No Love Lost

No Love Lost

J.W. Smith

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright: 2012 by Shinning Starr Publicationz

Published by: Shinning Starr Publicationz

http://www.Jwsmithnovelist.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic mechanical, photo copying, recording, or otherwise), without prior written consent from both the author, and publisher, Shinning Starr Publicationz, except brief quotes used in reviews. For information regarding special discounts or bulk purchases, please contact Shinning Starr Publicationz.

Publisher’s Note:

This book is a work of fiction. It is not meant to depict. Portray or represent any particular real person. All the characters, incidents and dialogues are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any references or similarities to actual events, entities, real people living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, entities, places and incidents is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Greetings to the ones that had a hand in making this dream a reality. First of all, I’d like to give honor to God for making this dream, plus a plan of action, a reality. Because of the turmoil that I’ve endured in my life, I know there’s a Higher Power. People believe that it’s time to get oneself in order before the return of that Higher Power comes.

Second, I’d like to thank my parents for giving me great insight on life from both sides of the fence. It gave me a more vivid picture of the grim reality in the ghetto firsthand.

Third, I’d like to thank the Almighty for inspiring me to write this book, always giving Him the glory in everything we do.

I would also like to thank The Almighty for encouraging me to insert the Word of God more throughout my book. This manuscript would not be as destined for success without it. I would also like to thank Jeremy Moore for gracing the cover with his presence. They love the swag. It gives the reader an opportunity to understand how a man can change from a stone-cold killer to a stone-cold warrior for God (because God uses those who once were mockers and thieves of His Word to shine like a lamp on a lamp stand once His Word is applied to your everyday lifestyle). Thanks to all the trying times that, unbeknownst to me, would later create the groundwork for this manuscript. God will renew our minds as if we never were lost. Line your finances up with the Word of God and your cup will overflow with an abundance of wealth.

Special thanks to my three kids, Tyquan Cashé, Jernisha Lashune, and Jherica Sharell, for always loving their father in spite of my difficult years of being incarcerated and being absent from their lives. Remember, we are held accountable for our every action, so treat every movement as if Christ was sitting at your side, because He is. Amen.

I’d also like to thank my literary agent, Angela R. Walker, for all the legwork put into getting my first of many novels off the ground. I’ll see my readers on the next manuscript, Irresistible Woman.

P.S.: Thank the Lord for a second chance at a first life. Remember that God can open doors that no man can close.

CHAPTER 1

The Rep

Grit and grind was the mentality that young Jay grew up with. Corrupted by the fierce streets of Los Angeles, he eagerly became the product of his environment. Being a part of the elite club of the upscale hustlers known to the streets as ballers, Jay considered it the life. The ballers, with their abundant cash flow, fine women, designer labels, and expensive cars, were the envy of both the young and old alike. At a very young age, Jay watched the selected few real dudes that were initiated into the private society, confident that one day he too would become a part of that ritzy lifestyle.

At the age of seven, Jay became the lookout for one of the biggest drug dealers in his hood. By the age of ten, he was promoted to runner now able to deliver the work, he considered himself the man. He quickly learned that in order to survive the life of the hard streets of LA, he had to have heart. Being that he was small for his age, he had to constantly prove himself, and soon he earned his reputation by going up against some of the most irrefutable niggas in the town.

After many bloody noses, black eyes, and a few broken limbs, at thirteen, Jay became one of the most feared and respected gangsters in not only his hood but in the entire city.

Lil Jay’s reputation preceded him, and eventually he was initiated in a gang, the Marvin Street Assassins, a subculture where murder, theft, robbery, and drugs were the norm, similar to the subculture where Malcolm X’s infamous proverb by any means necessary was taken literally and considered a way of life.

Now fifteen, Jay committed his first of many 187s, or what the law-abiding citizens would call murder. Within the same year, holding his sister’s limp body next to his, he watched Stephanie die after being shot by a rival gang member. The back of her head was blown off with an Uzi. With tears in his eyes and his shirt soaked with his sister’s blood, he vowed that his revenge would be sweet.

