One Hustler's World Read online

  Twenty minutes later, he drove into the Ingleside, Norfolk lower-middle-class neighborhood. He pulled alongside the Trant Avenue curb. Watching both women quietly approach the infamous Yolanda’s residence, he chuckled at the sight of the front door swinging open. A tall, slender, golden brown woman emerged. She allowed Samantha safe passage. She took Maxine by the nape of her neck and shoved her inside. She glared at the Nissan Pathfinder. Her fist-to-chin gesture signified the retribution to be expected.

  KT drove away confident Maxine was in for a long day of sexual servitude. He pondered the consequences of his younger brother killing two veteran police officers. He was disturbed by the calmness Big Suge displayed. He drove into the night uncertain whether...

  There is no wealth but life

  -unknown

  CHAPTER 2

  God gave us burdens, also shoulders

  -Ibid

  Trice Terrace, Ingleside Apartments

  Norfolk, Virginia

  3 minutes later

  KT, leaving the lower-middle-class homes, turned onto Trice Terrace. He took a casual drive around his childhood Ingleside, Norfolk neighborhood. Within the heart of the two-block, low-income Ingleside Apartments, though it was 3:08 am, the early morning was rife with criminality. Litter was sprinkled about. Several narcotics peddlers occupied their respective distribution hubs. Addicts of various afflictions scurried about the two-story apartment complexes. An array of seasoned automobiles was in clear contrast to the illegal hustler-owned, late model coupes, sedans, and SUVs.

  KT slowed his vehicle as he approached his very own distribution hub. He gave his friend Dynamo a respectful salute. He watched the younger man tend to the crack addicts loitering about the courtyard. Next, he glimpsed apartment 915 B. As if hurled into a time warp, he was thrust back to the last time the Garrison family occupied his childhood tenement...

  ∗

  Summer 1997

  Though the fan situated within the window drew in a cool, late-night breeze, a seven-year-old Khalid Nikita ‘KT’ Garrison was hard asleep. His legs shaken violently, he was thrown awake. Groggily, he stared into the tear-soaked eyes of his four-year-old brother, David Lee ‘Big Suge’ Garrison, and said. “Big Suge, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s momma! It’s momma... Uncle Ace hurting momma again!”

  KT, spilling over with pent-up rage, scurried from his bed. “Help me find a weapon, anything.”

  Big Suge held up his plastic baseball bat.

  No other options were available, so KT took it. He thought about David Lee Garrison Sr. Before their father was defeated by lung cancer two years ago, he was their superhero. He was a strong, loving, dedicated family man. Though every day was a financial struggle, he ensured his family was rich in love and devotion. His illness and subsequent death crippled the family. Ever since, KT was the man of the house. As the man of the house, it was his duty to defend the family.

  Down the short hallway, he stormed into the master bedroom. Horrified, he found his mother, Ella Garrison, curled into a submissive knot on top of the bed. All the while, a heavily panting Uncle Ace shook away the sting from his open palm—the consequences of being forced to prove his point.

  KT, crying tears of unimaginable hatred, charged. Striking his so-called ‘uncle’ several times with the plastic baseball bat, he was slung ragdoll-like halfway across the room. He slammed into the dresser yet quickly shook away the torment. His head throbbing and mouth bleeding, he stood between Uncle Ace and his mother—willing to take his man of the house duties to the grave. Ready to reengage his uncle, KT turned towards the doorway.

  Big Suge, teary-eyed, holding a white, plastic knife, stood ready to help defend their mother in any way he could.

  KT took the meager weapon from him. Pulling his younger brother into his arms, he could feel Big Suge’s elevated heartbeat drumming against his own. “It’s okay, Lil bro, it's over. Momma is not hurt. They was just playing.”

  Ella Garrison, primed to tend to her children, was grabbed by the shoulder. Inconspicuously, Uncle Ace ordered her to allow him to speak to the boys. Consent extorted, he smiled at the young soldiers. “Lemme spit boss game to yawl Lil go-hards.” He ignored the boys' apparent disdain and led them back into their bathroom. “Yawl lil dudes, take a knee so I can give ya the game... yawl knows I love ya....”

