Mafioso

by Nisa Santiago

  Layla had to reach a phone and talk to someone. She needed information. Her heart was in her stomach.

  “I want my fuckin’ phone call!” she screamed at the walls at the top of her lungs.

  They made her wait alone inside the room for another hour until the door opened again. This time it was a booking officer. He was there to transfer her from one law enforcement location to another.

  “I want my phone call,” said Layla.

  “You’ll get your call,” he replied dryly.

  She was handcuffed and escorted out of the area. A half-hour later she was granted one phone call, no exceptions. She wanted to call her counsel, but nowadays who knew anyone’s telephone numbers by heart? Layla racked her brain to remember her lawyer’s number, but she felt fucked. She had to call her daughter from the unknown number and she wasn’t surprised when Lucky didn’t answer her cell.

  She left a frantic message on her daughter’s voicemail.

  “Lucky, I’ve been arrested on some trumped up federal charges. I need you to get in contact with my attorney immediately. And what’s this I hear about your father and your brother shot? Which brother is in the hospital? Please, get in contact with my attorney and tell him my situation. I need to see you ASAP!”

  Her call ended. She huffed. She wanted out. Layla strongly felt that she didn’t belong in lockup with the other criminals. That’s what the underlings were for. But she was handcuffed with the other detainees and carted off to Lower Manhattan for arraignment.

  3

  The sun was bright in the early morning, but the January air was cold. NewYork-Presbyterian was still crammed with folks and law enforcement. It was just after nine o’clock, and Lucky, Maxine, and Choppa were asleep in the lobby. Their bodies were stiff from being in the uncomfortable and small hospital chairs for hours. Bugsy, however, hadn’t slept. He paced around the hospital floor and made phone calls. There was still no word on his father or Meyer, and it had been hours already.

  Bugsy had gone up and asked for updates on Scott and Meyer each hour, and it felt like he was being stonewalled. He didn’t know if his loved ones were dead or alive. He felt like he could put his fist through a brick wall. If the FBI wasn’t on the scene, he would have flipped out and gone ballistic.

  He stirred his sister awake. She opened her eyes with a frown. Sleeping in a small, uncomfortable chair wasn’t her idea of a good night’s sleep.

  Lucky looked up at her brother and asked with urgency, “Any word on anyone?”

  “Nah, I’m still waiting,” he said.

  It was ridiculous. They were a powerful family, and it was embarrassing for them to wait like common folks. Lucky leaped up from her seat. It had been long enough. Something had to be done.

  “Fuck this shit!” she yelled.

  Maxine awoke too. She had a small crick in her neck from sleeping coiled in the chair. It was slightly painful, but she slowly turned her head in the direction of the siblings. Her eyes looked over at Lucky and Bugsy fretting about something. Her heart skipped a beat. Had Scott’s condition worsened—or was he dead? She removed herself from the chair and wanted to approach them, but she stood away with caution, knowing how Lucky felt about her. She wasn’t in the mood to argue with anyone.

  Bugsy looked her way. He showed nothing—his expression was pokerfaced. Seeing no tears and no grief was a good sign.

  Bugsy signaled Choppa. Choppa walked toward him and awaited his orders. They were simple.

  “Go get everyone some coffee and breakfast,” said Bugsy, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of hundreds. He peeled off a C-note and put it into his lieutenant’s hands.

  As an afterthought, he said, “And when you’re done with that, I want you to go find Layla.”

  Choppa nodded. “I’m on it.” He turned and marched off.

  Bugsy pivoted and he and Lucky marched toward the nurses station. Maxine was right behind them. She didn’t care anymore. She needed to know something. It was her fiancé fighting for his life.

  The staff from last night was gone, and a new batch of nurses and orderlies were on duty and spreading the juicy gossip about two notorious patients who came in code blue last night. They were excited to hear the scandalous details of an alleged drug kingpin in their hospital—Scott West and his son. Was it a gang hit? Was it the cartel? There were rumors about Scott West, but none of them were ever confirmed. He pranced around the city a legitimate and shrewd businessman, philanthropist, and a playboy with wealth beyond their dreams.

