Cracked Dreams (2 page)

“Yo, I wonder what it's gonna be like when we get older and start getting some
real
money,” Michael said to the others as they occupied a bench in Bronx Park at the bottom of 222nd Street.

“Word,” agreed Peter. “I want to have a nice fat crib with a swimming pool and basketball court, yo. Word up!”

“That
would
be ill though, son,” approved Chris. “We would have every bitch in the Bronx on our dicks.”

“Fuck these bitches out here, nigga,” Mikey said. “I'm gonna have bitches from Jamaica, Puerto Rico, and even Africa, nigga. Matter of fact, I want some Hawaiian pussy, son. That's my word!”

“On the real though, this nigga would fuck a bitch that made his dick turn green, yo,” Chris said as they all shared a healthy laugh.

“Fuck you,” Mikey simply countered.

The better halves of Michael's days were
usually
spent fantasizing about fancy cars, and exotic women. He wanted to travel the world twice over, and he wanted it for himself just as much as he wanted it for his friends and family. He often wondered why his father wasn't around, but never once wanted to find him or anything. Instead, he took responsibility for him. If
his father wasn't man enough to provide a better life for him, his mother, and his brother, then he would make it up to them himself.

Michael and his childhood friends would endlessly talk about how they would be rich and famous. They knew for a fact they would all prosper in life. They would continuously discuss what they would do with millions and how many women they would have. It wasn't considered unhealthy for them to have a good imagination, as long as they didn't lose touch with reality too much. Growing up in their situation would make anybody try as much as possible to lose touch with reality.

Michael was always book smart by choice. It didn't come naturally to him, as did the streets. He didn't have to apply himself much to pick up street smarts because it was in fact a necessity. It was nothing for him to balance the both without one getting in the way of the other, or so it seemed. Only thing is, now he'd become more and more attracted to the streets. Although he seemed to have his schooling under control—just about finishing his sophomore year at Evander Childs High School without any complications—he thought he deserved immediate ratification for his efforts. He deserved just as much as any one of his peers, and didn't seem to be getting it. Kids his age had already experienced what he had only dreamed about. Fast cars, expensive clothes and jewelry were soon to be in his grasp, one way or another.

Now, with his second year of high school coming to an end, he had devised a plan to get some extra money over the summer. He planned that between him and his crew of friends, they could make a buy into the drug game. It had started out that the money would be for some new clothes, and some jewelry. Possibly they could even get a nice whip he and his crew could drive around, but it quickly became much more.

Spits was semi-connected to the game through his cousin, Vision. They called him Vision because he always thought he saw things differently than others. His real name was Stanley, so that could've been another reason for him wanting to change it. Anyway, Vision had made a few connections while serving time in Bear Mountain Correctional Facility. He was there for a gun possession charge but he'd aspired to be in the drug game, so he
took getting locked up as an opportunity to make connections. He had just been paroled right before that summer in '96. When Spits put him on to what he had planned, he said,
“to hell with parole,”
and he was all in. He would be the connection that they needed to get their shit off the ground.

The plan Spits had devised suggested that everybody down would come up with the buy-in price of $500; just enough to get about a half-ounce of coke each. Nothing major by itself, but collectively, they could make a little noise in their little part of the Bronx. Once he introduced the idea, it was on and poppin'. It was on everybody involved to come up with their share and they all had a week to do so. Michael felt comfortable in himself, as he'd already had $500 saved for a rainy day. Others had plans of their own.

Now Chris was the hothead of the bunch. Chris adopted the call Ceelow from his given name Christopher Loew. Ceelow, or just Cee, was dark-skinned and stood six feet flat. He wore a tapered Caesar fade with 360-degree waves. He was always really serious about his appearance, and always had the whitest T's all through the summer. Ceelow planned on obtaining his share of the buy-in with the proceeds from numerous strong-arm robberies. Spits had designated him to make sure no one would try and make a move on the spot or anybody on their crew. Basically, Cee would secure the block and report anything unusual. This was perfect for Cee because anytime something went down involving the rest of the crew he got right in the middle of it anyway. So it was fitting that he handled security.

