Growing up in one of the roughest projects of the Bronx taught me one thing; and that's mind your damn business. "If you see something, say something," is not for the locals. That shit has no hold and I've learned to trust no bitch above another. Well... I guess that's two things but that doesn't matter. If people know how to keep their mouth shut to keep ops from hearing things, there's no real reason to trust anyone.
Fact of the matter is, everyone's worried about whatever bullshit they've already seen. There's enough secretive talk about someone getting their next buck that they forget to give out the proper warnings to a loved one for the means to survive. Snitches get shit on but friendships get fucked regardless. Nonetheless, I've been backstabbed one too many times to trust anyone except myself and the only person who's been by my side from the beginning.
Right now, I'm watching Boss talk to one of his business partners, Mr. T, a tanned Latino guy with short black hair and a tank despite it being autumn. Even if you can't fully trust some people, sometimes you just gotta take that leap to move forward.
"Yo Shawnee!" Boss calls out, reaching a hand out to wave me over.
I step forward, calm and collected, my hands swaying with each step to appear as comfortable as the next guy. When I get to him, he crosses his arms and cracks his neck.
"Do me a favor and look at this." He instructs, jutting his head to one of the duffle bags in the trunk of his long time partner's car.
I follow my instructions and lean over to look at the contents. Inside are a dozen and a half handguns, all unloaded with the safeties off, scattered in the bag. Another bag holds purely glocks, while another has ammo and larger two-handed guns. After looking, I look back towards Boss and await what he's asking me.
"You see what I'm seeing?" He asks. I look back down and squint to get a closer look. Upon looking again, I see a little better this time.
"Can I?" I ask, reaching a hand out.
"By all means," Boss shrugs a shoulder.
I pick up one of the guns and inspect it with a shake in my head. On a few of the guns are dust and gunpowder particles pressed into the creases by the barrel and loose screws on the handle of the pistols. The glocks are locked and loaded too. Normally, there'd be no issue, especially since glocks are made to be resilient, but I know Boss isn't happy about this lack of preparation.
"They not maintenanced." I say, putting the gun back down.
"They not maintenance." He nods and looks at the supplier. "Remind me what my order was?" He bites his inner cheek, one eyebrow pooping up for a split second.
"A few sets, all cleaned, redone and checked. All empty and locked." Mr. T says, stepping back and sighing.
"Right so what's the issue with this shit?" Boss keeps his usual calm demeanor but everyone knows he's mad. Even though we were going to have to check them and clean them again right after, the added instruction was meant to make it a little easier so we don't have to worry about misfires in transit but now we have to fix it up or wait to get them another day. The main issue is that Boss made the order ready to pay extra.
"My bad Dre, I was in a rush." Ole guy says, still with the same fuckass sigh.
"Stop all that breathing, you gon fix this shit or you gon give me my damn money back?" One side of Boss' face lifts up with his rising annoyance.
"You ain't even pay yet man."
"Shut the fuck up, you wasting my fucking time." Boss reaches for the bags and grabs one. "Matter fact, don't worry bout it, see it come out yo shipment." He passes the bags over the Rocko who hands them over to an underling that takes them over to Boss' car.
"Mmcht maaan-"
"Cut all that whining. I'll treat you like a kid, brother, don't playing with me." Boss grabs the last bag and walks toward his car. A few holders walk over with their bags, ready to give the drugs over to Mr. T who sighs once again. Dude is younger than Boss and he's acting like he's ready to retire. Shit I mean I get it, I'm ready to retire too if I had the funds.
"Rocko, you drive. I need to talk to Shawnee bout some jobs." He says, taking the passenger seat. Rocko grunts and nods in response. I'm pretty sure this guy is mute. I have heard him speak before but I'm just not convinced he's someone who speaks often no matter the situation or people he's around.
I get in the backseat of the car and await my instructions. As I wait, Boss fixes up the duffle bag by his feet, the ones full of mismaintenced guns, and reaches into the pocket of his Jean jacket. After some digging, he pulls out a blunt, lighter and little baggy of coke.
"You want?" He asks, showing me the baggy.
"I'm good, thanks." I shake my head, putting my hand up.
"Weed?" He offers next. I shrug and agree before Rocko pulls off towards the trap house. Boss lights up his blunt, taking a few big pulls before handing it back to me, where I repeat his actions and hand it back. This might be laced but I know better than to repeatedly reject Boss' kindness.
