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  Ca$h Thugs Cry

  THUGS CRY

  A Novel By

  Bestselling Author

  CA$H

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Lockdown Publishing

  C/o Cash

  12703 Farringdon Avenue

  Cleveland, Ohio 44105

  Copyright 2012 © by Ca$h.

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form whatsoever without permission.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publishing Data

  1. Ca$h, African American, Urban Crime, Hip Hop, Atlanta, Georgia, Newark, New Jersey – Fiction

  Acknowledgments

  As always I must acknowledge my mother whose love never buckles no matter the trials or tribulations. Ma, you epitomize love. To my sisters, brothers, nieces and nephews, and all other family, our blood is a mighty one.

  A special shout out goes to the following: My niece Wanda, thanx for being my conduit to many things. I can’t ever quantify how much you have helped me. I love you.

  Lil sis, Lisa Williams Locklear, I am very proud of your accomplishments. Who would have thought that your little bitty self would become principal of a school? Of course, I would have because I always knew that you would be whatever you designed for yourself. Love you. Ebony, keep elevating the bar for the family.

  To all the women who have passed through my life for a reason or a season during my long incarceration, which is now in its 21st year, at times I could not appreciate you because it can be all about survival in here. If I’ve left a bad taste in any of your mouths I apologize. If you left a bad taste in mine I probably deserved it.

  To all my children, my love is forever.

  To Fred, the son who found me after twenty years, I can’t even express how it feels to have you in my life. Love you man. Last but neva least, I acknowledge all of my labelmates at Wahida Clark Publishing. This is an independent joint but I have not abandoned the team. A special holla for Nene Capri author of that heat titled The Pussy Trap. Keep trappin, ma’am. To my typist, Ms. Tammi Eggleston, my cover designer, SoSo, my editor, Tobias A. Fox, my loyal home girl, the West Coast Diva and fine author, Aleta Williams, thank you for holding a brother down.

  To all my fans and close supporters, my success is yours. If you are new to my work be sure to check out my other novels: Trust No Man, Trust No Man 2: Disloyalty is Unforgivable, Trust No Man 3, Like Father, Like Son, Bonded by Blood, and Shortly Got A Thug.

  THUGS CRY

  PRELUDE

  Niggas think they know but they don’t. They see the money, cars and jewels, and the baddass hos, and they conclude that this gangsta shit is sweet. But they don’t see all of the other shit that a G has to endure as he rises from peon to Don status. They don’t realize that he suffers as much pain as he dishes out. They only see the hood fame and the fortune. The platinum smile.

  Well, let me tell y’all some grown man shit. You ready? Here it is: Thugs Cry Too!

  Let the saga begin…

  RAHEEM

  Me and my dude, CJ, started out at the bottom like most niggaz that fuck with the game. We had the typical ambition, which was to clock enough duckets to make it out of the hood, ’na mean? Little Bricks, a housing project in Newark, New Jersey, is where we were born, bred, and bled. We both wanted out of Little Bricks badder than a muhfucka; not just for ourselves but for our fams as well. CJ was more gully than me, but we both would let them thangs pop off. I was just a nigga that liked academics, got my high school diploma, and wanted a college degree. But don’t be fooled by my scholastics prowess. I was on that street shit hard, too.

  The streets is like a shady ass chick with a sick sex game; you know that the ho ain’t no good but you just can’t walk away. That’s the hood for ya? The shit is as addictive as crack. So at the end of the day it’s not even about getting out of the hood, the struggle was to get the hood out of us.

  We both did our thing, and one thing I can say is that no matter what came at us, we never turned on each other. Love was love, even when everybody and their mama had the screw face. When I went away, CJ hooked up with my girl, Tamika. But yo, I never stressed over it ’cause I knew my nigga wasn’t tryna do me dirty, him and Tamika was just meant to be.

  Besides, in spite of her drug addiction and all, the shorty that was really meant to be my wifey was Kayundra. ’Cause, see, shorty perservered. She made it from the crack house all the way to R&B diva, but then…

  Anyway, I’ma let that story tell it herself. All I’m saying is that we all wanted out of Little Bricks, but it was hard as hell to get that hood shit out of us.

