Cartier Cartel--Part 4

by Nisa Santiago

  Cartier cautiously followed the slender and pretty blond woman through the lounge and into a back area, through a set of double doors, and into another room where there was a fireplace. Caesar was already seated with a bottle of wine and a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. This time he was dressed in a vintage Ritchie Valens La Bamba T-shirt, comfortable slacks, and Toms high-tops. When he saw Cartier enter the room, he immediately stood up from his chair to greet her.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” he said.

  Like she had a choice.

  He gestured for her to have a seat. “Come, sit and let’s talk.”

  Cartier took a seat across from him near the fireplace. Caesar smiled. She didn’t know what to expect from him. She was bewildered by everything—this meeting, the ambiance, their unexpected privacy.

  “Here, we can speak openly,” Caesar said.

  Once again, they had their own private server—in fact, two servers, one male and one female.

  “Whatever you want, have it. My chef is ready to prepare whatever you and I desire tonight,” he said.

  “So this is your place too?”

  “Yes. One of many. As you can see, I like restaurants and lounges. I like to satisfy a person’s desire, give them a welcoming place to relax, unwind, converse . . . give them something to enjoy,” he said.

  “It’s a really nice place,” she complimented.

  “Thank you.”

  So far, things seemed copasetic, but she had no idea how the night was going to end. Cartier ordered the fettuccine with roasted chicken and lemon cream sauce, and Caesar had the spicy sausage penne with red pepper sauce. Along with their meals, wine, and champagne, they enjoyed fresh fruit on a skewer with mixed fruit mousse. Everything was top-of-the-line, including the service.

  When Caesar popped open the champagne bottle, Cartier thought that he was going to try and seduce her. But he was all business.

  “I heard about your loss the other day,” he mentioned.

  “It’s a minor setback, Caesar. Believe me when I say it won’t happen again, and I already paid Manolo what was owed,” she replied. “Just as I’ve started to clean house. I’ll find out who was behind the loss.”

  “I respect that you came to Manolo about it, and did not allow me to find out through the streets. Once more it tells me a lot about your character,” he stated.

  “I have nothing to hide from you.”

  He nodded. “And as you know, I don’t like secrets.”

  “And I’m not trying to keep any from you,” she said.

  “How’s the food?” he asked out of the blue.

  “It’s good—delicious.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying everything.”

  She smiled and continued to nibble on her dessert. Throughout their intimate dinner, Caesar was mostly about business, but he also brought up some things about his personal life. Cartier found herself intrigued by him.

  “You like baseball?” he asked her.

  “Honestly, I never really cared for the game,” she replied.

  “At least you’re honest. But I love the game, and in another life long ago, I played professional ball. It’s still my passion to watch and teach it when I can. But you want to know why I love baseball so much? Because it’s a game of patience and skills. It’s not like football or basketball or soccer, where the game moves fast. It moves at a leisurely pace, allowing plenty of time for conversation and speculation about strategy. Unlike most sports, the defense controls the ball and it’s not territorial in nature,” he declared.

  Caesar took a sip of champagne. He took his time to tell a story and Cartier was all ears.

  “And unlike most sports, in baseball there is no clock. Each team has the same number of chances to score until the final out. So, each player has a chance to step up to the plate and perform. One man against nine players on the field, and that one man can either strike out or hit a home run.”

  She wanted to know where he was going with the baseball talk.

  “Cartier, you’re at the home plate clutching the bat in your hand, and you’re staring at the pitcher, whose job it is to strike you out. But patience and strategy is how you win the game. You swing too fast or too late, you lose. And you have swung and missed the first pitch, creating your first strike,” he said coolly.

  She continued to listen as he used baseball to describe the drug game—or life itself. The drug lord, husband, father of one, and ex-baseball player was interesting. Caesar had many layers to him that Cartier wanted to comprehend.

  “It is your job to know not only your own teammates, but the opposing teams too, especially the pitcher, because his only purpose is to strike you out. The game can’t be played without him.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  Cartier’s nervousness was gradually fading. Somehow Caesar made her feel a bit comfortable while they were alone. But there was more business to be discussed.

  “So, do you have suspects in mind?” he asked.

  “I’m thinning out the list now, and like I said before, I have two of my best men on the hunt,” she replied.

  “The question you should ask yourself is, who knew enough about your organization to hit you from the inside? And usually, it is someone that you trust the most who can hit you where it hurts, including the men you sent out on the hunt,” Caesar advised.

  She nodded and took note of the counsel he gave her.

  “But, Cartier, I feel that your priorities are split and you need to become more focused. A mistake was made and it will be corrected.”

  “I understand. And I agree.”

  Although she agreed, she knew it was going to be hard to focus. She didn’t want to get into bed with Caesar in the first place. She was threatened and coerced to do so. And she didn’t know if he was trying to coach her or subtly warn her about the mistake.

  Dinner with Caesar lasted over two hours.

  “Did you enjoy?” Caesar asked her.

  “I did. I loved the food and the conversation.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  After dinner, a waiter came to their table carrying a soft leather duffel bag. He dropped it at Cartier’s feet. She grew somewhat nervous again.

