Carl Weber's Kingpins: Memphis

by Raynesha Pittman

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Type Kingpins of Memphis in any search engine and you’ll see images of Craig Pettis and his alleged crew, and that’s how Ethan Wade Carruthers prayed it remained. Though he had never met the youthful-faced man covered in diamonds, he knew the information he found wasn’t completely accurate, because he should have discovered his own face and crew. Not that he expected to pull up any results under the name Ethan Wade Carruthers besides an old missing person’s report on a 16-year-old boy from the south side of Chicago. Why would he, when Ethan didn’t have a life, nor a past, worth reading or writing about? His intellect had him rejected from the deadly Chicago gang life before he could decide if he wanted to be accepted or not, and with both parents in love with their addiction to freebasing cocaine, he found it easier to pack up and leave. It took many years and miles to impregnate his mind with thoughts of survival. With self-preservation growing inside of him, he birthed the deadliest Kingpin to walk the width of the United States. He named him Joe and released him onto the streets of Memphis. With everyone’s eyes stuck on what they can see, Joe made moves that could only be traced back to a ghost whose origin, location, and moves were no more than urban legend. With his name gracing the list of the most notorious Kingpins of all times, will Ethan’s rebirth lead him to a fate in a jail cell or a casket, as it had many before him? Or will Joe be the mastermind to construct an exit plan so well thought out that it will give him a way out as quietly as he arrived? Trust, he’s not your “average Joe.”

Release date: December 31, 2019

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Chicago, Illinois. Friday, January 18, 2019

The sound of plastic store bags being crumpled together ceased as Ronald stopped walking and fumbled with his keys at the door. It was arthritis in his hands that retired him from using snaps, buttons, and zippers. He missed the secure feel of denim surrounding his legs, however, not enough to endure the pain securing his britches caused. Elastic waistbands became his best friend.

His aging joints lacked the mobility to turn the key in the lock easily; yet, the shaking he was undergoing supplied the momentum he needed to conquer the task. He was in his condo, placing a call to his only saved contact in record time.

“Hello . . . RJ? Oh, hey, Ron-Ron, this is Grandpa. Where’s your daddy at?”

A smile grew on his face as his grandson screamed, “Grandpa! It’s Grandpa calling.” Ronald would have said more to his heir’s heir, but in his excitement, the little boy dropped the phone to continue announcing his call. To hear his grandson fill with joy at the sound of his voice was his slice of heaven on earth. How he once wished his own son would have done the same.

The thought of the unhealed wounds from the father-son relationship that never existed due to decisions he made aided him in getting back to the mission at hand. He moved the books and magazines that were once neatly stacked in search of the remote control. He wasn’t a habitual television watcher, and there was no telling where he set it down last. Placing the phone on top of a book titled Any Idiot Can Learn Spanish—and feeling like the only idiot that couldn’t—he put the call on speakerphone. One by one, he recklessly tossed the couch cushions like a newspaper boy destined to lose his route, but the remote wasn’t under there. Nor was it in the bedroom, bathroom, linen closet, on the kitchen table, or on top of the refrigerator where he normally found his missing keys. He’d already missed five minutes of the show waiting for the elevator to arrive and ride up to the eighteenth floor. He was willing to risk another five minutes riding it back down before settling for missing the show.

“Come on, now, Ronald, think. When was the last time you remember seeing the remote?”

Surprisingly, the answer popped up with ease and made him want to kick his own ass for forgetting. The last time he had the remote was when he placed it on top of the cable box that sat next to his TV so he wouldn’t forget where it was, and if he did, he’d find it when he stopped being lazy to turn the television on manually. Once he found the channel, his son picked up.

“Hey, Pops, what’s up?” Sandpaper grinding against wood sounded less dry.

“I need you to bring me that white box with the blue lid out in your garage.”

“When are you trying to have me do that? There are at least seven inches of snow on the ground.”

“This is Chicago. There’s always at least seven inches of snow on the ground in January.” For someone who prides himself for not holding a grudge and believing in forgiveness, RJ couldn’t apply either to his failed relationship with his father, and Ronald was tired of kissing his ass with apologies. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll come out there in an hour or two to get it, if that’s all right with you?”

“Man,” RJ hissed. “You know you shouldn’t be trying to drive, especially in this weather. Your memory is getting worse, and I thought the doctor told you to turn in your license after that incident with the fire hydrant. You ain’t long for this world, Pops, with your mind deteriorating like it is. What you need to do is . . .”

