The Product Line (Book 1): Product (2 page)

This process repeats itself a dozen times, until the back of the SUV is completely full of silvery briefcases. Ernie knows that he should not be witnessing this, that his watching this drug deal or whatever it was could cost him dearly.
Sure, no one would believe a bum, and no one would give a fuck if one went missing.
Ernie leans back, his face nowhere near the thin slit in the box that has been his window to this event, and remains as still as possible, taking controlled breaths.

His chest crackles slightly with his exhale. He feels a tickle and knows a cough is coming on. He limits his breathing to something akin to panting, short in-and-out breaths. It’s just a matter of time. His broken-down and polluted body has been brewing a lung-er and it is going to come out in a few moments, whether he wants it to or not.

Mr. Armani nods to the man behind the fence, who recedes into the shadows of the alleyway, and then turns back to the car. The other two men close up the back of the SUV and get into their original places in the vehicle. Mr. Armani gets back into the front passenger seat.

Before he closes the door to the SUV, Ernie lets out a throat-clearing cough. His mouth fills with hard balls of phlegm.

All three doors immediately swing open. The men jump out and eyeball the alleyway, making a quick assessment of what could have caused the out-of-place sound.

--Show yourself.

Ernie doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. A few seconds pass, but it is an eternity to this feeble and broken man. The sounds of several sets of feet echo down the alley from another gap in the buildings in front of the SUV.

--All right, nigga, we show ourselves, but you going to step back from that ride.

Five black youths in baggy jeans and an assortment of oversized shirts step out. Bright yellow handkerchiefs across their faces cover everything but their eyes. All of them have some form of weapon. Ernie can barely make it out, but it looks like at least two handguns and some kind of shotgun: a formidable array of weapons. The tallest banger calls out again.

--You mothafuckas hear me? That’s our ride now.

Mr. Armani calls back.

--You aren’t taking this vehicle. If you leave now, we may let you live.

--Ha. We ain’t just taking your ride, son, we taking your product too. Ya dig? Now back the fuck up ’fore we ghost your ass.

None of the men move.

--That’s not happening.

Chapter 2

Andrew Patrice Nichols walks with a slight limp in his gait. Years ago this was his swagger, his step to let the “bitches in the hood” know, without saying it, that he “got what they lookin’ fo.” Now the gait is the unavoidable result of his knee having being shattered in the clink.

Robbing a drug store at knifepoint with your name tattooed on your arm, well, that’s like driving a moped to a biker bar. There was no way he was going to get out unscathed. His public defender was supposed to get him placed in a medium-security facility, but he ended up in maximum. The lifers thought Treece had a real sweetness to him and after two months of being the prison-yard piece he got a bit mouthy.

--Don’t want to be called Treece the Piece, you lose yo’ walking privileges.

Tiny informed him in the exercise yard, just before swinging a forty-five-pound Olympic barbell weight into his knee, shattering the tip of his tibia.

It took five pins and eight screws to put Treece’s leg back together. He spent the rest of the sentence in a leg brace and on the end of much bigger men’s dicks.

He did two years on his nickel sentence for armed robbery. Eight hundred and nine days of hell.

Treece swore when he got out that he wouldn’t go back inside, but he didn’t swear to get cleaned up or to go straight. No, he swore to himself that he was going to get involved with a group, a gang, something with family and protection and presence. “Build hisself a rep.” It was how he found the New Harlem Players.

When he met up with them, they were little more than a hard-as-nails crew. They didn’t have a big footprint in the city yet, but they were growing their membership. Treece managed to bottle up his past life as “the piece” and play it around that he was gonna be the go-to triggerman. “Treece, he don’t give a fuck. He’d kill his momma for a payday.” He was glad to spread this new rep around town, working hard to keep anyone from knowing his past. In the years that followed the small crew began expanding into a much larger Organization.

The NHP had their own initiation process. After a new member was brought in, beaten to the edge of death, they were required to take one out—some random life. Treece didn’t want it to be random. He’d found out who Tiny’s family was and what roach-infested tenement they called home. He went in and killed Tiny’s mom, his little sister and the next-door neighbor. He was an instant badass in his crew, moving into the inner circle of the NHP higher-ups, and he liked that.

