KING

By T.M Jefferson

Deon Toure's journey started in 1979, in the heart of Linden, Guyana. Things got tough when his father's troubles started seeping into their home life. That's when Deon and his mother decided to pack their bags and migrate to the United States, an entirely new world for the six-year-old.

Surviving Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn

• Language: English
• Publisher: TMJ BOOKS
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088283226

T.M Jefferson

TM Jefferson is a American writer and founder of TMJ Books, an independent publisher of fiction and non-fiction. He is a Amazon Bestselling author of nine titles and 2-time nominee for independent publisher of the year. To date, he has sold more than 400,000 books, including digital and physical formats.TM contrives a vividly, detailed canvas out of words that literally spring off the pages. Descriptive scenes, clever plot formation and intoxicating story lines are sure to keep the reader enthralled. Some of his favorite's are Donald Goines, Chester Himes and James Patterson. TM currently resides in Georgia with his wife and son.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The biting wind gnawed at my face on this frigid winter evening. Sitting on a milk crate outside my building, I observed the fiends darting up and down the block. Cold never stopped a hustler, so whether it was rain, sleet, hail, or snow, I was out there chasing money. Beside me, my trusty black Sony radio blared my favorite Infamous Mobb Deep tape. Hip-hop was my lifeline, a daily necessity I couldn't go without.

From up the block, I noticed a tall, slender figure making their way toward me. Although their identity remained unclear, their attire stood out—a pitch-black hoodie, matching sweatpants, and boots that seemed to blend into the night. In our neighborhood, at this hour, such an outfit carried a distinct message.

Emerging from beneath his black ski mask, his voice carried a mix of aggression and urgency as he pulled a chrome pistol from his waistband. You already know the deal, he spat, his words laced with menace. Give up everything... try something and your fucking brains will be decorating the pavement!

I rose slowly, cautious not to trigger any rash reactions from this potential threat. My hands shot up in surrender as I spoke, my voice steady and compliant. I don’t want no trouble, man. Take whatever you want.

The armed figure closed in, the muzzle of his pistol pressing against my chest. He rifled through my belongings and seized a stack of cash from my front pocket—a hard-earned twelve hundred dollars, my day's earnings. His gaze seemed satisfied upon seeing the substantial amount, and he started to retreat. But then, without warning, he swung the gun down onto the side of my face with brutal force. The impact sent me reeling, my balance faltering as a trail of blood trickled down my cheek, my vision blurring on one side. Desperate for stability, I grasped the railing on the steps.

Where the drugs at, motherfucka? he spat.

I ain't got no drugs. You already took everything I had on me.

A gunshot echoed through the air, a deafening blast that vibrated through my entire body. But I was still standing, still breathing. Slowly, I turned and witnessed the black-hooded stick-up kid sprawled out on the frigid concrete.

What the fuck, man! I exclaimed, wiping blood from my face. Took you long enough. My boy Jay-Roc stood between two parked cars, clutching a smoking .45 caliber handgun.

You know I got your back, my nigga. You alright? he asked, scanning the surroundings for any potential witnesses.

Yeah, I'm good. Can't say the same for this stupid motherfucka, I retorted, giving the lifeless stick-up kid a kick. Reaching into his hoodie pocket, I retrieved my money. The bills were stained with blood seeping from his sweatshirt.

This is real blood money, I declared, raising the bundle of bills. Shoving the money back into my pocket, Jay-Roc and I quickly left the scene. I was only 15 years old.

That's how shit unfolded in Do or Die Bed-Stuy. Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn has been my home for the past two decades. With a population of over two million people and an expansive land area spanning 71 square miles, Brooklyn holds the distinction of being the most densely populated borough in New York City.

In 1985, when I was just six years old, my mother and I left Guyana behind. My father had held the rank of a general in the Guyanese militia, but as his troubles began to seep into our home life, he made the choice for us to seek refuge elsewhere. A couple of his colleagues who were already residing in the United States advised us to come to America, where we could find community among our own. They owned property in Brooklyn and offered my mother an affordable apartment to rent.

My parents crossed paths in 1972 when my father returned to Guyana from Venezuela. Despite being born in Guyana, he had spent his youth abroad as his parents sought better opportunities. Upon his return, he decided to stay. Just six months after their initial meeting, my parents tied the knot. The tale I've heard is that their love was an instant connection, but by the time I came into the world, love seemed to have faded from the equation.

In June of 1979, on a cold kitchen floor, my mother, Suhati Toure, brought me into the world. They christened me Deon Toure. As I grew older, the streets would give me the moniker 'King' – a title that carried significance, as you'll come to understand.

