Paper Chasers (12 page)

Once outside Bunny's building, we miraculously hailed down a cab, hopped in, and told the driver where we were going.

“Yo, they gave us a kee for only $18,000! And it is straight raw! Not laced with no garbage!” Earl happily shouted, unable to hold back his excitement any longer.

“Say word? What else did y'all get?” Randy asked in an eager tone. We were all totally amzed that we actually had a whole kee.

“We bought the pound of weed and they gave us another half a pound for nothing,” Earl answered.

I figured to myself that the extra quarter of a kee and the extra half pound of weed was sort of like a thank you from Mob Style to us. It probably was done so that they could ensure our business in the future. Not to mention that they had to know that we were on our way to being large, because after all not many cats could knock off the retail equivalent of eight and a half ounces of coke and a pound of weed in one week like we had done. So the bottom line was Mob Style probably wanted to keep supplying water to our well.

Earl then proceeded to say that he and Dwight had started to buy some heroin instead of the marijuana, but they decided against it. That was a smart move, 'cause we weren't prepared to move heroin just yet, even though we all knew that we couldn't rule it out for the future when we re-upped.

The moment we reached Randy's basement, we went straight to work. Dwight sent for everyone in the crew to help us. We entered the code 234 into everyone's beeper so that they would know exactly where we were at. But we definitely weren't going to just sit around and wait for all of the crew to arrive. There was no telling where the rest of the crew was, so we started without them. Most of us assumed the same positions we had held the first time we all worked to get our product out on the street.

Eventually, one by one, the members of our crew arrived and joined us as we prepared our drugs. It was Saturday and we knew we had to have the work ready to go before it got dark. Everyone partied on Saturday night, which of course meant that everyone would be out and about on the city streets. To put it “bluntly,” so to speak, we knew any Saturday night was money in the bank, and we simply couldn't afford to lose any more potential money.

Before long, all of the members in our crew were in the basement. We were all working very hard, and we didn't even stop to take a break like we had done previously. Everyone was so woozy and tired. By refusing to pause from our work, we actually slowed down our operation rather than speeding it up like we intended.

We started at about 2:30
P.M.
and it was already a little past 8:00
P.M.
by the time we were finished and ready to punch out. We were pooped, but that didn't stop us from jumping into taxis to Brooklyn and Far Rockaway to make drop-offs. Donnie trooped it to Merrick Boulevard on foot and dropped off work to our workers that were on the block.

Donnie loved the hard-core atmosphere of the urban streets, so much so that he would stay on Merrick and hustle alongside our workers. He sold drugs hand to hand just as they did. He said what drove him to go hand to hand was the fact that he loved the cat and mouse games he was always forced to play with the DTs. He loved the fact that the detectives couldn't catch him, and that's how he had earned the nickname “Slick-Don.” Although Slick-Don was going hand to hand, he never would actually have drugs in his personal possession.

Donnie always stated that the trick to hustling was to strategically place drugs inside a napkin, an old cigarette box, or anything useless, and just leave it on the ground. If a crack head or anyone else for that matter wanted drugs, they would simply pay Donnie or any other drug dealer for the drugs. Then they would be nonchalantly instructed as to what to pick up from off the ground. After they'd pick up the napkin or whatever, they would be off and on their way to smoke their drugs. That was done because if the police ever showed up on the scene unexpectedly, then the drugs couldn't be pinned to a specific dealer.

As for the start of our new spot in Red Fern projects, that would have to wait until at least Monday. It was no problem, though, because all Latiefe had to do was make a phone call to Gangsta and we were in there.

Our drop offs went smoothly and quickly. Before we knew it, we were all back at headquarters, aka 234th Street. Once we were on the block, I walked to the front yard of my house and sat by myself on the front steps. Looking into the sky I remember feeling scared like crazy. In fact, I knew that subconsciously everyone in the crew was afraid. We knew that the lifestyle we were living was not truly and genuinely us at all. I mean, after all, we had grown up as privileged middle class cats that had toys, clothes, nice roofs over our heads, and food to eat whenever we wanted it.

