Read an Excerpt
Carl Weber's Kingpins: Philadelphia
By Brittani Williams Urban Books, LLC
Copyright © 2016 Brittani Williams
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62286-953-4
CHAPTER 1
I Want You Dead
Desire
There are two types of people in the world: those who run shit and those who get run over. I had experienced many different traumatic events in my lifetime. Most of them were enough to take a person out. If you were weak, you probably wouldn't be able to make it. I have a story to tell, a story about life, death, love, and hate mixed with everything in between. My truth is my truth: either love me or leave me alone. A person isn't born cold-hearted; they are made that way. They are turned when other people force them to be. I was once a girl with goals. I was going somewhere in life until things derailed. Truth was, I should've seen it coming. I should've been more prepared for the bumps in the road.
I wasn't always afraid of guns. The more I think about it, the actual instrument wasn't the source of my fear. I was afraid of the people with the guns more than the guns themselves. I was ten years old the first time I was shot, and to this day I still have nightmares. May 25, 2003 was the day my life changed forever. It was the day that my brother was murdered and I nearly died. At ten years old, all I cared about was Barbie dolls and Baby Alive. I hated boys almost as much as I hated my mother. In my eyes, neither of them meant me any good.
The day had started off the same as any other day. My sister Lala got breakfast ready and my oldest brother Tyrese drove me to school. My mother was always running the streets getting high or somewhere spread eagle, so Tyrese was the primary caretaker for my brother Ali, who was eleven, Lala, who was seventeen, and me. During school I had a weird feeling in my gut. I didn't know what it was or what it meant, but it was something that made me uncomfortable. So much so that I couldn't even eat my lunch. I went through the day, and Tyrese was waiting for me in the same spot at the corner where he always did. I ran over to him, holding my bowling trip permission slip with a huge smile on my face.
"Hey, baby girl," he said, hugging me. "How was school today?"
"Good. We have a trip next week. Mom needs to sign this," I said, excited. I loved school trips because they always gave me an escape from the harsh realities that I lived with daily. Most times, Tyrese forged her signature because she was missing in action.
"I'll sign it for you later. Let's get going, because I have some things to do before dinner," he said, pointing in the direction of his car.
My brother drove a brand new Mercedes at just nineteen. I speculated that his money came from drug dealing, but he'd never admit it to me. I assumed that he thought that was the only way to protect me. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out how a teenager without a job could keep our bills paid, food on the table, and name-brand clothing on our backs. I hopped in the passenger seat and immediately turned on the radio.
"What I tell you about that?" He playfully popped me on the back of my hand.
"Please, this is the only time I get to hear Power 99," I said with a sad puppy dog face.
"I know, I know. I'm just joking. Anything to make my baby girl happy." He smiled. "Go ahead and turn it up. Might as well blast it if you really want to hear it!"
I turned the volume up as loud as I could. "Crazy in Love" by Beyoncé was playing. I'd fallen in love with the song as soon as I heard it. I began to sing the words while doing the best seated rendition of her dance moves. Tyrese sat in the driver's seat almost in tears, laughing at me.
I continued to sing as he pulled out of the parking spot and headed toward our house, which was only about ten blocks away. About five blocks into the drive, I noticed a change in his mood. I turned the radio down.
"What's wrong?" I asked with concern.
He was looking into the rearview mirror and fumbling for his cell phone. "Nothing, baby girl. Turn the music back up," he said in a serious tone.
"Something is wrong. Ty, is someone following us?" I asked, turning around in my seat.
"I said nothing is wrong. Now turn the goddamn radio back up," he yelled.
I jumped out of fear. I hated when he yelled. He'd never resorted to hitting me, but I was always afraid that he would. When he was angry, you'd better damn well listen or get the hell out of his way. My hand shook uncontrollably as I turned the volume of the radio back up. I kept my eye on Tyrese as he dialed a number on his Motorola keypad.
"These niggas are on me," he yelled into the receiver. "I'm almost to the crib. Meet me there," he said before putting the phone down and retrieving his gun from his waist.
Tears immediately began to well up in my eyes. I'd never seen a gun up close and personal. Tyrese looked over at me then back into the mirror without saying a word. Normally when I cried, he'd go out of his way to console me. At that moment, my tears didn't seem to evoke any emotion from him. It was almost as if his soul had already left his body.
He sped down through the streets and onto our block before turning into the driveway. He slammed on the brakes and cocked his gun before opening the door and getting out. A black Cadillac had stopped behind us, and within seconds I heard gunshots. I tried to duck down in my chair, but the seat belt had a tight grip around my torso. Tyrese was still standing, shooting in the direction of the black car. I was screaming as glass shattered and bullets flew past me. I could hear the children on the block screaming and scattering.
