The Mike Black Saga Volume 2

by Roy Glenn

  “Tell her the rest of it,” Nick said.

  “What? There’s more?” Wanda asked and rolled her eyes.

  “Why don’t you fuckin’ tell her,” Freeze snapped at Nick.

  “They just tried to hit us outside Cuisine,” Nick said.

  Wanda gulped down her drink. Without being told, Nick immediately got up and started fixing her another one. Wanda got up from her chair and went over to the window.

  “Do you know three men tried to kill Mike last night?” she asked calmly as she continued to stare out at the streetlights.

  Freeze jumped up and said, “What!”

  “Yeah, while you were out playing gangster, Mike’s in there fighting for his life,” Wanda said as she turned to face them.

  “Who did it?” Freeze asked with his fists in balls.

  “I don’t know, he’s in administrative segregation, I’m gonna try and see if I can visit him tomorrow,” Wanda said.

  “That still leaves Birdie,” Nick said.

  “What are you talking about?” Wanda asked

  “What are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Freeze yelled. “They just tried to fuckin’ kill us!”

  “But Birdie didn’t have anything to do with it,” Wanda said.

  “But they still tried to kill us,” Nick said calmly.

  “It doesn’t matter whether Birdie killed Shy or not. The fact is, them mutha fucka’s just tried to kill us!” Freeze shouted.

  “How do you know it was even Birdie?” Wanda challenged.

  “Who else could it be?” Nick asked.

  “I don’t know, maybe we should find out before we start shooting at people again,” Wanda said. She sighed in frustration and shrugged at her own common-sense suggestion. Wanda walked back to the couch and sat down next to Freeze.

  Wanda looked at Nick. “I think we all need to calm down. This is not a war we need to be fighting right now. We need to focus on clearing Mike.”

  “You ain’t got to worry about that. I got that shit covered,” Freeze said.

  Wanda’s eyebrows shot up. “I hope you don’t mean like you handled the thing with Birdies’ men, because if that’s the case, I don’t even wanna’ hear about it,” Wanda said.

  “Tell me,” Nick said. “How you got this shit covered?”

  “I got the murder weapon,” Freeze said.

  “What?” Nick said.

  “How’d you get it?” Wanda asked immediately.

  “Don’t matter how I got it, fact is I got it, and Black ain’t getting convicted of shit without the murder weapon.”

  “It does make his chances a whole lot better,” Wanda said. “That and whatever inconsistencies Kirk found may just be enough to save him.”

  “But that still leaves Birdie,” Nick said in a voice that didn’t hide his anger.

  “As far as I’m concerned Birdie is a nonissue,” Wanda said without looking in Nick’s direction. “Like I said, we need to concentrate all of our efforts on getting Mike out of jail. That’s the only thing that’s important.”

  “I think you’re wrong Wanda,” Nick said demanding her attention.

  Wanda turned slowly toward Nick. “It’s bad enough that Mike’s in jail, now we gotta fight a war.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Kenneth DeFrancisco had just rolled over on his side when the guard passed and made the announcement.

  “You have an attorney visit,” he said.

  DeFrancisco moved his head slightly; thinking that the guard must be talking to the inmate in the other cell next to his. He yawned and resumed his position trying to reclaim comfort. He closed his eyes again and started thinking about the ridiculous scheme he had heard the night before after lock down.

  “Yo, DeFrancisco!” the guard yelled this time. “I said you got an attorney visit. He’s waiting for you in the meeting room.”

  DeFrancisco lifted his head ever so slightly. He felt the frown lines creep into his forehead, and he struggled to understand what he was hearing. Ain’t no way in hell he’d have an attorney visit. DeFrancisco had fired that worthless son-of-a-bitch the moment he was sentenced to 15 years for his role in a drug trafficking scheme that, had it been successful, would’ve had Mike Black in his shoes at that very moment.

