Havoc and Mayhem
Page 1
Copyright © 1998,2018
ISBN: 978-1-54-394507-2
Check out: www.havocandmayhem.net and if you ever need a Trouble Consultant, call 845-476-4678
WARNING: THE AUTHOR IS NOT RESPONSIBLE IF YOUR BATHTUB OVERFLOWS, YOU MISS YOUR TRAIN OR BUS STOP, BURN YOUR DINNER, OR GET A BAD SUNBURN DUE TO YOUR INABILITY TO STOP PAGE TURNING. BECAUSE THIS BOOK IS THAT DAMN GOOD.
My advice to anyone who grew up during this era, the best way to read this dope time trip is the same way I wrote it. Pour yourself your favorite drink, mine is Hennessey. Put your favorite old school Hip Hop and R&B 80s classics on rotation. Let them play low in the background. Get comfortable. Now, let’s go back, way back, back into time…ENJOY.
‘It is never too late to become what you might have been.’
-Mrs. Charon L. Bonner
THE DEFINITION OF A TROUBLE CONSULTANT
A TROUBLE CONSULTANT is the last resort when it comes to settling a major beef. When you can’t squash it on your own and the police are basically waiting until somebody is outlined in chalk before they get involved, you hire The Trouble Consultant.
For a reasonable fee, he will put an end to whatever drama is consuming your life. But there are stipulations one should know before even approaching The Trouble Consultant such as: 1. He is not a hit-man, (it’s one thing to kick somebody’s ass, but killing is an entirely different matter). 2. He needs at least a week to check out your story, (this way he is not going into something blindly that could very well be the client’s fault). 3. Half the payment is expected up front before anything goes down and is kept regardless if it does or does not (prices vary depending on the assignment). 4. He will not take a job against vicious-natured women and would never strike one, (cause his mama raised him right). 5. And lastly, some jobs may be flat-out refused depending on the risk factor, (for example, The Trouble Consultant will take out a small low-level drug dealer, but he’s not single-handedly going up against a high-powered drug cartel).
Just because he can throw a punch, it doesn’t make him a superhero. He’s just an ordinary guy who can do extraordinary things.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 20
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 1
“What’s up? You’re listening to the super rocking sounds of pure hip hop on 98.7 kiss WRKSFM New York City’s number one radio station. I’m your host, Kool DJ Red Alert going berserk spinning the phattest jams you wanna hear on the one’s and two’s. And as we bid a fond farewell to nineteen eight-seven, I’m gonna play a new joint from my man, Brooklyn’s own, Big Daddy Kane. It’s called Ain’t no half stepping. Peace.”
♫Aww yeah. I’m with this. I’m just gonna sit here laid back to this nice mellow beat you know. And drop some smooth lyrics. It’s eighty-eight, time to set it straight kna’ what I’m saying and ain’t no half stepping-word! ♫
Half way through the hot track, the Trouble Consultant muted his car stereo when the push button cigarette lighter popped out. He removed it and brought the orange glowing metal cylinder to the end of the blunt hanging from his mouth. Once it was lit, he took a deep pull then exhaled and leaned back comfortably behind the wheel with a Sony Watchman on his lap and the sizzling fat blunt between his thumb and trigger finger, stone cold lampin’. Thanks to the dark tinted windows, the car’s interior was pitch black and the only sources of light came from the fiery glow of the burning blunt and the bluish haze that the watchman gave off. On the miniature screen the ageless avatar of American Bandstand’s Dick Clark was dressed warmly on the streets of New York. In the background, countless vibrant screaming people wearing party hats and plastic glasses that blinked ‘Happy New Year’, shook noisemakers and blew into plastic horns to perform for the camera.
