The Cook Up Read online

  I had a junkie I was cool with named Bucket and he, along with one of his friends, carried the safe up to my room and tucked it into the closet.

  I looked at it every day. I knew there was something valuable inside. I just had to make sure I was ready for it.

  MY TRUST FUND

  Nick and I along with three girls from around the way sat in my room over a fifth of Grey Goose, warm pizza, and some well twisted blunts. They all laughed, I just thought about the safe. What’s in it? What if it’s empty? I know he wouldn’t leave it empty. What should I do with the money? Nick was cool when drunk, and we had been drinking seriously for a while, but the girls were annoying. The kind of annoying that’s not cute—young, loud, and annoying. I didn’t know them and really wasn’t trying to meet them. My focus was on the safe.

  “Hey, ladies, no disrespect but y’all gotta go,” I said, moving everyone out into the hallway.

  “What the fuck!” they replied from the other side of the door. I opened it and put the Goose and pizza on their side. Our place was a real teenager bachelor pad with no decorations, blank walls, Nike boxes stacked, and nothing in the fridge but Fruit Roll-Ups. Nick had a collection of empty Hennessy bottles on the countertop. All of our dishes were paper and all of our cups were plastic and red. We really had nothing but a bunch of sneakers, some air mattresses, and that safe.

  I locked my door and kneeled in front of the safe. The numbers were a little faded, but clear enough for me to make them out: 02-right-10-right-08-left-19-right-02.

  Bip taught me how to open it blindfolded so that I could crack it under any circumstance. I remember when we used to have to lie on our backs and kick the door closed because he had so much money in there.

  I had to give the handle an extra tug because it was a little rusted around the edges. I dropped my weight and the door flung open. All types of shit spilled out. I slowly started pulling out the contents and laying them on the floor around me. Stacks and bundles of balled up and unseparated cash, receipts, a watch, maybe a brick and a half of Aryan-colored cocaine, about half a brick of heroin, two pistols, a big zip of vials, a Michael Jordan rookie card in a plastic case, and some pictures: mostly Polaroids of naked girls from our block, a few party pics, and then one of us. Me as a toothless kid with dreads at the top of my fade wearing a red 76ers Starter jacket propped up on Bip’s bony shoulders. He was wearing the same jacket and haircut. No facial hair, no worries, no problems. Just us and our U-shaped smiles. The back of it read “Bip and Lil Dee Dunbar v. Mervo 91.”

  Nick knocked on my door.

  “Yo, Rita wanna fuck you, nigga, stop buggin’. Come on out!” he yelled.

  Juvenile’s “Ha” remix was cranking, making our thin walls shiver. I guessed they had continued the party downstairs. I cracked the door.

  “Nick, cut that shit off and put them out. I need to show you something.” My cold stare sparked urgency in him.

  I slammed the door in his face and started reloading the safe. I put the coke and about three double handfuls of cash back in. I also threw the receipts and pistols in as well. I tacked the picture of us up over my bed and locked the safe just in time to hear Nick say, “Dee, we good? Lemme in.”

  “Yeah, Nick, come in, the door’s open.”

  Nick walked in with his .45 drawn and cocked. “Wassup, dug?”

  He looked over and saw the pile of cash. “Niggas is rich” came out of his mouth over and over again. Nick had never seen that amount of money stacked up like that—but I had.

  I knew we weren’t rich and I could easily eyeball a pile of street money. My guess was about $70K minus what I stuffed back into the safe. In Nick’s defense, $70K in street money could easily look like two million dollars to the naked eye. Street money is thick, wrinkled, tatted, bulky, and fluffy—every dollar has a story.

  I told Nick that we had a decision to make. I still had mixed feelings about selling drugs. I never set out to be a part of that life, but that never stopped that life from setting out to be a part of me. Eighteen, with more than a hundred thousand dollars in cash and product—I could probably open a business. Or I could give the drugs away and start with a clean slate, maybe even go back to school—a real black college like in A Different World.

  But I knew I didn’t want school and I didn’t know anything about a legal business, so why not? Every neighborhood I lived in was flooded with fiends—burned-out people who all wanted the same thing, an escape, which is what I had. Nobody else gives a fuck about this drug shit, so why should I? Why should I care?

