Turning Point

by Edd McNair

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Anita is a young, strong black woman who made her dreams a reality: the house, the cars, a generous bank account, and a fiancé who was getting ready to go pro. Everything was perfect. She was only a step away from finishing her doctorate when her world was shattered. Her fiancé left her, and he left her HIV-positive. Then she met Prince; fresh out of jail on a murder charge but with every intention of changing his life around. When Anita crosses his path, she is a blessing in helping him get his business and his life on track and elevated, but she never figured he was the type to fall in love.

When Leah’s teenage love Dropp got caught up and sent away for a five-year bid, Brit, a low key hustler, was there to show her that she never had to be alone again. Leah fell hard for Brit, married him, and made a family. But now Dropp is home and back on the streets claiming fame with Leah on his mind. His persistence makes her question her love for Brit and why she still feels that Dropp belongs to her.

Truck and Cadillac grew up in South Norfolk, Oakley Park projects. The terror they caused through the city made mothers and grandmothers fall to the ground letting out heartbreaking cries. These brothers moved in the streets with only one thing on the mind: getting money! Until their sister Precious is caught in the middle, and when tragedy hits home, they all reach a Turning Point.

Release date: November 1, 2012

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

The street in the one-way-in, one-way-out projects was crowded. It was summer time, and everybody was hanging out. The grey Intrepid with North Carolina tags pulled into Oakley Park, one of the most notorious projects in Norfolk.

Russ jumped out the car. “Call me later, muthafucka,” he said to his childhood friend, Vic. He threw his bag over his shoulder. Russ looked like he’d been eating weights. His chest was bulging through the wife-beater, making it a tight fit, and showing every cut in his defined body, and his arms seemed to have gained another two inches.

Neighbors watched in terror as the five-foot-ten, two-hundred and thirty-pound monster walked up to his mom’s door, his Timberland boots untied and his Dickies jeans sagging halfway off his ass, revealing his striped boxers.

“How long you gonna stay home this time?” his mom asked, pulling on one of her Newport 100s at the card table and reaching for her Budweiser.

Her company smirked out loud.

“How long you gonna keep smokin’? How long you gonna stay off your motherfuckin’ knees gettin’ money? Better shut yo’ ass up.”

“No, you better shut yo’ ass up or find somewhere else to hang your clothes, smart-ass bastard.”

Eighteen-year-old Russ had just been released from the Tidewater Detention Home for boys and was used to his mom shitting on him.

Since he was eight, he’d seen her doing every scam possible to get dough. She’d never made an effort to get out the projects and just dug a deeper hole for him, his brother, and sister. She’d always tricked, but only to chosen cats. But in the last six years, she had gone from chosen ones to whoever offered her an open promise. He knew most of the young hustlin’ niggas had fucked his mom, but nothing was ever said in the presence of him or his brother.

Russ loved her, but lost all respect for her when he walked in to find her sucking Drake’s dick in the living room. She thought they were ’sleep, but he’d heard Drake’s husky voice. Drake was a six-foot-one, two-hundred and ninety pound, big, sloppy, nasty-ass-looking man. He had her by the hair as she sucked his dick, his pants down around his ankles. She was so high, she never noticed her son.

Drake looked over at Russ and began pumping his dick in and out of her mouth. “Lick these balls.” He grabbed his dick and pointed it at Russ. Then he pushed Marie to the couch face first, making sure she never looked up to see Russ. He pulled her dress up to pull her panties to the side, but she wore none.

Drake took off his shirt, revealing titties and a big belly that hung down and almost covered his dick. He took his hard, thick dick and stroked it, showing it to Russ. Then he turned and shoved it in Marie, shoving her head first into the couch hard as he could without breaking it. He slapped her ass until she grunted from the stinging pain. Then he grabbed her by her little ponytail and pumped hard, sweat dripping from his body, until he came.

He pulled out, turned her over, and threw his dick in her mouth. She gagged as cum ran out her mouth and onto her chin. He grinned a wicked smile and threw his shoe at Russ, hitting him in the back.

Russ hurried back to his room, fighting tears from the blow with the steel-tipped boot, but the pain and the confusion of what he’d just witnessed made tears fall.

