Takedown (5 page)

O
ver the next week, I did some creeping around the Cash Stop and snapped a few shots with my phone. Since Biggie worked across the street at Artie's Pizza, there was nothing suspicious about me dropping in for a slice of Meatlover's.

It didn't take a genius to see there was strange stuff going on. Random people came and went from the back of the store at weird times of day and night. I spotted executives there only once, while I was eating pizza on a stool in front of the window. Marcus and two of Diamond Tony's security guys went in through a back door and drove off in an Escalade several minutes later.

None of it was hard intel, but it was enough to pass on to
Prescott. He sounded excited by the tip, and told me it could be the missing puzzle piece he'd been looking for. I felt good about that.

So good I even offered to help Mom with Sunday dinner. She rarely cooked unless there was someone to impress—today Tasha's new boyfriend, George, was coming over. The menu was chicken thighs, Stove Top stuffing, yams, garlic mash, and all that good stuff. Mom made me peel a three-pound bag of apples for apple crisp. I didn't mind, especially because it was my favorite dessert, and Kiki's, too.

Mom cooked in her Sunday sweats, but her hair and makeup were done already in case our guest came early. Nothing upset Mom more than to be caught without her “face” on. What amazed me was that she could prepare vegetables without ruining her crazy-long pink nails.

“So how's school going?” Mom asked, rolling up her sleeves and mashing some potatoes.

The question startled me. She wasn't the type to ask questions. She let me do my thing.

“Fine. Aced my last test.”

“That's my baby boy.” She beamed with pride.

If I were lying, she wouldn't know it. She certainly hadn't in the past. Mom never asked to see my report cards or talked to my teachers. She was one of ten children, all raised by my nana. From
what I'd heard, Nana let her kids do what they wanted—they just had to be home at mealtimes if they wanted to be fed. Mom didn't even live up to that.

When I was finished peeling the apples, I plunked down on the couch. Tasha was watching some Hollywood news show and eyed me suspiciously. She knew what I was going to say.

“We're not watching a game,
baby boy
,” she said, pointing at me with the remote. “No. Way.”

“But it's the Colts against the Packers. C'mon, Tash. The game's half over by now.”

“I don't care if it's got ten seconds left. It's boring. The same teams play each other over and over. What's the point?”

“It's about strategy. You could have the most skilled players in the world, but if they don't know how to psych out the other team, how to anticipate their next move, they're done.”

She wasn't listening.

“Your show is mind-numbing crap,” I said. That got her attention. “I think Kiki should settle this.” Kiki was buzzing around the room with his toy cars, swerving them over furniture and crashing them into each other. “Yo, Kiki, what do you think? Should we watch this show, or watch the game?”

“Game!” Kiki's face lit up. “The game!”

Tasha scowled. “Gimme a break. He just likes the word ‘game.' I'm
not changing it.” She turned up the volume. “I want to hear this part.”

It was something about Angelina Jolie adopting another kid. Who cares?

“Even in juvie I got to watch a game now and then,” I muttered.

I was tempted to go to my room and watch online, but I didn't want to hole up in my room today. So I got down on the floor to play with Kiki.

Tasha's boyfriend, George, arrived at six sharp. He was an okay guy. They'd met at U of T, where Tasha was studying psychology and he studied math. Mom seemed to think anyone who majored in math had to be brilliant. George would probably end up a teacher, but Mom acted like Tasha had landed a CEO.

Maybe Mom should find herself a George instead of wasting time with losers. Then again, maybe she couldn't land one. She was always complaining about the “slim pickings” out there. Kiki's father had seemed promising for a while, until Mom found out he had another girlfriend. Forget about tracking him down for child support. Last we'd heard, he'd moved back to the Caribbean.

Dinner was good. I made sure to load my plate up high, a habit from juvie, where you didn't get to go back for seconds. Just the thought of juvie made me tense. I shrugged it off and focused on Kiki, who always put a smile on my face. He had this habit of secretly stashing food he didn't like under him, which was why the
butt of his pants was always covered in squashed food. I spotted him hiding some bits of chicken and gave him a wink.

