Carl Weber's Kingpins Read online

  Carl Weber’s Kingpins:

  Detroit

  Ms. Michel Moore

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Urban Books, LLC

  300 Farmingdale Road, N.Y.-Route 109

  Farmingdale, NY 11735

  Carl Weber’s Kingpins: Detroit

  Copyright © 2019 Ms. Michel Moore

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-6016-2924-1

  eISBN 13: 978-1-60162-925-8

  eISBN 10: 1-60162-925-7

  This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  Dedication

  MW-MW

  12/28/15

  LONG LIVE LOVE–WHAT WAS STILL IS

  BIG AS THE WORLD IS ROUND

  Acknowledgments

  As I have crafted numerous novels throughout the years, the list of people that support me has continued to grow. I’m so very thankful. And beyond all, I’m often humbled. Sometimes being blessed to do what you love all seems like a wonderful dream. My husband, best friend, and rock, author Marlon PS White, you’ve been holding me down behind the scenes since 1999. Now you have stepped out of the shadows and are doing ya own thing in this book industry. I love you big as the world is round and support your endeavors, just as you’ve done mine. What was still is.

  My mother, Ella Fletcher, has had my back in each and every way a parent should. She has stood by me and supported my dreams. She believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. I know I don’t say it enough, but I love you. My daughter, author T. C. Littles, has been here to see my visions and assist me in making them reality. We have spent countless hours on the phone, plotting and scheming about how we can take over the world. One day we just might make it happen (smile). Thanks for my grandkids, Jayden and Lil Ella. My brother Dwayne Fletcher and my cousin Othello Lewis, it’s always love. Rita Fletcher continue to RIP. I miss you still.

  At Aretha Franklin’s funeral, Jesse Jackson was posted from beginning to end and never left the legendary singer’s or the family’s side. At one point I remarked, “I wish I had a friend like that.” Truth be told, I do. My best friend, Dorothea Lewis, has been my road dawg for decades. I love ya, sis! Even when you clown, I will pull out my red nose and clown with you (smile).

  There are several folks in this industry who have made my journey more than interesting, and each one I hold in high regard. K’wan Foye is the first author that I considered my friend. He is also the first author to sign his novels at my bookstore. Nikki Turner prayed for me when times were hard. Carl Weber blessed me with a deal and constant advice. Karen Mitchell and George Denard are like true family. Jeff Dumpson and Jewels, Chelle and Jada’s cousin (smile). When the chips were down, Faye Wilkes, K’wan, Danielle Green, and Blacc Topp stepped all the way up. I will never forget the love you showed me and mines. We appreciate you. Nothing but respect and gratitude. People talk shit all day long, but these four backed it up. If you want to know the definition of loyalty, look no further.

  Monique Hall, Margret Waleed, E. Williams, Lissha Sadler, Racquel Williams, Spud Johnson, Eureka Jefferson, Ebonee Abby, Nika Michelle, JM Benjamin, Shannon Holmes, Brenda Hampton, Amaleka McCall, La Jill Hunt, Ty Marshal, Danielle Bigsby, Avery Goode, Joe Awsum, Linda Brickhouse and, of course, my li’l hometown soul sista for life, India-Johnson Williams, collectively, y’all have had my back, shown love, and been nothing short of a hundred since day one. In this industry, that’s rare.

  I still thank God for Sidi, Oumar, Mustafa, Henry, Porgo, Akieon, and the list goes on of street vendors who showed me love when I first started. Blessings always to my friend Hakim (Black & Nobel Books). A special thank-you goes to Tonya Woodfolk, Johnnay Johnson, Stacy Jabo, Papaya, Jenise Brown, and Ne-c Virgo for always traveling to my events. And, Qiana Drennen, you created something great. DRMRAB was legendary. That book club and all its chapters impacted the paperback world in ways that were unimaginable. I salute you for that. To the other Detroit-based book clubs that rock with me, The Plot Seekers and EYE CU, thanks for the continued support.

  Major respect to all who have supported my bookstore, Hood Book Headquarters, located in Detroit; my clothing store, Talk of the City Xclusive, in Oak Park; and my husband’s barbershop, Talk of the City. And thanks go to those who have supported the Detroit Hustle and Grind Book Fair. Lastly, I wish to express my appreciation to the Hood Book Ambassadors—Trina Crenshaw, Yolanda McCormick, Nia Smith, Krystal Robinson, Jay Knox, Desiree Bailey, La Kiesha Wright, Renita Walker, Kenya Johnson, Chanelle Patton, Eurydice Lofton, Martha Falconer, Tina Brown, Vickie Juncaj, Candance, Passion Beauford, and T.C. Littles. You are the greatest book club and moral support a girl could ever have. I salute you all. We stay rocking that blue and orange. Ain’t nothing betta than my HBA family!

  God bless you for reading this. Make sure you check out the titles listed below.

  Coldhearted & Crazy

  Ruthless and Rotten

  No Home Training

  Tick, Tick, Boom!