  Junkies are killing themselves, I thought to myself over and over again. This shit is bigger than me, bigger than everything.

  “So look, Nick, this coke looks really, really, reallyyy good. It’s probably better than ninety-nine percent of the shit on this planet. You gonna help me move it and we gonna split the money fifty-fifty. I’m thinkin’ we should break it up into ounces and go dirt cheap like $550 to $650 to the niggas we like and seven hundred a joint to everyone else, because it’s all profit.”

  “Hell NO! Did you try some of that shit?” he replied.

  Nick said that we would be leaving a ridiculous amount of money on the table. I said, “I know but I don’t want to get stuck with it, and I’m not slanging hand-to-hand on anybody’s block.” Nick said that he would do all of the dirty work and I wouldn’t have to touch a thing, not a single vial. “Naw, I’ll earn my share,” I said.

  Nick was right. That coke looked too good to be wholesaling ounces; asking for $650 would be like giving it away. I figured that I was already taking the risk of getting a kingpin charge with all of this coke lying around so I might as well maximize my profit margin. I told Nick I’d assemble a crew and that we could cap up half of the coke into $10’s, $20’s and $30’s, put it over in Bucktown by Ellwood Park and let it sell itself. “And wholesale the other half for $950 a joint?” he said.

  “Naw, Nick, I’ma cook that into crack. Watch me fry.”

  Nick nodded in agreement as he tucked his pistol in his waistband. Nick has a five-year minimum sentence strapped to his hip, I thought, as I looked at the pile of twenty-five to life in front of us on the floor. I had another hundred-plus years inside of the safe with another twenty years stashed under my bed.

  HOPE

  Hope was like my big sister. She always called me li’l bro even though she knew I had a stupid crush on her back in the day. Hope lived over in Bucktown, right across the street from where Nick and I planned on dumping product. I hadn’t kicked with her for some time but I was happy that I had reason to chill in her neighborhood. We could catch up and smoke while we clowned around about old shit.

  Hope was about four years older and born supermodel ready with high-ass cheekbones, Colgate ad teeth, and dark, curly hair that reached her hips when braided. She looked a little better than a young Vanessa Williams.

  Hope is from my old building but you wouldn’t know it. Her mom kept her far away from the street dudes and riffraff. She was active in the arts, never hung around public housing, and spoke perfect English, which is why I was startled when I found out she was dating Brock—a two-bit hustler from west Baltimore.

  We used to call him Ugly-Yo and he’d proudly answer. Brock looked like a brown Shrek with thinning dreadlocks. His personality was as ugly as his face.

  Hope and Brock shared a second-floor apartment and I had been through there once or twice. She knew how to create those impossible Ikea-looking store displays with glass ball–filled vases on modern tables over multicolored rugs. She also had pieces of her own artwork on the wall, mostly abstract stuff with deep meanings I didn’t get. The combination of her spirit and creativity made the place glow, despite it being in the center of a fucked-up neighborhood—think of a diamond surrounded by a bunch trash.

  A few days after I cracked the safe, I decided to hit her up.

  “Hey, Dee, baby!”

  “What’s up Hope? How you been?”

  “Not so great, can we talk
? In person?”

  I told her to say no more. I figured that Brock dumbass probably did some something stupid.

  I pulled up to a murder scene. A kid had got his melon cracked a few steps away from her house. Police and homicide squads give me anxiety so I wrapped a blunt and tucked it. I hoped Hope still smoked.

  The mob around the murder stretched way past her door. In these scenes, there’s always a grandma crying and a dude in a tank top spazzing out like “Yo, I’m kill dem niggas! All of Dem! I swear ta GOD!” all in front of the cops. That dude is normally bluffing—he’s not going to kill anything. He probably works a nine to five and runs a Bible study. The crazy act looks good, but it’s just a show. Real killers don’t say a word, they just catch you and blow your head off.

  I got a little a peek at the body but I didn’t know who it was so I maneuvered closer and made my way to Hope’s steps. She had been watching the scene from the door and waiting for me. She greeted me with a soft kiss on the cheek and we rolled up to her unit.

