Chapter 48: Drummer Boys Follow Through

This chapter is...rough. Buckle up!

Bodie

I pull into TJ's dealership and hop out the truck, giving a wave to one of his salesman as I barge right into his office despite the guy's protests.

To my complete surprise, TJ's got his girl backed against his desk, smoochin' on her. It's okay, though. They are fully clothed, and the baby is in the carrier at their feet so I walk on in, figuring it's just a hello kiss that I'm about to make a good-bye kiss.

TJ whips around, as Shay shyly hides her face. "Dawg."

He sounds irritated, so before he can tell me to get the fuck out, I wink at his shorty, toss her a "Hello, beautiful Shay," pick the carrier up with his baby girl, plop down in his desk chair and shake his daughter's teething toy at her until she grasps at it. "Hey, baby girl. You're so pretty. Good thing you take after your momma."

TJ sneers at me. Shay gives a sassy, "That's right." Baby Kamila smiles.

Of course I like Kamila for her own sake, because babies are pretty cool, and she is a very pretty little thing. But it does also cross my mind that it would be the ultimate justice to become baby Kamila's favorite "uncle." If I'm stuck with the damn Turners because my kid considers TJ his "bonus dad," I feel like TJ should feel what I'm feeling.

So I'm going out of my way to ingratiate myself with TJ's fiancée and kids. After all, we are one big happy family now, even if Shay and Pat don't quite know it yet.

And TJ and me? We are partners in crime again.

Even Shay is smiling at me. "Have I told you I like the new 'do? Those dreads were getting kinda nappy," she teases me.

I rub my head. "Yeah, it was time to put childish things away. Time to get serious," I give TJ a weighted glance. He reads my cue that we have business and ushers Shay and the baby out with a promise to look at all the pictures she sends during her scouting mission to look at reception venues. Now that the baby's been born, they are moving ahead with the wedding, I guess.

I follow him out to the lot as he says his goodbyes. He comes to stand beside me. I'm looking at the black, illegally tinted Escalade I drove here—one of the pair I bought off him three months ago.

"Yeaaaaahhh, Imma have to trade these in, Dawg," I say, as I pop a piece of gum.

"I had to order those special. Gave them to you at cost. Took no commission. You don't like 'em? "

"I love 'em, but they are a drug dealer's car. Number one profiled vehicle. Nothing but a hassle for a black man when he gets stopped by the cops."

"Surely you knew that when you bought 'em, Dawg."

I look at the boy like he's stupid. "When I bought 'em, I wasn't a drug mule, Dumbass!"

He shoots a wary look at a potential customer nearby. "Will you keep your loud-ass voice down?"

"I'm so sorry, bringing my trouble to your house," I grit quietly.

"I can't help it that you shared your peanut butter sandwich with me in first grade and we became friends. Then my brother turned out to be a goddamn sociopath," he grumbles. "I'm with you. I got your back. What more do you want?"

"I want you to sell me some new cars. The first one needs makes the statement I'm-A-Smart-Black-Man-With-Money-But-I'm-Not-A-Drug-Dealer-Don't-Hassle-Me-I-Might-Sue"

"But not a rock star car, because that blows the low profile."

"Right."

"Hmmmm." He thinks on it, gives me a head tip, and walks through the lot, bringing us to rest in front of a sporty, silver sedan.

I laugh. "A Tesla. Perfect. Plus I dig the whole save-the-planet deal. Sold."

He laughs. "Excellent. And the other one? What statement do you want it to make?"

I bite my lip. He might as well know where I stand. "I-Love-You-And-You-Are-My-Queen-Not-Just-A-Part-Of-The-Entourage"

He nods at something in the distance, not looking at me. "So it's like that, now?"

"It's that like, Dawg. I love her. Hell, I might go crazy and marry her, if we get all this gangster shit settled. And if you gotta problem with it, you got more problems than that, because you gotta a fiancée and two kids at home."

After a brief consideration TJ directs into the distance, he gives me a singular look and a wan smile. "I ain't gotta a problem. I love Shay. I really do. Even better, she loves me. It got old, loving Jaz and her not loving me back."

"She does care about you, you know."

"I know. And I still care about her, too. We pretty much raised a kid together. There was a lotta love in that house, there just wasn't...chemistry with me and her."

I chuckle, relieved as fuck that he can admit it. "Well, you got chemistry with Darius. Not gonna lie, kinda jealous of that, man."

"Oh, you and D got potential. You were all he could talk about, after he met you. You two will be just fine. If you don't get yourself killed."