It always puzzled me how two people who argued and fought so much could remain together for such an extended period. When I was just four years old, my parents engaged in a heated dispute that ended with my father receiving nearly two hundred stitches across his abdomen from a severe knife wound. It marked my first experience seeing blood escape from a human body. At that age, I couldn't comprehend the circumstances behind it all. As I grew older, I confronted my mother about the incident. She confided in me that she had caught him cheating on her with another woman for the second time. After the initial infidelity, he had made a promise that it wouldn't happen again, under the threat that she would take his life if he repeated it. And that's exactly what she attempted to do.

My mother was anything but weak, so I couldn’t understand how she allowed my father to escape the consequences of all the nonsense he put her through. With time, our conversations deepened, and she would consistently remind me, Deon, never let anyone exploit you. Once they realize they can get away with it once, they'll keep making you look like a fool. It was one of the many teachings that stuck with me and didn't simply pass through one ear and out the other.

Before my mother and I embarked on our journey to America, my father devoted every valuable moment to instilling in me the principles of becoming a 'man.' He'd sit me down and explain that one day, I would be the head of my own household and should embrace all the responsibilities that accompany that role. According to his perspective, being a 'man' meant looking after your family. He held the belief that a 'man' should work diligently each day, returning home to provide for the family's needs. He saw women's responsibilities as centered around housework—tasks like cleaning, cooking, and the like. He instilled in me the early lesson that while money holds value, it isn't the sole measure of worth. However, in those early years, I was too young to grasp the specifics of my father's occupation. It wasn't until after we departed from Guyana that I came to understand the true nature of his undertakings.

As our departure from our homeland approached, I witnessed an entirely new facet of my father's character—one that had remained concealed until that moment. If my memory serves me well, it was during a warm afternoon in late July of 1984. The sunlight streamed through our living room window, and the fragrance of fresh flowers permeated the air. My mother had spent the day indulging in her favorite pastime—shopping. Meanwhile, my father and I were seated on the sofa, engrossed in a soccer match, when a loud pounding resonated from our front door.

Who is it? my father's voice rumbled deeply. He peered through the peephole and moved to unlock the door in swift succession. Upon swinging it open, I recognized a face I had seen many times before. It was Mr. Williams, or Mr. Pasha Williams to be precise—a figure I had believed to be one of my father's closest friends. In those days, he seemed to always be a presence in our household. Mr. Williams was quite the dresser, known for his eccentric fashion choices—feather-adorned hats atop linen outfits and polished shoes that caught the eye. As a young boy, I'd often think to myself that I wanted to emulate his style when I grew up. He possessed a slender, almost frail build, hinting at possible scarcity in his diet. His tall stature was accompanied by an air of mystery, as he perpetually concealed his eyes behind dark shades, and his long cigarette dangled from his lips.

Sincere, Mr. Williams called out, his arm extended in a gesture of friendship. However, my father disregarded the offered hand, leaving Mr. Williams standing with a puzzled expression. Undeterred, Mr. Williams moved past the initial rejection and took a seat beside me on the sofa. Sincere, why the hostility toward an old friend? he inquired, his voice carrying a note of confusion.

My father had earned the nickname Sincere due to his genuine and respectful demeanor towards everyone he interacted with. In most situations, he displayed humility and earned the respect of those around him. His given name was Rafi Sultan Toure, a moniker that conveyed a sense of nobility and high status.

Mr. Williams carefully placed a leather briefcase on the coffee table, which occupied the center of the living room. With a nonchalant flick, he removed the ashes from his cigarette into one of my mother's ashtrays.

Pasha, put that damn cigarette out in front of my son, my father demanded. He then pointed his gaze towards the leather briefcase on the coffee table. Is that everything? he questioned sternly.

It's not everything, but it's a good chunk of it, Mr. Williams replied.

A majority, you say? I clearly told you not to show up unless you had every last cent, Pasha.

Mr. Williams released the latches on both sides of the briefcase, revealing its contents. I had never seen so much money in my young life. He began extracting stacks of bills from the case, but it was evident that these bills were unlike the currency I was accustomed to.

This is two-hundred thousand American dollars, Sincere. Is this not enough to settle my debt to you? Mr. Williams stated, presenting the stacks of cash.

