Mafioso

by Nisa Santiago

  “She’s not a dumb ass. My mother’s a seasoned vet in this game.”

  He shook his head. “You’d be surprised how many clients I’ve had that have ledgers outlining how many kilos they’ve sold per week and to whom.”

  “Not Layla.”

  “Good. One less thing to defend. The U.S. Attorney is out for blood with Title Three indictments, and has charged her with the RICO act.”

  “RICO! Do we have a snitch?” she asked.

  “The U.S. Attorney has a solid source somewhere, but it’s my job to break everything down and blow holes in their case. Don’t worry. Your mother is in good hands, and she’s my top priority,” he assured her.

  “For you to be on a million-dollar retainer, she better be.”

  “Her next arraignment, I’ll push for an appeal to overturn her bail ruling. I’ll argue that she has ties in the community, is a mother of six, and isn’t a flight risk, but this judge, he’s definitely not what anyone would consider lenient . . . he’s hard on crime.”

  The news was grim, but Lucky held her head high and was determined to get through this.

  Fitz, a partner at the high-end firm, had one of the associate attorneys locate Layla and contact the public defender who represented her arraignment to turn over the file. From now on, everything he had was going into pushing for Layla’s freedom.

  “I just want her out and I want this to go away,” said Lucky.

  “It’s going to be a battle, Lucky, but from what I am hearing, your mother is not the big fish that they want. They want your father and her cartel connection.”

  “My mother is no snitch!”

  “Which is why we have a lot of work to do.”

  “We’ve got a million dollars invested in you, and they say you’re the best. Well, I wanna see results.”

  Fitzgerald simply leaned back in his chair and grinned, flashing his golden boy smile and pearly white teeth. His reputation preceded him. That’s why he could charge twelve hundred per billable hour plus expenses. He was young, cocky, and successful in courtrooms.

  “Believe me, I’m worth my weight in gold,” he replied. “Layla chose wisely. I plan to visit her this evening. The details matter. I’ll put you on the list for Friday. We’re going to fight this all the way.”

  Lucky had heard enough. She had confidence in him. She got up from the chair, pivoted from him, and walked out of the office. So many wheels were turning inside her head. Her parents were in deep shit, but her father wasn’t her concern. To Lucky, her father was Maxine and Bugsy’s issue now. Scott was alive and she was happy, but surviving surgery was the easiest part. Now came the hard part—fighting the federal government.

  Outside, she climbed into the Escalade and sat back with a deep sigh.

  “Luck, where you wanna go?” Miz, her goon driver asked.

  “Just go,” she said. “I don’t give a fuck where.”

  ***

  Lucky sat in the VIP section of the Manhattan nightclub isolated from the partying crowd below. She was dressed in her finest jewelry, tight jeans, and red bottoms, her cleavage showing in the glittery sequin top she wore. She slowly worked on the bottle of Ace of Spades on ice sitting in front of her with her goons around for protection—the appearance of a gangster bitch for all to see.

  The room was lit and the crowd was turnt up, yet Lucky sat there almost grieving. She had a lot on her mind, and she wasn’t in any rush to go home, to see her father or brother in the hospital, or to see her mother in lockup. It had been a crazy week of FBI, hospitals, lawyers, and just trouble. With Layla temporarily out of commission and Meyer, the muscle, fighting for his life, it was up to her to step up. She figured that she could easily run Layla’s organization. To Lucky, she was co-owner of her mother’s criminal enterprise. She had put in just as much work as anyone else. She was groomed since she was knee-high to run a drug empire. It was all she knew.

  Lucky frowned when the old school sound of Slick Rick blared throughout the club, and the revelers danced old school to “Children’s Story.” A large crowd broke into the wop and running man and some pivoting on one foot, facing in the other direction, and doing it all over again. The dance floor became a spectacle of animated entertainers and retro moves.

  “Let’s bounce.”

