by Askari
After handing over tons and tons of cocaine and heroin, and forfeiting billions in U.S. currency, The Conglomerate was forced to cut a deal. But because Noriega was already in prison, the Panamanian drug lord was no longer an option. Playing hard-ball, the C.I.A. made it crystal clear that in order for The Conglomerate maintain its existence, they had to sacrifice two of its chairman, specifically, Big Angolo and Pablo Escobar, the cocaine cowboy of Medellin, Columbia. The deal was etched in stone, and twenty-five years later, Pablo was dead and gone, and Big Angolo was a Godfather buried alive.
Vrrrrrm. Vrrrrrm. Vrrrrrm.
Big Angolo picked up his cell phone and glanced at the screen. The incoming call was a number that he didn’t recognize. He started to send the caller straight to voice mail, but his instincts told him otherwise. Reluctantly, he accepted the call and placed the phone against his right ear.
“Big Angolo?” the caller questioned.
“Who the fuck is this?”
“It’s Terrance, your grandson. Your daughter, Angela, was my mother.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Terrance,” Big Angolo spoke into the phone. “You’re the federal agent, Gervin’s muscle. I know who you are. What the hell are you callin’ me for?”
“I’m callin’ because I need to know what happened to my parents,” Gangsta explained. He was tearing up I-76, heading back to Philly. The revelation that Grip had something to do with the murders of his mother and father was eating him alive, and he needed answers.
Big Angolo sighed. “What are you askin’ me, kid?”
“I’m askin’ you if Uncle G was the one who killed my folks, and if he did, why?”
Big Angolo thought back to the day that he learned about the murder of his daughter and warm tears began to trickle down his wrinkled face. He’d made many mistakes in life, and for the most part he learned to live with regrets, but the murder of Angela and Russell was something that he would never come to terms with.
“Big Angolo?” Gangsta questioned the silence on the other end of the phone. “Are you still there?”
The old man wiped the tears from his face and nodded his head slowly. “Yeah, Terrance, I’m still here.”
“I need you to tell me what happened,” Gangsta insisted.
“Your mother,” Big Angolo spoke in a low voice, “was my beautiful angel, my first daughter, and the apple of my eye. I loved her dearly, but things were complicated back then. In the late thirties, my boss, Mr. Lucky Lucciano, sent me and my crew to Havana, Cuba to open up casinos and hotel resorts. I had a nightclub on Zanja Street, and it was there that I met and fell in love with your grandmother, Gabriella. She was drop dead gorgeous, and she stole my heart from the moment I laid eyes on her. I was struck by a thunderbolt, madly in love with this beautiful black woman.
“Over the next ten years, your grandmother became my everything. We had two beautiful children, Gervin and Angela. Now, your grandmother didn’t know it, but back in the states I had a young Italian wife named Carmen, and we had a son,” he paused for a second and thought about the recent demise of his namesake, “your uncle, Little Angolo.”
“I understand all of that,” Gangsta interrupted him. “But why did Uncle G kill my folks?”
“I’m gettin’ to it,” Big Angolo checked him. “Just let me explain the entire story, so that way you’ll have a clear understanding. Alright, now where the hell was I before you interrupted me?”
“You were tellin’ me about your two families,” Gangsta reminded him, slightly annoyed by the old man’s procrastinating.
“That’s right,” Big Angolo agreed. “Now, like I was sayin’, I was basically livin’ a double life, dividin’ my time between Cuba and the states, tendin’ to the needs of both families. But like I said, things were different back then, especially when it came to interracial relationships. It was considered taboo for a guy like me, a white man, to have a serious union with a black woman, but I didn’t care. I loved Gabriella and I loved those kids. My only problem was my boss, Mr. Lucciano. I was married to his niece, and he didn’t appreciate the fact that I had another family, especially one with a black woman. Cuban or not, Gabriella Moreno was darker than chocolate, and took pride in the fact she was a daughter of West Africa. It was rocky at first, but eventually me and Mr. Lucciano came to an understanding. Because Gabriella was living in Cuba and Carmen was back in the states, the two of them would never know about one another, and therefore Carmen wouldn’t have to live with the shame of knowing that her husband had another family with a black woman.