  She looked at Caesar, who was expressionless. “What’s this?”

  “Open it.”

  Cartier reached for the duffel bag and slowly unzipped it. She figured it couldn’t be a bomb, because Caesar sat only a few feet away from her. When she opened it fully, she was shocked by the contents. It was money—stacks of it. She looked at him with confusion written on her face.

  “What’s this for?” she asked.

  “It was me who exposed you to too much product too soon. So consider this a one-time courtesy from my end—a refund. But moving forward, something like this should be prevented. No more mistakes, Cartier. Do you understand me?”

  “I do.”

  Cartier excused herself from the table as their dinner concluded. Carrying the duffel bag, she left the lounge feeling like she had just left a date. Caesar was a complex man, and she didn’t know of any cartel leaders who gave refunds. She was unsure about the entire ordeal, but once the valet pulled her car around, she snapped out of it. Like Caesar advised her, it was time to focus—no more mistakes.

  18

  The 757 came to a safe landing at Bishop International Airport in Flint, Michigan on a sunny Thursday afternoon. The plane started to taxi toward the terminal, and the passengers aboard were eager to make their exit from the plane. It had been a smooth flight for Head, and he had slept during most of it.

  Head departed the plane with a small carryon duffel bag. He strolled behind the other passengers into the small terminal dressed for the weather in cargo shorts, sneakers, and a T-shirt. He looked more like a tourist than a notorious gangster and convicted felon. He
carried a polite smile as he made his way through the terminal and toward the airport exit.

  Head smiled vibrantly when he saw her standing in front of the idling black Yukon outside the terminal. Seeing Head, her smile matched his. Head took two steps her way, and Jacki came running toward him with excitement. She leaped into his arms and straddled him, saying, “It’s good to have you back,” and the two kissed passionately in public.

  “We need to go,” he told her.

  She nodded. “You’re right. There’s a time and a place for everything.”

  Jacki collected herself and opened the passenger door for Head and he slid inside. She hurried around to the driver’s side and got into the vehicle. Once again she smiled at Head and said to him, “The others can’t wait to see you either.”

  “I bet. It’s good to be back.”

  Hearing that, Jacki smiled brighter and was enthusiastic. She was a young and pretty African-American twenty-three-year-old from a small town outside of Detroit.

  “We’ve missed you,” she said, still grinning.

  “And I’ve missed y’all too,” Head returned.

  The black Yukon started the drive through the blue-collar city. Flint had become known for its water crisis, but it also had high crime rates and had repeatedly been ranked one of the most dangerous cities in the United States. Some neighborhoods seemed like ghost towns with vacant lots that stretched for blocks and blocks, and over the years residents had fled the area like there had been some nuclear fallout. Flint was the last place anyone would want to move to, but Head had made it his home away from New York.

  Head gazed out the window in silence, taking in the scenery. He had a lot to do—a lot to accomplish.

  Jacki steered the Yukon from the blue-collar city to a rural area on the outskirts of Flint where farmland and isolation stretched for miles. They soon arrived at a large home that sat on several acres of land. The Yukon traveled up the dirt road that led up into the property and came to a stop at a large cabin. Head lingered in the passenger seat for a moment, absorbing the view of the estate.

  Jacki smiled. “We’re here.”

  “Yes. We are,” he said.

  Head and Jacki got out of the car and approached the cabin. The interior of the home was a far cry from anyplace Head had stayed in New York. The rooms were huge, especially the master bedroom, which was nearly nine hundred square feet. There were two wood burning fireplaces, including one in the master bedroom, and vaulted ceilings and plush carpet throughout the six-bedroom home.

  The moment he stepped inside, Head was greeted by several ladies over-the-moon excited about his arrival. Head was their Messiah—their savior. They were at his beck and call to serve and please him.

  “It’s good to have you back, Daddy,” said Mandy.

  “Yes. It is,” Kandy agreed.

  Head smiled at the girls and replied, “It’s good to be home again.”

  Kandy and Mandy were pretty white nineteen-year-old twin sisters from Flint. Mandy was already seven weeks pregnant by Head. This would be her third child, as she already had a boy and a girl. Her twin sister Kandy didn’t have any children yet, but she was hoping that Head would impregnate her soon so they could share something wonderful.

  The twin sisters came from an abusive and broken home where alcohol consumption and meth use was a daily occurrence. Their father was a heavy drinker who didn’t contribute anything to their lives besides misery and abuse. He was an angry man who beat them for simple things such as talking or laughing too loud. Their mother was a meth head who valued her drugs more than her twin daughters. When their household became a party crowded with family and friends, Kandy and Mandy suffered more from neglect.

  As they grew, their immune systems suffered from lack of nutrition, and for years their skeletal bodies were only half alive from surviving on scraps from trash bins and the kindness of neighbors and food pantries. The twins’ teeth were mostly rotten, and a yellow film covered their top and bottom rows.

  By the time they turned twelve, an anonymous call to ACS prompted their removal from their deplorable conditions. Their sunken eyes and sickly appearance from years of malnourishment placed them at the bottom of the adoption lists, so they were in and out of foster care.

