Angel's Revenge

THREE YEARS LATER
CHAPTER FOUR

One-eyed Roc stood in his prison cell at his sink, brushing his full beard in the mirror. It glistened with the Muslim hair oil he used on it almost as brightly as his freshly shaven head. Roc stepped back and admired himself. His gentle expression reflected a magnetic edge. They say prison preserves your youth, and at thirty-three, Roc still looked like he was in his mid-twenties. The only difference was his slightly protruding belly and the extra bulk prison food had put on him.

He was six foot three and a solid 235 pounds. His celly nicknamed him Suge Knight because of his resemblance to the music mogul, along with his deep booming voice that commanded attention whenever he spoke. Roc was, however, far from a Suge Knight. Islam and his sincere adherence to its beliefs had mellowed him, perhaps not all the way, but enough for him to be recognized by the prison administrators and his fellow convicts, who were well aware of his past street reputation. In fact, no one called him Roc anymore. They called him by his Islamic name, Rahman, which meant merciful in Arabic.

Rahman felt in his heart that he was no longer the murdering gangsta that he was when he had first arrived to prison. He now possessed a sincere passion for Islam and for the plight of the inner city that he had spent so much of his life terrorizing and dehumanizing.

When Rahman had gone to prison, he had saved a hefty stash, a little over five million dollars. But in the three years he had been locked up, he had given away over a million dollars to needy families, single-parent homes, battered women, and orphaned children.

His wife, Ayesha, who was faithfully sticking by her husband, managed the money, doling out cash as Rahman instructed. Things had been rough for Rahman and Ayesha with Rahman away and Ayesha raising their three children alone.

Despite the distance and the apparent hopelessness of his life sentence, she would often tell him, “You’re with me even when you’re away. Allah will bring you home to me.”

And it seemed that Allah would do just that.

“As-Salaamu Alaikum, Ock.”

Rahman turned around to find Akbar standing in the doorway of his cell.

“Alaikum As-Salaam,” Rahman replied, returning the greeting. “I ain’t even hear you standing there.”

“Then you slippin’,” Akbar chuckled. “You hear a ninja walkin’,” he joked.

Akbar was Rahman’s mentor. They had similar backgrounds. Akbar was older than Rahman and also from Newark. Both had been heavily into the game, but now both were dedicated to Islam.

Akbar walked into Rahman’s cell and held out a magazine.

“What’s that?” Rahman asked, looking at the rolled-up magazine.

Akbar showed him the cover. It was a copy of the new Don Diva magazine with a picture of Dutch, Craze, Angel, Zoom, and Rahman himself on the cover. It was a photograph Rahman recognized, but he turned away from its nostalgia.

“Come on, Ock. You know I don’t keep up wit’ that anymore,” he told his friend and grabbed his prayer rug and kufi.

“Naw, nephew, I think you’ll want to see this one,” Akbar said as if it was absolutely necessary Rahman read the article.

“Page fifty-six, Rah. I’ll get it from you after Jum’ah,” Akbar said as he walked out of the cell.

Rahman sat down on his bunk and flipped to page fifty-six. The article was entitled “Angel Alvarez.” And he read:

What’s really good, yo? You know Don Diva always comes with the exclusive exclusive! “You heard it here and nowhere else”-type shit, ya heard? Our topic today? That mysterious street legend, Dutch. It’s been three years since his alleged (and we do mean alleged) death. Now we have a one-on-one interview with Angel Alverez, the only female to run with the notorious Dutch. The following came from a taped phone convo from West Virginia, where Angel is currently housed.

DD: What’s up, mami? What’s your life like?

Angel: You know how it goes wit’ a bid. You put it on your back and troop it like a boss bitch. Ju don’t know?

DD: Aiight, if only these snitch muthafuckas understood the principles of this shit. But yo, I hear congratulations are in order! You won your appeal.

Angel (laughs): I can’t believe that shit either. Fuck man, my lawyer ain’t even expect it! You know how the Feds get down. They some dirty muthafuckers. No matter how fucked up the case is, they make that shit stick. Even if you innocent, you goin’ to jail fo’ fuckin’ with them, man.

DD: Well, I guess it’s true. You can’t hold a good bitch down!

Angel: What, ju don’t know?

DD: So, how does this affect Rahman’s case, or should we not discuss that? (Rahman Muhammad was Angel’s codefendant, now also serving multiple life sentences.)

Angel: Naw, yo. Me and my nigga ain’t got nothin’ to hide. We held it down like family supposed to and now just like cream-we ’bout to rise to the top. Me and you, Roc. We all we got!

Rahman lowered the magazine and couldn’t help but smile. Angel was still Angel. They wrote each other from time to time, which was why Rahman already knew about her case. After finding out about her appeal, he had jumped on his. He was just waiting on a decision. He turned his attention back to the article.

DD: So when do you touch down officially?

Angel: You know the courts. It’s a whole bunch of legal bullshit, but it’s comin’. And like Dutch used to tell me, they can’t stop what they can’t see, so it’s best nobody know, feel me?

DD: Felt. But speakin’ of Dutch, what was son really like?

Angel (pauses, then laughs quietly): How many real gangstas you know?

DD: Including myself? One.

Angel (laughs at my quip): Well, dig yo, gangsta ain’t enough to make you Dutch ’cause papi is so much more. He had strings attached to the game like a puppet, and he controlled every move. Even now, three years later, niggas still makin’ records about this nigga, namin’ clothes after him…

DD: Not to mention books.

Angel: Oh, yeah, that Teri Woods chick? I respect her pen game. She’s real gangsta for puttin’ my man’s story out there. I read it. It was official.

DD: But yo, one last question. If anybody knows, it’s you. We asked Rahman two years ago (see Don Diva July 2003 edition), but he evaded us. Do you think…?

Angel (shouting): Fuck that bullshit! Fuck what you heard! My man ain’t dead! Them fake-ass, wannabe gangstas might want him to be, but he AIN’T! And until he come through, just know Angel gonna hold it down and rep my man and the streets!

DD: You keep saying your man. Thought you were… you know?

