Dying to Live or Livin to Die

By Zack Lee and Joel Cruz

On the edge of the Mexican border, Dominic, Texas, is a place of poverty, crime, and drugs. People on the outside call it Drugland, since cartels control the whole town with enough power to keep everyone and everything under their fingers. Zee was only twelve when he got involved with the drug trade, just a kid struggling to survive.

As he grows up, Zee witnesses the way good men are devoured and destroyed in his hometown. To do whats necessary for his own family, Zee will walk a path of blood and violence. He wants to get the people he loves away from Drugland. He refuses to end up like many of the boys he grew up with who became victims to the citys clutches.

But even as a college student, Zee isnt sure who he is or where he stands on the line of good and evil. Is he a good guy, corrupted by his environment, doing what it takes to survive? Or is he a bad guy whos finally learned to thrive in a land of crime and hardship? Only time will tell if Zee will become a casualty or walk out of Drugland its king.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781480846616

Zack Lee

Zack Lee started writing poems and short stories at the age of seven, eventually moving on to novels. He believes that sometimes the best stories are the ones we try to ignore. Behind every door, behind every face, is a tale just waiting to be told. Zack currently lives in Dallas, Texas.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I was a drug dealer in the Southern County projects, a hellhole place located in Dominic, Texas, which sits next to the Mexican border. I was born and raised here, along with my little brother, David. Dominic is a place of poverty, crime, and drugs. Outsiders gave the perfect name to this wasteland of a city: Drugland. The territories around here are controlled by cartels, people who have enough power to keep everyone and everything under their thumb.

I was not immune from succumbing to Drugland; I started when I was twelve years old. In Dominic, everyone knows someone who’s a drug dealer, and that’s where I started. Jordie Sanchez was a dealer that happen to be my best friend; they called him the Profit. Jordie knew I needed money in the worst way; I was at his house almost every day, eating all the food his grandmother cooked. When I needed clothes and didn’t want to wear the ones my mom got at the Salvation Army, he let me have all his old ones. He hooked me up with a supplier, who was a big guy named Deion Row. He was big and muscular, but not fat—just intimidating. He stood about six foot three; he was bald and had a light beard that looked like it had been drawn on his face. He was a guy who would kill you if you crossed him; he’d leave you bloody and naked in the park for everyone to see. Deion was pure horror. I once saw him kill one of his runners with a hammer because he was $150 short. To be honest, if I hadn’t been scared of him, I might have ended up dead a long time ago.

Row supplied every drug you can take to the streets: heroin, weed, coke, and he even had some of the white boys on Turner Ave. cook meth for him to sell. I knew this man and what he was capable of, and when he asked you to do something, you better do it, or you might as well get your will ready, your funeral arrangements together, and the best policy you could get on your life, because you would be dead. And that was not a promise; it was just a fact of life, like the sunrise or taxes.

Deion recently got in contact with me for the first time in six years. I was coming home from a long day of school when my cousin Jason, who still dealt for him, came to my house to tell me Deion wanted to meet me at his club, the Empire. Jason was a little fidgety and looked nervous about something; his movements were quick, and he stuttered and mumbled his words. He was usually arrogant and quick to tell anybody off. This couldn’t be good. You go more than five years without talking to your old drug boss, and all of sudden, out of the blue, he wanted to meet up with you? There had to be sort of angle.

I asked Jason, What the hell for? I’m outta that game.

He looked at me like he was hiding something but was working on the lie in his head. I heard he wants you to sit down with John Zoe.

Why? I’m through with that life; did you tell him that?

Zee, I don’t think you have much of a choice; he says the sit-down is at ten. I’ll be by here later to give you a ride.

Jason then left. Many things were running through my mind. I was shoved right back into a place I had tried my whole life to escape from. It was like digging myself out of a grave, only for more dirt to get shoveled on me. I had promised my mom and my grandmother I was done—and now I was going to the place where my life, my innocence, and everything good had been stolen from me before it could even begin. I regretted every day getting into the drug life. I had seen a lot of people die and for no reason at all except for the money. How much was a human life worth around here? It really didn’t matter; the fact was that there was a price here in Dominic. I didn’t know what to think or do; my mind was in ten different places all at once. How the hell did this happen so fast? I tried to calm my heart rate down, telling myself that panicking wouldn’t do me any good; I had to control the outcome.

