by Askari
“And you’re saying this because...”
“I know G.J., and when I told him the news about Sontino, he was distant, almost to the point it seemed as though he didn’t even care. That’s not like him at all.”
“So, how do you suggest we move?” Muhammad asked as he stuffed his hands down in his pockets.
“We’re gonna play it by ear,” Grip said as he dug in his sweat pants pocket and pulled out a cigar. After removing the stogie from its case, he gestured for Muhammad to give him a light. The skinny man lit the tip of the Cohiba, and Grip took a long pull. “Where the hell is Gangsta?”
“I don’t know.” Muhammad shrugged his shoulders. “I asked the men and nobody’s seen or heard from him in the last hour.”
“Goddamnit,” Grip sighed, assuming the Sinaloas were already declaring war. He lifted up his cell phone and scrolled through his rolodex. Stopping on Joaquin’s number, he pressed the call button and placed the phone against his right ear.
Chapter Nineteen
Judge Johnson’s Upper Darby Estate
“Pussy, what he say?” Gangsta snarled as he snatched the phone from G.J.’s trembling right hand. The chubby black man was sitting on the concrete floor of his basement. His left hand was cuffed to the furnace on the back wall, and his wife, Alicia, was sprawled out on the floor beside him.
“Oh, so now ya punk ass ain’t got nothin’ to say,” Gangsta antagonized him. “You right.” He stuffed the iPhone in his back pocket and then reached down to scoop up the wooden baseball bat that was lying on the floor beside Alicia’s bashed in head. Clutching the baseball bat with both hands, he raised it over his head, and then looked down at G.J. with a face full of hate. “Y’all mutha’fuckas killed my peoples and now y’all gon’ join ‘em.”
Crack.
The tip of the bat crashed into the left side of Alicia’s head and her warm blood splattered in G.J.’s face.
“Come on, Terrance, she’s not even breathing,” the judge cried out, regretting the day he didn’t kill that crying ass baby when he and Muhammad killed Angela and Russell. “There’s no reason to keep hitting her. Can’t you see that she’s fucking dead?”
“Shut ya faggot ass up,” Gangsta commanded. The blood-covered bat was cocked above his head and he was ready to take another swing. “Y’all mutha’fuckas didn’t have any compassion when y’all killed my folks, so why the fuck should I have compassion now?”
Crack.
Judge Johnson cried like a newborn baby. The sight of his wife’s bloodied corpse was like a dagger to the heart and the pain was immense. “She’s already gone, Terrance. For the love of God, just leave her alone.”
Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles, and a thousand other blind mutha’fuckas could see that Alicia was no longer among the living, but Gangsta didn’t give a fuck. The sound of the wooden baseball bat slamming against her lifeless body was like music to his ears. And besides, he took pleasure in watching G.J. cringe with every devastating blow.
“I’ll tell you what,” Gangsta said as he lowered the bat and reached down to wipe the blood out of G.J.’s eyes. “If you sign an arrest warrant and extradition papers for Joaquin Alverez, I’ll spare you the image of me choppin’ this bitch up and tossin’ her stankin’ ass in the furnace a limb at a time.”
G.J. looked at him like he was crazy. “Why would I help you?” he shouted. “You’re going to kill me anyway, so fuck you.” He conjured up a thick wad of snot and hocked a loogie in Gangsta’s face.
Tfft.
The yellowish saliva landed on Gangsta’s nose and dripped down to his top lip. Looking at Judge Johnson, he stuck out his tongue and slurped up every drop. “Wrong fuckin’ answer.” He raised the baseball bat above his head and swung down with a brute force.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
“Goddamnit, Terrance, stop.”
“Stop what?” Gangsta shouted. His chest was heaving up and down and his face was dotted with Alicia’s crimson-red blood. He pointed the baseball bat at the front of her swollen face and shouted, “Nigga, you see this bitch? You see her?”
Judge Johnson took a peek and then quickly looked away. The left side of Alicia’s face was completely crushed. Her right eyeball was dangling from the socket, partially attached to a pink piece of flesh that resembled a stretched out Laffy Taffy, and her contorted mouth was wide open.