  As far as KT was concerned, Uncle Ace was speaking a foreign language. Bypassing the thug sermon, his eardrums were fixated on the roar of a powerful motorcycle. Massive brake pads screeched. A multitude of hoarse, deeply slurred voices yelling and screaming, the glorious drumming of a nearby marching band suddenly erupted. Horrifying, blood-gurgling shrieks accompanied the suddenness of exploding glass flying about the boy’s bedroom. A swarm of unseen projectiles slammed into the lead paint-contaminated wall-plaster, nipped at KT’s pajama bottom.

  A terrifying shriek resonating nearby, a massive thud shook the bare floor. Uncle Ace was sprawled on his back. Riving agonizingly, with a crimson fluid spewing from the silver dollar size puncture to his throat, he cried out. “K...T... help me.”

  The brothers watched as their ‘uncle's life force escaped through the gunshot wound. The brothers were frozen by the sight of Uncle Ace journeying into oblivion. Four-year-old Big Suge, tears falling amidst the bullet-riddled bedroom, kicked their deceased uncle—a final farewell.

  Beaten people take beaten paths

  -George Matthews Adams

  CHAPTER 3

  Cooking is about not cheating yourself of pleasure

  -Nigel Slater

  University Apartments

  Lowery Road, Norfolk

  8 am Present day

  After delivering the agreed-upon $35,000 to Big Suge and Hot Rod, KT took a Wal-Mart trip. The essentials were purchased; it was time to get to work.

  Blueberry Kush cannabis smoke swirled about. A Corona Dutch Master cigar turned into a modified blunt dangled between his lips. Relishing the THC-rich smoke filling his lungs, KT locked himself inside his hideaway, 1-bedroom apartment. The living room consisted of a peach leather sofa and loveseat. He draped his silk shirt across the matching recliner. He placed the gym bag on the kitchen countertop and set the individually packaged 45 ounces of powder cocaine aside. He lit a thick mango incense.

  Time to get to work.

  Step one... ignite the gas stove. KT emptied several bottles of Corona beer into a jumbo crab cooking pot. Several years ago, while experimenting with a chemistry set, he stumbled upon a method that surprisingly enhanced his illegal culinary skills. The amino acids found in yeast, which is also found in beer, aids the cocaine expansion process far better than water without taking away from the cocaine’s potency. Experimenting with everything from malt liquor to Canadian Ale, KT found Coronas were better suited for his needs. The import beer’s strong aroma also serves as a masking agent. It helps to repel the pungent stench that accompanies the dish he’s preparing.

  Step two... with the beer now simmering, KT emptied ten ounces (280 grams) of powder cocaine into a fat-bellied glass container.

  Step three... add forty grams of ‘whip or cut’ or add one gram of Arm & Hammer baking soda per seven grams of cocaine.

  Step four... pour a bottle of Corona beer into the glass container.

  Step five... His cake mixer was set on low; KT carefully mixed the 12½ ounce (320 gram) mixture and then put it to the side. Doing so enables the powder cocaine—baking soda—beer mixture to thin out before continuing.

  Step six... he placed another pot on the countertop, emptied several beer bottles into it, then filled it with ice. While atop the stove, the beer inside the initial jumbo crab cooking pot began to boil.

  Step seven... KT using an Ove-Glove, gripped the glass container and carefully placed it inside the jumbo crab pot. He stirred the contents for two minutes in a slow circle until the cocaine—baking soda—beer mixture began to simmer. Absorbing the heated beer, the mixture started to expand. In layman’s terms... the powder cocaine, b
aking soda, and beer blend began the metamorphosis of turning into crack.

  Step eight... Using his Ove-Glove, KT pulled the glass container from the boiling beer and placed it inside the pot of ice-chilled beer. Doing so shocked the moist crack with a sudden burst of cold.

  Step nine... he poured one cup of ice-chilled beer into the crack-filled container.

  Step ten... he spread a sheet of aluminum foil across a baking pan. He curled the edges inward, ensuring nothing would be accidentally wasted.

  Step eleven... KT emptied the moist crack onto the foil.

  Step twelve... he carefully drained the leftover beer into yet another container. Later, he would recover the unseen cocaine sure to be left behind.