If this sit-down happened, I knew Deion was not the problem. He might be a cold, heartless murderer, but my main worry was Zoe, the biggest drug distributor in Texas and Arizona. He was a wannabe Frank Lucas, and he had the reputation as well. I had never seen him in person, but I had heard about him; his violent acts spread like gangster fairy tales throughout the county. He killed anybody in his path, like the bubonic plague. His crew went by the name of the Bastards, a group of fifteen or twenty, always dressed in black. All of them were hired hit men who did what Zoe commanded to bring fear to the local neighborhoods and his competitors. I thought they were all a bunch of cowards, quicker to grab a gun than to fight. They killed just for a hobby and pleasure, and their boss, John Zoe, was not to be trusted. Why did he want a sit-down? I guessed I’d find out.

I got dressed around eight thirty; I couldn’t help but get nervous. My right hand shook violently, and I couldn’t seem to stop it. I took deep breaths, but my heart was pounding out of my chest to the point of nearly a panic attack. Mom was working late that night; I couldn’t tell her where I was going. I couldn’t. So much pain for her would rush back, and I didn’t want that burden for her, not again. I went to my closet and got my guns and a knife. I tucked a Glock 40 and a nine-millimeter into the sides of my black jacket and hoodie, with a switchblade concealed in the back pocket of my jeans. They were a precaution, just in case the worst turned out to be really the worst.

Jason honked his horn outside and yelled, Hurry up, nigga; move your ass.

I actually stopped and knelt down to pray for the first time in many years: Dear Lord, please forgive me for what I’ve done wrong and for what I will do wrong; please walk with me and guide me through the darkness and hard times. Please, dear Lord, guide me, help me, protect me, save me.

We drove through the old neighborhoods, and they all looked worse than before. It was like another country, another world where law and order didn’t exist and where violence was abundant. Buildings and old shops that were built in the early sixties now sat abandoned, only used by the homeless to take shelter during cold nights. The schools looked like war camps, with fences ten feet high and sectioned off from the main streets. Drug dealers and prostitutes were like stop signs located on every damn corner. This place was a real-life version of hell.

I asked Jason, Do you know why John Zoe wants to meet with me?

He sounded a little arrogant as he said, There was no doubt you were the best salesman, Zee. No one could sell that shit like you could. You would double Row’s money almost every time. He bragged about you to John Zoe, so I guess he just wants to meet you.

It sounded like Jason was lying; he looked away and made very little eye contact with me.

Jason, if anything goes wrong, you get the hell out of here and try to protect our family.

Relax, Zee, he said, annoyed. "Shit, overdramatic ass.’

We finally made it to the club, and it was empty as it could be—silent, dark, and damn near spine tingling. Deion had taken the Empire over a few years back; the club’s owner had a bad gambling problem, and he owed Deion a lot of money. After a series of threats and beatings, the owner eventually signed the club over to Deion, who made it this dingy cesspool where the drinks were watered down and the food was absolutely horrible. The only reason it survived was because Deion’s drug money kept it standing. As we approached the front door, my nerves became calm, but I still had that fear in the very pit of my stomach. My guts were on fire. It wasn’t fear for my life, but because I knew these people could hunt down and kill the people I love, who were completely innocent. My hands stopped shaking for the time being.

We entered the vacant club, and Row was sitting next to a man I assumed was John Zoe. He had a smile and a sinister look on his face.

What up, my nigga? Deion said as he approached me. Damn, how the hell have you been? What, you too good to come back to the old neighborhood, my nigga?

No, I’m just doing what I got to do. I’m going to school now.

Shit, school ain’t gonna get you nowhere but in debt; if you ever want to come back, there’s always an open spot for you.

I’ll keep that in mine, Row, but Jason said you wanted to see me.

Not me, my nigga.

Enough of this bullshit reunion, Row, the man next to Deion said. My name is John Zoe.

He stood up from his booth seat; he looked like a normal guy, not flashy, just wearing a button-up black shirt with a gold cross. He had a small fro that was neatly trimmed. His wrist had a shiny, diamond-encrusted Rolex that must have cost over $100,000.

I was the one who wanted to meet the great Zee, he said. I heard a lot of things about you, boy; how you were the Bill Gates of selling our product. C’mon, sit down; I have a business proposition for you. Hey, baby! he yelled at the young bartender, who didn’t look old enough to drink, let alone serve, give me and my partner some drinks. How old are you, youngin’?

