The Face That Launched A Thousand Bullets (The Cartel Publications Presents) (5 page)

“Fuck you talkin’ bout, Shy? Dat’s some bullshit!” Kavon slammed his fist on the table, causing some of his chili to pop out and splatter. “I been payin’ da same prices as everybody else you deal wit if not more. Don’t forget you talk more than you can remember.” He looked at him sternly. “Now I fucks wit you, but I’m not payin’ more than I have to. And the truth of the matter is, if you not willin’ to come down, I got somebody that’ll charge me less. So what’s it gonna be?”

Shy shot him an evil glare. Kavon’s tone with him was out of the ordinary and he decided to try him.

“You funny as shit.”

“What you mean I’m
funny as shit
?” Kavon mugged. He was sick of him.

And although he’d known Shy for a minute, he was fully prepared to cease all business interactions with him today if he didn’t meet his demands. Between Tara, his prize wife who had expensive tastes pressuring him every other day to get a legal hustle, and the cops bum rushing his house every other month, he was tired of living on the edge. He needed enough money to score big and get out, and Shy was making it difficult.

He had plans to ask Tara Pleasants, the love of his life, to be his wife. Just thinking about her naturally bronzed skin and sandy brown hair had his chest on swole and she was
all
his. Mixed with African American and Brazilian, she had an exotic appeal not common in the D.C. area.

Tara’s beauty was unquestionable, but there were a few things he didn’t understand about her. She depended on him too much to make decisions in her life. Kavon was a hustler, and a hustler needed a strong woman who could hold him down when times got rough and make decisions when the time was right. And with Tara, he couldn’t say beyond a shadow of a doubt that she could. With that said, it was still obvious that she influenced his decisions.

“You think it’s easy findin’ niggas in this game who got your back?”

“Shy we ain’t kids no more. I’m interested in gettin’ my weight up. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”

To some people it may have appeared as if Kavon was greedy challenging Shy on his prices considering Shy was the first dude to put him on. Before he met him, Kavon was a twenty-year-old, small time drug dealer with a couple of hundred dollars to spare. It was Shy who breathed the drug game in as if it were oxygen and brought Kavon along. Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, Shy loved letting people know what city he claimed because with the reputation his city had for being violent, he felt it added to his credibility. And to most people it did.

Now Shy didn’t come from a fucked-up home with both parents absent. It was quite the contrary. His mother, Karen, and father, Erick, were both New York City police officers. He had been raised in a home with law and order. But New York was New York, and despite the morals they bestowed upon him, whenever Shy left his house, all of that shit went out the window. There was nothing for him and his friends to do outside of hanging around drugs and violence. And Shy was a testimony to the old adage that an idle mind is the devil’s workshop.

No matter what their past, Kavon knew Shy had been charging him extra for the keys a long time ago, but he let it slide. Besides, business was business and Kavon wasn’t asking for handouts nor was he looking for any. But after being approached by a member of another crew, and seeing the offer they placed on the table, he believed a change was in order. Not to mention weed and coke wasn’t moving as fast as crack, the new high of choice.

“Can’t do it, man,” Shy responded as he continued to eat his meal while talking with his mouth full of food. “I gotta treat you like everybody else. That’s what you always said so I’ma hold you to it.”

This nigga is lunchin’!
Kavon thought. If that’s the way he wanted it, he could suck his dick.

He jumped up, grabbed his hat and moved toward the exit. If he hurried, he’d still had time to beep Deuce on his pager and tell him he was prepared to accept his offer.

“A’ight!” Shy’s voice trailed behind him before he reached the door. Although he spoke low, Shy’s voice was loud enough to rise above the din of noises in the restaurant.

There was a lot of commotion so he stopped to be sure he heard him correctly. For a second he looked at the exit door and contemplated saying,
fuck this nigga.
But he took pleasure in finally being able to break his greedy ass down. Slowly he turned around and faced him.

“What?” he said, approaching him slowly, as if he didn’t care either which way, although he did. He trusted Shy and knew he couldn’t say the same for the new cats.

“I said a’ight, nigga! You got it!” He chewed the last of the food in his mouth. “I’ll give you my
special
discount.”

Kavon sat down. Although Shy accepted his offer, Kavon was irritated at his awful display of professionalism. All he wanted was to be able to stack chips so he could move his future wife from D.C. to Miami, where she always wanted to live. The plan was to buy a few beachfront properties, which would get Kavon out of the game for good.

As Kavon stared at Shy, something was eerie about the way he looked at him. They say the evil in a man jumps out for a second and presents itself, when there is so much hate inside that it consumes the body. Kavon couldn’t help but wonder if resentment was what Shy felt for him now. He brushed it off when he remembered that they were bros above everything else, including money.

“Glad you came to your senses.” Kavon grinned a little. For the first time
he
was in control. “Now let’s get out of here so we can get some
real
food.”

