Chasing the Dragon

by Tiana Laveen

  Phoenix slid open his desk drawer and pulled out a cigar from a box. Tilting his head to the side, he lit the thing and lounged back in his chair, his eyes narrowed to slits. Fresh anger emerged from his core, a kind he hadn’t felt in a mighty long time.

  I stick my neck out for these sons of bitches … these slimeballs … I tell the President and Vice President of the United States of America that we need to police treatment, not the addict, to make rehabilitation more effective and not criminalize the dependence. My father was a functional alcoholic. Great man, but struggled most of his adult life. He was hardworking, kind, but had a dark side many seldom saw. My youngest brother became addicted to cocaine and meth, and he ended up dead and buried. And now, those people that I loved, those addicts, small time dope sellers and gang bangers … those same types of people I’ve vouched for, lost my marriage for, worked my ass off for, put my neck on the fucking line for, have killed my best friend…

  His lips curved in a crooked grin as he blew out a puff of smoke and crossed his leg, falling deep into something dark and slippery. A few quiet moments passed with him contemplating things. Placing the cigar down onto a glass ashtray, he reached for his shirt and undid the buttons, letting it fall loose and expose his chest. He’d grown entirely too warm as he sat there stewing in hatred. It was downright balmy. On a sigh, he reached forward and grabbed his phone.

  “Hello, Krystal. This is … Phoenix. I’m leaving a voicemail to uh … to say how sorry I am about John. I’ll let Lillian know. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to let me know. I’ll … well, I’ll be in touch. I really am sorry…” He disconnected the call and rested his chin against folded hands. He remained that way for quite some time, until his cell phone rang and a trail of emails from Rick arrived containing photos and everything else he’d requested. He rose from his chair and poured himself a glass of brandy, then returned to his seat to begin the process of combing through the countless files and reports.

  Photos were zoomed up to their maximum size; audio clips were played countless times. He looked up names, possible leads, studied the entire Chicago gang drug trade in detail, refreshing his memories of time spent in the windy city. And he did all that for hours, until he couldn’t anymore and had fallen asleep only to awake the following morning. When he came to, the sun had come out and a new day shined through the vast windows.

  A new day for me, but not for John. he’ll never see another day again. It’s been a while since I had to do this, but it looks like the time has come…

  He rose from his seat and marched out of his office, up the steps and into his master suite. Pressing his fingers against a glass panel, the wall pivoted and exposed shelves of arsenal. To the left hung several bullet proof vests. To the right he had stored various boxes filled with various ammunition and in the middle, his many metal sources of pride and joy. He ran his hand over his coveted CZ 75 revolver.

  Looks like I’m back out of retirement. I don’t care how long it takes and who has to go down, but trust and believe, they are going, and I won’t be satisfied until I’m the reason why they’ve taken their last breath…

  CHAPTER THREE

  Three weeks later…

  Oak Creek, Illinois was a far cry from the Southside of Chicago where she’d spent most of her summers as a youth. Tiffany lounged on her silver and white studded chaise in her parlor, holding a chilled glass of Corpse Reviver No. 2 and contemplating calling her contact in Miami to ensure the scheduled cocaine delivery would happen on time. Her music store, “Spring String”, was also owed a visit. She ran it from afar, making sure the books were in check; it did quite well with the sales of string instruments, classic jazz LPs, and vintage, signed, one-of-a kind posters of rock and rhythm and blues pioneers. She checked the time on her phone: two in the afternoon. She’d just enjoyed a long shower but was in no hurry to get out and about just yet.

  The evening prior had been long at her friend Trisha’s townhome, where she’d attended a low-key party where she supplied bountiful lines of cocaine, blaring jazz fusion and neo-soul music, and some of the finest male specimens to be born on planet Earth. Tiffany had enjoyed those hours of celebrating her life, her thirty-seven years on the planet, and the level of success she’d finally reached. What an accomplishment; she’d outlived so many of her predecessors in a male dominated field. All night she’d vibed to great tunes, even put Trisha’s old guitar to good use. Sitting cross-legged, she’d played a couple of melodies for the crowd in between dancing the night away. As a cherry on top of a perfect night, she’d fucked a motherfucker by the name of Nash in the upstairs guestroom, a man so damn gorgeous, he should’ve been in a magazine.