"Right," I say grimly. "So...look...the way I see it...we family now. You and me...our dad roles just got reversed from what most people do. Bonus dad first, real dad after. I'm not tryna take Darius from you, Dawg. We'll blend our families. We used to be like brothers...we can be that again. Marley and Shay love each other. The kids will be like cousins...we'll make it work."

He nods slowly. He holds out his hand and I dap him up, like the old days. For the first time since I've been back in this hood, I think we are straight.

"Sounds right, but it's not gonna be easy for my mama, when we do this thing we are gonna do to Daemon."

"She's gonna have to toss her bad apple out before he spoils the barrel. Don't you worry about Pat..." I slap him on the back. "When we get all this Daemon bullshit settled, we'll put Ronna to work on her."

"Jesus," he rubs his jaw. "I'd rather take a bullet than stand in between them."

"Don't fucking joke about that, Dawg. This is some serious shit we are about to perpetrate. You being the man on the inside, closest to Dae, puts you in the most danger."

"Naw," he grins. "He'd much rather kill you than me. Any day."

"Listen, there's the one thing. Your books have gotta be spotless. I told 'em I wouldn't do this without immunity for you too, but you cannot put a single dime of blood money in your business."

"No worries. My shit's legit. I rob Peter to pay Paul, but I do it legally. I'm barely treading water, but I'm clean."

"Good. And you can't tell Shay."

"I wouldn't tell Shay. I would never get her involved in this. I would rather tell her nothing at all than feed her half-truths every damn day."

That last statement stings. Because I did lie to Marley about one thing. I told her this was all a set-up for the long term. I told her none of these drugs would ever hit the street.

But that's just not possible. Not for the take-down the feds are planning. Juries don't convict for potential crimes. As much as I hate it—as much as I never want to destroy a life with the poison that almost claimed mine—I will do anything to ensure we are all rid of Daemon forever.

Including fencing the first-taste brick of heroin sitting in my truck right now. And transporting the first of many shipments that will begin soon, all while I document every dollar's worth of delivery, helping INTERPOL and the Feds solidify their evidence chain.

I don't like pumping more drugs on the street, but I keep telling myself...it's business. The law of supply and demand. If I don't do it, someone else will. At least with my involvement, I will be helping to rid the world of a number of bad guys, and two that I hate personally: Daemon Turner and Connor Ryan.

Marley will see that the ends justified the means. She has to. Ultimately it's all for Darius.

TJ snapping his fingers and tagging me hard on the shoulder pulls me from my reverie. "Alright, man. Since we are family now, Imma do you right. C'mon."

I have no idea what he's talking about until he takes me into the shop where a couple of technicians are still taking the protective plastic off of a brand new, pearl white Jaguar XJ with beautiful buttery leather interior.

I whistle. "That's a classy car."

"For a classy lady."

"Mmmm. You think this is Marley's style?"

"I know it is. Marley's dream car? Always been a Jag."

"Really, now?" I say, sliding in the driver's seat, taking a more serious interest. I did not know that Marley admired a Jaguar, but there are a lot of fine details about Marley that I'm still looking forward to filling in.

"This was for another client, but I'll sell it to you and say there was damage during delivery."

"Send it on over to the house now, so she can drive it to her lunch date," I say with a grin.

"You want the Get-Laid Package slapped on top?"

"What's that?"

"Delivering the key fob attached to a bouquet of her favorite flowers," he grins.

"Dude, if I'm not gonna get laid for a beautiful machine like this—"

"You know chics, man. You can't be sure a car is gonna do it. They like the little gestures. Actually your boy Leed gave me the bouquet idea when he ordered a Mercedes SUV for his girl up in North A, but I've been using it ever since. Works great. I've gotten a lot of good feedback. The flowers are guaranteed to put you over the top."

I snicker. Leave it to Leed to spread the love—even through a car salesman. "Get-Laid Package it is."

"Jones—call around a see if you can find a florist with some jasmine."

"On it." A random voice calls from the sales lobby.

I pull the Escalade around to the shop so the guys can detail it for resale. I take the case with the large bag of pills and the single brick of heroin and put it my new Tesla. Then TJ runs me through the whole charging protocol situation of my new electric vehicle.

Godammn, my shit is so fucked up.

TJ and I grab a late lunch. I reflect on the fact that the next part of our day would go down a whole lot better with a few stiff tumblers of whiskey, but I think about what Marley said. Not only do I know sobriety has to be a way of life, it is really best to stay sharp. Being on edge is more likely to keep me alive.

