Carl Weber's Kingpins: Charlotte

Book 9: Kingpins

by Blake Karrington

Genres: African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Come follow Blake Karrington as he once again takes you on a ride through the gritty dirt roads of the South. In this suspenseful Southern tale, we are introduced to King, a southern born and bred hustler who is determined to take the drug empire handed to him by his father into the legitimate world of the music industry. Little does he know that when the streets birth you, trying to leave can be deadly. King’s life is looking good when he meets a beautiful, classy queen. Sloan is a college-educated, hardworking Neo soul singer. She has always tried to do the right thing, but when something from her past comes back to haunt her, it could destroy the love she and King are building. Hang on, while Blake Karrington shows you what has made him the king of Southern street tales.

Release date: November 29, 2016

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Strap bobbed his head to the new Yo Gotti CD as he drove through the familiar neighborhood. He was so ready to get to the last trap house for the night and then call King so they could hit the city hard. It was Friday, and definitely a payday, but Uncle Sam wouldn’t be getting a damn dime of their money. He pulled his Audi SUV in front of the dope spot with 345 on the mailbox and parked by the curb. Strap scanned the street before getting out. He may have been feeling good, but not good enough to get caught slipping by some bitch-ass niggas. Strap always remembered what his granddaddy used to tell him and his cousins.

“Let your guard down and end up six feet in the ground, little niggas.”

His grandfather was a real OG and ruthless as hell. The old man was in his sixties, but niggas in the hood were still scared of his ass. As Strap walked toward the drug house, the hairs on his arm stood up. Everything looked normal around the residence, but something felt off. He waited until he got by the big oak tree in the front yard and checked his gun. The only lights he could see in the house were on the side where the kitchen was located. He looked around again. There were no unfamiliar cars on the street, but he knew that didn’t mean shit.

Gripping his Colt, he slowly walked up the walkway to the front steps of the house. As he reached the top step, he heard the stone gravel behind him crunch.

Strap felt an immediate chill go down his spine as he turned. A blue flash of light and a loud sound cut through the quiet of the night. Something stung his stomach and lower back, and then, he felt a burning sensation travel down his legs.

“Fuck!” Strap yelled as he fell back against the porch.

He scanned the street, but he couldn’t see who had fired the shot. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and King’s name flashed across the screen when he pulled it out. He hit ACCEPT, and as he looked back up, he noticed a tall, light-skinned nigga strolling up the sidewalk. Strap tried to pop off a shot, but his hand had suddenly stopped functioning. His gun and the phone fell from his grip.

“Hey, nigga, just relax and get ready to go to sleep. Night night!” the man said as he pointed the gun at Strap and pulled the trigger. The man’s laughter echoed in Strap’s head as his face faded into darkness.

The Queen City, known to visitors and the rest of the world as Charlotte, North Carolina, was named after Queen Charlotte of Great Britain. The old bird would shit bricks if she knew that a black King was driving down the streets of the city named after her, and feeling this good, King thought as he drove his new white Jaguar XJL through the center of his hometown. Usually, he would be checking his rearview and side mirrors for the fucking cops or some bitch-ass niggas that had beef with him or his crew. But tonight, he was riding on the high of it being Friday. Nothing but a good time was ahead. With the top down, the air caressed his freshly shaved face. He had just gotten the VIP late-night treatment from his barber, Don. It was after hours, and Don didn’t do shit for anyone unless they made it worth his while. Dropping a c-note to ole boy had definitely made it worth it.

King checked his reflection in the mirror and smiled. His thin mustache was lined up perfectly, and his fade was cut very low. King’s thick eyebrows highlighted his light brown eyes and long eyelashes. Genetics were a great thing; even when he was young, people would always compliment him on his looks. The summer after he turned thirteen, he’d had a huge growth spurt. He had shot up six inches, and his shoulders had broadened. He now stood six feet two with caramel skin and a sculpted body that turned the heads of women and girls.

Tonight, he was feeling himself. Usually, he was on ready-set-go, but, for a brief moment, he was going to allow himself to chill. He stopped at a red light, and a group of college girls walked by. They slowed down and seductively waved at King. He nodded at them and flashed his 1,000-watt smile as they smiled back. The light turned green, and he hit the accelerator. Resting his right hand on his steering wheel, he allowed his left hand to hang over the door. As he cruised, his mind drifted back to his teenage years, when he was just sixteen years old.

