Page 12 of On Everything
“We up to fifty thousand now, Hov. Do you want us to stop counting for the night?”
I waited until the smoke from my blunt cleared from in front of my face so I could look shorty in her eyes.
She was naked, nice body, but I wasn’t looking in her eyes to seduce her or no shit. It's only because I felt like people could only feel my words when I looked them in their eyes. I speak to souls, not to minds. Minds can lie to you with a straight face.
I put the blunt out in the ashtray on the table that was filled with half-smoked blunts, cigars, and cigarettes from all the traffic of the crew that comes in and out of here. When I leaned forward in my seat, I could see Heaven tense up, already scared of my next words. I’m sure she knew I wasn’t about to hit her ass. I don’t touch females, and I take pride in knowing I’ve never killed, hurt, or even scratched a bitch on the hand. I’ve never had to, honestly. Most people around here know I’m not to be fucked with, and because people are scared, they usually do shit without me having to ask.
“Don’t stop counting the fuckin’ money until there is no more fuckin money left to count. The cash has to move up outof here by tomorrow, and step one starts with you and the other bitch in the living room counting it all. You are done once the job is done. Now get back to work, Heaven.”
Heaven switched her bare ass out of my face quick as hell because she’d worked for me long enough to know that I was not in the mood for no goofy shit right now. Not today for damn sure. I’m never supposed to deal with business like this, yet here I am, the king of my enterprise, in the stash house watching over my money like some common corner boy when I should be kicking back at my penthouse getting my dick sucked or back rubbed.
The only reason I’d come to the trap in Brooklyn is because the money being reported back to me didn’t add up, so I fired Quincy my usual guard and decided to do this shit myself. We were cleaning every dime made on the streets through my laundromats and pizza joints throughout the city, so I could always tell when money wasn’t right. A lot of muthafuckas didn’t believe in cleaning their money, but my pops did and passed that knowledge down to me. He preached that the number one way the feds will catch on to you is unlimited balling without a job or a business. I’m happy I still listened to his rules to this day. There is a snake around my operation, and when I find him, I’m going to chop his fuckin’ head off.
They say that kids learn how to swim best when they are thrown into the water and left to save themselves. Well, that’s the same way I got put into the drug game. Just ten years ago, my father died from a heart attack at the age of forty-five and I was thrown into the position to take over one of the biggest drug operations operating in New York City at just twenty two years old. I’m talking pushing weight through every hood from The Bronx to Harlem to Brooklyn.
My father came up on his own with no OG overhead telling him what moves to make. Back in the 80’s, he was on the corner trapping just to feed his mama and siblings until he told himself he needed better. Word is my father was on the block enough to learn the schedules of the runners running coke into the Pink House Projects for Lock, a nigga a few years older than him. Lock was the nigga over the infamous Hernandez mafia, who were the only niggas getting major cash back then. My pops and his homies had to watch Hernandez Mafia run a hood they weren’t even fuckin’ from and he said that shit ate him up everyday.
One night, my father kissed my grandmother on her cheek and went out the door to meet his homie Izzo with plans to get the dope drop before it made its way to Lock’s trap upstairs.
Him and Izzo timed everything perfect and intercepted the dope drop off as planned. There, however, was a shootout between them and the runners. Izzo got killed, but my pops made it out with two duffel bags of pure Colombian coke. The best in the city.
My father took that coke he stole from Hernandez Mafia, rented out a feen’s stove, and grew his business to what I inherited and turned into a fuckin enterprise. Now, I'm making so much money I could legitimately wipe my ass with it and that's thanks to my pops having a dream and a plan.
“Yo, Hov! Let me talk to you!”
Crew stuck his head through the front door. From where I’m sitting, I can see him, so I nodded my head in response to his call.
Crew had been my right-hand man since we were scrapping up money to buy slices of pizza at the corner store. This was when we were about nine years old, around the timemy father got locked up, and money wasn’t at my disposal at that time. I first linked up with Crew because we both played on the same youth basketball team one summer and were coached and mentored by the same man. I was on the team because my grandma wanted me busy, but Crew was really a fuckin’ monster on the court. You couldn’t do shit with him going to his left.
Crew is a tall muthafucka. Tall and skinny his whole life until he finally put on a little weight after messing with that thick chick from Brooklyn he met this year. She cooked beans, cornbread, fried chicken, and all types of food for this nigga every day. Sometimes I get jealous of the scent radiating off that nigga clothes when he comes around me. One thing for sho’, my clothes will never smell like anything, but Baccarat and Tom Ford coming from my place. There was never any type of cooking going on in that muthafucka.
“Yeah, what up, nigga?”
Me and Crew slapped hands when I stepped out the front door.
“That lil nigga Princeton said he needs to holla at you about some shit downstairs.”
“Bet. Come take over in here for me. Don’t let these bitches out of your sight.”
“Oh, I won’t. Trust me on that shit.”
His eyes were focused on Heaven, whose ass was falling off the barstool she was sitting on.
“Crew, these hoes here to work. Remember that shit.”
“So, they can’t count money and fuck? I know I can. Shid, ten, twenty, thirty, forty.” He motioned like he was fucking the air, and these bitches started giggling at this nigga like they were at a comedy show. Crew could always laugh a bitch out herpanties doing stupid shit. He used jokes to get pussy way before he had money and drove a Bentley. Crew is probably the most unserious muthafucka that I know, and you never see his ass mugging unless he is about to take a life.
“Crew don’t touch these bitches. Oh, and dial up Tony to see if he wants to take over this watch job.”
“Your cousin Tony? The immature little nigga that asks you to borrow $50 every other day?”
“Yeah, his ass. This position may make him a man.”
“Alright, I got you nigga.”
We passed each other as I walked out into the hallway to meet the little nigga Princeton who ran information in the streets. Princeton came to me for a job selling dope and I instead gave him a paperboy type of job. He was instructed to just hang around the hoods, find out shit we need to know, and run it back to us anytime something worth wild comes up. For that, I paid for the little nigga way through life. He needed a haircut; I chunked his little ass a hundred. He needs shoes for school; I cop him the latest fly shit. Grown muthafuckas I can't deal with, but kids always had a place in my heart anyway.
I don’t have any children of my own because my girl, Cashmier don’t want me to shoot my seed inside her. Well yet she says. I just find it funny that her ass is twenty-nine years old and saying she is too young for a baby. She also tells me all the time that I don’t have enough time to be a father like I couldn't move some shit around to be there for my kid. Shit, I already feel like I have children with the ten distributors across my organization. Them ignorant niggas were kids if nothing else and I balance they asses well.