I text Daemon and get the address for the new stash house—a brick ranch with a battered roof on a country road nearly to Alabama, near the commercial property I bought him. When TJ and I get there, I'm pleased to see Daemon had enough sense to park our "guests" over at the business property and shuttle them here to the trap. We definitely don't need two dozen tricked out thug cars attracting the attention of these rural, mostly older and mostly white neighbors.

I pull around the back and enter the slider on the raised deck. Thirty thugs are on their feet in the open living and kitchen area, ignoring the expensive leather furniture that I am sure I paid for. Most of them drinking beer. A few roll liquor in cut crystal glasses. Two blunts are circulating.

"Clay-Dawg!" Daemon booms at me, giving me a nod over.

He introduces me to the group of five other turf gang leaders as Clayton Jamison our "Thai connection." Even though he's not using my stage name, every single one of them is aware of who I am.

Still, Daemon is being smart, identifying me with my real name. Bodie is unusual and it sticks in the brain. Much better that my famous name does not filter down through the ranks of five more street gangs. I'd sort of prefer no petty dealer call TMZ with the tip-off that I'm the man with the big time smack hook-up that blew up the drug market in Southeast Atlanta.

As Daemon introduces me, I pay attention to the names and the gangs and their appearance.

Terrel of the Wardlaws-that's the gang in my new neighborhood- has twists and a face scar. He's the oldest in a well established neighborhood. His gang is not much more than a legacy. This dude probably has a 401K.

Antman of the EastsideNiners is a big dark broody fellow. A killer, but not a visionary.

Insane of CCP (Crimes,Cash,&Punishment)—easiest to remember because of his bible scripture verse. On his face. I discount the intelligence of anyone with that much face ink.

Paki of ViceLords has a sober,smart look and the best poker face. He's probably killed more people than Antman, but I doubt it troubles his sleep, because he's always planning his next three moves. Basically, the Varrick Von of this group.

Shawn of RDC (Radar Drug Crew) is light-skinned with a Drake vibe but he doesn't say much. And not in the cards-close-to-the-vest way. More like in the nothing-to-say way. Not sure if that's an IQ issue or a consumption issue. Probably he's over-indulged on Daemon's weed because you don't get to the top of a gang being a dumbass.

Somebody thrusts a Crown in my hand. I drink as little as possible while I bullshit with these thugs about whips, nines and pussy.

At one point Terrel asks me what my body count is.

"That means a different thing on the street and in the green room, Dawg. Both counts, I keep from my Shawty. I sure as fuck ain't gonna confess it to you assholes so she can read on Perez tomorrow."

They all laugh.

One good line of vague bullshit was all it took to make me likable. Credible. Gangster.

Next thing I know, Shawn is pushing a blunt on me, and I have to keep that credibility.

What the fuck would they think of a rock star that passed on his puff?

Ain't no way around smokin' with these guys. I almost wish we were doing lines of crushed oxy instead. The methadone is supposed to block the high from opiates. But the weed?

Fuck. I got no tolerance and I'm gonna feel the very first hit.

I need to stay sharp. I take the shallowest hit I can, holding it in my throat, trying like hell not to cough because I haven't hit the green in fucking forever. Since the early days of Thailand, almost six months ago.

TJ actually does have my back, though. After I pass it off, he maneuvers himself to take what would be my second hit, and walks off with the blunt to his circle, a group of lieutenants.

I start to swirl just a little from the weed. It's actually good. I don't feel pressured to respond to everyone's comments and I can take more time to evaluate these thugs.

Paki is the one to impress. Win him and the rest will fall in line. I hope to fuck Daemon can read that.

Things flow from there. Before long all three dozen of us are heading down to the basement. It's a different world down here.

We have to walk through plastic sheeting at the bottom of the basement steps. Fluorescent lights line the ceiling. White utility tables flow down the center of the completely open basement. There are silver pans and brand new scales and plastic weigh boats and tiny silver scoops and plastic bags of several sizes organized at stations on the table. Five pretty girls in underwear and masks stand against the wall, but they won't cut this smack tonight. They are just here for atmosphere and serving samples. Or maybe they will work the party that will commence after business, because their underwear is silk and lace.

I'm extremely fucking unhappy to see Preston among the three "supervisors" that will apparently oversee the packagers when the operation does commence.

Fuck. That's not gonna stand.

Kid will end up doing time for this.I've gotta get him out of this life somehow. That whiteboy is dumb but he has a good heart. He saved Marley's life.

"Gentleman," Daemon begins, his muscles bulging and his voice commanding. "We all know why we are here tonight. When opportunity knocks, the bold seize it."

