Snap spots the look on their faces and turns around to see what the looks are about. Once he turns to face her, he’s staring into the barrel of a nine millimeter. “Storm, what?” he utters before…
Boc!
The shot to the face sends him flying several feet backwards.
As he falls to the ground, Storm is already standing over him. She dumps three shots into his face.
Boc! Boc! Boc!
She turns around and both Mud and Breezy stand with their hands in the air in submission. They are confused and not certain if they are next. “Let’s go,” she says before trotting toward the Pontiac. They drop their hands, look at Snap’s body, and take off behind her.
“It was all Mud’s idea for us to meet. Really, I had no interest in meeting with Snap but Mud insisted. Snap was always my least favorite of the entire group. I hated how he manipulated us as kids and controlled our minds. I hate that he was responsible for me killing my best friend. More than anything, I hate how he took advantage of me sexually. To see him look at me, undressing me with his eyes, was all I needed to go on with what I already had planned for him. Once Mud insisted on setting up the meeting, I had already put in my mind that I would go only to seek revenge for me, for my best friend, for us. And I did, with no regrets not even today.”
Storm speeds through the darkness. In the passenger’s seat of his own car, Breezy sits still in confusion. Him and Mud have not a clue as to what just happened. To them, this just came out of nowhere with no motive. In their eyes, they were family. Out of shame, she never told anyone what Snap had done to her. Storm is slowly coming down off of her adrenaline high. She keeps her eyes on the road, just zoned out in her thoughts. Breezy looks over to her. He has so many things to say to her, but he’s so pissed right now that he’d rather calm down first.
She feels him peeking over at her and turns toward him. “I told you I’m the same cold bitch.”
“But why, though, Storm? I thought we were all family. Thought it was all love.”
“He never loved us, and he never looked at us like family. He only manipulated us.” She stares at Breezy without blinking. “Know the difference.” She looks into the rearview mirror and sees Mud looking out of the window, very perplexed.
She pulls over and slams the car into park. She looks back and forth at both of them. Her gun is in hand, concealed on her left side. “Before we go any further, let me know if y’all got any problems with what I just did.”
She looks to Breezy. “Breeze?” He looks away from her, shaking his head. She looks into the rearview mirror. “Mud?”
“Hey! For whatever reason, you did what you felt you had to do,” Mud says without looking at her. He stares out of the window. “Who am I to question what you do?”
“So we all good?” she asks. They both agree. She pulls back onto the road, gun still in hand. “OK, we all good then. Nothing else to talk about. Dead subject.”
18
Later that Night
Mr. Antonelli sits before Storm with his face as pale as a ghost. He’s shivering and nervous, very much unlike he was earlier in front of the detectives. In the dealership, he retained his cool, but the minute he left he lost it. He’s drank two bottles of wine to ease his nerves, yet they are still not eased.
“What’s the emergency?” she asks quite inquisitively.
“What type of trouble have you gotten yourself into?” he asks.
“Trouble? What are you talking about?”
“Detectives bombarded the dealership today,” he says with his lips quivering. He waits to see her reaction.
Her heart races. She quickly thinks of all the trouble she has behind her and wonders which it could be. She plays it cool to throw him off. “Detectives? For what?”
“They said that a vehicle from the dealership was seen leaving a murder scene?”
Her ears twitch on alert. She’s confused as to which one it could be because her car wasn’t used in any of them. “Really?” she asks, quite surprised.
“Yes,” he replies. “Please just inform me what this is about.”
“How the fuck should I know?” she snaps. “Why the fuck you didn’t ask them?”
“Calm down, calm down,” he replies nervously as he reaches over to alleviate her anger.
“Fuck off of me.” She snatches away from him with fire in her eyes. “You questioning me about some shit I don’t know nothing about when you should’ve been questioning them.”
“I tried but they wouldn’t answer any details,” he lies. “They said it was the CL.”
