Diamonds and Pearl

 

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About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you:

It's been years since I've done acknowledgments, so if I miss anyone, blame it on my head and not my heart.

First and foremost, God. All things are possible through the creator. If you don't believe me, you simply have to look at what I come from and see where I'm going.

My mother, Brenda M. Foye. You gave me three great gifts: life, the ability to write, and the courage to dream. Writing was your passion, and I reluctantly inherited the fire that burned in your heart. I didn't understand at first, but I see it with great clarity now. I will continue to honor your memory by living your dream and respecting the craft. I do this for YOU!

My wife and children who endure the long months when I'm locked away in my head working on a project. I'm sure it can be incredibly frustrating, yet they patiently wait for me to return from wherever my mind drifts to during the creative process.

My agent, Marc Gerald, who continues to fight the good fight for me to be recognized and respected as more than just a “street” writer and still thugs it out with me when I give in to frustration and go through short bouts of insanity.

A HUGE thank-you to Monique Patterson and the entire St. Martin's Press family. I credit Monique with helping me to become a better writer by not only being a bomb editor but also making sure I had a clear understanding of the process. Great editor, greater person.

Roughly thirteen years ago St. Martin's took a chance on an underground writer with more than a few rough edges and helped me to grow as a person and a writer. I can still remember showing up to meet Matthew Shear (RIP) for the first time wearing a Dickey suit and Chuck Taylors, stinking of weed. I can only imagine what must've been running through his mind, yet he embraced me and was always there when I needed him. You are missed.

Even during the short period when I decided to go off and explore the world, St. Martin's continued to be supportive of me. It's only “write” that the journey has come full circle and the wayward son has returned home, older and wiser, to continue what we started with
Street Dreams
.

Last but certainly not least, my readers. The lifespan of an author is short yet you guys have stuck with me through the good and the bad for nearly two decades. For this I am EXTREMELY thankful.

Now on with the show.

Enjoy the story.

 

PART

I

WHEN THE LEVEES BROKE

 

CHAPTER ONE

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA / SEPTEMBER 2005

“It looks bad out there, man,” Larry said, staring out the rain-slicked window of the second-floor bedroom. It was the only level of the house that hadn't been completely flooded yet, or soaked to shit. Looking at the rapidly rising floodwaters, that was likely to change soon. Larry doubted if the house would last through the night before being washed away like everything else. In his thirty-five years of life he had never seen anything like it. It was a storm of biblical proportions that made him think back to his grandma reading passages of the bible about God washing sin from the earth in a merciless tide of judgment. The city he had grown to love so much was being cleansed.

It was fitting that this particular hurricane had been named after a woman, Katrina, because she had come through and unleashed the wrath of a woman scorned on the city of New Orleans. Just about everyone who was able to had already fled the area, and those who couldn't scrambled for higher ground and prayed for help that was in no rush to get there.

“This shit has got the white man's stink all over it.” Big Aaron came into the bedroom. He had a ham sandwich in one hand and a can of beer in the other. He took a huge bite of the sandwich and continued his theory. “As strong as them levees was supposed to be, how the hell are damn near all of them gonna fail at one time? If you ask me, this shit was all a government plot to get all the niggers out of New Orleans so they can turn this into a tourist trap.”

“I don't recall asking you about no damn conspiracy theories, but I do recall asking you to help them young boys finish loading my dope onto that truck before the water gets too high to drive out. Most of the roads have already flooded, so we only got a small window of time to get gone. Turn that sandwich loose and tend my business, hear?” Slim barked in a heavy Southern drawl. He was sitting on the bed, stuffing money into a duffel bag. It was one of several that now littered the bedroom floor. Having his money outside the safety of his vault rattled him, but there was no way they'd be able to move the massive thing.

He'd acquired the name Slim as a boy, when playing the harmonica and picking the pockets of tourists in the red-light district had been his means of living. As his reputation and wealth grew, so did he, currently tipping the scales at just nearly four hundred pounds. Slim used memories of starvation to motivate him in his climb up the underworld ladder, devouring food and territory alike. It was whispered in some circles that Slim enjoyed the touch of a greasy cheeseburger and his money over that of a woman.

“Slim, them young boys got it under control,” Aaron said as if it were nothing. “What you need to be worried about is how the police is gonna be looking at your ass driving down the street in a big-ass rig!”

