Triple Crown Presents-Road Dawgz Read online

  ROAD DAWGZ

  This is a work of fiction. The authors have invented the characters. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  If you have purchased this book with a ‘dull’ or missing cover—-You have possibly purchased an unauthorized or stolen book. Please immediately contact the publisher advising where, when and how you purchased this book.

  Compilation and Introduction copyright © 2003 by Triple Crown Publications

  2959 Stelzer Rd., Suite C

  Columbus, Ohio 43219

  www.TripleCrownPublications.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2003110624

  ISBN 0-9702472-4-9

  Cover Models: Victoria Lathom, Cedric Stringer, James Mugrace, Jerome Holiday

  Cover Dogs: Apollo & Athena

  Cover Photographer: Charles Johnson

  Graphics Design: www.ApolloPixel.com

  Author: K’wan

  Edited by: Leah Whitney

  Production: Kevin J. Calloway

  Consulting: Vickie Stringer and Shannon Holmes

  Copyright © 2003 by Triple Crown Publications. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the author, except by reviewer who may quote brief passages to be printed in a newspaper or magazine.

  First Trade Paperback Edition Printing March 2003 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  Printed in the United States of America

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First of all, I would like to thank God for allowing me to live long enough to finish this lil’ joint here. Tomorrow isn’t promised to any of us. Every day that we’re allowed to wake up is a blessing.

  A very warm thanks from the bottom of my heart goes to my mother, who was gracious enough to share her gift of storytelling with me. Mom, I wish you could’ve stayed with us long enough to see your granddaughter and behold my accomplishments, but I’m sure you knew what was to be before I did. And more than anyone else, you’ve been supportive of me and my far-fetched goal of becoming a writer.

  I’d like to give a special thanks to my daughter, Ni Jaa, who is my constant motivation in this thing that I do. Pampers ain’t hardly cheap. I can’t forget my sidekicks, Dajanae and

  Ty Dre Joseph. Good looking on the birthday poem, Dajanae. Ty Dre, stop sucking your fingers. I must include the mother of my child, Denise. After all these years, you still haven’t driven me to the bottle. I guess there’s hope after all.

  Many thanks to my father, William ‘Billy’ Greene told you about those fast ass girls. Next time listen to your son. I am so grateful for many people in my life. My grandmother, Ethel M. Foye, in case you were wondering, this is the reason why I have bags under my eyes—not the partying. My other grandmother, Bertha Crocker, I hope you’re in a better place now. To Miss Ida Lee Johnson, “Can I get some potato salad?” My immediate family, Tee-Tee, Leslie, Eric, Frankie, and Darrell, a.k.a. S.D.W: Divided we all play a significant role in the grand scheme of things. Together we are a force to be reckoned with— just something to think about. My extended family, the Greenes, Crockers, Councils, Gorhams, Johnsons and Wilders…damn, sure are a lot of y’all.

  I definitely can’t forget to thank my peoples who helped me get it popping. Michael Phifer of Phifer Media Management, I told you I’m the winning horse; thanks for helping a brother out. Leah Whitney, your editorial skills are superb. I’m glad that you enjoyed the story, and I look forward to working with you again. Nikki Turner, continue to be the diva that you are and my ‘Bonnie’ in this. Do you, sis. My Triple Crown connection— sometimes when I look at the lineup that Vickie Stringer has composed, it seems a little unfair to the rest of the game. Oh well, can’t blame us for being talented.

  Darren Coleman & B. Lawson Thornton, two stars on the rise. Thanks for showing me hospitality when I was in your part of the world. I look forward to returning the love.

  On the ghetto side of things: Ty Weed (sorry I missed you on the first go ‘round); T.M., Queen, Lil’ Willie, Party Tyme, a.k.a. the ‘Jump Off,’ Highwater, Twan, Boo, Alex (“Comradery” was a hot joint); Coo-Coo Kilz, Champ, Buddha, Thomas Long (another hot author from outta B-more); Rich, from Sand & Sable books; the whole P.C. (y’all know y’all wrong); Rod-O, Smiles, Lil’ Sha, Big Shirl (140th mayor); Ke-Ke, Don 1, Donovan, Cheryl Grant (a hustler with a badge); the close-minded deputies at Livingston County Jail that got such a kick out of my misfortune (die slow cowards!); Douglass projects and anyone else that I might have forgotten.