  Lucky and her protective entourage exited the club with eyes glued on them. Safely in the backseat, Lucky wondered, What now? How would their business continue? Things with Angel were running like clockwork, but with Layla’s arrest, would it continue? Or would the cartel see them as a threat and jump ship? They’d come too far to slide backwards and lose everything they’d worked so hard for.

  A decision needed to be made, and someone had to take control of the machine before it all fell apart.

  9

  Tarsha sat on the couch in the dark feeling antsy. The cigarette she smoked was almost down to its filter. It was her umpteenth of the day. With no more money to spend and none coming in, there were a lot more stressful days. Once again, the bills were piling up, the shopping sprees had ended, and they could barely afford to put gas in the Lexus.

  Wacka was asleep with their son in the bedroom, and Tarsha wondered how he could rest so easily when they were broke again. It frustrated her. He was supposed to be the man of the house, but he did nothing but sleep, linger around her, and do a half-assed job in extorting Maxine. Yet, he still wanted sex from her. Tarsha wasn’t in the mood to fuck him. Money got her pussy wet and made her want to fuck. She was materialistic. Nice things always excited her.

  She tapped the ashes onto the floor, not caring about the mess. The thrill was over, but there was no way she was going to allow the good life to slip from her hands—not that easily. It wasn’t going to stop, not if she had anything to do with it. She finished off the cigarette and removed herself from the couch. She peered in on Wacka sleeping like a baby with their son. She frowned. She wanted to throw some cold water on him and startle him awake. How dare he take it easy when they were in a serious crisis? If their son wasn’t lying next to him, she would have done it.

  Tarsha missed that vicious and murderous man he used to be. Before the accident with his fingers, Wacka always turned her on, and she always ate and lived a good life. And he didn’t take no for an answer. He took what he wanted when he wanted. The old Wacka would have carried out his threats by now, and Maxine would’ve felt his wrath. He would have fucked her up really good.

  But things done changed.

  Tarsha was like a bloodhound with a scent. She was tired of waiting around and being ignored by the bitch when they had the advantage over her. If Maxine wouldn’t pick up her phone and reply to their threat, then they needed to go see her in person. But there was one fundamental issue; they had no idea of her whereabouts. The house that Wacka had kidnapped her from had been sold.

  But where there was a will, there was a way.

  It was the Internet age, and access to any information was only a few clicks away. Tarsha sat down at her laptop and signed on. In the dim room her fingers started rapping the laptop keys and she typed Maxine’s name into Google. Nothing came up but some obituary pictures of old ladies who weren’t the right Maxine Henderson. She was a ghost online. That bitch didn’t even have a Facebook page.

  Tarsha sighed. There had to be another way around the dilemma. Then she thought, Maxine might be a ghost online, but most likely her notorious and wealthy boyfriend wasn’t. There was probably all kinds of information on him. So she quickly typed “Scott West” into Google, and Bingo!

  The results on Scott West seemed to be endless. There were several articles about the businessman, and his pictures flooded the Internet. But what immediately captured Tarsha’s attention were the recent articles about his arrest and shooting at his Midtown Manhattan address.

  The story was headline news. Tarsha read and read and collected everything there was about him.
There was a photograph of his multi-million-dollar penthouse suite where the chaos unfolded—and there was another shot of the opulent entrance to the lavish building. There were several pictures of Scott being carried out on a gurney from the building, FBI in tow behind the EMS. Then there was the money shot—a photographer happened to capture a picture of a grief-stricken Maxine in the backdrop. Her head was dropped from the flash and she was captured outside of the building, rushing away from something. Tarsha smiled at the image.

  There were other pictures, several of the FBI with their high-powered rifles and their vehicles, and of the area. One of the articles went on to say that Scott was shot by agents during a raid of his place, and he had been rushed to the hospital, where he was recovering from his wounds—NewYork-Presbyterian to be exact. The article was less than a week old.

  Is he still there? She wondered. If he was, then Maxine was too.

