Everything is Everything Book 2

By Pepper Pace

In 1977 two kids formed an unlikely bond—one a white boy living in a mostly black housing projects and a black girl residing on the ‘hilltop’ which looks down on the ghetto. Two years later both are tentatively approaching first love.

But the secrets of the past forces them apart until one day Vanessa returns to a world that she never felt a part of. Her first love is now a drug dealer and Vanessa still feels irrevocably linked to him. But she won’t live her life with a man that exists on the edge of right and wrong. And Scotty makes the supreme sacrifice for his family and for his future.

Now in Book 2 of Everything is Everything, the secrets of the past explodes around them all and threatens to steal not only the dreams of Scotty and Vanessa but also their very lives.

From a return of those thought long lost, to the Hip Hop scene of New York City, prison, death, a huge dysfunctional family and the drug game that is never far out of reach, Scotty and Vanessa must navigate through the minefield of street life in order to learn that blood is not always thicker than water.

Warning: This Urban Literature novel delves into a world of drugs, money and the racial tension of the 70’s and 80’s. It includes graphic language, drug use, sexual situations and violence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pepper Pace
• Release date: Feb 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370053353

Pepper Pace

Pepper Pace stories span the gamut from humorous to heartfelt, however the common theme is crossing boundaries.Pepper's unique stories deal with taboo topics such as mental illness and homelessness. Readers find themselves questioning their own sense of right and wrong, attraction and desire.In addition to writing, the author is also an artist, an introverted recluse, a self proclaimed empath and a foodie. Please check out her e-book trailers on this page! You may contact the author at [e-mail] the Pepper Pace Newsletter and receive free stories! http://eepurl.com/bGV4tb

Book preview

Part I

What we think, or what we know, or what we believe is, in the end, of little consequence. The only consequence is what we do.

—John Ruskin

Prologue

1980

Scotty Tremont concentrated on the reddened flesh of his wrist where the handcuffs had bitten into his skin. He knew that he should be working on his game face and showing that he wasn’t one to fuck with. But the truth of the matter is that he hoped someone would try. He hoped that someone would look at him and just see a white guy with longish, blondish hair and eyes that were a light shade of grey-blue. He hoped someone would make the mistake of trying to flex because Scotty knew this is how jail worked. And then he could smash his fist into someone’s face and hear the satisfying crunch of bone giving away beneath his blows. Right now he wanted nothing more than to punch and scream and … He blinked and focused on his wrists. Best to think about his exit strategy.

This was the second week of his arrest. He’d been in juvenile detention for a week in a half until being transferred to the Justice Center Friday. Now it was Monday. He hated jail more than he hated anything. The food made you sick, there was no place to lie down and you always had to be on guard. At least in Juvie he was immediately assigned his bed and duties. But in jail all you did was wait.

This was not his first stint in lock up. At the age of seventeen Scotty Tremont knew the ins and outs of the Ohio criminal justice system. Mostly it was in the form of Juvenile detention, weekend stays in jail, and once he had sat cooling his heels for a month at a boy’s farm until they had run out of space and released him in order to accommodate more hardened criminals.

Jail didn’t scare him, what scared him was leaving his brothers and sisters. Now that he was the oldest responsible Tremont he had to make sure Miss Gloria had money to take care of everyone and that Phonso had protection from the bullies and predators of the ghetto. His little brother was fifteen but walked around as if he was twice that.

In some ways the ghetto offered Alphonso Tremont more protection than it did Scotty. Being half black Alphonso at least looked like most of the people that the brothers interacted with.

But Scotty knew that the drug game was one made up of opportunities and splitting up the Tremont brothers was a perfect opportunity for someone to step in and take over.

Anger washed over him again at the stupid mistake that had landed him in jail. It had happened at a house party. The party had gotten too wild and the cops were called. But instead of just busting it up they all got searched. Phonso

had been holding meth, which would bump the charges from a misdemeanor to a felony.

Stupid little punk! Phonso was far too ambitious. They were only supposed to be holding marijuana and so Scotty had made his brother give him all the drugs and he had caught the possession with intent to distribute charge.

It carried a mandatory three and a half year sentence.

The city of Cincinnati’s Justice center had offered him a way out. If he entered a juvenile divergence program and followed it through to the end then he could have his record expunged of all drug crimes—past and present. In order to make this happen he would have to do something called ‘Scared Straight.’

Scared Straight is where the city tried to show young offenders the harsh realities of the criminal justice system by taking them to prison and literally scaring them straight. The young offenders would be shown the side of prison that one didn’t get to see on television or the movies--non-censored and in your face.