  Last but certainly not least, the most special thanks of all goes to my readers. I thank you for showing such strong support for my first novel, “Gangsta,” and for your continued support and belief in me. As long as you love it, I’ll keep giving it to you.

  100, K’wan Foye

  A HAPPY BIRTHDAY POEM FOR K’WAN.

  What is a birthday?

  I don’t know.

  Just a happy day, when I cry, then smile.

  What is a birthday?

  I don’t know. I’m just a kid. By: Dajanae Joseph, 9

  CHAPTER 1

  It was a sunny morning in March 1995, when ‘K-Dawg’ stepped off the bus at the Port Authority. It was his birthday, but there wasn’t anything happy about it. He was fresh out the joint and broke as hell. The latter was temporary. K-Dawg inhaled the stale New York air and a huge grin spread across his handsome face. It was good to be home.

  It had been a while since K-Dawg had last been to the deuce. It had changed somewhat, but it was still recognizable to any native of the city. Instead of the whore-infested circus it had once been, Times Square had undergone a rebirth of sorts. People made their way back and forth doing whatever unimportant tasks consumed their lives while police patrolled nearly every corner. Whores still frequented the place, but only at night and at their own risk. The sex shops were still there, but they were far and few.

  While K-Dawg was away, he had gotten word that some kind of fanatical crusader had control of the city. The former lawyerturned-government official had supposedly cleaned up the apple, handing down football numbers to those foolish enough to try and go against him. The word around town was that he had a crew of thousands behind him. The news sometimes referred to them as ‘The Gang in Blue.’ In this new metropolis, it was taboo to violate the law.

  This new crime stopper, who pulled the strings, had the city in a smash. His new laws and decrees made it hard for a nigga to eat anymore. The money and opportunities were there, but some of the new hustlers as well as some of the old ones lacked the courage to get down for theirs. The new order of things had them spooked.

  This new code of ethics made it nearly impossible for the average cat working outside the law to make a buck. But then again, K-Dawg wasn’t the average cat. He reasoned that the people who fell victim to these laws were incompetent and had no concept of how to get money. He was either gonna ball or fall. Either way, K-Dawg had no intentions of going back to the joint. His next stop would be the penthouse or the morgue.

  K-Dawg dodged the swarm of business folks and school kids in search of the subway. He found it without too much of a problem. New York had changed a bit, but the subways were still the same.

  K-Dawg paid his fare and passed through the digital turnstile. He strolled through the tunnel and hopped on the Harlembound 2 train just as the doors were closing. He took a seat and marveled at the different kinds of people and sights on the subway. The first thing he noticed was the fashion transition. Although New York was the same place he remembered, things had changed quite a bit in that area.

  When he first went on his little trip, the era of break dancing and tight pants was dying out, giving way to the retro sixties ‘black l
ove’ thing. Now these eras were altogether dead. The females had traded in their doorknocker earrings and shells for imitation diamonds and hair dye. The curls and twists were gone, replaced largely by hairweaves and stylish cuts. There were a few sisters who rocked tight-fitting clothes and braids, but the styles were different.

  Things had changed for the fellas as well. There were no more rope chains or African medallions, and the guys were flossing big jewels and bracelets. Everyone was wearing oversized jeans, with T-shirts sporting some kind of logo or statement. Even the color scheme was different. Everything was bright and festive. It seemed that the black love fad had given way to the age of the baller. If this was the case, then K-Dawg wanted in. It was 1995, and he was home.

  A group of about five young girls, wearing tight-fitting jeans and silver bubble coats got on the train and took up the row of seats across from K-Dawg. They were giving him the eye, so he tried to get his flirt on. He picked one of the girls out of the group and tried to shoot her a sexy ass smile. The girl tapped her friend and nodded in his direction. The two girls looked him up and down and burst out laughing. Another girl in the group was even so bold as to point out the secondhand boots he was wearing.

