Blood of a Boss III

by Askari

  Troutman had it all on video, and the last thing he recorded was Daphney and Egypt sharing a juicy kiss in the middle of the street before she hopped back in the Benz and returned to the estate. Now, she was climbing out of the SUV and strutting across the driveway with a slight limp.

  Taking a deep breath, Troutman grabbed his iPad from the passenger’s seat and prepared an email that was addressed to Sonny. After pressing Send, he shook his head from left to right, and settled back in the driver’s seat. “Sontino’s gonna be fuckin’ pissed.”

  ***

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “Leave it,” Egypt’s voice came through the speakers, replacing his automated answering service.

  Beep.

  “Eyg, where the fuck is y’all niggas at?” Sonny questioned. He was using the Bluetooth in his Porsche Spyder and cruising up City Line Avenue. “I’ve been callin’ you and Zaire for damn near an hour. It’s a lot of shit goin’ on, and the three of us need to get together as soon as possible. So, hit me back the second you get this message. And Eyg, wherever you at, watch ya body, bro.”

  After disconnecting the call, he reclined back in his butter leather seat and continued cruising. The heat was bumping, the windows were cracked, and the Kush smoke was heavy and thick. He thought about calling Daphney to tell her he was sorry, but he didn’t. The streets were hectic enough and they demanded his undivided attention. Stopping at a red light, he looked to his left and saw the TGI Fridays where he and Mook had a meeting with Grip two years prior, right before Mook was murdered. When the traffic light turned green, he whipped into the empty parking lot, and stopped in the same exact spot where he and Mook were sitting in Mook’s Bentley. He threw the transmission in park, and then took a long pull on his Backwoods. As he exhaled the smoke, he reflected back on the conversation they had just minutes before Mook made his proposal to Grip.

  ***

  Two Years Earlier

  “Yo, you know I believe in you, right?” Mook took a pull on his Backwoods, and then looked over at Sonny, who was reclined in the passenger’s seat, gazing off into the distance.

  “You believe in me?” Sonny looked at him skeptically. “Whatchu talking ‘bout, bro?”

  “I’m talking ‘bout you and ya potential,” Mook said as he exhaled a cloud of Haze smoke. “Outta all my young buls, I just want you to know that I’m expectin’ the most outta you.”

  “Outta me?” Sonny raised his voice a couple of octaves. “Me, Sheed, and Tommy be doin’ the same exact shit, so why are you expectin’ the most outta me? What makes me so different?” He leaned across the center console, reaching out for the Backwoods, and Mook passed it to him.

  “Don’t get it twisted, I fucks wit’ Tommy and Sheed, but you...You’re cut from a different cloth,” Mook tried to explain. “Them niggas grew up and made a choice to embrace the streets, but niggas like you and me, we was made for the streets. The same shit that niggas like Tommy and Sheed need to think about, is the same shit that’s second nature for niggas like you and me. We’re not the same. Some niggas was born to lead, and others were born to follow.”

  “But what if you’re givin’ me too much credit?” Sonny asked, and then took a pull on the Backwoods. “Who’s to say that I’m not a follower, opposed to bein’ a leader? I mean, shit,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I follow you.”

  Mook smiled, appreciating the confidence that his young nigga had in him.

  He grabbed the Backwoods from Sonny and took a deep pull. Exhaling the smoke, he said, “In order for a nigga to be a great leader, he has to learn how to be a great follower first. I wasn’t always the leader that you see today, I used to follow behind my ol’ head, Alvin. I watched him closely and studied his mannerisms. I studied the way he talked, the way he walked, the way he treated his family, the way he treated his team, and the way he dealt wit’ these mutha’fuckas in the streets. He was a true to life boss, and he showed me the blueprint. He taught me how to win, and over the past few, I’ve been teachin’ you everything that he taught me.”

  He hit the Backwoods once more and then tossed it out the window. Returning his gaze to Sonny, he said, “Now, as far as ya’self, ya pop was a boss nigga, and the best of that nigga was passed down to you. I’m tellin’ you, Sonny, the streets are yours for the takin’, but first you gotta learn how to watch these niggas. They fear what they don’t understand, and they hate what they can’t conquer. But most of all, and you can mark my words, everybody has an agenda, niggas and bitches. So you really gotta watch these mutha’fuckas, especially, when it comes to makin’ and maintainin’ this money.”

