The Game of Deception Read online

  Wahida Clark Publishing Presents

  THE GAME OF

  DECEPTION

  GET IT, HOW YOU LIVE IT!

  A NOVEL BY VICTOR L . MARTIN

  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.

  Wahida Clark Presents Publishing, LLC

  134 Evergreen Place

  Suite 305

  East Orange, New Jersey 07018

  973-678-9982

  www.wclarkpublishing.com

  Copyright 2010 © by Victor L. Martin.

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be

  reproduced in any form without permission.

  The Game of Deception

  ISBN 13-digit 978-0982841419

  ISBN 10-digit 0-9828414-1-8

  Library of Congress Catalog Number 2010933814

  1. Urban, Street Lit, Hip-Hop, Gangsters, North Carolina,

  African American, – Fiction

  Cover design by Baja Wakiri Ukweli

  Interior book design by NuanceArt [email protected]

  Printed in United States

  Green & Company Printing and Publishing, LLC

  www.greenandcompany.biz

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate this book to a special group of people who fought for me and my right to write. Without your effort, there would have been no book # seven. Thank you all.

  The ACLU of North Carolina: Katy L. Parker, Ian Mance, Emily-Mary Brown, you all mean the world to me and Ian, stay in touch.

  Also, I want to dedicate this book to the Wood Jackson Law Firm: W. Swain Wood and Ms. Annette.

  And to my mom, sister, niece, and nephew, I love you deeply.

  Theme song for this novel

  “Slippin” by DMX

  Acknowledgments

  Before I begin, I first wish to give my deepest thanks to the creator above. Next, a major plug goes out to many of my true supporters that have been with me since book number one. As I said before, there’s no me without you. Along this road, I had the honor of gaining a few friends that I’ve met thru my books. Lashaun Terry, Jennifer Willis, Sonia Calloway, LaTanya Rankin, Vicky G. Mayer, Tiama Pickeet, Shanice Curate, Desiree King, Vina Byrd, Tonya Caldwell, Telecia Hudson, Jeanni Dixon, Anesha Hopson, Patt McGee, Kat Billingsley, Ganesha Knight, and Juanita Hamilton to name a few.

  As promised, I must give a shout-out to a few that’s bidding time with me. James Wade, Tommy Best, Tweed from Quarry St., Terry Simms, Von Jones, Mark Dubose, Rodney Riggins, Marks Will, Johnathan Evans, Grip, Quantez Woodhouse, Lamorris Chapman, Lamont, Polite, and to my avid test reader, Anthony Hamilton. Oh, and Jashon Peay.

  Yes, I’m at a new home with WCP. So with that being said, big up’s to my new family, Anthony Fields, Cash, Mike Sanders, Cedric Dean, Missy Jackson, Tash Hawthorne and of course Wahida Clark. You know how far we go back and it is nothing but the deepest love and respect that I hold for you. Sky is the limit now that I’m with WCP! Much thanks goes out to my editors, Harriet Wilson and Keisha Caldwell that helped me polish the novel into a work of art. Your help has made this a stronger story and I thank you all for pushing me to do better. I look forward to working with you all on my next project.

  To my list of authors that I’ve dealt with along this trip, thank you all! Renita M. Walker, Willie Dutch, DeJa King, K’wan, Noire, Leo Sullivan, Nikki Turner, Joy Jossel, TN Baker, Kashamba Williams, Zane, and to those of you on my Facebook…. Don’t be afraid to reach me via snail mail.

  Ms. Q.N. Shaw, you know I can’t forget about you. You know from day one that I always told you to follow your heart, at least when your feet is on the ground.

  Mareenia Waters, I can’t nor will I even try to put mere words on paper to speak on our friendship. For all it’s worth, I’m missing you.

  To all the bookstores that carry my books, thank you for your support. I look forward to coming your way for my first official book signing/tour.

  I will keep this clean and not speak so much on my list of haters and we all know who tops the list….Department of corruption. I’ll let one song speak on how I feel. Lil Wayne & Gucci Mane, “We Be Steady Mobbin’.”

  Tamila Lee, real talk, don’t worry about your past. Focus on today and stay focused on your goals….see you soon!

  To my family, I still have much love for ya! My aunts, Diane, Teresa, Uncle Donald, Kenny, George, and my cast of cousins, Felicia, Keith, Eric, Erica, Cookie, A.J., Shan. May, Chris and family, Jeff, Xavier, Richard, I love you all. And no Ty…I didn’t forget about you…but I bet you thought I did.

