Life Without Hope Read online

  Life

  Life

  By Leo L. Sullivan

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents

  are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real

  events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Sullivan Productions, LLC

  Copyright

  ©

  2008 by Leo Sullivan

  978

  0

  9762345

  9

  9

  ISBN-13:

  -

  -

  -

  -

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  2005930724

  Sullivan Productions, LLC

  P.O. Box 1342

  Decatur, GA 30031-1342

  Tel.: 404-433-7174

  [email protected]

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First, I would like to thank God. To my loving mother, I am your

  only child – I know that I have taken you through hell and back.

  One day you’re going to answer the door bell and I’m going to be

  standing there with open arms. I promise I’ll never leave you

  again. I love ya Ma!

  Taya Baker, my confidant. You held me down. Ever y Black

  man is given one ebony angel in his life time, you are mine. You

  showed me that every real brotha has to have a strong sista in his

  life, that balance like some rite of passage to manhood. First you

  must learn how to love a "Black Woman". Love ya Booboo.

  To my nigga Lateef Varo, trapped behind enemy lines on Fed.

  We will continue to engage the enemy for our freedom. Keep yo

  head up!

  To my sista Assata Shakur, Sundiata Acoli, Marilyn Buck and

  all the other comrades who dedicated their lives to our struggle,

  peace and blessing with God’s speed. Afeni Shakur, thanks for

  keeping Tupac’s legacy alive. Not to forget about dem Chi-Town

  47th street G.D.’s my ole stumping grounds. Sarasota, Florida, the

  home team. Big props go out to dem niggaz in that ‘trape’ in Opa-

  Locka, Florida. Twon, wuz up!

  Hellema publications, girl you ass in just too busy, thanks for

  being there. Tajuacla & Jack Parker and their book club. I would

  be remiss if I forgot to give mad love to my nigga Marvin Johnson,

  aka Blazack. May we never have to take a trip up that road again

  for dem ‘chips’. Iras in Hot Atlanta FM 89.3 get at me. To my

  partner Wayne Stone and his family and his son Jr.

  Communications is the key to winning any war. S. Lindsay, exhale

  and let it go. To my daughter Desire Monae Har vey that I have

  never had a chance to hold, I love baby girl. Ashley McMillion and

  Dwight Williams II thanks for your support.

  iii

  To my dude Clifford Senter a.k.a. "Fateem" and his sis

  Laurita, also Professor Akinyele at Georgia State University

  African studies – y’all missing in action. To my dude Gucci out the

  bottom in Miami. To Phyllis Murphy, my baby mama, it ain’t over

  yet!

  Fo-real fo-real, Vickie Stringer and her side kick Tammy are

  the real Gangstaz in this industry. To my editor, Cynthia Parker

  and to Mia McPherson and the entire TCP family, thanks for let-

  ting me shine. I came so close to signing with another company

  that I just found out that did not have my best interest at heart.

  Leon Blue, it was you that sparked the flame for this joint. Good

  luck with your company, "InfraRead". Also, to Victor Martin and

  Jason Poole, thank you for paving the way.

  Most importantly to my readers: Thank you! In this book I am

  giving you my very best. This was the closest I could take you into

  "that world" and keep it gangsta without catching another feder-

  al indictment. Also, it was important for me to make a statement

  in my writing, to be conscious and with a message. To those I for-

  got to mention on paper, don’t worr y, you’re in my heart.

  Visit my website at: WWW.LEOSULLIVAN.COM. Tell me

  what you think, or you can write me directly at: P.O.Box 725

  Edgefield S.C. 29824.

  iv

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my mentor and best friend in memory

  of his son Tupac Shakur (God bless his soul). Mutulu, there aren’t

  enough words in any language to express my love for you, my

  teacher, my mentor, the father that I never had. You treated me

  like I was your own son. For me it was a blessing to have spent

  nearly ten years of my life under your diligent guidance. You

  forced my mind to go to another level, to a plateau outside the

  mundane box of limitations that unconsciously some Blacks have

  been trained to place on our minds. You embraced my writing,

  nur tured it. Had me writing lengthy essays and treatise. You had

  me on the radio doing poetry, speaking in front of packed audi-

  ences. I was scared to death! Remember? You told me that they

  had to let me in the door. We would argue, people would walk by

  and see us yelling at each other. I’ll never forget the day they

  moved me to another plantation (prison) after all those years of

  being around you, I was crushed! One day I set down to write you

  a letter and I just cried…and cried…well, finally, I’m here at the

  door just like you said, "Knock! Knock!"

  Dr. Mutulu Shakur, I love you my nigga. I hope we meet

  again!

  v

  The author regrets the vulgar and degrading language used to

  depict the characters in this book. Especially those made in refer-

  ence to Black women; however, he feels that it is a true and accu-

  rate account of the plight of Black life in terms of the vernacular

  and how urban impoverished Black Americans view themselves.