“Everything was working out nicely and I was able to keep both of my families happy. But in 1953, my entire world was flipped upside down. That son-of-a-bitch, Fidel Castro, made a power play to take over Cuba. We did everything we could to stick him in the fuckin’ ground, but that slippery, bushy beard havin’ motherfucker was relentless. He was heavily guarded at all times, and his banditos were ruthless beyond words. And before I knew it, the guys in my crew were dropping like flies. Murder contracts were placed on the heads of my family, and the only option I had was to get ‘em outta Cuba and bring ‘em to the states. Obviously, this presented a major rift between me and Mr. Lucciano. He understood that Gabriella and the kids were my family, but at the same time he made it clear that if I had any dealings wit’ em when I brought ‘em to America, he would have me whacked. So, unfortunately, when I brought ‘em to the states, I was forced to turn my back on ‘em. It hurt like hell and I swear to Christ that I didn’t wanna do it, but at the time I didn’t have a choice.
“For years, I was forced to watch ‘em from a safe distance, and every month I would send money through my underboss, Mikey. In 1955, Gervin went to jail for a murder, and when he came home in the early sixties, he quickly made a name for himself. By then, Mr. Lucciano was dead and gone, and because I didn’t have to worry about any backlash, I reached out to Gervin.”
“I already know this,” Gangsta interrupted him once again. “Uncle G wanted to be a made man, but y’all wouldn’t allow it because he wasn’t a hundred percent Italian. So, to earn his respect he started the black mafia and took y’all to war. I already know the history. All I’m askin’ is that you tell me what happened to my mom and dad. Why the fuck did Uncle G kill ‘em?”
“It was because of me and the alliance that I formed with your mother,” Big Angolo revealed.
“The alliance that you formed with my mom?” Gangsta questioned. “Are you tellin’ me that my mom was caught up in the streets?”
“Absolutely,” Big Angolo confirmed. “And by the time she was killed, she was arguably the biggest heroin supplier in Philadelphia. Gervin didn’t know it, but in 1971, on your mother’s twenty-first birthday, she came to see me. I couldn’t believe it, I finally had the chance to sit down and talk to my beautiful baby girl, and I was so happy. I couldn’t stop smiling. I’ll never forget this day, we were sitting in my restaurant on Oregon Avenue enjoying a nice meal and everything was great. Initially, I assumed that Angela was just a daughter yearning for the love and affection of her father, but your mother, my daughter, fugget about it.” The old man chuckled. “She had balls the size of watermelons.”
“Whatchu mean by that?” Gangsta asked him.
“She was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a chip off the ol’ block, I promise you. And it didn’t take long for me to figure out that she couldn’t have cared less about my love and affection. I mean, can you imagine? we’re sitting at my private table and I’m talking to my little girl for the first time, and the only thing she cared about was a heroin connection. I was stuck, completely speechless, and taken aback. I’m tellin’ you, kid, this daughter of mines was drop dead gorgeous, and I remember this shit like it was yesterday. She was draped in pearls, wrapped in a full length mink, and staring at me with the same blue eyes that her mother used to rob me outta my heart.”
“So, what did you do?”
“I gave her what she asked me for, and before I knew it, she was buying fifty
keys a month. Apparently, her and your father were branching away from Gervin. He was too loud, spending his time in the spotlight, and basking in the glory of being a ghetto celebrity. One day he’s riding around the slums of South Philly in a Rolls-Royce with the heavyweight champion sitting in the passenger’s seat, and then the next day he’s on the Channel 9 News acting as a bodyguard for Elijah Muhammad. Now, your father on the other hand, he was a man’s man, a gangster’s gangster. He was the quiet type. He walked lightly and carried a big stick, so naturally him and Gervin would often bump heads.
“In 1973, about a year before your parents were killed, they broke away from The Moreno Family and started their own thing. Your mother was the brain and your father was the brawn. Gervin was livid, especially when he found out that Angela and Russell were getting their heroin from me. Rumor had it that he placed a murder contract on your mother, but because she was pregnant at the time, he told his goons to wait until she gave birth. Then after she had you, they killed her.”