Angel: What? I eat fish? (chuckles) I’ve had my share of snapper, but let’s just say Dutch is my sweetest taboo.

DD: Juicy, Juicy tell me…

(The one-minute warning cut me off just when we were getting to the good shit.)

DD: Well, one minute left, any last words?

Angel: No doubt. To Roc, hold your head ’cause it’s me and you. To Goldilocks and Angela Hearn, one love. And to the streets, pick a side and ride or die ’cause the ride is ’bout to get rough. And let all them bitch-ass niggas know who’s runnin’ them streets for real. Angel’s baaaack, muthafuckas! Siempre.

Rahman laid the magazine aside and rubbed his face. Angel definitely hadn’t changed and apparently thought he hadn’t either. But he had, and it made him wonder where that left the two of them. He knew what she was going to do if released from prison. Take back what they had lost. But he had a different mission-to clean up the streets.

What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Well, the streets would soon find out.

Rahman walked into FCI-Lewisburg’s chapel just as the Islamic call to prayer was being chanted.

Hayya alas-Salah. Hayya-alal-Falah. Come to prayer, come to success. In Arabic, heard throughout speakers in the chapel, it represented the masjid for the Muslim inmates.

Rahman was the prayer leader, better known as imam in Arabic. He led all the Muslim inmates in prayer and advised them on their personal issues from time to time. He prayed his two ra’kahs and then made his way to the podium.

“As-Salaamu Alaikum,” he said in greeting to the forty-something Muslims sitting on the floor in lines of straight rows behind one another.

“Alaikum As-Salaam,” the brothers replied in unison.

Rahman surveyed the gathering of men before him. He knew many of the brothers had been stone-cold murderers, kingpins, pimps, and boss players. Now they all bowed to one God in perfect unity and harmony. Allah was truly the greatest.

“All praises are due to Allah. We praise him, seek his help, and ask his forgiveness. I bear witness that there is no God but Allah, and that Muhammad is his servant and messenger,” Rahman began, then flipped open his Qur’an.

“I want to read from Surah four, Ayat seventy-five. It says…” he began to recite the Qur’an in Arabic, his deep baritone caressing each syllable and his articulation punctuating the guttural sentences.

“Wa Maa la-kum la tuqaatiluna sabili-llahi. Wal-Mustadina min ar-rijali Wan Nisaai Wal Wildan. Al-Latheena yaqulu-na Rabba-na Akhrij-na Min Hadihil. Paryati Zalimu Ahlu-ha Wa Hab la-na Min Ladun-ka Nasiraa.”

Then he repeated the prayer in English.

“And what is wrong with you that you fight not in the cause of Allah and for those who are weak, ill-treated, and oppressed amongst themselves, both men, women, and children, whose cry is: Lord rescue us from this town whose people are oppressors and raise for us, from you, one who will protect and raise for us, one who will help.”

He closed the Qur’an and paused to let the words sink in.

“This was a cry for liberation. Is this cry still not heard today? All around us, in every ghetto in America, brothers and sisters are crying, and yet the call continues to go unanswered. We in this room come from every part of the U.S. The North, West, South, and East, the inner cities, boondocks, and backcountry roads. We know that the ghetto is everywhere. People in society use this prayer every day, with or without understanding. But instead of calling on God, they call on the numbers man, the dope man, the liquor store, the strip club, or the corner bar. They call on anyone, anywhere, and anyway they can to escape the oppression being inflicted upon them.”

Many of the brothers nodded in agreement.

“But what is oppression? Is it just racist cops, politicians, and judges? Isn’t debt oppression? The type of debt that keeps us tied to two and three jobs tryin’ to come out of it? Isn’t the game oppression? It leaves a brother with only two options-jail or death. It’s a vicious cycle and where does it get us? Where are we now?” Rahman’s voice boomed.

“Where are we now? Here. It gets us here. It gets our women in strip clubs. It gets our kids in group homes. Why do you think there are fences around the projects tall as the fences around maximum-security prisons? In prison, fences mean they don’t want you to get out. So, can it mean anything different around the projects? Oppression. The white man knew exactly what he was doing when he built the prisons and the projects. But Islam is the liberator. Not the nation of Islam, not the 5 percent of Islam, not Moorish science or nationalistic ideologies, but Islam. Sunni Islam, pure and simple.”

Rahman paced in front of the brothers with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Now some will tell you that Islam doesn’t liberate. Islam enslaves. Look at the Arabs on the east coast of Africa. They were doing the same thing the Europeans were doing on the west coast of Africa! To them I say, know the difference between liberator and conqueror. Many start out as liberators but become conquerors, and the Arabs were no different. This is when we lost our glory as Muslims. But I challenge you to find any religion that has liberated any country in the history of the world. Christianity? That is only a facade for Roman imperialism. Buddhism? No. Judaism? Stop playin’.” Rahman smiled and a few laughed quietly.

“But Islam? Yes, yes, and yes again. This is history. So this is what we must take home to our families. Islam. Not as conquerors but as liberators. Teach them what they can do and they won’t need for what they don’t have. Lead by example, not by rhetoric, and they too shall follow. As-Salaamu Alaikum.”

After Jum’ah, Akbar and Rahman walked the yard.

“That was a beautiful khutbah, nephew. I taught you well,” Akbar joked. Rahman smiled.

“All praises are due to Allah.”

“Indeed. But, ah… you didn’t plan on speakin’ on that particular topic today, did you, Ock?” Akbar inquired knowingly.

Rahman answered him with his eyes.

“I noticed you weren’t using your index cards. So, I figured you were free-styling,” Akbar surmised, then added, “Got anything to do with that Don Diva magazine?”

Rahman looked around the yard, formulating a response. The other inmates were indulging in recreational pursuits under the Pennsylvania sun, balling and lifting weights like they didn’t have a care in the world.

“Something like that,” Rahman replied.

Akbar nodded. “That’s why I showed it to you. So you’d know what’s waitin’ for you when you touch down.”

“If I touch.”

Akbar shrugged.

“Allah is the best of planners, but He’s already set the stage for your return. How you gonna handle this Angel thing?”