  Unfortunately, this book may be viewed as socially incorrect by

  today’s standards, thus tarnishing the rose colored glasses that

  most of today’s Black writers write from. The reality is men abuse

  women, and like it or not, Black America is caught up in the yoke

  of a severe AIDS epidemic.

  How can America be the richest, industrious nation in the

  world, but yet choose to spend more money incarcerating young

  Black men than on the entire educational budget? Only by exam-

  ining ourselves realistically within, will we be able to find a viable

  solution to help ourselves. Since time immemorial, someone has

  been determined to destroy us! Humanity.

  "…I’m speaking as a victim of this American system. I see

  America through the eyes of the victim. I don’t see any American

  dream; I see an American nightmare…"

  - Malcom X, April 3, 1964

  Chapter One

  Chapter One

  “The Set-up”

  1992

  I watched her as she slept. The rise and fall of her brown succu-

  lent breasts beckoned me. A beacon of light shined through the

  worn out curtains, illuminating the pellucid cur ves of her beauti-

  ful body. Nubile femininity captured o
n the cinematic screen of

  my mind. Once again I thought about rolling off into her, bury-

  ing myself in her moist womanhood. The mounds of her sensuous

  flesh I could molest as from a mental escapism, she could be my

  sanctuar y, at least for that infinite moment in time.

  I was 26 years old, not even four months out of the joint and

  was back to throwing bricks at the chain gang as the old folks used

  to say–meaning, I was hustling with little regard for the law.

  As I lay in bed, in a fleabag hotel room, with a broken air con-

  ditioner and no immediate plans for the future, I dreamed as all

  hustlers do. If I could just hit that one big lick, I would get out of

  the game.

  On the dresser was my best friend–my gun. A big ole .44

  Magnum named Jesus. Actually, it wasn’t me that named it Jesus,

  its victims did when they were forced to look down its long intim-

  idating barrel. Next to it laid eighteen cocaine rocks and about

  three hundred dollars–my entire life savings–and the keys to Lil

  Cal’s tricked out Chevy, along with a pack of condoms. Cal was

  out of town and I was responsible for his ride.

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  Lying next to me in bed was Kim, a bonafide freak. I reached

  over and caressed her nipples. She stirred in her sleep lassoing a

  long leg on top of me. Her elbow came to rest on my morning

  erection. She crooned groggily.

  “You asleep?”

  “Naw, I was just lying here thinking.”

  “Thinking ‘bout what?”

  I felt her fingers walking across my thigh toward my morning

  glory. It was hot, stuffy and we were nude. The bed sheets stuck to

  our bodies. Her hand found its destination, stroking me with a

  determination, trying to rekindle an ember of passion from the

  night before. The gold bangles on her wrist jangled, signaling in

  chimes, her urgency. In one quick motion she climbed on top of

  me positioning herself to take me in. Her sultry breath a whisper

  against my cheek.

  “Want me to serve you?” she flirted–meaning oral sex.

  A hot, salivating tongue trailed my chest as she lowered her

  head. You see, at 30, Kim could do things with her mouth that

  made men curse God in ecstasy. She had a gorgeous body with

  generous curves, a small waist and a plump behind. She was light

  skinned, with a smooth complexion and a slight Bugs Bunny over-

  bite that somehow gave her beauty an alluring sexual appeal.

  However, she was the kind of broad that made a brotha appreci-

  ate tinted windows, cheap hotels and late night creeps. Kim had

  one major flaw–she was a powder head. Over the years it looked

  like the more cocaine she snorted the finer she would get. What

  made her so interesting to hustlers was the fact that she had a col-

  lege degree, a good job and she knew how to talk proper like white

  folks with all them big words. She ran through all the dope boys

  like water. She had two vacuums that could suck you dry, the one

  in her mouth, and the other one in her nose. Both were lethal.

  So I guess by now you have figured it out, I was in this sleazy

  ass hotel room tricking with Kim. She was about to gobble me up,

  her vacuum was on my stomach. There was a knock at the door. I

  had to wrestle her off of me as I got up, grabbing my gun while

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  putting on my pants. I padded over to the door and looked over

  my shoulder placing my finger over my lips to quiet Kim. No one

  was supposed to know I was here. A large cockroach labored across

  the door as I looked through the peephole. Dre’ and some other

  dude were standing outside the door. I removed the chair from

  underneath the doorknob, and then I remembered to put on my

  shoes and shirt. Placing the gun in the spine of my back, I opened

  the door. I had not seen Dre’ since I went to the joint, and from

  the look on his face, he was not happy to see me. He owed me a

  few grand.

  “Wha …What …What’s up L?” he stuttered. “I saw Lil Cal’s

  car out front. The lady at the desk said he was in here.”