“Welcome back to Times Square. It is now less than 3 minutes ‘til midnight when the ball will drop and this crowd will go wild. For this very moment they have all gathered. They are ready, they are anxious and they’ve all got their eyes on that lighted ball atop a seventy-foot flagpole hoisted twenty-two stories up in the air. We are just moments away from the count down to the year nineteen-eighty-eight. The ball is in place and I have just gotten word that it’s ready to drop!” The Trouble Consultant watched through tight eyes as he took a long deep toke powerful enough to make a Rastafarian pass out. After exhaling he counted along as the famous apple shaped red ball of lights began its traditional year-end descent down the long pole to ring in the New Year.
“Ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one-HAPPY NEW YEAR! Different year, same bullshit!” he said in a voice of pure gravel made rougher from an endless stream of blunts and Newports. He switched off the miniature television then laid his head back on the headrest enjoying his buzz as the night came alive with drunken shouting and gunfire on the mean streets of East New York. It was New Years, Brooklyn style. Top of the motherfucking food chain.
The blunt had The Trouble Consultant feeling no pain, but he didn’t want to get too lifted because he had a job to do, so he put it out in the ash tray for later then tilted back and put a couple of drops of Visine in each eye to get the red out. Now he was in the right frame of mind to work. He studied the intimidating-looking guard across the street standing outside of the dilapidated brownstone then cracked open a strawberry Calvin Cooler from the six pack on the floor. After emptying the bottle with one huge gulp to get rid of the dry mouth, he then fixed his stare into the rearview mirror and focused his attention on the passenger in the back seat.
“Aight partner listen up back there. This is a simple job, I’ma go in, get the goods, come back out. Piece of cake. I don’t anticipate on needing any back up. So keep your overzealous ass in the car. If I need you, I’ll call you. Are we clear?” he asked and a deep throaty grunt was heard indicating that while the message was received, it wasn’t appreciated. “Cool!” he said and went to get out. He paused snapping his fingers and removed twin Glocks with pearl handles from behind his back and tossed them under the seat. He slid leather gloves over his sharp-scarred knuckles, a bell Kangol hat on his head and covered his eyes with a pair of Gazelles. Taking one last look in the mirror, he checked the pulse on his neck. It was beating like a racehorse. He exhaled. No matter how many consulting gigs he performed in the past, the minutes right before it went down was always a little stressful. He pulled back his sleeve. “Time to make the doughnuts.”
The frosty temperature didn’t faze The Trouble Consultant as a gust of wind escorted him across the street. He pulled his collar up just beneath his dark eyes and went to the pay phone on the corner then fed it some coins. After the third ring someone picked up.
“Hello?…Yes, it’s taken care of. I’ll stop by your restaurant around closing time to collect the other half of my fee.” After hangin
g up he made a second call then turned his frown upside down when a familiar voice answered. “Hello?…Hey brat what are you still doing up?…Oh she did huh?…And Happy New Years to you too…Yeah I saw it drop…On that little TV set you and Mommy got me for Christmas…No you don’t get any New Year gifts…Because…Just because…Wasn’t Christmas last week?…And isn’t your birthday next week?…Well okay then, stop being so greedy begging Billy…Okay we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Now put mommy on the phone…I love you too…Mmmwwaa kiss-kiss…Okay bye…” The Trouble Consultant rolled his eyes at his sister’s antics. “Tee-Tee, stop playing around and put Mommy on the phone before my money runs out…C’mon Tee-Tee quit play-heyyy Mommy-O, how’re you doing?…Fine, I’m just calling to say Happy New Year, you know I can’t start off the new year without speaking to you and the brat…So you’re still coming over tomorrow?…Cool…No Ma I didn’t forget…I’m headed over to see him as soon as I leave this party…Of course I’m in a safe neighborhood,” he said surveying the area smack dab in the middle of a bad place to be even in the daytime. “…Nothing major. Just kicking it with some decent people to celebrate.” As he noticed the tough looking guard outside the brownstone frisking a shyste looking man. “Yes, I promise to be careful…No, I won’t be out too late. Stop worrying, I’ll be fine. Listen, I’m about to head inside so I gotta go. See you mañana…I love you too Ma, bye.”