Scotty had readily agreed. But then he had found out where he was going; Lebanon. It was the hardest prison in the state of Ohio. But that wasn’t the issue. The issue is that Lebanon County Prison is also where his father was.

Yo, white boy, Scotty’s eyes moved upward and locked onto those of a young black guy who was standing over him. That’s my seat. The young man’s eyes darted around to see who was watching, who he was impressing.

Most wouldn’t look at Scotty Tremont and see that he was no different than many of them. They wouldn’t immediately know that he’d had to fight harder than most because not only was he the product of the ghetto, the product of a pimp father and a prostitute mother—but he’d had to constantly prove that his white skin didn’t make him soft. Scotty had a strong survivor’s mentality—a fact which surpassed the color of ones skin.

Get up nigger! Don’t make me have to tell you twice! The young man said. He was bigger than Scotty and he flexed arms that were swollen by more fat than muscle.

The other men in the holding cell watched with interest. A few knew that the black man was messing with the wrong white guy and egged it on anyways in the hopes of witnessing some free entertainment.

Scotty’s eyes gleamed a half second before he rose off the old bench worn smooth by countless asses. The young thug suddenly looked unsure but puffed out his chest since he and the white boy were now the center of attention.

Scotty wasn’t interested in arguing, he just snaked out his fist where it smashed into the man’s face.

Taken by surprise, his head jerked back. Less than a second later his body followed and he hit the floor splayed out—and knocked out.

Scotty blinked in disappointment. He had barely tapped into his need to break something. But it went against his grain to hit someone while they were down so he just stood there a moment hoping the thug would at least wake up so that he could put him to sleep again.

The sound of hooping and hollering brought Scotty out of his anger and he distinctly heard several men yelling for him to walk away. An older black man that had to be pushing forty suddenly grabbed Scotty by the arm and dragged him away. Scotty focused his attention on the new guy, debating with himself whether he wanted a new focus for his burning aggression.

Guards’ coming, young blood. You don’t need to catch another case over some dumb shit!

After a pause Scotty nodded. Thank you.

A moment later two guards entered the holding cell and looked at the young man who was still lying on the floor out cold.

What the hell happened here? A guard asked gruffly.

The noise quieted and Scotty waited silently. But no one said a word. Eventually they dragged the semi-conscious man out of the holding cell. He did not return.

It wasn’t until right before lunch that the bus finally arrived to take the boys eligible for the Scared Straight program to the Lebanon Correctional Facility. That meant no food for him. Not that Scotty was looking forward to another lunch consisting of suspicious looking bologna on white bread, a thin slice of cheese, a packet of mustard, and the carton of imitation orange juice.

He was hungry but that wasn’t anything new. He hunkered down in his seat filled with strategically placed springs that threatened to puncture his balls. He half-heartedly listened to the other boys try to outdo each other with their list of crimes.

There were eight other boys. Of them was a thirteen year old who had punched his teacher in the face. He had cool points until it was discovered that his teacher was a woman. Scotty and another boy were the eldest and both were there for drug offenses. The two eyed each other suspiciously until they discovered that they worked in two totally different locations.

Of the nine youths on their way to the Scared Straight program none seemed interested in being reformed.

Four had never been to juvie nor had they ever seen the inside of a correctional institution. Scotty thought they were the loudest shit-talkers that he had ever heard. The others had been in and out of juvie for mainly drug related offenses. While less boisterous Scotty could easily tell the difference between those that meant to give everyone around them a hard time and those that wanted to just get through the program.

After the bus arrived the boys were herded into a processing area. Mr. Kunly was the correction’s officer in charge of them for the day. He was a tall thick man with a face that seemed to be frozen into a perpetual scowl. His buzz cut and cold brown eyes only amplified the fact that he either hated his job or hated the kids.

He began by calling them harsh names; asshole, hey you dummy, etc. They were then made to put on orange jumpsuits and for the smaller kids they were made to roll up the legs and arms until they resembled circus clowns.

The boys did a lot of grumbling and complaining under their voices until Mr. Kunly got into their faces Drill Sargent style.

Scotty and the other boy his age stayed quiet. When Kunly or any of the other guards got into their faces neither made sarcastic come-backs. They kept their eyes averted and made simple responses when asked a question.

The thirteen-year old teacher-attacker, though was a different story. He and a few others did nothing but act out, assured of the fact that they were untouchable because of their age.

I ain’t scared, the boy stated with a self-assured smirk. I’m going home tonight and these fools will still be here.

Kunly turned and his eyes locked onto the boy and Scotty saw a subtle shift in the man’s expression and demeanor.

Is that what you think, little man? Kunly asked.

The boy’s chin lifted in defiance.

