by Askari
P.S. I went to my doctor’s appointment this morning, and he told me that I’m having a boy. As a woman, I know that I can’t raise a man, but I’m a bad bitch. I’m pretty sure I can get one of them Atlanta niggas to put a ring on it, and be the man that I need him to be. Fuck you!!!
He crumbled the paper in his hand and regretfully shook his head. “Damn, I fucked up!” He loved Riana with all of his heart, but now she was gone and there was nothing he could do about it. He walked over to her walk-in closet, and grabbed the velvet box from the top shelf. He opened it, and the bling of her engagement ring made his heart flutter. “Damn,” he sighed. “I think I really might’ve lost her this time. What the fuck was I thinking?”
*****
Back In North Philly...
Nasty was sitting behind the steering wheel of his Toyota Tundra, smoking a Vanilla Dutch, and watching the latest Smack DVD. He was parked at the gas station on Broad and York, and was waiting for his man, Goon to pull up, so he could serve him the brick that was sitting on his passenger’s seat. A dirty homeless man approached his truck with a squeegee in one hand and a spray bottle in the other.
“Hey young buck, lemme wash ya windows for ya, young buck.”
Nasty reached inside of his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of money. After peeling off a twenty dollar bill, he rolled down the window, and extended the money.
“My windows is already clean ol’ head, but you can have this dub though.”
The homeless man smiled at him. “Good lookin’, young buck.” He took the money from Nasty’s hand, but didn’t walk away from the truck.
Nasty became annoyed by his awkward presence. “A’ight ol’ head, I gave you twenty dollars, so what the fuck is you standin’ here for?”
The homeless man didn’t budge. Instead, he just stood there staring at him.
“Ol’ head, if I gotta get out this truck, I’ma throw a foot in ya ass,” Nasty warned with a serious expression on his face. “Now, roll the fuck out.”
The homeless man just stood there smiling at him. When Nasty reached for the door handle, the dingy looking man dropped his spray bottle, and then pulled the .44 Bulldog that was tucked on his waist. He aimed the barrel at Nasty’s face and squeezed the trigger.
Boom! Boom!
The bullets ripped through the left side of Nasty’s head, sizzled out the right side, shattered the passenger's side window, and lodged into the gas station wall. Nasty slumped over the center console and the homeless man took off running down York Street. He headed toward the money green Escalade that was parked under the 12th Street Bridge. When he reached the SUV, he tried to open the back door, but it was locked.
“What the fuck?” He stated in disbelief, still trying to open the door. He tapped the passenger’s side window. “Mr. Moreno it’s me. Open the door.”
Grip rolled down his tinted window and stared at the disguised young man, who just two hours ago was promised the capo position of the 24th and Berks Street crew. “Antonio, did you get the job done?”
“Yeah,” the young man nodded his head as he was still trying to catch his breath. “I blew—I blew his brains out. Just—just like you told me to.”
“Good.” Grip pulled out a Glock 19 and shot him in the forehead.
Pow!
A bloody mist of brains and skull fragments burst out the back of his head, and he crumbled to the ground. Grip rolled up the passenger’s side window, and then looked to his left where Muhammad was sitting behind the steering wheel with a confused look on his face. He’d known Grip for over thirty years, but he’d never known him to kill his own soldiers for no apparent reason. Grip shrugged his shoulders, already knowing what his driver and personal bodyguard was thinking.
“What?” He screwed up his face. “His granddaddy was a rat. His daddy was a rat and his ass was bound to rat sooner or later, so I just said fuck it.”
They fell out laughing as Muhammad pulled away from the curb.
*****
Fifteen Minutes Later...
When Grip and Muhammad pulled into the parking lot of his warehouse, they spotted Detective Smith, Monster, and Lil’ Buggy standing around talking. Grip climbed out the Escalade and got up in Smitty’s face. “What the fuck are y’all standin’ around for? Didn’t I tell you mutha’fuckas to turn the heat up around this bitch?”
“Calm down Mr. Moreno, everything’s under control,” Detective Smith stated, attempting to ameliorate Grip’s hostility. “As we speak, some of your soldier’s are patrolling their neighborhood, and your guy right here,” he nodded at Monster. “He gave ‘em specific orders to shoot on sight.”