  Shockingly her place was dirty and smelled worse than the dead guy out front. There were piles of cruddy dishes everywhere, empty pizza boxes on top of empty chicken boxes falling from the trash can, crawling with roaches, and collections of Hefty bags with weird clothes all over the place—I kinda didn’t want to sit on the couch. I was scared that the odor of her apartment would get into my sweats.

  “Damn, Hope. You good?” She glanced away and twiddled her thumbs. She looked dirty as well. She wasn’t raised like that. I wondered if she was a junkie. I didn’t really know how to ask in a polite way so I just came out and said, “Hope! You a junkie?”

  She batted her big eyes. “No, silly, I’m just going through some shit.” Junkie or not, she was still beautiful. Her cheekbones were regal.

  “Dee baby, you think you could loan me some money until I get back on my feet? I would never ask you for anything. I don’t know what to do.”

  She had to be getting high or desperate to ask me.

  “Damn, Hope. I don’t know what I’m holdin’, how much do you need?”

  She said a thousand dollars. I told her that I’d let her know a little later. I told her I wanted to make sure that Nick and I were in good shape.

  But I really wanted to make sure she wasn’t a fiend.

  “What, you outta work?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Brock kept calling my job and they fired me. I’m going to find something else but I’m pregnant.”

  “Pregnant!”

  Yuck was my first thought but I didn’t say anything. I’d give her a couple dollars; it wouldn’t kill me but would be everything to her.

  COOK UP

  Nick, can you run me over to Hope’s spot—she needs me,” I asked while separating some cash into three even stacks of a thousand each.

  “You fuckin’ her raggedly ass? Let’s get waffles first. I’m fuckin’ barkin’!”

  “Naw, she cool, and we’ll eat later.” I rubber-banded the cash and we hopped in Nick’s Camry.

  A few weeks had gone by since I cracked the safe and I didn’t try to sell a single vial. I spent the time planning, scouting locations, and building a crew—stuff that corporations do. I also hired Hurk a lawyer. He did some research and recommended that Hurk turn himself in. The lawyer said the state’s case was as soft as baby shit because the informant was sketchy and not coming to court. He had guaranteed probation as a worst-case scenario, especially because there was no weapon. Nick and I showed up to every court date and Hurk’s lawyer was right. The state couldn’t pay that snitch or any witness to testify. Hurk was set to be processed and released any day.

  “Yo Dee, you sure you wanna build a spot by Hope way?” asked Nick as we sat at a red light on Orleans Street.

  “Doesn’t matter where we hustle. No beef and no killing is all I really care about. We can sell drugs until our arms fall off and cops don’t care but when the murders come…”

  Skrrrrrrrrrr! BOOM!

  A blue pickup slammed into the back of our car, making Nick’s head slap the steering wheel like a crash dummy. His neck made a popping sound. I unbuckled my safety belt and reached over.

  “Yo, what the fuck, you good, are you dead?”

  His nod answered my question. I hopped out to see what the fuck was wrong with the dudes in the pickup. Two pint-sized Mexicans hopped out and charged toward me as if it was our fault. They could hardly speak English and probably didn’t really want any trouble, so I flashed the pistol strapped to my belt. They took off running in opposite directions, leaving their truck.

  Nick didn’t have insurance and our windows had limo tint. We also had pistols on us and the car was a bong on wheels, so I dragged Nick out.

  “Yo, forget this car. We leavin’ this crap, I’ma buy you a new one.” I said as my buck-sixty frame tried to support Nick’s 220 pounds of jewelry, acne, baby fat, and empty chicken boxes.

  Three hours later, Nick lay across the couch still, his pudgy hands covering his face. I tried to pull one off but wasn’t strong enough. Tears trickled under his palms as he said, “Dee, go see Discoooo. Get me something, my back. Yo please, God, ehhhh.”

  Disco Joe was a recovering addict who now worked as a nurse’s assistant or aide or something. Her place was over on the other end of Castle Street, right off of Jefferson. Disco offered “ghetto healthcare” to street dudes like us. You could get bullet or stab wounds stitched, random shots, and STD cures.

