“Yo, Roc, what’s up with you? I fly all the way down here to holla at you and you on some bullshit!” Young World barked.
“Naw, nigga.
Young World cracked a smile of understanding. “Ohh, I see now. I see what this is all about. They got you up in these muthafuckin’ mountains and now you on some peace shit. Some Malcolm X-type shit, and you thought you could get me to turn the other cheek with you,” World snidely surmised.
Rahman met his gaze. “Look, I’ll probably be home sooner than you think, Insha Allah. And we got big plans, believe me. It’s official. I want you to roll with me on this, but you gotta leave the game behind. You do that and I’ll tell you what you need to know,” Rahman explained, trying one last time to bring World over to his side.
World laughed in his face.
“While you safe in a cage, and I’m out fightin’ wolves, you talkin’ about some plan? Some prison dream?”
Rahman dropped his head. He understood Young World’s dilemma. He was in too deep to just get out, his foolish manhood telling him to get out now would be to run like a coward. He wouldn’t just walk away from the level he had obtained.
But Rahman had his own dilemma. To tutor Young World would be to assist him in his dealings. In Islam, whoever takes part in devilishness is a devil himself. Yet, to turn him away would be to basically cosign Young World’s death warrant. Rahman was well aware of the latest developments in the streets. The Plexiglas was much more than just a security partition. It was a gaping void between the worlds of two opposing principles.
“Ain’t nothin’ I can do for you.”
His simple answer was full of complex meanings, but to World, it was just that, a simple answer, an answer that meant Roc had simply turned his back and thrown him to the wolves. Young World shot to his feet, exploding with rage.
“Nigga, you’sa bitch! A muthafuckin’ coward hidin’ behind a kufi! You ain’t no Muslim! You just a scared-ass nigga!”
Rahman silently seethed. He was a changed man, but a man nonetheless. He still possessed a killer’s instinct, and had the Plexiglas not been between them, he probably would’ve flipped on World, violently. Not for the insults he was spewing, but to rid himself of the guilt for what he had created. He knew that once he returned home, Young World would become an issue that would have to be dealt with one way or another.
He stood up.
“The visit’s over,” Rahman announced, then hung up the phone. He turned to the door and knocked twice to signal the CO.
“Fuck you, nigga! Fuck you! If you do come home, bitch, I’ll kill you myself! You hear me? Myself!”
Rahman felt each expletive hit his back like a slug as the CO opened the door and cuffed him.
“Did you have a nice visit?” the redneck asked slyly, but Rahman’s eyes checked him so coldly that the officer dropped his head, red-faced.
Young World watched the door close, then turned and walked out.
Once he was back in Jersey, Young World prepared his mind to go all out. His anger still had the best of him and his emotions were controlling his intellect, but Roc had left him no other choice.
He remembered Dutch saying that to him, dropping a jewel about desperation on his young mind.
But World couldn’t help but feel desperate. Everywhere he turned there was treachery, deceit, cross-dealings, and double-dealings. It was like Biggie said, the more money, the more problems. He had Ceylon threatening to cut him off, Roll gunning for his crown, and when he needed him the most, the man he looked up to like a father had turned his back, leaving him out in the cold.
Things had moved too fast for Young World, going from a block lieutenant to a don damn near overnight, and he simply wasn’t cut out for the responsibilities. His ego wouldn’t let him accept it even though his heart was beginning to agree.
He pulled his pearl-white Aston Martin convertible into the horseshoe driveway of his crib in West Orange. He turned off the car and sat back, taking in the landscape. The six-bedroom, eight-bathroom, ranch-style house was the type of house he’d always dreamed of owning ever since his block hustling days-chasing dimes and nickels, day and night, grinding hard, showering every two or three days and sleeping in hoopties on lookouts. His only goal was to get money. He would hustle all night then take the money to Lana’s mother’s house, catching her before she went to school. Sometimes he’d talk her into playing hooky. They would go downtown to buy clothes or look at jewelry. Then they’d sit on her porch and watch bigger hustlers drive by in their Benzes and BMWs.
“I’m tellin’ you, girl. That’s gonna be us in a minute, word. We gonna have it all, baby,” he’d tell her, and she would reply, “I already got it all.”
“You’ve come a long way, son,” he said to himself. But deep inside, he wondered if it was all worth it.
So what if Ceylon cut him off? In his three-year run, he had stacked NBA-type paper. What else did he have to prove? And to whom? Roll? Duke? Lana? Himself? Young World leaned back against the headrest and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.
Maybe it was time to get out, take Lana somewhere quiet and exotic. Logic and reason pointed him in that direction, and he had almost convinced himself. Until he felt the weight on his chest.
The dragon chain.
His chest filled with foolish pride and impotent rage. He cursed himself for even thinking such thoughts.
“Fuck that! I ain’t runnin’ from these bitch-ass niggas!”
Dutch had left him the dragon to represent, and like a diehard gangster, he planned on repping his jeweled flag to the death.
Young World entered the house with his mind set on his course of action. All he had to do was put Lana on point to his decision, because she’d have to relocate.
“Lana!” he yelled loud enough to be heard all over the house.
He got no reply.
“Lana, you here?”
Young World noticed the TV showing her favorite fitness channel. The leotard-clad women were jumping and stretching to a muted beat. He smiled to himself. Lana had an hourglass figure and flawless skin, which she attributed to her vegetarian diet and workout regime.
He turned off the TV and looked out to the patio where he saw Lana sitting at the edge of the pool. He started toward her, then stopped in his tracks.
The game he was playing wasn’t only with his life but with hers as well. It had always been in the back of his mind and with the decision he was about to implement, he knew shit could get real ugly, real fast. God forbid if they came for him through her. Young World would never rest until he avenged her death, but revenge wouldn’t bring her back. Again he questioned his stance, but his pride wouldn’t let him reconsider.
He walked over poolside and heard Jaheem’s CD playing in the background.
“Lana.”
She jumped, slightly startled. “Oh, hey, World.” She smiled and stood up to hug him. She kissed him. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“How could you with this bullshit blastin’ like you in the Projects or somethin’,” he snapped.
“You know it ain’t that loud, boy. Quit trippin’.”
“Did you hear me come in?”
“No.”
“Then it