Grip reached inside of his trench coat and pulled out an envelope full of money. “Here,” he handed the envelope to Smitty, “this is the bread that I owe you for tracking down Sontino. Now, that friend of his, the tall brown skinned kid, what’s his name?”
“Who, you talking ‘bout the bul Sheed?” Monster asked.
“Yeah,” Grip nodded his head, “that’s his name. I want him dead by the morning. The same goes for those twins.”
“A’ight, but what about Sonny?” Lil’ Buggy asked. “Whatchu want us to do wit’ him?”
“Well, I doubt you’ll catch him slippin’, but if you do,” he pointed his index finger in Lil’ Buggy’s face, “you throw his little arrogant ass in a trunk, and bring him straight to me. I wanna make this extremely clear,” he paused for a second and looked each of them in the face. “Do not, and I repeat, do not bring any devastating harm to my grandson."
“Alright, Mr. Moreno, we’ve got it covered,” Detective Smith assured him, while placing the money filled envelope in his jacket pocket. He headed toward his Crown Victoria, and Grip and Muhammad disappeared inside of the warehouse.
As Smitty drove away from the parking lot, and the warehouse door closed behind Grip and Muhammad, Lil’ Buggy looked at Monster. “Unc, I don’t trust that detective.”
Monster folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t trust that cracker either.”
“Oh, yeah, Unc, I forgot to tell you about the latest word that I got from my man in the Bad Landz. He was tellin’ me about some ol’ head named Easy that’s supposed to be the bul Sonny’s pop. You ever heard of him?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of the nigga. He’s Mr. Moreno’s son. The nigga was gettin’ money back in the day, but now he ain’t nothin’ but a dirtyass crack head.”
“Nizzaw,” Lil’ Buggy shook his head from side to side, “My man in the Bad Landz told me that the bul Easy is in his bag right now, and that he’s runnin’ Fairhill and York.”
“Man, fuck that nigga,” Monster replied. His words were full of contempt. “That niggas a bitch! Me and Black kidnapped his ass back in the day when he refused to get down wit’ the movement, and the only reason we let him live is because Mr. Moreno told us he was his son.”
“So whatchu think?” Lil’ Buggy scratched his chin. “You got the ol’ head Easy bein’ a problem?”
“I doubt it. I guess we gonna have to wait and see. But on some real shit, it don’t even matter ‘cause at the end of the day, you and me gon’ be the ones runnin’ this shit”
“What?” Lil’ Buggy looked at him skeptically. He didn’t understand his uncle’s logic. “How do you figure that?”
“Cause I’ma kill Sonny. And if Mr. Moreno feels some type of way, then fuck it, I'ma kill his ass too."
“You’re losin’ me, Unc. Even if we kill Sonny, Mr. Moreno’s still gonna be the boss.”
“Naw, Lil’ Buggy, that's where you’re wrong. Think about it, Mr. Moreno's old as shit. He’s been trying to leave the game for years, but up until he found out about Sonny, he didn’t have anybody that was actually a blood related Moreno that could take over the family. In the late eighties he was groomin’ Alvin for the position, but even then it wasn’t a quote on quote Moreno Family situation,” he used his fingers as quotation marks, “but more of a Black Mafia situation which is basically a myth. Mr. Moreno never san
ctioned a so called Black Mafia. It was always The Moreno Crime Family, but the media was the ones who labeled us the Black Mafia. And now that he knows about Sonny, he wants to hand the whole shit over to him. At the same time, he’s usin’ us as pawns to see what the lil’ nigga’s cut like. I mean, think about,” he shrugged his shoulders and used his hands for emphasis, “how the fuck he gon’ tell us to take a nigga to war, and at the same time tell us not to kill him? Fuck that! I’ve been ridin’ for this family for too mutha’fuckin’ long. If anybody’s gonna be the next boss, it’s gonna be me.”
