Street Dreams
Advance Praise for
STREET DREAMS
“K’wan has really outdone himself on this one. Street Dreams is a must-read for any fan of urban fiction.”
— Shannon Holmes, national bestselling author of Bad Girlz
“K’wan has done it again with another bangin’ tale of the streets. …This is by far K’wan's best work. The game is over!”
— Joy, Essence bestselling author of Dollar Bill
“K’wan promises to bring the good ol’ days back to literature … when authors existed who wrote such gripping tales that you never had to question whether or not you should cop their books. K’wan's stories are always satisfaction guaranteed, with characters that you can see and feel. With Street Dreams he is set to take over the griot of a new generation. Make way for the Donald Goines/Iceberg Slim of our era.”
—Tracy Brown, author of Black
“If you thought Gangsta and Road Dawgz were bestsellers … wait until you read this! K’wan is raising the stakes for all of us. He's a triple threat to the industry.”
— KaShamba Williams, author of Blinded and Grimey
“Gangsta was hot and Road Dawgz hushed any and all who thought K’wan was just a passing thing. But Street Dreams is a classic. The kid has got a story to tell.”
— Darren Coleman, Essence bestselling author of Before I Let Go
“K’wan delivers another classic…. You won’t be disappointed.”
Mark Anthony, Essence bestselling author of Paper Chasers
STREET
DREAMS
Also by K’wan
Gangsta
Road Dawgz
Anthology
The Game
K’WAN
STREET
DREAMS
St. Martin’s Griffin New York
STREET DREAMS. Copyright © 2004 by K’wan Foye. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Design by Jamie Kerner-Scott
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
K’wan.
Street dreams / K’wan—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-33306-4
EAN 978-0312-33306-5
1. Harlem (New York, N.Y.) — Fiction. 2. African American men — Fiction. 3. Abused women—Fiction. 4. Ex-convicts—Fiction. 5. Young men—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3606.O96S74 2004
813’.6—dc22
2004046805
First Edition: September 2004
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ll begin with thanking God. Twenty-seven years strong and I’m still here. I know my hand called for it more than once, but you spared me. Thank you.
My mother, Brenda Foye, whom I’m sure you’re all familiar with by now. This is her gift, I’m just a vessel.
William Green, my father. Looks like we’ve finally managed to come to a common ground. I’m thankful for that. Life is too short to hold grudges.
My greatest accomplishment, Ni’ Jaa’. You are the purest part of me and my constant motivation. Until I saw you, I never knew I could love something so much. Even though you’re still little, you’ve taught your old man quite a bit. Restraint, patience, and how to change a Pamper and talk on the phone at the same time.
Denise, the mother of my child and oil to my water. We fight like cats and dogs and say some hateful things to each other, but it's all love.
I wish you nothing but the best and you’re still my peoples. Watch over mine and I’ll watch over you.
Dajanae & Ty’ Dre Joseph. You might not understand it now, but I do what I do for a reason. When you’re older and you reflect on judgments that I have made you will understand and appreciate it.
My kin: the Greenes, the Crockers, and the Foyes; Nana (our backbone); Tee-Tee (our strength); my aunt Leslie; my uncles Eric, Darryl, and Frankie.
Charlotte, my walking dictionary and intellectual sparring partner. I see such great things in your future, you just need to stop thinking so much. I guess that statement is why you call me “Conundrum.” Still my nigga, though.
“For My Team”
My agent, Vickie Stringer: thank you for helping me determine my worth and get a step closer to the brass ring. My nigga Shannon Holmes, who helped me learn to be patient and respect this blessing of mine. My career began when the two of you decided to take a gamble on a kid with a wild imagination. It's been a long hard road and I know that my education is just beginning. I thank you for supporting my dream and also allowing me to grow as an author. I only hope to make you both proud of my accomplishments. That's from the heart!
