Blood of a Boss: The Moreno Family

by Askari

  Back To September 2012

  “Damn, man, this nigga better not have Fisah and my goddaughter caught up in no nut shit,” Sonny said to himself as he started the Benz and pulled away from the curb.

  *****

  An hour and a half later, while driving through the Holland Tunnel, he thought about his cousin Breeze and the foul treatment he was receiving from his daughter’s mother. He hopped on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway and headed toward Southside Jamaica Queens.

  While driving up Guy R. Brewer Avenue and approaching 120th Street, he noticed a familiar face in a crowd of females. He pulled up beside them and rolled down the passenger’s side window. “Omeisha!”

  A slim brown skinned girl looked in his direction. “Excuse me, but do I know you?'” She asked with a flirtatious attitude.

  “It’s Sonny. I need holla at you for a minute."

  She took a closer look, and then smiled at him. “Oh, hey, Sontino. I didn’t know that was you. Whatchu doin’ in Queens? I thought you only dealt with Harlem and Brooklyn niggas?”

  “I was in the area, so I figured I’d stop by and check on you and the baby.” He leaned over and opened the passenger’s side door. “Yo, take a ride wit’ me.” She climbed in the car, and he continued driving up Guy R. Brewer. “So, what’s up wit’ you Miesha? How’s the baby doin’?”

  “Oh, she’s good. Looking like her father and swearin’ she’s grown.” Omeisha smiled. “She’s at my mom’s house right now. We can go see her if you want.”

  Sonny pulled out his .357 Sig Sauer and aimed the barrel at her stomach. “Yo, fuck all dat! Why you ain’t been takin’ her to see Breeze?"

  “Huh?” Omeisha replied, shocked and afraid.

  “Bitch, you heard me? Why ain’t you been takin’ that little girl to see her father? And why the fuck you’re not acceptin’ his phone calls?” He stated in a cold tone of voice.

  “Sonny, can you please put that gun away?” She pleaded, while eyeing the large pistol. “I swear to God, I’ma take her to see him. Just please put that gun away.”

  He pulled over on the corner of Baisley and Guy R. Brewer and pressed the barrel against her left cheek.

  “The next time I get a letter from my lil’ cousin sayin’ you ain’t acceptin’ his calls and you ain’t bringing the baby to see him, I’ma come up here and park ya stupid ass!” He snarled through clenched teeth.

  “Sonny, I swear to God I’ma…”

  “Bitch, get the fuck out my car!”

  As she climbed out of the Benz, she heard somebody calling her name. She looked up to see her boyfriend, Ryan, approaching the car at a rapid pace.

  He snatched her up by the arm, “Bitch, who the fuck is this?” He pointed at the Benz, then crouched down to look in the passenger’'s side window. “Damn, son, what the fuck is you doin’ wit’ my bitch in ya car?”

  Sonny threw the transmission in park, and then hopped out with the .357 clutched in his left hand. He scowled at Omeisha.

  “Yo, is this the nigga that was on the phone poppin’ shit to Breeze?”

  When she didn’t respond, he cocked back the top of the pistol.

  Click, Clack!

  Stunned and fearing for his life, Ryan quickly pleaded his case. “Son, I wasn’t poppin’ shit to nobody. I don’t even know nobody named Breeze.”

  “Naw, nigga, fuck that. I know you were the one that was talkin’ all crazy on the phone,” Sonny retorted, and then aimed the barrel at his torso.

  “Nah, son, you got me mixed up wit’ somebody else. I don’t even know whatchu talking ‘bout.” The tall, brown skinned man responded.

  “Oh, so you don’t know what I’m talking ‘bout?” Sonny barked so fast Ryan could barely decipher what he’d just said. “You don’t know what I’m talking ‘bout. Nigga, this what the fuck I’m talking ‘bout.” He squeezed the trigger.

  Boc!

  Ryan stumbled backwards and fell. A burning sensation permeated his stomach, and he lost his bowels. Shocked, he felt for his gunshot wounds, and then examined the warm blood on his hands. He looked up and saw Sonny was standing over him with the smoking barrel aimed at his forehead.

  “Nah, son. Don’t kill me please.”

  Sonny kicked him in his face.

