Читать книгу Knock Knock Whooz There? - Marvin Griffin - Страница 3

Brick pulled his Chrysler Caravan to the shoulder of Washington Street and 22nd Avenue and drive's in to the parking lot adjacent to his restaurant. Every morning he made it his business to show up at his place of business bright and early. The restaurant was one of his most prize possessions and he liked to get there early just to make sure everything was in order before he opened up his doors to the public.

Moments later, after Brick parked his vehicle in one of the parking stalls he exited the car wearing his normal work attire; a 6X burnt orange jump suit, with the words: Property of the state of Florida, stitched on the back and a beige pair of size 14 Timberland boots. Brick definitely was a large man, one who stood on a lean 6'8" frame and weighed approximately 260 pounds. There was one more essential element to his attire and that was his nickel plated 9mm. Brick stuffed his glock in his pocket before he made his way to the front entrance of his store. He had one thought as he bopped to the store, his eyes roaming the streets. "I'll blast me a bitch!" It was a smart move on his part because by reputation everyone knew of the area well. It was a small community that sat in the heart of Miami, called: Opa Locka. That's "The Opa Locka," a ravished community dipped in black by urban life who often chased the euphorical hype of hood riches, while ignoring the struggles of everyday life. Which would explains why Brick thought carrying his weapon was necessary. Because Opa Locka was filled with guns, drugs, and violence and labeled one of the deadliest cities in America to live in and Brick knew that as a business man the broken life seen him as a come-up so he had to stay strapped!

The first thing Brick did once he made it inside the restaurant was focus his attention over the entire store. The red and white checkered table cloths clicked into his peripheral vision. Ump, he gasped. "Just like I thought," Brick thought. "That's why I make it my business to get out my bed every morning." He noticed a few tables and chairs were out of order and that irked him. I mind you, that was one of his most passionate fixations, was that everything needed to be symmetrically-clean-and-in order. Some would even argue he was a little too neat. People said anytime a grown man would go as far as to drop his trousers in public just to make sure his boxer shorts are perfectly aligned with his other garments, he was a little too neat. It wasn't though, when it came to his store, Brick liked it to look a certain way. That is tables had to be aligned in their own special sequence, and the window blinds had to be aligned at the same height and he liked the chairs arrayed at the same angle - positioned so they coaxed diners to view the tropical sense of the restaurant and not the mean ugly street life that bristled beyond the store's door.

But it wasn't like it was his job to keep the place clean too. "Damn my nigga I already do enough around this shit to keep things going. I don't know why in the fuck Faith didn't make sure Charlie and James ain't clean the fuckin' place up last night like they were supposed to when she know how I am." Brick thought. Faith was Brick's right hand man and Charlie and James were two mad crack heads who Brick hired to come by every night after they closed the restaurant for the sole purpose of cleaning the place up. He only paid them with enough crack to support their habits which is why sometimes he got exactly what he paid for, shaddy work, which reared the question why did he even have them on his payroll - Charlie and James that is. "I know what I'mma do though. I got something for they sorry asses. I'ma see how they like it when I hire me a janitorial service to come in from now on. That'll fix them, and they betta not ask me for shit else to eat." Brick thought as he closed the door behind him. He never looked back. He thought to lock it back since he wasn't officially open for business yet but he decided not to. "What was the use any way when I was going to have to end up and unlock again. It wasn't like people don't know what time I open." Brick thought. 7:30 am on the dot. Sunday thru Saturday.

He expected people often started pouring in about ten or fifteen minutes before the hour expecting to get some of the best soul food cooked breakfast style from the hottest spot in the city. People bragged about how good the fish and grits were. Brick saw the rush in his mind's eye. Today was Sunday, one of his busiest days. Once church was over all type of people came to eat. The different shades of blackness that patronized his establishment on a daily basis gave him a warm feeling. What was so special about his customers is how he knew most of them on a first name basis. Most of his clientele came from the same-varying neighborhoods within the Miami City Limits where he either grew up in or hung out at. He even had policemen/ women that routinely came for breakfast and coffee. Which reminded him. "Damn I got to remember to add doughnuts to my menu."

But let me tell it, this was one of those mornings, and I'm sure Brick would agree if he wanted to be honest and stop blaming everybody else for what happened to him, that he should've followed his first mind and locked the door. Because this time his effort to be hospitable allowed a product of his past to walk in and disrupt his life forever.

Once upon a time Brick thought the illusive drug game was over, at least for him. The uncalled bio of his tumultuous life, as one of the ruthless hustlers ever, remained dormant in secret and sealed indictments that will remain unsealed due to controversial plea agreements reached by him and myriad FBI files, state reports, and even witness both living and deceased, until one indictment caused it to flare up. That's right, the once proclaimed gangster—turned business mogul was forced to peel back the pages for a glimpse of the anything but humble fast life, fast money, cars and sex money and streets of Miami had to offer. Brick was also forced to peel back the pages of his life for a glimpse of himself. I recalled him telling me once how he wished like a mutha-fucka that he would've locked that door. Who said the game dead!

As soon as Brick made it inside he smelt the aroma of food wafting through the air. Which meant only one thing, that Faith had already made it there and had started doing one of the things she does best, cook! She was also the best when it came to showing Brick love, albeit it was tuff at times. Quiet is kept she supplied his needs. As he made his way a smug smile formed across his face. "Faith!" He dreamily thought. "Now she was definitely reliable." She was like his best friend, real talk. Most niggas had other men niggas to watch their back, but not Brick, he had a female that watched his. Straight up!

Brick tried to recall if rather or not he seen her car parked outside when he drove up. But that wasn't an issue for him. He had to remind himself that she always managed to make it there before he did. So what would make him think today was any different; when she was the number one cook? And she often made it there extremely early to start baking her pies and bread and other foods that required long hours to prepare. He questioned his self.

Faith even knew the time to expect Brick to come walking through the door and normally she would have a plate waiting on him when he got there. He wondered was that the case today being as though he'd made it there extremely early his self. Come to think of it, maybe that was what lured him to the restaurant in the first place, the breakfast and the royal treatment he often received just because. He expected Faith would emerge from the back at any time to deliver him his five star meal nevertheless. "Faith, where you at?" he thought.

Brick insisted he had time to tidy up around the place before she did that though. He stuck his hand behind the door with intentions to turn on the sign in the storefront. He knew exactly where it was located so it wasn't like it was necessary for him to look and see what he was doing. Not when he'd been doing the same exact thing for the last couple years. When he felt what he was looking for he flicked the switch upward to activate whatever was on that currency to come on. Then the entire window lit up like a Christmas tree to display the name of the restaurant: B.R.I.C.K.S, cafeteria and lounge open for business. Well it didn't exactly display the "open for business," wording but that's what anyone, who was unfamiliar with the way Brick did things would infer it. Only everyone wasn't familiar with how he did things or chose to ignore his rules for whatever reason on this particular day.

But I know right, the name of the restaurant seemed a little inappropriate but believe me it had its significance. Brick decided to name his spot after his hood logo as a promotion and marketing scheme. It reminded him and people who was familiar with the good-ole-days when he was knee deep in the drug game slanging them kilos/bricks like he had his own poppy field. Once upon a time if you needed fifty or a hundred bricks, no matter how big the number was, the person to go see was Brick. His real name was Brick Brownlee, but the hood put the "B" in front of Rick and the rest was history. Brick soon became a black legend and who in their right mind didn't want to be in the company of famous people out the hood? The ones who were in the game or thought the game was dead!