Unsure of what he’d just seen, he tried his best to stay clear of Drake, but Drake continued to do trifling shit like that. Sometimes he would have sex with the door open, knowing Russ, his brother Cadillac, or even his baby sister Precious could walk by. Their moms used to be so high and drunk, not to mention scared that he might beat her ass, that she kept her mouth shut, just so he would pay a few bills.

Russ walked inside. He had been locked down for two years this time and hated coming home to this bullshit. Living like this was worse than being locked, he thought.

Drake sat on the couch, in his boxers, no shirt or shoes, revealing too much of himself.

“My little sister don’t need to see your shit. Why don’t you cover up?”

“Carry your ass, young punk. Just keep your ass out of trouble, and don’t bring none of that jailhouse shit up in this house.”

Russ ignored him and walked upstairs past his sister’s room. Fifteen-year-old Precious was his heart. He wanted better for her, and she knew when Truck was home, there wasn’t shit to worry about.

Russell Gonzalez got his nickname, Truck, when he and Cadillac used to play ball at Lake Taylor. He played full back and used to open holes like a truck. His friends always said once he got going, he was impossible to stop no matter what defense they had.

Precious hung up the phone and ran over to hug him. She loved Cadillac, but Truck was her favorite. He took time with her and showed her a lot of love. She was the only one he put before himself.

“Where Cadillac?” he asked.

“He gone with some girl. I’m so glad you home, Truck.”

“Me too, baby.” He squeezed her. “Don’t go downstairs. That nasty, fat son of a bitch down there damn-near naked.”

“He do it all the time. Him and Mommy have sex all loud, then he come out naked going to the bathroom. He know my door open, and he’ll look in here. I started closing my door.”

Russ was ready to explode. Drake had to go.

He walked in the room he shared with Cadillac. He went to the bed, turned the mattress, and checked the hole, where he and Cadillac always kept their weed for easy access. But now instead of weed, it was “hard.” He pulled out the small rocks and looked at them.

Cadillac had only gotten home two weeks before him and was doing dirt already. He came running upstairs.

“What up, big boy?” Cadillac punched Russ playfully.

Seventeen-year-old Cadillac knew two things—money and rumbling. He had been locked up for everything: robbery, grand theft, and distribution of narcotics. If money was involved, he was in. He had just done eighteen months in the Pines Juvenile Detention Home in Portsmouth for real bad kids, one step from the penitentiary.

His style was that of a laid-back nigga, but he had a temper that kept him in trouble. In a split second, he’d change from a laid-back type fellow to a menace. At six feet and two hundred pounds, his body was chiseled with much definition, but not a lot of size. Anthony Miller, aka Cadillac, got his name because of his smooth, but powerful, tactics.

“That fat-ass bitch still on the couch?” Truck asked.

“Naw. He standin’ across the street drinkin’ with those other bum-ass niggas.”

“Time for him to go. We put up with him long enough. I know I can take him now.”

“Gotcha back,” Cadillac said. “We might end up getting locked up again.”

“Fuck it! I only been home a day. I ain’t used to it yet.”

Truck went in his mom’s room and put all of Drake’s shit in a bag. He told Cadillac, “Take this outside and throw it in the street in front of him.”

As Cadillac walked outside with the plastic bag, his mom jumped up.

Precious grabbed her. “Chill out, Mommy,” she said.

“Better get the fuck off me!” Marie replied.

“Yo, leave ’im alone, not today, I mean it Mommy, don’t fuck with them today or I’m gonna test you.” Precious stared her mom in the face. Tired of Drake’s nasty ass, she didn’t know if she could beat her mom, but she was going to find out today.

“Precious Moniese Baldwin, you better get it together.”

“Talk to the hand.”

Cadillac threw Drake’s shit in the street. “Carry your bitch-ass,” he said, tossing it.

Drake came charging, and Cadillac began throwing a fury of blows to Drake’s face.

The crowd grew bigger. They were used to the family wilding out against any and everybody in the projects.

As Caddy bust on Drake with lefts and rights, Drake kept coming, absorbing every blow. He grabbed Caddy and slammed him to the street.

Then, out of nowhere, Truck came across his head with a shovel, and the blood poured.

After several licks with the broken shovel, Drake still stood strong. He charged Truck, but Truck bent down and, in one quick motion, scooped the entire two hundred ninety pounds of man and slammed him to the concrete. Drake then felt the old faded Timbs stomping his head to the pavement, leaving him shaking in the street.

