Cracked Dreams (29 page)

“Oh, it's i-ight,” he answered. “But I miss you, too.”

“What?!” she yelled. “I can't hear you!”

“I said that I missed you!” Spits repeated in a louder tone.

“I still can't really hear you, baby!” she screamed. “You're fading in and out!”

“I said . . .wait, let me find somewhere that's a little less noisy,” he said, leaving the dance floor as he headed toward the back away from the party. He made his way through the crowd and felt an uplifting energy just from being on the phone with Ginger. It was just what he needed. So much that he didn't even give it a second thought to leave the party as it was about to climax. “Can you hear me now?” he asked as he entered a staircase in the back.

“Yeah, that's much better,” she said. “Now, what were you saying?”

“I was saying that I miss you, too, sweetie,” he said, with a grin forming in his facial expression.

Ginger simply returned a smile as if she were looking at him right in his face.

When Spits realized that he couldn't reenter the party from this stairway, it was already too late for him to catch the door. It was locked from the inside, as it was only supposed to be used as an exit. He made his way down one flight of stairs and left the staircase on the next floor down. When he got out of the staircase, the sight of all the people that had gathered in Times Square kept him at the window in the lobby for a moment. It was a
sight like he had never imagined he would see. What looked like millions of people, all occupying the streets of New York for the same reason . . .to celebrate life. Spits watched in appreciation with no hurry as the party upstairs was obviously getting more and more live with every second that passed. He entered the nearest elevator with exactly thirty seconds left before the new millennium and went down. The elevator was made completely of glass and was directed toward the street where everyone was gathered. He pressed the button for the bottom floor and never once took his eyes off the sight that had him totally captivated in its splendor.

“Are you still there, baby?” Ginger asked.

“Yeah. I'm still here, Mommy.”

“It got so quiet.”

“I'm in an elevator. This shit looks crazy out here. You should see it. Mu'fuckas is jumpin' up on top of buses. Niggas is tryin' to break through the department store windows, and shit. This shit looks crazy, for real.”

As the elevator made its way to the street level, the ten-second countdown had begun and Spits could see the New Year's ball begin to drop over the huge crowd counting along. Ten . . .nine . . .eight–every second was like a thunderous jolt passing through each individual in attendance. Seven . . . six . . .five–the eagerness grew more and more. No one really knew what to expect from the year 2000. There had been so many talks of Y2K bugs, a new world order, and the world coming to an end as everyone knew it, that as much as it was exciting, it was nerve-wracking at the same time. Four . . . three . . .two–before the last second of 1999, many could do nothing but close their eyes and wish for the best. Only few would actually witness the ball drop that last little notch before it lit up and everybody would scream, “Happy New Year!” Millions of prayers went out, and even more New Year's resolutions were promised. It was finally time to see what would happen.

As the elevator doors opened on the street-level floor, all of the elevator doors on the top level opened as well. And while Spits departed the elevator and made his way toward the nearest exit, the Federal Bureau of Investigation had made a total breach of his get-together on the top level in search of what had just simply vanished without a trace. The music went off and
everyone could do nothing but stare in amazement as what seemed like hundreds of federal officers surrounded them with semi-automatic machine guns locked and loaded. Even as the ringleader of this organization was nowhere to be found, there was no way they were letting anyone else slip through their fingers. Almost everyone there would be going through the system tonight; whether they knew it or not.

“Happy New Year!” Spits could hear everyone screaming in unison as total strangers exchanged hugs and kisses in celebration. Under the screams was the sound of the horns blowing, as tons and tons of confetti flew through the sky. For most, this would be one of the best days of their natural lives. For Spits, similar feelings would be quickly destroyed with the news of events.

