Beats and Blow

Book 5: Crescent Crew Series

by Shaun Sinclair

Genres: Crime Fiction

Synopsis

His empire is worth a billion thanks to the drug-fueled wealth of his infamous Dirty South crew. But with unanticipated enemies gathering for a final devastating hit, will there be anyone left to rule?
Even near-fatal business and body blows can’t keep the Crescent Crew down for long. From lockdown, their founder and leader, Qwess, negotiates an unlimited supply of product that’s tripling the profits lost when the Feds swept in. But his treacherous second-in-command,
Bone, has a secret agenda at play that's sparking a brutal internal war. And when Qwess’s old rival, New York mogul Diamond, comes gunning to finish him and his kingdom for good, betrayal and payback will win the day—and could leave nothing and no one standing …

Release date: January 24, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Wilmington, North Carolina

Maleek Money pushed the button and the cream top peeled back on his brand-new Porsche 911. The sun poured into the coupe and the cream leather interior seemed to glow, contrasting magically with the matte emerald-green paint coating the car. He revved the engine and peeked in his rearview mirror, adjusting the heavy chain around his neck. He pulled up beneath the awning of the Hilton and watched as the crown jewel of his heart strutted out of the plush hotel looking like a ghetto goddess. Keisha was wearing short jean shorts that clenched her thick thighs and cupped her camel toe in a vice grip. The tall Dior heels she wore made her thigh muscles flex every time she walked, and Maleek Money loved the view as he admired the way her 38DDs bounced around inside her tank top.

Keisha opened the door and sank into the leather seat in a huff. “Them mothafuckas in there giving me a hard time,” she complained. “Knocking on the door while I was in the shower and shit. I told them I was coming!”

Maleek Money smiled and caressed her smooth brown cheek. “Calm down, beautiful. Don’t worry about them motherfuckers. They not on our level. Shit, I might buy this motherfucker for you,” he quipped. Although he was semi-joking, he was nearly in position to do just that if he chose to.

After executing his former comrade Twin, Maleek Money had stepped into his shoes to run the drug traffic for Wilmington. Little Maleek had turned all the way up and got to the money—and his new name reminded everyone of his status. He was controlling the Crescent Crew’s operation in the Port City and had been well rewarded for it. In less than six months, he had imported a few of his soldiers from Fayettenam and built a new line of young hustlers from Wilmington. Although they weren’t as thorough as the old crew—yet—things were turning out nicely.

Maleek Money pulled out of the hotel and cruised the city with the top down. As he drove, he caught the stares of passersby. In a predominately white town like Wilmington, North Carolina, seeing a young Black man pushing a drop-top Porsche was an anomaly. Rides like this were reserved for the people in the higher echelons of the city. Unknown to the uninitiated, there was another industry tickling the current of the city, and Maleek Money was at the top of that food chain.

Maleek Money piloted the Porsche into an upscale neighborhood off 17th Street, just past New Hanover Regional Medical Center. He hung a right, then a left, then pulled in front of a huge brown colonial-style house with white pillars. The house was pushed back from the street, and a huge green lawn sprawled from the street to the home. Maleek Money parked on the lawn and surfed through his phone calmly while lighting a blunt.

As Maleek Money searched his phone, Keisha peered around nervously. “Uhh . . . babe, what are you doing?” She asked. She knew the neighborhood well, a place where doctors and attorneys lived. They even had their own private police patrolling the neighborhood. “You can’t do that out here in this neighborhood,” Keisha reminded him. “And why are you on these people lawn like this?”

Maleek Money smiled. “Baby, you rolling with Double M, we can do whatever the fuck we want to do.” He pushed a button the behind rearview mirror and the garage door to the house glided open. He turned to Keisha and beamed his brightest smile. “Welcome home, Keisha. This our shit!”

Keisha was speechless for a moment. “Ohmigod! Are you serious?”

“Hell yeah! Come on, check it out.” Maleek Money and Keisha walked across the gorgeous lawn toward the garage. “I got another surprise for you too,” he claimed.

Maleek Money flicked the light on, and there in the garage sat a shiny new white 650 BMW convertible with a red bow wrapped around the hood. Maleek Money held a button on the key fob and the car roared to life, much to Keisha’s delight.

“Is this mine?” Keisha asked.