Even though hustling was wrong, no matter how I looked at it, I could at least understand cats hustling for the fact that they'd grown up dirt poor and hungry for their entire lives. In fact, the drug game should be reserved for those type of cats simply because the streets were like the jungle, and they were the lions and kings of that jungle. Us and other middle class cats were nothing more than swift, highly trained house cats that knew damn well that we needed a litter box by our sides at all times. In fact, I could sense that it was just a matter of time before we would lose some of that swiftness. I was just hoping that just like house cats, if we ever lost our balance, at least we would land on our feet.

It was ill, 'cause I knew this was no longer a game. We were actually doing major dirt! We were hustling on blocks that niggas had sweated years to gain control of! We was wild, yo!

As I sat there I remember saying to myself,
This ain't the way, Mark. Holz, this ain't the way!

I sat in twisted confusion. I was in an illiterate daze.

Despite the fast lifestyle that I was starting to lead, the previous week was a good one for me. I had managed to finish writing about two more elements of “The Elements Of A Black Man's Fist.” I wondered if mailing out those thoughts that I had written down was actually gonna be worth it. I didn't know, but I decided to just write them anyway and hold on to them. I knew that with so much going on, it was going to take at least until the end of the summer before I would actually finish writing about all of the elements.

Would people really care, though?
I wondered. Probably not. I probably wouldn't even mail them out. I mean, would it really make a difference?

Those were the thoughts that ran through my head after a big payoff. Payday had finally arrived for our clique. And what a big payday it was. We each received over three thousand dollars in cash. The good thing about it was that we still had a good supply of drugs to keep things rolling. Man, did I feel good! I was walking around with three thousand dollars in my pocket. Three thousand dollars, and it was all my cheese to keep and do whatever with.

Saturday, July 13 was only three days away. Once again, people were gonna be coming from all over just to be in New York on that day. Jones Beach, which is located out on Long Island, would be everyone's destination. An event called Greekfest was to take place. No doubt about it, our crew had plans to be there. And unlike last year when we went to the event looking like straight up street bums, this year was definitely gonna be different.

For 1991's Greekfest, Fourth Crew definitely planned to blow up. We all decided to go shopping. Our pockets were right and we knew that we could go to any mall in New York and come back with just about whatever we wanted. We went everywhere—Green Acres Mall, Kings Plaza Mall, Roosevelt Field Mall, The Coliseum on Jamaica Avenue, Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, and basically everywhere else in the Big Apple that sold clothes.

Our shopping spree reminded me of the way a woman liked to shop. You know, going into every store and looking at every piece of merchandise. But unlike women who entered every store only to come out with nothing new, we came out of stores with our hands full.

On our return trip home from the very hectic day of shopping, we had bags upon bags of new clothing. All of the latest trends and designer names in clothes could be found in our possession. Five hundred dollar gold watches, chains, medallions, rings, bracelets—you name it, we bought it.

I for one had spent over twelve hundred dollars on my new gear, which consisted of everything from silk boxers to Versace designer clothes. I could have cared less about how much I had spent. I was looking at things from the point of view that it was only our first payday, and many more paydays were sure to follow. So as far as I was concerned, money wasn't nothing but a thing.

Very soon we each expected to see somewhere in the neighborhood of five figures in our respective pockets. And that was to be on top of the three-thousand-dollars that we'd already received, and it would exclude any money needed to re-up. We all expected to see those five figures within about a week or so. With that money, plans to buy new cars were being discussed. Everyone had their different tastes. Latiefe wanted a BMW. Randy wanted a Honda Accord, and Kwame liked Volvos. I personally loved jeeps and SUVs, particularly Chevrolet Blazers, and that was what I intended to buy.

After we'd arrived home from shopping, we quickly went our separate ways in order to try on our new duds. I was feeling real good about myself. My self-esteem had reached a level that I didn't think it was capable of reaching. As I modeled my new clothes in front of my mirror, I had a big, Kool-Aid smile plastered smack-dab across my grill. My sister Paula watched as I tried on my new threads.

“Mark, that's nice . . . Ooh, I like that! . . . Oh, that is the bomb! . . . Mark, that is slammin'!” Those were the remarks that Paula made as I modeled for her.