At age sixteen, he was ruthless and continually eager to live up to his reputation, knowing you were only as good as your last fight or 187. In his world, there were no innocent victims, and everyone was susceptible to imminent danger. He lived in a society where only the strong survived and staying alive took effort. He had been shot three times on two different occasions, all by rival gang members, with bullet fragments still lodged in his upper body. He would do anything for the love of his gang his family and had no reservations about putting in work.

Lil Jay pulled up his sagging pants and checked his socks to make sure his merchandise was still intact. He looked up and observed an OG (original gangster) they referred to as Fat Cash as he slowly cruised up the block in his shiny black 500 Mercedes-Benz. Fat Cash, a six-three, 255-pound, dark-skinned brother, was a well-known playa in all hoods and someone who Lil Jay had a great admiration for. In the ghetto, Fat Cash was the broke nigga’s savior. He had a slew of vehicles and the baddest broads in the city. There were even rumors that he had some connections with the Mob and could reach out and touch anyone anywhere. While most of the homies in his hood got caught up in the rap and break dancing scene, Lil Jay always wanted to be a baller, even larger than the man who later became his mentor.

Fat Cash finally made his way up the block. Everyone watched with fascination: teenage mommas with their babies on their hips, kids perched on their bikes, crack heads that lined the sidewalk, even the hustlers waiting on the corner for the next sale. Everybody stopped to observe Fat Cash with his brim-cocked ace-deuce diamonds gleaming on his pinky ring as he rolled up in his big body with the ten-thousand-dollar rims shining and the music bumping loud enough to wake the dead. Damn, man, look at the OG homie. He’s getting money for real.

The Benz finally slowed to the curb where Lil Jay and his homies were chillin’. Fat Cash motioned to Lil Jay, who hurried over to the car. The man rolled down the passenger-side window, nearly blinding Lil Jay with the row of diamonds blinging from his ring and the presidential Rolex on his right wrist.

Hey, lil nigga, word on the street is you’ve been really taking care of business, Fat Cash said as he stroked his chin and studied the lil gangster in front of him.

In my world, I can’t have it any other way, ’cause it’s necessary to ward off the wannabes. I’m just out here taking a chance day by day, so I keep that burner wit’ me, Lil Jay quipped, brandishing his pistol under the glare of the sunlight.

Get in, I got some work for you, Fat Cash ordered. He quickly darted his eyes from the front window to the side mirror, checking out his surroundings. The first rule of the ghetto is for a playa to always check his environment.

Elated and not able to contain his happiness, Lil Jay quickly jerked open the door and jumped in the passenger seat of the vehicle. He looked around the car, taking in the custom interior, and couldn’t keep still. He pushed the black round button on the side of the seat, and the seat slowly lowered him closer to the backseat. He was afraid that his excitement would show by his quick movements and the wide grin on his face. Chill, man, act like you used to this shit, he told himself.

Lil Jay noticed that all eyes were on them as the Benz eased away from the curb and proceeded up the block. Every hustler on the cut that day wished they were in Jay’s place. He sat back and easily rested in the plush cushions of the vehicle. Damn, I done hooked up with the richest nigga in the hood, Lil Jay kept thinking to himself, realizing that it was only a matter of time that he reached top baller status. Jay attempted to turn up the volume on his favorite NWA song Fuck the Police and take in the custom surround sound that screamed out of the Kenwood speakers. Fat Cash slapped his hand down. With his forehead wrinkled and a frown on his face, Fat Cash gazed at Lil Jay and spoke through clenched teeth.

Youngster, I see you got a lot to learn. The first thing you must do to get on top of your game is to listen. The second and most important thing you must do is get educated, not only by those teachers up at that school but by one who really knows these streets well. I’m going to school you about shit that those teachers know nothing about, because it don’t come outta no textbook. I’ma school you ’bout life, these streets, and how to make that cash. If you ain’t educated, you can’t count your ends, which will subject you to getting played by a potential customer. So here’s the deal: from 8:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., you must be in school. I don’t want to see your ass out here on these streets between those hours, is that understood?

