by Brick
“For now, in here just call me Mr. Sunjeta. Please have a seat.” I waited for him to sit in sync with me after I removed my hat and handed it to Shango.
“You speak as if you were born in Cuba. I am impressed,” my client said, praising me.
Oya stepped forward at that moment with a wooden box, a gift to show respect. She held it out and observed my client. Motioning for one of his men to take the box from her, my client gave an appraising nod. Inside the box were imported cigars from South Africa and a bottle of the best Cuban rum one could buy.
“In my view, Texas can feel like Cuba, so thank you. Now, shall we have wine?” I asked, then waited for my client’s permission. I was a man who liked to give a show, just to make others assume the worst or best of me.
He nodded.
I motioned to Oya, and then I got down to business. “You were interested in a stake of my company, precisely the distribution of my Blazers.”
Oya poured exotic wine into both of our glasses while I spoke, and then she stepped back into the fold.
My client drank from his glass and savored his sip, then gave me a smile. “Sí, I am. I see you’re a man of the world, however young you are. You’ve been schooled well—and several of my associates within and outside the United States have vouched for your reputation—which is why I’m choosing to do business with you.”
“Yes, sir, and it’s the same with me. I knew, once we discussed the manner of our association, that working with you would be quite an experience.” I reached in my vest, retrieved a small box, opened it, and pulled out one of my bullets with my initials engraved on it. “As a gift of good faith, I leave this small sample in your hands for a demonstration of my value.”
After placing the bullet between us on the tablecloth, I leaned back and watched my client study it with deep interest.
“So this is the little beauty?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. there it is. You ready for a show?” I said, my pride showing.
“In here?” my client asked with suspicion.
“No better place. Besides, no one will hear a thing.” I reached under the table, undid a strap, and pulled out a silencer.
Both of my client’s men bristled, then moved to try to take me out, but their boss stopped that crap at the pass. He raised one hand, and they paused in their tracks. “This young man is no fool. Let him work, me entienden?”
“Thank you.” I nodded to my people, and they walked to the other side of the room. There they pulled out a life-size dummy, behind which was a solid block of cement with steel running through it.
After standing up, I put my Glock together and added the bullets. “As you see, gentlemen, the dummy is wearing the standard gear worn by the military. When using a conventional gun and conventional bullets, like those found on the street, as you see . . .”
At that moment Oya whipped out her Glock and sent several bullets into the dummy before concealing her weapon. The dummy remained stationary.
I purposely left my gun and silencer on the table to show I was no threat, at the moment, stepped away from the table, and continued my presentation. “So with conventional bullets, this is a typical result.” I pointed at the dummy. “Of course, the higher the grade, the more damage you get, but death is what we are seeking here. Now let’s introduce my Blazers, and then you tell me what you think.”
I snatched up my silencer, screwed it onto the gun, and then pumped two bullets into the dummy and watched it shake with the force. It rocked forward, then slammed back.
Quiet filled the room before I heard one of my client’s men mutter, “Dios!”
Satisfaction filled me. I knew they were hooked now. I turned, took my silencer off the gun, then laid both back down on the table.
“I knew when I heard all good things about you that you, young man, had something I needed. Does this bullet work only with silencers?” my client remarked, getting down to business.
I explained my product. Explained to him how it was made and informed him that it could fit any style of gun he wanted to use. I showed him what I meant, and a smile lit up his face, but it was sinister.
“I knew that once you saw my presentation, you’d want a shipment. Because of our previous conversation, I already have a load ready and on its way to you now.” As I was speaking, Shango tapped me on my shoulder, so I paused and tilted my head to hear him whisper that we had a problem. “Excuse me, senor,” I said, then stood and left the room with Shango.
After moving away from the door, I stared into Shango’s cold gaze. “Who fucked up?”
Shango shook his head and pulled out his cell and handed it to me. “The Scandinavians.”
