Carl Weber's Kingpins by Ms. Michel Moore

Author:Ms. Michel Moore
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Urban Books
Published: 2019-06-25T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

I swear, I don’t know who my father thinks he is. I mean, what in the entire fuck? First, a nigga kicks me straight outta the crib like I really was sleeping there anyhow. Then, when I’m out here in these Detroit streets, doing my thing, putting in work, he hating. How in the hell he trying to block my hustle? I’m out here living my best life, and he letting my mother dictate his. I don’t know what happened to the man my pops used to be. Maybe old age done crept up on him or some shit like that. Whatever the case is, ain’t nobody or nothing gonna stop me or slow down my flow. I’ma get this bread until I take my last breath and Allah calls me home, accepting me into paradise. For now I’ma make this move and deal with the self-righteous “Do as I say, not as you may” Rasul Akbar.

Not about to give it any more thought, Kalif put his game face on. After pulling up at the West Side gas station, he parked his truck over toward the end of the building, away from the pumps. He killed the engine, then sat back and gathered his thoughts, devising what exactly he was going to say. He’d been trying to get at Ibn ever since that awkward reunion with his baby brother, but he had not received an answer. Just as Rasul’s cell was doing, Ibn’s was going straight to voicemail. After texting once or twice, Kalif quickly figured out what must be going on.

Ain’t this about nothing. Pops probably got that dude so spooked, he really ain’t gonna put me up on that next level of play a brother needs. But one way or another, I’ma make it do what it do.

Kalif leaned over to the glove compartment and opened it. After grabbing a small stack of assorted bills he had inside the glove compartment, he counted out close to fifty-eight hundred. When he added what he had in his pocket, he ended up with eight racks in total. In the middle console, he kept rubber bands. Since he’d started hustling, he’d picked the trait up from his father, of all people. After double wrapping his funds with a royal-blue rubber band, he stuffed the money in his front pocket.

Allahu Akbar.

Kalif jumped out of the truck, then swag-strolled across the lot. Before he could make it a few yards, a man asked him if he could spare a few dollars. He shook his head no and kept walking. Then two teenagers promised him that they had the strongest weed in the city. Turning both of them down didn’t deter their hustle. They went right on to the next person that pulled up. After entering the small building through the side-by-side glass doors, the seasoned thug headed toward the front counter. Seeing the same faces he’d seen when he met Ibn, Kalif felt at ease when they all greeted him as if he belonged.

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