TYCE Read online

  TYCE

  By

  Shareef Jaudon

  {WRITE NOW BOOKS}

  LOS ANGELES CALIFORNIA DENVER COLORADO

  Text copy written 2010 by Shareef Jaudon

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher or the Author.

  WRITE NOW BOOKS

  First Paperback Edition: March 2011

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author. Real places or people is only intended to make the story more authentic and entertaining.

  Jaudon, Shareef, 1978-

  TYCE : a novel / by Shareef Jaudon.---1st ed.

  Summary: A gritty coming of age story about a young man who was found in a dumpster as a baby. Growing up on the streets of Los Angeles, he matures and sets out to find money by staging three heists with new and old friends. He’s blindsided by trouble and love as he battles to get the upper hand on his life and his enemies.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ~For everybody that had to be cold sometimes to survive but always kept a warm heart~

  Me

  Nobody ever gave a fuck about me. Who's my momma? Where's my daddy? That's what I would ask myself when I was old enough to wonder. I was pushed out my mother’s warm womb and abandoned. A female police officer was chasing a purse-snatcher down an alley one night, when I announced to the world, that I was here. She was sprinting as if she was the one being chased down the dark alley, when she heard my cries bouncing off the high brick walls of the buildings. I must've been sounding off something fierce, ‘cuz she forgot about the nigga she was after and stopped dead in her tracks. The officer shifted her attention to the direction of the high-pitched screams and approached with curiosity her gun leading the way. My cries were pulling her toward the back of a Chinese restaurant. Her blue eyes danced back and forth, as she scanned the area for any signs of danger. She finally found the source of the noise and peaked over the crusty edge. She was horrified as she saw a heavily soiled used to be white pillowcase wiggling and moving. The officer immediately holstered her weapon and started swatting away greasy take-out cartons and thick slimy noodles and then she snapped the rubber band that was clinching the dingy pillowcase closed. With trembling hands, she reached inside and lifted me out of the filthy dumpster.

  When she found me she immediately began checking me over to make sure I wasn't injured. Pamela was a nurse before she decided to become a cop, so she had a quick career relapse right there in that shadowy alley. Pamela had just returned to active duty after being pregnant. Unfortunately her son died inside of her at six months...she had to deliver and bury him in the same week. Therefore, when she held me in her arms, she just couldn't bring herself to let go. In some ways, I think we helped each other, I feel like we saved each other. She wrapped me tight in her police issued coat and put me on the floor of her patrol car. Pamela kept me in her home for two weeks before turning me over to social services. Nobody claimed me…there was no picture of me on the back of a milk carton. No missing persons report filed with my description on it. During that time, she gave me my name. While giving me a bath in the kitchen sink one night she said to herself,

  "He is a tough lil' boy, he's so young and cute," She gazed at me lovingly, “Listen lil' man...a million dollars in a trashcan is still worth a million dollars, you are exceptional, and don't you forget it," Tears slid down her vanilla cheeks.

  She washed my tiny brown body and dressed me in the clothes meant for her son. She prayed silently while she fed me from his never used bottle, tears continued to fall and she made no effort to wipe them away, she just let them run.

  “You’re a miracle baby.” She declared. “You are tough, young, soooo cute and exceptional!”

  “Tough, young, cute, and exceptional

  TYCE!”

  When I was child, the state was my mom and the county was my dad. I liked it that way tho, ‘cuz couldn’t nobody take credit for shit…I was a self-made man. Foster homes and substitute parents couldn't hold me for long, at 15 I hopped the fence of the boy’s group home I was in and landed on the streets. I had one pair of jeans, and an Addida’s jacket stuffed in a backpack. I had 300 hundred dollars in my front pocket that I'd won playing pool and shooting dice. It was me against the world, and I held a record of 1 and 0. I was supposed to die in that fucking dumpster...but I didn't. One thing I knew about me was that I hated losing. I found my new home in a boarded up warehouse. I bought the most expensive space heater I could afford, a cot from the army surplus store, and a two-burner hot plate. I lived there for a year, just the mice, my thoughts, and me.

