Angel's Revenge (15 page)

The brothers laughed together knowing what it was like to finally be home from a prison stay.

“Just gimme a week,” Rahman told them. They all agreed and dispersed.

On his way out the door, Rahman spotted Hakim coming in. Hakim was an older brother with salt-and-pepper hair. He was also
Young World’s father. Rahman felt apprehensive as the man approached him, but he had no intention of avoiding him.

“It’s good to see you home,” Hakim said politely as he firmly shook Rahman’s hand.

“It’s good to be home,” Rahman replied. “You look good.” The brief silence between them was awkward.

Hakim smiled knowingly. “Ahkee, believe me. I don’t blame you for Shahid. By Allah, I don’t. It was the life he chose to lead,”
Hakim explained softly. He knew Rahman’s part.

“I know, but…”

Hakim placed a warm hand on Rahman’s shoulder, and although he was five inches shorter, the respect Rahman had for him made
them look at each other as if they were eye to eye.

“Allah knows best. All I ask is that you stand firm, okay? These streets are man-eaters, black man-eaters. Stand firm and
that’ll convince me that you are sincere.”

Rahman took the lesson with him out the door.

For the next seven days, Rahman’s family was in heaven. The children had their daddy back and Ayesha had her husband home.
He spent his days playing with the children and his nights with Ayesha. He was finally able to lead his family in prayer,
something he had neglected to do during his life in the game and something he had longed to do when he was in prison.

The return was bittersweet. Sweet because he was where he had prayed to be night after night. Bitter because he had missed
so much.

Anisa, his baby girl, was born the night he was arrested by the Feds. He had missed the first three years of her life, footsteps
to words. Ali and Aminah were only two and three years old when he left, and although they were still young, he had missed
seeing them develop.

Rahman knew he couldn’t make up for lost time, but he planned on making the most of every moment.

“Is it over?” Ayesha asked him one morning after prayer.

They stood together watching the sunrise from their bedroom balcony. Rahman stood behind her with his arms wrapped around
her and hers wrapped around him.

“You ain’t gonna pass out again, are you?” Rahman joked. She elbowed him in the stomach. “Ow!”

“Then stop playin’ and answer my question.”

Rahman understood what she was asking. She wanted to know if he was through with the game. She knew of his plans, but she
also knew the man her husband was and the man he was struggling to become.

“Yeah, boo. It’s over.”

She turned to look him in the eye. “No… I mean over. Over. All of it. Is this plan of yours gonna become another game? Another
thing to take you away from me?” Ayesha questioned, searching his eyes for the answers.

Rahman caressed his wife’s cheek.

“Nothing can take me from you.”

“You once told me you couldn’t be a gangsta and a Muslim at the same time.”

“I remember.”

“Well, which do you choose now?”

Rahman looked away toward the rising sun.

“Muslim.”

“But this thing you got going on, these big plans. They will take you right back to the same streets and the same world,”
Ayesha warned, hoping he had carefully considered what he was doing before making a final decision. She turned his face to
hers.

“Rahman, I know you want to do right and I know you want to help as many as you can. But, baby, please don’t do anything that’s
going to jeopardize our family. I don’t know what I would do if they took you away from me again.”

Tears trekked down her cheek and onto Rahman’s chest as he held her tight.

“I can’t survive another bid. Please. I can’t do this thing called life by myself because you want those streets. You
can’t
keep asking me to,” she said, angry at the past three years without him.

“I won’t,” his mouth said, but it was a statement he knew his heart couldn’t follow.

“To get rich or die tryin’ is the motto of fools and clowns,” Rahman bellowed to the crowd around him.

He was in Salahudeen’s martial arts studio on South Orange Avenue. He was surrounded by more than fifty street vendors. Hanif
and Mustafa were there. Rahman paced the floor slowly, looking from face to face like a general addressing his army.

“Why? It’s simple… you can’t take it with you.”

A few heads laughed.

“No! You get power or die tryin’ because either way, you make a change. Power brings riches but riches don’t always bring
power.”

He let his jewel sink in before continuing.

“The oil fragrance business has always been a good hustle. On every corner in every major city there’s a Muslim pushin’ ’em.
But up until now, it’s only been nickels and dimes. You know why? No organization. If we organized it efficiently, we would
be talking millions of dollars nationwide. Who ain’t tryin’ to touch that?”

