Kip watched his brother exit the apartment. Everything in the building was wheelchair accessible. His little brother was growing up fast and becoming independent. Kip wanted to do more for him. He wanted him to walk again. It had been eight years but still no change. The physical therapy treatments he was paying for at one of the top medical facilities in New York City weren’t effective. But he wasn’t going to stop trying. He was determined and positive that one day Kid would walk again.
Their apartment was well furnished with costly sofas and big fluffy chairs. It was comfortable and spacious. It was the perfect bachelor’s pad for the brothers with a 60-inch smart TV in the living room, a high-end stereo system, and tall surround-sound speakers situated throughout the apartment, along with countless consoles and video games everywhere. It was Kid’s domain—video games and online gaming—especially when it came to playing Minecraft.
Kip glanced at the time. It was already eleven thirty. He needed to get dressed and start his day. He was a busy man trying to make his cream on the streets or from the streets. His illicit hustle was a full-time job. He went into his bedroom to prepare himself. His goons would be there soon.
Kip was a monster on the streets. He had to walk out of his building wearing the right gear. It was all about his image, yes, but it was also about implementing the perfect plan to get money by any means necessary. He had come a long way from being a nobody to a feared and respected man in Harlem.
One
The corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 133rd Street was flourishing with springtime activity. Traffic flowed back and forth, with bodegas and the mom-and-pop shops lining the avenue open for business. Don Pedro Albizu Campos School on the corner was filled with students and teachers, and with summer break approaching, the young girls were out in their short skirts, short shorts, and halter tops, their pretty sneakers hammering the urban pavement from block to block. Some of the best eye candy in the city came from Manhattanville Houses.
In the midst of the activity, a black Ford Expedition on 22-inch chrome rims double-parked in front of the towering project building on 133rd Street. The truck was blaring Jay Z’s “Dead Presidents,” and the two occupants in the front seats nodded to the beat, mouthing the song. They shared a burning blunt while waiting for Kip to exit the building.
Devon looked ominous behind the wheel of the Expedition in his dark army fatigues and his small Afro. His eyes shifted everywhere as he sat parked on the block, smoking weed in public. He scanned potential victims closely and from afar. Everyone was a target to him. He didn’t care who they were or who they were connected to. It was a dog-eat-dog world in Harlem and everywhere else, and he was the bigger dog with the sharper teeth, more bite than bark. His eyes were always threatening.
Devon had dark skin and a yuck mouth, and everyone, especially the girls, was afraid of him. They called him “Devil” behind his back. Twenty-four and a mental case, he was as grimy as they came in Harlem. He had grown up eating out of trash cans to survive. His mother would buy drugs instead of food with the welfare checks and whatever cash she earned selling sex. Devon’s father had abandoned them since birth. Though Devon would see his deadbeat dad in the neighborhood, his pops had never claimed him or ever said a word to him.
Growing up, Devon’s peers made fun of him, poked at him, and kicked him when he was down. Society was a cruel place, so Devon decided to become an even crueler man. He was a man with dirty fingernails, ashy skin, and dirty clothes, but his character was a lot filthier. He and his friends made money from robberies, burglaries, and stick-ups.
Devon took a pull from the weed and passed it to Papa John in the passenger’s seat. Papa John took a long pull and exhaled. He sat back and chilled. The kush had him feeling nice. His eyes were faded while waiting for Kip to come down from his apartment.
Papa John was nineteen and Kip’s right-hand man. He had also grown up in a single-parent household. His father Darryl, a renowned detective at the 75th Precinct, had raised him. Darryl was forty-nine years old with a twenty-two-year-old girlfriend, and though he was a detective, he had no clue about his son’s illicit activities in the streets.
Papa John had no recollection of his mother. There were only pictures of her around the house, and his father spoke about her vaguely. When he was just two years old, Papa John’s mother left the family and ran off with his father’s best friend Anthony. The two had fled Harlem and headed south to Miami, but they never made it. Anthony had fallen asleep behind the wheel, and they both were killed instantly on I-95.
Papa John was the opposite of Devon. Where Devon was the critter of the crew, Papa John and Kip were the smooth-talking, handsome bad boys in the neighborhood. Papa John was meticulous about his wardrobe and his appearance. He had brown skin with dark, soft, curly hair that he kept cut low and the brightest brown eyes. He also carried a small scar on his right cheek courtesy of a nightclub brawl several years earlier. He hadn’t seen it coming but felt the razor peel his skin back like a banana, coating his face with blood. The culprit was a jealous boyfriend who attacked because Papa John was fucking his girlfriend.
Papa John took a few more pulls from the blunt and handed it back to Devon. Just then his eyes became hooked on a young cutie walking across the street. She was light-skinned with long black hair, a small waist, and thick thighs underneath a short skirt. She was definitely his type. He tapped Devon and pointed her out. “That’s nice right there,” he said.
Devon smiled.
“Hey, beautiful,” Papa John catcalled her way. “How you doin’ today?”
She glanced his way and kept things moving, not looking interested in what he had to say. In fact, she had an attitude. Papa John had never seen her around before, so she was probably new to the neighborhood. He loved new things, especially the ladies.
“You can’t speak, beautiful?” he continued.
Ignoring him completely, she walked like she had somewhere important to be.
Papa John was mesmerized by her curvy physique, and when she walked by, his eyes stayed glued to her butt. It was all put together perfectly.
“Damn, beautiful, you’re definitely workin’ that body,” he hollered. “Can I have a picture of you so I can show Santa what I want for Christmas?”
Devon laughed.
Papa John was relentless. If he didn’t get her attention today, he would try tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. Eventually, he would get what he wanted. He was funny and cute. He was a ladies’ man. The hood had named John “Papa John” because he was promiscuous with the ladies. He had six kids with six baby mamas at his young age, and all of the women were gorgeous and completely in love with him. Word around the hood was that Papa John carried a ten-inch penis and was adept at using it. Ever since his mother walked out on him when he was a baby, he had “mommy issues.” He couldn’t get close to women, so he couldn’t stay in relationships.
As the woman walked by, Papa John sat back, taking her in. Then he muttered, “What the fuck is takin’ Kip so long?”
“Y’all pretty boys always take forever getting dressed,” Devon said.
“It’s called flavor, nigga. You should try it out once in a while.”
“Fuck you, nigga!”
“You still my nigga, D. We gonna get you some pussy tonight.”
“I’m no charity fuckin’ case, Papa John. I get mine.”