Somethin' to Think About by Damon R Green is a bold novel that separates itself from the rest by its intoxicating allure. This prolific writer, whose street credibility speaks volumes, has created a novel that has it all: fame, fortune and power. These things make life magnificent, but they come with a price. Too often, the actual costs exceeds the worth and sacrifice needed to get them. You have to confront the faces of betrayal, death and the stark reality that you could spend the rest of your life in prison. Realizing this can be devastating. It's a game where there is plenty to lose and few win. It's a game where today's gangstas become tomorrow's rats and yesterday's love of your life becomes tomorrow's betrayal. Your right hand man that you unconsciously treated better than your own blood transforms into your archenemy! In this tale, Damon R. Green take the reader on a journey of twist and turns, which will leave readers, men, women and children alike, with 'Somethin' to Think About". You'll fine every element of the streets, both past and current; exist in the depths of these pages. After experiencing this novel, if you find yourself thinking that Momma never said that life would be so rough, you won't be able to say that Damon R. Green didn't tell you.
Somethin' to Think About
By Damon R. GreeniUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Latoya Belgrave-Green
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4401-7587-9Chapter One
Jasmine sat in the back of the van en route over the Rikers Island Bridge, looking into the water down below, her thoughts running wild. For the past eight months, three times a week, she took this very same trip. However, for some reason she just couldn't escape the thought of one day the van going over the railing and plunging into the water (a voluntary risk that she and so many others like her took on daily). Outside of her man, son's father, and love of her life blowing trial for a murder for which he's being held without bail, this was her greatest fear.
Jasmine and C.B., also known as Corey Banks, had been together for the last seven years. They were the prime example of unalike attracting, and a-alikes repelling. While Corey grew up in Harlem's Lincoln projects, with one older and one younger sister, Jasmine grew up on the east side inside the Wagner Houses, with one older and one younger brother. At twenty-five years of age and Puerto Rican, she has never dated a man of Latin descent. Jasmine Velez, with her caramel complexion, shoulder length raven hair, and well-proportioned one hundred and thirty-eight pound frame, stood at the model height of 5'9." She drove men she visually came in contact with crazy. She paid nothing or no one any attention other than C.B. and Corey, Jr. Her primary focus in life was based on them.
The Oliver People frames she wore added an extra degree of sensuality to her, bringing about an exotic mystique. But it was her long legs, apple bottom and nice firm breasts that caused C.B. to continue his strong love for her. They first met seven years ago.
The continuous intensity of their relationship made Corey become more and more possessive over her. Not in a sense where he ever suspected her of fucking around on him or anything, but to the point where Corey knew that he couldn't properly function without her by his side. Out of all of the other females that he dealt with on the side, none of them were cut from the same exquisite cloth as she was. It's why she held the position she had.
Seeing Jasmine with C.B., one would never think that she was a graduate of Fordham University, holding a degree in Business Management as well as securing a high position inside the Chase Manhattan Bank. C.B., on the other hand, was a high school drop out who'd been in and out of the system since the early days of his youth. Having had the opportunity to see many before him from right in his immediate area lay it down and make something of themselves, C.B. took full advantage of his influence over those that looked up to him and took control over the entire project like his late mentor, Baby-K.
Corey's 6'1" figure, smooth Nat King Cole complexion, curly hair and always perfectly lined goatee made him an item among the ladies. It was killing him that he was still making ten thousand dollars a day, but wasn't able to be present for the actual earnings. However, knowing that his loyal little homey, B. Rus, was out there on the strip holding down the fort, taking care of Jasmine and little C.J., kept him mentally afloat. The moment he ever received a bail, he knew he'd be released, but due to his extensive record, the Manhattan District Attorney's office was successful in getting the judge to keep denying him bail.
Jasmine hated what seemed like a forever process of entering the prison once she was over the bridge. One had to wait in long lines that bore the sign to whichever building your loved one was detained. You then had to wait for a dirty bus to take you there, fill out some more paperwork, and then wait sometimes for another hour, only to spend one measly hour with your people.