And that was all Ronald heard. Whenever RJ decided to switch roles and become the father, Ronald would tune him out. It seemed like neither man wanted to be the other’s son. He focused his attention on the computerized voice the show hid their special guest behind.

“I know what I know because I was there when the cat planned it out. Back then, I thought it was just some childish talk, and then I’m chilling on the couch with a beer watching international news, and there it was—crime and drugs in Memphis. There wasn’t shit . . . I mean, nothing else on TV, so I decided to watch, and then the little pants, big shoe, German shepherd-faced dude start saying what was going down, and it all felt like I had heard it before. For a second or two, I thought I was drunk, but when I could finish telling the story before he did . . . I was sure someone had told me that story, or I had read it in one of those urban book stories.”

The mystery man chuckled at his own words, and in the movement, showed the identifying mark Ronald hesitated to believe he saw. There had to be a large population of men with tattoos across their knuckles; however, there couldn’t be too many with a tattoo in the middle of their palm. The producers had his hands blacked out completely but not his palms. Seeing that the tattoo of the word “Crip” had been scribbled over, making it unreadable, the producers must have felt there wasn’t a need to focus on covering it. A palm of bubbly scribble scramble that Ronald paid to have done was the opening of a time capsule in his withering mind. He would never forget the day he first met the hidden man as a child, given that it was their encounter that led him to meet Ethan.

Chicago, Illinois. Monday, September 2, 1991

It was the first day of school, and Ronald sat at the head of the classroom with his stomach in knots. For a 39-year-old, six foot, 200-pound man, you’d think he was entering the tenth grade instead of teaching it. His bout of jitters wasn’t uncommon for first-time teachers; however, this wasn’t Ronald’s first stab at teaching. After graduating from the University of Georgia, he had a stint at a few schools in Metro Atlanta as a substitute. Nothing permanent or full-time; nevertheless, he had experience commanding a class. Though in truth, nothing could prepare him for teaching at his alma mater, South Side Heights High.

The halls he once walked proudly in his letterman jacket were now covered in letters belonging to gangs that made their home on the South Side of Chicago. Ronald had yet to travel outside of the United States, but oddly, seeing the Bloods’, Crips’, and Gangsta Disciples’ graffiti on the white walls made him feel like he was in South Korea. The destruction of the walls inside of the school he loved and held dear to his heart mirrored the colors in that country’s flag. To see its decline caused by the generations that followed him pissed him off and that anger made him susceptible to the attack he endured.

“What are those kids out there doing?” Ronald asked after joining the principal, peeking through the blinds at the parking lot.

“Looks like they are breaking into Mr. Johnson’s car or are about to steal it. It’s hard to tell from here.”

“What? Why are you just standing here watching? Did you tell Mr. Johnson or call the police?”

He laughed as he removed his finger from the blinds, and they closed.

“Call the police for what? By the time they arrive, the boys will be gone, and why would I send Mr. Johnson out there knowing those boys would beat him to death if they didn’t have the heart to the pull the trigger, and I highly doubt they know what fear is. We’ll handle it whenever they get done like we always do.”

“No. I’m going out there to handle it now!” Ronald yelled, storming toward the exit doors.

“Go ahead and try to be a hero. Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you, though!”

Ronald could have sprained his wrist with the force he used to push open the double doors leading to the staff parking lot. His pace matched the aggression of the wind blowing around him as he reached the first parking spot from the building.

“What in the hell are you out here doing?” he screamed as the wind turned his voice into a roar. All three of the boys looked up from their current task at him and then continued as if he weren’t standing there.

“Get away from that car now, or I’m calling the police.”

The shortest and youngest-looking boy stopped his raid of the glove compartment and got out of the car.

“Man, take your dumbest ass back into the schoolhouse. You know you can’t stop this shit. Mr. Johnson upstairs standing in the window like a mannequin watching us rob his shit, and so is the faggot-ass principal, Mr. Pierce. Don’t let them send you out here to get your ass whooped a new booty.”

“He new?” asked the taller of the three who was carefully unwiring the radio from the dashboard.

“Yeah, cuz; he was supposed to be the new basketball coach, but the nigga lucked up and gets to teach history too since that ho got pregnant and quit. I got this nigga for third period,” he announced as he looked back at Ronald who was about a yard away. “Ain’t you Mr. Hill?”

“You go here?” he asked, snapping his neck toward the window he was sure Principal Pierce was peeking out of and gave him a shameful head nod.