  Tarsha felt great. She had hit pay dirt. She looked around for her cell phone and found it misplaced between the couch cushions. Then she searched for Presbyterian’s information, made the call, and waited. A female answered.

  “NewYork-Presbyterian.”

  “Yes, I need a favor. A friend of mine was admitted there a few days ago. His name is Scott West.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re not allowed to disclose any information,” the woman replied.

  “Okay, thank you.” She ended the call.

  There was no way she was going to get through the hospital’s strict protocol and with Scott being detained by the feds, it was impossible to know his situation. She would have to find out the old fashioned way, and that was going in person. That meant they would have to take a road trip to New York City. It was about getting this money.

  Tarsha sat back in the chair and lit another cigarette. It was inexplicable the hate and rage she now felt toward Maxine. Sure, there was acrimony over how Wacka got played and now had nubs where he used to have fingers. To Tarsha, that was all Maxine’s fault. But this deep, dark feeling that had just come over her was in addition to her previous appetite for revenge.

  With Wacka’s situation there was anger, but reading the news articles brought forth jealousy, and Tarsha became a whole other beast. They both fucked hustlers, yet Maxine’s man was important enough to have the feds kick open his door while Wacka was a state level criminal. Tarsha felt that she was younger and prettier than Maxine. She stood up and looked at her shape in the long, vertical mirror. Tarsha sucked in her fat gut and grabbed a chunk of her wobbly phat ass. Niggas love this ass, she thought. I can get any nigga I want. I could have Scott West if I wanted him.

  Tarsha was salty and delusional, but her mind was made up. Once they drained Maxine for every dime she and Scott had, she was taking the largest cut and leaving Wacka to find a nigga just as rich and powerful as Scott West. It was time for an upgrade.

  10

  The streets were covered in a thin blanket of snow as an abundance of white flakes fell from an overcast sky and the wind howled like a wolf to the moon. It was a bleak and frigid day. Lower Manhattan looked abandoned and scattered due to the dreary weather. It was becoming a vicious winter.

  The black Escalade stopped in front of the Metropolitan Correctional Center building on Park Row. It held male and female prisoners of all security levels, and it was operated by the Federal Bureau of Prisons.

  Lucky climbed out from the backseat of the vehicle and shined her fierce look upon the russet colored building. It was where Layla was being detained. Her mother was locked away somewhere in the gloomy twelve stories. The windows were covered by security bars, and it had nearly two dozen closed-circuit security cameras.

  Snuggled in her brown mink and riding boots, she trudged toward the front entrance. MCC was a place she hoped to never see as a prisoner in her lifetime. From top to bottom, it was a daunting looking building.

  Inside, Lucky battled through the rigorous process for people visiting inmates—thorough security searches, questions, and a lot of waiting.

  The visiting room was sprinkled with men and women with their loved ones or waiting for them to enter the room. Lucky sat and waited. She was a bit nervous, but she didn’t know why. It was her mother, so what was there to be nervous about?

  After ten minutes, there was activity at the prisoner’s doorway. Three women were shepherded into the area by a male corrections officer. Layla was in front, as usual—a hint of her power perhaps, but from a distance, she looked like a broken woman behind bars. Lucky spotted her mother and showed no emotions. She simply sat there and waited for Layla to come to her. It was procedure.

  Layla walked toward her daughter in the unsightly brown DOC attire. She had been stripped of her glamour and her first-rate clothing. There was no jewelry to boast her wealth, and no red bottoms to feel proud of. Inside MCC, Layla appeared regular like every other inmate, and there was no hint of the lavish life she lived outside.

  Layla wore a heavy scowl on her face as she approached Lucky. There were no hugs or kisses exchanged. It wasn’t that kind of reunion. Layla sat across from her daughter and locked eyes intensely. She felt angry and she wanted to lash out. She needed to find someone to blame. She had minor bruises from her scuffle with the agents, but they were healing.

  “Bitch, you don’t know how to answer your fuckin’ phone?” They were the first words out of her mouth.

