The House that Hustle Built, Part 1
The House That Hustle Built
by Nisa Santiago
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The House That Hustle Built. Copyright © 2014 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information, address Melodrama Publishing, P.O. Box 522, Bellport, NY 11713.
www.melodramapublishing.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014943094
eISBN: 9781620780503
EBook Edition: February 2015
Interior Design: Candace K. Cottrell
Cover Design: Candace K. Cottrell
Model Photo by Marion Designs
Books By Nisa Santiago
Cartier Cartel: Part 1
Return of the Cartier Cartel: Part 2
Cartier Cartel - South Beach Slaughter: Part 3
Bad Apple: The Baddest Chick Part 1
Coca Kola: The Baddest Chick Part 2
Checkmate: The Baddest Chick Part 3
Face Off: The Baddest Chick Part 4
South Beach Cartel
Guard the Throne
Dirty Money Honey
Killer Dolls Part 1
Killer Dolls Part 2
Killer Dolls Part 3
Murdergram
Murdergram Part 2
The House That Hustle Built: Part 1
One
Roosevelt Field was the second-largest full-price shopping mall in the state of New York, anchoring over two hundred stores, such as Bloomingdale’s, Macy’s, Nordstrom, and Neiman Marcus. The mall had some of the best merchandise in the metro area, but it also specialized in undercover cops posing as shoppers, so it was a paradise and a curse to shoplifters like Pearla.
Retired NYPD officers and a group of security guards provided security at the mall, and they were good. Very good. Nassau County Police Department also had a foot post assigned to the mall.
But this didn’t intimidate Pearla and her crew. They were determined to pull off another one of their shoplifting schemes.
Pearla strutted through crowded Roosevelt Field mall on a mission in a white Bebe sundress and teal stilettos, her long, sensuous, black hair falling past her shoulders. Her pretty eyes hid behind a pair of dark Chanel sunglasses as she walked around Bloomingdale’s taking a mental note of everything she liked.
***
Pearla, who had been hustling since she was thirteen, had single-handedly put together a crew of skilled, get-money bitches, which catapulted her into notoriety throughout Brooklyn and even Queens. Her tight-knit crew, a ring of boosters in her area, was able to steal anything that wasn’t nailed down. In fact, everything Pearla wore was stolen. She had a stable of customers who would purchase the stolen merchandise, not to mention her website, where she advertised and sold things on eBay, and craigslist. She had even set up a PayPal account so that the money could be direct-deposited into her account. Once the funds cleared, she distributed the profits to her crew.
Pearla was known to have a different crew of jostlers who were pickpockets. Since the average person didn’t carry around a lot of cash, they came off with the debit and credit cards. The money-makers were merchandise gift cards, which were charged on stolen credit and debit cards from stores like Bloomingdale’s, Saks Fifth Avenue, Macy’s, Victoria’s Secret, Sears, and Target. Pearla was able to sell the gift cards for half price.
Her business was booming, and with her two best friends, Roark and Jamie, by her side, she felt like she couldn’t go wrong with anything she did. Now nineteen, she had already made a name for herself throughout her borough as a thoroughbred, a hustler.
Roark, soft-spoken and about her business, was a thin brown-skinned beauty with Native American features. She had light eyes like Pearla and mostly kept her long, silky hair in two braids. She was nineteen as well and had come up through humble beginnings, living in a cramped two-bedroom apartment with sisters and brothers toppling over each other. With her parents steadily out of work she got into shoplifting and scheming with Pearla.
Jamie was stunning. At five feet four, with bronze-colored skin and sleepy eyes that hung low, her hair was a mane of flowing Senegalese twists, and her grace and style matched Pearla’s. Some might say she was bougie or standoffish. Even though she was from the hood, she acted like she grew up somewhere in Beverly Hills. She was twenty-one, and her mother was an associate at a law firm that paid handsomely. She was the only child to divorced parents, who showered her more with gifts and cash than love and attention. Jamie stole not out of need but because it was exciting to her. She hung with a bad crew, not wanting to be the odd person out in a rough Brooklyn neighborhood.
***
Pearla exited the mall with money and business on her mind. She strutted through the parking lot toward her silver Mercedes-Benz 240. Though it was a used car, it was in mint condition. Pearla was meticulous when it came to her appearance, meaning her wardrobe, her jewelry, and her car, which she had purchased for $22,000 from a hustler she’d known and fucked, saving up cash from her illegal business.
As she got closer to her car, her cell phone rang. She reached into her purse and looked at the caller ID. She immediately answered the call.
“Benny, talk to me. What you got for me?”
“Mami, we got some nice things fo’ you. Can you meet wit’ us today?”
“Of course. You don’t even have to ask me twice. Just say when and where.”
“You know the spot—the warehouse on Atlantic, an hour from now.”
“I’m there. And hook me up this time, Benny, ’cuz you know I’m good peoples.”
“I got you, mami; you ain’t gotta worry.”
Pearla hung up beaming with joy. Whenever Benny called, it meant a profit for her. Burberry, Gucci, Fendi, Louis Vuitton, and Chloe—he had it.
