“But Florida dawgs, Orlando? I had that shit on lock for three years… three years. The only reason why I got touched was because of this white dude, Jamie. When you selling to white dudes, they ain’t grinding, they gonna shoot that shit. For two years dude was buying from me like clockwork, two or three g’s worth of heroin a week. When he got caught, all that nigga had to do was call me. I would have had his bond, a car waiting for him, and security. I would’ve taken care of him, but that dumb muthafucka snitched. They caught me with a 12 gauge shotgun on my person, but my finger prints weren’t on the bullets or the clip.”
Black didn’t carry the drugs. He arranged to have deliveries made for him.
“I’ll carry the money, but if you get caught with that poison, you done, it’s over.”
He was making drops and having meetings in Pine Hills, nicknamed Crime Hills, dealing mostly with blacks.
“The Cubans wouldn’t fuck with them, but money is money and they wasn’t trying to fuck with the money for nothing. The only thing that was funny was they would deliver the drugs, but I had to go to the hood to get the money.”
When Black rolled through, his suppliers provided security. He had six escorts walk him to his car. Lookouts ducked low in cars and peaked over rooftops.
“Dawgs, I’d come through, niggas be like, ‘which bitch you want?’ Niggas point to preference, get bricks of loot and a blow job.”
Black lived in a small newly developed apartment complex in the middle of the woods. It was a 45-minute drive through tall trees and grassland that lead to a gated community, requiring a passcode to enter.
“Nobody knew where I lived. When they touched me they was like, ‘we’ve been trying to get you, but couldn’t pin you with anything.’ As far as the gun, I found that shit. They couldn’t prove it was mine. I found that shit two hours before I got pulled over.”
Black had a reputable lawyer. To pay lawyer fees, he had to sell his car, house, and all his assets. At half a mil, his bail was set. Cleared of all drug trafficking charges, his lawyer made a deal. Black would serve two years for an illegally concealed weapon, but he had already served a year and six months while his case was fought in court.
“When I signed that dotted line my signature set the paper on fire. I squeezed through the oily cracks and came out clean, my nigga.”
When he got out of jail his lawyer instructed him to leave. In Miami he rebuilt all that he had lost. It only took him six months to pick up where he left off.
“I was paying rent and my mother’s rent, you know what I’m sayin. I had bitches, cars, the money.”
When Black was in jail he started having a fetish. The white dude that snitched on him was a tattoo artist.
“I just wanted his thumbs, fuck up his livelihood. He took away my daughter, two years of my life. I wanted that nigga’s thumbs, dawgs.”
One night when Black was at a club his boy rushed him, claiming that he found the tattoo artist. Black and his boy were making plans to get him, but Black hopped on a bus that same night.
“I wasn’t trying to get locked up again. I know if I stayed…I had to leave. So that’s how I ended in San Francisco. I had to get away as far as I could from that shit.”
He stood there looking at the floor rubbing his fingers together.
“I know at least a million dollars have went through these hands, but when you’re dealing in cash, money goes dumb quick. There’d be nights, two o’clock in the morning I’d wake up, ‘gotta do something’ cause I was nervous. I’d be countin’ money ova and ova again. I had stacks, nigga. I had money at my mom’s crib, my aunt’s crib. When you got that much money in cash…now I got $40 in my pocket.”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“I’m used to having loot.”
“That’s crazy,” I said.