That’s what I know!

Kunly smiled and it was dark and mean. Scotty frowned knowing that this day was not going to fair well for the little man.

After a brief orientation where ‘little man’ kept making comments under his breath and getting yelled at, and some of the others were egging it on, Kunly announced that orientation was over and led them out of the room. He had a smile on his face and when Scotty looked around he noticed that all of their guards did as well. Scotty put himself on alert that something was coming.

Sure enough, as soon as they entered the next room and the door was closed several men grabbed them. Some of the boys were roughly lifted and passed from one prisoner to another, while some of the bigger youth were just slammed roughly against the cement walls.

At the rough treatment, Scotty went into defense mode. He had been pushed face first against the cement wall, his arms pinned by several larger men. Someone clamped his hand around the back of Scotty’s neck, holding him firmly in place against the wall.

Stay down Scotty.

Scotty’s head pivoted at the familiar voice. His heart began to thud in a mix of regret and excitement.

It was the voice of his father, Juan Carlos Tremont.

You have to get a pat down. Don’t worry, it’s just some bullshit. Juan Carlos made sure his son would stay put against the wall before making the motions of patting him down.

The guards were standing by the door watching with amusement, as some of the prisoners got a bit aggressive with the kids. Little man was yelling that they were breaking his arm and the prisoner patting him down immediately pressed the boy’s face roughly against the cement wall. The man wasn’t very big; in fact he was fairly short in stature. His brown dome was shaved and he wore a slight goatee. His expression is what made a relatively small man look dangerous. He pressed his lips against the struggling boy’s ear and began to speak in low tones. When Little Man cried out in pain the man didn’t let up on the pressure but pressed his face even harder against the wall. The man barked out a short order and Little Man cried out tearfully, ‘Yes, sir!’

When the pat down was complete more than one boy had tears in their eyes. They were all made to line up shoulder to shoulder while the prisoners stood back glaring at them, pacing like caged animals and anxious to do something bad…

Scotty’s eyes fell on to his father. He hadn’t seen the man in years. He’d been a little kid the last time Juan Carlos had been a free man. Scotty didn’t think he looked much different although his prison issued jeans and t-shirt was far from the fashionable pimp that he’d been ten years ago.

His father was of average height and weight and yet his presence seemed big. Perhaps it was his eyes that seemed to pierce straight through you. His eyes were brown—nearly black, fathomless orbs beneath a straight brow that lead down to a straight nose. He wore a heavy mustache, which was streaked in grey. His brown skin and thick curly hair proclaimed his Hispanic origins. Even in his early forties and incarcerated for more years than not, it was plain to see why he had no trouble finding women to pimp out. Juan Carlos was handsome.

Kunly stepped forward, still smirking. Okay ladies, lets begin with a little introduction into Prison Life 101.

Kunly’s eyes met that of Little Man who stood quietly sniffling back angry tears.

"You don’t run this house. You will never run this house because this is my house. Kunly gestured to the stalking men. You’re going to have to go up against all of them just to get a chance—and these aren’t even the worse of them. These are the best of them. We aren’t allowed to have you around the worst of them because they fuck little boys like you. Or they take you for everything you got and pimp you out. That’s if you’re lucky. Because worse case scenario you just end up another dead nigger, another dead honky, another dead spic."

One boy bristled at being referred to as a nigger and a white inmate got in his face.

You’ll be my nigger. I can already see that. I got about fifteen more years in here and when I get through with you I’ll pass you along to the rest of the brotherhood. That’s right boy. I’m a white supremacist and there are plenty more where I come from.

The young boy stood bravely but fear and frustration had caused tears to course down his cheeks. As soon as the tears appeared five inmates jumped into his face yelling at him to shut-up and to stop acting like a little bitch. One of the guards finally broke it up but the kid was visibly shaking and crying by that point. It was very easy to forget that the State of Ohio wouldn’t allow the children to be raped and beaten up on their watch.

The inmates took turns questioning the kids about their crimes, getting into their faces and pushing them around. But no one said one word to Scotty who just watched his father stand-by quietly without getting involved in the show of scaring the kids.

After that they went on a tour of the lunchroom, which was crowded with men who cat-called them when they walked into the room. They were given food to eat while the inmates from the previous room made sure they knew how to sit and eat.

Scotty got his tray of food while his father escorted him silently. After they were seated Scotty stared down at the food. There was a grey piece of meat with grey sauce on it, meatloaf? There were also soggy mixed vegetables, translucent mashed potatoes and two slices of white bread.

His stomach turned.

Don’t eat that, Juan Carlos spoke while the other kids complained at how bad it smelled and tasted.

