“Turbo?” he questioned, trying to make sure it was his friend. He’d put out a blue light on Turbo years ago for refusing to join his new regime and had not seen him since. The last he heard, Turbo had dropped his flag.

  Turbo looked at Spade and smiled. “Damn, nigga,” he smiled, shaking his head. “It’s been years, man.”

  “Word. How you been?”

  “Just came back in to finish the last part of this bid. I was in the town getting to some serious money before this shit caught up to me. I was running from parole for years.”

  Spade had heard about the money Turbo was making out in Brooklyn. He’d connected with some Jamaicans that were getting ton loads of weed and distributing it throughout the city. Turbo had completely fell back from the Crips but did business with them still.

  “I heard about you,” smiled Spade.

  “Yeah, my nigga. Straight money moves now,” said Turbo.

  “You know we gotta talk, right?”

  “I mean, I’m in the spot. I’ll be out in the AM; we could kick it.”

  “Say no more.”

  Spade went to his cell. He began to prepare himself for the night ahead. The rec run he’d just come in from was the final one for day, he was now stuck to his thoughts. Lying on his cot, he began to reflect. Years in the pens was taking a toll on his mental. The constant fights, assaults, verbal arguments, chastisement from institutional authorities, plagued his mind. He’d been living on pins and needles since his inception in the system. No matter how much times he waved the peace flag with the Bloods, informing them that he was not the real enemy, they were constantly, consistently at him. He could not get a break.

  His mind was flooded with thoughts about throwing in the towel. But how would those in the gang world look at him? Would they respect him the same? He doubted it. He’d made his name as a Crip, so for him to disband from the movement would leave him almost naked in the world. Furthermore, he’d fought so hard for the cause. Why would he just step off now? How about for the sake of my son, he pondered. Was his boy important enough to bring upon a decision of dropping his flag? What would that do anyway if he did make that decision. His son was already a full-fledged gang banger who would not drop his flag just because his father did so. He would probably laugh at Spade. But the thoughts of leaving the gang was still there. A breaking point seemed on the horizon. So, it seemed.

  Chapter 9

  “You up outta here, Blood,” voiced one of the homies from his cell.

  “Yep. On the road again,” replied Bo.

  An officer had just dropped off two draft bags and informed him that he was on a draft. It was time for a next destination. After experiencing so many prisons, it came as second nature when he heard he was on a draft. Fuck it. Bring on whatever prison. He was fully prepared to stand as a man anywhere he went.

  “They let you know where you going?” the Blood asked Bo.

  “Nah. But you know it don’t matter. I’m a wave my B’s high wherever I land,” verified Bo.

  “I know that’s right.”

  Packing the little property he had in the cell, an officer eventually stopped by to get him for the draft.

  “This is it, Blood. Tamu Damu,” saluted Bo

  “Tamu Damu.”

  Handcuffed and taken to a draft room, Bo handed over his bag to an officer.

  “The big Blood finally makes it to a medium,” said a sergeant, going through some paperwork on a desk while looking at Bo in between flipping through the documents.

  The sergeant had to be lying. No way they sending me to a medium, thought Bo. Nevertheless, he remained quiet. If the sergeant wanted to talk, he could have the floor. Bo kept a serious expression as the man blabbed on.

  “I don’t know how something like this came to fruition, but you’re one lucky motherfucker,” continued the sergeant. “You just got through participating in a riot; got a Tier 3 ticket for the infraction; got only 30 days in the box; and were approved for a medium transfer. Someone in Albany is really fucking up.”

  Yep, was all Bo pondered. Maybe the sergeant should take up things with his superiors. Bo wanted to be left out of it. His only concern was getting from point a to b in one piece. His property, also. He prayed it didn’t get lost along the way, as it had in the past.

  Instead of traveling on a large draft bus, as Bo was accustomed to when moving from one facility to the next, a van came for him and two other prisoners. Individually shackled, their property was packed inside the van along with their frames. They were then on the way.