“Who?” Gangsta asked. “Who killed her?” By now, he was breathing heavy and warm tears were running down the sides of his face. “It was Grip and who else?”
“It wasn’t Gervin,” Big Angolo said. “It was that skinny motherfucker, Muhammad, and that school boy. I forgot his name, but I heard he’s a judge in the federal court.”
“Gregory Johnson,” Gangsta blurted out. “Judge Gregory Johnson.”
“Exactly,” Big Angolo confirmed. “That’s his name, Gregory Johnson. Supposedly, he killed your mother and father to solidify his position in The Moreno Family.”
“But, what about the newspaper article?” Gangsta pried. “It said that Grip was the one who killed my folks. The district attorney had a witness who saw him leave the house immediately after the shootin’, and they said that he was holdin’ me in his arms.”
“That’s news to me,” Big Angolo claimed. “As far as I knew, he had Gregory and Muhammad make the hit. Anything outside of that was never brought to my attention.”
An eerie silence invaded the airwaves as both men sorted through his thoughts. Big Angolo was thinking about Angela’s beautiful face, and Gangsta was thinking about the man who raised him, the same man who robbed him of his mother and father.
“Hey, Terrance,” Big Angolo broke the silence. His voice was calm and steady. “What the hell is goin’ on out there? I told Gervin and Little Angolo to put their differences aside and come together for the sake of our family’s legacy. What the fuck happened?”
“Power,” Gangsta insisted. “Those arrogant mutha’fuckas couldn’t stand the thought of being on the same level, so to settle the score once and for all, they chose to wage war on one another, with Sontino and Carmine doin’ all the dirty work.”
“Sontino?” Big Angolo questioned. “Who the fuck is that?”
“He’s Grip’s grandson, and the new boss of The Moreno Crime Family.”
“Gervin has a grandson?”
“He has two of them, Sontino and Rahmello. And the crazy part about it, Sontino wasn’t even fuckin’ wit’ him. Actually, Sontino was try’na kill him, but being the slimy mutha’fucka that he is, Grip found a way to manipulate Sontino into trustin’ him.”
“So basically,” Big Angolo interjected, “Little Angolo and Gervin were puttin’ my great-grandsons on a collision course, just so one of ‘em could out do the other, and solely inherit my empire?”
“Yep, that’s exactly what happened,” Gangsta told him.
“Alright, so what about the Mexicans? How in the hell did they get mixed up in it?”
“The Mexicans?” Gangsta asked. “What Mexicans?”
“You know, the Sinaloa Cartel, them crazy sons-of-bitches down in Texas. Did Gervin use them to go after Little Angolo and Carmine?”
“The Sinaloa Cartel?” Gangsta questioned. “Big Angolo, you lost me.”
“Goddamnit, the fuckin’ Mexicans!” The old man overstated. “They’re the ones who whacked Little Angolo, and now they’re comin’ for Carmine. And speakin’ of Carmine, I just called him a few minutes ago and he didn’t answer. I’m thinkin’ they might’ve whacked him, too.”
“I don’t know,” Gangsta spoke the truth. “Grip never told me nothin’ about the Mexicans, but at the same time, I wouldn’t put it past him. Ever since he returned to the states, he’s been killing any and everything that could possibly stand in the way of him takin’ over The Conglomerate. He even killed Joey.”
“Joey?” Big Angolo raised his voice. “Gervin whacked Joey? Why?”
“Because Joey knew too much. He knew about The Conglomerate, and once Little Angolo was outta the way, Grip knew that Joey would come for his spot.”
“Goddamnit,” Big Angolo snapped. He was shaking with rage and doing everything in his power not to break the phone in half. “What the fuck is Gervin thinkin’?” he continued to shout. “Is he losin’ his fuckin’ mind?”
“I don’t know, fam, but calm down,” Gangsta told him. “You shoutin’ all in my mutha’fuckin’ ear. Just take a minute to calm down.”
Big Angolo took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He started to say something, but stopped when he heard a voice at the door. It was Mitchell. He was patrolling the tier when he heard the old man shouting. “Mr. Gervino,” he spoke in a low voice, just above a whisper. “Keep it down, you’re gonna get us pinched.”