I finally got the seat belt loose, and just as I opened the door, I heard Tyrese yell in agony. I turned, and he was leaned up against the open driver's side door with blood pouring from multiple gunshot wounds. I climbed over the seat and out on top of him. Trying to shield him, I was struck with a burning pain before my body went numb. I stared my brother in the eye as he gasped for air. The screeching of tires was heard a second later, followed by my mother's screams.
"No, not my baby," she screamed.
She pulled me off of Tyrese and laid me on the ground. The neighbors ran over, all frantic. My mom was cradling Tyrese in her arms as I lay still, with my sister holding her hand over the exit wound in my chest. I couldn't say that I was surprised by my mother's reaction, since I knew for a long time she didn't give a shit about me. Even though I didn't expect her to care, I wished that she had. I wished that she'd cared enough about me not to lay me to the side like a piece of garbage. I know that a situation like this would be tough for any mother, but it was clear which child was important to her. I couldn't feel anything, and everything was becoming a blur.
"Come on, baby, keep your eyes open!" she screamed, shaking Tyrese's head. She was racked with sobs as he was slowly dying in her arms.
Soon I began to feel pain again, and I screamed so loudly the entire group, which had gathered around us, got completely quiet. My mother still stayed holding his limp body while I lay in agony with my sister's hands pressed against my chest. Not once did my mother look to see if I was okay. After a few more seconds, everything went black.
The next thing that I remember was waking up a week and one day later. The first person I saw was my sister Lala.
"Hey, baby girl. How are you feeling?" she asked, getting up from the chair and walking over to the side of the bed. My throat was sore and my chest hurt like hell.
"Where's Ty? Is he okay?" I asked. I didn't care about my injuries. I just wanted to know that he was still alive.
She immediately began to cry and grabbed a hold of my hand.
"No," I screamed through the piercing pain in my throat.
"I'm sorry, D, but he didn't make it. We buried him yesterday."
I began to scream while trying to pull the leads from the heart monitor off of my chest. I wanted to get out of there. At that moment, the closest thing to me was gone. He'd always been more like a father to me than a brother. I ripped the IV out of my arm and blood squirted all over the white bed sheets. Lala tried to calm me as two nurses ran into the room. I was fighting them with everything I had, even causing one of their noses to bleed. I needed to see him. I couldn't wrap my mind around the idea of him being dead. Soon the room was filled with hospital staff trying to calm me down. Eventually I was held down by three staff members and given a needle in my shoulder that immediately made me sleepy.
When I woke up my hands and feet were tied to the bed. Lala was standing over at the window looking outside. I began to tug at the restraints hoping I could get free. She came over to the bed when she realized that I was awake.
"D, you have to calm down. You don't want them to take you away. I need you to pull yourself together. Ty wouldn't want you to fall apart. He loved you too much," she said, placing her hands on both sides of my cheeks and looking me in the eye.
"I'd rather die with him. I can't live without him, Lala, I just can't." Tears were rolling down my cheeks and onto her hands.
"You don't have a choice. We don't have a choice. We have to be strong and make him proud."
"I didn't get a chance to say bye. I tried to save him. I took a bullet in the back for him," I cried.
My body was aching and not from the injury. My heart hurt. My soul was bleeding. The bullet that I thought I stopped went through me and into his heart, killing him. I began to blame myself, thinking if I'd stayed put maybe he would've survived. So many thoughts ran through my mind, and depression was inevitable. To make matters even worse, my mother never visited me. Lala claimed she was too distraught, but somehow, I believed that she blamed me just as much as I blamed myself. Tyrese was the glue that held us all together, and without him things would never be the same.
I was discharged two days later and ended up at my grandmother's house where I remained until I finished school. My mother couldn't look at me without thinking of him. She'd lost the house and car, and her drug addiction grew worse by the day. Thankfully, my grandmother was there to push me along each time I thought about quitting. There wasn't anyone who loved him more than I did, and I believed that she mourned the loss of the things that he provided more than the loss of her child. That day, she lost two children, because I never called her mother again.
I carried around a photo of Tyrese everywhere I went. In the photo he had his arms wrapped around me, and I had the biggest smile on my face. Everything that I did was for him, and I vowed to get revenge on anyone who had something to do with his death. I didn't care who I had to harm in the process. I wanted them all to pay, and death was more fulfilling than any prison stint.
CHAPTER 2
Son of a Savior ... or Not
Dontay
Summer, 1988
You know the saying, "You eat shit, you order shit"? Well, that's one of the realest quotes ever spoken. I didn't know who originated the line, but it was one that I'd spit on countless occasions. Where I was from, you only acquired shit you worked to get. Whether it's standing on the corner, working in the trap, robbing niggas, whatever your specialty, you put in many hours of hard-ass labor. The way I interpreted the quote: if you work hard, you get results. If you're a lazy muthafucker who thinks shit should be handed to you on a platter, then keep your ass in the projects. One thing about me was I was a realist and ain't no beating around the bush over here. I never gave a fuck what anyone thought about me. Growing up I was forced to be a man much sooner than I should've been. I was my mother's only child, but my father, he had multiple children by multiple women. Hell, I didn't even know all of them. For all I knew, I could've been fucking my own sister thanks to him. Clearly, I wasn't the son of a preacher man, but I was damn sure the son of a savior. That may sound strange, but the way my mother told it, he took her from a life of poverty and showered her with nothing but the best. By the time I was five, they were no longer together, but my father made sure we always had and never wanted for anything. That was, until he got married. I was ten years old when I realized shit had changed.