You don’t eat? Scotty spoke for the first time.

Only the derelicts eat this. The rest of us get commissary. Besides they made up a special batch of food for the chumps, Juan Carlos gestured at the other kids with his thumb. This is garbage.

Scotty didn’t respond.

We’ll have time to talk after lunch. Scotty met his father’s eyes. Juan Carlos was not his biological father but he was married to his mother and he was also the only man to ever step into that role.

Talk about what? Scotty stated plainly. He hadn’t been around in years and Scotty figured that if they wanted to play catch up they could have done it before now.

Juan Carlos didn’t seem bothered by the coldness in Scotty’s voice. We need to talk.

Thankfully for the other kids, the meal only lasted fifteen minutes and they were escorted to the showers where they were told that if they needed to relieve themselves they could do so now even though everything was open for everyone to see you do your business.

Next came time for them to be locked into the cells with the individual prisoners.

Little Man protested feebly when he saw that they would be locked in a small cell without a guard present. Two prisoners who were evidently bunk mates waited for Little Man. Once the cell door closed behind him they made him give them his gym shoes.

Scotty followed his father up one tier to where more cells lined the circumference of the room. The prison wasn’t like what he was used to seeing on television. They were in a large room with two levels and a common area on the main floor.

The majority of the inmates were congregating here although as he passed cells he could see that some were in their cells lying in bunks and reading.

It seemed relaxed for prison. The common area had tables that were bolted to the floor and small stools that served as the seats. There were two telephones that he could see, a television set, which had such bad reception that he could barely tell what was playing. And last there was a room that looked over it all, and that is where the two guards watched everything.

Scotty followed his father into a cell. He looked around, surprised at how small it was. But it was clean. There were two bunks, a sink a toilet and a ledge that served as a desk. Lining one wall were two sets of shelves and they were crammed with the men’s belonging; everything from books, papers, magazines, toilet paper and cooking spices.

Have a seat. Juan Carlos gestured to a bunk. That’s where I sleep, so it’s okay.

Scotty was close to telling him no but decided to just go with it. He plopped down on the hard bunk realizing that there was no box springs beneath the mattress, just a metal slab which didn’t yield beneath his weight.

His father squatted and pulled a large plastic bin from beneath the bed.

You’re looking good Scotty. Juan Carlos stated while lifting the lid. Scotty saw that the trunk was filled with food. His father retrieved a packet of ramen noodles and a can of generic spaghetti sauce.

Juan Carlos looked at him when Scotty didn’t reply. I guess you’re thinking that there isn’t much for us to say, right?

Scotty’s stomach grumbled. No. I’m wondering how you’re going to cook that.

Juan Carlos smiled and rose to his feet. He placed the items on the desk and Scotty saw that there was a little hot plate nestled in the corner.

I have discovered twenty-seven uses for noodle soup.

Juan retrieved a dented tin pot from one of the shelves and dumped the contents of the noodle packet and sauce in all at once. You should see what I can do with some hamburger meat. When you think about it, there are all kinds of canned foods that can be repurposed. He chuckled. There’s canned meat, fish, sauces and soup. I can even make tacos as good as the ones we had at home. He met Scotty’s eyes. Remember those tacos I use to make? You kids could never get enough of them.

Scotty didn’t respond. He remembered the tacos. He also remembered when the man would get locked up again and there was nothing to eat.

Juan Carlos stood over the hotplate stirring the hard noodles and congealed sauce with a metal tablespoon.

Are you coming here to stay a while? He finally asked.

Scotty, whose eyes had been drawn to the pot of food, met his father’s eyes in confusion.

I’m just doing this program so that I can hit the streets as soon as possible.

Ah, so you are planning on coming here permanently.

Scotty’s brow gathered in annoyance that this man who knew so little about him and who obviously couldn’t pimp without getting locked up would think that he couldn’t hustle. Yes, they were both in prison but the difference was that Scotty was only a visitor and didn’t intend to stay in this life long enough to become a permanent resident.

Nah. It’s not going to be like that for me-

How are your brothers and sisters, your mom? Juan Carlos interrupted.

Scotty drew in a deep breath. His eyes took in the room. There were pictures but none were of him, his brothers and sisters or his Mom. They all must have belonged to the other bunkmate—who evidently gave a shit about his family.

The same, he said feeling no desire to give the man more than that. He didn’t deserve more than that.

How did you know that I was coming?

Juan Carlos watched Scotty. We have the same last name. They asked me and I told them you were my kid. I got some clout so here we are. For the record when you do come here, you’ll have clout too.

Scotty was too confused to be angry that Juan Carlos refused to believe that he wouldn’t end up in the penitentiary.

