Blood of a Boss III

by Askari

  Big Angolo was crushed. He never trusted the Mexicans and he stated as much time and time again. He also advised Carmine and Little Angolo to keep away from the drugs, but they wouldn’t listen. Now, they had to deal with the consequences and there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Poppo,” Carmine sobbed. “You still there?”

  “Yeah, Carmy, I’m here.”

  “I don’t know what to do, Poppo. You gotta tell me what to do.”

  “Listen Carmy, you need to go see Gervin. I’m pretty sure that the two of yous can figure this shit out.”

  “Grip? Are you friggin’ kiddin’ me? We’re basically goin’ to war with the Morenos, and you want me to ask him for help?”

  “A war?” Big Angolo questioned. As far as he knew, Grip and Little Angolo were playing for the same team. That was the stipulation they agreed to when he left them his position in The Conglomerate. He made it pellucid that his two sons had to bury the hatchet and come together as one family.

  “Yeah, Poppo, for the past couple of weeks, we’ve been havin’ some serious issues. Grip returned from Cuba and whacked one of my soldiers. I told Gramps about it and he told me to put the son-of-a-bitch outta his misery. I thought you knew about this.”

  “Absolutely not,” Big Angolo snarled through the phone. “What about The Conglomerate? Those degenerate fucks were supposed to be managing my seat, together as one.”

  “The Conglomerate? Your seat? Poppo, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “You mean they never told you about The Conglomerate? They never told you about their inheritance?”

  “They? Who’s they?”

  “Your grandfather and your uncle.”

  “Uncle Joey?”

  “No, you nitwit. I’m talkin’ about Gervin. My son. Your goddamned uncle,” Big Angolo snapped. “I left those sons-of-bitches my seat and they promised to merge our families. The Gervinos and Morenos!”

  “Poppo, I’m lost.”

  Big Angolo needed some time to calm down. He laid the phone at the foot of his bed, and then went to his sink for a drink of water. Frustrated, he splashed his face with two handfuls of warm water, and then returned to his phone call.

  “Carmy,” he said after picking up the phone. “I’m talking about the two families that sprang from my loins, The Gervino Family and The Moreno Family. Me, myself, I’m the progeny of Charlie ‘Lucky’ Luciano. Lucky was my boss, and in 1937, he gave his blessing to branch out and start my own family in Philadelphia. I had two sons, Gervin and Angolo Junior. Your grandfather became the boss of my family, and Gervin did his own thing. But nevertheless, they both came from me. This is my bloodline. This is my legacy.”

  “Poppo, I understand that much, but what about The Conglomerate?” Carmine asked. “What’s that?”

  “In 1952, Mr. Luciano started The Conglomerate. It was meant to be the biggest crime syndicate in the world. La Cosa Nostra was specifically designated for the Italians, but The Conglomerate was something much bigger. At the time, Mr. Luciano was in exile, deported back to Naples, Italy. He handpicked ten different bosses from ten different countries, and I was selected to represent the United States. Together, me and the other nine bosses became The Conglomerate. Your grandfather was supposed to have talked to you about this. As the boss of my family, you’re next in line, and now that he’s gone, you automatically inherit half of my seat.”

  Carmine was silent. None of what Big Angolo was saying made any sense to him. If this so-called “Conglomerate” was so important, why didn’t Big Angolo tell him about it? “So Poppo, how do I get in touch with these other bosses? And what am I supposed to do about Chatchi?”

  “As far as the other bosses, you let me worry about that. Now, as far as the Mexicans, they also have representation in The Conglomerate. Chatchi’s brother Joaquin holds a seat. He’s currently locked away in a Mexican prison camp, but he’s still a chairman of The Conglomerate. I’m gonna reach out to him and hopefully I can fix this shit before it goes any further.”

  “All right, now what about Grip? How am I supposed to reach out to him when he’s gunnin’ for me?”

  “Don’t worry about Gervin,” Big Angolo assured him. “I’m gonna fix that as well. But for now, just lay low and keep your eyes open. And unless I tell you otherwise, trust no one, absolutely no one.”

