A King is Born Page 4

  That thought hadn’t even crossed Malek’s mind. He and Scratch began to count out the money from the two bank robberies combined.

  “This is only fifty-two thousand, and we done hit two banks,” Malek barked. “How do this nigga expect me to come up with five hundred thousand in three days? That shit is impossible, and he knows it.” Malek noticed his hands shaking. He picked up a stack of money and threw it back down on the table.

  He didn’t want to think about what Mitch would do to Halleigh if he didn’t come through with the ransom. Mitch had never had anything against Halleigh, as far as Malek could tell, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do something bad to her to get back at him. After all, Malek had made Mitch look like a bitch-ass nigga in front of Keesha, so it really didn’t surprise him that Mitch would want to make him look the same in front of Halleigh. Perhaps that’s all he wants to do is to make me look bad in front of Halleigh. It was possible that Mitch never had any intention of hurting Halleigh at all. Maybe all he wanted was to just strip Malek down to nothing by getting him for all of his money.

  Mitch probably thought that Malek was sitting on major dough, but the reality was, he was dead broke. Malek’s stupidity and naiveté had gotten him swindled and left his pockets on E. He was back where he had begun—at the bottom—but the only difference was, he didn’t have Jamaica Joe to lean on. Now his right hand was an ex-junkie, a far cry from the powerful reach of Joe.

  Malek was grateful for Scratch rolling with him. Besides, he couldn’t be choosy. Not a lot of people would rock with him right now, so he had to be grateful for Scratch’s loyalty. He didn’t know why Scratch was so loyal to Halleigh, but he appreciated it and began to respect Scratch and Halleigh’s friendship.

  Malek looked over at Scratch, who now appeared to have a worried look in his eyes. Malek could sense his pain.

  Scratch looked up when he felt Malek looking at him. “This some bullshit, youngblood. We gotta get Li’l Rina back. This shit ain’t fo’ her, man. It ain’t for her. She don’t deserve any mess like this. The game done gone stone crazy. All you young ones don’t know a thing about it. Women and children used to be off limits. Now you dummies are snatching ’em off the street as if they are the ones responsible for the chaos.” Scratch shook his head and ran his fingers through his matted ’fro. He then sat back and began to think of all the avenues of getting money. “This robbing banks shit ain’t gon’ cut it. We need to hit hustlers. That way, we don’t have to worry about no police heat. If we hit a nigga in the game, what he gon’ do? Run to the police screaming that someone ran in his spot and stole his drug money?”

  There was a brief silence as Scratch looked to Malek for a response. The look on Malek’s face let Scratch know he was making sense. “Exactly, youngblood,” Scratch replied to Malek’s non-verbal response.

  “That’s what I’ve been on, but it’s only one person I’m trying to see right now and that’s Mitch.” Malek slowly nodded his head up and down, agreeing with his own statement.

  “What about that Fredro fella you was talking about earlier ?” Scratch asked. “We go against Mitch, we might as well sign our own death certificates, because them Italians don’t play.”

  “Dominican,” Malek corrected.

  “Italian, Dominican, Swiss and cheddar . . . whatever—you know what I’m saying, youngblood. We mess with Mitch’s money, we gonna catch heat. Now, don’t get me wrong. Scratch ain’t no punk. I don’t mind any heat it may bring. I’m willing to go all out, but you got to know what you are jumping into before you even take that first leap.”

  Malek was desperate, and although he knew Scratch had a point, he didn’t see any other options. “Fuck it! Like I said before, if Fredro got a problem, then he can get it too,” Malek said, putting all the pieces in place as if he were playing chess.

  “We gonna rob that boy and pay him with his own paper, huh?” Scratch repeated more to himself than to Malek. He began to chuckle and nodded his head. “I’m in! We have to move fast though, ya dig?” Scratch sat up, leaned in over the table, and began to put together a plan as the seconds ticked by. “Yeah, yeah! We can hit Mitch’s spots and give him his own money before word get back to him that his trap spots have been hit. We can get Li’l Rina back that way.”

