Black Godfather

by K'wan

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

“Sometimes you gotta show muthafuckas that you’re a muthafucka, too.”
 
Since he was old enough to dream, all Antoine Grimm had ever wanted was to be a soldier like his grandfather, Big Ben Grimm. Coming from a military family, he had always been taught that there was no greater honor for a man than to serve his country. This is what motivated him to steal his older brother’s identity at the age of sixteen and sneak off to enroll in the United States Army. He left in search of the glorious stories he’d heard his grandfather tell, but what he found was the bitter truth that came with war. When Grimm left, he had been a doe-eyed kid with dreams, but upon his return to U.S. soil, the kid he’d left as became a battle-hardened soldier trying to cope with post-traumatic nightmares.
 
When Grimm returns to his home, he finds that not only has he changed, but so has his neighborhood. The drug epidemic has ravaged the streets he grew up playing in and decimated everything in its path, including his family. Unable to sit idle while the community he grew up in crumbles under the weight of pushers, pimps, and addicts, Grimm decides to take a stand.
 
Reuniting with members from his old army ranger unit, Grimm trades his war one war for another, turning his fury from enemies foreign to those domestic.

Release date: September 24, 2024

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“Home!” The word exploded in Antwan Grimm’s head loud enough to jar him from the nightmare. He blinked himself fully awake, disoriented and uncertain where he was. It was then that he realized that he was on the subway. Outside the window, he could see the sign letting him know that they were at the 145th Street stop on the station, ten blocks from where he was supposed to be. He had slept past his stop.

“Stand clear of the closing doors.” He heard the automated voice come over the loudspeaker. Grimm had just managed to grab the duffle bag containing his few belongings and slip through the subway doors as they closed, saving him from ending up somewhere in the Bronx.

At that hour of the morning, the station was busy with people coming and going. He felt like he was in a mosh pit, just trying to get up the stairs and out of the station. One dude he accidentally bumped into called him out of his name and invited him to an ass whipping . . . all over an honest mistake. Grimm considered it. It would’ve probably taken him all of thirty seconds to put the dude out of his misery, but he had done enough fighting over the past few years to last him a lifetime. So, he swallowed his pride and bowed out.

It felt like he had stepped onto another planet when he emerged from the station and walked out into the sun. He turned his face up and let the rays wash over his face. It felt good. For many years, he had taken something seemingly as simple as the sun for granted . . . until he had been deprived of it for two months. Those were some of his darkest days, and he looked forward to brighter ones ahead.

Grimm pulled one of several rollies from his shirt pocket and lit it with a match from a book of matches. A “rollie” was Tops paper stuffed with tobacco. It’s what passed for a cigarette in prison for inmates who didn’t have money for Class-As, which were name-brand cigarettes. The same rules applied at the Colosseum. The habit of smoking was the only thing he had taken from that hellhole once he left. He took a slow stroll down the block, taking in the sights. He hadn’t been gone that long, just shy of eight years, but in that time, the landscape of Harlem had changed. Gentrification had been well underway before he left, but he almost didn’t recognize the little slice of Manhattan he had called home for most of his young life.

He paused in front of a barbecue joint on the corner of 143rd and studied it reflectively. People of many races sat at the small tables enjoying their meals or were at the counter picking up takeout orders. They looked so happy, eating their food and enjoying their conversation. Grimm couldn’t help but wonder how they’d feel if they knew that the restaurant’s foundation had been built on blood. The barbecue spot might’ve been a hot spot for hungry tourists and locals then, but at one time, it had been where the gangsters came to play. Back then, it had been called Sharkys, a dive bar for misfits. Most had probably forgotten what the place once was. It was faded into memory as just about everything else from Old Harlem, but Grimm remembered. It had been in the shadow of that bar where his life would be forever changed.

“Why I gotta do it?” Buck asked, no longer feeling the plan they had spent all afternoon and part of that evening laying out. His mother had named him Theodore, but everyone called him Buck for the way his upper teeth protruded from his mouth.