Goddamn. He woulda made a good front. He's got charisma. Then I remember him singing along to the radio when he took TJ and I to school a few times, and I console myself with the fact that the fucker is tone deaf.

"You all know me. Antman. Insane. We did time together. Shawn, Terrel...your brothers were my brothers during our incarceration struggles. Paki. Paki," he smiles. "You are a man that can't be swayed by association. You are a man that decides from his own mind. And you see clearly, the future I'm working to create for us all..."

It just goes on from there.

Daemon is like a cross between Tupac and a cultleader.

After fifteen minutes, he's holding them all in the palm of his hand. Jesus Christ. Any second I'm expecting Daemon to ask us all to drink the kool-aid. Er'body but me, TJ, and Paki would prolly do it, too.

He gives me the nod. It's time for me to bring it home with the goods.

I hoist the case on the table and precisely place the bag of pills and the block of heroin on the table. I pull out a switchblade and cut each bag. I nod to Preston, who nods to the girls. They come forward, some more nervously than others. Three begin to portion small amounts of heroin into weight boats, while two unstack small silver pans and crush pills.

"You all know the demand for high quality product in North Atlanta," I say grimly. "This heroin is uncut. Pure. Direct from Thai poppy fields. I know the owner of those fields personally. Connor Ryan is a multi-faceted entrepreneur. His poppy is processed in country.It is very cost effective to grow, harvest and process all at one site. Both the heroin and the pharmaceutical grade pills. It makes for a reasonably priced, high quality product. See for yourself."

The girls begin to move through the room with the samples.

"That's not the impressive part. Connor Rynan is the impressive part. He's not just a product originator. He's a promoter. His network...both in the drug and entertainment worlds, is substantial. This is a man who can deliver what he says. More importantly, he's a fucking spider. He spins webs. He's got feelers sensing every movement in his entire network. Nothing is going to take this guy by surprise. Nothing is going to interrupt his supply chain."

Nothing except me finally delivering what INTERPOL hasn't been able to acquire—the hard evidence to put him away.

"I charter private jets when I fly. That makes it easier to mule. And unlike some impulsive unfortunate souls in my line of work, I have the sense to move product discreetly. I'm working on a fool-proof crew of Thai, Filipino and US customs officials in my pocket. The pipeline will be secure, because people like me? We are above the law, if we are willing to buy our elevation, stay smart, keep our mouths shut and our social media controlled.

"And this product? Every shipment will be consistent. It will be on time and this good, every time."

I wait for the gang leaders and their lieutenants to sample the goods.

Nobody makes a move. Not one single person does a line of oxy or a snorts a spoon of smack. They are all staring at me.

Waiting for the man who brought the product to prove this isn't some ploy by Sixmob to wipe them all out.

Goddamn these paranoid motherfuckers.

Daemon is giving me the glare. I know what he expects. I know what they all expect.

"Darlin', bring me a tray of each," I say to the nearest girl.

She puts two trays on the table in front of me. I stare down at them.

Crushed oxy or snortable smack.

Pick your poison.

Fuck. Sweat trickles down my face.

I shoulda known it would come to this. But I'm an addict. Denial is kind of our thing.

"Is there a problem?" Insane asks. I see his nose running already. He wants his sample, but he won't break ranks and go first.

"No problem, except I ain't tryna die, doing both at once. This smack is uncut, Imma need someone else to prove the oxy," I tell them. "A little Sixmob help?"

TJ comes forward and takes the tray with the line of oxy. He gives me the smallest shrug.

Fuck. We in it now.

I pick up the tiny spoon with the minuscule amount of smack and he bends over the line of oxy and we snort at the same time.

The crowd watches us, gauging our reaction.

Theoretically, methadone is supposed to block the opioid receptors in my brain, preventing the euphoria of heroin.

I close my eyes, waiting for the nothing I expect to happen.

Maybe it's because the heroin is pure, or maybe because I'm not fully saturated with methadone because of my broken treatment, but the rush rolls over me. Not nearly as strong as shooting up.

But it's there and it feels fucking good.

I laugh. Fuck. I missed this.

"It's good shit," I promise the group.

"The oxy is...real..." TJ says hazily beside me.

I find myself looking over at me, wondering when the last time he did drugs was. He smiles and shakes his head at me. "I am so fucked," he says.

The room is silent except for the sound of sharp inhales of product and murmurs of satisfaction.

Only Daemon and Paki abstain.

After some indeterminable time, I realize Antman is speaking to me. "Erbody knows who you really are, Clayton Jamison. You're rich. Famous. You got out of this life. Something is not right about this. Why are you doing this?"

