfucker made Poodle sweat with strain. The man on the love seat jerked so violently after the second jolt that he was kicking the coffee table hard enough to cause some of the beer bottles to fall. I kicked his legs with equal ferocity until they curled back toward the love seat as if they felt the pain independent from the electric shock coursing through his body.

We weren't fucking around, so as they woke up, all tied and muffled, the thumping wasn't shy. We only needed to keep one of them conscious anyway, the boss, and we knew whom he was. So the rest of them either accepted their situation and kept still or got knotted up for having poor judgment. Ultimately, four of them got knocked out.

After we secured them, I went to the bathroom and brought "Hard Eyes" to the party. I told him not to mad dog me or I would glue his eyes shut. He did his best not to look in my direction. We searched the group and found $1200 in cash, nineteen gold chains (eight from the boss, the fat guy, who we nicknamed Heffe), three watches, nine rings, seven bracelets and three handguns. I shoved the cash and jewelry into the front pockets of my jeans (inside the coveralls), and put the three guns in the pockets of the coveralls for later disposal. By the time we finished stripping them, Heffe was fully aware of his situation. He was breathing hard, sweating hard, and looking around like a trapped pig. Unlike Hard Eyes who learned quick and sat quietly resigned to whatever cometh, Heffe wasn't no apt pupil. But even the worst student will appreciate a dedicated teacher— eventually. Poodle and me we learned him. It took some time, longer than expected, but we done learned him.

Heffe's lesson began when Poodle came back from the rear bedroom with an angry look on his face. He said they had a locked safe and that the shit must be inside it. Imagine that! They were so comfortable in that neighborhood that they put their drugs and proceeds in a safe. Stupid fucks, had the cops been the ones raiding them, all the evidence was packed inside a box, like a Christmas present.

Poodle pulled Heffe up by his shirt collar. The fat fuck apparently couldn't stand, and promptly dropped to his knees. Poodle though strong, didn't even try to hold the weight, so Heffe landed on his knees hard and winced in pain. Poodle leaned over him and politely asked for the safe's combination. Heffe shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He regretted that. Poodle pulled his knife and told Heffe he was going to cut the tape away from his mouth, if he yelled out or screamed his tongue would be cut out next. Without waiting for a gesture or response, Poodle sliced down across the duct tape behind Heffe's right ear deep enough that he actually cut into his head. Heffe flinched and tried to pull away, but Poodle grabbed his head and jerked it back hard.

"Don't move motherfucker," he hissed into Heffe's face.

Poodle ripped the tape away taking with it a good amount of Heffe's mustache. Heffe cried out but his protest was cut short by Poodle's gloved hand, which slapped hard against his mouth.

"Now motherfucker, what's the combo?"

Heffe was panting and didn't respond fast enough, so Poodle smacked him across the face hard enough to cause an instant welt.

"You think we're fucking around?" Poodle asked incredulously.

"I'll hurt you bad motherfucker, worse than death, you want that?"

Heffe shook his head moaning incoherently.

"What's the fucking combo?" Poodle demanded. Heffe started to hyperventilate; he was shaking, sobbing and cringing like a whipped dog. Poodle raised his hand again.

"Spit it asshole!"

Heffe took a deep shuddering breath and in a low quavering voice, he managed to say that he didn't know the combination, that the boss comes in the morning to take the money and weigh the blow. He said nobody knows the combo but him. All they do is count everything and lock it in the safe at the end of the night.

Now maybe, if we were the two dumbest motherfuckers who ever tried to rip a drug spot, or were unprepared, or didn't do our homework and hadn't watched the fucking place for more than two months, his response might have left us holding our dicks. But we knew Heffe was a major player, at least the number three man. We also knew that pick-ups were never consistent, and often, late at night, well after the supposed close of business, certain deals went down for special customers. We knew without a doubt that Heffe had the combo, and unfortunately, for him, he found that out the hard way. Poodle hated these kinds of surprises, he also hated going off track. He was a meticulous type of person, probably had OCD.

He was a stickler for schedules and fretted incessantly when we were running late. Spending extra time extracting information from holdouts like Heffe was something he did without patience and without mercy. Poodle did not hesitate. He stood up, pulling a red leather tie from his back pocket (the kind you see in Miami Vice) that he must have found in the bedroom, and roughly gagged Heffe. As soon as the tie wrapped tight across his trembling mouth, Poodle placed his knife against Heffe's forehead and slowly carved a line from one end of the hairline to the other. He cut deep enough to scratch bone and slow enough to allow blood to cover Heffe's left eye before it poured down over his right.

Other than Hard Eyes, who was turning at that very moment into Soft Watery Eyes, I was the only observer to Poodle's quick methodical punishment. Heffe made horrible sounds through his leather gag, the kind you hear little kids make when screaming into their pillows. I remember a disturbing thrill course through my body as I watched Heffe squirm in anguish. The same kind of thrill I felt before at Flaco's spot, a shot of testosterone through my moneymaker. It sickens me now, when I think of it, the way I enjoyed hurting people. Granted we had a reason, we had a goal, but no one should get off on shit like that, and I'm glad that my thrill was short lived. I'm glad that at least some part of me was still human.

Poodle waited a moment, until Heffe stopped his muffled shrieking, and then leaned over to whisper into his ear. Poodle casually remarked:

"Easy does it fat boy, your misery hasn't even begun."

The way Heffe's wracked sobbing changed pitch— from bleak terror to utter despair— was unnerving to say the least. When I think of terror, it comes fast and violent. Despair, despair is far worse, and if I had a choice between the two, I would choose terror, a quick and final end. Despair is slow and cruel, the worst evil.

I checked my watch, it was 12:40, we were definitely going to miss our out time. The longer we were in the apartment, the higher the chances of something going wrong. I checked the others. Two of them were coming around again. The dark haired man, and Reaction Guy were out cold, but the other two were stirring. I grabbed Hard Eyes by the hair and pulled him over to Heffe. I told him to talk sense into his boss real quick or motherfuckers would be dying. Poodle pulled the tie away from Heffe's mouth and asked for the combo again.

I cut the tape loose from Hard Eyes' head and told him to start convincing or he was next. Hard Eyes pleaded with Heffe to give us the numbers, but Heffe just shook his head, splashing us with his blood. Poodle hissed and pulled Heffe's head back. I pushed Hard Eyes to the floor and watched with growing alarm, a different kind of Poodle, as he muttered to himself while re-gagging Heffe.

"You stupid fuck, you think I'm fucking around, huh, you like this shit, huh, you wanna get fucked up, huh, okay, motherfucker, okay, we'll play, we'll have some fun!"

Heffe was squirming again, feeling Poodle's anger, whimpering at the next possibility. Poodle barked at me to come over and hold Heffe down. He cut the zip cuffs binding Heffe's hands and pulled out his left arm placing Heffe's hand over the love seat's armrest. I grabbed Heffe's other arm and held it twisted behind his back, simultaneously locking his head back in a classic chokehold. Heffe fought against me, but I was stone and he wasn't budging.

Poodle put his knee on Heffe's wrist in an attempt to keep it still and tried to pry his hand open. Heffe balled his hand into a fist anticipating what Poodle had in mind. Poodle cursed under his breath, and looked around briefly. He saw the heavy marble ashtray on the coffee table and picked it up, spreading cigarette butts and ash all over the place. He slammed the ashtray down onto Heffe's fist repeatedly, so hard that it looked from my angle that Heffe's hand was disappearing into the love seat. Heffe screamed into his gag, hoping perhaps that sounds of anguish might stop the horrifying process. To no avail, after a considerable assault by Poodle, Heffe's bloodied and broken hand wilted open. Poodle dropped the ashtray and grabbed Heffe's purpled and swelling hand, manipulating the pinky away from the other fingers. I watched Heffe's eyes scream as he shook his head weakly from side to side.

I could hear his muffled "No, no, please no!" behind the bloody tie. Poodle smiled at him beneath his mask. The fact that I knew he smiled even though you couldn't see the grin or his glistening teeth behind the mesh of the black fabric made the smile that much more sinister. But he smiled; I know it, as did Heffe, Poodle smiled like the Cheshire cat. He paused with his knife resting on the swollen purple pinky finger and spoke to Heffe in a low dark voice.

"No, no, no, big shot, you don't waste my time. You think I'm joking, you think we're going to leave here without the money, you think you're going to play me . . ." Poodle began to saw into Heffe's pinky finger as close to the knuckle as he could get.

It took all of my strength to hold the motherfucker in place while Poodle worked. The finger wouldn't come off. The cushioned armrest wasn't stable enough for a clean cut; there was too much give. Poodle's blade wasn't serrated either, so sawing through the bone was tough work. He damn near cut through the armrest before the finger was completely severed, it took at least a minute before Poodle was done. At some point during the amputation process Heffe fainted. I knew this because his body went limp, but I was so hypnotized watching Poodle work that I didn't bother trying to revive him, and perhaps, in a way, I was glad that he passed out cause that was some brutal shit. Poodle stepped away from the love seat and let out a whoosh of air. He looked at me and chuckled.

"Damn" he said, "I better get me a sharper knife." Hard Eyes was terrified and couldn't stop shaking. The two others that had been stirring earlier must have regained their consciousness at some point and lay frightfully still, scared out of their minds. They were probably wondering if they were next.

I let Heffe slump to the floor and charged the prod again. He woke quickly enough, after the convulsions stopped. Poodle removed the tie again.

"For the last time fat boy, what's the fucking combo?"

Before Heffe could even respond, Poodle stuffed the severed finger in Heffe's mouth and asked him:

"What do you think will be next?"

Heffe, gagging and sobbing, spit his finger out and was about to shake his head again when Poodle grabbed him in a headlock and placed the tip of his knife blade near the outside corner of Heffe's right eye. Poodle held him close and pressed the blade in until he drew a bead of blood.

"Give me the combo!" Poodle ordered in a cold even tone.

I don't think anyone could have continued to hold out after the shit Heffe had just been through. I think most people would have folded with the cut across the forehead. I had a certain grudging respect for Heffe, for his loyalty, for his balls. And I have to admit I was real glad that he started spitting out numbers like the "Count" from "Sesame Street"; not only because we were running late and had to get moving, but I didn't want to see his eyeball rolling around on the floor! It took Heffe five attempts to get the combo out. He was going into shock and kept stuttering and fading out, but we got the digits and Poodle immediately went to the rear bedroom to open the safe.

Although we rolled like ruthless animals and put Heffe through the ringer, I wasn't without some pity. While Poodle was loading up, I did my best to stop the bleeding from Heffe's wounds. I found some paper towels in the kitchen and some white t-shirts in a drawer in the other bedroom. Poodle came into the living room to switch knapsacks with me and frowned, but he didn't say anything.

I think I did a decent job. I cut the t-shirts into long strips and wrapped them around Heffe's maimed hand and forehead. By the time I was done, Heffe had passed out again and Poodle had finished packing.

"You all set mommy?" Poodle asked, amused at my sympathy.

I didn't say anything, but checked to make sure the tape and zip strips were still tight on all of them one last time. Reaction Guy had come to while I was wrapping Heffe and he moaned in the corner like a stuck pig. I looked directly at Hard Eyes and told them they better lay nice and quiet for a good half hour after we leave or motherfuckers would get smoked. I cinched the now heavy knapsack across my back (there was no longer a need to have it in front and I preferred the weight behind me). I walked over to the stereo, turned it right side up and pressed power. The Latin music came back on and the music filled the room as if nothing had happened during its momentary absence. I adjusted the volume, a little lower than previously set, and looked around to make sure we didn't leave anything.

Poodle, standing behind the loveseat said "We out," and walked down the hall toward the bathroom.

Chapter Seventeen

We made our exit through the bedroom window that faced the fire escape. The security gate, latched on the inside, was a spring-loaded type that allowed a person to quickly release the tension and swing the gate open. The design was created after years of tragedies in tenements and urban apartment buildings where families died because a padlock secured the window gates. City ordinances eventually regulated the type of gate installed and outlawed the use of locks. Lucky for us (even though I already told you that a lock wouldn't have been a problem), the gate wasn't secured by anything other than the latch.

Our exit wasn't graceful, shit, it wasn't even coordinated, and it actually turned out to be another cluster fuck. Poodle took point and after releasing the latch and opening the window, stepped out into the hot darkness in a rush to leave the apartment.

He stepped directly onto the windowpane I had placed there earlier. The sharp crack as his boot crashed through the glass, followed by numerous falling shards that smacked against each steel landing echoed throughout the alley. This racket rose well above the air conditioners and made the rolling flowerpot and falling bookcase seem like nothing more than bumps in the night. Without a glance at each other, we threw silence to the corner and beat feet up to the roof.

We split up, separating on the roof without a word. The noise we made rattled me and I guess to a certain extent so did our violence. My mind raced as I ran across the rooftops toward the last building on the block. I thought about the recent events, about how we pulled it off. Snapshots flashed through my mind.

Why do certain moments in our lives always seem to be caught in a snapshot? Perhaps the collage we paint throughout our lives, our "tapestry," our movie reel, is cued to capture only specific moments to tease us and ultimately summarize who we are in one last show. And we don't even get to see it until our end. Perhaps that is why some people who survive a near death experience exhibit certain meekness, a doe-eyed expression carried around for the rest of their existence like Marley's chain in Dickens' classic, a chain of haunting images that constantly reminds one that life is just a collection of sporadic scenes that don't even connect. A simple review of everyday moments captured on a brief clip that runs through your consciousness as your brain shuts down.

Therefore, I ask myself, here in my cell, while I think about my life, what choice moments will play out for my exclusive show?

I spend hours wondering if my final clip will have any happy scenes, or will it be filled with all my bad decisions and their fateful consequences. I'd like to rewind that tape, to reweave that tapestry and make sure that there are at least some good moments I can review before cashing out. Sometimes bits of that tape run free when I lay in the darkness between thought and sleep, and some of the snapshots comfort me. But when I try to remember them the next day, they're gone, elusive, teasing me with hinted warmth. I almost never catch them, but occasionally I get one, and over the years I have caught a few that I hope will be included in my final accounting. But my hope is just that, for I know I don't have a choice in what winds up on the cutting floor.

But if I had a choice, I have some picks. Like that old white lady who smiled at me on the number 34 bus long ago when I was a bitter young kid, right after my old man died. Her smile was warm, genuine, and unsolicited and even though I sneered at her for simply looking at me, I know that smile comforted me, and I wish I could feel it once again. And Mary, sweet little Mary in her crisp blue dress, and tightly woven braids— how they danced when she laughed standing next to me for our class picture in the first grade. Or the look I got from Hard Eyes as I dressed Heffe's wounds, that surprised but grateful look I caught from his bowed head.

There I was, running across the roof with images and thoughts flashing before me like cue cards: Heffe's finger as it laid independently on the shredded armrest, independent and free amid torn leather and stained fiberfill, an example, perhaps, of the price of freedom. A large knothole in the bureau above the drawer in which I found the white t-shirts, a wooden eye that caught the last shred of my humanity. The strange window trim directly across from the fire escape that captured my expression as the sharp crack of glass underneath Poodle's foot quickened the beat of my heart. Trim with an unusual red paint, bright like a barn door— a barn door in an alley window.

Here I am again, musing, thinking, reviewing my life, revisiting my moments, and I ask three questions that may or may not connect some of my snapshots. Three questions that I hope to answer before my final collage: what freedom did I pay for? Are there eyes somewhere that can see some good in me? And, where is my hayloft filled with soft sweet grasses? Not here, not anywhere, and not ever, I sadly know this. If there is one thing I can offer to you my reader, any advice that may fill your movie reel with good moments, then please, by all means, stay out of other people's bathtub!

When I reached my target exit (the rear entrance to the roof of the last building on the block), I stripped off my coveralls and wrapped them around all the extra shit I was carrying: cattle prod, tape, gloves and mask, the three guns we found (not trustworthy and probably hot), anything bulky and not worth the weight. I readjusted the knapsack and headed down into the building. I knew this building had an incinerator, so I made a generous deposit on the sixth floor. I made my way down to the lobby and repeatedly told myself that everything was fine, piece of cake, no problem. I worried, of course I did! Wouldn't you? Our pell-mell flight must have drawn attention. Remember, I almost freaked out when the bookcase fell.

I was way out on edge and I was completely out of my element. Sudden breaking glass in the back alley of an uptown neighborhood would definitely draw attention. Even the most apathetic neighbor would investigate. The noise of our flight was above the bar for any area, even the hood! Our racket went far beyond any level of acceptable disturbance for others' victimization.

When the noise intrudes upon your person, through your windows, your bolted doors, your warm bed sheets, to slap you into awareness with a sudden sting, then your self-preserving disregard for others has been significantly interrupted and must be looked into. Whether it means throwing open your window to voice your irritation, or to call the local police and complain that they don't do shit about weekend revelry, yet, this one might deserve a look-see. Or, more likely, you slither to the edge of your window and cautiously sneak a peek between closed blinds, curious but committed to absolute anonymity— how well society is preserved!

Any way you cut it, and probably a blend of all three, I was sure the nanny, the yuppie and at least half a dozen other neighbors responded to the sudden tempest in their backyard. I knew that I had to be cool, calm and collected once I walked into the street. I knew I had to make my way out of the area fast, but I had to move without drawing attention. My body tingled with pent up anxiety. I was emotionally strapped, and spooked by the strange thoughts crossing my mind. I struggled to stay on point and not allow myself to make any mental mistakes. Stress and indecision are the key reasons many criminals are caught after the crime.

That is the biggest difference between the professional and the amateur, the ability to think clearly and remain calm whether things are going smoothly or if everything goes south.

I loitered briefly inside the lobby to see if any patrol cars were cruising by. Everything seemed quiet, so I made my exit. I stepped onto the sidewalk and turned left, walking east for two blocks, two long anxious blocks, where every step I took was skittish, like a greyhound ready to catch that fucking hare. All I needed was the right signal and I would bolt. Keyed into every sound, I listened for any indication that someone, anyone, took interest in me. I willed myself to a casual stride though every nerve ending in my body wanted to run. I made it to the intersection without incident and allowed myself a moment to look around. Everything was fine; my nerves began to steady as I wiped sweat from my brow.

I felt like I just took a long drag on a cigarette. I turned north heading toward the subway station three blocks away. I was in the home stretch and I began to relax. Prior to reaching that intersection I had not dared to look around, now that I was out of the immediate area, I scanned the streets and smiled, everything was fine, piece of cake, no problem! And the knapsack, the knapsack was fat! As I descended the stairs to the train station, I could have done cartwheels. I was so relieved and busy with self-adulation and so utterly mechanical about hopping the turn-aisle that I didn't even look around the platform. I turned off my senses as soon as I entered the subway.

Two words: DUMB ASS! What was that difference between professional and amateur? I totally disregarded the possibility of a cop being there, hell, I never even thought about it. The loud "Hey you" that shattered my self-aggrandizement as I took no more than two steps past the turn-aisle, ruthlessly shoved my heart into my boot and pushed my ass up into a suddenly empty chest. To think that I was in the clear, to assume that I was home free, to lose my senses after that long heart wracking walk was an unrecoverable mistake. What a fucking amateur!

I didn't even turn around. The instant panic that spread through my body was like a virus. Every nerve responded every cell was screaming run! Run! RUN! The greyhound was gone, I now moved like a fucking thoroughbred, a Triple Crown winner. I took off instantly, galloping like a motherfucker. I heard hollow footsteps dropping behind me, leather soles slapping concrete, I knew it was a uniformed cop, and that at least was a slight relief cause no uniform was going to catch Natty. I ran to the end of the platform, jumped onto the train tracks, and bolted into the dark tunnel.

I was never into graffiti as a kid (way too interested in making money), so I wasn't at home so to speak. I knew enough to stay away from the third rail, and to pace my stride so that I landed each time on the wooden crossbeams, but I did not have an intimate knowledge of the tunnel system. I gained some distance when I jumped onto the tracks because the cop hesitated while he yelled into his radio. I overheard the response and dread consumed me. Other cops were at the next station and they would wait for me there.

My mind raced again, for the umpteenth time that night. I was trapped and I was loaded. I had no idea how much drugs were strapped to my back but I knew it was a bumper crop— more than any transit cop ever saw. I also had my 40, the 357, and a knife. Even if I ditched it all, I was still looking at a number of charges that could get me locked up. I had two choices: stop and ambush the cop behind me, head back the other way and hope no one else was responding; or, try to lose everything I had and give up at the next station. I decided I would risk taking a pinch, but it would be a lesser pinch and there might not be any room in jail for locking up a thug for minor shit like hopping a train and running from a cop, even if he was bad ass Nat T. Johnson.

I was certain that the cop mentioned my knapsack when he called out my description so I couldn't dump it. I would have to empty it as I ran. I switched over to the opposite track, the northbound side, in an attempt to put more space between the cop and me. I was afraid that the cop would see that I was dumping the bag. I realize now, that in that utter darkness the cop would not have seen anything regardless of which side of the track I was on, but with panic riding shotgun, being on the other track felt like I was further away. Besides, paranoia had kicked in, perhaps the darkness smothered my senses, but I believed that the cop could see everything. So I crossed to the other side to further mask his view. I felt his bobbing flashlight burn down the tunnel after me. I felt it like an arrow aimed at my back, an arrow that found me wherever I turned.

In reality, it wasn't more than a flashing dot in the distance, yet I couldn't seem to escape its stare, which paralyzed my hope as one is paralyzed when the weight of a gavel drops in judgment and condemnation.

Chapter Eighteen

As I ran, I pulled the pack from my back and unzipped the large center compartment. I was careful, I had already stumbled twice, and I couldn't risk losing a brick right in the middle of the tracks. I had to choose the right places to toss the packages of thick, white "Reina." What a fucking shame. But I had no choice, I know I said I had two choices, but I wasn't ready to smoke no cop, that wasn't even a choice, not then, not when I had another option. The thought that the cops might find the drugs and put 2+2 together scared the shit out of me. Also in the back of my mind, the possibility of somehow getting out of this mess and recovering the coke floated like a cloud.

A cloud in its very inception condemned my soul, damned me with the subliminal realization that I would always be a criminal. Not born to it as some liberal sociologist might contend in a knee jerk thesis that inner city kids are prone to a life of crime because of poverty or parental neglect, but selected, as all other career criminals select— in choice moments where one has the opportunity to think his actions through, yet chooses not to think at all. My soul indelibly branded after 15 minutes of thoughtlessness behind a dirty shower curtain and then confirmed in a lonely train tunnel when I considered that I might be able to recover the very loot I was ditching.

And forever after, while breath passes between my lips, I'll remember that moment. Remember every aspect of it, every color, every sound, and every scent. And regret— the bitter regret! If you think I'm wrong, maybe talking out of my ass, then ask any lifer with nothing but time on his hands. Ask him if he knows when it happened, when he branded himself. You won't have to explain, he'll know exactly what you're asking, and maybe, if you care to listen, you'll learn his story, but not now, right now you're learning mine.

I counted as I threw the packages of coke, one here, one there . . . all together I tossed seven thick packets of cocaine into various holes, corners, and cracks between the two train stations; seven kilos of premium get-high for the rats living on the A line. The next station was coming up fast; I slowed down crossing sides again. I looked back and forth breathing hard, the station ahead was closer than the cop behind me was and I could see two blue uniforms at the edge of the platform looking into the tunnel crisscrossing the tracks with their flashlights. I was fucked, I still had my gats and it was too tight to ditch them. I needed to find a spot where I could lose them permanently. My prints were all over them, and I didn't have time to wipe them clean. How did I get myself into this mess? I looked down the tunnel and saw the lone cop's flashlight closing behind me. Slow and sure, they were going to smoke me out.

I doubled back, desperate to find a good dumpsite for the guns. I switched to the opposite side again, searching the walls, the floor, nothing, not a damned crack, hole, or nothing. I threw my knife indiscriminately across the tracks and heard it clatter off the wooden beams in a loud staccato roll. My 40 and 357 were a different issue and they started to weigh heavily in my pockets and in my mind. That bullshit they sell to people in the suburbs that possession is 9/10th of the law doesn't apply in the streets— that's blue blood law. If they found either one, let alone both, anywhere in that tunnel, I was in for some serious time, serious time in a serious lock-up. No more kid gloves for Nat, I'd be housed with the regulars, the yard birds, the adult mainstream criminals who would test me and try to best me. But Nat ain't no punk bitch, and when the time comes to learn the ways of real prison, Natty will be ready to thump motherfuckers, but I was still hopeful that my current situation was not going to be the reason for that indoctrination.

I was looking everywhere frantically like a three-headed cartoon of "Elmer Fudd" except I wasn't looking for no rabbit, I was the rabbit, at first a jittery greyhound, then a thundering thoroughbred, and finally reduced to a trapped hare in a long ass hole.

I paused halfway between that damned incessantly bobbing flashlight and the station where the waiting cops itched to test the strength of their nightsticks. I continued down the track toward the single cop in the tunnel, slowly, watching his progress while looking for my messiah. I needed a deep crack, a fissure, a hole down to hell. I swear I would have made a pact with the devil had he rose up and offered to take the guns from me.

I trotted slowly, back toward the cop, almost without hope— his thin hand slipping through my fingers although I clutched and gripped as fiercely as I could. On the verge of complete loss, I looked up, as if to plead to Heaven cause Hell told me to fuck off, and I saw my savior. An opening, a dark rectangular opening slanted up into the ceiling. An air vent, of course a fucking air vent! What was I thinking; air vents were all over the city, necessary to circulate air throughout the subway system, to allow fumes to rise out of the train tunnels. On every other block where a subway line runs beneath, steel grates pockmark the sidewalks spitting warm stale air into the streets. I remember as a kid, wishing I could slip through those grates to get to all the treasure collected at the bottom. Shiny coins, pens, lighters, candy, everything a ghetto child could want.

I learned later that these exhaust vents were designed as a trap system. The vent shafts rose out of the tunnel at an angle toward the surface and opened into a floored chamber that acted as a catch and run-off so that no debris or rainwater spilled onto the tracks. I said I learned all this later, but at that particular moment, all I knew was that I had to lose the guns quickly and hoped that the big dark rectangle above me was going to do the trick. A quick glance downs the tunnel and I knew I was running out of time. Even if the cop couldn't see me flinging the guns up, he would soon be close enough to hear the metal bouncing through the shaft, and if they didn't find a home, then he would definitely hear them fall back down.

I figured I had two chances, one for each gun; maybe a third blind throw if one fell out. I knew I couldn't make a mistake; I had to nail two buckets at the foul line for the Championship. I decided to toss them underhanded like an "alleyoop," but I didn't know how hard to toss them. I wanted to minimize the noise, but more importantly, I couldn't risk them falling back down.

After some quick calculations, I estimated the tunnel ceiling to be approximately 24 feet up, the vent shaft another 10, plus 3 more feet just to be sure, 37 feet in a controlled underhand throw— best two out of two or bust. The stainless revolver went first, I figured the bright finish would reflect easier if the cop's flashlight happened to swing my way. I felt the weight of the gun resting in my hand; I swung my arm back and forth a few times focusing on the faint outline above. I increased the swing of my arm in a full arc. Even though panic was kicking me in the head and hope was biting the fingers of my other hand, trying to escape, I concentrated and practically willed myself on task. I was a fucking temple. I released the 357 with skill born out of desperation, skill that climbs up your ass without the training kit, skill that is often mistaken for luck, but it is way more than that, because you got no choice but success and with that driving you, you best become a motherfucking expert. Now if Nat fucked up, I might say it was bad luck, but good luck, good luck is for lottery winners.

I watched the 357 sail up toward the opening; it rotated slowly, a faint outline in the darkness flipping in lazy somersaults as if unsure of its ascent. I held my breath expecting it to lose energy before it even entered the vent. Though my eyes were glued to its flight, my head was moving from side to side of its own accord convinced I didn't use enough force. But it kept on going, deceptively slow, but rising, rising, until it disappeared into the shaft and was gone. I thought I heard something that may have been a landing, but I wasn't sure. But what I was sure of after five seconds or so was that the gun wasn't coming back down.

The initial thrill I felt disappeared instantaneously cause I had the big 40 to toss next and each second counted. But now I was the man, an expert, if I had the time I could toss fifty, one hundred, two hundred guns up into that shaft if I needed to, but the only one I had to worry about was swinging in my hand waiting for its ride.

I went through the motions again and thanks to my man Fate, the 40 disappeared into the shaft and didn't come back down either. Two for two and Natty was through. After the 40 was gone, I felt my body crashing, as if I was shutting down. I felt like a junkie up for days without a fix. I was done. Finding that vent at the last possible moment was a stroke to be sure, but with nothing left to do but give up, I felt the strain and the exhaustion of my nights efforts wash over me like a tide. I stood underneath the faint outline of the vent and waited for the crack of the cop's flashlight across my neck. I thought of the ass kicking I was going to get for running, and in an odd way, I looked forward to it. Not because Nat liked to get beat down, but it would give me a chance to lie down and that is all I wanted to do right then was to lay down and drift away.

I heard the cop approaching, softer footsteps than on the platform, cautious, unsure. I ticked off the seconds waiting for his light to find me standing in the darkness, still and quiet underneath my rectangular savior. The stupid cop wouldn't draw a relation would he, I thought, suddenly uncomfortable. I quickly eased that thought away, he's a cop, of course he wouldn't see a connection, they rarely do. As the seconds passed, I began to worry about a possibility worse than meeting a frustrated cop and his angry flashlight. What if this particular cop was the skittish type; what if he was a rookie?

His hesitant footsteps seemed to suggest more than wariness. What if his finger was on the trigger? What if he flinches when he haloes Nat in dim light and his mind screams, "That big motherfucker's got a gun!" Rat-a-tat-tat, bye-bye Nat! As the seconds slid by, my apprehension grew, as if an unnatural influence was pressing me. I was convinced I was going to get smoked. His flashlight would find me and his unnatural influence will convince him that I'm ambushing him. Common sense kicked me in the head, I quickly decided to direct his attention by giving up, L-O-U-D-L-Y. I raised my hands high over my head, so high and so hard that I might have been able to reach up into that shaft and pull my guns right back down! I blurted in a rushed and frantic way:

"I give up man, don't shoot me man, I'm over here, I ain't done nothing, don't me shoot man!"

I remember feeling rather than hearing an abrupt pause in his advance somewhere behind me and to the right. I guess he was on the other side of the track. I almost laughed in spite of the situation and my utter exhaustion. Had I waited a little bit longer, and maybe looked around rather than stopping dead in my tracks (no pun intended), that dumb motherfucker might have passed me by and I could have beat feet back toward the other station and maybe even got away.

Instead, I stood as still as the steel columns all around me and hoped the cop didn't panic. I watched the beam of his flashlight pan across the tunnel wall. The dull yellow circle jittered up and down as it swept toward me until it danced on my back in a bobbing jig.

"Don't move asshole!" echoed through my head as his barking command filled the dark tunnel.

I wasn't moving, I wouldn't have moved even if a train were barreling down the track. I was frozen stiff waiting for the sound of gunshots and the punch of holes in my back.

None came, just a rush of footsteps (not so hesitant or unsure), and some quick cop talk into a squawking radio.

"That's right asshole, keep those hands in the air and don't make a mistake."

His voice was clipped as if he was excited or tense, but he sounded confident and seasoned, he wasn't no rookie. Well, I thought, at least I won't get shot by accident. I expected to get thumped a little but like I told you, Natty didn't mind that all too much. I felt the cop approach, but not close enough to touch me. He stood behind me, maybe twenty feet away, far enough that if I made a move I'd catch a whole lotta lead.

"Now listen carefully, we're gonna stay just like we are for a little while, you over there nice and quiet with them long ass arms straight up in the air and me over here tracing smiley's on your back, got it?"

He paused then added:

"If you make a sudden move, I'll shoot, if you lower your arms, I'll shoot, do anything stupid and I'll shoot, understand?"

I nodded slowly so he could see that I understood the situation. He was waiting for backup, as would I, especially when all alone in a damned train tunnel. I suppose he figured he'd done enough crazy shit for one night, coming after me solo like he did. As I stood waiting for my next ordeal, I began to worry about them searching the tunnel, the very thing I was trying to avoid. I realized that I needed to convince the cop that I ran outta fear, throw him some bullshit, and see if he bites.

Chapter Nineteen

Once again, Natty had to sell a cop some Broadway. I hoped I was sharing time with another Nitch and not a Riley.

"Please Officer don't hurt me . . ." I stammered. There was no response.

"I'm scared man . . . I ran cause I was scared, I don't mean no harm, I'm just scared."

The cop still didn't say anything. I started to fidget, actually growing nervous at his lack of response. I was hoping for some reassurance or at the very least a shut the fuck up. Anything but silence, silence was deadly. I turned my head toward the station and sure enough, two more bobbing lights were heading in my direction. I had to step it up, show this cop some fledgling panic— get him thinking I might bolt. Force him to react to my fear. That was the natural progression of course; a hood kid under the gun of a single cop is one thing. However, three on one all alone in a train tunnel, this was a serious beat down scenario. I had to convince the cop that I feared the situation coming more than the gun pointed at my back.

"Officer, Officer, come on man, walk me out, I'll be cool, you got me man, I ain't gonna try nothing."

I twisted my body around enough to look in his direction, but all I could see was a glaring flashlight. I thought of sad puppies and I tried to imitate how they would look, I willed my act toward the light as if I was on a projector. Shit I thought, was I really gonna catch a thumping. Maybe, beat downs are a part of the game, but a beat down alone in a tunnel? Shit, maybe I should bolt, I thought.

I turned back toward the approaching lights and took a deep shuddering breath, not at all fake, but with the added intention to show the cop a motherfucker's desperation. I deliberately turned my head in the opposite direction looking down the dark tunnel from where I had come and then turned back again toward the approaching backup. He finally spoke, compelled by my reaction.

"Don't even think about it kid, no one is going to hurt you, just don't be stupid, you're in enough trouble as it is."

After a pause, he added:

"It's dark in here kid, if you make a sudden move, I won't hesitate, I'm not taking that chance, don't be stupid."

I believed him and I was slightly relieved, I wanted him to be that focused. I wanted him to see my fear and my recklessness. I needed him to think that I was just a dumb kid, scared shitless about a beat down and not let his mind wander too far into why I ran in the first place. I needed him to be happy with the collar as is.

I kept up the act, looking back and forth and breathing hard. I knew I sold the show, I knew he was another Nitch, and even though I looked scared out of my mind, inside I was calming down and began to feel the full effect of my exhaustion once again. My tiredness exhibited by an uncontrollable shaking of my outstretched arms. By the time the backup was close enough to bathe me in additional circles of light, as if I was a circus act, Officer Rancino had allowed me to place my hands on my head. He actually ordered me to. In fact, I was so tired that the only thing keeping them on my head was how tightly clasped my fingers were. I swear had they slipped apart my hands would have dropped to my sides like a cheerleader. I was completely drained I didn't have anything left.

Once I realized that Rancino (he told me his name at some point during our standoff) was an easy dupe, I felt the toll of going full tilt. I struggled to simply stand, let alone keep my arms up. I felt like I was holding up the whole damned tunnel. In retrospect, I'm glad Rancino bagged me; he had that good ol' liberal empathy and didn't seem to take shit personal. He saw that I was struggling and helped me out.

Another cop might have enjoyed watching my arms shake, hoping that they would drop and give him an excuse to shoot. Believe me when I tell you that they're out there on patrol right now, waiting and itching. But Rancino let me rest after we understood each other (at least the understanding I wanted), and we waited for his backup quietly, each in his own agenda.

Of the two cops who joined us, one was a Sergeant who wasn't happy to be standing in the middle of the train tracks.

"What the fuck Tony, this damn mook ran on ya?" he announced.

"Yeah boss, I knew he was gonna jump, but he took off like flash, I didn't expect that, like he was already running from something, that's why I called it in."

"Is that so, Tony? The punk's gotta have a good reason, don't cha?"

He didn't expect an answer.

"Damn he's a big fucker Tony, glad you didn't try to be a hero. Kolinski," he suddenly barked, "cuff his ass and then check for weapons, we'll strip him at the station, just danger shit for now. Now listen up you dumb fuck, be real still, ya hear . . . we don't want you falling on the third rail or nothing, capiche?"

I nodded like before, nice and slow; let em all know I was full of compliance, not giving them a reason to flex. I remember wondering if all police sergeants were like Riley.

Rancino cut in:

"I think he'll be compliant Sarge, we already talked and he's full of understanding ain't cha?"

I think Rancino spoke like that to kiss up to the sergeant, but maybe he did it to head off a thumping. I never heard the sergeant respond, didn't hear nothing said, but I did hear the cuffs come out. I also heard an approach from my right, not steady, like a cop who knows how to cuff a motherfucker, but hesitant like a rookie. Kolinski did his job well enough though, maybe too well. His breath slapped into my neck—

"Don't move," at the instant my hands were clasped and a cuff was slapped hard against my right wrist. Before I could flinch, my arms twisted behind my back and I was hooked up.

Kolinski didn't bother adjusting the cuffs, they barely fit me anyway, so Natty wasn't gonna get no slack. He didn't limit any pain either. When he pulled my arms up behind my back, the cuffs dug into my wrists like saws. I guess he did this to keep my hands away from my body, but I felt like he did it to give me some pain, and I fell outta role for a moment.

"Hey man, easy with that shit!"

The sergeant pounced immediately.

"Shut the fuck up mook— or maybe you're resisting huh?" He suggested ominously.

I knew what he meant, and cursed myself for another mental slip, what was a little pain when twenty minutes before I was expecting a real thumping or even death, I shut the fuck up.

Kolinski got bolder after that and he pulled harder and kicked my legs out wide before he did his search, it was obvious to me that he was trying to impress his boss. I had to bend forward to keep my balance and grunted from the pain cutting into my wrists. He patted me down everywhere including underneath the knapsack; it must have been obvious that the knapsack was empty cause it moved around easy enough during his frisk. I was surprised that he didn't remove it; maybe it was too much effort while I was cuffed. Whatever the reason, none of them seemed to give the bag much thought.

What a stroke I thought, I felt for sure that Rancino would have mentioned how it didn't look so empty as he chased me down the platform. Shit, I remember how it slapped against my back from the motion. Somehow, I caught a good roll from the luck dice because this major fucking discrepancy escaped him and he never mentioned it. God bless the dumb liberal Rancinos in blue.

Meanwhile, Kolinski discovered that my front pockets were loaded with stuff and told the sergeant I had a bunch of shit in them, but nothing that felt like a weapon. The sergeant said to leave it for the platform where they'll make my pockets "bunny ears," whatever the fuck that meant. Regardless of the sergeant's reaction, Kolinski's announcement stunned me because I had forgotten all about the shit in my pockets. I didn't even know what I had. I never took inventory, just jammed the goods into my pockets without looking. One thing I knew for sure, I had the booch of blow I took from Hard Eyes. That was going to hurt, but I'll take a pinch for a booch over a brick any day.

When the sergeant asked me where I tossed my gun, I played the role. I recognized that he took me for a stick-up kid. The empty knapsack, the full pockets, the rush from the turn-aisle, all that was missing was the weapon. His suspicion was the perfect out for me. As long as they thought I was just a stick-up kid, they wouldn't search the tunnel too much. I had to play to the sergeant's ego though; I had to make him believe he was the man, and that a dumb hood rat couldn't pull one over on him.

"I don't got no gun man!" I blurted.

I couldn't see him, but I knew he was smiling. A big stupid grin born out of fake ass experience that cops think they gain by working the streets. Of course, he was dead wrong, and they usually were. Only the cops that come from the hood know the real deal. They would've known I didn't run because I pulled some stick-ups, they would have known it was something more. I was lucky in a way; I had three idiots trying to grill me. Dumb ass patrol cops, all they're good for is thumping motherfuckers, not no thinking shit, I took the sergeant's bait laughing to myself.

"No gun huh," the sergeant continued, "then what cha use, your big ass fists? Even a piece of shit your size got a weapon, don't you worry I'll find it, I'll get the entire sector to search this fucking tunnel!"

I realized that I had to sell this shit carefully; if I seemed to eager, Rancino might start thinking, and I couldn't risk that. I wanted the sergeant to hold the spotlight, I needed him to be the man, and I had to play into his theory with the right act, the expected reaction from some scared thug on the ropes.

"Man, I ain't stupid officer," I blurted out, in a nasal whine and then stopped all of a sudden as if I spoke without wanting to.

"No gun mook? So a knife, a razor, I'll find it and you never know I might find a gun anyway, Hmmm."

I ate the threat, knowing what he meant. I bowed my head and turned up the whine with a little fidgeting to boot.

"Come on man, I told you I ain't got no gun, I ran cause I was scared that's all, I didn't want to get pinched for trying to beat a fare, damn man, can you loosen the cuffs?"

I started hopping lightly and rolling my shoulders.

"Come on, please, they're killing me," I begged. Rancino spoke up:

"Sarge, let's get him to the platform, then me and Kolinski will come back and search."

The sergeant didn't say anything, but I got the sense that he was looking around because I heard his footsteps crisscrossing the tracks.

"Alright Tony, let's go, we've been holding the southbound for twenty minutes anyhow, I don't need to be explaining why, not for a fucking stick-up kid."