“Holla back!”

“The man’s a genius!”

Rahman grinned.

“Okay then. This is why you’re here. We about to lock down the oil fragrance trade across the East Coast, starting today in
Newark. And whoever rolls wit’ us, I can guarantee to double your profit margin, Insha Allah.”

“Then let’s double up!”

“I’m prepared to give each of you five thousand dollars to purchase oils for your businesses. The conditions, however, are
that you will order from one supplier, once a month, and at the same time, regardless of inventory. You will also order a
minimum amount and spend a minimum amount of money every month regardless of inventory. Once we increase volume, our prices
will be reduced and our profit margins will increase.”

“Takbir!”

“Allah Akbar!”

“Didn’t I say the man’s a genius?!”

The voices rose into a cacophony of enthusiasm. Rahman signaled for them to quiet down.

“Hold up a minute. Let me finish. Now, each of you will remain independent but central control remains with Salahudeen. What
he says is law. Period. Any objections?”

He looked around, but no one spoke.

“Same thing with clothes. One supplier, same stipulations. Any objections?”

Silence once again filled the air.

Rahman signaled to Hanif and Mustafa to begin passing out envelopes filled with five-thousand dollars to each man.

“I hope y’all accept cash because my money don’t agree with the Kufar’s banks,” he announced, but no one minded.

Once they were passed out, Rahman continued.

“You all are proud shareholders in our vendor franchise. But one last thing. If anyone buys from another supplier or in any
way violates our agreement, we’ll expect our five grand back on the spot. If you don’t have it, forfeit your corner. We move
as one, so there’s only two sides and you’re either with us or against us.” Rahman’s imposing stature gave his last words
their needed emphasis.

The meeting ended and the men filed out, all except for Rahman’s team.

“Phew! I never gave away two hundred grand so quickly, yo,” Hanif commented, tossing the empty bag aside.

“In six months, our investment will easily triple based on the volume Newark does daily,” Rahman informed them. He had done
the calculations and configurations and had it all figured out.

“Mustafa, I hope your peoples can handle this kind of weight.”

“Can they? They got barrels and barrels of oils, shipped straight from Arabia,” Mustafa said.

Rahman turned to Salahudeen.

“What’s next?”

“I talked to them guys on Eighteenth Avenue. They willin’ to sell the block for a buck-fifty.”

“A hundred and fifty grand?” Rahman asked, rubbing his beard as he thought for second. “All right, cool. Make it happen, and
Sal?”

Salahudeen looked at him.

“Please tell them dudes business is business. Once the block is ours, not one rock touches Eighteenth Avenue, all right?”
Rahman warned.

Salahudeen winked.

“Come on, Ock. Who gonna try and cross One-eyed Roc?” Salahudeen joked. Rahman chuckled.

“Okay, now it’s party time. Salahudeen, call the brothers. We goin’ to a strip club.”

Hanif’s eyes grew as wide as dinner plates.

“Yo, Ock. I know you been gone awhile, but a strip club?”

•   •   •

“It’s a Muslim party, yo,” Rahman told the huge muscle-bound bouncer at the door. They were outside the Diamond Club. The
parking lot was packed with niggas coming to get their freak on along with the thirty-five Muslims, give or take a few, who
stood shoulder to shoulder, keeping order. The bouncer looked at the solemn-faced brothers then back at Salahudeen and Rahman
as another bouncer hurried to the door. Both of the men looked like black Arnold Schwarzeneggers.

“What the fuck? Y’all on some bullshit! Get the fuck outta here before I lose my patience,” the first bouncer barked, standing
toe-to-toe with Rahman. Rahman took a step closer to the bouncer, tensing his muscles, ready for action.

“Eighteenth Avenue is under new management, brother. Now, let me in to see Freddie. Tell him One-eyed Roc is here.”

The second bouncer recognized the name instantly.

“Ay, yo, Roc. We don’t want no problems. We just tryin’ to do our jobs.”

“Well do ’em and go talk to Freddie before I lose my patience,” Rahman retorted calmly.

The second bouncer disappeared inside the doorway while the other bouncer continued to glare at Roc. He could feel the bulge
of his nine in its holster and he was itching for a reason to pull it out.