Soon the ambulance came and scooped Drake up, but by the time the police arrived, Truck and Cadillac were gone, and nobody knew nothing.

Truck and Cadillac had made it to the Hardee’s on Campostella Road. Vic pulled up, and they were out, headed to Virginia Beach to rest at Vic’s house—a two-bedroom townhouse that he shared with his girl.

“Y’all niggas got problems. And you just came home today. Haven’t even seen your P.O. and already fuckin’ up.” Vic looked at Truck.

“Fuck you, nigga,” Truck told him. “Don’t get your jaw broke.”

“Nigga, what?” Vic smirked. “You must think I’m one of those bitch niggas you was locked up with.”

Truck knew he could fuck Vic up, but it wasn’t about that. He knew about the .357 revolver that Vic always kept close and wasn’t worried about Vic shooting him. They had grown up together, and Vic was always in his corner, right or wrong. But if he hit Vic, there was no telling, so he knew that wasn’t gonna happen.

“Y’all niggas been fucked up in the system since I can remember. But now it’s penitentiary time, y’all gots to chill.”

They rested at Vic’s crib for a day, then moved into a hotel. Vic let them use his girl’s car for a couple days.

Cadillac and Truck hit the streets, moving the rest of the shit Cadillac had.

Vic was a serious businessman. He had good shit, high prices, and always a steady flow, if your money was right.

Truck knew he had to get his weight up to be able to fuck with his own man. So, until then, Cadillac scored from a nigga he’d befriended while locked up one of the many times. He’d met Pablo at the group home in Norfolk.

Pablo was living with his grandmother in Huntersville Housing, where Cadillac’s grandmother lived too. At the time, they were just thirteen and doing a lot of wild things young boys did. A lot of the young boys in the projects were sniffing “boy” (heroin) because everybody else around them was doing it. Sniffing soon became a daily thing, and it wasn’t long before they were being sent away because of the powerful drug.

When they got out, Pablo went back to his mom’s in Northridge, a low-income housing development in Virginia Beach.

Four years later, they were still holding each other down. Neither ever stayed home long enough to build any real money, but whoever was up—most of the time it turned out to be Pablo—always helped the other.

Now Pablo was feeding him ounces. In a minute they’d be ready to buy four and a half. After a couple of weeks, they got enough to buy a ’90 Honda Civic and a ’91 Chrysler LeBaron. Even though the cars were ten years old, they were happy. They also got a two-bedroom apartment in Cambridge Manor in Chesapeake, one mile from Oakley Park. Things were flowing. On a breakdown, they were paying thirty-eight hundred for four and a half, bringing back sixty-five hundred and splitting twenty-seven hundred a week. Cadillac was content. He just wanted to live, but Truck wanted a lot more.

They jumped out of the Honda and headed to the apartment. Truck pulled out the scale, so Cadillac could weigh the “work.”

“This shit is on point as always,” Cadillac said, jumping up, leaving the drugs sitting on the scale.

“Better be, ’cause I’ll ball that fat muthafucka up.”

“Chill the fuck out, Truck. That nigga a’ight.”

“Fuck him. You see the bitch in that nigga eyes, always talking that ‘what-he-did’ shit. That bitch nigga has no idea how I get down.”

“Kill ’em then, nigga, talkin’ all that shit.” Cadillac went to his room. “He’s just our connect.”

“Don’t play. Vic keep asking when I’m ready,” Truck said, sitting at the table with a razor and small bags.

Cadillac returned with his sweats and cut-off shirt. “I’m headed to the gym.”

“Shit, I’m going too. Let’s get this shit right now. Then I’m going too.”

“Precious birthday Thursday. She’ll be sixteen,” Cadillac said.

“Yeah, turning into a lady. I was hoping she didn’t grow up so fast. But seeing all she’d seen, what the fuck would I expect?” Truck shook his head.

“She gonna be a’ight. She’s street smart, but she also book smart. She having a get-together at her boyfriend’s house.”

“That little-ass nigga she fuck with got his own shit?” Truck asked.

“Hell yeah. She was driving his Lexus. Little nigga got a GS300 sitting on twenties. He just bought a townhouse, and might as well say she living with him.”