Paula knew about the crew's drug activities. She didn't approve of them, but she also didn't cause any waves. I had already warned her not to mention to our parents what I was doing. My sister and I were very close; therefore, I trusted that she would keep her mouth shut. I assured her that I wasn't gonna get mixed up in the violence that went along with the drug territory. Paula was mad cool. She didn't really have a huge problem with my illegal activities, and she showed trust in me. She trusted that I knew exactly what I was into and that I knew my limitations.

None of the crew members' parents knew of our involvement with drugs. However, it would soon be hard for them not to know, especially with the way we were planning to blow up. Our parents were bound to get suspicious as to where the money was coming from, but we were determined to keep them in the dark for as long as possible. Actually, none of us really consciously worried about our families because we knew that they wouldn't get hurt as a result of our methods of
making a good living
. Or at least that's what we subconsciously wanted to convince ourselves of.

The night went on and I continued to show off my new clothes to my sister. I gave her $250 and told her to do whatever she wanted with it. In my mind, I wondered if the fringe benefits that Paula was receiving was what motivated her to keep her mouth shut. Nonetheless, I planned to also mail my brother $250. My brother Ronnie was still locked up. He was upstate doing his bid and waiting to be released. I knew that two hundred and fifty dollars in his commissary would be butta. It could help him to get some weed or whateva he wanted while he was in the pen.

“Paula,” I said to my sister, “before you go back to college next semester, you're gonna have a new whip. It's gonna be one of those Geo Storms, the kind that all of the girls are driving.”

“Mark, you know that I can't really drive that good yet.”

“So what?” I replied. “I'm paying for it.”

“Hold up, wait a minute . . . Mark . . . you mean that y'all are gonna be making that much money?”

“No doubt,” I replied.

Paula smiled a sinister smle as she shook her head. Then she asked me if I wanted to go with her and Nia to a club in the City.

“Yeah, I'll go.”

“OK, good. Why don't you bring Sabine along with us?”

“Nah. Uh, I don't think I can do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . Paula . . . Well see, well you know how strict her parents are. They ain't trying to let her go out.”

Although that was true, I didn't want to tell Paula the real reason why I didn't want to ask Sabine to go out with us, which of course was because we weren't together anymore. Anyway, I planned to go out for a night that was sure to be fun filled and action packed. Going out was sure to do me some good and help me relax.

July 13 was now upon us. We arrived at Jones Beach in true to form mac-daddy fashion. We had our gold on, along with our new short sets and flip flops. We also had our haircuts freshly dipped.

Booties were literally everywhere. I mean girls had on thong bikinis but they might as well not have had anything on at all. Their thongs looked as if they'd taken a piece of dental floss and stuck it between their butt cheeks. But believe me, not I, nor was anyone else in our crew complaining. To us, half-dressed, young, college-aged females were what the Greekfest was all about, and we lived for the annual event.

As we canvassed the sands of the beach, there was a different aura or ambiance that went along with us. It was like there was this invisible glow around each member in the crew. Girls were coming up to us and asking us for our phone numbers!

They were asking us out on their own initiative. It was mad ill 'cause we didn't have to do anything.

Although we didn't have to, we still approached females. Our confidence was soaring. In fact it was amazingly high, probably because not one female had tried to diss us—not one! The beach was packed. The Greekfest was definitely a beautiful thing. I mean literally thousands upon thousands of women were all over the beach—short ones, tall ones, medium ones, brown ones, dark ones, light-skinned ones, Puerto Rican ones, thick ones, skinny ones, many with nice bodies, and some with OK bodies. Yo, to put it simply, it was a lustful person's paradise, or a human meat market.

We walked around with both Randy and Latiefe, carrying illegal cell phones. Wiggie worked the camcorder that we'd purchased specifically for the occasion. He filmed everything. He filmed me doing things that would be banned in mainstream movie theatres. Everything from slapping chicks on their butts to undoing girls' bikini's leaving their naked bodies fully exposed. He had shots of people swimming, dancing, and rhyming. Even celebrities were on our tape.

The day was truly worth living for. We ate food, drank beer, and smoked weed. To put it in religious terms, we were sinning big time. But for us that meant living it up. The Greekfest served as a pre-celebration of our soon-to-come riches.

Before we knew it, the sun was beginning to shift it's location in the sky and people were starting to disperse. But all that meant was that the fun was really about to begin. The drive home was always the best part of the Greekfest because it was when everyone from the beach would be at their drunkest and highest point of the day, and acting the fool.

