Heaven and Earth

by J.M. Benjamin

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

The Colombians had Pablo Escobar, the Cubans had Scarface, the Italians had John Gotti, and the brothas had Bumpy Johnson. . . but what about the sistas? After tragedy strikes her home, Heavenly Jacobs must rely on her beauty and street smarts to survive on her own. Her choice to ride for the wrong man ultimately lands her in prison where, she decides to re-strategize her game plan for when she is released. Eartha Davis was exposed to much more than she should have been from a very young age. Between her mother, a bonafide gangster with a sexual preference for women, and the influence of the streets, it was just about impossible for Eartha not to embrace all that was going on around her. Her love for the streets, violence, and females all contribute to her imprisonment in Edna Mahan Correctional Facility in Clinton, New Jersey. As fate would have it, Eartha and Heavenly are thrown together and form an unbreakable bond, which spills over into the streets. Seeing how everyone got fat while they were starving behind the prison wall, they decide to put together a team of female hustlers that have the men in the game on edge. Jealousy, envy, ego, and pride all come into play as a beef between the opposite sex emerges. Will the brothas maintain their edge, or will they succumb to the wrath of Heaven and Earth?

Release date: October 31, 2017

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

As Chill turned onto Remsen Avenue in his silver 645i, black top convertible BMW and parked, his eyes immediately zeroed in and locked on Twan. The lyrics of Jadakiss’s raspy voice blaring through the speakers of Chill’s Beemer was cut short as he shut off his car and hopped out. Chill took a quick glance down at his Black Label hooded sweatshirt, making sure the chrome .45 automatic concealed underneath it tucked in his waistband showed no indication of a bulge. Thinking that he had noticed a slight detection of his weapon’s presence, Chill smoothened out his sweatshirt before making a beeline over to where Twan stood.

“Ayo, T, lem’me holla at you for a minute,” Chill called out, walking up on Twan.

Twan was in the midst of puffing on a blunt when Chill rolled up on him. Instantly, he became agitated by Chill’s sudden presence. Twan was not surprised, having a good idea why Chill wanted to speak with him, but he was not in the mood, and he intended to make it known.

“What’chu wanna holla at me about?” Twan retorted aggressively. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” he added, taking a pull of the blunt to show Chill that he was, in fact, disturbing his weed-smoking session. Chill disregarded Twan’s words. A grin appeared across his face as he sighed. He knew confronting Twan was not going to be an easy task, but nonetheless, knew that it was long overdue.

“Ayo, Twan, why you keep stepping on my li’l man’s toes out here, dawg?” Chill blurted out, catching the attention of everyone within ear distance. “I know it’s enough paper out here for everybody, sun; you ain’t gotta be on no cutthroat shit,” Chill continued.

After receiving the disturbing phone call that had interrupted him in the middle of something important, it was Chill’s intention to maintain his composure when he confronted Twan, but as he spoke, he could feel his adrenaline stirring up inside him. And Twan’s reaction did little to minimize it.

“Mal, you see this shit? This li’l bitch-ass nigga gonna go run and call his daddy,” Twan chimed in disgust, directing his words to one of his street colleagues by the name of Jamal he had just been sharing the weed-filled blunt with. Jamal made no reaction or gave no indication that he condoned or entertained Twan’s remarks. He was cool with both Chill and Twan and remained neutral in the potential altercation, as he continued to puff on the blunt Twan had now passed him.

“Ain’t nobody cut that li’l nigga throat, B,” Twan barked in a DMX tone taking offense to Chill’s accusation. “I told that ma’fucka that was one of my regulars,” he continued in his defense, claiming the drug addict the dispute was over was a personal customer of his.

This was not the first time Chill and Twan had exchanged words over a drug sale. Chill was also not the only one whose workers had a problem with Twan’s tactics in regards to how he hustled on the block, known as Remsen Avenue. He was just the only one who had stepped to Twan. Everyone else was either too afraid of the ending result of a confrontation with Twan or felt that his antics were not affecting their own cash flow. However, Chill did not fall into either category. For him, it was merely the principle of the matter. It was about respect. Something he’d felt had diminished a long time ago in the game, but because he was old school, he still gave it, so, in return, he demanded it.

“Come on, dawg. He told me how shit went down,” Chill stated firmly, trying to hide his annoyance with Twan. He had believed all that was relayed to him by one of his workers over the phone prior to his arrival, despite the fact that he had known Twan longer. The only thing knowing Twan longer than his worker accounted for was the fact that Chill knew how Twan got down. He knew he was as guilty as sin and had done exactly what he was being accused of. Just as he had known Twan would deny it when confronted.

“Yo, he said that fiend nigga didn’t even know you, my dude,” Chill revealed, now getting fed up with all the word play between him and his childhood friend.

