Baddest Apple

by Nisa Santiago

  “Nah, that’s exactly what we not gonna do,” said Lord, speaking for Queenie in absentia as if he was the shot-caller. Everyone knew he was second in command—her right hand—but he was overstepping boundaries.

  Killer Mike frowned. “How you figure we gonna sit this one out?”

  “Easy. Queenie didn’t green-light no hits, so we gettin’ ahead of ourselves. Most importantly, I got a bad feeling ’bout those twin bitches—”

  Mike interjected, “You talking ’bout feelings and emotions like we ain’t L.E.S. Crips, nigga!”

  “Where was ya blue bandana when those bitches stepped to you? Nigga, don’t ever play me like shit is sweet ’cause I’ll push ya fuckin’ wig back,” Lord threatened.

  “Y’all niggas chill,” said Rehab. “We ain’t each other’s enemy.”

  Lord nodded. “We all know that when Queenie comes out of that room, her ego will be banged up and she’ll want revenge. But we just don’t need that type of heat over no ass-whooping. I gotta make her see that; we gotta make her see that shit.”

  “Lord, no disrespect, but we’ve been to war before. You need to break down why this shit is any different.”

  Lord bit the inside of his right cheek, straightened his back, and took a pregnant pause before speaking, something that he usually did when he was contemplating weighty decisions. He said, “We all havin’ a good run. Our dope is flooding the streets, our connect has the grade-A product, and nobody fucks wit’ us! We’re respected on these streets, and most importantly, we’re feared. But and however, I did my research. Apple is lightweight. Her man got murdered, and she don’t got no thoroughbreds on her team, so she wide open.”

  Killer Mike was thirsty. “So, let’s get at her tonight.”

  “Chill, Mike,” Lord’s voice boomed louder than he would have wanted in such a populated, public area. “If we get at Apple, then we gotta add more shooters on the payroll for Kola.”

  “Word? Who’s shorty’s man?” Rehab wanted to know.

  “She’s married to some twin nigga whose name rang out for a minute. I heard he put in work, but he’s not the problem. Kola is under the protection of a Colombian cartel, and the cartel has an unlimited supply of shooters. So that kinda heat ain’t worth it. When you at war you can’t make your bread, and I need to eat. A nigga got bills, my woman likes nice things, y’all feel me?”

  Killer Mike and Rehab both nodded.

  “How we gonna convince Queenie?” Mike asked.

  “Let me handle her.”

  Kola drove quickly to Central Park so the kids would have open space to run off their energy and also to give her and her sister time to discuss the obvious.

  “What was that shit about back there?” asked Kola.

  Slowly Apple’s head rocked side to side as she wondered how she always found herself in precarious situations. She didn’t go looking for beef, but it still ended up at her front door.

  “That crazy bitch got heart,” Apple admitted. “All I know is her name is Queenie. We had a run-in at Harlem Week; she came through stuntin’. She got some paper, some goons, and a slick fuckin’ mouth.”

  Kola whipped out her phone and called Kamel back. She placed the call on speaker so Apple could hear whatever he had to say. Kola knew her husband still kept his ear to the streets even though he’d been out of the game for a while now.

  “Babe, have you heard the name Queenie?”

  “Why?” Kamel said.

  “K, why does everything have to be twenty-one questions? Just run it down if you have intel and I’ll fill you in when I get home.”

  “You a’ight?”

  “I am.”

  Kamel knew that his wife asking about a female of Queenie’s caliber and with Queenie’s reputation ultimately had something to do with the problem child, Apple. No matter what the circumstance, all roads would always lead back to Apple being mixed up in something dangerous—some beef that she would drag his wife into that would trickle down to him and could inevitably place their children in danger. They didn’t need that exposure. Kola was still healing. He knew she was in a transitional chapter of her life, and he worried greatly. Ever since she came back from South Beach, she had been acting strangely—different. She was leaving the kids unsupervised for long periods, so much so he limited how often and how long he left their residence. He knew that she was taking medication, but he wasn’t sure he liked the effect it had on her. Her sex drive was gone, and he could feel her slipping away. Kamel knew better than to come between the sisters, especially a twin. He knew firsthand the bond that twins share. However, Apple was a bad seed, an anchor pulling his wife down, just as Jamel had smothered him with his erratic, drug-induced behavior.