  K-Dawg looked at the faded black army suit he was wearing and felt a little out of place. He knew his wears were a little dusty, but he didn’t realize how badly he looked. In his head, he made himself a promise that this would never happen again. This would be the last time a chick would laugh at him because he was sporting some ol’ bullshit gear.

  K-Dawg spent a good portion of his train ride with his eyes glued to the newspaper he had with him. In truth, he wasn’t that interested in the article. He was just too embarrassed to risk making eye contact with the girls again. When the train stopped at 116th Street, the girls filed out one behind the other. As they were getting off, one of them stopped and looked at K-Dawg, sitting there embarrassed. Instead of playing him further, she just shook her head and kept it moving.

  Once the train was in motion again, K-Dawg breathed a sigh of relief. It was his first day home from the joint, and he had already gotten dissed. It wasn’t quite the way he had planned on starting his new life, but what was success without its hardships?

  K-Dawg got off the train at 135th Street and headed toward the exit. He looked up and down Lenox Avenue and picked up two distinct odors. The first one was Pan-Pan’s Chicken on the corner of 135th Street. The second aroma was unmistakable; there was no trash in the world that smelled like Harlem’s. Finally, K-Dawg started to feel like he was home. He made his way east at a slow pace and studied his surroundings. He didn’t have anything to rush home to, and he wanted to take in all of the sights that made up his soon-to-be kingdom.

  Most of the old stores were there in addition to a few new ones. As K-Dawg crossed Fifth Avenue, he looked over at the school that he had attended for a short time—P.S. 197. Even as he stepped into his project he was assaulted with old memories—painful memories that molded him into the young man he had become.

  K-Dawg shook off the feeling and kept stepping. As he entered the mouth of the beast, he glanced over at the pool in the playground. It was caked with dirt and dry leaves because housing didn’t tend to it during colder weather. K-Dawg stared quizzically at the chipped numbers that revealed its depth and tried to remember what it was like to play in the pool with other kids on hot summer days or dunk a girl that didn’t want to kiss you. These memories were few, if hardly existent at all, to KDawg. He didn’t grow up like other children; at a young age, he became a product of the state. Even for those brief periods when he did manage to be reunited with his family, there was always the conflict.

  K-Dawg was snapped out of his flashback by the sound of someone calling his name. His instincts automatically put him on guard. When he saw the young man who was approaching him, he relaxed a little bit.

  The young man greeted K-Dawg with a shit-eating grin on his face. The sun reflecting off his rows of gold teeth caused KDawg to squint a bit. K-Dawg recalled a time when only kids from Brooklyn rocked fronts like that. Now here was his man, Jus, grilled up.

  Jus wasn’t what you would call a pretty boy—yet he wasn’t torn up either. He was just handsome. His mother was of Native American descent, and he had most of her features, along with smooth dark skin that he inherited from his father, who was a native of Zambia. He had that long, Indian hair which he now sported in two long pigtails. With his long, slim frame, he kind of looked like one of those dolls from Botanica.

  Back in the day, Jus looked like an escaped fugitive from the fashion prison. He always wore hand-me-down clothes, and the color scheme never quite matched. But in this new era, things had changed.

  Jus was sporting a butter-soft black leather jacket with a pair of crispy blue jeans. On each of his delicate hands he sported diamond pinky rings. His Timberlands were crisp as well. The tan suede didn’t have as much as a smudge on it. Jus had come a long way from the fashion misfit he used to be.

  K-Dawg was a little tight to see his man have it together while he looked a wreck. He wasn’t mad at him, though. KDawg was never one to hate on the next man. This was just another motivational kick in the ass so he could get his shit together.

  “Peace, young’n,” Jus said extending his hand. “My nigga!” K-Dawg responded, putting Jus in a bear hug. “What it be like, God?”

  “Ain’t nothing,” Jus said returning the hug, “just waiting on your return, kid.” “I know that’s right. A nigga been down long enough. Them crackers be wanting chunks out a nigga’s life. Shit, they act like five years ain’t a lot of time.”

  “Well,” Jus said punching K-Dawg in the arm, “you know how to get around that, right?” “Come on, B,” K-Dawg said waving Jus off. “I ain’t even on my native soil for ten hours, and you all up in my shit wit’ that Blacks watch garbage?”

