The Legend of Johnny Hustle: The Come Up Read online

  The Legend of Johnny Hustle

  The Come Up

  (Part 1)

  Publisher’s Note

  The Legend of Johnny Hustle – The Come Up

  Copyright © 2016 Zach Tate

  Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights re­served. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a re­view to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Although the author and publisher have made every effort to en­sure the accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book, we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omis­sions, or any inconsistency herein.

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  To the old hustlers of Times Square & yesteryear: Money Russ, Dot, Black Just, Green Eyes, Phil, Zack, Pee-Wee, Al-amo, Trouble, Marcy, Nadine, Edee, Dollar Bill, Country, Blue, Tyson, Dougie, Lil Mike, Comeback Mike, Wise, Gay Janice, Ziggy, Baldie, Derrick, Elexus, Dirty Red, Cashmere, Goldie, The Covenant House Posse, Jeff & Jamal, Big June, & dem boys from Uptown. The Square is gone, but never forgotten.

  FOREWORD

  Recently, I was on my home computer beginning my new novel, but I had to stop. I received hundreds of letters and E-mails inquiring about Johnny Hustle—a character from my books, No Way Out and Lost & Turned Out. Everyone said they knew someone like him. Many asked how he became Johnny Hustle.

  After a discussion with my publisher, I decided to put my street journalism to work and deliver a captivating story. A story about the experiences and love life that made Johnny Hustle the man he is today. So right now, I’m sitting at the top floor of the Marriott Marquise with the man of the hour—whom I paid my entire advance. Instead of writing this story from a tape recorder, I will allow the man to tell his own story while I transcribe the events on my laptop. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Johnny Hustle.

  They call me Johnny Hustle. . .I am a hustler in every sense of the word. Since the game is sold before it’s told, and I got Zach’s advance in my pocket, it’s best that I keep my word. If there’s one thing that I can give to you, it’s that there are two types of people in this world: The player, whom rises to the top and endures the bumps and bruises along the way; and the vic, the mark, the john, who gets played and waits for miracles. I used to be an insecure vic, but now I’m the ultimate hustler.

  I was born John Trueblood in 1965 in Augusta, Georgia. I was raised in Staten Island, New York. I lived at 260 Park Hill, went to I.S. 57, and graduated two years early, with honors, from Curtis High School. My transformation came from the two things that has destroyed men: flesh and ego.

  Crissy was a drop-dead gorgeous, gold digger from Harlem whose body was flawless. Her caramel skin, chinky eyes, slim frame, long hair extensions, and 5’ 4” body were a perfect match for my mocha skin, light brown eyes, and half-Indian muscular 6’1” frame. Crissy was all I needed to feel like “the man.” Since I was a hard working lame, I moved her into my Bronx apartment. I was able to keep her happy with my paycheck half of the time, and with sex the other half of the time. When my money got low, she flipped the script.

  After that day, my world changed; I transformed. With cash, ass, and death at my fingertips, I made myself the man I am today. After one accidental trip down to midtown Manhattan, Johnny Hustle was born. This story is cruel, not one for the weak at heart. It will pull you in and change you the way I was changed. Be careful, your pockets and soul may be empty when you’re done.

  Book 1

  The Life

  To deceive is to enchant

  Plato

  1

  Brave Dave

  The way you start with a woman is the way you will finish. Back in 1989, I was definitely finishing the wrong way.

  CRASH!

  Another blurry circular object was wobbling in mid-air towards my face. After a quick duck, the China plate crashed into a thousand pieces behind my head.

  “Goddamn, Crissy! Why you have to break the dishes?” I yelled from the small foyer into the sweltering kitchen across from me.

  “Your broke ass can afford to buy some more Dixie wear. I’m tired of this broke shit. I’m definitely out this time,” Crissy ranted.

  The small white-walled apartment was a simple place. Seaman’s furniture provided all the plum colored fixings. The sunken living room was directly ahead of the front door, and the bedroom was to the left. For the fifth time since we were together, Crissy was in the living room packing her expensive luggage. We were arguing because I lost our extra money playing dice the night before, which meant she couldn’t go clothes shopping.