“Hell yeah! Your man is a boss; we can’t have you riding around in no bullshit. You represent me out here in these streets, and everybody needs to know it.”

Maleek Money was new to real money. He had seen some money before but not on this level, and he wasn’t going to miss a chance to show everyone how much he had come up.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t learned that all attention wasn’t good attention.

He also didn’t know that someone was watching him, and they were about to make themselves known.

Atlanta, Georgia

While Maleek Money spoiled himself with his ill-gotten riches, Bone strolled into Two Urban Licks looking like a Middle Eastern sheikh. His long green thobe and pointy-toed ostrich boots blended well with the cream shemagh wrapped around his head. Only the huge necklace dangling from his neck added the sauce that signified him as an American boss. The popular Atlanta eatery was tucked off in the cut, yet still upscale, which was perfect for a meeting of this sort.

Bone spotted his guest at the table in the back and quickly joined him.

“Hola, El Señor,” Bone greeted with a bow.

“Hola, El Señor,” the man returned with a smile.

Their greetings were a mutual sign of respect, the names actual titles.

“¿Jefe, cómo estás? ¿Todo bien?” Bone asked in perfect Spanish.

“English, please,” Jefe returned in perfect English.

While Bone cut a spectacle everywhere he stepped, in either designer threads or the finest in Islamic gear, Jefe was more lowkey in slacks and Polo shirts. Jefe even went to great pains to downplay his Mexican heritage when he moved around in the States, dying his dark hair dirty blond, and donning blue contacts. His disguise served its purpose, and it also made him a hit with the ladies. Being one of the biggest drug distributors in the Western Hemisphere gifted him numerous perks.

“So, what is this all about?” Bone queried. He wasn’t due to see Jefe for another two months. “We’re early, Jefe.”

“Ja, ja, things are well on the business side,” Jefe assured him.

“Word,” Bone uttered with a strong nod.

“But sometimes business is about more than just business.”

Bone’s ears perked up. “Oh yeah?”

“Yesss, my friend! Real business is about relationships.”

Bone was confused as to where the conversation was going. His business was intact as far as all the money being on point. His relationships were also good, as far as the palms he greased to keep things running smoothly. Yet his connect was in town early discussing relationships.

“Ah, I’m confused, Jefe—which is rare these days. I pride myself on keeping the confusion down in my life.”

“As do I, which is why I am confused as well.”

Bone glanced at the Richard Millie on his wrist and frowned. “All due respect, Jefe, I’m a little short on time; I have an empire to maintain,” he reminded him. “What’s this all about?”

“This is about that thing from a few months ago.”

Bone was still confused. Then, like an anvil, it hit him. “You talking about the King Rats?”

Jefe nodded.

“Oh, we haven’t found one of them yet, and we haven’t been able to get our hands on the other one, but we will get them.”

Bone was referring to Samson and his twin brother, Hulk. They were founding members of the Crescent Crew—big dog OGs in the organization—who had defected. Samson turned State while in the Feds, according to Qwess’s paperwork. Months ago, Bone had issued an on-site order. A ticket was placed on Samson’s head inside the penitentiary, but he was proving to be very elusive. As for his brother, Hulk, he had disappeared months ago, shortly before Qwess’s paperwork was revealed.

Jefe shook his head slowly. “Well, it’s a good thing you haven’t been able to complete your mission.”

“What do you mean?”

Jefe raised his hands and pumped his palms. “You must hold off on that mission,” he whispered.

The waiter arrived and filled their glasses with expensive water. He took their orders and disappeared as silently as he had come.

When the waiter skated off, Jefe continued, “Some new information has come to my attention that runs contrary to the kind you provided me about our friend.”

“He ain’t my motherfucking friend; he’s my enemy. You’ll see!”

Jefe frowned and shook his head slightly. “You’re not understanding me, my friend. I’m saying that we cannot ‘take care of’ a man of his stature unless we have concrete proof that he did those things.”

Bone spread his palms in exasperation. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What more proof do you need? There’s paperwork showing he signed statements. Paperwork proving he is a rat.”

“Ah, the American justice system cannot be trusted! I have three attorneys here, and one of them is so good with paperwork, he has me believing I am a saint—and we both know that isn’t true.” Jefe chuckled. “So I cannot feel comfortable with your decision until I am sure with my decision. Right now, I cannot do that.”