  I’ma get back at y’all.

  One.

  CJ

  Sup? Yeah, I’m CJ, maybe you heard of me, maybe you haven’t. Don’t matter, yo. Before this story is over best believe you gon’ recognize my name. I put it down with the best of ’em. Went from rocks to blocks, had The Bricks on smash, killin’ everything and anybody that got in my way, or any fool who violated my peeps.

  I loved my fam, I loved my girl, I loved my dawg, and I loved the streets. Fuck with any one of ’em and you could get it! Of course, Newark niggaz ain’t pussy so they fucked with all of the above… and they paid the price, yo. Word!

  I ain’t about a lot of talk though. Just ride with me, peoples, while I make it do what it do. Oh, get ya black suits and dresses ready ’cause it won’t be long before you’re gonna find yaself at some muhfuckaz funeral as we go on this journey.

  ONE

  The first thing Cam’ron “CJ” Jeffries saw when he opened his eyes was an army of goddamn cockroaches attacking the half-eaten Checker’s burger that he left on the dresser last night. The burger sat next to his Glock .40 and his roll of old dead white men.

  “Damn, yo!” CJ cussed as he rolled out of bed, knocking about ten fat ass roaches across the room. The rest scattered like niggaz when the popo come around.

  The only thing CJ hated more than roaches were snitches. He rested in Little Bricks with his Mom Dukes and his little brother and sister, and in the projects, the roaches were just like the residents…they refused to move out.

  CJ checked his Movado and saw that it was already 9:00a.m.

  Time to go get on my grind. Today is the first of the month, Mother’s Day in the hood. Muhfuckaz gon’ be clucking like mad, yo. Yep, I need to hit the block ASAP.

  He flipped through his bank but couldn’t tell if any was missing. He knew that his Mom Dukes, who was on that shit real bad, could creep a niggaz shirt off his back without awakening him. Well, if she had touched him up last night it couldn’t have been for much.

  CJ stepped into a pair of Roca Wear baggy jeans, pulled on a crisp white T-shirt that hung down to his knees, and slid his feet into a fresh new pair of construction Timbs. Even while grinding, he stayed looking fly. Chicks said that he looked like the football player Reggie Bush.

  He hit the bathroom to handle his morning hygiene, then went back to his bedroom to get his work from his stash spot. He retrieved his work, which was a quarter bird bagged up in half oz’s for certain clientele and stones for the fiends. He grabbed his strap and tucked it in his waist. Niggaz knew that CJ went hard for his so most drama avoided him. Still, Newark niggaz are the grimiest so he stayed strapped 24/7. By the age of nineteen, he had already put two niggaz in the ground.

  As he headed down the hallway he heard moans and slurping come from inside his Mom Dukes bedroom. Because the door was cracked, he stopped and peeped inside. The fuck if his Mom Dukes wasn’t on her knees giving head to a nigga named Red
.

  CJ’s face screwed up, he warned Red about playing his mom’s like that, giving her crack to suck dick and shit.

  I oughta blaze this nigga right now! thought CJ as his hand went to his waist. Naw, I’ma just lay until I catch this fool slippin.

  He fought back the urge to spazz out as he quietly pulled the bedroom door closed so that his little brother, Eric, and his lil sister, Brianna, wouldn’t wake up and walk up on that foul shit.

  I’ma get at that ass though, ’cause I told him ’bout handling my Mom Dukes like dat! Out on the block CJ tried to push his anger aside and concentrate on his grind. He had a line of fiends to serve and he had to keep one eye out for popo.

  “Can I get eight for fiddy?” asked Fat Benny, a fiend who didn’t lose any weight despite smoking like a chimney.

  “You killin my hustle, yo!” complained CJ, breaking him off nevertheless. “What you need, Joyce?” he asked the next customer in line.

  Joyce held up the same number of fingers as the number of teeth she had in her mouth. CJ handed her two rocks and pocketed her twenty dollars

  “Thanks, baby,” she said and had the nerve to try to switch her iddy biddy ass as she rushed off to go get high. All CJ could do was chuckle. Joyce’s little booty was comical. She was so small; he could sneeze and blow her ass all the way to Trenton.

