The Family Business

by Pete, Eric

  The Family Business

  Carl Weber with Eric Pete

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Paris - 1

  LC - 2

  Orlando - 3

  Paris - 4

  London - 5

  Orlando - 6

  LC - 7

  London - 8

  Paris - 9

  Orlando - 10

  Paris - 11

  LC - 12

  Harris - 13

  London - 14

  Orlando - 15

  Harris - 16

  LC - 17

  London - 18

  Orlando - 19

  LC - 20

  Orlando - 21

  London - 22

  Paris - 23

  LC - 24

  Harris - 25

  London - 26

  LC - 27

  Orlando - 28

  LC - 29

  Harris - 30

  Paris - 31

  London - 32

  LC - 33

  Paris - 34

  Orlando - 35

  LC - 36

  Orlando - 37

  LC - 38

  London - 39

  Rio - 40

  Orlando - 41

  Harris - 42

  London - 43

  Rio - 44

  Paris - 45

  Orlando - 46

  London - 47

  Rio - 48

  LC - 49

  Harris - 50

  Orlando - 51

  Paris - 52

  London - 53

  LC - 54

  Harris - 55

  London - 56

  Harris - 57

  Epilogue: Orlando

  Discussion questions

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  First off, I’d like to thank my co-author, Eric Pete, for the phenomenal job he did molding this story. It’s not an easy thing to take someone else’s dream and make it your own, but you did, by breathing life into the Duncans. My thanks, Eric. I look forward to working with you on our many future projects.

  To my adopted family, the Ds. If you look inside yourself, I’m sure you’ll see one of these characters. I hope you take it as a compliment and a testament of my love for you and yours. Thank you for a lifetime worth of memories.

  My thanks to Miss Martha for all the help and support you give me. As Chippy would say, “I hope you know which side your bread is buttered.” And I do.

  And last but not least, my thanks to Portia Cannon for her help in putting this whole thing together. Without you, this whole thing wouldn’t have come together.

  –Carl

  Acknowledgments

  A hearty welcome to all the readers out there who make this possible. And thanks to God, who makes it all possible.

  I see you got your hands on The Family Business, the first collaboration between me and the big dawg, Carl Weber, who was Lookin’ for Luv back in the day when I was just finding out Someone’s In the Kitchen. Get it? If not, you Gets No Love. But enough of that, let’s give thanks.

  Marsha, thank you for putting up with me. Couldn’t think of another person to keep my head above water with, making waves when we can. Best believe, we’re gonna make tsunamis one day. Just ... not ... the ... harmful ones, okay?

  Chelsea, damn proud of the lovely, intelligent young lady you’ve become. Remember ... Do great. Be great. (Couldn’t let her have my motto now, could I?) I see ya with ya guns up. Now go wreck ’em, kid.

  To all my friends and family, God has blessed me way more than I deserve with all of you in my life.

  Couldn’t do it on this book, but appreciate all my ghost readers over the years—Jacqueline, Shontea, Jackie, Jamie, Judith, Carmel, Natalie, Tommy, Nicole, Demetrius, Angela, Bob, Shelia, and Lisa. Your feedback and criticism is invaluable.

  Carl Weber, glad we were able to come together on this project. Thanks for that tap on the shoulder. We did the damn thing, huh?

  Portia Cannon, thank you for your tireless efforts on my behalf.

  To all my fellow authors, I am honored and humbled to be counted among you. Hey, in this business, ya just never know. Let’s keep it going.

  In closing, if this is your first time hearing of me, WTF? (I kid. Maybe.) Hope you kick the tires and take some of my other works, such as Piano in the Dark, Reality Check, Crushed Ice, Sticks and Stones or the upcoming Frostbite, for a spin. If you’ve been rolling, may you continue to roll.

  As before, as now, as always,

  Can’t stop. Won’t stop. Believe that.

  –Eric

  *Drops mike *

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to LC and Chip. You were like second parents to me, and I look forward to seeing you again someday.

  –Carl

  Paris

  1

  “Okay, Paris, let’s go over this one more time. What exactly did the man who shot Councilman Sims’s son look like?”

  It was late, almost three in the morning, and standing in front of me was an obnoxious New York City homicide detective with bad breath and a Brooklyn accent. He and his partner, a homely brown-skinned woman who needed to do something with her ugly-ass weave, had me sitting in a small, dimly lit room somewhere in a police station in Brooklyn. This was the fifth time he’d asked me the same damn question, and there was no doubt in my mind that he was going to ask it again, because I wasn’t saying shit.

  You see, less than two hours before, I’d witnessed the shooting of my date, Trevor Sims, son of New York City councilman and congressional candidate Ronald Sims. Regrettably, Trevor didn’t make it. He died five minutes after he was shot, right in my arms, which was why I was covered in his blood from head to toe. To say I was having a bad night was an understatement. I was having a terrible fucking night.