The second bouncer came back and tapped the first on the shoulder. “It’s cool, Joe. Freddie said let ’em in.”

Rahman and Salahudeen moved to enter, but the man put his hand on Salahudeen’s chest. His intention was to stop him and scan
him for weapons, but he didn’t get a chance to speak. He heard so many guns lock and load, the metallic clicks echoed through
the parking lot like the breaking of a thousand twigs. Upset, but not stupid, the bouncer slowly removed his hand from Sal’s
chest, and Salahudeen and Rahman entered the club.

As they walked through the double doors, Rahman looked around at all the women. They were dancing on stages, on tables, on
laps, upside down, on their knees. He shook his head as the bodyguard escorted them to Freddie’s office. Rahman didn’t stop
and knock. He turned the knob and let himself in.

“Roc, baby! How you doin’, son?” Freddie chimed nervously.

Freddie was a tall, lanky, light-skinned brother. He stood up and rounded his desk, adjusting his Cartier frames. He held
out his hand to Rahman, but Rahman didn’t take it. Instead, Rahman said, “You’re closed.”

The bodyguard had already informed Freddie of what was going on. Freddie knew Roc and he knew what Roc was capable of. He
didn’t want any part of the gangsta.

“Closed?” Freddie echoed. “What’s the problem, Roc? What I do? How you gonna come up in my…”

That was all he was able to get out before Roc open-handed him so hard his glasses flew off his face and smashed against the
wall. Freddie fell back against the desk. The bodyguard tried to make a move on Roc, but Salahudeen delivered a vicious blow
to his kidneys. The bodyguard doubled over but quickly recovered and charged Salahudeen like a bull. Sal was only six feet
tall and 175 pounds at best. But what the bodyguard didn’t know was that Sal was a lethal weapon. Salahudeen sidestepped the
oncoming assault and followed with a leg sweep that sent the bodyguard crashing headfirst into the door. He then grabbed the
man’s dazed head and rammed his knee up into his face, twice. Blood covered Salahudeen’s pant leg as he released the unconscious
body to slump to the floor. Meanwhile, Rahman had snatched Freddie off the desk by the throat and pinned him to the wall,
trembling with rage.

“You heard me, nigga! I said closed! Out of business! Ain’t gonna be no strip club on Eighteenth Avenue. Either pack up or
die
!”

Freddie was terrified. He couldn’t understand what was going on. All he could think was that Roc wanted the business for himself,
or maybe he was on some extortion quest. Freddie was willing to pay.

“Come on, Roc, man. Is it money, man? You wanna piece of my hustle?” Freddie asked with his mouth bloody.

“Hustle! Hustle? Nigga, you ain’t no hustler, you a pimp! A hustler, I respect. But a pimp, I’ll kill in front of his mama!
Get out and if you even breathe something to the police, I’ll murder you and your family. Understood?” Rahman asked, throwing
Freddie against a file cabinet. It crashed to the floor. Freddie quickly got up and staggered out the door.

“Clear the club and bring the girls in the back,” Rahman told Salahudeen. The Muslims moved into the club in an orderly fashion.
Salahudeen grabbed the mic from the deejay.

“The Diamond Club is officially closed for good. All y’all trick-ass niggas get out and all y’all females, if you want a thousand
dollars, get dressed and meet us in the dressing room.”

Niggas yelled obscenities and threats, but a room filled with gun-toting Muslims helped move things along at a rapid pace.

While the brothers cleared the club, Salahudeen and Rahman entered the dressing room where all fifteen strippers waited patiently
to learn what it was they had to do for a thousand dollars. As soon as money was mentioned, they hurried and covered themselves,
dressing either in their clothes or in a robe. Only two girls remained as they were, bare-breasted and wearing thongs.

Any man would’ve been sexually aroused by a room full of exotic dancers. But the Muslims weren’t. They were enraged. Enraged
by what the ghetto had done to the sisters sitting there with their falsely arched eyebrows, falsely tinted eyes, and dangling
hair weaves. They looked like mannequins, mere shells of their beautiful black selves. Salahudeen gave them all a thousand
dollars, and Rahman handed a robe to the two girls with exposed breasts.

“Cover yourself, ma. Ain’t no tricks back here,” he said, turning to another female in a weblike dress that barely covered
her ass. “And you, put some clothes on.”