Ripped Dollars 2 Read online

  Chapter 3

  Fresh out the Federal building, Tone was all smiles. His bid in FCI Fort Dix had finally come to an end. Tone had elected to finish up his time in prison completely and turned down the three months of halfway house time that were offered to him. The halfway houses were meant to reintegrate prisoners back into society, but Tone saw through the program for the bullshit it was and denied it. He did the extra 90 days on the yard, and now was going straight home.

  Tone’s release address was back in West Philly, not far from his old block. He was going to be staying with the only family that he had in Philly; a distant older cousin named Melinda. Melinda was a 48 year old loner, who never did anything except chain smoke cigarettes and watch the Home Shopping Network all day long. She had never married and didn’t have any kids. Melinda had only taken Tone in out of respect for his late Grandmother.

  Back in the day, when Melinda’s mother was going through some personal things, Tone’s grandmother had taken her in. She ended up staying with her for six years and if it wasn’t for that, she would have had to have gone into either a group home or foster care. Tone’s grandmother had been an amazing woman, so the least Melinda could do to honor her legacy was take in Tone until he got back on his own two feet.

  Melinda’s life was far from glamorous. She had a medical disability which enabled her to get a check from the government that was enough to cover her rent, but didn’t leave room for much more. Her side hustle was selling plates out of her house. Melinda had always been able to cook and made a few hundred bucks every time that she made her famous fried catfish, cornbread, and French fries.

  The neighborhood Melinda lived in was called ‘The Bottom’. The Bottom was a section of West Philly that was a little more hood than the rest of West Philly. The blocks that comprised The Bottom were notorious for high drug activity and violence. The Bottom probably wasn’t the best environment for Tone to be thrown into to, but he had no other option given his situation.

  Melinda’s apartment was smack in the middle of all the drama. The one bedroom spot was surrounded by all types of residents, including smokers, hustlers, killers, and any other type of person imaginable. Melinda set Tone up with a sofa bed in her living room and gave him access to the whole apartment, except for her bedroom of course. After the required visit from Tone’s P.O., he found himself sitting on the couch, wondering about his first move on his first day home. Naturally, visions of Lotta’s voluptuous body were dancing around in Tone’s head so he picked up the phone and let his fingers do the dialing.

  “You got the right number at the wrong time. Leave me a message and I’ll hit you back. Deuces,” said Lotta’s voicemail.

  Disappointedly, Tone left a message. He had badly wanted to talk to Lotta, but all he got was her voicemail.

  “Yo babe, it’s me Tone. I’m out here. They done finally let me up outta them gates. I’m tryin’ to see you A.S.A.P. Call me back on this number as soon as you can. I love you.”

  However, Lotta wouldn’t be calling Tone back anytime soon. She had left her phone in the house, which the Feds had informed her was off limits. Furthermore, with all the drama that Lotta was going through with her father, checking her voicemail was the last thing on her mind.

  *****

  Tone had love for Lotta, but he was no thirsty type of nigga, so after she failed to respond to three more voice messages over the course of a week, he stopped calling. Tone had so many other issues going on that he couldn’t dwell on the fact Lotta wasn’t picking up her phone. Although he was glad to be out of prison, Tone hardly felt like a free man. Even though he had been released, the way his P.O. stayed on his ass Tone felt like he might as well still be locked up.

  The federal supervised release program was very strict, with random drug tests and constant check-ups from the Probation Officer. They were insisting on Tone finding a job, but that was no easy task with a felony charge on his record. Besides that, Tone had way too much pride to flip burgers with 16 year olds at Wendy’s or mop up the floors in some filthy production factory.

  After the life Tone had lived, he was used to the fast money. Before he had gotten locked up, Tone was all about that stick-up life. It was what he did best. Catching someone sleeping and taking their hard earned money was Tone’s whole M.O. He had gotten used to Polo wardrobes, Prada footwear, high-grade Kush, and having a pocketful of Benjamin Franklins. Adapting to being broke was not going well at all for Tone.