We started toward the station, Kolinski on one side and Rancino on the other. The sergeant walked directly behind me. I remember feeling his stare the entire way, as if he was full of hate. I don't know why he burrowed into me like that, but I know that he did. I felt it so strongly that I couldn't help glancing back a couple of times, almost tripping in the process.

As we walked, both Kolinski and Rancino held their flashlight beams about three feet in front of us. Wouldn't you know it, but after going only about one hundred yards, right around the spot where I decided to double back, their beams caught the glint of metal between two cross beams in the tracks. The sergeant was laughing his ass off by the time we reached the platform. The glint of metal was my knife. Lying like a Templar in the desert— so out of place, so unnatural— so hastily discarded a nice clean blade among all that dirt and dust. What a coincidence, what luck for them, and what exquisite luck for me.

When Rancino picked the knife up and held it in front of the light, the sergeant (Hoyle, I heard Kolinski say), triumphantly proved his theory regarding my recent activities. What luck! What fools, I thought.

"Looks pretty damned clean to have been here long boys," Sergeant Hoyle stated, while an ugly grin filled the lower half of his round ruddy face.

"You missing a blade Tony?"

Rancino shook his head while turning the knife slowly to study the other side.

"What about you Chris? You lost a knife?"

Kolinski smiled.

"Not me boss."

"Well, I didn't lose no knife!" Hoyle pronounced, grinning at me.

"Maybe it fell off a train, what choo think mook, you think it might belong to a conductor?"

I didn't say a thing, let him have some fun, I was pinched anyway. If his dumb ass theory kept them motherfuckers from searching the tunnel, then I really won.

"What do you think Tony, the train engineer Puerto Rican or something?"

They all laughed.

"Shit boys, we got ourselves a mystery. A real "Poirot" situation (he pronounced Poirot- Poe Rot).

The flashlight beams caressed each of us in the small intimate huddle we formed around my knife. I studied their faces while they enjoyed their Pink Panther bullshit. Sergeant Hoyle was a large big boned man in his forties. Rancino was short and stocky, maybe 5' 8", clean cut and quiet for the most part. Kolinski was tall, but his eyes still only reached my chin. He was thin, almost gaunt like a crack head and maybe two or three years older than I was. He still had his hat on. I stared at Hoyle while he gloated. That dumb ass, even if I was a stick-up kid, it's not like the crime of the century, no wonder he was just a sergeant. I'm glad I didn't laugh at him, I almost did, but instead I gave up some more puppy dog eyes as if I was crushed. That stupid bastard, he took the real bait, he hooked a cod while the big fat Marlin swam away. I stood there with sad ol' eyes giving Sergeant Hoyle exactly what he wanted, but inside I was laughing— everything was fine, piece of cake!

Chapter Twenty

They couldn't pin robbery on me. They wanted too, Sergeant Hoyle wanted it like a fix, like a shot of Jameson's, but it would not stick. There weren't any victims (at least none that came forward) and robbery ain't no victim-less crime. They couldn't charge me with receiving stolen property either cause they didn't have any proof that the jewelry they found in my pockets was stolen. They knew it was, we all did, but without a victim, they didn't have shit. They took everything of course, said unless I prove the stuff was mine I wasn't going to get any of it back. That was all bullshit and I knew it, but I wasn't about to tell them that.

It's amazing how much crap you can stuff into the front pockets of a pair of jeans, ghetto cut or otherwise. You wouldn't believe it, I sure didn't, but I watched them take all the shit out, so I know it for what it is.

Kolinski took inventory back at the stationhouse. When he was done, we all stared at the table impressed. I remember each item: the pile of gold chains, links, ropes and herringbones coiled in a mound like golden pasta, eighteen necklaces of varying lengths and thickness. The cops estimated my "pasta" was worth about thirty five hundred dollars. Six of the chains had pendants: three crosses (one was actually a large crucifix); one medallion of Saint Lazarus with his dog and crutches; and two Mother Mary's with large platinum haloes. I think about those Mary's every now and then, they were identical— same size, same shape, same design, as if there was a sale on Mother Mary trinkets at some cheap shop where hicks buy their gaudy jewelry.

In addition to the necklaces, there were five gold bracelets, five rings (one with a respectable diamond, alone estimated at $1200.00), and three nice watches: one black and gold Movado and two "Tags." Kolinski also counted $1480.00 in cash and weighed an eight ball of top grade "fish scale" in a crisp twenty-dollar bill. All told approximately 13k worth of shit that I couldn't explain away.

The coke is what ultimately burned me, the only item not subject to speculation. It was real (77% pure), it was illegal, and it was in my possession. The drugs, the knife, hopping the turn-aisle, fleeing police, endangering, prior robbery history, and the unexplained wealth didn't give Natty much of a chance. I took a plea because I had no better option. I ate the drug possession charge and the endangering, a class C felony. In exchange, the prosecution dropped everything else, not that they had much else that would stick, but Nat wasn't looking to stand a trial.

I wouldn't opt for a jury, not with my history and the overall circumstances, and you never know what you get at a bench trial. With my luck, I would have landed a bitter old judge who might think he was making a point by dropping the hammer on me. No thanks. The plea agreement guaranteed some prison time, but it would be within the state guidelines and the prosecution said they wouldn't object to the minimum on each count. A judge, after sitting a bench trial, has the option to depart from the guidelines, and that was a hard gamble. Of course the judge could do that anyway (which he did), but plea agreements are generally followed without much interest by the court, but a trial, that was different.

I got a year with all but five months suspended for the cocaine plus the appropriate counseling for drug abuse; and two and a half, with all but twelve months suspended for the endangering (the max the judge could impose under the agreement, that asshole). The judge spent a considerable amount of time explaining what could have happened in that train tunnel, and I knew I had made the right call regarding the plea because that fucker would have nailed my ass if he had the option. All told, seventeen months. Not bad considering what could have happened if the cops had caught me with the real goods. That was how I took my first two adult felony convictions, the beginning of many more to come, and of course, my indoctrination into adult prison.

Poodle got away clean. He came to see me in jail a few times while I was waiting for sentencing. He told me that he had waited at our rendezvous for about two hours before he bounced. He said he knew something happened and he knew it wasn't good. Poodle told me that he laid low after the hit; he said he was so spooked that he didn't even acknowledge seeing me when Audrey asked him what happened the next day. She knew transit hooked me because I called her that morning, but I didn't give her any details. She was pissed because she figured that we had done some stick-ups and Poodle left me holding the bag. Poodle said he told Audrey that I wasn't no novice and if I was pulling stick-ups, then I was doing them solo cause he didn't know nothing about it. I'm sure Audrey didn't believe him, but Poodle wasn't about to tell her the real deal, not Audrey, not anybody. We were good like that, keeping shit quiet as needed.

Poodle said word had gotten out quick that some gang pulled a big hit uptown and my sisters worried that they could be next. Had Audrey learned the truth, she would have told Sheryl and shit would have leaked. Not on purpose, mind you, but it would have happened anyway, it always does, and if we were mentioned, even in passing, that was enough to get us killed. Poodle's play was the right play, he didn't know shit, hadn't seen me for a few days, and was not surprised that I was pulling stick-ups on the side. He told Audrey:

"Nat likes that shit, scaring motherfuckers, taking their shit; he likes the thrill of it."

I played into the same scenario, courtesy of Sergeant Hoyle of course. It was the perfect out; we didn't want my sisters even suspecting that we pulled a big drug hit. I told them that I had gotten bored working their spot, that stick-ups were fun. I said I was moonlighting. They told me I was a damned fool, and better hope that no victims came forward cause I'd be fucked. That was the beauty of it— who would come forward, Hard Eyes, Heffe, not likely. I let the situation roll out, and then took the plea.

When Poodle first came to see me, a nerve wracking three or four days after the hit, I told him what really went down. I had been sweating it out waiting for him, worried sick that someone would find my guns. I had nightmares about it. I was also anxious about recovering the coke. Poodle was too, and that turned out to be the only real reason he came to see me. He promised to search the tunnel that very night for the coke, but was hesitant about going after my guns.

He thought that shit was genius, throwing my guns up the vent, but he didn't like the idea of getting them back. I begged him to find the guns; I told him that my prints were all over them. I hated groveling, it didn't fit me, but that prick wouldn't help unless I pushed him just right, and stroking his ego made him feel superior and that's what he wanted. After a while, he agreed, but only because it was ultimately in his best interest. He said he would figure something out and return in a week or so.

Four days later Poodle returned. He waited two hours before Tyrone, a very large white boy, led me into the visiting area. I know what you're thinking, a white boy named Tyrone? You just have to take another look, I know, cause that's what I did. True though, Tyrone was a BIG white boy, a veteran Corrections Officer, well known and respected by those outside and in. By the time I met him, word had it that he'd been the man at the House for over ten years. But I swear he didn't look a day over twenty-five, except maybe for his beard. His lower face was a mess of scraggly whiskers. The kind you see on religious nuts, all wild and wandering. But other than that, he looked like an overgrown kid, a giant motherfucker actually. Tyrone was huge, bigger than me— now that's big, "Andre the Giant" big. He didn't talk much, and when he did, he almost whispered. Some said he was retarded, slow and shit, but I knew better. I had a knack for that, knowing shit, call it intuition, call it a sixth sense, call it whatever you want, but Tyrone wasn't simple, he was just a big quiet mofo, and that was that. When he didn't need to say anything he wouldn't speak, when he needed to direct people, motherfuckers got the point. Tyrone's stature and manner got the job done, talking for him was unnecessary.

Anyway, this story ain't about Tyrone, I just felt like mentioning him, cause some folk got names like labels and if the product ain't consistent with the label, some people will double take. As if certain names are propriety, based on what not, and any deviation from the norm, will twitch certain brows. Then you find out what comes after the name and you're like 'well, what about that.'

When I walked into the visiting area for our second meet, I could tell Poodle was irritated. For some inexplicable reason I apologized for his long wait, as if I was responsible. I wasn't of course, but I felt compelled to acknowledge his inconvenience. Up to that very moment in our relationship, I trusted Poodle and I liked him, loved him maybe, at least like a brother, and why not? He was my mentor and my partner and my friend. However, trust or not, partners or not, leaving my fate in anyone's hands, even Poodle's, put me in a position where deference wasn't even close to the level of fawning I'd be willing to sink. I knew Poodle could sell me out to save his ass if he needed too. I also knew he could take everything we scored off the hit and bounce without me seeing a dime. I knew waiting two hours to talk to me was not something I should disregard.

Poodle told me that he found my guns. He said they were safely stashed away and I didn't have to worry about them anymore. His words washed over me like warm water; the release of pent up stress and anxiety was almost audible. I slunk back in my chair as if I had just received a tranquilizer. However, my relaxation was short lived. For as soon as I leaned back to savor the good news, he threw a brick at me. He said that he found five of the seven kilos that I tossed. He said one of them had ripped open somehow and he was only able to save half of it. I was stunned, I didn't show it of course, but I knew immediately that I was getting ripped.

It took all my effort to simply slouch back and maintain a neutral expression. Damn, I thought, my motherfucker was skimming the take, robbing me outright and without any guilt about it. Two and a half keys was a lot of weight and a lot of money. I felt the sting deep in my stomach, but I made sure he couldn't read it on my face. Instead, I nodded intently, giving him the impression that I was glad that he found something. While dark feelings were twisting inside me and bad thoughts were zigzagging through my mind, I struggled to keep a relieved look on my face, as if he saved me from certain doom. I could not let him think I was suspicious. And he was looking. Searching my face for any deception, trying to read my thoughts, he was scanning— that motherfucker! We locked eyes, mine wide and embracing, while his cunning slits looked for a hint of awareness, of accusation, he found none.

Poodle said he planned to sit tight and not move any of the weight for at least six months. He added that he wouldn't wait for me, but he'd make sure we banked.

I asked, off hand, casually, how many keys he walked away with. His glance hardened briefly, wondering, searching, but I was ready. I anticipated his probe, and looked back at him innocently, waiting for his answer like a good lil bitch. He looked away briefly, and said "five." Now I'm proud of my acting, convinced that I could bluff anyone; stone, I was stone, but when he said five, I had to reach way down inside for some "Help me Lord" to keep my face from twisting into a grimace. I don't know how I pulled it off, I don't know how it was possible, but some way, somehow, as my soul ripped in half and every inch of me wanted to lash out, I sat there motionless, and impervious to his probing eyes. I even looked happy with the news— that Motherfucker!

It was hard to believe that Poodle ripped me. Somewhere deep in my soul, I wanted his bullshit story to be true, but I knew better. As I sat there with a goofy ass smile, pretending to listen to his advice about how to handle myself in prison, I went over the hit. I recalled how hard it was for him to zip up his backpack. I knew without doubt that his pack had been the thicker one. He must have had at least eight bricks shoved into his pack. I remember how fat the pack was as he flew up the fire escape, I remember feeling the weight of my own and thinking, 'Man we got paid!' So, my motherfucker Poodle ripped me for at least five kilos. I wondered if he had skimmed before. Probably, he was obviously good at it, screwing his bro without the slightest hint of guilt. Man, I'll never forget how matter-of-fact he was, sitting across from me while shoving an icicle up my ass. He promised he would get the best price for the blow and of course hold onto my share until I got out. Before he left, more as an afterthought, I asked him how much cash we got. Without a pause he replied:

"A little over thirty grand, they had a good night."

'Yeah,' I thought, 'you did too,' but I didn't say shit.

Chapter Twenty-One

I could not shake the bitterness, the betrayal. Poodle fucked me. He stiffed me out of at least five kilos and who knows how much cash from the safe. He wronged me, and I had a hard time accepting it, but what could I do? Bitch, complain, to who? I got served, and I guess that taught me a valuable lesson on how business works in the hood. But it was a motherfucker to deal with.

I came up with all sorts of schemes to pay his ass back. Dramatic visualizations where I would goad him into making a mistake, a fatal admission, and then pounce— beating him to death, mercilessly; or lighting him up with a cattle prod, wrapping him in duct tape and throwing him off a roof; or better, make him suck our silver dick like fat Tony did, but this time I'd pull the trigger. I decided repeatedly that I would confront him when I got out. Later, when days became weeks, and so on, I changed my mind, and decided to break him first and then explain why, matter-of-fact, while he bled all over my shoes. Ultimately, however, my anger dissipated. I couldn't shake the notion that I might have done the same thing. I did not want to believe I would have ripped Poodle like that, but maybe that's just the way it goes. Maybe I would have taken some extra myself. I told myself I wouldn't. I wanted to believe that there was some honor in the streets. I wanted to believe that I would have been square with the score if Poodle had been the one bagged, but I don't really know how I would have played it.

Regardless, from that point on nothing would be the same between us. It wasn't really about the money, I mean it was, but it was more than that, it was trust, it was commitment, and it was gone. I never thought of Poodle as my partner again. I meant to work with him again, of course I did, but he wasn't my friend, and he was no longer my mentor, and unlike Julius, this Caesar ain't dead, payback would be a bitch and that's the truth!

After sentencing, I was supposed to be transferred upstate to finish my stretch. Seventeen months minus forty-five days for time served. However, because corrections didn't have space available, I spent an additional two weeks in a local jail.

Get this, if you're still in a local jail after sentencing they count two days for every day served. I heard that it has to do with certain services that prison provides that you don't get in jail, like yard time, recreation time, shit like that. Jail is temporary, just a holding cell, bare bones, so the system rewards you two for one when they can't properly accommodate, ain't that some shit! By the time I went upstate, I was seventy-three days into my sentence.

I learned how to act in prison quick enough. There are rules, and lots of them. Not only the official rules, but also house rules. You pick up the daily routine easy enough, basically because it's shoved down your throat from day one: when to eat, when to sleep, when to walk, when to sit, it's all set up and you don't have any choice in the matter. The house rules though, they ain't written down, those are the ones you learn through experience. The general rule is that you had better not need to learn any rule twice.

Generally, whether you're gonna be a bitch or a player, two weeks after your arrival, you got all the rules memorized. Most prisoners do their best to fly below the radar. Those whose time counts just want to do their stretch and get the fuck out, but those that got nowhere to go, they got nothing better to do than fuck with you, and they especially fuck with the "fresh." House rule number one: size don't mean shit, it's your heart and your smarts that matter. House rule number two: explain your position as soon as possible cause everyone is watching. You need to let motherfuckers know what you're all about.

House rule number three: when the real players come calling be cautious but respectful, don't be too quick to jump on board some crew cause it might cost you more that its worth. In other words, never enter a cellblock thinking you're going to run the show. When an attempt is made to punk you out, end it quick and brutal, showing no emotion, just pounce. When a lifer wants to know you, respond truthfully but with very short sentences, they can read bullshit and they don't want to know your life story, only what you mean to them.

Nat did fine for his first stint. I only flexed twice. The first time I was still learning the ropes, but I responded appropriately. Three days in, on the chow line, some Spanish kid kept mad dogging me. Kid had some height, but he wasn't the Mac if you know what I mean. I stayed loose, felt the hostile attention, but was reluctant to make a show. I didn't make eye contact, but he knew I was aware of his interest. I knew he was gonna make a play on Natty; it was just a matter of when. The kid was a member of the "Mojetos," a Dominican drug gang. A group of them was sitting by the chow line watching me intently. Whatever, I thought; if it weren't them, it would be some other group. I waited. I was scared, edgy even, being my first test, but appearances were very important, so I acted as if nothing was going on, even though the entire cafeteria knew that I knew what was up. That's how it works, if you front, you lose respect. You got to act like nothing is going on, so when it happens, you'll be judged by your reaction not by your preparations. Prison likes drama. I was confident that at the very least, I'd make an impression.

The Mojeto made his move when I went to sit down. I deliberately walked past him and the other Mojetos and headed for an aisle table where I would have some room to move. Before I made it to the table, he came up behind me and reached onto my tray.

"Give me your bread," he said, as he snatched my dinner roll.

Fighting costs two days isolation, and that wasn't what I wanted, especially in my very first week, but when you're big like Nat, motherfuckers feel the need to test you, so I had to make a big statement. I smiled at the kid. He tensed, not expecting this reaction. I smiled for real, but also for the audience, coolness in prison wins big points. I looked down at my tray and asked him if he wanted anything else. He was confused for a moment, and looked over at his boys who were snickering. I waited until he turned back, probably about to say something like "Yeah bitch, I'll take it all" or something like that, but he never got the chance.

As he turned, I swung my tray, angled not with the flat side, but with the cornered edge. The hard plastic corner thwacked hard as it met the side of his neck causing everything on my tray to shoot off to the right and land in the aisle.

As his body canted to the left, I brought the tray up over my head and slicing down in a brutal arc; I caught him across his left temple. The shock that passed through the tray was so strong that I almost dropped it. The kid's head spun on impact and he fell against the table that was quickly clearing in front of us. Whistles began blowing, and running footsteps mingled with the yelling encouragement of my fellow convicts. I turned toward the table where the other Mojetos sat. They had all risen, but not one attempted to help their boy. I realized why at that very moment when a bone numbing pain shot through my right leg. I fell forward dropping the tray and threw my hands out to brace my landing. I watched the floor rush toward me but blacked out before we met from another blow that chopped across my neck. Welcome to prison Nat.

The warden was a thirty-two year veteran of the penal system. Word was that he had done twenty years hard time in the "Hellhole." The Hellhole was the deepest darkest crag in the state correctional system, our very own super maximum facility. Only the worst prisoners saw the hole, reserved for psychopaths, sociopaths, rapist killers, and drug kingpins— the best of the bad. They say even the guards are prisoners in the hole. The warden cut his teeth in the hole and spent so much time on the inside with those twisted fucks that he became one of them. The general belief is that he sold his soul to get outta the hole, and he's on borrowed time. Some of the bolder inmate's joke that he got the "booty call" in the hole, and that's why he's so fucked up. And fucked up he was. I didn't know any of that shit when I woke up. In fact, I didn't even know the warden's name. All I had heard up to that point was that he was one crazy motherfucker.

I woke up in a small metal room handcuffed to a chair bolted to the floor. The room's only door was directly in front of me and it had a small Plexiglas window around head high (shoulder high for Nat). The window, sufficient for a person to look through it, but mirrored so that the unfortunate person inside (me) couldn't see out. My head and neck were throbbing with pain.

When I tried to shift in the chair, a piercing pain shot through my right leg causing my eyes to shutter. The chair wouldn't budge. My body felt like it had been in its current position forever. I was cramped up, stiff, and numb all over. A single light bulb above me cast dim light, which barely traced a circle around the chair I sat on. I could not see into the corners of the room, and had an uneasy feeling that more than shadows surrounded me. My mouth was dry and rough, and my lips felt bloated and crusty. I was miserable and scared and waited like that for longer than I could remember. At some point, after perhaps the one hundredth time I yelled out for someone, I heard a jangle of keys outside the door.

The door opened and three men stepped inside. Two of the men wore uniforms. They flanked a balding man with thick square-rimmed glasses framed around cold gray eyes. The two guards stood on either side of the door, which one of them promptly closed. The man with the glasses stood about five foot ten and wore a dark brown suit that did anything but flatter his bulging waistline. He was about sixty years old and grave beyond his years. He didn't say anything for a whole minute. I know it was at least a minute because after the door closed and he stood there staring at me, I couldn't do anything but count seconds in my head, and I swear I counted a second for every three heartbeats and my heart was pounding. When he spoke, his voice grated across my nerves like a dull paring knife.

"I'm Warden Beckmann and it is displeasure to meet you. I figured you were going to be a problem because you're a big son of a bitch, but I thought you would last at least a week."

He paused for a second and then said:

"It doesn't matter; the rules are the rules, no fighting, period. You fought, I don't care why, I don't care if you fought to save your ass from being ripped open, I don't care if you fought for your life. You get two days for the first offense, period. Next fight two weeks, fight after that, two months. Get it?"

Before I could even nod my stiff neck, he turned around and left the room. A few moments later, two different guards came in and removed me from the chair. They weren't expecting me to be able to stand (which I don't think I could have anyway), so they just dragged me out of the room. They dropped me some time later in a pitch-black room in an isolated part of the prison. They left me lying on a cold floor lit only by the slit at the bottom of the door. I spent two days circling in the darkness. Twelve paces completed each cycle, measured by passing the sealed door. I trekked the Himalayas in two days. I walked to Borneo; I crossed the Sahara. I remember thinking 'two weeks of this shit, I'll reach the fucking moon.'

The second incident occurred two weeks later when members of the "Firah" brotherhood approached me. Firah is a quasi-religious organization, which believes that each member is strong with God. So strong in fact, they are gods themselves. That the gifts that God gives to the membership: intelligence, will, strength, charisma . . . are to be used to better their lives on earth. To control the earth, to one day rule the earth. Firah is a tribal word from somewhere in Africa. Firah means "Fire" but not the burning kind, but rather fire of the spirit, fire of the soul, the fire of life. Firah members believe that the world population is divided into two categories: the unenlightened, those who need to be found and converted to the cause (those with God's gifts), and the heathens, those who are beneath the brotherhood and only meant to serve them or to die. Firah wanted to convert Nat. Four members of the group confronted me in the prison yard. They told me that my strength was God's gift; that my intelligence, and my bearing, was above my years and an indication from the Almighty that I was special; that I was Firah. They said I was destined to be a warrior for the cause. When I laughed at them and tried to walk away, one of them slapped me in the back of my head for disrespecting. Natty had no choice, regardless of the result; I had to show those brothers what kind of warrior I was.

After a brief but violent exchange, the motherfucker who slapped me was counting sheep, while me and the other three were trampled, shackled, and beaten by a mob of guards. My second visit to that little metal room with the solo chair put a smile on Beckmann's face. When he entered, he said:

"Two weeks," smiled broadly, shook his head and walked out.

Two weeks later, released back into the general population, I was a different man. Two weeks broke me. I made it to the moon in three days. In five, I was crying like a little girl. After ten, I was half-mad, spending hours trying to find a hint of moving air by tracing every inch of the room with my hands, searching for a crack, a fissure, a clue that isolation was just a temporary loss of identity. When the door finally opened on the fifteenth day, I crawled toward the light in desperation, the whoosh of air my salvation. Man ain't meant to live alone in the still dark, there ain't many things worse than existing like that, and I never wanted to be alone like that again. I would rather take a beating than go back to solitary for even one day, let alone two months. After a couple of days pacing the yard, staring at the sun, feeling its warmth, I re-acclimated, but paranoid and humbled. I became very cautious and kept to myself.

I had earned the respect of most of the inmates. Not many of them had the distinction of spending two weeks in solitary and even those who had, hadn't done so back to back with their first offense. Some inmates warned me that offending the Firah was a dangerous thing. Troublemakers were removed from the house— meaning Firah ran the cellblock. I got the message loud and clear and did my best to avoid them. Funny thing was, no other group made any attempt to recruit me or even fuck with me. It was as if I was off limits to everyone, and that scared the shit out of me.

Chapter Twenty-Two

You can't avoid anyone for long in prison, especially those in control, and I don't mean the guards. Firah could have cornered me anytime they wanted, but they left me alone for a few weeks, allowing me reflection, or more accurately, time to sweat it out. They finally approached in the cafeteria. I thought I was going to get shanked, and almost made another foolish move. I backed up in fear, almost throwing my hands up, ready to go down fighting, but I realized that if they were out to cut me, they would have done so already. They could've trapped me somewhere more secluded like the shitter or the cell area. But in the open, what would be the purpose? They knew they were the man, not no dumb ass fresh named Natty. There were only two of them this time, and they approached conciliatory, peacefully, although one of them was the definition of intimidation and his mere proximity raised my heart rate.

The other one spoke. He told me not to worry, that the Brotherhood didn't consider me a heathen, at least not yet. He said that my strong will and brute strength were proof that I was marked by God to be a great warrior for the cause. He said I should think hard on it, that God's light will show me the way. He introduced himself as "Righteous," Sheik Supreme of Firah. He said his army was six thousand strong worldwide and growing. I don't know why he said that to me, as if a large number added any substance to his presence. It did not. I knew he was power, I knew he was a leader. I heard his name before, mentioned cautiously by other inmates, but never explained. I knew he ran the show, and was not only the man in the cellblock, but also the man in the entire prison.

Righteous said he appreciated my fire, my resistance, when his people first approached me. He said it was an unfortunate and unsanctioned event. He said that the four brothers who confronted me were overeager. That they wanted to woo me believing they would receive special favor for recruiting me. He said it doesn't work like that. Explaining that membership in the Brotherhood rests with God. That He instructs a brother to join, and that once chosen, a brother receives divine inspiration. Inclusion is strictly voluntary, not subject to coercion or intimidation by zealous members. Righteous said the job of Firah was to open the eyes of the "lost ones" and encourage us to listen. If deemed worthy, we will ultimately embrace the way. Consequently, God and Firah will embrace us. He said the members that accosted me were properly disciplined. He cautioned that their efforts were not ill intended and that I should not seek additional retribution.

Righteous also told me not to worry about my safety. He said that until I choose, I was under the protection of God and the Brotherhood. He was confident that I would eventually embrace the cause, because "he ain't ever seen a brother so destined."

He said I could go my way without fear because my brothers were watching, and the populace already knows. I took this to mean that the word was out that I belonged to Firah and nobody had better flex on Nat. That didn't sit right with me cause Nat ain't belong to nobody! But I wasn't stupid; I know a lucky break when I see it, so I simply nodded when Righteous stopped speaking. Whether I believed his bullshit or not, I welcomed the protection. I didn't want any more trouble with the warden and with Firah watching my back I could coast through the rest of my stretch and not worry about any more isolation.

I was very careful in my dealings with Righteous and the Firah. I gave Righteous mad respect. I stayed loose with him though, never telling him that I wasn't interested in his beliefs, and actually, after a while, I even began to agree with some of his points.

Righteous often invited me to sit next to him during readings where he recited choice verses from the Bible, the Koran, the Cabal and other more obscure religious writings. He told us that all Holy books contain the word of God, they would not inspire if they did not. But that it is a riddle, which words to focus on, that not all of the words in any of the holy texts are all gospel. Man must develop a relationship with God and understand what He expects. Then, we will know which words are the Lords and which words are not. I was keenly aware of how he quoted passages that focused on things like the "chosen tribe" and the "strong man." He was brilliant, and carefully stirred the emotions of his followers. He was very convincing. Had I not been such a stubborn and headstrong kid, caring for little else than gettin' paid, I might have bought into his teachings.

But I didn't need to feel like I was part of something, that desire never drove me, money propelled me, and the thrill of getting it. Heaven or Hell, shit, that would all have to wait for Natty. But I was respectful when Righteous' eye looked my way, and I nodded when I was supposed to.

Righteous preached in a soft and thoughtful tone. He commanded by presence and when he said something, you paid attention. He didn't need to raise his voice because his audience was all believers. Righteous never had to say anything twice, unless he was making a point he felt was important, in that case he might repeat himself three, four times to drive it home. If he got angry, his eyes glazed and he fell silent. It was wise not to look at him when he was angered because "Intrepid," Firah's enforcer, who was always ready to back Righteous's words with a painful reminder of who was running the show, might slap the piss out of you for disrespecting. Righteous was a serious man who believed wholeheartedly that his shit was real. He was very powerful in and out of prison and all of the inmates, even those outside his flock, treated him with deference.

The reason was clear. Firah boasted a prison membership of five hundred strong, at least three hundred of which were hard-core. Converts who wouldn't hesitate conquering the world one cell block at a time. Righteous was at the head of the prison hierarchy, even higher that the warden. Righteous could lock down the prison whenever he wanted to and everyone knew it. No one fucked with him or any member of his organization. And where did Natty fit?

I was his new favorite, his next convert, a warrior Prince meant to lead one of his future armies. Not really, Nat was Nat, that bad motherfucker my father struggled to produce, counting the days before I hit the streets, eager to get paid. But I didn't share those thoughts with anyone. Righteous wasn't my Messiah, or King, or whatever his people considered him, but I kept that to myself. I played along, I was golden, and doing time in the favor of the Mac was easy time.

Inevitably, Righteous learned all about my life. He poked, prodded, and ultimately extracted a good deal more than I probably knew about myself at that period in my life. I glazed over certain things like my criminal activities with Poodle, but I did mention Poodle and told Righteous that he was my friend. That was a mistake. But shit happens, and how was I supposed to know that he knew Poodle. He told me that Poodle was a heathen, a lost soul, a failure. He warned me to stay away from him. He said Poodle was reckless, dangerous, and one day he "was goin' go down hard."

He told me that if I kept running with Poodle I was going to go down too. I never asked Righteous how he knew Poodle, in fact, we never spoke about him in any depth, but I thought about what he said often enough. What did he mean 'going down hard?' I don't know if something inside me agreed I don't know if I realized that what Righteous warned me about then was an eventuality.

Whatever the case, I felt the truth in Righteous's words, another glaring warning that I dismissed, and another image for my collage. A dirty reminder placed on a shower tile and forgotten like so many others waiting to be viewed one last time at the end of my days.

Righteous never told me his story. He said only that he was meant to be in prison. I got the gist from other members of Firah. Righteous was serving two life terms plus forty years for smoking two cops and a pregnant woman during a bank robbery that went bad. I heard that three of his friends got smoked during the shootout and Righteous survived a bullet to the chest because the hospital had enough of his blood type on hand. He wasn't supposed to live, but the public wanted someone to hate and people sure hated him. The only reason he wasn't on death row was because our state is liberal and doesn't believe in capital punishment. But the public sure would have hung his ass had they the chance. Righteous didn't talk about his past; all he ever said was that he belongs in prison. I got a hunch that his guilt was a heavy burden. I wonder if he was working on his wall, trying to save some lost souls so he can feel like he did some good at the end of his days. I wonder if Poodle reminded him of himself.

Righteous never asked me to join Firah, and after that initial confrontation in the cafeteria, he never pushed me. But Intrepid and the other inner circle members expected me to show my appreciation. Intrepid made me accompany him when he had to enforce the house rules, or punish some repeat violations by fringe members and wanna-bees.

Firah's associates, those who enjoyed the protection but didn't buy into their bullshit, were the bulk of the Brotherhood's income. All business in the cellblock, and most of the business in the rest of the prison were sanctioned by the Brotherhood for a cut of the action. Because Firah believed all non-members were heathens, they didn't care what they did, but if it involved money, they took their cut. Drugs, pimping, hits, you name it, nothing went down without Firah allowing it.

Firah made mad loot and used most of it to support operations outside of prison. Sometimes motherfuckers forgot who was running the show and when that happened Firah pounced, and it wasn't forgotten again. Righteous was a forgiving man, he gave people chances, he would often let a misunderstanding go with a warning, but when a motherfucker skimmed on the cut, lied about the take, or failed to provide the expected donation, Intrepid was unleashed.

A true believer, Intrepid didn't think anyone should live unless a Firah, or useful to the cause, and those who disappointed Righteous usually ended up gone one way or another. I rolled with Intrepid a few times, and together we were a sight— two big angry motherfuckers! Intrepid was slightly taller than me and he was ripped like the Hulk. I wasn't no slouch mind you, and if we entered your cell, shit, there wasn't no room for you! Intrepid hurt motherfuckers without pity; he ain't have none. He didn't believe you should exist anyway, so hurting you was like stepping on a roach or swatting a fly. He wasn't sick like Poodle, he didn't hurt people with glee, it simply meant nothing to him. The violation is what drove him, the idea that some motherfucker tried to play his Brotherhood, tried to scam or hold out that got him going. But the action, the result, was just like crushing bugs.

I learned a lot rolling with Intrepid, and I enjoyed the position I was in, but I was still just counting days. Although I did what I had to do, I went about the whole affair with a certain detachment. I wasn't around for no real snuffing, that was never done by Intrepid, or any other member of the inner circle, that was strictly contract work. But I sure did participate in some mean beat downs.

When my time was up, I left prison on good terms with Firah. Curiously though, Righteous chose to warn me the very last night before my release to stay away from Poodle. He reiterated that Poodle was no good, as if he knew that I was going to hook up with him as soon as I got out. He gave me some contacts on the outside and said to stay in touch. He said if I needed anything to send word. He said he wanted me to work the Firah cause on the outside, he said I could do much more on the outside, but if I find my way back in, the Brotherhood will be waiting. I should have listened to him, not to his rhetoric, but to his warning. But since when has Nat listened to anyone? I hope for your sake, you're not a dumb ass like me, and when your gut tells you to, take heed— listen to that motherfucker!

I was twenty-two, pushing twenty-three, a convicted felon with more criminal experience than most convicts twice my age. I was big, angry, and itching to get back into the game. This time around, I came out clean, no probation, no shadow, just the usual dark corners, watching and waiting. I met Poodle the same day I got released.

He stayed low like he had said, but it was obvious that he wasn't hurting for cash. Obvious that he had an ample supply. He must have done pretty well on the blow he had scammed from me, but that's life, and I got the lesson.

By the way, I had made my decision regarding his play on me with the Heffe hit. I was going to let it go. Why? Cause it's just business, and besides he would pay eventually. Every vibe told me that, Righteous' omen demanded that, and Poodle himself, well, he expected that. So fuck it— it is what it is, gettin' paid!

Chapter Twenty-Three

Poodle seemed thrilled to see me. My sisters told him when I was getting out, so he planned a big surprise party. I admit I was surprised and even a little grateful. It almost made up for the ass fucking, almost, but not quite. The party was slamming; liquor, bitches, music and weed! Natty was toking and stroking all night long. It was a good time and I appreciated the homecoming. We got back to business soon enough though, the next day as I recall. We settled my share of the Heffe hit, $90,000.00 large, not bad, even if it should have been more.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda . . . what ifs are for dreamers, and back then I had 90K, and where am I now? Shit, some dreams are regrets and regrets are painful, so fuck em! Ninety large at twenty-two with or without a screw job was still 90K. Besides, it could have been nothing. I got a cut, a smaller cut for sure, but at that age, fresh out of prison, it wasn't a bad slice.

The cocaine market, like the stock market, fluctuates. There are good seasons, and there are bad. Prices go up and down based on supply and demand just like any other product. A smart drug dealer, like a broker, makes money on speculation. If a dealer hoards his stash and waits for a dry spell, his crop will skyrocket.

It comes down to good ol' gouging. Poodle told me he waited until there was a shortage in blow, and then he sold. Crack was booming, and dealers couldn't get enough base product. Poodle offered prime shit right when things were tight, and he racked up. Poodle said he got 15K per kilo, a high price before I went to prison. Back then, the best product— Cali or Reina pulled 12K a kilo, 15 was in the black. Of course, the more weight you bought the lower the price, but 15 was good profit. Poodle said he had a contact in "another" city that bought all ten kilos at 15 a pop. He said the extra fifteen grand was my share of the cash. Poodle said his contact liked the quality, didn't ask questions, and was interested in buying more.

As I said, I was "look-the-other-way-happy" with my take, especially when I expected some extraordinary bullshit (like Poodle was robbed, or there was a fire or something like that), but he came through, at least with what he obligated. I snooped around though, and I learned how short product really had been while I was in prison. A key of regular blow could have easily pulled 18K during peak season when supply short. The 15K price that Poodle suckered me into believing was mint, was actually way low. Reina— Reina should have pulled 20K at least, that motherfucker! Poodle mistakenly fucked himself though. I mean, he locked himself in for the next time, because unless I'm dead or in jail again, I would be at the next deal, and I would ask his contact what he paid. Then, unfortunately, a reckoning would be unavoidable. So, Poodle scammed me out of at least five kilos, an unknown amount of cash, and took at least an additional three grand per kilo. As I saw it, he screwed me out of approximately $125,000.00, that motherfucker!

I didn't have much time to reflect anew on how hard he had fucked me, cause Poodle was amped up about getting started again. He was talking business as soon as we had some private time. He told me he marked some likely targets, but had one in mind that was huge, and he rushed to tell me about it. He said he located another distribution spot, but it trumped the Heffe job. He said it was nuts, but if we pulled it off, it would be the mother lode— it would be retirement! He wanted to give me details, but I wasn't ready. In fact, I wasn't interested in talking shop at all. I had some money to spend, and that icicle he stuck up my ass hadn't even begun to melt. So I told him to give me some time before we started back up. But Poodle couldn't wait; he said he'd been waiting six months to drop this score on me. He said he had to throw it down. I eventually relented; I didn't have any real reason not to listen, so I let him spit his new scheme.

"Check it out Nat," he exclaimed, "I've been watching a spot off and on now for six months, a spot right here in the hood, and it's a motherfucker. A Colombian spot bro, right here in the ghetto, dealing direct connect. They cut out the Dominicans for optimum profit. Know what I'm saying? They only sell weight, real weight, and they only sell to players. They're flagrant too, not hiding, but running their shit in the open, as if they own the neighborhood. And you know why Nat? Cause they don't give a fuck!"

He began to rev up, and started pacing back and forth. I thought 'Oh boy, here we go,' and sat back for the crescendo sure to come.

"Think about it Nat," he continued, "Who in their right minds would even think of robbing Colombians? And police raids? What's the hardest spot to hit?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"The spot out in the open Nat, the spot where everyone knows your name," he answered emphatically.

I chuckled, but must have looked bored or disinterested (which, at that moment I was), because he got a little whiny.

"Nat" he exclaimed, "this is the big one, this is Guinness! This spot's got more blow than Scarface! Shit, even on a bad day, what, like 50, 60 bricks easy. And the money— six figures, high six figures, all waiting to be scooped up by a couple of crazy motherfuckers."

His smile was infectious.

"Guinness" I said.

"Yeah motherfucker, we'd be breaking all records."

I smiled; I ain't never seen Poodle so animated.

"They must have cops on roll cause they ain't never been raided, and they act like it couldn't even happen. They're sloppy too, livin' on reputation, cause their security ain't tight, though I haven't been able to see how they're set up inside."

I admit I was curious, but I wasn't ready, maybe it was the ice spear in my belly, maybe it was my new gained freedom, maybe it was a snapshot of isolation that I feared more than death. Whatever the reason, I cut Poodle short.

"Look Poodle, shit sounds wild, the kind of crazy ass hit only you would think of, but I ain't ready to get back to business, I need some down time, I need a break. You've been chilling for over a year, I've been locked up; give me some time before you spring the mother of all drug hits on me."

He stared at me curiously, offended, like I was dismissing him, but fuck him I thought, motherfucker done robbed me, and he can wait a little longer before we robbed someone else.

He didn't say anything. I guess he read my face and realized that he needed to drop it, which he did, putting his hands up smiling slightly.

"A-ight Nat, I get it, you're tired, we'll talk about this shit later, but I'm telling you, you're going to be just as excited as me, you'll see."

About a month later, we started planning the hit. It was the motherfucker, it was the pinnacle heist, and it was beyond even remotely possible to pull off, so it was definitely on. When I first scoped the place, I understood why Poodle said they were sloppy. The Colombians used kids on bikes as their first line, a warning system to alert them if cops were coming, or if trouble was brewing.

The kids, about eight of them, would spend all day, every day, riding around the neighborhood checking things out. They knew the faces of everyone in the hood. They knew the cars, the other drug dealers, the hangouts. If anything out of the ordinary popped up— like a strange van, or an unknown face in the crowd, one of them would place a call to the spot, or they would split up, with some of them going back to the building to let their boss know they suspected something while the others followed the strangers openly, brazenly. It wasn't a new ploy, using kids in the hood as a warning system, and in my opinion, it wasn't very reliable either. The most obvious reason is that kids were not sophisticated enough to notice shit they weren't supposed to notice. A good surveillance team would be able to avoid those kids, or work around them without much effort. It was a weak and somewhat arrogant defense.