King was in the driver’s seat of his father’s Mercedes. They were listening to Frankie Beverly & Maze’s “Before I Let Go,” which was his father’s favorite song. King bobbed his head to the music while his father ran down some facts about the family business of hustling. Reggie reached over and turned down the volume on the radio.

“Listen, Ronnie,” Reggie said, calling King by his first name while looking out of the passenger’s window. “Son, this life we in is like no other. These streets ain’t got no love for no damn body. Games are for chumps, not for this business. This is some serious shit, and you can never underestimate a man’s intentions when it comes to being on top. You feel me?”

King smiled as Reggie’s face began to fade into the side glass of the downtown building. His heart ached as the pain of losing his father at such a young age began to resurface. King took a deep breath. As he exhaled, his current world came back into view. As his mind cleared of his father, he pressed the VOLUME button on the radio. JAY Z’s “Heart of the City (Ain’t No Love)” pumped through the Bose speakers. Damn, Dad kept it all the way real, King thought to himself.

He approached the top of the hill and dropped the car down into second gear. This was the perfect place to test out the power of his new toy. He looked at the clock. He had spent enough time bullshitting around. He was only about twenty minutes from his trap house. He needed to meet Strap, collect his money, and make sure those fools had everything bagged up. This was not the night to be running late. It was Friday, and the spot would have been booming all day with business. He didn’t like to leave a lot of cash in the hood. It would tempt folks too much.

King took out his cell phone and called his boy, Strap, to make sure everything was ready for him to pick up. The phone rang several times before the voice mail came on. King dialed Strap’s number again. It rang twice this time; then, there was silence on the line.

“Hey, yo, Strap. What up, fam?” King spoke as he turned down Milton Road. The silence erupted into loud popping sounds.

“Strap? Hey, Strap, what the fuck is going on? Strap!” King yelled into his Bluetooth. He heard several more shots, and then, the line clicked. “Strap, Strap!”

King hurriedly pulled over in front of the old Circle K and jumped out. He was only a couple of blocks away from the dope house, and he needed to get his gun out of the trunk. The biggest gang in the city, CMPD, was out heavy on the streets, so he knew he needed to ride somewhat clean, especially on a Friday. King wasn’t sure what he was about to walk into, but he knew he’d heard some heavy gunfire when he called Strap.

He placed the glock in the back of his pants and jumped back in the car. Quickly, he popped it into gear and sped out toward the trap house. He killed his lights as he turned down Milton. The street was quiet as King slowly approached the house. He stopped two houses down from his destination, parked near some bushes that partially hid his car, and raised his top. The streetlights were shot out as usual; the power company had stopped replacing them. King double-checked his clip and quietly made his way up to the trap house. As he approached, he could see someone slumped on the front steps. He ran over to the body and saw his man holding his stomach and moaning.

“Ah fuck, Strap! Shit,” King said, kneeling beside him. “Damn, brah, where you hit?” King asked while Strap coughed and tried to pull himself up. “Nah man, stay still. Who the fuck did this?” King asked, holding his friend.

King heard a gurgling sound come from Strap as he took a deep breath. He placed his ear close to Strap’s lips.

Strap took another breath. As he exhaled, he whispered a name to King. “R-Red.” After uttering the name, his head dropped to the left.

“Shit! Strap, come on, man. You going to be a’ight. Stay with me, brah,” King said. He shook his friend, but the light had left his eyes.

King wanted to scream, but he knew he needed to get inside to survey the full damage. He closed Strap’s eyes and stood. The screen door screeched as he opened it and walked inside the house. King kept his gun raised as he rounded the corner of the room. As he approached the kitchen, he could smell death in the air. Chris, Lil T, and Monster lay on the old cracked floor with bullets in the back of their heads and blood pooling around them.

“Fuck . . . Fuck!” King yelled as he scanned the room for any sign of his money or drugs. Nothing was there. All of it was gone.

In that moment, he didn’t care about the money as his eyes fell on his fallen friends. He whispered a prayer to the God of his grandmother for their souls—the prayer of the thugs.

King stood and backed out of the kitchen. He left the house. He paused as the body of one of his closest friends lay on the steps. He hated to just leave him there like that, but he knew there was nothing else he could do for his man except make sure the people who took his life lost theirs.

“Brah, I got you. Them niggas gonna pay for this shit!” King said before jumping down the steps.