  He could only watch with jealously in his eyes and hate in his heart as young hustlers sped through his block in Beamers and Benzes, with their bad ass ride or die broads riding shotgun. Tone saw people dressed in FLYR, True Religion, GEEK and Billionaire Boys Club outfits and grew even more envious because they were all brands that he couldn’t afford. They were out hitting up the clubs, bars and exclusive parties while Tone was relegated to the stoop in the front of his building, surrounded by smokers, oldheads, wannabes and nobodies. Something had to give, and soon.

  “You look stressed, youngblood,” said a voice, coming up from behind Tone as he sat alone on the steps in front of Melinda’s rundown apartment complex.

  Tone turned and looked at the man who was speaking to him. He was an older dude, probably in his mid-50’s guessed Tone. The man didn’t look like much; he was frail and skinny. It looked like a good, strong gust of wind could blow him away at any given moment. His clothes were like something out of the late 90’s, and not in a cool, retro type of way either. The Wu-Wear tee shirt and Mecca jogging pants were so dirty that their original color could hardly be identified.

  “You don’t wanna let this life stress you out too much, or else you’ll end up like me,” continued the man, with a laugh.

  The old man’s laugh exposed a mouthful of rotted, yellowed teeth obtained from years of neglect.

  “My name’s Roscoe, by the way. So what’s ya story, young brotha?” further continued the old man.

  Even though Tone wasn’t responding, Roscoe continued to prod him for information. Finally, Tone obliged and engaged Roscoe in a conversation.

  “Man, I just came home. I just gave the Feds like four years. Now I’m back out here and everything is different. I’m outta place. I’m in the way. I’m used to havin’ money, bitches, a car, gear and all that shit, oldhead. You feel me?” explained Tone.

  “Yeah, I know the feeling,” said Roscoe.

  Tone laughed, he wasn’t quite sure old Roscoe could relate to the way that Tone used to live. Tone was about all popping bottles and riding through his hood in his big body Crown Vic sitting on chrome. He ran though women like gym shoes and stayed high off of Purple Haze and Kush all day long. How could Roscoe possibly know anything about that life?

  “Don’t let my appearance fool you, young’n. I might look like an old fool, but I ain’t. I used to have a few cars, had me a wife, a few mistresses, and a nice lil’ two story house out in Jersey. Shit, I even used to own my own car garage back in ’98 believe it or not. Now it’s all gone,” surprisingly said Roscoe.

  “Damn, oldhead. What happened to you?” asked Tone.

  Roscoe cracked another smile exposing his messed up teeth once again. His teeth were so messed up that it hurt for Roscoe to even flash a smile.

  “Crack. That’s what happened to me,” he replied, walking off and leaving Tone to be alone with his thoughts.

  *****

  FDC Philadelphia was where all inmates awaiting trial or sentencing in the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, South Jersey, and Delaware were held. Some inmates were new to the system, in jail for the very first time. The looks of tepidness were evident on their faces, but oftentimes new inmates tried to overcompensate for their fears by acting extra hard. They walked around with their faces screwed up, but deep down they were petrified. Other inmates were so used to the system that the jail was like a second home for them. They moseyed around with smiles on their faces, just killing time in between meals by sleeping and talking passionately about things that didn’t r
eally matter at all in the outside world.

  Roc fell somewhere in between these two groups. He had been in the system before, forced to sit for four months before eventually beating a drug charge back when he was in his early 20’s. Since then, he had done his best to steer clear of the penitentiary, but his luck had run out. This was by far the most serious charge he had ever been hit with. The Feds had a 98% conviction rate, and of the two percent who beat them, hardly any of them were black men on drug charges. In other words, the odds were against Roc. The stress of his case was weighing on him, but Roc would be damned if he admitted it.

  The Feds were playing extra dirty and had frozen all of Roc’s accounts and assets, but luckily Roc had been making monthly pre-paid legal payments for years. A few hundred dollars a month had translated into a lifesaver for Roc. He had a good, paid attorney that would represent him in court, as opposed to having to depend on the public defenders that the government offered. The public defenders didn’t really care about their clients, they were just there to get a guilty plea and go about their business.