Their second line was your typical lookouts, hustlers, and enforcers who stood on the corner or sat on the stoop watching everything and looking tough. The only difference from any other spot in the hood was the fact that they were all Colombian. There was nothing special about them, just your average drug dealing muscle. They didn't look deep either, which was surprising for all the weight they purportedly had. At any given time only between five and eight of them street side, a small contingent for such a prize don't cha think?

For a long time, we couldn't gather much Intel on how they operated on the inside. This was very frustrating, and triggered many debates on shit canning the hit, but Poodle was on this one hard, it was a passion to him, a must. And me, shit, I saw the ends and I wanted them, and no ends like that were coming easy, but we had the gift, we always found the way, eventually, so I kept saying "A-ight Poodle, another week then."

Their spot was in a six-floor building with about fifty apartments. We placed the spot somewhere on the lower floors, but we couldn't tell for sure. We calculated the time it took for a hustler to escort a customer inside and then come back out. The escort consistently returned to his post within two minutes. We figured the spot was no higher than the third floor.

In addition to the problems with not knowing their in-house operations, we spent hours discussing the different options we could employ to get inside the spot. We thought of all kinds of approaches, came up with exciting and daring ideas. Bold, crazy, ridiculous and foolish ideas— from going in blazing like "Machine-Gun Kelly," to posing as electricians or gas technicians. From renting an apartment, to buying the whole damned building. We scratched every idea knowing that each one was an instant failure. As we struggled with the how and the what, we knew one thing for sure, however we pulled it off, we would be made, and that meant we would be bouncing for good. Our escape, our future, was eventually the key to figuring out our greatest scheme ever.

We discovered it by asking ourselves a question. Why pull the hit if we would have to run away and hide. What point is there if you can't enjoy the spoils? We realized our boldest scheme when we figured out that either we would have to smoke every one of them— a killing spree— or, the Colombians would have to believe someone else robbed them. And there it was: smacked us like a brick of the coke we so eagerly wanted to steal. Natty and Poodle were gonna create two new people. Two new players in the hood, get them known, get them seen, and get them inside as customers come to buy some weight from the best source in town. Direct connect baby!

It was brilliant, what a stroke! We spent days just enjoying our idea, expanding the scheme, creating the angles. It was fun, it was extraordinary, and it was simple, so damned simple. Our biggest problem was my height, not too many cats rolling through the hood were so tall. I stood out. I would have to become my new role, whatever that turned out to be. There was bound to be comparisons around the way, with the new ghetto giant and all, so I would have to be more than convincing, I would have to be a "Brando." Our scheme was expensive; between us, we dropped thirty grand just to get started. New identifications, a car, clothing, disguises, product (cause we were gonna sling crack), an apartment, and all kinds of other start-up costs. All in total secrecy, all with total commitment, all for the payout, mad loot— gettin' paid!

Poodle wasn't a stranger to the crack business. He'd done some dealing before. As for me, you know my history, and you know about my sisters. You can say crack was in the blood. Starting our own spot would be easy, but moving into the neighborhood and convincing everyone that we were legit, that was going to be the balls. We perfected our disguises before anything else. In the privacy of Poodle's place, we practiced: speech, mannerism, movement, attitude, backgrounds, we became our new identities. It took time, but not as long as I thought. It was masterful, the cunning the discipline. For me, acting was natural, for Poodle, a God given talent. We convinced ourselves that this scheme was meant to be realized— with all of our experiences, with all of our prior success. This was the show, our moment, our escape!

And Fate, what of him, a fucker of chance or not? We all face the breaks one way or another, what may come; we roll em and hope for sevens, seven-eleven for the pot. And if little Joe takes it cause Fate rolled too, then chin up mofo cause you chose. And ultimately, at the end of your days the results are just another tile on a shower wall, another clip in your end reel, another 'Hey, motherfucker, what choo think bout that.' What a scheme, man, what a fuckin' scheme. It was the greatest scheme!

Poodle became Ricker, a kid from out west who moved to the east coast after doing six years for armed robbery, his second strike. He wisely chose to bounce before strike three and life. Crime was his game, and state law didn't extend past its own borders unless the crime hadn't been paid for yet, and Ricker done his time. Ricker was from Guyana and he spoke in a singsong brogue that flowed like rum. He prompted motherfuckers to spark up because his stories were wild and he was fun to hang around. Ricker had a scar across his belly, a knife fight in a prison yard, with a group of white devils. He showed off his battle wound with pride while we were infiltrating our own hood. Hanging out, trying to become regular faces in the crowd, new players, but not new to the ghetto. Ricker got mad respect from the local thugs cause he "kept it real."

Poodle mastered the tale of Ricker's prison fight: one day after two weeks of tension because someone had snitched on some white blood contraband, Ricker got tagged as the fall guy. He didn't do it, but the Aryans wanted pay back, and Ricker and his boys weren't that tight. He got rushed on the basketball court by three of them motherfuckers. He threw down while the racist guards kept everyone else out with threats of instant death from their shotgun barrels. Ricker fought for his life and ended up knocking two of them out before getting shanked by the third. Of course, the guards couldn't sanction an open court murder, so they quickly filled the air with blasts while he bled on the foul line.

Ricker said that by the time he got to the infirmary, he gained even more injuries, including four cracked ribs, which he received when the guards accidentally dropped him down a flight of stairs. They said they slipped on the polished marble steps. The real reason though, was that they threw his ass down the stairs because he was bleeding on their boots. The story was mint, and the "tell" was perfect. Poodle actually had a scar from some operation he needed as a baby. The scar looked mean, and had I not known better, I would have believed him too! Poodle sold that story to the hustlers we hired to sell our clear tops, and word quickly spread around the way about the new cat Ricker, and his fight against them damned white devils. He quickly became a local celebrity, and fit in as if he had always been there. The robbery hitch was also the perfect set-up for our eventuality.

I became Derrick, a big mofo with a pimping fro. Obnoxious and outdated, but ain't no punk ever made fun of it! Derrick liked his "doo" and kept a power fist pick in it. Old school, Derrick was old school. He was in his late thirties with a graying goatee, and silver side burns. Derrick sported large shades like a Funk All-Star, and limped around on a shiny black cane. His tale wasn't as pride filling as Rickers, but he impressed with his story about why he needed the cane. When he was younger and running with a gang uptown, he took a bullet in the leg during a turf war. The round was a 357 and it ripped out a large piece of his femur bone, and even after six surgeries, his leg was never whole again and it never would be.

So this big bold motherfucker limped around like an ancient soldier with old school style, trying to cut into the new ghetto action— crack-cocaine, while living in his own ghetto past.

Chapter Twenty-Four

When Derrick and Ricker made their debut, they rolled into the hood in a black pimped out Riviera with limo tints and a jacked up rear. We bought the ride at a used car dealership for four grand and had it repainted and tricked out for another two. It was a hood car, a player car. After a couple of weeks of just hanging out, flashing money, sharing weed and liquor, we put the word out that we were opening shop.

Derrick and Ricker opened their spot just two blocks west of Sheryl and Audrey. Two blocks west and three bucks cheaper. When we moved in, we introduced fat "jumbos" for twelve apiece when the going rate was fifteen. We pissed the competition off, especially the twins, but our prices couldn't be beat so we were booming. The addicts were flocking to us, so all the other dealers could do was try to match us. One night, a couple of weeks after Dee and Rick opened, me and Poodle were hanging with my sisters, basically trying to get a read on how well our disguises were working, and we were blown away. Audrey ranted about how them two new jacks had to be taken out. Chugging a 40, she looked directly at me and said:

"What the fuck Nat, a motherfucking old man and some Caribbean hero gonna come into our hood and steal my business? I don't think so! Motherfuckers need to be Flacoed!"

I almost burst out laughing, and avoided looking in Poodle's direction at all costs. Our shit was solid, and even my sisters bought the act. Later on, while we celebrated, Poodle and I did make plans to tone our business down. We wanted to be recognized, but we didn't want any static— especially from my sisters. We raised our prices and put the word out that our initial price had only been an intro. This cooled tensions and business circulated again. The other dealers still disliked us, but weren't willing to war when shit was even keel.

We settled into a rhythm where dealing crack was our focus. We had to be established, so that when we attempted to buy from the Colombians, we would have a reputation. We sold crack for six months before making any moves to buy weight from the Colombians. Ricker complained to our hustlers (who were all young thugs from the hood) that we weren't happy with the cook back we were getting from our uptown connect. Our hustlers were part of the neighborhood, and word got around. That was our intention, we knew that some of our boys were friends with the bike crews that worked for the Colombians, and we wanted them to learn that we might be looking for some product. In fact, the blow we were buying was excellent, and we made good ching during our ruse. Our workers were loyal, our customers were regular and in less than three months of operation, Derrick and Ricker were neighborhood dinosaurs well known and respected in the hood. By six months, we rivaled my sisters' business, and we kept a wary eye on the twins' reaction to make sure we didn't cause any waves.

As for our continual transformations back and forth between identities, that was some crazy shit, and I realized early on that I couldn't keep it up. Poodle, on the other hand, loved it. He thrived on being Ricker one minute, and then changing back into Poodle the next. For the first few weeks after Derrick and Ricker moved into the area, Nat kept a low profile. I made sure people saw me around, but I didn't hang out much. At night, I would leave my building through the roof and meet Poodle in a back alley on the outskirts of our neighborhood. We cabbed into town where we kept the Riviera in a garage, geared up and headed back to the hood in our alter identities. I almost got caught a few times, and it became apparent that going back and forth wasn't going to work for me. Natty had to go!

Poodle could keep the game up, but Nat was too noticeable, or in this situation, too unnoticeable. Nat had to go away for a while, but where and why, and how to convince the twins. It couldn't be relatives— what relatives. It couldn't be the military, or back to jail, or anything that the twins would have to know about. Poodle said it would have to be a friend I met in prison, some mofo upstate, a do-gooder who offered Nat an option outside of the ghetto, a reformer who wanted to help Nat stay straight. It was a brilliant stroke, even more brilliant because it wasn't a hard sell. I had already told my sisters about Firah and Righteous and all that. So we wrote Nat a letter from some guy named "Isaac" who just got out of prison and had a good job at a bottling company in some small town way up north. He wrote that he had a spot for me on the carbonation line. I told my sisters I would be filling bottles with bubbles and might even move up to capping if I worked hard enough. I said Isaac and me could be the next "Laverne and Shirley."

They bought the story and wished me well. They promised to keep my apartment in case things didn't work out. Tasha would move in and keep things in order. They threw me a going away party where my boys said their goodbyes. I promised to call occasionally and let everyone know how things were going. The next day I boarded a bus pointing north and left the twins and Tasha at the station. Poodle loved the challenge of being two people at once. He enjoyed running back and forth, changing, acting, and mixing it up all over the place. You could ask a group of kids on the corner if they had seen Poodle and they would point to a bodega, meanwhile, Ricker would be sitting on a stoop just down the street with one or two of our hustlers, smoking a spliff and sipping a 40. Priceless, that motherfucker was priceless.

So after six months, we felt established enough to try to buy weight from the Colombians. They knew of us, everyone did by then, that is what made our scam so fantastic, everyone in the hood believed that Derrick and Ricker were real, and not only that, they believed that they were real players. We were doing good business and we were careful, not greedy, and not violent, under the radar so to speak. We made our money and we kept a low profile. We made our first contact with the Colombians through a kid who hustled for us named JJ. One of the first kids we hired, JJ was a sixteen-year-old dropout whose aggressive style brought us most of our initial clientele. In fact, many of our regulars were his customers. JJ proved his value many times while we were in business, and we relied on him extensively.

Jay had many contacts in the street, and he knew the bike kids who worked for the Colombians by name. We took good care of JJ for that very reason. Favoritism, although frowned upon in legitimate business, is a badge of honor in drug dealing. Rewards for loyalty and hard work ranged from extra ching to real responsibility. Favorites moved up the ranks and sometimes became management. Kissing ass got some motherfuckers paid. JJ however, didn't so much kiss our ass as latch on to something he believed was going to blow up. He truly believed that we were up and coming and he wanted to impress us to get a bigger piece of the action. JJ spread the word about our cook back and when the time came to make our pitch, it was JJ we sent in.

Chapter Twenty-Five

We pulled up to the corner next to the Colombians' building and let JJ out. They noticed us immediately; the bike kids began circling the corner near our car hopping on and off the curb watching intently. Our instructions to JJ were simple: tell the Colombians we wanted to buy some weight, about half a key for starters. Some of the bike kids cruised around the Riviera and spoke out to JJ in Spanish as he walked down the block toward the building. They were fucking around cause JJ was smiling and said something back that made them all laugh.

I was in the passenger seat and I rolled the window down so the Colombians could see what we were doing. It was courtesy not to sit on their corner looking at them through tinted windows it gave the wrong impression. JJ approached a man sitting on a plastic lawn chair next to the building's front door and they exchanged words. The man looked toward the Riviera and then called another guy over. The second man nodded and went into the building. JJ waited with the first guy and shot the shit with the bike kids who were doing doughnuts and figure eights in front of them. We waited about ten minutes before the man returned. He said something to JJ who nodded and walked back toward our car.

"Whatcha think?" Poodle asked as JJ approached.

I thought it looked good and said as much, as I opened the door and leaned forward so Jay could get into the back seat.

"What up?" I asked as he settled back.

JJ smiled and said:

"They're game, but they don't break bricks, one kilo and up, only."

Poodle pulled out and made a quick U-turn so we didn't drive by the front entrance, a subtle gesture of respect to go back the way we came.

"A key and up huh!" Ricker responded more or less to himself.

"How much for a brick?" I asked.

"Twenty for one, a grand less for each above, ten or more is negotiable."

"Ten or more! They know damn well we ain't up for ten, shit; we might not be up for even one! Just letting us know they the Mac— shit, we know they the Mac, they don't need to play us like that, ten or more!" Ricker blurted.

"Twenty is way high for a brick," I said.

Unlike the prices on the street while I was doing my stretch, the market had been steady for the last year or so, and the going rate for a key was about 16K.

"They guarantee cook back," JJ said, out of hand, "besides they don't normally sell under ten anyway, they're a fucking warehouse, we lucky they even offered."

I caught a hint of irritation from JJ, and wondered where he came off being defensive. As if he knew the truth about the cook back, we were already getting and suspected something. Poodle must have caught the same scent because he pounced immediately.

"What the fuck Jay, you got a side deal going?"

JJ blanched.

"Not at all Rick," he stammered.

"I know twenty is high, especially with crop available, but their blow is as pure as it gets. A key from them is a key and a half anywhere else, the cook back has got to be near a hundred percent, I'm just saying . . ."

Poodle pounced.

"I don't care what the fuck you're saying, you just a fucking kid, a hustler, and you don't know shit. You might be a smooth motherfucker with the crack heads but don't forget your place. You ain't our partner, and no one asked for your fucking opinion. You just our fucking worker, got it?"

There was a long pause, long enough to fill one's mind with irrelevant thoughts. Thoughts that keep a person distant from the uncomfortable moments that made them wander in the first place. Poodle didn't let it drag on; he pulled the car to the curb hard and jammed on the brakes so that the car jerked everyone back to reality. Ricker turned around and stared at JJ.

"I asked you a fucking question."

JJ wouldn't look at him. I don't know if it was fear, or anger, or a combination, but JJ looked from his hands to the sidewalk, and back to his hands. I reached out and tapped Poodle's leg to get his attention, he looked at me sharply and I shook my head.

He frowned, but got the message. I opened the passenger door to get out. I perfected my limp by then, and actually moved out of habit, placing the rubber nub of my cane street side and lifting my body out in one fluid motion. I heard JJ moving to get out of the backseat, but Poodle wasn't done yet.

"Look at me Jay," he said.

I leaned back inside the door ready to ease any more hasty comments Poodle might make. JJ had no choice at this point but to look at Ricker. He gave him a hard look, just like mine, and I smiled to myself.

Ricker's tone changed, Poodle knew the score, he couldn't risk bad blood, we were too close to our goal and we needed JJ. Besides, Jay was smart, maybe too smart, and having him wonder about shit was dangerous.

"You're moving up kid," Ricker began, "you're moving and you know it, you got potential but don't get cocky. Dee and me got this game, you're riding point guard, setting up plays, but they ain't your plays. Do what you're asked and don't be questioning our calls and you'll do fine. You our main man, you know this, ain't you gettin paid?"

JJ nodded.

"We gonna hook you up for this connect bro, you got the finder's fee, but don't step outta place, that's all I'm saying."

They locked eyes, reading each other silently. JJ couldn't hold for long and looked away.

Poodle and I exchanged glances, and I moved back so JJ could get out of the car. He stepped to the curb and turned to walk away.

"Hey Jay, who your man?" I asked holding my arms out.

JJ sniffed and said:

"You Dee."

I smiled and gestured toward the car.

"Who else your man Jay?"

He glanced into the car and muttered in a low voice "Rick."

I frowned, not liking his tone.

"You sure?" I asked seriously.

Jay looked from the car to me and nodded.

"A-ight then mofo go make us some money."

Poodle and I got into the habit of driving out of the neighborhood to talk business. It still amazes me how easy it was to forget our real identities. Often, when we were alone, it took a while before one of us realized that we were still talking like Derrick and Ricker. That's the way though, when you want to get paid— dedication, complete dedication.

We found a spot in a riverside park near the city bridge where we could sit on a bench and talk freely. We drove out to our spot after dropping JJ off to discuss our next move. We talked about the price, we knew product was readily available elsewhere for less, shit even our current contact could get us a key for 16K. But the Colombians controlled the price and to make the necessary headway, we needed to play. We decided we would try to take them down to seventeen-five, at least for appearances. No respectable dealer would pay first price, haggling was expected. We knew we could move a key easy enough; we were buying ounces regularly, and sometimes had to shut down because we ran out of product. In a way, buying a brick was economical; the problem came with having that kind of weight at the spot. If we got raided, weight in that range almost guaranteed a bye-bye sentence. In addition, if word got around that we were well stocked we might become victims ourselves. Can you imagine us getting ripped by another crew? That shit sounds funny, but was definitely possible.

We discussed how many times we would need to buy weight from the Colombians before we were in a position to strike. We anticipated three to four buys. Enough, we hoped, to get us in good. We talked about JJ and decided he wasn't a problem yet. But we had to be real careful with him because he could fuck everything up. At one point Poodle even suggested that we might have to smoke him.

"Who would miss a sixteen year old dropout from the hood anyway?"

I shied away from that idea, and suggested that we just be careful around him, reminding Poodle he was invaluable to our ruse and that he might have much more to do with our success down the road. We agreed that we couldn't let him entertain ideas about going independent and that we had to make him feel special, important.

We made our counter offer three days later. This time, JJ walked into the building with the same Colombian he approached the first time. They were out of sight for about five minutes before JJ walked out with another man. They both headed toward our car. We watched them approach and I wondered if this guy was more than muscle. We hadn't the time in the last eight months to conduct any serious surveillance, so we did not know all of the players. I studied him as they neared our car. He stood about five-eleven, athletic build, and clean cut. He carried himself with confidence and had an air of importance about him. Before they reached the vehicle, I concluded that he wasn't no muscle. I rolled the window down and gave him a ghetto nod (instead of lowering your head, you raise your chin up and purse your lips, a symbolic what up). He stood in front of the car door dark haired, dark eyed, with a dark countenance. JJ spoke.

"Derrick, Ricker, this is Pepino."

The Colombian leaned forward and looked past me to Poodle. He reached out with his right hand and offered it to me. As I grasped his hand, a large ring on one of his fingers bit into my little finger. I didn't squeeze hard but I gave him a firm grip. He reached across and shook Ricker's hand next.

He spoke fluent English, with only a slight accent.

"Let's go get a Heineken," he suggested.

Business in the hood ain't done over lunch at a café. Deals are struck in parked cars or dark alleys with brown-bagged cocktails instead of martini glasses. Pepino slipped into the back seat with JJ and we pulled out. Ricker stopped at a corner bodega where JJ stepped out to pick up a six-pack of greenbacks. I drank any brew, I preferred my 40's but a Heineken is just fine for some business drinking.

Pepino was calm and relaxed, as if he was at home getting a massage. I never met a cat that showed so little concern or apprehension at meeting someone new to discuss illegal activity. It was unnatural, and it put me on edge. Poodle, however, was in his element. He started the conversation with a sly whimsical question.

"Pepino huh?" he sang, "what dat mean bro?"

Pepino leaned back and smiled, displaying a set of perfect white teeth.

"Pepino is a vegetable papa" he responded, watching Ricker through the rearview mirror.

"Dat so, a vegetable, no shit, which one?" He asked. Pepino laughed a warm hearty carefree laugh.

"Pepino, brother, in English is called a cucumber, a big pickle huh!" He said with amusement.

"A cucumber, they nicknamed you a fucking cucumber? You got to be kidding" he chuckled.

Pepino, laughed too.

"No shit papa, Pepino the cucumber, had the name since I was a kid in Bogotá."

We all laughed. Ricker asked the obvious follow-up: "Why cucumber, Mon?"

Still chuckling, Pepino burst out even harder, the kind of laugh you hear when you know a punch line is coming. He was animate also, laughing and wiggling behind us. He slapped the back of Ricker's seat in an attempt to control his excitement and pulled himself up between the two front seats. He looked from Ricker to me and then laughed hard again. Poodle and I were smiling waiting for the pitch.

"Cucumber, baby, Pepino is for the girls no!"

We all exchanged glances, Poodle got the point and so did I. The motherfucker must be hung like a horse. We laughed.

"Hey, maybe we related," he said.

My initial concern about Pepino's demeanor was checked, that shit was funny, and by the time we stopped laughing JJ was passing out beers asking us what was so funny.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Pepino had no problem switching channels. He was also unflinching in negotiations. It became clear to me that Pepino was a major player. He never once said he would have to check, or "let me see what I can do," he spoke as if it was his blow and he was in charge. When I offered 17-5, he almost spit beer all over the backseat.

"17-5! 17-5! What do you think I got, fucking cut?" He demanded indignantly.

"My shit's the best, you want to buy real weight, I might go down to 17-5, but that's ten or more, I told your man that!" He said, cocking a thumb at JJ.

No one responded. Poodle was silent it was my play.

I paused, thinking hard about what to say next. I was sure Pepino knew we couldn't buy ten. So it made sense that he was sticking high for his own profit. Maybe he was a player, but he wasn't the Man, man. This potential side deal was his— solo. Whatever he made above their base price was his pocket. I wondered what the base was, thirteen, maybe fourteen grand a kilo. I couldn't see a profit margin much less than fifty percent over cost, and I figured they shipped at six or seven grand a brick. That meant a few side deals for players like Pepino added up to good coin.

I didn't think Pepino was desperate for the deal, but I guess he wanted the business. Maybe he felt Derrick and Ricker were good for future buys and banked on making more profit later, whatever his reasons, he beat me to words.

"19-2, no lower, that's almost a G off the top, that's my G. A starter price cause I know you'll make profit and want more. 19-2 or go fuck yourselves."

Ricker chuckled. For a brief, almost unnoticeable moment, I sensed uncertainty in Pepino, a normal and expected reaction under the circumstances, the kind of reaction I had been looking for. 'So he is human,' I thought.

"What's so funny papa," he asked, tense, but not in any way which showed fear.

"Cucumber."

Pepino smiled. They both giggled.

"I like you Ricker," Pepino said, "your friend here is fucking crazy with that 17-5 shit, but I like you. Fuck it, because I'm a fair man, and I want to help you keep the monkeys high, I'll drop to 18-7, but that's it. Eighteen seven for a brick of the best shit in America, take it or leave it."

Poodle glanced at me and winked. I nodded. Ricker leaned back and shook Pepino's hand. The deal was made, 18.7K for a key of premium blow from the best source in town, the source we were hoping to clean out as soon as possible.

The purchase arrangements took a turn that we had not expected. Poodle asked Pepino when we could come and get the product.

"The shit is always ready papa, but you won't be coming to get it, your boy will."

He cocked his thumb in JJ's direction.

"You give him the money and I'll give him the brick," he said flatly.

Poodle turned toward Pepino glancing my way briefly. The whole point of us buying coke from the Colombians was to get inside the spot. Buying from Pepino solo wasn't going to do us shit, we needed to see the spot. Ricker was smooth.

"Papa" he said, imitating Pepino, "we don't work like that. I don't give nineteen large to no kid and watch it walk away, too many risks. I understand that you don't know us, but we straight, we legit, check our creds. Maybe we'll buy weight from you in the future, maybe when we gain your trust, but we ain't gonna do a street deal for a kilo especially without us even there. We do this right, or we'll have to look elsewhere."

The risk Poodle took was enormous. The vibes were hard to read, and even though Pepino quickly dropped to 18-7 for the brick, I was sure he would just as soon walk away than have first time buyers dictate the deal. But Poodle got the gift. He had Pepino thinking they were long lost friends; his sincere look, his firm ultimatum, his resignation was perfect.

Pepino studied Ricker for a long time. No one spoke, no one moved. Pepino finally said:

"You're a smart man Mr. Ricker, I understand you, do you understand me? No visits, not yet, prove your ability first, show productivity. There is propriety involved here. We sell weight papa, not a brick here or an ounce there. I got the score on you, I checked you out, I think we can do good business together, I think you will blow up with our coke, cornerstone this entire area, but not just yet. Only regular customers deal inside. Show your ambition, and then, maybe, you come inside and have some Remy with Pepino. That's the deal, no negotiation. Problem with your boy (he gestured at JJ), you come; I'll meet you half way, equal risk. We'll go for a drive, just the two of us, do it that way. That is all."

The finality was apparent, the implication obvious. The Colombians were smart. They were the most successful drug dealers for a reason, they had discipline, and they didn't take unnecessary risks. Pepino was part of a company, maybe he had the authority to make side deals, to bring in new business, but certain rules applied. No one came inside until trust was developed, and that only occurred through success. I was surprised that Pepino had already checked us out. He knew we were careful, otherwise, I doubt we would have even met, but there was no trust and that was smart.

This was going to be harder than we thought, and I already thought it was steel. So all of those customers we saw when we first started watching the spot were major dealers who not only bought weight, but were trusted and respected. Damn, I thought, that spot must be loaded. The impasse didn't last long, we had no leverage, Pepino obviously followed an established order and wasn't going to budge. Poodle understood, he said as much, though feigning disappointment, he was already working for the next deal. They exchanged hands again, a gesture of understanding and respect. We would make the exchange the next day.

That night Poodle and me counted out $18,700.00 in ten and twenty dollar bills— the usual liquid on the streets. We wrapped the money into one thousand dollar bundles (and one for $700) and put them in a brown paper bag. That bullshit you see on television where smooth, pimped out gangsters complete deals in designer shades and leather briefcases is just Hollywood. Ain't no deal I ever done was so polished— just money for product, the way it's supposed to be. We didn't talk about the deal there wasn't much to say. We had anticipated doing a few deals anyway, so this wasn't a crossing point. The intro was, the agreement was, but the exchange was not. We speculated on how good the product was going to be, but we didn't worry about the weight. The Colombians lucrative business with "Kilo-men" all over the city was an ironclad guarantee that the brick would be healthy. Besides, you don't keep good business in the hood by skimming on your customers. In fact, you might lose more than business if you do, regardless of who you were. We had to pull seven thousand from our personal stashes to make the nut, but most of it came from recent profit. We were doing well.

The deal went down in the afternoon. We pulled up to the corner and saw Pepino leaning against a car in front of the building. He noticed us immediately and gave a nod as he walked into the building. Ten minutes later, he walked toward our car with another man.

This second guy was about a head shorter than Pepino and skittish, looking around often enough to be annoying. A gold hoop earring popped out of his left ear. The earring stood out because it didn't hang from the earlobe. It stuck out higher up, near the top of the outer rim. I had never seen a man wear an earring like that before, except maybe, "Captain Morgan." The two of them stopped in front of my lowered window. Pepino looked past me at Ricker and smiled.

"We all set papa," Ricker asked.

"Good here, how about you?"

Poodle patted the brown paper bag tucked in between his car seat and the console.

"I got a bag of doughnuts for you right here," he said smiling.

"That's good baby, cause I got some powder sugar to frost them with."

They both laughed. Pepino looked at me and grew serious rather fast.

"I go for a ride with Ricker solo alright, you wait here with Alex," he said dismissively.

For a brief flash, I almost forgot I was Derrick, a seasoned forty-something year old street thug. I almost reached out to choke the motherfucker for his obvious disrespect. But I checked myself, Derrick had to be cool, be mellow, just like an older, "been around the way," kind of cat would act. No big deal, the guy just didn't like big bros with fros. I knew I was intimidating, lame or not. Instead of showing fear, which I'm sure he felt, he chose to talk down to me, act tough with that Spanish machismo, but I knew better, and he knew that I did. And, he knew that I had to check him too, it was all part of the game, all part of the ghetto way.

If I didn't check his shit, I'd look like a pussy. I just needed to do it the right way. I raised my eyebrows in a "check this mofo out look," and turned toward Ricker.

"This guy must think I work for you Rick," I said casually.

Ricker looked at Pepino and said:

"Derrick is my partner papa, we do business together."

Pepino snorted and mumbled something under his breath in Spanish. It sounded like COB-ROAN-PREE-ETO-SUZY-OH or something like that. I knew it wasn't a compliment.

"Now, now, gentlemen, this ain't no thing, I can understand the concern. I'll wait here with your boy, no problem. Just understand that you're doing a deal with us."

I motioned back and forth between Ricker and me.

"A-ight," I said.

Pepino glanced at Alex them looked at me soberly.

"Sure thing," he smiled, "now won't you get out of the car so we can get on with it" he said coldly.

His smile was empty and his dark eyes glinted like onyx scarabs. 'Motherfucker,' I thought,' Motherfucker!' Ricker put his hand on my arm and gave it a little shake.

"Go ahead bro," he said, "let's do the deal."

He was worried about losing the whole thing so I reassured him with a light laugh, as I opened the car door and got out. I itched to tower over Pepino, a large menace, a silent threat, but I knew that would go badly so I stepped to the sidewalk instead. The squirrelly looking man named Alex handed Pepino a black fanny pack as he got into the Riviera. Ricker pulled out and they drove down the block.

I leaned on my cane watching the Colombian muscle all around pretending not to notice me. Alex was looking around also, his arms crossed over his chest and chewing on his lower lip. He reminded me of a sparrow who hops back and forth snatching the crumbs around pigeons, nervous, scheming, and quick. I decided small talk was as unlikely as shoving my cane up his ass though I suspect he would have preferred the cane if given the choice.

Instead, we stood there, two complete opposites in an unlikely and uncomfortable proximity pretending that it was quite normal— yeah, as normal as a horse riding a man. Gratefully we only waited ten minutes before the Riviera turned the corner and deposited Pepino with a grin and a wave.

Pepino didn't even acknowledge me as he walked back toward the building with the little sparrow hopping after him. Motherfucker, I thought, and then thought again and smiled— Poodle and me were going to be the hawks that eat all them motherfucking pigeons and I didn't think the little sparrow would be quick enough either.

"Yo Dee we out," Ricker called.

I hobbled into the car and we drove away with a pumping bass and a key of prime coke.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Pepino wasn't fucking around when he said his shit was the best. We banked; we almost double our investment. The crack heads were literally crawling over each other to get a blast from our new mind blowing product. JJ dubbed our new batch "Shazam" cause it packed some serious power. Our chef was just as impressed and said with blow like that we didn't need a specialist. The cook back was almost 100%. With droves of new adherents, that first kilo barely lasted a week. We sent JJ back to Pepino. We needed more, and wanted to set up another purchase as soon as possible. JJ returned and told us that Pepino said the warehouse was open and fully stocked. Derrick and Ricker laughed harder than JJ expected. We checked ourselves, but the inside joke was irresistible— fully stocked but not for long.

Our second buy was for two kilos at 18-5 apiece. Instead of a car deal though, we agreed to meet at the local Pizza shop. Tony's Pizzeria was a dive near the train station. At Tony's, you bought thin slices of burnt, sauce splashed pizza, with a sprinkling of cheese. The pizza was so bad that the neighborhood kids joked that a mouse couldn't find cheese in that joint. But it was the only one around the way. Tony's; the Rising Star Chinese Take-Out, better known as "Fort Dinks" cause them motherfuckers lived behind bulletproof glass and wouldn't deliver; and Sam's Fried Chicken where you could get a three piece with fries for $2.99. Sam's was to chicken like Tony's was to pizza— ain't no Italy at Tony's and definitely ain't no Southern cooking at Sam's. A leg looked like a finger, and a wing looked like a breaded paper clip. But you get what you pay for in the hood, and that's just the way it is. Three fast food joints for a section of the population that might visit a restaurant once or twice during a tax season, if the EIC was high enough.

We met at Tony's because out of all three places, it was the only one with seating. They actually had booths at Tony's, big high-backed booths, where people could eat their cardboard pizza in private disgust, the perfect place for a quick transaction. We met on a cold Saturday night. Poodle, JJ and I waited in a back booth over flat sodas and small talk. Ricker and Derrick faced the doorway; JJ faced us. Between Poodle and me sat, another brown paper bag filled with $37,000.00 in crack head money.

I was packing this time. It was a risk, any time you carry in the ghetto, you take a big risk but I felt comfortable with the 40 tucked inside my waistband. Poodle knew I had it, he said it was unnecessary, but I wasn't giving a fuck about that. Pepino walked in with a new sidekick. This guy was strictly muscle. Unlike the small bird-like Alex with his big hoop earring and his nervous lip chewing, this cat was "El Macho." He was over six feet tall and cut like a diesel truck. He wore a black leather blazer with matching gloves and kept his hands crossed in front of him within easy reach of whatever gun he had on him. He walked in directly behind Pepino and stood by the door facing us but not looking at any one in particular. As Pepino walked toward us, I had an urge to beckon the man over, just for kicks, but thought better of it. Not the kind of ball breaking Derrick would do, although Nat craved to laugh at the fool.

Pepino didn't bother introducing his escort nor did he mention him or even look back to see where he was. This was a business meeting, the kind of business where mistakes could cost you your life. He knew that we knew his escort was insurance and nothing needed to be said. I just wanted to call him on it, but that'll have to wait for another day. Pepino held a plastic shopping bag, poking out of the top was a loaf of bread and some green bananas, better known as platanos. He sat down next to JJ and smiled at Ricker. He glanced in my direction and gave me the slightest acknowledgment.

"So your boy tells me my product was good, yes?" he said looking at Ricker.

"Real good papa."

"I know," Pepino said, with a silky smile that turned into a smirk as he looked over at me.

He glanced around the shop and took notice. Not much to notice, a couple of kids in a front booth, a fat lady at the counter talking to an old man (who was or was not Tony), and a gangly white kid behind the counter who was pretending to dress up a pizza pie before shoving it into the oven.

"Rick my man, you going to need a taste this time," Pepino asked.

Poodle shook his head no. I didn't like the question, nor did I like the looks I'd been getting from the asshole, so I said somewhat arrogantly:

"How bout you, you gonna need a count?"

Pepino frowned, looking at Ricker.

"You counted it?" he asked him.

I knew where this was going but couldn't stop what I started. Poodle looked at me darkly.

"Yeah papa, I counted it," Ricker answered.

Pepino looked directly at me and held my eyes.

"In that case, no, I don't need a count."

I looked away, not willing to make the situation worse by getting into a staring match. Ricker placed the brown paper bag on the table and picked up his soda.

Before taking a sip, he suggested that they should hang out sometime. Pepino immediately perked up.

"Yeah baby, anytime. We could hit the clubs, bang some bitches, party down, whatever, it'll be fun."

Poodle and I had discussed taking advantage of Pepino's fondness for Ricker, hoping to gain some information on the sly. A potential bumper crop of information was possible. Nothing was better than hanging out with an intended target to learn shit they ain't supposed to talk about. Men don't gossip like women, but they can run at the mouth when their guard is down. We wanted to build trust between Pepino and Ricker, and part of our plan was to get them hanging out.

His eagerness to socialize with Ricker was promising. Pepino took a napkin out of the rusting metal dispenser on our table and wrote a number down. He slid the napkin toward Ricker and said:

"My beeper, call if you want to hook up. Put 008 at the end of the call back number and I'll know it's you."

Pepino reached down and picked up the bag of groceries he brought with him, holding it up briefly he said:

"At the bottom of this bag are two bags of sugar," he leaned closer and whispered, "Inside the sugar is your sugar."

Ricker nodded, picked up the napkin, folded it and placed it in his pocket. Pepino glanced around again and said aloud:

"I'd like to stay and have some pizza, but this fucking dump doesn't have any."

He smiled and looked back at us, "maybe you wait five minutes after I go huh?"

Pepino reached out and shook Ricker's hand, and then surprisingly, offered it to me. He winked at JJ, got up, and casually walked out with a rolled up paper bag in his hand.

The two bricks were fat and packaged tight, professionally. The cook back was just as good as the first kilo, and soon enough JJ and the boys were selling Shazam like hotcakes. A few days later, Poodle as Poodle, was hanging out on a stoop with Audrey and Sheryl. He learned that the twins were losing a lot of business to our spot. He said the word was out that Ricker and Derrick were getting their product from the Colombians, and the quality of our crack was hurting the competition. In the ghetto, monopoly ain't no board game, if shit don't balance out the winner will quickly catch some "bad luck." Our spot was again taking profit from other dealers, our crack was like "Crazy Eddie" to electronics, it was "Insane!"

Poodle told me that Audrey suggested he reach out to me up north so that we could pull another "Flaco". Poodle told me that he cut that shit off with the quickness by telling them that word was also out that Ricker was tight with the Colombians and anyone trying to pull a hit on Ricker might as well pull a hit on them.

Poodle said they shared a nervous laugh at that idea. He quoted Sheryl repeating: 'that would be a painful suicide.' We got the message though, and knew once again that we had to curb our business for the sake of the community, so to speak. As for suicide, suicide is for suckers, Poodle and me we had a plan, a crazy plan, but then when were any of our schemes rational. Only the boldest motherfuckers would think of hitting the Colombians, and even then, most would falter. Not us, we were crazy motherfuckers, but we were smart too, smart, committed, crazy. Shit, I thought, what a motherfuckin' ride this was gonna be!

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ricker and Pepino hooked up the following Saturday night. They cruised through the VIP sections downtown, drinking "Cristal" and "Johnnie Walker Blue." They lit the night up smoking spliffs of Buddha rolled in Cuban gold leaf while passing out grams of Reina like party favors. They partied into the wee's and then crashed in some hotel suite surrounded by white yuppie bitches proving once again that money is the only color that ever really matters.

I'm sure Poodle had mad fun, but he was on al mission, and his goal was to get Pepino talking and drop some shit he wasn't supposed to. Throughout their night of revelry, he asked Pepino specific questions veiled in innocent curiosity. The proud fool answered each one. I knew that fucking blabbermouth would spill, but I didn't expect him to leak so much.

We gamed him, that stupid bastard. No matter how sophisticated a motherfucker tries to be, your shit will eventually reveal, and it will stink, cause everyone's bullshit stinks. Those that truly succeed never forget that, but those that think they're the Mac always do. Down to earth they fall, and they don't bounce back. Pepino had a big mouth, he was flashy, and he had a fake air about him. He wasn't no hick, at least he didn't sport too many gold chains or roll in bright threads, but he still carried himself as though he was your better. This was exampled by the way he looked down at Derrick— sizing him up as some "has-been" who latched onto the ambitious young Ricker in a last ditch attempt to make some retirement money. Pepino spit, I knew he would, just like I knew he was in for a big fall, and maybe, I thought, before he lands, he'll realize that a motherfucker is never really that far from his own gravity.

I met Poodle the next day down by the river at our usual spot. It was early afternoon, and it was cold. I shivered in my triple fat goose, oddly aware that the chill came more from Poodle's uncommon disposition, than the frigid wind. He was subdued and grim, and although he spoke absently in Ricker's singsong slang, he was different. He was down, he was demoralized, he was well done.

"Shit ain't good Nat!" he spit out dejectedly. Whatever he learned the night before shook him badly, and compelled him to blurt out uncharacteristically.

He was scared, and that alarmed me cause I ain't never seen Poodle flustered before. He was also hung over worse than dripping laundry. I could almost see bubbles marching around his head. His sudden flat announcement steeled me for some bad news.

Poodle slouched on the park bench like a wounded coward waiting for the kill shot. Apparently, he was too tired to scrape the dirt away from his muddy heels, and too sick to hide an emotion that he rarely, if ever felt before. He slumped over, wilting in the cold sunlight. I thought about giving him a pass. But then I remembered some things, and thought again. Perhaps the shit he had to say could wait another day, but I wasn't patient, and besides the motherfucker had skimmed me on the Heffe hit, and some bitter feelings surfaced. I decided that whatever Poodle found out, whatever he had to say, he was gonna say it right then and there. Sick or not, dejected or not, lost or not, he was gonna talk. A momentary thrill ran through my body as I looked down at him. It tickled the shiver right out of me, and put a smile on my face. 'How does it feel motherfucker,' I thought.