St. Martin's Press — Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, George Witte, John Cunningham, Matthew Baldacci, Anne Marie Tallberg, and John Karle, for accepting me and making me feel welcome. Monique Patterson, you get a special shout, ‘cause I know editing this book had to be a pain in the ass, but you did it and helped me to make it beautiful.
My Folks at Triple Crown: Tracy Brown (where that brotherhood at, girl?), Kashamba Williams, Trustice, Joylynn Jossel, T.N. Baker, and the rest of y’all. Couldn’t leave out Ms. Nikki Turner (you still Bonnie, ma. Keep chin-check’n that best-seller list). Thanks, Shannon.
On the Hood Side of Things
My nigga Ty (keep ya game strong, ‘cause we got work to do, fam), T.M., Party Tyme (help you spend it like it's his), Shae, all my li’l cousins (there's too many of y’all to name), Li’l Shae, Kai (Koo-Koo come home), Boo, Mark the Shark, Jay Betts (silent assassin), A. C., Queen, Mike Sap, Al (aka “White Chocolate” Justice), Ke-Ke, Shirley Johnson, Ida Johnson, Donovan, Derrick Johnson, young Kris, my man Rob Cash, PT2, JB (we gotta hit Cali again), Star Stringer, all the street vendors, King magazine Don Diva, FEDS, Dangerous Music, Los Don, Darren Coleman, Eric Gray, Mark Anthony, Anthony White, Thomas Long, Wahida Clark, Kwame Teague, and anyone else whose path I might’ve crossed, but forgot to mention.
Something I Wanted to Say
Wow. This is the third go-round and the readers are still with me. That's what's up. I can’t thank you enough. It makes the headache of going through the edits worth it.
This road that I have traveled has been filled with bumps. A while back, an O.G. in this game sat me down and talked to me about what was ahead of me. At the time, I listened, ‘cause he knows what he's doing, but I didn’t really understand it. As I grow as an author and a person, I’m beginning to understand what he meant.
1
Y’all niggaz line the fuck up. Everybody gonna get served, just hold ya head.” The corner managers barked their instructions and the fiends did as they were told. That's just the way it went in the hood.
Darius, also known as Rio, stood against the project building puffing his Newport, dark eyes constantly scanning the block for police. Rio was a handsome young cat. He was about six-foot-three with pretty raven-colored curls decorating his crown. The girls at his high school would always mess with him, saying he was a dark, pretty nigga. But he felt he was just him.
By most standards, Rio was a good kid. Smart, well educated, and soft-spoken. He was respectful to his elders and fair when dealing with people on the streets. From speaking to him, you couldn’t tell that he was an on-again, off-again field lieutenant for the local drug czar. The title he held was a “manager.” What a manager did was just make sure that things went smoothly while he was on shift. It wasn’t a glamorous job, or even the highest position in the chain of command. But Rio was content to do his little part. It was just to k
eep money in his pocket or food on his table, until he could secure a legit job.
Rio spotted his man, Shamel, and moved to greet him. Shamel was a short fat nigga with a lazy eye. His lips were too big for his small face and often hung down when he talked. Shamel's razor-bump-ridden, brown face bore scars that were the result of fights on the streets as well as in the system. Shamel might’ve been ugly, but he was a bull waiting to charge. Niggaz in the streets gave him his space. He was Rio's right-hand man.
“Sup, my nigga?” Shamel asked, placing his fist over Rio's heart.
“Another day on the grind, kid,” Rio said, returning the gesture. “The block is a li’l slow this morning. Ma fuckas act like they don’t wanna get high.”
“Walk with me, yo?” Shamel said as he started off toward the ave. Rio looked at the dwindling flow of addicts and figured, why the hell not? After finding someone to relieve him, he strolled with his man to the ave.
The after-school program was letting out, so 104th and Columbus was flooded with little kids running back and forth. Rio and Shamel posted up by the courts on 104th between Columbus and began the day's politics.
