“Your sources were correct. Rossi’s men were the ones behind the kidnapping. The old man swears he had nothing to do with it, which I beg to differ with. His nephew Saul was the one killed. The families are looking into the matter as we speak. We are all waiting to hear from his other nephew Milo. We think he may have been the other man the police have been asking about. As soon as we narrow it down to specifics, we will act accordingly, but in the mean time, it’s business as usual,” Moretti said in a firm tone while lighting an expensive cigar.
“Business as usual? Fuck that! My lady was kidnapped and almost killed, and you telling me it’s business as usual! I ain’t going to sit around for Rossi to strike again! I’m going to track his ass down and kill him where he stands!” Real yelled as he sat up in bed.
“There is no need. We will handle the situation within,” said Moretti. “You don’t have to—“
Real cut in, “Look here, Moretti. With all due respect, I’m not taking your word on the matter no more. My fiancée was kidnapped because of my trust in your word. I got to go at this shit my way now, no questions about it!” Real snapped.
“Real, I’m warning you. If you go after Rossi against the family’s will, war will be waged against you, and ultimately, that would eliminate our business agreement and make us enemies,” Moretti threatened, angered by Real’s defiance.
“I guess it is war then,” Real said forcefully, fed up with all Moretti’s family talk.
“Look here. You just pay me what you owe me, and we no longer need to do business!” Moretti shouted as he paced back and forth in his multi-million-dollar beachfront home in Miami.
“How about this? I’ll pay you back when I get good and damn ready! You’re protecting your family at all costs, and let me tell you, I’m doing the same! Pass the word at your next family picnic. Rossi is as good as a dead, along with whoever else stands in the way!” Real barked before he hung up the phone.
Constance rushed in the room after hearing Real yelling.
“Baby? You alright?” she asked as she stood in the middle of the floor in nothing but her panties and tank top.
“Yeah, shit cool. This mutha fucker think he can tell me what to do! Fuck him! I’m going to show all their bitch asses Real ain’t to be fucked with, and I ain’t paying him shit!” Real screamed as he threw back the covers and got out of bed.
“What’s going on? You talking about Moretti, your connect?” Constance asked, confused.
“Yeah, he wants me to sit back and let mutha fuckers gun at me without straightening my business. He got me fucked up! I’m going to start with Rossi, and then, if anybody else wants some, I’ll end with them! I’m tired of these foreign mutha fuckers thinking they run shit! Nobody runs me!” Real screamed as he picked up the phone to call Cash. After getting no answer, he stripped down to get into the shower.
Constance took a deep breath before she spoke. “Real, what are you about to get into? Come on now, baby,” Constance said softly as she followed him into the bathroom.
“I’m handling my business, that’s what I’m doing. I want you to fly out to your cousin’s for a while because—“
“Real, I ain’t going nowhere. I’m not trying—”
“Look, just get your shit together,” Real barked as he stepped into the shower.
Constance knew Real meant business by his tone. She hadn’t seen this side of him in a long time, but hearing him brought back memories of the old Real, the uncompromising and treacherous Real—the Real she didn’t miss.
Chapter 20
“This some fuck shit!” Cash screamed. His words echoed off the wall of the same pissy cell that he was detained in before. Agent Blakely had processed him, escorted him to the cell, locked the door, and headed home for the night. Cash lay down and curled up on the hard steel bench.
The next morning, Cash was awakened by Ross as he opened the cell door and screamed his name. “Corey Fields!”
Cash slowly rolled over on the cold bench. “Yeah?” he answered, groggily rubbing his eyes.
“Come on!” Ross said forcefully as he held the door open for Cash.
It was like déjà vu to Cash. They sat in the same conference room, at the same table, in the same old rickety chairs, but this time, the federal prosecutor grabbed a file off the table and looked at it closely as she spoke. “Mr. Fields, you have already signed papers, so that means you owe me five years of your life already. Now, we’ve got you on noncompliance with our previous agreement, as well as new charges. Let’s add this up…the five you owe me and the time you get for the hundred and I think thirty kilos? Well, Mr. Fields, all things considered, what I can tell you is that you will die in prison,” the prosecutor said with emphasis on the word ‘die’ as she looked up from the file and over at Cash.
