Heist 2 (12 page)

2

Harlem

 

N
ana Gloria sits iron-straight with her coarse hair raked back into a tight bun at the top of her head. Her square, black-rimmed glasses slide to the end of her nose as she continuously looks around. It's the middle of the summer and yet she's in her favorite sweater with her arms about her like she's fighting off a chill.

When I enter the room with my fake smile, she looks up and sighs.

I know that sigh.

I grew up with that sigh. It's tiredness and disappointment rolled together.
I'm tired of this, Harlem. I'm disappointed in you, Harlem. When are you going to start making smarter choices, Harlem?

Gliding my long body into the uncomfortable plastic chair, I prepare for this month's tsunami of guilt she's about to unleash my way. After taking our measure of each other, we reach for the phone at the same time.

“Hey, Nana. You're looking good.”

Nana Gloria's groomed left brow shifts an inch higher than her right. “I look like shit and you know it,” she counters, tersely. “I haven't slept in over forty-eight hours, the electric company won't give me another extension, the hospital keeps calling about their bill, the insurance company keeps coming up with excuses why they can't pay the bills while the doctor insists that Tyler needs another operation.” She pauses to suck in a dramatic breath. “I could go on, but the list would take up all of our time.”

“All right, Nana. I get it.”

“No. I don't think that you do,” she says, her bottom lip quivering. “I'm so tired of this mess that you dumped on my lap that I don't know what to do. I'm at the end of my rope.” Her grip on the phone tightens. “Something has got to give.”

My head drops a few inches as her every word carves another piece right out of my heart. “I know things are hard right now—and I'm trying to work a few things out to get you some cash.”

“Some cash?” she asks. “I'm not asking for gas money, Harlem. I could lose the house. You know how hard your grandfather worked to buy that house.” Nana glances around and then leans closer toward the Plexiglas. “Why can't you just tell me where you have the money stashed? I'll only take what Tyler and I need to get by.”

Now I tighten my grip on the phone.

“Don't tell me that you don't trust
me.
”

“Of course I trust you,” I say. “That's not the issue.”

“Then what?”

“Nana, I told you. There are eyes everywhere. I can't risk you winding up behind bars, too.”

Another sigh. “So what in the heck am I supposed to do? Huh?” Her red-stained eyes implore me. “Am I supposed to just toss up my hands and let them take everything and put me
and
your daughter out on the street?”

“No. Of course not.” I shift around in my seat.

“Then what? Tell me something, Harlem.”

“What about Uncle Jonathan?”

Nana Gloria's anger changes into confusion. “And where in the hell is your uncle supposed to come up with that kind of money? He's an old man living on a pension just like I am.”

I shake my head because she still refuses to believe me when I tell her that Uncle Jonathan is, in fact, The Jackal. “Nana, talk to him. I'm sure that he has a few dollars saved up.”

“I will do no such thing. I'm not harassing that man for his little taste of money. You should be ashamed for even suggesting such a thing.” With her bottom lip trembling, she blinks a fresh wave of tears away.

I shake my head, erasing my smile. I've lost count how many times I've tried to tell her that Grandpa's baby brother is not the wide-eyed innocent she thinks he is. She's in complete denial that he and his childhood buddies—Rawlo, Tremaine, and Mishawn—are the infamous Jackal from decades past. Hell, I had a hard time believing it, too, when I found out years ago.

“Honestly, I don't know why I keep coming up here,” Nana complains. “We have the same conversation every month. First it was your mother and now it's you. It's like you two were put on the earth to punish me for God only knows what. I know in my heart that I've tried to do my best by you two. I really did.” She rocks in her seat as tears crest her eyes and then skip down her face.

Shame explodes within my chest. I've never wanted to hurt this petite woman of God, but so far, that's exactly what I've done.

“I'm going to fix this, Nana. I promise.”

No longer able to look at me, Nana Gloria hangs up the phone and climbs to her feet. According to the clock on the wall, we still have another thirty minutes, but I can't bring myself to tap the Plexiglas to call her back.

She's had enough.

Sighing, I hang up the phone and watch her go. When she doesn't glance back, I feel like the biggest pile of shit in this whole damn prison.

 

“Bruh!” Kick! Kick! “Bruh!” Kick! Kick!

