Young World felt the same way, but what could he do? He knew Ceylon wasn’t the kind of man you took to war with a gun. He was above street fights. To World and his young wolves, Ceylon was untouchable.
“So what do you suggest, huh? Go back, guns blazin’, and then what? Wait for the muthafucka to send his army?” World tried to reason.
“We got an army, too. So fuck all that shit that nigga poppin’,” Duke reminded him, then almost as an afterthought he added, “it ain’t nothin’ but a phone call unless you can’t make the call.”
Young World had reached a red light. “What the fuck that ’posed to mean, Duke?”
Duke was fed up with the way World was running things. “Just like I said, Ock. Shit that’s been happenin’ didn’t even have to happen, but lately you been on some bullshit and I ain’t wit’ it.”
“Bullshit like what? Ceylon? You think you coulda handled it better, huh?”
The light turned green but World was so busy defending himself he didn’t see it, and the drivers behind him started hitting their horns. Young World shot an evil look into the rearview, then slowly pulled off.
“I ain’t even talkin’ about Ceylon. I’m talking ’bout the bullshit!”
“What bullshit?!”
“Roll!” Duke barked, and Young World got quiet.
Roll was of the team and rap group Rock and Roll, until Craze broke them up with mind games. Rock stuck to producing music and got out of the game but Roll had become one of Young World’s chief rivals. Roll’s name had been ringing bells and he had a team spread out as thick as World’s. The only difference was that Roll was steadily expanding and World was steadily contracting.
A team of four gunmen had robbed World’s people in Atlantic City of over a million dollars in heroin and cash and killed two of World’s top dogs.
World got word that it was Roll who had robbed him and stuck him for the million dollars. Roll didn’t try to hide it either. It was a slap in the face, a provocation for World to go to war, yet Young World hadn’t responded, and that was over a month ago.
“Fuck Roll! I ain’t forgot about that fat muthafucka! I got other shit to worry about. You heard Ceylon. We got thirty days to double our distribution or we cut off. I don’t give a fuck how many guns we got. We get cut off, it’s finished!” Young World spat heatedly.
“What you mean ‘Fuck Roll’? It’s because of shit like that why we losin’ spots as it is! Muthafuckas think we soft. Fuck that! We go all out and take all these bitches to war! Ceylon, Roll, and whoever the fuck else! That’s how we double distribution, and if we don’t, we find another connect.”
Duke had it all figured out and was ready to get down for his crown or die tryin’.
Young World shook his head. Duke was letting his emotions speak for him, but Young World knew better.
The last three years had taken a real toll on his team, he and Duke the only survivors from the original clique. Except for a few remaining Angel’s Charlies, the rest of his organization was bound by the dollar, or fear, not by loyalty. And they were second-rate at best.
World felt trapped. It was like every time he solved one problem, two jumped up to take its place. He was like any other young black man on the streets, trying to win by someone else’s rules, trying to play the game without understanding the nature of power. He had forgotten the lesson Dutch’s game plan laid out. He loved Dutch for putting him in his present position.
“Look, yo,” World began in a calm tone. “Ain’t shit soft about World, son. I handle shit my way, period, point blank. I’m the one gotta answer for this shit, and I’m in this to get paper. Niggas be on that ra ra shit. Fuck ’em. I’ll see ’em on my terms, on my time. Until then…” Young World looked at Duke, “You either wit’ me or against me.”
He gave Duke the ultimate ultimatum, but Duke wasn’t prepared to go solo… yet.
“Whatever you say, Ock. Whatever you say.”
Young World turned up the system and Scarface’d his way back to Newark. He pulled up to Sammy’s Place off Broad Street where Duke had parked his Hummer.
“On the real, Duke. I feel where you comin’ from, and I feel the same way. But I need you to trust me, aiight? Let me handle this my way,” Young World said, throwing his car in park.
Duke shrugged and opened the door. “I got you, World.”
“Duke, we been through too much together to fuck up now, yo.”
Duke flashed a phony smile. “Fuck you need, a hug, nigga? I said I got you.” He chuckled and eased the tension between them. They shook hands.
“I’ll call you later,” said World.
“One,” replied Duke.
“One.”
World pulled off with ease, thinking everything was love, but it wasn’t. Duke watched the taillights of the Mercedes disappear, then turned toward the door of Sammy’s and went inside.
It was a small, sleazy joint but out of the way enough that Duke felt that he would see no one he knew. He had another important meeting, one Young World knew nothing about. He had a meeting with the mob.
Vinnie Z and his fat henchman sat in the rear of the bar at a secluded booth. Vinnie was all smiles the moment he saw Duke.
Vinnie was the stereotypical young, cocky Italian, always grabbing his balls and using hand gestures with his syllables. They had met when Vinnie tried to convince Young World that he needed the mob in his corner, not against him, but Young World refused. Duke, on the other hand, saw his opportunity and seized it, sending word to Vinnie that they should talk, and this meeting was a result of that message.
As Duke approached, Vinnie stood to greet him, giving him a firm and vigorous handshake.
“Duke! Paisano! How you doin’, eh? You look good. Mikey, it’s Duke. Say hello to Duke,” Vinnie ranted like Duke was a war buddy.
Jabbalike Mikey just grunted inaudibly. To Mikey, a nigger was a nigger, and he didn’t want to be bothered. Vinnie felt the same way. He was just a better actor. He knew young black guys loved the Mafioso persona, so Vinnie laid it on thick.
“Sit down, Duke. What choo drinkin’?”
Duke sat down and unbuttoned his coat. “Naw, I’m good.”
Vinnie sat back, shaking the ice in his glass. “Okay. Duke’s good, so, ah, what’s good with Duke?” Vinnie inquired.
Duke took out a cigarette, and Vinnie produced a lighter. “You tell me, Z.”
“How’s Young World?”
“He just left. You shoulda said something. I woulda told him to come on in,” Duke answered sarcastically.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, your friend is an ass-hole. I can’t talk to him. You, I can talk to. You know why? Because you’re a reasonable guy. You and I, we could have a good thing, eh?”
Duke blew cigarette smoke out his mouth before speaking.
“Maybe we can arrange a few things.”
“Definitely, because a guy like you needs friends like me, eh? I give you a place to lay your hat. I talk to people, they talk to people, and we all sit down and eat, ba-da-bing?”
“Ba-da-boom.” Duke smiled. “I just hope some of these people you talkin’ to is judges and DAs ’cause niggas catchin’ cases like snitches is sexually transmittin’ ’em.”
“Forget about it,” Vinnie warned with a gesture of dismissal. “My guys are good guys, and we take care of our friends. You just gimme a call when it’s a go on your end, capisci?” Vinnie grinned greedily.
He was itching to get his olive-oiled hands on Young World’s territory and Duke was just the monkey to bring it to him. Dutch had run the Italians out of the Newark drug game and now Duke was ready to bring them back in and play puppet in their tangled strings. All Vinnie needed was a chance to implement his plan, and Young World was unwittingly about to give it to him.
Young World stood in the bedroom door and admired his sleeping beauty. She lay wrapped to the waist in peach-colored sheets that accentuated her ebony skin tone.
He loved her.
Lana was the perfect hustler’s wife. She had been with him every step of the way, stashing money, holding work, and tucking pistols when necessary. Although it took him two years, Lana gave him her virginity. They had been inseparable ever since. Lana was his first love; the game was his second.
