HARLEM KNIGHT

By Jay B

Zinafon Singleton known as "Smoke Black", is a self-made hood millionaire born and raised in Harlem, New York West 149th Street. Smoke established a well-respected name for himself along with his childhood friends. But what happens when one of your family members, who has everything going for themselves

• Language: English
• Publisher: JB
• Release date: Apr 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9781958788592

Book preview

HARLEM KNIGHT

A Novel By

JB

ISBN  978-1-958788-59-2 (Digital)

ISBN  978-1-958788-60-8 (Paperback)

ISBN  978-1-958788-61-5 (Hardcover)

Copyright © 2023 by JB

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher.

For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Publify Publishing

1412 W. Ave B

Lampasas, TX 76550

[e-mail]

Dedicated to

First foremost, I thank Allah to Ala, for light and insight into the life I've lived.

This is for my dad and my mother,  John and Patricia.

For my sons, Juron— known as Boogz, Jason, Tony, and John Jr. 

To my nephews; Donté, Patrick, Parrish, Mason, Tykim, Jaylen, Malik, Matthew, Cameron, Derrick Jr. and my nieces, Essence, Whitney, Shique, Nyumi, Charlee.

To all my cousins; Big Stacy, who is also like my sister from another. Cynthia, Tiffany aka Tiff Dog, Ayesha, Kevin, Stephen, and to all my other cousins I may have missed. 

To my rock-solid sisters Fay (Faith), Lisa, Kim, and Sonni.

Last but not least, my niece Naomi. I couldn't have done this without you. You kept this book alive. You dedicated yourself to it. This is to you. Thank you. You are much loved and much appreciated.

R.I.P. to my brother Guy. 

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter One

Time to come up/ hold my own weight / defend my crown / gots to lock it down/ and when they rush-part two

- Jay-Z and Memphis Bleek Coming of Age Pt.1

It’s Thursday, six o’clock in the morning and the sound of the speed bag echoes loudly through the gym. Bdda! Bdda! Bdda! Bdda! Louis Ramis also known as Cold as Icebecause he be in the boxing ring knocking dudes out with that powerful left hand. Louis is only seventeen years old and a top boxing prospect to turn pro next year. Standing five foot nine at 150 pounds with 75 Amateur Golden Glove fights, 35 of those by the way are knockouts. Not one lost under his belt. Louis has won the New York Stote Amateur title and killed them at the Junior Olympics taking home the Gold Medal. With his clean-cut and admirable looks some people, especially women, always ask Louis why he chose to box and ruin his handsome face. His reply is always "I got the best slip game in the business, I can’t get hit. Louis has thick curly hair, he reminds you of that kid who played in the old female gangster flick Gloria", you would think Louis was him all grown up.

Louis Jr. has been following in his father‘s footsteps, Louis Sr., who was also a young boxing prospect in his time growing up. Louis Sr, called Big Louis in the streets, was from Spanish Harlem and very well known throughout all the five boroughs of New York City. Louis Jr. never was granted the chance to know his father because Big Louis was murdered when Louis Jr. was only four years old, and Big Louis also never got the chance to see the talent of his only son. Louis’s mother, Tonya, was born and raised in Harlem, NY on West 149th Street, she was a strong black woman and Louis Jr. was her only child. Ever since her husband’s death, she vowed to keep their son from the streets that claimed his life. So she sheltered young Louis as best as she could throughout his growing years, but it was only a matter of time before Louis came to hear and know about who his father really was and why his name was still respected in these streets. In his search, young Louis also became intrigued by the ever-present street life, at the age of 17 he wanted in. He wanted to be part of the grimy world his mother kept him away from and the one that took his father, but Louis was hardheaded.

What’s the time coach? I did five rounds on this bag already. Louis hollered over his shoulder to his trainer Mr. Green, one of the best trainers who worked at the world-famous Gleason’s Boxing Gymin downtown Brooklyn, NY.