*****
Across the street, in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse, Detective Sullivan was sitting in a black Grand Cherokee looking at the pictures that he’d just stored into his digital camera. The pictures depicted Detective Smith fraternizing with the city’s most violent crime syndicate, and they further depicted him receiving a pay off from the infamous Gervin Moreno. When he was first transferred to the Philadelphia Police Department he’d heard all of the rumors about his new partner being a dirty cop, but it wasn’t until a week ago that he discovered how true the rumors actually were.
They were patrolling the Bad Landz in an unmarked vehicle when they approached the corner of 7th and Clearfield. As they cruised by the corner they realized that an intense dice game was in progress. A crowd of approximately six men were huddled in front of the Chinese store, and there was a large pile of money on the ground. A tall, fat, light skinned man who the both of them knew as Doe Boy was in the middle of the crowd rolling a pair of dice against the stoop, while the rest of the men were eagerly awaiting the outcome. Unfortunately, they were too busy clocking the strawberry red dice to see the two detectives creeping up behind them.
Both of them had their guns drawn when they ordered the men to get up against the wall. After a thorough search they found large amounts of cash and approximately twenty-five bundles of PCP. When Detective Sullivan attempted to call for back up, Detective Smith stopped him and told him that they were giving the guys a break. He then stuffed his pockets with the drugs and money and led a confused Detective Sullivan back to their unmarked vehicle. He drove them to the corner of Germantown and Allegheny and parked in front of the Carmen’s Skating Rink. After counting the confiscated money, he broke down half and handed it to Detective Sullivan. Initially, Sullivan declined because he didn’t approve of Smitty’s unlawful conduct, but after five minutes of listening to his partner’s persuadable tactics, he finally conceded.
Unfortunately for Detective Smith, at the end of their shift, Detective Sullivan went straight to his supervisor and spilled the beans about Smitty’s egregious and unethical actions. In turn, he was given the green light to conduct an investigation, and now, just eight days later, he had enough evidence for Internal Affairs to give Smitty everything that a dirty cop deserved.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In Cheltenham, Pennsylvania...
After calling Riana’s cell phone for the twentieth time and leaving messages on her voice mail, Sonny went to his basement and released his frustrations on his weight bench. He placed two 45 pound weights on both sides of the bar, and began lifting reps of fifteen. After completing his fourth set, his iPhone vibrated on the concrete slab that he used as a weight pad.
Vrrrrrm! Vrrrrrm!
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his wife beater, picked up the phone and accepted the call.
“Sonny, they killed Nasty!” Egypt cried through the receiver. “They fuckin’ killed him!”
“What?”
“The cops got his truck taped off, and he’s still slumped behind the steering wheel.”
“How? Where?"
“At the gas station on Broad and York. We across the street watchin’ the whole thing! They caught him slippin’, and left him slumped behind the wheel.”
“Fuck!” Sonny snapped as he hopped up from the weight bench.
He ran upstairs to his bedroom and went straight to the closet. He strapped on his bulletproof vest, threw on a black one piece Dickies suit, and grabbed the AK-47 that was lying on the closet floor. Strapped for war and eager to get busy, he darted out the front door and hopped in his Escalade.
*****
A Half Hour Later...
He pulled up in front of his trap house and hopped out the Escalade with the AK-47 clutched in his left hand. “What the fuck is y’all just standin’ around lookin’ stupid for?” He snapped on Easy, Breeze, and the twins. “Y’all mu’fuckas better suit the fuck up!”
“Sontino, you need to calm down,” Easy suggested. “And put that gun away ‘fore the cops ride by and start some dumb shit.”
“Naw, fuck that! These niggas wanna get it poppin’ so I’ma show ‘em how we get it the fuckin’ poppin’!” He continued his rant, and then pulled back the lever on his assault rifle.
“Sontino, it’s not that simple!” Easy retorted. “This wasn’t no ordinary shit! They found the body of some young bul that was disguised as a homeless man, and he was holdin’ the gun that probably killed Nasty. That was one of Grip’s people, and they killed his ass too! This ain’t no playground, everyday beef. Grip is the real deal, and if you think for onemutha’fuckinsecond you just gon’ run down on him like he’s the average nigga, then you got the game fucked up!” Easy continued shouting, trying to get his son to realize and respect the caliber of a gangster that they were dealing with.