  “Trevor, dammit! His name is Trevor! Stop calling him the councilman’s son. He has a name,” I corrected him as tears welled up in my eyes. I would have paid a million dollars to be anywhere but where I was right then.

  “Correction, Paris. Had. He had a name,” the bad-weave bitch stressed. “Trevor’s no longer with us, because he’s dead, and we’re trying to figure out who did it. Now, I hate to break this to you, but you’re the only witness we got to his shooting, so we’re going to go over what you saw again. And, Paris, this time I want some fucking answers.”

  “Look, I told you I ain’t got nothing to say. I just wanna go home. Look at me.” I spread my arms apart so that they could see my blood-soaked DKNY dress.

  The dog-breath detective laughed. “You’re not going anywhere until we get some answers, Paris. We’ve got a congressional candidate’s son in the morgue. Do you have any idea what that means?” He paused only for a second and then answered his own question. “That means the newspapers and media are going to be crawling all over this. Which means the chief of detectives is gonna be crawling up my lieutenant’s ass, wanting some answers. Which means my lieutenant’s gonna be crawling up my ass, looking for those answers. So, until I get them, I’m gonna be crawling up your ass.”

  “You can crawl wherever the hell you want to,” I said flatly, folding my arms in defiance. “I ain’t got shit to say.”

  I stared at the cop and wondered, if Trevor’s dad were a garbageman or the janitor at Jamaica High School instead of a councilman running for Congress, would we even be going over this so thoroughly? My fellow clubgoers were being questioned all over the precinct about other victims of tonight’s shootings, but Trevor’s death was drawing the most attention
because of his father’s political connections and the fact that it was the only shooting outside the club, not inside. I was sure the mayor would have something to say about it in the morning. I just hoped they left me and my family out of it. God, my dad was gonna kill me just for being there.

  “Why don’t you have shit to say? Because of some stupid ‘no snitching’ code of the streets?” the female cop snapped. “Is that it? You got some stupid moral code?”

  I stared at her briefly, then exploded in anger. “Are you for real? Do I look like I’m worried about some moral code of the streets? Bitch, I’m wearing a ladies’ Rolex that’s worth more than both your damn salaries combined.” I flashed my wrist in front of her face. “Look, I’m a party girl, not a gangbanger. I’ve got Kim Kardashian on speed dial, not Lil’ Kim. But maybe you don’t know who I am, so let me introduce myself. My name is Paris Duncan, daughter of LC Duncan, the owner of Duncan Motors, the largest African American–owned car dealership chain in the tristate area. He donated almost a million dollars to the PBA last year, so why y’all hassling me? Maybe you need to make a few calls and find out just who the fuck I am and where I come from.”

  “We already know who you are,” she replied irately, “and personally, I’m not impressed with you or your nigger-rich daddy. I just-”

  I sprang to my feet, pointing my finger up in her face. “Don’t be talking about my father, bitch. You don’t know him!”

  “I don’t need to know him! And I’ll talk about whoever I damn well please. Now, get your finger out my face and sit your ass down before I break it and you.”

  “I’d like to see you try.” I was about to step around the desk and show her just who she was fucking with. Good thing for her that her partner cut me off.

  “Paris, please sit down. Don’t pay attention to her. She’s not going to do anything to you. Just have a seat so we can talk, please. This is about Trevor, not you and her. Let’s focus.” He guided me to my seat, then turned to his partner. “Anderson, sit your ass down!”

  Would you believe that hooker with a badge did exactly as she was told? I turned my attention to her partner, who pulled his chair up next to me, gently encouraging me to sit down, like he was on my side. I gave that heifer a smirk that said I knew who had the real power in that partnership.

  “Okay,” he said. “So, if it’s not some code, then why won’t you cooperate? We’re not the enemy here. We’re just trying to find out who killed your boyfriend, so why won’t you help us?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. He was just a good friend. We just started dating.” What I really meant was that he was a friend I never should have gone out with. “And the reason I ain’t talking is because my lawyer’s not here ... yet,” I replied. “I know my rights.”

  “You ain’t got no rights,” his partner barked.

  “Anderson, will you please shut the hell up?” he snapped so I didn’t have to. He turned to me, speaking so nonchalantly I almost felt like he meant it. “Paris, you’re not under arrest, so what do you need a lawyer for?”

  They were playing one hell of a game of good cop/bad cop, and I bet all those fools they interrogated fell for it—but not me.

  “Yeah, famous last words. I’m not trying to cause any trouble. I’m just protecting my rights. Y’all ain’t gonna get me caught up in no shit. My father told me about how cops play games and set people up, and he also told me to never say a word until I had a lawyer present.” I sat back cozily, as if I were on a piece of designer furniture at home instead of this rickety old piece of shit in a police station.