Bone leaned away from the table and eyed his supplier. He may have been the man in his faction, but Bone ran the Crescent Crew. He oversaw his family, and he had issued an edict that Crew Business would be enacted on the two defectors. Now his supplier was attempting to impede his business. Bone wasn’t going for it.

Bone steepled his hands on the table. “Jefe, with all due respect, I run my organization, and I have determined that these guys are rats. Therefore, I have issued an order.” He paused to let his words sink in before he softened his blow. “Now I also respect your contribution to my organization. We cannot do what we do without your resources. So . . . it appears we have a stalemate.”

Jefe smiled and looked away from the table. A beautiful woman walking by briefly captured his attention. He could’ve sworn he’d seen her on one of the American television shows.

He returned his attention to the table, “Chess is my favorite game in the world—”

“Mine too,” Bone interjected.

Jefe raised his eyebrows. “Well, it seems you are confused with your position on the board,” he said. “In this particular game, you are not in the center of the back row. Rather, you are on the end—pick a side, the left or the right. Now those are important pieces for sure, but if they get captured, the game still goes on. ¿Entiendes? Now, if the piece in the center of the back row gets removed, then the game is over. I am that piece.”

Bone picked up what he was putting down, and he didn’t appreciate being checked. “So what are you saying, Jefe?”

“I am saying that this situation is above your pay grade, Lil Jefe. I decide whether these individuals live or die. Until I give that order, stand down.”

Now Bone understood why he referenced relationships. He was essentially telling Bone that if he murdered Samson, then he would cut off his supply. He knew he possessed the upper hand, because Bone couldn’t lead a drug organization without drugs. For all his grinding to reach the top, he was still being sonned by someone. This didn’t sit well with Bone at all, but he was in “check.”

“Okay Jefe, I got you. I’ll stand down on this one. But my Big Homie is going to court real soon, so some more info may be coming out. I’ll be sure to keep you informed.”

Jefe waved his hand dismissively. “No need; I’ll know what is going on before you. I appreciate the gesture though.”

The waiter placed their meals on the table, and Jefe smiled triumphantly. “Now let’s eat!”

Bone smiled and dug into his food, but in the back of his mind, he began strategizing how to truly put himself in the center of the back row on the board.

The courtroom was packed with spectators as everyone awaited the defendant’s arrival. All the leading news crews were present, as this was sure to be the top story of the day. The federal prosecutor repeatedly checked his watch while glancing cutting looks at the judge. He was ready to tear into his prey and make his mark on the legal stage. He knew the entire world was tuned into the ongoing saga of a mogul’s fall from grace.

All eyes were on Qwess’s bond hearing. After all, it wasn’t every day that an entertainment mogul faced the death penalty, especially a mogul as rich, famous, and beloved by his community as Qwess. See, while other rap artists either clout-chased or clung to minimal past street exploits to solidify their credibility, Qwess was the antithesis to this type of foolery. Although he had co-founded what went on to become one of the biggest crime conglomerates in the nation, he had shunned that life and chased his destiny. Instead, he opted to uplift his community by giving to charity and preaching independence. When he rapped on wax, he spoke of obtaining knowledge of self, and made practicing the tenets of Islam cool again.

Now, despite all his growth and accomplishments and his constant elevation, he was still being dragged into court by U.S. Marshals like a common criminal to fight for his life. Well, not exactly a common criminal. Common criminals weren’t represented by million-dollar legal teams.

Malik Shabazz greeted Qwess as the Marshals guided him to the table. “As-salamu alaykum, brother. How are you?”

Qwess rubbed his wrists to ease the pain of where the cuffs were clasped just moments ago. “Shit, I’m here, but they making it hard on a Black man,” he complained.

Qwess made a show of looking around the room to see who was there to support him among the gallery. This was his first time out in public in six months, and even under these dire circumstances, it still felt good to see real people instead of guards all day. Hell, it felt good just to see different colors and smell something different than the stale stench of jail. He had grown accustomed to a very lavish lifestyle over the years, and this visit reminded him of just how much he was missing.

“I’m ready to get out of here. This shit here is draining,” Qwess groused.

“Well, that all should be coming to an end today, brother,” Malik Shabazz assured him with a strong pat on the back.