  “Queenie’s a young broad, L.E.S. Crips. She’s been expanding her territory, making power moves.”

  “Power moves?” said Apple.

  “She doin’ a’ight for herself. Nobody knows who her connect is, but I know she mainly pushes heroin.”

  Apple hung onto each word Kamel spoke. Her body stiffened with each compliment and she could only listen, question, and then ultimately plot.

  “What is she? That bitch looks crazy wit’ those eyes and hair, and she said cabrón as if she’s Hispanic or some shit.”

  “Yeah, I heard she a mut. Some say she’s Spanish, some say she’s West Indian, and some say she’s mixed. You know how the streets be runnin’ their mouths. But the one thing consistent is she’s no joke. A couple years back some Blood niggas tried her with a home invasion and she bodied them niggas all by herself. Streets said each year she sent a body part to a different family member and told them in twenty years they should have enough parts to fill a casket for a proper burial.”

  “That’s bullshit.” Apple quickly shut Kamel down.

  “It could be. But all I know is that Queenie’s making too much noise so those alphabet boys are either on her or will be on her. Stay the fuck off her radar.”

  “That bitch should have stayed off mine!” Apple was less than comfortable with how Kamel knew Queenie’s highlight reel. “This broad done bumped her fuckin’ head if she thinks she can go up against me! She runnin’ round calling herself the Queen of New York, had a straight face when she said she never heard of Apple like my résumé don’t stretch long and wide like I-95 out this bitch! And then she comes to my front door with a shooter?”

  “Apple, don’t make this personal,” Kola warned.

  Apple sucked her teeth. “Too fuckin’ late.”

  Kamel had heard enough. He had the confirmation he needed, and as soon as his wife got home, then they needed to discuss what came first—her household or helping her sister with her unlimited supply of enemies.

  “I’m out,” Kamel said and hung up.

  Apple looked at Kola. “I didn’t make this personal. She did.”

  “I’m not here for it, Apple!” Kola snapped. “I told you I got my own demons that I need to handle; therefore, I can’t have your back.”

  “I don’t need you.”

  “Like you didn’t need me for South Beach?”

  “I told you not to come!” said Apple. “You didn’t do that for me; you did it for you. So don’t lay that at my feet and expect me to pick it up and run with it.”

  “App, please, let this shit go! You glanced at this bitch, and she was at your front door within the first forty-eight. You need to move. Better yet, come and stay with us for a few days until you find a new place.”

  “Kola, stop worrying.” Apple’s mind was already in combat mode. “I got this.”

  9

  Apple gripped her cell phone and wondered if this was fate or misfortune. The authoritative voice that boomed through the line was Manolo Santiago. He was summoning her to meet with his boss, Caesar Mingo—who also was the connect of her enemy, Citi. Caesar, who was a top supplier in New York City, set the meeting pla
ce at a Spanish restaurant in East Harlem on 116th Street. Apple paused momentarily only to consider Peaches and the promises she had made to Kola. Apple reasoned that if he wanted her dead there would be no courtesy call, so this meet had to be about business. Apple agreed to meet with Caesar and understood she had two choices: she could either go and keep the peace or refuse and possibly ignite a war. As she drove her sleek car north on the FDR, one nagging thought wouldn’t go away. She called Kola on one of the burner phones that they always kept for emergencies so that she could speak freely.

  “What’s up?”

  “Real quick. I’m on my way to meet up with Citi’s connect.”

  “Caesar Mingo? Why?”

  “I don’t know why, but I’m going.”

  “Again, why?”

  “Because you don’t say no to a man like Caesar.”

