The Holy City Read online

  Chapter 4

  Steve was on his side of town, which was not far from where he laid his head. He was well connected in his organization. I guess you could call him an OG because of all the work he put in for the CVL nation in the past years. Steve really didn’t have it in him to lead a nation, so he became comfortable with just being Big C’s silencer.

  Big C was the son of a mob figure. His father was one of few blacks that were connected with the Italian mobsters of Chicago back in the seventies and eighties. Big C was more so of an extortionist type of kingpin. If there was anyone in the city of Chicago who claimed they were affiliated with the conservatives and they were getting a lot of money and didn’t hold rank in the streets, he taxed them weekly. If for any reason they didn’t pay the money, Big C would go shut them down and stop their cash flow.

  Big C stood about six feet tall with a slight husky frame. He had a light-skinned complexion and always kept a serious expression upon his face. With his receding hairline and his dark-colored eyes with bags underneath, Big C looked to be well into his late forties but was only in his mid-thirties. Big C basically had Steve around him whenever he would rotate the streets. Steve was comfortable being Big C’s shooter because he had love for him, but Steve wasn’t getting nearly as much money as the young hustlers that had their own block; Big C made sure Steve was eating good and never wanted for anything.

  Big C and Smitty did business together as bosses. You rarely saw these figures in the streets unless they called goals (meetings) amongst the nation when things weren’t going well in the neighborhood or whenever they felt the opposition was trying to infiltrate.

  In the meanwhile, Marcus was riding clean around the ‘hood in his money green Chevy Brougham sitting on 30s and Vogues with four, twelve-inch kickers in the trunk, all sponsored by Lil D. Times when Marcus wasn’t hustling, he would ride around the city and smoke. Most of the time he would end up on the far west side where his grandmother Emma lived. Emma stayed on Central and Division; over there were few vice lords and majority Four Corner Hustlas (another street organization).

  The Foe’s were a fairly new mob, but they were constantly growing in power and were spreading throughout the Chicago land. Marcus spent summers over at his grandmother’s house as a youngster, so he knew how they got down. Marcus had little respect for the Foes once he moved to the Holy City area because he felt they were soft on that side of town. When Marcus would come through shining, guys over that way would hate on him hard. The Foes knew he was getting money, and they already were afraid of him—in other words, they didn’t want any trouble.

  A year had turned, and it was in the middle of the winter. This time of the season was called “grind season.” The nice cars were put up, and guys usually hustled in all black Car hart coats and Timberland boots so they would be able to make it through the blistering cold. Snow damn near up to your knees and the temperature usually below zero. It didn’t matter how cold it got or how much snow was on the ground, guys still had to stand out on the block to make sure the money came in right.

  Everything was still going smoothly until the stick-up men started terrorizing certain blocks that was getting a lot of money at the time.

  One day at the end of the night shift, Marcus made an unusual stop at Peaches’ apartment on the corner of Twenty-first and St. Louis after collecting the night’s earnings from both blocks (Homan and Trumbull). Marcus wasn’t inside the apartment for more than fifteen minutes before coming back outside to approach his car and continue on his normal routine; what he didn’t notice was two individuals parked directly behind his Chevy in an unknown vehicle with the windows extremely fogged up due to the cold weather, which made it impossible to see inside.

  Before Marcus could make it all the way to his car, the passenger hopped out the parked car, followed by the driver.

  “Don’t'chú take another muthafuckin’ step if you wanna live nigga!” one of the gunmen said while directing his pistol at Marcus. Marcus flinched and instinctively reached toward his waistline for his pistol, which he usually kept on him at all times, but not this particular time.

  “Don’t do nuttin’ stupid. Put'cho’ muthafuckin’ hands up. I kno’ you ain’t tryn’a die ova’ a lil money!” the other gunman exclaimed as they both quickly approached Marcus, putting both pistols close-up on him. While one of the stick-up men searched him down to see was he strapped and to take whatever he had on him, the other kept the gun to Marcus’s face.