They lapped the yard several times before Rahman wanted to rest. They stopped and sat down.

“What you mean, how? You know what we planned. Nothing will get in the way of that, Insha Allah.”

“Insha Allah,” Akbar repeated. “Look, Rah. I’ve been watchin’ you for three years. Watchin’ you grow in Islam and watchin’ how your character has changed. You’re a beautiful brother, but nephew, that gangsta is still in you.”

Rahman wanted to defend himself, but Akbar continued.

“I’m not saying you frontin’ or you ain’t sincere. But we were born and trained to be what them streets made us. You, a gangsta. Me, I’m a grand master, but that’s a personal jihad within myself. Like you said today, the liberator or the conqueror. The liberator is Rahman, but the conqueror is One-eyed Roc, the cold-blooded killer and big money getter.”

Rahman let Akbar’s words sink in before responding. “I hear you, Ock, but believe me, I’m ready.”

“Are you?” Akbar shot back. “Because what we’re plannin’ to do is serious. It ain’t no game. People gonna pay the price.”

“I know that.”

“Well, what if one of those people is Angel? If you had to pull the trigger, could you look her in the face and pull it?”

Rahman’s eyes locked with Akbar’s. It was a thought that had crossed his mind, but one he didn’t want to face.

“Every Saul wants to be Paul,” Akbar philosophized. “You know how many cats get locked up and then wanna change the world? Crackheads wanna open up rehabs, trick niggas wanna respect black women, and killers wanna stop the violence. But one by one, they fail. They fail because when they see they can’t change the world, they join it. And I see it in you, Ock. You want to change Angel, don’t you? You think she’ll listen to you? Roll wit’ you on this?” Akbar questioned.

“Insha Allah,” Rahman replied, not looking at Akbar.

“And Young World, too? You brought him in. What if you have to take him out?”

Akbar’s questions ripped away Rahman’s delusions one by one. Everyone he had ever loved, run the streets with, gotten money with, even killed with, and would’ve died for, could easily become his enemy. Not because they had changed, but because he had.

He tried to tell himself that Angel and Young World would roll with him. After all, the plan wasn’t only to clean up the community but to make millions doing it. His plan was economic as well as social, political, and spiritual. But he knew deep down that he was fooling himself if he thought they’d just walk away from the addiction of street life, especially if their hearts were still truly in it.

And if they didn’t walk away, what was he prepared to do?

“Make no mistake, nephew. You’ve switched sides, not them. So think like a gangsta, but act like a Muslim. To beat a gangsta you got to know the mind of one. Because the question ain’t can you do them, but…” Akbar leaned closer to Rahman’s ear, “would they hesitate to do you?” Akbar stood up slowly and left Rahman with “As-Salaamu Alaikum, nephew. We’ll talk later. Insha Allah.”

Rahman watched his mentor casually stroll off and disappear in the crowd.

“Yo, nigga, I’m tellin’ you, that shit is followin’ us,” Young World said as he glanced in the rearview mirror of his CL 55. He had been constantly checking his rearview until he was sure that someone was tailing him.

“Fuck you talkin’ ’bout, followin’ us? Ain’t nobody followin’ us. Nigga, you skitzin’,” responded Duke, World’s right-hand man and the only survivor of his original team.

Duke hit the blunt and tried to pass it to World, who waved it off and made a right-hand turn. He didn’t want to smoke and cloud his already paranoid brain cells until he was sure what was behind him.

“Watch, I told you, yo! That’s the fourth corner in a row they took after us. Paranoid, hell! Niggas think we slippin’ as it is!” Duke took a quick peep over his shoulder, weighing Young World’s theory. He reached under his seat and pulled out a Mac 11 machine gun, locked and loaded.

“It’s probably Roll and them niggas he fuck wit’. Fuck this. At the next light, I’m wettin’ they whole shit. Fuck they think, shit is sweet?”

“Naw, naw, chill. I got this,” World answered.

He suddenly hit the accelerator and the CL’s AMG engine blurred like mercury as they jetted down the street. Whoever and whatever was behind them was left eight car lengths back as Young World whipped a quick right then fishtailed left, slinging Duke in his seat.

“Fuck you runnin’ for?” Duke growled.

Young World didn’t respond. Instead he quickly pulled into a darkened driveway and dropped the headlights. He then pulled out a.45 from his waist, looking over his shoulder.

A few seconds later, the black BMW drove by. Young World backed out, engine kitten-silent. He had flipped the script and was now tailing them.

“At the light, I’ma cut ’em off, see who these niggas are, and if they flinch…”

Duke nodded. “Say no more.” As they approached the stoplight, Young World hit the gas and swerved around the BMW. Before the occupants of the BMW knew what was happening, Young World skidded up in front of them at a nose angle. Duke threw up the door and hopped out in one furious motion and threw the nozzle of the Mac in the face of the driver. The four passengers of the BMW screamed and ducked.

“Yo, Ock! It’s Lana and some broads!” Duke hollered over his shoulder as he lowered the gun.

“What the fuck is you doin’?” yelled World through the open passenger door. “You tryin’ to get killed or something?”

The girls finally uncovered their eyes and looked up, visibly shaken and teary-eyed.

“I’m sorry, World. I’m so, so sorry. God, you scared me. I’m sorry,” Lana whined from the driver’s seat.

“Naw, you was gonna be sorry. Now you just crazy. I thought I told you I’d be back later?” World questioned, upset that Lana was out of position, especially in front of his man.

“It… it… I’m sorry, baby, but I thought… Peaches said…” Lana stammered before World cut her off.

“Peaches said what? Fuck that yellow bitch got to do with you followin’ me?”

“Yellow, who?!” Peaches shouted from the rear passenger seat, getting some of her sass back. “Nigga, please. Don’t even go there, aiight!” Peaches said, rolling her eyes for extra emphasis.

“Whatever, bitch. Mind your business. Lana, you listenin’ to Peaches now?”

“She told me she saw Tawanna from Hillside in your car last week, and she said that’s where you was goin’,” Lana explained, getting more teary-eyed by the minute, not only from fright, but from embarrassment for getting caught trying to follow him.