The Trouble Consultant hung up feeling like a first–class heel for lying to his mother. But he knew she would sleep much easier thinking the worse that could happen to her precious baby boy was he’d wake up with a killer hangover from too much celebrating. He pushed the guilt out of his head as he approached the screw-faced guard eyeing him, while mumbling into a walkie-talkie and trying to keep warm in a red and black Lumberjack jacket, with the hat to match.
“The Hawk’s out tonight huh Big Man?” the Trouble Consultant greeted cheerfully.
“Fuck you want?” the Lumberjack growled back sizing him up and down. He was so black the Vaseline on his face had him looking like a patent leather Easter shoe.
“Any action going on inside?” the Trouble Consultant inquired.
“It’s a hoe house. There’s always action going on inside.”
“True dat!”
“So, you wastin’ my time or what?”
“Neither yours, nor mines.” the Trouble Consultant grinned then held out his arms to be frisked. As the Lumberjack started at his wrists and worked his way down to his ankles checking for weapons, he was glad he remembered to leave his guns in the car.
“Aight Money-grip, you straight.” the Lumberjack said and swung the door open so he could enter the house of ill repute.
Making his way down the narrow hall, The Trouble Consultant could hear loud music coming from up ahead. Exiting through hanging beads in the doorway he paused taking in the scenery and muttered, “Never judge a book by its cover.”
The brothel’s interior was nothing like its exterior. It was an exotic refuge from the outside world. Luxurious, warm and clean, decorated nicely with hanging plants, colorful throw rugs, matching curtains, leather furniture and glass tables. A live Christmas tree patiently awaiting to be tossed stood in the corner and a few blinking decorations adorned the walls. Bikini and hot-pants-clad women were lounging on couches, laughing, smoking weed and sipping champagne as pioneer rap group, Funky Four plus One’s song ‘That’s the Joint’, played in the background courtesy of a huge JVC ghetto blaster boom box.
With stubble on his face and caution in his eyes, the Trouble Consultant flirted back with the bevy of beautiful women as he made his way towards a woman hairier than a Wookie and the size of Jabba the Hut, furiously twisting on a Rubik’s Cube. Frustrated she couldn’t solve the puzzle, she began peeling off the colored squares and putting them back on in the correct sequence. The Trouble Consultant pegged Jabba for the resident Madam and approached the disgusting example of womanhood gone wrong.
“Hello,” he said.
The Madam glared and about sucked the filing out of her left rear molar, “So what chu want?” she growled.
“Well it’s New Years, and I can’t think of a better way to ring it in than with a woman who will, fuck for a buck, holler for a dollar, do something strange for a lil bit of change-Miss um?” he pried for her name.
“Bitsy. As in itsy,” she said. The Trouble Consultant’s amused expression asked, ‘are you serious?’ as he eyed the woman who was so ugly if she went into a haunted house, she’d come out with a job application. “Look just go on over there and choose one of dem hoes. When you’re ready come back to me for your room key. Rooms are twenty bucks an hour and whatever y’all do is between y’all. Oh, and before I forget here, you get a free bottle of Asti Spumante compliments of Diamond Ken. Happy New Year.” Bitsy said unenthusiastically as she handed him a bottle of bottom shelf champagne from the milk crate at her feet.
The Trouble Consultant nodded thanks then glanced over his shoulder at the noisy ladies partying in the back. There was every type of woman for every type of preference. Thin, thick, short, tall, long hair, short hair, black, white, Spanish and Asian. Basically, the United Nation of hoes. The effects of the cheap champagne were beginning to take control as two of the friendlier girls began dancing seductively under the mistletoe, kissing and groping one another. Drunk and caught up in the moment, one of them snatched the mistletoe down and held it just below her navel as her giggling partner puckered up and buried her face beneath it. The lewd act started a quick trend that spread throughout the room like a venereal disease and it wasn’t long before the other prostitutes were wiggling out of their clothes with no shame oblivious to the rest of the room.