  “Pussy, stop bitchin’.” He kicked him one more time, and then walked over to Omeisha. He grabbed her by the hair and pressed the hot barrel against her right cheek. Despite the fact that her face felt like it was on fire, and warm urine was running down her legs, all she could do was stand there looking stupid.

  “I swear on my flag, if you don’t take that lil’ girl to visit her pop or start acceptin’ his calls, I’ma fuckin’ kill you!” He smacked her in the back of the head with gun, causing her to fall on her face.

  As she lay on the ground crying, he hopped back in his Benz and pulled off.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time November rolled around, Sonny’s hustle had elevated to a whole new level and he made the proper adjustments. His man, Diamondz, established a coop between himself and the major hustlers from Kensington, Uptown, and Northeast Philly, and together they purchased a shipment of 25 keys at the price of $875,000. Sonny took the money straight to Mook and being that Mook was no longer dealing with the block, he gave Sonny the green light to open up shop on Fairhill and York.

  Sonny took advantage of the opportunity and to make a larger profit, he stretched the remaining 5 kilos to 8 and broke them down to grams. He then appointed three of his young buls to work the block and had them move the grams at $40 apiece. Not only were the crack heads happy, but the low level hustlers in the neighborhood reaped the benefits as well. By the end of October, his young buls moved every gram and generated a total of $320,000. After paying Mook the $25,000 he owed him and his young buls their monthly salary of $60,000, his profit was $235,000. Now that November was here, he planned to do it all over again.

  “Hey, Sonny! Ya man Diamondz is outside!” His young bul, Nasty shouted from the bottom of the steps, and then he went back to playing Madden on the Xbox 360.

  “Yo, let him in! I’ll be down in a minute!”

  Outside, sitting on the front steps, Diamondz was intrigued by the sight of the stocky built, dark skinned, twin brothers who were tearing up the block and hustling for Sonny. The front door of the trap house opened, and a tall, chubby, brown skinned young bul ushered him inside.

  What’s up, Nasty?” Diamondz greeted him, while shaking his hand.

  “Ain’t shit, dawg. I’m just try’na fall back and get this money.” Nasty replied, then took a seat on the couch and picked up his Xbox controller.

  A couple of minutes later, Sonny descended the steps in a fresh wife beater and pair of gray Polo sweatpants. He greeted Diamondz, and then led him over to the dining room table. “So, how we lookin’,” he smiled, knowing the duffle bag Diamondz was carrying contained the money from the coop.

  “You already know, my nigga. It’s the same as last month,” he replied, while laying the duffle bag on the table. Sonny opened the bag and pulled out the rubber banded stacks of money. He looked at Nasty.

  “Go around the block and get my money machine from Ms. Sonia. Tell her I gave it to Spank last night, and it should be upstairs in Meeka’s room.”

  Obediently, Nasty pressed the pause button on his controller, and then left the house. A few minutes later, he returned with the black and gray machine. He handed it to Sonny, and then returned to his video game. In total, there were eighty-eight stacks of money lying on the table, and one by one, Sonny ran them through the machine. The first eighty stacks amounted to $10,000 a piece, and the remaining stacks amounted to $5,000.

  “A’ight, my nigga.” He nodded his head in approval. “That’s good money right there. Here,” he handed him a car key. “The work is in the white minivan at the bottom of the block. You gotta turn on the ignition, press the brakes two times, and then hit the hazard light. The left wall in the back compartment is gonna slide open, and that's whe
re I stashed the 25 bricks.”

  A’ight, but dig though, since I got the Lex parked outside, I’ma take the van to my crib and unload the work. As soon as I’m done, I’ma shoot straight back to pick up my wheel and drop off the van. He placed the key in his jacket pocket, and then headed toward the front door. Sonny followed him out the house and watched as he drove away in the van. He looked at the twins and smiled.

  “Yo, whatchu smilin’ at?” Egypt, the one with the dreads asked him.

  “You and ya brother Zaire, y’all some thorough young buls, that’s all. I fucks wit’ y’all niggas.”

  The twins, Egypt and Zaire, were from Marshall and Montgomery which was known as Ice City. At the age of sixteen, they were known for putting in work and would soon be known for getting money.

  “Hey, yo, Sonny, why you don’t be drivin’ the Benz?” Zaire asked. “It seems like you only be drivin’ the Tahoe. You don’t never push the Benz no more.”