Duke laughed as Young World shook his head in aggravated amusement. He was on his way to a very important meeting with his connect, and all Lana could think about was some chickenhead he was fucking.

“You muthafuckas got way too much time on your hands. I ain’t got time for this shit. Take your ass home and get all them crows out my car ’fore all y’all be walkin’!” World shouted.

Lana nodded, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry, okay? I was silly, I-”

World cut her off as Duke got back in the CL.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just be naked when I get home,” he said as he pulled off, giving her lonely, bitch-ass girlfriends something to talk about.

Young World turned the corner and sped off. Duke bust out laughing.

“Yo, son, you is slippin’! You ain’t even peep your own car was followin’ us!”

“Everybody got black BMs, yo. How I’m supposed to know every BM in Newark?”

“Shorty must really got you on a leash, my nigga!”

“Fuck you,” Young World replied with a chuckle. “That’s how it is when a nigga know how to lay good dick, son. Shit, I should get outta the drug game and pimp hos for a living.”

“Nigga, fuck around and be broke fucking with these hos out here,” Duke joked, making them both laugh as they headed to Paramus, New Jersey.

Even though Young World was laughing, the situation was far from funny. It had been three years since Dutch’s disappearance and already his empire had split into several factions. Young World was young, hungry, and ruthless. However, he had stepped into the shoes of a man whose shoes no one could ever fill.

Dutch had started with a team that had roots in every part of Newark, which made it easier to control. Young World’s team came from Hawthorne and Prince streets. So when Dutch disappeared, every team went for itself, and Young World had his hands full just keeping his territory under control.

Added to that was the fact that the police were seeing blood and weren’t taking any prisoners. The police murder rate doubled while the criminal murder rate tripled. All together, the city was thrown into a frenzy. The mayor empowered several new antidrug teams to combat the threat, imposed curfews in certain areas, and kept the block so hot that where money once flowed, it now trickled. After eighteen months, Young World lost major chunks of northern New Jersey. He had won the crown but getting down for it was another story.

Lana walked into the house and slammed the door. She felt like she had really played herself. It wasn’t like her to second-guess Young World, so she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why she had done it tonight. True, Peaches was one of her closest friends, but shit, World was her man.

Maybe Peaches want my man, her mind told her. But she dismissed the thought as crazy.

Or was it?

Who wouldn’t want Young World? He was rich, cool, and fine. His babylike dimples melted into the cinnamon texture of his masculine face, making his grins sexy and mischievous. He kept the crisp temper fade with waves that spun 360 degrees like the nigga on the Duke wave grease box. That, and he took good care of her.

Peaches, on the other hand, was a college dropout turned secretary and didn’t have a man. She had tried to get with Duke, but once he fucked her, he lost interest. Not to mention Peaches was always trying to put it in Lana’s head that Young World was no good. She and Peaches had been friends since they were eleven. Two years later, Lana met Young World. They were just thirteen.

Back then, World was a corner hustler on Hawthorne, and she was a church girl from Peshine Avenue. Now at twenty-two, they had come a long way. She looked around the spacious living room of their West Orange ranch house. The interior would put half the MTV cribs to shame. The color scheme was a deep, creamy ivory with classic mahogany accents. The marble floor of the foyer opened up to a platform entrance that dropped three stair-steps to the living room. The Olympic-size swimming pool was visible through patio doors that stretched across the wall.

They had moved in eight months ago, and Young World had allowed Lana to have her way with the interior decorating. There was nothing Lana wanted that World didn’t make happen.

“Friend or no friend, ain’t nobody gonna take this away from me,” Lana whispered to herself.

Rationalizing, she figured if Peaches was right and World was fucking around with Tawanna, Tawanna didn’t have the keys to a half-million-dollar home. And, when it came to sex, Young World would never forget to be her lover. As a matter of fact, right before he left, she had been doing her aerobic workout. Lunging, bending, sweating, and twisting. He couldn’t take his eyes off her ass screaming through her tight stretch shorts. Lana found herself with her shorts around her ankles and bent over the arm of an Italian leather sofa as he gave her a real workout. Lana dropped her purse and keys on the marble coffee table on her way to their bedroom.

She entered the plush room and flipped on the answering machine. The first voice she heard was Young World’s.

“Don’t ever do that again, you hear me? Trust ain’t never been an issue. So don’t make it one.”

The message ended.

Lana smiled to herself. Young World was right. She knew what he was going through out in the streets. He had the usual-the beefs, the police, the snitches, and those who wanted a piece of him. He had enough to worry about without his backbone getting weak, and she was definitely his backbone.

“I love you, boo,” she chimed back to the recorded message. As she undressed for a shower, several messages rattled off, but the last one caught her attention.

“Young World, look this Angel. You don’t know me like that, but I’m sure you know the name and what it’s about. We need to talk. Call me 818-555-3879. Ask for Goldilocks. She got a message for you.”

Angel? Lana thought as she flipped on her favorite Mary J CD and hopped into the shower.

She thought about a bath but was too lazy to clean the tub and run the water. Besides, she was in the mood to feel the pulsating pumps of the multijet sprayers. It was more relaxing, more sensual. Lana loved to feel the warm water cascade down her five-foot-five, 130-pound, well-toned frame. The spray felt like World’s tongue all over her. The pulsating water made her jones come down for real. All she could think of was World in the shower with her, holding her tight and keeping her close.

Young World was her first and only lover, so what she knew of love he had taught her. He knew all of her secrets. She knew all of his weaknesses. Together, they had explored each other and learned life as one.

Lana turned off the shower and began to dry herself off, going back out the bedroom. Mary J’s “Seven Days” had just begun to play as Lana stepped onto a carpet so soft it felt like walking on a cloud. She turned up the temperature on their water bed then went to get some panties when she remembered World’s last words that night and decided to leave them in the drawer. She stretched across the bed and lit up the half blunt that sat in the ashtray. Life was good.

The euphoria of the weed mellowed her out. Lana glanced at the clock: 12:27 a.m. She sighed as she snuggled into the silk Gucci sheets bunched up in all the right places and zoned into relaxation. She inhaled the purple haze. Young World was out taking care of business and she knew there was no telling when he’d get back. So until he did, she’d have to entertain herself. Her hands slid lower down her pelvis.