  Like I said…nobody gave a fuck about me.

  Fresh Out The Gate

  "What up my nigga?"

  "Aint shit, was hatnin?" I reached out and gave Omar a pound.

  "Man it's hot as a mafucka out here, I'm sweatin' n shit." He huffed as he grabbed a white towel hanging from his back pocket. He wiped his black beaded forehead and draped the towel over it. "Ay, when this nigga said he gon be here?" He asked looking down at the hot sidewalk.

  "Biz told me he'd have his man here round four." I said scanning the block.

  I looked down at my watch it read 3:55p.m.

  "What man?" Omar asked suddenly irritated. "What happened to Scoop?"

  I glanced over at Omar, "Scoop had a hot

  date”.

  Omar slowly nodded, he knew what that meant. Scoop's hot date was a bullet, that nigga was a memory. Omar pulled his 9mm from underneath his “Lakers” jersey and tucked it behind his back so he could sit on the steps in front of the corner store. Omar was the kinda nigga that stayed ready; he blocked the entrance on purpose. He was secretly wishing somebody would tell him to move. A fine ass female or an old ass woman got a pass, but niggas would have to show some respect to get by. That's just the way he was, and that's why I hustled with him. Omar squinted from the sun as he looked up at me,

  “That nigga Biz is cold, I'm sayin’ how tha fuck you kill ya nephew?" He asked as he spit out sunflower seeds. “That nigga Scoop aint know ‘bout Angelique. All he did was push up on her...and shit, who wouldn't...she a bad ass bitch! Shit, every nigga I know wanna fuck her."

  I nodded in agreement, "Yea, you right...but niggas know to keep tha dick zipped when Biz is playin’ with his new toy”.

  Omar and I been hustling together since we was 16. I met him when I was jacking gear at the “Crenshaw Mall.” I was being chased all through the mall by security. I was leaving them fat ass niggas in the dust til' I had to avoid a damn baby stroller. My legs were pumping as I sprinted toward the escalator. Omar was talkin’ to some girls when he noticed the commotion coming his way. As I raced by him, we made brief eye contact. He saw they were gaining on me, so he stuffed the phone numbers in his pocket and stood by a trash barrel. As the two officers sped by him, he picked the barrel up and hurled it. The full trashcan smashed into one man knocking him down, the other tripped over him, and did a face plant on the newly waxed floor. As I reached the bottom of the escalator and jumped over the side of the stairs, I looked up and gave him a nod, silently thanking him. Omar said he kicked the dudes front tooth as he ran away laughing, he caught up with me a few blocks later.

  "Wait up nigga!" He shouted after me, “You a fast ass mafucka, but you was ‘bout to get got when you almost hit that stroller!"

  I just calmly stared at him. He pointed his finger at his chest.

  "What I wanna know is...why you stealin' from “Foot Locker,” when you work there?
" He said between laughs.

  I grinned at him and shook my head; he was talking about the black and white striped shirt I was wearing. I had an official “Foot Locker”

  employee outfit on.

  "Man I don't work there! I got hired jus’ to get tha outfit." I schooled. "I been to seven different malls in tha last two weeks, havin' this outfit on makes it easy to slip in tha back and jack em." I held up the black trash bag full of new “Jordan's.” “Here,” I reached in the sac and handed him a pair, "You look like you a size 12, good lookin’ out my nigga." Silence replaced the giggles as he recognized my young genius.

  He held up the shoes, "Yo how much you be sellin' these shits for?"

  "Seventy five dollars and I got eight pairs in here." I answered.

  "I sold a hundred pairs in tha last two weeks." I said still grinning.

  "Niggas be callin' me “Jordan."

  Omar was impressed. Shit all the niggas he knew was trying to sell dope to get paid, including him, and here I was slanging shoes, making the average corner nigga look broke. Omar said to himself,

  "This dude can sell his shit on the blocks and not give a fuck about the holice!"