Cash’s heart dropped. “But, man, I was cooperati—”
Cash was cut off before he could get his words out. “Look here, Mr. Fields. I really just want to run you to trial and be through with it, but Agents Ross and Kincaide have convinced me otherwise. As we all know, we could lock you up and throw away the key, but it won’t stop Walker’s reigning drug empire. That would only delay it. All in all, we can continue this investigation without your help and eventually get Walker, or you can help us get Walker and save your own ass in the process. Believe me, Mr. Fields… we are going to nail Walker’s ass to the cross one way or the other. What’s it going to be? You in or not? This is your last chance. Are you willing to get up on the stand and save your ass?” the prosecutor asked forcefully as she slammed the file she was looking at down on the conference table.
Cash knew in his heart that if he didn’t cooperate—and fully this time—it was over for him. He didn’t have to think long before he answered. “A’ight,” Cash mumbled, looking down at his shoes.
“Excuse me, sir?” the prosecutor shouted.
“I said okay. I’m in,” Cash replied dryly as he lifted his head and stared at her.
“Good. Now you guys go get Mr. Walker. I think we got enough now with Mr. Fields’ cooperation to shut his operation down,” the prosecutor told Ross and Kincaide as she got up and stormed out of the room.
After the prosecutor left the room, Ross and Kincaid gathered more incriminating evidence from Cash and then escorted him back to his cell, where he would remain until he was moved to a living unit. He would be held in custody until Real was arrested and brought to trial.
* * * * *
While Cash sat in the holding cell waiting to be moved to a living unit, B-Low and Jesse continuously called him on both of his cell phone numbers and didn’t get an answer.
“Man, where this nigga at?” B-Low asked as he and Jesse sat in Jesse’s one-bedroom apartment out on MLK.
“Man, just leave the nigga a message. He’ll hit back sooner or later,” Jesse said as he sat on the broken down couch rolling a blunt.
“Needs to be sooner than later! If he don’t hit back in the next few minutes, we going down to G-Spot and see if he around.”
“Check. That’ll work. Just chill,” Jesse said in his old-school pimp voice as he lay back on the couch and lit the blunt.
“Man, you bullshitting. I’m ready to make this shit do what it do,” B-Low said as he took a seat next to Jesse on the couch and reached for the blunt of cush.
“Puff, puff, pass, nigga!” B-Low shouted as he grabbed the blunt from Jesse.
An hour had rolled by, and Cash still hadn’t returned their call.
“Man, shit! It’s been almost an hour. Let’s ride out to G-Spot. I know that nigga is probably down there, but if he ain’t, we just gonna holla at Real,” B-Low said as he got up from the couch and dusted the blunt ashes from his Dickies suit.
“Check dat,” Jesse slurred, high off the cush.
Both of them grabbed their pistols off of the old scratched-up wooden coffee table and headed out of the door for the club. They rode slowly down the interstate high off the cush. Scarface had them in full gangsta mode as he scream
ed his latest ode to the streets out of the Chevy’s crackling six by nines. The cush had them moving in slow motion, so slow that the thirty-minute ride took them close to an hour.
As they pulled into the parking lot, they didn’t see Real’s or Cash’s cars. Knowing they would show up sooner or later, the two decided to have a couple of drinks and wait around until they arrived. There was always a lot of fine-ass scenery to watch at G-Spot.
Chapter 21
After his shower, Real slipped on a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt. He grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand and dialed Cash’s number. Still, there was no answer.
Before heading downstairs, he looked in on Constance, who was in the guest room packing. “I’m sorry for screaming at you, baby. All this shit got me on the edge. I just want to keep you out of harm’s way. It won’t be long. Just give me two weeks to get all this shit straight,” Real said as he walked over and hugged Constance from behind.