  Okay, I’ll wrap this up so you can get into this book. Do know this; I encourage you all to reach me directly with any reviews or comments on this book. My current address will come at the end of this. In closing, I again want to thank all of you that support my work. I hope you will enjoy this book and join me once again by reading my words and thought. Enjoy.

  Keep your eyes dry & Your heart easy

  Please send reviews or comments to:

  Mr. Victor L. Martin # 0549353

  P.O. box 506

  Maury, NC 28554

  CHAPTER 1:

  Slippin’

  Durham, North Carolina

  January 5, 2007- Friday 10:10 p.m.

  Twenty-six-year old Ghetti had no idea that his life would drastically change on this cold, unpredictable night. Recent events in the dope hustle were causing him to think about his future, thinking of an early retirement. “Keeping it real” was lost in the streets, it was now an “Every hustler for self” mentality. Niggas getting knocked and turning states witness’s even before they made their first court appearance. Those stop snitchin’ shirts were a waste of money in his eyes. Ghetti wasn’t about to continue to have his life and freedom at risk. He was cruising down Magnum Street in his greenish gold 75 Chevy Caprice vert, bumping DMX. He was about to change the song when his cell phone started to vibrate on his hip.

  “Holla,” Ghetti said, leaning hard in the ostrich covered seat.

  “S’up, dawg, dis’ Poo-Man. Uh . . . I got these two Arabs over on Weaver that need some weight. You holdin’?”

  “Yeah, I’m straight. Tell ’em to hold up. I’m on my way now.”

  “I can do that, dawg,” Poo-Man replied.

  “Whut they drivin’?” Ghetti asked as he rode past Dillard Street.

  “One of those new Navigators. Got mad bling on the grill!” Poo-Man said excitedly.

  “Okay, just hold ‘em down till I swing through.”

  “What you in? Your Chevy or Infiniti?”

  “You know I’m Donkin’, sittin’ high,” Ghetti replied in reference to the shiny phat’ lip 26-inch chrome Giovanna rims tucked under the wheel well.

  “I’ll be on point so I’ll holler at ya,” Poo-Man replied before he hung up.

  Ghetti flipped his phone shut then turned the music back up. He then reached under the seat for his black rubber grip Glock .45 that was cocked and loaded with dumdums via gloved hands. As he neared a fork in the road, he took a left and hit Roxboro Street. He made sure he stayed with the speed limit while keeping his eyes open for the Durham pops. He called the police the “pops” for two reasons: In his eyes, the police were a bunch of suckers, hence the term “lollipops.” Second, if a nigga got caught slipping, the pops wouldn’t hesitate to pop that ass, either behind bars or add a few holes to your body not present at birth.

  Moments later, Ghetti made a left to hit Cornwallis Road then slowe
d down when his Chevy neared Weaver Street. Under a busted streetlight, he spotted the Navigator. Busting a left, he made a u-turn to pull up behind the SUV. When he switched the lights off, he saw Poo-Man exiting from the back of the Navigator. Poo-Man slid his lanky form inside the Chevy, sporting a camouflage hoodie, black baggy jeans, and a pair of tan Timberland boots. His dreads hung to his shoulders.

  Poo-Man was only eighteen, a high school dropout with a list of enemies double the list of friends. He extended his fist to give Ghetti some dap. Even though Ghetti was older, he looked a lot younger than Poo-Man. Ghetti’s skin was chocolate with thick eyebrows and light brown eyes with a brush wave taper. People always compared him to Ray J. He pulled up the collar of his brown and white London Fog ski jacket.

  “What it do, fam’?” Poo-Man settled in the seat, pulling his hoodie off and shaking his dreads.

  “Ain’t shit . . . just puttin’ in work.” Ghetti nodded toward the idling SUV with Virginia tags. “What they lookin’ for?”

  “One bird,” Poo-Man replied. “Fly and his team over on Elm Street said they straight. Fly sold ‘em some weight last week,” Poo-Man lied.

  Ghetti rubbed the shaped patch of hair on his goatee. “Why Fly ain’t break ‘em off?” Ghetti asked.

  “Pops ran up in his trap yesterday, you ain’t hear ‘bout it?”