“Yep, and that bitch-ass nigga Mr. Johnson failed me and my niggas last semester. I told him he’d better let me pass when I retook it for summer school, and he didn’t, so we’re hitting his ass up!”

“Not on my watch, you aren’t. Put everything back and walk away from the car while you still have your freedom.” The boys laughed; the makeshift electrical engineer was almost in tears. “This isn’t a joke! Get out of Mr. Johnson’s car or all three of you are going to regret it. I’ll not only call the police; I’ll attend every court hearing and testify against you. This is wrong!”

“Aye, you probably want to shut the fuck up and go back in the building,” his future student warned and even gave a head nod toward the boy who would most have an issue with the threat.

“I’m not a fucking mannequin, and I’m not scared of a group of lost-ass little boys who need the protection of a gang to feel worthy. I’m the new gang buster!”

“Yo, Mimic, if you smash his bitch ass right now, I’ll tell the big homies that me and Crook put you down.” The third and obviously the one in charge said, finally breaking his silence, “Beat his ass little home, and I’m gon’ bless your name with cuz on the end. That’s on the set!”

Ronald didn’t know what to expect next and wasn’t given time to think about it. Before he could get his footing together to prepare for his student to hit him, he was put on his ass. Molly-whopped, boo bopped, or whatever fly term that meant he was ass-whoopin’ worthy and received it, left him bloody on the asphalt parking lot. Of course, no one called the police or came to his rescue, but once the trio was out of sight, Mr. Johnson was nice enough to help him off the ground and to his car.

He hadn’t stepped foot on the school grounds since and battled if he were going to quit before he started, but after Principal Pierce called ready to accept his letter of resignation, his ego stepped in, and he confirmed he’d be in his classroom ready to teach on the first day of school. He spent the last seventy-two hours praying that Mimic had been arrested or was on the run and he would never have to see him again. However, with his history of misfortune, Mimic was the first to walk in class.

“Aye, cuz, I hope you ain’t salty about that little shit that happened in the parking lot. I tried to tell you to shut the fuck up . . . I mean, be quiet, but you weren’t trying to hear me. I don’t know where you come from, but that Superman shit only works in Metropolis. This here is the Chi. You got to get it how you live it. I hope you understand.”

“What’s your name, son, and don’t give me that ‘Mimic’ bullshit. I want the name that’s on my roster.” Ronald was determined to sound fearless.

“Martin, but if you refuse to call me Mimic, I’m only answering to Marty. That Martin shit will get you ignored.”

“Martin?” he repeated as he ran his finger down the paper he was holding. “Martin Boyce. You live off Garfield Boulevard in Fuller Park? I know a few Boyces from Fuller. Let’s get an understanding so we won’t have another mishap. No grudges held about the parking lot incident. That’s what I get for trying to defend a man who was too scared to defend himself, but if you decide to fuck with me directly, I’ll forget that you are a student and treat you like the scared little boy I see in front of me. I didn’t beat yo’ ass to prevent getting jumped, but the next time your little 15-year-old ass decides to show your ass, I’m going to take off my belt and beat it. You might take that shit in the parking lot as a victory, but what’s a victory to a battle, young street soldier? I’m a war vet, and Ms. Shirley, your grandmother, used to babysit me. Does she still sit on the porch rolling a baseball bat with her feet? Don’t make me call her!”

“Aw, you want to be tough, now?” his voice shook as he spoke. “And my grandmama old and sick. Don’t bring her in our beef.”

“So, we got beef?” quizzically, Ronald looked into his eyes in search of an answer as he waited for his response.

“Nah, we straight but stop getting in shit that don’t have shit to do with you, and we’ll stay straight. Where’s my desk at?”

“Right here. Right in front of mine. Pull those pants up and have a seat, young man. When you’re in my class, that gang shit stays in the hallway for Ms. Shirley’s sake, right, Martin?”

“Yeah, that’s right but only for my granny sake.”

Students began to pile in and introduce themselves. Ronald could instantly tell the crews and cliques and tried to separate them with assigned seating. There were a few hard heads, but none held a candle to Martin, and the only problem he could foresee himself having the school year was the chatty Cathys and the children’s choice of almost naked or baggy clothing. Everyone was wearing something bright or had their clothes on backward. If those were his biggest problems, he was ready for the challenge.

“Excuse me, are you Mr. Hill? They switched my classes this morning, and I’m supposed to be in history with Mr. Hill right now.”