  Step thirteen... KT used a small spoon to scrape the last of the cocaine from inside the glass container onto the baking pan as well.

  Step fourteen... he curled the aluminum foil into a bowl then placed it on top of his Pitney Bowes digital scales. Subtracting the initial aluminum foil weight and predetermined grams attributed to beer weight, he successfully transformed ten ounces of powder cocaine into 12½ ounces of high potency crack.

  Step fifteen... KT placed the aluminum foil bowl inside the bathtub. This allows the average room temperature to slowly dry the merchandise. At the same time, the ceiling exhaust fan removed any traces of the putrid odor.

  KT repeated the fifteen-step process until he could transform the entire forty-five ounces of powder cocaine into 52½ ounces of crack. Wholesaled, each ounce would have quickly sold for $900 each. Though wholesaling served a distinct purpose, the purpose here was piecemeal/hand-to-hand distribution.

  As such, four hours later, KT began the long, tedious process of packaging. He used a decorated china plate, disposable razor, and number five plastic jewelry bags. He proceeded to break the first ounce of crack into its tiniest fractions. Once completed, he had $3,600 worth of individually packaged nickel baggies.

  Each nickel baggie ($5) retails at $3. The projected total per ounce... $2,100. Multiplied by 52.5 for the number of ounces, the projected gross... $112,320. Subtract the initial $32,000 purchase price and KT’s projected net profit of... $80,320. Rounding down for unexpected expenditures and probable losses incurred, his projected profit... $75,000.

  ∗

  Trice Terrace

  Ingleside Apartments, Norfolk

  1:30 pm later same day

  KT electing to leave his Nissan Pathfinder behind, instead drove his raven black Oldsmobile Ciera into the early, sun-beautified afternoon. Parked on Ingleside, Norfolk’s Wakefield Avenue, he walked two blocks to Trice Terrace. Within his Ingleside Apartments courtyard distribution hub, he smiled upon the emergence of an always entertaining entity. Candy apple red Mary Jane 6-inch, open toe stilettoes led up long, thick, high yellow legs. Wide hips, a tiny waist, and plump 34Bs were pressed into a purple Catherine Malandrino mini dress. Slim, intoxicating eyes followed his approach.

  KT took the beauty into an exceptionally long hug. Kissing her cheek, he asked. “Missing Link, don’t you think it’s kinda early to be dressing so damn sexy?”

  “Please stop calling me that! My name is Candace. Try using it sometimes.”

  “Where you headed anyway?”

  Finally, prying his hands from her waist, she smiled fiendishly. “Bass fishing.”

  KT stalled her departure. “I need you to do something for me first. And before you ask, it’s in your favor too.”

  Her interest peaked; Candace led him inside her apartment. She closed the door then shook her head disdainfully. “You do know the hood talking about you... again.”

  KT shrugged. “Guess everybody tired of me refusing to be quoted in. That gang shit has never been my thing. How I look taking orders from dudes, I don’t deal with now. Half of em, I don’t even respect.”

  “It’s not as bad as you make it out to be. You got beef. You got shooters ready to ride no matter who it is.”

  “I stay away from beef. Plus, the fewer people know yo moves, the better.”

  She replied. “Thing is, when you ride alone, the drawback is... you ride ALONE.”

  “We only alone as we allow ourselves to be.”

  “That makes no sense, and you know it.”

  “If I can come into it at the top of the food chain, MAYBE, I’ll go ahead and get quoted in. Until then, the hood can keep talking, cause that’s all it is, talk.”

  Candance, sure there was no changing his mind, decided to change the subject. “What’s this favor you need so bad, you hold me up?”

  KT gestured towards her bedroom area. “I know you don’t ride dirty, so go get a straight shooter.”

  Watching her take leave, he studied the elegance of her buttocks dancing along her sashay, complemented by her long, light brown hair. Candace embodied an alluring majestic capable of moving mountains and rich men’s life savings with a mere smile. Yet, though she kept up appearances, her addiction would remain the mountain to climb. Her habit was the catalyst for why someone with supermodel aspirations would be content with gold-digging stagnation.