  Nick was right, Disco Joe would have some pain pills or something for his back so I rolled him a blunt and went to her place. When I arrived, she was sprawled across her stoop, Newport balanced on her bottom lip, with cloudy diamond and gold rings on all ten of her fingers that looked like brass knuckles.

  “Disco, wuz up, baby, I need some pain pills for Nick. We just crushed his whip.”

  “I got Tylox, Oxys, or Perks, baby,” replied Disco with that half-lit cigarette that just wouldn’t fall. She resembled an anorexic Mary J. Blige with a hustle that never stopped moving. Disco made money hand over fist and her shop rocked 24/7.

  “What you think I should buy him?”

  “Two hundred fifty Perks for fifteen hundred dollars for you, bae, and tell ya sexy-ass uncle I wanna dig all in his ass,” replied Disco as she licked the crust off of the edge of her bottom lip, cigarette still holding on for dear life.

  I ignored the invite and cashed her out. She brought the pills out in three long tangerine colored, white-capped cylinders, “I tossed a bundle of Tylox in there too, on me,” she said as I examined the bag and jumped off her top step.

  “Why you givin’ me free stuff?”

  “Cuz I love you, bae, and Bip was my bae too, you know that!” I said thanks, blew her a kiss, and headed straight home.

  My Nextel hadn’t gone off in a while, which was weird because it’s normally a hotline, so I checked it and saw that it was on silent. Two missed calls from Nick and twenty from Uncle Gee. Twenty calls—I can’t take another death, I thought as I hit the callback key.

  “Nephew! What the fuck iz up?” said Gee on the other end.

  Gee used to be the man in east Baltimore but now he’s hit or miss. He flashes money when he’s clean and robs everybody in sight as soon as that monkey climbs back on him.

  “I’m chillin’, man, what’s good?”

  “I’ma come see you later, man, I need you, for real.”

  I told him to come through around midnight. Nick should be good by then. I knew Gee wanted something. I could always see right through that “I need you, I love you” bullshit.

  Gee coming by could be a good thing. I thought I could wholesale him some of that heroin and use the cash to buy Nick a nice car. He wanted a black Lexus GS 300 and I could get that for him and something for me without touching my cash or the coke.

  On the walk home, I pondered on the fact that there was no perfect drug strip or situation for us to enter this game. The key is to buy low and sell high any and everywhere you can. I was over thinking this king
pin shit. Those drugs should’ve been gone. I didn’t have a real drug connect or a reason to babysit all of that product, plus Nick and I could’ve died today—fuck that. It was time to move all of it.

  Back home, I used all of my power to sit Nick up.

  “Nick, listen to me, bro. Chew three of these joints and you will be good. I’ma chew some too,” I said while putting the pills in his hand. He ate all three of them and eased back in the chair.

  “Yo, dey taste like shit and baby powder mixed!” said Nick with a twisted face.

  “How you know what baby powder and shit taste like?” I replied as I swallowed mine and washed it back with a swig of Belvedere. “Drink some of this too.”

  I know alcohol makes Percocets work better—they go together like apples and cinnamon—shit, I don’t even know anyone who would take Perks without yak. I once heard that Percocets worked faster when chewed. I’m not sure about that, but moments later, Nick crawled over to the corner of the living room and balled up like an angry fist. There he farted, yawned, and slipped into euphoria with his eyes open, a little drool wetting his chin.

  I called Hope and told her that I’d be visiting her tomorrow with a special surprise. Then I had to pull the dope out of the safe before Gee got there. He didn’t need to know about everything. Tomorrow was going to be a great day, I thought as I closed and locked the red door. I’m giving Hope three thousand dollars, getting Nick a car, Hurk could be a free man, I’m putting my uncle back in the game, and I’ll be teeing out my own crack in a few different blocks over east.

  The pill in me was growing and then glowing. Bright lights and soft memories fogged my thoughts. Everything became easy in an instant. Those little pills were instant—instant gratification.

  “Dee, get the fuck up! Boy, you lifted,” said Nick, standing over top of me with perfect posture. I never saw a person with a straighter back.