  “Where the real money at? I kno’ this ain’t it. We kno’ how y’all gettin' to 'dat money ova’ here,” the gunmen muttered out with a mischievous grin on his face as he pulled out roughly three to four hundred dollars out of Marcus’s pockets.

  “Man, that’s all I got . . . !” Marcus said while trying to get a good look at the unfamiliar faces. “Now y’all betta’ gone ‘head ‘n’ take that shit ‘fore it be too late for you pussies!”

  “Bam!” Was the sound of one of the gunmen slapping Marcus across the forehead with the pistol.

  “Get in and take us to where it’s at then, nigga!” they said while forcing Marcus into his Chevy.

  One of them kept the pistol to Marcus while the other tore through the inside of the car, searching for money and drugs. Little did Marcus know, these two individuals lurked and followed his every move—from the time he picked up Lil G from off Trumbull to collect the money from the night shift, all the way ‘til he dropped Lil G off to where he needed to go. This routine went smoothly every night without any suspicion.

  “Jackpot!” One of the gunmen blurted out with excitement after he forcefully broke open the glove compartment and saw the stacks of money.

  “See, this all the fuck we wanted, right here . . . !” one of the gunmen said happily while stuffing the money inside his first down winter coat. “We even gon’ let'cho’ bitch ass live and let chú keep this piece of shit-ass car; but we’ll hold on to these keys and this phone. Nice doing’ bin’nis wit’chú, lord,” Both assailants rushed out the car laughing after robbing Marcus of at least ten thousand dollars.

  Instantly Marcus ran back up to Peaches’ apartment to call Spoonie and inform him on what just had happened.

  Knock! Knock! Knock! After the three loud knocks at the door, Peaches snapped as she answered, “Who the hell is it?”

  “It’s me baby, open the door’!”

  “Why you ain’t use yo’ key. You know’ these kids in here sleep!” Peaches fussed out while making her way to open up the door.

  The moment Peaches cracked the door, she saw Marcus wiping blood from his forehead

  “Oh my god! Baby, what happened!?” She asked dramatically with major concern while attempting to reach up at his head.

  “I need to use the phone!” Marcus ignored her act of sympathy as he aggressively walked by her.

  “The phone in the room, baby. I’mma get somethin’ to clean up all that blood!” Peaches exclaimed as she quickly paced toward the bathroom.

  While Marcus was on the phone, Peaches sat right next to him, attempting to clean the deep gash on his forehead while he explained the situation to Spoonie on the phone. If it was anyone else, Spoonie probably would’ve thought they were on bullshit, but since it was coming from Marcus, he knew it had to be true.

  Spoonie was a stone-cold murderer, and he knew Marcus had it in him as well so he felt it was time for everyone to strap up.

  “Yeah, who dis?” Smitty answered his cell phone.

  “Chief, it’s me. What’s goin’ on?” Spoonie spoke out.

  “Shit, talk to me.”

  “Well, I told you about what happened the other day. I really wanna get to the bottom of this shit. A ma’fucka kno’ betta’ than to try us like that . . . You kno’ what I mean?”

  “You know’ what to do. Come get wit’ me so you can supply the ‘hood wit’ them tools . . . And If a muthafucka even look the wrong way, TOS they ass!” (Terminate on site) Smitty angrily demanded. “Th
at’s how we get to the bottom of shit. No ifs, ands, or buts about it!”

  “I’m on my way to you, right now!” Spoonie assured

  “You know where I’m at. I’ll holla at chú in’a minute,” Smitty said as they ended the call.

  Marcus stood on Twenty-first a week straight with a TEC .9 with the strap across his shoulder to hold it up under his coat, waiting for any type of suspicion to come on the block.

  Everything was cool until one cold winter night, an unfamiliar car crept through the block, and no one knew who was in the car due to the deep black tint that covered every window on the car. They finally pulled over as if they were trying to buy some dope.

  “Yeah, who workin’?” Asked the driver as he pulled up to one of the Shorty lords, portraying to be a dope fiend.

  “How many you need?” The Shorty that was working the pack asked anxiously without walking up to the car.