“Now, stop fuckin’ around and put them documents together,” Gangsta demanded.
“No,” the judge shouted. “I’m not doing a goddamned thing. Fuck you.”
Gangsta scowled at him and tossed the bat across the basement floor. “A’ight, so I see I’ma have to turn up the heat in this mutha’fucka.” He pulled down the lever on the right side of the furnace and the small iron door opened up wide. An intensifying heat spread throughout the basement, and the burning embers inside of the furnace illuminated his face with a bright red glow.
“Pussy, you gon’ put them documents together.” He whipped out his P89 and aimed the barrel at G.J.’s groin. “One way or the other.”
***
Cartagena, Columbia
Standing on the balcony outside of his master bed room, Juan Nunez was completely at peace. A silk bathrobe from The House of Versace was wrapped around his skinny frame, and his neatly pedicured toes were spilling out the front of his Hermes slippers. A six-inch corn-pipe was nestled in the right side of his mouth and the sweet fragrance of the finest marijuana hung in the air, elegantly blending with the cool breeze that rolled in off of the Atlantic Ocean. His large estate was settled on the northern coast of Columbia, and for as far as he could see, there was nothing but miles upon miles of pitch-black water. The bright, full moon illuminated the calm waves below. Off in the distance, he spotted the silhouette of a large dolphin leaping in the air and submerging back in the water with a silky smooth splash.
He and his younger brother, Poncho, had come a long way from growing up on a coffee plantation in the mountains of Medellin. And now, after thirty plus years of trafficking cocaine, he was hours away from solely inheriting Pablo Escobar’s seat as a chairman of The Conglomerate. The position was once divided between him and Poncho, but this was no longer the case. A half an hour ago, he received a phone call from Chatchi Alverez, and the Mexican kingpin informed him that he had information linking Poncho to the kidnapping and murder of his nephew, Roberto. Not only did Chatchi threaten to take him and Poncho to war, he promised that if Juan didn’t do something to rectify the situation, the cartel would shut down the pipelines they used to smuggle their cocaine into the states. Certainly, both scenarios were unacceptable.
As he stood there smoking his pipe and watching the tide roll in, the glass door that separated the balcony from his master bedroom opened up wide and a beautiful Columbian woman dressed in a skin-tight nightgown appeared in the threshold. She had a honey-brown complexion and the face of a young Pam Grier. Her large breasts were firm and round, and the cool air that rolled off the shore made her gum-drop nipples pop like turkey-testers. The thickness of her thighs and hips were reminiscent of Mother Africa, and the curly black hair that flowed down the length of her back carried the aroma of coconuts.
Juan knew the young woman was standing behind him, but his brown eyes never left the ocean. Slowly, she approached him and kissed the left side of his neck.
“Papi,” she addressed him in a husky voice, “ju have a phone call.” She reached her arms around his waist and handed him the iPhone.
He passed the corn-pipe to his beautiful companion, and then spoke into the cell phone. “Speak.”
“Juan, we have major trouble,” Poncho blurted out.
“Is dat so,” Juan replied nonchalantly. “Trouble of what type?”
“It’s de Mexicanos,” Poncho vehemently stated. “I think dey know what we done to Roberto.”
“Ju make such a claim, why?”
“Not only Chatchi, but Jorge too has been callin’ me back to back for de last half
an hour. I’m tellin’ you, dey know what we done. And above all else, I think dat somethin’ is wrong wit’ Marisol. I talk her a few minutes ago, and den all of a sudden de phone went dead. I tried to call her back, but she no answer.”
Juan turned his head to look at the woman and gestured for her to give him some privacy. When the balcony door closed behind her, he continued talking. “Did ju send somebody to check on her?”
“Si,” Poncho quickly confirmed. “I sent Estaban and tol’ him to bring Marisol and Emilia back to de hotel.”
“Where’s Chee-Chee?” Juan asked. “Is he close by?”
“He’s right here, sittin’ at de table by de window. We’re in de same hotel room at de Red Roof Inn. Why?”
“Put him on de phone.”
The phone went silent and a few seconds later, Chee-Chee’s voice came across the airwaves. “Nola, papa.”