The boy was built for a 15-year-old. In comparison to his peers, he was average besides the bulk of his body. No flashy colored clothing, his sneakers didn’t display a known brand, and he didn’t have the look of a troublemaker; yet, something about him sent a chill down Ronald’s spine as he answered.

“Yes, I’m Mr. Hill. You must be Ethan; I was just about to mark you absent. Take a seat in the back of the class by the window.”

“I prefer the front. If you don’t mind, I’m willing to swap seats with Martin.”

“Hell yeah!” Martin responded scooping up his belongings, and the class lit up in laughter.

“I mind. Your desk is in the back of the class by the window. There’s no division in this classroom. I teach those in the back of the room in equal quality as those in the front. Take your seat, young man, and welcome to Mr. Ronald’s U.S. History.”

“Mr. Ronald, why don’t you go by Hill?” Ethan questioned while the kids whispered and pointed at his shoes. They identified that the shoes were purchased at Payless, a shoe vendor that catered to those battling poverty and that sent poor jokes headed in his direction.

“Yeah, why do I have to go by Martin, but you get to go by Ronald?” Mimic added.

“That’s Mr. Ronald, and if your grandmother approves the name Mimic, I’ll use it.” He stared at Ethan, wanting to see a sign of discomfort as the jokes about his shoes got louder.

“I bet you his toes musty as hell,” a girl seated closest to him said as the boy seated in front of her chimed in.

“Nah, look at his ashy ankles. That boy powered up his stankin’-ass feet. He got more baking soda in his shoe than the crack house. Call that boy Arm and Hammer!”

You would have thought Ethan would’ve at the very minimum blinked or cringed in acknowledgment of the insults being shot at him, but on the contrary, the only look on the boy’s face was of a young man waiting for his question to be answered.

“My father is Mr. Hill.”

“Which makes you Mr. Hill too. You and your father got issues? I’m only asking because I can understand you not wanting to represent his legacy if there’s resentment.”

The class went silent as shock rearranged the muscles in Mr. Ronald’s face. They weren’t sure what Ethan was talking about, but they knew a child wasn’t supposed to say it to an adult.

“No resentment. I prefer my first name, that’s all.”

“But why is that? Do you have a fear of getting old, and holding on to your first name makes you feel young?”

“Is he always like this?” Mr. Ronald asked, scanning the class for help.

Those who knew Ethan nodded, and those who didn’t shrugged and turned to see the other responses.

“Is it a problem if I am? Does that remind you of your pops?”

Ronald shook his head to release the memory, but the image of the inquisitive poverty-stricken young man wouldn’t go away. In twenty-eight years, Ethan’s image had never gone away.

Memphis, Tennessee. Friday, January 18, 2019

The bus depot was packed, and the sign that read Standing Room Only had to have been a deceptive attempt to bring comfort, considering there wasn’t a single space of standing room available. If you were to cross over the Arkansas Bridge into Tennessee and had the misfortune of passing the bus depot during the morning hours of the workweek, your first impression of Memphis would be that no one in the city drove.

Crowds of assorted blue-collared workers, families struggling to normalize life without a vehicle, early-morning panhandlers, and those willing to entertain for pocket change waited outside instead of the crammed conditions. However, fresh air and the lack of climate control was the only difference in the two waiting areas. The poor, almost savagelike feel of the atmosphere and the hungry array of hustles and bustles must have been the reason why the bus depot was nicknamed the “Shelter.”

Stacey didn’t mind the five-block walk minutes before sunrise nor the slow, bumpy ride she endured to the bus depot for her connecting route. They were the hurdles she had to jump to provide for her family. Each one gave her a sense of purpose and made her feel like a superhero instead of a certified nursing assistant. However, what she did mind was traveling two hours a day to work her five, twelve-hour shifts to return home to a pigsty and seeing the king pig playing his video games and smoking his weed as if he were oblivious to his surroundings. How could he not see or hear the kids jumping and flipping over the shit she worked hard to pay the Rent-A-Room on time for? She was sick of walking through the door with sore feet and not being greeted with affection but by obnoxious questions.

“Aye, what’cha cooking for dinner? We’re starving!” Tim’s eyes never left the game. His team had finally made him proud by intercepting the ball and running for a 60-yard touchdown to tie the score. There was no way he’d let the computer win the Super Bowl he’d invested the last eight hours preparing for with his created player made in his likeness. Although his 287 pounds weren’t molded by muscle in his six-foot-three fram. . .