“Because it was my idea,” Spoon said, a slick, light-skinned cat who, at only 17, had already stood an impressive six foot two. Spoon could’ve been a ball player had he not loved the streets more than he did attending practice. “Fuck you even agree to come if you was gonna act all scared?”

“Ain’t nobody scared. I’m just saying, why I gotta go in first?” Buck wanted to know.

“Because you look the least threatening. Anybody see you coming would sooner take you as a lost kid than somebody out to do him bad.”

It was true. Buck was five foot five on his best day and shaped like a teenage girl. Spoon had been keeping the dogs off him since middle school. It wasn’t because Buck couldn’t fight. He would get down with the best of them, but his slight frame generally brought him out on the losing end. “Still don’t see why it gotta be me,” Buck continued. “Reckless is usually the one who volunteers for this kind of nut shit.” He mentioned the currently absent member of their little gang.

“Well, Reckless ain’t here. They gonna keep him at least a day or two for getting picked up with his brother in that stolen car,” Spoon reminded him. “We ain’t got a day or two to wait. We need that money tonight. How else we gonna be able to pay to get into the party?”

The “party” Spoon was speaking of was an end-of-the-school-year bash being thrown by senior girls who attended their high school. One of them had rented out the community room in their building and would use it to host a little pregraduation party. There were only a few days left in the school year, and they had decided that they were going to end it with a bang. All the cool kids were going to be there, and Spoon had even heard talk that a few of the guys from the basketball team had scored a few kegs of beer. The party would consist of two of Spoon’s favorite Bs, beer and broads, and he’d be damned if he was going to miss out. The only hang-up was that they would have to pay to play. The girls who organized the party were charging ten bucks a head at the door. This is what had the young boys outside that evening plotting on doing wrong.

“Fuck it. I’ll do it.” A third voice joined the first two. This was Grimm. His first name was Antwan, but most of his friends just called him by his last name. Grimm sounded a lot cooler than Antwan.

Spoon sucked his teeth. “Listen to School Boy,” which was what he called Grimm when he wanted to get on his nerves. Spoon was always giving Grimm a hard time about being a good student while the rest of them were barely hanging on academically. “I guess because you about to graduate, you feel like your nuts have finally dropped, huh?”

“No. I’m just tired of hearing the two of you go back and forth like some bitches,” Grimm shot back. “Give it here, and I’ll do it.” He held out his hand.

Spoon and Buck exchanged suspicious glances. Of them all, Grimm was the least likely to commit a crime. Even the few times he did tag along with them when they were up to mischief, Grimm always played the role of lookout. He’d been involved in a few things, but for him to actually be volunteering to get his hands dirty was unheard of.

“Nah, I’ll go,” Buck relented. He was used to letting Spoon talk him into jumping out the window, but Grimm wasn’t cut like that. They all knew it, including Spoon. Buck was trying to help his friend save face.

“You gonna wipe his ass for him too when he shits? If he says he’s got it, then he’s got it,” Spoon insisted. “Only reason you’re probably willing to put in some work now is because you know Goldie is going to be at the party.”

Goldie was a girl from the neighborhood that Grimm was sweet on. Next to Spoon and Grimm’s older brother, Solomon, Goldie was the person Grimm spent the most time with. They weren’t technically a couple, but anyone with eyes could see that there was something between them. Most of the kids from their neighborhood came from broken homes, but Goldie had it bad. She always turned to Grimm when things got especially bad at home, so he fancied himself as her protector. He would do anything for Goldie, including going on the fool’s errand Spoon was about to send him on.

“You gonna keep bumping your dick suckers, or we gonna do this?” Grimm asked.

Spoon gave him that sly smile. The same one he gave everybody before he was about to take advantage of them. “Now, that’s the spirit.” He removed a small paper bag from his pocket and handed it to Grimm. “You remember the plan, right?”

“It ain’t rocket science. Y’all just make sure you got my back if this goes left,” Grimm told them and started across the street.

Grimm didn’t have to look back to know his friends’ eyes were on him. They were counting on him, which only added to the already crippling pressure he felt in his chest. It was fear, but it may as well have been a damn heart attack. Grimm had only been talking shit when he volunteered for the dumb shit he was about to walk into. He hadn’t expected Spoon to call him on it, though he should’ve. It was always a pissing contest between him and Spoon. Grimm had let his mouth write a check that his ass couldn’t cash, and now, he was forced to take it to the bank.