Twan’s facial expression grew cold. “I don’t give a fuck what that li’l bitch-ass nigga told you,” he quickly snapped. “That was one of my ma’fuckin’ customers, and he wanted to cop from me. Like I said,” he added, putting emphasizes on his last statement.

“Yeah, a’ight,” Chill replied dryly.

“I know it a’ight, nigga,” Twan said in attempts to chump Chill off.

Chill caught the sly remark but didn’t feed into Twan’s attempt; instead, he began to step off, seeing that he was actually fighting a lost cause. That is, until Twan’s next words caused him to pause in his tracks.

“What you need to do is find you some real ma’fuckas who can hold their own out here to hustle for you and get rid of them three pussies you got on your team,” Twan spat.

Chill caught the combination of blatant reproach and humor at his expense in Twan’s tone, and it instantly caught his vein. For the life of him, he could not understand why his childhood friend was trying to provoke and force his hand. Chill had been in the game for a long time. He had been through his share of trials and tribulations in the process, and in his opinion, had made it through just fine on his own. No one had ever dictated or schooled him on how to move or conduct his business in the streets—or anywhere else, for that matter. He simply learned and taught himself, which is why Twan’s words had bothered him so much. He did not take too kindly to someone trying to tell him how to run his operation or handle his business, especially someone who knew nothing about running one or being a team player.

Chill spun back around. He was now an arm’s length away from Twan.

“Don’t worry about who the fuck I got on my team or what I’m doin’,” he said, gritting his teeth through clinched jaws.

“Well, nigga, then, don’t be worrying about what the fuck I’m doin’ then,” Twan spit back. “And back the fuck up anyway unless you tryin’a see me fo’somethin’,” he added in a high-pitched tone.

“It’s whatever, yo,” Chill replied with no intention of backing down.

“Whoa, whoa, yo, both you niggas chill the fuck out,” a kid named Troy intervened. “Niggas tryin’a eat; fuck all that other shit. Twan, go ’head with that, man.”

If looks could kill, Troy’s family and closest friends would be dressed in black sobbing over his casket the way Twan had shot him a rock stare.

“Mind ya ma’fuckin’ business. This don’t have nothing to do with you,” Twan ordered.

Troy started to respond but thought it best not to comment on Twan’s remark. Not while he was without the nine millimeter he normally kept on him. His only intent was to defuse the rising altercation between his two street colleagues, but he knew that Chill was capable of handling himself in any situation. Troy also knew that both men were just alike and neither would back down, which is why he was not surprised when Chill began to speak.

“Yo, ever since you came home from Rahway, you think you run shit around here, dawg, but, yo, you ain’t Deebo kid, and this ain’t Friday. You can’t keep tryin’a muscle dudes and think that shit gonna fly,” Chill stated sternly. “Those days are over, baby.”

Chill’s words only fueled Twan’s fire that had been slowly igniting inside him.

“You say that to say what? You threatening me or somethin’?” asked Twan, with a distorted expression on his face, chest swelling up as his right hand grazed the butt of his gun. He could feel his own adrenaline beginning to kick into overdrive at the thought of what could possibly happen next. Despite him being aware of how everyone viewed him around his hood, Twan knew that not everybody on his block feared him, and Chill was one of the ones among that small percentage. Like himself, Twan knew that Chill too had a reputation for being strapped at all times, not to mention a reputation for busting his gun when necessary.

As he towered over Chill’s five feet seven, 165-pound frame, there was no doubt in his mind that Chill was packing heat. There was no way Chill would ever roll up on him the way he had without bringing backup, thought Twan. Not unless he was just plain stupid, had a death wish, or both. Twan was sure of that. No matter what the case, he was growing tired of Chill’s cockiness and was ready to put an end to the verbal sparing match. In the past, he had put bullet holes in dudes for less, but Chill was an exception because they had a history, a good one before the drug game, but as the situation progressed, Twan was beginning to block all of that out. He had been on a mission since being released from prison, and Chill was trying to come in between him and his business.

“Yo, kid, I don’t threaten. All I’m sayin’ is—”

“Fuck what you sayin’,” Twan interrupted in a baritone voice, cutting Chill’s words short. “I helped pioneer this ma’fuckin’ block and damn near raised most of you jokers in the game out here. You niggas got drop-tops and all types of trucks and shit while I’m pushin’ an old-ass Millenia. Bottom line, I’m doin’ what the fuck I wanna do out here until I feel my paper right, and if a bitch wanna test me, then that’s their ma’fuckin’ funeral, smell me?” Twan growled adjusting his hammer in his waistband.

