My Brother's Keeper 2

by U. E. Wynn

  Valentino smiled. “Today, prostitution. Tomorrow, who knows?”

  ~~~~

  Later that night a hard stinging rain fell as Jahad road to Harlem for the short notice meeting he set up with the Heads. So many ideas were flowing through his mind, he couldn’t sit on them until tomorrow. Valentino’s information held so many possibilities and so much power that the implications were overwhelming. The move could transform the M.G.’s into an invincible force with Valentino as the figure head while the rest of them played the shadows like always. The problem, he figured would be convincing the other kids that Valentino should be given total control.

  Jahad was the first to arrive. He parked his Oldsmobile in front of Prince’s brownstone, grabbed his briefcase, then dashed out the car with his head tucked. Just as he was about to ring the doorbell the door open and Prince stood with a cream silk robe holding a double shot of Hennessy in a clear tumbler.

  “Heard that piece of junk pull up,” he said, handing Jahad the drink. “The rest of the family should be here in a few minutes. What’s up? We got a kill somebody or something?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” Jahad replied, following Prince into the living room where a fire was blazing in the black marble fireplace. “Valentino got at me today. Got some info I want y’all to check out.”

  “Oh word?” What he…” Prince was interrupted by the doorbell. “Hold on, son.”

  While Prince answered the door, Jahad fixed himself another drink. A second later, Prince returned, followed by Sha’, Lord, and Star. Star was decked out in a brown pinstripe suit and brown gators.

  “Somebody fucked up, right?” Lord asked, taking the soaked kuffie off his head.

  “Nah, not this time.” Jahad took a sip from his drink, then cut his eyes over at Star. “Where you coming from church?”

  “Ha, ha,” Star mocked with a scowl. “I’m on my grown man shit. Tell him Prince.”

  Sha’’ shook his head as he shrugged off his leather Rock-a-Wear jacket. “Harlem niggaz can get away with that pimp shit. You look like Gary Coleman before he went broke.”

  The room erupted with laughter.

  “A yo chill with the short jokes Sha’ before I get on that aluminum you got in your mouth frontin like its platinum.

  Star turned to Jahad. “What's up Jah? It must be important for you to get us together at damn near midnight.”

  “Yeah, it’s important. Valentino got at me today and put me on to something that can take us to the next level.” Jahad nodded toward the dossiers he sat on the table. “Read them and tell me what y’all think.”

  While they read Jahad explained everything Valentino told him, including the need to stay anonymous. There were a few snorts and grunts otherwise no one interrupted. When they finished the dossiers the room was quiet except for the crackle of the fire until they thoroughly processed the information.

  “You know, I’m feeling the figures, definitely feeling the figures,” Star said, breaking the silence. “What im iffy about is the white boy running shit. I mean, anytime he wants, he can pull some David Copperfield shit and we’ll be left holding our dicks.”

  “True,” Jahad nodded. “But if it blows up in his face we still good ‘cause it’s his show.”

  “We talking about 260 million-a-year, Jah. A mutherfucka would sneak God for that kind of dough,” Sha’ said, looking at the other Heads.

  “Word!” Star agreed.

  “I’m saying, Jah. You think we can trust Valentino enough to put everything in his hands?” Prince asked.

  “We trusted him up to this point, so what’s the difference now?”

  “260 million is the difference,” Sha’ answered. “Greed is a motherfucka, Son.”

  “So what you saying, we should fall back and pass up the chance to get this money?”

  “Nah. Hell nah! But we do need to have some type of leverage on him in case he tries some funny shit.”

  “He got kids?” Star asked.

  “Nah. No kids, no wife, not even a dog. His only living relative is a sister down in Florida besides his people in Sicily. He has a penthouse apartment on Park Avenue and a crib out in Connecticut he uses sometimes on the weekends. I found all this out when we first Started dealing with him. Personally, I don’t got no beef with it. If Valentino wanted he could have fucked us over a long time ago. We’ve been in the position to do the same to him. So far everybody been keeping it fair and I don’t see why it will change now.”

