My Brother's Keeper 2 Read online

  MY BROTHER’S

  KEEPER 2

  By U. E. Wynn

  Copyright © 2018 U. E. Wynn

  All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced or altered in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the writer.

  ISBN-13: 9780463222218

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  U.E. Wynn

  A self-educated, business savvy, humble entrepreneur was counted out at a young age by his peers, teachers, and family members. After enduring life altering events that would destroy and/or diminish any individual, he chose to overcome and excel. He turned what would be deemed a negative into a positive. He reevaluated himself and reclaimed a positive position within society.

  U.E. Wynn is the founder of 501C nonprofit, Save a H.O.M.I.E. Inc. and an active activist within the community. He continues to assist disenfranchised youth, feed and clothe the homeless and bring forth literacy to the illiterate. Wynn also helps in providing a positive, productive and social atmosphere for the youth to unwind and enjoy themselves throughout the Carolinas via events, concerts and parties.

  This is Wynn’s second novel presenting you with a page turning, nail biting, exotic read.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  From the heart, Wynn Publications would like to acknowledge the following people…GOD…Joanie Thomas (I know you see me Mama, miss you), Iris Wynn, Lakesha Thomas, Danette Wynn (see Ma, I did it!), Quaneika Thomas (something I did you can be proud of), Jyvonda Marshall, William Little, Dante Brice, Ayanna Sellers, Sonja Bienemy (thanks sis!), Whittney Foster, Javon Bienemy, Anthony Henderson (miss you big bruh), Quanisa Hyman, Donald Collins, Khaila Cammacho, and to all our brothers and sisters caught up in the struggle…This is for you!

  December 2, 2010

  Prologue

  Two weeks of living on the Bronx notorious streets had finally taken a toll on Koran. No longer did he resemble the cute, twelve year old his mother constantly fussed over. His hair normally braided in neat corn rolls was now tangled and dirty and looked more like a brillo pad. Dark purple rings blotched his red droopy eyes, results of sleeping on the train and from spooky nights he slept in alleys. His filthy clothes hung off his small frame like rags smelling of garlic bread and onions. To make matters worse, he had spent the last of his money the day before on a slice of pizza and a pocket knife for protection.

  No, the streets of New York were no place for a twelve year old kid, but Koran was determined to make it because there was no way in hell he was returning home to the Monroe projects. Well, he couldn’t call it home anymore Since his mother and sister were moving to North Carolina. It’s what forced his decision to move away. Having a stubborn streak like his older brother Jahad, his mind was set on staying in the Bronx. He would rather live on the streets than move to the boondocks around a bunch of sheet wearing rednecks.

  What really pissed him off is it had already been agreed that he would stay in New York with Jahad when their mother moved. Then, at the last minute they changed their minds claiming New York wasn’t the place for him. It made no difference because he’d showed them both. So what if he went hungry sometimes? So what if he hadn’t taken a bath in two weeks? And so what if his home was a cardboard box. He was still in the Bronx and he was there to stay.

  Crawling from his cardboard box Koran stretched some the aches from his muscles and then walked out of the alley on Commonwealth Avenue glancing around for an unsuspecting victim. Since running away, he had reverted back to his old ways of scamming and pick pocketing. A skill he picked up when Jahad was locked up in Spofford Detention Center in an effort to bring money home to his mother. Now it was his only means of survival.

  For a cold Tuesday morning herds of people crowded the sidewalks, walking purposely to work like ants. Dark puffy clouds painted New York’s skyline. A sure sign of snow Since temperatures now hovered at forty degrees. Koran blended in with the crowds, then scanned both sides of the streets to make sure no cops were around. This was something he learned to do his second day on the streets after he was chased by two plain clothes cops for snatching a white woman’s pocketbook. From that day on he studied people looking for shifty eyes, bulges under armpits, and tight pants. The sure sign of a cop, he figured.