  “Naw, Lil Cal gone out of town. I’m keeping the car,” I said,

  sensing something. I stepped to the side as I invited them in. Dre’

  was hesitant. I noticed the big dude nudge him in. He had on

  some jewelry, too much for this side of town. Dre’ read my mind

  as he fidgeted.

  “This is my cousin, Big Mike, from California.” The platinum

  chain on his neck must have cost a fortune. Mike looked like a

  dark skinned version of Suge Knight, only taller and with an ath-

  letic build like the kind of man that works out a lot. I couldn’t read

  his eyes because he was wearing dark shades. That disturbed me.

  One thing was for certain, dude had cheddar. He stroked my

  curiosity, Kim’s too. She could smell cocaine and money like a

  police K-9. From the look in her eyes she was on to his scent. Her

  greedy eyes flashed dollar signs as she got up from the bed wear-

  ing only the sheet like a sexy toga. Giving them an “I go good with

  coke and a smile” pose, she stood, standing back on her legs dis-

  playing a lot of peek-a-boo cleavage and the flaming red hair on

  her crotch left little doubt in anyone’s mind as to what was what.

  As she sashayed to the bathroom, there was a moment of silence,

  the way men give homage to a nice round ass.

  “Yo, wuz up,” I said, trying to get a feel for what was going on.

  “Nuttin’. I was lookin for Lil Cal,” Dre’ said. It looked like his

  eyes were trying to tell me something. The thought of money

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  made me ignore him. Big mistake.

  “Ya’ll trying to get some yae?” I questioned, meaning cocaine.

  “Yes,” the big man replied.

  “No,” Dre’ said simultaneously.

  The big dude took the lead with Dre’ looking as uncomfort-

  able as a nigga at a Clan demonstration. I was thinking of the five

  grand he owed me and now I got his ass trapped in a raggedy ass

  hotel room. Wasn’t it Tupac that said, “Revenge is sweet as pussy.”

  A lot of nights I used to lay up in my cell in the joint thinking

  about all the niggas that had crossed me. Dre’ did not even send

  me a dime. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. The

  Suge Knight-looking cat fired up a blunt. Between puffs he said,

  “We tr ying to cop a couple ounces of crack.”

  “Crack?” I repeated incredulously because real hustlers never

  refer to dope as crack. Dre’ just rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. I

  thought I had it figured out; Dre’ was about to take this lame for

  his scratch and did not want me in on it. Just then, as if on cue,

  Kim strutted out of the bathroom. Her hair and makeup were

  immaculately done as if she were ready to pose for one of those

  glamour magazines. She was scantily dressed in a black sequined

  miniskirt and high heels. She was the poison to the dope game.

  Money, whores, cars and clothes are all accentuates that lead a

  brotha to prison or worse. Kim’s perfume fumigated–all eyes we
re

  on her as she sat on the bed, crossing her long legs seductively. In

  the back of my mind, I was plotting on how to relieve Dre’ and

  the big lame of their cash. Kim was working her charm on the

  lame like a boa constrictor charming a bird. His eyes were glued

  to the meaty exposure of her thighs as she gave him that “pussy for

  hire” smile. The whole time Dre’ was looking at me with some-

  thing in his eyes, something that later on, I would regret that I did

  not recognize.

  I walked to the door opening it wide. “Kim, I’ll holla at you

  later.”

  Her brow frowned at me as if to say,

  I know that you can’t pos-

  sibly be talking to me

  . She opened her mouth to speak, but thought

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  L i f e

  better of it. With hands poised on her hips, she just looked at me.

  “I’ll be down in a second, wait for me in the car.”

  Her nose was running, she needed a snort. She took one last

  look at the big dude, did her mental telepathy thing that whores

  do when they are trying to catch a trick. She turned to me, “L,

  don’t keep me waiting,” and spun on her heels. I shut the door.

  “How much money you got?” I asked, talking to no one in

  particular. The big man shifted his weight uncomfortably. Dre’

  knew what was about to go down. I had blood in my eyes.

  “Yo, L, man I stopped by your mama’s crib and wasn’t no one

  home. In fact, I did not even know you were out until just now.”

  He tried to smile, but all his face unveiled was a mask of fear.

  There was an adrenaline like raw energy, it started with the heart-

  beat, sweaty palms and it completely seized control of a man as

  well as his victims. The kind of power that only a gun can bring.

  Power, I was feeling it. I reached into the small of my back

  pulling out Jesus, the savior. For the first time, big man removed

  his shades. He was severely cockeyed. I couldn’t tell what the fuck

  he was looking at. Dre’ mumbled something about he thought we

  were tight. I star ted to smack his ass upside the head with the bar-

  rel of the gun.

  “Just let me get them chips you owe me, it should be about

  five grand with interest,” I said with a menacing scowl on my face.