  Malek didn’t think the idea was the smartest way to go about things, but with only a day left to get the money, it seemed like the only option. “Mitch isn’t dumb,” Malek said, trying to look at the plan from every angle. “He probably changed up the whole operation since I left. I know he doesn’t keep the money in the same spot that we used to. We have no way of finding out the main spot where the dough is. That shit isn’t as easy as it seems, old man, and if I know anything about Mitch, it’s that he ain’t a stupid nigga.”

  “Well, in my world, nothing is a secret. In the smack-user circle, everybody knows something. Maybe we need to ask around and see what we can come up with. It might not seem like it, but users have their own little community, ya dig?” Scratch stood up. “Take Scratch to his old stomping ground and let’s see what we can come up with.”

  Chapter Five

  Malek held his nose as he followed Scratch through a walkway and under the overpass of the highway. The stench was horrendous, and the smell of blood and body odor was overwhelming. The Michigan snow didn’t hit under the overpass as it did the rest of the city, so it became the safe haven for the city’s underworld. There, bums and users, with their cardboard-box houses, huddled around barrels of fire, trying to stay warm.

  As Scratch made his way toward the back, he was being greeted left and right, like a hobo superstar. Scratch’s popularity reminded Malek of his own, back in his days of walking the hall at his old high school. Malek couldn’t help but smile as he watched Scratch do his signature pimp walk through the slum. Not only was Scratch respected amongst the homeless, he was like their mayor.

  Malek was surprised at how influential Scratch really was, and how much he knew the ins and outs of the drug game in Flint. No wonder Joe had trusted him to be his eyes and ears on the street. Scratch was privy to stuff that even Joe’s own crew didn’t know.

  Malek made a mental note. He would look at crackheads and junkies in a new light. He would no longer demean them, because through his interactions with Scratch, he realized they were people too. They were just fucked up and forgotten, but they were also valuable.

  Scratch looked around. For some reason, he felt uncomfortable. He had never been sober while living on the streets, and for the first time, he was embarrassed about the lifestyle he used to lead. Scratch, because of his twelve-step program, hadn’t been to the spot in months. He’d even promised himself never to revisit the place, but he felt this situation was worth breaking his vow. Halleigh was worth more to him than anyone else in the world. She’d seen through his exterior and began to appreciate the person he was inside, and for that, he would always love her and would die trying to save her. They were friends and so much more.

  Malek leaned in close to Scratch and whispered, “Who are we looking for?”

  “We need to see Grady.” Scratch continued to scan the surroundings. “Good ol’ dirty-ass Grady. He’s one stinky-ass muthafucka, but he knows everybody and everything that goes down on the north side of Flint. You think Scratch see all, hear all, and know all when it comes to the streets? Scratch ain’t got nothing on Grady.”

  Scratch spotted Stuttering Ron huddled over a barrel of fire and dressed in raggedy clothes and a holy skullcap. “Yo, Ron!” he yelled, getting the homeless man’s attention.

  “Yo, Scratch! Wha-wha-what’s happening, baby!” Ron headed over toward Scratch and Malek.

  Scratch leaned into Malek and quickly whispered, “Watch yo’ pockets around this nigga, youngblood. He will steal yo’ drawers off yo’ ass, without you even knowing that they’re gone until you go to pull them up after taking a piss.”

  Malek chuckled and watched as Ron approached them.

  Scratch and Ron shook hands and hugged as they reunited. Scratch was happy to see Ron still hanging in there. He and Stuttering Ron used to get high together in that same area, where Scratch had watched many men get taken by Ron without even realizing it. He might have been strung out, but his pickpocketing skills were comparable to none. His hands were quick, and his tongue even quicker. And because he had nothing to lose, there was no one he wouldn’t try to sheist.

  “W-w-where you been at? We missed you ’r-round here. And who this green nigga you got with you?” Ron immediately recognized that Malek wasn’t a user. A seasoned user could always tell when they weren’t amongst their own kind.

  Scratch glanced over at Malek, whose jaws tightened at the comment the junkie had just made. “Aw, he cool, man. This my potna.” Scratch threw his head toward Malek.

  Once Scratch vouched for Malek, he was good. Ron reached out his hand to greet Malek. “What’s happening, my man?”

