The California Saga (24 page)

 

 

I'd managed to lay low and lived to see another two weeks. Eager to get on my grind, I called Diablo up to see if he was ready for me to work.

Like clockwork, his package had arrived, and he had work for me. I wasted no time dropping my kids off at my parents' house, kissing them good-bye, and hopping on the interstate and heading back to Atlanta.

After an hour of driving, I arrived at Crossroads Bar and Grill, Diablo's newly opened sports bar. Although he wasn't open for business when I arrived, I walked in to see a pretty busy atmosphere. Knowing I was wanted on the streets, I was a little paranoid when walking in.

I immediately located Diablo, and we took a seat in a booth in the corner, from where I had a clear view of everything in the club. Even though there were groups of guys gathered about in different areas, I took a few moments to check out each of them.

First, I scanned a group of guys gambling in one section of the club. None of them looked familiar. Next, I checked out a group that played a game on the PlayStation 3 and none of them looked suspect.

Finally, feeling comfortable, I directed my attention toward Diablo. I asked him, “So what's the deal?”

He told me, “Well, I got a few deliveries you can take care of for me—one in Florida, the other in Alabama, and the last just around the corner in Fort Valley.”

“Oh, I got you. All those are around the corner for me. You know I got you.”

“Cool. So we'll set you up for Alabama first.”

“A'ight,” I said, anxious to get my hands on my first little piece of dough, “I'm ready now.”

“A'ight den. Let's do this. Drive around to the back of the club.”

I did just as Diablo had instructed and drove to the back.

Diablo brought out the packages of cocaine and told me to stand back. I almost fainted as I watched him take off the door panel of my new car. I knew he had to hide the shit in a secure area, but just seeing the door panel off my car like that fucked me up.

Oh, well, it's all part of the game. It'll be well worth it in the end
, I thought as I looked on.

I knew in the end everything would end in my favor. That's one thing I always made sure of. My motto was, why settle for milk when you can have the cow? Just like that shit with Jewel—sure, she was a good friend and she looked out for a bitch—but why would I keep waiting for a handout, when I could easily take hers and do my own thing?

 

 

“Hey, Touch. What's good witcha?” “Man, you looking a'ight. Can't even tell a nigga got shot.” “Long time no see, big homie.”

Everybody dapped me up as I stepped on the scene.

Just as I'd done when standing on my throne at Club Encore New Year's night, I held both of my hands in the air in a kingly fashion. “Yeah, y'all niggas know what time it is. The king is back.”

I had just walked in “A New Look,” a barbershop where all the ballers and street niggas went to get their hair cut. Behind the barbershop was another room with a pool table and a crap table, where men came to smoke weed, brag and talk shit, and lie about all the money they had and bitches they fucked. The truth be known, more business transactions took place there than corporate America handled on the golf course.

The spot was packed, which made my entrance all the more dramatic. The whole barbershop atmosphere made a nigga feel real dapper, just from the smell of aftershave and powder, the sound of clippers, and rap music that played in the background. This was a man's thing. Nothing like a fresh cut and shave to make a man feel like a man. I was already jiggy with my gear and an added fresh cut was exactly what I needed to make me feel like my old self. I hopped in Mike's chair and requested my usual “edge-up.” I wanted and needed to feel like “that nigga” again.

This was the first time I'd been out since my recovery. I was determined to go back in public holding my head high, to let niggas know I wasn't scared of the streets. Sure, I'd gotten shot, but I wasn't letting that shit hold me down. I was strapped with my Glock and dressed in the best. Although I only wore a pair of Robin's jeans, a plain beige D&G thermal shirt, and a fresh pair of wheat Timberlands, it was the Louis Vuitton scarf and skullcap that really set it off. I was finally walking with no assistance, free from walker and cane, so I was feeling on top of the world.

As Mike prepared to line me up, everyone gathered around me to shout me out and sincerely seemed happy to see me. They acted like I was Lazarus being resurrected from the dead, which, in a sense, I was, or better yet, like I was some return war hero from Iraq.

These streets were at war, and that ain't no joke. I could have died, fucking with that damn Calico, and I'd planned to dead that nigga as soon as I located his snake ass.

