Committed To Die: Urban Chronicles, #3

By Jae S Blaque

This deadly game of cat and mouse just got deeper. After the Feds failure to convict him for the murder of Spiderman. the superhero crackhead, Tyson and his cousin Romero spin new plans for success. While building an empire from his indie production studio, he and his band of Righteous Brothers continue to clean the streets of drugs to "save the babies". Danger is never too far as they willingly make sacrifices in their quest to be a "Saving Grace" to the hood they grew up in.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jae S Blaque
• Release date: Dec 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386452416

Jae S Blaque

Jae S Blaque is the pseudonym of Jason Thomas, two time fellon, owner of a Bachelor's Degree in Criminal Justice. Twice convicted for drug crimes, he used his incarceration to rethink on the posibilities of life, living and relationships. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

The dark sedan, chrome shoes gleaming, idled at the curb outside the mosque on Lark Street.  The youthful driver was a dark complected male with an athletic build.  His gaze took in the surroundings like a sentry on guard duty as he waited, his eyes black marbles that penetrated the night.  He was listening to a four-track demo tape of his protégé, a Muslim named Ali Muhammad.  The music had him feeling adrift as if in a cloud of weed smoke, even though he didn’t smoke.  Never cared for the shit, but he imagined this was how it felt to be high, exhilarated, floating like a cloud, giddy.  That’s how powerful the voice, lyrics and beat was.  It lifted his sprit.  He didn’t need a second opinion.  This nigga was a star.  No sooner than the thought appears, the door to his sedan opened.  Ali Muhammad slid into the heated comfort of the 745LI.  Peace god. 

How you, sun? 

I’m good.  How long you been out here? 

Long enuf to hear all four joints.  He indicated the demo that was still playing.  You ready, nigga? 

No doubt, said Ali Muhammad.

Supreme Commander of the God clique, Malik adjusted the knob on the 24-track console.  Ali Muhammad’s song, Anthem, pounded from the speakers set against the walls of the Dirty Palm Imprint studio.  This shit is incredible, simply incredible.  The magic in Ali’s voice and lyrics is crazy.  Black God didn’t lie when he said this nigga was fire.  True God should be on his way with sun by now.  Malik looked at his watch for the third time in as many minutes.  He hadn’t been this excited about working with an artist since his niece, My-My, brought Quatisha to the studio four years ago.

All of 6’3, with a rich brown complexion. Malik was nicely muscled from his bid in prison.  He still worked out, even though he’d been out nearly five years, now.  A Street smart, business savvy individual, he was the engineer at the studio and a counselor at Saving Grace, a non-profit organization run by True God’s aunt, Sonya.  Of all Malik’s roles and talents, his leadership qualities were what drew people to him.  True God, aka Tyson, was his brightest pupil.  Versed in the language and culture of the Nation of God and Earth, Malik earned the title ‘Supreme Commander, 

But right now, he was feeling like a kid in a candy store as he waited, impatient to get to work.

True God betta bring his ass on.

The Crown Victoria paced itself as it followed the dark luxury sedan with gleaming rims that carried the two black males ahead.  This was a ritual that annoyed the D.E.A agents.  For a whole month, it was the same routine.  The sedan would pull up near the mosque, a small storefront.  The young black would get in, and then they would go straight to the music studio, now located in the old Grants building on Pearl Street, right in the middle of the business district.  The agents, frustrated by being beaten last year, were determined to bring Tyson Taylor to justice.  They believed he’d gotten away with murdering an informant named Spiderman who’d assisted D.E.A. in their investigation.  Recently, they’d picked up whispers about a possible comeback of the same group they failed to indict.

The curly haired agent, Delgado, shifted in the passenger seat Whaddaya think?

About what?  Rice, white haired, looking like the drunk he used to be, asked.

Delgado shifted again, as if uncomfortable with his own thoughts.  I mean, here’s a guy, makes lotsa money putting out music, so he got a lot to lose.  Would he risk it?

I’m not sure I follow.  I mean, we’re talking about blacks from the ghetto.  Violent blacks.  Does it make a difference that they have money?  I mean, maybe having the money gives them a feeling of being invulnerable, said Rice dismissing the idea that the blacks even had any intelligence, let alone that they would use any.  They’re criminals.