  “Nah,” Ghetti said. “Damn, I know Fly sick as fuck right now.”

  “Damn right he is. I heard the pops even took his Hummer.”

  “Somebody gots to be snitchin’ or sumthin’.” Ghetti shook his head. “But back to these dudes . . . you see the grass?” he asked, referring to the money.

  “Hell yeah! Shit is all good, dawg,” Poo-Man stated while rubbing his hands together. “I’ve seen more than what’s needed to buy a key.”

  “Aiight, tell ‘em to meet me at the corner of Canal and Elizabeth.”

  “What time?” Poo-Man slid his hoodie back over his dreads.

  “Okay, um . . . I’ma ride wit’ dem to make sure they ain’t on no bullshit.”

  “You strapped?”

  “C’mon, Ghetti.” Poo-Man slowly eased up the hem of his jacket showing off his .380. “You know what it is.”

  The two exchanged daps, and then Poo-Man made his exit. The Navigator slowly pulled off and made a right on Cornwallis. Ghetti did the same with the lights off, but switched them on when he reached Cornwallis to make a left. His short trip ended on East Main Street. Ghetti had his coke stashed behind an abandoned house. All he had left was a brick and a half to his name. With high hopes, he would be down to half a bird after this deal.

  Just a few weeks ago, he scored ten bricks. He got on his grind 247. After this sale, it was a wrap for selling drugs. Ghetti was a few minutes late and parked behind the Navigator. Surveying the area, there were a few niggas trying to brave the bitter cold on a serious paper chase. Once he killed the lights, a tall Arab exited the passenger side of the SUV. The first thing Ghetti noticed was that he was empty-handed in his all black attire. Something didn’t feel right. Ghetti stroked the steel of the .45.

  The Arab lightly tapped on the tinted glass then opened the door and slid in. He was a burly man with a long, thick, black beard and a mustache nearly covering his lips. He had an unfamiliar scent that fought with the deep scent of the ostrich seats and Ghetti’s scented oil.

  “Whut’s goin’ on?” Ghetti asked over the Chevy’s rumbling engine.

  “Business,” the Arab replied with a deep Middle Eastern accent.

  “I can’t tell,” Ghetti said. “Looks like you came to the business meetin’ wit’ out any forms.”

  Smiling, the Arab held up his large hands. “It’s right here.” He raised the hem of his sweater, revealing six bundles of cash strapped to his bulletproof vest. Ghetti sighed at the sight of the money. “Each stack is two thousand American dollars. May I test the product while you count?”

  Ghetti nodded yes while reaching under the seat for the compressed pack of coke. Ghetti made a small cut in the brick then allowed the Arab to taste test it. Seeing how the Arab smiled, Ghetti knew he was pleased with the product. The Arab began pulling out the stacks of money from his vest. Before Ghetti knew it, he had a lap full of money. As he grabbed the stacks trying to count the money as fast as he could, several stacks fell to the floor near the gas pedal. Trying to bend down to grab what he could, he felt the Arab make a quick shift in his seat. Ghetti was too slow. He got caught slippin’.

  “You blink, you bleed,” the Arab warned with a seven-inch double-edge blade in his hand. The Arab had the deadly tip under Ghetti’s right ear. With his free hand, the Arab quickly took the stacks of money back as well as Ghetti’s Glock .45, which switched places with the blade. Ghetti remained frozen with his forehead on the wooden steering wheel. He winced when the Arab snatched the key out of the ignition. Ghetti closed his eyes as the Arab slid out of his Chevy, holding him at gunpoint. The second he heard the door slam shut, he looked up to see the Arab walking quickly to the SUV. Ghetti’s hand was already reaching behind the fuse box for his hidden spare key. When he sat up, he saw the SUV making a left turn on Gurley Street. This was Ghetti’s first time ever being robbed. Anger filled him, but then he suddenly thought of Poo-Man. Maybe the Arabs had already flat-lined his little nigga.

  “Fuck!” Ghetti shouted as he sped from the curb. His temper rose even higher to match the RPM’s as he gunned the engine. He figured the Arabs would not suspect he had a spare key, so he doubted they would be trying to see him through their rearview mirror. Still, he stayed back at a good distance, but kept the SUV in his sight. He began to worry more about Poo-Man as he came up on the corner of Elizabeth and Gurley. He gripped the steering wheel as the Navigator made a right turn to hit Roxboro Street. Ghetti’s mind was on one track. Thankfully, he stayed armed. In the trunk, he had a pistol grip pump, ready for whatever. He gunned the Chevy.

