Carl Weber's Kingpins: Detroit

Book 0: Kingpins

by Ms. Michel Moore

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Kalif is everything his adoptive family wanted him not to be: treacherous, conniving, and coldhearted. As much as he wishes to please them, he can’t deny who and what he is destined to be. The hot-tempered young man is indeed his father’s son. While off his meds, Kalif discovers the circumstances surrounding the brutal murder of his birth parents. In a matter of seconds, he totally snaps, ignoring the possible consequences. His rage and thirst for power increases. Deep off into the zone, Kalif develops zero tolerance for nonsense. Quickly, he rises through the ranks of the Motor City crime underworld, proving to everyone, including himself, he deserved the hard-earned title of kingpin of Detroit.

Release date: July 30, 2019

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

The sun had yet to rise. But that didn’t matter. Life and death stopped for no one. Neither man nor beast, neither the truth nor a lie. A disturbing sneer graced Kalif’s face. He glanced over at the clock. It was now 5:11 a.m., the perfect time to pray and the perfect time to kill. Having no remorse, he had three bodies this month by his own count. The young king knew that more were easily in his near future. Their final destination would be the Wayne County Morgue. He’d been through hell and back this year. He’d borne witness to the most unholy, unspeakable acts, and he was still standing. He couldn’t be broken, physically or mentally, or so he believed.

Despite pleas from those around him, he hadn’t taken his longtime prescribed meds since the beginning of spring. Even though he refused to admit it, Kalif Abdul Akbar, adopted son of Rasul and Fatima, was out of control. Damn near out of his mind. But the confused man-child was still a soldier for the cutthroat game in the streets and the will of Allah.

His sacred Koran was in plain sight. As he stood there, Kalif placed his open palms to the sides of his ears. “Allahu Akbar,” he chanted out loud before crossing his arms. Closing his eyes, he lowered his head. By religiously going through all the steps of Fajr, he was able to focus his often tormented mind. “Allah is the greatest,” he repeated before dropping to his knees. Touching his forehead to the top portion of the rug, he praised Allah once more. When he neared the end of this morning ritual, Kalif turned his head toward the right, then the left. Eyes still closed, he prayed for God’s ultimate blessings in all he did. Afterward, he sat silently for a moment, and then the devout Muslim finally stood. He was at peace.

After rolling up the multicolored prayer rug, he placed it next to the holy book. Kalif was now ready to start his day. He walked to the other side of the room, then sat on the couch. After reaching down and grabbing his wheat-colored Tims, he put them on. Then he tossed his kufi on the coffee table, grabbed his gun, and double-checked to see that one was up top. Satisfied, he dipped off into the kitchen. Kalif tucked the firearm in his rear waistband, and then he opened one of the kitchen drawers and quickly retrieved a huge deli-style meat cleaver. With determination on his mind and malice in his heart, the street warrior headed down into the basement, cleaver in hand.

His anxious crew members had gathered together in the basement and were passing around a gallon of Hennessy. Kalif watched them as he took out his cell phone and waited patiently to receive a text. Several hours ago he’d received word that their sworn enemies were posted at a certain stash house located near the old Kettering High School, so he’d sent a throwaway worker named Dennis to the other side of town to make sure the information was indeed true. Not trying to tip his hand, he couldn’t run the risk of being made.

Even though everyone that worked for him was capable, Kalif didn’t have to ask for volunteers when this kind of job needed to be done. When dealing with dummy missions like this one, he always sent half-witted Dennis, because he was expendable. Given all the pills he popped and all the lean he drank, if Dennis got caught by the police or even killed by the other crew, then so be it. It’d be no great loss to the organization. This time around, Dennis’s task was fairly simple: creep on the address he was given and take pictures of all the vehicles in the driveway and parked out in front of the house. All he had to do then was text the photos to the Obama burnout, nothing more and nothing less.

It was 5:23 a.m. and still no word from Dennis. If they wanted to make an early morning move, Dennis would have to get at them sooner rather than later. Yet while the others remained restless as they finished their community bottle, Kalif was patient. The crew had been down at Greektown Casino all night long, keeping their “go time” energy up. But Kalif’s energy had been up for trouble ever since his homeboy’s murder. But now he continued to be calm. He’d prayed this morning to be protected from all his enemies and to be granted grace. So of course, he moved differently than the nonbelievers that surrounded him. His need for revenge and his taste for blood would come on Allah’s time, not on his own.