  “I need four,” the next girl in line said. When CJ looked at her she dropped her head and bounced from foot to foot ’cause she knew he recognized her from back in da day. “Hook me up. I got you.”

  “You got me? What dat mean?”

  “You know…whateva.”

  “Naw, ma. I’m grinding not trickin,” he checked her, shaking his head in disgust as the girl walked away cussin’. CJ couldn’t believe how quick crack had broken Kayundra down. He guessed that she hadn’t been smoking more than a year but already she was busted the fuck up.

  Damn, my nigga Rah would be surprised to see how bad this ho is looking.

  CJ’s man, Raheem, dipped to ATL on a partial scholarship to Morehouse. Raheem and Kayundra used to kick it from kindergarten until age fifteen when Raheem and CJ got sent to juvie for dumping on some niggaz that they got into it with at the skating rink on Route 22. By the time they came home, eighteen months later, Kayundra’s and Raheem’s teeny love thing was over.

  Back then Kayundra was thick to death. She was a cutie with mad booty, as they say. Now crack had her sweatpants sagging like a G, CJ observed just before Kayundra disappeared into the building across the street.

  CJ was still buggin off of Kayuundra, when his girl Tamika pulled up in his three-year-old black Q45 with the chrome rims. She was bumpin’ Remy Ma as the whip came to a stop at the curb, the summer sun bouncing off the $4,500 paint job.

  “Hey Daddy,” said Tamika, getting out of the Q45 rockin’ a yellow Prada tennis skirt, a white and yellow baby tee, and white Prada sandals.

  The shine on her fingers, wrists, and around her neck spoke volumes about CJ’s hustle. Though he was still a one bird nigga, he stayed breaking it down, flippin’ it, and re-upping on the regular.

  Tamika put you in the mind of that porn chick Pinky, phat ass and all, but Tamika was much cuter in the face.

  “Wassup, ma?” CJ greeted her with a quick kiss, tasting her watermelon lip gloss.

  “I need salon money,” she held out her hand.

  “You just got your hair done, yo.”

  “Uh-huh, and you just messed it up the other night, need I remind you,” she said, sticking out her tongue and showing him her diamond tongue ring.

  “Nah, ma. I’m broke,” he teased.

  Tamika touched the lump in his pocket. “Tsk!” she sucked her teeth.

  “Here you go, hold this,” he said, handing her the strap off his waist. Now if a nigga roll up sideways, you bust that ass, aight?”

  “Okay, boo,” purred Tamika, aiming the strap up and down the block, feeling like a bad girl, while CJ counted out two stacks.

  CJ didn’t mind lacing Tamika. He reasoned that he was the one who spoiled her in the first place. Before they hooked up, Tamika had a job and had enrolled in nursing school, but CJ deaded all of that. “That’s why I grind, ma, so you don’t have to do shit but look beautiful for me,” he’d told her.

  At first Tamika wasn’t feelin’ that, but CJ was persuasive, and the glamorous ghetto lifestyle that he subjected her to was intoxicating. Now, less than a year later, she was a certified mall rat and a hustlaz wifey.

  The twist was that Tamika used to kick it with CJ’s boy Raheem. She and Rah had kicked it strong before he bounced to ATL to go to school. They had broken up before Rah went away because Tamika was too needy to do the long distance thing.

  CJ kinda felt shady about hooking up with his man’s ex, but Tamika was so not trippin’ it.

  After Tamika bounced to the mall CJ stayed out grinding until the sun fell asleep, and dusk dark enveloped the projects. Earlier, a fiend had tried to creep CJ’s stash while he was serving; CJ caught him with his hand in the hole on the side of the building where he hid his shit, and split the fool’s head to the white meat.

  Otherwise, today has been drama free, he thought as the hood darkened a bit more and he bopped towards home, strap down at his side, already locked and loaded just in case some fool tried to jump out at him on that ski mask bullshit.