"What shit?" I asked, watching him fidget from the drumbeat pounding in his head. The unforgiving sun offering no sympathy as it burned into his tightened eyelids, offering nothing but a bright backdrop to my huge menacing frame. I made sure I didn't block the sun's view, enjoying Poodle's increasing discomfort.

He sighed deeply and started to explain that Pepino practically gave him a blueprint, but it didn't matter, there were no angles, just, and I quote, "brick walls."

"We might as well have blueprints to Fort Knox, or maybe try and rob a fuckin' dragon; we would have a better chance." He stammered, blinking into the sunlight.

He said that Pepino gave him the skinny while they discussed why Ricker was partnered up with an "old cripple." Although I was instantly curious about how that conversation developed, I focused instead on the fact that our disguises were so damned convincing. I don't know why, perhaps it was vanity, but with Poodle so miserable on that bench, I had the luxury to take what he said in the small spurts he delivered, and I couldn't help thinking that there wasn't a motherfucker in the hood that suspected Derrick and Ricker were not Derrick and Ricker, and that amazed me.

While I mused about our disguises, Poodle babbled on about how he got the information out of Pepino. I didn't listen to that part, it wasn't important; it was just Poodle attempting to find himself. When I was ready, I cut him down abruptly, telling him to explain what he learned about the spot, not how he played Pepino. He frowned (how dare I blow him off) and looked like he was going to say something, but a green tinge came over his face and he bent over instead. He dry heaved for a while, huddled over in misery, exhaling loudly. I watched him, laughing to myself, the mixed scent of mint and whiskey that offended my nostrils was so strong that I stepped back, expecting the source of the stench to come out of his mouth at any moment. It didn't happen though, just empty lurching he never threw. After a few moments, he sat up and rubbed his head vigorously.

"They have two doors bro," he announced suddenly, holding up two fingers in a peace sign.

"This hit ain't gonna happen Nat, it ain't meant too, we'll just forget about it and go on selling crack and that's that!"

He laughed to himself thinking his little rhyme was funny. I did not. I towered over him like a big black cape, his darkness, humorless. My back was to the river and the sun tickled my neck, was the sun laughing with Poodle, or laughing at me? Or, was the sun trying to tell me something? Gesturing at me like a mute angel behind a shower wall, trying to burn a message into me, to warn me, to compel me to think. Last chance Nat, don't blow it!

I doubt it. I don't think you really get a second chance; you only get that bath once. I think about it sometimes though, like I think of all those moments I've been telling you about. Could it have been another way out, another chance to walk away? Had I walked away right then, would I be walking right now, instead of rolling around in a cage of my own making? Nat T., walking, strutting, break dancing on another Sunday afternoon, free as a bird and happy as a motherfucker. No, not Nat, Nat's a fool, and just like those fifteen minutes in Heffe's bathroom, I didn't think of me, or maybe I thought only of me— whatever, I just wanted to get paid, and I would, no matter what. I never considered leaving that bench or the scheme we had worked so hard to develop, damn near a year and counting. Instead, I thought about how much advantage I suddenly had over Poodle. Leverage, elevated position; I was suddenly the man, I was in charge! I felt the power of control once again and I liked it. Even more this time because it was over Poodle and that was sweet.

Hell must be filled with the souls of people like me, people who can't wait to be in control, who strive for it, kill for it, and die reaching for it— absolute power, the highest high. Ain't that what started the whole thing in the first place? I didn't even need to think about the coke Poodle scammed from me anymore. I didn't need any incentive to pump me up, I took the reins cause they needed to be taken, and besides I wanted them. I liked watching Poodle flinch I liked wearing his shoes.

"The hit ain't good Poodle?" I asked sarcastically.

"Ain't never a hit good for someone bro, but we lucky mofo's, and our hits always bring the ching. Ain't we got paid? Ain't we had fun? Ain't we never been caught? So you're drunk, and high, and tired and maybe even a little scared . . ."

I paused to taste his reaction. It was sweet, so sweet, as he jerked and shifted on the bench, as he crossed and uncrossed his feet, tensed, grumbled, exhaling sharply, but he didn't defend, he couldn't. He was in his moment, in his shower stall, and all he could do was fidget and rub his throbbing head.

"But don't you come here telling me we can't do the hit, we can always do the hit, and we will.

Now tell me Poodle, what the hell Pepino said that got you so spooked?"

It seemed to me, when I tasked him that Poodle attempted to fight for his soul. He wavered briefly, only briefly, and then he took a step. Maybe he stared at his destiny, his cold bloodshot eyes meeting Fate somewhere in the slate blue ripples of the passing river, maybe he did not. I watched him shiver, aware that his chill came not from the cold air, but from his inner struggle. Then it was over, a weak fight that lasted less than the burn of a match, and I read it like a sign in a scrying bowl. I knew that he chose, and I knew deep inside that he made the wrong choice.

What would you say if I proposed that not only the lifer in prison (who is quick to tell you his story), knows which key moment, which segue, which "shower debate," decided the course of his life? But that everyone, all of us: from that bad kid in grade school who everyone agreed was no good. A write-off, a bad seed (we all had one of them), who ultimately became a CEO in a fortune 500 company. Or, the neighborhood purse-snatcher, who finally tripped and got caught, and got a little taste of jail, yet is now the kind and friendly Deacon in your mother's church. Or, the President even, after many college nights of cocaine binging, and drunk driving, and not giving a fuck, who is now the man on the highest high, pushing real buttons and playing with big numbers and deciding what's what— knows when it was, how it was, where it was, that personal choice changed destiny. North or south, east or west, up or down, each one of us face forked roads in our lives, many, actually, but only one will significantly change life, destiny, and you won't know which one it is until the choice is made. But if you make good decisions every time, if you think before you move, then maybe you'll realize, eventually, which one really mattered, and be happy with course you took.

Can you dig it? Do you see? Perhaps not pondering the implications as much as a sad motherfucker in jail for the rest of his life, but do you get it. I hope so, I hope you can smile and be proud of your decisions, I really do. Unfortunately, like so many others, Poodle lost his debate, if he ever really had one. He is a prime example of wrong choice. As am I, as are all the lifers in all the prisons who have gained wisdom from bad decisions. Don't fuck it up! Poodle's struggle was not monumental, and he didn't get no help or prodding from me. I waited silently, watching the river flow by, his future along with it. He had his time, he just didn't use much. He stepped hard into his choice, as did I, as do most of us. Poodle grunted from his effort, trying to collect himself, not realizing that he would never be able to collect himself again.

Poodle ultimately explained what he meant by "two doors," as well as all the other shit that that fool Pepino spilled out. I have to admit our chances didn't look good; those crazy bastards seemed prepared for anything. During the next hour or so, I extracted every bit of information that Poodle had gained: the front door of the apartment opened into a small foyer where visitors get thoroughly searched. Once cleared, you walk down a hallway into the living room. The hallway was purposely narrowed down to an eighteen inch width, so that only one person could pass through at a time, and for some, like big ass Nat, walking sideways. At the end of the hall, a steel mesh gate, secured by an iron police lock opened into the living room.

"Ain't a damned thing gonna force through that kind of gate Nat," Poodle remarked.

Business transactions occurred in the living room, under the watchful eyes of at least three shooters, one of whom was stationed inside a bulletproof booth with holes cut into its thick Plexiglas front. Holes designed to fit gun barrels. The booth was in the left corner of the room, as you walked in, directly across from the mesh gate and right next to a large steel door that recessed in between two crudely built concrete jambs.

Poodle said that the big steel door leads into "The Vault," or as he clumsily tried to repeat what Pepino called "KA-HA-DEH-FWEAR-TE." The vault was one large room that had originally been two bedrooms, a hallway, and a bathroom. The bathroom was still there, but all of the interior walls were gone, replaced by metal shelves stacked with bricks of cocaine.

"Only Colombians go into the vault," Poodle stated.

Then only twice a day when the shift changes. Four men go in; four men come out, each team assuming full responsibility for the product and the money. No one else is allowed in the vault, not the customers, not the guards, not even one of the partners.

"Rules Rick," Poodle quoted Pepino, "we follow strict rules."

Poodle said that Pepino compared his people to ants, efficient, single minded, dedicated. He said that any unnatural independence by a member would result in harsh punishment, even death sometimes. Pepino said that the "vault" was usually stocked with about a hundred and fifty kilos. But occasionally they have more. He recalled one time when they had two hundred and sixty bricks because of a shipping error. He told Ricker that the vault was so packed, that they had to reduce the teams to two men each because there was no space to move. Pepino laughed about that, saying no one liked working in pairs because if something was missing you only had each other to blame. A team of four kept every one honest and more importantly, alive.

Two hundred and sixty kilos, damn, that's a lot of blow, I thought. At eighteen a brick, that's almost five million. A buck-fifty at the same rate is over two million. Damn, we were going to be rich! Poodle said that he had many questions to ask, but Pepino never gave him a chance. He just kept rolling on, and eventually answered the unasked questions anyway. Poodle did voice some clever observations that elicited information that was even more crucial. Like asking what happens if the guy in the booth needed to take a shit. Pepino told him they had a second bathroom built into the kitchen, just four walls and a shitter, but private. That tidbit turned out to be very important. Poodle also learned that the windows were sealed. They bolted steel plates over the windows from the inside, sealing out blinds and all. From the street, they looked like normal windows, but try to climb in and you'll hit your head.

The most important information Poodle gleaned from that fool was what would happen if a fire broke out. Poodle said Pepino grew grim and said they don't talk about fires cause it was bad luck. He said that even in a fire, they would stick to their rules. Once a team enters the vault, they stay inside no matter what.

"They got the watch, they stay, period!" Poodle quoted.

Pepino told him they don't like thinking about a fire because in the vault a fire means an oven cause they can't get out.

"I didn't get it," Poodle said, "so I asked him why can't they just open the door and run; know what he said Nat?"

I shook my head, wondering the same thing. Poodle smirked. He said Pepino stared at him for a long time, as if he didn't understand the question, and then dropped a bomb. The vault has two separate and independent locking mechanisms. A fail safe in case some crazy motherfuckers try to rip them, or if a team goes rogue. The only way the vault can open is if the man in the booth and someone inside the vault unlock the two mechanisms simultaneously. And that only happens every twelve hours. Two sets of controls, both independent of the other, but neither enough to unlock the door alone. Fire, earthquake, end of the world, whoever is in the booth will not, on pain of his entire family's death, open the door, no matter what.

"House rules," Poodle said somberly.

-

"It's hopeless Nat, these motherfuckers are out of our league, we're in way over our heads. We don't have a chance of pulling this hit off."

He looked at me waiting for a response. I gave none.

"Nat," he continued, "those crazy bastards are committed, do you hear what I'm saying? To save their crop they'll kill each other, we can't pull this hit, Nat, its suicide."

True, the scenario wasn't good, in fact, the picture was about as bad as it could be, but there's always an angle, always. Natty was still in role, Poodle wasn't thinking clearly, and he needed sleep. After I learned all I could from him, he became irrelevant. I thought of all the crazy shit we had done, all the unbelievable hits we pulled. From the rental truck to the cattle prod, we always found the way. I knew we could do this hit, but it meant more than just a finger, it meant more than simple violence. It meant all out bloodshed, a massacre, cause these motherfuckers were aces.

I was on the verge of another leap downward. Like Poodle moments before, I was stepping hard into a deeper crack by choosing to "get mines" no matter what. Yeah, I was that bad motherfucker all right, and I needed to remind Poodle that he was one too. This was the real deal, this was killing time, and like Righteous at that bank so many years ago, my choice meant motherfuckers would be dying, there was no doubt. How to do it was the question, how to do it, and when to do it, not if, if was already answered. I looked down at Poodle, I had the beginnings of a plan, and it was a daisy, but it would take time to work out.

"Poodle," I said, "go home and get some sleep. I got this shit under control. I'll reach out to you later."

I didn't wait for a response; I dismissed him, although I was the one who walked away. I remember feeling the heat from the laughing sun, and heard Poodle hack behind me.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Our biggest obstacle was actually their weakness. What Pepino told Poodle that deflated him so much was going to benefit us. It's all in perspective. "The Art of War" also says that the best defense is a good offense. The Colombians' impressive fortifications provide no escape, no counter attack, and no offense. They were sitting ducks ready to roast, as Pepino said, in their very own oven. Of all that Poodle learned the night before, the one thing that kept coming back to me was that the Colombians inside the vault were essentially trapped. They were at the mercy of their counterparts on the outside. And, as Poodle pointed out, to the Colombians, the coke always comes first.

That's where they fucked up. Their vault might keep motherfuckers out, but it also kept motherfuckers in. Those inside the vault didn't even have the means to blast their way out, because if the information was accurate, they couldn't get the fucking door open or even climb out a window. So what kind of impregnable safe were we talking about?

Sealed windows, sealed door, reinforced door jambs, armed guards, locked gate, narrow hallway, weapons search, escort, invite. I looked at it one-step at a time. The windows were not an option. Even after learning what floor the spot was on (that info had not yet been obtained), and figuring out a way to get past the steel plates, and taking down the team inside the vault, how much time would we have before Colombians with AK-47's were crawling all over the roof waiting for us? The vault would be a death trap for us as well.

The door to the vault was not an option. Even with jackhammers or even explosives, getting through that door, after the mayhem we would have caused to get that far, left us again, with no time to load up and escape. Breaching the vault from apartments above or below left us with similar extraction problems. The only option we really had was to be invited into the spot, once inside we would make our move. Since we had already begun that process we were in good position. Upon arrival, we are searched, go through a narrow hallway, go through a locked gate, and find ourselves in the living room, the only place we have any kind of chance. The golden question is what is the move?

According to Pepino, business took place in the living room. He told Poodle that the booth is in the left corner directly across from the narrow hallway with the mesh gate, a strategic placement to watch who comes down the hallway. Pepino then placed the door to the vault right next to the booth. Then what? A wall must run down to the next corner, the wall that separates the living room from the vault. A wall that probably has a couch up against it. I asked myself, did the Colombians reinforce the entire wall? Would they have? Pepino was so proud of his spot that he blurted shit out without thinking. There was a chance that the walls were plated or reinforced in some manner, but I think Pepino would have mentioned it in his zeal to impress Ricker. I figured that the wall next to the vault door was just a regular wall, and I thought that two crazy motherfuckers could break through an apartment wall if they had the right tool. I hammered out the details as best I could and called Poodle that night. Plenty of time to sleep off his hangover, and get his balls back in place.

We met at our crack spot around eight. Just before the rush hours (between 9pm and 2am every day of the week, including Sundays). JJ was getting things ready for business. He mentioned that police had raided a spot on the Westside earlier that evening. He didn't seem concerned about it; he was actually thinking we would get a spike in business. I told Jay to make sure that our boys advertise in that area. I knew of the spot that got busted. It was a loud joint with weak product. They sold five-dollar hits in green tops, and weak cut in tin foil for ten. They were loud cause they were greedy and violent. It was only a matter of time before the cops had to take them down. Good riddance, I thought.

Poodle was irritable, but he was Ricker again, and that meant he was thinking. He spoke in short clipped sentences while he nursed a 40oz. The boys razzed him lightly; they were excited that he had hung out with Pepino. They knew that by befriending the Colombians, Ricker and Derrick could be bolder on the streets, even take clients from other spots if we wanted, and that meant more money for them. They also hoped that we would be expanding cause that meant upward mobility for the ambitious. Ricker took the friendly jabs well enough, but he shied away from me. He was still rattled, and I knew he was angry with himself; he was embarrassed. He didn't like how I took control that morning, and how it felt to be weak. I expected him to reverse the rolls as soon as he could, and I was okay with that because I came up with the plan and that means more than who wore the golden cap. I would let him take the lead again, by all means, but we were going to pull the hit my way, no matter what.

We didn't get a chance to talk until well into the night. We ended up taking most of the "green tops" business, and once on Shazam, our new clients were hooked. Even if that spot relocated and opened up shop again, the clients we snagged were never going back. At around 2:30 in the morning, Ricker and Dee were alone in the spot. J.J. and the boys cut loose about a half hour before, everyone was paid and everyone was happy. They were probably smoking weed and shooting dice on a stoop somewhere close by. Blowing their money cause it didn't matter, they'll make more tomorrow.

"Feeling better?" I asked.

Poodle was lying on the couch, a green plaid piece of shit with cigarette burns all over it. Ain't never seen a decent piece of furniture in any drug spot— ain't never seen no decent furniture anywhere in the hood for that matter. I was sitting on a plastic lawn chair staring at ten-dollar bundles stacked on the cracked glass coffee table we used to count our profits every night. It had been a very good night. After paying the boys, and pulling for cost, we still had about four grand to split. Had Poodle and me not been looking for El Dorado, selling crack would probably have been our choice of business. We were obviously good at it, and it did bring the ching. My sisters had been banking for years and I know robbing all them spots definitely got me paid, but the thrill of the hit, the thrill of the score, the power . . . that was our high. That was the game we had progressed to, we had to go after the big catch.

Occasionally (usually after a score), we talked about retirement. We knew the ride couldn't last forever, it never does, eventually we were going to fall, and probably fall hard. But we longed to pull the biggest hit, and if we could take down the Colombians, then we might be able to cheat Fate and escape just like Gwen and Kabira did. But I knew retirement would only happen if our final hit scored enough bank to set us up for life.

Now, after years of contemplation and second-guessing, I don't know if I would have retired anyway. I can't honestly say I would have given up that game. After all, I walked into my choices, and that's my point, that's what I'm trying to say to you, I chose, and you must too. But it don't matter for me no more, it hasn't really mattered for decades. But the questions remain— shoulda, coulda, woulda, blazing across my mind as often as I need to take a piss, and I reach the same conclusion every time: wasted questions, cause it don't matter for me no more.

But the questions won't die; they persist like nightmares, like reminders, like guilt. Maybe that's why I'm reaching out to you, perhaps somewhere deep inside I believe that by telling you the truth about all that thug shit will somehow answer these nagging questions, somehow stop their regularity, maybe erase them from my fucking mind.

Poodle didn't answer me. He barely said a word to me all night. He knew we would have to talk, he knew the moment had arrived, but he still wanted to act like a little bitch. I ask him sometimes during my late night wanderings— who's the lion now. I ask him how he feels about his choices, how he felt about gettin' paid. But he never answers, not even in my imagination. He sat there quietly with his fingertips tapping intermittently over various burn holes in the couch as if he was playing an instrument. Poodle played a silent song maybe a waltz or a somber hymn for his last dance.

Did you know that Julius Caesar knew he was going to get whacked? He was warned on his way to the Senate, but it didn't stop him from going. He was disease ridden, sick of getting bled every day by leeches that were supposed to ease his pain. He was tired, barely able to sleep more than two hours at a time. And he was fed up, done with the backstabbing and the maneuvering of the rich pansy Patricians in the Senate. Caesar knew, he had to know, but he wanted to go out at the top of his game, he wanted to die the noblest Roman. He stepped into his moment on the Senate floor and he took their knife thrusts willingly, only surprised, perhaps to learn that brothers also betray.

And now, thousands of years later, who is still the man? I don't pretend to see a correlation between Poodle and Caesar, I'm not trying to compare the two or draw any distinction other than the fact that they each had their moments of which one in particular was more important than all the rest. And we all share the very same distinction, a singular moment that will ultimately decide the rest of our lives. I ignored Poodle's silence, and asked him again if his hangover was gone. He nodded in time to the music in his head, but otherwise gave no indication that he had heard me. So what, I thought, the game was still on, that was apparent by him showing up. So, he wanted to be a little bitch, or maybe like Caesar, he didn't want to involve himself in plans that might result in his death. It didn't matter, what mattered was his presence, so I threw out my ideas as if he was taking notes.

"Look Poodle, I figured out how this shit's got to go down. If what Pepino told you was the truth, and we got no reason to think otherwise, then we got to go all in, balls to the wall, death dealers, mayhem, havoc . . . oh, and by the way we'll need another player."

I paused to gauge his reaction, a long pause, at least a minute. There was no reaction, just finger tapping. I choked back some frustration that began to creep up, and decided quite suddenly, unexpectedly, to say something that I knew instinctively would bring him in, give him the position he needed, stroke his ego.

"Hey, man!" I said loudly, leaning forward abruptly.

"I think I got a good plan, but it needs your input, your blessing, at least hear me out."

It worked, I knew it would, Poodle was so damned vain. Perhaps Pepino and Ricker liked each other because they were the same kind of person. He stopped his annoying tapping and looked at me.

There was a glint in his eye, cocky, like an unvoiced acknowledgment of my subordination. 'Whatever,' I thought, let him think what he wants; my job was to make sure we were back on track. He listened, albeit with an air that he was allowing me to present my plan. Quid pro quo, I allowed him to think he was still running the show.

I explained how we could break into the vault by going through the living room wall. I said we could practice all day long in the many abandoned buildings in the hood.

"With my size and strength, I'll bet I could make a big enough hole for you to crawl through in under five minutes."

I told him that the muscle outside would not be a problem because our third partner would start a huge fire in the lobby as soon as we entered the apartment. A fire big enough to prevent anyone from entering the building and long enough for us to clear the vault and be out. With luck, the fire would spread and we could escape in the confusion. I said that the rooftops worked before, and they would work again.

"With all the fire trucks and sirens and panic, who would notice three men leaving a building down the block? I'm thinking Danny, he could be trusted, and he could do all the snooping for us— layout of the building, the alleys, find out if the roof doors are locked, shit like that. Danny would be perfect. Bottom line though, everyone in the spot has to get smoked, it's the only way it could work."

We stared at each other for what seemed like forever, both of us pondering the implications of mass murder. We contemplated a killing spree, necessary to escape from the hood and live the life of Reilly forever after— a warped fairy tale of ghetto life.

Poodle had some concerns with my plan. Chief among them was bringing Danny in. I understood why, we had set this stage a long time ago, at least a year already. Bringing a new player in and getting him up to speed was going to be a motherfucker. The novelty alone, regarding the dual identities we created would be hard for Danny, or anyone, to adapt to, the risk was high. Also, we weren't talking about clothing, or a simple robbery, we were going to hit a group like the Mafia for a take like the Federal Reserve Bank. Not something, a conscious person considers lightly.

"What if Danny says no?" Poodle asked.

"What do we do then; let him go, ask him to keep our little secret? Have you thought about that?"

I have to admit I never considered that Danny would decline. My plans so needed a third body that the idea we would have to convince Danny never crossed my mind.

I assumed that he would be game, but the stakes were really high, life changing or life ending, depending on how you look at it.

"Danny won't say no," I said, more to myself than to Poodle.

Poodle shook his head, happy to point out a flaw in my plans.

"If not Danny, then who?" I challenged.

My mind spun, racing through the people we knew the players that might have the balls to take a swing in a real game. Not many faces appeared. But one kid surfaced rather quickly and never faded away. The notion was crazy, the risk was extreme, the chances that this kid could double-cross us was high, but the more I considered him, the more I became convinced that he would become our third partner.

"JJ," I said matter of fact.

Poodle's initial wide-eyed stare eventually turned into thoughtful repose. Our search was concluded, JJ it would be.

We had a much better chance convincing an ambitious young kid that risk of death or life in prison was fun and rewarding. We could focus his attention on the things that mattered: money, excitement, the sense of belonging. Kids in the hood, like me when I was growing up, need to feel important and involved. Street gangs evolved from a need to belong. JJ wanted to be a part of something. Conspiring to pull a hit on the Colombians, learning the intimate details, playing a major role, were things a lonely kid from the ghetto could hardly resist, risk of death or not. Moreover, the potential payoff, that was icing, because we knew that JJ dreamed too.

Poodle also asked, with a certain amount of disdain, because he obviously felt there would be no acceptable response:

"What are you planning to break through the wall with, your big fuckin' head?"

I smiled, grateful that he asked the obvious question, cause he had forgotten a major item that Pepino placed in the living room, and I was going to enjoy his reaction when I reminded him.

"Good question," I said, "but you forgot something that stupid fuck told you. I mean, it's not like we would be able to bring a sledgehammer with us," I quipped. "Seriously, my entire plan is based on that very point."

I paused looking at him and the moment was delicious. Poodle was sober, and obviously not enjoying my banter, but I savored the wait and held out until I couldn't breathe. Then I took a deep breath and launched.

"Your mother has a police lock, Poodle, have you ever noticed how heavy it is?"

Poodle didn't say anything, but he smiled, as was I, but now we were smiling together. His smile cemented my plans. There was mad shit to do, specifics had to be figured out, but the basic plan of attack was set.

Practice, something we both believed in, and maintained throughout all of our hits, would be different this time. Instead of spring training, we were prepping for the Super Bowl and that meant we would be working our balls off. Fate and Luck would decide the outcome, but careful planning, strong execution and attention to detail should tilt things our way— or so we hoped.

Chapter Thirty

Our first task was to learn more about JJ. We discussed how best to approach him, to cull him. We decided that Derrick should take him under wing. JJ seemed partial to Derrick, so Dee would buddy up and learn more about the sixteen-year-old street-smart hustler who kept our drug spot busy. Over the next few days, I learned that JJ's real name was Jason Vasquez. He lived with his grandmother who was chronically sick from failure to comply with a strict diet for Diabetes. She liked her sweets a little too much and expected God to take care of her health, as he saw fit.

JJ said she was just shy of death and although he put up a good front, he was scared about what would happen to him after she died. He was bitter, like most of us who grow up in the ghetto. Bitter at life, but with a neutral acceptance of its twists and turns— adaptability is a hood trait. JJ did not have any other relatives in the states. He knew of an Aunt that lived in Puerto Rico, but never met her. Other than his Grandmother, JJ had no ties. His mother died in a hit and run when he was ten and he never knew his father, didn't even know his name. Vasquez was his mother's last name. JJ said his grandmother referred to his father as MAL-CREE-AH-DOE, which he told me loosely meant "created bad." Shit, I thought, we were all created bad.

Even though JJ dropped out of school at the age of fourteen, he was a smart kid, sharp and quick. He was able to read and write, which impressed my illiterate ass, and he liked to keep up on world events. He was always telling Dee about shit that was happening in different parts of the world. Interesting shit, but I never really cared. I asked him once:

"Jay, why you care about all that bullshit, there's enough to worry about right here in the hood. This is your life, focus on what's real."

He smiled at me, but didn't say a thing. He was a dreamer, that kid, and I admired him, and admire him still. J.J. loved motorcycles, all of them. And he knew a whole lot of shit about them— shit that went beyond hobby, more like an obsession. He said "Harleys" were his favorites, but the "crotch rockets" were tight too, all depends on your mood. He said that if he had the money, he would have a few of each cause "You want to ride different every other day."

He said the first bike he was going to buy would be a custom "Road King" with lots of noise and bright chrome. He said he was going to have a black sun painted on both sides of a blood-orange gas tank. He said the black suns were his way of saying:

"I don't give a fuck about no bright and shiny days— as long as I'm riding."

He told me he was going to ride all over the world. He said if he could, he would ride forever. He had this plan, with routes mapped out and everything, where he would ride from the top of Canada all the way down to the end of South America, some place in Argentina that he called "TEE-ERA-DEL-FWAY-GO."

He said it meant "Land of Fire" and it was as far south as you can go without swimming. I remember asking him why he wanted to do something so foolish. He looked at me strangely, as if I was crazy.

"Cause if you're riding Dee, you got somewhere to go."

I didn't get it then, but I damn sure got it now, and I'll always remember those words.

While I was getting to know JJ, Poodle and I went over every possible scenario we could think of regarding the takedown. We began rehearsing the scenes, meeting in the early mornings when most people in the hood were asleep or dead (whichever came first.) We practiced in abandoned buildings, and role-played the hit repeatedly. We were back on point with an objective; professional, dedicated, committed once again, to gettin' paid at all cost. Poodle "borrowed" his mother's police lock and I chiseled through interior walls, learning how best to use the iron pole for our purpose. Poodle had quickly become his old self again, and joked often that I looked like "John Henry" busting through rocks. I ain't never heard about John Henry and he told me the story. I didn't like some of the tale, especially the ending, but like that proud brother, I was gonna bust through that living room wall faster than the devil, and that's the Truth!

The typical police lock is a solid steel rod approximately five feet long. The bottom end tapers into a blunt point designed to fit into a floor weld or hole. The top three or four inches bend at a forty-five degree angle so that the rod could lay flush against a door. Imagine an over sized dental pick that could be used to clean "King Kong's" teeth and you'll get the picture.

If used properly, the rod slides into a bracket bolted to the door forming a strong, almost impregnable brace. The police lock, intended to provide added security to inner-city homes in case of attempted forced entry. As if homes in the ghetto hid treasures so desirable, that one would attempt battering the door down. Perhaps they once did, when the ghettos were neighborhoods filled with swanks— high society people who strolled down the boulevards when gaslights burned in the streets and men wore top hats. But that was a different age with different folk. Now, these same police locks better serve drug dealers in holding back the very people the locks are named for— ain't that some funny shit!

I must have busted through fifty walls before I mastered a technique. I became so familiar with the heft of the pole, the strength of the plaster, the force needed at different stages of the assault to get the most out of each blow. I figured out how to use the tapered end to pierce the plaster in sharp vicious stabs, then flip the pole around like a baton and plunge the angled end deep into a hole and rip out chunks of plaster and splintered lathe. I learned by trial and error how to form the hole by tearing through four starter circles cornered in a rough square approximately a foot and a half wide and then kicking the center in with the heel of my boot. I learned that wearing thick-soled leather boots gave me the confidence to thrust my foot in and out of the hole without fear of injury, while shaping the opening in an amazingly short period. Poodle timed my trial runs and I eventually got the exercise down to five minutes flat. Five minutes to tear a hole through a ghetto wall big enough for Poodle to enter.

We hoped that the four Colombians in the vault would believe that the shooting and commotion we were going to open with was the result of a police raid rather than a hit. We doubted they would have the balls to shoot at cops busting through the wall, but if they suspected a hit, they had nothing to lose by peppering the hole with lead. And that meant my foot, and or Poodle's entire body could get hit. We understood that an operation like this needed luck and that we could practice for months, plan for every hypothetical, and ultimately come up short. In this case, that meant prison or death. To mitigate any defense inside the vault, we would yell out "Police, freeze!" as we took out the unfortunates in the living room. Then make a big to do while we broke through the wall. We hoped that those inside would give up rather than risk getting shot by the Five-O. They didn't have to know they would get shot anyway.

We also anticipated that the commotion created by JJ's diversion would help mask the unusual noise in the building, at least long enough to complete the hit. However, we knew if any of the muscle inside got a round off, the sound would reverberate throughout the building and every one would know what was really going on. As for our noise in the intended killing spree, we chose our weapons carefully for that very reason. Our choices were not only limited by noise, but by what we could smuggle inside. A large caliber pistol was obviously not an option. In fact, any traditional gun was out of the question. Poodle remembered an article regarding concealed weapons where ordinary items were transformed into effective firearms. He recalled that many of the weapons were ingenious devices, some of which even fooled the experts.

He told me about a cigarette lighter that was actually a single shot 32 and a belt buckle that held three 25 rounds. He said these items could be manufactured and that anything that could be made could be bought. We discussed possible everyday items that Derrick and Ricker carried that would be above suspicion. Our first and obvious choice was Derrick's cane. It would be relatively easy to get a cane gun, Ricker, however, would take a little more creativity. First, we needed capacity. Single shot weapons were not going to cut it. Second, we needed accuracy, and third we needed a gun that would not make much noise, but was powerful enough to kill with one shot— the wham without the bam. I remembered a television show I saw on hunting where some good ol' boys were talking about shooting little animals: gophers, groundhogs, skunks, animals they called "varmints." They used 22 caliber long rifles with special subsonic rounds. The rifles barely made a sound when shot. They were like air guns.

I mentioned the round to Poodle, but he thought the 22 wasn't powerful enough, but maybe they made subsonic rounds for larger guns too. We agreed, however, that if we couldn't find anything larger, we would settle for a 22 with hi-capacity. Poodle would just have to pull the trigger a few more times to get the job done. Besides, kill shots should be up close and personal. Poodle insisted that his pistol be broken down into two parts. He said that the cane gun could be loaded and ready to go, but he would have to assemble his. Two parts were easier to hide, and once in the living room Ricker could use the shitter in the kitchen to put the gun together.

Neither of us knew where we could get custom-made weapons. Snooping on the black market was risky because motherfuckers might speculate, and comments could get us made. And with Nat upstate making soda, why would Poodle need special contacts through Winston, especially regarding buying a cane gun. A connection could be drawn between Poodle and our alter-identities. We couldn't risk my sisters wondering, and besides we doubted that Winston's man could get us what we needed anyway. Sure enough, he came through with the cattle prod, but this was different and we didn't want ties anywhere, and if any Colombians were left after the hit, they would surely look for the source of the cane gun. We needed an unknown source and we needed anonymity.

We also needed something to incapacitate the Colombians inside the vault. It's not like they'll give up after realizing it's a hit, more likely they will fight. We figured that with all of their fortifications, the vault had to have some serious firepower, and if they had a chance to engage, we were fucked, cause handguns don't size up well against street sweepers. Our best option was to continue the ruse that we were the "Policia," and hope they fell for it, but even with that, the time will come to enter the vault and four on one (or two, if I had to muscle my way in) would not be to our advantage. We needed a major and immediate distraction. We needed gas.

Poodle and I were addicted to one particular television show that was popular in the hood. "Police in Action," was on every Thursday night at eight. The program showed real life takedowns, in real time, no editing, and no heads up. Live action as it happened. It was crazy shit. Sometimes you see a shooting, sometimes a stabbing, sometimes they're not quick enough to bleep out the curses and sometimes the camera catches blood. The show was a huge hit and we watched it religiously. Unlike other cop shows, PIA only showed felony takedowns, drug raids, and stings, shit like that. You won't ever see no routine traffic stop on PIA, that was boring. PIA was the latest in reality shows at the time, what the public wanted— violence, pain and death.

One Thursday night, while we were deep into our practice runs, I watched a PIA episode about a standoff and SWAT take down. The police surrounded a house where a crazy motherfucker barricaded himself inside with his two kids. He was threatening to kill all of them.

Just when the shit was turning south, a flash lit the screen, followed by a loud bang inside the house. Simultaneously, SWAT members stormed into every window and door. After a lot of crashing and yelling, two cops came rushing out the front door. Each of them held a small child, a boy and a girl. The girl came first, limp in the cop's arms. I thought she was dead. The cop held her head so you couldn't see her face, just locks of reddish brown hair. He rushed to an ambulance and disappeared inside. The boy followed, he was crying and blood was coming out of his nose and ears and he looked completely out of it before disappearing into another waiting ambulance. Shit, I thought, the motherfucker smoked them, and then it struck me, the kids weren't dead, they sure were fucked up, but they would play again, maybe with a permanent ring in the ear, but they would live.

A stun grenade, our solution, once again, delivered from the boys in blue. They'll sure do the trick, a bit noisy perhaps, but by that point in the game, our diversion should be keeping everyone else busy. While I was pondering, Poodle called. He had been watching the same show and came to the same conclusion. Like minds, gettin' paid! Four trapped rats become four blind mice, and then whack-whack-whack-whack, Natty, and Poodle get paid.

If the hit went according to plan, by the time we were ready to enter the vault (10-15 minutes after we entered the apartment), the lobby would be blazing, and JJ would be at the front door with the rest of our gear— stun grenade, duffel bags, throwaway guns and all the other stuff we would need. We figured that JJ would start the fire as soon as our escort left the building, right about the time we would be entering the living room. By the time Poodle comes out of the shitter, the fire should be large enough to draw attention from those outside. By the end of our first killing spree, JJ should be waiting outside the front door while the fire blazed in the lobby below. We realized how important JJ's role was going to be. Not only would he have to start an inferno in a very short time, but he also had to ensure our exit was clear, take out any threats that may surface, and bring us the gear we needed to complete the hit. JJ had to succeed in many different tasks just to bring us the stun grenade. We realized that without a fully dedicated and competent third partner, the hit would be a disaster. It was apparent that JJ needed to be brought in earlier than we wanted.

We initially thought it was best to keep JJ out until the last stages of planning, in order to minimize his participation, and thus minimize his concerns. We didn't want to give him much time for consideration. It wasn't like we were inviting him to a school dance, this shit here this was a Presidential gala. A major hit, possibly the biggest drug hit in any ghetto anywhere in the country. And with the potential for a huge score came the necessary commitment, absolute dedication and determination to get the job done, no matter what, no matter whom, gettin' paid at any cost. JJ would need to conclude, that his life, if he even kept it, was going to change forever. The danger with bringing him in early was that he might start doubting. With time on his hands he could engage in late night second-guessing, he might decide that the risk outweighed the potential, and that could lead to a double-cross. In the short time Derrick had to learn more about him, we could tell that JJ was ambitious, and desperately wanted to leave the hood, but we didn't see apathy or cruelty, or anything that might suggest that he could overlook the things that we needed to do. We were skeptical, but we knew he was the one, none other. We had to play our hand, we had to give him the whole file and let him choose.

Money would be the trump we knew this. Instead of offering him a flat profit, which is what Poodle initially wanted to do, we had to offer him a full share, one third of the take. I felt that he would appreciate belonging to our thing, our operation. That he would feel like he was part of something that was special, incredible, that he would feel like family. But I knew that would only happen if he were offered equal standing, a three way, a tri-partnership. Any feelings of being a sidekick, or less of a partner, would risk his full involvement and thus risk the operation and our very lives. He needed to be included 100% and we needed to approach him sooner than later. We decided to make our pitch to JJ the next night. We were going to bring him to our bench in the park and lay the whole thing out. If things went bad, JJ would be our first victim, a trial run if you will, he would have to be, cause secrecy was everything. I didn't like the idea, but if JJ declined, we would be in a predicament, so we really had no choice. Besides the best time to get rid of a problem was immediately, and conveniently, we would have the river to wash our sin away. But I was hopeful; I believed in my gut that he would be game. And with that belief, I would pick his brain, get him to make some suggestions, get him involved immediately, show him he was important and necessary, a trusted player a full partner— Psychology 101, ghetto style.

Chapter Thirty-One

I pulled up to our spot around eleven that night in the Riviera. Ricker was upstairs tending house, JJ was street side slinging our crack. Jay waved as I rolled up to the curb and walked over. By the way, if you were wondering, I learned to drive in my early teens. Not the general course in the hood but Winston and Poodle took me out a few times and I learned quickly enough. A few stolen cars later and I was motherfucking NASCAR.

"What up Jay," I said, as he leaned in the passenger window.

I looked around checking out the night's activity, a normal Friday in the hood. Hustlers on the corners under dim yellow streetlights, smoking cigarettes, talking shit, wait for customers to return after burning up our product.

Dominican men, the hard working class— gypsy cab drivers, side street merchants, and Bodega cashiers sipping Heinekens and slapping dominoes on cheap folding tables. Young thugs playing Chinese handball against buildings, listening to Hip-Hop and trying to look cool for the "chicas" parading around licking lollypops and slapping clogs hard against bare soles, chattering like parakeets, as they circled the boys vying for attention.

JJ said that shit was going well, a regular Friday night flow. He told me that Ricker was upstairs and asked if I was heading up.

"Nah, I'm chillin' tonight, taking it easy, Rick's got the show. Besides, our motherfucking man is here taking care of everything."

JJ smiled, he always enjoyed my appreciation. "Actually," I said, as if an idea suddenly struck me, "why don't you hang with me tonight?"

Jay looked doubtful and offered a lame excuse, but I wasn't having it.

"Go tell Rick we're going for a ride, you deserve a night off. And don't worry; you get your cut as usual."

JJ hesitated, not out of concern about hanging with Derrick, JJ liked hanging out with me, but he was into his gig, and didn't like giving up control. Jay liked running the street. I remember when I ran the street for my sisters, I knew how addictive it was, calling the shots, controlling the money, the power. A boss before the age of eighteen was a rush.

"Don't worry about the business Jay, Ricker's got it, he needs to be street side anyway."

I made light reference to our periodic need to show face, let the hood know this block was ours. That we were "hands on" and aware of what was going on.

Often, spots went under because the main dealers lost their edge. Because they didn't keep an eye on the street activity, lazing instead at their spot, re-supplying their workers as needed but disinterested in the goings on, often realizing too late that their clients were gone and their territory overtaken. Young bucks carving out what they can in the hood resent dealers who forgot where they came from. A smart dealer stays on top of his game— always. If not, ambitious youth will find a way to go independent and leave a motherfucker behind. Poodle and I knew this, and always showed face and worked the corner with our boys, leading by example you can say.

We planned on taking JJ out, buttering him up until we dropped the scheme on him at the park later that night. Prime the kid for a story that would probably fuck his head all up.

Our spot was going to be busy till about one in the morning, so I had two hours to kill before I drove out of the neighborhood to watch Jay's jaw drop. I sure hoped he would be game cause I didn't want to see anything else on him fall, and I sure as hell didn't want to see him drop into the river. My task was to reinforce the hood principle of gettin' paid, and hammer down the concepts of loyalty, trust and commitment. I was going to box Jay in with his own words, his own feelings, so when he hears our fantastic scheme he'll have as much internal pressure to join us, as that which is applied externally by the fucked up reality of ghetto life and limited chances.