  This was her life; she’d earned it. No commitments, obligations of motherhood, or marriage vows—her husband was the dope game and her children were the days she had left on Mother Earth, for no tomorrow was promised, especially in her line of work. She kept herself busy, stayed on top of her business, and made certain she was never caught slipping. She damn sure didn’t smoke any crack, snort any cocaine, or shoot up heroin.

  Tiffany didn’t dare dabble in sampling her product; it wasn’t even a temptation. In fact, her ‘Just Say No’ motto extended to her trusted and properly vetted employees who sold the goods in droves in the heart of the city, the suburbs, and every crevice in between. She ordered random drug tests at the drop of a dime and anyone who came up dirty was dismissed without so much as a formal ‘goodbye’. But, she’d said ‘hello’ to an opportunity of the lifetime.

  The heroin and cocaine from the DEA undercover heist had been primo and sold within a matter of days. Regardless, it proved mostly hard to keep happy and engage in festivities with such a heavy weight looming overhead. Gable had been missing in action for the past week…

  After several unanswered phone calls, panic set in until he finally contacted her and assured her that he was okay, just lying low. She suggested he take a little trip, put some space between him and Chicago, just in case things heated up, and he let her know he was one step ahead of her, already packing with a full tank of gas in his Bentley. He never mentioned what destination he had in mind and she didn’t ask, but she knew whatever he told their family and friends would be a lie, something to throw the hunting dogs off his trail.

  The Gangster Disciples were under a huge FBI investigation after it all went down. Several had been arrested. There was one problem though, a few people started asking Gable questions—strange questions such as, what was he doing that night? Why did he show up late at the party?

  Gable had never told her of any party the Gangster Disciples were throwing, but several of the members were his friends, dating back to grade school. He was far closer to them than she was. That little detail he forgot to mention made shit complicated; Gable just didn’t not show up for a good time, and they’d noticed his absence. One thing on their side was a lack of evidence. The weather, which had almost aided in ruining their scheme, appeared to have helped do wonders in the long run.

  The power had gone out on several nearby roads that evening. Surveillance cameras were not working or on the fritz and much of the evidence had been washed away. They’d left the SUV doors open, allowing the crime scene to be cleaned by good ol’ Mother Nature, and though the authorities arrived soon after their departure according to the evening news the following day, tire marks and the like had been practically scrubbed out and hung to dry due to the torrential rain. No one, not even her closest friends, suspected anything about the feat she and Gable had pulled off, and neither one was saying a word.

  She and Gable had been close since they were small children, merely six months apart in age. Their mothers were sisters with one year age difference, but both had lived entirely different lives. Mama had married up, got herself a Civil Engineer for the State of Illinois. Dad was a proud, educated Black man. Although considered quite handsome, he was blind as a bat, so he wore thick bifocals. The man had possessed a pleasant smile, a qui
ck-fire temper, and worked a lot. Although he was barely home, the bills were paid, the house was nice, the neighborhood top notch, and the school district she lived in stellar. Aunt Shirley, on the other hand, had dated down, bringing five hard-headed boys and two sassy daughters into the world, all sired by three separate convicts, one of whom had landed in prison for armed robbery and a triple murder. When Tiffany would hear her mother gossiping on the phone about her sister Shirley, she couldn’t help but be intrigued.

  It was a lifestyle so vastly different from hers. Tiffany had enjoyed wholesome meals for dinner with all four food groups, pretty outfits purchased from elegant boutiques, possessed things that would titillate little girls from all walks of life, yet, the Sunday school lessons did little to hold and keep her interest. At the same time, she’d never fully understood the pull, at least not at the time, to the darker side of the moon. But the thought was intriguing. Perhaps it was because Aunt Shirley had lived her life as if she had no tomorrow. The woman had a booming laugh, her makeup and hair always eye-catching, and she cooked delicious dishes with abundant oil, sugar, and butter.