  “Bro, where is this shit comin’ from?” Sonny asked, still looking at him skeptically. In a weird way, he had the feeling that Mook knew that something bad was about to happen to him on some Tupac type of shit, and that he was dropping these jewels while he still had the chance. The feeling was so intense that warm tears were welling at the rims of his eyes and his trigger finger was beginning to itch.

  “Yo, calm down,” Mook said as he reached across the center console and wiped away the single tear that fell from Sonny’s left eye. “I love you like a son, and I’m only tellin’ you the same shit that Alvin told me. This is the blueprint, and if you take it and run wit’ it, you can’t go wrong. I mean, look at me and the moves that I made over the years. That little three bedroom project down Richard Allen done turned into a muthatfuckin’ mansion, and that lil’ cherry-red Lex I was pushin’ done turned into a fleet of nothin’ but foreigns. And this is the crazy part, my crib’s so secluded that I ain’t even gotta take the keys outta the ignitions. I just hop in one of them mutha’fuckas and be out. This is the life, my nigga. And if you play the game the way it’s ‘posed to be played, you can make it ya destiny.”

  Sonny looked at him and nodded his understanding. “I feel you, bro. But on some real shit, I already know what it takes to win. I just need you to tell me what it takes to lose, so that way I can do everything in my power to avoid it.”

  Instead of responding, Mook shot him a look that said, Fuck outta here wit’ the bullshit. You know damn well what it takes to lose.

  Sonny smiled at him mischievously. “A’ight, man, damn. But if there was one thing that trumped everything else, what would it be?”

  “The tongue,” Mook replied without an ounce of hesitation. “Sayin’ the wrong thing to the wrong mutha’fucka can put a nigga down faster than anything else.”

  “Damn,” Sonny said, looking at him with a shocked expression. “The tongue, though? Out of everything that can bring a nigga down, you chose to put the tongue at the top of the list?”

  “Absolutely,” Mook confirmed. “I mean, look at it like this, if every fish in the sea kept his mouth shut, they’d never get caught.”

  Sonny shook his head and smiled. “More or less.”

  ***

  Back to the Present

  After reminiscing about one of the last conversations that he had with Mook, Sonny realized that he couldn’t afford to make a slip, especially with Grip lurking in the background. He wanted to trust the old man, but he couldn’t, his handshake wasn’t matching his smile. The older Moreno was quick to stress the importance of family, but when they found out the Columbians killed Easy, he didn’t even care. He was only concerned about Mexican Bobby and the Sinaloas. And most importantly, why was he so willing to hand over his empire? There had to be a reason and Sonny was determined to find out.

  Everybody has an agenda, Mook’s voice resonated in the back of his mind. So, you really gotta watch these mutha’fuckas, especially when it comes to makin’ and maintain’ this money.

  The nostalgic thoughts of his big homie brought tears to his eyes. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come to terms with the fact that his grandfather was responsible for killing his best friend and father figure. There was simply no way he could let the old man get away with what he had done. Retribution would come eventually, but first he needed to know more about this organization t
hat Grip referred to as “The Conglomerate.”

  Vrrrrrm. Vrrrrrm. Vrrrrrm.

  He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “An email?” Sonny said aloud, looking at the screen with a screwed up face. “Why the fuck is Troutman sendin’ me an email? He could have just called.” He pressed the Gmail symbol at the top of the screen and meticulously read the message.

  Sontino, you need to see this! It’s a video of your wife!

  “A video of Daph?” He scratched his head. “Yo, what the fuck is this nigga talkin’ about?”

  After downloading the attachment, he went to his video App and pressed play. Looking at the video, it didn’t take long for him to realize what was going on. His young bul was fucking his wife, and together, they were plotting to take him under.

  Hate.

  Anger.

  Punishment.

  Revenge.