The iron gates of the sixteen-bedroom, twenty-two-bath mansion swung open slowly to admit Young World’s CL 55 onto the private property. The driveway led to a bridge that crossed a man-made lake framing the front of the mansion like a medieval moat. The lights along the lake shimmered in the mirror of the water as the short bridge led him to a driveway that ended at the front door. The mansion was built to suit Greco-Roman tastes. Four spiral ivory columns supported the curved alabaster awning that led up the stairs to the first floor.

Duke looked at the spread lustfully. It was the exact type of place he saw himself in in a few years. After he finished his grind, he too would live like this. From one-room, roach-infested tenements to rented condos to this. This was what the game was all about for Duke. He had never met the connect before and wondered if he was a Tony Montana-looking Cuban or suave Sosa-type muthafucka.

“Damn this muthafucka laced!” Duke exclaimed in a whisper full of awe, thinking of Jadakiss’s words to “Mansion by the Lake,” and Young World silently agreed. Young World had only met the connect twice before but never at his home. It made the crib World had just purchased look like a double-wide in a redneck trailer park.

As Young World pulled up to the awning, two burly men in dark suits wearing earpiece communicators emerged from the shadows and approached the car.

Young World lowered his window before speaking to the dark suits. “Mr. Ceylon is expectin’ us.”

“We know,” said the taller of the two, who smirked. The CL wouldn’t have gotten in if they weren’t expected.

“Follow me,” said the shorter one.

World and Duke got out of the car as the short guard led them to the door. Before letting them enter, he scanned them both with a hand-held metal detector. The erratic beeping blurted out sirens near Duke’s waist. Duke handed the guard his gun and Young World did the same with his.45. Once relieved of their weapons, they were escorted into the mansion.

Inside, they were greeted by the sounds of a piano sonata that World thought was a record, but it was Ceylon sitting in his living room playing Mozart himself. As Duke and World entered, Ceylon kept his eyes closed and continued to play. The guards closed the door and left them alone with Ceylon.

Duke looked at the man behind the piano, eyes closed like he was meditating. He was nothing like Duke expected. Instead of a suave Spaniard, Ceylon was small, almost tiny, skinny and frail. He reminded Duke of a bookkeeper. His sharp aquiline nose gave away his ethnicity.

Ceylon was of Turkish origin, and although he was small, his power was huge. He was a diplomat, and the man he represented would make Frank Sosa look like a corner hustler. Ceylon himself was far from a drug dealer. His international influence merely made it easy for men like his clients to flood the streets from New York to Frankfurt with the deadly white poison.

Ceylon dined with presidents, dictators, world bankers, and terrorists, and now here he was, meeting with two brash young thugs from the ghetto. Never underestimate the power of the streets. He had called Young World and asked to meet him personally, something he rarely did, and Young World knew why. World knew he wasn’t moving a fifth of what he used to move, and Ceylon’s patience was running thin. How thin, World didn’t know. He made World wish he still had his burner on his waist, just in case.

Ceylon ended his sonata on the Steinway and sat stone still, eyes remaining closed, as the last vibration of notes dissipated into silence.

“Mr. Cey-”

“Shhh,” Ceylon softly whispered, putting a finger to his lips. “Music is like fine wine. It must be savored, and talk is bad for my digestion,” he philosophized in a nasal Turkish accent. He sounded like a cross between Elijah Muhammad and Einstein.

Young World and Duke exchanged glances. After a few seconds, Ceylon rose from the piano bench and approached his guests.

“Mr. Young World and Duke, I presume,” Ceylon greeted. Duke nodded.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ceylon,” Duke replied extending a hand, which Ceylon disdainfully regarded then totally ignored.

Ceylon folded his arms behind his back and responded, “It remains to be seen if it is a pleasure to meet or not.”

Duke lowered his hand, gritting his teeth on the low. Ceylon turned to World.

“I would offer you a drink but you won’t be staying long. I am a man who does not mince words and waste time, and you, Mr. World, are wasting my time.”

World’s ego stiffened and he wanted to answer him with some fly shit but checked his tongue.

“Mr. Ceylon, with all due respect, I’m doin’ all I can but things are hectic right now. Wit’ everybody snitchin’, the Feds everywhere and the mob-” he tried to explain, but Ceylon smoothly cut him off.

“Excuses are never good reasons,” Mr. Ceylon said with a patronizing smirk. He turned on his heel, went to the bar, and poured himself a drink.

“I am fully aware of your current situation, painfully aware actually. You have lost major portions of your territory to rival factions and defections from your own camp. The mob, as you call them, has muscled you out of entire cities and you appear powerless to do anything about it.”

Ceylon sipped his drink and approached Young World.

“Do you know how much product Dutch distributed weekly? No less than twenty-five hundred kilograms of heroin. While you, his chosen, so-called protégé, can barely muster thirteen hundred or fifteen hundred a month,” Ceylon explained, steadily eyeing World.

“I ain’t Dutch,” World stated as a matter of fact, returning his gaze.

“This, too, is obvious,” Ceylon agreed before placing his drink on a table. “There are few men I have trusted, five… no, four, because I can’t always include myself. Four, and I have known countless. Dutch is one of those four. Do you know why?” he asked as he looked Young World in the eye.

Young World didn’t respond, so he continued.

“Because of the eye,” he said, tapping his eyelid and turning away. “It never lies. To know a man is to know the truth as to what he will or won’t do, and it all lies in the eye. I have searched many eyes and read them all. Except Dutch. Do you know what I saw in his eyes? Nothing except the reflection of myself.”

“What do you see in mine?” World asked, wanting to know where he stood in all this.

“Fear, hate, confusion, but most of all, determination to overcome all of that.”

Young World didn’t know if he had just been insulted or complimented so he thought carefully before he spoke.

“Look, Mr. Ceylon. I didn’t come here to make excuses. Like I said, shit is hectic. They bleed, we bleed, then they bleed some more. That’s how it goes on the streets ’cause not everybody got the luxury of sitting around playing piano.”