Although he nodded to confirm that he understood what Fat Cash was saying, in the back of his mind Lil Jay had other thoughts. That ain’t gonna work for me. Something got to give, and it damn sure ain’t ’bout to be my hustle. Shit, school hours were also good hustle hours for him. That was when most of his competitors were at school.

As Lil Jay and Fat Cash drove down the dingy streets of his hood observing the crack heads and hoes on the boulevard, his mind raced back to his childhood and his family. He thought about his pops. Damn, he loved his pops, but his old man had real issues. Being a hard-drinking man with numerous bad habits other than women pops didn’t really have the time or the money to be a decent father or husband. His easy smile, salt-and-pepper hair, and Harry Belafonte good looks didn’t help matters either. Lil Jay acknowledged at an early age that his family was somewhat dysfunctional yet felt like he didn’t have it that bad.

Hell, some of his homies didn’t even know who their daddies and/or mommas were, and some folks’ parents had long given their lives to crack.

He thought about his younger days when he was a part of a family. During that time, he lived in a modest three-bedroom home with his ma his two sisters, Linda and Stephanie and his pops. Pops had a decent job, but being a trick was very expensive. As long as he could remember, Pops always had two or three women and was always responsible for taking care of two or three households. Consequently, his own household oftentimes came up lacking. Ma, on the other hand, did some day work for some of the richest white ladies in the Beverly Hills area. Jay’s mom, a high-strung chocolate-skinned woman who resembled Patti LaBelle, was determined not to be played. She was always beating some woman’s ass over Pops. Jay could never understand why she didn’t just leave his ass and move on.

Jay remembers the first time he saw his ma in handcuffs. It was a Saturday night he remembered as if it was yesterday because he was watching the WWF and waiting for the moment that Fritz Von Erich put his infamous iron claw on his opponent. Pops had not been home since Friday, his payday. Lil Jay was pissed because Ma had made him turn off the TV. He grabbed his sisters, and they went on a hunt for Pops.

After riding around for what seemed like hours, Ma eventually spotted Pops’s car at a sleazy motel. At that very moment, she lost it. She got out of the car and began knocking on every door of the motel in search of Pops, to no avail. She then ran back to the car, reached into the trunk, and pulled out a tire jack. She first slit the tires on Pops’s car with the knife that had been concealed on her side, then she commenced to busting out the windows. Ma was definitely on a mission. The commotion caused all the occupants of the motel to come out and gather in the parking lot.

Pops, with only his boxers on, peeped out the window of his room and rushed out the door of the motel in an attempt to stop her. While Pops stood out overlooking the damages Mom had inflicted on his ride, Ma eased past him into the motel room, dragged the screaming naked woman out by her hair, and beat her so badly she suffered a concussion, had broken ribs, and had to be hospitalized for several months.

Ma was charged with criminal attempted murder. Pops actually did right by her and found her a good lawyer. The charges were later reduced to aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. Ma served eighteen months in the California state penitentiary at Chowchilla.

After Ma was released from prison, they became what were called a family again. Lil Jay was five years old at the time, and it wasn’t long before the cycle started up once more. In the end, Pops’ womanizing got the best of poor Ma.

With the music bumping and both Lil Jay and Fat Cash absorbed in their own thoughts, Lil Jay went back to the exact day that changed his life. It was the summer of ’91, and he had just turned seven years old. During that time, gossip around the hood was that Pops was messing with Ms. Barbara, who happened to be one of Ma’s best friends. Ms. Barbara stayed over at their house more than at her own, borrowing things and playing bid whist. Ms. Barbara was a sexy, high-yellow stallion with long hair and great big titties. Ma had heard rumors that Ms. Barbara was messing with Pops, but of course, did not believe that. She definitely considering the friendship she and Ms. Barbara had genuine and one in a million. As Jay stretched across the bed playing Atari that day, he heard his big sister, who was fourteen at the time, crying as she entered the house.

Girl, what’s wrong with you? Ma said with her hands on her hips.

Me and Debra had a fight, Linda said.

Barbara’s Debra? Ma asked.

Yes, Linda quickly responded.