My eyes narrowing and, I knew, darkening from my anger, I snatched the cell away from him. “Shredder. What the hell is going on, homie?”
“S-s-sorry . . . boss. I t-t-tried to get our g-goods, but . . .” Shredder began, falling into his typical stuttering pattern.
I hated when he got so pissed off that he stuttered, because that meant that I’d have to wait ten years to find out one minute of intel. But because Shredder was stuttering so hard, I also knew shit had gone wrong in the worst way and there was no way to fix it.
“Shredder, where’s Alize? Get her ass on the cell so she can tell me what went down. You go chill and see if you can fix this bullshit, a’ight?” I ordered, my accent becoming thicker in my frustration.
“Y-y-y . . .” Shredder paused, then swallowed. “Yup.”
A silky, smooth Girl 6 type of voice hit my ear, and I knew Alize was on the line. She sighed, showing she was pissed off too, and it only made my blood pressure rise. “Break it down, Ally.”
Alize broke it down for me. “We were robbed. The Scandinavians lost the product, and we got whipped out by some crew we’ve never heard of before. Took our ride, with everything in it.”
Irritation had me scratching my jaw and looking at the ceiling with eyes that were slits. “Tell me that again . . .”
I could hear Alize swallow slowly. She knew me. She understood that I was about to go all the way off, so she tried to soften her tone and hit me in my nuts with her voice. “The Scandinavians lost our product, but we are tracking it. Shredder is following the chips in the bullet cases and trying to follow it. We have your back, I promise.”
I always put untraceable trackers on all my shit when it was in transit as a means of knowing that the product safely got to where it was going. Once the product changed hands, it was hit with the deactivation code. The point being? I was an anal person with what was mine. If something went wrong, I needed to know why, even if there was not always a clear path to understanding the reasons. Because my stuff was en route, my transporters hadn’t done the deactivation yet, and now we had to scramble to find my shit.
“You have our back? I told you we shouldn’t have fucked with those . . .You know what? I’m going to calm down and let you all handle it. That’s the point of this team. I want my shit back, and I want it back now. Now I have to smooth this over and figure this shit out! Fuck me!” I shouted and punched the wall behind me. I guessed I wasn’t able to be calm, after all.
Shango stepped to me and rested his hand on my shoulder, causing me to jerk his way. “We have some stashed in our warehouse here,” he said.
He was right. We did. I exhaled and spoke in the phone. “Find my stuff, Ally. Call the team here,” I ordered, then started to break down the amount I needed. Once I was done, I hung up the cell phone, then handed it to Shango.
“Don’t stress it, bro. He’s interested, trust. We got him, and the rest will follow,” Shango said encouragingly.
“It better,” was all I said before I walked back into the meeting.
My client was sitting back with a smirk on his face, sipping his wine and watching Oya hard. I almost felt like being a smartass and asking him what the fuck he was looking at that was so interesting. I didn’t play when it came to Oya. She was like blood, but I knew she could take care of herself, so there was
no issue.
“Your guard, she is Afro-Latina. I can see it in her,” my client said, then glanced my way. “Is everything good, young man?”
Oya was Brazilian, black, and Portuguese, so he wasn’t wrong.
Taking a seat, I cleared my throat. “Unfortunately, there has been a delay in the shipment. But I give you my word that you will get what was contracted.”
“Then you will not get the rest of my money until I get my merchandise, me entiendes?” he said with a slight irritation to his voice.
Though I was ticked off, I kept everything professional. “Yes sir. That I understand,” I said, smoothing my voice out. “Which is why, to make up for the delay, I am sending you five hundred cases right now, while you wait until your full shipment comes in.”
My client snapped his fingers, then pushed back from the table, stood, and pushed back his jacket. “Once you send notice that those cases have arrived and are ready for me to pick up, I will send you your money, sí? I hate to miss this opportunity with you, young man. I see a future where we can do business together long term.”
After standing, I gave my client a nod in agreement. “Yes sir. I hope that will be the case.”