Slim looked at Aaron as if he were crazy. “Nigga, what you talking? Brah, people floating down the damn streets in bathtubs, and nobody give 'em a second look. Police was amongst the first to get their families outta here when the water came. Between the storm and these larcenous muthafuckas out there tripping the city, ain't got time to stunt no truck. The government is gonna wait this shit out and come clean up whatever's left. Hell, they'll probably be happy to see us going and out of their way.”

“Don't trip, Slim; I'll make sure they're finished. The sooner they get that dope stashed in them hidden panels, the sooner we can get outta this damn soup bowl,” Larry said disgustedly. He loved his city more than any of them, but even he knew that New Orleans wouldn't be the same after Hurricane Katrina.

“You buy into that shit that everybody saying, Slim?” Aaron asked after Larry had left the room.

“And what shit would that be?” Slim had resumed his counting.

“About it being the end of New Orleans?”

“You can't put an end to something that has always been here. New Orleans might be more notorious for shit like Mardi Gras and the murder rate than anything else, but our city has a far richer history that it's given credit for. It won't be the end of New Orleans, but it'll sure as hell be the end of an era when them army dogs finally come in to clean this shit up. The dope game down here is dead, and they'll build a newer, more tourist-friendly New Orleans over its corpse.”

“So you think we'll have better luck in Texas?” Aaron asked.

“I sure hope so, because it's the best chance we got at surviving this freakish shit. An old buddy of mine is gonna set us up in a spot we can operate out of until we're strong enough to stand on our own again,” Slim said, zipping the last duffel bag.

“That shouldn't be too hard, since most of the people who bought drugs from us here are gonna be scattered around Texas in those fake-ass concentration camps,” Aaron joked, referring to the temporary shelters that were being erected for the evacuees. “Between the poor conditions and the mingling of all them rival gangs and crews, those camps ain't shit but a powder keg waiting for somebody with the match that's gonna blow it smooth to hell.”

Their conversation was broken up by a loud thump coming from the hallway. Aaron was about to go and investigate when Larry came into the room. He wore a worried expression on his face, and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead.

“Larry, please don't tell me them young boys done fucked up and let my dope get wet?” Slim asked in an irritated tone. He had lost enough money and drugs due to the flood, and couldn't stand another hit.

“That dope plenty fine where it is, boss. It's you who got the issue,” a voice called from behind Larry. Two men wearing ski masks materialized in the doorway. Both of them were armed with assault rifles: an AK-47 and an M16. Slim went to reach for his gun, but the one holding the M16 was in on him. His face was hidden behind his mask, but Slim could see his dead black eyes through the holes. When he spoke again, Slim caught a glimpse of his shiny diamond covered teeth. “You can keep reaching if you got a mind to, fat man, but I'd bet this here chopper against whatever you got that can fit in that drawer any day.” When the gunman spoke, there was something about him that tugged at Slim's brain. Most of the children of New Orleans spoke with Southern accents, but his was closer to French.

“Man, you nigga know who the fuck you're trying to rob?” Aaron barked. The second gunman, the one with the AK-47, closed the distance between them. A short, fat dude, he moved swiftly for a man his size. He raised the AK and slammed the butt into Aaron's mouth, knocking his two front teeth out.

“See, this is what being funny amongst serious men will get you.” The diamond-toothed robber pointed to Aaron, who was curled up in the corner, holding his bloody mouth. “
Souple,
no more games. Just go along with the program and nobody else gets hurt, Slim.”

Slim let out a weak chuckle. “Ain't this about a bitch? Man, y'all petty muthafuckas in here pressing me over some dope when we might very well be living in our last days.”

“And as it was written, the last shall be first. Y'all are the last of the old regime, and we're the first of the new,” the diamond-toothed man said, matching Slim's tone. “Now, I don't plan to keep repeating myself, so hand that shit over before I start feeling like I got something to prove.” He adjusted his grip on the M16.

“All right, man. Just be easy with them guns.” Slim used his foot to push one of the duffel bags over.

Keeping his M16 trained on Slim, the man with the diamond covered teeth made a quick check of the bag. He looked back at his partner and nodded in approval before scooping up the bag and slinging it over his shoulder.