I’m twenty-one.

Damn, boy, you look like you thirty-five, he says with a grin. So, you got a girl?

No, not really, I respond.

Well, you’re young; take it from me, a guy who has been married three times: Love is nothing but a big-ass expense that many people can’t afford.

A slight smile came across my face, and we shared a brief laugh. To myself, I thought he didn’t seem like the evil prick he was meant to be.

All right, you came way out here to the county; you probably don’t want to hear me talk about bullshit just for a conversation. I know Row said you out of the game, and I respect that. I truly do. I’m not asking you to return and start selling again. I just need you to do me a favor. Do you understand?

I look in his cold, dark eyes as if I was staring at someone who lacks a soul and said, Yes, I do. So what do you want from me, Mr. Zoe?

He looked at me with a grin and said, I understand your family is a part of the Los Santos cartel, right?

Yeah, my uncles, Raymond and Paco, they were born in it; what about them?

He looked at me dead in my eyes and said, I want you to reach out and make a deal with them for me. You see, Zee, my distributor’s product has become so watered down, you can’t get high off the shit no more. My business is not dying, but it’s on life support, going into that white light. The crack will always sell because a crack head always needs that puff. The weed will bring in some revenue but nothing to get excited about, especially if it gets legalized, then that profit will cease. I need somebody to hook me up with that good heroin and that coke straight from Colombia; bottom line, I need your family’s connections, Zee. I’m prepared to make a fair offer to you and your family; just set it up like Row did with me, and I’ll take it from there.

I tried to keep calm and not say the wrong thing because I know with psychopathic murderers, the slightest insult could end your life.

That sounds good, Mr. Zoe, but my uncles are very particular about who they work with. What happens if they don’t want to deal? No offense, but Uncle Raymond and Uncle Paco don’t even trust each other.

He looked at me with an evil smile of amusement, and he arched his left eyebrow.

That’s why I got you, Zee. If anyone can convince them this is on the up-and-up, it’s you. Why do you think we didn’t just get your weak-ass cousin to do this?

I look at him and said, Jason told you about our family?

He looked back with that intense glare and replied, Yes, he did. You see, Jason has been slipping lately; he and his partner Ricky have been coming on short with some of Row’s profits, so he thought this information would save his ass.

Okay, Mr. Zoe. One more question, I said, swallowing my courage with some watered-down tequila. What happens to me? I still live here; they’ll go back to Mexico or whatever they go to lay low. I’ll pay for their response. So why should I set this up?

His grin quickly disappeared.

Well, Zee, let’s say you don’t set up this meet. I will waste no time in killing your punk-ass cousin Jason. I won’t just kill him. I’ll do what the Cherokee Indians use to do in this very same land and carve his ass up; I’ll skin him alive all while you and his mom watch him suffer. You’re more of a soldier, but you will have to die too; it won’t be today, tomorrow, but eventually, some of my people will plant one in your fuckin’ skull. His voice rose just slightly. Zee, you know who I am. You know what I am capable of doing? Many men have tried to pull the wool over my eyes, and you want to know where they are at?

He looks at me as he takes another swig from his drink.

This place comes with its own furnace. Why else would we keep this shitty bar alive? So the ones that crossed me or fucked me over are now just ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Now I’m offering you a deal that’s fair: get in contact with your people, set something up, and get back in contact with me.

For a moment, I felt like getting the Glock from under my shirt and letting one round go, but who was I kidding? Deion kept a sawed-off shotgun behind the counter; I wouldn’t even make it out the door. I just stared at him coldly as my stomach turned and my heart raced out of my chest. The sweat poured down my face while I did everything to keep my hands from trembling.

How about this? he said calmly, sliding me a stack of money. That’s ten grand. I’ll double that bitch once you set up the meet-and-greet with your uncles. Zoe looked me in my eyes and said, I promise you: Whatever happens between me and your people, it won’t involve you.

Reluctantly, I said, Okay, it may take some time to get in contact with them, but you have my word. I’ll make this happen.

His dark grin returned, and he said with a laugh, Yeah, my nigga.

He handed me a folded-up paper and added, Here, when y’all get in touch, call that number. Just say the time, place, and date, and my people will get back with me.

After a few minutes, I left Deion’s club. Jason was outside the whole time because Deion told him this was a conversation for men only.