“It’s time, Chee-Chee. Kill him.”
“Si, papa.”
The line went silent and Juan listened closely. He never imagined the day would come that he had to kill his own brother, but Poncho left him no choice. When he spoke to Juan a couple of weeks ago telling him that he wanted to kill Roberto, Juan told him not to do it, but Poncho was persistent. Eventually, Juan deferred to his brother’s desires, but only under one condition, they had to use someone else to make the hit, and that’s when they made their proposal to Sonny. The plan was to have Sonny kill Roberto, and then they would kill him to cover their tracks. Unfortunately, Poncho failed to make the hit at Easy’s funeral, and now the Sinaloas were seconds away from hopping on that ass.
Juan took a deep breath and wiped away the tears that dripped from his brown eyes. The iPhone was still pressed against his ear and he could hear the popping of Chee-Chee’s pistol as the bullets snatched the life out of his only brother. This was hands down the toughest decision that he ever had to make, but Poncho made his bed and now he had to lay in it.
“Jeffe,” Chee-Chee spoke into the phone with the calmness of a trained killer. “It is done.”
“Good. Now, leave de hotel and drive to de airport. My private jet is waiting for ju.”
“Si, papa.”
Click.
After disconnecting the call, Juan dialed Chatchi’s phone number, and then returned the phone to his ear.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Mijo, tell me what I want to hear,” Chatchi demanded when he accepted the incoming call.
“We are even,” Juan spoke in a low voice. “De situation has been rectified.”
“That’s only for now, mijo, only for now. My brother, Joaquin, will make the final determination. So, until then, if I was you, mijo, I’d play it real cool. Comprende?”
“Comprende.”
“And don’t forget,” Chatchi reminded him. “We meet tomorrow night at The Waldorf in New York City.”
Click.
***
Back in North Philly
When Sonny and The Reaper pulled up in front of Club Infamous, they noticed that Nipsy was already there. He was standing on the corner of Broad and Erie, dressed in all black, and shuffling from side to side, attempting to keep warm. His frost-covered, fur-lined hood was pulled down low, blocking most of his face, but Sonny could still see it was him.
“Yo, who the fuck is main man?” The Reaper asked. He was pointing at Nipsy and looking at Sonny with a raised brow. “And why the fuck is he just standin’ there?”
“That’s my young bul,” Sonny said as he turned off the car and removed the key from the ignition. The Reaper shot him a funny look, and when he reached for the door handle, The Reaper leaned over the center console and pushed him back against the driver’s seat.
“Double R, what the fuck is you doin’?” Sonny snapped, looking at The Reaper’s right hand pressed against his chest. “Is you fuckin’ crazy?”
“Somethin’ like that,” The Reaper replied as he slowly pulled away his hand. “But more than anything, I’m the nigga that Mook would have wanted to watch ya back and keep you safe.”
“Watch my back?” Sonny looked at him like he was stupid. “Keep me safe? Yo, I don’t know if Mook ever told you or not, but I’m a fuckin’ monster.”
“Oh yeah,” The Reaper challenged. “So, why the fuck you call on me?”
“Because two monsters is better than one.”
“Absolutely,” The Reaper agreed. He picked up his shotgun and casually wrapped his left hand around the pistol-grip. Looking at Nipsy, he said, “So, that’s ya young bul, huh?”
“Ain’t that what the fuck I just said?” Sonny retorted.
“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure that was the same thing you used to say about the little niggas who crossed you. So, who’s to say this mutha’fuckas any different? For all we know, he could have a gang of shooters in the tuck just waitin’ to hop out and start blastin’ at any given second.” The Reaper was from the old school, and with twenty-three bodies under his belt, he was a firm believer that death was always around the corner.
“This is a different situation,” Sonny assured him. “Just follow my lead.” As he climbed out of the Porsche, Mook’s voice resonated in the back of his mind. Everybody has an agenda, so you really gotta watch these mutha’fuckas.
The freezing cold weather smacked him in the face, but he didn’t care, he was on a mission. Looking up and down Broad Street, it appeared to be a typical Friday night. The Checkers restaurant on Germantown Avenue was serving up Champ burgers and apple nuggets. Broad Street Eddie’s was serving up watered down drinks. And the BBQ truck that occupied the corner of Germantown and Erie had the three-way intersection smelling like a Kansas City rib shack.
