Mafioso

by Nisa Santiago

  Tarsha climbed out of the burgundy Lexus on the shopping strip in Maryland looking high and mighty with her new lace front wig and her flawless make-up. She strutted toward one of her favorite high-end clothing stores with a purse full of cash and a desire to rack up a few items for the winter. She received compliments in her leather knee-high boots, tight blue jeans that accentuated her curves, and her pricy auburn leather jacket. She grinned and walked into the store and her eyes danced around some of the best couture in town. She moved through the store and started picking out a few stylish outfits with the help of a sales representative. Price tags meant nothing to her. If it looked nice and trendy, she was walking out with it. Money wasn’t an issue for Tarsha. Blackmailing Maxine was the best thing they could’ve done. Tarsha felt on top of the world again.

  In a short time she placed a mountain of clothing on the checkout counter—shoes included. The sales representative was all smiles. Tarsha was quickly becoming one of her favorite customers. She knew what she wanted and price didn’t mean a thing to her.

  The total came up to $5,901. Tarsha pulled out a ten-thousand-dollar stack and dropped an even six grand on the cashier.

  “You know what? I’m in a really good mood—keep the change. You deserve it,” she said.

  The young girl beamed. “Ohmygod! Thank you.”

  “You welcome.”

  Tarsha paraded outside with a handful of shopping bags on the sunny, but cold day. She placed the bags into the trunk of the Lexus and climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine purred when she turned the key, and she glanced at her image in the rearview mirror.

  “Damn, you’re a pretty bitch,” she told herself.

  Tarsha pulled up to her Maryland home and parked. She popped the trunk and lugged her purchases inside. She couldn’t wait to model her new fits for Wacka.

  Their son was with a friend, so the two had the house to themselves. Wacka was seated on the couch, watching TV and minding his business. Tarsha came through the front door all smiles and her hands jumbled with bags. He looked at her straight-faced as she greeted him with a kiss on his cheek and removed the new items from the bags for him to see.

  “I see you’re having fun,” he said.

  “I am,” she replied happily. “And I can’t wait to show you how much.”

  Their new hustle got her excited. It was making her pussy wet. Wacka looked sexy to her in his long basketball shorts and wifebeater. His handicap was no longer an issue. The money was the turn-on.

  She straddled him on the couch, kissed him fervently, and began nibbling on his neck. New clothes, a new car, and lots of money—Tarsha wanted to have sex right away. She fondled him below and he grew hard underneath her. Though he was missing some fingers, his erection was all there.

  “Fuck me!” she groaned into his ear.

  She pulled down his shorts, undressed from the waist down, straddled him again, and sank his hard dick inside of her. Slowly and passionately, she rode him on the couch. She squealed in delight as he relaxed with his hands on the couch, her pussy sliding up and down on him.

  He soon came and she came right behind him—but it was the money that made her come. She wanted more of it.

  Moments later, she tried on every outfit and modeled for Wacka. Tarsha looked great in everything. She thought she was Kim Kardashian with her long, black Brazilian wig and expensive garments. She was living the good life and had no intentions of giving it up.

  But five hundred thousand dollars didn’t last forever, especially with the spending spree they went on. Soon, the honeymoon was over. The couple barely had any gas money. A week later, they woke up broke on a cold January morning. Wacka wanted more sex, but Tarsha wasn’t in the mood. She removed herself from their bed with a frown and walked into the bathroom to pee. Wacka lingered in the bed with a morning hard-on. The past week had been good to him; she had been giving him blow jobs in the morning and sex during the day.

  Tarsha exited the bathroom in her panties and bra and looked at Wacka with a puckered brow. “Call that bitch again.”

  “Maxine?”

  “Our account is empty and she’s the bank. Five hundred grand wasn’t shit. I want our millions.”

  Wacka didn’t argue with her. He looked around for his cell phone and found it under the bed. He had Maxine’s number on speed dial. He put the phone on speaker and they waited for her to answer. The phone rang and rang and rang before her voicemail picked up.