  “Look, we’re not trying to play games or entrap you. You’re a party girl ... a celebutante,” he said, making air quotes with his fingers. “I get that. But the longer we’re playing around here, the longer your boyfriend’s killer goes free. Don’t you want justice?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. How many times do I have to tell you that? And of course I want justice, but I also want to be alive to see it. Those dudes that killed Trevor are still on the street. I’m not getting involved with you so that they can come knocking on my door.” I mumbled, “I’m not stupid. I watch Criminal Minds and Law and Order.”

  “Look, Paris, we can protect you. And we’ve got a pretty good idea who these guys are, but we just need a witness—someone who can identify at least one of them—and I know you saw who did this, didn’t you?”

  I didn’t answer him, but couldn’t restrain a nod in the affirmative.

  He smiled, then said, “He was a big, dark-skinned black guy with a bald head, wasn’t he? He was the one who shot Trevor, wasn’t he?” I gave him a half nod, and he turned toward his partner with a nod of his own. “Look, Paris, all I need you to do is write down what you saw and look at a few pictures, and then you can get on out of here.”

  “That’s it?” The thought of escaping that place had me lifting my head, but I wasn’t convinced by a long shot. “That’s all you want from me?”

  “Yep, that’s it,” he said. “So, are you ready to go on the record with that? Write this down for us? Please.” He picked up a legal pad and a pen. “You write this statement and I can have you out of here in a half hour, tops.”

  “I can have her out of here right now, and she doesn’t have to write down a thing.”

  I cut a smile as my brother-in-law, Harris, stepped into the room, followed by a balding white man in a bad suit. Harris was the husband of my older sister, London. He was one of the best attorneys in New York and worked exclusively for our family business, Duncan Motors.

  “What he said,” I added, suddenly perking up.

  “Who the hell are you?” Anderson asked.

  “I’m her lawyer, and unless she’s being arrested for something, I’m taking her home.” He held out a hand to help me up out of the cheap-ass chair. “Come on, Paris.”

  “Lieutenant, she knows who the killer is,” Officer Unbe-weave -able whined to the white guy who’d come in with Harris.

  He just shrugged. “Cut her loose.”

  “Bye, guys,” I said as I snatched my purse from the table. Walking to the door, I turned to Brooklyn’s ugly-ass partner and smiled. “You impressed now, bitch?”

  I almost skipped past Harris and the lieutenant, grinning from ear to ear, until I saw the imposing figure standing in the corridor outside the door.

  “Uh-oh.” I nearly let go of my bladder and peed on myself. Just the sight of my father, LC Duncan, standing there with his trademark fedora, tailor-fitted overcoat, and gray scarf draped over each shoulder scared the crap out of me. A huge part of me would rather have gone back in the room and faced the cops than dealt with the scowl on my father’s face.

  “Daddy, I didn’t do anything. I swear.”

  LC

  2

  Eight hours earlier ...

  I walked into the large conference room of Duncan Motors for our annual year-end board of directors meeting, followed by my wife, Charlotte, who I called Chippy. Already seated at the table was Orlando, our tall, slim, brown-skinned third son. He had a phone to his ear as he worked an iPad like it was a piece of him. He didn’t say much, other than to acknowledge his mother with a wave as we took our seats. Orlando wasn’t being rude or anything; he was engaged in a phone conversation with one of our distributors about a shipment of pre-owned Bentleys for one of our six high-end pre-owned car dealerships.

  Like myself, Orlando was a workaholic. He ran a tight ship, for which the devil was in the details. He was the company’s chief operating officer, in charge of running the day-to-day operations of our dealerships. Only thirty-three years old, he was turning into one hell of a man, if I did say so myself. Of course, like everyone, he had his flaws of a sort. He had no idea I knew anything about it, but we were going to have to address it in the very near future.

  “We’re good, Pop. They turned the cars over to our guys in Maryland, and the shipment will be delivered sometime tomorrow,” Orlando called out to me with a thumbs-up before continuing his conversation. I
n addition to our pre-owned car dealerships, we also owned three Toyota dealerships, which made us one of the largest African American dealers of cars in America, as per Black Enterprise magazine.

  Chippy shook her head. “Will that boy ever learn to slow down?”

  “Somebody has to pull the load around here,” I replied, wishing the rest of my children had what Orlando possessed. They all contributed to the family business, but none of them had his work ethic. He was the first one in the office every morning and the last one out every night.

  “I heard that,” my youngest and more defiant son, Rio, chimed in as he walked into the conference room and took his seat. Rio was wearing a bright yellow paisley shirt that could be seen halfway across Queens.