Ceylon smirked at Young World’s snideness. “This is very true… But, I wonder, Mr. World, if you know the difference between a goon and a gangster?”

“I suppose you gonna tell me.”

“Every gangster starts out as a goon. He must because power is born of force. But when a man continues to use violence, it means he didn’t use it right the first time. He is still a goon. His power is always in question, therefore it will one day be usurped. But a gangster, ahhh, a gangster is a man who makes his own rules and the rest are left to follow. His nod is his gun, a mere smile seals the deal, and his word is law.”

Ceylon dropped his jaw, then added, “Now, because I trusted Dutch, I trust his judgment. So therefore I am open to trust you because yours is the name he left. It is against my own judgment, but after all, that is what trust is about, no?”

World nodded. Duke wanted to speak but World was in charge so he played his position.

“Whatever I gotta do to rep my bloodline, I’ll do. You got my word on that, Mr. Ceylon,” World vowed, meaning every word. “Just give me six months and-”

“Thirty days,” Ceylon interrupted.

“Huh?”

“You have exactly thirty days to double your output. After that, you shall be cut off and cut out, and please do not try to replace us with another supplier. It would be deemed disrespectful and treated as such.” Ceylon smirked, unveiling his threat.

Thirty days? This guy is crazy, World thought, but he held his composure and responded.

“Mr. Ceylon, I can’t-”

Ceylon’s nasal tone escalated a decibel. “Can’t is not a word men of caliber use, unless, of course, it precedes the word fail.”

He turned away quickly and went back to sit at the piano.

“To your credit, I can see the potential Dutch saw in you. You do have determination and you do have zeal. You just lack the audacity it takes to be our mutual friend’s successor. Good evening, gentlemen.”

With that, Ceylon began to play his piano again, and as if on cue, the double doors swung open. The guards had been waiting to escort Young World and Duke out.

Duke was heated. He and World drove in tense silence. He pulled on his Newport forcefully, and it glowed fire-red to match his temper. The old man had dissed World to his face, threatened him like a schoolyard bully, and talked to him as if he was a child.

The old man must’ve thought they were illiterate, but Duke knew exactly what Ceylon meant. He had basically called World a dumb fuck and a coward, and World didn’t even defend himself. In so many words, Ceylon had even threatened to take the streets they controlled. Niggas bled so they could eat and World let some old man tell him to his face that he’d take it.

Duke shook his head. Young World was getting soft. He had been suspecting it, and tonight confirmed it.

“What?” World asked, glancing at Duke. “You got somethin’ to say?”

“Nothin’, kid,” Duke replied, then tossed his cigarette out the window.

“Naw, Ock. Don’t bite your tongue. You got something to say, say it,” World insisted.

“Man… who the fuck does that nigga Ceylon think he be fuckin’ talkin’ to? I don’t give a damn who he know or where he from. Ain’t nobody takin’ shit from us!” Duke exclaimed, in his mind replacing “us” with “me.”

Young World felt the same way, but what could he do? He knew Ceylon wasn’t the kind of man you took to war with a gun. He was above street fights. To World and his young wolves, Ceylon was untouchable.

“So what do you suggest, huh? Go back, guns blazin’, and then what? Wait for the muthafucka to send his army?” World tried to reason.

“We got an army, too. So fuck all that shit that nigga poppin’,” Duke reminded him, then almost as an afterthought he added, “it ain’t nothin’ but a phone call unless you can’t make the call.”

Young World had reached a red light. “What the fuck that ’posed to mean, Duke?”

Duke was fed up with the way World was running things. “Just like I said, Ock. Shit that’s been happenin’ didn’t even have to happen, but lately you been on some bullshit and I ain’t wit’ it.”

“Bullshit like what? Ceylon? You think you coulda handled it better, huh?”

The light turned green but World was so busy defending himself he didn’t see it, and the drivers behind him started hitting their horns. Young World shot an evil look into the rearview, then slowly pulled off.

“I ain’t even talkin’ about Ceylon. I’m talking ’bout the bullshit!”

“What bullshit?!”

“Roll!” Duke barked, and Young World got quiet.

Roll was of the team and rap group Rock and Roll, until Craze broke them up with mind games. Rock stuck to producing music and got out of the game but Roll had become one of Young World’s chief rivals. Roll’s name had been ringing bells and he had a team spread out as thick as World’s. The only difference was that Roll was steadily expanding and World was steadily contracting.

A team of four gunmen had robbed World’s people in Atlantic City of over a million dollars in heroin and cash and killed two of World’s top dogs.

World got word that it was Roll who had robbed him and stuck him for the million dollars. Roll didn’t try to hide it either. It was a slap in the face, a provocation for World to go to war, yet Young World hadn’t responded, and that was over a month ago.

“Fuck Roll! I ain’t forgot about that fat muthafucka! I got other shit to worry about. You heard Ceylon. We got thirty days to double our distribution or we cut off. I don’t give a fuck how many guns we got. We get cut off, it’s finished!” Young World spat heatedly.

“What you mean ‘Fuck Roll’? It’s because of shit like that why we losin’ spots as it is! Muthafuckas think we soft. Fuck that! We go all out and take all these bitches to war! Ceylon, Roll, and whoever the fuck else! That’s how we double distribution, and if we don’t, we find another connect.”

Duke had it all figured out and was ready to get down for his crown or die tryin’.

Young World shook his head. Duke was letting his emotions speak for him, but Young World knew better.

The last three years had taken a real toll on his team, he and Duke the only survivors from the original clique. Except for a few remaining Angel’s Charlies, the rest of his organization was bound by the dollar, or fear, not by loyalty. And they were second-rate at best.

World felt trapped. It was like every time he solved one problem, two jumped up to take its place. He was like any other young black man on the streets, trying to win by someone else’s rules, trying to play the game without understanding the nature of power. He had forgotten the lesson Dutch’s game plan laid out. He loved Dutch for putting him in his present position. But damn, why’d you have to die? he thought.

