Pook was about 5’8 tall, medium build and brown skin. Blass was 5’5 with a medium dark complexion and sported a low cut with waves.
“ Yall already know what it is when I’m in town. Yall two niggahs and 40 ounce Rich is the closest I’m gonna get to blood brothers in this lifetime,” said K.
As Method Man and Redman came knocking through the speakers in the rental playing How High, they cruised up Straight Path headed towards the Southern State Parkway. As they were passing the 5 Corners Market traffic lights, they noticed two police cars in pursuit of CBR 1100 coming in their direction on the opposite side of the street. K immediately recognized the bandit doing 80 mph on his back tire as
“Go — Go — Go!” they shouted as he shot past in a blur. They all knew that cops wouldn’t catch him. They never did. They all watched until the strobes of the cruiser disappeared in the distance behind them. K turned off the main road onto Commander Avenue. This was a slightly more upscale neighborhood known as West Babylon that bordered the suburban ghetto hood known as Wyandanch. They drove about midway down the half-mile long street and K turned into the driveway of a low ranch single family home. From the street the residence appeared to be well kept.
The perfectly manicured lawn gave off the perception of quiet suburbia living, combined with the trimmed shrubbery that defined the property line. The home sat back well off the street, with a driveway that extended around to the rear of the house. As they pulled into the backyard, the vehicles of the homes occupants came into view. There were six new vehicles and K made his way to the rear entrance to which he had his own personal key.
“I’ll be out in five minutes,” K said over his shoulder before entering the house.
He was greeted by the lady of the house, who had undoubtedly heard him pull up outside. Being that she and her husband had been smoking crack and entertaining their company, her extrasensory nervous system was on blast!
“Hey K. We were wondering when you were gonna come thru,” said the 42 year old white woman.
“What’s up Marcie? You aight?” K inquired.
“We got about $1500 worth of sales waiting in the basement. We knew you would be here, just didn’t know when. Jeff was just about to ride down on the strip to see if he might see you or you might recognize the car.”
The cold look K gave her confirmed what she really already knew. That he didn’t agree with that idea at all. But K knew that a crackhead mind didn’t think anywhere near rational after hitting that pipe.
“Aight- Tell Jeff I said get the money together and…”
“I got it right here,” said Marcie quickly removing a wad of bills from her sweatpants pocket.
She handed the cash to him; her eyeballs bulging out of their sockets. K took the cash and told her he’d be out in a few minutes. He headed towards the back of the house. He approached a room with two padlocks on the door. He removed the locks and entered the large room. It had been used as a den before he was released from the county.
Jeff and Marcie had been a large part of his support during that 5 month bid in the county after Mattie had dropped off the face of the earth. Jeff and Marcie kept K with books and money orders after he wrote them telling them he was struggling. They owned a very successful chain of used car dealerships that were left to Jeff in his grandfather’s last will and testament. Jeff and Marcie had so much love for K because he treated them not as customers, but as human beings.
K entered the room; closed and locked the door behind him. They were cool, but he knew they really had no idea how much drugs he kept in their home. The room was simply furnished with a queen size bed, a desk, and a chair. He walked over to the closet and opened it to reveal the full size floor safe. K kneeled down and spun the dial to the appropriate numbers,26-12-33. He pulled open the safe door and removed the 2 large Ziploc bags containing the work. He then removed the small Tanita digital scale from the safe and sat it on the desk with the Ziploc bags.
From the 840 grams of raw cocaine he’d brought from Crazy Juan on 151st street in Uptown Manhattan the day before, K whipped it back to 980 grams; just 20 short of a brick. He could have brought it back to much more like he did while grinding Virginia and North Carolina, but didn’t to avoid complaints in a quality driven market. K was down to a little over 500 grams left, 300 of which was bagged up in single grams packaged strictly for his crack spots.
He removed what he needed to weigh out for Pooks cousin; 126 grams, and put it in a Ziploc bag. The 5g’s Jeff had loaned him on the day that he came home was growing nicely. If things continued to flow like they were, K would soon be able to repay the loan and the $1500 in interest that he’d promised Jeff. K put the remaining contents back into the safe and left the room.
By the time he secured the second padlock on the door, K heard Jeff’s footsteps coming up the basement steps. Growing up in his hood K learned that trusting white people buying drugs, was absolutely against the rules of the game. But what experience had taught him as a hustla was that an addict was an addict. If you were gonna put your freedom on the line, trust was something that was earned and never guaranteed.
“What’s up Supa Jeff?” K asked as he met Jeff in the kitchen at the top of the basement steps.
Jeff was 6 feet 3 inches tall and weighed 145 pound soaking wet six lighters in his pocket. He had long oily black hair and a large nose with a nasty looking bump on the tip. The truth was even though he was good people; Supa Jeff looked like walking death!
“Sup K-day?Everything going good? This new stuff is great! We’ll probably be partying (smoking crack and drinking)all weekend so don’t forget about us,” said Jeff.
K hated Jeff’s spinoff of his street name, but he tolerated it because Jeff was an alright dude. K had dealt with Jeff and Marcie for about a year and a half before he went on the run to Virginia. They met at a diner when K was on a late night munchies run, about 3:30 one Saturday morning. Jeff was with a crowd of his friends after leaving a local bar and was drunk as a bitch. He’d caught K in the parking lot and inquired if K could help him find some rock.
After pleading his case that he wasn’t a cop and producing a rather large stack of bills, K’s love for money started the relationship that they now had established.
“Don’t worry Jeff, I gotchu. I would have been here sooner but I got caught up in a big dice game. That’s my bad; I know your people don’t like to wait.”
It’s okay. Once I get em’ started, they aint gonna leave anyway. How’s the rental running?” asked Jeff.
“She’s good. I might want to switch out after the weekend through,” K said handing Jeff the package that he put together for his customers.
Jeff looked at his sandwich bag inspecting its contents.
“Man, I’m so glad you’re finally home K-day. We were really getting fucked over when we copped while you were gone. This should definitely hold us for a while.”
“Aight Jeff. I’ll probably be back after I make my rounds. If yall aint stuck in the basement, I’ll see you then.”
K headed out the door and to the rental. He opened the door to a carfull of weed smoke and was hit in the face with a cloud of Kush. Blass passed K the blunt when he got in. Pook was in the middle of a freestyle spittin’ a verse over a track from their homey named NATO. Nate Tinsley was undisputedly the hardest working track monster in the hood that never got the recognition he deserved. K’s homey from five years old; he would always show him love.
As if on cue, when Pook came to a break in his freestyle, Blass came in right behind him. K was listening but he kind of zoned out for a second concerning matters of the heart. He was thinking about Mattie. Ever since the last time he’d seen her pull away from the side of Interstate 95 North in Maryland, she had never been totally off his mind. He’d been home for three weeks and still hadn’t seen her or had a clue as to where she was.
“Come on K-Mo, let me hear sumthin. I know you waswritin’ in the county,” said Blass bringing K back from his reverie.
They had been in the studio a few times before. K knew his skills were nowhere near the level of what theirs was metaphorically, but he was definitely a notable MC in his own right. And it was true that K had been writing while in the county, more as an outlet than anything else. So he couldn’t front on his dudes. K banged out 16 bars- o-heat and they went nuts.