“Cool wit’ me.”

They left together, but when they got in their rides, they thought about how things ended, and knew in one way or another, things would forever be changed between them.

Carolyn Jamison

Upper Marlboro, Maryland

Choose A Side

I
t was seven o’clock in the evening, the time where most people would be eating dinner at home. Not twenty-year-old Carolyn Jamison. She sat quietly in the front row of a secret “Klan of Young Conservatism” rally, which was nothing more than a modern-day Ku Klux Klan organization in Upper Marlboro, Maryland.

Behind the podium stood her father, wearing a chocolate suit, he controlled the audience’s attention with the vigor and force only a leader could muster. If you placed his voice on mute,
still
his eyes would say exactly what he stood for…total dominance and control. And when Carolyn’s eyes met her father’s she smiled brightly doing her best to show her support for his cause.

“Blacks think they run our country because of the laws that are made today! And unless we do something about it now, drug dealers, basketball players, rappers and the rest of these niggers will continue to take the American tradition out of our homes and throw it into the streets! And I for one won’t rest until we claim our country back! Are you with me?!”

“Now I’m not opposed to niggers getting with other niggers.” The crowd settled down and laughed a little. “But now they want our women
and
our jobs! Are we gonna sit by and continue to let them push out everything we worked so hard to build?”

“Nooooooooooooo!”

Raising his clutched fist into the air, he wanted it known that he would stop at nothing to ensure that whites regain control of their government and country. His coal black hair was as neat and as perfect as his purpose. In his late forties, at first sight William appeared as harmless as a catholic priest. But he was far from it.

“We must protect our white babies, our white women and white America! And as I look down at my God fearing beautiful white daughter, I’m reminded of the importance of our pure white heritage!

Anyone who was watching Carolyn could see that her beauty was riveting. And there was no denying that she looked like money in her royal blue Anne Klein suit and black pumps. Her red hair sat neatly on her shoulders and moved whenever she did. Out of habit and nervousness, she tucked it behind her ears several times that evening.

These meetings always had her on edge because she wondered if anyone would notice that she didn’t believe in
everything
KYC stood for. It was difficult for her to digest that her father was nothing more than an extreme racist. He couldn’t even be in the same room with someone black without commenting on their atrociousness. Day and night he preached of regaining the country through infiltrating public offices and big businesses. And he’d stop at nothing to see his plans followed through.

And right beside Carolyn sat her skinhead brother, eighteen-year old Todd Jamison. While everyone else was dressed in business attire, Todd wore a tight white t-shirt revealing his muscular body, and a pair of worn blue jeans. His steel toe boots were partially covered in dirt. He was the extreme of his father’s beliefs and principles. Even William had to tell him several times that he’d gone too far. But it was his arms that revealed the inner battle he faced with being a racist. Because covered over his arms were both fresh and old scars, compliments of his indulging in self-mutilation.

Although she never spoke it aloud, she knew of the things Todd and his friends did to innocent people of other races. She recalled him coming in late one night to their large home in Georgetown, DC, covered in blood. She asked him over and over what happened, even though she didn’t want to know. He never told her, but his glossy eyes showed that he was high on whatever he needed to follow through on his heinous crimes. That following day, when it was broadcasted on the news that someone had stabbed two black members of a Baptist church and pulled their bodies out on the steps for all to see, Todd smiled proudly.

His baldhead was skinned and a large black tattoo of the letters W and P could be seen from clear across the room. They symbolized, White Power. Through her brother’s eyes, it was the first time she could honestly see how hate and love could co-exist. Because Todd loved to hate, and everyone in his presence for five seconds felt it.

“We have to regain control over our businesses and our government first. Because as long as we continue to allow them to make screwed up laws, we can’t win! We have to unite in our purpose and do it now. Let’s build strong fronts! We can do it!”

The crowd roared with excitement. A furor rose up, then settled.

“Now before I leave, I want to introduce to you
our
answer to the DC Government. He’s young, he’s intelligent and he understands what must be done to clean up the city. Please welcome Kirk Bowler, our future Mayor and the newly elected Chief of Police!”

The cheers continued to roar throughout the hall.

“Thank you Bill!” he said shaking his hand. “Before he leaves can we give this man a another round of applause?”

The cheers got louder and William stepped off of the stage after receiving a standing ovation. His chest swelled. Kirk remained as he gave his speech on how he would represent the KYC well, starting with increasing the white percentage in the police force. Kirk hated that over 50% of the officers were niggers and he had plans to change it. His speech went on for twenty minutes before it ended.

“Sir, I enjoyed your speech! And if there’s anything I can do for you or your organization, please don’t hesitate to let me know.” Amanda Hertz owned six big banks and loved using her money to gain influence. “I mean that.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but just having the support of good old fashion law abiding white woman like yourself will be plenty.” Williams said.