  He walked by a bread bakery and paused for a second, the aroma making his mouth water. He then fell into step with two white men dressed in expensive business suits. His eyes stayed glued to their back pocket while in his mouth, he pictured a plate of fried chicken wings, rice smothered with thick gravy, and a cold glass of cherry cool-aid. Food was his biggest motivator because if he didn’t score he didn’t eat. Once his belly was full then maybe he would catch a cab to Fordham road and do a little shopping depending on how much he came off with. To lessen his risk of getting caught he tried to stretch his licks out as far as possible and kept a mental note to be careful how he spent his money. Drawing closer to the two men he caught snatches of their conversation, something pertaining to a case they were trying later that afternoon.

  “Lawyers!” Koran whispered to himself grinning. If he did this right, he could possibly be set for a whole mouth.

  Before making his move he scanned the street once more, then did two things simultaneously. His right hand shot out towards the lawyer in his left back pocket, at the same time he stumbled hard onto him using his index and middle finger to slip the wallet from his back pocket. When he turned Koran ran into the lawyer on the right hugging him tightly.

  “Help me! Help me! He’s gonna get me!” he screamed, taking wild glances over his shoulder.

  Repulsed by the smelly black kid clinging to his two thousand dollar suit the lawyer pried Koran’s hands away without a clue that his wallet was no longer in his pocket.

  “What’s wrong kid? Who’s after you?”

  “Some man. Some bum back there,” Koran pointed behind him with crocodile tears in his eyes. “He tried to pull me in the alley.”

  Both lawyers glanced over their shoulders confused. “There aren’t any bums back there kid,” the lawyer on his left said annoyed.

  “Un huh! C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  “No, No, that’s alright,” the lawyer on his right looked at his partner. “You’re okay now. Just stay away from that alley.”

  Dummies. Koran laughed as he Started back towards his cardboard home so he could count his money. “Koran! Koran!” A familiar voice called out behind him just as he was about to turn into the alley. Koran turned around and locked eyes with the closest person he knew to a grandmother. Mrs. Harris.

  Dressed in a beige cotton dress, long wool coat and wearing thick bifocals, Emma Harris ran towards him and smothered him with a warm hug. “Boy where you been? Michelle is worried sick about you,” she said scowling.

  Although he knew trouble was ahead, he couldn’t contain the joy he felt. Two weeks was a long time to go without a hug, especially from someone he loved. “I’m a’ight Mrs. Harris. I’ve got my own little place,” he said, pointing down the alley to his cardboard box.

  “Humph!” Emma grunted. “You know better than running away like that. Anything could have happened to you out here. And look at you. When’s the last time you washed your butt? You should be ashamed of yourself smelling like that. Come on here and let me get you home.” She grabbed his arm and walked to the edge of the sidewalk to signal for a cab.

  “Mrs. Harris I can’t.”

  Emma cut him off with a sharp look. “You can’t what?”

  “I can’t go home. They trying to make me move down south. I don’t wanna leave New York, Mrs. Harris. I can’t!” he pleaded on the verge of crying.

  Emma’s stern look instantly turned sympathetic. “I kn
ow baby, but sometimes you have to roll with the flow of things. You know you can’t live out here on the streets like this Koran.”

  “Let me stay with you then. I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll do good in school and I’ll do chores. Please Mrs. Harris?”

  His words touched her heart and brought tears to her eyes. “I wish you could stay with me baby, but I doubt Michelle will let you. Hey, you never know, you just might like North Carolina,” she said attempting to brighten his spirits.

  “No, I won’t! I’ll hate it. I hate it already,” he said pouting.

  At that moment a cab pulled up and she ushered him inside before sliding in herself. In the cab Koran stared out at traffic, sidewalks, and store fronts soaking up the scene. He imagined it would probably be one of the last times he saw New York in a while and the thought filled him with dread. Making a quick dash when the cab stopped crossed his mind, but reading his thoughts, Emma took hold of his hand. Fifteen minutes later the cab parked across from Monroe projects and his dread turned into desperation. His face wore a mask of misery when Emma tugged his hand, urging him from the cab. With her grip he knew there was no way he could escape now. On the elevator ride to the tenth floor, he paced in small circles desperately trying to figure a way out. Then, as the elevator came to stop something came to mind. A move he used occasionally when pulling one of his schemes.

