Boyz in blue, p.1
Boyz in Blue, page 1
Boyz in Blue
-Nadir
Copyright © 2024 Nadir (Nadir Simmonds) All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher, Word to Vince Presents, LLC.
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
Acknowledgments
Catalog
Stay Connected
About the Author
Only
Blood
Can
Control…
Prologue
Posted in front a brownstone on Albany Avenue, right next to the notorious Brooklyn housing project, Albany Houses, a few young boys, all dressed in red, watched an elderly lady walking their way.
“This is what I’m talking ‘bout, dog,” complained one of the boys, motioning toward the woman moving in their direction. “These people don’t have no respect for the gang. She wearing a red scarf as if she’s one of us,” he fumed, clearly agitated.
“Word, Blood,” chimed in another boy. “I’m a eat that bitch food, Blood,” he said, taking out an orange cased box-cutter from a bubble-goose he had on.
“You’ll definitely make the superior proud, Blood. Eat food,” said a next boy.
When the woman got within reach of the boy with the box-cutter, he placed an elbow against her chest as the other boys formed a circle around her. “What that red be like?” he asked the visibly frightened woman.
“H..Huh?” stuttered the woman, confused.
Grabbing the red scarf from around the woman’s neck, the armed boy raised the cloth in the air. “What this red be like?” he asked, burning a hole through the woman with a devilish expression. “You Blood?” he barked.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” responded the frightened woman, staring wide-eyed at the boys.
In a swift motion, the boy grabbed the woman by the shirt collar. “Blood up!” he voiced before cutting into her face with the box-cutter. Satisfied with his assault on the woman, he shoved her to the ground and sprinted into projects, followed by his compadres.
“Help!” screamed the women from the ground, holding her face where she bled profusely. “Help me, please, someone!” she cried out.
1
Fresh home from Spofford, a detention center in Bronx, New York for juvenile delinquents, Spade was beyond happy. Beating a robbery rap, he was finally back on the streets after six-months of lock down. Escaping a Division for Youth bid upstate, he couldn’t wait to tell his friends how he’d gotten away with a crime he surely committed.
Racing out his 21st Street pad, he moved across the street to the Castle, a huge building complex he grew up playing inside of for the majority of his life. The huge apartment-building possessed a large courtyard at the center which played as a dividing line for two sections of the building, the 131 and 141 sides. Spade had friends on both sides of the building, all of who he’d grown with since toddler days. Though he lived directly across the street from the Castle, he considered the building his home base also.
“Oh shit,” shouted Big Kid, rising from a seated position inside the courtyard of the Castle. “My nigga’s home.”
Cracking a huge smile once seeing his friend, Spade approached the heavy-set boy and gave him a bear hug, lifting him off his feet during the process before placing him back down on the pavement.
“Damn, my nigga, you got strong,” complimented Big Kid, surprised by the way Spade was able to lift him off the ground.
“You already know my nigga. I was in there lifting weights and lifting them Bronx niggas off their feet.”
Taking off his shirt to show Big Kid muscles he accumulated during his stint, he laughed out when his friend’s eyes widened.
“What the fuck you was eating in there? Weights?” asked Big Kid. “You got bigger than a motherfucker.”
“I was eating them Bronx niggas for breakfast,” joked Spade.
“I believe you, nigga.”
“Where Bo at?”
“He inside, laying low. Couple days ago, he clapped something on the ‘bush.”
“Word? Who we beefing with now?”
“Dog, some niggas from Regents jumped him because he was wearing a blue jacket. Them niggas up there is on some gang shit now. They claiming some shit called the Bloods.”
“Get the fuck outta here?”
“Yea, man. Bo went back over there and lit shit up, though. You know we don’t play that shit over here. A nigga better keep his hands to himself.”
“You know that’s right.”
During his time in Spofford, Spade noticed most of the boys in the joint were beginning to represent the Bloods, a California based gang that’d, somehow, made its way over to New York. He’d even been approached to join the gang but respectfully declined the offer. Never in a million years did he ever believe the jail gang would touch the streets of Flatbush, though. He figured the gang was a jail thing that would never reach the streets, but he was wrong.
“Do you know I seen that Blood shit in Spofford? Most of the niggas in there was starting to represent that shit. I can’t believe that shit made its way to the town, yo.”
“That shit becoming a problem out here in the last couple a months. A lotta niggas out here representing that shit,” said Big Kid, shaking his head and taking out a pack of cigarettes.
Spade looked down at the pack of cancer-sticks then back up at his friend. “You smoking now, nigga?” he asked surprised. Before he left the streets, Big Kid was not a smoker. What the fuck is this nigga doing smoking?
“Shit is stressful out here in these streets,” said Big Kid, lighting up a cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he blew out a thick cloud of smoke in Spade’s direction. “Smell that, nigga,” he joked.
Whooshing away the smoke with a hand, Spade playfully punched Big Kid in his rotund belly. “I’ll beat you up, nigga. Don’t be blowing no smoke my way,” he joked.