  “Here we go again,” I complained while shaking my head.

  “Nah, we ain’t going no where again,” Crissy barked while dialing a number into the black cordless phone. “I done told you it cost to be the boss, and your ass always end up lost.”

  Crissy’s chinky eyes rolled as she stomped out of my presence into the bedroom for more clothes. “Yeah. Hurry up so I can get up out of here. What? Yeah, I’m ready for all that,” I heard her saying to the other party as I crept into the bedroom.

  “What’s this all about?” I asked in exhaustion.

  She looked into my eyes and ended her phone call. Nearly whispering, she sighed, “Look John, you trying to live high class on low income. You want me to have your baby. You want me home when you get here, and for me to do that, it cost. You don’t hustle. You ain’t got another job. When you do get paid, you pay the bills and blow the rest playing dice. That dice money should be mine. Since you always lose, it’s obvious to a duck, you a loser.” She went to the bed, packing the last of her things. “I realize that love don’t pay my bills. I rather be paid and horny than broke and satisfied.”

  The thought of her leaving caused a tug of war between my emotions and my ego. I rubbed her shoulders. “Look, Baby, I’m sorry,” I uttered honestly. “Just give me one more chance? Chill out and let’s talk about this when I come home from work, Sweetheart.”

  Crissy’s face looked like she ate something foul and sour. “Oh hell no, John. I’m not going for that.”

  I was just warming up. “You know I love you. You know I took the test for the Police Department. As soon as they call me and I start working, we straight. In a year I’ll be working narcotics and I can rob those stash houses blind. Just for you baby. We gonna live the good life. Right now, I’m running late. I gotta get to work at the lumberyard. Just stay here, please, until I get back from work?”

  Before she could answer, a car horn beeped outside of my window. Hurriedly, Crissy stuck her head out and yelled, “I’m on my way down!”

  Shocked, I rushed to the window. A brand new white BMW M-3 with chrome rims, sat under the shade on the Grand Concourse. The driver got out and moved over to the passenger side. When she saw the shock on my face, she pulled out her house keys and picked up her three bags. “You are so-so sorry,” she stated flatly. “I don’t even know what I was thinking, or why I messed with you in the first place. John, you ain’t got nothing to offer. My man is outside. He got me a luxury apartment in Lenox Terrace. When your pockets get phat, come look me up.”

  Crissy threw the keys at me. She then turned around and laughed as she walked out of the house. She left the door wide open. I should have put my foot
in her ass. With a clear view to the wrought iron railings in the hallway, I sat in my Lazy-boy and thought about all the clothes and jewelry I bought her. Not to mention the weeks of overtime that I put in so she could have a high priced outfit. All so she could hang out with her girlfriends and meet other men. I used to cook for her, bathe her, and treat her right. When her family didn’t want her around, I gave her food, clothing, and shelter. I failed. Taken advantage of and abandoned like a lame.

  Gladys Knight sang about leaving on a Midnight train to Georgia, while my hot hands nursed a cold six pack of Budweiser. I sat in the living room with the door still open. I decided to skip work at the lumberyard that day.

  After replaying the images of how well I pampered Crissy, I analyzed my weakness for women, and thought of an old pimp named Pierre that my mother dated when I was a kid. He taught me to never be weak for sex, but I ignored his wisdom and love had me in a jam. Heading for a drive, I grabbed my car keys.

  $$$

  My dusty, black, Peugeot 505 sat on the corner of the busiest intersection in the Bronx. The four lanes of the Grand Concourse played Ping-Pong with the early summer heat. I said a silent prayer, hoping my car would start. It was only three years old, but after Crissy smashed it up a few times, and put too much mileage on it, it just didn’t work the same. I walked around to the driver’s side and looked down on the hood. The word “SUCKER” was keyed into the black paint and dirt. I should have gotten into the car and drove away, but I was stuck in a trance.