  Those were the four words that bounced around Sonny’s mind as he sat there looking at the video. “These rotten, ungrateful mutha’fuckas,” Sonny said to himself as he shook his head in contempt. He was watching the portion of the video where Egypt and Daphney were parked on Lawrence Street, making the Benz rock back and forth. “After all the shit I did for you mutha’fuckas, y’all really gone do me like this? Me, though?”

  A couple of minutes later, the video was showing the Benz truck pulling into the driveway of his stash house, and Sonny damn near jumped out of the car. “Yo, what the fuck is y’all doin’?” For twenty minutes straight, duffle bag after duffle bag, he watched his wife and one of his closest friends stab him in the back. Infuriated, he called Egypt’s cell phone. But once again, he didn’t answer.

  “Call Nipsy,” Sonny spoke into his Bluetooth.

  The phone rang a couple of times, and then Nipsy’s voice came through the speakers. “Big homie, what’s poppin’?”

  “Aye, yo, Nipsy, call Egypt on the three-way for me, and if he answers don’t tell him I’m on the phone,”

  “A’ight, but whatchu want me to say?” Nipsy asked. He could sense that something was wrong, but he knew better than to question Sonny’s motive.

  “Just tell him that you need some work for the block, and that you’re comin’ through to pick it up,” Sonny instructed. He fired up a Newport and sat there waiting to see if Egypt would answer.

  “Hol’ up, bro. I’m callin’ this nigga right now.”

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “Nipsy, what’s poppin’?” Sonny could here Egypt’s voice come across the airwaves. He started to snap out, but he remembered the conversation that he had with Mook. Sayin’ the wrong thing to the wrong mutha’fucka can put a nigga down faster than anything else.

  “Aye, yo, Nipsy, what’s up dawg?” Egypt was beginning to lose patience with the silence on the other end of the phone.

  “Ain’t shit, bro. I’m just try’na get right wit’ one of them white bitches you be fuckin’ wit’.”

  “Oh yeah,” Egypt paused for a second. “A’ight, well talk to me. I talk back. You need a skinny bitch, or a fat one?”

  “I only need a skinny,” Nipsy said, indicating that he was looking for a half of a brick, opposed to a whole one.

  “A’ight, just get at me in the mornin’ and I gotchu.”

  “A’ight,” Nipsy agreed. “That’s a good look. But, when and where do you want me to meet you?”

  “I’m at the spot on M&M. Just come through around eight o’clock.”

  “A’ight, bro, I’ll see you then.”

  Click.

  After making sure that Egypt was no longer on the line, Nipsy spoke to Sonny. “Bro, you heard him?”

  “Yeah, I heard that pussy ass nigga,” Sonny replied.

  “So, whatchu want me to do?” Nipsy asked.

  “Meet me at Club Infamous in about an hour,” Sonny told him. “And come by ya’self.”

  Click.

  After disconnecting the call, Sonny threw the transmission in gear and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. His destination was Southwest Philly, and the man he was going to see was known for knocking the noodles out of a mutha’fucka’s biscuit. He activated his Bluetooth and said, “Call The Reaper.”

  ***

  Back at ADX Florence

  U.S. Marshal, Wayne Mitchell, was working a double shift at the behest of Big Angolo, and although he would have much rather been lying in bed beside his beautiful wife, because he was needed at the prison, he was there. The young Marshal knew exactly who Big Angolo was, and he respected that in which the old man represented, power.

  There wasn’t a soul on the compound who didn’t respect Big Angolo. The Italian mafia was hands down the most successful criminal enterprise that the world had ever seen, and with the help of Hollywood classics such as The Godfather, Casino, and Goodfellas, the mob became America’s taboo infatuation. And for the people who occupied the super-max prison, it was somewhat of an honor to be in the presence of a true to life mafia don, a man who was groomed and molded by the legendary “Boss of All Bosses,” Mr. Lucky Lucciano, himself.

  “Mr. Gervino,” Mitchell whispered into his cell. “Here.” He opened the tray slot and handed Big Angolo the manila envelope. “I’ll be making my rounds at the top of every hour, so when you’re finished taking care of business, just flag me down to get my attention.”