You just worry about your hand speed on that bag and don’t lose ya’ rhythm; let the time-clock worry about the time-clock. Mr. Green said back over the loud sound of the speed bag. Bdda! Bdda! Bdda! Bdda!

Louis knew he was nice with his hands especially when he heard it from famous fighters like Floyd Jr., Zab, B. Hop, and the G.O.A.T. Muhammed Ali, whom he met at the Junior Olympics when he won the Gold Metal.

Although surrounded by influential talent, the downside to young Louis’s life cycle is that he started hugging the streets. It was believed that he loves it just as much as he loves the fight game- and that’s a whole lot. He loves what the streets have to offer, he loves what the street life made of his dad; who was respected and still remembered Louis is geeked for that life, he can’t get enough of it and he wants it all. Now at seventeen years old, Louis won’t let anything or anybody get his way, but being sheltered the way he was, Louis doesn’t really know all the death row choices that come with the street-life hustle.

Beep! Beep, Beep, Beep! the timer sounds. TIME! Mr. Green yelled over to Louis. Grab a rope, I want five rounds on that too, you know the drill,  and snap outta whatever got yo’ mind boy.

Ain’t nothing’ got my mind. I'm just tired this morning, that's all.

Tired! Ya tired? I know you ain’t been dippin’ ya stick in ya girlfriend around tournament time, which is ten days away, need I remind ya?

C’mon Mr. G you know me better than that by now, my discipline for the boxing game is way above standard, am I right?

Yeah but sometimes I don’t know about you young cats today understanding the word discipline". Y'all tend to lose focus real quick on shit, and y'all think y’all know it all. Now get to jumpin' champ".

           

Where are you going? I thought we were supposed to be going someplace together today, remember? And it’s 6:30 in the morning anyway. Shelly asked wondering what the fuck is going on and looking at him with her face all wrinkled up. Shelly is one of Smoke’s on-and-off-again lady friends.

Shelly, I have a lot of things I forgot I needed to get done today. So no, I will not be with you today shopping, helping me spend my paper. Smoke said looking down at Shelly’s nude brown chocolate body lying on the bed.

Shelly raised up on both elbows, poking out her chest with her round firm breast pointing at Smoke.

Oh no the fuck you didn’t niggah! Say word, I help you spend yo paper niggah ? She retorted angrily.

Yo, be easy bee I’m just fuckin’ with you word up man I got shit to do so next time, a’ight?

Smoke I ain’t ya bee or man,word up!... You know what  I ain’t even fuckin’ with you no more. I’m tired of this shit. You come over here, fuck me, don’t even make love to me and then you just murk off early in the mornin’ like a car from a curb. Shelly sighed, sucking her teeth, shaking her head, and laying back down.

Smoke continued getting dressed saying nothing at all, just gritting on Shelly thinking to himself. This bitch thinks I’m dumb, she needs to be thankful I even fucked her. She thinks I don’t know her new MO, fuckin’ with fort as Tony Ross from 115th Street and Lexington. A trick and sneaky ass nigga with his shit. She can stay fuckin’ that half a brick flippin’ ass nigga, gotta put this bitch ten notches down in rankings for fuckin’ with that bird ass nigga. Smoke put on his diamond chain and walked out of Shelly’s apartment not saying one more  word. He was done with that. Stepping out of Shelly’s building onto the stoop,  Smoke inhales the summer morning air. Takes a deep breath and then exhales slowly.

Zinafon Singleton known as Smoke Black, and if you haven’t heard by now, yeah, he’s another one of them.Product of the Reaganomics Era; Street Boss, Hustla, Shot Calla, and Murdera!leave it to the police, under federal law he’s USC 841A-848 Menace to Society – the Big Prise RICO Act. Oh how they would love to get a nigger like him. For now, they can’t, Smoke is not reckless; the kid has regulations to what he does and the main one as always  is respecting the hustle.

