R.O.N.O.D. Relay Officer Nuclear Operations Division

By Sr. Mason

R.O.N.O.D. (Relay Officer Nuclear Operations Division) is a fictional depiction of street gang activities in major cities throughout the world. The backdrop our story however, is the west-side of the city of Chicago, Illinois. The focus is mainly on one particular family,

consisting of four young men and their sister. As you explore the fine details of their life and their interaction with the people they meet along the way, keep in mind a single common denominator; which ask the question (What

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781634179195

Book preview

Prologue 

I snatched the pipe out of Pee Wee’s hand while staring deep into his red bloodshot snake eyes, daring him to say a word in protest. You got a big appetite for this crap, brother, a little too big as far as I’m concerned, save some dope for our customers. I hope you haven’t forgotten, but that is how we make our money, I said. 

Pee Wee had been getting high for the last month or so. He was supposed to be moving the product, but for some reason, he decided to check out the quality of our drugs. I didn’t mind, at first, when he snorted a few lines of coke, and on two previous occasions, I even tried a few hits myself. My concern now was he had graduated from snorting coke to smoking crack, our finished product, after it had been broke down with baking powder and cooked. We both knew this behavior was a one-way ticket to hell. 

Placing the pipe on the cocktail table, I sat down in a chair on the other side of the room, watching him as he drifted in and out; still rolling his half-open eyes at me. Ignoring his stupid glare, I picked up a mirror lying on the table with about six or seven lines of high quality cocaine on it. In the past, it was never my desire to try cocaine or any other drug. My older brothers had warned me, for years, to stay away from drugs and often quoted that person on TV who said, Never get high on your own supply. My original plan today was to tell Pee Wee we needed to check ourselves, smoking a few joints every now and then was one thing, but what we were doing now was stupid. I valued the trust my brothers had placed in me, so I’m not sure what compelled me, at that moment, to snort a line of the coke off the mirror I was holding in my hand. It was a dumb thing to do, but I did it anyway, without thinking. 

When my body begins to jerk slightly, a few minutes after I inhale the drug, I realized there was something different about the coke compared to my two previous experiments of getting high. I began wrenching and trembling in reaction to the pleasant yet erotic, burning sensation of the drug, pilfering deep into the crevasses of my brain. It seemed to quietly explode, as it changed directions and began to rob me of every ounce of energy in my body, leaving me feeling weak and drained of all emotions and desires. I felt like I was in heaven one minute and hell the next. I was not sure where I was or what was to come next. I wanted to get up and run, but I had no energy. 

I thought you were through getting high, Pee Wee mumbled, from the other side of the room, glaring at me, almost breaking my slightly paralyzed state of mind. I did not answer him and just sat back slowly; hypnotized by the sight of an old crushed beer can, standing on the filthy cocktail table in front of me. I had placed the mirror, with the coke on it, back on the table next to Pee Wee’s crack pipe, which was sitting among mounds of strange litter. I had noticed just how cluttered the table was while trying to find a spot to sit the mirror down. The twisted aluminum can towering over the filth on the table was reeking with the smell of stale beer. The amusing scene, before me, reminded me of an Andy Warhol work of art, mounted on an ant-infested mobile sculpture. Cigarette butts, some dry, others soaking wet, were scattered among a jungle of dirty old paper plates. I felt myself about to laugh out loud while glaring at the mustard-stained, crumbled-up McDonald’s hamburger bag, which seemed to establish the backdrop for the instant pop art display. Unidentified food objects created a variety of strange, haunting colors as I struggled to stay alert, but my eyes were heavy and wanted to close. I was transfixed and had a burning desire to see what was inside the partially smashed-up paper bag, which seemed to create a pathway to the entrance of a dark deep cave. I could not move and forced my eyes to stay open while enjoying the abstract parade of endless happy meal parts. 

I watched, in awe, as the brigade of creepy, crawling, big black ants on the table advancing toward the bag-cave. The army was on the move, some north toward the cave and the others moving south. Both groups seemed to be working together as they marched in straight lines in cadence, crossing over the mirror, but never touching one grain of the cocaine. The brilliant obedience of these small creatures was amazing as they passed each other in pursuit of their mission to capture and then deliver their bounty to places unknown, disappearing quietly down the table leg. I was drifting as my thoughts traveled back to a time long forgotten. 

Chapter 1 

The Pipe Dream 

Robert, get up and take this garbage out before you go to school. You know I don’t like roaches, plus the house is beginning to smell, so you better get the trash out before I get home. You hear me, boy, get up now! My mother yelled on her way out the door. It was 6:30 a.m. on a dark, cold Friday morning. Mama had to catch the bus by 6:40 a.m., or she would be late and miss the 7:30 a.m. train. The L-Train and a bus ride would take her to the northern suburb of Winnetka to clean white folk’s houses. Eva Marie Brown, my mother, is thirty-eight years old today, October 3, 1978. I am sixteen years old today as well; Mama would often say I was her twenty-two-year-old birthday surprise. 