What in the devil y’all fighting for?

’Cause she was bragging to some of the girls at the school that Pops took her and her sisters to the mall and that’s how she got all her new clothes and stuff, Linda muttered.

Ma stood and looked at Linda with a blank look on her face, and for the first time in a long time she was speechless. Her body deflated as if it was a challenge to even stand. Jay jumped off the bed and went into the living room where Ma and Linda were talking. He could visibly see the veins in Ma’s throat as she attempted to swallow and fight back the tears. All the years of Pops’ infidelity had finally taken a physical toll on Ma. Her slumped body could no longer stand she slowly eased down the wall. Her voice trembled as she called Linda over to her. Ma stroked Linda’s hair and told her that sometimes people lied, they were mean, and for her not to believe everything she heard. In her heart, though, Ma knew that it wasn’t a lie.

Coincidentally, there was a knock at the door. Ma straightened her face up and went to unhook the partially torn screen door.

Hey, girl, what’s going on? Do y’all have some milk? Girl, I was getting ready to make some macaroni and cheese from scratch and didn’t have no milk, uttered Ms. Barbara.

With her hands on her hips, Ma looked over at Ms. Barbara as she walked past Ma and into the kitchen. Blinking back the tears and without answering, Ma stood staring, boring a hole through Ms. Barbara’s back. Ms. Barbara stopped with her hand outstretched on the handle of the refrigerator.

Girl, what’s wrong with you? What done happened now? That man of your’n got you stressing again?

Ma’s nostrils flared open, and she puckered her mouth, and in a barely audible whisper spoke, Barb, are you messing with Jack?

Ms. Barbara opened up the refrigerator door and peeked inside as if she hadn’t heard a word Ma had said. Ma hurriedly ran into the kitchen, shut the refrigerator door, and looked Ms. Barbara in the face.

Bitch, are you fucking my husband? she screamed. This time the tone in her voice had gone from zero to ten in one breath. The look on Ms. Barbara’s face told it all. Of course, Ma held no blows. You skank whore. You were supposed to be a good friend and one that I confided in. How could you have done some backstabbing shit like that to me?

Ms. Barbara had the nerve to swing her head around as if she was in a Ms. Sassy contest, looked at Ma with a smirk on her face, and said, Girl, if you took care of your home a little better and not so much them white folks’ mansions, then Jack wouldn’t be out trying to get no other Before Ms. Barbara could even get the last word out, Ma completely lost it. She charged over to the kitchen drawer, snatched a knife out, and began stabbing Ms. Barbara until she lay in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor.

Linda peeked in from the kitchen doorway and began to scream. Ma looked down at her bloodstained clothes, and then at the knife she still held by her side. She threw the knife down on the floor upon seeing Linda looking in on her.

With her hands still drenched in Ms. Barbara’s blood, she ordered us to the bedroom and to begin packing some clothes.

The neighbors called the police when they heard the screams coming from the house. In a short period of time, the sounds of sirens from police cars wailed through the air . . . The police barged into the front door and saw the lifeless body of Ms. Barbara lying on the kitchen floor. Linda held on to me as the police handcuffed Ma, led her out of the house, and seated her in the back of the police car. Ma received a sentence of twenty-five years to life. That didn’t stop Pops from becoming an even bigger womanizer, and then with mounting guilt, he joined the world of the rest of the neighborhood crack heads. My sisters and I were bounced from one family member to another one, from one house to the next.

Needless to say, on that day, August 15, 1991, Lil Jay’s homies became his family, the streets became his safe haven, and hustling became his survival.

The sound of a horn blaring out brought Lil Jay back to reality as he and Fat Cash headed up the boulevard to the local mall. The Benz slowed to the valet parking area in front of the mall. Fat Cash pulled out a wad of money and gave it to Lil Jay. He looked at the money, glanced back up at Fat Cash, and asked, What’s this for?

It’s for you, lil homie. Go get you something to throw on, scoop your boys, and have a good time tonight.