Smoke Black was born and raised in Harlem, NY on 149th street, same block as Louis. At 31 years old, Smoke was a true "Harlem Knight '', a title given only to a handful of official old school dudes from Harlem, who were getting serious money at the time. You can say, nowadays a few still carry that title and Smoke and his team were given it. They were street savvy and smart, they respected the lifestyle. They coded and conducted the streets very well at young ages, and they followed the old school street laws of the hustle. Like Louis’s father, Smoke’s father Mr. Sonni was very well known throughout the entire State of New York. He was an original of old school street code, he got money with cats like; Frank Matthews, Golden Arm, Sam Gun, Jolly Green out of Philly, and the Notorious Philly Phil.

Louis’s father and Mr. Sonni were longtime best friends and partners in crime. Following his friend’s death Mr. Sonni decided to quit and leave the hustle. He made his money and plenty of it, he was a self-made hood-rich millionaire in the late seventies. Although he was well known he was low on the radar- only a few knew how to reach him.

At a young age, Smoke idolized his pops but mostly his older brother G- Smooth who was murdered in 1988 by some dude named "Teacher"; who was extorting dudes in Harlem. After his brother’s death, Smoke felt like he had nothing to lose, so at fourteen years old he watched the streets. He watched the older dudes work for his father and Smoke soaked up as much street knowledge as he could, he knew his day would come to be a boss and not a worker.

Smoke’s mother Patty also desired better for her son, especially after losing one son already when he was only twenty-one. If she kept Smoke in, he would sneak out, she punished him, he would break punishment. At age fifteen, Smoke stole zoo vials of crack out of a mailbox on Bradhurst Avenue, that same year he shot a kid three times for trying to shut him and his boys down in the park. He did 18 months in Tryon Detention Center in Upstate New York. From that point on Smoke’s father knew his son’s mind and heart were already focused on street life. Even after all the talks they had, what could he do? If he didn’t teach his young Zinafon the right way, he’d be damned if he let him do it the wrong way. Smoke and his father continued to have many long conversations about the hustle and these wicked streets. Smoke stayed out of them until about seventeen years of age, that’s when his father started to make him rich mentally and financially.

In 1992, Smoke was eighteen when he made his way out of town to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. At this time the town was still ripe, strictly powder cocaine and he was making a killing. Breaking down kilos and bagging up half grams for eighty dollars, making a hundred plus grand off a brick easy. His team E-dog, Prince, P-Shor, and Seandu before he went off to college, were all eating heavily- everything split down the middle. The others from New York that were out in PA coping bricks, Smoke would take them to his pops and sell them for twenty thousand dollars he would get them for fifthteen thousand. By the age of 20, Smoke made his first million or mil, he never looked back since. For those early years out of town, every day on the grind he dressed in all black and army fatigued with the black chukka Timberland boots. Henceforth the name Smoke Black wasgiven to him by his friend Seandu.

Still standing in front of Shelly’s building shaking off the deep thought that grabbed his mind, Smoke looked at his watch which is a platinum classic Franc Muller. He had about one hour before he picked Seandu up from John F. Kennedy airport, out of all Smoke’s childhood friends, Seandu was the one who really made it out. Starting off at the Tulane Medical School in Louisiana then on to Harvard Medical to become one of the top young black plastic surgeons in the United States, Seandu moved to Los Angeles, Beverly Hills where his business is thriving.

Smoke smiled to himself about the thought of seeing his boy, it’s been a while. Before that, he has to get over to Gleason’s Gym and speak with Louis about these little hustling endeavors he’s been pulling. Little nigga got outsiders pumping in the block without proper passage, older dudes in the block coming to me because he’s stepping on toes and the other young cats are getting hot under the collar about it.

He stepped down from the stoop walking toward his 2005 Charcoal black Bentley GT Coupe. With the black and gold trim Giovanni 12 inch smoked out rims on twenty-twos. Getting in the car, he hits the auto startand the classic Harlem joint from Mob Style comes to life in his car’s system.