I spent the time we had together pointing out how a kid in the hood gets ahead: the sacrifices, the risks, the scarce rewards. We drove around the way, sipping brew and sharing dreams. JJ's dreams involved motorcycles, travel and hot chicas. Derrick's involved cars, mansions and of course, hot chicas. Well, what did you expect, why risk everything to get paid if not to hook the chicks? No matter who, no matter how, one of the main reasons we all want money is to attract hotties— whomever a hottie is to you— we all just a bunch of peacock motherfuckers. I had to check myself a few times. I was getting deep into my own fantasies. After all, I was just a kid talking to another kid about my dreams. But JJ didn't know that, he thought I was an older cat, a throwback, a veteran of the streets, someone who didn't believe in dreams anymore. JJ didn't notice my hunger anyhow, caught up in his own dreams he barely listened to mine. His eyes fixed on the road, his vision fixed on another road somewhere in South America, riding, smiling, goin' buck wildin'. That's the way with dreams. Though you want desperately to tell a mofo yours, and hope he can see it, feel it, you're not inclined to hear his, especially while yours is still buzzing around in your mind.

Regardless of personal realities, all of us would prefer to escape to our fantasies. Dreams so powerful that simple manners like listening to someone else speak are cast aside, as we are lost in ourselves, in our own intimate thoughts. This is just the way of it, I took no offense then, with Jay, and I take no offense now, in the place I have called home, or Hell, for the past four decades. In here, everyone is lost in his or her own fantasy.

Ghetto veterans as well as ambitious young thugs would be wise to believe in their dreams, for if you find yourself in prison you will see how easy dreams become reality. But not in the way you would like. In here, your dreams become your life because that's all you got. Dreams in the hood are escape exits— don't chain your doors, and don't block the doors of others. Keep dreaming, keep reaching, keep trying, always keep trying, or you may find yourself in a metal box, reliving hollow fantasies where the reality of your existence is a dark endless rotation. Please, walk through the fuckin' door and don't look back!

Most kids in the hood drink alcohol. Those that do, drink large quantities hard and fast. They quickly build an unusual tolerance to "kill devil." Anyone can get sick from drinking too much, but hood thugs grow up on ghetto brew, malt liquors; the kind of swill that toughens a constitution, hardens a liver, and creates an alcoholic. Not only does ghetto brew come in larger containers, but they also pack a bigger punch. We don't do keg stands in the hood. We don't listen to "Oingo Boingo" and party in golf shirts sipping fancy micro-brews like Nagle's Root Juice or Wally's Raspberry Lager or whatever the fuck! We drink forty ounce bottles of nasty shit to get high, and the high don't come quick enough even though it's a stronger brew. Like smoking menthols— more nicotine, more fiberglass to cut your lungs, more power to numb your senses cause that's what you gotta do, numb yourself into forgetting where you are.

Our drink is strong and the average age of initiation is nine, NINE! I would put any ghetto kid between the ages of fourteen and seventeen up against any suburban college kid without batting an eye. I would also wager all the money I could get my hands on for that sucker bet. Understand, this ain't pride; it's just the way it is. Drinking in the hood is a way of life, as normal as used syringes, and soiled pampers lining the gutters. No yuppie fuck could ever hang with a kid from the hood and that's the truth!

At sixteen, JJ had as much tolerance for alcohol as a middle-aged barfly. And me, shit, I was weaned on the stuff. I didn't even catch a buzz until I was halfway through my third 40oz. But on that night, I didn't want to drink too much before we met up with Poodle. JJ was in for a fucked up night (one way or another) and I didn't want him to lose clarity. With that in mind, I made sure that we kept the brews trickling rather than flowing. We cruised around the neighborhood killing time— sipping, bull shitting, and bull dreaming. JJ would soon learn that he'll get a shot at fulfilling his desires, and what better backdrop for him to consider than the passing reality on either side of the streets we rolled by.

Abandoned buildings, huddled vagrants, and piles of garbage heaped so high that I swear all that shit ain't only from the hood. You get ideas like that when the piles never go away, but multiply, clustered in mounds on our darker streets. Streets even abandoned by us, left to the dogs and the dead. Cities are never short of landfills. Ignore that occasional whine you hear from City Hall about the dumps filling up, all they gotta do is drive to the ghetto, find the right street, the right corner, and deliver their trash. And you know that's just what they do.

How powerful an enticement for a kid with dreams is that? How appropriate the measure of risk? Who would say that JJ should pass on this opportunity? Who would dare? Where but the hood does a child stare with numb eyes at a gray future every day, every passing corner, every sip of beer, or toke of weed. Some say that if you stay true to yourself, you'll do all right. Some say you can do anything you set your mind to. Some say diligence and patience will get you where you want to be, maybe, maybe for a limited few, but what about the numbers, the stats, the true measure.

For every kid that makes it out of the ghetto, how many don't? Positive drive might help a few, but the majority got nothing but rising piles of trash to look forward too. Weigh this against risk and what do you get? Nothing, there is no damned scale, no balance beam, and no consideration. There is no measure of risk in desperation, and that is the usual backdrop in the ghetto. But there is choice. Choice is always an individual's domain. So I would drive JJ to his crossroad and watch him choose, and who's got the balls to offer an opinion.

We met Poodle around two in the morning. We had smoked a spliff before heading out of the hood, so a light buzz was tickling my anticipation. I was excited about telling JJ our scheme, but I was also worried that he might make a mistake. I've thought about the feelings I built up that night leading up to our revelation, and I have come to realize that I was not so concerned that Jay would not join us, but more concerned about how he joined us. I dreaded that JJ might not be enthusiastic, that he wouldn't see. We needed his dedication, he must own the scheme, be assimilated by the scheme, become the scheme.

As far as smoking Jay, other than initially talking about it, we never made plans. I guess that was why I wasn't so concerned about it (at least up until we were there at the bench). Perhaps Poodle had given it more consideration, maybe he was ready to snuff JJ, but we never discussed it, so as far as I was concerned it wasn't going to happen. And if it did, it just would, and that's that.

When we approached the bench, Poodle was sitting with his back to us, facing the river. There was no one else in the area. Jay (who was trying to figure out why we were there in the first place), immediately became alarmed and suspicious. I kept telling him that I had a surprise, but I don't think the surprise he was worried about lessened when Ricker turned toward us and waved.

For a moment I thought JJ was gonna bolt. Even in the darkness, I could see Jay's eyes moving rapidly from me to Poodle, to the various shadows around us, trying to determine what was going on. Ricker didn't seem to notice JJ's fear, and began talking about the night's take. He rambled on about how good it was to hustle again, about how much fun he had. Jay hadn't taken another step, but recovered enough to ask the only question that was on his mind—

"What the fuck is going on?"

I chuckled to myself, the situation was odd to say the least, and I could imagine how it looked to Jay. He hadn't ever hung out with us together in the hood, and never with either one of us outside of the hood, but here we were, the three of us, late at night in an abandoned park down by the river. He must have thought we were going to snuff him for skimming or something. Shit, I thought, from the way he was acting, he probably had been skimming on us.

"Relax JJ," I said, "this shit hasn't even begun to get weird. You're about to hear a story that'll blow your mind."

Ricker laughed and invited JJ to sit down. Jay wasn't having any of it. He was so on guard that I swear that if he had a gun, he would have pulled it.

"Fuck that Rick," he said, backing up a few steps.

He looked over at me and demanded to know what was going on. I tried to answer, but I couldn't. The long night of anticipation, the light buzz from the weed, and JJ's initial reaction pushed my expectations to the edge. The scene was so surreal, so comical, that I couldn't stop giggling. My initial chuckle wouldn't stop, in fact it became stronger, like a steam engine, a chuckle, a laugh, almost hysterics, and it was infectious. Ricker caught the bug and was laughing too— Jay stood there in the middle of the park ready to run for his life, thinking that we were going to kill him over some bullshit, when in reality; the meeting was for a far more sinister purpose. Jay was right to worry, but it wasn't as simple as he thought.

To his credit, Jay held his ground, too curious, or too bold, to run away. He stood by waiting for an explanation as me and Ricker laughed our asses off. I don't know if one minute passed or ten before we checked our outburst, but whatever the time, it was long enough, and genuine enough, to ease some of JJ's tension. He was still cautious, but when I looked up wiping tears from my eyes, JJ no longer looked like he was gonna bolt; he even had a smirk on his face, the kind of smirk someone gets when they don't want to smile, but they're amused. I finally choked off the last few laughs, and invited Jay to sit down. I hobbled over to the bench and sat on the corner exaggerating the effort needed for my "bad" leg.

JJ walked over to the rail and turned to face us. We were trying to compose ourselves, taking deep shuddering breaths.

"What's this all about Dee? I don't know what you heard, but I ain't done shit!"

I held up my hand gesturing, and said in between gasps,

"We know that Jay, we know you're loyal, actually, that's why we're here, we got something to tell you, and even though we're laughing it ain't no joke."

Jay wasn't convinced, why should he be, but he waited, taut and ready to dart at any moment, but waiting. I thought about starting from the beginning, filling JJ in with the background, but suddenly, a better idea hit me.

"Check it Jay," I said, standing up.

I looked down at Poodle and winked. He nodded, anticipating what I had in mind. I raised my cane and hefted it a couple of times, flipping it in the air and catching it by the end.

I smiled at Jay and then threw the cane as hard as I could into the meadow behind us. The cane flew end over end like a tomahawk, swirling through the air for a hundred feet before it bounced to a landing next to an old maple tree. I looked over at Jay and said casually:

"I'll race you for it."

Jay frowned, he didn't know what I was getting at, and he didn't like the drama.

"Could you just tell me what this is all about," he asked nervously.

I ignored him.

"Well, if you don't want to race, I'll just go get it myself!"

With a quickness that even surprised me, I bolted from the bench, leaping into a sprint that carried me toward the tree to reclaim a prop that was as much a part of me as the cane was a part of that very tree. I can't tell you the look that was on JJ's face as I ran across the meadow like a wolf chasing rabbits, but I know for damned sure how he looked as I strolled back to the bench spinning the cane like a baton.

JJ was speechless. He was stiff like a wax statue, staring at me, the devil. His shock deepened as I neared the bench and pulled off my Afro wig, and deeper still when Poodle started talking to him without Ricker's Guyanese accent. After reintroducing ourselves (he knew us previously as Nat and Poodle, every kid in the hood knew Nat and Poodle), and allowing him a moment to digest the nature of our disguises, we explained the why. The why took us to first light, and the how took us past breakfast.

I remember watching JJ's reaction to every new piece of information. The more we revealed, the less my apprehension. It appeared that Jay was not only fascinated, but also very interested. Poodle and I exchanged many glances confirming that we each believed he would fully commit. After he got over whom we were, and his amazement at how we pulled it off, he listened with the concentration of a conspirator. Jay was game- completely. When we got to the how, Jay offered some suggestions and observations that confirmed for us that he was the perfect fit. Jay said he had a hook with a Biker downtown that could get us the weapons we needed. Jay said he wouldn't be surprised if his buddy, "Zeke," could get us stun grenades, although Jay thought we might find some other way to get into the vault. He didn't like the fire idea; he said killing drug dealers was one thing, but what about innocent people? He said that a fire on the scale we were talking about might kill women and kids. He didn't want that kind of blood on his hands. As far as I was concerned, the entire building was full of drug dealers. So what if their families lived there too, ain't they a part of it, what's the difference? Besides, I thought, the fire department would get to the building quick enough.

I didn't like those particular reservations; I didn't like any feelings of humanity. Ever since I helped Heffe, Poodle rubbed my nose in it, this hit would probably have a dozen Heffe's with more than missing fingers, I couldn't be a nurse no more, and I couldn't let JJ be one too. If we were going to do this hit, we had to be remorseless we couldn't care. JJ needed to check that shit, and I helped him do that.

"Jay, motherfuckers die all the time, babies die too, I don't want no extra bodies on my hands either, but without a huge fire, we the ones who'll get smoked. Trust the Fire Department to get the people out, trust us to get this shit done, we gotta do what we gotta do and I got to know that you're 100%."

JJ nodded, understanding, he knew the fire was an absolute necessity, he knew there was no other way, he just wanted to say his piece, and he did, and we moved on.

We talked about the building. JJ had been inside when we first hooked Pepino, and he described the layout of the lobby. JJ recalled as much detail as he could. He sketched a rough diagram. The front door, a large iron framed double door enameled black so many times it looked plastic, led into an entry hall that Jay measured at fifteen feet wide by twenty feet long. At the far end two steps (which spanned the width of the entryway), led to another set of double doors identical with the first, except these were painted gold. Jay said that the door lock was broken when he went into the building, and that it looked like it hadn't worked in a while.

The main lobby was big, at least forty feet long and thirty feet wide. Jay said the ceiling was some twenty-five feet high. The far wall did not span the entire width of the lobby, a short flight of steps opened on the right side into a corridor, which led toward the back of the building. JJ recalled numbered doors on either side of the corridor at the top of the steps and he presumed that other apartments existed further down the hallway. On either side of the inner set of doors, maybe five feet inside the lobby, two sets of steps, with three flights each led to two additional apartment doors. They were directly opposite each other, and at one time must have been choice residences. Next to the apartment on the right side, a large staircase canted left heading up into the building. Beyond the stairs on the same side was an elevator. On the left wall, a large bay window faced a courtyard. The window split into two panels and each panel was movable sideways to allow airflow.

JJ said he met Pepino in the lobby near the bay window. He didn't move beyond the lobby, so he couldn't tell how many apartments were spread down the corridor. Poodle asked if Jay had noticed another staircase at the end of the corridor. JJ said he didn't know, but there probably was one. We all nodded, almost every building in the hood had two sets of stairs. I asked if there was any furniture in the lobby: Benches, tables, anything that would burn. JJ said that the lobby was bare.

"How we gonna burn a lobby like that Nat," Poodle stated in frustration.

Gasoline wouldn't last without some burning material, and the only material we could think of was furniture. So how could we get a bunch of furniture in the lobby at the exact time we would need to burn it? JJ suggested that someone could be moving in when we pulled the hit, someone with a lot of furniture in the lobby, on the stairs, in the elevator.

On the surface that sounded reasonable, but how could we pull that off? We couldn't dictate the meet time. We couldn't coordinate something like that, too many variables, the most important being we were the customers. Besides who would be moving in? The building was locked down, ain't nobody moving in without the Colombians knowing.

The first thing we needed to do was find out if there really was a back staircase in the building, then we would have to figure out how to block off both staircases at the same time. We agreed that the lobby was too big for the diversion. We had to focus instead on the different routes to the spot. Disabling the elevator would be easy, but setting two fires almost simultaneously would be something else. We were all thinking the same thing; the only way to pull it off was to have JJ in place in the building with all the gear ready and waiting. If this had been any other building, it would not be much of an obstacle, simply hide somewhere in the building and coordinate the timing. But this building was practically owned by the Colombians and we had to assume that everyone in the building was a part of their enterprise. JJ would have to be a ninja to get everything ready without drawing attention. The danger on his part was extraordinary, any mistake or bad luck, and the shit would go south in a hurry. We could all hear the alarms going off from every window, every apartment door, it would be like a village attacking a wolf; JJ would be fucked, as would we. We decided that JJ and Poodle would have to scout the building. They would have to get inside and scope it out. Ricker would be disguised as Poodle (ain't that beautiful), and JJ's appearance would be slightly altered, some lil' hood punk that Poodle was "cultivating."

JJ needed to become familiar with every part of the operation, and time was not a luxury. Our practice sessions would incorporate his tasks from start to finish. Coordination was essential; dress rehearsals executed as if it was opening night. Every facet of the take down was drilled repeatedly, the only thing we didn't use during our runs were bullets and flames. JJ was in, he said as much when we started talking about the how, and he already provided some important shit; a gun dealer who could get us everything we needed.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Developments over the next few weeks brought us to the point of no return. Poodle and Jay discovered that there was indeed a back staircase. They used the rooftops to get to the building, our oft-used nefarious highway; although this time, they had to do more climbing to make it to our target (the building being lower than its neighbor is). They jimmied the door on the roof leading down the back stairs. Poodle rigged it to appear locked, but with a simple twist of the lock the door opened easily. We were confident that the roof wasn't monitored by the Colombians, and during our surveillance runs Poodle and Jay worked out an exit route that would take us two blocks away without ever reaching the street. The route was risky because it involved jumping from one building to another, but the distance was only eight feet, and the roof we would jump from was about four feet higher than the one we hoped to reach. With a running start, even Nat should be able to clear it— no problem.

Of course, Poodle being Poodle, not wanting to leave anything to surprise, demanded a trial run. So one dark moonless night, the three of us were leaning over the ledge spitting cigarette butts into the alley below, trying to muster enough nerve to make the jump. I suggested that since Poodle wanted the practice, he should go first. I figured both Poodle and JJ wouldn't have a problem clearing the gap being so small and athletic. But Nat, I might make the distance, but I might also go right through the fuckin' roof and land on some poor bastard's wife. Poodle, not being the kind of mofo to show any kind of weakness (except that once) snorted arrogantly and walked backward about fifteen feet, he scraped the soles of his sneakers across the rough surface and said,

"Well, get out of the way you fat bitch."

I smiled and graciously backed away from the ledge.

Without pausing, Poodle jogged to the edge of the roof, not fast and not slow, more of a trot than a run, and like a stalking cat, he pounced! He leaped over the alley, gliding out over nothing for at least seven feet before even descending. He landed a good two feet beyond the edge of the other roof with barely a stumble or a sound. He jogged around in a circle shaking his feet and chuckling. Poodle giggled like a little kid and looked up at us.

"Now that wasn't so bad, just be careful on the landing, you might even want to roll— especially you Nat."

JJ and I exchanged glances and he offered to go next. I agreed of course, nodding wordlessly. As JJ backed up, I began to sweat knowing that I would jump next. JJ moved further back than Poodle. He stopped about thirty feet from the ledge and hopped around for a few seconds working up the nerve to go.

Poodle couldn't see him, but yelled up from the other roof anyway.

"Come on Jay, it's nothing, just don't miss the ledge," he chuckled.

JJ ran full tilt, only slowing slightly before reaching the ledge. He soared over the alley like a swashbuckler and landed a good two feet beyond Poodle's mark. His impact wasn't graceful, and he did roll, about three full somersaults before he stopped. Poodle was whooping and clapping, and ran over to help JJ up. 'Damn,' I thought, am I really going to do this?

It took me twenty minutes to work up the nerve to make the jump. Poodle was heckling me the whole time. The faint outline of the ledge was challenging, beckoning, calling me a big pussy. My own audacity was daring to leave me forever if I punked out. Now Natty couldn't lose his audacity, shit that would be like losing my soul, again. I jumped, of course I did, but it was a motherfucking nut though. The scariest part of the jump was the last step. If you didn't place your foot exactly right you could slip or lose balance, or not push off hard enough. That shit was much harder than my two buckets, that shit was crazy. One mistake and it would all be over. One slip or hesitation and Nat went splat. I thought about not using the ledge as a lift off point, I figured why not just jump over the fucking thing, but then I thought what if I misjudged. In the dark, it was hard enough to see the ledge, what if I jumped too soon or too late, I could hit the ledge and that would be just as bad. Like JJ, I trusted speed over acrobatics, to hell with the landing as long as I landed over there, on the other roof. To hell with me if I didn't, cause that was where Natty would be going.

I remember the ledge rising before me like a mountain ridge. My feet felt like cannon balls and I almost stopped two feet from the edge. I had already done that twice before, and I was sick of calling myself a pussy in chorus with Poodle, so this time I continued. I kept going by sheer will power and watched as my foot rose up to meet the ledge. It landed square and stuck like a magnet as the rest of my body continued forward over the abyss. I pushed off like a rocket ship and flew across the gap with my arms and legs flailing like the "Greatest American Hero." I landed with a bone-numbing thud and rolled end over end until my shoulder hit a pipe jutting through the roof. I groaned heavily and heard Poodle cheering and laughing. I didn't see shit until JJ leaned over me smiling, and helped me to my feet. Poodle was clapping and whistling, he said I must've cleared twenty feet at least. Twenty feet or nine, it didn't matter to me as long as I cleared that gap, and I knew when the time came I'd clear it again. Like tossing gats into the darkness above, or leaning out away from a fire escape, Nat would do what was necessary to get paid, and that's the truth!

Three times Poodle and JJ entered the Colombians building to scout our options. Three times, they risked blowing the hit, getting caught, and getting dead. JJ disguised as a generic punk kid from some other hood; wore "Lennon" glasses, and was Dominican dark. A liberal use of makeup deepened his complexion to the desired tone, and a mole on his cheek added a touch that would not be forgotten if someone noticed him. Poodle was Poodle, and the entire neighborhood knew him as a local thug up to no good. Their ruse, if confronted, was that they were fucking around on the roofs smoking weed and "by chance" entered that particular building.

With Poodle's reputation, our hope was that the Colombians would simply tell them to get the fuck out of the building and not come back. Luckily, though, they were never seen. Nevertheless, preparation and planning are critical in these types of crazy ass endeavors for the result is not always positive.

Perhaps it was our simple warning system, perhaps it was Fate, perhaps— who gives a fuck— in any event, we acquired the missing links needed to make our plan possible. Although Nat could not participate directly in the scouting mission (too damn big), I still played an important role by being the eyes and ears of the operation. I found a spot to watch the building on the other side of the street, halfway down the block, an abandoned building with a staircase that ran up the front side. Windows set in between the landings offered a clear view of the entire block. Standing in the middle of the steps, between the third and fourth floor I could see everything. And with a five feet span between the window and me, I didn't have to worry about being seen myself. Nextel's weren't around back then, but beepers were, and every player in the hood had one. Using the vibrate mode, and specific number codes, we could communicate almost as well as talking, at least enough for what we had to do.

We created simple codes: zero-one meant non-players entering the building— zero-one, then space, and then the number of people entering. Zero-two meant players entering without customers— zero-two, space and the number of players. Zero-three meant players and customers, space, etc. Zero-four meant many people entering, possibly a mix, and an alert to be cautious. Seven-eleven was our 911— get the fuck out, something was up.

We didn't use 911 because everyone used 911, and if Poodle and JJ were caught and their beepers checked, a 911 page might draw suspicion. Even though they both had beepers, I only paged Poodle. JJ's beeper was just for back up. Cell phones were around back then, but they were rare. They were big, expensive, and not very reliable, but we rented one during our scouting missions cause I had to be able to place the calls, and it proved to be reliable enough for our purpose. In fact, we were ultimately able to identify our target apartment, our prize! Twice while Poodle and JJ were in the building, I sent the zero-three codes. The first time, they were able to locate the floor, and the general area of the hallway (third and rear). The second, Poodle had enough time to lower his head in between the staircase between the fourth and third floor, and watch them enter apartment number 3-G.

3-G was in the back of the building, the second to last apartment from the rear staircase on the right side of the corridor, an ideal location for us, close to the back stairs, close to our egress. Once we learned that the spot was near the back stairs, we were able to design a precise exit strategy. We practiced running up flights of stairs with the very duffel bags we would use strapped to our backs full of flour. Each pack weighed between one hundred, and one hundred and fifty pounds. We trained for the mother lode, in case there was another shipping error, besides we couldn't account for the weight of the cash. I would carry the bulk of the coke, the first bag loaded by Poodle. JJ would get the last and the lightest.

However off we were in our estimate of their current stock, we would adjust on the fly, but even JJ, with dollar signs in his eyes, and adrenaline in his veins, would be able to hump more if necessary, even if the pack outweighed him. Maybe we would be ants too Pepino, I thought, but the killa type, taking your shit.

Since I was the big motherfucker, my bag would be packed to the brim, regardless, and I must have run up and down four flights of stairs in various abandoned buildings in the hood a hundred times with a buck fifty on my back. Training sucked with that shit on my back, and as I reached the top of the sixth floor, every time, the weight would double and my thighs would burn. And by the time I reached the roof, I'd be panting and sweating, and need a moment to catch my breath. But practice makes perfect, and gettin' paid was the goal, so Natty endured, and the run got easier, but not by much.

Poodle and JJ were able to get their timing down, but I continued to stall on the roof, needing that moment before moving on to the next phase of our escape. I worried about the jump; I worried that I might not have the energy to make the distance. There was also a crucial step between the stairs and the jump:

Once we made it to the roof, we had to climb up a drainpipe to the adjacent roof (and it was a long ass climb!) We couldn't find a roof in the hood that mimicked that climb. Poodle and JJ climbed it numerous times while reconnoitering, and they assured me that it wasn't a big deal. But they were small and agile, I wasn't. I wanted a ladder stashed on the roof for our exit, and argued with Poodle constantly about it.

Poodle said there was no place to hide a ladder, and even though we never noticed the Colombians patrolling the roof, it didn't mean that they didn't. Poodle finally found a pipe that he said was about right, at least good enough for me to practice on, and my relentless training continued.

We practiced the exit up until the jump repeatedly. By the fiftieth trial run we were able to make it to the roof in thirty seconds flat, thirty seconds from the door of 3-G to open air. We gave ourselves five minutes to climb up the pipe, and another five to make the jump. We felt that if all went well we could be two blocks away, walking down the street, fifteen minutes after the hit. That would be mint, that was our goal, and that was why we trained. Poodle and JJ's scouting missions yielded other crucial information regarding the layout of the building. Of almost equal importance to discovering the exact location of the spot, they learned that a door separated each corridor at the halfway point. These doors were perpetually open, held fast to the wall with a hook, but they tested them, and the doors closed easily, and with the right wedge, an additional barrier that could seal off the back half of the building. Closing and jamming these doors became another task for JJ, but one that was as important as the others were and he worked it into his routine. During our training sessions, JJ contacted his friend Zeke and set up a meet. We decided we would introduce ourselves as Derrick and Ricker, two drug dealers in need of some unique protection. We didn't expect Zeke to ask any questions, and maintaining our disguises was paramount.

Generally, gun dealers mind their own business, and prefer not knowing shit about their customers.

In this case, he already knew JJ, but that was going to be JJ's problem. JJ knew he was going to be made anyway, and he hoped to be long gone before anybody was looking.

Chapter Thirty-Three

We picked Jay up in front of our spot a little before noon. We headed into the city with ten G's and a short shopping list. During the drive, as if it was simply trivia, or an unnecessary tidbit shared with us for nothing more than conversation, Poodle and I learned that Zeke was a ranking member of the "Ich Dien" biker gang. Now, it is always wise to stay out of the way of any biker gang, they are a different culture of crazy motherfuckers. Doing business with bikers was never a good thing, cause you're never on equal footing and had to constantly worry about getting fucked on the deal as well as getting fucked up for simple amusement. And Diens, Diens were biker kingpins, a level of biker well above their brethren. Poodle and I just learned as if it was no never mind, that we were on our way to meet a real bad motherfucker. Diens are the nobility of the biker world. They are supreme outlaws, the most accomplished and the most ferocious. Unless you were crazy, or had a death wish, you stayed away from them. Even in the hood, we knew of the Diens. JJ should have told us who, or better, what we were dealing with before we were on our way to meet one, but he didn't. He either felt it wasn't nothing, or (more likely), he waited until we were on our way, figuring we wouldn't bail halfway there. He was dead wrong in either case, cause we came real close to scratching the meet. Poodle and I were pissed; amazed that we were on our way to deal with a fucking Dien of all things, but what amazed us even more, was that JJ was this motherfucker's boy. Instead of explaining how Poodle almost crashed when JJ mentioned whom Zeke was, or how we both reached back to choke the shit outta him, I'll tell you how JJ hooked up with Zeke. But before that, I'll school you on what I know about the Diens.

Ich Dien is German for "I serve." The term is deceiving, because they only serve themselves, but that is the point, they serve themselves to whatever they want, whenever they want it. And that usually means chaos and mayhem for some sorry motherfuckers. They are pure outlaw— the very definition of outlaw. Diens are what every rebel wants to be, but most don't have the balls to get there. As far as laws go, they follow none, respect none, and have none. Their motto is, "Remember the rules . . . what rules?" Ich Diens number about three hundred worldwide; seventy-five percent of them are in prison. Half of those are lifers, and half again are in solitary confinement. They don't recruit, they don't initiate, and they don't seek new members. Word is, you become a Dien by killing a Dien, and that don't mean if you snuff a motherfucker you're in.

You have to challenge a member, kill his ass in a one on one, and then, maybe, you get to fill his spot. The actual way it works is a secret known only to members, but rumor is that anyone who wants in could call out any member at any time. The challenge is not turned down for any reason, and vice versa, the challenger is not allowed to withdraw either. So if a motherfucker is bold enough to open his mouth, he's going forward regardless of any misgivings. The fight is hand-to-hand, without any weapons other than those a man is born with. And must be witnessed and judged by a minimum of five other members. The fight is to the death with no quarter. Most alarming, is that not only does the challenger have to win, but that his "kill" must impress the gathered members. If not, he might get smoked too. In other words, you have to be crazy enough to fight a motherfucker to death, and if you win, you had better be "Rocky" or your ass is done too.

Ich Diens are not a family. They don't buddy with one another, they don't ride in packs, and they don't wear colors. There is no Dien clubhouse or monthly dues, or different chapters. They are a collection of individual milestones, apexes actually, like the peaks of mountains. Each one of them has reached a level of "He who doesn't give a fuck," that is only short of inhuman because of his black beating heart. Each Dien stands alone based on his ascension. They accept each other as equals because of their common rite of passage, but they are not friends, nor care for one another. They are dragons among men. Diens only meet when necessary, and only they know those reasons. They operate independently and owe nothing to each other. In the criminal world, Diens are held in awe.

Diens usually have a number of followers that do their bidding. Lackeys without the balls to play for membership, but like to let people know they hang with a Dien. Far less than hang with, they work for Diens and could be compared to street hustlers with the exception that they don't try to gain rank; preferring instead to do their masters bidding, and act tough when he's not around. JJ wasn't no Dien ass kisser, just a kid who liked bikes, and as he explained to us, his relationship with Zeke was simply one of mutual love and respect for motorcycles.

JJ explained his first encounter with Zeke while we sat at a curb idling. He told us how he noticed this "Beyond phat ride," one day while walking down the street. He told us he would take long walks out of the hood just to get away. He said that day; he wandered into a part of the city on the Westside and came upon this storefront where this unbelievable bike was on display in a dirty cracked window. He said he couldn't believe a bike like that was there, in a no-where place on a no-where street. But the bike was there, and it was mint— one in a million. The most beautiful work he had ever seen, a piece of art that "stops you in your tracks," he said passionately. A bike so rare and so perfect that he stood transfixed mesmerized, in love. Without thinking, he walked into the store and planted himself right next to the bike for a closer look.

As he sniffed the leather saddlebags, running his hand over the chrome pipes, the custom gas tank, a human growl pulled him out of his reverie. He recalled being uncomfortably aware of an angry presence directly behind him. Knowing he was somewhere he ought not to be, and knowing that he was about to be told that very thing in the harshest possible way, JJ stood up and without turning around, reached for the door mumbling sorry, or something like that. But before he could open the door, a large hand grabbed him by the shoulder and clenched down like a bear claw, stopping him dead. JJ said he froze like piss in winter, expecting the other hand to tear his head from his shoulders. But nothing happened. Nothing, for what Jay swore was forever. He just stood there with his hand inches from a rusty metal doorknob, caught in a vise grip and uncertainty.

Then Jay heard a gruff voice, or, as he says, "felt," a gruff voice, ask him a very simple question.

"You like bikes kid?"

Jay said he couldn't answer, that his throat was too dry. He kept his mouth shut tight because scared shitless or not, he wasn't going to risk sputtering and advertise his fear. But he knew a response was expected, so he nodded ferociously. Up and down, up and down, like a fucking piston until he heard a humorous snort and the claw lifted off his shoulder. JJ said he never turned around, but continued reaching for the doorknob as if he had never really stopped that action, that his progress just slowed down, a momentary glitch in time, where, perhaps, the entire interim from the growl to the claw could be forgotten if he so wanted. But why forget moments that define? JJ said that after bolting out the door, he hurried down the block frantic to get away, but he slowed rather quickly, barely twenty feet and ultimately stopped before he reached the corner. He could not turn that corner. For some inexplicable reason, that JJ chose not to read into, he stopped, turned around, and looked back at the shop window. He could barely make out the bike from his angle but the glint of silver reflecting off the polished chrome called to him. The notion of going back felt right, against all sense, but his nerve was rejuvenated, and he chose.

JJ said he walked back toward the window and searched the shadows beyond the bike hoping to see the person or thing that had scared the shit out of him. As he peered through the glass, JJ realized that the shop wasn't even looking for business. He could see dusty display cabinets with aging accessories strewn about hap hazardously. Miscellaneous bike parts scattered over the floor, old tools hanging on a cracked pegboard behind a big green cash register that was older than he was, and probably rarely used. Countless bike frames in various stages of nakedness, some with old fenders and license plates still attached, stacked up in every corner. Others, sitting upside down on their forks stripped of all their parts, looking sad and hopeless, never to ride again. And others still, lying about, or propped up against cabinets to wait for closer inspection where a part may yet be useful. It looked to Jay as if the place was a motorcycle graveyard. Other than the "Knucklehead" in the window, there was not a purchasable item in the place. JJ realized that he happened upon a chop shop. A place where thieves cannibalize stolen bikes for choice parts to build or customize other ones.

Jay said that under just about any other circumstance he would have bounced knowing he was out of his element, and in possible danger. But he was drawn to the place, he said he couldn't leave without confronting the thing that grabbed him, the presence that built the beauty in the window; he had to know who owned that bike.

I was riveted. Poodle was too, but had the sense to cut the engine on the Riviera, while Jay was talking. We sat motionless, listening. JJ said he didn't call out or even wait by the door; he walked back inside and headed toward the cash register looking around, waiting to be confronted. When he got to the back of the store, he saw behind the counter, a doorway without a door leading somewhere beyond. An old gray blanket nailed to the top frame the only barrier.

A jagged slit ran down the middle of the blanket offering a glimpse of a darkened hallway. Jay said that his heart was again thumping hard, and common sense was yelling at him to "get the fuck out of there," but he didn't listen.

"Maybe, it was that laugh when he let me go, but I felt that whoever he was, he wanted me to come back, that we connected because of my reaction to his bike, and maybe he'd let me hang around the place and watch him work. That was my intention— to hang around the place, to learn who built that bike, to learn maybe, how to build my own."

Jay said that doubt gave him pause, before he passed through that blanket. He paused for all the right reasons that sensible people pause for before they do something stupid. But he didn't consider for long. He heard a hammer banging in the distance, and decided that was an innocent enough sound for him to continue down the hallway. So he passed through the slit, and walked down a small passageway that opened into a garage. The garage, lit by daylight coming through a raised gate that faced an alley was large and busy. The floor was littered with bike parts, tools, and garbage. Empty cigarette packs, fast food wrappers and crushed beer cans— dozens of flattened beer cans. A radio was playing some sort of Rock & Roll, but at a sound level that offered no distraction unless you were up close. Bent over a worktable, examining a gas tank, a huge motherfucker, "bigger than you Dee," Jay exclaimed, stood in complete concentration. Jay said he must've weighed three fifty, and was solid.

His back, covered in a black leather vest, stretched over the table like an awning that could be instant shelter for anyone else. His hair was long and splayed out in no apparent direction. A trail of smoke rose above him as he studied the metal that he had just been beating.

JJ told us that he stood just inside the garage next to the hallway and waited quietly. Fearful of announcing himself now that he saw what had produced that harsh laugh, and the death grip on his shoulder. He said he knew instinctively that if he disturbed the man, he would have lost any opportunity to hang around the place. The mere distraction would have been a major mistake.

Jay said he waited uneasily for about five minutes, when the man suddenly bellowed.

"You got a good eye for a little spic. Only someone who knows bikes would act the way you did when first meeting my Sweetie Pie."

Jay said he was startled when the man addressed him without even turning around. He didn't respond he just stared at the man's back in fear and fascination. Jay said it was a good thing he hadn't said anything at that point because Zeke was testing him. And since he wasn't asked a question, he wasn't supposed to respond. JJ said that during that first conversation, if you can even call it that, the man never turned around to look at him. He told JJ to take a twenty out of the register and get him some "Camels," unfiltered, and a six-pack at Frank's place two blocks down. He said to tell Frank it was for Zeke and he wouldn't have any problems. Then he picked up the hammer and began banging again as if JJ was supposed to have been there right at that moment to get him his beer and cigarettes.

"No shit Jay," Poodle said, "a fucking Dien, man they're animals— I knew of two in Alcott Prison. I was there for six months and no one even looked at them. In fact, everyone avoided them. And they even avoided each other! How long have you known this guy?"

Jay told us he had been hanging around Zeke's place for about two years. He said they weren't friends or anything, but that Zeke liked him, and as long as no one asks any stupid questions, and we mind our manners, everything would be fine. His assurances didn't settle my nerves much, and I couldn't help but think how little we knew JJ. I mean that shit was some serious revelation. Shit that fucked with your head, with all the implications and what not. But we needed the special guns, and JJ was fully involved by that point, one hundred percent. We had to trust his play.

Poodle wasn't as quick to put his faith in our younger partner. I could see his mind working as he sifted through the new information.

"How close are you to this motherfucker?" He asked abruptly.

JJ must have prepared for Poodle's inquisition because he was calm and reserved.

"We're not close, no one is close to a Dien, and no one sane would want to be close to a Dien. He likes me, respects me as far as respect for a kid can go. I impress him. He doesn't let any of his crew fuck with me, and he's taught me all kinds of shit about bikes. Concerning my welfare, he couldn't care less. He doesn't treat me like a kid brother or a son; he gets a kick out of me being around, but he doesn't try to direct me in any way. I do odd jobs for him, and work on the bikes . . . that's it."

Jay paused, considering, and then added:

"When I told him I needed some guns he didn't question me, he didn't even raise an eyebrow, he was like, sure whatever you need as long as you can pay. He's a Dien, Poodle, he don't give a fuck!"

I sensed bitterness, I wondered if Jay was upset by his own revelation, upset that Zeke never bothered to inquire about why he needed guns; that this man whom he obviously looked up to, didn't care about him. I wouldn't be surprised. I told you earlier that kids in the hood are doing just fine, we were, and they are, but not in the "care" department. That particular cuddle factor is rare in the hood. Sure, we have a few examples like Poodle's mom, or even Righteous to a degree, but for most, caring was something you watched on television. And sadly, the nurturing care those in the ghetto missed growing up, catapults them into apathetic possessives— a hunger that is fed by excessive domestic violence. In my opinion, true care and nurturing love not realized in childhood cannot blossom or even materialize later in life. To be true, to be genuine, caring and concern must seed in innocence, and for many in the hood, innocence ends at about the same time a baby can walk. Too many children, toddler on up, got no innocence in the ghetto, and that's the sad motherfucking truth!

But we crave. Everyone craves something; usually we crave that which we never had. For most in the hood, we crave a better life— a happy home, a waiting dog, clean streets, a mom, a dad, Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas trees, and L-O-V-E. But these cravings hurt cause they're rarely realized. So we learn to be stone against them, those feelings, that intimacy; insulated against the pangs of sadness that cloak our desires— desires that we know have a chance slim to none of ever occurring. Then there are those moments, those special ones I've been talking about, and catch them we'll try, the good and the bad. And in the end, it is choice, as it will always be, choice to continue hurting and craving, or choice to try to do something else. I hope you choose right. For Poodle, for me, for all of the lost and the forgotten, don't be us, don't be fools. Be a high roller in life, not in risk. Do something positive. Don't hurt with cravings, don't continue the cycle, look for that choice that will make the difference, and move on. It can be done.

JJ glanced at the dashboard clock and said to no one in particular, "We're going to be late."

Poodle frowned.

"Tough shit Jay, we need to figure this out, and I'm not about to get jacked up at this motherfucker's shop."

JJ was getting frustrated; he began to fidget and kept looking at the clock.

"What exactly does he know about us Jay?" I asked.

"He don't know shit Nat, he knows that I sell drugs, and he knows I work for two guys named Derrick and Ricker who are looking for some special items, that's it."

I sensed that JJ's emerging attitude, which was beginning to peak, was driven by his fledgling belief that we were not ready to trust his play. I realized at that moment, that it was very important to back him up.

"Yo Poodle, Jay's my man, if he says this shit's legit then we all set."

I scrutinized Jay as he stared out the window. I tried to gauge his reaction, but he gave none. He was tense, waiting to hear what Poodle would say. He waited; I waited, as Poodle sat brooding.

I understood Poodle's uncertainty. He has been around and seen some shit; he was also a fucking control freak. For him to trust a relationship between a sixteen year old and an Ich Dien was huge. Backing Jay was crucial, he knew the score; we were on the verge of pulling the largest drug hit in Ghetto America. He had to decide if he could let the youngest in the group make the play for the most important tools to pull it off. At first, it was just going to be an introduction, but now, knowing whom this Zeke was, the whole deal hinged on Jay's relationship.

If Poodle decided that he couldn't give Jay control of the deal, if he told Jay by word or deed that he wasn't trusted, he risked the whole operation. One of the main things we had agreed on before bringing Jay in was that he had to be trusted. If Poodle didn't back him with the gun deal the trust was gone and with the trust gone the hit would surely fail.

And what up with Poodle's loss of control that second time, what up with the fact that this time he'll have to do it consciously, on purpose. I watched Poodle pensively; I held my breath while he struggled with his latest choice. Minutes dragged on. The car engine getting cold, clicked and clacked, 'what the fuck,' I thought, and was about to say something, but Poodle cracked a smile.