His words drew attention in his direction. Every hustler on the “ave” had heard what he had just said and felt some type of way about his statement, but no one dared to step up and voice their feelings on the matter. However, in their minds, each man plotted and anticipated the day they or someone else caught Twan slipping. Troy was the only one who was tempted to intervene for a second time but thought better of it once again, seeing the visual daggers between Twan and Chill being thrown at each other.

Twan’s words tore into Chill like hot slugs. He knew this moment would someday come. He had tried his hardest to avoid a clash with his childhood friend. The fact that there was not a person within ear’s distance that wasn’t paying attention to what Chill and Twan were saying to each other only heightened the situation. Reputations were now at stake. Most of the other hustlers were glad that Chill had enough heart to say what they had felt but kept to themselves, while others feared the worst.

It was no secret that Twan had come home from East Jersey State Prison, which was one of the roughest prisons in New Jersey, six months prior after serving six years. He had been on a paper chase since his first day of being home. Originally, he was only supposed to have served four years for the shooting case he went to prison for, but while doing his bid, he stabbed a kid from Camden in the neck in the mess hall over a verbal dispute about a basketball game. Luckily for him, the kid survived, but the incident landed him in solitary confinement for two years and a loss of two years’ good time, causing him to serve an additional two. The word had spread throughout the entire New Brunswick how Twan from “Remsen” put “work in” in the joint, and those from his hood knew that when he came home, he would be the same, if not worse, than before, and they were right. Coming home six inches taller and nearly a hundred pounds heavier, at six foot, 240 lbs, Twan tried to flex his muscles, literally, in attempts to intimidate other hustlers who he felt stood in the way of fattening his pockets. He even toted a snub-nosed .44-bulldog revolver in his waistband in plain view to let everyone know that he stayed strapped. That is why everyone knew he would not allow Chill’s words to ride. His rep and status on the block depended on it.

Judging by the situation at hand, Chill felt there was no way of getting around what he had foreseen today. Feeling the tension and knowing the caliber between both men, everyone began to fade into the background in attempts to stand clear of the potential harm and imminent danger that existed. What started out as a minor confrontation was steadily erupting into something major. All eyes were locked on Twan and Chill—from a safe distance, of course. Everyone was, in fact, so focused on the two that no one ever noticed the unidentified SUV parked a short distance up the street.

“Yo, T, you must think shit sweet, dawg,” said Chill, standing his ground. “Ain’t nothing pussy about me, kid, so all that shit you poppin’ is extra. Ain’t nobody tryin’a test you, big homie. Dudes know how you get down, but just like I know you not gonna let nobody carry you like a sucka, you gots to know that neither am I. So, what are we gonna do? Huh?” Chill attempted to reason with his friend. “We gonna shoot each other over a punk-ass hundred-dollar sale, ’cause I got my strap on me too, daddy,” Chill informed Twan, lifting the Black Label hoodie up enough to reveal his .45 automatic. “And if you reach for ya joint, that’s exactly what’s gonna happen, my nig,” Chill added, giving fair warning. He had hoped that Twan used what little sense he had, the benefit of the doubt for having and seen the bigger picture, causing him to make the right decision. The last thing Chill wanted was to catch a murder charge or be killed over a petty drug dispute, but he knew that in the streets, people had killed and died for less, so he was prepared for whatever.

Twan grilled Chill intensively while pondering over his words. He was already contemplating on drawing his weapon, and there was no doubt in his mind that when he pulled it, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. But there were two things that caused him to second-guess himself. One, was he ready to go back to the one place he despised the most? The second, would he actually be able to beat Chill to the draw? It was those two reasons, and them alone, that caused Twan to make a rational decision to let sleeping dogs lie. For the moment, anyway, but he made a mental note and a promise to himself that he would finish what Chill had started some other time.

“Fuck that hundred dollars,” Twan spit, reaching into his pocket.

A small load had been lifted off Chill’s shoulders. At first, he thought Twan was going for his gun and was about to reach for his own until he saw that was not the case. Instead, Twan pulled out a knot of cash.

“Here, take this shit,” he then said, tossing a hundred-dollar bill in Chill’s direction.

Insulted by the gesture, Chill instantly replied, “Man, I don’t want ya money, kid.”

In all honesty, it wasn’t about the money at all with Chill, but Twan did not get it. He now also felt insulted by Chill’s decline and his demeanor changed.

“Oh, my paper ain’t good e—”

“Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc!”

“Brrrgah! Brrrgah! Brrrgah!”

“What the—Boom! Boom! Boom!”

“Aagh!”

“Brrrgah! Brrrgah!”

“Oh shit!”

“Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc!”

“Get in!”

“Boom! Boom! Boom! Click! Click!”

“Somebody call a ma’fuckin’ ambulance!” shouted Troy.

The sound of Troy’s voice caused Chill to end his pursuit.

