by Askari
Grip knocked down his double-shot of Henny, and then reached inside of his wooden cigar box and removed a Cohiba cigar. As he clipped off the ends of the stogie, Joey strolled inside of the office with a satisfying smile on his face. He was dressed in a black, Fendi embossed, alligator-skin jacket, a pair of Levis, and black alligator-skin boots. At 5’10”, 185 pounds, he was the spitting image of a young Little Angolo. His dark brown eyes were wily and cunning, and the slight crook in his nose was a tell-tale sign of the twelve years he’d spent in prison. His slicked back hair was faded on the sides and connected to a neatly lined five o’clock shadow.
Grip stood to his feet and embraced his nephew with open arms. After giving him a warm hug and kissing both of his cheeks, he took a step backwards and admired Joey’s gangster.
“You did a good fucking job, Joey. Real good,” he praised him. “The shooters on the motorcycles was a classic move, and the bomb inside of the hearse was fucking priceless. I couldn’t have done it better myself.”
“Fugget about it,” Joey replied, “It was nothin’.”
“Modesty,” Grip acknowledged while sparking up his Cohiba and taking a light pull. “I like that.” He returned to his seat and motioned for Joey to take a seat by the door.
“So, what are we gonna do about the old man?” Joey asked. “You know he’s gonna be pissed off, right?”
Grip lounged back in his swivel-chair and blew out a thick cloud of smoke. Slightly rocking back and forth, and gazing up at the ceiling, he imagined the look that would cover his father’s face when he realized that his little black bastard from Cuba found a way to outsmart him and snatch the carpet from underneath his feet. Grip smiled, knowing that Big Angolo couldn’t do anything to stop it. Aside from being locked up in a maximum security federal prison, the ninety-eight-year-old man was weak and irrelevant. And the biggest mistake he ever made was going out of his way to make things right with his first born son.
Two years ago, he relinquished half of his empire to Grip, making him and Little Angolo the inheritors of his seat as a chairman of The Conglomerate. Grip and Little Angolo were instructed to share his power in a 50/50 split, but neither was willing to concede. Stuck in a stale-mate, they decided to go behind Big Angolo’s back and wage war on one another, with their grandsons doing all of the dirty work. If Carmine won the war, The Gervino Family would hold the power, but if Sonny won, The Moreno Family would reign supreme. Grip had no intentions of losing this war, and with Sonny tucked away in his back pocket, he was destined to be the most powerful man in the country.
“My father won’t be a problem,” Grip said as he returned his gaze to Joey. “The board is already acknowledging me and Little Angolo as the inheritors of his seat, so basically there’s nothing that my father can do at this point.”
“All right, but what about Sontino?” Joey inquired. “Eventually, he’s gonna figure out that Carmine had nothin’ to do with his father gettin’ whacked, and when he does...”
Grip chuckled and waved him off. “Don’t worry about Sontino. I’ve got him right where I want him, trust me. Now, that fucking Carmine,” he took another pull on his cigar and blew out the smoke, “he’s the one we need to be concerned about. He’s more powerful than he realizes, and if he ever learns about The Conglomerate and the position he inherited by your father making him the boss of the family, he could prove to be a major fucking problem.”
“And that’s the reason we put him and Sontino on a collision course. Sontino’s gonna fuckin’ crush him.”
“Absolutely,” Grip confirmed with a devilish grin. “And knowing my grandson, he’s going to do it sooner rather than later. I told him to lay low for a few months and not to make a move against Carmine, but that was the battery in his back to make him do the exact opposite. In many ways, Sontino’s a chip off the ol’ block.” Grip smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “You kill my dog and I’ll murder your cat, that’s the Moreno mentality, and Sontino has shown it time and time again when we had our problems in the past. So, you mark my words, the first opportunity he gets to take out Carmine, he’s going to make the best of it.”
Joey took a deep breath and sighed. “There’s one thing, though.”
“Oh yeah, and what would that be?” Grip asked, looking at him sideways.