Benny was her connect in the garment district. The short Puerto Rican thug from the Bronx ran with a tight-knit crew that regularly boosted cars and committed B&Es and robberies from Long Island to New Jersey. They had access to it all, from clothing to high-end appliances.
Pearla was only interested in the clothing because, in her world, it was easier to move. Clothing didn’t come with VINs and tracking devices.
When it came to shoes, she made a fortune off them, since shoes were the essential piece to a bad bitch’s wardrobe. Everyone wanted to dress and look like Beyoncé, to walk into a room and catch everyone’s attention.
She popped the trunk to her Benz, and inside was pricey clothing wrapped in plastic to shield it from dust and damage, and a few boxes of shoes. She had her own clothing store happening inside of her trunk.
She nodded as she went over her merchandise. Tina from the beauty salon on Fulton Avenue had called and placed an order. It was the sixth order in two days from ladies looking to get right for some upcoming event at Platinum, a high-end club in downtown Brooklyn. It seemed some major rap star and his entourage was supposed to show up and take the stage. So every bitch in Brooklyn had to look their best from head to toe to snatch them up a baller or player. They came to Pearla, knowing she had the good stuff for the right price.
Jamie made her way toward the car carrying the large shopping bag. She smiled Pearla’s way, indicating that everything went smoothly.
/> “You got the dress?” Pearla asked.
Jamie threw her hand on her hip and shifted her weight to the right leg with a slightly domineering posture. “Am I a bad bitch?”
“Yes, you are,” Pearla answered easily. She peered inside the bag at a few pricey dresses out of the store, even the one she’d just tried on.
“I swear, they need to give out fuckin’ awards for shoplifting,” Jamie said.
“And y’all would win everything.”
“Bitch, you know that’s right.”
“Where’s Roark?”
“You know how it goes—security stopped the bitch, thinking they caught her red-handed, and Roark probably leaving out of there with muthafuckas having egg on their faces, and she should be coming our way in five, four, three, two—”
“Y’all miss me?” Roark hollered from a short distance, hurrying out of the mall with a big shopping bag. She was all smiles, her adrenaline flowing from boosting. She couldn’t wait to do it again.
Roark felt like she was around family as Pearla and Jamie greeted her. She simply wanted to please Pearla, who always looked out for her, from cash to clothes.
The trio climbed into the car and hurried away from the shopping mall.
While driving, Pearla hit her girls off with a few hundred dollars, showing her appreciation for all they’d done. Without them, she wouldn’t be where she was today.
To Jamie, it was nothing but pocket change, but to Roark, it was cash she truly needed. Roark smiled broadly. Pearla dropped off her girls and headed West toward Benny.
She parked her Benz and walked toward the two-level commercial warehouse a block away from Atlantic Avenue. The area was industrial/urbanized but quiet, with the sun fading and most of the workers going home. It was a risky area, not too far from the projects, and the goons were known to lurk around the place. But Pearla wasn’t intimidated. Brooklyn had been her home all of her life.
She knocked on the side door. It didn’t take long for Benny to answer. He was grinning from ear to ear when he set his eyes on her.
“I’m glad you came,” he said, allowing her inside.
“You think I wasn’t?” Pearla replied.
Benny was pale-looking with a slim build, tattoos running up and down his arms. A long, bulky gold chain with a diamond-faced Jesus pendant hung around his neck, and a Puerto Rican bandana was tied around his head.
Pearla walked into the 18,000-square-foot warehouse with the storage and half bath on the first floor and on the second floor more space, an office, and another bath. The place was a ghetto Wal-Mart with electronics, flat-screen TVs, guns, and of course, her favorite—clothing.
“What you got for me, Benny?” she asked.
“You know you always get first pick of anything new we bring in,” Benny said, still smiling.
Pearla knew he had a crush on her, and she flirted with him to get what she needed. She followed him to where he stashed the clothing. Inside the room looked like a scene from The Devil Wears Prada. Designer clothes were everywhere along with pricey shoes, from Red Bottoms to Manolo Blahnik. It was a dream come true for any woman.
“How much for it all?”
“Because I like you and you stay coming to me, four thousand.”
It was an excellent deal. On the streets, she could make close to $15,000 or better. She reached into her stash and peeled off $4,000 like she was paying for something at the grocery store.
“It’s always good doing business wit’ you, mami.”
Pearla smiled. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
After Benny’s men loaded everything into the backseat and the trunk of Pearla’s car, she drove straight to Tina’s beauty salon on Fulton Street and hustled a bulk of her clothing there. The ladies were practically knocking each other over to purchase an outfit or shoes from Pearla. They all knew her shit was authentic, and she had stuff that was hard to come by.
“Pearla, you’re my favorite bitch. I love you,” one satisfied customer exclaimed.
“Pearla, when you gonna get me that Dolce and Gabbana dress?” another customer asked.
“Give me until next week,” Pearla replied.
“Pearla, how much for these Red Bottoms?”
“Pearla, you got this dress in a size six?”