“Look, yo,” World began in a calm tone. “Ain’t shit soft about World, son. I handle shit my way, period, point blank. I’m the one gotta answer for this shit, and I’m in this to get paper. Niggas be on that ra ra shit. Fuck ’em. I’ll see ’em on my terms, on my time. Until then…” Young World looked at Duke, “You either wit’ me or against me.”

He gave Duke the ultimate ultimatum, but Duke wasn’t prepared to go solo… yet.

“Whatever you say, Ock. Whatever you say.”

Young World turned up the system and Scarface’d his way back to Newark. He pulled up to Sammy’s Place off Broad Street where Duke had parked his Hummer.

“On the real, Duke. I feel where you comin’ from, and I feel the same way. But I need you to trust me, aiight? Let me handle this my way,” Young World said, throwing his car in park.

Duke shrugged and opened the door. “I got you, World.”

“Duke, we been through too much together to fuck up now, yo.”

Duke flashed a phony smile. “Fuck you need, a hug, nigga? I said I got you.” He chuckled and eased the tension between them. They shook hands.

“I’ll call you later,” said World.

“One,” replied Duke.

“One.”

World pulled off with ease, thinking everything was love, but it wasn’t. Duke watched the taillights of the Mercedes disappear, then turned toward the door of Sammy’s and went inside.

It was a small, sleazy joint but out of the way enough that Duke felt that he would see no one he knew. He had another important meeting, one Young World knew nothing about. He had a meeting with the mob.

Vinnie Z and his fat henchman sat in the rear of the bar at a secluded booth. Vinnie was all smiles the moment he saw Duke.

Vinnie was the stereotypical young, cocky Italian, always grabbing his balls and using hand gestures with his syllables. They had met when Vinnie tried to convince Young World that he needed the mob in his corner, not against him, but Young World refused. Duke, on the other hand, saw his opportunity and seized it, sending word to Vinnie that they should talk, and this meeting was a result of that message.

As Duke approached, Vinnie stood to greet him, giving him a firm and vigorous handshake.

“Duke! Paisano! How you doin’, eh? You look good. Mikey, it’s Duke. Say hello to Duke,” Vinnie ranted like Duke was a war buddy.

Jabbalike Mikey just grunted inaudibly. To Mikey, a nigger was a nigger, and he didn’t want to be bothered. Vinnie felt the same way. He was just a better actor. He knew young black guys loved the Mafioso persona, so Vinnie laid it on thick.

“Sit down, Duke. What choo drinkin’?”

Duke sat down and unbuttoned his coat. “Naw, I’m good.”

Vinnie sat back, shaking the ice in his glass. “Okay. Duke’s good, so, ah, what’s good with Duke?” Vinnie inquired.

Duke took out a cigarette, and Vinnie produced a lighter. “You tell me, Z.”

“How’s Young World?”

“He just left. You shoulda said something. I woulda told him to come on in,” Duke answered sarcastically.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, your friend is an ass-hole. I can’t talk to him. You, I can talk to. You know why? Because you’re a reasonable guy. You and I, we could have a good thing, eh?”

Duke blew cigarette smoke out his mouth before speaking.

“Maybe we can arrange a few things.”

“Definitely, because a guy like you needs friends like me, eh? I give you a place to lay your hat. I talk to people, they talk to people, and we all sit down and eat, ba-da-bing?”

“Ba-da-boom.” Duke smiled. “I just hope some of these people you talkin’ to is judges and DAs ’cause niggas catchin’ cases like snitches is sexually transmittin’ ’em.”

“Forget about it,” Vinnie warned with a gesture of dismissal. “My guys are good guys, and we take care of our friends. You just gimme a call when it’s a go on your end, capisci?” Vinnie grinned greedily.

He was itching to get his olive-oiled hands on Young World’s territory and Duke was just the monkey to bring it to him. Dutch had run the Italians out of the Newark drug game and now Duke was ready to bring them back in and play puppet in their tangled strings. All Vinnie needed was a chance to implement his plan, and Young World was unwittingly about to give it to him.

Young World stood in the bedroom door and admired his sleeping beauty. She lay wrapped to the waist in peach-colored sheets that accentuated her ebony skin tone.

He loved her.

Lana was the perfect hustler’s wife. She had been with him every step of the way, stashing money, holding work, and tucking pistols when necessary. Although it took him two years, Lana gave him her virginity. They had been inseparable ever since. Lana was his first love; the game was his second.

World loved being the man his position made him. And it wasn’t just the money. It was the power and respect, a respect he knew he had to rep to maintain.

He walked over to the dresser and picked up a picture of him and Dutch at a Roy Jones fight. World admired Dutch’s finesse. The smirk that framed his chocolate face told the world he knew he was that nigga. When Young World first met Dutch, he knew he was destined to be a legend and he wanted to be just like him, the way he bopped, his sharp Newark accent, his smooth style. But when Dutch peeped it, he checked him quick.

“I like you, lil’ nigga, word up. You a thoroughbred. You just been misled. I see you wanna be like me, but if you really wanna be like me, don’t be like me. That’s why I am who I am because ain’t another muthafucka like Dutch.”

Dutch wasn’t his mentor. One-eyed Roc was. It was Roc who put him on, but Dutch would often come scoop him off the block and sharpen his game. World knew if Roc and Angel hadn’t been locked up, he would’ve never had the opportunity he had now. So he looked at it as a fate he was destined to fulfill. But he needed answers, and he knew who had them.

Roc.

He needed to go see Roc.

World cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner, but things were so damned hectic. It was hard enough to catch some sleep, let alone think straight.

Young World slid open the drawer and gazed at its contents. Dutch’s dragon chain.

He lifted the heavy piece from the drawer and cradled it in his hand. The diamonds and rubies glistened and sparkled on the twenty-four-karat gold nugget barrel link. Before Dutch, Kazami had worn the chain. Kazami, the wild African who everyone feared until Dutch murdered him and took the chain. Afterward, Dutch locked down the streets. Ever since World had the chain, he had worn it only occasionally. Now it was time to rep it to the fullest.

World kicked off his shoes, lay on the bed fully clothed behind Lana, and cradled her body to his. His touch instantly awoke her.