My father's eyes stayed on the money, his expression showing signs of inner conflict. His upper lip twitched, and he extended his hand to grab a pile of the bills. Where would a piece of trash such as yourself get two-hundred thousand from, Pasha? he interrogated, his fingers sifting through the crisp bills. Since I’ve known you, you’ve never had more than fifty-thousand at the most.

Business has been picking up for me, Sincere... what can I say, Mr. Williams replied with a nonchalant tone.

My father started collecting the stacks of bills and feeding them into a machine positioned on the table. I watched in awe as the machine sorted through hundreds of bills at once. Once he completed the task, he secured the bundles with rubber bands and tossed them into a large, black plastic bag.

I suppose this should suffice to settle your debt for the time being. How much do you reckon you'll be able to move this month, Pasha?

Mr. Williams took off his shades, revealing something I had never noticed before. His left eye was completely white, with scars along the top and side of his eye socket. The light made it gleam like a piece of glass. When he looked at me, a shiver ran down my spine. I had never seen anything like it.

Give me three for now, he said, adjusting the buttons on his designer linen dress shirt.

Looking closely, I could see a small bead of sweat dribble down the side of Mr. Williams' face. I turned to my father and saw that he had noticed the same.

Listen, Sincere, is this the same product from the last time? They loved that batch, he asked, his eyes shifting from my father's face to the front door.

Yeah, it's the same, my father answered, retrieving a dark brown leather bag from underneath the dining room table. He unzipped the bag and tossed three clear plastic baggies filled with a white powder onto the coffee table. Mr. Williams pulled a knife from his back pocket and punctured a small hole in one of the bags. He placed a fingertip-sized amount of the powder onto the tip of the blade and brought it up to his nose, inhaling the substance.

Yes! That's the china white, Sincere!

My father walked to the front door and double-checked the locks. Then, he went to the window and peered out to the front of the house. When he returned to the sofa where I sat, I could see a completely different expression on his face, and it wasn't a good one at all.

Loyalty is more precious than any amount of money, gold, or diamonds, Pasha, my father stated firmly.

Mr. Williams appeared caught off guard by the statement, his confusion evident as he fumbled to adjust his clothing. Wha.. what do you mean by that, Rafi? he inquired.

For the first time in a while, I heard Mr. Williams address my father by his birth name, signaling that something was amiss. My father held up a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. With a deliberate movement, he reached into his front pants pocket and retrieved a pistol, aiming it directly at Mr. Williams.

Rafi, what has come over you? Mr. Williams pleaded, his face betraying his fear.

My father moved across the room without a sound, his gun aimed at Mr. Williams as though he were tracking prey in the wilderness. With swift precision, he tore the buttons off Mr. Williams' linen shirt, revealing his bare chest. But, upon closer inspection, his chest wasn't actually bare. From my vantage point on the sofa, I could see a black wire adhered to his skin, leading to a small round object at its end.

Pasha, you backstabbing traitor! My father's words dripped with anger as he struck Mr. Williams on the head with the butt of the pistol. The force of the blow sent Mr. Williams reeling, and he crashed into my mother's antique-filled china cabinet.

He clutched his head in pain, his voice laden with desperation, Rafi, please, you can't do this. They forced me to come here and set you up. They threatened my family's lives if I didn't cooperate. I'm terrified for their safety. I never wanted it to come to this.

Pasha, do you remember what I warned you of when we first got into this business together? I told you that if you ever betrayed me, I'd end your life. Looks like you never took me seriously, my father's voice was cold as he spoke, his gun still pointed at Mr. Williams.

It's not my fault, Rafi. You should have followed their demands, and none of this would be happening right now. They're concerned that you're gaining too much influence among the people, Mr. Williams pleaded, his voice strained with desperation.

My father pressed the gun's barrel against Mr. Williams' temple. People often confuse power and influence, Pasha. But what I hold here... this, this is power, he declared, his tone resolute and deadly.

Simultaneously, the front door shattered in a burst of splinters and noise. In that instant, my father's finger tightened on the trigger, and the gunshot echoed through the room. Mr. Williams' skull exploded, sending brain matter and blood onto the recently painted walls. The light grey carpet soaked up the pooling crimson liquid, and a mixture of shock and terror gripped me as I sat on the sofa, my screams piercing the air.

Two heavily armed militiamen burst into our home, their intent clear in their eyes. But they were met with a storm of bullets as they crossed the threshold. The rapid fire from my father's gun tore through the air, reminiscent of the war movies he and I used to watch. The violent symphony came to an abrupt halt, leaving the scent of gunpowder hanging in the air.

