When the Smoke Clears: An Urban Novel

By Marquis "Cream" Cureton

Virginia is for lovers, but in the heartless and unforgiving streets of Virginias 7even Cities: where disillusioned hustlers pitch narcotics on project blocks without a conscience, disgruntled stick up kids terrorize the streets with their ambitions attached to ski masks and twin pistols, and dispirited young females strip themselves of their self-worth and sell their most sacred possessions all for a piece of the Devils Pie, love is an ideal often spoke about, but seldom seen. The 7even Cities, where the disenfranchised take to the streets to obtain the American Dream of lavish homes, luxury automobiles, and tailored garments, while the aristocracy relentlessly aim to squander their hopes with oppressive laws and a multi-million dollar penal system.
This is Virginia through the clairvoyant eyes of Marquis Cream Cureton in his classic debut novel, When the Smoke Clears: An Urban Novel. Inspired by true events, Cream narrates the story of Secoya Smoke Harris, a promising college basketball player with ambitions as vast as the oceans are blue, who tip-toed the fine line between success and the streets. Originally from the gang infested streets of Compton, California, Smoke cant resist the lure of the underworld of the 7even Cities, and in one costly decision finds himself incarcerated in Virginias Department of Corrections and marked for death by his big homie.
His basketball career ruined and future bleak, Smoke apprehensively makes the decision to dive head first into the streets and get money the only way he sees possibletrafficking marijuana. Beef inevitable, bodies dropping, and indictments looming, Smoke drowns himself in a cloud of haze from the finest bud California has to offer in order to escape the harsh reality that in the streets nothing last forever, and no one ever wins; there are only those that survive the game and live to tell about it behind penitentiary walls, and those that lose, taking their last breath in the streets. Which side will Smoke find himself? Only God knows, When the Smoke Clears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477240625

Marquis "Cream" Cureton

Marquis “Cream” Cureton is bringing realism and substance back into the Urban Novel genre. A Rialto, California native, Cream excelled in both scholastics and athletics as a child, and managed to navigate the susceptibility of Southern California’s gang culture without succumbing to the austere statistics of deceased or incarcerated young black men. After moving to Virginia’s “Seven Cities,” Cream continued upon his tumultuous expedition, ultimately graduating high school with honors and earning academic and basketball scholarships to a prestigious Pennsylvania College. However, materialism, poor choices, and moonlighting in the streets eventually caught up with Cream, forcing him to relinquish six years of his life to the state of Virginia’s Department of Corrections for weapons and distribution charges. Acting on the tutelage of his college professors, and an unwavering desire to reclaim his life, Cream tapped into his uncanny ability to viscerally articulate his experiences in life, in love, and in the streets, into eloquent words that stimulate the mind and rouse the emotions. “When the Smoke Clears: An Urban Novel” is the first of Cream’s Collection. Marquis “Cream” Cureton currently resides in Portsmouth, VA where he is completing his Bachelor’s degree in Communications at Old Dominion University.

Book preview

Prologue

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January 2008

HARRIS!! S. HARRIS!! The Portsmouth City Jail Deputy hollered outside the bars of the small cellblock.

HE SLEEP! An inmate returned in a high-pitched cartoonish voice, sending laughter throughout the day room. The deputy smirked sarcastically to hide how truly agitated he was by the foolishness of the inmates.

LAST CALL FOR SECOYA HARRIS!!

YOOO,. Whassup?? A smooth baritone voice answered from the confines of his cell.

You S. Harris? The deputy asked.

Yeah.

Get Dressed. You got a visit. Ill be back in five minutes to transport you, the deputy said before moving on to the next cellblock, calling out more names for the thirty-minute non-contact visits.

Secoya rolled off the two-inch thick plastic mattress that was not much of a mattress at all. The wear and tare from the countless number of bodies that had slept, sweated, pissed, vomited, and even defecated on the 6.5ft X 2.5ft mattress had cracked the plastic covering and deflated its insides. The mattress itself symbolized the frustration, hopelessness, anguish, worry, stress, and pain of those locked within a cage, isolated from society; their identities reduced to a number in the system. The pencil marks of restless days and nights counted down on the ragged mattress was the unforgiving realization of potential and time lost, and the nagging contemplation of what should or could have been. This was jail. This was despair.

However, the mattress wasn’t the only object you could visualize the despair; you could see it everywhere and in everything. You could see it in the piss yellow walls and blood stained cement floors. You could see it in the darkened windows that shut out the warmth and love from the rays of a bright sunny day. Most of all you could see it amongst the faces of the men and women that were forced to accept a cell as their home.

