“Bet,” Lamar said, making his way to the hospital.

PART TWO—AUGUST 2009—Nine Months Later

CHAPTER 29

THE AUGUST SUN HAD popped up in South Brunswick Township, New Jersey, baking the quaint neighborhood. Nikia and Lamar sipped orange juice and ate breakfast by the kitchen window in their elegantly decorated home. Despite the name of the township, the postal code listed them in Princeton, New Jersey, home of the Ive League juggernaut Princeton University. What better area to raise their daughter, Celebrity; or, hide a thug and his girlfriend?

Lamar was looking through the local newspaper, getting acquainted with the township, and adapting to the customs and habits of Princeton denizen. He was becoming smarter, too. Something in the Princeton water? Along with his new home, he had rented two apartments in Northeast Philadelphia. They were both in duplexes, and both on the first floor with adjoining back yards. One was decorated like and ordinary bachelor pad that he’d some times chill in. Drugs weren’t stored there. They were stored next door, in a sophisticated scheme to thwart law enforcement. Lamar would enter the bachelor pad, exit out the back door leading to the alley, and enter the neighboring apartment where the cocaine and weed were bagged and stored—under floor panels, beneath area rugs. A FOR RENT sign remained in the front window of the dummy apartment. A smart surveillance system was set up at the entry points of both apartments, and if breached, Lamar would be notified by an app on his phone.

“Thanks for breakfast, by the way,” he said without looking up from the paper.

She gave him a courteous smile. “I try. It’s the least that I can do, considering we have this big ass kitchen.”

From where they came from, it was huge. Mostly white. Stainless steel and titanium state-of-the-art appliances. An island in the center. And a breakfast nook where they were.

“Exactly.”

“Although we’ve only been here since July first, I do wish that you were here more.”

“I hear you, but I got to keep a roof over our heads.”

Her face tightened, and she said, “We have our own home now, and a daughter, so don’t you want to stop playing the drug game while you’re winning. You can just quit.”

“Just quit?” he asked, continuing to flip through the paper.

He couldn’t even call what he was doing apart of any drug game. To consider it a drug game implied that his business was different than any other service provider. Selling drugs was as common as selling fries at McDonalds—both industries probably grossed the same amount annually. Drugs would remain a business on of the largest on the planet and would remain that way as long as the products were in high demand and the profits were high. This business sector netted billions and fueled the economy, and no car maker, jeweler, designer, realtor or travel agent wanted the government to shut it down. And Nikia Mason had better come to terms with that.

“Next month you’ll be home a year,” she said. “I mean you’re twenty-one now and time to let this bullshit go and grow up.”

“Look around you,” he said, closing the newspaper. “Looks like a grown man lives here to me. Quite the provider.”

“You’re a real piece of work.”

“Let’s just talk about something else.” Woo-Sah!

And that was the end of that. It was cruel to shut her down, but he didn’t want to engage with her about his personal life. He didn’t want to negotiate with her on the topic under any circumstances.

She was suddenly done with her meal and ready to go on with her day, and so was he.

Lamar showered and changed and was ready to go make the donuts. He had Gunna back in play. His homie Hamma was released and joined the team. Hell, he needed all of the help that he could get with Oz providing him with fifteen kilos of cocaine a month. Oz had also used his connections to get Lamar a Porshe Panamera. Gunna a red Cadillac CTS. And Hamma a Range Rover Sport. All of them the 2010 editions. But as a condition to his business, he switched rental cars—even switched companies—every three days to complete his dirty missions.

“Well, call me,” Nikia said, opening the front door with the baby in a car seat. Then she shut it—no hug, no kiss, no good bye. He watched her strap the baby into the back of an Infiniti Q45 before she hopped in and pulled away.

Their relationship was dead. And he regretted fathering a child with her. Ten minutes later, he left, heading to Bartram Village, and vowing to get another home, south of Philadelphia.

CHAPTER 30

Walking out of a corner store reading the Philadelphia Daily News, Lamar saw a headline that read: SOUTHWEST PHILLY MADMAN PAROLED! Looking at the mug shot of Slam they’d put in the paper, he knew he had seen Slam’s face in the past.

Where the fuck did I see this nigga before, he thought, tossing the paper on the passenger seat of the Porshe before getting in. Inside the car, he dialed Gunna’s number after turning on the air conditioner.

“Yo, Lambchop, wassup?” Gunna answered.

“Aye, Gunna, meet me at the apartment. I just got today’s paper. This nigga, Slam, got out on parole. He at the F.”

“Aight, so what you scared now or some shit?” Gunna asked, looking up at the sky. The plot thickens.

“Scared? Nigga, never. I got a plan, so meet me at the apartment. Matter fact, meet me on the block, I’m about to call Trap and Hamma when I hang up with you.”

“Aight, well, I’m busy right now. I ain’t got time to be worrying about no Slam.”

After realizing that Gunna hung up on him, Lamar started to call him back but chose not to. Lamar couldn’t determine what, but something was up with Gunna. Big time. He shook his head at the thought and called Hamma. He answered and informed Lamar that he was en route to Bartram Village to join him.

Lamar told him about Slam’s release, and then said, “I’m ready to get this nigga right out of the way.”

“Fuck out the way. Right into a coffin.”

“Right. I got a perfect idea, though. I’ll tell you about it when we hit the block. Did you talk to Trap?”

“I holla’d at him like an hour ago. Li’l nigga said he was handling some business.”

“That young bull crazy as shit,” Lamar said, laughing.

“He acts and talks just like you.”

“My little protege.”

“True dat. But this Slam situation is going to play out. We got them old niggas beat. This clown, Slam, been locked up twenty-two years and want a block. He needs to worry about social security benefits.”

“Tell me about it,” Lamar agreed, laughing. “I’m on the block, my nigga, see you when you get here.”

Lamar hung up the phone and twisted up a healthy-sized Backwood filled with orange-banana kush. He left his car running with the music playing, stepped out and talked to a few around-the-way females. Moments later, Hamma pulled up and parked his charcoal-black Range Rover Sport in front of Lamar. He stepped out of the car with a Dutch hanging from his mouth and joined Lamar.

“Wassup, boss?”

Lamar smiled. “I ain’t no boss. You funny. Look at that, though,” Lamar said, passing the newspaper to Hamma.

“This the elderly nigga that wants parts of this,” Hamma said, waving his hand in the air. “This block ain’t up for grabs.”