  Malek looked at Ron like he was crazy and left his hand hanging in the air.

  Scratch interjected and began to work his mouthpiece in order to try to locate Grady. “Yo, where is Grady? I need to ask him a few things.”

  “He’s over there catching a nod.” Ron pointed to the far corner where a man was sitting down propped up against the wall.

  Ron gave Scratch a parting hug and then did the same with Malek, who pushed him off real quick, giving him a mere “what-up” nod. Scratch and Malek headed over to the sleeping Grady.

  “Well, it was good to see ya,” Ron said as he watched them walk toward Grady. Ron smiled as he looked down at the cell phone he had just lifted from Malek. He was ready to hurry off toward the hood to see what he could get for it. Thank you, young brother. Ron chuckled to himself, thanking Malek for providing the means to his next high.

  Scratch approached Grady and saw that he was deep into a dope fiend lean, and he began to nudge him, trying to wake him. “Wake up, sonabitch.” Scratch knew it was damn near impossible to take a dope fiend out of his nod, so he was going to have to take some drastic measures. He grabbed Grady by the collar and shook him.

  “What this raggedy mu’fucka going to be able to tell you about Mitch?” Malek said, getting frustrated. Malek covered his mouth and nose as the strong odor of all the junkies became almost unbearable. The smell of blood from the heroin addicts and their body odor was enough to make any man vomit, but Malek tried his best to cope.

  Scratch began to unbutton the man’s pants. “He’s going to be able to tell me anything I need to know.”

  “What the fuck you doing, Scratch?” Malek turned his head away.

  “I am waking his ass up,” Scratch said as he pulled down the man’s pants, exposing his small tool. He then reached onto the ground and grabbed a handful of water from a puddle. He tilted his hand and allowed the water to pour from his hand and onto Grady’s private.

  “This is the only way you know how to wake a nigga up out of a nod?”

  “Trust me, I know,” Scratch said, trying to hurry up and get it over with. “I done had plenty of water, snow, and ice on my balls in the past waking me up out of a dope fiend lean.”

  Seconds later, Grady jumped when he felt the wetness on him.

  “Wake up, Grady!” Scratch said as Grady was coming to.

  Slowly, Grady opened his eyes. “Scratch, what’s happening, playa?” he said in a slurred voice.

  “What’s up?” Scratch replied. “I need for you to wake up.” Scratch grabbed him by the collar once again. When he saw Grady was about to nod again, he laid a powerful smack on the left side of his face, leaving a handprint on his cheek.

  Grady’s eyes shot open. “Damn, Scratch! Slow down!”

  Scratch slapped him again, this time waking him up completely. “I need some info about Mitch,” Scratch said, getting right to the point. He knew he was messing up his man’s coma-like high, but time was of the essence.

  “North Side Mitch?” Grady sat up and wiped the slob drooling down his chin.

  “Yeah,” Malek chimed in, now that their source of information appeared to be wide-awake and alert to the questioning.

  “What about him?” Grady asked.

  “I know you know where his spot is at.”

  “His main spot,” Malek added.

  “We need to know where he stashes all of the dope and cash,” Scratch continued, hoping Grady could tell him something.

  Grady was a veteran junkie. Although Scratch had several years of being hooked on dope under his belt, Grady was up on him by a good ten years, and it showed in his appearance.

  Scratch still had somewhat of a swagger, while Grady appeared worn, burned-out, and seemed to have no hope of rehabilitating himself. His hands were swollen five times their usual size from shooting so much dope into his veins. Some people on the streets call it “elephant hands,” when a person’s limbs swell up so bad from heroin.

  Grady was a viable asset to major pushers. They would ask him to test the drug and its potency. If it was strong enough to get Grady high, it was strong enough for the public. Mitch had used Grady for that very reason on a few occasions, so Scratch knew there was a good chance Grady would know something that might be able to help them out on hitting Mitch’s spot.

  Grady looked at Scratch, and for a minute, it seemed as though he was about to speak, but then his entire demeanor changed when he looked over at Malek after remembering he was standing there. Grady knew exactly who Malek was. He spat, “I don’t know shit.”