  I took two clumsy steps back and stepped into a soft, hot pile of mess that symbolized the state of my life. When I looked at the dog shit at the bottom of my shoe, the keys slipped out of my sweaty palm and into a clogged sewage drain. It wasn’t my day. After putting my face closer to the gift the dog left behind, I stuck my hand into the filthy sewer and retrieved my keys.

  Driving down the crowded, potholed, West Side highway was agony. The AC wasn’t working, and the only tunes I had were the sounds of my bald tires rolling. Since it was one of the hottest days of the summer and the dog shit baked and lingered in the car. I wanted to catch a movie to take my mind off of Crissy, so I drove to the Deuce.

  I pulled into a large rest haven for hustlers at a parking lot on the busy corner of 8th Avenue. After parking, I stepped to a small cage in the middle of the crowded lot. I laughed to myself as I got closer. The black gate at the entrance of the attendant’s booth was closed like the occupants were hiding from the sun. I looked through a small square that was cut out of the chicken-wired fence. Inside were two Haitian inmates cooking from the sweltering heat. Both men had worn eyes that saw a revolution, black faces filled with hope, and bright teeth that like looked like Chiclets gum.

  “Welcome to the Deuce. You can stay forever, or go back home where it’s safe,” stated the sweating, teethe? Black man who took my car keys. Sweat dripped from his head and his body odor smelled like zoo dirt. I took the parking stub he handed me and assumed he was giving a regular welcoming speech, but I was wrong. Dead wrong. I said my farewells to the burnt parking attendants while taking in the scenery.

  The natives called 42nd Street “The Deuce.” Back then, the long filthy strip from Eighth to Seventh Avenue was cluttered with legal and illegal vendors who sold everything from drugs to their souls. Fearing they would be out-hustled, panhandlers and winos couldn’t find a home there. The aroma of spoiled milk washed the hot, noisy, two-way street. At the entrance of storefronts that laid at the feet of tall buildings, were flashing lights that advertised nude peep shows, grimy movie theaters, stores filled with overpriced merchandise, and legal businesses, promoting indecency. This was 1989. Way before the urban facelift, world-class theaters, Disney, NASDAQ, and before Conde Nast moved in. Dingy panhandlers roamed the corners, preachers hustled on their isolated soapboxes, and the rest of the natives were having a good time conducting rapid criminal transactions.

  As I headed up the Seven/Eight Strip and passed the old Victory porno theater, I settled on buying a few beers, calling in sick, and then catching a few movies before heading back home. As I approached the bright lights of Times Square, I looked up at the skyscrapers. Suddenly I felt a bump at my back pockets. I reacted quickly. My fingers held a scrawny figure I recognized from childhood.

  “David?” I quizzically asked, as he looked up and down at my khaki, work uniform, trying to tap into his memory banks.

  “Damn,” he yelled while stomping his feet in disappointment. I recognized him as my old friend from Staten Island. While he snapped his fingers trying to recall, I checked out his dingy blue jeans, black windbreaker, and loud orange shirt and hat. The blank expression on his dark rodent looking face told me nothing.

  “John, right?” he asked when the light bulb went off behind his bulging eyes. “Nice seeing you man, sort of.” He cracked a smile. “It’s not David anymore; it’s Brave Dave now. You used to hang out on Vanpelt Ave at that club the Meeting Place, before you went off to the service right?”

  It was him all right. I hugged him. “Damn, Dave, they said you left and was missing and—”

  “A’ight. A’ight-a’ight. We can catch up later, but right now I need some help,” he said in an impatient voice.

  I frowned and figured he was down on his luck. Cars rolling behind me, I reached into my pocket and handed him a $10.00 bill. Looking confused, he immediately took the money. He shrugged his shoulders, pulled out a hefty stack of bills, and rolled my ten on top of his stack. When he saw the look of a sucker on my face, he said, “Rule number one. Look beyond the obvious. Don’t take shit on face value.”