  A Product of the System

  The System Has Failed

  Homeless

  Testify

  I Can Touch the Bottom

  Young and Hungry

  Say U Promise

  Full Figured 9

  Around the Way Girls 10

  Get It How Ya Live

  Girl’s From da Hood 13

  Married to the Shooter

  Hustle Bag

  When You Cross A Crazy Bitch

  Stage Hustle

  and many more . . .

  Chapter 1

  The sun had yet to rise. But that didn’t matter. Life and death stopped for no one. Neither man nor beast, neither the truth nor a lie. A disturbing sneer graced Kalif’s face. He glanced over at the clock. It was now 5:11 a.m., the perfect time to pray and the perfect time to kill. Having no remorse, he had three bodies this month by his own count. The young king knew that more were easily in his near future. Their final destination would be the Wayne County Morgue. He’d been t
hrough hell and back this year. He’d borne witness to the most unholy, unspeakable acts, and he was still standing. He couldn’t be broken, physically or mentally, or so he believed.

  Despite pleas from those around him, he hadn’t taken his longtime prescribed meds since the beginning of spring. Even though he refused to admit it, Kalif Abdul Akbar, adopted son of Rasul and Fatima, was out of control. Damn near out of his mind. But the confused man-child was still a soldier for the cutthroat game in the streets and the will of Allah.

  His sacred Koran was in plain sight. As he stood there, Kalif placed his open palms to the sides of his ears. “Allahu Akbar,” he chanted out loud before crossing his arms. Closing his eyes, he lowered his head. By religiously going through all the steps of Fajr, he was able to focus his often tormented mind. “Allah is the greatest,” he repeated before dropping to his knees. Touching his forehead to the top portion of the rug, he praised Allah once more. When he neared the end of this morning ritual, Kalif turned his head toward the right, then the left. Eyes still closed, he prayed for God’s ultimate blessings in all he did. Afterward, he sat silently for a moment, and then the devout Muslim finally stood. He was at peace.

  After rolling up the multicolored prayer rug, he placed it next to the holy book. Kalif was now ready to start his day. He walked to the other side of the room, then sat on the couch. After reaching down and grabbing his wheat-colored Tims, he put them on. Then he tossed his kufi on the coffee table, grabbed his gun, and double-checked to see that one was up top. Satisfied, he dipped off into the kitchen. Kalif tucked the firearm in his rear waistband, and then he opened one of the kitchen drawers and quickly retrieved a huge deli-style meat cleaver. With determination on his mind and malice in his heart, the street warrior headed down into the basement, cleaver in hand.

  His anxious crew members had gathered together in the basement and were passing around a gallon of Hennessy. Kalif watched them as he took out his cell phone and waited patiently to receive a text. Several hours ago he’d received word that their sworn enemies were posted at a certain stash house located near the old Kettering High School, so he’d sent a throwaway worker named Dennis to the other side of town to make sure the information was indeed true. Not trying to tip his hand, he couldn’t run the risk of being made.

  Even though everyone that worked for him was capable, Kalif didn’t have to ask for volunteers when this kind of job needed to be done. When dealing with dummy missions like this one, he always sent half-witted Dennis, because he was expendable. Given all the pills he popped and all the lean he drank, if Dennis got caught by the police or even killed by the other crew, then so be it. It’d be no great loss to the organization. This time around, Dennis’s task was fairly simple: creep on the address he was given and take pictures of all the vehicles in the driveway and parked out in front of the house. All he had to do then was text the photos to the Obama burnout, nothing more and nothing less.

  It was 5:23 a.m. and still no word from Dennis. If they wanted to make an early morning move, Dennis would have to get at them sooner rather than later. Yet while the others remained restless as they finished their community bottle, Kalif was patient. The crew had been down at Greektown Casino all night long, keeping their “go time” energy up. But Kalif’s energy had been up for trouble ever since his homeboy’s murder. But now he continued to be calm. He’d prayed this morning to be protected from all his enemies and to be granted grace. So of course, he moved differently than the nonbelievers that surrounded him. His need for revenge and his taste for blood would come on Allah’s time, not on his own.

  Seconds soon turned to minutes, and then Kalif finally received the notification he had been waiting for. He downloaded each picture, and the reality of the situation quickly became evident. The informant was telling the truth. The vehicles with custom paint and expensive rims that were posted up at the designated address were easily recognizable and all too familiar. They belonged to several members of the infamous Black Bottom Mafia, otherwise known as the BBM and named after a neighborhood on the Near East Side of Detroit. They were Kalif’s main competitors in the drug trade in the Midtown area of the city and in other illegal activities.