“Yeah, I saw her the other day. She called me and we met at Piccadilly. She had a bad little bitch with her. I can say dude make sure her ass go to school. She said he just graduated last year from Booker T. Washington. She say the little nigga cook up shit for some Carolina niggas and he’s getting it. He even taught her. I told her she don’t even know the skill she got. Li’l bitch just laughed.”

“He better make sure she a’ight, ’cause I will break that nigga’s muthafuckin’ neck,” Truck said, steady bagging twenties.

“So we goin’ to her shit?”

“Yeah.”

“You plan on gettin’ Pablo?”

“Most definitely.”

Pablo was leaning on the green tank sitting on the right side of the entrance of Bayside Arms. He watched closely as his young team served the fiends that drove in and out of the Virginia Beach project. He pulled out his cell and called his man. “Yo, Darius, what the deal?”

“Nothing. Niggas gettin’ it, though,” he said pulling on the blunt.

“I’ll be around there in second. Take a ride with a nigga.”

“Waitin’ on you.” Darius hung up.

Pablo yelled at Brit, “Come on, man, I’m out.”

“Hold up, nigga. I’m up. Breakin’ these niggas,” Brit said.

Pablo walked over to where they were shooting dice. “Y’all niggas only shootin’ with two dice?”

“Hell yeah. Fuck that New York shit. Three dice, niggas always want to put shit in the game,” Brit said.

Everybody started laughing, including Pablo. He looked at Brit with his new Timbs, Rocawear jeans, jersey, and bandanna. Always clean with new shit and always keeping niggas laughing. Brit was his rolling partner. He knew how to get money, not trouble, so he got along with everybody. And the bitches loved him.

“You niggas got to go,” Brit said, counting niggas’ money in their faces. “I’m gonna carry y’all shit to the mall.” He laughed.

Everybody laughed, except for two of the guys who had lost.

“Don’t laugh, nigga. Fuck around and you won’t leave the park,” one guy said, referring to the one-way-in, one-way-out projects.

“Fuck around and you won’t leave this, bitch,” Pablo said with the burner to the nigga’s temple. “Fuck you talkin’.”

The guy stood still, his body stiff.

Somebody’s mother came out the apartment across the street and saw what was going on. “In the name of Jesus, young man,” she said, “in the name of Jesus, put it away.” She threw her hands up.

Pablo put his burner back in his pants. He didn’t want a murder charge, but he didn’t want his peoples fucked with.

Brit was from Lake Edward, but he always hung out at Bayside Arms, North Ridge, and the Lakes, his home. But his girl he’d been with for a while lived in Bayside Arms with her mom and his little girl, so he was out there every day. And Pablo made sure nobody fucked with him.

They climbed in Pablo’s black Mustang and turned up his sounds and burned rubber.

“You need to slow down, son,” Brit told him.

“I know. Sometimes I just snap and think about it later,” Pablo said as he turned into Northridge.

“Sometimes niggas just be talkin’.”

“And sometimes they don’t.”

Pablo respected Brit, who had been in the streets since he was nine. His sister had raised him and his little brother because his mother worked nonstop, trying to take care of them. He fell into the hustling scene automatically, especially when the spot was his backyard in one of the back alleys of Lake Edward. He started hustling when he was fourteen and used to run with real niggas who had Lake Edward on lock. He made money, smoked trees, ran hoes; when he had his kid, he’d contemplated getting out but never followed through.

Months later when he heard that Bo and his brother Rome were found cremated in his truck, that was the last straw. That situation drained him, he was between scoring and decided not to. Instead he brought a ring for Leah and asked her to marry him. He opened a car detailing shop and allowed his money to work for him. People who didn’t know him, still thought he hustled, because he still carried himself the same way. Seeing that all the hustlers out on the beach came to his detailing shop, he was still well connected and associated with everybody.

They pulled in front of the townhouse on Harrier.

“What the deal?” Darius gave Brit a pound and a hug.

“What the fuck rollin’ out here?” Pablo asked.

“This nigga askin’ shit like somebody work for him. You work for this nigga, Brit? You work for this nigga, Javonne?” Darius looked at the guy he was with. “Who you think you is? Nino Brown?”

They started laughing.