Lil Jay tucked the money inside his pants and rested his head back on the headrest of the luxury car. Fat Cash wanted to give his new upcoming hustler a taste of the world that he lived in. Both Lil Jay and Fat Cash were thinking exactly the same thing. First things first. A real baller can’t half-ass do nothing he has to be on point and fitted in the best gear. Fat Cash wanted to make sure that Lil Jay represented appropriately.

Fat Cash slowed the Benz at the entrance of the mall before they reached the valet. He pointed to the glove compartment, and Lil Jay immediately knew that meant to disarm himself. The teenage parking attendant opened the driver-side door to let him out, surprised by the crisp fifty-dollar tip that was pressed in the palm of his hand.

As they walked into the entrance of the mall, Lil Jay looked over at Fat Cash, taking everything in. Starting with the black Armani suit tailored to perfection to his black Gucci loafers with the double G symbol discretely hidden on the top, he stared at the big gold emblem around his neck, bearing the initials FC that was encrusted in diamonds and rubies. Just like you, my nig, one day I too will be rich. By the time I reach twenty, I will have reached top baller status. Yeah, this is certainly something I could get used to.

CHAPTER 2

Juvenile Delinquent

Lil Jay awoke to the sound of his pops and his latest of many tore-up broads, Judy, arguing. It was the same old thing, always arguing and fighting about one of three things: another woman, money, or who smoked up the last hit. Jay sat straight up in the bed.

Damn, what time is it? he said to himself while looking over at the flashing 8:30 in big bold red letters on the clock radio on his nightstand.

Shit, I’m gonna be late for school. Forget it. I’ll go to school tomorrow, he thought as he lay back on the dingy white pillows and closed his eyes. I’ll get some more sleep, get to the cut around ten, and see how much cash I can hustle up today before the rest of them fools get out of school. He also thought about Fat Cash and his rules. Hell, Fat Cash won’t even know that I didn’t go to school today or yesterday, ’cause he only comes by the cut in the evenings anyways, he tried convincing himself as he pulled the covers over his head. If Fat Cash rolled by, he could just say that school let out early or he was sick or something. He sat thinking of an excuse just in case he happened to run into his big homie.

After sleeping for a couple more hours, Jay got up, showered, and put on a white T-shirt, his blue and white dope-man Nikes, and a pair of creased-up 501 jeans. He walked into the kitchen and observed Judy with her mouth open displaying two rows of brown cigarette-and-coffee-stained teeth. She rested against her arm at the kitchen table with a forty-ounce bottle of Old English in her hand. His pops sat on the other side of Judy puffing the butt of a Basic cigarette. Lil Jay opened the refrigerator, glanced over on the kitchen counter, and observed a broken crack pipe.

Damn, y’all could’ve at least put that shit in a better spot, he said, pointing at the crack pipe as he glared at his pops.

Boy, who the hell you think you talking to? Don’t think I won’t whoop your little scrawny ass. You ain’t been shit since the day you were born. If it wasn’t for you joining that punk-ass gang, your sister would still be alive today, Pops screamed.

Well, if it wasn’t for your ol’ ass screwing every smoker in the hood, Ma wouldn’t be doing a life sentence and this snaggletooth bitch wouldn’t be sitting at our kitchen table, Jay fired back.

Pops picked up the forty-ounce bottle from the table. He tilted it up to his mouth and threw his head back until it was all gone. Then he set the bottle back on the table and bowed his head, guilt hanging over him like a heavy cloud.

Lil Jay glared at both his pops and Judy with disgust and mumbled under his breath, Ain’t nothing worse than old-ass crack heads. Why would a muthafucka wait until they damn near fifty years old to get smoked out? That’s fucked up for real.

Judy and Pops looked at each other, with Judy anticipating an outburst. Pops looked down at the floor and remained quiet. Judy, realizing that Jack wasn’t going to respond, turned and looked at Lil Jay.

What the hell did you say? Judy then turned her conversation back to Jack. "I know I didn’t hear him say what I thought he said, and you ain’t gon’ even say nothing back to this boy. Jack, you need to beat his ass. He’s only sixteen years old, and he’s starting to smell himself. His ass