  Detroit, once home to the Motown music dynasty, was divided into two major sides—the East Side and the West Side—by Woodward Avenue. This landmark avenue ran from the Riverfront and Hart Plaza across the town limits and clear up to Pontiac, a nearby crime-ridden city. Kalif and his band of killers held a tight grip on the West Side, particularly the Dexter-Linwood neighborhood. Brutus, who was on the East Side, was their main leader but was seldom seen. He and the BBM claimed the same area. For years, Midtown had been a neutral playground of sorts. That was until the financially strapped residents of Detroit elected a Caucasian mayor. An all-black city with a white overseer had all the makings of a perfect storm. Most knew early on that all hell was going to break loose. And the ongoing deadly war proved them right. Both squads seemed to have outgrown their inherited territory. They had a thirst for more power in the streets, and if they took control of Midtown, they would have exactly that.

  “Okay, my niggas. Dennis’s ass done fucked around and got every picture we need. Not only are Cutt and his boy Mutt posted up there, but East Side Randy and his people too.”

  “What up, doe? Is them bitches some faggots or something? They having a damn sleepover like some li’l pussies.” Amir shook his head.

  Kalif and the others laughed at the first lieutenant group of the childhood friends now turned notorious. Amir was Kalif’s right-hand. Their fathers had both been highly respected when they were alive. They’d led the Islamic underground’s assassins, who had never been caught or charged with any crimes. Kalif was focused. He followed the rules of Islam like his pops, Rasul, and Amir’s dad had. But his homeboy had been raised Baptist, like his mom, which was something Kalif had never understood or accepted. Nevertheless, Amir and Kalif had been linked up by force as kids and had remained tight as grown men. Whenever Kalif was in one of his weird zones, a result of being off his meds, Amir would step in and make sure things on the streets continued to run smoothly.

  “Yeah, no doubt they some straight-up bitches. And before daybreak, they gonna be some dead bitches,” Kalif vowed before stepping over to the washing machine. Ready to put in even more work, he snatched up the meat cleaver that was lying there and wrapped his fingers around the dark brown handle. With the meat cleaver down at his side, he felt like the angel of death was speaking to him. Fear not being in the land of the living. But fear the painful scorch of hellfire that awaits you.

  In a show of respect, the members of the nine-man crew, who had been handpicked to murder when need be, backed up toward the walls of the basement. Kalif slow strolled along the path they had made for him. He then focused on the man they had duct-taped to an old lawn chair, and the next play was obvious to everyone present. As he got closer to the visitor, Kalif’s grip tightened on the handle of the meat cleaver. When they were only two feet from each other, they locked eyes, the predator and his prey. A stone-faced Kalif was not bothered by the other man’s gaze. He knew the tortured BBM member wanted mercy in return for snitching. And even though he had ratted out his own people and had put Kalif and ’em up on game, unfortunately, there would be no mercy. Retaliation for being on the wrong team and for killing Kalif’s homeboy would be swift.

  They were working against the promise of daybreak. After thanking the BBM member for his service, Kalif raised the meat cleaver. There was no hesitation on his part. The future was now. With one strong swing of the blade, it was done. Kalif hit his mark. Blood splattered on Kalif’s face and forearm and on some parts of the wall. When he looked down, he saw an open wound on the man’s neck, a wound so wide that the man’s head was left dangling on the side, much to his executioner’s delight. Kalif showed no remorse, and neither did the others in the basement, who’d been down this deadly road before. For them, it was business as usual. After watching the man’s body slump
over, Kalif dropped the bloodied meat cleaver to the floor and proclaimed victory. Surrounded by his loyal, devoted henchmen, he smirked with satisfaction before launching into one of his famous “Damn, why don’t he take his meds and chill?” rants.

  “Do you motherfuckers know what it’s like to be me? Do you? Hell naw, you don’t,” Kalif asserted. “I was born with less than nothing. Shitted on, fucked over, and damn near left to die. I did what I had to do to survive. And now society out here judging, acting like they better than my black ass. I’m the bad motherfucker around these parts. I been labeled a child of God, a shepherd for Satan, and now a goddamned king! And y’all think this shit easy, a game.” With stern conviction and a clenched fist, he beat on his chest.

  He went on. “Y’all see all this jewelry, them cars, and these thirsty bitches hanging around, and you think it’s gangsta. It’s a headache! These hoes is some straight-up headaches, always wanting, always needing, always begging with they hands out, feeling entitled. Niggas trying to come up when I ain’t looking. My own team trying to kill me.” He scanned the faces in the basement for signs of any more weak links, but thankfully, he saw none. “My brother and my people done turned they back. The shit don’t ever stop. Kalif this. Kalif that. A nigga get tired of it all. And now, with old girl about to give birth to the heir to all this madness, I’m back at war. But yeah, I’m good. I’m built for this shit. My real old dude was a true soldier, so I was told, and that legacy is blood deep, and so the fuck am I.”

  “Hell, fuck yeah. We all is,” said one of Kalif’s henchmen, strongly cosigning on their joint thirst for the game and their loyalty to living life.

  “So, like I said, if y’all rolling with me, suit up and let’s hit the block. We got work to put in,” Kalif told them. “Amir, you already know I’ma need you to stay behind and make sure this rat bastard piece of shit is taken outta here.”