  “All right, Poppo.”

  Click.

  “Mr. Gervino,” the U.S. Marshal whispered into his cell and held up his watch. “We’re cuttin’ this thing kinda close.”

  “Just gimmie a couple of more minutes, Mitchie. There’s another call I gotta make.”

  The U.S. Marshal looked up and down the tier, making sure that none of his fellow Marshals were coming. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he pressed his face against the gated window and said, “All right, Mr. Gervino, but make it quick.”

  Big Angolo reached inside of his shirt pocket and pulled out his miniature-sized Bible. He flipped it open to the first book of Psalms and removed the small piece of paper that he used as a book mark. He unfolded the piece of paper and then carefully dialed the numbers that were scribbled on the inside.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  ***

  Back at La Casa Moreno

  Grip and Sonny were discussing his trip to Cuba when Gangsta stormed into the office with a crazed look on his face. “I’ve gotta kill this mutha’fucka,” he stated to no one in particular. “He’s too close. He could fuck around and ruin everything!”

  “Yo, who are you talking ‘bout?” Sonny asked him.

  “Sullivan, that nut ass detective bul,” Gangsta replied with his arms stretched out wide. He took a deep breath, and then slowly paced back in forth.

  “Gangsta, will you sit your black ass down,” Grip commanded with a voice full of agitation. “Just cool out and sit the hell down somewhere. Damn.”

  “Uncle G, this shit is real. They got Murder’s cell phone. All they gotta do is subpoena the phone records and I’m done. Everything we’ve been workin’ on would have all been for nothin’. I’m tellin’ you, we’ve gotta kill this mutha’fucka before it’s too late.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Grip replied while leaning back in his swivel-chair. “I’ve decided to take you to Cuba with me. Your work here is done.”

  Gangsta sighed. “But I’m sayin’, though, Murder and Malice are dead. How the fuck did the cops know about the hit on Little Angolo in the first place?”

  “It’s a new day, my little nephew, a new day, a new time, a new generation, and a new regime. My number one priority is Sontino, and to make his transition as comfortable as possible, it was imperative that I clean house. Murder and Malice had to go, and the same rules applied to Joey.”

  “Clean house?” Gangsta looked at him like he was crazy. “That was your work? You’re the one who lined them up?”

  Grip scowled at him with a deadly expression, and his silence spoke volumes.

  “Yo, that’s crazy,” Gangsta protested. “Murder and Malice was like family. They’ve been ridin’ wit’ us for years, and that’s how you do ‘em?”

  “Boy, you better watch it,” Grip cautioned with a raised eyebrow. “My decision was my decision, and that’s the end of it, you understand?”

  Disgusted, Gangsta shook his head and stormed out of the office. Sonny was speechless. Being from the streets, he’d never saw the police as a means of waging war. But in the same vein, he realized that his grandfather was conducting business on an entirely different level, a level in which politicians, federal judges, and worldwide crime figures came together for one common cause, that almighty dollar.

  Vrrrrrm. Vrrrrrm. Vrrrrrm.

  Grip’s cell phone vibrated on his desktop, breaking the silence. He picked it up, glanced at the screen, and then looked at Sonny. “Excuse me, Sontino, I need to take this in private.”

  “More or less,” Sonny said while standing to his feet. As he headed towards the door, he held up the documents for M&R Real Estate, and
looked at Grip with a quizzical expression.

  “They’re already signed,” Grip stated. “Just add your signature and the company’s yours.”

  “More or less.” Sonny nodded his head and then left the office.

  When the door closed behind him, Grip accepted the incoming call. “Old timer,” he addressed his father. “You finally got around to callin’ me, huh?”

  “Cut the shit, Gervin. What the hell is going on out there?” Big Angolo barked at him.

  “I don’t know father,” Grip said with a sarcastic undertone. “Enlighten me.”

  “The goddamn Mexicans whacked your brother.”

  “That’s not my problem,” Grip replied in a nonchalant manner, even though he was intrigued by the new information.