  He had considered hiring a new one, but things had happened so quickly he didn’t even get a chance to get the ball rolling with his appeal. Twelve months into his fifteen-year sentence, of straight time, since it was a Federal charge, the best his years of service as a DEA agent had afforded him was confinement in the Federal Prison Camp in Atlanta. And for DeFrancisco, who was in segregation for the duration of his stay, this was two steps above hell.

  He spent twenty-three hours alone in his small cell. There were no letters, no visitors and certainly no contact with the outside world. So to hear that he had an attorney visit, well that was just a little bit more than a surprise to him. He swung his legs around and planted his feet firmly onto the cold cement floor. He yawned and stretched.

  “What’s this shit about?” he muttered.

  He really hadn’t felt like being bothered lately. In the last few months, he thought about how quickly his life had spun out of control. His conviction and sentence was enough to force even the strongest man to give up, but he would’ve never guessed his life would turn out this way. He still to this day blamed that useless son-of-a-bitch, Mike Black, for all of his troubles.

  Two days after he was taken into custody, the government, his former employer, confiscated everything they had previously frozen. All of his assets were gone. His sprawling home, the condo on the coast, his prized cars, motorcycles, even the cash he had neatly stashed in offshore accounts. Everything was gone.

  As he made his way to the front of his cell, he thought back to the last time he spoke to his wife Jane.

  “They’re putting me out?” she had cried.

  “Wait, what are you talking about?” DeFrancisco had asked. He squeezed the phone until his knuckles turned white. “Who’s putting you out?” he tried to understand.

  “The agents, they’re from the IRS, they’re going through all our stuff, everything. They say we haven’t paid taxes on millions of dollars. Can they do this?” she screamed into the phone. Before he could think of an answer, he heard her wail again. “Where am I supposed to go? What about the kids? You need to fix this! You need to fix this, now!”

  “Okay, wait hold up, let me see who I can call.”

  DeFrancisco had no clue who he could call. He had fired the lawyer the minute the verdict came in. He didn’t stop to think about what would happen to his family. He wanted to try to calm Jane as best he could. If only he had a few days, he could think of something, maybe one of his buddies could go over and help until he could figure things out.

  “Where are you now?” he asked frantically.

  “I’ve locked myself in the bedroom. The kids are still in school,” she answered.

  Of course, the kids are still in school, he thought.

  He had paid up their tuition at the boarding school his wife insisted they send them to. That’s when he knew for sure Jane was unstable. She rarely discussed the kids, he often had to remind her that she was a mother.

  “What’s everyone gonna say about all of this?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “I can’t live like this,” she said.

  DeFrancisco heard the banging on the bedroom door.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Who the fuck do you think it is? The house is crawling with agents, confiscating everything they could get their hands on and you’re wondering who that is? Hold on a minute, Kenny. I know how to fix this,” she snapped.

  Suddenly DeFrancisco heard a noise he didn’t recognize. There was more banging on the bedroom door. Then a shot rang out. That’s all it was a single shot. Seconds later, there was a crashing noise. He’d learn later that the crashing noise was the agents kicking in the bedroom door. They found Jane’s body lying across their California king
sized bed.

  That last conversation with his wife woke him up every night and reminded him of just how helpless and alone he really was, and how much he hated Mike Black.

  As he walked down the corridor that led to the private attorney meeting rooms, he knew he was a broken man. But he still had a quest for revenge. His desire was even stronger now that he had twenty-three hours a day to think of the many ways he’d exact his revenge against the man he held responsible for the misery now called his life.

  DeFrancisco was not prepared for the visitor who was waiting for him in the room. A smile curled at the corners of his lips.

  “Holland Johnson,” the man said and stood up as soon as DeFrancisco entered the room. Holland Johnson was actually DEA agent Pete Vinnelli. He and DeFrancisco had worked together for years.

  In reality, they were partners with Diego Estabon trafficking drugs, and if DeFrancisco had been willing to roll over on Vinnelli, he’d be sharing the cell with him. After DeFrancisco’s wife committed suicide, it was Vinnelli who took care of her final affairs and made sure that the children were taken care of.