“The bomb that blew up Easy’s hearse, that wasn’t my work,” he confessed.
“Huh?” Grip replied with a confused expression written across his face. “Well, if you didn’t place the bomb inside of the hearse, who did?”
“I’m assuming it was the same mutherfuckers who whacked him,” Joey submitted, shrugging his shoulders as the words left his mouth.
Silently, Grip searched his mind for a logical explanation. “I don’t think that’s possible. Everybody knows that Sheed was the one who murdered my son.” He looked off into the distance and gently messaged his beard. “You know what, Joey, now that I really think about it, Rasheed wasn’t capable of making such a hit. The use of explosives was a little out of his reach. Damn it.” He banged his fist against the desktop, exuding his frustration. “How in the hell did I overlook such a critical detail? Whoever whacked Ervin, they stuffed him in the trunk of his car, and then blew the mutherfucker up.”
Grip flexed his jaw muscles and cracked his knuckles one by one. “Maybe your father was one who whacked him.”
“Not at all,” Joey said while shaking his head from left to right. “Carmine was handlin’ all of the business, and trust me, Sontino and Easy weren’t even on his radar. He was too busy cleanin’ house.”
Grip looked at him for a few seconds and then lounged back in his swivel-chair. “Well, whoever it was, I’m going to make it my business to find out. I can’t afford any fuck ups. It’s too late in the game for that.”
Simultaneously, they both received incoming calls. Grip’s Samsung vibrated in his pants pocket, and Joey’s iPhone vibrated in his jacket. They looked at one another skeptically, and then slowly reached for their smart phones, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Grip looked at his touch-screen and saw that the caller was Gangsta. He held up the phone allowing Joey to see the identity of his caller, and Joey did the same, showing him Carmine’s contact information.
“Hello,” they said in unison.
“Uncle G, I just received a call from Murder. She told me that somebody whacked Little Angolo before they could get to him. I’m assuming that the hit came from Sontino.”
“All right, Gangsta. Thanks for keeping me updated.”
Grip looked at Joey and noticed the smile on his face. He smiled back, knowing that the gist of Joey’s phone call was the same as his, Little Angolo was a done deal.
Joey disconnected the call and placed the phone back in his jacket pocket. He was just about to tell Grip about the beef between Carmine and Chatchi, but he never got the chance. He noticed a slight movement in Grip’s blue eyes, and then turned around to see what the old man was looking at.
Whack.
The wooden handle of a double-barrel shotgun crashed into his nose, knocking him out of the chair. His vision became blurred and his legs wobbled like spaghetti noodles. He tried to stand up straight, but another blow from the wooden handle knocked him to the floor.
As Muhammad continued to bash Joey in the head, Grip hopped up from his desk and unfastened his belt buckle. After pulling the leather belt from his waist, he jumped on top of Joey, and wrapped it around his neck. Joey kicked his feet and struggled to get free, but Grip’s powerful tug on the leather belt was just too strong.
“Sssshhhh,” Grip whispered in Joey’s ear as he forcefully choked the life out of him. “Just let it go, my little nephew. Just let it go. It’s all over now.”
Joey’s struggles became weaker by the second. His olive complexion became a dark burgundy and thick veins protruded from his forehead. Slowly, begrudgingly, inevitably, the man who was once the face of La Cosa Nostra dwindled off into the spirit world.
Satisfied, Grip looked at Muhammad
and nodded his head. The second phase of his takeover was almost complete. The only thing left for him to do was kick his feet up and let Sonny deal with Carmine.
***
Back In South Philly
Detective Sullivan looked from right to left taking an assessment of the maximum carnage that surrounded him. The Crime Scene Unit was out in full force, working in groups of three. Expeditiously, they were taping off the crime scene with yellow police tape, taking photographs, and placing white markers on the ground to identify the hundreds of bullet fragments and empty shell casings. Little Angolo was sprawled out on the steps with half of his head missing, Tony Bruno was stretched out in the street with the top half of his body tucked under his Cadillac, and the two Cuban beauties, Malice and Murder, were covered in blood, slaughtered beyond recognition.