“Pearla, can I get these shoes for a hundred? ’Cuz you know a bitch gotta get her hair done too.”
“Pearla, you gonna be at Platinum this weekend?”
The business and the questions swamped Pearla, but she didn’t mind. She gave them great deals and joked and laughed with them.
Hitting three salons in one day, Pearla nearly sold out. She doubled her cash and was ready for more items from Benny or from the mall. Exhausted, she parked her Benz in front of the three-bedroom home in East New York and entered the place.
The minute she walked into the room, she heard her mother, Poochie, exclaimed, “Bitch, where the fuck was you at all day? And where’s your fuckin’ half of the fuckin’ rent, Pearla? You know I don’t play that shit! You think you gonna live here for free? Bitch, don’t get it twisted!”
Pearla didn’t feel like arguing with her mother over bills and money. “Mom, I’m tired,” she said lifelessly.
“Bitch, I don’t give a fuck if you’re tired or not! I want my money!”
Out in the streets, Pearla was that bitch, a hustler and go-getter, knowing all the hustlers, being cool and respected by any nigga that had a name on the street, while driving a Benz and making money. But, at home, her mother made her feel low, and her space was limited to just the bedroom.
She also resented the fact that she had to split all the bills down the middle but could only fully occupy her bedroom. To Pearla, money wasn’t the issue. It was the principle—the fact that her mother spoke to her like she was her archenemy, and also because she always treated Pearla like she was an adult even when she was a kid. It forced Pearla to grow up quickly and learn how to take care of herself.
Pearla knew that sooner or later she had to become fully independent, which meant she needed to move out and build her own household.
Two
Cash took a pull from the cigarette burning between his lips as he gazed out the passenger window looking for the right car to steal. The green Accord he drove around in crept through the Cobble Hill area of Brooklyn. Three young black men in the car cruising slowly through an Italian neighborhood stood out easily, so they had to be subtle and quick.
The Accord moved across Smith Street, a commercial street mostly lined with family-run shops, Italian meat markets, barbershops, and trendy restaurants. The young boys were taking a huge risk trying to steal a car in the middle of the night, because police were always patrolling the area. But it was worth it, since Cobble Hill had the cars they were looking for.
Cash had been stealing cars since he was twelve years old, so that’s what he loved and knew best. He was able to hot-wire anything within a heartbeat, and he could drive anything—stick shift, motorcycles, even eighteen-wheelers. Before his first arrest, he had stolen close to one hundred cars before he was sentenced to prison for car theft. Honda, Toyota, Acura, and General Motors vehicles were some of his favorite cars to steal. They had good resale value, so the parts were in demand. Tonight, he and his crew were searching for a certain Accord.
Darrell was slouched behind the wheel, navigating the car coolly, and Petey Jay was in the backseat trying to roll up a blunt. They’d all grown up together and been best friends and partners in crime since middle school.
Darrell was the car thief and master mechanic. He could take apart and put together any car effortlessly, and could repair anything. Petey Jay could easily bypass any alarm system, and Cash was the jack-of-all-trades—master car thief, skilled driver, and criminal—but stealing and selling cars was his forte. They learned from each other, and the three of them became the best
car thieves in the tri-state area.
They avoided cars parked in front of houses and in driveways because they were too wide open and visible. Dark, secluded locations, such as apartment buildings and complexes, carports, underground parking, and parking garages were more appealing to them because they could have their pick of vehicle in one location, and they could hear if someone was coming.
“Yo, we need to hurry this up,” Cash said. “I got this bitch waiting to suck my dick when I show up.”
Darrell chuckled. “Nigga, you’s wild wit’ these bitches. Get ya fuckin’ mind off of pussy and focus on makin’ this money.”
“Nigga, if you knew how good this bitch could suck a dick, you be rushing to get to her crib too.” Cash grinned. “I’m tellin’ you, D, this bitch could suck the skin off my dick with her strong, full lips.”
Darrell and Petey Jay laughed.
“Hook us up then, nigga,” Petey Jay suggested.
“Nah, nigga, can’t do that. I got this bitch for keeps.”
“Selfish muthafucka,” Petey Jay spat back playfully.
“You still fuckin’ wit’ Stephanie?” Darrell asked.
“Nigga, who you think I’m gonna go see tonight? That bitch is a freak, yo. She can’t get enough of this big fat dick.”
Cash was a pretty boy with a low Caesar haircut with waves. With his flawless skin, snow-white teeth, beautiful black eyes, and long lashes, he was a magnet for women. He didn’t come from or ever had a stable home, mostly sleeping on friends’ couches. Cash never had a legitimate job, and had a string of girlfriends and jump-offs. He couldn’t be faithful to any woman even if he wanted to.
“What we lookin’ for out here?” Darrell asked, turning the corner onto the next street, approaching an apartment complex.
Cash took another pull from the Newport then exhaled. “A Honda Accord.”
“Nigga, we stay stealing Accords. We need to be stealing Beamers or Benz,” Petey Jay said. “I would look so fuckin’ fly in one of those.”