I held my hand out, and Oya laid one of my business cards in my palm. I gave it to my client’s bodyguard who stood to his left. “That is my drop-off and pickup zone. You will be contacted about when to meet there and complete half of the transaction.”
“Bien, because I’d hate to come to a disagreement. Too many have spoken well of you,” my client replied. I sensed a threat in his words.
He seemed to think that by threatening me in a quiet voice, I’d be scared, but he had the wrong one. Death, I embraced, because we all had to go at some point in time. But the thing was, I refused to go by his hand. So I was not intimidated in the least bit. I was also a killer. Had the ammo and the patience to send one of my many special bullets into his temple. One day he would learn that.
With a composed smile, I walked alongside the old man as he headed to the restaurant’s lobby. I chuckled. “They say a man’s reputation can be his curse or blessing. I embrace both. Don’t ride the bull unless you can take it by the horns.”
My client turned my way. I felt him size me up; then he extended his hand. “Sí, I think we’ll do well together. Until later.”
That was the end of my meeting with my client. I watched him leave the restaurant in style, his black limo drawing the attention of many ATLiens. But for me, it was just another way for him to show that he controlled his environment. A man with his type of power was dangerous, and he’d already shown how crazy he could be.
After leaving Morton’s, I got in my Audi and watched my team go their own separate ways. Then I whipped out of the parking lot to travel to my side of ATL. I was a hider. Where I did business and where I laid my head were two entirely different places. For a man like my client, I had to look like I had money. But in order to go back to the place where I laid my head down, I had to look like another resident of the hood. So I made it to my private garage in Marietta, swapped cars, changed clothes, then walked a mile through some woods to wait to be picked up by Shango and Oya.
Dressed in everyday clothes, they pulled up in a simple Honda Civic, and I climbed into the backseat.
“I got a text from Shredder. But I was too pissed to read it. Is everything being handled?” I said.
“Yes. Looks like our product is coming our way as planned,” Oya said.
“Just not by our hands,” Shango added.
A frown overshadowed my face as I pressed the CALL icon on my phone. “He’s down with our product,” I said as soon as the person on the other end picked up.
“Good. Ain’t no thang. Keep me updated and find out where our product went, a’ight?” came the reply.
My gaze focused on the trees as the Honda approached our familiar hood. “Yes, sir, you know I got it. I plan to leave a nice bullet between the eyes of the one who took our shit.”
“I know you do, son. The animal that is careful lives long in the forest. Ashe?” said the voice on the phone.
I smiled. “Ashe,” I replied before hanging up the phone.
I rode in the backseat in silence. Oya and Shango conversed in the front. My mind was all over the place. I needed to know who had stolen my shit and why. By the time we got off the expressway and made a right onto Upper Riverdale Road, I was more than a little annoyed. I gazed at the cemetery across from Little Giant Farmer’s Market as we passed it. Somewhere in that big place was a set of bullets and a rose lying on a marker for a man and his wife who were once the community’s only protection.
Tapping Shango on the shoulder so that he would speed up, I said, “Let’s ride out this hell and get to our hood.”
“Already on it, bro,” Shango said as we rode out.
My name was Boots, and I had an agenda that was all mine, but for now, my focus was on one thing: getting my shit.
Chapter 4
Auto
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I yelled as I punched the walls of the tractor trailer.
Code was freaking out. We all had damn near killed ourselves only to get the big rig to our hideaway garage and find out the Vikings had still gotten the last laugh. The only thing in the back of that truck was the replicas of the cars we were after. Shells of cars. Dummies.
“All of this! All of this, and for what?” I hollered. “For fucking what? They fucking baited us, and we fell for it. Meanwhile, they have our shit, and we have fucking nothing. Nothing!”
Code stood there, just eyeballing the back of the truck like she couldn’t believe what she was looking at. Out of the blue, she yelled, “Fuck!” so loud that it echoed around the whole warehouse. “Fucking fuck, Auto. What are we going to do? We’re screwed!” she cried.