Secoya untied his du-rag made of old bed sheets, washed his face, and brushed his teeth. He blew in his cuffed hands and checked his breath; although he would never be closer than the six inch thick glass that separated the visitor from the inmate, he did it anyway. He lotioned his dark-chocolate skin that had gotten noticeably lighter from the lack of sunlight over the past three months locked up. Even the deep black waves in his hair didn’t shine like they once did, but no one inside would notice because they all looked the same—unhealthy from depression, stress, and deprivation of fresh air and sunlight.

Secoya took a quick glance into the tattered and hazy mirror then stepped out of his cell and walked carefully through the maze of inmates sleeping on the murderously cold concrete floor.

Hey Dep! Harris is ready! Secoya yelled at the gates of the cellblock sally port. The retired marine nonchalantly popped the gates letting Secoya out the congested fifth floor-housing block, and escorted him to the elevator. As the elevator descended, the elder deputy attempted to make small talk, but Secoya was more captured by the deja vu of having been there before—different jail, different color jumpsuit, but the same shit.

The ding that alerted the patrons at the arrival of their desired floor released a floodgate of memories within Secoya, as it always did on every trip, but nothing could turn back the hands of time. The doors opened and the deputy ushered Secoya into his designated visitation booth and walked out, locking the heavy steel door behind. Secoya took a moment to peep outside his booth and distinguish the voices chattering through the phone with their loved ones on both sides of him; not that he liked being nosey, but in that environment, he had to be. On Smoke’s first visit, he saw a dude get punished in the small room due to a lack of awareness, never noticing the rival gang members sitting two booths down. By the time the deputies got back into the room, homeboy looked like he had been trampled by a stampede.

Content with his surroundings, but not comfortable, Secoya waited anxiously for his visit to walk through the glass double doors. The anticipation of seeing Innocence, his girlfriend, strut through the doors, turning all heads as she breezed past, was the highlight of his week, every week, for the last three months. As Secoya considered the seemingly endless possibilities of outfits his baby could wear, she appeared in front of him walking as fiercely as Tyra Banks towards his booth. The thigh length NorthFace shirling that he had bought her in D.C. hugged her frame like a glove, concealing the little bit of stomach she still carried from giving birth to their son before Secoya was locked up. As usual, jaws dropped at the sight of her beauty and magnetic glow that radiated from her almond brown complexion. Her face was flawless beauty beneath her new Rihanna-style hair-du, and having a baby only added more shape and appeal to her perfectly sized thighs and voluptuous rear end.

Innocence smiled as she approached Secoya. She knew everyone, including several women, were watching her as she made her way past them, and she delighted in the fact; but not for her own pleasure or gain, it was all for Secoya—the love of her life. She could care less about shining and parading around somewhere as gloomy and pitiful as the jail, but she knew that it mattered to Secoya, and for those 30 minutes she wanted to put a smile on his face.

Hey baby, greeted Innocence, flashing a smile bright enough to melt ice to water. You like? She stood up and twirled in a circle while playfully patting her hair.

Yeah . . . It looks good on you bae, Secoya said, admiring her butt in a pair of BEBE tights just as much as her hairstyle.

Boy boo! You didn’t even look. I caught yo eyes lookin’ at my booty boy, she said laughing. Secoya smiled.

So whats happenin bae? asked Secoya.

Well, I went and put flowers out for King earlier today. They finished his headstone too, it’s nice. I took some pictures for you.

A somber look filled Secoya’s eyes. Oh yeah . . . he said somewhat ambivalently. King’s death was something he was still dealing with, even though it had been months.

Oh, and your mother told me to tell you hello and that your brother and Bree called.

Bree? . . . Damn, what he doin? Secoya hadn’t heard from Bree going on six months.

She didn’t say. But he said hold ya head up and he sendin’ some money to me for you.

Word, that’s what it is, he replied. Hearing from Bree was the best news Secoya had heard in months.

I talked to your lawyer today too.

What he say? Secoya asked anxiously, preparing himself for the worst.

Four years in Portsmouth and Norfolk ran concurrent, and a additional two years on the violation in Norfolk ran consecutive, if you plead guilty to the conspiracy charge. The Commonwealth agreed to Nolle Prosequi the Possession with Intent to Distribute and trafficking.

Secoya dropped his head. What about the other thing? he whispered nervously.

Innocence put her finger to her lips, Shhh . . . didn’t I say trust me? Secoya breathed a slight sigh of relief. Six years definitely wasn’t what he wanted, but it was the best he could get. He was facing a considerably lengthy amount of time, and if he didn’t except the plea he was sure to get it.

