Loyalty and deceit, p.1
Loyalty and Deceit, p.1Beanie Sigel
Loyalty and Deceit
Beanie Sigel and Juma Sampson
Published by C. H. A. O. S. Publishing, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
LOYALTY AND DECEIT
First edition. February 20, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Beanie Sigel and Juma Sampson.
Written by Beanie Sigel and Juma Sampson.
Table of Contents
Loyalty and Deceit
An impulsive grin stretched across Shalik’s face as he glanced over to the passenger side of his Infinity QX 50 truck where Sandra sat. He couldn’t believe his luck. Not only was she one of the sexiest urban models in Philadelphia, but she also owned a popular clothing line.
Sandra had been making eye contact and throwing flirtatious smiles at him while in Club Onyx all night. Donning an exclusive black lace cat suit that boldly displayed her remarkably curvaceous body, paired with black and gold Guiseppe spiked suede heels, all eyes from both men and women were justifiably on her. Seemingly oblivious to them all, she was fixated on Shalik.
His name was quickly spreading throughout South Philly due to his steady rise in the drug game. He never had a problem when it came to the ladies, but to receive the attention from a woman of Sandra’s stature confirmed that he made it to the major leagues.
Shalik casually watched Sandra head to the bar. A moment later, to his surprise, she strutted up to him with two drinks in her manicured hands and offered him one. He accepted. Less than an hour later they were on their way to his house.
“Do you wanna stop and get something to eat?” Shalik asked.
“All I want is some desert.” The seductive tone in her voice made her message quite clear.
“I’m sure I can satisfy your cravings.” He played it cool and continued driving.
They engaged in small talk and exchanged flirtatious jabs until he pulled into the driveway of a spacious white and tan Victorian style home on 65th and Woodbine.
They eased out of the vehicle and Shalik disabled the alarm system to his home before they entered.
“Is this really your house?” Sandra asked as she stood in the marble floored foyer looking around in shock and awe.
“Yeah, I just moved in a few months ago,” he answered proudly.
Her expensive heels clicked against the foreign tile as she stepped closer. He met her advance, embraced her and wrapped his hands around her twenty-six inch waist. Her soft, sensuous kiss caused blood to rush through his entire body. He slowly guided his hands down to her forty-two inch hips, allowing them to caress her plump, round butt.
Feeling a slight rumble in his stomach, he took a step back.
“What’s wrong?” Sandra asked.
“N-nothing.” He felt the rumble again, but this time it was more intense. “Baby, make yourself comfortable. I think I have to use the bathroom.”
Before she could respond he began to trot up the stairs.
Sandra removed her cell phone and sent a text: I’m here...the front door is open. Hurry up!
She slid the phone back into her Yves Saint Laurent leather clutch and waited patiently.
Within two minutes the door opened. Mack slid inside wearing all black clothing, including black leather gloves. “Did you pour that stuff I gave you in his drink?” he asked in a low whisper.
“Yeah. He’s upstairs using the bathroom right now.” Sandra answered.
“It’s a black Crown Victoria with tinted windows parked four houses down. Get in the driver’s side. I’ll be there in a minute.”
She immediately left and Mack closed the door behind her. He crept up the stairs while removing a massive .357 Python revolver from the holster on his waist. Once the bathroom was located, he knocked lightly on the door.
“I’ll be out in a minute, baby,” Shalik shouted from inside.
Mack pushed the door open and walked into the bathroom. Shalik looked up in fright at the large, imposing man who stood before him. The menacing rubber-gripped hand cannon was clutched in Mack’s huge hand, invoking the fear of a tamed pit bull.
“I sent you a message to get down with SP, and I don’t like the response you gave my young bawh.”
Unsure of what to do, Shalik raised his hands partially in the air. “Can we talk about this, Mack?”
“It ain’t nothin’ else for us to talk about. I gave you two options—get down, or lay down. You ain’t want to take the first option, so I’ma give you the second one.”
“That’s my word I was going to get in touch with you. Ya bawh came up to me at the wrong time. I was...”
“Nigga, you’re full of shit,” Mack interjected. “Matter of fact, put ya fuckin’ head in the toilet.”
“Are you serious? I ain’t puttin’ my head in the toilet. It’s shit in there!”
With lightning speed, Mack closed the space between him and Shalik, raising his hand that held the pistol and sent it crashing down on his face.
Upon impact the heavy steel caused his skin to break, causing blood to escape. He fell off the toilet with his jeans draped around his ankles. Mack repeatedly rained thunderous blows from the pistol until Shalik’s face was nothing more than a swollen, bloodied, unrecognizable mess. Mack stood up breathing heavily.
“Fuck you!” Shalik managed to push the words through his broken jaw.
“Oh yeah? I like that. Let me see if your tough ass can take these bullets.” He aimed his gun at Shalik’s face.