  “Oh, please, Apple. I know you ain’t gonna start moving ki’s again, especially when you know what you’ve promised!”

  “Who said anything about moving weight? We killed his bitch, so I suspect he wants answers.”

  “You love this type of shit.”

  “I don’t have a choice, Kola. You know that!”

  “There’s always a choice, even if it’s a tough one.”

  “Anyway,” Apple ignored her, “I don’t wanna walk into a trap. Are you sure that Citi is dead? I don’t want to walk into his place of business and she’s sitting there with her pistol trained on me.”

  Kola exhaled to bide her time. She wrestled with whether she should finally come clean. What if this was a trap? “You know the game. You’re supposed to always think the worst, so I know you’re strapped, right?”

  “No doubt.”

  “You need me?”

  “Nah, I’m straight.”

  “So to answer your question, I already told you that Citi shouldn’t have survived her injuries. Her body ate up a lot of heat, but crazier things have happened. Just be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Apple arrived at the restaurant with her gun concealed inside her designer handbag. As she walked inside, her eyes darted around cautiously, drinking in her surroundings. Apple examined faces and body language and took note of the rear exit. Busy staff fluttered around taking orders, and chitchat filled the air as customers enjoyed their meals. Apple sat at the bar and ordered an Appletini and just waited, as Manolo didn’t leave specific instructions. Apple stared out the large, tempered glass and took sips of her tasty alcoholic beverage. It didn’t take long for her to notice a Chrysler minivan pulling into the reserved parking spot. The door opened, and the man who emerged couldn’t be Caesar Mingo, the head of the Mingo cartel. This family man wore a sight-blinding tie-dye t-shirt, cargo shorts, and orange Crocs. There was a hint of a beer belly and a jovial, upbeat twinkle in his eyes reserved for people who hadn’t crossed over to the murderous side of life. And his complexion was off. Apple had heard that Caesar was Mexican, and this man had dark-chocolate skin and a massive amount of jet-black, curly hair. His smooth skin glowed in the distance, and Apple wondered why she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Who was he to park in the reserved spot?

  When the back door slid open and out popped a toddler and a plump white woman exited the passenger’s seat, Apple lost interest. She finished her drink and ordered another one.

  “I’ll have it sent to the back,” the bartender replied.

  She was perplexed. “The back?”

  “Mr. Mingo is here,” he nodded toward the minivan trio. “Edenia will show you to your table.”

  Apple was impressed. When she had arrived she hadn’t spoken with anyone, so how could they know who she was or who she was waiting on? It was then that she looked, really looked, and saw the shooters. She could count at least nine goons, and most likely more, with the restaurant under their protection.

  “Ms. Evans, please, this way,” Edenia said.

  Hearing her last name sent a chill down Apple’s spine. As far as levels, this was “other.”

  The waitress was gorgeous. Her thick hair was flat-ironed straight, parted down the middle, and fell past her shoulders. Her makeup was tasteful, as she needed little. Her uniform—black pencil skirt, white shirt, and black heels—couldn’t take away from her natural beauty.

  Apple was led through the restaurant to a private area in the back closed off from patrons. Seated at a decorated table were a man, a woman, and a child. Apple still couldn’t believe this man was the infamous, alleged megalomaniac head of the Mingo cartel.

  “Please, Apple, siéntate.”

  “Caesar?”

  “Sí, yes, of course.” His self-assured voice boomed throughout the private area, and before her sat a confident man, a man who commanded and demanded respect. Caesar sat upright in his chair with his legs spread wide like he had an elephant trunk between his thighs. “And this is my wife, Lena, and my son, Oscar.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Lena said.

  “You’re pretty,” Oscar said.

  “Thanks,” was all Apple could say because she felt she was being punked. This dark-chocolate, curly-haired Mexican who was claiming to be Caesar Mingo invited her to have dinner with his wife and child? Why?

  Subtly, she slid her hand into her purse and gripped her 9mm pistol. Apple would ask questions, and if she didn’t like the answers, then she would shoot her way out.