He sprinted back to the bushes and jumped in his car. He made a U-turn and headed back up Milton. As he drove up the street, he checked his rearview for any potential assailants or witnesses who may have been lurking. He was sure that the cops were only minutes away, and as he turned onto Plaza Road, he heard their sirens. Shifting gears as he made his way to Harris Boulevard, he felt his blood boil as he thought about Strap and his other homeboys. His heartbeat rang in his ears. He needed to get to somewhere quick so he could process everything, and he needed someone he could trust. His family was what he needed.

King headed toward his mother and stepfather’s house. There, he would find sanctuary to piece together his thoughts and figure out what he should do next.

Carlton, King’s stepfather, had stepped up when his biological father passed away from a heart attack. King was eighteen when his father passed. That was nearly seven years ago and Carlton had been right there for him and his mother ever since. Carlton was his father’s best friend, and in many ways, he was just like King’s daddy. They both were old-school street dudes who knew the game and played it well. King had never seen either of them without a custom suit, a tie, and a starched shirt. King and Carlton were as close as two people who shared the same DNA.

As he pulled up to his parents’ home, he checked the time. It was late, and King had a second thought about going inside. He didn’t want to wake them up, but he knew that Carlton would be upset if he wasn’t told about the robbery. Using his key, he let himself into the quiet house. He could tell that his mother had decorated, yet again. The living room that once had a country theme now had earth tone covers and African art on the walls, with little elephant, lion, and monkey figurines placed around the room. Hearing the TV, King shook his head and made his way downstairs to the basement.

Carlton was sitting in his favorite recliner watching an episode of Law & Order. “Hey, Son!” Carlton said, putting the TV on mute.

King gave him a weak smile as he sat down. He could see the butt of Carlton’s Smith & Wesson on the side of the chair, and he was sure there was more firepower all around the room. The smile was short, and the anxiety of the evening returned.

Carlton took a sip of his Hennessey and slid to the end of the chair. “What’s going on, son? Talk to me.”

King looked up at him and dropped his head back down. “They dead. All of them . . . dead,” King stated, fighting back tears. He ran his hands over his face and laid back on the couch. As soon as he closed his eyes, he felt sick to his stomach when Strap’s lifeless stare entered his mind again.

“Who dead?” Carlton asked as he stood up.

“All my boys at the trap house—Strap, Li’l T, Chris, and Monster. They murked all of them and took the money and dope. Shit, Strap died in my damn arms. I know my nigga got a couple of shots off, for sure. Before he died, he told me this nigga name Red did it.”

Carlton could see the hurt in King’s eyes, and the fury. He sighed and sat back down in his recliner, shaking his head as he sipped his Hen.

King stood and walked over to the bar. He grabbed a glass and poured himself a drink. After swirling it around for a moment, he sipped it. Both men were quietly trying to process everything that had gone down.

“I’m going to get them niggas, though, and I’m going to start with Red’s ass. They going to get dealt with real soon!” King screamed.

“Son,” Carlton responded while lighting one of his cigars, “in our business, murder brings attention we don’t want or need. Murder results in bodies, and bodies result in investigation by the cops. I know you ready to wage war, but we gotta let this cool for a minute. You gotta be smart about your moves, and check your damn emotions. Keep it in your mind, but don’t act too soon. I know you want vengeance right now, but let’s just wait,” Carlton said, blowing circles of smoke in the air.

King shook his head and allowed the Hennessey to flow down his throat as he listened to his stepfather. “Yeah, let them rest easy for now. But believe me, I am going to have Red and his crew crying like little bitches when I’m done with them.”

“Such language,” a soft voice said from the stairs.

King managed to flash a smile at the beautiful woman that emerged from the stairwell. His mother wore a long silk robe with the belt tied tightly around her small waist, which accentuated her hips. The gold and diamond cross that she wore around her neck touched the heart shaped tattoo she had on her chest with “Reggie,” the name of King’s father, inside of it.

Yolanda, or Yogi, as everyone called her, was in her late forties but had the body of a nineteen-year-old. Her caramel skin was near perfect. She had large brown eyes, full lips, high hips, and long relaxed hair that flowed down her back. Yolanda was a natural beauty and a true southern lady. She was soft spoken, elegant, and graceful. She could enter a room without saying a word, and heads would turn. At least that was the Yolanda side of her. Yogi was the complete opposite. She was street-educated. She would always let you know just what she felt, and was ready to whoop some ass if anyone disagreed with what she was saying. King was her only child, and she had vowed to make sure he had everything he could ever want. She would do anything to make that happen.