The Trouble Consultant watched the rising orgy for a hot second then looked over at Bitsy and frowned. The chunky Madam was becoming aroused and licked her lips while rubbing on her cellulite marked thighs. “Hey Bitsy, wanna chill out with the self-love? You’re gonna make me throw up, everything I’ve ever ate.” he said then blocked her view with a picture. “This here is the girl I want.” he said with an all-business intensity.
Bitsy rolled her eyes at him then snatched the picture and stared at the pretty black girl with long braids covered in white beads, Stevie Wonder style. Her eyes widened then she quickly regained her composure with an uninterested pout.
“And where’d you get the snapshot?”
“I’m a huge fan.” he said unconvincingly.
“Is that right? Well sorry. She ain’t here.” she said.
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah I’m sure! What I gots ta lie to you fo’?” she snapped defensively then sipped some Asti and went back to working on her Rubik’s Cube like she couldn’t be bothered.
The Trouble Consultant could see the word ‘LIAR’ practically rise out of her forehead. He had been staking out the whorehouse for the past couple of hours and saw the girl in the picture come and go constantly with different men. He was about to cancel the job and settle for only half his consulting fee, because she obviously wanted to be there. Then ten minutes prior to Dick Clark’s countdown things switched up when he saw her try to leave and get dragged back inside kicking and screaming by a large fat man and she hadn’t come back out since.
“Hmm, now that’s funny because I heard from a very reliable source that I could find her here.” He said referring to himself.
“Well they can’t be all that reliable, cause ya heard wrong. Now like I said either choose one of them or breakout.”
“Nah I’ve got a better idea. How about I camp-out just in case she decides to come back.” he said ignoring her attitude and got comfortable on the black leather sofa across the room.
Bitsy sucked her teeth at The Trouble Consultant then gave him her back and snatched the phone off the hook. From his past experience in dealing with situations of this type he knew she was calling whoever it was she answered to. No doubt Mister complimentary champagne himself, Diamond Ken.
“Well whoever the fuck he is he ain’t a cop. That’s for damn sure. I paid them crooked bastards off yesterday. He’s more than likely just some lonely trick that heard about her vertical skills. You tell his stalker ass she’s not here and if he doesn’t want one of them hoes you got down there, then he can take his business elsewhere.” a stern voice said on the opposite end.
Bitsy glanced over at the man in question as he turned down a big-breasted woman’s advances who playfully removed his Kangol. “I already told him that, but his bald headed ass won’t leave.”
There was a long pregnant pause on the other end. “…Did you say bald?”
“Yeah he’s bald. Why?”
“…Describe this bald guy to me.” Diamond Ken asked with concern in his voice.
Bitsy clocked him as he placed his Kangol back on his head, “Well he’s a big guy, solid as a brick wall. Over six feet tall with a chest wide enough to play handball on. He looks to be in his early thirties. And his voice is crazy deep. Kinda like a cross between Barry White and Tone Loc.”
“What else?” the voice on the opposite end asked.
“Um I dunno, he’s brown skinned. He’s got a moustache and a goatee anything else you want to know?”
“Just one more thing. And this is very-very-VERY important….is he dressed in all red?”
Becoming increasingly concerned, Bitsy inconspicuously glanced back over at the mystery man who in the blink of an eye graduated from a random John, to a person of interest and studied his sharp style of dress. Just as Diamond Ken feared, everything he wore was the same crimson complexion. He was cloaked in a ruby red leather trench coat, wine colored leather gloves, an open collared magenta silk shirt, sharply creased cinnamon slacks, a copper snakeskin belt and tomato red Clarks Wallabee suede shoes. Atop his dome was a rose colored Kangol, the Gazelle frames on his face and even his argyle socks were maroon.