What about Grillz? asked Secoya.

She got a four year plea. They wanted her to talk about you and she wouldn’t have a gotten a day. You must’ve been sleepin’ with that girl too, Innocence suggested rolling her eyes.

Man, . . . Don’t start, Secoya said quickly. Rather he once was or wasn’t sleeping with Grillz didn’t matter now, but what did is that Grillz kept it trill by keeping her mouth shut, and that meant the world to Secoya.

YOU GOT FIVE MINUTES GENTS!!! hollered the deputy from the doorway. Every inmate, including Secoya, turned and shouted expletives at the deputy who purposely meant to disrupt the brief moment of tranquility they captured during their respective visits.

So what you want me to tell your lawyer? Innocence asked.

Depends on rather you wait for me or not.

What we say to each other bay? Innocence pressed, somewhat perturbed Secoya doubted her loyalty to him.

Ride or Die . . . he started.

Until the wheels fall off, Innocence finished. I’m not goin’ nowhere Secoya. She slid up the sleeve of her terry cloth sweater and revealed the tattoo of Secoya’s name surrounded by hearts on her wrist. Secoya smiled in jubilation. Innocence was there to stay.

I love you girl! proclaimed Secoya.

You better! she replied. Her eyes expressed all the love she didn’t need to say.

WRAP IT UP GENTLEMEN!! The deputy yelled, signaling the end of visitation. Secoya shook his head disappointed. He loved seeing his girl, but every time she walked out leaving him behind, it hurt more and more.

Alright bae; go ahead and go so you don’t get caught in traffic. I love you.

I love you too. Innocence stood up and put her jacket back on. Oh yeah, . . . your lawyer said that’s a good idea about the book. He said just be honest and give the truth about the game. If you really want redemption for the things you did, let your story be what stops someone else from doin’ what you did. It may benefit you in more ways than one. Plus he said he’ll handle all the legal stuff.

Secoya rubbed his fingers over his beard as he thought about what Innocence said. He had been a good writer since grade school, and his story was worth telling. His story was just as intriguing as the superstar’s on television. In fact, his story was better because there were a lot more people in the same predicament as he compared to the glamorous life on the tube. Secoya’s story had the power to save another from falling too deep into the streets; but even greater, by telling his story, maybe Secoya could finally save himself. Secoya had been come to the epiphany that the events in life do not just happen by coincidence, and there is a purpose for every individual’s life. People just do not take the time to see it. They are too busy blinded by the cloud of materialism, vanity, pride, and their own selfish egos.

So . . . what are you goin’ to name it? asked Innocence, waking Secoya up from his trance.

Huh? Name what?

The book boy!! Stop daydreamin.

Secoya smiled. I’m not daydreamin’. I jus realized I can finally see. Secoya stood up and pressed his fist against the glass. Tell’em imma’ call it . . .

Act I

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The prettiest people do the ugliest things on the road to riches and diamond rings- Kanye West

Chapter 1

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It was May 2003, and Secoya Smoke Harris was finally back in the Seven Cities of Virginia after just finishing his freshman year at Saint Vincent College in Pennsylvania. His first year as a collegiate basketball player went well besides the fact that he spent the entire season as a red-shirt. However, his team was a definite contender for the NAIA Division II championship the following year, and his coach expected him to be key in that quest. Thus, Smoke came back to Chesapeake, Virginia focused on improving his game and enjoying his summer vacation chasing women, kicking it with his homies, and indulging in his newfound interes—Mary Jane.

Smoke’s first few days home were pretty routine: he’d wake up and work out using a full calisthenics regimen, and then gym hop searching for the best rec the 757 had to offer. Once the evening set in, if he wasn’t in a gym, he was somewhere rolling up a blunt trying to finesse a young lady out of her panties. This was Smoke’s everyday routine, and it was all love except for two problems: 1) it seemed like nothing in life was free, not even the air he breathed, 2) Smoke was broke!! Smoke was tired of his big homies always paying his way and borrowing their foreign whips so he didn’t have to take a chic out in his hooptie, a 1985 barney purple Ford Escort. Not to mention, he swore he was the only 19 year old that still went school shopping with his mom. So early one summer morning while smoking a roach he had saved from the night before, Smoke declared that his b-ball game wasn’t the only game he had to step up; he had to step his paper game up too.