  “That’s not your problem? What do you mean that’s not your problem?” Big Angolo retorted. “I told the two of yous to come together for the sake of the family. You need to live up to your end of the deal.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Abso-fuckin-lutely. And I just got off the phone with Carmine. He told me that you and Little Angolo were takin’ shots at one another. Why?”

  Grip chuckled. “You’re a wise man. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  “Gervin,” Big Angolo stated with authority, “stop fuckin’ around. This is serious. The Mexicans whacked your brother and you have to respond. It’s the only way. Nobody, and I mean nobody, gets away with bringing harm to my family.”

  “That’s your family,” Grip shouted into the phone. “Not mine. Me, my mother, and my little sister, we were your family, and look at the way you treated us. You abandoned us, you son-of-a-bitch. You brought us to America and then turned your goddamned back. So, don’t you ever talk to me about family.”

  Big Angolo sighed. “Gervin,” he stated in a pleading voice, “please, I’m beggin’ you, do not force my hand.”

  Grip laughed at him. “Force your hand? You have no hands. They belong to me now. Everything that you ever had belongs to me. Now, lay down on your fucking bunk and stare up at the ceiling, knowing that the bastard son that you threw away like yesterday’s trash was the same one who defeated you.”

  Click.

  Chapter Ten

  The Creek Side Apartments in Bensalem, Pennsylvania

  Jasmyn was stretched out, sound asleep on her living room floor. After watching the six o’clock news and learning that Sheed was one of the victims in what they referred to as “The Broad Street Massacre,” she broke down crying, devastated from heartbreak. Four hours later, there she was sprawled out in nothing but a wife-beater and a pair of pink boy shorts.

  Chrrrrrn. Chrrrrrn. Chrrrrrn.

  Sluggishly, she lifted her head from the carpet and looked around the room skeptically. She was so caught up in her grief that she didn’t even realize she fell asleep on the floor.

  Chrrrrrn. Chrrrrrn. Chrrrrrn.

  The intercom box that was positioned on the wall beside her front door was ringing non-stop. Irritated, she hopped off of the floor and ran towards it. “Who the fuck is this?” she shouted after snatching up the receiver. “And why the fuck are you blowin’ up my goddamned intercom?”

  “Whoa, toots. Calm down, it’s just me,” Fat Petey announced his presence. He was standing outside of her building, cautiously looking around the parking lot. “Lemme up, I need to talk to you.”

  “Now’s not a good time, Pete. I’m sorta goin’ through somethin’,” Jasmyn stated in a voice that was much calmer.

  “Goin’ through somethin’? Is that a polite way of tellin’ me you have company?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” she clarified. “A close friend of mines was murdered today, and I’m really fucked up about it.”

  “Damn, toots, I’m sorry to hear that,” Fat Petey said in a compassionate voice. “But I really need to talk to you. It’ll only take a couple of minutes. I’m hopin’ you can help me out wit’ somethin’.”

  Jasmyn took a deep breath and exhaled. As bad as she wanted to turn him away, she couldn’t. For the past year, Fat Petey had done so much for her and her daughter. He even gave her the deposit money to put down on her apartment. “All right, Pete, but no funny business.”

  After buzzing him inside of the building, she cracked the door, and then plopped down on her suede love seat. A couple of minutes later, Fat Petey appeared in the doorway. He was breathing heavy and beads of sweat were glistening on his forehead.

  “Goddamnit,” he said after finally catching his breath. “Those two flights of stairs was like climbing up the Statue of friggin’ Liberty. Damn.”

  Jasmyn smiled at his witty remark, but deep inside she was hurting. To keep him from getting any ideas, she pulled the bottom of her wife-beater over her knees, covering her pink boy shorts.

  Fat Petey closed the door and locked it. Unzipping his coat, he approached the love seat and sat down beside her.

  “All right, Pete, what’s good?” She scooted over so he could have enough room on the love seat and looked him square in the eyes.