Shrugging his shoulders he said, "A-ight Jay, you got it, this is your deal, how we gonna do it?"

The release was audible, JJ visibly relaxed. The solidifying moment in our purpose arrived, the unifying act that finally brought us together; joined at the hips, all for one, and all that bullshit. Gettin' paid Motherfucker!

JJ explained how he watched a couple of deals go down at Zeke's place. He said that customers put half down and paid the balance on delivery. Jay said he never witnessed a delivery because they never took place at the shop. Jay said Zeke could get anything. He said that some motherfuckers asked for crazy shit, far more sophisticated than what we were looking for. Not your average street sweepers mind you, but Uzi's, Kalashnikov's, silencers, a motherfucking M-60 with two barrels and 1000 rounds of belted ammunition, whatever. Zeke dealt to heavy hitters— Assassins, Russian mob, Chinese triads, whoever. If Zeke had the item in stock, he would set a time and place and could even provide same day service. JJ figured that the things we needed would definitely be custom and not readily available.

JJ said he'd make the intros then explain what we were looking for; he would leave the particulars up to Poodle. Jay said the only questions that might come up would be things like caliber and ammo, shit like that.

We arrived at Zeke's shop later than expected, but at least we had a heads up. Poodle parked near the alley that led to the garage entrance. We assumed our Derrick/Ricker roles as smoothly as putting on a different jacket. I leaned on my cane as we strolled down the short alley to an open gateway where we heard a cheap stereo blaring some fucked up rock music that had absolutely no bass. As we turned into the opening, I saw three white boys working on a couple of motorcycles propped up in the middle of the garage. So many parts were scattered about, I couldn't tell which bike was getting stripped and which one was being built. I recognized Zeke immediately. The motherfucker was bigger than me. And he definitely looked like the kind of man you didn't want to look at, let alone talk with. He was all biker, long hair, tatts, leather, angry, the whole package. But he was more than that— he was power. I felt it as soon as I looked his way. And I was convinced as soon as he looked my way, in one brief going over, he knew that I wasn't no limping throwback with a fro. He even turned his head, probably to avoid smiling in my face. But I knew; I knew I was naked, and young, and stupid, and I felt the heat of it standing outside his garage. The other two guys were obvious lackeys. Merely living tools in his workshop, and they held no meaningful appearance. In essence, they were just wrenches holding the wrenches they used to strip the bike, they didn't impress. A quick glance at Poodle and I could tell he was uncomfortable too. But JJ was the man, smooth as a well-wrapped blunt, and confident.

The introductions were awkward, but passed swiftly and without any chitchat. Zeke was all business and he didn't bother breaking the ice. He told his two "tools" to continue without him and led us toward a doorway in the back of the garage, the same doorway that Jay had mentioned. We crossed into the store side of his shop and got down to business. JJ began by explaining to Zeke what we were looking for. Zeke said nothing; but he stared at Ricker and me with raised eyebrows, asking the unvoiced question, 'why was the boy talking?' I'm sure he knew exactly why.

Business etiquette aside, I sure as hell wasn't gonna open my mouth. I was convinced that he had seen right through our disguises, and if I spoke, I would completely fuck it up. I guess Poodle was thinking the same thing, but like I've said before, he was a crazy bastard, and loved a challenge, what better adversary than a fucking Ich Dien. Besides, money talked, and this shit was business after all. Poodle waited till JJ finished and then artfully interceded in his singsong brogue.

"Mon, we got da good paper, we got da need, we want dees tings, dees toys, huh? Derrick here, he need a new cane, look at dat ting— good to have one wit a little pep huh? Now you got the products or what?" he asked, cheerfully.

Zeke didn't respond. It seemed, almost, that he forgot we were even there. The three of us exchanged glances wondering if Poodle had offended him in some way. Zeke was expressionless. I couldn't read a thing on his face, just a blank stare. All of a sudden, as if he was jolted back to consciousness, he began asking specific questions. What caliber pistol, what range, what capacity? Zeke rattled the questions off so fast that he didn't receive a response to the first one, before he was on his fifth.

Poodle, perplexed, and behind in count, began to answer, but the timing was so off, that he might well have been answering someone else. Zeke realized the confusion before JJ or I could interrupt. He held his hand up, stopping Poodle in mid-sentence.

"Hold up, I'm in two places at once, let's start over."

Poodle shook his head laughing.

"Yeah Mon, we all over da place."

We all laughed, the ice was cracked, or at least slightly melted.

"Let's start with the pistol, what's your need?" Zeke asked.

"Small, Mon, but with a real punch, high capacity is absolute— I need power and quantity Mon, as much of both I can get without reloading."

Zeke nodded, pursing his lips together.

"How many parts?" he asked.

"Few Mon, two, three tops wit da clip."

Zeke nodded, pondering.

"I'm guessing you're looking for stopping power, one, two shot max. Short range, enough rounds for four, maybe five targets up close and personal."

Zeke's accuracy was deadly, and his aim threw Poodle slightly. Was our scheme so obvious? Did JJ back door us and tell this fucking Dien our plan? Were we as transparent as my disguise felt? These thoughts flashed across my mind as I nervously shifted about pretending that my gimp leg was bothering me. Poodle's reaction was more subdued. He raised his eyebrows, but didn't have a chance to ask any questions of his own because the Dien didn't pause to read us. Perhaps he didn't want to. Maybe during the previous pause he got all the reading he needed.

He continued working the specifications aloud:

"Twelve to sixteen rounds, high grain, probably hollow points . . ." he paused, "do you care about noise?" He asked.

My shifting became even more obvious, as if I needed to take a piss. Even JJ began to fidget. Poodle, however, held his own, and went with the flow— so what if the Dien deduced what our intentions were, so what, even, if he was actually the devil toying with our souls, or just a cold motherfucker who was letting us know he didn't give a fuck what we were up to. But don't insult him with bullshit about "special toys," or necessary protection. Zeke wasn't buying, but even better, he wasn't asking. He was selling. And to get the things we needed, someone had to lay it down straight, and that is exactly what Poodle did.

"Yeah," Poodle responded pointedly, "noise matters."

"Alright, we can get special ammo in 22, 25, or even 32 that will minimize noise; of course there are pros and cons with each caliber."

Zeke watched Ricker's expression before continuing. Poodle nodded.

"In addition to its stopping power, the 32 is actually the best option for capacity also. The drawback is noise. Even with subsonic loads, the 32 will sound like shots. You won't hear blasts, more like pops, but people will know it's a gun. The 22 and 25 are almost noiseless, but they're unreliable and too light for a hi-cap magazine; that limits capacity to twelve rounds tops. Any extended magazine and you risk a jam, and if you were in an all or nothing situation, a jam would be catastrophic. Power is weak too; even with higher grains, a 22 or 25 do not pack the punch you want. You would have to make contact shots to put your target down, and with multiple targets you'll need way more luck than skill to pull that off."

Zeke paused and lit a cigarette.

"I'm gathering that conceal ability and quick assembly are also essential?" he asked matter of fact.

"Yeah Mon, I got to be able to dance quick ya know— under a minute, more like thirty seconds."

Zeke nodded.

"You'll need two parts, slide and receiver with an internal magazine. We'll go poly and ceramic, we can cheat on strength with these lighter loads. The blend will shield the necessary metal parts inside; the barrel, trigger mechanism, shit like that. The receiver will be two layered, a ceramic case covered in poly grips, invisible to a metal detector. Since the bullets will be in place, they'll be encased and protected, ready for business. I've seen examples of what you're looking for, even sold a few, but smaller pieces, two shot max, strictly self defense, like toy derringers. This kind of piece will need to be manufactured from scratch. It will take time and the cost will be high." Zeke's expression changed as he said that, ominously suggesting that we not waste his motherfucking time, a feint to see if we were going to balk. Poodle's response brought the right tone back.

"How much time Mon, I mean how long if given priority?"

Zeke smiled, a Dien actually smiled. JJ said he never smiled, but he did— more like a grimace, but he definitely appreciated Poodle's style.

"Time is money," he said. "A piece like this needs to be designed, built, and tested. A master gunsmith in a state of the art factory would probably need a month to get the basic prototype, the finished product . . . three months easy, probably more like six."

I stiffened, as if caught in a sudden flash freeze. Had I been under his gaze, Zeke would have read our urgency, our time sensitivity, he would have seen that three months was too long, way too long, and then (as if he didn't already discern), maybe question our real purpose. But Poodle didn't even flinch.

"Yeah Mon, but we ain't lookin' to win a contest, or mass produce, we just want one Mon, just one."

Zeke nodded, and said he could probably have a working design in three weeks. But, he reiterated, it would be a full time project and the cost would be high. Poodle nodded. Zeke moved on to the cane gun.

"Now a cane gun ain't anything new, many types around, but they're mostly just gimmicks." Zeke looked directly at me, and asked directly if it was meant to kill or incapacitate. He caught me, at first by simply addressing me, but more importantly, by what he asked. I was unable to respond. Emotionally fronted, I knew what we had to do in this hit, I knew what was necessary, but I didn't expect to answer for it beforehand, especially to a fuckin' Dien. A bona fide killer asking me straight up if I was one too, and big badass Derrick, staring at the devils own, could not answer, I couldn't even open my mouth.

But my mofo could, like spitting off a fire escape Poodle embraced his real brother.

"It must kill, and it has to kill with one shot. It has to be powerful, fast and easy to use." Poodle said flatly.

Zeke nodded thoughtfully, almost eagerly, as if he was reviewing the likely scene. I often wonder how close he got to our actual intent. How he analyzed and pinpointed with ease, how he looked at us with his dark blank eyes. Did he approve? Did he appreciate? I doubt not that he knew we were gonna pull a score, I doubt not that he knew we were gonna smoke people, I doubt not that it excited him, and I doubt with all sincerity that he gave a fuck. After another moment of quiet reflection, Zeke gave us a rundown on the types of cane guns available. He explained how they worked and how unreliable they usually were. He said they were foreign made for the most part, and generally more of a novelty than a killing weapon.

Poodle suggested that a reliable one could probably be produced that was so inconspicuous that you could board a plane with it fully loaded. Zeke smiled again, and shook his head in amusement.

"I guess you're right, but it won't be cheap, I'm sure. If I were to design a single shot cane gun, I would probably go with a rifled bore, not many produced I should think, perhaps a few for the 22 round, but nothing very large. As for smoothbore, I don't think I've ever seen any fit for larger than a 4/10 and a 4/10 ain't much of a killing load. Don't get me wrong, I'll get you what you want, I just don't know if you really want it, I mean it won't look like much of a cane."

He took a long pull on his smoke and then crunched the ash end between his fingertips and flicked the butt on the floor.

"What do you mean?" Poodle asked.

Zeke explained that the cane would have to be very thick to accommodate the barrel, and no type of sheathing would hide the fact that it really wasn't a cane.

"It would definitely stand out, and I get the feeling you don't want anything to stand out."

I began to think that perhaps a cane gun wasn't going to work, but Poodle was thinking also, thinking a lot harder than me. He paced back and forth in the dimly lit store like a caged tiger, brushing past the cluttered mess of bike parts scattered about. We waited, Zeke, indifferent as he lit another smoke, waited with us.

After a few angry passes where Poodle's baggy jeans continuously caught on one particular bent front fork, he stopped abruptly, turned toward us, and with a vicious tug of his now thrice snagged pants, pointed at us laughing triumphantly. He looked at Zeke who stood by ambivalent in his wreath of smoke.

"Canes are not all the same Mon! In my country, canes are more like walking sticks, no handles, no curved end like da umbrella, but thick bamboo shafts. Hand carved shafts with figures and designs all along its length. Works of art, Mon, works of art! Tourists, dey buy dees sticks as souvenirs, totems from the equator, huh! Like da Eskimo poles don't you know! What say you Dee, how bouts a gift from your partner Ricker, a new walking stick from my homeland. How proud you'll be walking with my ancient gods!"

'Damn,' I thought, looking at Poodle in amazement, damn, my mofo did it again, not only did he find the way again, but he never broke role. In fact, he guaranteed our disguise with Zeke (just in case). He sold that shit so well I almost forgot he was Poodle. I smile when I think that Poodle duped a Dien, he motherfucking duped a Dien!

The ruse was perfect. Derrick could easily justify walking around with a new cane, but not just a cane, a new Bam-Bata stick with some extra bling.

Zeke was brainstorming, he said he could hide a firing pin under a fixed cap at one end and with a simple twist; the cap would loosen internal springs that will allow the end to pop out. Once the cap is loose, a hard smack against the end will cause the pin to hit the round and boom. Poodle and Zeke worked out the basic design and Zeke said he could have it ready within three weeks. The only question was where to get the carved bamboo shaft. Since Poodle sold that shit, he would have looked like an idiot if he had stayed mum, so he told Zeke he would take care of it.

As for the stun grenades, Zeke had plenty available. He even had variations. But he suggested an alternative to the noisy, and as he called them, "silly flash bangs."

Zeke had just "obtained" a shipment of the latest and greatest in tear gas: canisters that could fog a room in fifteen seconds. He said anyone inside without a mask would be hurting quick. He also said it wasn't even tear gas anymore, but real pepper that made the old chemical irritant feel like a cool mist.

"This shit here; it's a 20% solution of more Capsicum than a fuckin' Habanera farm. Twice as much burning heat than what the cops carry. You get hit with this motherfucker and you want death. Besides, you said noise was a problem, stun grenades incapacitate because of the noise, you'll get far better results with gas, and I'll even throw in the masks free of charge."

We agreed immediately. We still hadn't worked out how Poodle was going to enter the vault, and Zeke's suggestion was the solution. A fifteen-second pause beat the shit out of rushing into the vault like SWAT.

De-serialized get away guns in 9mm completed the package deal. Zeke threw in three hi-cap magazines for each with plenty of "Black Talon" hollow point ammo. The price was steep. The 32 alone was twelve grand, but the product was guaranteed, and it included custom-made boots where the two parts would be concealed in cutouts in the heels.

"Standard way I do business with special items, I deliver top quality products with all the necessary accessories, what's the point of having an undetectable gun if you're going to put it in your pocket?"

The cane gun was another six G's and the pepper canister was three. The three 9's with three clips each, three more, large. All told, twenty-four thousand, cash money. Double the amount we wanted to spend, much more than we expected, but we really hadn't known what to expect in the first place. There was no point in trying to haggle— who the fuck haggles with a Dien anyway?

Zeke guaranteed delivery in exactly three weeks and said that there were no hidden charges. The price was the price, if he had to eat because he made a bad estimate on cost that was on him. Poodle and I exchanged glances, and JJ nodded to no one in particular. Ricker smiled.

"Done, Mon."

Zeke nodded, but did not offer his hand to seal the deal. He stood mute, dark, and ominous. Obviously, this kind of transaction didn't come with a written contract, and the payment plan was simple enough.

"Half now, the rest on delivery boys," he stated.

Poodle told him that we only brought 10K with us. Zeke considered for a moment, and then nodded accepting the two short G's without comment. Ricker counted out ten grand on the dusty counter top in neat piles of a thousand each. Zeke waited until Poodle was finished, then scooped the bills up, stacked them into two piles and stuffed each pile into his back pockets. During the entire process, he stared at us individually, and altogether, I couldn't tell the difference. But I can tell you this, it was eerie, and at the time, I wasn't sure if we had just bought some weapons or sold our souls.

With a burning cigarette hanging loosely from his hair-covered lips, Zeke flexed his large dirty hands and took an ungodly drag that immediately reduced a quarter of his smoke to ash. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and flicked the ashes onto the counter.

"Now listen carefully boys," he said slowly, (choosing, I might add, the term 'boys' for the second time). "I don't give a fuck what you're up to, and I don't care if you're lucky or not. Apparently, you crazy bastards got a hell of a plan set up and maybe it'll be worth your efforts. But I'm going to tell you, not a thing is gonna be worth shit if you fuck up and think of using me as a bargaining chip, understand?

If you get hooked, or worse, if you get jacked by the motherfuckers you're going after, and even on pain of death you happen to mention me, I will fuck you worse than you could ever imagine. You won't be safe in prison, you won't be safe in witness protection, you won't be safe on motherfuckin' Mars, and you sure won't be safe in Heaven. Cause I will climb over those pearly fuckin' gates and drag your asses down to Hell where I will eat your souls every day. And for shits and giggles, I'll rape and kill every living female in your families right on top of your rotting corpses."

It wasn't what he said that bit so deep, it wasn't his sincerity or his tone that froze my heart; it was the realization that it was the truth. No one said shit. No one, not even Poodle dared meet his eyes, or bristle at his threat, cause we all knew it wasn't a threat; it was a fact, an eventuality if we were stupid enough to ever cross a Dien.

Chapter Thirty-Four

For the next three weeks, we maintained business as usual, same routines, same schedules, same street presence. We were just three motherfuckers slinging crack and gettin' paid. But on the sly, as we had been for months, we practiced, revised, and studied our plans, gearing up for the hit, gearing up to really get paid. To kill down time, those moments that we needed to fill with anything but doubt, we talked about where we would go after the score. Poodle said he was thinking about heading west, but joked he may have to go to Canada instead. JJ would smile, pantomiming that he was cruising on a bike. "Vroom, Dee, vroom-vroom."

Me? I had no idea where I would go; maybe I'd look for my sisters— one and two. Maybe head south, find my piece, stake it under a new name, maybe Nathan, and start a family of my own and do it right, for my children, for myself. Maybe I'd just live for the moment, any moment, one after another, free to make myself a large pretty collage. Build a big poster, a fucking mural, full of happy memories, accomplishments, LIFE! But I already told you shoulda, coulda, woulda.

As the days passed and the greatest hit drew closer, sleep became elusive and doubt hovered about like an annoying fruit fly. Isn't it funny how people always look ahead when they need a diversion? I kept busy thinking about shit that had absolutely nothing to do with our plans. Stupid shit, senseless shit, boring shit. Now, as I revisit those very same dreams, I see them for what they were— sad glimpses of what could have been. Do you remember that red barn door? That door ain't just entered my mind when I explained the Heffe thing, that door has been a part of me for years. For as far back as I can remember that red barn door has opened to my only happy place, my getaway, all neatly arranged in my mind— my sanctuary, my hollow fantasy. But so what about that, and so what about sharing my dreams with you, this ain't my purpose, and it ain't what you want to hear no how. You want the end game, the motherfucking drama. A-ight then, this is what it all comes down to anyway, my little set, my piece for posterity— the Pepino hit unabridged.

Poodle and JJ met me at the park bench around one in the afternoon exactly three weeks to the day after our meeting with Zeke. JJ had maintained loose contact with Zeke during the interim and reported that all was proceeding on time. The last update was three days past, when Zeke said things were looking good and if there were any complications, he would let us know. No news was good news, and as promised, we were ready to pick up our products. For all the hype the Diens get, and make no mistake the hype is legit, doing business with one of them went very smoothly. Zeke told us to meet him on some abandoned docks on the upper Westside at two that afternoon. He said we wouldn't miss him cause he'd be the only person there. He said he would be on a big bad bike. I'm sure that was JJ's embellishment but I didn't care, JJ liked that outlaw shit and he wanted a vision so he made one.

True to Jay's imagination, Zeke was sitting on a grumbling chopper in dark shades and dirty leather. Poodle decided not to drive up to him because Zeke had chosen a spot halfway down a rickety wooden dock that had seen better days. Instead, Poodle pulled up to the street curb and we walked down the pier. As we got closer, I could see a slender package laid crosswise on the seat behind Zeke. It was about the length of a golf club, and I knew it had to be Derrick's new cane. We stopped an appropriate ten feet away.

"What up Mon?" Ricker asked in his West Indian brogue. Zeke nodded, revved his bike a couple of times (JJ told me later that he was clearing the carbon out), turned his "pig" off and dismounted.

"You boys got something for me?" He inquired.

"Sure Mon, and us, you got our products?"

Zeke didn't answer but called JJ over as he un-strapped a large black gym bag secured behind his seat. He handed Jay the bag and said something to him that I didn't hear. JJ hefted the bag awkwardly, brought it over to us and unzipped it. Inside were our products. Three 9mm pistols, nine 15 round magazines, six boxes of hollow point rounds, ten boxes of "OO" buck shotgun shells, three boxes of 32 caliber subsonic bullets, three gas masks, and one pair of black combat boots, not the mud slinger kind either, but the tactical rubber soled type that fit like sneakers. In addition, jammed tight against the back end of the bag, a large metal cylinder in gunmetal gray, stenciled with the words "Caution-Explosive."

Poodle looked from the bag to Zeke and asked about the 32. Zeke smiled (again more like a grimace, but again nevertheless). He patted his right jacket pocket.

"Money first kid."

When he said kid, I drew back involuntarily. Twice during our first meeting, Zeke seemed to tease us by calling us "boys," but this time he called Poodle out directly, and it was deliberate, not slang, not a mistake. I looked at Poodle to see if he was going to react, but he did not, he was impassive. I guess he didn't care if Zeke knew we were in disguise.

"Sure Mon."

He took a thick bundle out of his pocket and said, "Fourteen large," cheerfully.

Zeke motioned for JJ to bring the money to him. He tucked the bundle inside his leather jacket; and began talking just like before, methodical, cold, and professional.

"The cane gun is pretty, I test fired it a few times and the action is flawless. The kick is a motherfucker though, no room for a recoil spring or padding, but for a big guy like you (he motioned to me), it shouldn't be a problem. I recommend bracing the cane as hard as you can against your thigh, hip or bicep depending on the angle of shot you want. It really jumps, and if you try to fire it one handed you will jerk the shot."

Zeke un-wrapped the cane and it was beautiful. A deep dark wood polished to a glassy sheen and thick, like a whiffle-ball bat. Carved demonic faces and naked female figures ran down its length in one continuous pattern. The bottom ended in a silver colored metal band with a rubber boot covering the tip. The handle, slightly thicker, had a matching silver cap shaped like a round knob. Zeke held it out admiringly.

"The sleeve is actually mahogany; I chose mahogany instead of the bamboo you got me (he gestured at Ricker), for rigidity and strength. Bamboo is strong but flexible, and cracks easily. Mahogany was the better choice. The end cap (he pointed), is also the firing mechanism; it houses the firing pin and is what you hit against your body to fire it. Three twists clockwise will release the cap from the shaft. The cap pops open but is held in place by three internal springs. This movement actually cocks the gun. How it works is simple. Seat a round inside the shaft like so (he reached in between the shaft and the end cap and unhooked one of the springs, he canted the end cap to the side and placed a shell inside the open shaft).

"See how the lip fits snug against the inside rim?"

I nodded. He closed the breach by reattaching the spring, and pushing down on the cap until it met the threads, but he didn't twist the cap.

"Now, the most important part, you must clear the firing pin before you screw the cap down. If you don't, you will be walking around with a cane gun that can go off at any moment because the pin is touching the primer. This would fuck your situation all up. You first have to twist the cap clockwise until you hear a click, listen (Zeke held the cane out toward me and slowly turned the end cap clockwise until it clicked).

"That sound, is the pin locking back into its housing, stored safely away from the primer no matter what you do— swing it like a bat, drop it, even throw it. The only way that pin will pop out is if you let the end cap release back to the firing position which means simply, letting the end cap separate from the shaft. To secure it, keep pressure down on the cap and turn counterclockwise until its snug, which will be three turns."

He turned the end cap back until it was off the threads and let it pop open fully extended by the springs again).

"Now, it's ready to fire again, get it?" I nodded.

"You have to remember to reset the pin each time you open the breach. I'll do it again (Zeke slowly brought the end cap back down onto the shaft and twisted clockwise until there was a click. He then turned it counterclockwise until tight.

"As long as you don't allow the end cap to pop back the pin won't move, three twists will bring it tight against the shaft and you are locked and loaded. When you're ready, twist clockwise until the cap pops off and smack it against whatever and bang!"

We stood by quietly, silently absorbing Zeke's instructions while admiring the cane.

Zeke hefted the stick.

"The accuracy is only as good as the platform. As long as you're steady on the follow through, your shot should be true. Though I suspect that won't matter much if you're up close. Practice, learn the feel of it, the kick, once you got it down, you will trust it more than for mere support."

Zeke handed the cane to me. I grasped the stick admiring its weight and its beauty.

"Any questions," he asked.

I shook my head. I hadn't said a word to him the first time we met, and I ain't have nothing to say to him that second time either. Poodle asked about the rubber tip. Zeke said the rubber was thin and wouldn't obstruct the buckshot. He mentioned that somewhere in the bag were four or five more; they kept dirt out of the barrel and finished the piece off. He said it will wear out easily, and suggested Derrick don't lean so much— another indication that he knew damn well that Derrick wasn't no throwback from the 70's. JJ asked Zeke if he knew whom the carvings represented. He did not, but nodded toward Ricker.

"Maybe he does."

Ricker laughed and said, "Yeah Mon, those are our bad Gods, and our good luck, now what about my new toy?"

Zeke removed the 32 from his pocket; holding it up he said, "Now this here, this is a masterpiece."

The gun actually looked like a toy, pun intended. It looked like a child's cap gun; the only thing missing was the red tip. It was completely black but in two different tones. The grip was shiny and checkered while the slide was dull, almost a charcoal gray, like a cheap flat paint. There were no serial numbers or etchings of any kind. There was no visible hammer or any other protrusion usually seen on a handgun.

"This gun is beautiful," Zeke continued, "I admire two things boys— motorcycles and guns. This gun is so sweet that I made two of them; I had to have one of my own. I put forty rounds through this one and the action is remarkable. The gun is accurate, and the punch is deadly, one shot lethal in the kill zone."

With a quick two-handed motion, Zeke stripped the slide off the receiver and showed the two parts to us.

"Like I told you before, the shots sound like shots, but the damage is worth the noise, you will definitely put your target down. You have to remove the slide to load her, but it's a simple process, I'll show you. First though, know this; the clip is built into the receiver— see? (He pointed into the grip), you need to manually load each round."

Zeke placed the slide on the seat of his bike and motioned for us to gather around. He talked directly to Ricker, but he was explaining the weapon to everyone.

"Now, this groove that runs along the top of the receiver (he slid a cracked, oily finger tip across the grooves that were on both sides) is where you match the two parts together. He demonstrated.

"The difference with this gun, unlike other pistols, is that this slide is locked into place once the magazine is loaded and can only be removed when completely empty. Of paramount importance is the understanding that the only way to reload this gun is to remove the slide and the only way to remove the slide is to empty the weapon. Now you can manually extract each round by racking the slide, or you can use the weapon as designed, by shooting it dry."

Zeke asked for one of the 9mm clips, and when produced by JJ, he pressed down on the top where the bullets are pushed in.

"You see how this plastic end sits up in the magazine when empty?"

He pointed to the top of the magazine.

"And how if you push down on it, the spring gives?"

We all nodded like good little schoolchildren.

"That's the follower; it locks the slide to the rear when you're out of bullets."

He waited while we gave him a second round of nods.

Zeke handed the 9mm clip back to JJ, and held out the 32 receiver again.

"Now notice how there is no disassembly lever anywhere on this gun (he turned the receiver back and forth), no safety, no magazine release, nothing to snag, nothing to break, nothing in the way. One complete case, like a shield," he said fondly.

Zeke picked up the slide.

"Same thing here, no sights, no grooves, no pins, just another completely smooth solid case. Everything is inside, and the only way to get inside is to empty the gun. This is the perfect piece, the hit maker!" he announced.

"When you load the weapon, always to capacity," he added, "the last round sits above the receiver in line with the grooves (he once again ran his finger across the grooves along the top of the receiver). When you guide the slide like so (Zeke brought the two parts together), this piece (he pointed to a flat metal plate that was inside the slide), compresses the last round just beneath the top of the internal magazine, and locks the slide in place. As long as a bullet is pushed up into the chamber, the slide cannot be removed, it will fire and recoil normally, but you will not be able to remove the slide."

"This gun, once loaded, is meant to be fired dry; strictly a murder weapon. It is an evil reality, and it is beautiful in its only purpose."

We all stared at the 32 and at the words that hovered over Zeke's head, an unprovoked reminder of our grim intentions.

"By the way, be careful with the two parts, unless loaded, the slide and receiver are not locked together, if you keep them together, any movement can cause the slide to slip off risking damage to the grooves. Carry it as intended, fully loaded, or separated, don't insult the gun."

Zeke went on to explain how to use the pepper bomb. Once removed from its storage container, the grenade looks like a canister about the size of a "Quaker Oats" box. A pull-tab on the top ignites the charge and after three seconds or so the smoke begins to shoot out, in seconds, an average room is filled. Zeke mentioned that even with the mask, our pores are gonna burn like hell.

"Fun stuff," he concluded.

And that was that, the end of Zeke. No see ya later, no good luck, no reminder of what he told us at our first meeting, he simply got on his bike, donned his shades, cranked his engine (revving it twice), and screamed down the old wooden pier leaving behind a trail of dust and three crazy motherfuckers with tools they should never have wanted. I noticed JJ staring after him, and patted him on the shoulder but said nothing.

We practiced shooting our new weapons on the same rooftops we used for all of our training. We took turns with the 32 just in case, but clearly, Poodle was the man, and he put very tight patterns through the doors we used as targets. Poodle reminded us that if we had to shoot our way out, we wouldn't be thinking of aim, so after getting the basics down, we stopped using the sights on our 9's and relied solely on where we pointed, and how smooth we pulled the trigger.

"Not like we're going to get into a long distance shoot-out anyway," Poodle said.

The cane gun was something else— Zeke was right, the kick was a motherfucker, intimidating in its ferocity. It took me a while to get used to the explosive noise let alone the thudding jolt that each shot sent through my body. I practiced without earplugs because that would be the way for real, and I needed to experience that. The ringing that came with every practice blast was almost as bad as the bruising in my right bicep. Nevertheless, as with everything else, practice makes perfect, and although the noise and the pain were always there, the impact lessened with time. I adjusted and modified, and like my two buckets in the train tunnel, I became a motherfucking expert.

Two weeks later, we were ready. I had introduced my new cane, my Bam-Bata stick, the same day we picked it up. As soon as we rolled back into the hood, I began to stroll with a little more kick in my limp. I flaunted that piece of sweet-ass wood as if it was my wood if you know what I mean. I showed it to everyone: letting our hustlers trace the naked bitches down its length, smacking dusted crack heads laying in their own filth along our dirty curbs, and even tipping my hat like an English gent when some elderly woman walked by clutching her purse at first fearful, and then in bewilderment. I was the Mac with my new cane, everyone saw it, everyone knew it, and in two weeks it was just as much a part of the hood as big ass Derrick. Even Pepino mentioned my new cane during a brief meet regarding our upcoming purchase.

He said to me, "Hey Dee, that's a nice stick, it demands respect, now if you shave that fro and lose the ancient glasses, maybe you can hang."

He laughed, and even got a chuckle out of Rick, but I knew the chuckle was at him rather than with him, cause soon enough Pepino wasn't gonna be able to dis Dee no more, he wasn't gonna be able to dis no one ever again.

To ensure an in house buy, we told Pepino we wanted to buy five bricks. Ricker said we were slamming our crack like bingo tickets, and guaranteed that five would go in four, meaning we would sell all five kilos in a month. Pepino was surprised and a little skeptical, he said that five was a big jump but acknowledged that our crack was knocking and we could probably move that much in a few weeks. He smiled and said the words we waited to hear, and he wouldn't get no hindsight to revisit his fateful crossroad, but that was his problem.

"It's time for that cognac Rick, you come to Pepino's house, and we toast your success and do business like gentlemen."

We all smiled, and even though the price, this time, really didn't mean shit to Poodle or me (cause Pepino was gonna be paid something else), we had to play like we were working a deal.

"Wat da bundle price my man?"

Pepino nodded, smiling, he expected a haggle, and he had even offered that very opportunity when we first met.

"What did I say Rick? Was it eighteen? I don't remember exactly."

Ricker laughed, "Don't remember! Okay, I'll remind you, you said if we bought real weight, the price was seventeen a brick. Right Dee?"

Ricker flourished in my direction smiling broadly. I smiled at Pepino, and nodded.

"Seventeen!" he exclaimed. "Shit Rick, what you think, Pepino crazy? I know what I said (he tapped his forehead), I know. You ain't at ten yet. You a funny motherfucker Rick, I like that, but we got the goods, we can deal, I hook you up, you good customers. I give you for eighteen each, that's $500 less each brick, that's my $2500, a great price. We got the product, we can do eighteen, and you deserve it, what you say?"

Ricker smiled and looked at me, "Damn Dee we got ourselves a sugar daddy!"

We all laughed. We agreed to do the deal the following week. Ricker said we had enough supply to last until then. Pepino was like whatever; he had the blow all we had to do was bring the money.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Now I have watched the television shows, heard the hip-hop rhymes, and seen the movies, but you motherfuckers got it all wrong. You want to glorify the gangsta, but at the same time, you want to bitch that hood thugs got no choice— products of rage from empty homes, dry tears and no mommy. You want to talk about breeding, the power struggle, and shit like that. For years I have watched, listened, and grimaced at all the bullshit. Some actually believe they're legit, thinking they got it down, got it straight. Righteous and indignant fools who say they want to make a difference. But they're self preening fools cause they don't see the quality of being a Phoenix. They cannot see it because they rose up in blindness themselves. So quick to hold out their manicured hand and try to play big brother, or worse, dare to play Messiah. Shit. . . . Be ashamed. Be very ashamed. Who are you to keep people from rising? Who are you preaching that you done the rising for them and that you and your "silky ilk" are the only ones who can guide them to a better life? Does oppression or suppression keep a motherfucker down? What is the difference? Pride of individual accomplishment, of personal success is a badge of distinction. The reward— the most precious and individual reward— a head held high and level with others. Where a man could stand and say I fuckin' did it, and yeah, I hope other motherfucker's do it too, but they got to do it on their own! You say change is comin'. Change? What change? And your offer, what, golden streets or green meadows where everyone can hold hands and skip in the sunlight of a new world? What change will come if a motherfucker doesn't rise up on his own, on his very own! And how does a motherfucker rise? He rises by climbing on his own, by achieving on his own, by the opportunity to obtain a better life, not through socialism, not through Marxism, but through individual success. Here's a clue: prison is a socialist petri dish, where every inmate is allegedly equal: same food, same medical, same cells . . . Guess what, no one in prison is equal. Do you really think it will be otherwise in a free society? Why don't you ask the Russians?

You want to be the helping hand, help because you can. Cause you should? Don't you think there are those who can rise on their own, those who can stand next to you rather than one-step below? Don't you think something like that can multiply, multiply until change comes from the number of men and women who have ascended on their own? Change will not come from those assisted by fake benevolence, by the helping hands of slippery charlatans who act like the Mac. Let those who rise solo wear their badges proudly, don't stretch out a hand to the brothers below, instead, make sure there is plenty of space for them to share that stage with you, side by side. Do not tarnish their badges by being the one-up motherfucker, the one-better guy. Let them catch the sunlight off their own chest and smile alone, for themselves. And thank that mighty John Henry because individual achievement is the glue that binds like minds and should be the goal of all those who strive. A mofo who can say I did it on my own could stand next to any man, and that man next to another, and together they will make change, cause they don't owe nobody shit, and that is the person you want to see looking back at you in the mirror. That is word!

I'm telling you this from a five by eight foot cell in "E" block where I've been watching my life flake away like the paint peeling from my concrete ceiling— my world, my ash pit, where no motherfucking bird is going to rise. But I'm not bitter, I have accepted my fate just like I stepped into all of my past choices, determined and resigned. I am not being benevolent sharing my story with you; I'm just trying to warn you about making bad decisions. I'm pointing shit out, take it or leave it, whatever you choose.

Know this though, if you don't rise, don't lay blame at anyone else's feet. If you make dumb ass choices don't say "Hey man I had too," or, "Man, I'm just a product . . ." don't bullshit yourself. You won't need anybody to tell you that you fucked up, and you shouldn't try to push it off on anyone else. Unfortunately, for many, including Natty, getting busted is an eventuality. However, this misfortune is a relative consequence, cause dead is worse, always worse. Jail at least is survival, and if you can cope, then jail is existence and existence in any form is a step above dead, or is it? I guess that depends. But for me, I'm grateful to be alive cause at least I got that— and I can't say the same for some motherfuckers.

The deal was set for Friday night. Pepino was going to meet us in front of his spot at six. He said we were going to experience Colombian hospitality. We joked that Pepino would experience some of our own, but it was a bitter joke, at least for me, cause I wasn't looking forward to how we would get paid that coming night. Whenever a large deal went down, the Colombians made a habit of relaxing and partying with their clients (and their client's blow). For five keys, they would open a brick and pull at least an eight ball for testing, and expect the customer to share the rest with them over drinks and small talk. Their way of showing that pleasure comes after business, and that their place was safe for both. Sort of like saying— no, don't rush off, stay, drink, sniff, me casa su casa— Pepino told Ricker we were the only customers Friday night, he set it up that way so that we could party.

We toyed with the idea of dragging the hit out, chilling for a while; get their guard down, then strike. But we ultimately decided we couldn't, because we were going to be short the ninety grand needed for the coke. Besides, it was better to hit them early while our adrenaline was pumping. The park bench was going to be our regroup point after the hit. We planned to head up north together by car, and after selling the blow to Poodles' contact, we would divvy up and split forever. We stayed cool right up until that very Friday. We sold our crack, hung out on the stoop, went about the way as usual— maxing in the Riviera, pumping the bass, sipping and spliffing. But the waiting was not a "whatever" period for me; it was a grinding forever. Regardless of how I tried to appear on the outside; inside, I was feeling the strain. As the days passed, I struggled to lie still, let alone sleep. And when I did drift off, I was out, no dreams, no memories. I always woke up tired and sore as if I was running away from a nightmare. But I wasn't running from a nightmare, I was running toward one.

We tried to front that shit was all right, but in those moments where motherfucker's drop jokes or tell stories, or talk sports, we just sat around quiet and moody. Other cats took notice, especially during the last couple of days. They would point out how the three of us looked like we had the weight of the world balanced between us. Poodle was real edgy and he snapped often, even slipping out of Ricker's Guyanese slang a couple of times. JJ had all but stopped communicating, where before he loved to direct the street scene around our spot; he reduced to sitting on the stoop and simply nodded, or shook his head depending on what our hustlers brought him.

Poodle began wearing the special black boots that Zeke provided about a week after he got them. Like me with the cane, he wanted everyone in the hood to get used to them, especially Pepino. They weren't fashionable at the time, but Ricker pulled it off by wearing real baggy jeans, not like he didn't have plenty of those, but these were the other kind, the clubby look, not the ghetto cut, but the type that ecstasy heads wore at rave parties. Ricker made the fashion change easy enough because he had already developed the image of a "clubby."

We were way short the ninety grand for the five kilos. Had we been "legitimate" drug dealers, five bricks of Pepino's shit was a gold mine, easily tripling the investment. But we weren't looking to triple anything, we weren't investing, we were taking, a full withdrawal. We had to bring buy money, and we needed it to look like 90k, so the more we brought with us the better. By Friday, we had fifty-eight large stacked in thick bundles ready for the flip test. We exchanged the singles, five and ten dollar bills we got from selling our crack, for twenties, fifties and hundreds at various check cashing places. We filled a knapsack with thirty bundles that we were going to say were $3000 each. Whoever looked inside, or even flipped a couple of stacks, would easily believe it was three grand a stack. And once inside the living room it wouldn't matter anymore.

We went over our plans every night leading up to that Friday, fine-tuning the timing, our contingency plan, our escape route. We practiced a few more full-dress rehearsals, including how long Poodle would spend in the head, and when JJ would light the fire.

I swear there wasn't one abandoned building in the hood that didn't have our signatures all over it— roof doors pockmarked with bullet holes, walls violently gouged out, stairs without dust from our flights up and down, and sweat— acrid, stale sweat. You know a determined mofo will rise anyway he can, and if he don't make it, such is fate, but a motherfucker will try. Timing was crucial, shit, timing was everything! JJ would have to work to his own clock, he couldn't wait for a signal, and he wouldn't stop his process if something went bad in the apartment because he wouldn't know about it. We would synchronize, but that didn't guarantee shit. JJ was going to be ready on the roof well before we met with Pepino, and we had no way of calling him off if things went south. Once he was in place it was all or nothing. Just before we rolled to the spot, I was going to call JJ's beeper with the go-code, 001. JJ would wait fifteen minutes and then move in, once he began, the hit, come what may, was on.

JJ's tasks were huge, he had to secure the elevator on the sixth floor and disable it; shut and jamb the doors that separated the hallway on each floor from four down; start a fire in both staircases, and be in front of the apartment with all of our gear before we opened the door. After long debate, we decided that JJ would use jet fuel to start the fires. We researched all types of flammables, and concluded that jet fuel was the best accelerant for our purposes. Jet fuel burned slower than gasoline, but with a higher intensity. Jet fuel was more difficult to extinguish, and because we didn't have any ready combustibles, we needed something that can burn long enough to ignite the walls. JJ's job was much more involved than either Poodles or mine, but then he wasn't gonna smoke no one. I remember I wanted to be JJ a couple of times when my mind rolled out imagined scenes of how the hit was going to go down.