RaShawn kicks the bottom of my thin mattress hard enough to jar me from the past.
Shit.
I shove my dick back into my undies and jump down from the bed. “What the fuck is your muthafuckin' problem, brothah?”

This oil-slick-looking-ass muthafucka blinks up at me all shocked and shit.

“What? Bruh, what? Say something,” I bark, heated.

RaShawn unfolds his short, tree-thump ass from the bottom bunk to flash me his fucked-up teeth. “You were talking and moaning in your sleep,” he says.

“So?”

More blinking. “Well, it was keeping me up.”

“So?”

“Look, bruh. There ain't no need to get swoll. I thought that you were doing a little too much up there. I know that you miss your girl and all,” he says, gesturing to Johnnie's pic on the wall. “But I shouldn't be getting all hard, listening to you rub one out. That's all. Shit ain't right.”

Looking at RaShawn's twisted-up face and rock-hard hard-on, I can't do nothing but laugh at this fresh-in-the-joint brothah.

“What?” He shifts around on his feet. “What's so funny?”

“You, bruh.” I grab his pillow and throw it at his face. “You better loosen up around here before that stick up your ass get your ass fucked up—and I'm the muthafucka that's going to do it the next damn time you interrupt my private time with my lady, you feel me?”

“But—”

“Naw. Ain't no damn
buts
about it. Take what I'm telling you for the warning that it is—and I'll return the favor when you're hit with a severe case of blue balls and you're whacking li'l Shawie. We understand each other?”

Silence. But this got to be the most blinking-est muthafucka in the world. I turn my back to him to wash up at the small metal sink in the corner of the cell. But no matter how much cold water I throw on my face, it's not helping ease the ache for my princess, Johnnie. Hell, memories are all I got left of her.

“Sooo . . . you got a kid?” RaShawn asks out of the blue.

I glance back to see him studying all of Tyler's crayon pictures. “What's it to you?”

“No—nothing. I—I got a kid myself,” he fills in quickly. “I—you know. We're gonna be sharing the same cell for a while, I just thought . . .”

“What? You thought that we're going to be best friends or some shit?” I chuckle at his stupid ass.

More blinking. “Nah. Nah. I ain't saying that. You know, I'm . . . I thought we could, you know, look after one another.”

I turn, straightening my full body so that he could get a good look at how I tower over him. Not only that, but I clearly have more muscle mass than his ass. “I don't need anyone looking out for me,” I tell him. “I take care of myself.”

RaShawn backs up. “Yeah. Yeah. That's what I heard.”

“What you heard?” My curiosity piques as my eyes narrow on him. “You've been talking about me with other brothahs up in here?”

“No. No. Not me.” His mouth moves so fast his tongue gets tangled. “I didn't mean to make it sound like that. I just heard out in the yard—”

“So there's a whole yard of you gossiping bitches?” The muscles on the side of my face twitch as I lift up my jaw.

Sensing an ass whooping ain't too far away, RaShawn pushes up his hands like two stop signs. “Whoa. Whoa. Okay. Maybe I mis-spoke again.” He takes a deep breath. “All I heard was that you have some juice—as far as protection goes. That's all.” He laughs to lighten the mood, but the shit sounds like a rusted muffler backfiring. “I mean, bruhs don't fuck with you for whatever reason—and I guess I wanted a little of that to rub off on me.” He shrugs. “You can't blame a brother, right? I don't know anybody up in this joint. I'm trying to get in where I fit in, you feel me?”

I relax and laugh again in his face. “You really are a rookie at this, aren't you?”

He doesn't know how to take the question.

I wave him off. “Look, man. You're going to have to fight your own battles and find your own situation around here. That's the only way you're going to get and receive respect.”

He nods, but I know that he's disappointed in my answer, but truth is often best served cold.

Life has been strange ever since my ass first strolled through these bars. I'm not too clear how the fuck I ended up here. The story my man Isaiah told didn't and still don't make much sense. The voice in the back of my head says to me that Isaiah struck some kind of deal, but the loyal part of me fights the accusation. I long for the opportunity to ask him face-to-face again, but the state tried us separately and, after a fallout, we're serving in separate prisons. Letter writing and phone calls are not an option. In the meantime, my imagination runs wild.

“So is it true?” RaShawn asks out of the blue.

“Is what true?”

