Chapter 3
The sun hadn’t even cleared the rooftops, but the block was already popping. Cars creeping, corner boys pacing up and down the block, phones glued to their hands. Juelz pulled up, bass humming low, windows halfway down just enough for the air to hit his face.
He had that morning focus, eyes alert, gold flashing every time he licked his lips. The smell of weed and a new air freshener hung in the car. His phone wouldn’t stop buzzing from text notifications and missed calls.
Mar:
Aye, you movin’ slow this mornin’. Big man hit me talkin’ ‘bout those packages late.
Juelz:
Tell that nigga chill. I’m comin’, damn.
He wasn’t late. He was just careful. One wrong stop, and one car tailing him too close, and all that fast money would turn into a cold cot and a nasty ass meal tray.
He turned down an alley, parked behind a corner store, and popped the trunk. Inside were shoeboxes taped tight, one stacked with pills, another with baggies of powder, all wrapped neatly. To him, it wasn’t chaos. It was business.
Mar met him out back, hopping out of his SUV, smelling like gas.
“‘Bout damn time, my boy. You movin’ like a fuckin’ turtle.”
Juelz smirked, lighting a pre-rolled blunt. “Patience is the difference between free and twenty-five to life. I ain’t rushin’ for nobody.”
Mar laughed, counting a roll of hundreds. “Nigga! What old head you got that shit from?”
“Shit, don’t matter. Them old heads be talkin’ the truth.”
They dapped up, then got to work. Mar passed off the new drop, and Juelz slid him a cut from last night’s run. Clean, smooth. No middle-man fumbles. That’s why people trusted him, he didn’t move sloppy.
Still, the paranoia never really left. A black SUV rolled by, windows up, and both men went quiet until it turned the corner.
“See that shit?” Juelz pointed, flicking ash off his blunt.
“You don’t see how this game changes every hour.
Niggas out here talk too much, post too much, move too loud.
They don’t know how to just get money and go the fuck home.
They gotta show off the fuckin’ shit. And then wonder why niggas rob they stupid asses. ”
Mar shrugged. “Shit, you sound like you had enough. You ready to give it up, nigga?”
“Give it up?” Juelz chuckled, eyes squinting through smoke. “Shit, not yet. This here just… phase one, nigga.”
“Phase one of what, El Chapo Jr.?” Mar teased.
“Phase one of peace, nigga. I’ma stack till I can walk away from this shit quietly. No cuffs, no ops, no feds. Just me, Tasha, and a lil’ one runnin’ through a big ass crib that we ‘gon hate when we get older.”
Mar looked at him sideways. “Nigga, you know damn well you don’t have to keep hustling. Yo ass got money stacked already. You just addicted to this shit. Addicted to the hustle.”
“Yeah,” Juelz agreed, voice low but sure. “Maybe I am. But I definitely want more.”
Mar blew smoke out slow. “I hear ya.”
Juelz smirked, brushing him off. “You betta.”
His phone buzzed. Lil’ Mook. He answered.
“Whaddup tho?”
“Nigga you are coming or not?”
Rage swept over him, “Look, man, I’m comin’.” He hung up, shaking his head. “Dumb-ass niggas always rushin’,” Juelz blew out a breath, getting irritated. He slid the gun under his shirt. “Let’s ride.”
They hit the whip, engine growling as he peeled out of the alley. The city of Detroit flashed by broken streetlights, boarded windows, and kids running wild in front of corner stores. All that chaos, but to him, it was a rhythm. He’d been in it too long not to move like it was home.
Before the drop, his phone lit up again, displaying a private number.
He looked at it for a second, thumb hovering over the screen, then flipped the phone face down.
“The fuck keep playin’ on my shit?” he said under his breath, easing up on the gas.
Juelz parked the Charger tight in the alley behind a raggedy trap house with graffiti tagged all over the back door. Bricks were crumbling, an old washing machine was by the door, windows fogged up, but this was where the real moves got made. No cameras. No nosey neighbors. No weak links.
Mar hopped out first, glancing around before hitting the fence with two quick knocks. That was the signal.
A few seconds later, the side door creaked open. Smoke spilled out first, then Lil Mook came limping out in dirty Crocs and a ski mask halfway on. Always acting like he was built for this, but stayed folding under pressure.
“Bout time,” Lil’ Mook mumbled, eyes bouncing from Juelz to Mar. “We been waiting.”
“Watch yo tone, nigga.” Juelz said, real low. “Ain’t no such thing as late when I’m bringin’ the product. Muthafucka, you want the shit or not?”
“Yeah, nigga, I do. What you got for me anyway?” Lil’ Mook asked, trying to peek through the tinted glass.
Juelz popped the trunk. Inside: two black duffels zipped and packed with inventory. Pills, powder, a few extras for the right buyers. All sorted, all counted.
“Shit, nigga, I got that new Pookie Pack for ya ass. I betcha ‘gon love that,” Juelz said, adjusting his Robin’s jeans.
Lil’ Mook folded his arms, intrigued. “Man… What the fuck is the Pookie Pack?”
Juelz glanced at Mar and back at Lil’ Mook. “Shit… hit it too much and watch yo ass be doin’ jumpin’ jacks. Singin’ out loud, one and a two and a three and a four, just like the nigga on New Jack City.”
Lil’ Mook laughed and leaned in the trunk like he was about to sample the pack. Mar stepped forward quickly, placing a hand on his chest to stop him.
“Nigga, this ain’t the food court. Ain’t no fuckin’ free samples. Drop that bread, nigga.”
Lil’ Mook nodded fast, reaching into his pocket and tossing an envelope on top of the bags. “It’s all there.”
“Shit, it better be, Nigga!” Mar snatched the envelope up, flipped through the cash, noticing something seemed off. “It’s short,” he said coldly, not even looking up. “Way fuckin’ short.”
Lil’ Mook started stuttering. “What? Naw, naw, can’t be. I counted that shit twice—”
Juelz stepped closer, calm but lethal. “You think I’m some goofy ass nigga? Lemme find out you tryna play with my name.”
Lil’ Mook backed up, hands up. “Nah, bro, I…I…I swear. Maybe I miscounted—”
Juelz reached under his shirt, pulled out the Glock just enough to let the handle show.
“Fix it then, nigga. Put them muthafuckin’ Crocs in sport mode and go get my fuckin’ money.”
Lil’ Mook nodded like a bobblehead, dipping back inside. He came out with a second envelope. This one was thicker this time.
“Give me that shit,” Mar barked, snatching it and going through it before stuffing it in his jacket.
They dropped the bags by the door. One of Lil’ Mook's boys scooped them fast, disappearing inside. And just like that, it was done.
Juelz pulled his blunt from behind his ear, lit it, then leaned on the hood of the Charger while keeping watch as Mar continued to count the money.
“You good?” Mar asked, still thumbing through the money.
“Yeah,” Juelz exhaled, smoke curling past his lips. “Just feel like shit comin’ to a head soon.”
Mar chuckled. “Nigga, shit always at a head. You just high-strung lately.”
Juelz didn’t laugh. He just looked out at the block, eyes narrowed. His phone buzzed in his pocket again. Private number.
He looked at it, shaking his head, as he silenced the call. He nodded toward the whip. “Let’s slide.”