Yogi smiled at them both and stretched her arms out to King.

Carlton stood and walked to the bar. He grabbed a glass and poured her a drink.

“Hey baby, I thought I heard someone come in. It’s good to see you,” Yogi said, hugging her son tightly.

King felt the anger and despair that had consumed him moments ago lift as his mother hugged him.

Carlton touched her back and handed her the glass.

Yogi flashed a smile at him and kissed his cheek. “Well, I will let you men get back to business,” Yogi said, making her way toward the stairs. “Oh, and Sunday dinner will be served at four. I don’t care how late you are out tonight, you better not be late.”

King laughed and nodded.

His mother cut her eyes at him playfully and blew him a kiss.

“Night, Ma,” King said as she walked back up the stairs.

King blinked and looked at the time on the cable box. It seemed that he had just laid down, and now it was time to get up and get moving. He had literally done nothing but lay there. Sleep had not come to him at all. He had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling and thinking about the night before. R&B flowed from the speakers when he hit PLAY on his Beats by Dre iPod dock.

King sat there for a moment, feeling the depression creeping back in. He shook his head. “Nah nigga, buck up!” he said aloud. He changed the channel to a hip-hop station to get himself going. As he settled on Power 97.9, YG’s “My Nigga” was just coming on.

I said that I’ma ride for my motherfucking niggas,

Most likely I’ma die with my finger on the trigger.

The lines seemed more than appropriate for this morning. He turned the volume up and danced to the bathroom. After he turned on the water in the shower, he checked himself in the mirror. He scanned his toned, tattooed body and flexed before opening the door to the shower. The steam from the shower was inviting, and the warm water soothed him as he stepped in. For a minute, he just stood there with his head down, thinking of his fallen comrades. The shower was set to pulsate. He allowed it to massage his shoulders and temporarily wash away the events of the previous night. He grabbed the AXE shower gel and was calmed by its scent as he lathered his body.

As his mind cleared, he remembered that he needed to pick up his best friend, Kareem. He had just come home after serving three years of a five-year bid for a pound of OG Kush and gun possession.

Kareem and King had been friends since the monkey bars in elementary school. In school, King was known to knock panties off on a regular, and he surely liked to kiss and tell. At lunch, he would keep the boys entertained with his exploits. Kareem would sit right there beside him, nodding his head and laughing while his friend entertained the masses.

Kareem would chuckle it up, but he didn’t need to tell any stories of bedroom bullying. He had gotten his girlfriend, Tiana, pregnant in the eighth grade, and her pregnancy told his boys everything they needed to know. That was over eleven years and three kids ago for Kareem.

Kareem’s incarceration had taken a toll on Tiana and the kids, but King and the crew had tried to make sure they were taken care of financially. He would personally check on her and the kids while Kareem was away. But during the last year of Kareem’s bid, Tiana stopped accepting the help. She had made it clear to King that, when he came home, she wanted Kareem out of the game.

King could understand Tiana’s fear, but leaving the game would have to be Kareem’s decision. King knew that, like him, Kareem had been raised in the dope game and did not intend to leave it. However, if his boy had changed and was ready to leave, King would wish him the best. Secretly, though, he hoped he would still be his copilot in the streets, especially now.

King hoped that after pulling this bid, Kareem now understood how serious things were in the streets. He had always stayed on Kareem about being too lax about business. The day Kareem got busted, he was high, talking on the phone to Tiana with a pound of Kush and a gun in the car. The police pulled him over and smelled it on him.

Kareem was careless. He liked to play and joke; he was always either being the clown or the killer. He was never even keeled. Everyone in the crew was convinced that he was bi-polar. The killer was the reason King and Carlton kept him around; neither would admit that, sometimes, the clown in him kept everyone in light spirits. Kareem’s funny side didn’t set too well with the judge. At his trial, he kept asking him if he thought something was funny because of the way he kept smiling.

The judge decided to make an example of him. He wanted to give Kareem more time, but King had paid a top lawyer to represent his boy, so, instead of ten years, he got five. King hoped that Kareem would now take life seriously and get his game up.

King turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, excited to see his boy. As he wrapped the towel around his waist, his cell phone whistled in the bedroom. He checked the text and laughed.

“Nigga you better get out from between dem hookers’ legs and come get ya boy!” The text read.

King just texted Kareem back, “N.I.G.G.A.”

He knew that he would understand. They were both Tupac fans and. . .