“What's new, player?” Rio asked.
“Ma fucking same thang different day,” Shamel said, lighting a cigarette. “I just came from seeing one of my baby mamas and shit.”
“Who you was laid up wit, big-boy?”
“Man, Meeka crazy ass. I ain’t been wit her like that since Shawn was like two, and he's five now. Fuck is that telling you?”
“Man, but you be leading them bitches on.”
“How the fuck you figure, Rio?”
“Because, you still fucking em. You say you don’t love em anymore, but you still answering them four A.M. phone calls when them sack-chasers ring you.”
“Fuck you, Rio,” Shamel said, blowing out a smoke ring. “Pretty ma fucka, always think you know some shit. We can all be like you and Trinity. Leave-it-to-Beaver ma fuckas.”
“Nigga, don’t hate cause my boo-boo down for me. Trinity is my Alike and I’m hers.”
“What the fuck ever wit that ABC shit. You know what I mean. These bitches is too full of game for my taste.”
“Then stop raw dick’n em.”
“Whatever, nigga. What that block like?”
“It's a slow go, dick. But I cope wit it.”
“Fuck that. Y’all niggaz be out here twenty-four/seven any weather clicking. You might as well get a job for all that. A nigga like me,” Shamel said, beating his chest. “I’m gonna get my marbles regardless.”
“Fool, you make your living by force, mine is by choice. We don’t put a gun to nobody's head and make ‘em buy this shit. Ma fuckas get high in the hood cause they want to.”
“Same shit, punk. We both doing dirt.”
“Ah,” Rio said, shrugging his shoulders. “We make the best out of what we have.”
The two friends popped a little more shit and watched the day go by. Rio and Shamel had been friends since grade school. Rio was a grade over Shamel and used to tutor him in the after-school program. People used to make fun of Shamel and call him stupid, when he was actually quite the opposite. Shamel was a wiz with numbers, he just had a problem with reading and writing. The problem wasn’t stupidity, it was dyslexia.
“What's on for the night?” Rio asked.
“It's Thursday, kid,” Shamel said. “You know niggaz is probably gonna roll through Vertigo. What up, you trying to go?” “Nah, not tonight.”
“Yo, Rio, you need to get off that bullshit. You don’t never go nowhere anymore. Fuck, is you a hermit or something now?”
“Nah, I’ll probably chill wit Trinity tonight.”
“Let me find out you sprung. Nigga, it's wall to wall pussy in the club, yet you content wit the same ol’ cracker. What up wit you, Rio?”
“Y’all niggaz just got the game fucked up, Shamel. Wit me it ain’t really about how many bitches I can fuck. I been through all that shit already. I can be content wit one girl, cause me and Trinity is like that. She's more than just a lover, she's my friend too.”
“Fuck outta here,” Shamel said spitting. “You expect me to believe that shit?”
“Believe what you want, kid. It is what it is wit us.”
Their conversation was interrupted when a Benz truck pulled to the curb. The Benz was forest green with 22-inch chrome rims. All the windows were tinted, totally concealing the occupants of the truck. But everyone in Douglass knew who the vehicle belonged to.
The driver stepped from the truck, first giving a brief look around. He was a fifty-something slim cat, with skin the color of a moonless night. His processed hair shone like a waxed floor in the afternoon sun. A passing breeze pushed the jacket of his gray suit open, just enough to expose the butt of the 9 in his belt. His birth certificate read James Woodson, but the streets called the five-foot-five man Li’l J.
Li’l J went around to the other side and opened the door for his boss. The man who stepped from the truck was an even six feet. He had brown skin with salt and pepper hair. His royal blue suit was custom-made to fit his lean frame. With both his fists flooded with diamonds, he looked more like a retired movie star than a drug lord. His name was once Teddy Brown, but now he was known as Prince. Lord of the crack game.