  Vinnelli was dressed in black jeans and black T-shirt underneath a leather vest. He had a long ponytail with a full beard and three earrings dangling from his right ear. His head was covered with a Harley Davidson skullcap.

  “Hey buddy,” they quickly embraced. “How you holding up in here?” Vinnelli asked. He patted DeFrancisco on the back and both men took a seat.

  In the many cases that DeFrancisco and Vinnelli had worked together, there were times that they didn’t know if they’d live to see another day. When DeFrancisco was arrested, Vinnelli was out of the country, but he knew his partner would somehow catch up with him again, and maybe then, he would find peace of mind. After DeFrancisco’s conviction, he and Vinnelli did get a chance to talk. Their conversation was brief, coded, and to the point, but Vinnelli knew exactly what had to be done. Now, Vinnelli’s visit confirmed a few things for DeFrancisco.

  “I know you said you didn’t want anybody visiting you, but there are some things I need to go over with you,” Vinnelli said.

  “That’s okay, Holland. It’s good to see you.”

  “Sorry to hear about Jane.”

  “Thanks for taking care of things for me.”

  “Not a problem, buddy. But I think her death was not in vain,” Vinnelli said. He used his index finger to scratch his beard.

  “Thanks, I’m really glad to hear that.” DeFrancisco’s eyebrows inched upward. “You just don’t know how happy hearing that makes me Holland.”

  Vinnelli nodded and winked. “Let’s just say even a suicide, well um, you know what I’m trying to say right?”

  “I do,” DeFrancisco said.

  “I’m sure right now our friend is feeling a lot like you do.”

  The happy look on DeFrancisco’s face very quickly turned to a frown. “It was my understanding that now wasn’t going to be a possibility. What happened to change that?”

  “I thought I had the right bait on the hook, but—,” Vinnelli said but DeFrancisco cut him off.

  “But what, Pe—,” DeFrancisco said angrily. He was about to call him Pete, but he caught himself and tried to calm down.

  “The big one proved to be too strong for the line.”

  DeFrancisco put his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands. “Was any of the line broken?”

  “One break, the rest of the line is still intact, but in time I’m sure that the entire line will have to be retired.”

  This was not what DeFrancisco needed or wanted to hear, but in his position, what could he do about it. He longed for the days when he was free and could get things done. Vinnelli never was good at this type of stuff, DeFrancisco thought. If he had been on the street, this would have been handled with clockwork accuracy, and the op would have been completed.

  DeFrancisco looked at Vinnelli for a long time. “Tell me something, Holland, have you taken steps to correct the matter? Maybe this time you could use a much better-quality line, perhaps?”

  “Not to worry.” Vinnelli glanced at his watch. “I’ll be going fishing tomorrow and I’ll be using a top-rated line.”

  “Well let’s hope you catch something. Next time you visit I hope you got a better fish story than that one. Come on, Holland, you are much better fishermen than that.”

  “I got the small fish,” Vinnelli said pleading his case.

  “And that’s important.”

  “Right, you know how these things go. Cut me some slack, will ya.”

  DeFrancisco leaned back in his chair and smiled, but he was still pissed off. “I’m just bustin’ your balls, Holland. I know you’ll do your best to catch the big fish next time.”

  “I will, I promise you that. I owe you that much. And I wanted to assure you that things will get better. I just need you to hang in there,” Vinnelli said sincerely. “We’re all still pulling for you man.”

  DeFrancisco nodded, “So how long do we have?”

  “I think about two hours,” Vinnelli said. He leaned in closer to DeFrancisco. “You need anything in here? I mean can I get something for you?”

  “This place is wild,” DeFrancisco sat upright. “I can get anything I want in here, including a woman. That is if you can call them crack head nigger bitches women. You wouldn’t believe the type of shit that goes on around here.” DeFrancisco shook his head. “I’ll give you an example of how out of control things are here. There’s this guy here, they call him the chicken man. I don’t know how he does it, he says he’s got a guard in his pocket, I don’t fuckin’ know. So I’m sure you saw the projects that are adjacent to this place right?”