When I finished getting my cut, a few niggas gave me pounds, tapped shoulders, did the infamous handshake that all street cats do.

Raz, another heavy drug nigga on the streets, called out, “Hey, I heard you and Jewel gon' tie that knot.”

“Yeah, we decided to do that thang,” I said, acting nonchalant.

“Word on the streets is, Jewel got a diamond on her finger so big, it's making bitches sick!” Mike said.

“Yeah, sort of like mine.” I gave them a glimpse of the ice I was holding.

“Y'all niggas doing it . . . living large,” Raz chimed back in.

“What you mean, nigga? I'm trying to be like you,” I said jokingly to Raz.

Suddenly the shop was filled with boisterous sounds of admiration and compliments. Everyone stood around and examined my platinum wedding band with my engraved initials boldly lifted across the band. Jewel had picked this ring out to match hers, which was just as large.

“Man, that ring is sick!”

“Damn, nigga! I ain't never seen no ring like that.”

The dick riders started to add their praises.

“Hey, my lady says y'all niggas gon' put on the wedding of the century. They say Barack Obama and Michelle's inauguration ain't gon' have nothing on y'all thang. We got our invitation the other day.”

This started a round of everyone saying they did or didn't get their invitation.

I held up my hands good-naturedly. “Hold up. I'll make sure Jewel get y'all niggas your invitation. If you don't get one, on the real, everyone here today is officially invited,” I said, knowing Jewel would have a fucking fit if she knew I invited everyone from the barbershop. Knowing her, she didn't send them an invite on purpose.

I finally felt like I was in my element again. I was back, back on center stage where I belonged. All of a sudden, the room fell quiet. I was still popping shit with one of my niggas when I heard somebody whisper, “Poppo's here.”

I looked up to see that bitch-ass nigga standing in the door, staring at me. In one quick motion, I went for my Glock, which was in the holster hooked on my belt. My first instinct was to kill his bitch-ass, but I knew I was in a public place, filled with snitches. I knew wherever Poppo was, Calico wasn't too far away. I threw my left hand in the air as to say, “What's up?” I didn't want to have to light the barbershop up, but I would, if I had to.

To my surprise, Poppo threw both hands up in the air on some white-flag, I-surrender shit, letting me know he wasn't trying to beef, at least not at that point. I didn't trust that nigga as far as I could see his scandalous ass, though.

“Hey, nigga, you need to relax. Just consider me your savior,” Poppo said in a low tone as he passed me.

Everyone's eyes beamed on that nigga Poppo, their ears almost peeled back. Poppo looked just like one of those 2Pac-ass West Side muthafuckas too, dressed in Converse, jeans, and a flannel shirt. This cat was a fucking joke.

“Nigga, what is you talking about?” I screwed my faced up and wondered how his bitch ass could ever be my savior.

“Ask your bitch.”

I could feel my temper rising. “What the fuck you say?” I started to rush his ass, but everyone grabbed me and held me back.

Poppo looked at me and said, “I ain't got no beef with you, little homie. Just ask your old lady what it is.” With that, he left.

Although I stayed and let the African broad in the shop braid my hair, my mind was churning, and I was burning up inside.
Ain't life a bitch? I almost got killed, my wifey stands by me, then the next thing I know, that bitch is trying to do me.

 

 

I walked out the barbershop wondering if I'd just fucked things up. It was bad enough I had missed my meeting with Jewel when I'd gotten arrested, and I hadn't heard from her since. Then I get into a fucking argument with Touch. I probably shouldn't have said shit about nothing, but that shit just came out of nowhere. I never expected to run into that nigga, Touch. Then it was how this nigga came at me. What the fuck was I suppose to do? Bitch up? Nah, I wasn't about to let that shit happen. But I should have been a little smarter about how I handled shit 'cause, if Touch didn't know about the plan, for sure it was gonna bring problems between him and his bitch. I was expecting a call from Jewel soon enough.

My phone rang sooner than I'd expected. I thought it was Jewel. I looked down at my phone. To my surprise it was Murdock.

“What up, nigga? You ready for me?” I said, hoping this nigga had my ten grand.