“I understand. I just want you to be careful,” Constance cried as she continued to pack her bags.
“I will, I promise. I’ll be downstairs. When you finish, just come on down. I’ll drop you off at the airport. Baby, just think of this as a spur-of-the-moment vacation. Your cousin will be glad to have you, especially with the way you spoil them with all the shopping and money you pass around.”
“I know, but I just want to be here with you,” she said as she wiped the tears from her eyes.
“Two weeks, baby, that’s all. I’ll be downstairs waiting on you. Don’t forget to call your cousin and make sure she’s at the airport on time to pick you up,” Real said as he left the room.
Constance knew it was probably best for her to get away for a while. She packed up the rest of her clothes and called her cousin out in L.A. to let her know she was on her way out.
“I’m ready!” Constance called out as she came downstairs to Real, who was in his office still trying to locate Cash.
“A’ight. I’m coming,” he replied as he left Cash another message telling him to meet him down at the club.
Real locked up behind them, loaded Constance’s luggage into the back of the Range Rover, and took off for the airport. On the ride to the airport, he called Cash again, but there was still no answer. Real started to worry because Cash usually called back in minutes.
After he pulled up in the airport parking lot, Real unloaded Constance’s luggage and slid the luggage handler a fifty-dollar bill.
“Baby, be careful, please,” Constance said as she wrapped her arms around Real, holding him as if she never wanted to let him go.
“I will, boo. Just call me as soon as you get there,” Real told her as they kissed passionately.
Their long embrace was forcibly ended when airport security motioned for Real to move his truck.
“A’ight, baby. Love you,” Real said as he got back behind the wheel.
“Love you, too, baby,” Constance said as she slipped her oversized Chanel shades over her eyes and entered the airport to leave for L.A.
Real navigated the truck through the airport traffic as he headed out to his club. En route, he tried calling Cash again. Still, there was no answer. He made up his mind that something was, in fact, wrong. A few minutes later, he was pulling up into the club parking lot.
The club seemed a bit crowded for so early in the day. As Real made his way through the crowd to his office, he heard someone calling his name from behind.
“Real! Real! Say, homie!” B-Low screamed over T.I. being played on the club surround sound speakers.
Real turned around, already paranoid, to see who was calling him. Focusing in, he saw that it was the men that put in work for Cash by way of himself.
“Yeah, what up?” Real asked in a forceful way, letting the men know he really didn’t want to talk to them.
“We need to holla at you, bro. We tried getting at Cash, but he ain’t hitting back, so we decided to just holla at you,” B-Low said as Jesse listened in on their conversation.
“What’s the problem?” Real asked, half trusting the two men.
“Oh, there ain’t no problem, bro. We just need your help, bro,” Jesse said, still feeling the effects of the cush.
“Help with what?” Real asked curiously.
“Man, we trying to change our game up,” B-Low said, cutting in.
“Change your game up?” Real asked as he motioned for them to follow him up to the VIP section of the club. Real didn’t trust the men enough to invite them back to his office.
“Yeah, man, we putting down the guns and getting into the dope game, but we need some work,” B-Low explained as they stood in the middle of the empty VIP section.
Real was skeptical of the men’s request. He had known plenty of their kind before, vultures looking for a quick come up at whoever’s expense. He knew the men were straight up killers because they had even killed for him in a roundabout kind of way. He looked from one to the other before he spoke. “What kind of work you talking about?” Real asked, trying to see if they were trying to stunt or trying to make some money in the drug game.
“Bro, it don’t matter. Probably something small until we can build some clientele,” Jesse said firmly
Listening to Jesse’s answer, Real saw that the men were really trying to get in the game.
“Well, look, I got to put some things together first because all kind of crazy shit’s going on right now, but as soon as I handle this, uh, little problem, I’ll hit y’all up and see about getting y’all some work,” Real explained.
“Problem? You need some help?” B-Low asked.