In the aftermath, my father acted with lightning speed. He reached for me, his grip strong and urgent, and we moved as one. He seized the bag of money, the bag of white powder – symbols of a life I was only beginning to understand – and without hesitation, we made our escape through the back door, the darkness enveloping us like a shroud. It was the last time I would see my father in the flesh.

Seven months later, my mother and I embarked on a journey that would reshape our lives forever. We migrated to the United States, chasing what some refer to as The American Dream.

CHAPTER TWO

After witnessing my first homicide at the age of five, the haunting images of that day became burned into my mind. For years, those memories replayed in my dreams, causing me to wake up in a cold sweat, my screams echoing as if I were reliving the horror all over again.

The neighborhood we settled into didn't provide much solace. Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn—also known as Do or Die Bedstuy—was far from peaceful. Every night, the sounds of gunshots echoed through the streets, and the yellow police tape seemed like a permanent fixture on the avenues. Predictably, whenever my mother heard those ominous sounds, she would rush into my room, driven by concern for my safety. I recall one incident vividly when a stray bullet shattered our window and tore through the chair I had been occupying just moments before. It's safe to say luck was on my side that day.

Initially, I harbored resentment towards our decision to leave our home country and move to the United States. Guyana, with its stunning landscapes and warm-hearted people, held a special place in my heart. Its history was intriguing—it began as a Dutch colony in the 17th century, only to be claimed by the British by 1815. In 1966, Guyana gained independence from the UK, but it embarked on a path largely guided by socialist-oriented governments. Despite my initial reservations about leaving, I couldn't help but acknowledge the allure of Guyana's beauty and its rich history.

In my eyes, the people in America often came across as impolite and lacking in respect, especially those residing on my block. On top of feeling like an outsider, my appearance set me apart in the neighborhood. A single glance at me would reveal that I didn't quite fit in. My short, curly black hair and olive skin complexion led many to assume I was of Indian descent. While it's true that a significant portion of my country's population has Indian origins, my mother and I are actually of African-Guyanese heritage. I despised the way other kids would taunt me, hurling insults and making fun of my slight accent. They even went so far as to question why I didn't have a dot on my forehead, a common stereotype associated with Indians.

I always stood my ground when confronted, asserting, I'm not Indian, so I don't know what you're talking about. Yet, it seemed that my defiance only fueled their hostility. I found myself in numerous clashes defending my cultural identity. Being smaller in stature than most kids my age only meant I had to work harder to prove myself.

When I was eight years old, in the third grade, there was this kid named Butch 'The Bully' Jones. He was the school bully, a reputation he had earned for himself. Butch was older than most of the kids in our grade, already nine years old going on ten, and surprisingly, he was still in the third grade. I suspect he had been held back a couple of times. And let me tell you, Butch was no ordinary kid when it came to size. Standing at 5 feet tall and weighing around 150 pounds, he was undeniably big for his age.

Lunchtime was Butch's favorite opportunity to target the new kids at school, and unfortunately, I wasn't exempt from his attention. It was evident that on this particular day, he had his sights set on making me one of his many victims.

I followed my routine and walked through the lengthy lunch line, just like any other day. Today was something to look forward to – pizza day, a favorite among the weekly meals. During lunchtime, I stuck to my usual spot at the same table, surrounded by the familiar faces I had grown accustomed to since arriving at the school. Today seemed like any other day in that regard.

I picked up my juice box, a slice of pizza, and two chocolate chip cookies, ready to head over to my regular table. As I was making my way there, halfway across the cafeteria, I crossed paths with Butch and his sidekick Red.

Red's real name was Michael, but his fiery red hair earned him the nickname Red. He seemed to always stick close to Butch, following him around like a shadow. It was clear to me that Red was the kind of person who just went along with whatever Butch did – a true follower. My father had taught me to never be a follower and always strive to be a leader, so I had a different perspective on things.

As I tried to move away, Butch's foot appeared out of nowhere, and I stumbled over it. My lunch tray slipped from my hands, crashing to the floor in front of everyone in the cafeteria. My only good sweatshirt got splattered with tomato sauce, and the whole lunchroom burst into laughter. It felt like time slowed down, and I found myself on the ground, surrounded by the chaos. The laughter echoed in my ears, and I saw my pizza and cookies covered in sauce—a mark of my embarrassment.

All around, people were laughing at my misfortune. The slice of pizza I was looking forward to and those chocolate chip cookies—all now ruined by the sauce stain. The sound of laughter felt like a wave that was drowning my pride and making me feel small.

Watch your step next time, loser! Butch towered above me, wearing a cocky grin.