The bank in question was a neighborhood bar that was a local dive called Sharkys. At one time, it had been one of the hottest spots in the neighborhood, but the flame had long since fizzled out. The place was frequented mainly by drunks from the neighborhood who wanted to be reminded of who they once were. Most days, Sharkys barely made enough money to keep the lights on, but Thursdays and Fridays were a different story. Those were the days when working-class men who didn’t have the luxury of bank accounts could come to the bar to cash their paychecks. Most of them would end up giving the money right back on booze or the electronic poker machines in the back. They’d stagger out of Sharkys drunk and a few dollars lighter than when they came in.

The smart play would’ve been to rob the place, but that would’ve come with too many risks. Everybody knew that Juju, the owner of the place, kept a sawed-off behind that bar that he was all too willing to use. So, instead of risking their lives for the whole pie, Spoon devised a plan to snatch a few slices. “We gonna roll some drunks,” he had said with confidence. This would entail laying in the cut for a patron who was alone and drunk enough to where you could rip him off without much of a hassle. It sounded like a good idea to all of them at the time, but now that Grimm found himself the one standing outside the car, literally holding the bag, he was no longer so sure. “Don’t ever volunteer yourself to be the first down an unexplored road.” That’s what his grandfather Ben would sometimes say to him, mostly when he was leaving his grandparents’ house. Grimm had always dismissed it as a proverb. It wouldn’t be until he found himself standing outside a bar that he lived five blocks away from and about to do something stupid that he would truly get what his grandpa had been trying to warn him about.

Grimm stood outside a good ten minutes, hand shoved into the pocket of his hoodie and thumbing the paper bag Spoon had given him—neither the weight nor the firmness of what was inside provided him with much comfort. A few men had stumbled out of Sharkys, likely drunk enough for Grimm to do what needed to be done, but he didn’t move on any of them. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel they were good prospects but because he was still trying to work up the nerve. He looked across the street and saw Spoon pacing back and forth near the mailbox. Buck wasn’t as discreet with his show of impatience, motioning for Grimm to hurry up and pick someone.

“Shit or get off the pot,” Grimm mumbled to himself. He knew he had to do this or spend the rest of the summer being ridiculed by Spoon and the rest of the gang. He couldn’t have that. So, when the next drunk came out, Grimm pushed his ego to the side and committed to an act that would change the course of his life.

Had Grimm known back then what he would’ve come to learn after, he’d have told Spoon and Buck to go fuck themselves. But he hadn’t. At the time, Grimm didn’t think about the ramifications of what he had just volunteered to do. He was a naïve 16-year-old kid who only wanted to prove he belonged and wasn’t some scared nerd, which is how Spoon and some others always tried to paint him. In an attempt to prove that he was something that he wasn’t, Grimm had altered the course of his life . . . the worse. All he had to show for it was an honorable discharge from the marines, some war scars, and a severe case of PTSD. None of it had been worth it.

“Good riddance,” Grimm said before sucking in the last of his rollie and bouncing the butt off the window of the barbecue spot.

The closer Grimm got to his block, the more the landscape changed. The avenues were lined with stores, but when he turned onto his block, much of it had remained unchanged; tenement buildings and kids running up and down the streets. This was the Harlem that he remembered. One thing that stuck out to him was the heightened drug traffic. Kids who looked like they should’ve been somewhere in somebody’s classroom at that time of the day were out breaking the law. Grimm had watched one dude make at least three sales since he hit the block. Dudes had always sold drugs on Grimm’s street, but he remembered it being more low-key. They at least attempted to hide what they were doing from the police or the older people who might’ve been coming in or out of their buildings. These kids were out in the open like they had licenses to pump drugs. Grimm didn’t like it. He liked it even less when he recognized one of the boys who had just made a sale.