  “Nizzaw, I still push the 550 from time to time.” Sonny continued smiling. “It’s just lately, a nigga been on some under the radar type of shit, you feel me? The streets be watchin’, and a nigga gotta move accordingly.”

  “Man, fuck all dat,” Egypt interjected. “When I get me a Benz, I’m drivin' my shit everywhere.” He laughed, and then used his right hand to turn the steering wheel on his imaginary Benz. “I’m tellin’ you, just wait!”

  As they stood around laughing and joking, a money green 2012 Cadillac Escalade turned the corner, and parked a few houses up the block. The passenger hopped out and walked over to them.

  “Yo, you the bul Sonny, right?”

  Sonny looked him up and down, and then pulled out his Sig Sauer. “Yeah, I’m the bul, Sonny. What’s poppin’?”

  “Damn, cowboy,” the man smiled nervously. “This ain’t that type of party. I’m the bul, Smack. I met you a couple of months ago at the sit down between Grip and Mook.” He gestured toward the Escalade. “The ol’ head wanna holla at you.”

  “What the fuck he wanna holla at me about?” Sonny ice grilled him. “My big homie offered the nigga the deal of a lifetime, and he didn’t even have the decency to keep it a hunnid wit’ niggas. He shoulda been holla’d at Mook by now,” he continued his rant, and then cocked back the top of his pistol.

  Click, Clack!

  “Listen, fam,” Smack held up his hands in a defenseless posture. “All I know is that the ol’ head wanna holla at you. He's sittin' in the truck, and he wants you to come over and check him out.”

  “Yo, why the fuck would I would I walk up on that mu’fuckin’ truck?” Sonny scrunched up his face. “If that nigga wanna holla at me, then tell his ol’ ass to get out the truck and holla at me.”

  Smack returned to the Escalade and delivered the message. A second later, Grip emerged from the SUV in a charcoal gray Louis Vuitton suit, a pair of black ostrich skin shoes, and a black Bossalini hat with a red feather stuffed inside of the band. He walked over to Sonny and extended his right hand, but Sonny just stared at him.

  “Ol’ head, you got about two minutes to say whatever it is you gotta say.” He stated, while looking in his blue eyes.

  “Oh, yeah?” Grip adjusted the diamond ring on his right pinky. “And if I take longer than two minutes?”

  Sonny nodded toward the front door of his trap house where Nasty was standing with an AK-47 clutched in his hands.

  “My young bul gon’ tear ya fuckin’ head off.”

  Grip looked at him and smiled. He was certain the fireball of a young man had no idea that he was speaking to his own grandfather. Yeah, he thought to himself. He’s definitely got my blood runnin’ through his veins. He brushed away a piece of lent from his shoulder, and then continued speaking as if the young man had never even threatened his life.

  “All I want you to do is ask your father about me.” He reached inside of his suit jacket and retrieved a white business card. “Here,” he handed him the card. “As soon as you talk to him, I want you to give me a call.”

  He tilted the front of his Bossalini, old school style, and then returned to his SUV. After climbing in the backseat, he ordered his driver, Muhammad to pull off. As the Escalade left the block, Sonny put away his Sig, and then took a seat on the steps.

  “Hey, Sonny, who was that?” Egypt asked. “That nigga looked like a black John Gotti.”

  “That was the nigga, Grip.” Sonny replied, while cracking open a Backwood.

  “You mean Grip from the Grip Boys? The nigga from back in the day that started The Black Mafia?”

  “Yeah, that was him.”

  “And you was comin’ at him like that?”

  Sonny scowled at him. “Man, fuck that nigga. That pussy bleed like anybody else, so what the fuck is you talking ‘bout? You better never say no pussy ass shit like that again.” He stood to his feet and threw the Backwood on the ground. “As a matter of fact, get the fuck off the block. Ya ass is done for the day.”

  “Naw, Sonny, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just…”

  “Nigga, you heard what the fuck I said. And don’t bring ya ass back ‘til you ready to let ya nuts hang.”

  *****

  Later that night, Sonny and Sheed met up with Mook at his Delaware estate. At that point, none of them had heard a peep from Tommy since the day Mook fronted them the work and gave them their new Benzes, so obviously he was the topic of discussion.

  “So, Sheed,” Mook said, while nursing a glass of Pineapple Ciroc, “the last you heard was that he was going out to the Poconos?”