“Well, somebody must have been driving that car and got me involved in some bullshit,” she says in a weak defense.
“Angel,” he says in his sweetest voice.
“Don’t you fucking Angel me!”
“Sorry, baby,” he apologizes. He knows how bad that angers her. “That car hasn’t moved since you left it there.”
“So you’re saying it was me?”
“I’m not saying anything. Please just calm down.”
“Fuck calm down! Are you saying that I was involved in a murder?”
“I’m not. Just telling you what they told me.”
“Fuck what they told you! I’m telling you I haven’t been involved in shit!” She stares at him with hatred for a few seconds without saying a word. “You know what? Fuck this! I’m out!” She storms toward the door. She’s bluffing him, knowing he will fall right into her trap.
“Baby, no, please,” he says, chasing behind her just as she knew he would.
He grabs hold of her and she snatches away from him. “I know one motherfucking thing… you better get my name cleared and find out who at that dealership used that car and got me all mixed up in this shit.”
He buries his head in between her breast. “I will do everything in my power to get to the bottom of this and get you in the clear.”
“You better.”
19
Teterboro Airport
The Next Afternoon
Storm and Mr. Antonelli pull up to the airport in a flaming red Ferrari 458 Italia. Mr. Antonelli stops the Ferrari short, a hundred feet away from a G4 private jet. The center of attraction isn’t the actual jet. It’s the man dressed in pilot gear that is. The African-American man sports the old school short, chocolate brown Rocky Shearling with the hat to match. His designer aviator shades, denim button up, and army fatigue cargo pants make him look like the hood version of a Tuskegee Airmen. Storm recognizes the hustler’s signature boot; tall, cracked leather Timberlands. Spotting the hood in him peaks her curiosity.
The man paces around until he hears the doors of the Ferrari slam shut. Storm struts behind Mr. Antonelli, looking quite fashionable herself, draped in a full-length mink coat and thigh-high riding boots. Mr. Antonelli is dressed in his typical pinstriped suit underneath his black cashmere trench.
“Mr. A,” the man sings. “You almost missed me,” he says as he extends his hand for a handshake. Storm can’t keep her eyes off the man, yet he pays no attention to her at all.
“Thanks for waiting,” Mr. Antonelli says gratefully. He looks to Storm. “Baby, meet Attorney Tony Austin. Tony, meet my baby.” Tony looks at Storm for the first time. He flashes a sly smile at Mr. Antonelli before reaching for her hand. “Baby, this is the best criminal defense attorney in the state of New Jersey and arguably the best in the entire world.”
Tony smiles arrogantly. “Arguably? Listen, I’m on a tight schedule. I have reservations at my favorite restaurant for lunch. It would be my pleasure to have you both as my guests, if you have some time on your hands. That will give us more than enough time to talk about what it is you need of me.”
“How can I refuse that offer?” Mr. Antonelli replies.
“With that being said,” he says as he extends his hands toward the entrance of the jet. “After you,”
he says.
Mr. Antonelli guides Storm in front of them. They board the jet and seat themselves. Storm looks around the spacious jet in amazement. She feels like a class act. She’s impressed, yet she keeps her nonchalant edge.
Mr. Antonelli and Storm sit close to each other. Tony, who is seated across from them, opens a bottle of bourbon, and just as he does, a sudden turbulence jerks the jet. The entire bottle of Pappy Van Winkle spills onto the floor. He looks down at the puddle of the bourbon, then looks at the empty bottle, and his face shows no signs of anguish. It’s as if the rare twenty-three-year-old bourbon didn’t cost him close to three grand.
He merely goes into the bar and grabs a bottle of Macallan, which is equally as expensive and seven years older. He pours the glasses heftily. He holds his glass in the air for a toast. “To generations of prosperity and wealth.” The three of them tap their glasses together. “So what’s the problem?” Tony asks.