Simultaneously, all throughout the Bronx, police raids were being conducted to seize everything that the Time Bomb Family had worked so hard to build from the ground up. They had finally moved in and ripped the guts out of Spits and his entire enterprise. It was all surgical. They already had everything they needed to build an extremely strong case against Spits a.k.a. Michael Banner, but they wanted to make sure that everything was done with the utmost efficiency. They knew that if all they did was indict Spits that he could easily continue running the enterprise from prison. In order for them to be completely successful in their attempts to bring the TB Family to its knees, they had to get everything all at once. They'd waited until Spits fully stocked all of their drugstores with enough product to handle the first-of-the-month traffic. Also, as to not let anyone slip through the cracks, they'd waited until the major figures were all together at Spits' very much publicized New Year's party. They'd thought of everything. Well, everything except for Spits himself slipping right out of the back door while they went charging in the front. If nothing else, Spits was incredibly lucky Ginger had called him when she did. Otherwise, he would've been going through the system along with everyone else in his clique.

For Spits, it took a cab ride home to find out that they had been infiltrated. The mere presence of the authorities at his doorstep was enough to deter him from exiting the taxi. If only he could've gotten inside of his house before they did. Now, it was too late for him to empty out the safe he had
in the closet that kept all of his savings. He simply kept it moving right through his neighborhood, and proceeded to the safety of his mother's house. There, he could get his thoughts untangled and figure out his next move. He called Don and P. first to see if the police had raided the hotel. When he received no answer, he painted his own picture of what had happened. He soon came to the conclusion that they must've gotten everything. Even if they didn't, it would be a minute before he was going through the hood to find out. It was easier to anticipate the worst, but in this case, the worst had actually happened. He had to put himself in the mind state that everything was already gone, and that he had to build whatever he needed from what he had.

He started in the most obvious of places. He called Mr. Ortiz to ask for some work on consignment. He needed some quick cash, and he didn't know any other way to get it besides hustling. If he thought that he could count on anybody, it would be Mr. Ortiz. Given the relationship they had, he thought there was a mutual respect between them. He would soon find out otherwise.

“Hola?” said the woman that answered the phone.

“Sí, el Sr. Ortiz, por favor,” Spits said. “Usted lo puede decir es Spits.”

“Un minuto, por favor,” she said before putting him on hold.

After only a moment went by, it felt like an hour to Spits. He was incredibly nervous and he didn't know how he was going to explain his position. Then, he heard Mr. Ortiz say, “Ah, Sr. Spits. So good to hear from you.” Spits just took a deep breath and felt completely at ease.

“Yes, Mr. Ortiz,” he began. “I have a favor to ask of you. I should stress the urgency of my situation before I continue, just to let you know that only in an extreme situation would I ask for you to extend your hand.”

“You don't need to stress anything to me,” Mr. Ortiz said in a cold manner. “I already know the importance of your situation.”

Spits was stuck. All of the positivity that he had turned into confusion. Now he didn't know where he stood. Ortiz couldn't possibly have found out what had happened so quickly. Spits had only just found out. How could he have known already? “I don't understand,” he said. “What are you talking about?”

“You second-guess me still?” he asked. “After all we've been through, you still underestimate my intelligence. Did you think that I would not find out that your partner is on trial for murder?”

“What?!” Spits yelled. “What the fuck you talkin' 'bout?”

“Listen to me, Sr. Spits. I have always given you the respect that you deserve, but I don't think we can continue doing business if you're going to continuously spit in my face with no regard.”

“I apologize, Romero,” he said before he was cut off.

“No,” Ortiz said. “I'm sorry, Sr. Spits, but we are no longer business associates. You can address me as Mr. Ortiz.”

“I don't mean any disrespect,” Spits began in an apologetic tone. “I'm just a little confused as to what it is you're talking about.”

“If this is an attempt at humor, let me assure you that I am not amused,” he responded. “You mean to tell me that you didn't know that your partner, Sr. Loew, has been in prison for the past week for murder. Unfortunately, this is just an illustration of your incompetence. It seems as though your partner got picked up during a routine sweep and when they analyzed his fingerprints, they matched the prints taken from a murder weapon found next to two dead bodies in the Bronx Park four years ago.”

“How did you find this out?” Spits asked, still confused.

“Sr. Oberman informed me,” he said. “I do have my ear to the street at all times.”