All I could think about was the money and the merchandise we’d lost. I sat down on the back of the truck. I didn’t have any more strength to stand. My ribs ached. Thighs and calves were hurting like I’d overdone it in the gym on leg day. My jaw felt as if it had been knocked out of its sockets, and my shoulders were tight with tension.
Lelo and Stitch argued behind me. Lelo was pissed at Stitch for pointing out the wrong truck. Stitch was pissed at Lelo for depending on him to remember when he had a head injury. I was pissed at both of them. That was what they did, though. They were a couple who argued over everything when one didn’t get something just right. Most people wouldn’t look at them and think they were a couple. They were both males with what the world considered a thug disposition. Lelo was Puerto Rican, and Stitch was black.
None of that mattered to me. In our makeshift family/ crew, their sexuality meant nothing to us. Still, their arguing was sure to set me off soon. I needed silence so I could think. When I couldn’t think, too many voices annoyed me.
“Auto, what the fuck are we going to do?” Code asked me again. “With this shipment and the other two, we’re a million in the hole. Two Porsches, a Lamborghini, and a Bugatti that isn’t even out yet. We’re fucked! We paid all that fucking money to get it through the weigh station illegally, and they still got us.”
I stood up and started pacing the floor again. In the business we were in, you sometimes had to pay weigh-station agents to look the other way. Cars were supposed to be shipped in open fleets. Before getting into the business, I had had to learn all I could about the car-shipping industry. There was no way we could expand if we stole only cars within driving distance, so I had taken to the Internet and had studied.
Old man Law had been driving big rigs for years. When the Internet hadn’t yielded enough information, he had been the next best option. He’d shown me how the paperwork was handled. Taken me on a few routes when he drove. Introduced me to a few weigh-station agents whom he trusted. I had soaked in all he told me.
As our reputation proceeded us, people from as far away as Canada had started to request our services. One of my best clients was a Latino drug lord named Armando. Through
him I had met a Russian cartel leader, Nicola. It was because of my link to them that I had been able to find a connection to a man who ran a car-shipping company. For a little extra money lining his pockets, Chandler would exchange a few numbers on his paperwork and switch out a few cars on his fleet shipment. We’d pay him enough to compensate agents at a few weigh stations, and everything would go smoothly.
That had been our routine for the past few years. All had worked well. Until now.
Code went on. “We needed the money this lick was going to bring in. We borrowed what we lost last time from my grandfather, with the promise to pay him back with the take from this. God damn it all. I don’t feel like dealing with that old man.”
“I don’t, either. I didn’t want to borrow, anyway.”
Code sighed. “I’ll go to the bank tomorrow. I’ll make a wire transfer—”
I stopped her before she could finish. I knew what she was about to say. I’d already had to sell half my business to her when she bailed me out of a jam before. Now I had to worry about how I was going to pay her grandfather, that old man, back. There would be no way I would take more money from her.
“That fixes only half the problem,” I said. “With what we have to pay Pascal and what we have to take out for the old man, we’re still in the hole. And I’m not about to let you do that. I’m not trying to be in more debt. I already owe money. This is my problem. I should have handled Chandler the first time it happened.”
I yelled for Lelo and Stitch to stop fucking arguing. They stopped, but Stitch kept kicking one of the tires on a dummy car. The area around us smelled stale. The warehouse we were in hadn’t been used in months. The only time we used it was when we ran out of space or when we needed to hide certain merchandise until the heat died down. Transmissions, engines, old cars, fire engines, and police cars you hadn’t seen since The Andy Griffith Show were scattered about. The big windows were covered in dust and spiderwebs, which swayed in the breeze blowing through.
“I know, but what do we have left to do? We can’t risk another shipment through or from our connect in Cali until we scope out those damn Vikings more. Can’t believe old man Chandler sold us out. I need permission to handle him,” Code replied, basically pleading.