Seconds soon turned to minutes, and then Kalif finally received the notification he had been waiting for. He downloaded each picture, and the reality of the situation quickly became evident. The informant was telling the truth. The vehicles with custom paint and expensive rims that were posted up at the designated address were easily recognizable and all too familiar. They belonged to several members of the infamous Black Bottom Mafia, otherwise known as the BBM and named after a neighborhood on the Near East Side of Detroit. They were Kalif’s main competitors in the drug trade in the Midtown area of the city and in other illegal activities.

Detroit, once home to the Motown music dynasty, was divided into two major sides—the East Side and the West Side—by Woodward Avenue. This landmark avenue ran from the Riverfront and Hart Plaza across the town limits and clear up to Pontiac, a nearby crime-ridden city. Kalif and his band of killers held a tight grip on the West Side, particularly the Dexter-Linwood neighborhood. Brutus, who was on the East Side, was their main leader but was seldom seen. He and the BBM claimed the same area. For years, Midtown had been a neutral playground of sorts. That was until the financially strapped residents of Detroit elected a Caucasian mayor. An all-black city with a white overseer had all the makings of a perfect storm. Most knew early on that all hell was going to break loose. And the ongoing deadly war proved them right. Both squads seemed to have outgrown their inherited territory. They had a thirst for more power in the streets, and if they took control of Midtown, they would have exactly that.

“Okay, my niggas. Dennis’s ass done fucked around and got every picture we need. Not only are Cutt and his boy Mutt posted up there, but East Side Randy and his people too.”

“What up, doe? Is them bitches some faggots or something? They having a damn sleepover like some li’l pussies.” Amir shook his head.

Kalif and the others laughed at the first lieutenant group of the childhood friends now turned notorious. Amir was Kalif’s right-hand. Their fathers had both been highly respected when they were alive. They’d led the Islamic underground’s assassins, who had never been caught or charged with any crimes. Kalif was focused. He followed the rules of Islam like his pops, Rasul, and Amir’s dad had. But his homeboy had been raised Baptist, like his mom, which was something Kalif had never understood or accepted. Nevertheless, Amir and Kalif had been linked up by force as kids and had remained tight as grown men. Whenever Kalif was in one of his weird zones, a result of being off his meds, Amir would step in and make sure things on the streets continued to run smoothly.

“Yeah, no doubt they some straight-up bitches. And before daybreak, they gonna be some dead bitches,” Kalif vowed before stepping over to the washing machine. Ready to put in even more work, he snatched up the meat cleaver that was lying there and wrapped his fingers around the dark brown handle. With the meat cleaver down at his side, he felt like the angel of death was speaking to him. Fear not being in the land of the living. But fear the painful scorch of hellfire that awaits you.

In a show of respect, the members of the nine-man crew, who had been handpicked to murder when need be, backed up toward the walls of the basement. Kalif slow strolled along the path they had made for him. He then focused on the man they had duct-taped to an old lawn chair, and the next play was obvious to everyone present. As he got closer to the visitor, Kalif’s grip tightened on the handle of the meat cleaver. When they were only two feet from each other, they locked eyes, the predator and his prey. A stone-faced Kalif was not bothered by the other man’s gaze. He knew the tortured BBM member wanted mercy in return for snitching. And even though he had ratted out his own people and had put Kalif and ’em up on game, unfortunately, there would be no mercy. Retaliation for being on the wrong team and for killing Kalif’s homeboy would be swift.

They were working against the promise of daybreak. After thanking the BBM member for his service, Kalif raised the meat cleaver. There was no hesitation on his part. The future was now. With one strong swing of the blade, it was done. Kalif hit his mark. Blood splattered on Kalif’s face and forearm and on some parts of the wall. When he looked down, he saw an open wound on the man’s neck, a wound so wide that the man’s head was left dangling on the side, much to his executioner’s delight. Kalif showed no remorse, and neither did the others in the basement, who’d been down this deadly road before. For them, it was business as usual. After watching the man’s body slump over, Kalif dropped the bloodied meat cleaver to the floor and proclaimed victory. Surrounded by his loyal, devoted henchmen, he smirked with satisfaction before launching into one of his famous “Damn, why don’t he take his meds and chill?” rants.

“Do you motherfuckers know what it’s like to be me? Do you? Hell naw, you don’t,” Kalif asserted. “I was born with less than nothing. Shitted on, fucked over, and damn near left to die. I did what I had to do to survive. And now society out here judging, acting like they better than my black ass. I’m the bad motherfucker around these parts. I been labeled a child of God, a shepherd for Satan, and now a goddamned king! And y’all think this shit easy, a game.” With stern conviction and a clenched fist, he beat on his chest.