As their conversation continued, Spits felt that he hadn't been making any progress. Mr. Ortiz knew every detail of the events that had been taking place in the hood. He even knew that Spits once tried another connection, but that it didn't work out. Even with that, he continued to do business with their organization completely off the strength of their past loyalty. But now, Mr. Ortiz figured his time was up. By now they've already had the best of times, and with this new development, he knew that it could only get worse. Romero's instincts were telling him that Spits and Ceelow were setting him up. He thought that they'd given him up to get Ceelow off, so he figured that a meeting where narcotics would exchange hands would only bring the authorities to him. even though that was the furthest thing from the truth, he wasn't going to risk what it would take to find out.

When they finally hung up with each other, Spits felt worse off than he did when they'd started. He felt at a disadvantage now with no resources. He knew now why Cee hadn't been around for the past few days but it still didn't make any sense. Then, it hit him like a ton of bricks. That must be how those mu'fuckas got the drop on my whole fuckin' organization, he thought. That bitch-ass nigga ratted on me to save his own ass. Don P. was right. I should've bodied that nigga when I had the chance.

Spits went through a number of different emotional stages at that point. He was running out of options really quickly and he didn't know what to do. When Spits finally reached the end of his rope and exaggerated every alternative, he made the one call for help that he could've never imagined he would be making before this day.

“Hello?” said the voice that answered the phone.

“Yeah, what up,” Spits answered. “It's Spits. I need a favor, dog.”

“What is it?” Little Jay asked. “Anything you need, king.”

With that phone call, he set it up for Jay to send Spits the one thing that he could ask for without sacrificing his pride. He asked that Little Jay front him a brick to flip. He explained the whole story to him and with every word, Jay realized how lucky he was to have made the decision he did when he did. He was happy that Spits felt he was someone that he could call on for assistance. He had long been on the other side of these types of situations and Spits always held him down. It was his turn to do the same. He offered to send money, but Spits let his dignity get in the way. He wasn't comfortable with becoming a charity case before he made a valiant effort to get back on his feet. He'd done it before, and he'd do it again.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he left his mother with a hug and a kiss. He gave his little brother a pound and a hug and told them both that he loved them. He also told them that he didn't know when he would get another chance to visit because the police might come there to look for him. Spits and his mother both knew that this might come and they were prepared for it. From there he went to a motel on Gun Hill Road, named Friendly's, where he would rent a room and wait for Pookie to arrive with the package from Little Jay.

Spits lit up a blunt and smoked half of it before his exhaustion got the best
of him. After a short nap, Spits was awakened by a knock on the door. He'd left instructions with the front desk that someone by the name “Pookie” would be asking for him, so that they could send him up immediately. He opened the door and seeing Pookie was like a lifesaver. He quickly pulled him in the room before nervously looking around to see if he'd been followed. When Pookie was inside the room, they went over the agreement.

“So, uuh . . .Jay said that you want me to stay until I finished bussin' down this brick,” Pookie said. “That's what's up?”

“Yeah,” Spits replied. “That's what's up. Just let him know that I'll get back at him when you get back to Philly. Let's get started. We only got a few hours before the morning rush.”

Together, they broke down enough coke to make two packs of twenty-six. With this much done, Spits left Pookie to finish while he hit the streets. With everything as hot as it was on the streets, Spits couldn't imagine anywhere to hustle these packs. The Woods would be too hot. The Block would definitely be too hot. But it was the first of the month and he had to figure something out, and fast. Ironically, he ended up right back where he'd started. He couldn't think of anywhere else to bubble where they wouldn't be looking for him. So, there he was. He'd done a complete three-sixty. He didn't really feel the pressure until he took his position on that dark street in the park by the overpass. He stood where he stood the first night they'd hustled there. He glanced at the top of the steps, where the wall provided cover from the bullets flying at him that unforgettable night. He remembered the sound the car made as it peeled the rubber from the tires to get away. He looked at the sidewalk where they had them bitch-ass mu'fuckas face down on the ground. He distinctly remembered the seven shots that Cee had sent from that .9 mm. He remembered the look on Ceelow's face after he did it, looking as if nothing was wrong. He remembered the fun they'd had with the rest of that night, and the guilt he'd felt the next morning.