Crackhead II: A Novel Read online

  “What?”

  “You’re all mine,” she smiled back at him. “But right now,” she looked at her watch, then grabbed her backpack from Dink’s grasp, “I’m late for my next class, and this isn’t the way to start the new school year. I’ll see you after class, baby.” Laci quickly kissed Dink and ran in search of her second class.

  Dink loved Laci’s innocence and smiled while he watched her scurry away. He was glad he was a part of Laci’s rehab and saw how much it had helped her. After she had disappeared from his sight, Dink glanced at his schedule, then shoved it in his pocket and flung his backpack over his left shoulder. He strolled through the campus with the swagger of a man who owned the world. It was a new day, and Dink saw that there was another life outside of being a dope man. Of course, the game had given him cash and material things, but now he had the opportunity to exercise his mind. Dink realized that he had it all. Money at his disposal, a girl he loved, and now he was legit. Giving the “what up” nod to those who passed him, Dink confidently walked to his next class, now living the white man’s American dream.

  CHAPTER 3

  SMURF SAT INSIDE Dink’s apartment on Gun Hill Road contemplating his next move. It had been a couple of weeks since Dink had left the Bronx, and Smurf needed to make sure that he had everything on lock just as Dink had. He wasn’t a sentimental cat, but he couldn’t believe that Dink had given him his entire empire—the South Bronx. He was no longer Dink’s best-kept secret . . . he was the dope man now.

  He started exploring the apartment. Although Smurf had been to Dink’s place before, he’d never really tripped off of all the luxuries he had because he’d been so busy taking in everything Dink taught him. Dink was a street philosopher and in order to learn, Smurf had had to listen. Maybe he was schooling me on all of this all along so he could get out the game, Smurf thought to himself, but does a hustler ever truly get out of the game? He remembered arriving at the apartment when Dink called, and seeing the huge Louis Vuitton traveling trunk near the front door.

  “Where we going?” he remembered asking.

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Dink had said. Smurf was confused. “I’m going. I’m leaving this place. I’ve done all that I can do for you, Marco, Dame, shit . . . even Crystal. I got to do for me now.”

  Smurf realized that doing for him meant following his heart, which meant starting a new life with Laci—a crackhead. He remembered how deeply Dink was wrapped up in her and how he’d always had a smile on his face, even when he saw her at her worst. Smurf knew that leaving was the right move for Dink. He only hoped that one day a woman would make him feel that way as well.

  Walking slowly around the apartment, Smurf admired the black art that graced the walls and small African figures that were placed strategically throughout. He looked at the picture that hung above the fireplace. It was a close-up of a beautiful black woman’s face, and there was something about the picture that he connected with. There was so much sadness in her eyes that he could relate to. Smurf’s thoughts traveled back to his mother. He’d always wanted a good life for her and with him being the man now, he would make sure she would have nothing less.

  Smurf stood and studied her for what seemed like hours, as if he was staring right into her soul. Then he remembered that behind the picture was a wall safe. He removed the large picture and leaned it up against the wall next to the fireplace. Remembering the combination that Dink gave him, he slowly turned the dial to the right, to the left, then back to the right. He grabbed the handle gently and turned it.

  Click.

  Smurf’s heart beat rapidly as he looked at the perfect rubber-banded stacks of dead presidents that lay before him. He reached his hand inside and took one out.

  He fanned through the stack, inhaling the fresh, crisp scent of money, then a smile crept across his childlike face. Smurf took out the remaining stacks just because he could. A brand-new, shiny Beretta .380 that sat just behind the money shocked him. He took the piece out and walked over to the full-length mirror by the front door and posed. First, he stood with his legs apart and the gun pointed at his reflection as if he were the bad guy. Then he turned to the side to check out his profile with the new piece. Smurf liked how he looked, and the new gun made him feel invincible.

  “Yo, Dink—” Smurf yelled, only to remember that Dink was truly gone.

  He looked at his reflection, and the tear that he had tried to suppress crept down his sepia-colored cheek.

  “Don’t be mad, Smurf, I’m gonna always take care of you.”