I looked around the table at my family and suddenly thought of Jessica. For a second, I pictured what it would be like if she were here having dinner with us.

It could still happen, Jessica and me. But first I had to finish what I started. If Prescott's raid of the Cash Stop went as planned, my work would be done. I could gradually pull away from the game and focus on what I really wanted in my life—music, school, Jessica.

Then I would really be free.

J
uvie was full of guys like me, young street dealers taking the fall for bigger players. All we'd wanted was a few extra bucks and some status in neighborhoods where the kingpins were royalty. Stupid, yeah, and we paid the price. The justice system was all about teaching us a lesson. Problem was, the real criminals were sitting in VIP booths drinking Cristal while their minions were doing time.

But it wasn't only guys like me in juvie. There were guys who'd killed and raped, then bragged about it so you'd be scared of them. I had to walk beside them, eat lunch with them, clean floors with them, and sometimes bunk in the same room with them.

In juvie, you needed a survival strategy. You had to choose a role and play it well: bully, follower, comic, psychotic loner, whatever. Mine was the independent who flew under the radar and didn't take sides. But there was one thing I couldn't do: look the other way when it wasn't a fair fight. Maybe I got that from my dad, who became a peacekeeper to help people in war-torn countries. When I saw some pipsqueak getting jumped, I got involved. But do that a few times and you might as well paint a bull's-eye on your back.

The worst of the psychos was Jongo. The second he walked into juvie, he called himself the Original Gangsta, started his own gang, and squashed anyone he didn't like. He went after a friend of mine, White Chris, beating him so bad Chris went blind in one eye, all because he talked back.

I knew that Jongo's reign had to end and that it would end with me. So I started to mess with Jongo's head. I spread rumors about him. Tipped off some guards to interfere with his dealing. Made sure he knew I was behind all of it too. Jongo went to the trouble of smuggling in a razor blade just for me. When he pulled it on me in the TV room, I was ready for him. I knew I had to let him cut me if my plan was going to work, but I sure as hell didn't want to die. He went for my neck, and I dodged him so he only caught my shoulder. I ended up with ten stitches. Jongo ended up in an adult prison.

While I was in juvie, I also learned more about Diamond Tony. I'd only known him as a feared and revered kingpin, but the details I heard from prisoners and guards were ugly. Murders, beatings, intimidation. Lots of kids had gotten locked up or killed because they worked for Tony. I was one of them. And it would continue unless someone stopped him.

I wanted that someone to be me.

A
t 7:37 Monday morning, my secret cell rang.

“It's Prescott,” he said, as if he wasn't the only one with this phone number.

“How'd it go last night?” I'd wanted to lurk in an alley as the cops swarmed the store, but I knew better than to take an unnecessary risk.

“It's not what we thought,” Prescott replied. “Tony Walker isn't laundering money through the Cash Stop.”

My gut sank. “I'm sorry. I really thought—”

“No apologies necessary, kid. What we got is even better.” I could tell he had a wise-ass smirk on his face. “See, Walker's executives
were
making cash drops there. You know why? They were paying
the Demon's Sons, who supply the coke for the Diamond Dust.”

“Holy. Shit.” I swallowed this information whole.

“We've been trying to put a case together against the Demon's Sons for years. They weren't expecting this move, Darren. We've got hard evidence on them now.”

“You're saying some of them will be charged?”

“It's not that simple. We can put away a couple of the underlings, like the guy who actually runs the place, but the high rollers are based in California and sure as hell won't be coming back this way anytime soon.”

My fist curled in frustration. “So you can't connect Tony.”

“Not yet, no. There's no paper trail. He made sure of that.”

“Oh.” I felt like a fool. Somehow I'd been hoping it would be one tip, one bust, and the cops would find everything they needed.

“Don't let it get you down, Darren. Think about it. We've really hit Walker where it hurts.”

That's when it clicked. “Wait a minute. If the Demon's Sons are too spooked to come back here, that means . . .”