RaShawn hems and haws. “You know. That you and your old partner are caked up on the outside.”

These niggas really have been bumping their gums around this newbie. When I don't answer, this muthafucka takes it as a sign to keep interrogating.

“I heard that it's millions.”

I cut him a sharp warning look, but he's too stupid to take it for what it is.

“Nah. I mean. It makes sense,” RaShawn says. “You're not part of any gang or crew up in here, yet, at the same time, nobody sweats you, either. You gotta be paying for protection, right?”

“Stop talking.”

“What? I'm just saying—”

In a flash, I'm across the cell, lifting and slamming this mouthy muthafucka against the concrete wall. “Shut your fucking mouth, you piece of shit. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

After shaking the stars from his eyes, RaShawn tries to twist out of my clutches. “Yo, bruh! What's the problem? We're just having a fucking conversation.”

“Nah, nigga. A conversation requires two people. You're talking all over yourself, asking shit that ain't got shit to do with you.” I cock my head and take a fresh look at this brother. “What are you, a cop? A snitch? What?”

“Whoa. Whoa.” RaShawn's eyes bug out while he looks around the dark cell like a super-convict is coming to rescue his ass. “Lower your voice,” he begs. “Are you trying to get me killed in this bitch?”

“Muthafucka, you're doing that shit on your own.”

The top three most dangerous people to be in prison are: pedophiles, ex-cops, and snitches. Prison snitches have fucked up plenty of brothers in this bitch. They snoop out weak niggas in a confessing mood and then snitch every damn thing that was said in order to get their own long-ass sentences reduced.

“I ain't no snitch,” he hisses, glaring.

I keep him pinned up until I'm satisfied that he's telling the truth. When I release him, I give him parting advice. “Shut your gossiping ass up and stay out of my business.”

As I move to climb back into bed, RaShawn drops a bomb.

“Does that mean that you don't want to hear about your ex-partner getting early release?”

I whip around. “Say what?”

RaShawn's fucked-up grill flashes. “Probably not. Seeing how I'm just some gossiping prison yard nigga, huh?” He eases back into his bunk.

My heart starts skipping beats up inside my chest. “What the fuck are you talking about, Ra? Isaiah got ten years. Same as me.”

“Apparently not.” He shrugs and closes his eyes, pretending to go back to sleep.

I snatch him back out of the bed. “Don't fuck with me. How in the hell is his ass getting out?”

Ra gloats in my face. “Nobody knows, bruh. Some say for good behavior—some say that he struck a deal. Who knows? All I know is that he's been the one bragging about some money y'all got caked up.”

I toss Ra down onto the floor while my mind races.
The money. He's going to go after my money.

3

Harlem

M
y twenty-five million dollars are at stake.

On the prison yard, I take out my frustrations on the weights. I always think better when my heart rate is up. But my solitude is broken when a team of Gangster Disciples rolls up on me.

“Yo, nigga,” Goon, their prison chief, calls out. “Whatchu benching now? Two hundred? Three hundred?” He places a foot on the bench above my head and leans over, smiling.

Trouble.
I attempt to return the weight bar back on the stand, but his main enforcer, Crusher, grabs hold of the bar and forces it back down near my throat.

“Nah. Nah. You don't have to stop whatchu doin', man.” Goon smiles. “I know how important it is for muthafuckas to stick with a regimen out here.”

I grunt at the pressure applied to my larynx and fight like hell to get the bar back up. It's like a single fly pushing against an elephant. Crusher's muscles have muscles. The bar isn't going no damn where unless he wants it to.

Goon's smile spreads wider. “Listen here, money. We aren't going to fuck with you too long out here. We've had a good arrangement going for the past five years, right? The Gangster Disciples makes sure that your heart keeps pumping in exchange for a big slice of that bread you got waiting for you on the outside when you get out, right?”

More grunting. I can't breathe.

“Just nod your head if you agree,” Goon says.

I nod.

“Good. Good. Because that's what I thought. But, uh, there's been some talk circulating around this joint that's got me a little concerned. Instead of me participating and speculating in prison bitches' idle gossip, I've always said that it's best to just go to the source, nawhatImean?”

Another grunt.

“Cool. Now word is that the nigga that you pulled most of those bank jobs and whatnots with is beating you out from behind these iron bars. You hear about that?”