  Prince nodded. “I feel that. Valentino knows we’re not to be fucked with.”

  Jahad turned to Lord, who had a thoughtful expression on his face. “What you think homey?”

  “I see the situation from both sides sort of. I mean, it’s a possibility that Valentino could flip, but we really wouldn’t be losing nothing.”

  “What you mean?”

  “I mean we ain’t really risking shit. Valentino wants us to body a few white boys and from there everything is in his hands. If he fronts, we body his ass too. If he keeps it official we all eat. It’s as simple as that.”

  “You exactly right. So what’s up? We all agree or what?” Jahad asked, looking at each head.

  Once they all nodded, he continued. “Right now we only got information on this Leopardi dude. Valentino is still working on Corsillo. He also hinted that we go move on the rest of their shit. Y’all cool with that?”

  “Shit, when we kill this muthafucka it should be ours anyway,” Star said, then added, “Well Valentino’s.”

  Jahad picked up on his sarcastic tone instantly. “We're all one in the same. Valentino can't make no moves without us and we can’t make none without him. You know that.”

  Reluctantly, Star nodded.

  “A yo, any of you niggas been hearing about some funny shit going round y’all spots?” Sha’ asked.

  Prince screwed up his face. “What you mean?”

  “Crook told me he heard some outside niggas were moving weight in Crypress, but ain't no word came through our channels.”

  “It might be bogus then,” Star said.

  “Probably,” Jahad agreed. “But have someone check it out. This ain’t the time to have nobody trying to make moves on us when we about to make moves of our own. Now if this meeting is over, let’s smoke up Prince’s weed and drink his expensive ass liquor like we normally do.”

  Star grinned. “Shit, you know I’m with that.”

  Chapter Seven

  Within six months Koran’s body count grew to seven, excluding Premo. Being the newest member of the body squad with the least amount of kills, Star allowed him to claim most of the solo hits after Koran explained how he needed the experience. It wasn’t that he enjoyed killing, he told himself. It was a chance to sharpen his skills.

  A gold plated stiletto given to him by Star was his weapon of choice. It was easy to conceal, razor-sharp, and could kill instantly without a sound. His favorite kill zone was a thrust under the left armpit through the tender flesh between the ribs straight into the heart. Five out of his seven kills he’d used the deadly knife. Once on a crowded train without drawing any attention.

  As he grew confident in his abilities, it seemed as if he’d picked up a blood lust. Whenever a meeting was called he would get all excited knowing someone had fucked up and he’d get the chance to kill again. Soon the body squad gave up on going through the normal process of drawing names. Why bother when Koran would claim the hit anyway. Someone should have stopped him. Star, Jahad or another one of the Heads, but they figured he would eventually tire himself out. What they didn’t consider or grasp was that they had created a monster.

  There was a downside to Koran’s killing nature; his conscience. Regardless of how well he controlled his emotions, his sub-conscience never let him forget the lives he took. For the first couple of weeks after each kill his dreams were more horrifying than a Wes Craven horror movie. His victims were returning from the grave with gruesome wounds leaking blood and all types of green shit from their eyes,
mouth and noses. In one dream, the most frequent, he stood on the roof the night he murdered Premo. Only now when he ran to the ledge to see him fall Premo would be floating in mid air holding hand fulls of shit calling his name repeatedly.

  Another downside was the guilt he felt when he awoke from his nightmares. It was almost enough to make him give up the life he led altogether. But the M.G.’s, Jahad mainly, had too much influence over him. The guilt soon pushed him to Start smoking weed. He found that being high was the only way to cope with the nightmares. Still, when it came time to kill again, he jumped at the opportunity. It’s what he signed up for when he asked to become a M.G. and there was no turning back now.

  When he set up to do his eighth hit, that’s when he learned how much of a professional he was. It was also when he learned that his heart wasn’t as cold as he thought. Frosty, a well known big time heroin pusher from the Polo Grands unknowingly owed the M.G.’s for three kilo’s of heroin. He claimed the work went bad when it came time to pay, although he had just bought a brand new Bentley. Then word on the street was that he was spending money like he had hit the lottery. The M.G.’s weren’t into sending threats, so after an hour debate, the Heads decided that Koran would send him to his maker.