Whats happenin’ nigga? an enthused Smoke said over the phone to his homeboy Bonzi. He and Bonzi had been cool since Bonzi moved to VA from Baltimore his sophomore year of high school. Smoke, who had just moved to Virginia from Compton, California a little over 3 ½ years earlier during his freshman year of high school, could relate to Bonzi’s out of state transition, and the two hit it off in no time. Bonzi had a sweet stroke on the hardwood and, as long as Smoke had known him, kept a few ounces of VA Lob, more formally known as some good mid-grade marijuana.

Aint shit nigga. When you get back? Bonzi said just waking from a good nights rest moments earlier. He didn’t even need to ask who was on the other end of the jack because he recognized Smoke’s Cali’ accent without hesitation.

About a week or so ago, . . . but I just got your number from whats his name and dem?

Who?

DEEZ NUTS NIGGA!! Smoke exclaimed, laughing hard.

I see you still got jokes nigga, Bonzi pointed out, laughing himself.

But anyway, what’s good with the gym? Come scoop da kid up cuzz.

Aight . . . Gimme bout 20-30 minutes. Ill be through.

Bet. Holla when you outside.

Aight, said Bonzi before hanging up the phone.

A little past a hour had elapsed before Bonzi pulled up in a tinted out, midnight blue, 2000 Eddie Bauer Expedition sittin’ on chrome shoes. Smoke knew Bonzi had always stacked a little paper, but times change. It was just a year ago Bonzi was riding in a older model Explorer, and now he was pushing a big boy truck. Staring at the sunrays reflecting off the chrome wheels of Bonzi’s truck as he strolled across the front lawn, Smoke couldn’t think of anything but dollar signs. Whatever Bonzi was doing, Smoke wanted in; all in.

Smoke hopped in the big body SUV admiring the glow-lite running boards and plush leather interior.

Took you long enough nigga. Yo slow ass, joked Smoke as he dapped his homeboy up.

My fault young. A nigga had to make a few stops and shit, but where you tryin’ to hoop at anyway?

Shit . . . Lets hit TCC in Portsmouth, they prolly jus gettin’ started anyway. Smoke threw his bag in the backseat. So when you cop the truck homie? This shit tight cuzz.

Not too long ago. A nigga jus’ been steady stackin’ . . . This shit aight though huh? Bonzi asked as he maneuvered the V8 in traffic.

Yeah, she official. Im tryin’ to hop my black ass in somethin’ like this. A nigga tired of borrowin’ whips, or even worse, tryin’ to get moms to let a nigga push the C-Class cus’ that’s nowhere. You feel me?

Bonzi sighed with a cool chagrin. Yeah, . . . I hear you.

Shit, it’s the muthafuckin summertime and I’m tryin to stay fresh and see deez females’ homie!! I been snow-bunnied out for the last 10 months cuzz.

Ha hah, Bonzi clowned. I bet you was getting’ domed off on the regular though.

Damn right!! White chicks give that head up fo’sho. A nigga can’t complain about that, conceded Smoke.

As the 12-speaker Bose system filled the truck with T.I.’s Trap Musik, Smoke envisioned himself riding big, full-up off dope money. However, in the back of his mind he couldn’t shake the voices of his mother and father saying in unison, hardwork and education will get you everything you desire, but you have to trust in God, be patient, graduate college, and get a job first. Words of wisdom, definitely, but Smoke figured nobody was promised tomorrow, and he didn’t want to be 30 before he could ride clean and live to the fullest. Good grades and a diploma hadn’t bought him shit yet, and Smoke was trying to get paid.

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The gym was in full effect and Smoke enjoyed seeing cats he hadn’t seen since he left for school. Once on the court though, Smoke didn’t waste anytime asserting himself in proceeding to give niggas the business. In high school, Smoke was known for his elusive handles and quick first step, but a sub-par jump shooter. However, shooting 500 jumpers a day at St. Vincent had surely rectified that. Defenders could no longer play off Smoke and clog the lane because his newfound stroke demanded respect. But even if dudes still tried to play back, Smoke blew past them anyway, and the strength training ensured he got to the bucket with a strong finish. Overall, niggas couldn’t fuck with Smoke, and he and Bonzi won three hot before calling it quits. Smoke walked off the court that day impressed, but not astounded at his performance. He still had a lot to improve, but he had succeeded in silencing any critics that hated he made it to the next level.

Damn young, Bonzi said while emulating a mean double crossover Smoke had put on a defender. I see you been workin’ on yo’ game hard up that bitch.

Yeah . . . I’m tryin’ to see the floor next year. Plus niggas at school nice for real, so I had to pick my game up. Bonzi disabled the alarm with a touch of a button on his keychain as they approached the $30,000 SUV. As they hopped into the Expedition a forest green ’96 Acura Legend coupe pulled up beside them, and the husky driver of the luxury coupe joined them in the rear of Bonzi’s truck.

