“Oh, death ain’t gonna be enough for his punk ass,” Tank replied.

  Tank was typically a chill nigga for the most part when it came to his crew. He had never really had many issues because shit got handled. But he was about to make a big-ass example with Red.

  Gia came out with Red’s bag and handed it to Tank.

  “Is that everything?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she nodded. “The weight is more than what we originally gave him.”

  Before Tank could look in the bag, Red decided to do something foolish. He took a swing at Tank, grazing him, which only pissed Tank off even more.

  Tank’s eyes grew large, and both he and Armani started fucking him up bad. Everyone stood in shock at what was unfolding in front of them.

  “You stupid muthafucka,” he growled. “How you gon’ fucking bite the hand that feed you, bitch?”

  He picked up Red off the ground like he was a rag doll and knocked his ass back down. “Punk-ass muthafucka.”

  He kept punching Red over and over. It was almost as if he had “Tanked out.” By the time he stopped, you couldn’t even recognize Red’s face. Tank had blood on his hands and clothes. Finally, he stood up, panting, and told the other two niggas to get in the house.

  “And get his bitch ass in there. I got to go fucking change my shit,” he told them.

  Now, he could hear sirens, so he knew he had to dip. He had a clean record, and he needed to keep it that way. He gave the orders on what to do with Red, then dipped.

  Heading home, he thought about how hard he had worked and how Red had just tried to punk him in front of everybody. He couldn’t have that because then, everybody would be trying to do it. He went to drop some money and stopped at Armani’s to change clothes.

  Pulling into his community an hour later, he saw two squad cars sitting outside of his house.

  Man, fuck, he thought.

  Even though he had left Red, he knew nine times out of ten somebody called the cops. So when he got out of his car, the officers jumped out, guns raised.

  “Put your hands on the back of your head.”

  “Don’t take another fucking step.”

  “Freeze,” several of them yelled.

  He stood looking as several guns were aimed at him. “Is there a problem, Officers?” he asked calmly.

  “Just shut the fuck up. Stand still,” one of the officers said, coming forward.

  He slammed Tank against the hood of his own car, and he could feel the heat from the hood against his skin.

  “Got anything on you?” the officer asked.

  “No, I don’t,” Tank answered.

  “What about in your car? If we search it or your house, are we gonna find anything?”

  “I guess we’ll find out when you get a warrant,” Tank answered as he was snatched up from the hood.

  Tank was smart. He knew his rights. He wasn’t worried because he never kept work in his car or his house. The only thing he had was money. But he was a successful businessman, so it’s not like he couldn’t have status or safes all over his house.

  His phone buzzed on the hood of the car where an officer had put his things, and the officer snatched it up.

  “Looks like you got some nudes coming from your little girlfriend,” he told him. “That’s a lot of woman.”

  Tank smirked. He had bitches sending him pictures all the time.

  “Are you gon’ tell me why you got me in cuffs?” Tank said. “Or should I just call my lawyer now and go ahead and have him write up the paperwork to sue the shit out of y’all?”

  “Shut up and get in the back of a car,” the officer growled. “Martaveous Young, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. . . .”

  The officer tossed him in the back of the squad car as they read him his rights, and he was driven to the precinct.

  He knew they were just fucking with him. There was no way that Red was going to say anything. It was already being taken care of. He knew he’d be home before dinner. He paid his attorney a lot of money to keep his hands clean and keep him out of the system, including getting his record as a teenager sealed. He was going to have to move more carefully after this bullshit, though.

  Sitting in the back of the squad car, he thought about his first time getting locked up.

  Chapter Nine

  1997

  “Now, Martaveous, there’s not many more options that we have for you. We’ve placed you in several different homes these last couple of years, and it just seems like you just don’t want to try to make it work in any of them,” the caseworker said to him.

  He was sitting in the passenger seat, not really paying any attention to this white woman. She was driving him to his new foster home, and all he could think of was how he was going to get away to see a girl that he liked. She had sucked his dick behind the building after school, and he was trying to get some more of that.

  “Martaveous, can you at least try to be obedient?” the caseworker asked, interrupting his thoughts. “I know that this is a lot for you, and I know you’re probably tired of moving around, but you got to take some accountability. Part of the reason why you’ve moved around so much is because of your behavior. Every time I turn around, I’m getting phone calls saying to come and get you because you’re losing control.”

  “It ain’t always me,” he argued.

  He knew it was pointless to argue with her because she wasn’t living with him day to day. She didn’t know everything that was going on. She just went by what they told her. And he doubted that she really cared. To her, he was just another number. Another face that she would visit every couple of months. Now, he was on his way to yet another foster home and didn’t know what he was walking into.

  “Well, your new foster dad, Mr. Baker, is a little older, so you’re going to have to mind your manners,” she advised him. “But I think that he’ll be a good influence for you.”

  Martaveous nodded but said nothing.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, looking at him quickly before turning her eyes back to the road.

  “Does it matter?” he said. “You don’t care.”

  “Of course, I do,” she gushed.

  He could tell by the fake tone in her voice that she was just saying that shit.