  For three weeks Koran studied Frosty’s every move. Frosty lived with his girlfriend or wife with their infant son. He had followed them on separate occasions in different parts of the city. That’s where he ran into problems. Koran had his limitations, and killing women and kids was one of them. But close to a quarter million dollars was involved, so he had to search the apartment. He just prayed they wouldn’t be home when he did.

  The day of the hit he dressed in some old dirty clothes, smeared some dirt on his face and wore a nappy afro wig, giving him the appearance of a bum. Every night at approximately eight o’clock Frosty returned home and stayed at least an hour before leaving out. At precisely seven thirty Koran followed a group of kids in the building, hung an out of order sign on the elevator, then made his way to the staircase. It was cold and damp with the raunchy odor of stale piss heavy in the air.

  In between the fifth and sixth floor he lay sideways across the cold steps as if he were drunk so Frosty would be forced to stop. Like clockwork, a few minutes after eight Frosty came bounding up the stairs carrying a brown grocery bag. He wore a pair of gold addition Timberlands, Red Monkey jeans, and a brown, tan and white Coogi sweater. When he came across Koran, he frowned disgustedly taking him for a heroin addict and kicked him in the side.

  “Get your stinking ass out the way man. This ain’t no fucking hotel.”

  Frosty drew back his foot to kick Koran again, but before the blow could land, Koran sprung to his feet, his gun pressed hard into Frosty’s jaw.

  “You one of those pretty ass Harlem niggaz so I suggest you keep your ass still unless you want your face splattered against the wall.”

  Koran did a quick pat down finding a .380 in Frosty’s back pocket. He grabbed him by the back of his collar and balled it in his fist. “We about to walk to your apartment like we old friends. You fake one move and it will be your last. Now move!”

  Frosty glanced over his shoulder as Koran shoved him forward. “Listen man. I got some cash…”

  Koran popped him hard upside the head. “We’ll talk about all that in a minute. For now, shut the fuck up.”

  At the staircase door leading to the sixth floor Koran paused to check the hallway. He found it empty, so he guided Frosty to his apartment door. When he lifted his hand to knock, Koran popped him again.

  “You think you slick, huh? Use your damn key before I merk your ass right here. Stupid ass!”

  With shaky hands Frosty opened the door. The aroma of frying chicken greeted them as Koran reached into his hoodie pocket and took out a pair of handcuffs he’d bought just for the occasion.

  “Hold your hands behind your back.”

  “You a cop?” Frosty asked fearfully.

  The question told Koran he had something he wasn’t suppose to have inside the apartment. Koran had a pretty good idea what that something was. “Yeah, I’m a cop. Now put your damn hands behind your back before I show you how cops like me get down.”

  Mary J. Blige’s soulful lyrics came from behind the stereo in the living room as they traveled down the short hallway and made a right into the kitchen. The woman Koran assumed was Frosty’s wife stood in front of the electric stove with her back to them singing along with Mary. Their son, who was no older than two or three, sat to her left in his high chair playing with an action figure.

  “Osty! Osty!” the child yelled, happily bouncing up and down in his seat.

  The woman turned, smiling until she saw Koran standing behind Frosty holding the gun.

  “What’s going on Frosty? Who is this man?” she asked, glancing at her son who grew still sensing the tension.

  Koran flashed a smile wanting to keep her calm. “A yo, everything is cool. We need to have a little chat and I’m out, a’ight. You got somewhere to put your kid while we talk?”

  The woman looked at Koran strangely a second, then at Frosty for reassurance. “It’s okay love. Just do what he says.”

  Hesitantly, she turned the stove off, then lifted the child from his chair and led the way out the kitchen. Koran followed closely holding Frosty by the cuffs to a small bedroom off to the left side of the hallway. Toys, a tricycle, and stuffed animals were scattered around a large play pen that sat in the middle of the room. After placing the child in the playpen she turned on a small 18inch television perched on a tv stand across from the playpen. Soon cartoons filled the screen. As if in a trance the child stared at the television and paid no attention to the adult as they left.