  “Alright, Mitchie, thanks.” He removed the phone from the manila envelope and stood in front of the window. Taking a deep breath, he punched in the password, called Carmine, and placed the phone against his ear.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  “I’m friggin’ busy,” he heard Carmine’s voice. “Call back.”

  Beep.

  “Goddamnit,” Big Angolo expressed his frustration. He hated the fact that his grandson was so rude, and he wished that it was 1964 instead of 2014, so that way he could have rolled up his sleeves and taught the young punk a lesson or two. “Call me as soon as you get this message.”

  He laid the phone on the window sill, and then looked down at the snow covered compound. For as far as he could see, there were barb-wire fences, concrete slabs, pull up and dip bars, basketball courts, and a fifteen-foot-high concrete wall that the prisoners used to play handball. “Me and my crazy life,” the old man said aloud as he slowly shook his head from side to side. His life on the inside was rough, but had he really wanted to, he could have escaped ADX Florence years ago, but he couldn’t. His being there was the only way that the federal government would allow The Conglomerate to maintain its existence.

  The Conglomerate was officially founded in 1952 by Lucky Lucciano, but its connection to the federal government, namely the C.I.A., began ten years earlier, in 1942. It was during the second world war, and the United States military was so focused on sending their troops to eastern Europe that they quickly became short staffed on the home front. Fearing a sabotage on the eastern seaboard, the U.S. military in conjunction with the C.I.A., sought to beef up security on the New York harbor, specifically the docks along the west side of Manhattan. At the time, the docks were controlled by the local unions, and the unions were controlled by Lucky Lucciano, who was serving a fifty year sentence in upstate New York. Seeking to curry favor with the United States government, Mr. Lucciano agreed to have his soldiers secure the harbor, and he promised the C.I.A. that nothing would leave or come through the docks without his approval. This was the first of many deals between the C.I.A. and the mafia.

  The second deal was in 1948, immediately after the war. Attempting to break up the labor strikes that were put in place by the Facist regime, the C.I.A. once again called upon Mr. Lucciano. During the war, the Facist regime, headed by Hitler and Mussolini, had essentially wiped out the mafia in Italy. But as the American liberating forces moved throughout Sicily, Southern Italy, and France, with the help of Mr. Lucciano, they reconstructed the mafia as a tool to break up the labor strikes. In turn, the mafia was given the green light to resurrect the European heroin trade that was reduced to nothing under the Facist regim
e. Historically, this became the origin of the heroin network known throughout the world as ‘The French Connection’.

  In the end, Mr. Lucciano was tremendously rewarded. He was granted a pardon and “deported” back to Italy, where the C.I.A. placed him at the helm of the world’s heroin trade. Being the master-mind that he was, Mr. Lucciano formed a partnership with the biggest cocaine and heroin suppliers from South America to Asia, and together they became The Conglomerate. In 1952, with the support of the C.I.A., they submitted a petition to the United Nations, requesting the authority to operate as a worldwide entity, with a clear understanding that they would take care of the U.N’s dirty work whenever they were called upon to do so. The petition was granted, and they were given free rein to conduct business on a worldwide scale.

  Indecorously, in 1989, Manuel Noriega, one of the largest cocaine suppliers in the world and a chairman of The Conglomerate, was getting too big for his britches. Aside from being mixed up in the infamous Oliver North/Iran Contra scandal, he was financially supporting the Contadora Treaty, a grassroots movement that was calling for peace in Central America. The upper echelon of the C.I.A. was furious because the conflicts in Central America had been propagated by them as a means of justifying the United States’ invasion of Nicaragua and Panama, where cocaine was being confiscated and shipped back to the states to be distributed throughout the inner cities. Enraged, the C.I.A. wanted Noriega to pay with his life. They reached out to Big Angolo, the sole inheritor of Mr. Lucciano’s seat in the wake of his death, and told him that they wanted The Conglomerate to dispose of Noriega in the same manner that they had done to Patrice Lumumba and Che Guevare. Unfortunately, this presented a major problem. Unlike Lumumba and Guevara, Noriega was one of their own and they flat out refused to assassinate him, and as a result, the C.I.A. made The Conglomerate its number one target in America’s so-called “War on Drugs”.