  Wiping his nose, Poo-Man leaned his head back to feel the rush of the cocaine he’d just tooted. He was upset over Ali not killing Ghetti.

  “Man, why you ain’t kill ’em like we planned?” he said from the back of the Navigator. “I can’t have him puttin’ two and two together.” The plan was for Ali to flat line Ghetti!

  “Relax,” Ali said, turning in the front passenger seat to face Poo-Man. “We can stage something like leave you on the curb, take your clothes, and tie you up.”

  “Hell fuck no! It’s colder than a muthafucka! Fuck that, just gimme my shit and I’ll think of somethin’.” Poo-Man rubbed his nose, pulling his hoodie back over his head. Ali shrugged his shoulders, turned around, and then counted out a measly ten one-hundred dollar bills.

  “This bettah be all of it.” Poo-Man leaned forward, snatching the handful of bills from Ali. “I never woulda bet that gangsta ass Ghetti would freeze up.” Poo-Man laughed. “Shit . . . I should have robbed him my damn self.” He licked his thumb then counted his money. “Did you check in his stash spot to see what was in it? He be on some Bond type shit.”

  “Didn’t have the time,” Ali said. “I got what I set out for.”

  Poo-Man looked at the back of Ali’s seat wanting to smack the shit out of him, but he did not have the heart for it. “Ali, you fucked up by not flat linin’ his ass. This ain’t Iraq or wherever y’all two are from. Shit . . . this Navi will be a bullet magnet once word gets out about you robbin’ Ghetti. Al-Qaeda won’t be able to bring the heat off your ass,” Poo-Man joked as he folded his money into a knot, placing it in his pocket. The two Arabs laughed as they rolled down Roxboro Street thinking shit was sweet. Poo-Man had no idea of the connections the Arabs really had.

  “Yo, uh . . . drop me off at my bitch’s crib over on Glenbrook,” Poo-Man said. He was tired of the funny smelling Arabs.

  “Thank you for your services,” the driver said, stealing a glance over his shoulder at Poo-Man. Poo-Man ignored him.

  The Arabs had stuck up several drug dealers and they were sitting on 80 bricks of stolen coke. In th
ree weeks, they had hit nearly all the major hustlers in Charlotte, Greensboro, Winston-Salem, Fayetteville, and now Durham. Their next mission would take them to Goldsboro, with the help of someone close to the dudes they robbed.

  Poo-Man adjusted the .380 in his waistband as the SUV made a U-turn at the back of Glenbrook Drive. He would lay low for a while, smash his girl off, and then come up with a lie to toss at Ghetti. He could say some bullshit about the Arabs holding him at gunpoint. Shit, Ghetti had better be glad the Arab didn’t merk his ass! Poo-Man jumped out of the SUV slamming the door. He was good and high, had a pocket full of money, and was about to run deep in some pussy all night.

  “Today was a good day,” he mumbled.

  The Arab’s exit was slowed by a trashcan in the middle of the street. Cars were parked on both sides preventing them from driving around them. Ali jumped out to move the trashcan. Out of the darkness emerged Ghetti from behind the idling SUV. He moved along the SUV with the sawed-off pistol grip pump in his gloved hands. He showed no hesitation when he reached the driver’s side window.

  Click-clack. BOOM!

  At point blank range, the slug shattered the window ripping half of the Arab’s face off. As his lifeless body began its final lean to the right, Ghetti was already aiming at the second Arab who had spun around.

  Click-clack. BOOM!

  Ghetti caught him as he was reaching for the .45. The slug punched into the Arab’s left shoulder, him around and off his feet. Blood began to gush profusely from the wound. His brief scream filled the air, as his arm hung grossly from exposed tendons and shattered bone. Ghetti ran up on him as he struggled on his belly using his one good arm to move. He kicked Ali over on to his back, pointing the sawed-off in his face. Ali shuttered at the unsettling look he saw in Ghetti’s eyes. He was coughing up blood and twitching, but somehow managed to smile in his torment of pain. Ghetti had no pity. Quickly, he laid his sawed-off down, snatched his Glock from Ali’s waist, then found his keys in the front right pocket of his leather coat. The bloody money vest caught his attention, but it would take too much time to fully remove it.