I used to jump in my joint start to dip ride past the girls and they yell go whip/ hit em wit’ the horn cuz they’ on my tip/ continue my bounce down the street from left to right and as I switch lanes turn on my signal light.

Smoke gently pulls from the curb already absorbed in the music thinking about his plans for the day and what he’s going to say to Louis.

Chapter Two

Just cuz I love my niggas/ I shed blood for my niggas/ let a nigga holla where’s my nigga?/ All I wanna hear is right here, my nigga/

- DMX My Nigga

The rosta walks swiftly and smoothly down 150th street towards 8th avenue on the Dunbar side of the street with his long dreadlocks swaying from side to side. He gets almost to the corner and stops, fumbles around in his pockets and pulls out a lighter with a big fort blunt. He lights up take three deep pulls hold it in for one full minute exhale then continues his bounced around the corner with blunt in hand.

The dreadhead walks up on the kid he wanted to see.

Bloodclot, bitch ass nigga! the rosta hollered as he reached under his shirt brandishing a chrome snub nose .44 bulldog.

Before the kid who was sitting on the crate could even respond or move the dreadhead cut loose with one shot just to the side of the kid’s head. DOOM! The .44 echoed loudly in the early morning.

Ohhh shit!! yelled Tim who was on the payphone just a few feet away watching his homies body fall to the pavement. Dropping the receiver reaching under his shirt pulling out a black Beretta 92F letting off ten rapid shots in the dread heads direction PoP! PoP! PoP! PoP! PoP!PoP!PoP!PoP!PoP!

Glass shattered by the rosta head from a fish shop window where he stood. The rosto drops low in crouch mode raising the .44 and lets off two shots just to clear his way up outta there, DOOM, DOOM! Tim jumps over the hood of a parked car and drops low behind it out into the street. The rosto turns to run after letting off his two shots, he took off dipping around the corner knowing his revolver was no match for the automatic.

Hopping in a burnt red 1982 Toyota Corolla 1.8 two door, the kind the Spanish poppies be whippin in NYC. The rosta drives right off having left the car double parked with the motor running. Flying down 150th streettowards seventhavenue, he makes a first left and heads for the 161st street bridge over to the Bronx. His heart beating really fast in his chest is feeling like it's in his throat, the rosta is not scared about what he just did or any repercussion from it. It’s the anxiety of doing his first broad daylight murder and he doesn’t want to get caught. Things are going too good to go to jail now so I gotta get away, he thought.

The rosta pulled over 159th street and Grand Concourse with a sinister smile on his face, sat for a minute, no police, no tail. I’m good. He says to himself. Then he pulled off the shades he was wearing and next the phony dreadlocks came off revealing a head full of waves. He reached over to the passenger seat, picked up the remaining blunt, light’s up and started smoking.

taking two deep pulls from the blunt he exhales at the same time saying that was for y'all bitch ass niggas murking my man when he opened up on the block, pooh putt ass block! Mike Boogey says while blowing the smoke out his lungs then taking two more deep pulls, feeling the high overcome him again. MB was being real easy as he smoked because the back seat had three gallons of gasoline to burn and blow the car he’s driving.

Niggas over here is about to be mad when this shit pop off. I can’t take no chances if a nigga done ID this car in Harlem and DNA is a muthafucka now a days." Mike Boogey said out loud to himself. Finishing his blunt he leans over to the back seat to retrieve a spray bottle that’s filled with gasoline. He sprays down the passenger seat in front then one side of the dashboard. MB looks around outside one more time before getting out, clear, he puts on an extra big sise NY fitted hat, pulls it down low, sprays down the driver’s side and throws the bottle back in the car.

He lights the steering wheel, shuts the door and walks away with his head down but a smile on his face.

Tuning down on 157th street on the Concourse Mike Boogey hops in his money green deep-dish BB rims, and drives up the block to 180th street andMorris. The whole while Mike Boogey is driving to his girl’s house the situation made him think back to the first time he met Smoke Black.