At four thirty that Friday afternoon, we split up. Jay was going to make his final preparations, and go over our escape route one last time before settling in on the roof to wait for my signal. During the day, he made several trips to the rooftop and hid most of our gear in a skylight. We checked our watches one last time, and then he disappeared down an alley with a backward wave. Ricker and I went to our spot and collected the day's profit, we knew the spot was going to be short product that night and Ricker assured our workers that we were coming back with some more "premium" to cook up. They knew we were going to buy some serious weight from Pepino, and they shared greedy thoughts with each other over the money to be made. Right down to the wire, Poodle and me played our roles, right down to our casual inspection of the apartment to ensure we were traceless.

At five thirty, we "snuck" into Poodle's place, and in the privacy of his bedroom, we loaded the 32 to capacity. He placed each piece in its respective hiding place in the heels of his boots. He told me how he practiced every night and got his timing down perfect. He said he wasn't gonna rush in the bathroom. He said my cue would be when he comes back into the living room and asks Pepino about that "Remy."

I had my fair share of practice with the cane gun, and I was confident that I could unscrew the end cap and bring the cane up to fire in less than five seconds. I loaded a shell into the chamber and set the end cap in place. I also replaced the rubber cover on the tip with the last one provided by Zeke. I shot through two during practice and wore the other three out from use.

We stood in Poodle's room for a long moment, each of us silent in our own thoughts. Poodle was looking around nostalgically, but said nothing. I was thinking of my father but I couldn't see his face, all I saw were pizza boxes. Poodle's mother wasn't home so he left her a note saying simply "I'll call you later." My thoughts switched from empty boxes to my sisters, and I smiled. What were they gonna think about their little brother tomorrow? I picked up the knapsack with the fifty-eight grand, held it out to Poodle.

"Its five-forty-four bro, time to go?"

Poodle winked at me, took the bag and said in his best Ricker brogue, "Well Nat, don't cha know?"

As we walked toward the Colombians' spot, I found myself looking at the architecture near the tops of the buildings we passed. I remember thinking how beautiful and classy, how once those buildings had pride. I remember telling myself they ain't have no pride no more. Before turning onto Pepino's block, I stopped at a pay phone and placed the call to JJ. I remember pressing the numbers slow and deliberate because I didn't want to fuck it up. I remember my hand shook slightly, as if I had drank too much coffee but at that point in my life, I ain't never had no coffee.

Pepino was waiting for us outside with two other men. He greeted us and introduced them as Victor and Silvio. Neither of them extended a hand, so we didn't either. Why shake a dead man's hand anyway? When we walked up to the building, I had counted six other men that I knew were part of Pepino's operation. Some of them glanced our way while we stood outside, but none moved to follow the five of us inside. We entered the building while Pepino was happily explaining some stupid shit that no one paid attention to. I really didn't hear him anyway cause I was entering the "zone," a place I often found right before we pulled a hit.

The lobby looked just like I pictured except that it was a little smaller. I thought to myself 'soon this lobby is gonna look a lot different.' My first nervous sweat, the kind that oozes out of your pores driven by fear, trickled down my back when Pepino walked over to the elevator instead of the stairs. My brain went into overload trying to determine how long had it been since I paged JJ. Was it five minutes? Was it ten? I couldn't tell. We never considered taking the elevator, because during our surveillance, when we timed the escorts, the time frame indicated that they used the stairs. Pepino must be considering Derrick's bad leg, and out of respect, he chose the elevator. My mind raced . . . Was JJ on the move yet. He shouldn't be, but nerves do funny things, perhaps he started early thinking a fifteen-minute wait was too long and he wouldn't get to the door in time. Could the gimp leg I'd been faking all this time be our Achilles heel? Could Fate be funning again? I could do nothing. As far as Pepino knew, Ricker and I had no idea where his spot was, if I suggested the stairs he might get suspicious.

I hoped that JJ hadn't move early. Straining my ears to hear as far away as possible, I caught the sound of the elevator moving and almost shuddered in relief. When the elevator door closed behind us moments later, Pepino changed his tone, becoming serious and professional. He told us that we were going to be searched, and that Victor and Silvio weren't shy. He said it's a cost of business and said we understand rather than asking us. He did ask Ricker to give him the knapsack though, so that he could personally check it out. He promised to give it back afterward, knowing as he said how important it is to hold onto your own money.

"Of course, I understand you wouldn't want to give your money to anyone but a friend huh?" Pepino said.

Poodle, a fucking "Oscar winner," smiled broadly.

"Dat's right my brother, but you can take the bag and count it now if you want, keep it, I trust you."

Ricker eased the knapsack off his back and was in the process of handing it to Pepino when the door opened on the third floor.

"No, no, my friend," Pepino said laughing, "I trust you! The bag goes into the cave; they count it while we sample the product, no counting here, that's not proper." My mind raced again. New sweat creased my spine as we walked down the hall toward the spot. If the knapsack went into the vault while we waited, our timing would be off. Poodle may not have the opportunity to put the 32 together before someone in the vault realized the money was short. It wouldn't take a fucking math teacher to tell the count was off after thumbing through five or so bundles.

Poodle made a lightning fast decision, about as quick and unpredictable as any he had ever made. He stopped short, halfway past the door that JJ would very soon be wedging shut, and put his hands out.

"Wait a minute Pepino— I trust you, but I don't trust no one behind a metal door— I want my money counted in front of me. How can I tell what dey gonna count, huh? What if dey says we short or something?"

Poodle was flawless as usual; even on the brink of absolute mayhem, he was cool and collected.

"Maybe we do this deal like da others bro, rather than all dis bullshit." Pepino stopped when Ricker did, and he stood there nodding in understanding. He said something in Spanish to Victor and Silvio.

"Rick, you trust me, I tell you they won't fuck the count, they can't. This is business papa, we don't monkey for a G here or skim an ounce there, our operation is professional. I guarantee the count, you tell me it's all there it'll all be there after the count. Meanwhile, you take a hit of the "power" with Pepino and we have a good time."

Poodle hesitated; he didn't want to push too hard. We were close, I'm sure he was calculating, and trying to judge how much time we would have if he gave the bag up and they started the count immediately. No one spoke. To minimize the tension, I spoke up. (Just minutes before I thought my fake limp was gonna fuck the whole thing up. Pepino who didn't like Dee, and never tried to hide it, graciously chose to take the elevator to spare poor ass Derrick from struggling up the stairs. Now, I was going to use the very same act of kindness to trick that silly motherfucker into playing our hand).

"Hey Pepino, thanks for taking the elevator; even three flights would have made my knee burn."

Momentarily distracted by my comment, Pepino nodded and looked back at Ricker.

"I got an idea," I continued, "that might make everyone more comfortable."

They all looked at me expectantly.

"What if you bring the five keys out before our money disappears? If you do that Ricker might be distracted enough not to worry about bullshit."

Pepino gestured, considering, and then smiled warmly. He tapped Victor on the chest with the back of his hand.

"You want to see the bricks? Of course you can see the bricks, I'll tell you what— we go in, you get felt up, (laughing) I have the coke brought out, they count the money, we party. What do you think?" he asked.

Poodle smiled and nodded to me although it appeared as if he was nodding his agreement, which he was, but it was a double nod with two meanings. The one to me was a thank you mofo, you just saved our ass, and the other one was our ticket in.

Chapter Thirty-Six

We clustered in front of apartment 3-G. Pepino knocked in some pattern that was obvious code, but wasn't worth memorizing because it would not be used again. After a pause, where I heard distinct sounds, in sequence— a peep sight cover swish open, four locks turn, and a chain slide loose— that crazy looking motherfucker that was with Pepino at the pizza shop stood staring at us from a dimly lit hallway. Pepino turned to the side and in a dramatic flourish gestured us to enter. The entry hall was small, maybe a six by six foot room. On my left was a mesh gate that blocked access to a very narrow passageway beyond. This barrier was the gate to hell.

Ricker, me, Pepino and Victor squeezed into the hallway. "Pizza Guy" closed the door. I watched him turn the locks and slide the chain home, and I thought, 'This is it.'

Silvio stayed in the corridor when the rest of us entered the spot. I worried that he might stand guard outside the door, but realized that would be stupid because we would be hanging out, Colombian style. He was only an escort, lucky him. Victor pointed at me and said "ju first," in a thick Spanish accent.

I placed my cane against the wall near the gate and raised my arms. Victor pointed to the wall opposite the gate and I assumed the position. As Victor began his frisk, I warned him to watch my leg to which Pepino said something in Spanish that appeared to be the same thing. Pepino wasn't kidding when he said they weren't shy. Victor was rough and thorough, he searched everything twice and he grabbed my balls as if they were his own. After an uncomfortable hand toss, he tapped me on the shoulder indicating that I had been violated enough.

Ricker gave Pepino the knapsack and joked while being groped. He even got a smile out of Pizza Guy, yelping when his nuts were stroked. Pepino examined the bag and its contents briefly, and to my relief he didn't pull out a stack of the bills. He did mention, however, how he loved the scent of money and made a couple of snorting sounds as he buried his face in the zippered opening. After Ricker cleared, Pepino, true to his word returned the knapsack. Victor opened the gate and yelled down the passage. He went through first, then Ricker, I was next in line and reached for my stick, Pizza Guy placed his hand on my arm and shook his head.

I looked at him sharply as another wave of fear and sweat began to crease down my back. Poodle had reached the living room by then and was looking down the passageway at us with similar apprehension I'm sure. Once again, though, our partner Fate came through for us. Perhaps he was feeling gracious, perhaps, because of my acknowledgment of his consideration a few moments before, he was in a generous mood, or, maybe he was so sure that Derrick and Ricker were 100% legit that he broke one of their house rules. Whatever the case, Pepino intervened and said something in Spanish to Pizza Guy that sounded like:

"NO-TAY-AH-POO-DAY-MON-NO-LOW, ES-EH-BASS-TONE, NO-ES-OON-ARMA, ES-OON-MULE-ET-AH-PAR-RAH-EL-KO-JO."

Whatever that meant, it resulted in Pizza Guy removing his arm and allowing me to pass with the one item that sealed their doom.

Moments later, I hobbled sideways down the tight passage with my heart hammering and my cane marking time on the floor. The living room was large, and I tried to look around, but my eyes focused on the metal door almost directly across from the passageway. I could barely pull my eyes from it, dark and imposing it stood sandwiched in-between thick concrete slabs that reminded me of the "Thing" from the "Fantastic Four." Sloppy, like wet sand castles patted down by busy little hands, two crude ridges invited critique on their appearance but dared any comment regarding their strength. The door itself was black, with a square metal plate in the middle that I knew was the sliding window that Pepino foolishly mentioned. The door and the window were covered in names and initials that were gouged through the paint. NJ, Ray, Tito, Ice. . . .

Countless others that I didn't bother trying to make out crisscrossed the door at all angles, some patiently carved, others hastily scratched. All to honor a door that signified strength and power, all to honor drug dealers that held respect in the hood like the Mafia in Italy, all meant not to show that they had merely been there, but to kiss Colombian ass. I almost lost my nerve; I think I actually forgot that we were going through the wall. At that moment, I realized just how crazy I was.

I forced myself to look around the rest of the room, briefly scanning the booth next to the black door. I didn't want to look at the man inside it, and there was a man and I saw him all too clearly. Even in that quick going-over, I learned his face, his height, his color. I have since learned regret at seeing him; I wish I had never looked his way. In fact, I wish the booth were never there in the first place, as I wish it were not here now in my very cell. But it was, and it is, and I locked his ghost in my mind even before he was dead, and he will always haunt my pastures, my hayloft, my dreams.

The living room had comfortable furnishings, a white sectional wrapped around a burgundy-lacquered coffee table. A large television sitting on a matching hutch was in between the gated hallway and a doorway leading into the kitchen. I turned and stood with my back to the booth and watched Victor slide the police lock into place until it clicked home.

In addition to my future ghost, four other men were locked in with Poodle and me, four other marks that were in a vault of their own. Pepino, Victor, Pizza guy and Alex, you remember him, that skittish little man whom I stood uncomfortably next to when the first deal with Pepino went down.

Alex stood framed in the kitchen doorway sipping a glass of red wine with his little finger held out like a coat hook. He was smiling at us, swaying slightly too some faint Spanish music coming from inside the kitchen.

Pepino welcomed us to "La Cava" and beckoned us to sit down and relax. I smelled something good coming from the kitchen, some of that Spanish shit that always makes my mouth water. But my mouth was dry, dry as a burnt matchbook, and I only moved because I was expected to. I sat down with the booth to my right not more than five feet away. I felt him, my ghost, watching me; I felt them all watching me. I focused on the television and waited with a tight throat and a pounding chest. Poodle was all personality in his Ricker guise, I guess for his final performance he wanted to bring the house down— this time, pun not intended. It makes me sick now, when that scene visits, how Poodle swaggered with expectation, relishing the moment he was in, and the moment soon to come. Ricker began by complimenting Pepino on how impressive their security was.

He walked up to the metal door and ran his hands over the concrete bulging on either side.

"Damn papa dis shit is thick, like a fort," he said.

He knocked on the Plexiglas booth right near the face of the man inside.

"Wow papa does dis guy talk? Two tickets please!" he blurted, holding up two fingers.

Everyone laughed as Ricker turned and placed the knapsack on the coffee table and stretched extravagantly. He casually asked Pepino where the blow was, looking around pretending not to know where it could be. Pepino clapped Ricker on the back, walked over to the metal door, and knocked on the window plate three times.

A voice called out from the other side and Pepino responded in Spanish of course. The window slid open and Pepino began conversing with someone on the other side in a low voice.

The TV was showing what looked like a soap opera, but it was in Spanish and the volume was too low to hear anything, as if that would have made a difference. I remember this hot Latin chick smacking some dude with a huge mustache; I remember his macho stance and the look of shock on his face when she struck. I couldn't help thinking how them motherfuckers inside that apartment were about to get some shock of their own. I gripped my cane tight and hoped that I didn't punk out when Poodle started blasting. I glanced over at the booth, not to see my ghost again, but to gauge the distance and find the holes I would use. I noticed a machine gun lying across a shelf inside the booth, I couldn't tell what it was, an Uzi or Tec-9, but I saw that it was within easy reach of the man. You know, it has taken many years for me to acknowledge that he was a man. Back then, he was just a mark, a target, my target. Now, I can call it as it was, he was a man and he was my victim. I found three holes right above the shelf that would fit perfectly, as if they were made specifically for the end of my cane gun. I knew I would have to be ready to smoke him as soon as Poodle gave the sign, so I began to prepare myself.

Meanwhile, Victor was placing big white packages on the coffee table. Kilos handed to him by Pepino who was receiving them in turn from someone on the other side of the window. The packages were thick, and they were beautiful.

Before the third one was on the table, Ricker announced that he had to take a piss. Alex motioned him into the kitchen and they disappeared. My heartbeat quickened as I watched Poodle enter the kitchen, and all about stopped when he was out of sight because I knew that upon his return death was coming with him. I slowly brought my hand up to the top of my cane and looked around anxiously. Alex was somewhere in the kitchen, I could tell he was cooking cause I could hear sizzling and popping grease. Two additional kilos were placed on the table and Pepino knelt down with his back to the kitchen and began arranging them in a neat row. He looked at me and frowned slightly, maybe it was momentary alarm or concern, I'm sure I had sweat on my brow, and I know my eyes were glazed. But Pepino hit the snooze button and smiled at me.

"That's some pretty shit huh?"

I tried to smile back, but the best I came up with was an involuntary gulp. Behind Victor, who was standing by Pepino next to the TV, I saw the same chick running down a street. Tears streaked down her cheeks and the thick mascara that circled her eyes made it look like she was crying black tears. My thoughts were fleeting and they switched to JJ and I figured that he must be under way, and that the fire should be starting any moment. I knew Pizza Guy was on the couch in the corner by the window because at some point during those molasses seconds, I felt weight sink into a cushion. So Victor was in front of me, the man in the booth to my right, Alex was somewhere in the kitchen, Pizza Guy sitting to my left with Pepino kneeling over the blow. I made an effort to stretch out my bad leg and pretended to wince. I moved to stand up so I could shake my leg when I heard a door shut from somewhere in the kitchen.

As I moved into position, I heard Ricker ask Alex what smelled so good. Pepino yelled out:

"Hey Rick, no flirting with Alex, come on I got something to show you."

I moved closer to the booth, shook my leg, and gingerly put weight on it holding my cane out for balance. I casually twisted the end cap three times and it popped out without anyone taking notice. I brought it down, holding it carefully against the floor as I continued to hobble around close to the booth.

Ricker suddenly stood in the kitchen doorway; he was behind Pepino who was still kneeling by the blow. Victor was looking in his direction but Pizza Guy was busy chewing on a fingernail looking at the floor. Ricker said aloud:

"Damn Papa, now dat's what I call product."

Pepino stood and turned toward Poodle.

"You like that Rick? I arranged your catch, what you think?"

Ricker smiled with that glint in his eye that laughed when he hacked at Heffe's finger, that glint that said Oh Yeah.

"Yeah baby, Ricker like, Ricker really like."

He looked from the coffee table to Pepino, to Pizza Guy, then over to me. Poodle winked and said cheerfully— "How 'bout dat Remy?"

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Some people in life and death situations say they recall how everything was a blur or how things slowed down, or they say they don't remember shit. I disagree; I remember everything in real time. I even remember the sounds, the scents; I recall the entire play by play.

When Poodle asked that final fateful question, Pepino brought his hands together in what was probably a gesture to convey that he forgot about the drinks and would immediately remedy the situation, however, he never got the chance to do that or anything else except maybe gasp. Almost simultaneously with the clap of Pepino's hands, I heard the first shot ring out from Poodle's 32. Without hesitation, and eerily synchronized with the pop-pop popping of Poodle's gun, I twisted to my left and brought my cane up shoving it through the top hole in the booth. I braced the end cap against my bicep, locked my arm out and tightened my grip while the man scrambled to pick up his weapon. I watched his hand grasp the barrel of his gun, obviously not where he wanted to grab it, but unfortunately for him, the only part readily available. Before he had a chance to correct himself, I smacked the end cap against my arm. The sound of the shotgun shell exploding out of the cane smothered the chaos behind me. The muzzle flash blew the man into the corner of the booth as a fine red spray coated the inside of the Plexiglas. The man slumped over, but since the booth was too small for a body to lie out, he never made it to the floor; instead, he propped up, wedged by his own mass in the confined space.

At first, I wasn't sure if he was dead. The smoke circling around inside the booth, hid everything, the only thing I knew was that he was still upright. After a couple of seconds though, I knew. I knew from the mess that used to be a clean blue shirt and from the unusual matter scattered all over the place. I turned back toward the room in sudden disgust only to find new sights and sounds of horror to greet me. To my right, Victor was laying sideways across the floor underneath the police lock. Beats me how he landed under it, but it wasn't helping him none. His top leg was twitching and a halo of blood pillowed his head.

Pizza Guy was still on the couch, but he wasn't chewing on his fingernail no more, in fact, his finger was missing along with most of his face. I cringed from the sight. His teeth spread all over his face and chest as if someone took a box of "Chiclets" and sprinkled them over his head. Pizza Guy wasn't moving at all. My eyes fell on Pepino, his body laid on top of his neat row of cocaine. He wasn't dead yet. His gurgling breath was spitting out blood that pooled in his mouth. He was in shock, and his arms were out to either side halfway off the coffee table and jerking in small spasms. He was all fucked up. I heard a lot of commotion coming from the kitchen, like a bird fighting in a cage, his wings beating furiously against an intruder. The racket was Alex trying to live.

Sparrow-like Alex transformed into a falcon or an eagle. He must have been shot a few times already, because he was screaming.

"NO-MAS, NO-MAS, AYE-DI-OS, NO-MAS. . . ."

I knew those words. I heard them many times before while thumping hicks in the hood. He'd have been better off spending his last moments asking God for a slot, cause he wasn't gonna get no mercy out of his killer. Poodle was cursing during their struggle, and then two more shots rang out followed by a couple of clicks.

'Damn,' I thought—'he used all fourteen rounds.'

Alex was moaning faintly, muttering something in Spanish to which Poodle responded with another curse, and two hard whacks. Then I heard nothing. A moment later Poodle appeared through the doorway.

"That little motherfucker wouldn't die!" he said indignantly.

In his hand was a large iron skillet that was still steaming from its previous contents, but was now dripping more than a meal. Poodle looked at me and said:

"What the fuck Nat, you should be at the front door already!"

Snapped back to task, yanking furiously on the police lock, I swung the gate open and shuffled sideways down the passage as fast as I could. When I got the front door open, which took more than a few seconds because of all those damned locks, JJ stood there panting and sweating, his harrowed eyes darting back and forth. The large duffel bag with all our gear was by his feet. I smelled smoke and heard people running and yelling above and below, even in our hallway, doors were opening, but quickly shutting for they knew something more than a fire was taking place on their floor. JJ looked at me in a panic and said the fire was roaring. He said he didn't understand it, that the building lit up way too fast and we had to hurry because it had already spread to the second floor.

Poodle yelled down the hall to hurry the fuck up. He said the motherfuckers in the vault were freaking out and we had to get on. JJ held his 9mm in his hand and it shook involuntarily.

"Make it quick Dee." Jay pleaded.

Even though he knew I was Nat he couldn't help from calling me Dee, it was whom he knew, and right then, Dee was the real person, the only person. I grabbed the bag and rushed back into the living room. I snatched the police lock, the exact same type that I practiced with, and smiled in spite of the situation. The feel of the cold steel bar in my hands eased my nerves, hinting, cruelly, that I was at the finish line. Poodle was struggling to move the couch; all sorts of shit impeded him, Pizza Guy, Pepino, the coffee table.

I tossed the duffel to the side, reached over, and grabbed Pepino's arm, which was still bouncing over the end of the table. I heaved as hard as I could and pulled his body up, over, and to the side, tossing him like any other piece of furniture. He crumpled against the hutch almost knocking the TV on top of him.

I pulled the coffee table out of the way, actually shoving it on top of Pepino's twitching body, and scattering the cocaine so affectionately displayed. With a grunt, Poodle slid the sofa sideways where the table used to be, clearing enough space for me to attack the wall. And I did, I got to it like my man, John Henry, beating that wall with all my might. I could hear the men on the other side yelling at each other as I punctured the plaster in vicious jabs. Poodle was yelling—

"Police, open the door, police, Search Warrant," as he ran about the room.

As I hacked, I noticed that thick acrid smoke was filling the room, I asked myself how could the fire spread that fast? I glanced backward, fearful that flames were coming down the passageway and to my horror saw that the smoke in the living room was coming from a different source, an awful source. A charred shadow attached to my soul forever. Thick gray smoke filled the glass in the booth to my left. Streams of smoke spiraled out of every crevice that wasn't sealed. The three gun barrel holes shot blasts directly at me, accusatory, and I shuddered at the sight and the implication. The muzzle flash from my cane gun must have set fire to the man's clothing and in the confined space, the fire smoldered until it had enough breath to live, and now it came in ghastly reality, a flaming alpha condemning me, attacking me.

"Shit!" Poodle yelled, "don't fucking stop, hit it, ain't nothing we can do now, work motherfucker!"

Poodle was rushing around the room collecting the five scattered kilos, shoving them into another duffel bag that he retrieved from the first.

I didn't have time to worry about the burning body or the reason why, instead I doubled my efforts against the wall, digging deep with fury and anguish.

After I gouged out the starter holes, I spun the iron bar and ripped out big chunks of plaster and lathe. Poodle tried to put the fire out by tossing pots of water through the holes but his efforts accomplished nothing more than getting me wet, for most of the water bounced back hitting me instead. I yelled at him to forget about that shit and get ready to shoot a few rounds through the hole before the motherfuckers inside get the same idea. On cue, JJ yelled down the passageway. Sirens were approaching, a lot of them. He said people were panicking and we had to hurry. Seconds later the hole was large enough for Poodle to crawl through, I jumped back and threw the police lock aside. I expected bullets to come flying through at any moment. Poodle knelt down next to the hole and shot a few rounds inside at random angles. He was yelling in broken Spanish:

"NO-SAY-MUY-VA-COBB-ROANS, NO-MUY-VA!"

Poodle grabbed the pepper canister, pulled the activation strip and threw it inside the hole as far as he could. I heard a fizzle, like a fire extinguisher, and hurried to put my mask on. I picked up my 9mm, which Poodle had thoughtfully placed on the couch while I hacked at the wall; I checked to make sure it was loaded and motioned to Poodle that I was going to go check on JJ. Poodle nodded and mouthed 'Hurry the fuck up!'

I shuffled down the passageway and joined JJ at the front door. A different smoke met me as I leaned into the hallway and it was coming from everywhere outside the apartment. Insidious, ominous, and in the pit of my stomach an awareness hinted that it was wrong. The air was thick with smoke and the haze dimmed the hallway lights. JJ was near panic, he was shaking and wild-eyed. I heard running footsteps and screaming all over the place. Kids were crying, women yelling, and men were barking orders that no one seemed to follow.

"Damn Jay, you really lit this mofo up!"

I clapped him on the shoulder and said we were through the wall and the pepper was popped. I told him to hang on we would be out in a few more minutes. I rushed back into the apartment not more than thirty seconds later and met another sight that, along with all my other bad memories, fucks with me all the time.

Now understand, all this shit I'm telling you, everything I've been through, and seen, and done, fucks with me with regularity. Images circle around my head like planets, but just like planets, some are bigger than others are, some say "Yo motherfucker you better recognize," and I do, all the time. And this next scene, this one, is my motherfucking Jupiter. When I entered the living room, I saw Poodle kneeling by the hole wearing his mask. Haloed by an eerie light gray smoke, more like steam, which rose up toward the ceiling in a slow crawl. As the light gray smoke spread above Poodle's head, it met the dark gray smoke spilling out of the booth. The two grays seemed to greet each other slowly, like shy lovers dancing to a slow jam. I watched transfixed, as they blended into a medium gray, each filling the other and becoming one. Together, they began to creep down the walls as if looking for new partners, as if to blanket Poodle and me in dark silent music.

I almost bolted I was so mortified; I almost turned and ran back down the passage, but Poodle brought me back, yelling in my direction, demanding my attention, drawing my eyes away from the smoke and the certain death it promised. He was pointing into the hole with his gun; his other hand held an empty duffel bag, he gestured that he was going in. I rushed toward him nodding frantically— hurry motherfucker, hurry— I thought, hoping that my will could speed him up. I crouched down next to Poodle, getting as far away from the encroaching smoke as I could, looking up anxious that at any moment it would smother me. I tore my eyes away and looked into the rough opening. I couldn't see a damned thing. I heard choking and coughing and gasping sounds from somewhere inside, but the light gray smoke was so thick that I couldn't even see the floor just beyond the hole.

I could feel the sting of pepper against my neck where sweat ringed my collar. In fact, almost as soon as I got near the hole, I could feel burning wherever my skin was exposed. I could only imagine what those poor bastards inside were feeling. Poodle shook my shoulder hard and leaned close.

"I'm going in, I'm gonna fill this bag first, money, coke, whatever I find. Once I figure the place out, I'll load the next two bags as planned."

What Poodle meant was that unlike our initial plan, the first bag would not be the one I would carry so don't strap it on. I nodded and told him to hurry because the building was an inferno and shit was going south fast. Poodle winked, as was his nature, and disappeared through the hole. I listened tensely, waiting for shots to go off.

As the seconds passed, anxiety and panic increased sharply, stroking my belly like a whip. The combined smoke layer dropped closer and closer and the pepper teased me with a burn that didn't even come close to what it could be. I involuntarily looked at the booth and shuddered as the orange crackle of flame peeked through the blackened Plexiglas revealing a mass that I knew would be a part of me forever, however long that may be. A couple of eons passed, before Poodle tossed the lumpy duffel bag through the hole and called for another. I quickly passed him the next one, which I consciously unzipped so he didn't have too. I never saw him snatch it up, I didn't even see his hand, but I heard him rush back into the fog and knew he found what we were looking for. The other men in the vault were still moving about, their struggles were faint, their agonized cries less potent, but suffering still. I wondered if they were dying. I looked at Pizza Guy slumped over on the far side of the couch and I thought that there were worse ways to go. I looked back toward the ceiling and saw that the smoke was much lower, maybe chest high if I stood up. I yelled out at JJ, I told him we had one bag to go. He responded, his words muffled and choked, I couldn't make them out, but I sensed it was an "okay."

All of a sudden, three blasts came from inside the vault. They were loud, and their echo shot through the hole like a bullhorn. Without hesitation, I thrust my head deep inside the hole and yelled for Poodle. I couldn't see shit, not even outlines, but I heard something heavy dragging through the haze. I backed out as Poodle came through pulling the duffel bag behind him. He heaved a motherfucking Santa Claus sack full of coke through the hole. I grabbed it and pushed it to the side, scrambling to find the remaining bag somewhere near me.

Poodle poked his head through the hole and told me he had to pop one of them cause the motherfucker grabbed his leg. He said a hand clutched at him, and he panicked and started shooting. I told him we had to go; I said we had enough that time was up. I pointed to the smoke and said we needed to go right away. But Poodle was Poodle, and Fate is Fate, he scowled at me and grabbed the remaining duffel that I never did find, but was somehow in my hand.

"That one's yours," he said, pointing to the overstuffed bag I had just pushed aside.

"Get it on and get ready to bounce, I'll be right back!"

I scrambled over to the bag and realized that it had a little too much weight even for me, I opened up the first bag which was very light, noticing that it was filled mainly with cash, and transferred about ten bricks from mine. I closed both bags and slung the heavy one across my back. I had to stand to accomplish this and almost freaked when my head punched through the smoke. I was surprised to find that with the mask on, I was able to breathe, somewhat, it wasn't fresh, it wasn't clean, but the filters seemed to catch some of the toxic smoke. At the very least, I didn't start choking and gagging. Once I had the bag strapped tight, I knelt back down by the hole and urged Poodle on in my head.

One last glance at the booth and I could see that the walls on either side had caught fire and the Plexiglas was melting and bending away from the center. The booth looked like an erupting volcano.

I felt the weight of the duffel pull at my back as I leaned close to the hole, I judged that I had at least a buck fifty in weight, and shook my head to clear the thought of how much coke that could be. The living room was so thick with smoke at that point that I worried that in another few seconds we wouldn't be able to see the gate, our only escape. I yelled into the hole that we were out of time and gasped, cut short by a lack of air. Dammit, I thought, the fucking filters are clogging— it was choking time. I lowered my head even further, barely a foot off the floor and thought about bailing in the next second or two if Poodle didn't pop back through the hole.

Finally, Poodle burst through the opening dragging the last bag that I swear weighed more than mine before I dropped some weight in JJ's. Covered in plaster dust, or cocaine, I couldn't tell which, Poodle chuckled lying across the floor.

"I think I got it all Nat!"

I grabbed the bag and started crawling over to the gate, only judging where it was by the outline of Victor's body on the floor. I kicked Poodle as I moved and pointed to the couch, hoping he understood that was where I put JJ's bag. I didn't bother to look back, it wouldn't have mattered anyway, I couldn't see shit, we were in hell. I made it to the gate and started sliding down the passageway like a crab. I pushed Poodle's duffel in front of me and pulled the one across my back. The bags were so thick with coke that they barely fit through the opening, scraping along the walls on either side as I struggled, leaving plenty of canvas fibers to be sure. When I reached the entryway, I stood up and yelled for JJ. He didn't respond. The front door was open slightly, but I couldn't see into the hallway. I turned around and was glad to find Poodle directly behind me with the other bag.

I let go of the duffel in my hand, pulled my 9mm and pushed the front door open all the way. I was worried that JJ got smoked and maybe some Colombians were waiting to ambush us when we entered the corridor. I yelled into the hallway again, calling for JJ. For an anxious moment, I wondered if our time was up, but a second later JJ came into view stuttering that he thought we were dead and was heading up the stairs when he heard me. We all laughed in relief as Poodle and I rushed into the hallway, glad to get the fuck out of the apartment.

The corridor was almost as dark as the apartment. The overhead lights, obscured by thick black smoke, hid most of the rear staircase. I could hear the roar of fire everywhere and knew we had no time to spare. Poodle was clearly exhausted, but his adrenaline was flowing, and his balls were as big as ever. I told him we had to switch bags, but he said we didn't have time. He tried to get the bag on his shoulders alone, but his knees buckled and he pitched into the wall. I helped him, picking up the bag and bracing it against the wall. Together we were able to get his arms through the straps and cinch it up tight. As he pushed off the wall, the weight nearly bowled him over, but with a mighty effort he shifted his balance and found the position he needed to move. He must have had two hundred pounds easy. I shook my head, but he waved me off and pointed to the stairs. JJ was ready, easily swinging his bag on his back, he moved anxiously toward the staircase. Before I crossed the corridor to join him, I reached back and shut the door to apartment 3-G. And for all the noise, mayhem, and violent death that occurred just beyond that door moments before, it closed softly, landing without a sound like the falling ashes around us.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Each flight of stairs rose in the same direction stacked one above the other like pancakes. Unlike alternating staircases, where two flights meet at a landing, we had to expose ourselves in the corridor of each floor in order to get to the next flight. There was the danger, and there was the risk. We moved in single file, JJ in the lead and slightly ahead like a scout or a forward. He trotted up the stairs and peered around the corner to see if any threats were waiting on the fourth floor. After a moment he motioned for us to join him, Poodle went first bent over from the weight of his pack; his right hand on the railing while his left held his 9mm straight down. He took one-step at a time and seemed to pull himself up rather than push off with his feet. I followed right behind him wondering if we would beat the flames to the roof.

While pondering our pace, I realized that my mask was still on and swiped it off my head, suddenly feeling foolish and claustrophobic. The staircase cleared considerably. I almost chuckled as I watched the mask tumbling down the stairs; the visor covered in soot. I reached over Poodle's bag and snatched his mask off, startling him. He recovered quick enough, looking back smiling he said:

"We some stupid motherfuckers huh!"

We reached the fourth floor landing and quickly moved toward the fifth, as we rounded the corner, a door opened somewhere down the hall and a woman began yelling for help. My back was in that direction and I never turned to look.

I wonder sometimes what happened to her, I wonder if she made it out alive. As I started up the next flight, I noticed that JJ had stopped at the top of the staircase and was kneeling against the wall. He waved frantically for us to wait. He had his finger over his mouth and pointed at the corner with his gun. Poodle was leaning on the railing supported by his right wrist, he had switched the gun to his dominant hand just in case, but he held it loosely over the banister, as if it was a burden. I thought of the effort it must have taken to load all of the coke in the time that he did, and I thought of what lay ahead and I determined that he would not be able to continue with all the weight he carried. I cursed myself for not demanding that we switch bags moments before, but was now adamant that that was exactly what we were going to do, that, or dump some of his load regardless of the time we would lose. I pushed Poodle up the stairs until we were near the top next to JJ.

I could hear a group of men talking rapidly in Spanish, they were arguing. The sound of their voices put them somewhere near the front staircase, meaning that the door that separated the hallway (the doors that JJ wedged shut) must have been open. Then I realized that we were on the fifth floor, and Jay only jammed the doors four and below. I counted at least three different voices with two arguing one way while the third appeared to disagree. I leaned over to JJ and asked him what they were saying.

His eyes told me they were talking about our hit and trying to decide what to do. He bent toward my ear.

"They're Colombians, two of them want to get out of the building, but the third says they have to warn someone named Limbe," (pronounced LEEM-BAY).

I looked at Poodle who was sitting on the top step leaning against the wall. I felt like we were slipping, I felt that with each passing second our odds were dropping. For the most part, the sequence of events we had planned and trained for, occurred as expected; however, certain issues had by that point come to pass that we were ill prepared for. The exit strategy we had practiced was falling apart, and our timing was way off. It appeared that our diversion was out of control and we were going to have to shoot our way out.

I grabbed Poodle by the collar and pulled him close to me. I told him that we needed to switch bags, or at the very least lighten his load. I told him we were not going to make it unless he regained his strength. I told him we swap or we dump some coke. He shook his head violently and said he was fine, that he only needed to catch his breath, he pushed me back and said we weren't gonna dump shit. His voice grew loud as he dismissed my reasoning, as if suddenly remembering his shame that fateful Sunday afternoon when he cowered before me and I took control. He wasn't having it. He struggled to gain his feet while I tried to keep him still, the noise was enough to stop the voices down the hall. JJ was shaking my arm trying to get us to stop, but Poodle was angry and indignant and his strength came back to him by sheer rage, and nothing was gonna stop the events that awaited us just like nothing had stopped the events that had passed.

"A-ight Motherfucker!" I blew into his ear as I pinned him against the wall.

"You ready to work? Then let's get the fuck on!" I yelled.

I looked at JJ who had also risen, and I strained to hear a particular sound.

Although the general sounds of panic, burning, and surviving that we had blocked out, came back vigorously, the sound I was probing for, from down the hall, was not there.

"We got to bounce, motherfuckers, we got to bounce now!"

I snatched the 9mm from my waistband and stepped out into the corridor pointing my gun down the hall. Four men stood at the opposite end straining to see me through the smoke. They didn't strain for long because I started blasting away. One of them yelled out— "QWEE-DOW!" as they scattered.

My one goal at that moment, my only goal, was to get to the fucking roof. If shooting a few more Colombians was necessary, so be it. I pulled the trigger as fast as I could, I didn't aim, I didn't really care if I hit them or not, I needed them to run, I needed them to panic and flee. I emptied my clip and began to reload as I yelled at Poodle and JJ to get the fuck on, both had paused in surprise when I lit the place up, and both stood staring at me until I barked. They pushed past me as I drew down again daring anyone to open a door or peek around a corner.

I heard Poodle and JJ scamper up the next flight of stairs and noted, as I backed toward the staircase myself, that Poodle must have caught his second wind— whatever I thought, as long as we kept moving. I turned the corner and began climbing the stairs, halfway up I heard screaming from down the hall. This time the screaming was directed at someone in particular, the screaming contained a name, the same name JJ had mentioned: LEEM-BAY. The screaming voice repeated over and over—

"LEEM- BAY MOTT-TA-LOW LEEM-BAY! ES-TAN-LOS- LA-DROAN-AS, MOTT-TA-LO! LEEM-BAY QWEE-DA-DOUGH, TI-EN-EN-ARM-AS! MOTT-TA!"

Have I mentioned how much Fate is a motherfucker? I guess I have, I've probably said it a dozen times by now. But even a dozen times don't really do justice to that cold reality. Fate don't like to just fuck you once, it's a continual banging, an ever-fuck until your dead. I mean once he got his hooks in you, once you fuck up, you become part of his whorehouse until he's ready to put you down— and I don't mean face first in a pillow. He likes to tease you, get you thinking that your luck has changed; bring you to the brink of some of your own satisfaction and then he donkey punches your ass.

In my opinion, Fate is a real entity: Fate, Mayhem, Chaos, Destruction, War, Pestilence, Hate . . . There are more than four horsemen, many more, but Fate's the Mac though, cause you always think you can play him, or cheat him, but there ain't no beating Fate, you can only try and steer him in other directions.

These darker realities of life, that breed in places like the hood, embedding themselves into the hearts of kids who live outside the nest, so to speak, thrive and multiply. Far from the world where words like disenfranchised are tossed around in uptown dinner parties to give the visual images of destitution a cleaner look.

I like to think that Fate and his flock sometimes get bored playing tag in the Ghetto. Every time I hear of some fucked up shit happening elsewhere, particularly, in society neighborhoods, I imagine that they went on a road trip to fuck with those others who generally respond in open-mouthed amazement and sad "woe is Me's!" Am I rambling? I apologize, I don't want my bitterness to cause a tangent here, my point being, as far as the hood goes, Fate and his partners are real and regular visitors, par for the course some would say. I could be wrong, off base, misguided cause I'm angry at my circumstances, but I don't think so. I think we are all playing pieces, but like the iron in "Monopoly," some are more desirable than others, and I guess if I was Fate, I would want to play with the characters that are gonna give me a thrill, those worth the investment. But even the best characters pass their due. Perhaps there is a set cap on how many narrow escapes or lucky breaks a favorite character can have. A limit to which even Fate is bound; a reservoir that once filled has to drain. Maybe our ultimate end is simply overflow from that last call of grief, that final bad break that just happens to carry you over the side into the abyss. Think about all the times you looked at a motherfucker and said to yourself that guy ain't right, or he gonna catch it bad one day, or Yeah motherfucker, watch!

You might even wish for some sort of grand finale, a reckoning, just desserts for a motherfucker that deserves it. But does it happen? Does it happen to those who deserve it so much? What about Hitler? Smoked himself! Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot? There are countless characters that Fate used repeatedly and somehow, by some fucked up miscue, or by evil design (you decide), got an easy out. And there it is, just a trickle, a burp, an overflow to end a life that dealt misery and death to so many— justice seems never to have much of a hand.

The fifth floor was just a tease, a tickle for Mayhem and Destruction, a prelude in Fate's scheme. As I rushed up the stairs to the next floor listening to the screaming voice, I noticed that my ammo clip was sticking out of the gun. In my rush to reload, I must have hit the magazine release. Had those motherfuckers down the hall had the balls to return fire, I would have been standing there with nothing to throw back other than my thoughts. I stopped on the steps to slam the clip home and re-rack the slide, when gunfire erupted over my head. This was different. It wasn't no 9mm. It was louder, and faster, and it seemed to come from the ceiling, the walls, and the stairs. It enveloped me in a furious RAT-A-TAT-TAT. I threw myself against the wall at the top of the stairs, and yelled for Poodle. He was nowhere to be seen, neither was JJ.