  Bo still didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t recognize the other two prisoners, but decided to start up a conversation, anyway.

  “Y’all know where we going?” he asked.

  The van hit a bump in the road, causing the prisoners frames to jump in their seats and for their heads to hit the roof of the vehicle.

  “Hey! Y’all need to slow down up there!” barked one of the prisoners.

  “Word!” chimed in Bo.

  “I don’t know where we’re going, but I hope we make it there alive,” said the other prisoners, going back to Bo’s initial question.

  This was the first time Bo didn’t know where he was headed to on a transfer. Usually, he would find out his destination to another facility in the draft room, on the way out a prison. But this time it seemed to be some sort of top secret. Nevertheless, he only had a couple more months to put up with the nonsense. The free world awaited, and he would do the necessary to make it there in one piece. Hopefully.

  As the van traveled along the upstate New York highway, Bo looked out at the passing cars. In just a few more weeks he would be a free man, able to possibly drive one of those vehicles. Days of cell searches would be long gone. No more fighting with other prisoners. Jail riots would be non-existent. Bending over for a man to examine his butt crack would be a thing of the past. He would be home. Damn, I can’t wait.

  Bo’s mother passed along the journey. Because of his status in the system, he was unable to attend her funeral. The prison administration claimed they got word of his homies planning a coup to break him out once he was brought down to his mother’s wake. Bullshit. For this, he was not able to attend his old lady’s going away ceremony. He shadowed it in public, but behind the scenes it hurt to the core that his mother was gone. He cried at nights. Until the current days. Especially when thinking of their last conversation. She’d moved to Bed Stuy following the Crips threats on her life, in a one room shack on Tompkins Avenue. The environment was extremely violent, two times worse than Flatbush. Crime was the norm. Shoot-outs were an everyday occurrence.

  “How are you doing, mom?” Bo reflected on their last talk.

  “Not too good. High blood pressure is killing me,” complained his mother.

  Bo’s mother had become extremely obese throughout the years. Mainly due to stress. No matter how much he stressed for her to exercise, she refused. “I don’t got time for that,” she would say. In rebuttal, he would ask what it is she had time for. And the back and forth between the two would begin.

  “Mom, have you been to see your doctor?”

  “Son, I’ve given up on doctors. I put everything in the lord’s hand from here on out.”

  Stubborn, Bo had thought. He wanted to jump through the phone and ring her neck. He wanted to go back and forth with her, as he usually would. But something in her voice seemed off. She did not sound the same. It hurt to say at the time. That his mother had completely given up.

  “You put me through a lot, boy,” his mother had said. “You were the only child I had, and I thought you would be the one to take me out the misery of the hood. But, instead, you left me out here, by myself, to die.”

  Bo was speechless. As much as he wanted to refute her claims, he could not. She was right.

  “I’m tired of everything,” his mother continued. “This life has been hard. I can’t take it anymore.”

  The phone went blank after that.

  “Hello,” Bo called out. “Mom?”

  But there was no one on the line. He tried calling back but got no answer. He tried multiple more times and received the same response. Just a ringing phone. That day, he must have called home a hundred times. The next day he did the same. And the next day. And the next day. He had no family on the outside to check in on his mother, so he sent some of his homies to his mother’s pad, who also could not get to her. Stress clouded his brain for days. He could not function as he usually would. Until finally, he got a chapel call from the prison’s administration. Brought to an office where he met with the prison’s pastor, he was given the news he was already aware of. His mother passed away right after she hung up the day they last spoke.

  Another bump in the road brought Bo back to the present. They’d reached their destination. The van went over a few pavement markers as it entered the gates of a facility.

  “Oh shit!” voiced one of the prisoners excitedly. “This is Woodbourne. I been trying to reach this place forever.”

  “Word! Me, too,” butted in the next prisoner.

  But Bo remained quiet. In his eyes, he’d entered the confines of a new battlefield. Were their any bandits present? Would he have to shoot someone? Those were his thoughts. It didn’t matter that the facility was a medium. His safety was the number one concern.

