Free Cracked Dreams by Michael Daniel Baptiste

it deserved as much importance as they were placing on it.
    â€œAll right,” I said, uninterested. “That’s what ya’ll mu’fuckas thought I needed to come out here from in the bed with my broad to hear?”
    â€œNah, son,” answered El. “We saved the best part for last.” “Okay, spit it out.”
    â€œAfter a few hours of getting his ass beat, Roscoe finally admitted that he’d been stealing from us. That’s not the only thing though, son. He said that it wasn’t his idea and that Ceelow put him up to it.”
    When El was through I had a furious, but confused look on my face. It was so hard to believe that someone from the crew I considered family would steal from us. Since we’d both been little, it was us that had spoken about getting money together the most. We’d had the longest conversations with one another about the numerous things we could buy with the money we made. With all of these things running through my head, I wanted to find him, and lay him down wherever he was, but I had to calm down. I had to figure the right course of action to take.
    â€œYo, let me sit on this for a while,” I said after minutes of silence. “I’m gonna handle this shit personally, ya heard? We ain’t about to start a war within the Family because of what some bitch-ass rat mu’fucka said to save his ass.”
    â€œYeah, I got you,” said Poncho. “For whatever, my nigga. All you got to do is holla.”
    â€œWord up, son,” agreed El.
    After my conversation with Don P., I realized that it didn’t matter how long you knew someone. You just can’t trust them unless they just that type of nigga. I saw their honesty and dedication when Don P. said that they’d hold me down, and I hadn’t known these niggas ten years like I’d known Cee. “Whatever,” I said to myself. If this information would prove true, then it was just a situation that needed to be dealt with. Two and two is always going to equal four, you know?

CHAPTER 7
    T oday was a busy day for Spits. He had some business to take care of. When Spits would get in these moods, the only thing that could relax him was listening to a little Sade. He got in the truck late that morning, pressed play on the CD player, and immediately became tranquil as the soothing sounds of his favorite song “Kiss of Life” came through the speakers. He sat back in his truck with the windows rolled up and zoned out for a minute before he pulled off. He then began his morning grind with a delivery run to Burke and Arnow Avenue. There were some new young Puerto Rican cats out there starting to make a name for their crew. They called themselves “The Chosen” and the only problem was that whenever they made a request, it would always be for a little at a time. That must’ve been the only flaw in the whole delivery process; niggas would take advantage of the no-risk factor. But Spits had a plan devised for such occasions. One of Spits’ run-men, Vic, informed him of the situation. He told him that their money was never short but the requests were always mediocre. He’d make the drop personally to have a talk with them.

    â€œYo, what up, my nigga?” yelled Bobby as a he saw a friend of his drive past. The car stopped halfway into the block and reversed to where Bobby had been standing waving his arms. When the car stopped, out came D. Hetried concealing his happiness but soon gave in to a huge smile. He hadn’t seen his man Bobby in a while.
    Bobby and D. had been friends for over ten years. They’d grown up in Edenwald Projects together and hadn’t seen each other since Bobby had been sent away for an assault charge. He did four years out of a three-to-six sentence and had been home for a few months. Bobby and D. used to be a stick-up team back in the days before Bobby got sent away. They’d lost touch since then, but the