  “Martaveous, I know it’s hard for you. But you just have to understand that the adults know what’s best. I know you may not necessarily like everything that they’re telling you, and you want to do what you want, but there are rules and consequences,” she went on. “And if you keep going the way you’re going with all of these foster homes, you’re gonna end up in juvenile hall. And then when you get older, it’ll be jail. Is that what you want?”

  “No.” He shook his head, expressionless.

  “Well then, what is it gonna take to get you to be respectful and just listen?” she asked. “You’ll be 18 in a few years. I really want to see you do something good for yourself, Martaveous.”

  And I really want to see me get the fuck up out of this car, he thought.

  The afterschool special speech that she was giving him wasn’t really helping. He was tired of the same shit. All he wanted to do was live his life. But she was on some Joe Clark, Lean on Me-type shit, and he was tired of it.

  He watched as the caseworker pulled up to a small house in the middle of the hood. He already knew the minute she stopped that this muthafucka was just taking him in for the money.

  He watched as an old white man open the door.

  “So, I’m staying wit’ somebody grandpa?” he asked, frowning.

  She sternly looked at him and shook her head. “Watch your mouth, Martaveous,” she fussed. “I just said to be respectful.”

  He knew the minute he looked at the old white man that it wasn’t going to work.

  “This dude look like he come straight from the Bible,” he whispered.

  “Martaveous,” the caseworker sighed as she gathered her paperwork, “I’m serious. If you don’t get it together, you’re going to end up in juvie. Now, do you know how many kids wish that they could have a foster home? How many kids are sitting in orphanages right now because they don’t have anybody?”

  “They can take my place,” he shrugged.

  “Okay,” she nodded. “If that’s how you really feel, but you won’t be going to an orphanage. With your track record, you’ll be going straight to juvie. So, you can stay here and tough it out, or you can see how it feels to be sitting in a cell all night with two to three other people in a cramped space with you. Your call.”

  He mumbled some more stuff under his breath that she couldn’t make out and then got out of the car with his small bag of belongings.

  “Hello, Mr. Baker,” the caseworker smiled as the man stood looking grumpy on his porch.

  He nodded his head to her, and she guided Martaveous over to him.

  “This is Martaveous Young. Martaveous, this is your new foster parent, Mr. Baker,” she introduced.

  “What’s up?” Martaveous grunted.

  “Boy, that is not how you speak to an adult,” the man corrected him. “You say hello, or you hold your hand out for somebody to shake it. I’m not one of these little hoodrat friends for you to say ‘what’s up’ to.”

  Martaveous stood looking at him and shook his head. He had barely made it out of the car before this man was trying him.

  “Umm, okay. Well, let’s start over,” the caseworker suggested, trying to steer the conversation, but it was already too late.

  Something in Martaveous just snapped. “Yo, don’t go correcting me, man.”

  “Don’t think you gon’ disrespect me, boy,” the man raised his voice.

  “Yo, you don’t even fucking know me, and you coming at me on some bullshit,” Martaveous growled.

  “Martaveous!” The caseworker tried to intervene.

  “Boy, you better watch your tone,” the old man warned. “I don’t tolerate that bullshit in my house. And ain’t no nigga in my house gon’ be talking out of turn. So, I suggest you shut the hell up!”

  “I ain’t yo’ nigga, old man,” he spat furiously. “You living in this muthafucka, and you want me to stay here? Why? So you can get money off me from the state? Man, you kiss my muthafuckin’ ass with this shit.”

  Martaveous was so close to the man that he could smell the Bud Light on his breath. The caseworker was trying to get between them, but Martaveous was zoned in on the old ass cracker that was trying to put him in his place.

  “You better back up, boy,” the man told him.

  “Or what? What’s your old ass gon’ do?” Martaveous challenged.

  The man took a swing at Martaveous, and, of course, Martaveous easily avoided it. But he, in turn, took a swing on the old man connecting with his stomach and causing the man to stumble forward.

  “Oh my God,” the caseworker cried out, jumping to help him.

  He was coughing and hacking up a storm, and Martaveous saw that as his chance to dip. He was tired of bouncing from place to place. And he already knew that if he got back in the car with the caseworker, he would definitely be in either an orphanage or the juvenile detention system. He had a better chance of making it on the streets.

  She was so busy tending to the man that she didn’t even notice that he had left. By the time she saw it, Martaveous was already on a bus and headed downtown.

  Looking out the window, he thought about what options he had. Because he had moved around so much, he wasn’t really close to anybody. The only person he was close to was Ty, and he hadn’t seen him in months. He could try to find him, but even then, it wasn’t going to be easy. He definitely wasn’t going back to his last foster home, nor was he planning on going to any orphanage.

  Fuck it, he said to himself. I’ll just sleep outside.

  He thought about going to a shelter, but, of course, they would see that he was a minor, and he would end up right back where he started. So, even though he didn’t want to, he was going to chance it on the streets. It was still better than being in the house with that racist-ass muthafucka.

  I can’t believe she was going to put me in that shit hole, he thought to himself.

  He rode the bus for as long as he was able to before it headed toward the depot. Had he been in his right mind and thought about it, he probably would’ve gotten off at one of the stops or at least noticed the bus driver kept looking at him in the mirror.