  “Mrs. Harris, I have to use the bathroom real bad!” He doubled over grabbing his stomach. “It’s been almost two weeks.”

  Emma took in his pained expression and whipped him away to her apartment. Inside Koran dashed to the bathroom holding his stomach with Emma on his heels. For twenty two minutes he made loud grunting noises and flushed the toilet every two minutes until she finally stopped asking if he was okay and left. Now all he had to do was slip from the apartment and he was home free.

  When he cracked the bathroom door, he held his breath, praying Emma wasn’t waiting for him in the hallway. A deep sigh of relief escaped him when he found it empty. Almost there, he thought as he crept to the end of the short hallway like a cat burglar. He paused when he heard Emma rambling around in the kitchen, then jogged lightly to the front door.

  As he eased the door open he froze catching sight of his mother and Latrice stepping from the elevator. The strong urge to run out and hug his mother washed over him, but thoughts of moving down south held him in place. Once they turned the corner he stepped out into the hallway looking around as if he had just escaped from prison. The staircase door was only a few steps away, but he made no move towards it. Since his mother and sister were gone, he figured he could grab some of his clothes and his notebook computer before they returned. His only worry was Jahad, but at ten o’clock in the morning he doubted if he would be home. Jahad had always been an early riser. With that thought, he decided to test his luck and dug in his dirty jean pocket for his key.

  Paranoia set in again by the time he reached the apartment door which was only two doors away from Emma’s apartment. If Jahad was inside, moving down south most likely would come with a severe ass whipping too. Then he thought of Emma finding him gone and quickly entered the apartment. Silence greeted him as he closed the door, but he still wasn’t taking any chances. Remembering a scene he saw once on television, he took off his sneakers and sprinted towards his bedroom on his tiptoes without making a sound.

  He felt a rush of homesickness when he opened the door. His bed was neatly made with the thick black comforter and fluffy white pillow making him yearn to sleep in a comfortable bed again, his comfortable bed. All his sneakers were stacked along the front of his bed looking crisp and new. He looked down at the badly scuffed Air Force One’s he held and shook his head. This wasn’t him at all. He normally was a fly little dude. Now here he was dressed and smelling like a smoked out crack head. A lump formed in his throat thinking of how rough he had been living, but he only had one other option, one he refused to accept.

  Pushing the thought aside, he walked to his closet, passing Jahad’s messy side of the room when he heard the apartment door open.

  “Oh shit!” he whispered and then dived into the closet head first frantically snatching clothes off the hanger to cover himself.

  A few seconds later Jahad and Tony entered the bedroom. Tony dressed in a Pelle Pelle jean suit, gray Timberlands, and a gray and white New York Yankee’s sweatshirt. He bore a close resemblance to the rapper Methoughd Man. Golden brown skin, a wild mouth, full lips and wide set chinky brown eyes. A sharp nose flared at its nostrils, and long hair that he wore in corn rolls that hung down to his shoulders.

  Jahad wore black Roc-A-Wear jeans, Red and white Air Force Ones, a red and white Roc-A-Wear hoodie and a white doo rag on his bald head. His large soulful light brown eyes the color of a Hershey chocolate bar, stood out against his dark complexion. He had facial features that look like they could have been shaped from stone. High cheekbones, a broad, slightly crooked nose, thick lips, and a strong jawline ending at his pointed chin.

  “A yo, what’s that smell, son?” Tony asked, wrinkling his nose as he sat on Korans’ bed. “You got some sour clothes in here or something?”

  In the closet Koran bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from giggling. He knew he smelled, but he didn’t know he was that funky.

