Sky's The Limit

viii

eight | antonio

"Yo, son, check it," plastic shined in my peripheral vision, dragging my attention from the road.

Between the fingertips of William McKay was a four-inch piece of music. My eyes reverted beyond my steering wheel, riding the brake of my car as a red light ordered less urgency in traffic.

"That's the tape?" I asked.
"Yep," he answered while reaching for my radio.

"Yo, chill. Let this song play out," I requested, my hand flying toward the radio as well. The difference in our actions was apparent when I turned the volume up.

Before any rebuttal could be had, the somewhat jazzy melodies that carried promises of one being loved without a limit began shaking the speakers.

With my head nodding and my foot stationed on the brake, I people-watched for a bit.

Kids were just beginning to get out and about, rounding up friends for an early afternoon of fun. Dealers were posted along the block, making discreet exchanges. The elders were out for strolls, and everyone else in and in-between those groups flooded the sidewalks, attempting to get to where they were going, whether it be a bodega or a hangout spot.

The light turned green, and my foot switched to the gas pedal. I continued to cruise, wanting to enjoy as much of the song as possible before we'd make it to the site of our first encounter of the day.

The game plan was to make our rounds through Brooklyn.

We collect our money, supply only a small percentage to "restock" their product, inform dealers of when to swing by Aim's place to obtain their pay as well as more product, and be on our merry way.

Shit would be a little different once we started to encroach upon our sister borough. It always was, but I suppose it comes with the territory.

Besides, some niggas are very particular about their territory, and others don't give a fuck what belonged to who.

I'm an honest man, so I'm not going to say that I'm always one or the other. I was both. It just depended on the situation... but in the Brooklyn-Queens Divide situation— that was a little tricky.

When a distributor fell out of the picture, there was a fanbase of baseheads in dire need of a new supplier and a new line of soldiers who would administer their doses of escapism. All those blocks were left with addicts, scrambling to spend their money.

It was a deserted no-man's land. What little opportunity had for dealers was gone. Now you've got two groups of people... feenin'.

One for money. One for a good time, and both were looking for a way out.

While one yearned for an escape from themselves, the other was fighting for an escape from the slums. And yet, both were craving something more than the reality they're faced with every day.

So, what did we do? We did what any other rational person would've done. We did what any good businessmen would've done.

It was simple economics. There was demand in the market, so we supplied. There was a need— a hunger for something— and we delivered.

The men along the divide became our men, and when demand grew, we sent more of our troops. With business booming, we just had to expand, and well...

Some Queens residents weren't too fond of that.

One of which being some random that went by the name of Mace.