Qwess continued to scan the courtroom. He spotted his wife in the front row along with his parents and instantly felt a sense of peace. He continued to scan the room, and before he could recognize anyone else, his attention was garnered by another face in the crowd. The lead civil attorney for AMG Records sat in the front row, all smug and debonair in a three-thousand-dollar suit and a two-dollar grin.

Qwess returned his smirk and gave him a head nod to let him know he saw him. Qwess caught the implication; AMG wanted him to know that they were on his ass too. AMG had a seventy-five-million-dollar lawsuit pending against Qwess personally as well as a lien on royalties from his company. So they essentially had a stake in Qwess’s freedom too. Their presence was to apply pressure on Qwess to settle out of court. They had offered to settle out of court for just under fifty million a month ago, but Qwess was undaunted in his quest to take them to court. He didn’t plan on giving them shit!

Qwess sat at the table in his county issue uniform, and the judge called court into session. The judge went through his spiel, then got down to business.

“So, we’re here today to see if Mr. Salim here should be granted a bond pending the outcome of his trial. Is that correct?” the judge asked.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Malik Shabazz piped up with confidence. “We’re ready to send this great man home to his family and the community he serves.”

Malik Shabazz knew the eyes of the world were on him. He was a celebrity attorney; he was what the late great Johnny Cochran would’ve been had he practiced law in the social media era. Malik Shabazz was usually more popular than the clients he represented, due to his high presence on social media, where he regularly flaunted his lavish lifestyle, piloting speedboats, frolicking on mega-yachts, and cruising the world in his exotic sports cars. When he came to court, it was a spectacle. The world recognized once-in-a-lifetime greatness, and he was one of the sharpest legal minds in the world today at the height of his power. The public dubbed him the “LeBron James of Law,” except where the NBA star held court in arenas around the country, Malik Shabazz held court in the legal halls of America.

Unimpressed with Malik Shabazz’s theatrics, Judge Thomas looked down at the papers before him and scoffed.

“Looks like your client has been serving his community all right, Mr. Shabazz,” he quipped. “According to this paperwork, he’s been serving his community death and dope.”

Judge Thomas was aware of the enormity of this proceeding as well. He recognized he was also on stage, and he was looking to make a statement and thrust his name into the mouths of America as well.

Malik Shabazz scoffed. “That’s nonsense. My client is an international superstar, philanthropist, and businessman. He’s no criminal.”

“Ah, from my understanding, we’re not deciding guilt or innocence today, are we?” the federal prosecutor piped up. He saw that Malik Shabazz was already attempting to wield his legendary charm around the courtroom. “In that case, can we get on with it?”

Malik Shabazz shot his adversary for the day a cruel look. He was trying to soften the judge up, bend him to his side. “Very well, let’s get to it,” Malik Shabazz said, and addressed the court. “Your Honor, for the reasons I just stated, we request that my client be released on his own recognizance.”

“Yeah, right! Your Honor, these are some very serious charges, charges that we can prove. We have witnesses here today ready to testify as to the veracity of these charges,” the prosecutor alleged. He expelled a deep sigh and stated his case. “Sir, for years, this common criminal here has been hiding behind the music industry to appear to be a legit businessman. He is very rich, very dangerous, and very capable of fleeing justice. We cannot play with this matter and give him a bail. He is facing the death penalty, for God’s sake! He has every reason to flee.”

Malik Shabazz bellowed in laughter, as if he were front row at a Kevin Hart comedy special. “You Honor, Mr. Salim would never flee and desecrate the stellar reputation he has built. We look forward to embarrassing the government and making them pay dearly for besmirching the character of such a great man.”

“A great criminal.”

“A GREAT man!” Malik Shabazz repeated with a scowl.

“Your Honor, I reiterate that this is a capital case—”

“He’s innocent.”

“If this was Joe Blow from off the street, we wouldn’t even be entertaining this conversation.”

“But he isn’t Joe Blow; he’s an international music mogul.”

“A murdering music mogul.”

“Enough!” Judge Thomas had heard enough. “Now, I have heard you both bicker, cackling like old hens. Both of you are this close to being in contempt. Let’s hash this out before my bailiffs cart you two off to jail.”

Malik Shabazz settled down and prepared to present his case. But Judge Thomas had other plans.

“You know, I’ve been following your career, Mr. Salim,” Judge Thomas said to Qwess. “My son is a huge fan of yours, and he was shocked the way this all went down.”

Qwess inw. . .