  “We had a little problem at the club a couple of weeks ago, and I was hopin’ that you could shed some light on the situation.” He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

  “A problem like what?” she asked nervously. Her eyes were moving back and forth between his face and his iPhone, and her body temperature was steadily rising. Although they were friends with benefits, Fat Petey was a made man, and she knew firsthand how dangerous the mob could be. “I didn’t steal anything,” she quickly declared. “So, if something’s missing, I swear to God it wasn’t me:”

  “Calm down, toots. There’s nothin’ missin’.” He pulled up the video footage and then handed her the phone. “Who’s he? I need to know his name and whatever else you can tell me about him.”

  Jasmyn looked at the screen and squinted her eyes. The footage was a little dark, but it didn’t stop her from seeing herself standing in front of Egypt. They were posted up in front of the bar talking.

  “Obviously, the two of yous know one another, so who is he?”

  She looked at him skeptically, deciding whether or not to answer his question. “Why? What did he do?”

  “What did he do?” Fat Petey replied in a sarcastic voice. “He butt-fucked a couple of nuns. What do you friggin’ care? Do you know him or not?”

  She sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know him, but I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he waved her off. “Just tell me his friggin’ name.”

  “His name’s Egypt.”

  “And what do you know about him?”

  “He’s from North Philly.”

  “And?”

  “He’s a major dude in the city.”

  “All right, now this is where I really need you to help me,” he said condescendingly. “Who does he work for?”

  “The bul, Sonny. Egypt and his twin brother Zaire, they both work for Sonny.”

  “Sonny?” Fat Petey screwed up his face. “Who the fuck is Sonny?”

  “You know, the Moreno bul. The one who’s been on the news all day. His grandpop is supposed to be the boss of The Black Mafia. Matter of fact,” she perked up, “now that I think about it, Egypt probably had somethin’ to do with my friend gettin’ killed. Shit, I hope y’all murder his black ass.”

  Fat Petey looked at her like she was crazy. “Hold on, wait a minute. I never said nothin’ about whackin’ him. I only wanna talk to him.”

  “Umm hmm, is that what y’all call it these days,” she used her index fingers to indicate quotation marks, “talk to him?”

  Fat Petey laughed at her as he stood to his feet. “You’re funny, Jas, real fuckin’ funny. You shoulda been a comedian. But look, do you have somethin’ to drink? I’m a little thirsty from climbin’ up all those steps.”

  “I think there’s some soda in the fridge, want some?”

  “Yeah, that sounds pretty good right about now.”

>   Jasmyn got up from the love seat and walked into the kitchen with Fat Petey a couple of steps behind her. As she opened the refrigerator door and leaned forward to grab the bottle of soda, Fat Petey reached inside of his coat and pulled out a .45 semi-automatic that was equipped with a three inch silencer.

  Jasmyn paused and an awkward feeling spread throughout her body. She glanced over her right shoulder just in time to see Fat Petey aiming the pistol. “What the…”

  Pfft. Pfft.

  The hollow tips erupted from the barrel and blazed through both of her cheeks. Her little body slammed against the refrigerator door and she dropped the bottle of Pepsi that was clutched in her right hand. Dazed and disoriented, she attempted to crawl away but another bullet crashed into her left shoulder and she fell back into the refrigerator. Blood was pouring from the gunshot wounds to her face, and her left arm was completely numb. Crying and begging for her life, she looked into the silencer’s little black hole.

  Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.

  ***

  Back At La Casa Moreno

  Rahmello opened his eyes and smiled when he saw Olivia. She was lying on the bed beside him and gently wiping the sweat from his brow with a warm rag. “Oli,” he said just above a whisper. “Where’s my brother?”

  “He’s downstairs,” she said with a smile, and then softly covered his face with kisses.

  “Where are we?” He asked while looking around the large room. The large California king-size bed that they were laying on was positioned in the center of the room, elegantly placed on a platform with a two-step drop. Polished mahogany furniture decorated the room. The walls were painted a crispy white, and a gold fan equipped with a crystal bulb was dangling from the ceiling. “Whose house is this?”