dark pulled up. You couldnât see who the passengers inside were. It slowed to a stop in front of the shop. Ray glanced down at the diamond-studded Rolex on his wrist gleaming back up at him. It read six oâclock.
Right on time, Ray thought to himself as he approached the vehicle.
Ray was supposed to be handling some business for Coopa. Word had it that another one of his houses had gotten hit. But if all went well, that wouldnât be Rayâs problem any longer, so he didnât answer his call.
Lately, Coopa had been on some acting-funny shit with Ray, but Ray knew what was going on. He didnât speak about it, especially when people brought it to his attention, but he knew that Coopa was losing his grip on the game. Ray knew heâd been doing the thing that led to every great hustlerâs demise. Heâd started smoking his own product. Ray had always been observant so he could tell by the slight twitch in Coopaâs right eye and by the way he constantly rubbed his hands together that he was on drugs. Those were two things he didnât do before, and as soon as he started doing them, his empire began to crumble. Coopa also started to make poor choices in business and putting snakes on. He was putting his trust in all the wrong people. Within a year, almost half a million dollars came up unspoken for. No one knew that but Ray and Coopa, and that was another reason Ray didnât trust him. Coopa noticed all of that from the beginning but hadnât done anything to prevent it except kill the people he actually found out for sure were stealing from him. Why would Ray make an effort to save a man who couldnât save himself? The game was going to have its way with Coopa. Ray wasnât a fortune-teller, but he could see that.
Ray knew when he first started working with Coopa no good would come from it. His pockets would stay fat for a while, but he knew eventually the time would come when he would have to strike out on his own. Ray had the mind-set of a real man and the swagger of a hustler. He was intelligent, ruthless, and got every job done without a blemish. He knew that in order to set the operation off right, he would need a connect with some product that nobody had ever seen. It was backward a little bit because Ray had helped Coopa add on to his empire, only to take it into his own grasp. He knew Coopa wasnât going to bow without a fight. Ray had heavy artillery, but Coopa had heavy artillery and the manpower. For a while, Ray felt like an ant in the shadow of a shoe . . . until one night an unknown number hit his phone.
The voice on the other end of the phone belonged to one Ray had never heard before. Listening to the person speak, he knew it belonged to someone of Italian heritage. The person informed him that theyâd been watching him very closely, and they liked the way he handled his business. Told him that they couldnât say much over the phone but to be ready at six p.m. the following Thursday in business attire.
âNone of that thug shit.â
Any other time, Ray would have been suspicious of a setup, but something in him told him it wasnât. He walked to the car, and the door opened for him. Ray entered the car with three Italians seated, all dressed in black Armani suits. Ray studied all of their hardened faces trying to read them, and, in turn, they did the same to him. To Rayâs surprise, he recognized one of the men in the car as a man whoâd been to his uncleâs shop a few times for minor car problems. Heâd told Uncle Rojer that he was just in town for a few days and wanted his vehicle inspected. His name was Vinny.
Vinny stared at Ray and was very impressed with his attire. He knew from the first day he met Ray that he was dealing with someone with potential. The way he knew numbers was impeccable. There would be no getting over on him. He could see by Rayâs poise that he was different, unlike the two-bit street
Right on time, Ray thought to himself as he approached the vehicle.
Ray was supposed to be handling some business for Coopa. Word had it that another one of his houses had gotten hit. But if all went well, that wouldnât be Rayâs problem any longer, so he didnât answer his call.
Lately, Coopa had been on some acting-funny shit with Ray, but Ray knew what was going on. He didnât speak about it, especially when people brought it to his attention, but he knew that Coopa was losing his grip on the game. Ray knew heâd been doing the thing that led to every great hustlerâs demise. Heâd started smoking his own product. Ray had always been observant so he could tell by the slight twitch in Coopaâs right eye and by the way he constantly rubbed his hands together that he was on drugs. Those were two things he didnât do before, and as soon as he started doing them, his empire began to crumble. Coopa also started to make poor choices in business and putting snakes on. He was putting his trust in all the wrong people. Within a year, almost half a million dollars came up unspoken for. No one knew that but Ray and Coopa, and that was another reason Ray didnât trust him. Coopa noticed all of that from the beginning but hadnât done anything to prevent it except kill the people he actually found out for sure were stealing from him. Why would Ray make an effort to save a man who couldnât save himself? The game was going to have its way with Coopa. Ray wasnât a fortune-teller, but he could see that.
Ray knew when he first started working with Coopa no good would come from it. His pockets would stay fat for a while, but he knew eventually the time would come when he would have to strike out on his own. Ray had the mind-set of a real man and the swagger of a hustler. He was intelligent, ruthless, and got every job done without a blemish. He knew that in order to set the operation off right, he would need a connect with some product that nobody had ever seen. It was backward a little bit because Ray had helped Coopa add on to his empire, only to take it into his own grasp. He knew Coopa wasnât going to bow without a fight. Ray had heavy artillery, but Coopa had heavy artillery and the manpower. For a while, Ray felt like an ant in the shadow of a shoe . . . until one night an unknown number hit his phone.
The voice on the other end of the phone belonged to one Ray had never heard before. Listening to the person speak, he knew it belonged to someone of Italian heritage. The person informed him that theyâd been watching him very closely, and they liked the way he handled his business. Told him that they couldnât say much over the phone but to be ready at six p.m. the following Thursday in business attire.
âNone of that thug shit.â
Any other time, Ray would have been suspicious of a setup, but something in him told him it wasnât. He walked to the car, and the door opened for him. Ray entered the car with three Italians seated, all dressed in black Armani suits. Ray studied all of their hardened faces trying to read them, and, in turn, they did the same to him. To Rayâs surprise, he recognized one of the men in the car as a man whoâd been to his uncleâs shop a few times for minor car problems. Heâd told Uncle Rojer that he was just in town for a few days and wanted his vehicle inspected. His name was Vinny.
Vinny stared at Ray and was very impressed with his attire. He knew from the first day he met Ray that he was dealing with someone with potential. The way he knew numbers was impeccable. There would be no getting over on him. He could see by Rayâs poise that he was different, unlike the two-bit street
Similar Books