  Bugsy heard them and interrupted their gossip with, “I’m his son, Bugsy West, and I want to know how my father and brother are doing.”

  The gossip was instantly silenced, but a petite white nurse right away snickered at his name.

  “Bugsy—as in Bugsy Siegel?”

  Before Bugsy could reply, Lucky shouted, “You find something funny? People are in here dying, and all you care about is the origin of his name? Get off my brother’s dick, bitch, and do your job!” The joke was getting old. Lucky was so tired of everyone asking the obvious about their names.

  Instantly, the young nurse was intimidated. Lucky approached her, and the look on her face pushed the nurse into a full blown panic.

  “I-I-I’m sorry,” she tried to apologize.

  “You are a sorry-ass, silly bitch!” Lucky continued to rant.

  The young, frightened nurse had a coworker, Adriana—an LPN who wasn’t as fearful of the petite loudmouth.

  “And you’re a wannabe—” Adriana did air quotes, “—gangster bitch!”

  Lucky’s head swiveled and her eyes connected with the young Italian woman. The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty had an edge. They glared at each other and things quickly got ratchet.

  “I will beat fire out of you,” Lucky warned. She was about to turn up and no longer cared about the feds.

  “Oh, please!” Adriana mocked. “Does that routine really work on people? Am I supposed to fear you because you’ve misappropriated my culture? Where I come from the real Bugsy and Meyer are our brothers and uncles—not names jacked from a fictional movie.”

  “Who’s the wannabe now? Nurse Jackie in here pretending to be mob affiliated.” Lucky shook her head and laughed. “Bitch, have several seats.”

  Adriana wasn’t pretending at all. Her husband ran a faction of the Gambino mob out of Staten Island. Both of her uncles were made men, and her grandfather was one of the forefathers of the Bonanno crime family. Adriana’s family was Cosa Nostra; she had generations of mafiosos in her bloodline to prove it.

  “I pity you,” Adriana admonished. “I’ll be quiet now, though. I was taught to not argue with fools.”

  “Fool?” Lucky was insulted. “Guido.”

  “Niglet.”

  “Dead bitch!”

  “Dead-eye!”

  Lucky lost it. “Say it again! Say it again, bitch!”

  Bugsy stood silent with his hands stuffed into his pockets. Lucky had to learn when to be quiet and when to pop off. Now wasn’t the time. She and Meyer were hotheads who thought everything could be solved through insults and brute force.

  Finally, the supervisors hurried to aid the nurses and called security to defuse the situation. Since last night, everyone had been on edge. Agents quickly intervened and their presence provided quick comfort to the staff. One particular agent, Agent Devonsky, scowled at Bugsy and Lucky. Lucky returned the matching look.

  They heard the agent say, “You’re next.”

  Devonsky was itching to put the silver bracelets around Lucky’s wrists, and Lucky was ready for a battle with everyone. Her emotions were in overdrive. She was angry, and everyone was to blame.

  The surgeon who operated on Scott eventually moved through the double doors and glided their way with his hands in his white lab coat, a stethoscope around his neck, and a look that no one could read. He was
tall and aging with salt-and-pepper hair. His brown eyes were tired and bloodshot as if he had been up for days. All eyes were on him. Maxine grew more nervous the closer he approached.

  “Are you the family of Scott West?”

  Bugsy and Lucky jumped to attention and confirmed that they were.

  “I’m Doctor Pym, one of the surgeons. He’s successfully pulled through his surgery.”

  There was a sigh of relief from everyone. Maxine felt herself climbing out of tragedy, but she wasn’t out the frying pan yet.

  “We were able to remove all but one bullet. The bullet penetrated the chest wall, and it damaged and collapsed his lung. We were able to stop the bleeding in his lungs and we removed one of his lobes. He’s awake and resting now.”

  It was one down and one to go.

  “And what about our brother, Meyer?” Lucky asked him.

  “He’s in critical condition. He suffered massive internal trauma and he lost a lot of blood. He’s still in ICU. We’re monitoring his condition constantly, but he might not live through the night.”

  It was devastating news. They couldn’t lose Meyer—not another sibling. If there was a time for prayer, it would be now.