Li’l J started in Rio's direction with Prince bringing up the rear. Something about Prince always made Rio uneasy, but he tried not to show it. He didn’t want the big man to think he was some starstruck punk. But still, an air of greatness clung to Prince like a second skin.
“Sup, li’l nigga,” Li’l J said, giving Rio a pound. “What it look like?”
“Ain’t nothing old-timer,” Rio said. “I’m just trying to make a dollar like everybody else.”
“I hear you, kid. Fuck you doing round here?” Li’l J asked, directing his attention to Shamel. “I know you ain’t bringing that bullshit round here.”
“Damn,” Shamel said in an annoyed tone. “Ain’t nobody doing nothing. Why don’t you be easy, J?”
“What?” Li’l J said, reaching for his pistol. “I know you ain’t getting smart? What you say?”
“I ain’t say nothing, man.” Shamel said in a submissive tone.
“Punk ma fucka. I know you didn’t,” J sneered. “Why don’t you take a walk, kid? Prince wanna holla at ya boy.”
Shamel wanted to say something slick, but thought better of it. J might’ve been getting on in years, but he was still a dangerous cat. One day Shamel would have a surprise for the old bastard, but not today. Shamel slapped his man five and bounced.
“Was that Shamel?” Prince asked, strutting over.
“Yeah,” J said, watching the big man depart. “That was him.”
“Why you hang wit that kid, Rio?” Prince asked, concerned. “Fucking thief. Niggaz like him is only destined for the penitentiary or the grave.”
“Maybe,” Rio said in a serious tone. “But nine times outta ten the same rewards wait for most of us who play the game.” “You sure is a philosophical ma fucka, Rio.”
“Hey, I can’t help the way life is. I just call it like I see it, Prince.”
“Sure ya right, kid. Come on and walk with me.”
Prince started off toward Central Park West with Rio at his side and Li’l J bringing up the rear. They strolled past the end of the projects and across Manhattan Avenue. The walk from Columbus to Central Park was like walking through an evolutionary scale. Where the projects ended, walk-ups and little town-house-like structures began. The town houses ended making way for the luxury apartments. It was like stepping into a whole new world in a few short blocks.
Prince stopped near the mouth of the park and took in the scenery. White folks were walking their dogs, riding bikes, and doing all sorts of outdoor activities. All carrying on as if they were oblivious to the fact that there was a crack-infested housing project a block away.
“Look at this shit,” Prince said, motioning toward a young white couple strolling through the park. “Strange
rs in a strange world. Few years ago you wouldn’t have seen no shit like this. This whole area was black and Spanish. Now we got the ‘Caucasian invasion.’”
“I feel you,” Rio said, lighting a cigarette. “Hood don’t seem the same, do it?”
“Hell, nah. Man, we had all this shit in the smash, now the crackers done took over.”
“Can’t really blame the white folks, Prince. Like you said; we had all this shit in the smash. The thing is, we let it slip away like everything else. Look at Harlem. We had a good run wit that and ain’t do shit but fuck it up. Black folks act like they ain’t used to nothing.”
“Li’l nigga, don’t you go trying to tell me about the civil rights. I was around in the sixties, remember?”
“Sorry, Prince.”
“Yeah, back in the day we had a li’l more pride bout our shit. Now ma fuckas act like they don’t care ‘bout nothing. They just content to do without. But not ol’ Prince. From the day I left that damn shit hole in North Carolina, I made myself a promise. No matter what I had to do to survive, I’d never go without again.”
“I hear you on that,” Rio said, sitting on one of the wooden benches. “A nigga trying to get his weight up.”
“Bullshit,” Prince said, elbowing Li’l J. “You hear this, kid? Rio, you ain’t really trying to be on top of ya game. If you were, you would’ve accepted my offer.”
“And a generous offer it was, Prince. But this shit ain’t for me.”
“What you mean it ain’t for you? Nigga, you’d rather be out here getting part-time money, instead of trying to climb the ladder?”