I'd been waiting some time for my dough, and a nigga was getting restless. For a minute I thought he had bucked on me for my money. I had actually called that nigga a few times and left a couple of threatening messages. Sometimes that's what it took to get a reaction out of a nigga.

“I got a little something for you, man. You can come check me at the Caribbean spot.”

“I'm on my way.”

 

 

It took no time for me to arrive at our usual spot, Mo Dean's. I walked in the restaurant to find Murdock sitting at the bar.

“What up, duke?” I dapped him up.

“Can I get you a drink?” Murdock offered.

“Nah, man. I ain't here for that. Let me get that off of ya, so I can get out of here. You know I don't like hanging around out here. This spot getting hot. I got locked up on some bullshit the last time I was out here fucking with you.”

“Yeah, man. The fucking police flooded the joint as soon as you left that day. They had niggas lined up on the wall, searching cats and running IDs. I was lucky though, everything with me was straight. A couple of niggas got locked up for possession, and a few niggas had warrants.”

“Damn! That's fucked up. So what you got for me?” I asked, getting back to business.

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen? You only owe me ten. Did you forget you already paid me five? As much as I would love to take your money, I won't do that to you.”

“Nah, fifteen hundred.” Murdock handed me the small stack of money.

“Fifteen hundred? What the fuck is really going on, Murdock? You trying to play a nigga or what? I feel like you trying to play me.” My patience was running thin with Murdock. He'd been holding on to my money way too long now.

“Come on, Poppo. Man, you know I would never try to play you. We ain't never had no problem with money. Trust me, Poppo, I got you, man.”

“You said that same shit the last time we met up. I can't keep hearing the same bullshit. You got one week, nigga. Rob somebody. Fuck it! Rob a bank! But do what the fuck you gotta do to get me my fucking dough.” I put the little change Murdock gave me in my pocket then walked away.

 

 

Days passed and I ain't hear from Jewel about my little run-in with Touch, so I figured shit was as usual. And I wasn't about to call her so she could tell me something different, 'cause once I went through with the shit, she couldn't renege on the deal. Or, in turn, I would have to deal with her and her bitch nigga too.

So Calico was on his way to Atlanta, and like always, I was on my way to the airport to pick him up. But this time I didn't mind, because I knew this would be the last time. I'd spent years flying here and driving there to deliver packages and pick up money while he sat in California and collected the money off of all my hard work, sweat, and blood. Hell, I had a crib, family, and baby mother in Cali that I wanted to spend time with too. Instead, I was always on the road for that nigga, hopping from telly (hotel) to telly, living out of a fucking suitcase.

I spotted Calico as soon as I bent the corner. Like a proud chauffeur, I pulled up with a smile on my face, trying not to show one sign of deceit on my face.

 

 

I'd never been so happy to get the fuck off a plane in my life. Hours on a plane from Los Angeles to Atlanta with crying babies, stinking-ass niggas, and no weed was straight fucking torture. As soon as I exited the airport and hopped in the car with Poppo, I sparked up the “kush.” I took in one deep pull and let it marinate then let it out slowly. Almost instantly a nigga was relaxed.

“What up, duke?” Poppo greeted me as soon as I got in the car.

“You, nigga. You fucking slipping. You got a nigga on the road and shit when you know a nigga wanted. I'm trying to fucking lay low.”

“Speaking of wanted, how the fuck you fly anyway?” “I flew as Thomas Jones, nigga. I used a fake ID. You know you can buy those a dime a dozen in the hood.”

“I knew you had something up your sleeve.”

“Nuff of that shit. Where we headed, nigga? And you got yo' heat?” I asked right away, never really trusting Poppo.

He was the reason I was forced to take a trip to Atlanta anyway. This nigga had been slipping lately. I couldn't understand why so many days had passed and this bitch Sasha was still breathing. And when I questioned this nigga about it, he had all kinds of excuses. It wasn't until I threatened to kick his ass that he started acting like he had some damn sense. He'd heard from one of his boys that Sasha was working for his man, Diablo. On top of that, Diablo was about his paper and was looking for a West Coast connection, so he was definitely a nigga I needed to holla at. I figured I could kill two birds with one stone—befriend this nigga, make some money, and set up an easy kill for Sasha's snake-ass.