  “So,” Apple began. “Why am I—”

  Her line of questioning was cut short when the Heckler and Koch met her temple. Apple looked up to see the dainty hand of Edenia gripping the weighty pistol. No longer did Apple see her beauty, but a stone-cold killer. Apple could recognize the eyes of a murderer because Edenia’s eyes were like hers—lethal. “I’ll take this,” Edenia reached down and took Apple’s clutch. “You’ll get this back when you leave.”

  Apple was humiliated. She felt naked and played, but she would not allow anyone in that room to see her sweat.

  “You were about to ask why you were invited here, no?” Caesar said.

  Apple nodded.

  “First, let’s eat. Order whatever you would like.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Caesar waved Edenia back over to take their orders.

  “Ms. Evans will have another Appletini and seafood paella.”

  “How do you know my last name!” Apple demanded. She was also unnerved that he knew her favorite Spanish dish was seafood paella, but she didn’t want to give him too much power.

  “Tranquillo, please, Apple,” Caesar pointed toward Oscar. “My son.”

  Apple stared at the round-faced cutie pie and fell back.

  “And I’ll have the Caesar salad, hold the croutons.” He patted his robust stomach. “I’m watching my weight.”

  “Would you like a Corona draft, Mr. Mingo?”

  “Sí, and have Chef Avila make Oscar a cheeseburger and fries and bring him a Coca-Cola.”

  Lena couldn’t wait to order. Her impatience was written all over her face. Quickly she ran down her food requests. “For my appetizers give me the Calamares Fritos and the Tortilla Española, and for my main course, I think I’ll have the seafood paella too. Tell Chef Avila to make sure to add extra lobster in my dish. Make sure he uses at least three large lobster tails. Did you get that?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Mingo.”

  “And tell him that I want a to-go bag—a couple of medium-rare steaks with those spicy mashed potatoes he makes, and the garlic shrimp—”

  “Lena, we have a guest. You can order that later once I’ve finished my business meeting.”

  His wife didn’t look too pleased about being interrupted, but she sped things up. “I guess I’ll have to wait to order dessert,” she remarked dryly. “Edenia, just bring me a Diet Coke.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Mingo.”

  When the drinks hit the table, Caesar picked t
he conversation back up where they’d left off.

  “Your actions. When you waged war against one of my top earners, Citi Byrne, you left distribution in Manhattan and the Bronx wide open.”

  “And?”

  “And you’re a reasonable woman, smart and motivated. You understand the fundamentals of business, sí?”

  “Keep talkin’.”

  “With distribution open, you will oversee two territories, Manhattan and the Bronx, and your coconspirator, Cartier Timmons, will distribute the Brooklyn and Queens areas.”

  “And what if I say no?”

  “You won’t.”

  “But what if I did? Have you ever heard of free will? I do what the fuck I want.”

  Caesar didn’t like Apple. The way she had disrespected his son with the foul language and around-the-way girl attitude had him reevaluating his decision to add her to his team.

  Caesar did a subtle nod to the two waiters guarding the doors. Instantly they walked over and surrounded her like a bishop and a knight on a chessboard guarding the queen. “Then, you die. Not tonight, not tomorrow, but right here as you sit at my dinner table we will watch as life is strangled out of you and continue on with our meal.”

  Apple could see the waiter on her left slide a telephone cord from out of his pocket and tightly wrap the wire around each hand and then pull tightly. The wire ominously snapped. It was moments like this that she wished she had brought a second burner.

  “I don’t owe you shit, Caesar,” Apple said defiantly. “The beef between Citi and I was personal.”

  “Why do you disrespect me so?”

  “You’ve just threatened my life, and you feel disrespected?”

  “Your foul language, in front of my only son. I’ve already warned you and yet you continue to not respect my authority.” He turned toward his wife. “Lena, what do you suggest I do with her?”

  “I’d cut her fucking tongue out.”