He went on. “Y’all see all this jewelry, them cars, and these thirsty bitches hanging around, and you think it’s gangsta. It’s a headache! These hoes is some straight-up headaches, always wanting, always needing, always begging with they hands out, feeling entitled. Niggas trying to come up when I ain’t looking. My own team trying to kill me.” He scanned the faces in the basement for signs of any more weak links, but thankfully, he saw none. “My brother and my people done turned they back. The shit don’t ever stop. Kalif this. Kalif that. A nigga get tired of it all. And now, with old girl about to give birth to the heir to all this madness, I’m back at war. But yeah, I’m good. I’m built for this shit. My real old dude was a true soldier, so I was told, and that legacy is blood deep, and so the fuck am I.”

“Hell, fuck yeah. We all is,” said one of Kalif’s henchmen, strongly cosigning on their joint thirst for the game and their loyalty to living life.

“So, like I said, if y’all rolling with me, suit up and let’s hit the block. We got work to put in,” Kalif told them. “Amir, you already know I’ma need you to stay behind and make sure this rat bastard piece of shit is taken outta here.”

Kalif’s best friend agreed, knowing there was no sense in arguing about this direct order, which was what most of them considered it. When they began this journey of mayhem, nonsense, and murder, Kalif had vowed that he and Amir would never go on missions together. Although he’d been ostracized by his family and by the majority of the Muslim community after his father’s disappearance, Kalif’s bond to his father mattered. If both he and Amir got knocked off, their fathers’ longstanding legacy in the game would run the risk of being nothing more than history and a cautionary tale warning others to leave that lifestyle alone.

“Yo, I got this down here. Y’all go do what ya do.” Amir nodded toward the deceased mess of a man in the corner.

Kalif had his squad’s undivided attention now, and they did as he requested and suited up for battle. After washing his victim’s blood off his face and hands, Kalif, the calculated master of slaughter, stood in the doorway, adjusting his vest. He knew his destiny was waiting.

“All right, y’all. We out,” he told his men as he grabbed his AR-15 from behind the door. Kalif, a tattoo-covered, tan-skinned menace, was mentally prepared for whatever was to follow. Today was that day.

It was still rather dark outside, but that didn’t slow down Kalif. And the normal busy traffic on Davison was not a factor, either. Kalif looked over at the passenger seat, at his high-powered weapon and the 9 mm that was keeping it company. In true gangster fashion, he had filed the serial numbers off both weapons. Unlike his boys behind him, Kalif had opted to ride alone. Always in deep thought, he had tunnel vision for what was about to take place. Concentration was boss as he drove through the city, heading east. Since there was no music playing to distract him, his adoptive father’s final words before his untimely death ran through Kalif’s mind.

Born to die. The angel of death is certain. Allah, spare me long dwelling on the threshold of final judgment. Take me quick. Do with my soul what you see fit. I’m not worthy.

He couldn’t come to terms with the fact that the man he had once looked upon as his hero was gone. The only man that Allah had put on this earth to believe in him was no more. Kalif would forever be plagued with guilt over Rasul’s ultimate sacrifice. From the moment he had witnessed his father take that fatal bullet to the head, and had realized his own life had been spared, Kalif had been no more than a shell of a man, one of the walking dead. But for what? Kalif knew he didn’t deserve having been conceived, let alone having a life. That thought haunted him and always would.

Navigating around countless potholes, he and his squad kept the vehicles tight, as if they were in a parade. As they jumped onto the Lodge Freeway, then connected with 94 East, it was almost “go time” for the band of would-be assassins. After they exited at Harper Avenue, the blue-colored metal K greeted them. They made a few right turns, passed a cluster of vacant lots, and then made a sharp left at a huge abandoned house. The clock was ticking.

When the ill-intentioned caravan reached their destination, Kalif’s heart raced. Not out of fear, but in anticipation of snatching the next man’s soul. After he came to a stop, Kalif flung the driver’s side door open. One foot on the ground, then the next, he took a deep breath, ready to do battle. His team did the same. Like a boss, Kalif was the one to lead the charge. And like a warrior, he was prepared to die first. As he let off a barrage of bullets, the street-ordained kingpin of Detroit mumbled his earlier thoughts with each step he took.

