so he could get out the game, Smurf thought to himself, but does a hustler ever truly get out of the game? He remembered arriving at the apartment when Dink called, and seeing the huge Louis Vuitton traveling trunk near the front door.
“Where we going?” he remembered asking.
“We're not going anywhere.” Smurf was confused. “I'm going. I'm leaving this place. I've done all that I can do for you, Marco, Dame, shit…even Crystal. I got to do for me now.”
Smurf realized that doing for him meant following his heart, which meant starting a new life with Laci—a crackhead. He remembered how deeply Dink was wrapped up in her and how he always had a smile on his face, even when he saw her at her worst. Smurf knew that leaving was the right move for Dink. He only hoped that one day a woman would make him feel that way as well.
Walking slowly around the apartment, Smurf admired the black art that graced the walls and small African figures that were placed strategically throughout. He looked at the picture that hung above the fireplace. It was a close up of a beautiful black woman's face, but there was something about the picture that he connected with. There was so much sadness in her eyes that he could relate to. Smurf's thoughts traveled back to his mother. He always wanted a good life for her and with him being the man now, he would make sure she would have nothing less.
Smurf stood and studied her for what seemed like hours, as if he was staring right into her soul. Then he remembered that behind the picture was a wall-safe. He removed the large picture and leaned it up against the wall next to the fireplace. Remembering the combination that Dink gave him, he slowly turned the dial to the right, to the left, then back to the right. He grabbed the handle gently and turned it.
Click.
Smurf's heart beat rapidly as he looked at the perfect rubber banded stacks of dead presidents that lay before him. He reached his hand inside and took one out.
He fanned through the stack, inhaled the fresh crisp scent of money then a smile crept across his childlike face. Smurf took out the remaining stacks just because he could. A brand new, shiny Beretta .380 that sat just behind the money shocked Smurf. He took the piece out and walked over to the full-length mirror by the front door and posed. First, he stood with his legs apart and the gun pointed at his reflection as if he were the bad guy. Then he turned to the side to check out his profile with the new piece. Smurf liked how he looked, and the new gun made him feel invincible.
“Yo, Dink—” Smurf yelled, only to remember that Dink was truly gone.
He looked at his reflection and the tear that he had tried to suppress crept down Smurf's sepia-colored cheek.
“Don't be mad, Smurf. I'm gonna always take care of you.”
“How you fuckin' leaving…leaving me here? What am I supposed to do? This is all I know.”
“Naw, my lil man, you know way more. That's why I'm leaving this all to you. You're the man now.”
“What? Leaving what to me?”
“The South Bronx, baby.”
Smurf roughly wiped the tear away. For the first time since he started working for Dink, he was all alone. Smurf never knew his own father, so he looked up to Dink as a father figure. It was Dink who took Smurf under his wing and taught him not only the code of the streets, but also about life, which sharpened his mind. Smurf's mother tried to do the same but as he got older, she became too busy with men to make sure he stayed on the right path. Truth be told, Dink lasted longer in his life than the men his mother had running through her.
Dink gave Smurf credit because he was hungry and eager to work, and he actually listened and learned. Smurf was his most loyal comrade; and because of that, they formed a tight bond. Even though Smurf never actually worked with Dink in his business, he ended up being the muscle Dink needed and the eyes to see what he couldn't. Smurf saw a lot and knew that he could hold Dink down if need be. He already got rid of the dead weight when he got rid of that snitch Marco and bitch ass nigga, Dame, now it was time to get the rest of his soldiers together. But who could he trust?
Smurf remembered all he brought with him—clothes, cassette tapes and sneakers. Smurf shook his head pitifully at what little he had, but then remembered he was the man now, and soon he would have more.
Thank you man, he thought. How can I ever repay you? One phone call changed his life—from rags to riches, and young Smurf vowed never to live in poverty again.
Smurf looked in the mirror and saw his come up. With the profound confidence he had gained, Smurf turned and happily sauntered toward the stacks of money and put them back into the safe.
“I ain't gotta want nothin' no more. Now I can get a nice ride, get me some hip gear and take care of my moms. Shit, I can even pull a fine ass bitch instead of these corner hoes,” he said as he put the last stack back into the safe. Right before he closed the door, he decided to take two stacks for himself. He closed the safe, put the picture back in front of it and prepared to leave to meet Dirty, Dink's play cousin who was the big man in Harlem, at the corner store.
Just as Smurf was about to leave, he saw the doorknob on the front door move. Smurf stopped in his tracks and became quiet. He flipped the light switch off and stood to the side of the door with his gun drawn. Smurf hadn't silenced anyone since Marco.
Smurf had cut across a back street in West Ville when he thought he saw a familiar car in the alley. When he looked closely, he confirmed that it was Marco's ride. Wondering why he was in the Ville, Smurf's thoughts were quickly interrupted when he saw an unmarked Lumina pull up. Smurf wasn't dumb. He knew it was a cop car. When the driver of the Lumina flicked the highbeams twice and killed the lights. Marco got out of the car holding an envelope then jumped in the front seat. Marco had to be a snitch like he had suspected all along.
It was unfortunate that Smurf would have to put someone asleep in his own apartment, but whoever it was, obviously had a death wish. He heard the person fiddling with the door then heard something slide into the keyhole.
Click.
The door opened cautiously and the light from the hallway illuminated the glass table in the entryway. Smurf saw the large shadow of someone, but couldn't make out who it was. He raised his gun to the edge of the door so when the person tried to shut it, they would be head to head with his gun. The light came on.
“You got three seconds before I smoke you,” Smurf spoke. “Three, two…”
“Aye, yo cuzzo it's me,” the man said in haste.
“Who is you?” Smurf spoke menacingly.
“Shit, who you is?” The man spoke as he turned around. “I'm lookin for my muthafuckin play cousin.”
“Play cousin?” Smurf repeated. He put the safety on his gun and tucked it away in the small of his back. Smurf had never seen Dirty until now.
Dirty had a reputation of a smooth businessman with major playa status. He had connections that were hard to come by in the drug world, making him the only distributor for the Bronx. Little did Smurf know that when he killed Marco and had Dame sliced, he did Dirty a favor as well.
Smurf looked closely at Dirty. He was a short specimen of a man, only standing a