***

Treece pushes through the debris and boxes set up to hide the entryway of the “Chapel.” He bangs on the automatic door and places his arms on it to peer into the backroom of the abandoned Marcel’s Big and Tall Outlet.

--Yo, open dis shit up. It’s Treece.

The poorly-thought-out tattoo running the length of his forearm is pressed against the glass door as he looks in. He can hear Tronix fumble with boxes and some wood beams that hold the doorway open.

--Hold up. Lemme move dis shit.

Treece leans back from the doors as one is pushed out from the middle. Tronix uses a salvaged two-by-four to hold the door open and Treece ducks into the building.

To an outsider the building simply looks like one of the many abandoned storefronts in Harlem, but in reality it houses the brain trust of the growing criminal empire of the New Harlem Players. With their membership swelling each month and the rumors of their ruthless violence inspiring their members to reach further and further into the heart of Manhattan, the NHP are positioned to push out some of the even more established gangs. The Black Devils, Chacas and Jamaican Posse have already ceded street corners. Rumor is that the NHP came in and eliminated every member of the Hattock Assassins, leaving no trace that they ever even existed, except for the empty clubhouse and a yellow handkerchief.

The NHP’s primary business channel is heroin, but their enterprising crews are also known to sling rock, jack cars and peddle out some bitches on the side. Anything that can generate quick returns is on the menu. Aside from their legendary brutality, what makes the NHP so different from other gangs in the town is that they stay informed on issues that extend far beyond their current reach. Unlike other outfits who wear their colors and puff their chests out, NHP do research, send out plainclothes members into other territories. They recon and find out where they can score, who runs the cash. They know who to take out first, how to hit the stash house and get out surgical.  

It makes them smarter, faster and quicker to see the bigger picture. They can capitalize on that. It’s how they’ve expanded so quickly. It’s how they keep other gangs guessing. When they roll into a rival corner, they already have it mapped out. Hostile takeovers are quick, brutal and effective.

Gullah, one of the original founders and the current president of the gang, made a decree early on that the NHP will be smarter and know more than the rest. He wants the inside scoop on anything scoopable. He isn’t worried about the turf they control now, he’s worried about the turf they don’t control yet.

***

Treece slides past the old mobile clothing racks and rolling end-caps, steps over the flamboyant blue-and-gold patterned suits or “ghetto formalwear,” as his grandmomma used to call them, and walks into the Chapel. What was clearly the old break room when the store was functional has been converted into the war room for the NHP elite. Gullah and some of the newer captains sit at a break room table as if they are attending a business meeting. In a way, they are.

Gullah stands up.

--Bout time! Yo’ watch keeping different hours than ours?

--Nah, Gullah, just getting some info. It’s gonna be worth my tardy, or I stay afta’ and write on the blackboard.

Treece gestures in the air like he is writing. Great big letters.

--Sorry I is late, Massa’ Gullah, oh please fo’give a nigga, Massa’ Gullah.

Gullah leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Treece, and lets out a big laugh.

--Man, you fuckin’ crazy.

Treece keeps the higher-ups pleased with the intel he spills. He explains he has heard from a respectable source that there is some “covert shit going on near Tsao Korean BBQ in Midtown.” He tells them about the dark SUVs making regular stops, men loading briefcases into the cars then spreading out through Midtown.

Treece has made plenty of plainclothes recon runs before and knows the signs of a drug deal going down. Best he could tell money didn’t change hands, so this must have been a re-up for the stash house, some internal business. Probably the cleanest junk you could find, shit that wasn’t stepped on already. He tells Gullah about how he’d managed to catch them on one of their bi-weekly treks through an abandoned alleyway full of garbage and rats and shit—watched it from the fire escape across the way.

Gullah listens intently to Treece as he recaps the info he could gather.

--All right, I like it. I see where dis is goin’, but let me get myself straight on these details. You don’t know what they moving?