  “How you fuckin’ leaving . . . leaving me here? What am I supposed to do? This is all I know.”

  “Naw, my lil’ man, you know way more. That’s why I’m leaving this all to you. You’re the man now.”

  “What? Leaving what to me?”

  “The South Bronx, baby.”

  Smurf roughly wiped the tear away. For the first time since he’d started working for Dink, he was all alone. Smurf never knew his own father, so he looked up to Dink as a father figure. It was Dink who’d taken him under his wing and taught him not only the code of the streets, but also about life, which sharpened his mind. Smurf’s mother had tried to do the same but as he got older, she became too busy with men to make sure he stayed on the right path. Truth be told, Dink had lasted longer in his life than the men his mother had running through her.

  Dink gave Smurf credit because he was hungry and eager to work, and he actually listened and learned. Smurf was his most loyal comrade; and because of that, they’d formed a tight bond. Even though Smurf had never actually worked with Dink in his business, he ended up being the muscle Dink needed and the eyes to see what he couldn’t. Smurf saw a lot and knew that he could hold Dink down if need be. He’d already got rid of the dead weight when he got rid of that snitch Marco and that bitch-ass nigga Dame; now it was time to get the rest of his soldiers together. But who could he trust?

  Smurf remembered all he’d brought with him—clothes, cassette tapes, and sneakers. He shook his head pitifully at what little he had, but then remembered he was the man now, and soon he would have more.

  Thank you, man, he thought. How can I ever repay you? One phone call had changed his life—from rags to riches—and young Smurf vowed never to live in poverty again.

  Smurf looked in the mirror and saw his come-up. With the profound confidence he had gained, he turned and happily sauntered toward the stacks of money and put them back into the safe.

  “I ain’t gotta want nothin’ no more. Now I can get a nice ride, get me some hip gear, and take care of my moms. Shit, I can even pull a fine-ass bitch instead of these corner hoes,” he said as he stashed away the last stack. Right before he closed the door, he decided to take two stacks for himself. He closed the safe, put the picture back in front of it, and prepared to leave to meet Dirty, Dink’s play cousin who was the big man in Harlem, at the corner store.

  Just as Smurf was about to leave, he saw the knob on the front door move. He stopped in his tracks and became quiet. He flipped the light switch off and stood to the side of the door with his gun drawn. Smurf hadn’t silenced anyone since Marco.

  Smurf had cut across a back street in the West Village when he thought he saw a familiar car in the alley. When he looked closely, he confirmed that it was Marco’s ride. Wondering why he was in the Ville, Smurf’s thoughts were quickly interrupted when he saw an unmarked Lumina pull up. Smurf wasn’t dumb. He knew it was a cop car. When the driver of the Lumina flicked the high beams twice and killed the lights, Marco got out of the car holding an envelope, then jumped in the front seat. Smurf knew Marco had to be a snitch, just as he had suspected all along.

  It was unfortunate that Smurf would have to put someone asleep in his own apartment, but whoever it was obviously had a death wish. He heard the person fiddling with the door, then heard something slide into the keyhole.

  Click.

  The door opened cautiously and the light from the hallway illuminated the glass table in the ent
ryway. Smurf saw the large shadow of someone, but couldn’t make out who it was. He raised his gun to the edge of the door so when the person tried to shut it, he would be head to head with his gun. The light came on.

  “You got three seconds before I smoke you,” Smurf spoke. “Three, two . . .”

  “Aye, yo cuzzo, it’s me,” the man said in haste.

  “Who is you?” Smurf spoke menacingly.

  “Shit, who you is?” the man spoke as he turned around. “I’m lookin’ for my muthafuckin’ play cousin.”

  “Play cousin?” Smurf repeated. He put the safety on his gun and tucked it away in the small of his back. Smurf had never seen Dirty until now.

  Dirty had the reputation of a smooth businessman with major playa status. He had connections that were hard to come by in the drug world, making him the only distributor for the Bronx. Little did Smurf know that when he killed Marco and had Dame sliced, he’d done Dirty a favor as well.