  Wacka left a threatening message. “Look, bitch. Don’t ignore me when I’m calling. Dig this, we need that money we talked about, and we need it ASAP. If not, then we talk to your boyfriend and your fairytale life wit’ him ain’t gonna be a fairytale anymore. You feel me, bitch? You got twenty-four hours to call me back wit’ some good news.”

  He hung up. Tarsha felt good about the message he’d left. It was strong and demanding—no sugarcoating. Damn, it almost made her pussy wet again. Five million dollars—she would take it in the ass for that large amount. She would live like a queen and never be a broke bitch again.

  “You did good, baby,” she said to him. “That bitch gonna get the hint and call right back.”

  Wacka wasn’t so sure. He had his doubts that Maxine would be able to come up with such a large amount in such a short time. Tarsha had set the amount, but Wacka felt it might be too much to ask for. One or two million was understandable; Maxine probably would have paid it to keep them quiet. But five million? Where would it come from? What drug dealer had that much cash around just to give to their woman?

  “Five million is fuckin’ crazy,” he said.

  “You sound like you on the fence about it, nigga,” she said. “That bitch is paid, Wacka. I know in my gut she can come up wit’ that money. I saw her fuckin’ ring and it’s worth some stacks, so that bitch better pawn that shit and raise that paper or we gonna set her world on fire and watch it fuckin’ burn.” It was said with finality.

  Tarsha refused to let Maxine win—or better yet, get one over on her. She crawled into bed with Wacka, her stink attitude transitioning into a smile. She straddled him and kissed his lips. Then she said, “With this money, you and I can do whatever we want. Think about it, Wacka. We would never have to worry about money again. We can invest this money into a business and make somethin’ out of ourselves. I’m smart, you know. I got a business mind. You pull this off and I’m yours for life.” She removed herself from his resting frame and exited the bedroom.

  It was a positive thought. However, Wacka was tired of dishing out threats and playing the role of a menace. He didn’t tell Tarsha his true feelings because she wouldn’t understand. He wanted to rest and recoup. He wanted things to be simple for the moment. He wanted to drive around town in his new Lexus—or even be chauffeured around town—smoke weed, have sex, and just live before he started stalking, threatening, and seeking revenge against Maxine.

  Truth be told, he wasn’t that broken up over his family’s murders any longer. Yes, he wanted to see Maxine dead, but over time it started to become less of a priority. He was tired. He felt defeated, and he’d been through hell and back. His body had taken a lot of abuse from the gunshot wounds and the car crash. How much more could his body take? The street life was taking a toll on him, but Tarsha wanted him back in action. He was her payday.

  6

  Meyer’s condition was dire. He looked nothing like the notorious killer that he was known to be. He looked like a dying man. Getting through the first twenty-four hours was an uphill battle, and every passing hour looked bleaker. His body was struggling to breathe, so he was hooked up to a respirator. The trauma team had to keep suctioning blood that repeatedly accumulated in his mouth. All sorts of wires for monitors and IV tubes meandered out from his motionless body.

  His fragile appearance brought tears to Lucky’s eyes. This was a man who walked through the city like he was Superman. Now he looked like h
e had fought Superman and lost.

  Bugsy sat in the chair next to his twin brother’s comatose body in the ICU unit. He took his brother’s hand into his and said, “Don’t you die on us, muthafucka. You’re too stubborn for that. This is only a setback, you hear me, bro? This shit is temporary. You gonna pull through and we gonna be all right.”

  Bugsy held back the tears. There was no time for that. His brother was going to fight. They had a business to run and a city to control.

  Lucky decided to change the mood of the room. She wiped her tears and asked, “You know you gotta switch shit up now that Pops is down. Move the coke, relocate the trap—”

  Bugsy kicked the shit out of her.

  “Owwwwww!” she complained.