Suddenly, an idea came to Real. These guys may be just the ticket, he thought. “Hmm. Come to think of it, y’all just may be able to help me after all. Sit down,” Real told them as he started explaining the situation with Rossi and Moretti.
“Bro, enough said. We can drive down there and take care of that and be back by the weekend. All you need to do is give us directions to their spot. Look, man, you don’t even have to get your hands dirty. We’ll handle this one on the strength that you putting us on,” Jesse said, excited to be teaming up with Real.
“A’ight. Let me just get with Cash and tie up some loose ends. Give me y’all numbers,” Real said as he pulled out a pen and grabbed a napkin from the table.
“When you holla at Cash, tell ’im he could have hit a nigga back,” B-Low said as they all stood to leave.
“I’ll be getting with y’all before the night out,” Real told them as he exited the VIP room and headed to his office.
“Bro, it’s on!” Jesse barked excitedly. “Let’s take care of them half-breed bitches and come back and get paid!”
They dismissed the girls who were soliciting dances and headed out the door, prepared to do a whole new kind of damage.
Chapter 22
After giving up on Cash calling back, Real called Max into his office.
“Say, Max, go over these figures and let me know what we need and what we don’t. I got to make a quick run,” Real told Max as he got out of his office chair and headed out the door.
“I got you, cuz. Ima do better,” he assured his cousin as he took a seat behind Real’s desk and started punching numbers in the calculator.
As Real exited the club, three expensively dressed Italian men walked by him into the G-Spot. He ignored them and walked out to his truck and headed out to Cash’s house to see what was going on.
Real made it to Cash’s house in no time. He noticed Cash’s car wasn’t home, but there were clothes scattered in the driveway. Pulling up in front of the house, Real got out and rushed up to the door. After knocking and getting no answer, he walked around back and looked in. To his surprise, he saw empty drawers pulled out and the closet door wide open with nothing in it. Taking in the scene inside of the house, Real knew Cash was gone. He jumped back in the truck and sped out to the stash house.
On the way there, Real dialed Cash’s number over and over again, but there was still no answer. He pu
lled up in the stash house carport and looked around for any signs of foul play. Seeing that the coast was clear, he hurried up to the door and entered. As he made his way through the house to the back room, he had an uneasy feeling. Somethin’s just not right here, he thought. When he entered the back room, his worries were confirmed, and his heart dropped.
That nigga took all the mutha fuckin’ dope! “Hell naw!” Real screamed as he frantically ran through the house, room by room, looking for the door. “Fuck-ass nigga!” Real yelled as he ran back out to the truck.
Real couldn’t believe Cash had run off with the whole shipment. As Real rode back to the club, he made a mental note to kill Cash, right after he killed Rossi. Nobody—and I mean nobody—steals from me, he thought, pounding his fist into the dash board.
While Real was on his way back to the club, the three Italians who had walked right past him were feverishly combing the club looking for him. They discreetly concealed their automatic weapons as they made their rounds to locate Real. “Excuse me, miss. Have you seen the owner?” one of the Italians asked Strawberry, the new big-booty White girl from Seattle.
“Oh, yeah, he back in his office,” she told them, not knowing Real had left earlier.
As soon as Strawberry told the men where to find Real, they didn’t waste any time rushing in the direction of his office. Once they found the office, the Italians didn’t hesitate. They entered the office without knocking, guns drawn. Max was still behind the desk tallying the numbers for Real. As soon as they set their sights on the man behind the desk, they unloaded their silencer-equipped weapons. Max was killed mid-sentence as the bullets pierced through his chest and face. Max fell face down on the expensive handmade cherry oak desk, completely lifeless as the purchase orders turned crimson, soaked with his blood.
The three men casually tucked their weapons back into their expensive suits and exited the office, closing the door behind them. When they got out to the parking lot and into their car, they made a call. “Real is no longer with us,” the Italian said in a menacing tone as his partner stuck the key in the ignition.
City Lights Page 6