“Sully, what the hell happened?” a voice spoke up from behind.
He looked over his shoulder and saw his partner, Detective Sabastian Phoenix, walking towards him. The two detectives shook hands and approached the shot-up Dodge Challenger.
“A friggin’ massacre,” Detective Sullivan stated while shaking his head disdainfully. “That’s what the hell happened.”
“So, I’m assuming this was retaliation for the shooting at Ervin Moreno’s funeral,” Detective Phoenix reasoned.
“It appears that way,” Detective Sullivan said as he pulled open the passenger’s side door. He reached inside of his trench coat pocket and pulled out a small flashlight. He shined the light inside of the Challenger and moved it around the front seat.
“What’s that?” Detective Phoenix asked. He was standing behind Detective Sullivan, pointing at the center console. “It looks like a cell phone.”
Detective Sullivan shined the flashlight on the cell phone and then leaned forward to grab it. “Sabastian, I need an evidence bag. You got one?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Detective Phoenix answered while patting his pockets. “Let me check with the C.S.U. guys.” As he walked away looking for an evidence bag, the Apple iPhone vibrated in Detective Sullivan’s hand. He glanced at the screen and the caption read, “Gangsta (267) 555-2011.” The name didn’t ring any bells but the number was familiar. He accepted the call and held the phone to his ear.
“Hey Murder,” Gangsta’s voice came through the phone. “It’s gonna take me longer than I expected to get rid of this mutha’fucka, so when y’all get back to the house, just chill, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Silence.
“Murder?”
Silence.
Detective Sullivan couldn’t believe it. The caller was DEA Agent Terry Long. The number struck him as being familiar, but the second he heard the caller’s voice, he didn’t doubt for one second that Gangsta was Agent Long. He reached inside of his pants pocket and quickly removed his cell phone. After punching in the telephone number of the incoming call, the caption on his LED screen read, “Agent Long (267) 555-2011.”
“You son of a bitch,” he said to himself as he glanced back and forth from one screen to the other.
“Sully, I found an evidence bag,” Detective Phoenix announced while walking up behind him with the plastic bag dangling from his right hand. He noticed the distant look on his partner’s face and asked him, “Sully, what’s wrong? What happened?”
Detective Sullivan was looking at Murder’s cell phone, and noticed that the call ended a couple of seconds ago.
“Sully, what’s wrong?”
Detective Sullivan showed him the last incoming call, and then held up his own phone to show him Agent Long’s phone number. Detective Phoenix examined both of the screens, and then looked up at his partner. “Umm mmm mmm, and the plot thickens.”
Detective Sullivan carefully placed the iPhone inside of the evidence bag and headed towards his unmarked car. “Come on, Sabastian, we need to get back to the station. It’s time to start connecting the dots.”
***
At a Landfill in Montgomery County
Gangsta was standing beside the five foot ditch that he’d just finished digging to bury Clavenski’s remains. A shovel was gripped in his right hand and his cell phone was clutched in his left. Confused by the silence on the other end of the phone, he said her name, “Murder?”
Silence.
What the fuck, he thought to himself as he listened closely, sifting through the noise in the background.
“Sully, I found an evidence bag,” he heard someone say. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it quizzically. He placed it back to his ear and realized that the voice belonged to Detective Phoenix, and the “Sully” he was talking to was Detective Sullivan.
Yo, how the fuck?
“Sully, what’s wrong? What happened?” He heard Detective Phoenix say. He quickly disconnected the call and dialed Grip’s number.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Hello,” Grip answered in his deep voice.
“Uncle G, we’ve got a major fuckin’ problem.”
“Lemme guess, Murder and Malice, right?”
“Yeah,” Gangsta replied with a raised eyebrow. “How did you know?”