  “Two jabs!” (Packs)

  “A’ight. Pull over!” Shorty demanded while in the midst of jogging off to his hidden stash spot on the block.

  Marcus was posted up in the gangway on the side of one of the resident houses on Homan where no one could see him as he watched the young hustler run to his stash spot excitedly to get the packs. Marcus knew something wasn’t right with these dudes, but the Shorty was so anxious to finish up the bundle for he could get paid; he didn’t care who the customers were that he was about to serve.

  “Damn, Shorty, it took you long enuff. You gon’ give me a play or what!” the driver said with his best dope-fiend expression.

  “I can’t give no plays right now . . . ,” the Shorty said while approaching the parked car. “So you want this shit or not!” the Shorty said aggressively.

  “We spendin’ damn near two hunit and you can’t work wit’ us!”

  “Hell naw!” the Shorty yelled with an attitude. “Now do y’all want this shit or not? You muthafuckas wastin’ time. Them people already been hot as hell around here!” the Shorty said while nervously looking around for any detectives.

  “Let me see it?” The driver asked.

  “Let'chú see it?” Shorty said with a sense of disbelief. “Man, you playin’ games, get the fuck on!” the Shorty said while in the midst of walking off.

  “A’ight! A’ight, I got'chú . . . ,” The driver replied, getting Shorty’s attention as he began counting the money out. “You know how it is, some of you young niggaz be tryn’a take the money and run off ‘n’ shit.”

  “Not over here, homey. We all about that dolla’ this way,” the young hustler mentioned as he started reaching inside his pants for the packs. He never paid attention to the person in the backseat.

  “Come-on, same time, man. I don’t trust you!” the driver said anxiously.

  As soon as the Shorty reached his arms and head inside the window with the work in hand, the person in the backseat had a chrome .357 Smith & Wesson pistol to the Shorty’s face in a matter of seconds.

  “Drop 'dat shit and empty everythang in 'nem pockets . . . ,” the gunman in the backseat said in a low-pitched devilish tone. “If you make any false move, I’mma knock ya’ shit back. Try me if you think I’m playin’!”

  The Shorty knew dude with the gun meant business from the tone of his voice, so he dropped all the drugs in the driver’s lap then dug into his pockets and grabbed all the money he had on him and did the same. Where Marcus was standing, he was able to witness everything that was going down. Marcus knew the Shorty was getting robbed from how he was digging into his pockets without taking his head out the window.

  “Where the rest of it at!” The gunman said with death in his bloodshot red eyes, obviously scaring the living soul out of the Shorty lord.

  “Dat’s it, man, I swear! Jus’ don’t kill me, man, please!” the Shorty pleaded scarcely.

  “Quit cryin’ like a lil bitch! We gon’ let'chu live but next time you might not be so lucky, you hear me, muthafucka!” The gunmen announced evil spiritedly.

  “Yeah, yeah, I hear you, man!”

  “Come-on, let’s get the fuck outta here,” The gunmen said as the driver proceeded to pull off with the Shorty’s head still halfway in the car.

  It was in the middle of one of the coldest winters in Chicago history, which meant ice and snow covered the streets. The stick-up men couldn’t speed off without their car sliding and loosing control. Before they could react, they found themselves in the middle of an ambush.

  Marcus came running from out the gangway firing the TEC .9 relentlessly at the car as it was slow to pull off. As he was unloading the fifty-shot extended clip, the driver panicked by pressing all the way down on the gas, causing the semi bald tires to burn rubber and spin out without the car being able to accelerate because of the slush and ice in the road. Marcus kept shooting the semi-automatic, shattering the back window and putting several bullet holes on the side of the car. By the time they were able to accelerate, the driver crashed into a parked car. Marcus then ran close-up on the car and aired the entire inside of the car out! I mean he made sure there wasn’t a living soul left inside! Marcus escaped into the night, leaving two dead bodies in a running vehicle on Homan. This was the first of Marcus’s killings, but it damn sure wouldn’t be his last!