Whassup Moe? Bonzi said, giving the brown skinned brotha dap.

Shit dawg, jus been tryin’ to chase you down all day.

Yeah, I see you hit me up. I been up here gettin’ it in since about 11:30-12. You need to come get you some rec dogg.

Man I’m too busy gettin’ money cuz. I ain’t got time for basketball dawg, the husky hustler’s demeanor changed to one of uneasiness realizing that he didn’t know the passenger beside Bonzi. Bonzi could sense his discomfort and took the initiative to put him at ease.

Oh yeah, this my nigga Smoke, said Bonzi, introducing the pair. Smoke and dude exchanged the customary head nod and quick pound, and then it was business as usual.

Smoke zoned out and paid no attention to Bonzi and his associate. Hustling was nothing new to Smoke. He had known and been around plenty of hustlers, his big brother most notably. His brother Bone had schooled him to the game long ago, even dropping a few hundred dollar bud sacks on him back when he was in high school to make a few marbles. So Smoke knew the rules of the transaction: stay out a nigga face, don’t speak unless spoken to, and most of all, hear no evil, see no evil.

So wha’chu lookin’ for young? I got that purp’ and the lob, Bonzi offered.

Let me get dat eighth of purp. 6-0 right? the young hustler negotiated with three twenties in his hand. Bonzi looked at the money and frowned.

You know that’s $75, go ahead wit the bullshit, Bonzi explained calmly. Homie shot his shot, but realizing it wouldn’t be any deals he peeled off a ten and a five to go along with the three dubs. Bonzi opened the center console and handed dude one of the eighth sacks of purp for the $75. The two exchanged a pound and dude hopped out and pulled away in his coupe.

You tryin’ to Smoke nigga? Bonzi asked pulling out his personal sack of purp.

Damn right! What you think? I been lookin’ for dat purp since I got back.

Oh word . . . I keep that shit homie. Not too many niggas keep that shit round’ here like that, but I got a mean whiteboy connect that dump that shit on me for the low, Bonzi divulged as he unrolled and re-wrapped the Backwood cigar with precision. Damn that’s a perfect blunt young!! Bonzi boasted, delighted in his own blunt rolling skills.

Bonzi lit the end of the Backwood and the sweet aroma of the purple ganga quickly filled the truck. Smoke was still a casual smoker, and had yet to taste the chronic weed he had heard so much about. The soothing smell and the fact Bonzi was coughing from his first couple of hits was enough to convince Smoke that the purp was everything he heard it would be. His nostrils were wide open as he attempted to inhale the excess smoke that clouded the interior.

It’s some bomb . . . Bonzi uttered between coughs as he handed the blunt leaf over to Smoke. Smoke took a massive hit, not wanting to look like a novice smoker, and let the thick cloud of vapors swell his virgin chronic lungs. The taste was amazing, and Smoke couldn’t believe that the weed actually had a fruit like taste; nothing like the brown dirt weed and mid grade weed he had smoked before. Smoke tried to hold in the Smoke, but the premium weed was much too powerful, forcing him to exhale not only the cloud, but what felt like his lungs along with it.

The blunt passing session continued back and forth between Bonzi and Smoke as they hit the interstate back to Smoke’s crib. Mellow from the purp, Smoke figured it was a good time to holler at Bonzi in hopes of getting put down in the game.

Check game right . . . A nigga need to make some ends. Whats good wit puttin’ a nigga on cuzz? You know, . . . Nothin’ too big, jus like a QP or whatever you can stand, Smoke proposed ambitiously. Bonzi looked surprise as he hit the blunt again and exhaled slowly.

You serious? You aint tryin’ to get no money nigga, stop wailin’ Bonzi jeered.

Real talk cuzz . . . What I need for the QP? I already got a set of eyes, bags, clientel . . . I jus need some bud duke. Bonzi could tell Smoke was serious by his tone and the conviction in his words.

You sure about this young? What about basketball, college . . . shit, yo’ peoples? I know pops aint havin’ that shit homie, Bonzi stated laughing. Bonzi pulled the truck to a halt in front of Smoke’s home in the Knox Farms section of Chesapeake and looked up and down the street at the well manicured lawns in front of the row of brick ranch-style homes. So you want a QP, huh young grasshopper?

