Free Crackhead II: A Novel by Lisa Lennox

yo, boss,” Rob said seriously, leaning against Smurf’s car, “this redbone cop been down here askin’ about Dink and Dame.” Smurf looked at Rob but remained quiet. “Skinny lil’ muthafucka with short hair in a white unmarked Lumina.” Rob got comfortable on the car. “And man, when you gonna take me out of the goddamn West Village?” he asked angrily, getting off the subject.
    Smurf looked at him and cracked a crooked grin. He knew what he was getting at.
    “Niggas told us it was some fly-ass females down there, but ain’t nothing but some fuckin’ faggots holding hands with tight-ass pants on and kissing!” Rob had a crazy look on his face. “Then get this, I’m at my post and shit and the lil’ ass-packer in the Lumina wanted to suck my dick.” Smurf began to laugh. “Man, fuck you! That shit ain’t funny. You know I don’t roll like that.”
    Rob had to make that clear. “Man, I wanted to fuck him in the ass with the barrel of my gun and blow his heart out.” He motioned with his hand. “So, if I see ’em again, can I smoke ’em?” he asked with a look on his face that said all he needed was a nod and it was done.
    “Naw, nigga,” Smurf replied, still trippin’ off his boy. “You need to be cool with that fucked-up temper of yours, too.” He paused for a moment, getting back to the seriousness of their conversation, carefully contemplating his next move. He knew it was that gay bastard that Marco had been fuckin’ with and that was the main reason he had one of his boys posted there. He knew that because Marco was no longer a part of the equation, the faggot cop would sooner or later come back around. Because of that, he couldn’t do anything too rash. “Anything else?” Smurf asked him.
    “I’on know, man, something don’t feel right. Something ’bout to go down.”
    Smurf looked around at his immediate territory and got up off the car. “Round up the crew and meet me at the joint in thirty minutes,” Smurf ordered.
    “Got it, boss.”
    Thirty minutes later, Smurf’s key players were at the joint. Drake, one of Smurf’s corner distributors, was a smart kid from the hood. He was the pretty boy of the crew, light-skinned and with good hair. Because of that, he always had woman drama. Smurf appreciated his passion for hustling, though. Drake often hipped Smurf on several different ways to push their stash. He was practically an extension of Smurf—next in charge if something were to go down.
    Chunky was just that, an abnormally big dude with big features. Smurf couldn’t understand a word he said because he had a stuttering problem, but he liked Chunky despite his flaws.
    He was sincere and the most confident nigga Smurf had ever known, because Chunky never backed down from anybody. Because of his large size, he often intimidated many, but cops would never think that a big, fat stuttering cat would be in the game. It was all good because Chunky wasn’t no punk, and that worked for Smurf.
    The third player, Lil’ Rob, was the weight that Dirty sent from Harlem. Smurf needed someone just as hard as him, or harder, to keep him secure. Keeping true to the Harlem style, Rob wore nothing but track suits with T-shirts and a large gold-link chain that complemented his open-faced gold tooth. His long Jheri curl was always topped off with a Kangol, and he wore only Adidas, Converse, and Fila sneakers.
    He was attractive to many of the hood rats who tried to jock him, but Lil’ Rob was arrogant and refused to fuck with South Bronx hoes, because he felt they were skeezers. Smurf called him the enforcer. Lil’ Rob didn’t have any problem forcing bullets in any muthafucka that crossed the line.
    It was a Friday night, and Smurf knew the arcade down in The Hub was jumpin’. Fordham Road, also known as The Hub, was the busiest strip mall in New York, so there was always something going on. Smurf often met with his key players at the arcade because it would be the last place cops would