Fuckin’ bitch! he thought. Hope ya ass is dead, yo.
In the days that followed the attack, Black’s search for Netta had turned up nothing. No one had heard anything about her. Nor had she been seen. Personally, Black thought she was dead. He took to reading the obituary section in the paper in search of her name. If Netta was indeed dead, nothing would make him happier. Netta had gotten too cute for herself while he was away. She was the talk of the town while he was in prison, her and the Pussy Pound. She was a major source of embarrassment to him. That’s why he had paid her back in the manner that he had. Black felt like she deserved it. Besides, he had his reputation to protect.
Nobody steals from Black and lives. Nobody! he thought.
Once upon a time ago, Black fucked with Netta heavy. Now he didn’t fuck with her at all. If she was still alive, then Netta was a target marked for termination. There would be no love lost and no love given.
Black finished reading the newspaper, as clueless about Netta as when he began. Was she alive or was she dead? He didn’t have the slightest idea. However, it gave him something to think about.
“You ready yo?” Stink said as he stuck his head inside Black’s downtown condo bedroom.
“Gimme a second,” he told his younger brother.
Stink stood in the doorway as he watched his brother’s chiseled physique partially disappear into the closet and retrieve the jacket to his sweat suit.
“You hear anything about that bitch, yo?” Black asked as he put on his jacket.
“No, I don’t know where that whore at,” he answered. “That bitch Netta just disappeared off the face of the earth. I told you yo, you should have been let me handle that hooker while you was locked up. I woulda put that bitch on a t-shirt.”
Stink and Black may have been blood brothers, but they literally couldn’t have been more different. Black put in a lot of work on the streets, he was self-made; while Stink had rode the coattails of his brother’s success in the streets. The streets only truly acknowledged him because of who his brother was. Stink was all bark, while Black was all bite.
“Stink, I already told you that that shit was personal,” he stated. “You know how many niggas wanted to do her in for me for free. I told them just what I told you, I’ma handle it, yo. I didn’t want that shit comin’ from nobody else but me.”
“I know, but...” Stink protested.
“But nuttin’ yo. That wasn’t ya beef, it was mine. And I handled it the way I wanted to handle it. Don’t question me. End of discussion,” he spat.
Stink had pissed his brother off questioning him about Netta. Now Black had an attitude, he had no idea which version of himself he’d present to the streets today, the moneymaking hustler or the stone, cold killer who had the streets of Baltimore on edge. Whatever he decided, the streets were powerless to stop it. Black was home and he was back to reclaim his spot, the easy way or the hard way, however the streets wanted it.
Black continued, “Grab the keys, I want you to drive.”
“I got ‘em already, yo,” Stink announced.
Stink was glad his brother was taking him with him to meet his dope connection. He didn’t care if he had to drive to California to meet him, just as long as he was in the presence of his brother. As it stood they were just driving a few hours away to Maryland’s eastern shore. Stink felt good about playing a major role in his brother’s drug operation. Previously, before Black went to prison, he felt his brother was too young to participate in his illegal activities. His mother would kill him if she found out that Black had corrupted his little brother. But while he was away, Stink had dove head first into the street life. Now it was only right that Black took him under his wing and showed him the ropes.
“When we get back from down the Eastern Shore, we gone put that shit up and go see about them niggas you been hollerin’ about. Them corner boys who want some work,” Black said.
“Okay yo,” Stink replied. “I got everything all set up already. They waitin’ on you.”
By late afternoon, Black and Stink had arrived back into Baltimore. After putting a kilo of pure heroin up for safekeeping, they jumped back into the car and headed to 21st and Barclay, in East Baltimore. This was a gritty, drug-infested neighborhood with more than it’s fair share of open-air drug markets. This was exactly what Black had been looking for.
When Black’s black Mercedes Benz pulled into the block with Stink at the wheel, it drew stares. As usual, there was a makeshift dice game going on. But upon seeing Stink driving the car, the game suddenly came to a halt. One young hustler made his way over to the vehicle.
“Stink, what’s up yo?” he said, sticking his face halfway into the window.
“What up Rudy,” Stink greeted as they shook hands.
In the passenger seat, Black was his usual strong, silent self, communicating non-verbally, speaking only when he was spoken to.
The kid continued, “And you must be Black. I heard so much about you growin’ up. It’s good to finally meet you.”
Rudy leaned into the car and extended his hand. Black took his hand while looking him square in the eyes, and gave him a firm handshake. Black was big on giving handshakes and first impressions. He wanted to set the tone early that he wasn’t a joke.
“Hope y’all niggas don’t hustle the same way y’all