“Born to die. The angel of death is certain. Allah, spare me long dwelling on the threshold of final judgment. Take me quick. Do with my soul what you see fit. I’m not worthy.”

Kalif prayed for the best but would bravely accept the worst. This madness was the world he had been born into and the life he embraced.

In the beginning God created chaos . . .

Brother Rasul was a proud black man. Tall in stature, his mind occupied by Islam, he was easy on the eyes. Any single woman or otherwise would be proud to claim him as her own. He was well known and extremely respected wherever he went, and his word was his bond. But now he stood speechless on many occasions. Now he felt defeated. Everything he had wanted to go right had in fact gone wrong, very wrong. His strong foundation had been shaken. The man who was sometimes loyal to the supreme word of God had been left fighting with his own demons.

Stunned at the bizarre, deadly turn of events, Brother Rasul had to remain on point. He had no choice. He now had an extended family and one on the way. He knew they were counting on him to make things right, even if it hurt to do so. This was the game he had chosen. This was the lifestyle he’d embraced. Though he was recognized by his peers as a ruthless street soldier, ironically, his daily fate had become a routine of cold sweats, paranoid thoughts, headaches, and sleepless nights. Repeatedly, he had tried to reason with himself that he’d made the correct choices in the months prior. Yet this hadn’t absolved him of guilt. The pain of his past mistakes was still present.

As much as he’d attempted to hide his true feelings, the love he had for his friend couldn’t be denied. Discovering Kenya James bleeding to death in the rear of his truck replayed in his mind. The vivid flashbacks were a constant. Days, weeks, and months had gone by, but to Brother Rasul, it was as if the callous murder had just occurred. As he had held Kenya in his arms, begging Allah to spare her life, his prayers had been denied. Just like that, she had slipped away. His longtime secret love was gone. He wanted to believe they’d meet again in paradise, but her sinful actions had definitely dictated that hellfire would be her final resting place. Brother Rasul was caught up in his emotions. Reminiscing on the bullshit he was now facing and how it had jumped off, all he could do was shake his head. With chills running down his spine, he stared out the window. It was like it was just yesterday.

“Oh my God! I made it. I finally fucking made it back home.” Hysterical, Kenya turned the car engine off. In haste, she flung the driver’s side door open and exhaled. After slamming the door behind her, she ran up onto the porch of the small framed bungalow. Tears now streaming down her cheeks, she practically collapsed in Brother Rasul’s arms.

Sensing whatever it was she was going through was deeper than he had first imagined, he held her tightly. Then he took a good look at her, and seeing that she looked a mess, he reached back and twisted the knob on the steel security gate. Knowing he had nosy neighbors, Brother Rasul led her inside the house so they could have some privacy.

“Damn, Kenya. What is it?” he asked her once they were inside. “What’s wrong? What has you so spooked? And why you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

Kenya grabbed ahold of his arm. Cautiously, she peeked around the corner of the living room. “Wait a minute. Who here with you? Is anybody else here?”

Brother Rasul raised an eyebrow and sighed. He was trying to be calm but was running out of patience. As he led her into the living room, he said, “Look, I told you nobody was here when you called earlier. Now sit down and tell me what the deal is. What’s so urgent that you drove damn near across the country to get here?”

Paranoid, she continued her impromptu quiz as she took a seat on the couch. “Well, first off, did ole boy call you? Have you talked to him in the past twenty-four hours?”

“Kenya.” Still standing, Brother Rasul towered over her. He placed his hand reassuringly on her left shoulder. He was done with the games. “Real talk. You can miss me with all this secret-squirrel bullshit you taking me through. You acting like the damn police. Now, what the fuck done jumped off? Why you here? And don’t leave shit out.”

Burying her face in both hands, Kenya was silent for the first time since she arrived. Seconds later she slowly lifted her head. After taking a deep breath, the self-proclaimed drama queen started in on her rambling, tear-filled confession. Brother Rasul tried to follow the chain of events she described the best he could. The part about her suffering a miscarriage was indeed sad. He sympathized by nodding his head. That revelation was followed by another. Storm had gone behind her back and had got life insurance policies that named her twin as the beneficiary. Sure that was odd to Brother Rasul, but that didn’t elicit much of a response from him.

However, when Kenya disclosed the next item on her growing list of reasons why she’d fled her home, he was shocked. Her scattered details of hearing gunfire right outside the front window of her condo made normally even-tempered Brother Rasul take a seat. Rubbing his beard, he could easily tell that Kenya was not even halfway finished with her wi. . .