“Hey, baby. I missed you,” she cooed sleepily.

“Go back to sleep, boo. It’s late,” World softly replied, his mind a million miles away.

“You hungry?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at him.

“Naw, I’m good.”

They had been together too long for her not to recognize the troubled tone in his voice. She turned over and faced Young World, tucking her right hand under her head.

“Everything okay?” she questioned with concern.

He shrugged, “It is what it is.”

“So, what is it?” She smiled, still probing.

World looked his love in the eyes, their faces only inches apart, and asked, “Do you think I’ve changed?”

“Changed?” Lana echoed with a wrinkled brow. “Changed how?”

“I don’t know, just…”

“Is this about earlier? If it is, you were right. I trust you,” she assured him, cutting him off from what he was about to say.

“Not like that,” he began. “You think I’m gettin’ soft?”

“Soft? Baby, you know I keep it all the way gangsta with you, but it’s been so long since I’ve been around you like that to know,” Lana replied, then added, “You locked me out of that part of your life.”

“But you lay with me, therefore you know my weakness,” World answered.

“Remember before Jazz died, y’all was beefin’ with Chancellor?”

“Yeah.”

“I heard you say to him that a gun may get you power but a gun can’t keep you in power,” Lana explained, using the jewel against him. He had heard it from Roc and now he better understood the difference between a gangsta and a goon. He had the goon part down. He just needed to learn the ways of a true gangsta. He smiled and gently kissed her forehead.

“I’m sayin’, you my wifey or my godfather?” he joked.

Lana giggled and replied with the godfather rasp in her voice, “Just call me Vito Corleone.”

They both laughed. Lana caressed his face.

“Just do what you have to do to come home to me every night. Shahid, promise me you’ll never let them take you away from me.”

“I promise, baby. I love you, Lana.”

“I love you, my World.”

Duke slipped out of bed, stretched his arms wide, and embraced the morning sun. He had always been an early bird, a habit he acquired from his days on the block. Duke was the type of hustler who worked harder, not smarter. His strength lay in his endurance, not in his swiftness. A good trait for a soldier, but Duke wanted to be the general.

His mind went back to his conversation the night before with Young World. It had been a week since their meeting with Ceylon, and Young World had been on his grind trying to meet the deadline. World had told Duke that he was going to see Roc, and of course, he was in charge during his absence.

“Yo, Duke, stay sucka-free,” he added because he knew Duke’s love for drama.

Duke was a live wire for gunplay, which was the main reason Young World had cliqued up with him back in the day. Once World’s man Jazz had been murdered, it was only right that Duke fill the position. But Duke wasn’t content being the man next to the man. He wanted to be that nigga.

He glanced down at the two naked white girls in his bed and his mouth twisted in a wicked grin as he remembered the lusty episode from last night. Duke had a thing for young girls and he found out that white women were real loose with black dick. The two sleeping seventeen-year-olds were no exception. He had pumped them full of “E,” then pumped them full of his “D,” and with his adrenaline pumping for what lay ahead, his bone hardened on the spot.

Both girls were blondes from their heads down to their pubic hairs, which turned Duke on. He slipped his fingers between the legs of the shorter of the two, who had been sleeping on her stomach, and slid inside her forcefully, waking her up with one pounding thrust.

“Arrrrgghhh!” she groaned in shock, trying to squirm from under Duke’s thug fuck. He pinned her wrists to the bed and spread her legs wider until she was spread-eagled on her belly. All the moaning and shouting woke her friend from her slumber. She opened her eyes and caught sight of Duke’s long black dick sliding in and out of her friend and it made her horny.

“Oh, Duke! Duuuuuke!” the first girl groaned, loving the muscle Duke was running up in her.

He felt the buildup in his balls and pulled out just in time to gag her friend’s throat with his load.

“Good morning to you, too, daddy,” the shorter blonde cooed, rolling off her stomach, sore and satisfied.

Duke used her shirt to clean himself off.

“Y’all gotta get goin’, yo. I got shit to do.”

Duke headed for the bathroom to clean up. After his shower, he dressed in his favorite Carolina blue Roccawear velour suit and Carolina blue Jordans. He headed for the kitchen and found that the girls were gone. He fixed himself breakfast like they usually did. They were at his beck and call, and because they lived in the same condominium complex, he had easy access to their favors.

Duke sat down to his omelette and turkey sausage and mentally planned his day. For him, it was the most important day of his life. His idea had been on the back burner for quite a while. So as soon as World said he was going out of town, Duke knew the time had come. He figured if he pulled it off as he planned, they could easily double distribution in one day.

He was going to have Roll killed.

Roll controlled major spots in New Jersey, and Duke believed if you killed the head the body would die. Besides, if Young World was afraid of an all-out war, this was the perfect solution.

If he could pull off the murder.

Roll wasn’t someone to fuck with. He had been in the game for years, so he was sharp and always on point. He kept no pattern that could be used fatally against him, so he wasn’t an easy target. But Duke felt confident in his plan. His greed told him that if he killed Roll, then all that was Roll’s would be his. Then World would be dependent on him for the new spots. It would be leverage Duke could use in getting World to agree to the mob backing he finally had in his corner. From there, it was just a matter of time before he would push Young World aside and take his spot.

Everybody wants to be boss.

Duke checked his watch then picked up his cell phone and dialed his shooters. The phone rang several times before he heard the aggravated voice of an awakened killer.

“Who this?”

“Get yo’ ass up, nigga! We got work to do,” Duke barked into the phone, flipping his plasma to ESPN to check the scores. Ty snapped up and rubbed his eyes, trying to revive himself.

“Oh, what up, Duke, my bad son? I ain’t-”

“Yo, is you ready?” asked Duke, cutting him off.

“No doubt.”

“How the fuck is you ready and you asleep?” Duke fired back, catching Ty’s dumb ass in a trick question.

“I meant I’m getting ready, yo. Gimme like thirty minutes, aiight?” Ty said, standing up with the phone cradled to his cheek while he put his pants on.

Duke didn’t even bother to reply. He simply hung up the phone and grabbed his keys to meet Ty at the rendezvous spot.