“Wouldn’t be out here if I wasn’t looking at the big picture,” Pablo said seriously.

“So what’s the deal?” Darius asked.

Pablo walked down the sidewalk, and Darius followed.

“I got to serve those niggas in a sec, Caddy and Truck. They been scorin’ four and a half for a minute, but for some reason I’m feeling funny. Before it was nothing, now Truck be real edgy. I don’t even really like fucking with him.”

“I thought you were still serving them cats ounces. They comin’ up, huh?”

“They keep a clientele. Question is, how long they gonna stay home to serve ’em?”

“Tell ’em to come to the house. Fuck servin’ a nigga all that in the street.”

“You right.” Pablo knew that, but needed to hear Darius say it. He walked back to his car. He had four and a half sitting in the stash. He knew it was Cadillac’s time to score. He jumped in the Mustang to drop Brit off.

When they arrived at the detail shop, Pablo saw the Suburban, BMW wagon, and 300ZX. He knew those shits belonged to Poppa, Dundee, and Javonne.

“I see your Lake Edward fam up in this bitch,” Pablo said.

“Yeah, you saw those twin Escalades on the side, didn’t you? And the S320 Benz? You know who those shits belong to, right?”

“Ain’t that Trent and Van?” Pablo asked.

“Yeah, and they little cousin, niggas from out Bridal Creek and niggas be gettin’ it. Every week they gamble upstairs, and those niggas always got mad dough. But you know them LE niggas always come with it.”

“They used to. A couple years ago everybody knew LE was where the true hustlas came from, but now I don’t know,” Pablo said.

“LE will always be the shit, because you can’t shut it down. But niggas tired of gettin’ locked up, so they not shinin’. Lake Edward niggas grind now. Niggas have realized, money first. Nothing like having money stacked. Fuck all them cars and jewels and shit. Get a dependable whip, roof over your head, and stack that dough. We young, but we can buy houses. We can invest in real estate. Fuck that hustlin’ shit. Niggas can’t do that shit forever.”

“They makin’ dough like that?” Pablo asked.

“Don’t ask, son. You know how much Trent and Van makin’, right?”

“Yeah. That’s who I score from, Trent.”

“For real? Well, Poppa probably make three times that.”

Pablo looked at him in disbelief.

“You remember Black?” Brit asked.

“Yeah. His brother used to fuck with my cousin. That’s the nigga that got killed on the motorcycle.”

“That’s who Poppa connected with.”

“Goddamn! Maybe that’s who me and Darius need to be fuckin with.”

Brit never responded. He didn’t have any plans for playing middleman.

“Holla!” Brit got out the Mustang and gave Pablo a pound. “Don’t forget my wedding in May. Shorty workin’ hard on shit.”

“That’s gonna be the wedding of the century. Bayside Arms girl marrying a grimy-ass Lake Edward nigga! What?” Pablo hollered. “How many groomsmen?”

“You know I got my team—Poppa, Reese, Black, Lou, Derrick, BayBay, and Prince, my best man. I told her match ’em up.”

“I heard that, all LE niggas. Y’all ain’t shit, nigga.” Pablo laughed.

“Shit, all those bitches she got from Bayside Arms and Northridge, except for my sister. Yo, nigga, be safe,” Brit said giving him a pound. He ran up the stairs of the detailing shop to rest in the studio where niggas were gambling.

Pablo was headed to the mall when he got a call from Cadillac. Him and Truck was trying to score. He told them to meet him out Northridge, as he got off the interstate on Brambleton. He turned into the 7-Eleven shopping strip and parked in front of Kappatal Kuts. He walked inside to catch a cut.

Niggas knew Pablo as a baller. He went in and sat in Rick’s chair. Rick had been cutting his shit forever.

He started talking to the neighboring barbers about local deals. Cats started coming in selling CDs, DVDs, and clothes. Bee, one of the neighboring barbers, pulled out his clothing line and spread it out, something he did every time somebody else came in with clothes.

Pablo’s phone rang as Rick was cutting him up. He reached from under the red cape and put the phone to his ear.

“We headed your way,” Cadillac said.

“Hold tight. I’m getting a cut. I’ll come cross the bridge when I finish.”

When Rick was finished, Pablo gave everybody a pound and . . .