After the C.O. called C.B.'s name and handed him the card with Jasmine's name on it, he walked through a sliding door of the Beacon's visiting room. An officer working the floor then directed him to the fifth chair in the second row, over to his left. No longer than a minute later, in came Jasmine, looking beautiful as ever. Upon making eye contact with each other, they both immediately started to smile and blow kisses in the air at each another.
"Hey girl, you look awesome today. How was your ride up?" C.B. asked while lifting Jasmine up off of her feet and kissing her all over her face.
"Stop it with your crazy self ... You got the cops looking all over here like something is going on." Jasmine glanced at the officers who stared her and her man down, hoping that a package of contraband was passed off.
"So what, no one in this world can stop me from showing my baby love. You look tired ma, what's up?" C.B. noticed the exhaustion on his baby girl's face. Gently, he placed his hand on her chin and raised her head so that they once again made eye contact.
"Nothing, my period came last night. Other than that, I'm fine. What's up with you?" Jasmine responded. She lightly brushed a piece of lint off the side of C.B.'s right cheek.
"Ain't nothing but the same ol' shit ... And as you know, that without variety breeds tedium." Jasmine was used to C.B. using so-called big words. It wasn't something that he all of a sudden picked up in prison because he had a dictionary nearby. Extending his vocabulary was part of his everyday routine even before he got locked up, because although he didn't finish high school, he had a strong affinity for reading. Every chance he got, whether he was on the block doing hand to hand or behind the scenes moving and shaking, he would pick up a book and read it from cover to cover. "For these last past few days, I've been in a serious state of dissatisfaction and weariness. That's why I'm just hoping these people give me a bail next week. Enough of me though, what's good with little C.B.?"
"He was asleep when I left. My mother is taking him over to my grandmother's later on this evening. What happened? I tried to call you last night but I kept getting your voice mail ... Is everything okay, baby?"
"Yeah, but you know something? I figured that too. I was just telling my man that before they called me for the visit. I'm telling you, I can feel it when you're reaching out to me, on some real telepathy shit. What happened was, the officer that holds my cell phone in his locker called in yesterday. I'm unable to get to it when he's not here. I know B. Rus was probably trying to get at me too. Listen, when you leave here, I need you to go and see him, tell him I said to make sure they locate that snitch nigga Tonk, and get rid of him before I go to court. I'm telling you, I want that nigga dead, ma."
"He called me while I was waiting for the van. He's supposed to meet me on 125th and Lexington when I leave here. All I have to do is call and let him know I'm on my way," Jasmine remembered.
"Did he give you that twenty-five thousand?"
"He'll have it when I see him later on, he said."
"This gotta be one of the hottest days of June thus far, right?" C.B. asked, fanning himself from the heat.
"I'm telling you." Jasmine responded, tugging on her blouse that seemed to be sticking to her skin.
"Damn, I miss you to death, girl. Just seeing you in them open toe Reberto Cavalli's and skirt got my dick hard as a missile. Come here, what color thongs you got on?" he asked, while rubbing up on Jasmine's inner thigh.
"Stop being so fresh, I have on red panties. Didn't I just tell you I got my period, boy?" She smiled and looked around nervously. "Yeah, that's right. Oh shit, listen before I forget. I also need you to tell B. Rus that I'm going to send my C.O. man at him and to give him three ounces of that purple, and also hit him wit' two G's. This way he can pay for my cell bill and have about a stack left over for him."
"You sure you don't want me to Western Union the money to him, like I did the last time?"
"Nah, that's okay ... Just tell B. Rus that him or Matt will handle it on their end. They love to give him that smoke for me anyway. I just need you to take that money they give you down to my lawyer before my next court appearance."
"Nunez, Smith, Taylor, Williams, Rodriguez, Washington, and Banks, your visits are now over. Say your goodbyes at your tables and step to the rear of the visiting room," the visiting room officer shouted like a dude on strike at a rally.
