WASUAN
Enychi was my wifey for real, and when you talk about a nigga being sprung, I was that nigga fo’ sho. Shortly after I met her, I chased her until she finally decided to take a chance on our relationship. I felt I had to lock it down once that happened, so I got her up outta her little shabby-ass apartment, got myself a bigger one, and moved her right on in. I did whatever it took to keep her around me, starting with convincing her to leave them bullshit jobs she had that took up all of her free time and paid a bullshit salary. I understood the fact that baby girl was in college and needed them gigs to pay her tuition, but that was before me. I wanted to be the one taking care of her now. I paid for her education, her hair, her nails, and I kept her wardrobe up with the latest fashion—and rolls of fabric, because most of shorty’s outfits she designed herself. Whatever Enychi needed, I got it for her. She had a hard time with that at first, being Miss Independent and all, but I ain’t give a fuck, she was my boo, she represented me, so it couldn’t be no other way.
In fact, I looked at it as more like an investment, because shorty was far from being one of them knucklehead chicks with no direction or book smarts.
That’s what I loved the most about her, she had goals in life. Graduating from college was very important to Enychi. She wanted to be one of the hottest designers in the fashion industry, so most of her time was spent focusing on school and keeping up with the latest trends, and I supported her 100 percent. I knew that if it ever came down to me needing her, she’d have my back with no hesitation. So the shit I was doing for her wasn’t in vain.
Besides, as fast as she could spend my dough, I made it back, jumping in and out of the drug game and shooting dice with some of the gettin’-money niggas on the block. But in the beginning, Enychi damn sure gave me a run for my money with that feisty-ass I’m an independent woman attitude of hers. She went hard at playing hard to get, and for a minute there the cat and mouse chase was cute, ‘cause a nigga like me always loved a challenge. That is, until all that chasing I was doing seemed hopeless.
But now, everytime I think about her and the two years we shared together, I feel like she was worth every moment of it.
Besides Enychi, that dice shit was another weakness of mine. Just like I loved her, a nigga loved to get his gamble on, too—and I was damn good at it. Fucking with them dice games until all times of the night was how I liked to hustle. Talking greasy and taking niggas’ money was what I did. Shit, that was the only thing my pops got to teach me when I was a shorty, before he was murdered. So I had to hold down the legacy. And, that nigga pops was the truth when it came down to shooting some dice. As a matter of fact, one of the many things he said to me about the game was that it was a fast way to make a quick buck or two, and if I was good at it I would never walk the streets broke.
So cats hated to see me hit the block, ‘cause if they ain’t already have a game going, they knew I was gon’ get it started and empty out pockets. I’d start the bank off at no less than a thousand, and by the end of the night the stakes would grow as high as seven grand. On the streets, that was a considerable amount of paper being tossed around.
Niggas couldn’t fuck with me. My luck was crazy. I’m not saying I ain’t lose every now and then, but that shit was rare—ya heard.
That is, until this nigga named Tone, a light-skinned, gray-eyed, long-braided, good-haired muthafucka, came around and threw a monkey wrench in a nigga’s game.
Pretty Tone was an old-school dude. Thirty-five years old and chiseled the fuck up, like all the nigga did was bench-press. He had the words “Murder was the case that they gave me” tatted down his left arm, and a rap sheet, from back in the day, that was crazy. So niggas knew not to let Tone’s pretty boy looks cloud their judgment, ‘cause dude was still straight-up gangsta.
After serving ten years state time for murder, it’s alleged that when the nigga came home he killed his cousin, E-Money, for not honoring the code of the streets. Supposedly, his cousin ratted him out for a murder they both took part in many years ago.
Rumor has it, Tone broke up in E-Money’s crib in the middle of the night and slit his throat while he was fucking his own wife, and out of fear for her life she didn’t tell the police who had done it.
. . .
Outside of being coldhearted in the streets, Tone wasn’t a stupid dude. He served his jail time wisely, by taking advantage of all the educational programs offered to inmates—back when they existed. Then he came home, started a legit business of his own—but on the low, he was still putting in work for his Colombian connect, Pedro. Niggas in the hood knew that clothing store shit was a big front. Still, Tone would come through the block every now and again trying to intimidate dudes by flashing big wads of cash and bragging about his bigboy status. He’d make a nigga so mad that you couldn’t help but gamble your last dollar, hoping to roll trips, just to shut his ass the fuck up and take his money, along with the victory. Tone’s game wasn’t all that nice. It was more the fear he pumped in niggas’ hearts that got him over; but his strategy didn’t intimidate me one bit.