  “Yeah,” Sheed answered, and then took a deep pull on his Backwood.

  Mook directed his attention to Sonny. “You think this nigga went against the grain?”

  Sonny nodded his head up and down. “Yeah, I do. The reason I say that is because his phone is disconnected, and he ain’t holla’d at niggas in over two months. Plus, I stopped by Nahfisah’s house the other day to drop off some clothes and shit for my Goddaughter, and the house was empty. I think the nigga took the work, packed up Nahfisah and Imani, and got ghost.”

  “Well, I guess it is what it is then,” Mook said, while lounging back on the sofa. “From here on out that nigga’s food. Disloyalty is a crime that will never be tolerated in my family, and I want y’all to spread the word that Tommy’s to be shot on sight.” He sparked up a Newport and took a deep pull. “A’ight, let’s move on. Now, Sonny, what’s this shit you was tellin’ me about the bul, Grip?”

  “Yo, this nigga came through the block earlier, and was tellin’ me to ask my pops about him. Matter of fact, now that I really think about it, remember when we met up the nigga at T.G.I.Fridays?”

  “Yeah, I remember.” Mook nodded his head.

  “A’ight, well the nigga asked me about my pops back then. I think they used to run together or somethin’.”

  “Well, from here on out, that nigga’s an enemy, him and whoever he got ridin’ wit’ him. I offered this pussy my friendship, and he spit in my face. It’s no mystery that dude be on some egotistical bullshit, and by him not acceptin’ the offer, it’s only a matter of time before he decides to make a move. So, therefore the next time that ol’ mu’fucka steps foot in North Philly, y’all terminate his ass.”

  “A’ight,” Sonny nodded his head. “But what if we catch him outside of the hood?”

  “Honestly,” Mook shrugged his shoulders, “I could care less. Our situation is rooted in North, from Fairmount to Butler Street. That’s our mu’fuckin’ hood, and our hood is our mu'fuckin’ hood, period.” He looked both of them square in the eyes. “Him and his family are no longer welcome in our hood. Do I make myself clear?” He continued in a calm voice. The Xanax and syrup that he ingested about twenty minutes ago were beginning to kick in.

  “Say no more, big homie.” Sonny assured him.

  Mook directed his attention to Sheed. “Did I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.” Sheed smiled, and then massaged the pearl handle on his Desert Eagle.

 
; *****

  Lebanon, Pennsylvania was a new experience for Tommy, and he loved every bit of it. To him, being in a new town where nobody knew him was the equivalent to a kid in a candy store with a pocket full of money. The hustle game in the small town was nothing like the hustle in North Philly. Although the flow of money was extremely slower, his sales came in lump sums. Instead of the constant flow of loud mouthed crack heads he was accustomed to, in Lebanon his clientele consisted of small business owners, doctors, lawyers and accountants.

  When his family first moved into the house that was provided by Detective Smith, him and Nahfisah went to the local furniture store, and it was there he met his first customer, the store's owner. At first glance, the skinny white man appeared to be a little antsy, and Tommy assumed the man was just excited to be selling $4,000 worth of furniture. But when he took a closer look and noticed the man's nose was red and moist, he immediately knew he was high on coke.

  The next day, he returned to the store with a gram of raw and a piece of paper with his new number scribbled on it. When he offered the man the coke, to Tommy's surprise, he declined. Tommy, however, was persistent in his approach, and he used the white crystals in the potent powder to demonstrate its purity. He assured the man it was the best cocaine on this side of the equator, and the skinny man’s armpits began to sweat. He looked at the cocaine, and then looked at Tommy. He returned his gaze to the white powder and licked his lips anxiously.

  “How much?”

  “A hunnid a gram, but this time it’s on the house.”

  “Alright, buddy.” The man nodded his head. “I’ll try you out.” He extended his right hand. “By the way, the name’s Don.”

  Tommy accepted the gesture with a firm handshake. “And you can call me Tommy.”

  It didn’t take long for Don to become a loyal customer, and eventually he spread the word to all of his friends. A couple of weeks later, he invited Tommy to a party he was hosting and introduced him to his best friend, Dr. Randolph Perry. His lawyer, Larry Santiguida, and his accountant, Ronald Propst. They each had an expensive habit and purchased nothing less than an ounce at a time. At $2,800 a piece, rat ass Tommy had stumbled on a goldmine.