“Yo, who the fuck was that?” an out-of-breath Chill asked, making his way back to where shots had moments ago erupted, with his .45 still in hand. He had just chased and unloaded his weapon into the navy-blue Cherokee as the two masked gunmen jumped in and sped away. He watched as the Cherokee’s taillights vanished up the street.

“I don’t know, but Twan’s hit,” a bewildered Troy yelled out.

By now, everyone had come out of their hiding places and gathered around Twan. His body lay helplessly on the ground as blood spilled out the side of his mouth and oozed out of his bullet-riddled body. Numerous shots ripped into his flesh before he even had the chance to pull his own weapon. He could hear the voices surrounding him asking the questions among each other of “who” and “why,” with no avail. The only one that was able to provide them with answers was Twan himself, but the blood that began to clog his throat passage prevented him from speaking out as he lay there fighting for his life. He made an attempt to speak but had only managed to grunt inaudibly. He could not believe—or rather, didn’t want to believe—that this was his final fate. During his time in prison, he had heard many stories about so many others being released after serving years and years on lockdown, going home in search of their ghetto forty acres and a government mule, only to have their lives cut short from making the mistake of underestimating a person’s capabilities. Now, here it was, he was faced with the same type of statistical situation from making that same fatal error.

As his life began to flash before his very eyes, the only thing Twan could think of that would have been the cause of him lying on the cold concrete fighting death was what had taken place the other day. And now, it was because of his egotistical way of thinking that he had gotten more than what he’d bargained for. Twan was almost certain that because he had reacted first without thinking, all over a bruised ego, he was now being met with an untimely demise.

That being his last thought, Twan’s eyes began to dilate in the back of his head as his body began to convulse. Death had opened its door and embraced him before the ambulance arrived.

“Le Le, slow the fuck down,” Earth commanded from the backseat of the Cherokee, pulling off her mask. “You gonna get us knocked the fuck off.”

Glancing at the speedometer, Le Le did as she was told. She hadn’t realized she was doing 80 mph down Remsen Avenue. Her only concern at that time was getting her two girlfriends out of harm’s way after the gun battle erupted on the notorious block. There was no way she would have been able to live with herself if something was to have happened to either of them. After all, it was because of her they had gone around there in the first place.

“Are y’all all right?” Le Le asked, looking back at them through the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, we good,” Heaven assured her. “But I can’t say the same for that nigga,” she added.

“So y’all get ’em, then?”

“What the fuck you mean did we get ’em? Of course, we did,” Earth stated irritably.

“Cool out,” Heaven said. She knew where her friend’s hostility was coming from and didn’t blame her, but now was not the time for either of them to lose a level head. Still, Earth would not let it go.

“Nah, fuck that,” Earth retorted. “We wouldn’t even be in this predicament if it weren’t for this bitch. I told ya dumb ass before about showing off for mu’fuckas,” she spat, directing her words at Le Le.

“I wasn’t tryin’a—”

“Just shut the fuck up and drive,” Earth said, cutting her short.

Heaven knew better than to intervene when Earth was reprimanding one of their workers. Not only were she and Earth partners in crime, but more so, they had been friends even longer, so Heaven knew her girl all too well. There was no doubt in her mind that if she attempted to pacify the situation or aid Le Le in any type of way, specifically trying to calm her road dawg, it would only add fuel to the fire. Earth had been that way for as long as Heaven could remember, extending back to their days when the two had first met at Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women in Clinton, New Jersey. As Earth continued to verbally scold and chastise Le Le, Heaven could not help but to reflect on her partner’s and her first encounter.

“Listen up for your name. State your number when your name is called.”

It had been six long and stressful months in Middlesex County Adult Corrections Center and Heavenly Devine Jacobs was finally being shipped out to prison. As crazy as it sounded, she was more than ecstatic to be leaving the county jail transferring to prison. Her first time ever being locked up, Heavenly had copped out to a plea agreement of seven years with a three and a half year stipulation, meaning she would have to serve at least that before she was eligible for parole—all for the sake of love. At least, that’s what she had thought at the time.

Growing up in New Brunswick, New Jersey, raised by her father, who was known to be one of the biggest heroin dealers in town, and a mother who was deemed one of the finest females in all of Franklin, Heavenly’s childhood was that of a ghetto fairy tale. At birth, she had inherited her mother’s God-given beauty, but as she grew older, she gravitated and inherited her father’s taste for the streets and money. By the time she was fifteen, Heavenly, who had shortened her name to Heaven, had every baller, young and old alike, that laid eyes on her, wanting her, but only those who had paper, and plenty of it, could afford the luxury. Even then, Heaven made it hard for them because her father saw to it that she didn’t want for anything. Th. . .