With a cat like Ceelow on your crew, you needed someone with a little more rationalism; just to even things out. That's where Pop, or Mikey, came in. Mikey got the name Pop because he would try to come off like a father figure, giving advice and looking at every situation as a possible problem that needed to be resolved. Being the only one of the crew to actually grow up with his father, plus a two-year age difference, he figured that gave him seniority. Pop's real name was Mikey Black. Ironically, Pop was the blackest motherfucker you would ever see, and he stood six-three with a nappy afro. Pop had picked up a lot from his father while he was growing up. He always worked well with his hands, and as a kid, he was often called McGuiver. That's how he intended on obtaining his share of the buy-in,
from fixing bikes, cars, or doing work around someone's house. That was the easiest way he knew how to get money, plus he would be enjoying himself. Now although Pop wasn't as short-tempered as Cee, he was just as ruthless. He was designated as second to Ceelow for security measures. They would make the perfect team, and their characteristics had enough contrast to offset the other's actions.

Peter, or Trigger as they called him, would handle the finances. He would make sure that they weren't getting shorted on profit. Trigger's real name was Peter Beckford, but whoever knew him called him Trigger for one of two reasons. One would be the obvious relation to some gangsta shit. The other was because Trigger was somewhat of a playboy. So the name could also be related to how easily he “
pulled”
the ladies. Trigger could fuck your girl, her sister and best friend the next day, and hang out with all three of them the day after that with no complications. That's how he got his buy-in money. He convinced a few girls into sacrificing some sneaker money to contribute to his cause. He was slick with his shit like that. Spits also knew Trigger the longest, and they shared the same book smarts. They'd met in the first grade and had become inseparable ever since. They'd even discovered their love for music together, and would often write songs and make beats with one another. Trigger was five feet eight inches, brown-skinned and wore braids in his hair as well.

Together, they were the Time Bombs. The name came from the idea of being unstoppable. It was only a matter of time before they
“blew up”
and when they did, niggas would know they weren't to be fucked with. They'd all planned on wearing tattoos with “TB” engraved, and had also planned on getting crew rings with “TB” in diamonds once they'd gotten to where they needed to be. It was perfect.

They met at Spits' crib. For a few months, Spits—along with his mother and little brother—had occupied an apartment just off of Gun Hill Road and Onlinville Avenue. It wasn't much: two bedrooms, a bathroom, a small kitchen, a dining area and a medium-sized living room. Spits and his brother, Henry Banner, shared a room and his mother had the other. The meeting was scheduled for nine in the morning because with his mother at
work, and his brother at school, they could have some privacy to discuss their plans.

The first to reach Michael's place was Trigger. Only a few minutes later, came Cee accompanied by Pop. Once together, they went to the liquor store, then to the weed spot. They would need some of these necessities if they would be deliberating for the remainder of the morning and into the afternoon.

Once back at Michael's, they all sat around the kitchen table, poured drinks for themselves, and toasted,
“Moe's, hoes and zeros,”
and officially began the meeting.

“I-ight, my niggas, let me paint this picture for ya'll,” Spits began. “Now we all know the game. We've watched the older niggas do it throughout our entire lives. From Edenwald to Gun Hill, we've watched niggas get money. We've seen the real niggas get cake, and we've seen the other niggas get killed. We've grown up directly in the middle of all this shit, and now it's
our
turn. I think I've found the perfect spot for us to start.” Everyone looked at Spits as if he was about to tell them the meaning of life when . . .he took a breath, looked around and said, “Yo, let's roll up, and go up to the roof to blaze. You can see what I mean better from there.” They all began rolling up weed in Phillie Blunts and White Owls to go smoke on the roof.