It was the summer of 1988, and it was hotter than a muthafucker. I woke up sweating half to damn death in a house that was pitch-black. I got out of bed and rubbed my eyes, trying to maneuver my way through the house without falling and breaking my neck. Once I made it to the hall I could hear my mother's voice. She was on the phone yelling.
"What do you mean you can't pay the bills anymore, Jimmy? Your son lives here," she yelled. "So you're gonna let that bitch dictate how you take care of your responsibilities?"
I made my way to the top of the stairs to finish eavesdropping. This was the first time I'd ever heard my parents have an argument.
"It's ninety-five degrees outside, Jimmy. We are in here in the dark with no air. You could've at least given me a warning," she yelled with her voice cracking. I could tell from where I stood that she was trying hard to fight back tears.
"You know what, Jimmy? Fuck you and that bitch. I hope both of you go straight to hell with gasoline drawers on," she yelled before slamming the phone down.
A few seconds later I heard the sound of her lighter followed by the burning of her Newport cigarette. I didn't want her to know that I'd heard her conversation so I tried to tiptoe back to my room. I hadn't noticed my skateboard in the middle of the floor, and stubbed my toe.
"Ouch," I said aloud as I bent down to move the skateboard out of the way.
"Dontay?" my mother hollered up the stairs.
"Yes, Mom," I replied.
"Come downstairs so I can talk to you for a minute."
"Okay," I said as I made my way back toward the stairs. I crept down the stairs already having it in my head that I would act clueless of what I'd heard. She was sitting on the sofa near the door. I walked over and sat down next to her. "What's wrong with the electricity, Mom? It's hot in here."
"I know, baby. I'll have to wait until they open up and go over to take care of the bill. I honestly forgot that it was due, but I'll take care of it. You can go around your grandmom's if it's too hot in here for you."
"No, it's okay," I replied. I knew that she hadn't forgotten about the bill. I didn't want her to feel even worse that she already did by running to my grandmom.
"Why don't you go take a cold shower. That should help you cool off. It'll only be a couple of hours before they open," she said.
"Okay," I said as I got up and went back upstairs.
The light was starting to peek in through the blinds. This was the first time that we'd ever experienced any type of hardship. I hated to see my mother upset. At ten, there wasn't much that I could do to fix the problem. I thought that maybe if I went and talked to my father myself, he would have a little sympathy and give us the bill money.
After my mom left, I got dressed, put on my backpack, and went out to walk to my father's house. I didn't tell my mom about my intentions because I knew that she would never approve. It took me an hour and a half to make it to his home by foot. I was hot and exhausted. I didn't see my father's Mercedes sitting in the driveway. As a matter of fact, there was a FOR SALE sign sticking out of the grass. I became enraged as I thought about the fact that he'd up and leave. I walked behind the rosebush that sat in front of one of the windows and tried to look inside. All of the furniture was gone. Nothing was visible except the newly polished cherry-wood floors. I walked around to the rear of the house and that was empty as well. The patio door appeared to be cracked open so I went over and tugged it open. I walked inside slowly.
"Hello. Is anybody home?" I said. The last thing I needed was someone coming out and shooting my ass. Satisfied that I was alone I walked in every room and each room was empty. I was on my way out of the back door when something came over me. I wanted him to pay. The only thing that I could think of doing at the time was damaging his home and putting a halt to his sale. I went in my backpack and pulled out my pencil case. Inside were crayons, markers, paint, you name it. I took every color of every medium I had and marked up the freshly painted white walls. In every room I wrote Fuck You and Go to Hell. My handwriting was terrible, but you could understand what I was saying loud and clear. I threw colored paint all over the floors and countertops in the kitchen. The tile in the bathroom was covered with a nice shade of red. I was furious before I even truly understood what fury felt like.
Once I was satisfied with the damage I picked up my backpack and left the same way that I'd come in. This time, instead of walking, I ran as fast as I could. I ran about twenty blocks before I stopped running. I bent over breathing heavily. After getting a second wind, I continued home. Once I got there my mother was on the steps with an angry face. She got up once she noticed me.
"Where the hell have you been, Dontay? Why would you leave the house without telling me where you were going? And what the hell happened to your clothes? Why are you covered with paint?" she asked without stopping to take a breath in between questions.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Carl Weber's Kingpins: Philadelphia by Brittani Williams. Copyright © 2016 Brittani Williams. Excerpted by permission of Urban Books, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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