I remember the first time I met him. I was only thirteen. It was the weekend and the night air was brick. I had just spanked some old head’s ass in a game of craps and was on my way into the corner store to buy me a bag of Doritos and juice with my winnings, when these two dudes, parked in front of the bodega in a beamer that looked brand-new, spotted me.
“Yo,” the dude on the passenger side called out. “You that young cat niggas is saying got skills with that dice shit, right?”
I looked both men over closely, to see if I recognized them from around the way. Shit, I could never be too careful. Some of these cats thought that, just ‘cause I was a li’l nigga they could corner me, strong-arm my little ass, and take all they money back if I won it from ‘em. So I had to stay up on mine, all the time. But these cats looked like money, sporting mink jackets and plenty of bling.
“Yeah.” I answered with a hesitant nod, after coming to the conclusion that they had to be paid. I never seen them before but I knew the streets was talking about me. One thing I was not was modest. Like my pops, my goal was to be legendary at this, and that’s how it was going down. “I’m that dude. Who you?”
“Me? I’m E-Money and this here is my cousin Big Tone.” He pointed to the dude in the driver’s seat. I looked over at Tone and he gave me a “what up?” nod, which I courteously returned.
“But, yo, check this out,” E-Money continued. “Me and some of the fellas is having a gambling party tonight. A little bit of everything is going down—c-lo, some card games, all that shit. I want you to come through. There’s a minimum pot of twenty-five hunnid for each game, so maybe we can get this money together, you know, work something out where we both get paid.”
“Word,” I replied, because them kind of numbers sounded real good, only there was one problem. “Well, I ain’t got that kind of bank right now.” I rubbed the sides of my pockets trying to play it cool, but in my mind I was thinking, Whoa! 2,500? That’s a lot of money. I couldn’t even front a quarter of that.
“Don’t worry about that, shorty,” E-Money said. “I’ll spot you. But you better be as good as the streets is saying you are.”
* * *
I stared at E-Money sideways for a minute, as I went over his proposal in my head. Everything that glittered wasn’t always gold, and this shit sounded a little too good to be true. I hope this fool don’t think he gon ‘pimp a nigga, have me doing all the work and he get all the doe. I thought about it.
Nah right now is the time to negotiate.
“I’ll do it, but only if I can get a percentage on everything I win,” I smiled. “I realize you frontin’ the money and all, but it’s my skills that’s gon’ take us to the top of the money pile.”
E-Money looked over at Tone and then back at me with a smile and nodded his head with approval. “A’ight, I hear that. Young and smart. That’s what’s up, li’l man.”
Tone threw back his head, gave a deep belly laugh, and said, “Yo, you can’t be serious, dawg. I know you ain’t tryna fuck with this li’l nigga?”
Ignoring that nigga Tone’s hateration, E-Money reached through the window on the passenger side and extended his hand. After I stepped up to the car and shook hands with him, he reached into the glove compartment, grabbed a pen and some paper, and jotted down the address to the party. “Here.” He handed me the piece of paper. “Just ask for me, E-Money, when you get there, a’ight?” he said as he signaled for Tone to drive off.
I looked down at the paper as the car pulled off, and got excited, thinking, I’m about to be paid!
* * *
Later that evening, when I walked into the condo, I knew I wasn’t dealing with small-time hustlers for sure. Inside, that joint looked like a million bucks. The hardwood floors that welcomed me into the foyer were so shiny I could see my reflection. In the living room, resting in the middle of floor, was a black leather sectional that looked butter soft, and lamps on each table sculptured into different poses of naked women, with a fifty-two-inch, big-screen television posted up against the wall. I had never seen nothing like it before, but for me, it was the vaulted ceilings and marble fireplace that graced the room.
As I took a couple of steps into the mix of things, I noticed the built-in speakers inside the walls that blasted the DJ’s latest hip-hop joints. Cats were dripping in gold, platinum, and diamonds, holding stacks of big bills in their hands. Meanwhile, all types of women—Black, White, Asian, some tall, some short, petite, thick, with long hair, short hair, and even weave hair—posted up close to the money-makers, as they sipped on the bubbly.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Just as the shock wore off, nervousness set in. I felt like a fish out of water and there wasn’t one familiar face up in there.