His eyes grew wide as he stared deep into the large barrel. Mack squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession, smearing the bathroom floor with blood, skull fragments and chunks of brain. His body instantly stilled as his soul was released.
With one final look at his work, Mack left the house and got into the passenger seat of the Crown Victoria. Sandra pulled off without saying a word...
Terry, known to everyone else as T-Lova, or simply T, brought his matte black Mercedes CLS 55 AMG to a stop in front of his longtime friend and partner Jihad’s house. Stepping out of his newly purchased automobile, he inhaled a deep breath of crisp morning air and stretched his six foot, slim, muscular frame. At nine o’clock in the morning, in the middle of September, the weather was unseasonably warm. The wind blew softly, producing a minute cooling effect. There was not a cloud in the sky to bar the sun’s omnipotent rays that made its welcomed presence on the Earth.
The thirty year old, chocolate-skinned, young man casually walked towards Jihad’s front door. They had spoken with each other over the phone less than twenty
Jihad was also dark-skinned. He had a good grade of hair and perfectly circular waves. He stood at five feet eleven inches and two hundred sixty-three pounds of pure strength. His perfectly even white teeth and generous smile often gave people the misconception that he was a big, gentle, teddy bear. However, a deep look into his dark, piercing eyes revealed a glimpse of the beast that lay within. Because of his muscular composition, people often stereotyped him as not being intelligent. That couldn’t be further from the truth. He had no problem using their naivety to his advantage. There were very few who knew the true Jihad. He lived by the adage: The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was to convince the world that he never existed.
“Wassup, T?” Jihad greeted his friend, extending his hand.
“I’m good, bruh.” Terry gave him dap and walked into the house.
Jihad owned a modest three bedroom home. After being released a year and a half ago from doing a four year prison bid for armed robbery, he decided to get money with Terry. They had known each other since they were teenagers. Joining forces with him, Jihad had accomplished more within the past year and a half than he had throughout his entire life.
Terry plopped down on the living room sofa. Jihad took a seat next to him. “Damn, nigga, you act like you’re still sleepy. What’s good?” Jihad asked.
“Nah, I ain’t sleepy. I just got a lot of shit on my mind.”
“What’s poppin’, kid? You know I got a degree in psychology.” Jihad grabbed a mango flavored Blunt Wrap off of the coffee table along with a bag of Sour Diesel weed and began to roll up.
“The only degree you could ever get is in Criminology,” Terry teased. He knew any issue that affected him affected Jihad and vice versa. So, it was mandatory for him to let Jihad know what was on his mind.
“Every since my man, Jukwon disappeared, shit has been crazy. I went from paying twenty G’s for a ki of the best cocaine to paying twenty-seven G’s for coke that’s been stepped on like crazy. Not only that, I can’t even find a steady connect,” Terry explained. “One minute they got some work, the next minute they’re out. If it keep going like this we could lose our power.”
“Come on, sun. You trippin’,” Jihad said, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. “That ain’t like you to talk like that. I don’t even believe you said that bullshit.” He passed the weed to Terry, shaking his head in disgust.
The look on Jihad’s face instantly made Terry want to retract what he had said. “Don’t get it fucked up though.” Terry grabbed the blunt and took a heavy pull of the potent strain of weed. “I’m built for this shit. If I wasn’t I would have been broke or dead. Ain’t nothin’ or nobody gon’ stop what I was destined to do.” There was no doubt that Terry was dead serious.
“That’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ about!” Jihad exclaimed. He was happy to see that his partner wasn’t losing faith in their operation. They smoked and passed the blunt back and forth in silence.
“Yo, do you remember that Dominican cat we met up in Harlem?”
“Yeah, that short, young nigga we ran into at the jewelry store a couple days ago,” Jihad recalled. “Didn’t he give you some powder to test?”
“Yeah, he gave me five grams. I cooked it up yesterday and it came back nearly gram for gram. It’s better than anything we’ve had in a long time.”
“How much does he want for a brick?”
“He said twenty-eight, but I didn’t let him know that we could be buying seven bricks a pop. I’m sure he’ll bring the price down once he finds out what we’re working with.”
“Well, we’re good then. It ain’t too much to think about.” Jihad sounded upbeat.
“The only fucked up thing is we gotta go all the way up to Harlem to see this nigga.”
“Fuck it, kid. We gotta do what we gotta do. After we get established with the connect, we’ll be able to send a mule down there.”
“Let me call him and see if everything’s still good.” Terry pulled out his cell phone and searched through the numbers until he found what he was looking for. After speed dialing the number a man picked up.
“Dime lo cantando.” Holla at me.
“Cálmate, ¿cómo estás?” Terry replied. Chillin’, how are you doing?
“Bien, bien.” Good, good.