  Entering the living room Koran noted that everything was new. The black carpet, maroon leather furniture, fifty inch wide screen television, Dell computer, and a Kenwood stereo. Pictures of the child from birth up to his current age, decorated the walls along with a few of his mother in different poses.

  Once they were both seated on the couch, Frosty somewhat uncomfortably with his hands behind his back, Koran got straight to the point.

  “You might not know why I’m here and you might not have heard of the M.G.s’, but that work you got? Well, let's just say you fucked with the wrong niggaz shit. I’m here to fix that problem.”

  Frosty’s eyes flew open. “Hey man, I told Storm that shit went bad. It was packaged wrong. He ain’t say nothing about having to pay for it!”

  Koran shook his head. “I don’t know who in the hell Storm is and I really don’t give a fuck. That ain’t even the issue anyway. This is.” Koran held up his gun. “You have two choices; give up the dough and die fast or stall and die slow. Either way you’re a dead muthafucka.”

  “I thought you said you just wanted to talk!” the woman screamed. “You don’t have to kill him. The money is in the closet and the drugs…”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Frosty yelled.

  Squinting his eyes in annoyance Koran crossed the room in two quick steps and grabbed a throw pillow from the couch using it to cover the barrel of his gun.

  “Bluk! Bluk! Bluk!”

  The muffled shots slammed Frosty’s head back into the cushion before he slid sideways slumped over the couch armrest. Beside him the woman screamed hysterically.

  “Shhhhhh!” Koran hissed aiming the gun in between her eyes. “Calm the fuck down. Now!”

  Instantly her screams came to a stop, turning to near silent whimpers although her eyes were still terror struck. “That’s it shorty, take a few breaths. That’s it. Everything is good,” he coached, putting the gun away for a show of good faith.

  “Are…are…you…you… go...going...to kill…kill me?” she stuttered, looking at him through pleading eyes.

  A picture of Michelle and Latrice flashed through Korans’ mind. This was someone’s mother, possibly someone’s sister. Her son was in the next room and his father already lay dead. He couldn’t kill her. Yet, he knew this was a witn
ess. Someone to bring him down. Someone to bring the whole organization down since the M.G.’s had been mentioned. He had to kill her. However, the thought of her son alone in his bedroom caused a major conflict. He would not, could not kill a child. Taking a deep breath he met the woman’s eyes and came to a life altering decision.

  “What’s your little man's name? How old is he?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your kid. What’s his name?”

  “Oh, Jamel. His name is Jamel.”

  “Word. His birthday soon?”

  “He’ll be three in March. March 19th. Why?” she asked, confused.

  “Just wondering. Cute kid.”

  “Listen mister, please don’t kill us. I’ll tell the police I didn’t see your face. That you were wearing a mask or something. On my son’s life I swear I will!”

  Koran felt a tug at his conscience. “Don’t sweat that shorty. Just show me where everything is and I’m out.”

  Standing on shaky legs, she led him to the kitchen where she took two large rice containers from the refrigerator. Koran dumped the containers in the sink and came up with seven ounces of heroin wrapped individually in plastic.

  “This it?” He frowned down at the dirt colored drugs.

  “It’s all I know about, I swear!” she cried backing away fearfully.

  “Chill, shorty. I told you everything is cool. What’s up with the dough?”

  “It’s in the bedroom. C’mon.”

  As they walked passed her son’s room towards the bedroom, Koran glanced at the child who was still engrossed in the cartoon with a crooked grin on his baby face. For a second Koran felt a strong sense of Déjà vu’ before he tore his eyes away from the child. In the bedroom the woman went straight to the closet, dug under a pile of new clothes with the tags still on them, and pulled out a brown leather briefcase. She walked over to the bed and was about to open it when Koran stopped her.

  “Whoa, Ma. I’ll do that.” Koran walked to her side and undid the brass latches. Inside were neatly stacked bills held by rubber bands filled to the top. He closed the case and snatched it up. “Come on, walk me to the door. Give me a few minutes before you call the Jakes though, a’ight?”