  Again I was confused. Dave saw my ignorant eyes. “Man you conditioned like a square. Like a damn law-biding citizen. Don’t you know that you can’t help a man that won’t help himself? Once you heard the word “help,” your charitable nature came out and I didn’t even get a chance to tell you what type of help I wanted. Charity is for chumps who sit on their rumps."

  I immediately understood. “Man, I was just trying to be nice. I was busy seeing the sights.”

  “Sights is for the hype,” he said in a rhythmic voice. “And wasted time won’t make you a dime.” He looked up the street with a sense of urgency. “Man, you still ain’t tell me if you want to help me out? I need to know right now.”

  “Yeah man. Sure. Whatever you need,” came out of my naïve mouth without thinking of what was at stake, or how my simple life was about to change.

  Dave looked up the crowded street towards Broadway. His scrawny finger pointed to a fat White man who was wobbling our way while looking up at the skyscrapers. “Look—you see that fat man coming our way?” I nodded. “Good. He from out of town. He about to get robbed and I need you to help ‘em get to the police and off this strip.”

  My head turned to the side. “But—how do you know he…”

  “Listen here, Square. This is Mid. His pockets is about to be dead. When he get robbed, I want you to walk up to ‘em. Keep a ten-dollar bill in your hand, and offer it to ‘em, then all you gots to do is take ‘em straight to the poe-lease. Can you handle that?”

  “Sure,” I replied, thinking that Dave was out of his mind. I had no idea how he knew the man was going to get robbed, or why he wanted me to give the man my help. Before I had a chance to protest, Dave pulled me into the entrance of a sex shop and took out his bankroll. He handed me his money, dropped his jacket to reveal the bright orange tee shirt, and took off running across the street. In utter surprise I watched Dave run up to the far corner, cross back over to my side of the street, and then walk back down towards me at a quick pace.

  The portly white man had his chubby hands cupped over his eyes. He was trying to block the glare of the sun. He bobbed along while Dave gained on him. It felt like things moved in slow motion. Then, with lightening speed, Dave dug his hand into the man's pocket. He pushed the startled victim away and sped towards me without looking over his frail shoulder.

  I couldn’t believe it. I was stuck. Dave snapped me out
of my trance, “Step to your business, Square.”

  I moved like a solider following a General’s command. I ran up to the terrified man with genuine concern plastered on my face. He was spinning in circles screaming for help, holding what was left of his beige polyester pants. I approached with caution.

  “You—you, you need some help miss, I mean, mister?” I asked nervously.

  “Some guy. A Negro fellow with an orange shirt on. He—” the man yelled then pointed in the direction Dave ran, “ran that way with my money.”

  I flashed the $10.00 bill in his face. When I looked into his bloodshot eyes they widened with hope from something that was behind me. As I turned around, I saw two things I didn’t want to see: A blue and white police car cruising up the street, and Dave walking towards me. He was wearing a white, I Love New York tee shirt, with white sunglasses. The sight of Dave’s 5’ 6”, dark, Panamanian complexion made my heart sink.

  While the victim tiptoed to the curb to stop the police car, I was in a daze. Speeding my way, Dave calmly brushed the waves in his hair. My mouth was open so wide that anyone could see my heartbeat choking me with fear. Dave saw me freeze up, so he snatched the $10.00 bill out of my hand and led me to the police car.

  “Sir, are you all right?” Dave asked the vic after walking up to the man. “Me and my friend here saw the whole thing.”

  “Oh—oh yes, dear fellows,” cried the man while looking down at his ripped pants. “I was savagely victimized,” he told Dave.

  “You need some assistance to find the perpetrator? How much did he take? Did you see what he looked like?” Dave asked in a preppy voice.

  I wanted to do an all out sprint. I wanted to get far away from Dave and his victim.

  “He had on an orange shirt. He took three thousand dollars in large bills.” The vic pointed to the far corner of Eighth Avenue. “I was just going to transfer the cash into traveler’s checks at the bank.”