"Damn, it feels like you just got here, right?" C.B. mentioned as he rose to his feet.
"I know, but don't even worry about it. In a minute, hopefully all this should be over with." Jasmine smiled, stood to her feet and brushed the wrinkles from her skirt.
"That's exactly why I love you, Jasmine. You know how to stay focused and optimistic in the face of adversity. Not many women, let alone people period, possess that trait. You're a major part of my strength, girl. Sometimes I even wonder why you love and tolerate me so much. Then again, you know I'm crazy to death about you, right?" C.B. smiled, placed his hand up to Jasmine's face and caressed her eyebrow.
Jasmine leaned into his hand, pouted playfully and said, "How could I not know such a thing when you tell it to me all the time?"
"I swear Jasmine; I'll kill something over you in a heartbeat."
Jasmine knew deep inside of her heart that C.B. literally meant every single word of his last statement. No matter how diabolical it sounded, just the thought of him willing to go to such lengths over her caused sudden added moisture to form between her legs and her love for him to increase even more.
"Mr. Banks, let's go, say your goodbyes and step to the rear." The same officer that made the announcement a few moments ago barked at C.B. in a real sarcastic manner.
"I hate this faggot ass motha fucka, word up. For some reason, this joker stays riding my dick. If I ever see him in the town, I'll ki-"
"Stop it, will you?" Jasmine placed a manicured finger up to her man's lips. "And make sure you call me as soon as you get hold of your cell phone. Oh, I left you a package."
"What is it?" asked C.B., knowing he didn't request or need anything.
"I picked you up a pair of brown and beige Gucci shoes, a black pair of Louis Vuitton sneakers, a couple of them G-Unit tank tops, some underwear, and a few bars of soap. Okay now, let me go. Give me another kiss." Mmtwa. "I love you and remember to be careful, honey."
"I will, and I love you too. Make sure you give my love to my baby boy."
"Now you know that goes without saying, Corey."
C.B. couldn't help but admire Jasmine's gait as she exited the visiting area. Her strut made her look even more extra lady like. With her Cavalli heels on, hair pinned up and her not so big firm onion, she showed great form inside of her outfit. Her perfectly fitted eyewear, diamond encrusted platinum butterfly necklace, identical bracelet, and five carat studs, added some spice to her ensemble, giving her more of a SoHo and Tribeca look as opposed to her Harlem stomping ground. Her 34-24-34 figure made other prisoners and their visitors alike steal various glances at her, because in essence, she was the prettiest thing in sight.
"What's really good, big homey?" a fellow prisoner asked C.B. as they both waited for the door over near a booth with a two-way mirror to open so they could take off the jumpsuits they had to wear on the visiting floor and put back on their regular hood wear.
"Ain't nothing, family. What's going on with my little man Shea and y'all over there in eight block? Tell him I'ma send some of that purple over there for y'all sometime tomorrow, you heard?"
"Now that's what's up." said the individual with a bright smile on his face. He then gave C.B. a handshake and hug all at the same time.
"Listen, excuse me for a minute. I have to speak to my man over here right quick about something important," said C.B.
"No doubt, be good."
"Son, don't forget to tell Shea to be on the lookout for that tomorrow."
"A'ight, one."
"One."
Chapter Two
"What's going on, B. Rus?" Shawndu hollered as he approached B and a few others standing by a brand new smoke gray 300C Chrysler. The group was camped out in front of the Kenney's Fried Chicken restaurant located directly on the corner of 132nd and Fifth Avenue.