  As soon as the bus pulled into the depot, an officer boarded and spotted him.

  “Martaveous Young?”

  “Man, what you want?” Martaveous mumbled.

  “You’re under arrest for assault and battery,” the officer said. “Will you stand up, please?”

  “Man, that old man disrespected me,” Martaveous argued.

  Of course, the cops weren’t trying to hear it. All they did was snatch him up out of the seat in front of everybody and cuff him.

  He knew that the caseworker was behind the shit. He wouldn’t be surprised if she set him up to get in trouble on purpose just so that she could be done with him, especially the way she kept pressing about him being in juvie.

  The cops dragged him off the bus, and before he knew it, he was in the back of the squad car headed to the detention center for juvenile delinquents.

  Chapter Ten

  1998

  “Ay, yo, man, so, what’s the first thing you gonna do when you get up out of here? You gonna go get you some bitches?”

  “Shit, I know that’s what I would do. Get out, and the first thing I’ma go get is some pussy. Get my dick wet . . . You know what I’m saying?”

  Martaveous was sitting in his cell, listening to his two cell mates talk about their plans for when they got their freedom. It had been nine months since he had been in the juvenile detention center, but he was finally getting out. The counselor at the detention center had taken a liking to him, and because he didn’t have a place to go, she wrote a letter of recommendation for him to stay at a transition home instead of spending his time in juvie until he turned 18. He was grateful because he was pretty much homeless. He had made friends with his cell mates, Jay T and Marcus. They were in there until they turned 18 and had several more years to go.

  Listening to them talk while he packed, he was amused. They had been there for a while for armed robbery and talked as if they were going to be in prison for life. They acted like they would never smell pussy again.

  Martaveous wasn’t worried about getting pussy. He was concerned about the money. Being locked up, he had come up with so many different ways to try to get his hustle on. One of his boys, Tyrone, who was locked away in the joint, had a connection on the outside. His connection told Martaveous that he could work for him and make money, so he was definitely ready to do that.

  “Ay, man, we gon’ look you up when we get out,” Marcus told him.

  “Hell yeah, bruh. Shit, you ’bout to be making a gang of money,” Jay T pointed out.

  “I’m just tryin’a get up out of here,” Martaveous said, not wanting to talk about his plans.

  “Yeah, okay,” Marcus said, looking at it. “Nigga, don’t bring yo’ ass back up in here.”

  “C’mon. You know I can’t let that happen,” Martaveous said confidently.

  “Young,” one of the guards yelled. “Hurry up. Let’s go before we keep you here.”

  Martaveous dapped up his two cell mates and grabbed his stuff, heading out the door. The guidance counselor met him at the gate and hugged him. He actually liked her. She was cool and didn’t sweat him or irritate him like a lot of the guards did.

  “Now, you make sure that you don’t do nothing crazy and end up back in here, okay?” she told him. He nodded his head, and she handed him an envelope. “I put something in there for you. It’s not much, but I think that you are going to be something great, Martaveous. I don’t know how I know this, but I look at you, and I see something great. Don’t prove me wrong.”

  She hugged him again, and for a brief moment, he felt nurtured.

  “I won’t,” he promised.

  He didn’t plan on coming back in there; that much was true. She hugged him once more, and he was free to go.

  Getting on the detention center bus, the driver drove Martaveous to the transition house, where he checked in. He was going to be smart about things. He knew that he wasn’t going back to any foster home or an orphanage. Instead, he was going to come up.

  He checked into the transition house and met his resident director. The director called him Mr. Young, telling him that calling him by his last name was a way to show respect, ultimately teaching the youth to give respect. For once, everything seemed cool, and he could meet other kids like him given a second chance. They showed him to his room, and he got settled. It was then that he remembered the gift from the counselor at the detention center. He opened it to see that she had given him $100. It may not have been much for some people, but it was enough for Martaveous. He was going to take it and flip it. He just had to bide his time.

  Martaveous spent the first couple of days pretty much in his room and pretending to be productive. But the first chance he got out and got some fresh air, he went looking for Tyrone. His boy had come through. Tyrone had hooked him up big time. He used the money the counselor had given him, plus the money he had earned while in juvie and bought enough work to sell and make a profit. He was on the block hard every day. All he would do was hustle night and day. He wanted to make money so that he didn’t have to rely on some foster family to take care of him.

  He managed to keep it up for a couple of weeks until the director of the youth home confronted him. He was headed back after being out on the block, and the director was waiting for him at the door.

  “Mr. Young, we need to talk,” he said.

  “Wassup?” Martaveous said, trying to play dumb.

  “I got a call from the principal that you haven’t been to school in almost two weeks. Which means you haven’t been to school since you got here just about. What’s going on?”

  “I have been going,” Martaveous lied instantly.

  “No, you haven’t,” the director corrected him. “No one there knows your name. All your teachers have been marking you absent. Now, look, I don’t wanna send you back there. I don’t think you wanna go back. So, I don’t ask for many requirements. You do what’s asked around here as far as chores, and you go to school. What you do after that I can’t control,” he shrugged. “I would hope that you aren’t out here doing something stupid. But you need to go to school.”