Damn homie. You tryin’ to play me too cuzz, . . . keep askin me that over and over, Smoke said growing frustrated. "You know me nigga! I haven’t lived in Knox Farms my whole life! I’m COMPTON bred homie!! EASTSIDE COMPTON CRIP TO C EXACT!!!" Smoke proclaimed proudly, twisting up his fingers in the process. Bonzi let a smooth smile dress his face as he checked out Smoke throw more gang signs than the movie Colors. He still tripped off the fact Smoke was a real-life gangbanger. Bangin was something they didn’t do in B-More or Virginia, contrary to the west coast. Smoke had fell back on his crippin shit since moving to VA, but if he got upset, the little crazy loc’ from the hood always reached the surface.

Aight, aight . . . Don’t go Snoop on me cuzz. Imma look out for you cus’ I fucks wit’chu. Plus that two-tone purple Escort you ridin’ in is all the way in the way, Bonzi joked. Imma throw you a Q, and you jus give me $325 back. Smoke’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas. He was on, and a nigga threw it to him on the front. What else could he ask for?

That’s love my nigga. A Q of purp for three and a quarter, sh- Bonzi stopped him before he could finish.

The only purp you getting for dat price is if you put food coloring on this lobo I’m gon give you, Bonzi clarified sarcastically.

I gotta have $1500 for dat, but when you ready I’ll let you get it for $1350.

Damn, $1350 though? Smoke said, crunching the numbers in his head.

Yeah my nigga. That shit $20 a gram all day, and niggas love dat shit. Shit, that’s how I’m ridin’ this truck. Purp is like weed crack out here you feel me? I be fiendin’ a ‘J’ my damn self, but I got plenty so I’m straight. But imma get wit’cha later and get that to you. I’m about to drop a few quarters and get a dame to fix a nigga some lunch. Bonzi dapped Smoke up before Smoke stepped down from the truck, high as a giraffe ass from the purp. ‘I’m high as shit,’ Smoke thought to himself as he made his way up the driveway. Just as Smoke reached the front porch Bonzi’s face appeared from behind the blacked out tinted windows.

Hey!!! Let me holla at you before you go inside!! Bonzi yelled out. Smoke made his way back to the Expedition driver side window. His hand slightly cuffed, Bonzi dapped Smoke up again, but this time he left a tight quarter sack of purp in his homeboy’s hand. Oh yeah . . . I forgot to tell you welcome home nigga! Now let’s get this paper!!

Chapter 2

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The summer of 2003 had been going pretty well for Smoke, and true to his word, Bonzi had hit Smoke with a QP (quarter pound) a few days after they talked. Smoke broke his work down to nothing but dimes and twenty sacks, so he was guaranteed to rake in at least $200 for every ounce, and at least $800 for the whole QP. After hitting Bonzi with his cut of $325, Smoke kept $475 to himself and always had bud for his own personal use. Smoke felt like he was the man for real, and niggas couldn’t tell him shit. A lot of cats Smoke knew sold drugs because they had to, but Smoke did it for recreation. Something about the phone jumpin’ off the hook, money steady coming in, and women loving the dope boy swagger that gave Smoke a high better than any drug one could imagine. Smoke felt like he found the life he was looking for. The life he had been infatuated with since his adolescent days in Compton.

As the money rolled in, Smoke and Bonzi had it set up where Smoke would holler at him every two weeks, rather he had finished the pack or not. At the beginning, Smoke was moving a whole pack in two weeks because his clientele was skim. He mainly sold to white boys around the Stonebridge and neighboring Knox Farms development where he lived, and random people he met at gas stations, grocery stores, shopping malls and anywhere where blunts were sold. It never failed, Smoke would enter a gas station to purchase some blunts and someone would ask, Where it’s at? a quick conversation in the whip, and Smoke usually left twenty dollars richer and with new clientele.

At the time, Smoke never thought about how hot that was; he was just trying to get paid. If he didn’t have the whole QP gone in two weeks his focus was to at least to have the $325 for Bonzi; but if he didn’t he came through with what he had. Smoke had learned from his big homies back on the blocks of Compton that honesty and loyalty would get you a long way, and that’s how Smoke carried it. ‘Death before Dishonor’ wasn’t just a cliché to Smoke.

Smoke knew hustling brought on many risks, but the only one he was concerned with was getting knocked by his parents. Unlike other young hustlers getting money that had exclusive hiding spots or stash houses for their work and money, Smoke kept everything-bud, scales, and money-together in his sock drawer, or a shoebox under his bed. He would have been an easy lick for a stick up kid, but Smoke figured his paper wasn’t long enough to worry about a home invasion; his greatest worry was a nosey mother invasion. His pops was pretty laid back and spent majority of his evenings sleep on the couch after a long days work at the shipyard, so Smoke focused on keeping Mom dukes at bay. Smoke knew, however, that he could only make money for so long before his mom would question the constant shopping sprees and late nights. To keep himself off his mother’s radar, Smoke decided he needed to get a job.