  Two minutes later, Candace returned with her straight shooter. Sighing agitatedly, she accepted a relatively small baggie. “KT, you kill me pumping these little ass bags. Five, six of these for $20 looks like a better deal than the other scramblers twenty slabs. But in the end, you the one winning.” She couldn’t help smiling at his guilty as charged smirk. “You not as smart as you think.”

  “Maybe everyone else just dumber than you give em credit for. And Missing Link, I can move these lil ass bags cause the key is to make sure my work is the best around. Now flame up so you can tell me if I can still talk that shit.”

  Candace crumbled a charboi screener into a ball, then packed it tightly inside her slim, glass tube. Eyeing $3 worth of beige-colored crack, she eased it into one end of the tube. Candance set the opposite end to her lips. Her head tilted back, she set flame to it. The crack barely sizzled from the intense heat. Gray smoke coursing down the tube into her lungs, Candace shivered with instantaneous exhilaration. Her throat muscles contracted. Her chest expanding, her brow was tight, slick with perspiration. Her eyes bulging and mouth twisted, she finally expelled the smoke through her nostrils.

  KT accepted her quick head nod and weakened double thumbs up. He watched the crack cocaine inebriated beauty rush into the kitchen. Taking a seat on her sofa, he pulled a small trash-can between his legs. He split a vanilla-flavored Corona Dutch Master cigar down the middle then emptied the tobacco. The so-called ‘cancer paper’ removed, KT lined the cigar with some of Big Suge and Hot Rod’s Blueberry Kush cannabis. With the cigar between his thumbs and index fingers, he licked the top inside portion. Mirroring a professional purero, he rolled the cigar into a modified blunt.

  KT set his lighter on it. Inhaling the thick, fruity, THC-rich smoke, he watched Candace finally return. He accepted a Pepsis soda then passed her the blunt. “That shit hit like a missile, right?”

  “WMD... you move it right, and got enough of it, everybody coming to you.” She took a slow experienced drag, then placed the half-smoked blunt in the ashtray. Taking several sips from her soda, she licked her lips and said, “All any of the hustlers out here care about is a mean flip. That’s why they keep flooding the hood with gar-Bonzo.” About any illicit narcotic with a low potency. Hence, garbage. Candance continued. “Why is it so damn confusing? The better the work, the higher the demand, the higher the price, the more people crave their work. The more profit on every flip. So, it always averages out. The best hustlers know customer satisfaction the key to staying on top.”

  KT chuckled at how she morphs into an overly talkative drug game analyzer every time she gets high. “Let me find out your sexy ass out here schooling dudes on how the game is supposed to be played.”

  “Sweats and flip-flops might getta bad bitch a Honda.” Her hands slowly coursing her curves, Candace again licked her lips. “Bitches like me get the Benz. It’s the same with pumping, especially co
ke and H-boy (heroin). The baddies get the bread.”

  She finished her soda. Procuring KT’s, she took several sips then straddled him. Massaging his ears, her tongue coursed along his neck and chin. Candance's lips grazing his cheek, she purred. “Khalid Nikita... all I get is a lil ass tester?”

  KT cupped her buttocks. He struggled to withstand her always intoxicating leer. “Missing Link, let me get back to the bizness.”

  “Yo, black ass didn’t stop by just to get your work tested.”

  “I didn’t stop by. We ran into each other.”

  “You got me high, knowing what that stuff does to me. So, what I’m trying to quit, all you care about is what benefits you. At least be honest about it.”

  KT was unable to resist Candace suckling his mouth. Her sensual nibbles upon his bottom lip became a long, deep kiss.

  Candance, feeling his manhood throbbing between his thighs, pulled the top of her mini dress down. Stout nipples her situated atop succulent, high yellow mounds. She fed him her left breast. Her body heat soaring, she was taken by his experienced nipple/suckle blend. She pulled his head back and said, “Kha-lid Nikita, you gone take care of me, like I be taking care of you?”

  “Yo ass know what saying my name like that be doing.”

  “We run game way better than yawl.” Candance raised her hips and unbuckled his belt & jeans. Slightly collapsing both, she pulled his boxers down, freeing his towering length. She allowed him to hoist her mini dress around her waist. Her thong pulled to the side, she straddled his manhood.