--Nah, man, but it’s sumfin’ valuable, don’t nobody put worthless shit in shiny metal briefcases. ’Sides, them wheels is tight too. I suspect that they the kinda folk wouldn’t involve no po-po if they ride gets gone. Know wha’ I mean?

--Okay, okay, so downside new whip, upside some free product?

Treece nods in affirmation.

--If we looking to make this happen, best we jump out now. Them wheels only slide by but once every other week. Right on the number.

Gullah stands up, taps Treece on the shoulder.

--Grab some a’ da young bloods and let’s ride out. Time they get they hands dirty.

Gullah signals to the rest of the group.

--Ya’ll muh’fuckers make yo rounds. Let’s get some dues in this bitch. Hit them corners. Make sure them niggas is fundraising!

***

Treece and Gullah stay ducked down, near where the back alley turns and pours out onto Third Avenue.

--They gonna haff to pull through here. This is they path. They stop up that way, grab the goods, then roll out through here. This is where we pinch ’em.

--Ya’ll fuckers strapped? Ready to do some bidness?

The crew all nods to Gullah, ready to prove themselves to their higher-up. Pull up yellow handkerchiefs around their faces. Check that their weapons are fully loaded and equipped to blast.

A black SUV pulls into the alleyway in the distance. They ready themselves.

Chapter 3

Ernie watches in terror as Mr. Armani and Gullah hold their ground. An impasse, one that cannot be left standing. With no one willing to back down, Ernie knows that there will be bloodshed.

Tired of waiting for Mr. Armani to recognize that he is outgunned and outnumbered, Gullah makes the call.

--Treece, hose these fuckers.

Ernie braces himself as the sound of semi-automatic fire from multiple weapons fills the alley. Every form of animal—cat, rat, bird and insect—in the corridor scatters from their hiding places as Ernie simply squeezes himself tighter, thoughts of his daughter and his own foolishness racing through his head. The slapping sound of Mr. Armani and his men, their bodies dropping to the floor like wet lifeless meat, pulls him from his mind.

He knows that this is when he will die. Some primitive switch in him flips. He has to escape, he wants to live. In one second he goes from a self-loathing bum to an animal that simply wants to survive. He starts to pull himself through the other end of his box, slinking low and close to the ground. With his left hand he clutches his dog tags, hoping to prevent any sound that could give his position away.

The back door to the Korean restaurant opens and a middle-aged Asian man steps out, his white apron stained with all forms of questionable sauces. He is in the midst of cursing in some dialectic Korean when he realizes that these are not just cats or kids making a ruckus behind his rarely frequented establishment. His butcher’s blade will have little effect on these gang members. Before the man can return to his business Treece simply turns and puts two bullets in him.

The bangers start to make their way to the car when one of them sees the movement from Ernie’s broken-down body. He pulls his handkerchief down around his neck and yells out.

--What the fuck? Hey! Hey!

He shouts down the alley toward Ernie, who is slowly starting to round the edge of the building into another even smaller alley.

--Where you think you going?

Ernie makes it completely around the corner as a spatter of bullets hits the wall just above him.

Ernie can hear the SUV reversing toward his new location. He attempts to stand and squeeze further into the narrowing gap, but is still too drunk for the balance needed and his body too broken to organize itself agilely. The red brake lights of the SUV come into view through the narrow slit of the alley. Treece, the banger who has been calling out to him, moves into clear view at the opening to the alley, his skinny but tall frame all but blocking out the light of the SUV.

--Whatchu think you doing, little man?

Ernie tries to stammer out a thought through his fevered booze haze.

--I’m not, I… I… I… didn’t, I’m… I’m not g… go… gonna—

--That’s right, you not… g… guh… gunna nothing.

Treece pulls his weapon up to shoulder height and cants the handgun to the side. Ernie—pinned now between two buildings, nowhere left to run to, paralyzed with the knowledge of his certain death—begins to cry. His tears stream down his cheek as urine begins to uncontrollably spill down his thigh.