Street Chronicles Girls in the Game (14 page)

After slamming the receiver down in Lajetia's ear, Bossy walked back over to the table to finish packaging the last of the coke. She then gathered it all from the kitchen table and placed it in a corner of her dining room. She looked at the crystal clock that was hanging on the wall and sighed, relieved that she had completed her task before Twan had arrived. As she looked down at the product on the floor, her thoughts wandered off as she began to daydream about her part in the life.

Hustlers did what had to be done in order to survive, she
thought, at the same time justifying her role. Those who came into the life and thought they could change the rules one player at a time were stupid and headed for some hard times. It didn't matter how wet a woman's pussy was or how deep her throat ran, she couldn't change the rules of the game.

Bossy knew that the streets forced you to grow up fast, and you'd better learn the rules if you wanted to survive the streets of Youngstown, Ohio. Rule number one: Trust no one. There were no friends in the game. Rule number two: A hustler must make his own retirement plan. Money should be broken down into thirds. One-third of your money should be placed aside and used to restock supply. Another one-third should be put up in case of legal trouble. And finally, the last one-third you should spend after putting away a little nest egg for your future retirement. By spend, she meant on necessities. Keep a roof over your head, clothes on your back, and food on the table. This plan required discipline and self-control.

One of the biggest misconceptions was that drug money was easy money. Wrong! You worked hard for it, so you had to use it wisely. You couldn't be a show-off. If you lived in a Section Eight house or somewhere in the heart of the ghetto, you couldn't drive a Land Rover, live in ya mama's basement, and have three plasma televisions in a house that was in dire need of a new roof and paint job. Possession of material trophies would always draw attention. Who needed it? Not a hustler, that was for damn sure.

Rule three of the game: Have a legitimate gig. Work a real job, or open some type of business. You shouldn't make it obvious how you made ya money.

Being a woman in this line of work hadn't been easy for Bossy. Many tried to take advantage of her, so she learned to be tough and ruthless. She didn't take shit from nobody.
If I put in time on your product, I want my money,
she thought.
Hell, I got bills, too. So
what I was born with a moneymaker and I ain't got no kids; I still got responsibilities. Even if I didn't, so what! I want my money!

A knock at the door interrupted Bossy's thoughts. She made her way through the living room and over to the front door. She looked through the peephole, unlocked the double bolts, and then opened the door.

“What up wit’ you, boy?” Bossy asked.

Twan's muscular, lean physique walked through the door of Bossy's apartment looking good enough to eat. The throwback he wore complemented his chestnut eyes, and as usual, he was well groomed and well put together. Bossy kept herself from thinking about getting a taste of him, while she unconsciously ran her pink tongue across her thick lips. She never mixed business with pleasure, though, and anyway, Twan was only twenty-six, and Bossy never got involved with anyone younger than her. Twan came up nine years short.

“I can't call it,” Twan replied. “You all right, girl?”

“You know me; I'm straight. Your shit is over there,” said Bossy, pointing to the corner in her dining room. “You want a drink?”

Twan nodded his head yes, walked over to the bar in the dining room, and fixed both himself and Bossy a drink. He took a seat at the dining room table. Bossy sat across from Twan and contemplated telling him about the call she had received earlier from his little girlfriend. Since she made it a point to try to stay out of people's personal lives, she decided against it.

“It took me a minute to cut that kilo down into those twenties. Whose shit is that, anyway?” inquired Bossy.

“I'm on some new shit. Instead of puttin’ a pound or two on the street hustlers, I'm placing them in my various houses during the winter months. It's easier to keep track of my money that way,” explained Twan.

“I know you not still keeping track of ya money on paper. That right there will come back and fuck you.”

“Naw, I got this. Don't worry about it,” Twan said, sipping his drink.

Bossy shook her head. She didn't expect Twan to heed her advice. He had always been that way, since she could remember. Twan and Bossy were raised in the Westlake Housing Projects on the north side of Youngstown, Ohio. They weren't related, but their mothers came from the same stock and had mastered the same poor parenting skills.