Well son, I’ve been here and I’ve made a reputation for myself. A better rep here than I have out on the streets. Juan Carlos paused to break open the packet of noodle mix season. He sprinkled it on the sauce, which was now beginning to bubble.

There are a lot of good hustles here. Believe it or not cigarettes is about as big as drugs. I don’t mess with the dope. The gangs lock that up. Selling commissary is good money; food and smokes is about all the State of Ohio will allow us.

Juan Carlos withdrew another bin from beneath the bed and Scotty stood to give him room. When the lid was lifted he saw that it was filled with cases of cigarettes. The older man broke open a box and then one of the packets. He shook out two cigarettes and offered one to Scotty.

Scotty accepted it and a moment after his father passed him a portable lighter he gratefully inhaled a lungful of smoke. He hadn’t had a cigarette in days. The small cell began to fill with the smell of tobacco and spaghetti, which was surprisingly pleasant.

So I’m saying that when you get here-

Dad, I’m not going to end up here, Scotty bit out. I have a plan. This is not going to be my life, not hustling, not prison. I’m out of it as soon as I can. I’m not greedy. I don’t need to be rich. I just need to make sure that my family is taken care of.

Most men feel the same way. A good amount of them end up in a prison cell just like mine.

Scotty scowled.

Juan had turned back to the hot plate and began serving up big forkfuls of steaming sauce-covered noodles onto two paper plates.

He picked up the plates and handed one to Scotty. Sit and eat. The two men sat on the edge of the bed and Scotty forked the food into his mouth. He gave Juan a look of surprise that the concoction was actually pretty good.

Do you like it? The man asked.

Scotty nodded and ate quickly, not knowing if a guard would show up and make him leave before he had a chance to fill his belly.

Slow down son. We got time. Do you want a Coca Cola?

Scotty nodded, though he didn’t slow down. He didn’t trust his father’s assertions. Scotty rarely trusted what anyone said. Words were just the lip service people gave in order to have something to say. People talked too much even when they knew they couldn’t back up their words. It was a game to some, but not to Scotty. His word was his bond.

Juan Carlos hadn’t ever made any promises, though. He just stayed long enough to make everyone think that things would get better.

Within a minute Scotty had the food finished, his cigarette butt squashed in the last bit of red sauce on the plate and he was nursing the Coca Cola.

It had been the best meal that he’d had in weeks.

Juan Carlos passed his half finished plate of food to Scotty who declined. Juan Carlos placed the plate on the desk and studied the boy proudly.

You look good Scotty. You took care of yourself. I wasn’t always sure how it would turn out for you; being white and living in the projects. We could have moved to Covington Kentucky where there were more whites but once Tracy started having black kids it didn’t really matter.

Scotty studied his father not sensing any animosity in his words. He knew that Juan Carlos accepted all of Tracy Tremont’s children as his own regardless of whether or not he was the biological father. He’d explained to them that family had nothing to do with blood. He was a Hispanic man married to a white woman with three black kids, four white kids and one Hispanic kid. And he didn’t even treat the one kid that was biologically his own any different than any of the others.

This was maybe the only valuable thing that Juan Carlos had ever taught them; and why Scotty couldn’t completely hate the man. Juan Carlos had pimped out his mother as if she was his possession, as if he owned her. And by association he felt as if he owned them all. Scotty had come to understand that it made Juan Carlos feel powerful to be the source of their creation.

Scotty figured that Juan Carlos loved them all the way a master loved his slaves. The way that crazy preacher Jim Jones loved his disciples. Their love was tainted, though. You can’t love something that you haven’t taken the time to get to know and understand.

Scotty was suddenly tired. He’d had enough of this trip down memory lane. But figured that his father wanted something and until they got to the point this was just going to get long and drawn out. But Scotty didn’t think the man deserved to get the nice easy version of the facts. He intended to keep it real.

What do you want to talk about? Scotty finally asked coldly. Mom? She’s not hooking these days. She’s got full blown AIDS and is living in a residential treatment facility for recovering addicts.

Juan’s eyes flinched and then he looked away.

She seems happier though. But she misses us. The court took us away. Me, Phonso and Beady visit her sometimes but she can only have supervised visits with the others—and that doesn’t happen so…

Juan Carlos looked at his son, You kids got separated …

Scotty was surprised to see that Juan Carlos seemed saddened by that.

You never met Tyrone. He’s four now. Mom hooked up with Beady’s father and had Tyrone. Well Beady and Tyrone’s grandmother is Miss Gloria and she took in those two. She was willing to take in Ginger, Erica and EJ as long as I was able to bring in money on the side to help out.

Juan Carlos looked down with a