  In the past, Grady had often approached Malek or some of his workers to ask them for a free sample, or to ask if he could get a pass on coming short. Grady would sometimes come with eight dollars instead of ten, or with change he’d scrambled up. It never failed that Malek and his other workers would deny him, embarrassing and humiliating him.

  One time, after a half-hour of begging and pleading, Grady had just convinced one of Malek’s workers to let him slide with being $1.50 short. The boy had stuck to his guns, refusing to let Grady slide, but Grady hung around so long agitating the boy with his presence, even begging from paying customers to make up for his shortage.

  The kid finally gave in. “All right. Damn, old man!” the boy had said to Grady, sucking his teeth and rolling his eyes. “Give me what you got and then get the fuck on. You bad for business, and you smell like shit.”

  Grady damn near danced a jig as he collected the eight one-dollar bills and two quarters from his pocket. He handed the money over to the boy, who counted it.

  Shaking his head, the boy dug a ten-dollar cop from his pocket and dangled it in the air. “I promise on everything, old man,” the boy said, “you better come up with my dollar fifty. And don’t think you gon’ make a habit out of this shit. You ever come at me short again, I’m just gon’ shoot your ass on GP. I don’t care if you only twenty-five cents short next time, you ain’t copping. Now take this shit and be gone.”

  Just as the boy was about to hand over the dope, a hand tightened around his wrist, preventing him from doing so.

  “What’s this about somebody being short?”

  The boy turned around to see his boss, Malek, standing there. “Oh, uh, nothing,” he stammered, knowing he’d been caught breaking one of the rules of slinging.

  Malek said to his worker, “I know you ain’t trying to lie to me. Are you, fam?”

  “Uh, no, it ain’t even like that. I mean, it’s no big deal. Home boy here just short a dollar fifty. That’s all. He’s good for it.” The boy looked to Grady for reassurance. “Ain’t that right, old man?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Grady co-signed, reaching for the dope. With a carrot dangling in front of him, he would have said anything.

  Malek couldn’t help but chuckle. “So you got a dope fiend vouching for you now?” he asked, still gripping the boy’s wrist. “And I’m supposed to be cool with that.”

  The boy was at a loss for words, realizing how stupid he sounded.

  “All right,” Malek said, finally letting his wrist loose. “If he says he’s good for it, then go ahead and let him slide.”

  At that point, Grady was dang near salivating over the dangling bag of dope and was glad to hear the boy granted permission to let him have it. But just as the boy went to hand Grady the dope, Malek snatched it from his hand, cold-cocking the boy with the back of his hand.

  “Mu’fucka, what the fuck are the rules about letting niggas fall short?”

  When the boy didn’t answer Malek quickly enough, he cold-cocked him again, this time drawing blood from the boy’s bottom lip. “If you let one muthufucka come up short, then every broke nigga on the block gon’ come to us like we the damn Salvation Army or something, giving shit away for free.” Malek continued to scold the young worker. “Nigga, this is my product. This is my reputation. You got that, fam?”

  “Yeah, Malek, man,” the boy said, wiping the blood from his lip. “My bad. It won’t happen again.”

  “You damn right, it won’t happen again. Get the fuck out of here!”

  Without asking any questions, the young’un left the scene, leaving only Grady, Malek, and a few bystanders standing there.

  “So, uh, yo, can I get that?” Grady said, pointing to the bag of dope.

  Malek spat, “If you don’t get the fuck outta my face . . .”

  “But yo’ boy got my eight dollars and fifty cents. Can I at least get eight dollars and fifty cents worth?”

  Malek could feel the old man’s pain, but business was business. He’d noticed a small crowd had formed, and he had a reputation to uphold on the streets. Unfortunately, Grady would become an example. Malek sent him on his way, via a kick in the ass and a string of expletives, causing the onlookers to laugh.

  As Grady stood there and thought back to the several humiliating encounters with Malek and his boys, he knew Malek didn’t have a clue who he was. Now this mu’fucka needs my help, he thought. I’m not giving his ass nothing. Nada. Zilch! Not even if Malek were to offer him all the free samples in the world right now would Grady consider helping the young punk.