“Hey, little nigga, what’s up?” said E-Money, as he walked up from behind me, with a cigar dangling in between the left side of his mouth. He circled around me and looked me up and down. “Glad you made it. It’s major paper up in here, and these dudes is about it.”
“Oh, I see that,” I nodded as I continued to examine the room.
“So, you ready to stomp with some big dogs?” he asked as he removed the cigar from his mouth and slightly rolled it between his thumb and index finger. I poked out my chest and answered, “Ready? Man, I was born ready.”
E-Money chuckled. “A’ight, that’s what I like to hear. But before you dive into that pool of sharks, let’s step into my office for a minute. I gotta give you something to get your feet wet with, right?”
He placed his hand around my boney shoulders and led me toward the back bedroom. Outside of the door, he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and proceeded to unlock his bedroom door. Once it was unlocked, he looked up at me.
“One can never be too certain of the company he keeps,” he said. “Dem niggas might look like a million bucks, but what millionaire doesn’t want another million?” On that note, he stepped aside and allowed me to walk past him into the room.
After closing the door behind us, he walked over to the desk that was part of a white pine bedroom ensemble. Again, he used his key ring to unlock the file console, and pulled out a stack of cash.
“Here,” E-Money said, handing me the stack. “That’s fifteen thousand dollars right there. Like I said, this some big-dog shit.” I stood there flipping through the money.
“You ain’t got to double-check my count. It’s all there.”
“Oh, I trust that,” I assured him. I wasn’t trying to check his math, I was just fascinated with the amount. I never held that much money in my hand before.
“A’ight now, I’m banking on you, so don’t disappoint me.” Still rapt in the Benjamins, all I could do was nod my head.
Then, without thinking, I asked, “What you want me to do with all of this money?”
E-Money screwed up his face and answered, “Nigga, I want you to double that shit! That’s what I want you to do with it. Hell, you should be able to triple it, if you as good as I heard you were.” He threw back his head and laughed, revealing his gold fronts. “Come on, go get up in the game and get your rhythm started,” he said as he stuck a fresh cigar in his mouth and led me out of the bedroom, locking the door behind us.
I returned to the main room and lost whatever bit of youthfulness I had. I sipped on champagne and was playing with the best of the big boys. That’s when I became a man. Towards the end of the night everyone was gathered around me, the prodigy kid who was getting all of the bailers for their cash and jewelery. One cat even put up the title to his car. The bank had grown to $100,000.
Tone was vexed, and threatened to stop the bank if I continued to play in the game. “Look, I’m callin’ it, if that li’l nigga don’t cash out,” he spat, referring to and turning towards me. “You already done proved you got a big dick, li’l man. So, yo, get up out the game and let somebody else get some of that paper.”
“Come on, dawg, stop hatin’ on the little dude,” said a voice from the back of the crowd.
I was in a zone, as I concentrated on my roll and swayed from side to side to B. I. G. and Method Man’s lyrics: “Fuck the world, don’t ask me for shit, everything you get, ya gotta work hard for it.”
Cool as ice, I commanded the room. I didn’t feed into the threatening stares from Tone and some of the cats whose money I’d already pocketed.
I had been playing my best since my first roll that night, and I wasn’t doing it for my investor, either. I was playing the game that I loved. For me, dice was more than a pastime, it was more than a hobby or an addiction: It was an art and a gift passed down to me from my pops.
I blew in my hand, shook my wrist, and closed my eyes. I mumbled, “This one’s for you, Pop, just like you taught me.” I took my time and confidently released the dice.
As the dice hit the floor and froze into position, the room was silent. My gut told me I had it without even looking.
“Trips!” yelled the unofficial game referee. The room went crazy. I was cheered on, as the crowd toasted with bottles of Moet.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout! These niggas can’t see you, partner!” My cosigner, E-Money, patted my back. “Come on. Let’s collect my money.” E-Money made my night that night, he put $4,500 in my pocket and, without a doubt, I went home a happy man.
That was twelve years ago, but every time I ran into that nigga Tone, it wasn’t hard to tell that he still had a bit of animosity in his heart towards me for making him look bad in front of his people back then.
But, damn, who knew the nigga was out to do me dirty like this . . . I didn’t even see it coming.
It’s been a minute since Tone rolled them trips and I signed that deal with the Devil, but I remember that shit like it was yesterday.
Copyright © 2007 by T. N. Baker