Storm takes a sip of the whiskey and a fire brews in her mouth. She forces the liquor down her throat and fights to keep it down. “What the…” she mumbles to herself as she looks at the dark liquor.
“You okay, baby?” Mr. Antonelli asks. “Everything good?”
“Not that,” she says as she points to the glass. She hangs her tongue out with no class. “Eelk… I don’t know how y’all drink that shit.” Mr. Antonelli looks to Tony ashamed at her lack of class. He shrugs his shoulders with a cheesy look on his face.
“Shit,” Tony mumbles feeling disrespected. He chuckles arrogantly. “It’s an acquired taste, dear. Maybe a little too expensive for your taste buds.” He reaches over to the small refrigerator. “Let me see if I have something a little more suitable for you.”
He looks into the refrigerator. “Uh, I’m sorry. Seems we are all out of pink moscato and forty ounces.” He takes the attack without looking back at her. He can feel her stare penetrating through his soul, but he pays her no mind. Instead he looks back to Mr. Antonelli. “What were you about to say?”
Mr. Antonelli gives Tony all the details from the smallest on up to the biggest and everything in between while Storm sits quietly. In her mind the girl did just as she knew she would and that is tell everything. She wishes she could dig Man-Man up from the dead just to murder him again. If it wasn’t for him, she wouldn’t be going through this.
Had he listened to her the girl would be dead and he wouldn’t be. She wonders what all the detectives know and she can’t wait until the attorney gets on the case to inform her. She thinks of the witness she left behind in the apartment, the young woman with the baby. She needs to find out who the woman is.
“Baby,” Mr. Antonelli says for the second time. Storm is so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t even hear him.
Storm looks at him with her brow high. “Huh?”
“He’s talking to you.”
She looks to the attorney who looks at her suspiciously. “Do you have any idea what this is about?”
“Not a clue,” she lies with a straight face.
“Listen, I’m gonna need you to be completely honest with me. We are on the same team and have to be on the same page. The more I know, the better off we all will be.”
“Didn’t I just tell you I don’t have a clue?”
Mr. Antonelli gives Tony a signal with his eyes to back off. Tony accepts the sign and takes a swig of his scotch.
“So can you help us?” Mr. Antonelli asks.
“Is that a trick question?” Tony asks humorously. “Haven’t you helped me get every Mercedes I ever dreamed of having?” The old man smiles in reply. “Of course, I can help you.”
* * *
Two and a half hours later the three of them sit inside of DiMallo’s Floating Restaurant. When the jet landed, they were driven by car service to the Portland Harbor. Outside of her reason for being here, Storm is having the time of her life. All in one day, for her first time ever, she flew on a G4 and boarded a yacht. The lovely restaurant is a yacht that floats the harbor. She feels like she’s starring in an episode of Sex and the City with her own Mr. Big.
On the table in front of them are three two pound lobsters and all the clams they can eat. The bottle of Ferrari-Carano chardonnay has the perfect twing to not only wash it all down but to complement the taste as well.
Tony listens to Mr. Antonelli babble about the situation for the twentieth time and gets a little ruffled. He flashes a smile to downplay his agitation. “Mr. A, not over lunch. Let’s enjoy our meal and get back to the business once we’re done.”
“Okay, sorry. I just want to clear my baby’s name,” he says as he looks at Storm with googly eyes.
* * *
One hour later, they are all sitting back on the jet, feeling like stuffed sharks. Storm has the ‘itis’ and is ready to fall asleep, but worry and anxiety keep her wide awake.
“So what is this gonna cost me?” Mr. Antonelli asks as he pulls out his checkbook.
Tony places his hand over Mr. Antonelli’s. “With all due respect.” He smiles. “Get a grip of yourself, Mr. A. You know gentlemen never discuss finances in front of women. Let me get on the job and find out what I can and we can discuss currency later, in a more professional setting.