“I’m looking at the news,” Grip answered. “The cops killed them in front of Little Angolo’s house.”
“Hey, yo, Unc, they got Murder’s cell phone. I just called her and Sullivan’s freak ass was the one who answered. Not only did he hear my voice, he had to have seen my number pop up on her screen.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Grip replied. “Just finish doing what you’re doing and then get back to the house.”
Click.
Chapter Six
Temple University Hospital
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Rahmello’s heart monitor was calm and steady. His fiancée, Olivia Nunez, was standing beside his hospital bed nervously watching the green line bounce across the screen. Her mother, Marisol, was sitting in the wooden rocking chair beside the door, and directly outside of the room, posted in the hallway, were two of Grip’s bodyguards. Initially, the tall, neatly dressed Muslim men wouldn’t allow the two women inside of the room. But after they received a call from Sonny, the women were granted access.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Olivia’s petite body cringed with ever high-pitched beep. She was gently caressing Rahmello’s hand and studying the heart monitor, praying that the green line continued to bounce up and down. She looked at Rahmello and broke down crying. Dressed in nothing but a white hospital gown, he was stretched out on the Craftmatic bed with his left leg propped up in a sling. The damage to his femoral artery was immense. He’d loss so much blood from the gunshot wound that according to his doctor, the odds of him waking up from his coma were 50/50 at best. And even if he did wake up, there was a slight chance that the lack of oxygen to his brain may have caused irreparable damage. The test results from his CAT scan were currently being examined by the hospital’s neurologist and Olivia was anxiously waiting on the final determination.
Warm tears trickled down her beautiful face and dotted his hospital gown. The sight of him sent chills down her spine. An intravenous needle was stuffed in his left arm and the tubes that protruded from his nose were connected to the oxygen tank on the other side of his bed. His eyes were closed and his chest rose up and down with his every breath.
Long breath. Long breath. Long breath.
Olivia was devastated. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that her father was responsible for Rahmello’s condition. It seemed as though whenever she found love, Poncho would somehow take it away. First, it was the man that she met two years ago while vacationing in Cancun, Mexico. His name was Roberto Alverez, but to the Mexican boxing world he was known as “La Rattan.” The name was given to him for his unique boxing style. At a combined record of 41 wins and 0 losses, he won every single fight by trapping himself in a corner of the ring, and then just like a rat, ferociously fighting his way out, dismantling his opponents in the process. The fighter was Mexico’s Welterweight Champion, and he quickly
became the love of Olivia’s life.
Unfortunately, when Poncho found out about their relationship, he demanded that Olivia break it off with the young Mexican. He also vowed that if Roberto ever came to the United States looking for her, he would have him killed. That was eight months ago, and in the process of dealing with her heartbreak, Olivia met and fell in love with Rahmello. He was loving. He was caring. He was passionate. He was strong. He was handsome. He was hers. And now, all because of her racist father, he was stretched out on a hospital bed fighting for his life.
“Baby, wake up,” she encouraged him with a face full of tears.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“I’m so sorry that this happened to you and your family,” she continued in a soft voice as she continued to caress his left hand. “This is all my fault.”
The beeping of the heart monitor intensified and his breathing became harder, faster.
“My Papi was the one who did this to you,” she said while laying her head on his chest. “Him and my brother killed your father, and they shot up his funeral.”
“Olivia,” her mother protested. “Ju stop dat right now,” she scolded her daughter in her thick Columbian accent.
“No, Mami. If I would have told him from the beginning that Papi was the one who killed his father, none of this would have ever happened.”
“Escucha me?” Marisol questioned as she got up from the chair and folded her arms across her chest.
“Yes, Mami, I heard you. But I don’t care anymore,” Olivia continued to cry. “Fuck Papi.”
Marisol screwed up her face and disrespectfully spat on the floor. Her daughter was betraying their family right before her very eyes. “Ju are no longer my daughter,” she hissed, refusing to accept Olivia’s treachery. “Ju are nothin’ to me.”