Smoke hooked up with his homeboy K.J. and they ventured out to find a job for the summer. He had been tight with K.J. since high school and he had never met anyone more driven to succeed. What began as a bond between high school teammates grew into N-F-L, or niggas for life, along with the homies Duce Trey and Ty-B.

Fucking with K.J., Smoke and he were liable to wind up working anywhere if the paper looked right because K.J. was all about a dollar; but anything illegal wasn’t his style. Therefore, Smoke wasn’t too surprised when they pulled up into a rinky-dink strip mall off of Newtown Rd in Norfolk.

What the fuck is this cuzz? Smoke asked, as he looked at the marquee above the small building that resembled a single-family home more than a place of business.

We at J.P. Carpet Cleaning service dawg. This is the place I was tellin’ you about. I saw it in the classified, hit em’ up, and they said they were startin niggas off at $10 an hour nigga!! exclaimed K.J. Smoke was skeptical, but he didn’t want to doubt his homeboy because K.J. wasn’t the type to make a move unless he checked options A through Z. In other words, his nigga was extremely thorough and detailed oriented. So who was Smoke to second-guess him; even if J.P’s looked bootleg as hell and off first glance you could tell it wasn’t no Stanley Steamer.

Awright cuzz, we’ll see. But I aint tryin to be out here all day, Smoke clarified, considering he already had a job selling bud. The longer he was away from Chesapeake and Portsmouth the more money he was missing. But upon a second look at the building, Smoke figured he would be able to sell some bud to the workers there anyway, so he made sure to keep a sack of dimes on him.

How you fellas doin today? the raspy voice blonde greeted them as she put out a cigarette butt in a ashtray overrun with cigarette butts. Her hardened face suggested she was every bit of 45, but her clothes and disposition implied she was probably closer to 30.

K.J. stepped up immediately. Hello mam, I’m Kenneth Jackson and that’s Secoya Harris. I think I might have spoke with you yesterday about the job opening.

Oh yes, I remember. If you two brought your proper identification and social security cards, you can start today. And you don’t have to call me mam; you’re makin’ me feel old. Everybody here just calls me Suzie. Smoke and K.J. watched as she sorted and searched through her cluttered desk to find the state and federal tax paperwork for them to fill out. As she searched she briefly explained more about the job. Basically they just had to be able to run the carpet cleaner over the carpet and get paid, but it wasn’t exactly $10/hr. In all actuality, they were paid off production, so the more houses you completed in an eight-hour workday the more money you earned. However, the real money was in getting the customer to purchase extra services or upgraded packages for a lot more than the basic 3-4 rooms and hallway fee $34.99.

Once they finished their paperwork, Suzie handed them a company tee shirt and led them into the large garage where the supplies and equipment were held. The entire work crew was circled around the short Hispanic, who Smoke assumed to be the manager, because he and Suzie were the only two not wearing khakis and company tee shirts. And just as Smoke had thought, the crew was full of young and middle aged dudes, tatted up like they had all been locked up one time or another.

Smoke leaned against a large industrial power washer and watched the manager instruct the crews on the day’s jobs and motivate them to generate more sales. The passion in his voice convinced Smoke that Holmes’ had became manager because he outworked anyone that had ever worked there. Dressed in slim Wrangler Jeans with old Reebok Classics, his hands looked more like a farmer or mechanic than a carpet cleaner. Not to mention, he had a tape measure, utility knife, small flashlight, cell phone, and a janitor’s key ring with more keys than he could possibly use, all on the same belt.

Si! So you hombres have today’s assignments, yes? the heavy Spanish accented manager asked. I now introduce two new amigos to J-Peee Carpet Cleaning Services, K.J. and Sei-co-ya. From the look on the faces of the employees, Smoke was positive that introducing new employees was routine at J.P’s. Now I’m goin’ split you two compadres up today since you are new and have no experience, si. K.J. you work with Aaron and Sei-co-ya you work with Bree.

All the crews informed of their assignments, the huddle broke and each team went about their separate ways. Smoke shadowed behind Bree and grabbed whatever Bree asked him to, then followed him out the building towards a ’91 Ford Probe that resembled the chunk of metal from Back to the Future. Bree popped the rear hatch and they threw everything in the back without any regards for the equipment or the car.