I guess so, said Delgado.  Being Spanish, he knew his partner’s prejudices often clouded his judgments.  Still, something about this guy Tyson was different.  I’m thinking about the trial, and how, when he took the stand on his own behalf, there weren’t any signs that he was nervous, or out of his league in any way.  It was creepy is all I am saying. How many guys take on the government, and win? "

Rice looked at him, taking his eyes from the road for a moment.  He too thought it was odd the way Tyson Taylor seemed fearless, so sure of himself while he defended himself.  And, he wouldn’t admit this even to himself, he found himself respecting the young Black male.  Turning back to the road, wet with melting snow, he turned north at Pearl Street as the 745LI turned south.

Chapter 2

The wind, already biting, seemed sharper as Tyson and Ali exited the heated whip.  Only 6:30, but the evening was draped in full darkness.  By the time the two of them made it inside the studio it was packed.  The whole crew was there eager to be part of the Ali Muhammad Project, as the production effort was being called.  Even Quatisha, the flagship artist and R&B sensation, was on hand to contribute her talents.  Everybody in the studio was like family; the hardships of the last thirty-six months brought them together as a unit.  There was Tyson’s wife Maria –everybody called her My-My.  Kaseem and Rashiem, the twins –best friend since childhood; everyone thought they were brothers, even though they didn’t look alike.  Sun-God, a producer, and Captain of Security.  And, of course, Malik, and the rest of the Dirty Palm Imprint roster: Suitcase, the thugged out R&B crooner, and Melquan, the backpack rapper.

Ali, standing 5’7, was a midget next to Tyson’s 6’1, wide-shouldered frame.  Light-skinned with freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks that matched the rust red of his close cropped, coarse hair, he made up in energy what he lacked in height.  Music was his anchor in life, what he used to channel his thoughts, which were violent, tempered only by his belief in Allah.  He loved being around the gods though, and respected their culture, admiring the near militant way they carried themselves.  It reminded him of his own teaching in the Nation of Islam.  Except for calling themselves Allah, Ali agreed with their teachings that the Black man is God.  But he wasn’t here to discuss theology, tonight.  Just to lay some more tracks.

Ali had turned to Islam while incarcerated for Attempted Murder.  Because it was his first offense, he was allowed to plea bargain.  He ended up with 2 1/3 to 7.  He was so hyper he lost most his good time in the in the first eight months and ending up serving five and a half years.  Islam, his faith in Allah, slowed him down.  That and his rhyme skills.  A street nigga all his life, he was known as Red.  Not because of his hair and freckles but because of his love for the sight of blood: other peoples blood.  He loved to fight. With hands, bats, chains or guns.  Needless to say, Red, who came home calling himself Ali Muhammad, had trouble convincing people of his humbleness.  One thing was for sure.  He was an animal on the mic, and fit right in with the image Tyson projected for his record label: streetwise, defiant, and all about the hood.  Tyson and Malik knew something else about Ali, too.  He fit the mold they looked for to be part of Street Committee:  he was thorough, and had no love for drugs.  There was always a need for a nigga like Ali.  A lot had changed for da gods the last few years.  Many of their soldiers got sent back to the essence, which left them short-handed:  Jaliek was on the run.  Allahman, the psycho, murked Hasan, AKA Black Ha, in Lincoln Park.  And Tyson had had to send Malik’s cousin, Mathematics back to the essence for betraying the gods by playing two sides of the fence.  While they were ridding the street of drugs, he was flooding the blocks with it.

Tyson, Malik, and the rest of the clique were getting restless.  They were in agreement about Ali’s capabilities, but knew they had to be sure.  They couldn’t afford to have a loose cannon in the clique.  Knowing the Feds never stopped sniffing around for dirt ever since Tyson got that mistrial, they had to move easy.

Chapter 3

The insistent ringing of the phone brought him out of his zone.  Working on a strategy that would not limit his options, it was easy to ignore everything around him when he concentrated.  In a way, the phone offered a much needed break, too.  Lately, he was working so hard, his head felt like someone was sticking needles in it.  He reached over to answer it.  Taylor & Associates Law Offices.  How may I help you?  He said automatically, the problem before him reluctantly fading to a small point.

Hey baby.  I thought you was com’n to the session?

What time is it?  He looked at the black face of his watch.  Damn. Already 8:30 pm.  Um, yea, on my way now."

You sure?  I know bow busy you been, tryna get ready for the case.  I was just being selfish, want’n you to be here, admitted his wife, Qhatisha.

Yea.  I’m on my way.  I need a break, anyway.  See you in a few, Qha.  He hung up the phone.