  Oh yes! Looka here! A sinister grin came across CJ’s face and his pulse quickened. He could not fuckin’ believe his good luck. Fuck if it wasn’t that nigga Red coming towards him. CJ’s mind flashed back to his Mom Dukes on her knees sucking Red’s dick. The image played like a DVD stuck on replay.

  “Peace, yo,” Red spoke when they passed one another, but he paid no attention to the banger down by CJ’s side.

  “Peace,” CJ quickly scanned the area to see if anyone else was in the cut where they passed through.

  Seeing no potential witnesses about, he spun around. Now he was behind Red, quiet as a panther on the prowl. The sound of CJ stepping on a broken bottle caused Red to jerk his head around.

  Boc! Boc! Boc!

  Red’s face disintegrated.

  Boc! Boc! CJ squeezed off two exclamations to Red’s chest before the body hit the ground.

  When CJ got home, he was sweatin’ like a thief about to be polygraphed.

  Tamika, who was there waiting for him, met CJ in the living room and showed him the air brushed design on her French manicure. Then she went to hug him.

  “Eww!!” she exclaimed, stepping back. “Why are you so sweaty?”

  “I just got chased by popo.” He lied.

  Miss Wanda, his Mom Dukes, said, “Didn’t I ask yo’ ass not to bring no guns in my muthafuckin’ house, CJ?”

  He followed her eyes down to his side and realized that he was still gripping heat.

  Damn, I’m slippin, he thought tucking the strap in his waist.

  “I love you too, Ma,” he said sarcastically.

  “See, that’s what the fuck I be talkin’ about. You let what the fuck I say go in one ear and out the goddamn other. Fuck you think? You can do what the fuck you want up in this bitch?”

  CJ was used to his Mom Dukes foul mouth; the whole projects knew that Miss Wanda held the crown when it came to cussin’.

  “Yo black ass gonna end up dead or in prison. Why couldn’t you get out these streets and go to college like Raheem?”

  “I’m in school, Ma,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “The school of hard knocks.”

  “I oughta slap you in yo goddamn face!” she said, throwing a dish towel at him. “Raheem got some damn sense in his head, but you…” she went on and on, comparing him to Rah.

  “Now what if I compared you to Big Ma?” who was Raheem’s grandmother, he asked.

  “Say what?”

  It would’ve served her right, he thought, if he told her that even had he wanted to go to college, she had smoked up the tuition. But he caught his tongue; life was already giving his Mom Dukes
hell, he wasn’t gonna pile on.

  “Nothin’, Ma. Sup, lil soldier,” he touched fists with Eric, who was sitting in front of the TV in the living room, caught up in his Xbox. Eric was twelve, watching and learning.

  “I’m good, nigga. Sup?”

  “Where Brianna?”

  “In her room on the phone, like you ain’t know.”

  Brianna was just nine years old, but she talked on the cell phone as if she was a teenager. CJ bought her the phone for her ninth birthday.

  “Anyway,” CJ’s Mom Dukes said as he and Tamika headed back to his bedroom. “You and Miss Ghetto Booty should be ashame of y’all selves, creepin’ around behind your boy’s back. With friends like y’all, Raheem sho’ don’t need no muthafuckin’ enemies.” She laughed then said, “Fuck if you ain’t just like your trifling ass daddy.”

  CJ closed his bedroom door on his Mom Dukes insults. He didn’t even know who his daddy was, and didn’t give a fuck.

  He grabbed a coupla ’fits and his stash; then him and Tamika bounced. He saw the police lights flashing up the block where he had left Red slumped, so he let Tamika drive just in case popo was pulling muhfuckaz over.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Drive out to Elizabeth, we gon’ get a room and chill for a few days, ma. Just me and you.”

  Tamika liked the sound of that.

  CJ came out of the bathroom freshly showered, wearing nothing but boxers. He fired up a blunt and sat down on the bed where Tamika sat with pillows propped up behind her. Her back was against the headboard. She changed into a pair of skin toned boy shorts and a baby tee. She was counting the last stack of trap CJ had made today.

  CJ started rubbing her pretty feet.

  “Mmmmm, don’t start nothing you don’t want to finish,” she cautioned.