  “I had a lot going on, Mother. Meyer’s been shot, Scott too and indicted, and you called from an unknown number,” Lucky explained.

  They were all valid excuses, but Layla didn’t care. She shot a hard stare at her daughter. “So it was Meyer, huh? Damn. How’s he doin’?”

  “He’s still alive and in ICU, but it’s touch-and-go so far.”

  Sadness showed on Layla’s face. Her son needed her and she couldn’t be there for him. She couldn’t lose another child, but she was in no position to help him. That was the agonizing part for Layla—not being there for her children and having no control over anything right now. But she felt there was one thing left that she could control—who lived and who died.

  Layla snorted. Meyer was her favorite son, and someone put their hands on her children and lived to brag about it.

  She whispered, “I want whoever was responsible dead. You hear me? Fuckin’ dead.”

  Lucky shook her head. “See, that’s the thing. Dude done died twice.”

  “Twice?”

  “Yeah, Ma. It was Luna. Apparently, Meyer didn’t kill him after all. He came back and attempted to murder Meyer and then he killed himself.”

  “Everything is goin’ to shit, and I need to get the fuck outta here.”

  “I’m doin’ my best.”

  “Are you?”

  “Like I said, there’s a lot going on, Ma,” Lucky repeated.

  Layla was restless. She wanted to fuck something up. And with Luna dead by his own hand she couldn’t get revenge for her injured son. She wanted out. She wanted to see Meyer. Confinement wasn’t for her. Behind bars, everything moved too slowly, life became redundant, and she had no reliable resources. The food was horrible and the cheap fabric was making her skin itch and giving her a rash.

  Layla thought for another moment. With Scott jammed up and incapacitated, now was her chance to do what she longed to do. Her sad expression for Meyer transitioned into ice cold and murderous eyes.

  She whispered to Lucky, “I want that bitch dead.”

  “Who now?”

  “Bitch, don’t play stupid. Maxine. I want her gone. There’s no way she’s going to gloat over this, seeing me finally locked up while she stays free. I know that bitch is thinkin’ this is payback and the end of me—that my karma is coming to bite me on my ass. It’s not!”

  “Are you crazy? Now’s not the time, especially wit’ Meyer on life support.”

  Layla leaned closer with her elbows on the table and replied with a rough
whisper, “Yes, it is! I want that bitch fucked up and done with.”

  “Think, Ma. Yes, we still have the goons on payroll, but there’s too much heat crawling up our asses. FBI is everywhere, and you wanna do this? She’s not our priority right now!”

  “She will always be my priority,” Layla growled in a low tone.

  The word no wasn’t an option for her. Her eyes burned into Lucky’s skin with her teeth clenched. The audacity of Lucky defying her orders. She was locked up, but she was still in charge.

  The subject needed to change, and Lucky said, “I spoke with Fitzgerald. Did he come visit you? Did he tell you about the charges?”

  “Yeah, we talked. But it was brief. He said it was too early to get a full scope of the government’s case, but most evidence comes out during discovery.”

  “You think there might be a snitch?”

  “Bitch, what I just say? We don’t know shit yet!”

  Lucky was growing tired of her mother’s aggression toward her. She was there to help, but Layla was being an irritable bitch. She wanted to bitch back and shout, but she empathized with her mother. The alphabet boys had her on lockdown, and there was no telling if it would be for life.

  Lucky reached over the table and took her mother’s hands into hers. They locked eyes. Lucky knew that Layla was hurting deeply inside, despite the hard and angry aura she gave off. She was in a position that no one ever wanted to be in. She wanted her mother to think positive.

  “You’re goin’ to beat this, Ma. The government can’t hold you down, and I got a great feeling about this attorney. He’s the best,” Lucky spoke encouragingly. “You need to stay strong.”

  Lucky had another question to ask her mother, one that she felt for sure was going to rock the boat between them.

  “We have a problem. The feds are freezing your accounts, and that means money is gonna be tight,” Lucky started.

  “I’m aware of that,” Layla replied.