“Mi nombre es T-Lova.” This is T-Lova.
“Oh, yes, the guy from out of town. You speak good Spanish.”
“Muchas gracias, pero necesito aprender más.” Thanks a lot, but I need to learn more.
“Did you try on the clothes I gave you?” Flaco asked, referring to the cocaine he gave Terry to test.
“Yes, they fit perfectly. I want to come shopping.”
“Okay, when you come?”
“How about today?”
“Today is good. What time?”
“I’ll be there around seven o’clock tonight.”
“Call me when you get to Harlem. I’ll give you directions as to where to go from there, okay?”
“Si, no hay problema. Hasta la noche.” Yes, no problem. I’ll see you tonight. Terry responded.
“Okay, bye,” Flaco said, then hung up.
“What the fuck was that?” Jihad stared at Terry in surprise.
“What was what?”
“Sun, I know you wasn’t just speaking in Spanish.”
“Yeah, I do a little somethin’,” Terry said with a sly smirk.
“Get the fuck outta here.” Jihad was both surprised and impressed. “Where you learn that at?”
“Come on, sun. I’m nationally known, world renowned and locally accepted.” Terry’s eyelids had become heavy, signifying his high from the weed.
“In this game we have to be able to mingle with everybody from white collar business men to Spanish drug connects. It’s easier to be accepted by someone if they feel you share something in common with them. Feel me?”
“No question. I gotta step my game up,” Jihad acknowledged.
“I learned that from my man, Jukwon,” Terry said, paying homage to his friend who seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
“I hear you mention that dude’s name from time to time. He must have been a thorough nigga.”
“He was one of the youngest, sharpest niggas in the game.” Terry’s respect for Jukwon was displayed in his voice and eyes. “Juk and his brother Dymond ran Rochester.”
“Oh, you talkin’ about them dudes D and Juk?” Jihad shot up. “Yeah, I heard about them niggas. Matter of fact, I was up north with Dymond. He didn’t speak much. All he did was work out, read books, and take damn near every vocational program the prison offered. I heard that them niggas had Rochester on lock so viciously that when they left, the whole city was in turmoil for months. They said that Juk was in a coma and Dymond somehow disappeared after he came home from prison. I heard a rumor that he got murdered in another city.”
“I don’t know,” Terry responded, not wanting to think the worst. “But what I do know is if it wasn’t for Juk, I...we wouldn’t have none of this shit. Before you came home, Juk drove up here and hit me with a brick of the best coke to touch Syracuse. He’s the only nigga that ever showed me that type of love. After he blessed me with that bird, I never looked back. I went from buying eighths to coppin’ seven to ten joints a month because of him.”
Terry and Jihad conversed for a while longer. He had decided to give Jihad some insight on how he solidified his spot in the game. Jihad knew that Terry rarely revisited his past, so he honored his openness and listened intently.
As their conversation came to a closure, Jihad received a greater understanding as to why Terry ran his operation in a play-no-games manner. What Jihad didn’t know was that Terry’s all but easy childhood played an integral part in his present life as well. Terry bypassed that part entirely.
They left Jihad’s house and got into Terry’s Mercedes. He never transported drugs in that car. He and Jih
After collecting the money that each spot made, they drove over to the stash house and packaged up more drugs for distribution. They then got into one of their vehicles used to deliver the drugs, a blue Mazda 6, and replenished the spots.
By 1:30 in the afternoon they had completed the day’s work. Terry and Jihad went to the safe house and counted up twenty-eight thousand dollars.
They also had a special vehicle that was used to transport large amounts of drugs. A late model forest green Lincoln Navigator. The luxury SUV was equipped with two separate stash locations. One was in the rear, behind the third row of seats. It was capable of holding up to ten kilos of cocaine. The other stash compartment was in the center console, directly in front of the arm rests. It was designed to raise up by hydraulic pumps to reveal an area customized to hold two large handguns and a few boxes of ammunition.
With the money inside a Nike sneaker box, placed inside of a Foot Locker bag, they got inside the Navigator, onto the expressway, and headed to Harlem, New York.
By the time they reached Lenox Avenue, the sun began to descend, slowly giving way to nightfall. Terry called Flaco.
“Hello?” Flaco answered.
“Hola, papi. It’s me. I’m on Lenox Avenue, what’s good?”
“Come to five hundred West Forty Fourth Street.”
“Aaight, I know where that’s at. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Ring the buzzer to apartment 14-B.”
“Give me fifteen minutes,” Terry said.
“Okay,” Flaco said before hanging up.
Terry shook his head and let out a deep sigh. “I’m trying to buy a fuckin’ ki and this cock sucka wants me to meet him inside of some apartment building.” He complained while heading toward his destination. “He acts like I’ma spend a hundred dollars or something.”
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