After gesturing for The Reaper to get out of the car, he flagged down Nipsy and pointed at the black Suburban that was parked in the middle of the block.
***
“Yo, Daph, I’m lookin’ at this stupid mutha’fucka right now,” Egypt spoke into his iPhone. He and Zaire were sitting in the Checkers’ parking lot, discreetly tucked behind the tinted windows on the Ford Bronco that they borrowed from Chino about an hour earlier. Egypt received a phone call from Nipsy saying that he needed some work, but it didn’t take long for Egypt to realize that the call was a set-up. After talking to Nipsy, he heard the phone click and a second later he heard Sonny’s voice come across the air waves. Apparently, Sonny was secretly listening on the three-way. But when Nipsy attempted to end the call, he somehow left Egypt on the line.
“Daph, did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, I heard you,” she replied in a distant voice. She was looking through the blinds on her living room window, staring at the black Chevy Impala that was parked across the street from her house. “Don’t you know that mutherfucker had somebody following me?”
“He had somebody following you?” Egypt asked. “Who?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but he’s an older white man. I noticed him a little after I left your house. At first I didn’t think anything of it, but when I turned off of Cheltenham Avenue and hopped on Route 309, the motherfucker was still behind me. He followed me all the way back to the house.”
“Damn,” Egypt said as he kept his eyes on Sonny. He was standing in front of his Porsche and talking to a medium-built, dark skinned man that he’d never seen before. “I’m sayin’, though, how can you be so sure it wasn’t the feds?”
“Trust me, it’s definitely not the feds,” Daphney spoke with conviction.
“And what makes you say that?”
“Well, first of all, if the dude was a fed, he would have hopped out back at the stash house and caught us red-handed. And secondly, this is the only way Sontino could have known what we were up to. I’m telling you, this mutherfucker has to be working for him.”
She moved away from the window and plopped down on the sofa. “Listen, whatever you do, you have to kill him before he leaves the club. Because if you don’t, I’m pretty sure you can figure out what’s gonna happen next.”
“Don’t wor
ry about it, Daph. I got him.”
Daphney barked at him. “Nigga, don’t tell me you got him, go get him.” Click.
Zaire was sitting in the passenger’s seat shaking his head. He was looking at Sonny and nervously biting down on his bottom lip.
“Zai, you ready?” Egypt asked as he reached into the back seat and scooped up his Mack 90. He was so focused on killing Sonny and taking over the Block Boys that he didn’t even realize Zaire was sitting beside him crying his eyes out.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” Zaire sniffled, and then reached for the .357 that was nestled in his shoulder holster. “I just wish that I wasn’t.”
“Whatchu mean by that?” Egypt asked as he settled back in his seat. He looked over and the first thing he noticed was the tears dripping down his brother’s face. He then noticed the Sig Sauer that was clutched in his hand. The large barrel was aimed at his torso and Zaire was finger-fucking the trigger. “Yo, Zai, what the fuck is you doin’?” His Mack 90 was gripped in both hands, but not once did he attempt to aim the barrel at his twin. “Dawg, I know you ain’t sidin’ wit’ this nigga over me? I’m ya fuckin’ brother.”
Zaire took a deep breath and used is free hand to wipe away his tears. After Egypt told him about the conversation that he had with Nipsy, and he realized they no longer held the element of surprise, he bitched up and called Sonny the second Egypt left the room. He told Sonny everything he knew, and to prove his loyalty, he offered to kill his own brother.
“You know, it’s funny,” Zaire said in a cracked voice. “Here we are, sittin’ in this old ass truck talking ‘bout Sonny. It’s almost like the first time we met him, you remember that? Mommy was locked up for shoplifting and granny had just passed away. We was eleven years old, homeless and hungry, afraid to go back to granny’s house because the welfare people was try’na put us in a foster home. You remember that? You remember we was livin’ on the streets, rippin’ and runnin’ all day, and when the sun went down we had to break into cars just to have somewhere to sleep?”