  Maxine didn’t give two fucks about Meyer, but she stood there and listened anyway. There was a part of her that hoped he would die, but she kept that to herself. As long as Scott was alive and awake, she was fine.

  Dr. Pym turned and departed from the family. He was exhausted. They were left to contemplate their situation. Bugsy didn’t show any emotions. His eyes didn’t water, but inside he was grieving about his brother’s condition. Lucky, however, was falling apart. If Meyer were to die, it would send her over the edge.

  4

  Scott was confined to his hospital bed by two things—handcuffs and his injuries from his gunshot wounds. He felt weak and drained and cut up like Frankenstein. His right arm was cuffed to the hospital bed. He tried to wipe his mouth, and the handcuff clanged against the metal bed rails. It was a surreal situation for him. He was the king of New York, and now he was a weakened, imprisoned man.

  He was arraigned from his bedside at eight in the morning, denied bail, and remanded to federal custody as soon as his doctor gave the okay. The surgeons had an ethical duty to inform the family, but the agents had corrupted them with stories of drugs and violent murders. The surgeons didn’t want to be involved and went home after Dr. Pym gave the brief update without any additional contact with the infamous crime family.

  There were two FBI agents posted at his room watching him closely. They overreacted to everything and everyone in the area. They were there to intimidate people, and it was working. Scott had nothing but contempt for them. They tried to kill him, but he shot first. He would declare that it was self-defense. He wanted to speak to his lawyer. He wanted to fight the feds and he wanted to sue those muthafuckas. It all had come back to him. They’d burst into his home during the night. He didn’t remember seeing a warrant. And where were Maxine and his kids? He wanted information and details and he wanted it yesterday! This wasn’t going to be the end of him.

  ***

  Choppa arrived and handed out McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches and coffee to everyone, including Maxine. With that done, he left to go find Layla. She still wasn’t answering her phone, and Bugsy’s intuition told him that something was wrong.

  With permission, Scott had a right to three visitors for one hour. And every visit would be monitored. Immediately, Lucky tried to block Maxine from visiting her father.

  “Where she think she going?” Lucky asked Bugsy as if Maxine wasn’t standing right there.

  Maxine finally snapped and hollered, “To see my muthafuckin man, little girl! Now stop me!”

  Her outburst startled everyone, including the agents on duty.

  “Lower your voice!” one agent warned.

  “No, I’m tired of this little bitch! She better shut the fuck up if she knows what’s good.”

  Lucky, standing a few feet behind Bugsy, chanted like a child, “Make me shut up, cunt” repeatedly. She was tired of getting screamed on all day and wanted those around to fear her. Why was no one fearing her?

  The aggressive agent, Agent Devonsky, was about to regulate the whole situation and toss everyone out. But the quiet agent, who was his superior, subtly shook his head, and Devonsky knew to stand down. Devonsky’s superior, Agent Randall, knew that Maxine was the girlfriend who had done jail time for Scott’s wife. Scott was shot, pumped up on drugs, and everyone was emotional. If anyone said anything—one small iota of incriminating information that could help with the case—it would all be admissible. They were there to listen more than police.

  “She’s allowed to visit, ma’am,” Agent Devonsky stated.

  “But she’s not family!” Lucky wasn’t letting this go.

  “She doesn’t have to be!”

  Bugsy was relieved that he wasn’t put in the position of choosing sides. He knew his father would want to see Maxine, and he also knew that Lucky could be a grudge-holding drama queen just like their mother if he had gone against her.

  The sight of Scott hospitalized was a heartbreaking scene for the siblings and Maxine. There he was, confined to his bed with handcuffs and an IV in his arm. The agents stood nearby with their steely gaze. To the family, they were enemy number-one.

  Scott was trying to be calm and strong for the family, but he was baffled. He had always been careful. He had the right lawyers and accountants on his side. He rarely met with the cartel, and in the eyes of many, he was a legit businessman worth hundreds of millions.

  Bugsy’s eyes looked at Scott for answers. “Pop, I’m glad to see you’re okay, but we’ll talk.”

  Scott slowly nodded. He understood.