My initial reaction was to leap up and lash out, throwing punches with all my might. But then, a moment of clarity swept in. Charging blindly wouldn't be wise. I had to be strategic if I was going to confront them. Rationality prevailed over anger.

I recognized that giving in to frustration would be a grave mistake, especially since I was facing two opponents. If I unleashed my fury without a plan, I'd be walking right into their trap. Their reputation for brutal beatings was well-known, and I was determined not to become their next target.

Dusting off the tomato sauce from my shirt and putting embarrassment behind me, I stood up and reclaimed my seat. My remaining lunch awaited, a tangible reminder of resilience. As I savored the remnants of my meal, my thoughts shifted toward devising a strategy—a plan to turn the tables.

Several days later, school's dismissal marked the beginning of a new chapter. As I walked home, lost in thought, a voice cut through the air—Jayson, a fellow student, calling out to me.

Hey, wait up, shorty! his voice rang out as he jogged to catch up.

I knew his face from around the neighborhood, but we'd never exchanged a word before. Jayson was a familiar presence, a figure two years my senior and a fifth-grader. Around the building, he'd often be in the company of older kids, a fact that hadn't escaped my notice. He was one of the many my mother warned me to avoid, disliking their influence.

Me? I pointed to myself in disbelief, scanning my surroundings for confirmation.

Yeah, you. Deon, right? You live over on Jefferson Avenue, don't you?

Yeah, how'd you know my name? I asked, a mix of curiosity and caution.

Don't sweat the details, kid. You headed home?

With a casual shrug, I responded, Yeah, I suppose.

Good, I'm headed that way too. Let's walk together.

During our brief stroll to Jefferson Avenue, Jayson—now Jay-Roc—unveiled snippets of his life, and I reciprocated in kind. An exchange of stories, a bridge forged in the span of our steps.

I go by Jay-Roc, he revealed. The name, he explained, was derived from Jayson, with the Roc part somehow connected to his line of work. The meaning remained shrouded, a puzzle I hadn't yet deciphered. My imagination led me to believe he collected rocks or something of the sort.

Jay-Roc lightened the mood with jokes about my thrift store attire, poking fun at my clothes as we conversed. He emphasized that, to navigate life in the Stuy, I needed a wardrobe upgrade—urgently. Casting a glance at his outfit, I realized his advice held weight. Everything he wore seemed pristine, as if fresh off the rack. An oversized brown coat, adorned with fur around the hood, enveloped him. His loose-fitting, sagging blue denim jeans and immaculate tan boots—complete with a distinct emblem on the back heel—painted a picture of style that contrasted starkly with my own.

Back then, my appearance took a backseat to the daily hunger gnawing at my stomach. The transition from Guyana had thrown my mother into a ceaseless battle to provide the nourishment that a growing kid like me required. Many days saw me skipping breakfast or dinner, an ache that hungered as deeply as it pained. My primary incentive for attending school was the promise of a free lunch.

Hunger is a serious thing, no doubt about it. I've experienced it firsthand. Many nights, I attempted to escape the hunger by sleeping, only to wake up feeling even worse than the night before. Whenever luck swung my way and I managed to scrounge up a mayonnaise sandwich or a handful of cheese, I treated it like a feast fit for royalty.

I attempted to shield my malnourished state from prying eyes, but the truth was evident in my small frame. Concealing it was a futile endeavor back then.

Jay-Roc shared that he'd caught wind of my encounter with Butch 'The Bully'. In his view, Butch's actions were those of a coward, preying on those smaller or seemingly weaker. Jay-Roc himself disliked Butch for targeting those he believed he could easily intimidate.

Jay-Roc and I joined forces, devising a strategy to turn the tables on Butch and ensure he'd never bully another soul.

The following school day arrived, and I was a bundle of nerves as our plan was set to unfold. A tiny part of me wished that Jay-Roc wouldn't show up, but as I looked around, I saw him by his locker, offering a subtle nod in my direction. That nod was our signal—it was time to set our plan in motion.

The hallway buzzed with the movement of third, fourth, and fifth graders on their way to the cafeteria. Spotting Butch to the side, not far from me, my heart raced, and I took a deep breath. Clutching the straps of my knapsack hanging from my back, I navigated through the crowded corridor. Upon reaching Butch, I squared my shoulders, walked up to him, and gave him a forceful bump with my right shoulder. Swiftly, I bolted in the direction of the restrooms, with Butch close on my heels. As planned, he chased me down the hallway.

Rounding a corner,