  Roc was booked on a conspiracy charge, which was the hardest kind of drug charge to beat. No one had caught him with any drugs on him, but someone had basically said that they had brought cocaine from him on more than one occasion. One snitch can bring down an entire operation and Roc was experiencing that first hand. The Feds wanted him off of the street; he simply had too much power and too much money. They were afraid of a hustler like Roc because he actually had an intelligent business mind. The companies that he ran were all turning a profit, and the government knew they could not let that continue to go on. Even though Roc’s trial hadn’t yet begun, the powers that be were already convinced that they were going to put him away for a long, long time!

  *****

  “Hey, what’s up? Your hair is real cute,” said a woman to Lotta, as she came out of the bathroom she was forced to share with her Uncle Marv.

  Lotta was doing her best to adapt to her new surroundings at her Uncle Marv’s house but it was not easy. She had grown used to the peace and quiet of the crib she shared with her father in the suburbs, but Marv’s spot was straight mayhem and pure ratchetness 24/7! Since Marv didn’t have any kids, his crib was like the party spot. He had a semi live-in girlfriend who had her own set of keys to the crib and was there at least five nights a week. Lotta had been trying to avoid her, but that strategy apparently wasn’t going to work forever.

  “Thanks,” said Lotta, trying not to be rude, but really not trying to make small talk either.

  “They call me Neeta, by the way,” she said.

  “I’m Lotta,” Lotta dryly replied.

  Neeta was even younger than Lotta, which amazed her since Marv was 35. Lotta had to admit, her Uncle had a certain hustler swag about him but she just couldn’t see how any woman could be attracted to a man nearly twice their age. Marv liked young jawns though; they were easily impressed and not hard at all to keep content.

  “So where you be gettin’ it done at?” asked Neeta.

  Lotta was a private person who really didn’t like people in her business, but Neeta kept on questioning her. As much as she didn’t want to, Lotta was forced to start talking to her.

  “I go up to this place in Southwest, right there off of Chester Ave,” reluctantly answered Lotta.

  “Oh, you must be talkin’ bout Platinum Image,” said Neeta.

  “Yeah,” replied Lotta.

  “Girl, my brother’s baby mom used to work there! That’s crazy,” said Neeta, hype as hell.

  Lotta didn’t really see the big deal. It wasn’t like it was some big coincidence. Half the women in Philly did hair. Lotta just wanted to go back into her room, but Neeta kept pestering her.

  “Yeah, I think I seen you around before. What high school you went to?” she continued questioning Lotta.

  “I went to ‘Brook,” lethargically replied Lotta.

  “Damn, I went to Overbrook too. I knew I seen you there before! You had fought this girl named Chaunte, right?” asked Neeta.

  Neeta was referring to a fight Lotta that had in her senior year. A girl named Chaunte had slept with Tone, stolen her necklace and was taunting Lotta about it. Lotta had beaten the brakes off of the girl, which had earned her a 3 day suspension.

  “Yeah, I did. That was a long time ago, though,” said Lotta, cracking a smile thinking about the satisfaction she had gotten from whooping Chaunte’s ass.

  All of a sudden, Neeta’s whole mood changed.

  “Well dig this bitch, Chaunte is my cousin! You know that lil’ beatdown you put on her cost her a couple racks in hospital fees. And she gotta mean little scar, too!” said Neeta, as she stepped up in Lotta’s face aggressively.

  Lotta was a calm person, but when backed into a corner, she reacted like a pitbull! She could already tell that this was going to be one of those times. Her Daddy hadn’t raised no sucker, so if Lotta had to fight, she would.

  “Well look, that was a long ass time ago and….” Lotta started her statement, but didn’t even finish it.

  Instead, she took the opportunity to catch Neeta off guard and threw the first punch. It was a wild haymaker, but it landed square on Neeta’s jaw! Lotta already knew it was about to go down, so she wasn’t going to waste any time trying to talk it out. She already knew that getting the first punch off was crucial in a fight. Sometimes a good first punch in a fight can be the last punch!

  The quick blow stunned Neeta, but it didn’t faze her in the way that Lotta had hoped. Instead, she had absorbed the punch and then charged back at Lotta. Surprisingly to Lotta, Neeta was a lot stronger than she looked. She knocked Lotta off of her feet and down onto the bathroom floor, then grabbed ahold of Lotta’s weave and refused to let go.