Mike Boogey whose real name is Michael Cross but called MB, was from up the hilltop in Harlem 148th street and Amsterdam avenue. He started coming down the hill to hang in the valley after Smoke saved his life one day. MB smiled to himself thinking back.

MB was always a tough cocky kid with a lot of heart. He was an only child and  never hung with kids his age–he never got along with them. He had no father  in his eyes and never knew him. His mom, who he loved more than anything, was a stone-cold crackhead and used to be very beautiful,  but unfortunately got turned to drugs by his father. So, MB embraced the older dudes on the block who in return, embraced him back. His true theory was, ‘what the fuck can a young nigga my age teach me that I don’t already know?.’

True to the statement, he has stuck with the older dudes since  the age of  nine; as a police look out and running packages to crack spots. He shot a crackhead in the leg a year later at age ten, for some older dude on the block. Throughout his young life MB stayed in and out of juvenile detention for robbery, assault, possession, and delivery. He had no family who wanted him but his mother and the streets. MB has been through the hardships of life at a young age, no one reached out to shelter him. And no one fed him for free when he was hungry. He put that work in at a young age to feed himself and his mother. 

The older dudes around the way kept MB close, they rebirthed him. The streets became all he knew, his home. His jungle. He was schooled by men who taught him the main elements of the streets- the protocols of the hustle, murder, and robbery, but he never looked up to them or respected them 'cause they were all shystie.

It was a Saturday night, October 2000, and MB was 15 years old. He was running down 150th street and Amsterdam with two dominicans hot on his ass. Smoke Black was just leaving out of 152nd street and Broadway talking to his boy Philipe. He made a left on 150st and Amsterdam and drove down the block, he saw three people running, two men and a boy. The two men had knives out and the boy didn’t, Smoke easily saw the glint of the knives so he knew what was going down. He floors the car engine and beats them to the corner. Smoke gets out of the car and sits on the hood with his gun tucked between his legs just before MB passes him, he raises the gun.

Fuck is you running for kid!? Smoke said in an aggressive tone.

MB stopped dead in his tracks, seeing the big black .45 pointed at him.

Awe shit! Yo I ain’t do nothing poppy word up man MB whine with his heart beating first in his chest trying to think quick.

I ain’t no fucking poppy kid and what the fuck is you running  for?

The two Dominicans were just catching up as he was explaining.

They tryna kill me yo! These niggas think I stole something from them.

Slow da fuck up poppie. Smoke demanded pointing his gun at them now. And put the knives down bee.

EHhhh! take it easy man wit’ da gun. The lead dominican said who was short and stout.

Let me esplain. He said.

Explain motherfucker. Smoke shot back.

Dees lil shorty stole five kilo poppie, a lotta money poppie. The loss is no good for me.

Niggas gotta eat. Smoke said. It’s all part of the hustle bee.

But we can kill him now. The other said.

Check it bee, it’s fucked up you took a lost poppie, but I could care less about ya five kilos, I ain’t letting y’all do shit to shorty dats my word, so kick rocks my nigga.

We will get heem.

Oh, so y’all still gone fuck wit shorty huh?

The two dominicans made a gesture with their shoulders. Like what do you think?

Shorty you nice with ya beaters bee? Smoke asked MB looking for some amusement now as people started to look on.

Man on everything I love I will fuck both these stupid niggas up! MB shouted back with new-found confidence now that the tables have turned in his favor .

You fuckin lil puta! I'm going to kill you shorty you lil’ beech! the dominican threatened while throwing his hands up walking towards MB.

Awe this nigga can’t fight imma knock him the fuck out, watch. MB said throwing up his hands and bouncing his feet boxer style.

The dominican rushed at MB with a wild haymaker then MB slipped side stepping to his right and returned with a nice short uppercut right to the man’s chin, followed by an over band right on the left side of the dominicans jaw and he was out.

Smoke was on the sideline cracking up but was also shocked this little dude just fucked up a grown ass man with two blows. Now little Mike started stomping him out.

"Muthafuca!