“I gotta make a stop. Then after that we headed straight to Diablo's spot.” Poppo handed me the gun from his waist.

We drove for about fifteen minutes. Then I noticed we were in a rough area. We were obviously in the hood. Niggas were walking around with oversized white tees, jeans to their knees, do-rags and fitted caps. Everybody looked fucking suspect, like they were just looking for trouble. Being that I was on the run, I knew this wasn't the place for me. I was sure the police lived in areas like this hood.

“Where the fuck we at, nigga?” I asked, not feeling too secure with my surroundings.

“Bankhead. Don't worry, this shit will be real quick.”

Poppo pulled up to a set of rundown apartments and jumped out the car.

“A'ight, nigga. Just hurry the fuck up.” I pulled out the gun that he had given me earlier from my waist and put one bullet in the head.

I constantly monitored my surroundings as I waited for Poppo to come back. I couldn't take the chance of being caught up in some bullshit. I pulled out my cell to check the time and noticed I had a missed call from my baby mother.

One complete minute hadn't passed before the car door opened and I was face to face with a dope fiend carrying a butcher knife.

“Give me your fucking money!” he demanded.

Almost instantaneously, like a reflex, I lifted my gun and pulled the trigger.
Click
!

Nothing. The fucking gun had jammed on me. I knew this was do-or-die, so my mind went straight into survivor mode.

Bam!
I busted the fiend in the head with the butt of the gun, knocking him to the ground.

Just then Poppo walked up. “What the fuck is going on, man?”

“Nothing, nigga. Your piece-of-shit gun almost got me killed. That's all.”

“What you mean?”

“Just get me the fuck out of here!” I said, pissed the fuck off.

Poppo hit the gas, and we skidded off.

I exhaled and shook my head as I thought about things as we drove toward the interstate.
I knew this neighborhood was bad luck.
Relieved that I'd escaped without injury or jail, I relaxed and unjammed Poppo's little bullshit gun and placed it snug in my waist.

Minutes later, we pulled up to Crossroads Bar and Grill. Although the club was closed, it was still niggas everywhere, cats in one corner playing Madden on the projector screen, another set of cats gambling in the next corner, and the owner, Diablo, in another spot having what looked like a serious conversation with another cat.

Always willing to take a gamble, I immediately started watching the dice game. It looked like Diablo was gonna be busy for a minute, so I decided to get in on the game.

My luck was running good, and I was killing those country-ass A-town niggas when Poppo came over and interrupted the game.

“Diablo, ready to holla at you, man.”

With that, I grabbed up my money and walked away. I counted my money as I walked toward Diablo. I'd won fifteen hundred dollars in that little bit of time.

Poppo introduced us, and I carried the conversation from there. There was no need for a bunch of talking. It was understood niggas was there to make money.

“Look, my shit is on point. I can get however much coke you need. I get my shit from across the border, so it's top-notch. I been bringing this shit over from the West Coast to the East Coast for years, and I had VA on lock, so I know can't nobody else make you a better offer.” I continued by telling my numbers.

After a short negotiation, we had an agreement. The deal was set, and it was time for me to get the fuck out of dodge. I instructed Poppo to get me to my hotel. A nigga was wanted, and I wasn't trying to spend too much time on the streets.

Minutes later Poppo pulled up to a hotel right off the interstate on La Vista Road. He went in and reserved the room then came back.

“Room one twenty-four,” he said and handed me the card key.

I grabbed my bags and went straight to my room. Once in the room, I kicked off my shoes, laid my piece-of-shit gun on the nightstand, and laid across the bed with remote in one hand and dick in the other as I began to flip through the television channels. Moments later, I began to drift off to sleep.

What seemed like no more than thirty minutes into my nap, a hunger pang hit my belly like a right hook. I woke up, grabbed the guest book, and flipped through the pages to see what nearby restaurants delivered. I chose to go with pizza.

I decided to roll a joint while I was waiting for my pizza. I pulled out my deodorant and rolled it until the bar was completely out. Beneath it was a quarter of kush. Then I searched my bag for Backwoods to roll it with.