When I don't respond, he signals to Crusher to let me steal a gulp of air. The bar is lifted a full second, allowing my lungs to fill to capacity—but then the pressure is reapplied to my neck.

“Was that a yes or a no?”

I nod.

“All right. So what I need to know from you is: how does this shit affect my money?”

The bar comes up two inches.

Gasping and coughing, I struggle to get a hold of myself.

“A'ight, money. I haven't got all muthafuckin' day,” Goon says tightly.

“It's a problem,” I tell him honestly. There's no point in my lying and saying shit is all good. Niggas 'round here know Isaiah and I had an epic fallout years ago that resulted in him being transferred to another prison. I blamed him and he came at me sideways, blaming my relationship with Johnnie as the reason for our asses getting pinched—which was ridiculous because no one knew about us. I may have overreacted and tried to break his face. The shit landed me in solitary for a couple of months and we never spoke again.

Goon sighs. “Damn, nigga. I wish your ass didn't say that shit. I kind of like your cool ass.” He stands up as the bar descends. “Broke-ass muthafuckas always got to fuck shit up.”

“A problem always has a solution,” I spit out quickly.

The bar stops.

“I'm listening,” Goon says.

“I just got to beat him to the money.”

“Oh? Is that all?” He looks over at Crusher and they share a laugh. “Tell you what: why don't you tell me and my boy here where you stashed the money and I'll send some of my folks on the outside to go and pick it up for you?”

That shit is not happening.
I glare up at him.

“No?” He shrugs. “Sounds like a fair offer to me. Seeing how you're in danger of reneging on a steep debt. After all, I am not running a fucking charity up in this bitch. Niggas pay their tabs—one way or another.”

“Kill me and you'll never get your money.” Our gazes lock and I can literally see the wheels turning through his eyes.

“How?”

The bar goes up.

“Like I said. I have to beat him to the money.”

Our gazes crash for a long silent moment. “To make sure I understand what you're suggesting: you want help in organizing a jail break?”

“Yeah. I busted my ass into a lot of muthafuckin' places in my time. I'm sure that I can bust my way out of here.”

We engage in another staring contest. “All right. Bet.”

He signals to Crusher again and the bar finally returns to the rack.

I spring up like a jack-in-the-box, coughing and rubbing my neck. It takes everything I have not to start swinging on big homie, but that would be suicide given the power and reach on the brother.

Crusher shrugs, making it painfully clear that the shit wasn't personal. Just business.

“A'ight, money,” Goon says, looking up since I have two inches on him. “What's your play?”

“Work detail,” I spit out. “It's the most vulnerable time. There's only two guards with my crew when we go out on trash detail.”

“Stage a rebellion and overpower the guards?” Goon fills in, looking and sounding bored and unimpressed.

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Then what? Kill the guards, steal their keys to unchain yourself and then run off into the sunset?”

I clamp my mouth shut because it sounds a little shaky when he says it.

“No car waiting, just a group of big-ass niggas in orange prison uniforms out for a jog, huh? Trust me. The US Marshals will have no problem scooping y'all up before the five o'clock news.”

He's right.
I have to figure out another way out of this place, but everything else takes time.

“You know what?” Goon says, reading my distress. “I
am
going to help you out.”

“What?”

“But your tab just doubled,” he adds seriously. “Two million. I'll get you the name of my partner on the outside that you need to deliver the money to. You got three days after you out of here or my folks are going to pay your daughter and your grandma a little visit.”

I take a reflexive step forward at the unveiled threat to my family.

Crusher meets my challenge with a step forward himself.

Goon laughs. “Keep your head, money. We're talking business. I need guarantees now. Your credit has just taken a huge hit. You understand that.”

I do but I don't want to admit it. “I need more time.”

Goon sighs.

“The money is not in New York.”

“Damn, bruh. You're really testing my patience.” When I don't respond, he admits another sigh. “How much more time?”

“Maybe seven days. And that's probably stretching it since I'll have to remain below the radar.”

He twirls his toothpick. “All right. I'll do you one better. You got ten days. And don't think that you're going to sneak your people out of reach. I'll have my folks watching them like the muthafuckin' NSA starting five minutes from now. You got that?”

“Got it.” Like OG cats, we shake on it. “So . . . what's the plan?”