Mama had her first baby at the age of fifteen in 1955, after dropping out of her first year of high school in Docena, Alabama—a small mining town about thirty miles southwest of Birmingham. She had never married, and after her third child was born, she left the south for a better life in the big city. By 1958 at the age of eighteen, with her three little boys in tow, she boarded a bus for Chicago. Mama said all she had was a big black trunk and three- hundred dollars she had managed to save over a six-year period. 

My older sister, Karina, and I were the only two of the five children born in Chicago. Although my name was Robert, all my boys gave me my nickname, Bone, when I was just twelve years old. My older brothers started teasing me all the time and would tell everybody that my little thing stayed hard; they said I was hard when I awoke up, when I was eating or playing games, every day, all day, so I was labeled as being a little strange. My mama said I was born with an unusually large little thing, sticking straight up like a miniature bronze baseball bat. 

Like many of my friends, I never knew my daddy nor did my three brothers or my sister know their fathers. My sister and I were probably the result of one of my mama’s one-night stands when she was young and wild. In the case of my three older brothers, they were the product of incest from mama’s uncles while she was growing up in Alabama. 

Over the years, Mama always managed to find some sort of work after her arrival in Chicago even with her limited education. When times got hard and money was tight, she learned how to go out with her girl friends to cheap nightclubs and bars on West Madison Street and earn some extra cash. The joints they frequented were local hangouts for hard working, serious drinking blacks and Mexicans. White construction workers as well as men from the steel-mills of South Chicago and North West Indiana also came to Madison Street to participate in illegal gambling and illicit sex and drugs. Everybody ventured to the west side for a night on the town with lots of money to spend. The men were always ready to give up some of their hard earned rent money for a quick, cheap fling. 

Mama told us, on several occasions, after the Holy Spirit saved her, that she was in the streets, at first, because she had to feed her babies. She did not have to look far for an easy mark, and the money came in fast. My mother was stacked with a body that drove most men nuts. Her five-foot-three-inch frame, smooth coco brown complexion, and soft clear skin with mesmerizing green eyes were captivating for most men. Of all her children, the only one with eyes like hers was my sister Karina. My sister has an old picture of Mama when she was about seventeen, and the two of them could have easily passed for twins. In another life, people said Mama could have been a movie star. When Mama spoke, you knew she was from the south because her words seemed to float on the wind from a fixed girlish smile accented by her glowing, sparkling eyes. 

Mama became somewhat streetwise during her early years in Chicago, but with one major downfall, which was a heart of gold and love for her children. She told us that as far back as the age of twelve, she learned quickly how to make money starting with her incestuous uncles in Alabama. It was their money she saved to finance her trip north. Each one was willing to pay for a moment of passion with their little cute niece as long as she was willing to keep her mouth shut. 

She was only two steps short of being a full-fledged whore (hoe), after six years in Chicago. At least, that is what I overheard my brothers say, on more than one occasion, when they thought I was asleep. 

Eva Marie Brown loved her children and seemed to hate using her body to make ends meet, but it was easy and somewhat profitable. During her testimony to all of us the night she accepted Jesus into her life, she told us that after arriving in Chicago, she went out with her friend Barbara Jean for some fun. That is when Barbara schooled her. Girl, you got them three babies and nothing to show for it, so you might as well have some fun and get paid at the same time. Barbara Jean said, Docena, Alabama, is a long ways from Chicago, and you ain’t got nobody to help you but yourself. We got these moneymakers, big ass thighs, and niggas is willing to pay the price. It’s easy, Marie, all you have to do is gap yo legs, moan a little bit, even when it ain’t good, smile anyway, and get yo money. Sometimes, girl, it really is good and a lot of fun too. If you get excited and like the nigga, kiss him a little bit and let him see you again on a date, but never take him home to be around yo children. Mama said she listened to Barbara Jean’s philosophy that night, only because she and her babies were hungry and she was broke. Barbra went on to say, Don’t ever tell them clowns you like—um, even if you think you do. Whatever you do, always get yo money (package) first. Make them use a rubber, and don’t ever fall in love for none of these lying, cheating, drunken fools. They all married anyway or living with some chick with five or six babies at home. They just willing to give us some of their food and rent money. We ain’t hoes, we just doing what we have to do to survive. When you get back home takes a douche, wash yo ass real good and forget it ever happen." 

I also recalled my mother saying Barbara Jean told her, "If we don’t get the money, somebody else will and I plans to get my share. We work hard every day, girl, cleaning up white folks nasty houses, what we doing now is overtime, that’s all it is, just plain old-fashioned overtime with