  “Nah, I don’t think so. Let me open the window though, because I smell it too.” Jahad opened the window that sat right above his dresser, then sat on his bed facing Tony and shook his head. This shit is stressing me all the way out Tone, word up. Where in the hell is this little nigga at,” he asked, his eyes holding Tony’s as if he held the answer. “You know what I’m trying not to think, right? But if Hector…”

  Tony held up his hand. “Don’t speak it into existence, Jah. You better believe that wherever Koran is he’s alright. Lil dude just heated right now. He’ll show up sooner than later…watch.”

  Koran cracked a smile. Tony was his man, he thought.

  “It’s been two fuckin weeks Tone!” Jahad shouted, pushing himself off his bed. He went to his dresser, opened the bottom drawer and took out a box of Dutch master cigars and a sandwich bag of lime green marijuana before he sat back down. “You know, I can’t blame nobody but myself for this shit. I never should have lied to the lil nigga,” Koran mumbled, his expression tormented.

  “I won’t tell you to stop worrying or blaming yourself, but you have a lot of shit on your plate right now, so stay focused, son.”

  Jahad nodded. “You right. So what’s up? You still bouncin’ or you gonna fall back and help me blow the M.G.’s out the water?”

  Tony sighed. “C’mon Jah. We built on this a hundred times already. As much as I wanna stay up here and help you pop this shit off, I can’t. It ain’t about me no more, Jah. And it ain’t about you, money, bitches, or the game. It’s all about your sister and the seed she carrying. I can’t afford to be selfish and risk going up North or getting killed for the sake of what I wanna do. My son or daughter, your niece or nephew, won’t grow up like we did. I’ma make sure of that. You gotta respect it Son.”

  Jahad rolled a blunt, lit it, then walked to his window without responding. Although he understood, it didn’t change the fact that he played a major role within the M.G. structure. If it wasn’t for his help the organization would have never been formed. A month ago, they successfully took out a drug empire and now were in the process of taking total control of the drug trade in the South Bronx.

  Tony was needed. He was their financial man. His gifted hustlers mind and money making scheme’s always produced money. With this move money would be pouring in and Tony would be the perfect Treasurer. Jahad went to the extent of offering to buy him and his sister a house in New Jersey as a wedding gift to keep him close to New York, but Tony declined the offer. He had found something that held his interest more than drug dealing. Something that demanded his time and loyalty. That something was love and the chance to raise his child.

  “What? You gonna take kill the blunt yo self?” Tony as
ked.

  Jahad took a deep pull before passing it. He blew out a cloud of bluish smoke, then gave Tony a pleading look

  “Tone, I feel you on what you saying man, but damn! You supposed to be here now that we’re eating. Think about it. New York is about to be ours. We taking this shit, and the ill part is, won’t nobody know nothing!” he said with feeling.

  Tony shook his head. “Nah, Jah. My place is with Trice and my seed. I see where you coming from, but it ain’t in me no more! I mean, my love for the game is gone. All I see is death now, Homey.”

  “C’mon with that bullshit, Tone. It’ll always….”

  “No, listen man. Nothing lasts forever, Son. Believe dat! So take what I’m about to say to heart. Make your money, then leave this shit alone. I mean fall all the way back.”

  Jahad screwed up his face. Since the CoCo twins destroyed his dream of owning his own record label, he now craved power and wouldn’t be satisfied until he had it. “Fallback? No, you need to get off that Holy Roller shit. You know the drill man. When Sha’ comes home, we moving on East New York and Brownsville. The same goes for when Lord, Prince and Star come home. Bed-Stuy, Harlem, and Southside Jamaica Queens is gonna be ours. Shit, it’s about to be on my nigga!”

  Tony looked at Jahad solemnly. “And like I said, all I see is death.”

  “So be it,” Jahad said and hunched his shoulders.

  Holed up in the closet Koran listened awestruck. He half suspected Jahad was behind what police labeled “The Bronx Drug War” where thirty-six people had been slain over the course of the month. But now he knew the purpose. Even at the tender age of twelve he understood completely the impact Jahad’s plan would have. It amazed him, and at that moment made him more determined to stay in New York. He had no idea what the M.G.’s were, but his sole ambition was to become a part of it.