  “You is mad foolish, son,” Jus said with a grin. “That ain’t what’s up, clown.”

  “Oh, yeah? So why don’t you tell me what’s up?” “Well, my blind, deaf and dumb brother… since you don’t know…it’s the age of the civilized man—God, cipher, divine.” “Jesus, circle, what?” K-Dawg asked sarcastically. “See,” Jus said with a sigh, “it always gotta be a nigga like you.” “What kinda nigga am I, Jus?”

  “See, you one of them ten-percent niggaz. You know, but you don’t acknowledge.” “I’m fucking wit’ you, money,” K-Dawg said slapping Jus on the back. “I dig where you coming from. I did a lot of building with the gods while I was away. They make a lot of sense, but at the same time they don’t make any. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, nigga. Like I said—ten percent.” “Whatever, punk. What’s up with the crew?”

  “Man, let me tell you,” Jus said motioning for K-Dawg to walk with him. “The team is still the team. It’s just that . . . well, niggaz need guidance in they lives.”

  “Fuck you mean?” K-Dawg asked, lighting a GPC. “Guidance, they grown ass men. Guidance like how?” “Well,” Jus began, while splitting open a White Owl, “it’s like this: you know that I would never knock another man’s hustle—especially nobody out the crew. But damn, niggaz is wrapped up into all kinds of shit.”

  “Like what?” “Okay, there’s Pooh. He getting his grind on, and he’s getting a few dollars fucking wit’ them niggaz on Broadway, but he ain’t got no sense of self worth. I mean, them Spanish niggaz is hitting him, but they ain’t trying to give him his own. Pooh only half Dominican, so you know they don’t really give him his propers like they should. To them, all he’ll ever be is a moneygetting mongrel.

  “Just off what I’m hearing, Pooh check at least fifty g’s a week for these niggaz. They threw him a corner for hisself and shit, but what the fuck? Why not give a nigga a block? Them boat-hopping-ass niggaz is straight fucking our peoples.”

  “That’s some deep shit,” K-Dawg said puffing on his generic cigarette. “So what he doing about it?” “Not a motherfucking thing. That’s the problem. Pooh making e
nough money to pay his bills and trick off when he wants. He got a nice car and a crib; I’ll give him that. But my point is, why settle for an apartment when you’re worth a house?”

  “True,” K-Dawg said waving off the blunt when Jus tried to pass it to him. “You know I’m on paper…what’s up with the rest of the team?”

  “Okay, then there’s Sleepy,” Jus continued. “That nigga flirting with death.”

  “What’s up with that cat?” K-Dawg asked. “He on some other shit,” Jus said taking a pull off the bomber. “That nigga selling dick. He only got one, maybe two girls, but the boy on a come-up.”

  “So, what’s wrong with that?” K-Dawg asked. “What’s wrong with it?” Jus responded. “Man, you got to be crazy. With all this new shit they got floating around, he taking his life in his own hands putting his dick in them nasty heifers.”

  “Man, fuck that,” K-Dawg started. “If them bitches is checking that bread for my nigga, then ain’t nothing wrong wit’ him laying his cock game down.”

  “Yeah, but he ain’t only doing it wit’ his bitches; he plays the game wit’ other niggaz’ hoes too. And to make matters worse, he ain’t even trying to bring them home to his stable. He just does it to rub other niggaz’ noses in it. He even fucked a few niggaz’ wives from over this side.”

  “Hmm,” K-Dawg said scratching his chin. “I see where that could be a problem. Boy thinking with the wrong head. So what’s up wit’ my man, Demon?”

  “Demon,” Jus said shrugging his shoulders, “that boy is creepy. I see him floating around here on the late-night like a gotdamn phantom and shit.”

  “I know my boy ain’t out here smoking or no shit like that?” “Nah, you know that ain’t his M.O.”

  “So what the fuck he be out here doing? I know he ain’t selling stones—Demon hate drugs. But if he ain’t using, and he ain’t selling, what the fuck is he doing?”

  “Hunting,” Jus whispered.

  “Hunting?” K-Dawg asked confusedly. “Hunting what— pigeons and squirrels?”