Romero (Romie Rome) Taylor was one of few Black attorneys in the Capital District,  and was Tyson’s cousin.  He met and fell in love with his wife at the studio four years ago, and married her as soon as he graduated from Law School.  He was well versed in criminal and civil law, and had a firm grip on entertainment law.  The case that made his head hurt was his mother’s.  He tidied the desk, hit the light switch on his way out, and left.

Pretty Lou pulled the thick hood of the Parka jacket over his head as he opened the door to his light grey Range Rover.  It was cold as fuck tonight, but not as cold has his heart when it came to his money.  The heroin king, he made ridiculous sums on a daily basis.  The police acted like they didn’t know, or worse, didn’t care that he sold drugs in the hood.  He acted like he was a rap star or a mogul, and the truth be told, he did own a successful clothing store up in the Crossgates Mall called Style King, and it was rumored that he owned the Mobil gas station on the corner of Quail Street and Clinton Avenue, a very busy spot.  But no one knew for sure.  The one thing known about Pretty Lou, real name Isidore Manning; he was a killer.

At eighteen, Isidore killed two men who, he claimed, tried to kill him.  When he was found guilty of manslaughter, he was sentenced to ten years in State prison in the early nineties.  He’d stabbed two men repeatedly, and was found literally covered with their blood.  Witnesses to the incident testified that Mr. Manning had gone into frenzy like an animal going crazy feeding on the blood of its prey.  Now at thirty-two, a ripe old age for a nigga in the hood, he was at the top of his game.  Always dressed to impress, he loved jewelry so he stayed heavy in diamonds.  In his rings, and on his neck and wrists.  The range was just one of four whips he owned in different peoples names.  What he drove depended more on what he was wearing than anything else.  He was very meticulous about his appearance.  Another thing people realized, almost as an afterthought, Pretty Lou was smart for all his flash.  It took him all of twelve months to lock the street.  While every hustla in the street was fucking with rocks, he was consolidating the dope game: heroin.  For one, it was worth more that coke per gram.  And two, the police, especially the Feds, where focused on crack dealers which left Pretty Lou free to build up his clientele.  He was there, quietly on the sideline while coke dealers where getting burnt, one by one.  Like everyone else, he heard stories about some niggaz called Street Committee.  And, like everyone else, he had no idea who they were.  But unlike most, he didn’t give a fuck who they were as long as they left him the fuck alone.  At any rate, who would fuck with him?  Niggaz knew his capabilities.  Nobody stupid, or crazy enough to try Pretty Lou.  The bar he’d pulled up to was packed with niggaz escaping the cold; hood-rat bitches, and a few drunks.  It was a hole in the wall, but for some of these niggaz it was like being at home.  Everybody knew, and looked out for each other.  Except for the haters, of course.  Petty rivals for coke and weed sales, mostly.  This wasn’t a dope spot, but Pretty Lou loved coming here.  He owned it.  Plus, the bartender was one of his hoes.  He went straight to the end of the bar, where, without a word his bitch brought him a Henny.  You alright, Mec?

Thought you wasn’t com’n tonight, nigga.  Cold as it is.  Mecca smiled, her face lighting up at his presence.  Tall for a female, with a golden hued skin, she was very attractive, except for a mole on the side of her nose.  It looked like a hair bump.

Shit, ya know me.  Neva know when I drop thru.  I’m just stay’n a hot sec, tho’.  Gotta take care sump-sump.

A look of disappointment flashed across her features as she tried to act like it didn’t matter.  She wasn’t his woman.  Knew he fucked others.  That didn’t really bother her, too much.  He did her right.  Still, they spent so little time together; she had hoped he was here to keep her company, at least for a while.  Hope the drink warms you.  She smiled at him again.

It’s do’n the job, he said, something dark and dangerous in his voice.  He was preoccupied.  There, but not there as he sipped at the Henny, taking his time to empty the glass.

Another one?  Mecca asked hopefully.  Anything to prolong him. 

Nah.  I’m good, ma.  Ay lis’n, I’m out.  I’ll gi’ ya a call, okay?  Without waiting for an answer, Pretty Lou left the bar.

The Range’s powerful engine coughed to life quietly.  Pretty Lou sat idle a moment in thought before making a call on his cell.  You ready?  He spoke casually when it was picked up at the other end by a female voice.  On my way, he said, folding the cell then pulled away from the curb.