  Bugsy placed his finger over his lips and gave his sister a stern look. She should know better. He took out his cell phone and turned on his iTunes catalog on shuffle. Kendrick Lamar’s “Loyalty” came blaring through. He then leaned in close and whispered, “You know those people could be listening. This whole room could be bugged.”

  Lucky was feeling some kind of way about the kick. “You’re being extra right now. They can’t just bug rooms without a court order.”

  Bugsy was irked that she would even try to justify her stupidity. “Assume that all this shit is tapped, bugged, cloned, with or without an order. Don’t talk business freely in your truck, your apartment, the elevator, nowhere. Stop thinking they play fair, because they don’t. At the end of the day, those feds are regular people—corruptible. Always remember how they got Gotti when he switched from holding meetings at the Ravenite Social Club to outdoor walk-talks.”

  “Yeah, those fuckers brought in someone who read lips.”

  Bugsy nodded confirmation that his dim-witted sister had gotten his message. He took her cell phone and typed a note and then erased it: i am not going to jail.

  Lucky spoke, “Me neither.”

  “Don’t sleep then. Stay woke and we should be fine. If they had anything on us, we would be knocked already. We’re good as long as we don’t get sloppy.”

  A knock on the door halted their pep talk. The room door slowly opened, and Choppa peeked his head into the room. The sight of Meyer was heartbreaking, but he had business with Bugsy. He looked at Bugsy and spoke with his eyes that there was information that he needed to hear. Bugsy stood up and approached his lieutenant.

  “What do you have for me?” asked Bugsy.

  “I found her. Layla is in federal custody in the city. They raided her home too—last night. They took her down fighting and screaming.”

  “What?” Lucky had overhead him. She was shocked to hear the news.

  “It’s fucked up. I don’t know her charges, but she asking for her lawyer.”

  Bugsy took the news straight-faced, but inside his head was swimming with, What the fuck is going on? What is happening? Who’s next?

  Lucky was spent. She didn’t want anyone to go to jail—but and however, if anyone had to go then she strongly felt it should be Scott. He had a long run and she wasn’t fucking with him anyway. But, Layla? Lucky watched as her father flaunted two mistresses in her face and her mother still held her head up high. Layla was doing big things, holding court with the most thorough gangstas on the east coast. Her mother had just started to come into her own. Layla’s reign on top was short lived and Lucky felt terrible. She needed to do something!

  “It’s gotta be a fuckin’ snitch,” Lucky said.

  Choppa nodded. “She might be right, Bugsy.”

  Bugsy sighed heavily. “I need to think.”

  “What else you need me to do?” Choppa asked.

  Bugsy pulled Choppa out of the room and whispered in a barely audible tone, “I want you to go out into the streets and let everyone know we’re not done—far from it—and you let our strength be heard and shown. The news of my parents and Meyer is going to spread, and muthafuckas are going to think this is their chance to start snarling at us and showing their bite. They try to buck at us, we buck back harder. You understand me, Choppa?”

  Choppa nodded. “I’m wit’ you a hundred percent, Bugsy. I’m ready to fuck up anyone that disrespects this organization.”

  Choppa’s eyes showed loyalty for the family and he was ready to set the streets on fire for the Wests.

  “When you move, move like you’re being shadowed. Make those triple right turns and keep your eyes peeled on your rear– and side-view mirrors. When you speak, talk like those people are listening. If a nigga starts talking reckless over the phone, hang up and report back to me what was said. We got a snitch among us, and it’s up to me to smoke him out. And kill him.”

  “Yo, I gotchu. We not going down without a fight.”

  Bugsy corrected, “We not going down, period.”

  Choppa left to execute the orders given to him.

  Bugsy walked back inside the room and narrowed his eyes on Meyer, knowing that their empire was crumbling. Still, they had to maintain the façade of strength and power when so many pieces had fallen. Their enemies would come after them. Now would be the perfect time. Meyer was out of commission, and Scott and Layla had been indicted. Bugsy had to think four steps ahead of their rivals. He was the last man standing.