Before Sonny had the chance to respond, a black Crown Victoria and a gray Chevy Caprice turned the corner with their tires screeching.
Sccccrrrrrrrr!
By the time they realized what was happening, Grip’s soldiers under the order of Monster, hopped out of both vehicles with guns blazing.
Boc! Boc! Boc! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
Sonny pushed Easy out of the way, and then raised his AK-47, and returned fire.
Boc! Boc! Brrrroc! Boc! Brrrroc!
As he continued his counter attack a devastating force crashed into his chest, slamming him against the side of Easy’s Range Rover. He tried to breathe, but the wind was knocked out of him and his ribcage felt as though it was cracked in half.
“Sonny, get on the ground! I’ve got you covered!” Easy shouted as he crept around the back of his SUV with a .357 Desert Eagle in each hand. He raised the guns and blasted.
Doom! Doom! Doom! Doom! Doom! Doom!
The bullets hit the passenger of the Crown Victoria, spinning him around before he crashed to the pavement. He aimed at the man who was standing in front of the Chevy Caprice, but before he could let off a clean shot, a bullet shattered the back window on his Range Rover, and broken glass rained on the back of his neck. Still determined to hit his target, he readjusted his aim and fired.
Doom! Doom! Doom!
Instantly, the bullets danced up the man’s chest, and left him hunched over the back, passenger side door. Egypt ran toward the trap house front door to grab the sawed off shotgun that was underneath the couch in the living room, but two bullets struck him down, one ripping through his left leg and the other through his right shoulder. At the sight of his twin brother being gunned down, Zaire shielded his face with his left arm and returned fire with the Glock .40 that was clutched in his right hand.
Moc! Moc! Moc! Moc! Moc! Moc!
The driver of the Chevy Caprice turned his gun on Zaire, but lost his life when Easy sent a succession of bullets that blew his brains out the back of his biscuit. The driver of the Crown Victoria hopped back in the car and attempted to pull off, but before he could put the transmission in drive, Breeze ran up on him with a chrome 12 gauge and decimated the left side of his face.
Boom!
The last remaining passenger of the Crown Victoria tried to run, but Easy shot him in the back, and he stumbled to the ground. As Easy walked up on him and prepared to finish the job, Sonny shouted, “Naw, pops, I got him!”
His left hand was wrapped around the handle of the AK, and he was rubbing the burnt bullet holes on his
Dickies suit with his right. The grimacing look on his face depicted his pain, but nonetheless, he limped toward his victim. He pressed the hot barrel to the back of his head and squeezed the trigger.
Boc!
*****
The emergency room at the Cooper Hospital in Camden, New Jersey was relatively empty when Zaire burst through the double doors with Egypt hunched over his right shoulder.
“Help! I need some fuckin’ help! My brother got shot!” He shouted at the top of his lungs. Sonny, Easy, and Breeze were directly behind him and together they reiterated his cries for medical assistance.
“Oh my God!” The receptionist at the front desk cringed from the sight of the five men covered in blood. “What happened to him?” She pointed at Egypt. “Is he still breathing?”
“Yeah,” Easy nodded his head, “but I think he went into shock. He was shot in the shoulder and leg and it looks like both of the bullets went straight through” he informed her.
Zaire laid him on the chairs in the front row, and Sonny gestured for him to follow him to the snack machine. “Listen, Zai, me, my pops, and Breeze gotta get outta here. When the cops come, just tell them that y’all was out here visiting a bitch, and that some niggas tried to rob y’all.”
“A’ight,” he nodded his head up and down, “but what about the Philly cops?”
“Don’t even worry about ‘em.” He waved him off. “That’s the reason we drove over the bridge in the first place. They won’t even know y’all here.”
“A’ight Sonny. Make sure that you find Sheed. They might be comin' for him next.”
Sonny nodded his head. “I know.”
*****
Later That Night...
Sheed was lounging at the Eagle Bar, drinking a double shot of Henny and smoking a Black & Mild, when his iPhone vibrated on the counter.
