With a consistent supply of cocaine, Tone was able to begin to make some real money. He worked around all the major drug operations in the area until his organization rivaled theirs. Then he surpassed them by using all kinds of gimmicks he had learned in New York to lure new clientele. He fed right into the greed of the junkies by offering two for ten-dollar specials, buy three get one free. He gave out full sized testers whenever he bought a new batch of coke out. Aside from giving out free, full sized testers, Tone was winning on two fronts, with quality and quantity.
With the right connection, Tone’s drug block really began to pop. The streets of East Baltimore began to buzz with talk of New York Tone and his raw cocaine. Every day he was gaining more street notoriety, unlike anything he had ever experienced in New York. Quickly, Tone was becoming a star in the hood.
Leaving New York was looking like the best thing that ever happened to him. He went from a little fish in a big pond to big fish in a little pond. He was beginning to play the game on a level not even he had imagined.
“Black Tops! Ready Rock!” a worker’s voice chanted.
“Got that Ready y’all,” another worker shouted. “Don’t beat yaself, treat yaself. If you wanna get high, then I’m ya guy, yo.”
Dressed in black from head to toe, a black hoodie, black jeans and black Timberland boots, Tone sat quietly on the abandoned and boarded up row house steps doing his best to blend into the bleak, impoverished landscape while observing the daily activities. Each day Tone had taken up the same tactical position on the block. Try as he might to be incognito, his presence was unmistakable. He served as a deterrent for any stickup kid or would be robber. The gun in his waistband testified to that fact.
The junkies knew he was strapped, his workers knew he was strapped, and maybe even the occasional police patrol car that passed might have known too. It was no secret that Tone had a gun on him. East Baltimore was an extension of the world, guns were everywhere and violence could erupt anywhere.
Tone lead by example. Although he didn’t have to be out there, he hit the block every day with his team to make sure things were run right. He never wanted to feel that he was too big or beyond getting his hands dirty by putting in some work. This was his thing, no one else had a more vested interest for seeing it go right besides him. His perception of the situation was in line with the reality. He stood to gain the most financially. With the demand for his coke steadily increasing along with his profits, Tone felt like he could be targeted for a robbery any day. For those reasons, Tone was willing to protect his drug operation with his life.
Tone glanced at the alley and smiled as he saw his workers serving a multitude of customers. He was proud of himself. He had taken a block that had been abandoned and built it back up into an open-air, ‘round the clock drug market that junkies frequented in search of some of the best powder cocaine and ready rock that East Baltimore had to offer. Rain or shine, day or night, customers came and went.
Tone’s eyes scoured the street for anything out of the ordinary before returning to the junkies on line. He searched each face, looking for anyone who seemed out of place. For the moment everything appeared to be in order, so Tone continued to sit on the stoop while keeping vigil on the block. One after another he watched the junkies get served their vials of coke until the line died down.
“I’ll be right back, I gotta use the bathroom yo,” Shorty said to him as she suddenly appeared from the alley before disappearing up the block.
Tone nodded his head slightly, barely acknowledging her. Though his suspicions lead him to believe her trip up the block wasn’t to use the bathroom at all. Shorty was probably gone to get high. Tone didn’t care though, Shorty had proven her loyalty and allegiance to him time and time again. If it wasn’t for her, Tone wouldn’t be in the position he was in. Besides that, he knew his drug operation would run itself until she returned. He employed a small team of workers to assure that it would.
Stone faced, Tone watched closely as a stranger approached. He eyed him suspiciously. The man hadn’t even come in close proximity of him yet and he had already gotten a bad feeling about him.
“What’s up, yo?” the man greeted him.
Tone replied slowly, “You!”
“You New York Tone?” he asked.
“Why?” Tone fired back. Whenever Tone felt uncomfortable with a question, he always put the onus back on the person asking the question by stating why.
Tone studied the man’s physical features for a moment. The thing that jumped out at him was his dark jet-black skin and big potbelly. His dark beady eyes seemed to announce his griminess.
“Ain’t nuttin’, New York. I don’t mean you no harm. I was just askin’ that’s all, yo,” he explained. “You don’t sound like you from Baltimore.”
“Well what do somebody from Baltimore sound like?” Tone wondered.
“Not like you, yo,” the man laughed in an attempt to ease the tension.
The man suddenly extended his hand in an attempt to formally introduce himself.
“They called me Ronnie Sykes, yo,” he blurted out. “But everybody call me Sykes.”
He stared at Sykes’ dirty, black, swollen hand and declined to shake it. Instead Tone gave him a head nod. Seeing that Sykes coolly withdrew his hand. If he felt slighted or disrespected by Tone’s actions, he did a good job of camouflaging it.
“Boy, you New York boyz go hard huh, yo,” he laughed. “You remind of my boy Champ from New York. He usta be