Besides Twan, Bossy dealt with and trusted only her two best friends, Terry Benson and Aisha Woods. The three women were so close that they even had identical tattoos on their upper left arms of a dove with a ribbon in its beak, which read, KAT69. That stood for Kayla, Bossy's government name, and the year they were all born. KAT69 was also implemented in the name of their business, a hair and nail salon that was flourishing.

The fellas from the Westlake projects often told her and her girls that they were the coldest chicks on the north side. It wasn't just their looks that drew men to them; it was their attitudes. The three women would stand on a street corner, turn up a forty-ounce of Fo'-five, roll a joint, and toss dice. During the day they were just one of the fellas, but at night the woman in each of them came out. Not many women could be gangster and sexy at the same time. Bossy, Aisha, and Terry cleaned up so well it was hard to believe they were the same women who had turned up forties and shot craps out on the block.

When Bossy first moved into her apartment at 539, she threw a set every single weekend. Things were going on during the weekdays, but only a select number of hustlers were allowed. KAT69 threw parties in the early nineties that P. Diddy would be proud of. They had it so tight that no cameras were allowed. After
Teddy Bear bought the building, Aisha and Terry moved into the upstairs apartments. That way Bossy never had to worry about her neighbors calling the police on her.

Over a decade later and niggas were still talking about the sets Bossy threw at 539 Falls. Liquor flowed, weed went up in smoke, and the buffalo punch always marinated for at least seventy-two hours. If shit happened, Bossy made sure she controlled what went down, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. The sets were safe, they were fun, and what happened at Bossy's crib stayed the fuck at Bossy's crib.

Back in the day, Bossy used to pull off stick-'em-ups, burglaries, and assaults with Jalil “Big Black” Perry and Phillip “Poppy” Walters, just to pass the time. Everybody knew what was going down, but no one ever snitched or retaliated because of Bossy's relationship with Teddy Bear. She was untouchable.

Winters in the Yo'—Youngstown—could be harsh and cruel to a newcomer, but Twan was a veteran, and everyone knew that the corner of Falls Avenue and Hillman Street was his claimed territory. Twan walked out of his house into the cold winter's night with one goal in mind: to replenish his stash of street candy and start making money. Hustling weed was cool, but there wasn't no real money in that. To make some real dough, Twan had recently stepped up his game and begun dealing rock. He had also been put in charge of running six drug houses on the south side by Teddy Bear.

Theodric “Teddy Bear” Sampson could be the brother of the lead singer of the old-school band The Time. He and Morris Day
both had fair, high-yellow skin, a baby-soft complexion, relaxed hair, and a petite build that gave strangers a misconception about Teddy Bear when initially meeting him. Inside, demons dwelled and emerged only when provoked by deception, greed, or revenge. His reputation on the street was of being a ruthless businessman who kept his enemies six feet under and his loved ones living high on the hog. Behind closed doors, there were secrets long buried that only he and his wife knew of, and Teddy Bear chose to act as if he'd forgotten them all.

Managing the houses also required Twan to make road trips, but he continued to make time to return to his roots, the street corners. He wanted to stay connected to the people, the action, and the city.

As Twan maneuvered his three-toned hooptie toward his block, the sight of police cars and medics parked one block away sent a chill down his spine. Police car number seventy-three was occupied by two of the Yo's worst. Officers Powell and Meeks were as crooked as any public servants could be. They were notorious for kicking in the doors of drug houses, robbing the occupants of all their money and drugs, and then leaving out the same doorway they'd entered, making no arrests.

There was no reason for Twan to suspect that the officers were burglarizing one of the houses he managed. Teddy Bear Sampson kept the boys in blue taken care of when he started paying them to leave his associates alone after the first time they had hijacked him.

Twan knew the blinking lights meant that someone's life had been ended earlier than God had planned.