  For months Lucky had despised her father, but seeing him in a weakened condition was depressing. She looked at him with mixed feelings. Seeing that he was okay, could she forgive him for everything he had done to her and his family? How many times had she wished he was dead when she was upset with him? Now it looked like her wish had almost come true.

  “Get some rest, Daddy. I love you,” Lucky said.

  Bugsy and Lucky shared a glance. Someone had to tell Scott about Meyer.

  “There’s something we need to tell you,” Bugsy started.

  His gloomy look told Scott that it wasn’t going to be good news. He studied his son’s eyes, and Bugsy looked reluctant to spill the beans.

  “What?” Scott whispered in a low and raspy tone.

  “It’s Meyer. He’s in here too . . . in ICU. He’s been shot multiple times and they don’t know if he’s going to survive the night,” said Bugsy.

  Scott didn’t respond right away. The news about Meyer hit him like a ton of bricks had fallen on him. He felt smothered by one tragedy after another. He wanted to hold back the tears, but it was hard to do—another child was knocking at death’s door. Yes, he was a dangerous drug kingpin responsible for killing sons, fathers, uncles, and brothers—but he, too, was a father. He and Meyer had not been on good terms lately, but Meyer was still a West. Meyer was still his flesh and blood.

  Scott wanted to ask Bugsy so many questions, but their talk had to be limited with agents right there in the room with them. Scott was already under indictment, and Lucky and Bugsy didn’t want to fall victim to an arrest too. So far they had their freedom and that was still a mystery to them. Bugsy was Scott’s right-hand man, so what did the FBI have on his father that they didn’t have on him?

  Scott wanted them to visit Meyer and tell him to hold on. He wanted Meyer to see that the family was there for him. He said with his labored breathing, “Tell him he better not fuckin’ die on us.”

  Scott’s kids left the room and a tear trickled down his face. Maxine couldn’t wait to comfort and console him. As she was about to hug and kiss him, a voice boomed through the room.

&nbs
p; “No contact!” The agent glared at them.

  Maxine hated that she couldn’t touch her man the way she wanted to.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you too,” he whispered. Scott’s deep, baritone voice was barely audible. The news about his son had sucked his remaining strength. “Did they hurt you? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine, baby. Don’t worry about me.” Maxine looked at Scott’s condition—shot and chained to a bed—and the tears began flowing uncontrollably. She sobbed. “I thought you were dead.”

  Scott couldn’t physically comfort her, but he tried with his words. He needed to show strength. He needed her to know that he wasn’t a defeated man. “Shhhhh . . . no tears. They can’t kill me, baby. No one can. I told you that how long ago? Remember?”

  Maxine wiped her tears and thought back and then smiled. “I do remember.”

  “Where were we?”

  “It was 1994 and you came to my parents’ home driving a black droptop Porsche. You wanted me to listen to a song from Biggie Smalls called “Warning.” I remember listening to the lyrics and getting so scared for you”—Maxine chuckled—“I was so naive back then. I thought the song was about you and someone wanted to kill you.”

  Scott managed a smile. “And what did I tell you?”

  “You said no one can kill Scott West. You said that you decide when you die.”

  “I’m still here, right?”

  “You are.”

  “Now go home and get some rest and try not to worry. This will all be over soon. It’s just a formality.”

  She sighed. She didn’t want to go home, but the medication in Scott was making him drowsy and weak. He was becoming no good to her. His eyelids started to slowly close.

  Maxine watched him fade away into a deep sleep.

  5

  Wacka and Tarsha were blowing through the five hundred thousand dollars fast. In one week they’d purchased a used Lexus for $40K in cash. Wacka decided to put the car in Tarsha’s name. He felt it was safer. Subsequently, they spent two grand on recreational weed that would last a few weeks. And there were the shopping sprees. For three days straight, and for hours at a time, Tarsha was popping designer tags. She almost had enough clothes to fill an entire bedroom, and she wasn’t done yet. They bought jewelry—his and hers. Wacka sported a big face diamond watch, and Tarsha sported earrings, diamond bracelets, and necklaces. She wanted to look like a millionaire, but, more importantly, she wanted to become one.