Boss is a tall black man who's always in a skully or Durag no matter the weather. He swears he has hair but no one dares refute it despite the skepticism we all secretly have. His arms are covered in tattoos that extend to his chest and neck, even spilling onto his back over his shoulders. For as long as I've known him, he's had two snake tattoos that snake around the top of his ears until the head opens up at his eyes at the corner. I had originally thought he was a hardass, only out for money and power. Yet somehow, he's one of the most understanding guys I've ever met in my life.
"So Shawnee..." Boss starts up the conversation. "I know you know what to do but you got a job tonight that you gotta stay over for, a while away. Then another tomorrow that's the flat kind. You good with it?" He asks, lowering the windows just a crack to let the smoke out so Rocko can see better.
"You know I ain't got a car Boss. I do what I gotta do but I can't do distances."
"That's cool, I got a spare. Look, this one is the annoying kind so watch out." He warns me and I nod.
"Aight."
"Rocko! How you doing?" Boss slaps Rocko's arm. Rocko glances at him and grunts.
"Living." His deep and steady voice says, bass rumbling in this confined space.
I've known him for a few years and surviving a few life or death situations with someone makes you feel closer. Even if I'd never trust this man with a secret, my money, or my jobs, I know he's got my back when we're out running errands.
"Seem like you living large too," Boss pokes fun at his big size. Rocko nods, not caring about the comment, neutral about the implications of it since he truly doesn't give a shit. Only a slight smile grazes his face, I see from the rear view mirror, as Boss laughs at his own joke with resounding loudness.
———
"The fuck you mean he only got half this time?!" The customer shouts, getting loud for no reason.
"Like I said the first three times-" I sigh, "There was a larger buyer you needed more faster, and was willing to pay it upfront." I slowly reiterate what was said. "You still got yo percs, benzos, Xanax, and Fentanyl but just no ups this time, those come next week with the E and Molly." I tap the bag, pointing at each substance.
"You sure it's all there?" He asks, taking out his money.
"You see it don't you?" I straight face him, making him roll his eyes. He's dumb for asking because I just finished showing him each individual bag. "The hell you need all this anyway, shit is wild." I ask as he hands me the bills. I squint at them before handing them to William, the underling behind me. He starts counting.
"Nunya," he reaches for the bag but I put my hand out and stop him.
"Not until my buddy back there is done counting." I remind him the order of things. "And I wasn't being nosy, I was tryna see if we invited to yo big ass party that you obviously planning. What's up? You don't like us like that?" I ask with a laugh.
"Man," he sucks his teeth, "Dre already knows what's up. It's my opportunity to sell and send people yo way so let me handle mines."
"If you say so."
"It's good Boss." William says, catching my attention.
"All thirty-four?" I ask, taking the stack.
"Yup."
"Aight," I turn back to the customer, Tesco, "I'll be expecting that last six hundred when the rest of the stuff come in." I hand him his drugs and start towards the door with my empty bag.
"Bet. Good looks." He says, making sure I leave with my group of three.
I get back in the borrowed car and drive back to the trap house, dropping off the underlings before I get a message about where I got to guard for the night.
Overnight jobs are my least favorite. They're the ones where I have to stand around a guard for hours while a higher up sits down and talks business with someone from another gang. I have to keep an eye out for trouble but mind my business to what they're saying so that I don't hear something I'm not supposed to.
Dre wants me to monitor his chosen group without them knowing so that I can make sure they stay in line. Since he basically took me in when I was in high school, I have been indebted to him. I may have never lived with him but he helped me get out the Projects on Webster after both I and my best friend was old enough.
When I was barely sixteen I started trying to sell a little weed using what I could get my hands on. I was desperate for money and desperate to get out of my situation. Unfortunately, the only way I know how to get out is to get in first.
I joined Dre's gang to get money faster and, ironically, safer. He provided me and others with good weed and spots to sell before putting more faith into me, moving me up to bigger drugs and jobs that come with it. While it's way better than what I started with, I still need more money so that I can eventually pay out and run away.
"Dre said you off for now, see you at the shipment tomorrow." B. Byron says, sifting through a stack of bills and putting them in the money counter. People start heading towards the door at his words.
"Yo Shawnee." His foot goes up on the table and body leans back as he smokes.
"Yeah Boss?" I pause my movements.
"We thinking about giving you a promotion but we gon have to see how you handle some shit. That cool? Why I'm asking, course it's cool. Leave." He laughs and waves me off. I nod and walk out with some other members, who were also laying watch.
After about six or seven years, here I am, twenty-three and still struggling to get out.