“For now, do lay back, enjoy the flight or do like I’m about to do and sleep that two-pound lobster off.” He leans his seat back, closes his eyes for a second before he opens them to find both of them staring at him with stress on their face. “Go ahead, rest easy. I got y’all.”
20
The Next Day
Attorney Tony Austin is busy at work on Storm’s case as promised. He stands in the middle of his office, phone glued to his ear with one hand, and holding his burning cigar with the other. His tailor kneels before him, pulling at his trousers. Tony seems to be more interested in the three television screens that are posted on the wall than he is in the conversation. All three screens have different stock trading channels playing.
To the right of him stands a tall, handsome young man. His curly, wild afro makes him look a little thuggish, but his mannerisms are nothing but respectful. The young man, too, has a tailor working on his fit. This young man is Tony’s protégé. Tony has taken him under his wing straight out of law school.
To the left of him stands a well-dressed man, unraveling the bubble-wrap off of a painting. He stands cool and calm in the midst of all the action.
“Yes, Mr. A,” Tony says into the phone. “Don’t worry. Have I ever let you down before? I will give you a call as soon as I hear something,” he says before ending the call. Not once does he take his eyes off the screens. He takes a huge pull of his stogie, hoping for some relaxation in it.
“How does this feel?” the tailor asks as he tugs at the pants around Tony’s waist.
“Perfect,” Tony replies. He blows out a mouthful of smoke into the air. He looks over to the tailor who is at his young protégé’s feet. “Nah, I know the high-water style is in, but we don’t do that. The boy is six foot five for crying out loud. Let the pants break a smidgen under the ankle.” He looks to his tailor. “Raphael, tell him.”
The man with the painting finally steps up for Tony’s attention. This man is Tony’s art dealer. Tony isn’t just a lover of art but a collector, and an investor. It’s love at first sight when Tony lays eyes on the painting. He’s speechless as he stares with his heart racing. He can’t believe he’s this close to having this piece. He’s been chasing it for months. The passion he has for this painting can be seen all over his face.
A beautiful young woman, Tony’s intern, walks into the office and steps right in front of Tony. She demands his attention. “Mr. Austin,” the woman interrupts.
He places his hand in the air. “Hold up, hold up,” Tony says. “Do you see what’s going on?” The woman stares at the painting, not even realizing why it means so much to him. “Do you even understand what is being pre
sented before us?” he asks as he points to the painting.
The woman looks at the painting and is in no way impressed. To her it’s just a basic painting that looks as if a child could have painted it. It’s not even what she considers a beautiful painting. All she sees is a pencil drawing on dirty paper.
“Let me educate you real quick,” he says to the woman. “You, too, young fella,” he says to his protégé. “This right here is the most expensive piece in the Andrew Turner collection. Do you know who Andrew Turner is?” he asks. “Either of you?”
Both the young man and young woman shrug their shoulders. “Nat Turner’s brother?” she asks with all seriousness.
Tony smiles at her ignorance. “Au contraire, mon frère,” he says while teasing a lock of her hair. “Google him,” he says as he points to the phone in her hand. “That’s the problem with you youngsters. You got a wealth of knowledge right there at your fingertips. Anything you want to know you can find it at the press of a button on that phone. But all you are worried about is how many pixels the camera has, so you can post your pretty selfies on social media.”
Out of respect, they look at Tony with their undivided attention. They both know it’s an honor to be here working with the most powerful attorney in the state. Any knowledge he chooses to share with them, they are here to soak up. They can only pray that one day they are half the attorney that he is. What Tony loves about them is their willingness to listen and learn. With him loving to be listened to, it works for all of them.
“Andrew Turner was an African-American artist out of Pennsylvania,” he says with excitement in his eyes. “He died from a heroin overdose. Some consider him a junkie and turn their noses down at him. But me, I was raised by the junkies and wouldn’t be the man I am today if I hadn’t sat back and listened to all the knowledge they had stored. Some of the best men I’ve met in the world were junkies,” he claims.
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