During our ride home, people literally stopped their cars on the Meadowbrook Parkway, got out, and started partying. With the traffic gridlocked, more and more people were getting out of their cars and joining in on the highway party. At that point everyone was either taking pictures, filming with their camcorders, or trying to get a last minute phone number from people that they found attractive.

It was sad, but females were just out of control. And believe me when I say that it takes a lot for me to say a party was out of control. Some females were so desperately trying to get attention from guys that they were literally stripping naked and yelling for everyone to come and inspect their anatomy. Others weren't as bold, so they just went topless and stood through the sunroof of their cars, shaking what their mommas' had given them.

The day was finally winding down, but we had a bomb time. We met many women and we had gotten our drink on. As far as we were concerned our mission was accomplished. Miraculously there had been no gun fights, and there were also no fights of any other kind. The day turned out to be wonderful.

Sunday was payday number two, and everyone received seven thousand dollars. Those large sums of money were captivating. I can't describe in words just how good it felt to have that type of cash.

In addition to getting paid, we spent Sunday visiting some of the girls that we'd met the previous day at the beach. And man, they were throwing sex in our faces. A shortie named Tricia from Long Island invited me over to her crib. When I'd spoken to her on the phone, I got her address and directions to her place. I also tried to find out what she wanted to do when we hooked up. You know, like go to the movies, a club, or what have you. And yo, all I'll say, so as to not give females a bad name is . . . Matter of fact, I won't even repeat what Tricia told me that she wanted to do, 'cause it just wasn't respectable at all.

I couldn't believe my ears. I'm no Don-Juan or nothing like that, but what was so ill was the fact that Tricia was dead up serious about what she wanted to do. When I arrived at her house we talked and watched television for a little while, but before you could blink an eye we were engaged in a very unrespectable sex act.

Again, I have to say that it was mad ill because the cash that drugs brought into my life made it mad easy for me to sin. Although I knew everything that I was doing was wrong, I just loved my meaningless way of life. And although I loved the life, it was like something more than love was enticing me, pulling me down, and causing me to want to sin.

When I returned home I told the crew about my sex ordeal. I learned that I wasn't the only one who had scored. Latiefe, Earl, and Erik also had fornicated with the women that they'd met at the beach. As for Dwight, J.P., and Wiggie, well they didn't believe we had had sex with some girls that we'd only known for one day. But they were determined to copy our actions and immediately they raced each other to the phone and started making phone calls.

Those of us who had already scored, well we were not yet satisfied. We wanted more and more of the sex that we had just experienced. So we too worked the phones like telemarketers, trying to contact some of the other chickenheads that we'd met at the beach. It was like a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah.

Randy and I managed to get in contact with two females from Manhattan. They were sisters, so a double date was suggested, agreed upon, and arranged. The two sisters, who were named Whitney and Denise, suggested that we go to a club called Kilamangaros, which was located on the lower East Side.

When we arrived at the club we danced and drank liquor at the bar. But surprisingly the overall mood of the club wasn't really hitting it, so we decided to bounce. My head was feeling nice from all of the liquor that I drank. I wasn't drunk, but I was at the tipsy stage. Even though I was tipsy, I wasn't too tipsy to hear the girls say “all right” when Randy suggested that we go to a hotel.

Being that we had pockets full of cash, we decided to go a hotel called Embassy Suites. Embassy Suites is located near Times Square, right where Dick Clark drops the ball every New Year's Eve on TV. The hotel was extremely expensive, but who cared? Money was definitely no object.

Continuing on our quest for sex, Whitney and I received room 715. Randy and Denise had a room on the third floor. Whitney ordered room service for the both of us 'cause we hadn't eaten anything all day. Unfortunately, we didn't eat the food when it arrived, because like animals in heat, we were too preoccupied with sexing each other.

The next morning I woke to the sound of my telephone ringing. It was Randy calling to tell me to tell Whitney that Denise was leaving to go home. I relayed the message to Whitney and she too prepared herself to depart. When she was ready to leave, I paid her . . . I mean, I gave her one hundred dollars and asked her if that was how much she charged . . . I mean, was that enough for her to get a cab to go home.