  ***

  Choppa climbed into the passenger seat of the Durango and lit a cigarette. The driver, Pluto, handed him his pistol, and he stuffed it into his waistband. There were so many agents loitering around the hospital, watching everyone and taking notes, the hospital started to feel like a federal building. Everyone had to watch what they said and did. Scott’s arrest was making headlines, and a goon like Choppa didn’t want to be caught up in the shit storm for carrying his gun inside.

  He inhaled and exhaled the nicotine smoke and said to Pluto and others in the backseat, “Bugsy wants us to make a strong statement on the streets—let everyone know we ain’t fuckin’ crumbling. So whoever trying to come against us, we do what we do best.”

  Pluto said, “I know a muthafucka right now that’s trying to jump ship and make his own moves.”

  “Oh really? Who is this nigga?” Choppa said.

  “Spank. Word on the streets is he copped a Dominican connect and he proclaiming to be the next boss. He’s undermining the organization and talkin’ that shit.”

  “Spank. Sounds familiar, but I can’t place him,” Choppa said.

  “Yeah, he used to run wit’ Meyer’s crew a year back. He broke off, left town for a minute, and came back like he a god in these streets. And wit’ so much goin’ on, niggas been overlooking this muthafucka. But he on the come-up and he talkin’ that petty shit ’bout your twins. It ain’t nuthin’ nice, my nigga.”

  Choppa had heard enough. He vaguely remembered the man. But he was ready to carry out his first message for Bugsy.

  “Let’s go handle this nigga. Bugsy wants to send a message, we send a message that this organization is still alive and dangerous, and those niggas that wanna run out or go against us, we cut their fuckin’ legs off,” Choppa said gruffly.

  ***

  The next day, Choppa eyed Spank’s black Jaguar XJ parked in front of the barbershop on the Brooklyn Street from a block away. After doing some research, Choppa found out that Spank was moving five to ten kilos a month and encroaching on territory that didn’t belong to him.

  It was late in the evening and the sun was setting, the streets were chilly, and a cold wind thrashed up the street and blew straight through the pedestrians walking, almost turning them into walking blocks of ice. The men in the SUV were swathed in their warm winter attire, pistols in hands, and assault rifles fully loaded. They donned ski masks to cloak their identities.

  Four men sat in the Durango including Choppa, each armed and dangerous, hotheaded and itching to break bones. Spank was their primary target, and at six-one, high yellow with long cornrows, and wrapped in a long, brown leather shea
rling jacket, he wasn’t hard to miss. The man had a narrow face, broad shoulders, and intense eyes, and he moved with a tiger’s stride on the block. He commanded his respect and he wasn’t shy to violence. He had his cell phone to his ear conducting business, and he was flanked by one of his soldiers.

  “That muthafucka right there thinks he’s Nino Brown of Brooklyn,” said Pluto.

  “Nino Brown, huh?” Choppa chuckled. “Fuck it, we on this nigga right now. Let’s go fuck this nigga’s world up.”

  Pluto put the Durango in drive and slowly crept toward their mark. The barbershop was on a one-way street, nestled in the middle of the block, and traffic was at a minimum.

  Everyone in the Durango was ready to create a crime scene. They wanted Spank to go down in flames for the streets to see. They wanted it to be ugly and look ugly.

  Pluto and Choppa fixed their eyes on Spank. Now he was leaned against the side of his Jaguar still on the phone and looking like the man of the hour while his soldier’s head was on a swivel. The stinging cold day was a benefit for the invading killers—fewer people outside meant fewer witnesses to the bloodshed, and the usual beat cops were nowhere around.

  “Drive by real slow,” Choppa ordered.

  Pluto nodded and moved the Durango at a steady pace to avoid attention. Spank’s goon remained alert. He was wrapped in a black double goose leather coat with the fur trimmed hood. His hands were in his pockets, and his eyes were squinted for any trouble creeping. There was no telling what he was carrying, but he would be outgunned quickly. Choppa was going to make sure of that.