“Yo, Meeks, what y'all after this time?” Twan asked the officer standing closest to the curb.

“Another life taken by gunfire,” Officer Meeks spoke with caution.
Being familiar with Teddy Bear's statutes in the city, Officer Meeks knew Sampson's death had the potential to cause an all-out war among those trying to take his place.

“Who got popped this time?”

“It looks like a friend of yours, Twan,” Meeks replied.

“Meeks, you know me—I ain't got no friends. Who got popped?”

“Teddy Bear Sampson,” Meeks said. “Some woman just shot and killed ya boy Teddy Bear.”

Twan couldn't believe what he had just heard. There had to be some kind of mistake. Teddy Bear Sampson was the biggest supplier in the city. He profited from all drug sales in the area and lived high and mighty.

His stature and personality were in vast contrast to his physical appearance. Teddy Bear was a small man with a baby face. Teddy Bear's father had passed the family drug trade down to him, and Teddy Bear transformed the drug connection into a profitable corporation. He owned a six-bedroom house and a fleet of cars, and wore only tailored suits and custom-made shoes. He had invested his ill-earned money into day spas, clothing stores, and other businesses. Teddy Bear was well liked by everyone because he was what one might call an honest crook. He took care of his people even though he supplied the poison they were dying over and killing themselves with. Now it appeared as though Teddy Bear was his own latest victim.

Twan stood there trying to make sense of the killing. He later learned that Teddy Bear's wife had shot him down after taking one too many beatings from him. Only those close to Teddy Bear knew the real man. He treated his soldiers on the streets better than he treated his wife, who was like property to him that he often disrespected.

For years Teddy Bear had been grooming Twan to take over the south side of the city Twan was certain of two things: one, the streets would soon become a war zone for those seeking to fill Teddy Bear's shoes, and two, if he kept his head right, he'd be the man to fill those shoes. After all, who was more qualified to take over Teddy Bear's empire than his understudy?

Teddy Bear and Twan's relationship of teacher and student had begun the day after one of Teddy Bear's drug houses on the lower south side was raided by two of Youngstown's worst, Powell and Meeks. At first when the front door of the small house on Plum Street was kicked in, Twan and his best friend, Ant, thought it was a raid. But it became clear that the two officers were not there on official business. Instead of serving the occupants with a warrant, they threw a pillowcase at Ant and demanded that all the money and drugs be placed inside.

Thanks to the snowstorm burying the city under eight inches of ice, business had been light, so there wasn't much cash. The Yo's finest crooked cops left with only a few thousand in cash, a quarter of an ounce of weed, and two ounces of cocaine.

Twan had immediately called Teddy Bear to notify him of what had transpired. Because Twan was responsible for the house and the drugs, even without Teddy Bear suggesting it he took the loss and gave Teddy Bear the money he would have made off of the stolen products. Teddy Bear gained respect for the young man and began giving him more and more responsibilities. After Teddy Bear met with the two officers, he never had another problem with them again.

Twan was more than eager to take on his new responsibilities in the drug game. He had to think fast and map out his plan to take over the streets. With Ant as his right hand and Bossy on his payroll, he knew nothing was standing between him and power.

T
hree months had passed since Teddy Bear's murder. His death skyrocketed Twan to the head of the drug chain at a pace he had no trouble keeping up with. Besides Bossy, he was the only person aware of how Teddy Bear had run his business.

Spring and summer were good and busy in the life everywhere, but the streets of Youngstown literally lit the hell up with people making moves and flossing things they'd acquired during the winter months. Although Bossy had sat him down and reviewed her rules of street life with him, Twan was still among the flossers. He'd moved his family from their three-bedroom, two-story house on the west side of Youngstown to a four-bedroom ranch in Boardman, a suburb just off the south side of the city. Twan now pushed a 2006 fully loaded pearl-colored Escalade. Lajetia still had the Sienna for when the kids were with her, but she also drove a 2006 silver-gray Lexus.