After a brief pause, I heard return fire coming from a position slightly above me and to the rear, I knew it was either Poodle or JJ because the shots sounded like mine moments before. I yelled for Poodle again, I wanted to rush into the corridor and join them on the next flight, the final flight leading up to the roof, but before I could gather the nerve to make that break, the same awesome machine gun fire ripped down the hallway. I heard, interspersed between the streams of lightning quick lead, the pop-pop- pop of a 9mm and realized to my surprise that someone was actually firing back. I also heard a man yelling in Spanish nearby, not more than thirty feet away.

This was a different man, a different voice, not the same asshole that was screaming LEEM-BAY; he was still there too, but way down the hall, and actually so far away that he wasn't really there, just an echo trying to confuse the reverberating gunshots plunging into the walls around me. But this new voice was there and it was awful, and his contribution, I expect, was appreciated by Fate and his many gloating observers, and maybe it earned him his very own tile.

I yelled again, trying to break into the racket. I was fully loaded and I wanted to get mine, but I knew the wall of bullets heading in my direction would shred me to pieces if I dared to look out. Another pause in firing, and a new voice rose above all else, this voice I recognized, and as his words hit me, I felt like I had just taken a shot in the stomach.

"Dee, Dee, he's hit, Poodle's hit, aw man, he's fucking hit!"

For a second I couldn't move, I couldn't even think, I couldn't quite grasp what JJ was saying. I was waiting for Poodle to speak, to say anything; I was waiting to be pushed. I saw the eerie gray smoke in the apartment, I saw it above me again, coming down, coming down to smother me. I blocked JJ out, I blocked Poodle out, I blocked everything out and then I caught it . . .

I'm Nat, that bad motherfucker. And Nat wasn't gonna let us bottom out. Like so many times before I was gonna come through, I would get back on task. I willed myself to a resolution, and with that resolution the haze lifted, the dark smoke above dissipated and a flame entered my belly filling it with heat, stroking it with a calm clarity that put Fate to task for once by spitting in his motherfuckin' face.

I moved deliberately. I responded detached, but unlike my eruption in Heffe's spot, I didn't split in two, I was Nat only, and I was death. I didn't worry, I didn't hesitate, I simply did. I yelled to JJ—

"Cover me!"

I knew he could and I knew he would, even at the end of his rope, even with panic shoving a red-hot poker up his ass; JJ would stick and see this thing through. As soon as I heard shots ring out from above, I leaped across the corridor, but instead of heading to my right, in JJ's direction, I turned left and headed down the hall toward the source of the machine-gun fire. Now I'm not foolish, detached or not; I made this move because I suspected the machine-gun had jammed, shots had not rang out since JJ started yelling for me. Instead, the sounds of struggle hit me, and I took the opportunity to meet our foe. I quickly found the doorway where the gunfire came from, it was on the opposite side, the side the staircase was on, and it was the third door down. JJ was still firing and I saw a spark bounce off the frame as he emptied his gun.

I rushed toward the door hugging the wall, and hoping the motherfucker didn't clear his weapon before I got there. The closer I got the more I could see inside the apartment. When I was about two feet from the doorway, I saw an arm, then a shoulder, and then the profile of a man with Gerri curls, naked, except for boxer shorts and a thick gold chain. He didn't see me as I closed on him; he was too busy trying to fit a new magazine into an AK-47. Besides, who in their right mind would attack a motherfucker with a machine-gun? But I'm Nat, that bad motherfucker my father planted. That bad motherfucker fully evolved. I could still hear that other guy yelling from down the hall.

"LEEM-BAY, LEEM-BAY, QWEE-DOW LEEM-BAY!"

But it didn't matter what he said no more, it didn't matter at all. I was pulling rounds off as soon as I framed the doorway, and they weren't missing. I watched as LEEM-BAY dropped the machine-gun and stagger against the wall, I watched as he threw his hands up to cover his face, I watched as he crumpled to the floor hit with every round I fired. I came into the small hallway and fired directly into his body four, five more times before the slide locked back. I quickly reloaded with my third and final magazine, but instead of dropping my empty clip, I shoved it into my pocket. I glanced into the apartment to see if anyone wanted to invite me in. No one offered. I backed into the corridor and looked down the hall to see if that screaming motherfucker was still there, but like all little bitches, he broke out when he saw me light his beloved LEEM-BAY up. JJ was yelling for me to hurry up, he was crying as he screamed down the hall. He was hysterical. I wasn't, I was quite sober.

My belly was coal and my heart was cold, I wasn't thinking about escape no more. I was like whatever-whatever, either we made it out or we did not. I wasn't scared at all, I was beyond that, I was resigned. But I wasn't stupid. I headed back down the hall toward the rear stairs and noticed that the haze was getting thick again, as if the fire was following us up each flight of steps. The sounds coming from below: screaming, crying, crashing, ripping, breaking, falling . . . told me that more people were dying, and that the whole damned building was going down.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

When I got to the staircase, cold as I was, my heart sank a notch. Not because of what I saw or who it was, but because I knew the gig was up. I knew no matter what JJ and I did, whether we escaped or were caught, whether we continued to shoot our way out, or gave up, the dreams I had, the plans I made, the hope for my future was over. Dead as my mofo Poodle who was sprawled across the bottom of the final flight of stairs to the roof. That motherfucker LEEM-BAY sure lit him up. His blood sprayed across the back wall in a fine pink mist with occasional thicker droplets accenting. The effect suggesting paint thrown from a brush rather than a spray can. Crude holes ripped through the duffel bag and I realized that the pink color was a blend of blood and cocaine. He was lying backwards over the overstuffed bag with his head bent up at an angle, propped into an upright position by the wall. If his eyes were open, he would have been able to look right at me, but they were closed, closed forever; other than, perhaps, for the probing fingers of curious medical examiners who might want to see their color.

His legs were open and stuck straight out in a "V" shape. His boot heels rested beyond the landing, well into the corridor. I didn't have the time to count all the puncture marks that shredded his clothing, but I did see more than a few, and I couldn't miss the hole below his left eye, a jagged hole with a red fragment sticking out, probably a bone, that looked like a broken fang in a tortured mouth. He wasn't moving.

His body didn't twitch, jerk, or release any gas or liquids other than the blood that crept across the floor in an ever-widening pool. Maybe his body was still in shock, frozen from the immediate and total destruction of innumerable bullets striking it at once. Maybe his body never had a chance to react. Who knows, but it appeared to me that Poodle didn't suffer, that his death was instantaneous and that he went out blazing. I didn't feel bad for Poodle. In fact, I didn't feel anything for him at all. I felt for myself. Poodle was a bad seed and his end was probably past due, and maybe not as fitting as he deserved, but that didn't matter because he was gone and that's that. Fate gave up another producer.

His 9mm was in the corner and even though I knew this game was over, I reached for it. JJ was pleading for us to go, he was crying as he crouched at the top of the stairs near the door to the roof. I glanced up at him and saw the tears track down his cheeks through the soot that covered his face, tears reminiscent of that chick on the TV. I didn't say anything, what was there to say? JJ could have left, he could have bounced at any time, but like me in Heffe's shower, and Poodle at the park bench, he made his choice, and now at the end of our adventure he had to decide for himself how he was going out. I placed Poodle's gun in my waist and stepped past him onto the stairs careful not to step in his blood. Even though resigned to whatever, I would do everything I could to minimize my participation— just in case. I took the magazine out of my gun and placed it in my pocket, I shoved my gun in my waistband and drew out his, I pulled the clip and noted that he had five rounds left, I removed them, placing his gun on the step above me.

I retrieved my other clip, the empty one I put in my pocket earlier, and placed it next to his gun. I yanked my shirt out and used the end to wipe down one of the bullets, making sure to erase any prints; I put the other four in my pocket. I also wiped down my empty magazine. Using the shirt, I loaded the one round into the magazine and inserted it into my gun. I carefully wiped the gun down, especially around the trigger, but avoiding the front of the slide or muzzle (not wanting to remove the residue from the recent killing of Limbe). JJ was getting frantic; he kept asking me what I was doing, why I was wasting time. I snapped at him to shut the fuck up and leaned over Poodle's body placing the gun in his hand making sure that his finger touched the trigger.

After I was satisfied with the position of the gun, I turned toward Jay.

"Let's go!"

JJ jumped up and went straight to the door leading to the roof. I hurried after him, never looking back at Poodle. JJ pushed the door open and the sounds of Hell met us. What was loud inside the building was deafening on the roof. It was dark where we stood at the rear of the building, but it was a circus of lights and activity all around us. Spotlights flickered and crisscrossed through the night sky, and a circle of light ringed the building on three sides surrounding the roof in a yellow halo. Twinkling dots flickered from other buildings, lights aimed at us from a thousand points, as if every person in the hood was shining a flashlight in our direction, some cheering us on, others casting blame with their puny, inconsequential stares. I immediately noticed a terrified knot of humanity staring over the ledge near the front.

They stared with one face, choking on the thick smoke that billowed up from below casting shadows above their heads, shadows of hungry demons waiting for their souls.

A loud speaker blared out metallic directions in English and Spanish, the words so distorted, you couldn't tell which was which, and no one could understand either anyway. We rushed to the only side of the roof that did not have any light kissing it, the rear side that connected to the next building. The adjoining roof was approximately thirty-five feet higher than the one we were on, and to the casual observer completely unassailable. There were no windows facing out in our direction, nor any stairs, ladders, or any other access that would suggest that the two buildings were neighborly. In fact, the wall was ponderous, threatening even, as if the builder's intent was to create an impassable and imposing barrier. When Poodle and JJ first looked for a way down onto the target roof they were surprised to see how distant the two buildings really were, joined at the hip, but so far apart. To jump was foolish, and to climb back up, impossible, or so it initially seemed.

But there was this pipe, a large cast iron pipe that shot up through the lower roof, close to the wall, so close, actually, that it was bolted to the wall every five feet with a metal strap. Comfortably close, but far enough away for a person to shimmy up if that was his intent. Poodle and JJ used the pipe so often during their surveillance runs that it was practically a ladder to them. But for me, it was untried and under the circumstances, almost a dead end. When we discussed our exit strategy, Poodle and JJ repeatedly blew off that pipe.

They assured me that the climb was easy and I wouldn't have a problem. I trusted them, why wouldn't I? They felt that it wasn't something I needed to practice and when I showed reservations about the whole thing, Poodle blew up.

"Dammit Nat, it ain't like you really that big gimp fool Derrick. When I tell you it's easy to climb, then it's easy to fuckin' climb!"

But I practiced anyway. As mentioned before, Poodle found a similar pipe, which I climbed, well enough. But that pipe wasn't as high up, and I wasn't climbing in the same circumstances. Looking at the pipe rise so far up that wall and barely making out the ledge of the other roof, I had some serious fucking doubts. Maybe little motherfuckers don't understand how big cats like me always got problems with shit like that— jumping, climbing, and squirming into holes. I'm sure they honestly believed climbing up that pipe was no big deal, but as I stood there looking up, I knew I was gonna have all sorts of problems.

JJ didn't pause, he bee-lined straight to the pipe and scurried up like a rat. One second his hands clasped around the base, and the next he was looking down from the ledge above. I watched how he did it; hand over hand bracing his feet against the wall like Batman climbing up a building. But unlike a rope, which a man (or a superhero) can adjust based on his height; the fucking pipe was not going to move. And I could tell that unless I shrunk in the next few seconds, my arms would be too close to my feet and I wouldn't have the leverage to walk the fuck on up like he just did. I cursed myself for letting two short motherfuckers convince me that my size didn't matter— size always matters. I first tried to climb like JJ, I knew it was a worthless effort, and that I was just wasting time, but I had to rule it out.

Sure enough, I was bent over too far and couldn't get the right angle, my foot kept slipping off the wall and after a few attempts I gave it up promising myself that I wouldn't bother trying it again, even in a panic. I next tried to scramble up, locking my knees tight against the pipe as I reached up and grasped the pole higher and higher. This approach actually got me off the roof, and I struggled up about ten feet before the pain coursing through my knees forced them to release their grip and I began slipping.

The duffel bag strapped to my back pulled down as I pulled up and the strain was too much. I realized that if I were going to make it up I would have to lose the bag. I slid back down onto the roof and stripped the duffel off my back. It landed with a thump.

I looked up at JJ and yelled for a rope. He looked down exasperated; he gestured to the pipe.

"Just climb!"

I was still deadly calm, just as I was when I smoked Limbe and when I looked down at Poodle's wrecked body. I had already calculated the time, and decided that cops were well on their way up the very building I was trying to climb onto. I reckoned we had about two minute's tops to make our jump and be out. I figured that even with the best of luck, we would have to jump within sight of them, but that still gave us a chance. I had a full clip and I had nothing to lose, either Fate was satisfied with the loss of Poodle, or he was cleaning the whole plate. In any event, I fully intended to make it to the roof above before I made my last stand. I looked at JJ and said evenly:

"The rope Jay, lower down the rope you used to lower our gear earlier."

JJ had used a rope; we discussed it during our planning. JJ used a rope to lower the large bag with all our gear and the can of jet fuel used to set the fire.

He couldn't safely carry the fuel down and we didn't want to make a loud noise by dropping a heavy bag on the roof. There was a rope; the only question was what the fuck he did with it. JJ cursed, looking around and said that he threw it to the side somewhere near the back stairway. I rushed back over to the door and scanned the rooftop.

All around me the sounds of panic and rescue, death and survival, entered my brain— a woman screamed, and then people below screamed back ,and then a terrified screech from the street, a pause, a sick thud, then silence from that side of the roof. Glass breaking, a yell, scuffling sounds followed by a hundred holding their breath, then cheers. Crying babies, barking men, roaring fire, splashing water, Chaos and chance-Angels catching what they could. I saw the rope partly coiled about fifteen feet away from the door, a bright yellow polypropylene line with a wildly frayed end, which made it look like a squid. I snatched it and ran back to the pipe. By sheer luck, or their own sense of self-preservation, none of the other people on the roof had noticed us by that point. Collectively more concerned with their common circumstance, rather than what was going on in a dark corner. I tied the frayed end around the strap to the duffel bag and tossed the other end up to JJ, who was miraculously, still waiting for me. He caught the line and immediately began pulling out the slack. I picked the bag up, held it over my head against the wall, and watched as the line tightened. One fifty, one seventy-five, who cares, I held it up until JJ took the full weight. The bag lifted off me in a flash and seconds later, it disappeared over the ledge.

I started climbing up the pipe again, this time I braced my back against the wall and was able to push my weight into it as I pulled myself up. I couldn't fit completely behind the pipe but there was about eight inches of clearance, more than enough for me to maintain pressure as I reached up to grab a higher hold. It wasn't smooth and it wasn't fluid, but I made it to the top all the same. As I neared the ledge, JJ reached down and practically pulled me up the last few feet. As I struggled to get over the ledge, I heard a familiar voice yelling from the roof below, that same motherfucker who I shot at on the fifth floor, the same motherfucker who warned Limbe on the sixth. He was screaming at the top of his lungs.

"HELP-E, POLE-EH-CEE-AH, MA-TA-DOOR-ES, LA-DRONE-ES-A-YER, HELP-E, HELP-E!"

I also heard, to my dismay, because I had begun to hope that my calculations were off, the unmistakable squawk of police radios and running footsteps coming from somewhere behind me. JJ gasped and bolted as I tumbled over the ledge onto my waiting duffel bag. I cursed the misfortune of not being able to fire a few rounds in the direction of the motherfucker who had screwed up our plans, but knew that my shit was wrapping up fast, and I needed to save my ammo for better targets.

Chapter Forty

I rolled off my bag and found my feet. Through the darkness, I could see JJ running to the other end of the roof, and closer, fanning out and coming in my direction, a whole lotta cops! I leaped up grabbing the duffel bag and started after JJ. He was a good thirty feet in front of me and moving with a quickness that comes with fright.

I saw two cops make a break in his direction and knew if they didn't catch him, they would most definitely catch me. Besides, I thought, stopping abruptly, causing the duffel bag to slap hard against my thigh, the gig was up. The screams in Spanish from that motherfucker from the roof below were so loud and so obviously directed at me, that a spotlight would have served no better. The cops knew shots had been fired, Hell, the whole neighborhood knew that. From the very first shot, to the ridiculous shootout on the sixth floor, the whole damned city must have known there was more than an inferno blazing in the ghetto that night. Therefore, to say the least, the cops that were pouring onto the roof were ready for more than a rescue. I heard multiple voices order me to freeze. To my right, additional figures were rushing through the door, I kept hearing the door pitch open violently then attempt to shut only to be thrust open again and again. I felt the intimate touch of flashlights dance on my face— just like the train tunnel, except this time I had no Shakespeare to offer, this time it would be a real curtain call.

I knew when I stopped that I wasn't gonna make that second jump, I knew that even if I was Peter Fuckin' Pan I wasn't gonna get away. But JJ had a chance, and I might be able to better his odds. Besides, I already made my choice, and now it was time to pay, cause Fate and his boys got to get theirs, and evidently Poodle wasn't enough. With all the strength I could muster, I swung the duffel bag, heaving it at the cops, while, simultaneously, diving for cover behind a brick column that looked like an old chimneystack. I thought I heard a shot ring out before I landed, but my version of events is irrelevant. A sharp pain pierced my belly as I hit the roof.

I thought I landed on a broken bottle, or some other debris stuck me. Pain raced down my legs, as if the damage was too great to be limited to my stomach, eager to share its discomfort with other parts of my body. I didn't have the time to commiserate though; instead, I focused my will on what had to be done. I scrambled up to the bricks and slammed into them reaching for my gun. I felt the column shake as I hit it, and some debris fell on top of me, but I didn't pay that any mind, all I cared about was that I was behind something and I had the opportunity to respond.

I didn't know what was going on with JJ, I didn't know if he made his jump or not, but I wanted to believe that he did, I wanted to fade out seeing his smiling face, windswept and free, burning down an empty highway. I wanted to die believing that he got away, that he was out of the hood, that he was gonna ride his fucking motorcycle down to the end of the world and spit off the edge for me and Poodle and for all the bad choices. I needed to meet Fate knowing that JJ at least, had another chance to make good his life, to edit his reel with some happy cuts, to get some of that sweet grass I'd never be able to taste.

I thrust my gun out around the corner of the brick column and I pulled the trigger. I pulled it, pulled it, and pulled it— screaming at the cops, cursing Fate, yelling at the abyss that waited for me.

"Fuck you motherfucker! Fuck you all! Come get some Natty, come the fuck on!"

Tears raged down my face, burning tears that stung my eyes as my gun stung the cops.

"Fuck you number one and number three . . . Fuck you pop, you fucking over the hills and through the woods truck driving motherfucker! Fuck you Mom, you crack head bitch— don't be reaching out to me in no lighted tunnel, I'll kick your ass back in front of another train! Fuck you Audrey, fuck you Sheryl, and fuck you Winston, with your stupid ass cigarettes! Fuck you Hard Eyes, Heffe, Nitch and Riley . . . Fuck it all! Fuck Poodle with his Oscar acting, his kinky hair, his torn up body . . . Fuck Pepino and his fucking parakeet looking, won't die right, faggot cook! Fuck you Booth Man, with your burning face and your accusations! Fuck you LEEM-BAY! Fuck pansy dreams, fuck escape, fuck sweet grass and red doors, fuck it all!"

I pulled the trigger until my gun emptied, and I pulled it more, click, click, click, fuck the world, and fuck Fate who did me worse than Poodle, used me up and then sold me for a cop's "Hero Fantasy" come true. A tale to be relived every Fourth of July barbecue where nephews in pirate hats and nieces in pigtails sit in awe as the favorite Uncle retells how he took down that big motherfucking monster on that fateful night in that "Never land" called the Ghetto.

As my lead flew, their lead flew. Bullets whizzed by me or hit the bricks in front of me. I could feel the bullets slam into the bricks; their force pulsed through the column and reverberated into my shoulder. I pressed hard against the other side as the gunfire overcame the night. I don't know how many shots went off, but I know it was more than the official count. The final report said that the police fired a total of sixty-seven rounds from six pistols and four slugs from one shotgun. The report said that two cops on scene didn't fire at all. But Natty knows that's bullshit, Natty knows they fired a lot more than sixty-seven rounds.

Shit, 67 shots from six guns would mean they each averaged 12 rounds— that would mean what, maybe one clip each— possibly a reload, that's a bunch of bullshit! Natty remembers seeing a whole lotta empty magazines and spent shells as they hauled my ass away. I remember being dragged over casings that burned my neck cause they had just come out of hot guns, and everybody knows that a gun don't get hot after twelve rounds. And how the fuck could 67 rounds and four slugs (not counting the shots that missed) knock down a motherfucking chimney? And that's how Fate did me— not death, no not anything as final as that, Nat was too much fun. After I emptied my clip, I hugged the bricks tight and was trying to feed the loose rounds I had in my pocket into the magazine, when all of a sudden, the whole brick column fell right down on top of me. Taken down by a fucking chimney, how's that for Fate fucking with a motherfucker!

I don't think I blacked out, but I can't remember everything that happened after I was buried. I remember that it got real quiet, and I remember thinking that I was in my own tomb. I tried to sneeze because my nose was full of dust but I couldn't move and the weight on my chest made it difficult to breathe let alone muster enough oxygen to blow air. Distant voices crept through the darkness; they were closer than I wanted them to be, but still far enough away that I could imagine they weren't really there. They were warning each other to be careful and to "Find his hands first!" The dull clink of bricks moving invaded the silence more directly than the cautious words spoken, and I knew I wasn't dead. I listened to the bricks and thought what an ugly sound for my salvation.

I couldn't feel my legs. In the few moments I had, before a bunch of angry cops pulled me from the rubble, I realized that I couldn't feel my legs even before the chimney fell. In fact, I recalled, that I had the hardest time trying to pull the loose bullets from my pocket because I couldn't shift my lower body, or stretch my legs out for leverage. A fear hit me, greater than that of death, a fear that crushed me worse than the chimney or ten chimneys even. . . .

My right arm was freed first, grabbed roughly, pulled clear, and cracked hard across the wrist; a cuff was cranked down tight. My left arm was next, with the same result, although at some point, I felt someone check for a pulse. Both of my arms were pinned down to either side of me, both with their very own set of cuffs, both held down hard by more than two sets of hands. When they cleared the bricks and debris covering my head (the last and least important part of my body), I was loose enough to be dragged out the rest of the way. They accomplished this without any concern for additional injury to me of course, and twice when my body snagged on something, they pulled so violently, I feared they would rip my arms off. I'm not complaining, mind you, the shit is what it is, but Natty was struck with pain, pain that I hadn't felt ever.

But to my ever-growing sense of dread, the pain was not all that struck me; it was the lack of pain, the lack of any feeling below my midsection that really got me squealing like a pig. And I hollered, I hollered forever. I was shot three times: once in the right leg just above the knee; once in the right foot and once in the stomach (the shot not heard round hood). The doctors said that the round I took in the leg was a serious injury; it shattered my femur, and tore through most of the upper ligaments that attached to my knee.

The same doctors said that the shot to my foot was also serious; it ripped through my boot taking two toes with it (the two smallest ones) and caused some significant nerve damage. But Nat ain't have to worry about missing toes and broken leg bones cause the shot that I took in the stomach was the only one that mattered. That one, well aimed by Fate, ensured a lifetime observer for him and his games cause that one hit my spinal cord and the damage was immediate and irreversible. Those same fucking doctors in their clinical professionalism, probably all the more colder cause they were treating America's newest Public Enemy #1 told me that the bullet that all the fucking judges agreed wasn't fired first, split my T-12 vertebrae and severed the cord guaranteeing that everything below the injury site was useless forevermore. My legs, my dick, even my asshole were dead from that one shot. So Natty's choice got him less than he wanted, and more than he could take and that's gettin' paid, and that's the truth!

The falling bricks did some damage too. Not that I gave a fuck, but I want to give you the full accounting: my left clavicle, left wrist, right elbow and four ribs were fractured. I had cuts and bruises all over my body with the most serious being a three inch gash across my head that had leaked enough blood into my right ear as I laid under the bricks, that the doctors had to eventually drain it out with a tube (the gash required 14 staples and 33 stitches). Ain't Fate a bitch!

Chapter Forty-One

I was instantly notorious, a ghetto superstar, a motherfucking giant even though I couldn't stand no more. When the whole story broke— who I was and what Poodle and me had done, I mean the whole thing: the double roles, the history, and the wild schemes; I became a legend, a real urban legend. Even the cops were impressed. Shit, my story sells itself, and ain't a word of it bullshit— the real deal straight out of the hood, a motherfucking thug mastermind! But legends must fall, and Natty was no exception. I was gonna take the whole bid cause there was no one else around. Poodle was dead and JJ, my man JJ was gone! Like a sweet sunset, he was history, no trace, no leads, and sure enough, no hints from Nat. Poof like smoke, like a ripping chrome pipe, my motherfucker was gone. The cops tried to find him, they searched everywhere but they couldn't track him down, no one was going to track Jay down 'cept, eventually, Fate. But until he gets himself caught, Jay rides through my dreams on his motorcycle happy, phat and maxing. A better life, I think, even better than number's one and three. And far better than any he would have had slinging crack in the hood.

The fires JJ set in the building had obviously burned way out of control. People died and Nat was the one holding the match. But certain facts revealed during the course of the investigation did provide Nat with some company in the ensuing blame game. The building, built before the turn of the century, and I mean the late 1800s, underwent significant renovations in the 1930's. Historical documents revealed that sagging floors from weakened beams forced the owner to either tear the building down or shore it up. Most of the property owners at that time, preferred to rebuild, but the owner of this particular building, a man named Edler Lisp, made the fateful decision to renovate instead.

Evidently, it was cost efficient to reinforce the building's structural supports rather than rebuild the structure itself. Steel girders and cross beams were added to strengthen the structure but the existing timber was left in place. This timber was untreated, and over the years became so brittle that it was equivalent to dry brush. The jet fuel that JJ splashed all over the building seeped through the plaster, and when the flames found the posts and beams beyond, the resulting disaster was unavoidable. The Fire Marshal's report indicated that the fire traveled behind the walls with unusual speed because the ready fuel source was consumed at an accelerated rate, and being essentially the skeleton of the building, the burning substructure acted like a highway. The fire didn't need to stop and consume the walls or any interior fuel to live; it spread behind the walls and burned from the outside in. In effect, many people baked inside their apartments as if they were in ovens, rather than in a fire. I remembered the heat and the smoke coming from everywhere. I shuddered remembering the smoke in Pepino's living room, how it seemed happy as it slowly searched for victims. The fire took an estimated ten minutes to become out of control, and only twenty to be an all-consuming inferno.

Because the fire incubated behind the walls without revealing the extent of its reach, residents didn't begin to evacuate until it was almost too late.

The report said it was a miracle that the loss of life was comparatively low considering the number of people in the building. But even one death is enough when it was not intentional. And a dozen, well, a dozen was overwhelming. Twelve people died because of the fire. Most of the victims were on the second floor, in the rear half of the building, beyond the door JJ wedged shut. The investigation revealed that at least some of the victims attempted to open the hallway door, but when it wouldn't budge, they went back into their apartments; why they didn't attempt to use the back stairs remains unclear and perplexing. Survivors said that no one used the back stairs, the indication being that those stairs were off limits (probably exclusively used by the drug dealers in 3-G). The report suggested that the only people who used the rear staircase to escape the fire were the suspects.

The report said that the rear staircase was accessible to the residents in the back half of the building and had the victims used it as a means to get to the roof, they might have survived. For a family of five in apartment 2-F: a mother, a grandmother, an eleven-year-old girl, a seven-year-old boy, and a six-month-old baby, it no longer mattered. A family of three in apartment 2-E: a father, a mother and a three-year-old boy, it no longer mattered. An elderly man in 2-H, and an elderly woman in 4-E (who I believe is the same woman I heard yelling for help), their decision to stay inside their apartments cost them their lives, so it no longer mattered. Questions regarding why they didn't jump (those being on the second floor), the report and eyewitness accounts suggested that since the first floor was completely engulfed in a matter of minutes, the heat and smoke that billowed up from below forced people away from the windows above. Had they jumped, they would've leaped directly into flames. Two firefighters also died during the blaze. They were attempting to find people on the third floor when the floor beneath them gave way and they fell into hell.

One of them fell four flights to the basement level. The fire had burned through everything below him and he died from blunt trauma. At least that is what the report said. The other one landed near the elevator shaft on the second floor, but before a rescue-team could be assembled, like within seconds after they fell, a back draft shot through the open shaft and consumed him. The fire took over ten hours to contain and fourteen to extinguish. Along with the twelve fatalities, twenty-six other residents, firefighters, and cops suffered injuries ranging from first degree burns to broken bones. The most serious, being a head injury suffered by a young woman who leaped out of a fourth floor window.

Of course, there were the other fatalities, but those weren't attributed to the fire. They were mine exclusively. Pepino, Victor, Alex, Pizza Guy, Booth Man, the four "Cave" men (one shot dead, the other three from asphyxia- arguably from smoke, but attributed to the concentrated pepper spray), Limbe, riddled with 9mm holes in the entryway to his apartment, and lastly Poodle. Eleven more dead, but they weren't reported to the public for a couple of days.

The events that took place that night compelled the Fire Department to treat the entire building as a crime scene; in particular, apartment 3-G, the rear half of the fifth floor, and the entire sixth floor. Although, in general, the police and fire departments spend as much time fucking each other over as they do handling their own affairs, this investigation brought them together. The arson investigation fell under the jurisdiction of the Fire Department, whereas the overall criminal investigation was clearly the responsibility of the police.

Because this case was a media haymaker and the public was screaming for answers, the two entities, without any reservations, worked together as if they never had a difference.

The day after the hit, the Fire Department cleared the building for the crime scene investigators and what they discovered put Nat in the national headlines: "Drug Hit Massacre"; "Death in the Ghetto"; "Ruthless Drug Robbery Gone Wrong" and many others. I was in intensive care surrounded by cops and nurses (devils and angels), 'cept none of the nurses looked like they wanted to help Nat too much. They stared through slotted eyes, and weren't liberal with the pain meds. I didn't care. I didn't want no one's help anyway. I knew the score, I didn't know exactly what happened at first, but I did know about the fire fighters, and I knew there were other innocent victims. I also learned that I had wounded two cops in the shootout, nothing major, but enough to get the death wish stares I was feeling.

The cops tried to talk to me the night before, on the way to the hospital. They asked me what happened, but I was nearly unconscious and I wasn't gonna talk anyway. I lawyered up and gratefully passed out. In the emergency room, I overheard two doctors talking about the fire fighters and then a little later I heard about the residents, including the children. That hurt me more than I would have figured beforehand, but I was devastated. I wouldn't show it of course, but fire fighters don't ever mean no one harm, and I caused two of them to die. And children, shit, they ain't supposed to die, ever! And I done killed some, me and JJ and Poodle and it hurt inside real bad. When I learned the true extent of the tragedy, I knew what the result would be for Nat, and I knew what I had to do.

I didn't tell my whole story, certain things I had to keep close to protect family and friends. But I did tell all, starting with the hit on Heffe and continuing right up to that last night at Pepino's (with the major fucking exception of even mentioning Zeke). I had to spill the Heffe gig, it wasn't going to be prosecuted— I mean find the victim to prove the crime, but it established a foundation, credibility, if I could be bold enough to use that word. The cops needed to understand that Poodle and me had the skills and the experience to pull the Pepino hit on our own; they needed to see that we were the Macs. They had to feel me. It was all I had left I needed my props. They had to believe me.

The detectives that interviewed me were amazed at the details. They knew all about Heffe, they said there was only one dealer in the city that was missing a finger. They didn't tell me his real name, but said that "Heffe" hadn't learned his lesson. They said the Feds took him down a few months back during an undercover buy for six kilos that caught him ten years and automatic deportation. They interviewed Heffe at the federal pen and he confirmed what I said. The cops told me that he gave them a detailed statement about how it went down. They said that he called me "the big one." They told me that he said some kind things about how I helped him out, and laughed when he learned that "the other one" was dead. He said that the devil must be happy to have his child back. I was surprised that Heffe had anything nice to say about that night, but I did help him after all, and that counted for something. The media was busy portraying me as a heartless thug who killed indiscriminately, and up until their interview with Heffe, the cops treated me much the same way.

After learning of my benevolence toward Heffe, they eased up. They still wanted my blood, but they now pictured me as the "lesser" partner in the scheme. This notion ultimately became meat for the defense my lawyers hatched, but I had my own agenda cause I wasn't lesser than no one.

Chapter Forty-Two

It was very difficult watching Poodle's mom cry. She came to the Courthouse every day during my trial to hear who, what, where, and ultimately why. She wasn't alone, the entire country tuned in; reporters filled the pews and relayed the events each night like a soap opera. But, unfortunately, it wasn't no soap opera, it was an in your face, real life, hood thug drama that hit the viewer with something cold— no matter who the viewer was.

A sympathizer for the poor and disenfranchised, or a hardliner who yearned for justice, or more accurately— to contain them motherfucking scumbags— whoever watched the play by play got much more than a news update.

My lawyers believed our only chance was to explain my life, and hope that they could convince a sympathetic jury that poor Natty never had a chance, that what I ultimately became was a result of my cruel life. That Poodle and I were guilty, but guilty because we didn't understand society's rules, that we lived in our own society, a sub-culture boxed in by the greater society; a place where law is dismissed for status and the rules are simple— get ahead by any means.

I was more realistic than my lawyers were. I knew that even if they argued their case in front of the most liberal and understanding jury imaginable, it wouldn't make a difference, it couldn't. And secretly, I believed this was the way it should be. The public got their ears full though, poor Natty's life- shit that is all on the record if you are truly interested. Psychologists, former Guidance Counselors, even my sisters took the stand trying to explain how Nat came to be, that I wasn't no monster, just a lost soul without a conscience, made that way cause I ain't never had a chance. I listened and I watched the jury listen, and I felt some of their stares when a particular heart rending account brought tears to some eyes.

The shrinks my lawyers hired spun a theory explaining how Nat grew up surrounded by ghetto violence; that my unimaginable living conditions reduced my outlook on life to mere survival, and that I did not, could not, understand the consequences of my actions because I knew no better.

That I only knew status in the hood, status achieved by taking from others, without compunction, without remorse; they sold a story of survival of the fittest in an environment disregarded by main stream America, and only highlighted when tragedies occur, when everyone wants a guilty party.

My lawyers sharpened this angle by citing case after case after case where disenfranchised youth pay the price for society's failures. They never said I was not guilty; in fact, they made it quite clear that I was they just wanted the world to recognize that YOU are guilty too!

I played along with their strategy, but not because I believed any of it, I knew better. But because I knew their argument would ultimately put me on the stand, and that was what I wanted. I waited until they whipped their story up to froth, I waited until I saw compassionate nods from some of the jury, I waited as the prosecutors fidgeted, and worried that my defense was making an impact, that they might actually lose the case. I waited until the climate was perfect to set the record straight. The trial lasted three months; three months of testimony, that really didn't amount to shit, three months of point and counter point on the why and the how. What, sadly, was conveniently forgotten. The twenty-three dead people were now just a statistic, a reason for the debate about ghetto violence. My lawyers painted a picture that I knew was false, that has always been false, and will always be a lame excuse for criminality regardless of the "Waah" factor. I knew that only fools would buy their crap, but I also knew that we live in a country full of fools and sometimes we all need a big bitch slap.

I had my say, the truth about gettin' paid. In fifteen minutes I slapped society, a slap well deserved for many years for many reasons. And I swear, not a motherfucker in that courtroom took a breath the entire time I spoke— we done broke records in that quarter of an hour. My defense team spent days prepping me for the stand, how to speak, how to sit, how to bow my head, even how to cry. They constantly reminded me that I was an uneducated hood thug, not in words mind you, but in their very deeds, in their passion to see poor Natty spared. And I watched it all, detached, shaking my head, fools; they were a bunch of damned fools. When I finally wheeled my ass up to the stand, looked at the judge, and said, "I do," they got what I had been planning for, they got the nuts and it was worth it all.

What they heard left them speechless, dumbfounded, deflated, just like they should have been. What I said didn't even draw a cross examination, didn't have too, because Natty let fly— I laid down the truth, the whole truth— the planning, the practice, the complete and accepted understanding of what we would do and why. I let fly, our intent, Poodle and me.

Sure, I regret the innocent deaths, and I said as much. And I truly feel that irreversible damage each and every day. But the notion that my lawyers suggested, that me and Poodle and JJ and all the other street kids from all the other ghettos involved in all the other crimes already done (and those to be done), somehow don't understand what is right and what is wrong. That we-do-not-know-what-it-is-we-do, that we are somehow less human because of our childhood, or lack thereof. That is a bunch of crap and it offends me. I told my story and I told it in the only way I knew how. And maybe some who heard me didn't understand all of my words, but everyone who heard me felt what I said.

My ghetto and me ain't less than anybody else. True enough we don't do breakfast muffins each morning, and we don't get dessert every night, but we are just as aware, just as conscious and intelligent as the rest of you. We just happen to fill the niches that society doesn't like, niches that you avoid like the plague. And we, the denizens of your dirty holes and your ugly thoughts get where we need to be any way possible, and gettin' paid trumps life in the hood and that's the cold, bitter, motherfucking truth!

-

My finale, my final finale ended with the words:

"And that's that and Nat's Nat!"

The courtroom was silent. Eyes wet with the brutal onslaught of reality bowed many heads. The painful understanding of what I said kept most eyes from looking directly at me, even the judge turned away from my accusing gaze. In fifteen minutes, I confessed to being that bad motherfucker my father wanted so much. In fifteen minutes, I crippled society with a reality they didn't want to accept. In fifteen minutes, Nat Turner Johnson put the ghetto, the hood, and the thug way of life in the lap of America and it burned her. I forced society to re-examine the general belief regarding urban crime. I made them see that environment doesn't really matter. Upbringing doesn't matter. Education, love, values, religion don't matter. I forced them to acknowledge in their very own hearts that it doesn't matter whether you're from the hood or the suburbs, choice is what fills new coffins, and choice is the motherfucker and then of course comes Fate.

Labels, reasons, stereotypes, the WHY for the Waahs are nothing but excuses that society can use as a security blanket. Nat ripped that blanket away. I showed them that two so-called uneducated ghetto thugs aren't the only ones who choose to commit crime. But that two angry kids from middle-class America chose to go on a killing spree. What, depression? No love from mommy or daddy? Yadda, yadda, yadda—fuckin' choice! A rich yuppie teenager chose to rob wealthy apartments for shits and giggles and then killed his girlfriend in a park during rough sex. Why, lack of parenting? A superiority complex? Yadda, yadda, yadda—fuckin' choice!

A lawyer and his wife on a white-devil crack binge beat their daughter and left her alone on a floor for three days, she bled out. How, drugs, rage? In over their heads? Yadda, yadda, yadda— fucking choice! A mother of five puts her babies to sleep permanently and then wonders where they went. Who, Stress, one of Fate's friends? A breakdown, mental illness? Yadda, fucking yadda— Choice! Choice!! Choice!!!

Circumstance does not causes crime, it is not position, or morals, or family values, it is choice, simple fucking choice, regardless of what the Prozac dispensing doctors say, or those stupid statistics that are constantly revamped in Sociology 101. I've read all that crap, and it is what it is, excuses, security blankets, reasons to help society understand those others among them. But what it will always come down to, the common denominator, is choice, and motherfucker's choose, so choose right.

Remember when I told you I should have climbed back out that bathroom window? Remember how I saw my life on that shower wall, how it didn't add up to nothing good? Well here I am, forty years later trying to scrub those tiles clean. Hoping that by telling you how I fucked up will get you thinking about how you might be fucking up and maybe I can help you choose what you should and should not do. All through this story I've hinted, suggested, and sometimes dropped outright warnings about what you should be considering for your own future. Some of you, I hope, will bite, but others, you knuckleheads, will swim right on by, perhaps enjoying the story but missing the point. But I'll spit it one last time anyway.

Ain't no crime worth a body's life; and ain't no bid worth the risk. There are too many of us here in prison that tried to catch the apple but caught the worm, too many of us that done bit it more than once. Gettin' paid for the moment will only get you paying later. That is word. I ain't ever gonna clean what I've done. Believe me, I've been trying for years, but, perhaps, I can place some new tiles in my shower, at least I can try. The devil is sure gonna get his due come long— him and Fate, regardless of what I'm trying to do now. Old Nasty done dropped some ching on Nat and he gonna collect, he always collects. But I might be able to convince some of you not to be like me or Poodle or even JJ who will pay, eventually. I hope I can, I truly do, cause there isn't a motherfucker breathing who done gets paid the way we did who won't be paying back tenfold, and that's the truth!

Go on now, go get your barn motherfuckers, get your sweet grass and some happiness and remember crippled ol' Natty. Help the elderly, respect your mothers, hug your children, and smile when you look in the mirror. If you do that, then you'll really get paid, and man, that's the nuts, and that's the truth!

Nat