  Instructed out the van, Bo and the other convicts were put through the normal process. Draft room. Retrieve property. Interview by sergeant. Sent on their way to a housing-unit. The process never changed. Walking through the corridors, a few prisoners, coming from somewhere in the facility, called to Bo.

  “The God has landed,” smiled one of his homies, a husky Blood known as Brownsville.

  Seeing Brownsville, Bo cracked a smile. The man was one of his soldiers who’d put in lots of work for the set along the years. He’d moved up in ranks and was right under Bo with status. Bo had long decided that Brownsville would take his position when he went home. The man earned it.

  “I’ll see you later,” he said, not wanting to stir up anything with the officers who were escorting him to his unit.

  “More less,” retorted Brownsville, continuing on.

  Brought to a cellblock, Bo never imagined a medium secured facility would have actual cells. He figured they all were set up with cookie cutter frames as Greene and Washington, with dormitories. But he was wrong. Woodbourne was like a mini-maximum facility. Given a cell at the far end part of a gallery, he noticed most of the prisoners were out to program or recreation. The two prisoners he’d come with were placed on the same gallery but further at the front. Proceeding with the norm, he began to fix up his cell. Luckily, the guy who had the cell prior to his emergence, was not the filthy type. He got through fixing up the cell in no time.

  The next thing now was to figure out who was in the prison. Did he have any bandits running around? Seeing Brownsville earlier gave him a somewhat comfort level. If there was someone present, he had a beef with, Brownsville would have let him know right away.

  Cells along the gallery began to crack. Footsteps and voices resonated. Inmates were returning from wherever they were. Bo got on the gate to see who he could from his vantage point. The first person that passed by his cell he recognized instantly. It was an old man he played chess with in Attica. He thought to salute the man but quickly changed his mind. The next person he saw made his heart race out of control. What the fuck? He could not believe his eyes. Or fathom what he witnessed at the current moment. It was Bruno. Walking hand and hand with another man. He backed away from his cell. He didn’t want Bruno to see him.

  Why would Bruno be holding hands with a man? Openly. He didn’t think to put shade on his antics. It was clear to a blind man Bruno was out the closet. A flaming fag. Rumors had been circulating for years, but Bo had not run into Bruno since their last meet up in Comstock. Even after their bout, he defended the man’s honor when tales of his homosexuality was spilled on the gate, arguing that such a thing could never be. Bruno was a gangster. A stand-up individual from the streets who was known to pop his pistol. Yeah, he bitched up during their conflict in Comstock. But there was no way he was gay, he’d thought. Until now. Now Bruno have proven him wrong. This nigga really turned bitch. Thinking of Flatbush, he could only imagine how the neighborhood would feel to know one of their legends had fallen victim to sucking dick. It disgusted Bo to even have to think that way. Sitting on his cot, he shook his head in disappointment. Bruno, who turned him Blood, had broken the sacred rules of manhood. He deserved to be shot. He was going to shoot Bruno. Again. Fuck that.

  Chapter 10

  Spade was anxious to use the phone. Recreation run would be let out soon, he couldn’t wait to get outside. The night before, he got word his son was released from juvenile lockup. He needed to speak with him. Urgently. More like put him on point that he had better watch his back. And front. Word in the streets was that his life was on the line. That he could no longer be saved by his father’s reputation. He’d done too much. It was time for him to take a dirt nap.

  Spade’s contacts in the outside world spilled the beans over the word in the air, regarding his son. In his most aggressive tone, he pledged there would be revenge if someone violated his kid. But his spill fell on deaf ears. His contacts, one of the persons after his son, laughed before making the statement… ‘Big bro, your time came and went…’ Spade felt like jumping through the phone to defend his honor. Who the fuck this nigga think he talking to, he thought. But then remembered that his hands were tied. There was nothing he could do. The individuals responsible for attending to his business on the streets while he was locked away, were the same persons after his son.