The kid was Grimm’s little cousin, Ellis. It had been some years since he’d last seen Ellis, and he had put on some height and developed a scowl, which was outlined in the beginnings of a thin goatee. The only reason that Grimm was able to recognize him was because of the scar just above his left eyebrow. Grimm had been in the house when he’d gotten the scar. His mother, Grimm’s aunt Renee, had warned the kids all day about running through the house. Ellis had turned a corner too fast, slipped in his socks on the linoleum floor, and cracked his head on the edge of the kitchen wall. For not listening to Renee, he had gotten a permanent scar. From the fact that he was outside selling drugs less than a block from their building said that he still wasn’t listening to his mother.

“What you holding?” Grimm approached Ellis.

Ellis gave him the once-over, taking stock of his appearance: an off-the-rack black suit, a plain white shirt buttoned to the neck, and combat boots. After his assessment, Ellis shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Officer.”

Grimm took stock of his appearance for the first time since returning to New York and couldn’t help but laugh at himself. “C’mon, man. I ain’t no cop.”

“Smell like bacon to me.” A second boy joined them. This one was wearing a Yankee fitted and jeans so tight it was a wonder that he could fit anything in his pockets. “Why don’t you take a walk before something bad happens to you, pig?”

“Why don’t you boys settle down?” Another voice joined in the discussion. A man ambled up to where they were standing. He was tall, like a basketball player, and wearing two gold chains flooded with diamonds that looked like they cost the average working man’s yearly salary. “This here ain’t no cop. I know he looks a little worse for the wear, but at one time, he had been the pride of 139th Street. Left here with the hopes and dreams of this whole neighborhood on his shoulders. Now, the Prodigal Son has returned.” He extended his hand. Grimm was hesitant but eventually shook it. When he did, the newcomer unexpectedly pulled Grimm in for a hug. “Welcome home, School Boy,” he whispered in Grimm’s ear. “Well, I guess I can’t call you that anymore. Is it Soldier Boy now?”

“If you’re gonna call me anything, call me by my name. Thanks just the same, Spoon.” Grimm pulled free from the embrace. He wasn’t big on people touching him these days.

“I almost didn’t recognize you with the beard,” Spoon said.

Grimm touched his face absently, running his fingers through his coarse beard. He could remember how, back when he was a bare-faced kid, he couldn’t wait to grow a beard. While a “guest” of the Colosseum, he wasn’t allowed access to shaving razors or anything sharp for that matter, so he was forced to let his hair grow. When he arrived back stateside, he hadn’t bothered to cut it. The beard was now just as much a part of him as the battle scars he carried.

Spoon turned to Ellis. “What’s wrong with you, El? You out here so high that you don’t recognize your own cousin?”

Ellis squinted at Grimm before it clicked in his head. “Cousin Antwan? Holy shit!” He hugged him affectionately. “Man, you got big as hell. The last time I saw you, you were a bag of bones. I guess you was eating good in the marines, huh?” He grabbed one of Grimm’s biceps, which was nearly bursting the seams of his tight suit.

“Something like that,” Grimm said modestly. Grimm couldn’t have been more than 140 pounds when he’d first enlisted, and that was on a good day. The man whom the marines had discharged tipped the scales at about 210.

“Yeah, he looks good for a dead man, don’t he?” Spoon questioned. Grimm gave him a look.

“That’s what the word was,” Ellis picked up. “Two soldiers showed up at the house one day and offered your mom a folded flag and their condolences. They didn’t tell us much, only that you had bought in somewhere in the Middle East in service to your country. I ain’t never heard my auntie wail like she did the afternoon we got the news. It was like somebody had cut her insides out with no anesthesia,” he remembered. “Whole hood came out for your memorial service. We burned candles for seven days and seven nights in your memory.”

“I had no idea that I was so loved,” Grimm replied. He hadn’t meant for it to come across as sarcastic, but was sure that was how it sounded. His tone had less to do with the false news of his death. During his debriefing, when he first arrived back on US soil, he had been informed that he was listed as KIA—killed in action. The troubling thing for him was that the military had lied about the circumstances surrounding his “alleged” death. During his whole tour, the only time Grimm had ever visited that part of the world where he. . .