As he would soon explain, Michael's whole visualization devised from Bronx Park. That's where the customers were, so that's where they would set up shop. Just on the other side of Gun Hill Road was a back block street on one side of the Bronx River, and a seating area on the other side with a little track for racing remote-controlled cars. From these two points, plus the overpass that crossed the river, they would have the street shut down. Gun Hill was already infamous for drug trading, but no one had ever thought to bring the product directly to the customer. White Plains Road was the intersecting street where hustlers from all over the Bronx could be found selling, but Gun Hill Project cats mostly ran it. They controlled the street, no doubt about it. What Spits had planned was to control the park, where the customers would actually go to smoke. The way he saw it, when you're a nervous ass crack-fiend, you don't want to walk all the way to a
busy street to buy drugs where you don't know who could be watching. Nah, if the opportunity presented itself, you would buy whatever you needed right there in the park where you smoked. Made sense when you thought about it. Besides, it was only supposed to be temporary anyway. In and out, right? Whatever!

From the roof, Spits began pointing and describing the way things should be run. Trigger came up with the idea that they could make drop-offs to re-up the workers from the overpass. Cee and Pop went on to point out where the lookout points should be. They all agreed that if they controlled the traffic to the Avenue, they would have the whole shit sewn up. They all continued to pour drinks and light weed as they came up with more and more ideas for their new enterprise.

T
he first week we made a little over four thousand dollars. We should've made more, but us being new and all, we had to establish clientele. With the two thousand we had for the buy, we were able to purchase a little over two ounces of coke. When we broke that down we were looking at about five grand gross, but we decided we should bag up a grand worth in samples. The only part that bothered me was that we were bagging up the same work as everyone else, so it basically only came down to convenience. The customers that came to us did because we were the closest to 'em. That was the original plan, but now it wasn't enough. So before the re-up, we decided that we needed a new connection.

I got a call on my cell phone at about three o'clock in the afternoon. As the voice on the other end started, I realized that it was my girl, Ginger. She said she had some news that I might be interested in. But whenever I heard her voice, I seemed to lose focus and drift off. I didn't even hear what she'd said at first. Ginger, or just Gin, wasn't actually her real name, but that's what I called her. I‘d given her that name because when I'd first seen her, she'd reminded me of a character in a movie that had come out in '95. She stood about five-four, with an hourglass figure, caramel skin, and the prettiest eyes I'd ever seen. But you couldn't let the pretty face and the girly attitude fool you; she was still my little gangsta bitch. She didn't like the fact that I was putting the street life before school, but I'd reassured her that it would only be temporary.

“Are you listening to me?!” she asked in an annoyed tone of voice. She hated it when she didn't get enough attention.

“Yeah, I'm listening, Gin,” I said, trying to make her feel appreciated.

“I have something to tell you,” she said, starting from the beginning.

Ginger lived in Cornwall, New York. And the news she had was exactly what I needed to hear. She told me that she'd heard crack heads in Newburgh, a town that neighbored hers, were just dropping dead out there from some new killer shit. I was like, “I WANT THAT SHIT!” The next day, I sent Vision to scout and ask around.

After a few days, Vision reported that the coke came from some new Puerto Ricans dealing exclusively in weight. Two crazy ass mu'fuckas named Louie and Rob. When I say these motherfuckers were crazy, please believe it. They'd grown up in Carolina, Puerto Rico, just east of San Juan, with their father, Romero Ortiz. Romero, or Mr. Ortiz, was directly connected to Colombian kingpins, and controlled the drug trade in the Northeast part of Puerto Rico.

What I liked the most about Louie and Rob was that everything was fifty/fifty, and both opinions held the same amount of respect. Louie, standing at about five feet five inches, was a pretty boy type, but it didn't take from his integrity. If you let the mousse in his hair throw you off for a second, he could spit a razor out of his mouth and give you a buck-fifty (150 stitches) across your face. Rob stood about five feet eleven inches, and he was stocky. He was the complete opposite of Louie. You could see Rob's gangsta from a block away. He had an intimidating persona, and he perpetuated it.