“Fuck!” I yelled out loud.

I was experiencing a weed smoker's worst nightmare. I had weed and no fucking paper to roll it with. For a second I considered ripping a few pages from the Bible to roll up, but something inside of me just wouldn't let that happen. With the shit I was in, I needed the Lord on my side, so I couldn't take the risk of disrespecting His Holy Word. I could possibly wait until the pizza arrived to smoke, but I knew after I ate I would definitely have to smoke. It was like dessert after dinner.

I called up Poppo. That nigga had to come back and take me to the store or bring me some Backwoods or something.

“Yo!”

I was relieved Poppo answered his phone right away. “Poppo, where you at?”

“Across town. What's up?”

“Man, I need some Backwoods bad.”

“A'ight, I got you. Give me about thirty minutes.”

Poppo said exactly what I wanted to hear.

Remembering my baby mother had called earlier, I called Cali to talk to my kids as a way to pass time. And that's exactly what happened. I was so wrapped up in my conversation with my four kids and two baby mothers, I didn't even realize forty-five minutes had passed.

As soon as I hung up the phone with them and was about to call Poppo, the pizza arrived. Feeling hungry as a hostage, I decided to eat first and then call Poppo after.

Once my belly was full, I called Poppo, and the phone went straight to voice mail. It didn't even ring. I hung up and called right back. I got the same thing. I tried two more times, and each time I got straight voice mail.

“Fuck it!”

Fed up, I put on my shoes, and grabbed a few dollars. I was trying to lay low and not show my face too much because I was in Atlanta to do Sasha in. Plus, I had that outstanding warrant. But a nigga would straight lose his mind without weed, so I headed out of the hotel and to a little corner store I saw at the end of the street.

I was excited to see exactly what I needed behind the counter as soon as I walked in. I stood in line at the busy store, anxious to get my papers and get back to my hotel room. For three minutes I'd stood in line, and it hadn't moved at all. For a minute, I thought about leaving and going to the gas station across the street, but I figured I may as well stay, since I was already here.

I looked down at my vibrating phone. It was Poppo calling. I wasn't even trying to talk to that fool at this point. I pressed
ignore
, sending him to voice mail. Finally, the line started to move and minutes later I was at the counter paying for my Backwoods to roll up my weed. As I reached for my change and bag, I heard a commotion at the front door.

“Don't move! Everybody, down. Get on the fucking ground!”

Narcotic police agents had flooded the place.

Muthafuckas
, I thought to myself as I lay on the ground. Running wasn't even an option. I was surprised when the cops ran right past me and to the back of the store then started bringing out the workers in cuffs, while another officer cuffed each of the customers, searched us, and ran our identification.

How bad can a nigga's luck be? Talk about wrong place at the wrong time. I had, just by chance, walked into a store that was a known drug spot. I felt confident I would be walking out though. Once again the fake ID had come in handy. One by one the officers had begun to release the customers that had no drugs on them and whose names had come back clear.

One of the officers approached me. “Can I get your ID?”

I searched every pocket for my wallet.
Fuck!
I thought to myself in a panic. I had left my wallet in the hotel room.

“No ID?” the officer asked, noticing my frustration.

“Nah, man. I can give you my name, date of birth, and social, though,” I said, knowing I had the information from my fake ID memorized.

I ran off the information to the officer as if it was my own. He jotted it down and went back to his car to run a check. I waited patiently with a few others, as another cop watched over us.

Minutes later, the first officer returned. “Mr. Jones,” he called out to me, while pulling out his handcuffs.

What the fuck
! I wondered what the hell was going on.

I didn't respond, I just looked at him with face of confusion.

“We're gonna have to take you in, son. You have an outstanding warrant out for nonpayment of child support.”

I be damn! I knew I should have stayed my black ass in Cali. There is no way one man's luck could be so fucked up!
I already knew what was in store for me. Once I got to the jail, they would run my fingerprints and find out who I really was. From there, I would be extradited to VA. My shit was fucked up. I was going straight to jail without a get-out-of-jail-free card.