The small establishment has served as a hang out for many years to the local drug dealers and residents of the Lincoln Houses. On this particular afternoon, not only was the restaurant at its full capacity of twenty five standing but the couple of square faux wood tables resting between two yellow wide chairs that sat four adults are being utilized as well. A particular young African American couple in their mid-20 is accompanied by their toddler daughter. As she sat in her pink and gray Graco stroller being hand fed a piece of chicken from her mother, she can't help to visually take in her surroundings. The light breeze caused the aroma of the freshly made biscuits and fried chicken that escaped by way of the exhaust vents and constant opening of the front door to penetrate the nostrils of the nearby pedestrian and those driving by on the double lanes of Fifth Ave. and coming up from 132nd and Lenox Ave.
"Ain't nothing Du, what's poppin' with you?"
"I'm about to shoot over to Johnson projects to see my baby mother." The two embraced. Shawndu pointed at the baby Bentley and said, "This you?" to B. Rus.
B. Rus turned around to admire his thirty thousand dollar whip and said, "Yeah, a lil' sumthin', sumthin', ya heard."
Shawndu smirked innocently and added, "Big toys for big boys."
B. Rus brushed the comment off as a simple compliment and changed the direction of the conversation. "I see you flying those colors, hard body, huh."
Du popped his collar, the bottom of his shirt and the tongue on his shoes like a professional pimp and said, "Yeah, you know how this shit go, dogz. O-tray-one until the day I'm done."
"Hey, Du."
"What's up, Matt?" Shawndu diverted his attention to another member of the crowd.
"You look like you're doing real good for yourself. What you been up to?" Matt leaned up against the back of his Escalade, which was parked directly in front of B. Rus' Chrysler.
"Oh, yeah. I'd be doing even better if y'all gave me a nigga'z wig to push back for some of that paper. Either that or hit me off with a brick of that 'Ghost' and that'll do. It don't make a difference to me one way or the other. Between that and that 'Lean Back' stamp I keep hearing about being sold all throughout the rest of Harlem, I don't see how a nigga could make a decent dollar in this day and time. Y'all got the coke, and whoever them cats are with the dope got the town buzzing like a beehive."
"Yeah, that's that boy Paris from outta 480," B. Rus informed.
"I been hearing about that kid. Niggaz say some Dominicans from up outta the Bronx somewhere is feeding him like John Stockton used to give it to Karl Malone," added Matt.
"Whoever he is, I know he got the streets going crazy with that stamp, like Fat Joe and that one single. If it's the person who I think you're talking about, he's a little young dude, too," said Shawndu.
"Fuck them niggaz over there. We got dope now too. That 'Vin Diesel' around here is us. But what you mean by, if we give you some of that 'Ghost?' You know banging and slanging don't mix, nigga." B. Rus threw in. Everyone knew that killing and caking don't equal to longevity and long paper.
"I hear that hot shit. One thing all races and nationalities share in common is a dollar. Just like violence, getting money is a universal language, homie. I rep what I rep, but I'm far from limited. It's called duality," Shawndu replied.
Outside of the presence of C.B., Matt helped run their project with all affairs. From getting money, boning females together, all the way down to leaving something, or someone, in a vacant lot, they were like Starsky and Hutch. The two have been inseparable since diapers and bobos. They both grew up in the same building on the corner of 132nd and Madison Avenue, 2101.
B. Rus lived on the third floor while Matt lived on the fifth. Although C.B. came from the other side of the p.j.'s in building 2120, he always liked the manner in which B. Rus and Matt stuck together. Despite the three-year age difference from himself, C.B. snatched up the duo and placed B. Rus at the helm of things. He knew B. Rus had the killer in him and was also more of the thinker.
B. Rus had a light skin complexion, hazel eyes and long braids. He was 5'11," and had more of a college basketball look than a hustler. Matt was brown skinned, had a low Caesar with the deep waves, stood 6 feet even and had a long scar on the left side of his face. It was a gift he received on one of his few trips to the Island. His war stripe made him look every bit of the gangster that he was. Matt was one of the few cats that put in major work for Baby-K, before he got murdered. This gave C.B. more of a reason to put him down with the team.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Somethin' to Think Aboutby Damon R. Green Copyright © 2010 by Latoya Belgrave-Green. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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