"Well, the answer is simple," I nod, bracing my hands on the table, to stop myself from swaying. "This empire? Establishing it? Keeping it supplied? It was the price for Daemon's Dimepiece."

A chuckle runs the room.

Paki's eyes glitter as he watches me. "It's a lot of trouble. A lot of risk. A lot of danger. Is she really worth it, Holmes?"

"She's worth it." The ferocity in my voice should be impossible, high on smack, but it's there and it convinces Paki.

"A man in love will move mountains. Even if the mountains are made of snow." He looks at Daemon. "ViceLords will join your confederation."

Daemon looks to the other gangleaders. They all nod agreement. "Excellent. Let's talk percentages, gentleman."

As the leaders move away for the negotiation, I stare at the drugs on the table. My fingers creep toward the bag of pills and then I push away from the table, grabbing Preston by the collar.

"Put that fucking shit up," I growl at him, confused and craving and angry, when it shouldn't even be possible to be angry. This methodone -smack combo is a brain-fuck. "Get it off the table and lock it in the safe. Now!"

"Okay, Dawg. Easy," Preston says, snapping at the girls with one of his hands to pack up the drugs, holding me off him with the other. "You are hella tense. You want one more spoon?"

"No, I don't want another fucking spoon! I want to get the fuck out of here!"

"Okay, Dawg." Preston looks from me to TJ. "I'll drive you guys."

I give Preston my keys. I make him take us to his crappy apartment where we drink coffee and numbly watch Sportscenter for hours until the haze evaporates.

I realize at some point that I can't be going home smelling like weed and booze, so I take a shower and make Preston run my clothes in the dryer with a fucking box of dryer sheets.

At least by then I'm sober enough to drive TJ home.We both realize it's midnight. Reality comes pressing in. We check our phones. TJ wins the angry babymama contest. Marley has left me three messages. Shay left him twelve.

"We need a fucking stash house to stash some goddamn clean clothes," I mutter to him, pulling my t-shirt to my face. It smells like Gain but suspiciously extra.

TJ rubs his hands over his face. "I'd like to think we are OG, but the truth is we are just two pussywhipped Boomers. You know that right?"

"Well this Boomer just did something in our hood that no OG has ever done."

"Yeah, you just took five small time gangs and put them all under Daemon's leadership. Congratulations Frankenstein. You made your monster."

"I had to make him a monster. It's the only way I can kill him. You can't kill regular people. They haunt you."

My head is against the seat. My eyes closed. My mind wide open. Craving. Seeking. Demanding.

I guess my weird words worry TJ, because he says, "Bodie. Dawg. You're going be alright. The methadone...it's gonna keep you straight. You're not going relapse. That wasn't real. It was just a show."

It was fucking real. But now I have to shut it down.

"It's all good. Get your ass in the house before Shay comes out, beating on my new whip with a bat or some shit."

We clap it out. It's a short drive to my house. The first thing I do is head straight to the kitchen, shake out a methadone pill, split it, and swallow half, effectively upping my daily dose.

Higher than it ever was.

But that's what you do when you relapse. You take more methadone. How the fuck I'm going to explain to Marley that my prescription ran out early, I don't know.

I'll worry about that later.

Right now all I care about is checking on Darius on my way to bed.

He's asleep.

Marley is not. Even in the dark, the silence is thick with her anger and worry.

I strip and slide into the bed beside her.

"Did you get your new Rock Star's Girlfriend whip?" I joke, tenderly kissing her shoulder.

"It's a beautiful car. The most beautiful car I think I've ever seen. Thank you. But please don't deflect the issue. You were gone all day. Fourteen hours. I was so worried. You couldn't have replied to a text?" Her voice is calm, but she tenses at my touch.

I rub down her chilly arm anyway. Up and down, warming her.

"I would have, if I could. I swear. It was...a serious situation. I was...in it...until I was out of it. Just now.Then I came home as soon as I could."

That shit is weak but I guess Jaz is taking her ride-or-die role seriously, because she doesn't go off on me.

She leans back, turning her head and looking up at me in the dark.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, baby. Of course I'm okay," I lie.

Her exasperated sigh lets me know she's still angry but trying not to be. She pulls my arm across her and we both pretend to sleep.

But we can't.

Because she is pissed.

And I am not okay.

Poor Bodie. This is a bad, bad, bad situation. He's trying so hard to set things right, but he's sobriety is collapsing in on him as a result. I wonder if LA will be better, or worse, for him...