  Smurf looked closely at Dirty. He was a short specimen of a man, standing only a few inches above him. He was also slightly older than the average hustler in the streets, somewhere in his early thirties, brown-skinned, with a noticeable scar on the lower right portion of his chin. Fresh razor cuts outlined the hairline of his low-cut fade. He was dressed nicely in a red and black Troop jogging suit with a pair of Troop sneakers. He wore two gold rope chains, one plain, the other with a cross dangling from it, and on his left hand he wore a gold nugget ring. He had a reputation as a ladies’ man, with women all over the South Bronx, Harlem, and Manhattan. He knew that money talked and bullshit walked, and he didn’t mind putting a woman in her place, either.

  The larger-than-life image that Smurf had of Dirty quickly vanished, but he looked all of a nigga who knew how to take care of business. His body was muscular, as if he’d done time in prison at one point in his life. Regardless, this was the man and the reason he ate.

  “What you doing here?” Smurf questioned.

  Dirty looked at him quizzically, as if he should know.

  “No, I meant here in my apartment.”

  “Your apartment?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I always crash here when I’m in town.” That explained why he had a key. Dirty thought for a minute. “Cuzzo told me to meet you here.”

  “Anyway,” Smurf extended his hand. “I’m Dink’s right hand. I’m—”

  “Smurf,” the man said, still cautious but more-so pissed that a gun had been held to his head just seconds ago.

  “Right, and I’m the one you’ll be dealin’ with until further notice,” Smurf smarted back, upset that Dirty had cut him off.

  Dirty sized Smurf up and wondered if he was as bad as Dink claimed. He didn’t look like a ruthless killer, but he knew that looks could be deceiving. Dirty knew that Smurf had got rid of the weak links in Dink’s crew, and for that he was glad; but he and Dink had put a key player in their operations in a most unexpected place. Now it was time for it to pay off and to take shit to the next level. Dirty walked over to the wet bar, grabbed a glass, clunked two ice cubes in it, and poured himself a glass of Absolut. Sitting down on the couch, he swirled his drink in the glass and took a sip.

  “I know that Dink is away.”

  “So you know what’s up?” Smurf asked. He didn’t plan on giving any more information than he already had. Smurf felt that not everyone needed to know what was going on, but in Dirty’s case, if he and Dink were that cool, he would have already known what the deal was.

  “I know it all,” Dirty confirmed, “and you got yo’ work cut out for you, but first you gotta check that goddamn attitude and get the fuckin’ bass outta yo’ voice when you dealin’ with me, son.” Dirty put his glass down on the coffee table and walked over to Smurf, who was sitting on the edge of the recliner, next to the couch. Catching Smurf off guard, Dirty grabbed him by the collar. “And if you ever point a gun at me again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

  Smurf didn’t answer. He wasn’t gonna get punked by Dirty, or no other man for that matter. The last man who’d gotten in his face was Buck, the nigga who fucked and beat his momma, and Smurf blew him to pieces, but he knew he had to control his anger, so it was best he didn’t answer and stuck to the business at hand.

  For the next thirty minutes, Smurf and Dirty talked about the product, price, and placement.

  “You got your crew in order?” Dirty asked Smurf.

  “I got some niggas I been watchin’ for a while. I don’t trust everyone.”

  “That’s good,” Dirty told him. “You need to be cautious. But hey, check this out. I got somebody I want you to meet, and—”

  “I choose my own people,” Smurf told Dirty seriously, cutting him off. “You know I had to clean house on some of Dink’s people.”

  “Look, youngster, we on the same team here,” Dirty confirmed, beginning to get irritated with Smurf’s stubbornness. “I trust your judgment because my cuzzo trusted you, but if you let me finish, I was gonna say that I’m cool with you steppin’ in the way you did.” Dirty shook his head in disbelief about Marco and Dame. “Just meet the man and I trust your judgment. If there’s something you don’t like, just let me know and we can move on from there. Bet?”

  After a momentary pause, Smurf said, “Bet.”

  “Well, lil’ nigga, I’ll be back later. I been gone for a while, so I wanna see what’s up with the hoes. Ya feel me?”