Letting out a hearty laugh, Big Kid puffed away on his cigarette. “These shits got me addicted, nigga,” he said, shaking his head.
“I see. Anyway, I gotta figure out how to get to this money. How the crack thing going out here?” asked Spade. While in Spofford, he decided to pick a new trade. Robbery had been his forte for some time, but he now wanted to try a hand at something different and decided it would be selling drugs. Growing up on 21st, he watched the older boys, and even some of the younger ones, making crack sells up-and-down the street. It was obvious the trade was one of lucrative significance, but he was so caught up with committing robberies that he never gave it a chance. Robbery’s just seemed more of a sure thing. But he wanted to sell drugs now.
“You know that nigga Bruno won’t allow anyone to sell drugs on the block unless it’s his drugs,” said Big Kid, tossing the butt of his cigarette on the ground and stepping on it.
Hearing Big Kid mention Bruno gave Spade the chills. He hated the man’s guts and, at times, prayed for the man’s speedy demise. Someone should just hurry up and kill that motherfucker. The man was a superior figure on the block who bullied his way to the top. Residents on 21st literally feared Bruno. His reputation spoke many words among the residents in the neighborhood. Recognized for his fighting ability and trigger-happy ways, he tossed around his weight whenever the chance arose. On a few occasions, he punched Spade in the mouth for yapping off, giving rise to his hatred for the man. Unlike everyone else, Spade did not fear Bruno, and because the older man was aware of this, he challenged him every time they crossed paths. But Spade never backed down. Even though he could not beat the athletic Bruno in a fight, he tried every time he was picked on by the man. He was determined to, one day, defeat Bruno.
“Yea, that nigga still out here tripping?” he asked in a disappointed tone.
“You know that, nigga? Nothing has changed on the block when it comes to Bruno. He still run shit,” said Big Kid.
“Well, I’m gonna try my hand at hustling, whether he likes it or not.”
“Damn, nigga, you still on your wild out shit.”
“For life.”
“Either way, I’m with you. You my nigga.”
“And you my nigga,” verified Spade, meaning it. There was no one he trusted more than Big Kid and Bo, his two best friends. They’d been through a lot together and always kept it real with one another. “Anyway, I’m a run up and check on Bo. I’ll be down soon.”
“No doubt, nigga. I’m a stay downstairs and catch some of this sun. Summer time’s almost ov
“I feel you.”
Shooting inside the 131 side of the Castle, Spade paused a bit when seeing a man handing over a piece of crack-rock to an addict in exchange for a crumpled bill. Both paused their transaction to look his way when he entered the building, but quickly went back to doing what they were doing when realizing he was not a threat. Bypassing the duo, he made way up a flight of debris filled steps to a third-floor apartment. Knocking on the door, his friend, Bo, answered.
“Oh, shit,” smiled Bo, “my nigga’s home.”
“What’s good my nigga?” smiled Spade.
“Come inside.”
Bo let Spade in and directed him to a room at the back of his pad.
“You got big my nigga,” he said.
Taking in Bo’s slim, tall figure, Spade realized that he actually did gain a lot of weight. At one point, him and Bo were the same size and height, but now he seemed like a giant compared to his frail friend.
“Was pumping iron, hard,” he bragged.
“I see.”
“So, what’s good with you?”
“I’m on the low, kid. I clapped a couple niggas on Regents for violating. Them niggas over there on some Blood shit, whatever the fuck that is, and popped off on me because I had on a blue jacket.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Big Kid told me the Bloods out here heavy.”
“Dog, lately that’s what been going on in the ‘bush. Niggas acting like they from California now.” Bo shook his head in disappointment. “But I’m not having that shit. I’m a 21st nigga, and we don’t take disrespect. You know that.”
“Sure do.”
“Anyway, what you trying to get into out here.”
“I’m trying to sell some crack.”
“Word? That’s what I’m doing now. I kind of fell back on that robbery shit.”
“Well, I wanna get down.”
Bo became silent and looked off at the ceiling inside the room.
“What’s up, nigga? Why you got silent on me?”
“I’m selling for Bruno and I know you don’t fuck with that nigga,” responded Bo, lowering his head in somewhat embarrassment.
“Listen, man, I’m a do my thing. But I’m not selling shit for Bruno.”
“Spade, you know this nigga got the block. We gotta respect that.”
“Respect what?!” barked Spade, staring at Bo.
Bo put up his palms. “I’m not the enemy, dog. You my nigga.”
“You know how I feel about that nigga. I’m surprised you even fucking with that nigga like that.”
“It’s not even like that, man. I will never put that nigga over you. Don’t ever get that twisted.”
“Listen, man, I’m a need some work to move out here. Line up something for me.”
“You got it, man. I’m a see what I could do.”
“Don’t see what you could do. Do what you supposed to do.”
Departing Bo’s apartment, Spade made way outside in the courtyard. Finding Big Kid in the same place he left him, he approached his friend who was now standing with a younger boy from the neighborhood they all called Nut.
“What’s good, Nut?” he greeted.
“You my nigga,” voiced Nut. “My motherfucking idol.”
