Читать книгу The Good Life - Dorian Sykes - Страница 6

Prologue

June 1988

Just like every other major city back in ’88, Detroit fought hard to be crowned the murder capital of the world as the crack epidemic spread like wildfire, taking a strong hold of the city and a vast number of its residents. Bodies were dropping in numbers, as up-and-coming drug dealers went to war over territory. Drive-by shootings had become the norm, and innocent people were caught in the crossfire, often being killed. It was just a total disaster and a setback for the once-striving, predominately black city. Almost overnight, Detroit went from being ole Motown, the home of Motown Records and the birth of the auto industry, to a widespread battlefield. It was a prison for the still law-abiding citizens who remained.

The rise of crack and its availability not only sprung the murder rate, but also the level of theft and robberies. These crimes were often committed by crackheads against people who had nothing to do with the life of the underworld that engulfed them. Detroit had become known as Murder City instead of Motown. All sorts of government programs, such as Ronald Reagan’s “Just Say No” War on Drugs campaign sprang into action, but to no avail. Crack was everywhere, and there to stay for a long time.

Within this mayhem, Wink plotted how he would get into the drug game and take it over. He had grand plans and aspirations, but one problem existed—he didn’t know a single thing about selling crack. He didn’t know where it came from, how to make it, or who was supplying it. He’d seen the empty, tiny-size packets, which once contained rocks of cocaine, scattered on the sidewalks and curbs of his neighborhood, but he’d never seen an actual rock. It was crazy because something called “crack” was taking over his city, and yet he had never even laid eyes on it.

Wink was seventeen and fresh out of high school. He’d graduated by the hair on his face, which was slim to none. He was a baby-faced, light brown–skinned, tall and lanky nigga. He wore a high-top fade and cuts in his eyebrows. His mom worked at GM, and as the only child, he pretty much got whatever he wanted. The problem was he wanted it all, which was why, when he saw all the drug dealers with their expensive cars and clothes, Wink knew he had to get in on the game.

School was out, and so was all the fun stuff he and his crew used to do prior to the crack era. All the things they enjoyed coming up—roller skating, break dancing, house parties—ceased to exist when crack hit the scene. Niggas went from being B-Boys to D-Boys. All the B-Boy crews were now full-fledged drug crews, each trying to reinvent themselves as gangsters. Niggas were funny like that, though. One day they were standing on the corner in a circle, breakdancing with the boom box on; the next day, they were on that same corner with fully automatic Uzis, selling crack.

“Oh, you still breakin’! That’s some li’l boy shit,” dudes would say of the ones not yet in the game. Pretty soon, all the youngin’s were standing out there, trying to establish a reputation as a crew. It wasn’t even about the money, for real, because money was coming in hand over fist. It was about power.

Wink’s crew was the last crew to get on board, and he felt behind. He went to the barber shop and cut that goofy-ass high-top fade, let his eyebrows grow back, while he plotted and watched. The first thing he had to learn about the game was who was supplying the crack, or work, as niggas started calling it. His first mission didn’t take long. All he had to do was observe everybody. For a week straight, all he did was sit on the porch and watch the traffic come and leave. Niggas serving crackheads, police chasing niggas down the block, the raid van jumping out in the middle of the block: all these were mental notes for Wink when he finally got in the game. College hadn’t crossed his mind. Despite his mom’s protest, he told her not to waste her money because he wasn’t going to college. Wink’s mind was set on the streets. Cars, money, women, and clothes were all he could dream about.

Everything Wink wanted and dreamed of having, J-Bo already had times ten. J-Bo had to be the first nigga in Detroit to start selling crack. He was getting down in ’85 and ’86, when the Chambler brothers came up from Arkansas. He wasn’t personally fucking with them or even necessarily getting on through them, but he was around and on deck, making noise. Everybody and they mamma knew who J-Bo was. He had seven Porsches, same exact car, but different colors. Minks, gators, Rolex . . . you name it, J-Bo had it. He was probably the first one you’d ever seen with the shit on.

Wink had never personally met J-Bo. Two words were never exchanged between them. But growing up as a shorty, you idolize certain niggas in the game, and Wink idolized J-Bo. He wanted everything he had, starting with the fire engine red Porsche he’d just hit the block in. When J-Bo hit the block, everything stopped so that niggas and bitches could give him his props. But that’s not only why J-Bo came down Charest every day. He came to personally collect his ends from all the workers. That way, it would never be a discrepancy on the strength of the money touching too many hands.

It was evident who was supplying the work. Now all Wink had to do was figure out a way to cut into ole J-Bo.

“Wayne, you comin’ to eat?” asked Hope as she stepped out onto the front porch.

“I’ll be in later,” said Wink. His mom was the only one who called him by his real name.

“You out here watching these bums sell that shit. I know one thing. If ya ass thinking about trying to join them, you won’t be living under this damn roof,” snapped Hope.

“Ma...”

“Don’t Ma me. If you ain’t goin’ to school, ya ass need to find a job until you figure out what you doin’ with ya life.” Hope had no idea that her one and only son had already figured out what he’d major in: selling crack. And there was nothing she could say or do to stop him.

Wink had blocked his mother’s bitchin’ out. His idol was barking orders, and niggas were listening. J-Bo climbed back in his new Porsche and started its turbo engine. He shifted the gears, peeling away from the curb. Wink’s head followed the red blur down the street until J-Bo made a right on Emory.

I gotta get in the game, thought Wink. He could see himself pushing a Porsche of his own, with diamond rings on each finger, on his way down to Belle Isle to show it all off.

“You hear me talkin’ to you, Wayne?” Hope said as she slapped the back of Wink’s head.

“Ah, what?”

“I said to get in the house. These niggas aren’t looking right. I can tell something’s about to happen, and I’m not catching somebody else’s bullet.”

“I’m okay, Ma. I’m seventeen. I can handle myself.”

“Wayne, I said to get in the house. I don’t want to see anything happen to you.” Hope held the door open as Wink reluctantly got up.

He knew his mom didn’t mean any harm. She loved him to death and would do anything for him. But Wink was set on being the next big thing to come out of Detroit since Cadillac, and crack was going to get him there.