  After putting Omar up on game, he and I became tight and we started slanging shoes together. I had him go cop a “Foot Locker” outfit the same way I did, and we got busy. We were making over 10g’s a month, and we split the money 50/50. Couldn't nobody tell us shit, we was 17 years old pushing brand new “Acura Legend” coups. Our pockets had a constant case of the mumps, we was little thousanairs. However, with the money, came bitches, and with the bitches came niggas. In my eyes, niggas fit the bitch profile better than women did most times.

  Our activity caught the attention of one of the neighborhood bosses. Biz was a slick ass nigga whose stock was on the rise. He was looking for some solid soldiers to hold down a few spots he wanted to control. Biz didn't want some dumb ass greedy niggas; he needed some mafuckas with intelligence and heart. He knew everything that went on in the hood, and little did we know he'd been secretly watching us for months.

  I sold my last pair of “Air Force Ones” to a single mom with a teenage son, put the 50-dollar bill in my pocket, and headed up the block to my whip. Omar's car was parked in front of mine. He was sitting on his hood talking to a chick that made herself comfortable between his open legs. I walked up on them and the girl began grinding on him when “Adina Howard's,” T-shirt and My Panties On, blasted from his speakers. While she was winding and rolling her body to the beat, she used a cherry flavored blow pop as a mic and sang the words. Omar was too busy enjoying the free concert to notice the pearl white “Mercedes Benz” 500 pull up next to us. I stopped and eyed the car; my right hand was already obeying my brains order to grab my piece...so I was ready for whatever! A big Debo looking dude got out the driver’s side and just stood there in the street.

  "Tell dat lil' nigga to turn dat shit down!" He barked.

  That finally got Omar's attention as he turned around to see who said it. He grabbed the girl by her waist and gently pushed her away from him. He hopped off the car and never took his eyes off the giant as he moved toward me. Omar pressed the volume button on his stereo remote, placed it in his back pocket and slowly pulled out a 9mm. Omar cocked his bald head to the side and glared at the linebacker. I however had my attention on what I couldn't see.

  "Nigga who tha fuck is you?" I said evenly.

  "Mafucka, don't worry ‘bout who tha fuck I am!" The linebacker shouted.

  I gave him an easy grin, "I wasn't talkin’ to you”.

  I shifted my eyes to the back door and waited for the person behind the black tint to join the party. The back window slid down silently and a shadow leaned forward. "Relax ya back fellas, we don't

  mean no harm." It said.

  The door opened and almost in slow motion, a cream-green alligator shoe pressed against the street.

  "Yo cat daddy, we aint got no gators." Omar joked.

  The stranger got out, stepped around the door, and walked easily toward us. He wore a beige sharkskin suit and a butter cream silk shirt with no tie. A green handkerchief peeked out his coat pocket.

  "I jus' wanna talk to you fellas for a few ticks if that's alright." He extended his chocolate brown manicured hand, "I'm Biz. The large man over my left shoulder is Bruce."

  Biz stood about 6.2, if I had to guess, I would say he was about 45. He had short black wavy hair and a smooth goatee. His deep tanned complexion was absent of any bumps. Everything about him said...money. When I shook his hand, I could tell he never worked a hard day in his life; he had hands as soft as surgical cotton. Biz looked us up and down and side to side. I was beginning to get agitated with this whole scene, when he spoke again.

  He nodded in my direction, "You must be Tyce? And I don't buy my gators off the street...Omar." He said narrowing his eyes at

  him.

  I always like to listen as people talk, ‘cuz when your mouth opens your brain is on display. Omar on the other hand wasn't as patient.

  He blurted out, "What tha fuck are you a stalker?"

  "Naw young blood, I jus’ recognize good shit when I see it." He responded calmly. "Listen, ya'll wanna make some money? I'm ‘bout to get into some shit, and I could use some young brothers like you." He cut to the chase.

  Right on cue, Omar spoke while I just listened. I was always cautious when somebody said they could "use me.”