Big Angolo ice-grilled him, then quickly pulled off his left shoe and threw it at the door. “Get the fuck away from my goddamned cell.”
“I was only try’na tell you that you’re too loud,” Mitchell explained. “If somebody hears you, we’ll both be in trouble.”
“Goddamnit,” the old man bellowed. He tossed his other shoe and it crashed into the door with a loud bang. “If I gotta say it one more fuckin’ time, I’m gonna rip your head off and shove it down your fuckin’ neck. Now get:”
As Mitchell walked away from the door, Big Angolo returned his attention to Gangsta. “Listen, kid, I know a way that we can fix this shit, but I’m gonna need your help.”
“I’m all ears,” Gangsta replied. “Whatever I gotta do to take down Grip, I’m ready to make it happen. That slippery mutha’fucka killed my folks, and I can’t rest until I get him outta here.”
“That judge of his, I need you to pay him a visit,” Big Angolo spoke in a clear voice. “And before you whack him, you have to get him to sign an arrest warrant and extradition papers for Joaquin Alverez.”
“It’s funny you mentioned this bitch ass nigga,” Gangsta said as he parked his Ford Excursion a block away from the Judge’s estate. “He’s at the top of my shit list.” He ejected the spent magazine in his P89 and replaced it with a fresh one.
“Whatever you do, Terrance, just make sure that you get him to sign the papers.”
“Trust me,” Gangsta replied in a chilly voice. “He’s gonna do a whole lot more than sign some mutha’fuckin’ papers. This is the beginning of the reckoning.” He cocked a bullet into the chamber, and then disconnected the call.
***
Hidalgo County, Texas
“Mijo, where are you?” Chatchi spoke into his cell phone. He was sitting behind his desk at The Honey Comb Gentleman’s Club. A mountain of cocaine was sprawled out on top of the desk, and he was so high that he couldn’t feel his face.
“We’re at the Marriot Hotel in Center City, Philadelphia,” Jorge informed him. “We’re waitin’ for the next move, so whatever you want done, just let us know and we’ll carry it out to the tee.”
Chatchi leaned forward and pressed his face against the glistening white mountain. After inhaling the white powder, he coughed a couple of times and then sat back in his chair and wiped the residue away from his face with the back of his right hand. He was sweating like a glass of cold water in the middle of a desert, and he couldn’t stop his jaw muscles from flexing.
“Before I cut Chico’s heart out and fed it to my German Shepherds, he mentioned the name Olivia Nunez,” Chatchi told him. “I
want you to talk to Diablo, him and Roberto were close. Ask him if he knows anything about this chica named Olivia.”
“Gimmie a second,” Jorge spoke into the phone. “I gotta go wake him up, he’s out in the living room sound asleep on the couch.” As he spun around to leave the room, he jumped backwards and dropped the phone on the floor. The tatted up assassin was standing right behind him.
“Who’s next?” Diablo asked.
“Don’t be sneakin’ up on me like that, eh,” Jorge shouted at him. He was clutching his chest with his left hand and his eyes were bigger than golf balls. “You almost gave me a heart attack, homes. Don’t be doin’ that shit.”
“Who’s next?” Diablo repeated his question. He couldn’t have cared less about Jorge’s complaining. He had one mission, one mission only, and that was to slaughter the mutha’fuckas who kidnapped and murdered Roberto.
“Olivia Nunez,” Jorge said after calming himself down. “Are you familiar with the name?”
Diablo squinted his eyes. Olivia Nunez was a name that he was all too familiar with, and he cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner. “She was Roberto’s girlfriend,” he stated in a cold, heartless voice. “The bitch broke it off a lil’ while back, but Roberto was still in love wit’ her.” He looked at Jorge with a sinister glare. “That bitch had somethin’ to do wit’ this, didn’t she?”
“I’m not sure,” Jorge said as he held up his index finger, gesturing for him to wait a second. He reached down to pick up his cell phone, and then placed it against his ear. “Chatchi, you still there?” He listened closely, but the only thing he heard was a loud snort.