  Smurf smiled. Dirty was going to go find some ass and he couldn’t hate. “A’ight man,” Smurf laughed. “Handle yo’ business.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE SQUAD CARS and spinning red lights, mixed with the blaring summer sun, made it almost impossible to see. The turn of events played out in slow motion in front of Tonette’s eyes as if it was happening right in front of her.

  She looked at Crystal as the police shouted to them. The fear in Crystal’s eyes told Tonette they were both in trouble. Tonette looked back at the police, who yelled again, “Get on the fucking ground!”

  This time, the glare of the sun glistened off the chrome-plated Glocks that were ready to drop their asses at any second.

  “I said, drop the fucking gun, goddammit!” the cop yelled again.

  In an instant, the officer who continued to yell charged like a bull toward Tonette. She tried to reach for Crystal, but was tackled to the ground. The big, heavy officer had all of his weight on her body and she couldn’t breathe.

  Tonette put up a good fight, but his strength was too much for her. Next, she heard a popping noise, like something crackling. Then the smell hit her. What the hell, she thought to herself.

  “She’s all yours,” the cop said in a distorted voice to someone behind her. Tonette tried to look in the direction of the officer but only saw Crystal standing there—her face morphing into something familiar and awful.

  “What the hell is going on?” Tonette yelled. The distorted face quickly came into focus. It was one she couldn’t forget. Tonette’s blood began to boil and she shouted, “I hate you, you bitch! I fuckin’ hate you!”

  The face radiated a beautiful smile, then Shirley Temple curls spiraled to her shoulders.

  “I’ma kill you!” Tonette yelled as she continued to struggle against the cop. She turned her head to look at him. He was now faceless.

  In one quick motion, Laci bent down next to Tonette with a crack pipe in her hand, moving it closer to her . . . urging her to take that first pull.

  An annoying sound rang in Tonette’s ears. She wrestled frantically from side to side, and then sat up, gasping for breath, her heart rate going a mile a minute. She repeatedly blinked her eyes slowly until her surroundings came into focus. It was all a dream, she said to herself. Just a goddamn dream. Shit!

  Tonette was so geeked, she quickly rolled a fat blunt and sat cross-legged in her bed, trying to calm down. After a few tokes on the bud, she mellowed, but as she thought about the events that had gone down over the last couple of months, she became pissed again. Not only was her m
an, Dame, found dead with his dick cut off and his throat slit from one end to the other, her girl Crystal was killed by the police and her other girl, Monique, was wounded as well.

  TONETTE HAD BEEN shocked as hell when the police arrived at her home to deliver the news about Dame, but the conversation quickly turned into an interrogation about her high-profile drug-dealing boyfriend and weapons. This was when she realized they were just fishing for information because Dink was the man, not Dame.

  When the police asked to search the apartment for drugs, Tonette didn’t bother to put up a fight. She used her angelic smile and light-gray tear-filled eyes to convince them that she was completely innocent and knew nothing of their accusations. She was merely a young woman grieving the losses of her boyfriend and a chick in her crew.

  Dame had another apartment where he kept the real shit, so she knew they wouldn’t find drugs where they lived. They searched the obvious places—under the mattress, in shoe boxes, and even in their VHS tape racks—but what little stash was left, Tonette had already smoked up. In a desperate attempt to find something, the police even picked through Dame’s jackets and sneakers, but they still came up with nothing.

  “Um . . . excuse me, officers?” Tonette asked, her eyes tearing to the brim.

  “Yes, Ms. Thomas.” They looked at her in anticipation of what she had to say.

  “Y’all come in here accusing me of stuff that I don’t know nothing about.”

  “We have a report that you gave Ms. Moore the gun she was carrying when she was shot. We were also told that your boyfriend is a high-profile drug dealer.”

  Tonette’s nose began to flare. “I don’t care what report you have. I don’t know nothing about no damn gun and my dead boyfriend ain’t no damn dealer. Y’all really need to check y’all’s sources before y’all start accusing people of shit they don’t know anything about.” She paused for a moment and spoke. “I knew something like this would happen when that bougie chick wanted to be friends with us.”