It took twenty minutes to get to Victoria Street in Schenectady, where his mule, Camille lived.  She was one of three he used on a rotating basis.  She was a white girl he’d hooked up with when he was locked down.  Bitches loved a dangerous nigga, especially white bitches.  Fucking thrill-seeking bitches.  Camille was a trooper though.  She usually made the trip back on the train form New York City, and then rode the bus from the Rennselear train depot to Schenectady, with two kilos of heroin.  Only, she thought it was cocaine, not that it mattered.  He’d just never corrected her when she assumed she was carrying coke for him.  The preoccupied look he wore on his face at the bar vanished the moment he entered the house, a two family wood shingled building with a red brick stoop.  A short female, Camille stood only 5’2 next to his 5’11.  But she was all woman, build for rough play.  Thick, shapely thighs beneath the skintight jeans she loved to wear, and curly brown hair atop an average, olive skinned face.  She had a bubbly personality, which came in handy whenever she made her trips.  No one suspected her of being a drug mule, or of having anything to do with drugs.  Always smiling, she was usually the first to say hi to police playing post a train stations, racially profiling niggaz.  The most beautiful thing about Camille, to Pretty Lou, was that she was so damn eager to please.

Victoria Street was close to, but a world away from the hood.  Lined mostly with one and two family homes, the street easily passed for a suburb.  A few trees spaced up and down the block provided shade in the summer, but in the winter, skeletal branches provided only a stark reminder of the season.  Pretty Lou slipped his key in a slot, opened the door.  Air rushed in at his back bringing the chill inside with him as he entered the small foyer.  The house was fairly large for one person, even two,  but it was cozy and well tended.  Coming here usually provided a respite from the hectic reality of his profession, when he wasn’t here on business.  Camille was good people, for a white chick, and always welcomed him no matter how much time passed between visits.  She loved him.  Tonight, it would take more than that to ease him.  He smiled thinly as Camille appeared from the rear of the house bearing a steaming cup.

Hey, made some hot chocolate for you.  She handed the cup to him.  You’re cold.  Burr.  How’d you know I’d be home when you called?  She mock pouted.

What don’t I know, baby?

Oh, you don’t know everything.  Camille tried to make it sound like she had some secrets, and then abandoned the pretense.  He did know everything where she was concerned.  She willingly gave him control over her life, happily telling him everything he wanted to know, and then some.  Far from beautiful, and her wide hips just didn’t do it for white guys.  Pretty Lou - she called him Dory – made her feel like she was the most beautiful woman he ever met.  And, thanks to him, she owned the house.

I know you, tho.  Pretty Lou sipped the hot liquid slowly.  How was the trip?

It was okay, Dory.  The train ran a little late because of the weather and all.  The city is covered in snow, she said, referring to New York City.

No problems?

No daddy.  It went smooth.  Why?

Just ask’n.  Wanna make sure you okay.

She looked at him, trying to see beyond his words.  No, everything went okay.  How ‘bout you?  She moved closer, her hand touching his arm.  Are you staying for a bit?  She licked her lips slowly.  She knew how much the simple act turned him on, making him think of a sexual act.  One she loved to perform.  Can I suck you?  She watched her words take effect, and then put her hand between his legs. 

Damn, you horny like that, Mille?

I miss you, baby.  I know you been busy and all, but what’s it been like, two weeks?  She unzipped him, her hand snaking into his baggy jeans, playing with him.

Okay, okay.  But I can’t stay long.  He let her play with is dick a moment.  Where’s the pac?

Right there.  Camille pointed to the shopping bag near the lazy boy.  Wanna see it?  Her face said, ‘you don’t need to worry about that.  I got ya big dick in my hand!

Yea, he said, moving away from her squeezing hand.  He didn’t even see the frown on her face.  Business first, always.  Okay.  He verified the 2 kilos he’d put into the shopping bag before dropping her off at Amtrack in New York City earlier that day.  Then he sat down next to the dope.  C’mer, shorty, said Pretty Lou, pulling his dick out, smiling at her.  She smiled back, kneeled before him, and took him into her small hand, massaging him.  Licking him teasingly at first, she sucked him into her mouth like a fudge sickle, noises in the back of her throat exciting both of them.  Then her head bobbed as she sucked him into her throat, hand playing with his balls.

Pretty Lou watched her, enjoying what she was doing, then leaned back to relax, until shit got too good.  One hand on the back of her head; he put his other hand inside her blouse.  She shifted to give him the room he needed.  Her mouth felt good on his dick.  And he knew he could bust his nut