  When the cells cracked, he was the first one out on the gallery, moving for the yard at full speed. There were four phones outside, three of which were occupied when he set foot in the yard, and the last one he grabbed. Dialing a number, he got to Predator.

  “Cuz, you heard what’s going on with my son?” he asked.

  “Yeah, cuz. Harold and ‘em is hunting for that nigga,” said Predator. “They not trying to hear nothing no more. And honestly…” Predator paused a few seconds as if in thought. “…I understand where they’re coming from.”

  “So, you feel like niggas should just kill my son?” Fuck is up with this nigga?

  “Nah, lappay. It’s not like that. But the nigga is moving crazy out here, taking it to the homies wicked.”

  Just as Spade was about to tell Predator his mind, someone appeared from the entrance into the yard, catching his attention. “Oh shit, that’s Bo,” he said aloud, forgetting that Predator was on the phone.

  Bo walked through the door like a king. Ten Bloods surrounded him as he made way outdoors. He scoped the terrain like a true warrior. His eyes hunted for potential enemies. As they circled the environment, his eyes eventually came upon Spade.

  “What Bo? The slob from the castle?” asked Predator, trying to get Spade’s attention. “Hello…Hello…”

  Spade could hear Predator on the other end of the line, but his focus was on Bo. It’d been years since he ran into his old friend. Their last interaction was on Rikers Island, and it wasn’t a pleasant meet up. His old friend played a major role in his altercations along the years. Bo had placed him on a world-wide-menu, a term used by the Bloods meaning…one was a significant enemy that had to be eliminated on site by the organization. If Spade had a number one bandit in the state, it would be Bo. And now was the time to step to business.

  Hanging up the phone on Predator, he watched Bo as he moved across the yard to where Shaq and the other Crips usually hung out. Bo penetrated his movements, his serious expression showing he might have been thinking along the same lines as Spade. No one else in the yard knew what was going on, not even the Bloods with Bo. Everyone’s attention was elsewhere. Only Spade and Bo communicated silently by eyeing one another.

  Reaching Shaq, Spade called him to the side to speak out of earshot of everyone else.

  “Got a major bandit in the spot,” he said, continuing to watch Bo, who was now walking in his direction. “The top Blood in the state just landed here.”

  “Word?” questioned Shaq, his body language showing he was ready for action. “Let’s blow the spot then.”

  Spade admired Shaq’s willingness to stand as a Crip. Even when the odds were not in his favor. His current response proved he was a soldier to the core. A true Crip banger.

  “You got anything on you? I left my strap in the cell,” Spade asked, cursing himself.

  Since coming to Woodbourne, he’d gotten comfortable. More than he should have been. Usually, he stayed with a weapon. But, because of the laid-back atmosphere of Woodbourne, he figured he didn’t need to be walking around with a weapon. However, the current situation proved him wrong. Now his life was on the line. The most notorious Blood had landed in the spot, and they were at odds. Plus, he was almost positive Bo was strapped. Why else would he be walking in my direction?

  “Nah, cuz. But I got these dick beaters.” Shaq put up his fists. “I can do wonders with these.”

  Spade thought the same thing. Hand to hand combat was a thing he mastered. Growing up in Brooklyn, one had better know how to fight. Unless you wanted to be taken advantage of at every opportunity. That’s how real it was.

  Bo was getting closer. But oddly, he walked alone. Where’s his homies? A bit confused, Spade figured it was all the better. With Bo by himself, he and Shaq had a better opportunity to clobber the Blood Godfather.

  “This the nigga right here, coming our way,” warned Spade.

  Shaq braced himself for a show down. Looking in Bo’s direction with the eyes of a lion, laying on prey, he prepared to attack the approaching figure.

  Spade, his mind made up, also readied himself to attack Bo.

  Reaching within ten feet of the two, Bo paused.

  “I ain’t come here to fight,” he started. “If I did, I would have come with the homies. I wanna have a word with you.” Bo looked directly at Spade, not paying Shaq any mind. His issue was with Spade. Not Shaq. He didn’t care much about the next man.

 

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