  “Bitch, get off my hair!” hollered Lotta, to no avail.

  Neeta had a handful of weave in one hand and was using her other hand to claw at Lotta’s face. Lotta was struggling with her trying to get free, but couldn’t quite wrestle herself loose. She was lodged between the toilet and the bathtub and no matter which way Lotta turned, she was stuck.

  “Yeah, hoe. This how the fuck we get down out here!” said Neeta, as she kept scratching up Lotta’s grill with her acrylic fingernails.

  Lotta wasn’t able to get free, but Neeta wasn’t really inflicting any pain on her. She was basically just ‘catfighting’; doing a whole bunch of scratching, hollering and hair pulling. More than anything, Neeta was just annoying Lotta. However, things got real serious when Neeta reached for her pants pocket.

  “Oh shit!” said Lotta, as Neeta exposed a small, but deadly, butterfly knife.

  Neeta had just taken the confrontation to another level by pulling out a weapon. She was trying to do some serious damage to Lotta’s pretty, chocolate face! Losing a fight was one thing, but permanent damage would obviously last forever. Lotta struggled to keep the knife from getting to her face, but she just didn’t have the energy to hold Neeta off.

  “You ain’t gonna be so cute after I’m through with ya ass,” deviously whispered Neeta.

  All Lotta could do was wince as she felt the cold blade of the knife make contact with her skin.

  Chapter 4

  Tone’s days of sitting around and complaining about his life were over. He was frustrated, but he also realized there was only one person in control of his life, and that was him. The Feds were trying to control his life and have him live the way that they thought he should, but Tone wasn’t beat for all of that. It was time to take matters into his very own hands.

  Tone had been home long enough to peep out the neighborhood and he knew who was getting money and who had work. It was called doing homework and Tone was an expert at it. He had scoped out the trap houses and the hustler hideouts and decided that he wanted a piece of the action. Since Tone was new to “The Bottom”, no one really knew him there. The fact that he was just coming home from prison was actually working in his advantage.

  The main spot Tone had his eye on w
as not far from him. It was run by some niggas from 60th Street. The trap house was a pretty basic operation; nothing at all about it was complicated. Three dudes worked eight hour shifts there and rotated. They ran the house like a McDonald’s, complete with everything but the drive-through window. They served any and everybody who came through, no matter how big or small their order was. As always, Tone had a plan in his mind on how to rob the place!

  Even though Tone was dead broke, luckily for him, his gun connection had looked out for him. The man had laced him with a .9MM High Point pistol. It was a cheap, throwaway gun, and since the gun trafficker knew Tone personally, he gave it to him as a coming home gift. Tone had the hammer loaded and was ready to get busy!

  Back in the day, Tone would be doing a job like this one with his partner in crime Amir, but his soul was resting in peace. Instead, Tone found himself staked out with an unlikely partner; Roscoe! Since Roscoe frequented the drug spot a few times a week to get his fix anyway, he would be the perfect front. No one would suspect a thing when they saw Roscoe walking up to the door; he was just another smoker coming to the spot to get served.

  The timing was perfect; the streetlights had just come on and the sky was getting darker by the minute. Tone was staked out outside in Roscoe’s squatter, an ’88 Buick LeSabre, waiting to make his move. All day he had been watching as the fiends would cop from the spot and go about their business. He knew there had to be some cash inside based off of the constant traffic that came through.

  “Alright Roscoe, you ready to do this shit?” asked Tone.

  Tone felt funny as hell about to pull a sting with a smoker, especially since he had known the man for less than a month. Tone’s ribs were touching though, and he was tired of having nothing but lint inside of his pockets.

  “I’m as ready as I’m gonna be. I gotta tell you though, ol’ Roscoe ain’t never done nothin’ like this before.”

  Roscoe’s motivation to help Tone with the jux was simple; Tone had cut a deal with him. All Tone wanted out of the crib was the cash, Roscoe could keep the drugs and get as high as he wanted to. It was like a crackhead’s dream come true.