criminal behavior — the hunted simply became the hunters.
The most common form of this predation was the sneak attack, or the kick-door — stalk your prey and wait for him to leave the house, then bust in and snatch his work. The Jooks, on the other hand, was for adults only. The law of the jungle must be obeyed when committing armed robbery, namely, that you only Jooks someone less dangerous than yourself. Pull a Jooks on someone willing to die for their product, and you’ve got a dilemma alright — a choice to make. Are you bluffing, or are you prepared to kill? Herein separates a gangster from everyone else.
“That’s him,” I said, pointing to the short yellow man walking up to his building.
We were staked out across the street in Murph’s Oldsmobile, CJ behind the wheel and me and Murph in the backseat. Murph was a hitter we knew from the old neighborhood, a real grimy-type cat who didn’t bat an eye when I told him about the job. We decided to leave CJ in the car as a lookout — he might not know it himself, but he’s too clean for the dirt about to take place.
Murph let a Newport dangle from his mouth as he wiped down the barrel of his .22 Beretta.
“You say he’s got pounds in there?”
I nodded, “Indoor, too — straight fire. You could flip em’ for four grand a piece, easy.”
“And you sure he ain’t gotta crew?”
“Nope. Lives alone.”
“Two billion Chinese in this world and he’s the one with no friends?”
“I think he’s Japanese. Or Filipino, maybe.”
“Those are polar opposite Asians.”
“Why’s it matter what Asian he is?” CJ asked.
“Because, you ignorant mufucka,” Murph snapped, “the Japs have a docile culture. They’re raised to be obedient — comes from Confucianism. If he’s Japanese, he’ll give it up quietly. But the Filipinos are jungle Asians. They’re like us niggas — they roll deep and they’re scrappy. If he’s Filipino, he might put up a fight.”
“How do you know so much about Asian culture?”
“Community college. I took a class on Eastern philosophy last semester — fascinating shit.”
“Trust me, Murph,” I said. “I’ve been casing the spot for two weeks. The kid’s a loner — he doesn’t even keep his bricks in a safe.”
I should know, I used to do business with him. He would sell me work if I needed something in a pinch and Sweet Tea was unavailable. He was a nerd alright, but it’s always the unassuming one’s — not the tough guys — who make for great drug dealers. Pity I have to put him under now, but all is fair in love and war.
Murph flicked his Newport out the window, then reached over the seat and handed his gun to CJ.
“Hold this. I’m not gonna need it.”
Dressed in all black, we slipped on our leather burner gloves and readied our ski masks. I looked up at the light flickering on from his second story window.
“He’s Japanese,” I said. “He’s gotta be.”
Five minutes later, I was on the floor of this kid’s apartment — fighting for my life. Either he wasn’t Japanese, or I’d greatly underestimated the resolve of the Japanese people.
Ski masks down, we’d shoved our way inside of the apartment he hadn’t bothered to lock. We found the kid sitting on his couch smoking a joint next to another Asian man, only this one was built like a nose tackle. They sat there stunned for a split second, giving Murph time to take out his billy club — the kind the police use during riots. As the large one charged at us, Murph swung the club, connecting cleanly against the side of the man’s head. He dropped to the floor with no more than a grunt.
I looked over at the little one, who was reaching for something underneath the couch. I didn’t wait to see the gun, I just rushed — tackling him onto the floor. I tried to put him in a headlock, but he was slippery alright. He wiggled out of it and grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back until it felt like it was about to snap. I managed to elbow him in the ribs with my free arm, breaking his hold, then I wrestled him to the ground. I squeezed his neck in the crook of my elbow as hard as I could, until I felt his body go limp. I eased up, but then he surprised me with a shot to the kidney that left me writhing in pain. He got up and grabbed me around the neck with both hands. Through the eye sockets of my ski mask I could see the boiling fury in his face. He was trying to choke me and remove my mask at the same time, but then the loud cock of a gun stopped him in his tracks. Murph had the barrel of the kid’s own jammy pressed against the back of his head.
“Get up, nigga,” he said. “Slowly.”
He did as he was told. I stumbled to my feet, panting horribly. I looked over at the big man lying on the ground — Murph had hogtied him with duct tape. With the gun still trained on him, I quickly did the same to the small one. Once we had them both on the floor incapacitated, we went searching for the goods.
Jackpot. In the kitchen below the sink, we uncovered the buried treasure — eight pounds of the highest-end Kush on the market, plus one pound of magic mushrooms. After selling it off and splitting the take with Murph, we’d have more than enough to make our first purchase with Kenny and Walt. It was a revolution alright — one that would launch CJ and I into a higher tax bracket.
We loaded the bricks into two separate duffel bags along with the men’s cell phones, and Murph stashed the small one’s piece inside of his waistband. I opened my knife and reached down, putting little cuts into the duct tape that bound their ankles. In an hour or two, they’d be able to wiggle their way free. Then we left as quickly as we had come, disappearing into the night.
Strange, isn’t it? How easily a man is able to forget his sins, and his audacity of indignation at the very same sins when they return to exact vengeance upon him. Just six months after we’d put the yellow kid out of business, now here we are, getting taken to the cleaners.
I look closely at the short one in the ski mask swinging his gun wildly left to right. They’d caught us slipping, whoever they are. Normally we’d never keep the work in the house like this — it had only been temporary while we scouted out a new stash spot. Must be six pounds in the safe right now, and another $10,000 or so in cash, a nice little haul indeed.
“Don’t look at me!” he yells and marches over to where I’m seated on the ground, shoving the .38 special so close to my face I could kiss the barrel.
The tall one comes lumbering up the stairs and into the living room.
“Found the safe!” he yells breathlessly to his accomplice. “I need the code.”
The short one turns to me. “Gimme the fucking code!”
I look over at CJ and my roommates, who look back at me. They aren’t scared, just waiting on me to decide. There’s four of us and two of them. They’ve got guns but we’ve got solidarity, like scrappy Frenchman resisting Nazi occupation.
Slowly, and with my hands in the air, I stand up.
“Sit your ass down!” the short one screams, but panic has audibly overtaken his bravado.