  “Yeah, that tripped me out, it’s fucking right next door, literally,” Vinnelli said, amazed.

  “Yeah, that’s Thomasville Heights. Well, the chicken man, he says he got him a soul sister in the projects that cooks for him. So twice a day after count, he slips off and when he comes back, this niggas got a bag of homemade fried chicken. All individually wrapped in foil. Sells them for five dollars apiece and makes a killing!” DeFrancisco ended with a laugh.

  “You’re shittin’ me right?”

  “I swear to fuckin’ god! That’s the type of shit that goes on around here. It’s wild.”

  Vinnelli started cracking up.

  “Did you ever get any of those new M&M’s?” DeFrancisco asked referring to their other partner, New York state Senator Martin Marshall. He provided political cover for their trafficking operation.

  When things went south for DeFrancisco, and Marshall faced the very real threat of DeFrancisco rolling over on him, he found cover in the form of the New York City Department of Investigations. Under the grant of immunity, which he hoped to extend in case he had to testify against DeFrancisco, Marshall cooperated in a case against a City Councilman who is accused of extortion. Marshall gave an affidavit stating that the Councilman demanded 1.5 million dollars’ worth of property and $50,000 cash from a real estate developer who wanted the councilman’s vote in favor of a development slated for Brooklyn. Marshall didn’t have to worry though, Kenneth DeFrancisco was no snitch. After surviving that near miss, Marshall became a crusader against corruption.

  “No, haven’t been able to find any. Every time I go to get some they’re gone.”

  “Stay on that. M&M’s could be a big help,” DeFrancisco said, thinking that after a while Marshall could pull some strings and maybe get him to one of those country club prisons.

  For the remainder of the visit, they shared small talk, reminiscing about the past and Vinnelli vowed to visit again.

  “So how are things looking,” DeFrancisco asked as he walked to the door at the end of their session.

  “It’s all good. It’s all good, matter of fact,” Vinnelli stood. “I should be back in a few weeks, with better news. In the meantime I’ve got a friend in here whose gonna take care of you.”

  “I’m straight. This visit alone was enough to make things bett
er. I look forward to our next meeting.”

  DeFrancisco knocked on the door. “Guard,” he yelled.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Detective Kirkland slammed his car door shut and went into the precinct like a man on a mission.

  “How’s it going, Ford?” he greeted the desk Sergeant, and then pushed his way through the double doors that led back to the section of the building that housed the Narcotics division. He passed through the rows of desks and stopped at the one in the far-right corner. There a man who held a phone between his shoulder and his ear was huddled over an open drawer of files.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m looking for it now,” the man said.

  Detective Kirkland took a seat in the chair next to the desk. He waited as detective Sanchez argued with the person on the phone and flipped through the files. Phones rang in the background and officers shuffled throughout the office. Kirk told himself not to become impatient, and shortly after,

  “If you’d get your head out your ass, you would have read it when I sent it the first time,” Sanchez yelled into the receiver once more before slamming it back into its cradle. “Sometimes Kirk, these fuckin’ people get on my fuckin’ nerves,” Sanchez said.

  “Tell me about it Gene,” Kirk said.

  “Sometimes I think this whole city is just circling the drain,” Sanchez added.

  “So I guess I don’t have to ask how it’s going.”

  “Fucked up, that’s how it’s going. It’s fucked up, but you don’t want to hear that shit. You came here for a reason, and it ain’t to hear my shit, so what can I do for you?” Sanchez asked graciously.

  “Mike Black,” Kirk said.

  “I kinda figured that’s what you were here for,” Sanchez admitted.

  “I talked to one of his people yesterday, Nick Simmons. I asked him if he had any idea who killed Black’s wife, of course he said no. But I just got the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling me,” Kirk said.

  “Word on the street is that Birdie had a personal beef with Shy and that’s why she was killed.”