Free Cracked Dreams by Michael Daniel Baptiste Page B

were off. Spits went East on Burke Avenue and made a left turn onto Bronxwood Avenue. Once they got to the area they considered “The Woods” he slowed down a bit so that the conversation could have visuals.
    â€œYou see all of this up here?” Spits asked Johnny. “All of this shit is for the Time Bombs. All these niggas out here work for the Family. Now, my man Vic told me about you and your crew. The Chosen, right?”
    â€œYeah, pa,” he responded, as he was excited that someone knew their name. “I hope he didn’t have nothin’ bad to say about my crew.”
    â€œNah, he told me that ya’ll always got your paper straight, and that ya’ll not the type to feed off the re-up money with petty bullshit,” said Spits. “The only thing I had a problem with, was the fact that you dudes would call five or six times a day to re-up with eight-balls. Now, I know ya’ll get it poppin’ over here. Why don’t ya’ll ever take a bigger bite of the weight?”
    â€œThe problem isn’t moving the product, bro. With all due respect to you and all your peoples, we’d rather hold out and let ya’ll take all of the possession risks. We know how much shit we can move in a given amount of time, so why have more than we need. Feel me, bro?”
    â€œYeah, I feel you, dog, but peep game, Johnny. If we’re going to pretend like ya’ll mu’fuckas are workers for us, then ya’ll mu’fuckas might as well be workers for us,” Spits said before pausing to shoot a grin and wink an eye. “Now, whatever you make gets reinvested anyway leaving ya’ll no spending money, so I think that it would be in your best interest to formally involve yourselves with our organization. That means that we’d put up all the white, already cooked and bagged, and you and your crew get a percentage. Does that make sense?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Johnny answered, showing a little doubt. “That just sounds like ya’ll get all the control.”
    â€œYou a smart mu’fucka, Johnny,” Spits said with a chuckle. “But do the math. It’s the difference between you guys taking home $1,000 a week, and $10,000 a week. You don’t have to answer now, but I’ll send someone for a response tomorrow morning.”

    As Bobby hung up the phone, he turned to D. and said, “Yo, peep this,” as he handed D. a black Desert Eagle. “You like that?”
    â€œNo doubt. This shit is pretty, for real,” answered D. “This is what I need.”
    â€œI could get you one if you want, son.”
    â€œOh, word?” Bobby asked with excitement.
    â€œYeah, you remember my uncle that lives down South, right?”
    â€œYeah, you talking about Richie, right? He still in the army?”
    â€œYup, he get all kinds of gats easy. For good prices, too. He be hooking me up so I can sell them shits up here.”
    â€œOh, that’s flavor, son. For real.”
    â€œYeah, I had that one for a while now. That joint got . . .” said Bobby, pausing like he heard something. “Did you hear that shit, son?”
    â€œI ain’t hear shit, dog,” responded D. “You all right, man?”
    â€œYeah . . .I’m cool. Anyway, what was I saying?”
    â€œYou was telling me about the gat,” said D., still playing with it.
    â€œOh, yeah. That shit got mad bodies on it, kid,” Bobby said as he went looking through the closet.
    â€œOh, shit! I forgot I was supposed to go check my baby mom’s, right quick,” D. said as he jumped up to leave. “Yo, don’t go nowhere. I’ll be right back.”
    â€œAll right, dog,” Bobby said, still fumbling through his closet. “Where the fuck did I put that shottie?” he asked himself.
    â€œOne,” yelled D. as he exited the room, dropping the gun on the floor before he left.
    â€œYeah-yeah,