“Stop it, shorty,” Spade laughed.
“Nah, Spade. You the realist nigga I know out here.”
“Thanks, my nigga. Anyway, I gotta make a move. I’ll see y’all later.”
2
Sitting out in the Castle’s courtyard on a crate, Bo awaited the arrival of sure-to-come crack-addicts, customers, as called by drug-dealers in the neighborhood. Rocking his head to a reggae tune blasting from somewhere inside the building, he anticipated the arrival of the morning sun soon to settle upon the city. During the early morning hours was when he made the most sales, so he made arrangements with Bruno to work the specific shift.
Besides himself, another boy sat outside awaiting addicts. Bruno only allowed two persons at a time to hustle for five-hour shifts. No one could hustle prior to or beyond their shift, so Bo made sure to be on time every day. Granted an opportunity to make some fast cash on 21st was a difficult task; Bruno rarely gave out such a privilege to persons outside of his circle. But Bo was determined to get down with the older man’s money-making organization. Prior to becoming Bruno’s worker, Bo would approach the man daily, requesting a spot in his circle. Shot down on multiple occasions, Bruno eventually agreed to let him on board.
Giving a package of crack-cocaine worth five-hundred-dollars, on a daily basis, Bo made one-hundred bucks each day after selling Bruno’s goods. Though he yearned to make more cash, he was satisfied with what he was making, for the moment at least. With no assistance at home, he was left to fend for himself. His mother was a crackhead, his father an absentee sperm donor. With no help from the two most important people in his life, the streets were his only parents. In the streets he was able to find the help he needed. Committing various crimes that brought in much needed cash, he could afford to feed and clothe himself, while taking care of his needy mother. He didn’t need no one’s help. As long as he continued his mayhem on the streets, he would be good.
Feeling droplets from the sky, Bo let out a sigh of disappointment when realizing it was going to rain. Damn. He hated the rain. Retrieving his crate, he went inside his building and took a seat by a set of mailboxes embedded inside a wall in the hall area.
A man descended the steps catching Bo’s attention.
“Hey, Bo,” greeted the elderly man.
“What’s going on, Mr. Robinson? How’s life treating you?” Bo had known Mr. Robinson for his entire life. The man was a staple in the Castle, respected by everyone. Prior to guys like Bruno, Mr. Robinson was the go-to man before he fell ill and retired from the hustling game. He was also a pimp that kept exotic, beautiful women around at all times. Bo would literally drool when seeing some of the women Mr. Robinson introduced to the Castle.
“Real well. Thanks for asking.”
Just as Mr. Robinson exited the building, a crackhead entered.
“Let me get a dime, Bo,” said the addict, dressed in drab wear that carried a foul stench.
Bo’s stomach turned when smelling the foul odor coming from the crackhead. Quickly taking out a packaged dime-bag of crack, he handed it to the addict. As soon as the crackhead handed him the money for the merchandise, he hurried out the building to catch some fresh air.
“Damn,” he said, taking in a needed breath of air. “That nigga stink.”
A lite drizzle fell from the skies. A gust of calm wind blew ever so often. A gate at the center of the courtyard, leading into the complex, opened and a man walked in. Bo played the entrance to his building closely just in case the man was either a cop or foe. Years of living on 21st had taught him to be alert. At all times. 21st was one of the most dangerous blocks in New York City. Shootings, killings, and assaults were the norm on the compact street. Everything involving the criminal element happened on the street. Outsiders were warned, beforehand, to stay clear of the street if they did not know someone on the block. Someone of relevance, too. Police hounded the many criminals on 21st, and non-criminals also. The violent atmosphere left everyone vulnerable to disrespect by authority figures. Living on 21st was seemingly like living in hell at times, but Bo would live no where else. He loved his block.
The man kept his head lowered so Bo could not see his face. His better mind told him to back into his building, but for some reason he stayed put. He wanted to see if the man was possibly an addict looking for a hit. He did not want to miss out on the sale. When the man got close enough, he raised his head revealing his face. Oh shit! It was one of the guys from Regents he shot. Turning to run inside his building, a loud bang sounded off to his rear. An impactful force hit his body sending him flying forward onto the ground. Pain lit up his entire figure. He wanted to scream out in agony. He tried to scream out in agony but could not. It was as if the pain stunned his voice-box. Lying on his stomach, he waited for the man to finish him off. There was no way he would let him live. Allowing the pain to take over his body, he prepared for death.
3
Perched in the far back of a moving bus, Spade looked out the window onto New York Avenue, a residential throughfare stretching from his Flatbush neighborhood to the end of Crown Heights. As the bus maneuvered through Crown Heights, he could not believe how many youths, male and female, he saw with red bandannas hanging out the back-right pockets of their jeans. “This shit is crazy,” he whispered. Thinking back on Spofford, he recalled many of the Bronx and Harlem boys claiming to be active members of the Bloods street gang. Many of the Brooklyn and Queens boys remained neutral, sticking to themselves mainly. How had the Bloods reached the streets of Brooklyn? Regardless of how it emerged in his hometown, Spade did not like it.