  "Man we makin’ money, do we look hungry to you?" He bragged.

  "I aint talkin’ ‘bout no sneaker doe, I'm talkin’ ‘bout so much money you get tired of countin' it. I'm setting up shop in San Diego; ya'll can give them shoes to the niggas you'll be runnin' down there. I got mafuckas weed wackin' niggas right now, makin' room for my shit." He paused checking my reaction.

  Now I'd heard of Biz from a few niggas I knew in Oakland. They said he was on the rise and moving

  down south...guess they was right.

  "You said ya name was Biz, right?" I asked

  making eye contact.

  "That's right." He confirmed.

  "Look Biz...if ya "bizness" is dope, you talkin’ to tha wrong two niggas. We aint got time for that shit!"

  He leaned in a little closer to me, "What you mean you aint got time?"

  “Holice givin' niggas all day for that shit, we aint got time to waste sittin' in a cell tryin’ to play catch up when we get out." I leaned in a little closer this time, "You gotta come with somethin’ a lil' better than that to fuck with us."

  Omar shot me a quick look of protest, which I ignored. Biz noticed it, but didn't say shit. I never liked the dope game it was over crowded with bitch ass niggas. Fake ass niggas that claim to be solid, but would fold up like lawn chairs under pressure. I wasn't trying to be locked up ‘cuz another mafucka was afraid to be. Biz smiled and stroked his goatee; he strolled back to his Benz and put his hand inside. A petite feminine hand placed a pager in his palm. The diamond tennis bracelet she was wearing winked at me as the sun hit it. He walked up and gave me the pager,

  "Get back when I hit you...I think I might have a lil’ somethin’ better."

  That was nine years ago, Omar and me had been working for Biz ever since. Now here we were both 26 years old posted up on a California block. We were waiting for Biz’s new man to show up with some money Biz owed us. Yeah, we were hanging on a street corner but understand we weren’t your average everyday corner niggas.

  All Grown Up

  I walked in my kitchen holding a bag of take-out from Shabazz restaurant. I ate my dinner on a 5,000-dollar mahogany table that was placed on top of a 40,000-dollar marble floor. I had a two-foot shark swimming in a 500-gallon fish tank in my bedroom. I sat on heated toilet seats with built in air suction when I took a shit and wiped my ass with 20-dollar toilet paper…yes there is 20-dollar toilet paper. Life was good. I had no kids and no wife. You don't lose bitches chasin' money, but you lose money chasin' bitches. I believe that shit. Now don't get it twisted; I love the ladi
es! I just don't get side tracked; I put business first. I mean what woman wants a broke ass nigga. Shit, I was far from broke and I love being wanted.

  My wet feet pressed against the slate tile as I walked out the shower room, and looked in the bathroom mirror. I got some baking soda out the medicine cabinet and started brushing my teeth. That white powder kept my shit gleaming even though it tasted like feet. I was what old people called “paper bag brown” not to dark and not to light. However, I had the dark features of a

  Dominican or Cuban nigga. I kept my hair short

  and faded up…’cuz afro’s was outta style and braids were for girls. I had a solid frame from eating well that was nicely cut up. Being 6.1 and weighing 190 looked good on me. I didn't want to be all buff and shit...I liked being underestimated. I enjoyed seeing the surprised look on niggas faces when I flashed on em. I was the nigga you didn’t see coming. I kept a low profile and stayed in the shadows. Yeah, I got loud and live at times but I kept that shit to a minimum. Shit, the “IRS” used new potential employees to get info on tax dodging niggas. They would post up at the local clubs and write down the license plate numbers of expensive cars, so the “IRS” can run the info and see who was legal and who wasn’t. So I wasn’t trying to get a letter in the mail talking some bullshit about tax evasion. I got dressed and drove into the city. I was passing by “Marcus Garvey's” school when I seen Lil’ Flash. Niggas called him that ‘cuz he'd get the crack to the fiens in a blink, and holice couldn't catch that nigga on foot. I pulled over and honked the horn.