  When Mandy and Kandy turned sixteen, they ran away together and took to the streets to steal and sell drugs. A few months earlier, right after their nineteenth birthday, they were introduced to Head, a handsome out-of-towner who spoke to the girls with respect. Head had a detailed plan—a vision of how he saw his future—and he explained that he wanted them to be a part of his legacy. He promised them a better life, a life that was a far cry from their previous one. He promised them the close-knit family unit they had never had.

  Head’s family worked as one unit toward one common goal. Head explained his Robin Hood dreams. He wanted to rebuild Flint, and then Detroit. Head wanted to gobble up all of the high risk, dilapidated, and condemned properties that he could afford. Most were city owned and were auctioned off for no more than the back taxes due.

  Block by block, he would rebuild single-family homes, tenement buildings, and commercial real estate and rent to low income people of color. These modernized homes would accept Section 8, HUD, and other vouchers, but he wouldn’t be a slumlord. There would be community centers that taught free computer coding classes, business and finance, advanced science, and practical job training. He wanted these black communities to be black owned, and once he began tearing down the old and building the new, there wouldn’t be gentrification. He wasn’t selling out. Head wanted his communities to reflect the 1920s Black Wall Street movement in Tulsa.

  Kandy and Mandy were fully engrossed in his vision, hanging on his every word. It never occurred to either of them that they were white as they vowed to help him build his black world.

  Also on the compound was a girl named Melissa. She was a twenty-year-old black woman with a young son, and she had her own hard-knock-life story. She too was from the hardcore streets of Flint and had been on her own since she was thirteen years old. At the age of fourteen, she started dabbling in drugs. First it was weed and alcohol, and then she graduated to the cocaine and pills. By the time Melissa turned eighteen, she had an arrest record a mile long, had been shot and stabbed, had overdosed twice, and was left for dead in an alley. She met Head at a sleazy bar where she tried to sell him a fake gold watch for ten dollars. She was in bad shape, going through self monitored withdrawals. Melissa was determined to stay clean, but it was hard and she needed money for food. Head gradually gained her trust and sold her his pipe dreams by driving her through the ghost-town neighborhoods. He convinced her that he would provide her a better life than the one she was living.

  Last, but not least, there was Jacki, the young girl who had picked him up from the airport. At twenty-three, Jacki was the elder of the compound. She was from Detroit and moved to Flint with her boyfriend in her early teens. Jacki’s main problem was that she was codependent. She needed a man in her life and would suffer anxiety attacks each time a relationship ended. Jacki believed she was born to be a man’s wife, and that it was the only thing she was good at.

  Head continuously preached to the girls that they were a family and that they were all contributors to the family. They all served a purpose.

  “Our family is supposed to be strong and united, and our family must continue to grow,” he continued to broadcast until he was sure that all minds thought alike.

  It was an entire operation that no one knew about. Head was living a triple life in Michigan, and he had four young girls brainwashed with his beliefs. Among other things, Head learned how to be persuasive with his agenda from Brother Kareem.

  “Would you like me to draw you a bath?” Mandy asked.

  “That would be nice.”

  She smiled and headed to the master suite to draw her man—her black king—a warm bath.
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  Head didn’t have to lift a finger. The girls were ready to wait on him hand and foot. Jacki was the best cook, and she wanted to make her man a savory meal, but Head said he wasn’t hungry. He wanted to unwind, take a bath, and get some rest. It had been a long trip and a long day.

  All four of the ladies wanted to join him in the tub. They missed him and wanted to please him. But he requested some alone time. He needed to think. And while the girlfriends were knocking on the bathroom door, his mind was on Cartier.

  After his soothing bath, he went into the bedroom to get some sleep on the king size bed. Six hours later, Kandy was knocking on his bedroom door to alert him that a car was approaching the property from the road. Head removed himself from the bed, threw on a T-shirt and some jeans, and walked outside to see a black Dodge Charger arriving at the foot of his wraparound porch. Inside the Charger were two black men. His young girls joined him on the porch to see who it was.

  “Do you know them?” Jacki asked.

  Head didn’t answer her. Instead, he approached the car. Two men climbed out and Head greeted them with dap and a brotherly hug.

  “How was the trip?” Head asked them.

  “Long,” replied the driver, a man named Brother Taron. “But well worth it.”

  With that said, the two men walked around to the trunk of the car. Brother Taron removed a black leather duffel bag from it and handed it to Head. He unzipped it and smiled. Inside the bag was fifteen kilos of cocaine.

  “Y’all brothers did nice,” he praised them. “Were there any problems?”

  “Nah, shit went smooth like ice.”

  With the acquisition of the fifteen kilos stolen from Cartier’s trap house, things were looking promising for Head. One way or another, he was hell bent on squashing Cartier’s independent streak, and ultimately she would have to rely on him. He could have easily murdered Majestic and Scooter, but he knew that as long as they were alive, then he could keep coming back for more product.

  He wanted to break Cartier and remold her to see the future the way he saw it.