Now Bree was a brown-skinned, Sheek Luc looking cat that definitely had a hood swagger on a million. His head was wrapped up in a navy blue du-rag with a yellow NBA headband on top of that, khakis that hung off of his ass, and navy blue and yellow Nike Charles Woodsons on his feet. A shoe fanatic himself, Smoke silently commended Bree’s shoe game. Smoke figured Bree was about 25, but no older than 27 from the pictures of the two children, that he assumed were his, that looked to be about eight and four on the dashboard.

After a few cranks of the engine, the Probe finally stared up and they headed to the Seven Eleven up the street. Bree parked on the side of the building and asked Smoke did he need anything out the store. Smoke handed Bree two dollars and asked for an orange juice, as vitamin C was amust daily. Bree stepped out the Probe as smooth as fine wine, like he was stepping out an S-Class Benz and not the ragged American attempt to make an aerodynamic coupe, and minutes later returned with a brown bag and a 12 oz cup of coffee. Bree handed Smoke his juice and placed his coffee in the makeshift door cup-holder he had rigged up out of fast food drink containers. He reached into the bag and pulled out a box of Vanilla Dutches and a pack of Newport 100s shorts in a box.

I hope you don’t mind the Smoke fam, said Bree, indifferent to rather his passenger did or didn’t.

Naw, you straight cuzz. But what you about to do with those dutches? Smoke asked.

Shit, about to get lifted yo!! This what I do every morning. You Smoke right?? I don’t know many niggas that don’t puff la.

Most definitely, agreed Smoke. I was gon’ see if I could get an L’ to twist up. I keep that fuego, you feel me?

Word, that’s whats good! Bree tossed Smoke a blunt. He was feeling the little homies style. Do you?

Smoke grabbed the fattest dime out of his sack and busted the bag over the XXL magazine that had sat on the dashboard. The sticky lob wasn’t purp, but it had a strong funk to it and was as light green as mid grade could get. Bonzi kept some good bud rather exotic or mids. Smoke unwrapped the cellophane wrapper on the Dutch and with a few touches to his mouth; he had the blunt slightly moist and ready to split. Bree handed Smoke a razor as he searched for a cd to ride to. ‘Me and this nigga work pretty good together. Today should be aight,’ Smoke thought to himself as he spread the bud across the leaf in preparation for the final roll. A couple minutes after he started, the fat blunt was twisted and ready to be sparked. Simultaneously to Smoke finishing the blunt, Bree found the cd he was looking for and slid it into the high tech CD deck that looked more expensive than the car it was installed in. Style P’s Goodtimes blasted through the speakers as Bree backed the probe out the parking space and sped out the parking lot as he and Smoke’s heads bobbed in unison to the beat:

‘I get high, high, high, all the time/

I get high, high, high, everyday/

I get high, high, high, high, higgghh . . .’

As the blunt slowly burned down to a quarter lengths left, Bree turned into the Link horn area of Virginia Beach, where the homes were easily $500,000 or better. Smoke’s eyes were wide with fascination as he viewed the large magnificently built homes with their custom drive up driveways and fine luxury automobiles parked out front. After a few turns, Bree stopped in front of a brick ranch style home that sat cozily off the green of the 16th hole of the PACC golf course. The home was breathtaking and the landscaping was exquisite.

Still reeking of marijuana, Bree awoke Smoke out of his daze, hey fam, you ready?

Oh, . . . yeah I’m ready homie. These cribs big as a bitch dude!! Where the fuck we at?

Bree looked at the jewel of a house sitting before them and said, Heaven nigga . . . Heaven. Bree paused to envision living like a king in a house such as that one-day. But anyway, spray some of this on you and theres some clear eyes in the glove box. Smoke sprayed a few mist of the classic Polo Sport Cologne and dropped a few eyed drops in his eyes. Aight lil’ homie, this is how we do this, Bree said giving his protégé the game plan. This is what niggas call a milk job because you got to milk these people for as much as you can. Obviously these muh’fuckas full up, but the ticket only for the penny saver ad for $29.99. But by the time we leave, the ticket will be at least $400!! Smoke just nodded his head in agreement. He didn’t have a clue to how Bree was going to pull off what he said, but he had a good feeling that Bree knew exactly what he was doing.

After finishing removing the equipment from the car, they began walking up the long curving driveway. Bree finished explaining his game plan and told Smoke just to cosign everything he said; no matter the case. Bree usually worked alone, so he was free to indulge in his main hustle without the watchful eyes of another on his ass, but so far he fucked with young Smoke. Bree figured the young rook might come in handy that day. The influence of two was always better than one.

As they neared the front of the home, Smoke noticed a