“You got it. Our friendly neighborhood drug trafficker is out of a supplier. And trust me, finding new suppliers who can deliver quality product on such a large scale is next to impossible these days.”

I couldn't believe it. The Diamond Dust was going to run out! It wasn't what I'd intended to happen—none of this meant Diamond Tony was going to jail. But cutting off his supply was a victory. He'd
lose thousands of dollars each day. What would Tony do then?

He was going to be fucking livid.

I felt a rush of satisfaction.
Diamond Tony, you have no idea who you messed with.

“My boss is happy, Darren,” Prescott said. “And you know what that means.”

“You're getting a promo?”

“Looks like it.” He chuckled. “I'll keep you informed.”

Anatomy of a Snitch

In my hood, being a snitch

Is the worst thing you can be

Get the cash for the tip

Take the sting from poverty

Peeps snitching left and right

It's more common than you know

Let your conscience be your guide

The rest is gonna flow

You're behind enemy lines

And you've entered into war

It's not about the money

Time to even up the score.

S
omething's off,” Cam said Friday night. “Everybody's complaining about the Dust.” It was December, and my toes burned in my sneakers from the cold. Thick snowflakes took their time coming down, covering the ground like a soft carpet. Maybe there'd be enough to make snow angels with Kiki tomorrow.

“Guess it's a weak batch.” For days now, I'd suspected that Diamond Tony was diluting the supply to make it last longer, probably with baking soda or some other filler. Even the color was different, more off-white than pure white.

Cam frowned. “That's the thing about Diamond Dust. It's never weak. It's the real deal.”

I shrugged. “Maybe one of the guys who mixes skimmed some for himself.”

“Yeah, if he wants a bullet in his head.”

His words caught me off guard. I'd thought Tony's dealers were too starstruck to see him for who he was: a cold-blooded killer. But obviously Cam knew who he was working for.

“You ever tried some?” I asked.

“Once, a couple years ago.”

“And was it as good as they say?”

“Better. You ever been on the Vortex roller coaster at Wonderland?”

“Yeah.”

“Picture that times a thousand. The Dust literally blows your mind to pieces.” Cam shivered, probably not from cold. “Scared the fuck out of me.”

I heard shoes crunching in the snow and turned around to see a fiend approaching me. Torn-up clothes hung off his skinny limbs. He handed me a ten-dollar bill.

“The cost is twenty,” I said.

“That's all you getting from me!”

“Sorry, man. I'm not allowed to change the price.”

He scoffed. “You're lucky I was too tired to go to them other dealers on the South Side, but I guess I'll have to. Gimme my money.”

I gave it back to him and the man stalked off, muttering to himself.

Cam and I looked at each other. The regular users couldn't be fooled. Every day we were losing more customers to the Bloods.

Vinny showed up a few minutes later. He walked with his usual swagger, but his face was serious.

“Something's wrong with the batch, Vinny, I'm telling you,” Cam said as we exchanged the product and cash. “We're losing customers. Have you told Tony?”

Vinny's mouth made a grim line. “DT knows about the problem. He'll take care of it. In the meantime, keep pushing.”

“Some of the regulars are trying to cut deals,” I said. “If we don't start negotiating, they'll all be buying from the Bloods.”

“Shit.” Vinny's jaw tightened.

I wasn't sure what kind of answer that was. “So can we cut some deals or not?” I asked.

“If you really have to, do it.”

“Man, I hope the next batch is better than this,” Cam said, shaking his head.

“ 'Course it will be.” But Vinny wasn't very convincing. He was obviously pissing himself about the situation.

Diamond Tony must be in crisis mode. I bet it killed him to lose business to Andre and the Bloods.

How long before Tony told his street dealers he was running out of supply? He probably wouldn't make it another week before it became plain as day. Cam obviously hadn't figured out that the bust of the Cash Stop was related, but I wouldn't be surprised if some of the other dealers saw the connection. The bust had made the news, giving Prescott another chance to brag to reporters.