  Aunt Shirley loved her children, and she loved Tiffany, too. Mama didn’t want her only child influenced by such things, but as Tiffany got older, her attitude changed. She’d gone from being an obedient child to one who daydreamed about plunging knives into anyone who told her, “No.” The struggle was deep and real but as a child, all Tiffany could latch onto was the frenzied street life energy, the fast living and excitement that existed at Aunt Shirley’s house. The boys in the hood were finer there, the girls faster and the adventures boundless. The summers became her lifeline, the times she’d spent with her cousins in the southwest side of Chicago, West Englewood.

  Scantily clad dressed women with soft weaves hanging down to the crack of their ass, glittery eye shadow, and high heels that made them appear six feet tall would parade in and out of Aunt Shirley’s house. Little white mountains of snow sat on a long, faux marble table and tiny Statue of Liberty scales. Aunt Shirley told her that was flour to make cakes; and she’d believed her until one day, her naiveté completely died. There were many things happening at Aunt Shirley’s house that fascinated and excited Tiffany, such as the assortment of freshly rolled joints, all neatly lined up like sleeping soldiers, and a certain tall, dark complexioned man with snow white teeth and large diamond rings. He smelled strong of cologne and dressed in one of the finest candy apple colored suits Tiffany had ever seen.

  Not until years later did she realize that “Uncle Steve” was a revered Southside Chicago pimp. He also sold cocaine and ran paid parties out of Shirley’s house, offering a cornucopia of gambling, whoring, and occasionally, dog fighting, after which he gave her a percentage of the earnings. He’d taken a liking to pretty Aunt Shirley and well … wasn’t nothing going on but the rent.

  Tiffany surmised, based on all those years of dipping in on conversations, Mama knew her sister smoked weed every now and again, but had no idea the woman was involved in much heavier criminal activities. And after a short while, it became convenient to drop her one and only child off for the summers, get her out of her hair. Tiffany didn’t question this; in fact, she understood that Mama had been at her wit’s end. With Dad barely there to lend support, the woman was stuck with a precocious, rebellious child, one who craved to be around others, so who else to better tend to this need than family? Besides, Aunt Shirley was good with her; she listened to the woman, hung on to her every word, and secretly wished her aunt to be her mama. Her reality though was that her real mother felt more like some stranger off the street.

  “Tiffany, are you here?” Her front door slammed, forcing her out of her deliberations of childhood. Placing her glass down on the coffee table, she quickly wrapped her bright red silk robe around herself and flipped her wet hair over one shoulder.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I needed to tell you something important,” the lady said, out of breath, as she walked to her. “Gable is in Michigan.”

  “Michigan? What for?” She got to her feet and looked across the room at Gable’s sister, Cora, determined to play it cool.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged as she held a cigarette in one hand and a knock-off Coach bag in the other. I gave the bitch a real one for her birthday but she smoked it up. “But he wanted me to let you know.”

  “You came all this way to tell me that?” Tiffany grimaced as she made her way past the woman and entered the kitchen. Cora was by all means harmless, but her annoying factor was high up the totem pole. “What do you want, Cora?”

  “I need to borrow some money.” The woman bounced behind her, her eyes red and glossy like marbles, her hair a rat’s nest. She ran her hands over one another, the rough scrape of dryness starkly audible. Tiffany looked at her cousin and shook her head in disgust. Cora had been a pretty young lady years ago, garnering plentiful male attention but had gotten involved with a hoodlum a few years prior. She’d lost her mind over the fool, and instead of finding her a new piece of candy to lick, she fell into the sickness of addiction, self-medicating a broken heart all over a fuckboy named Bruce. Everything after that went downhill, including a raging crack cocaine addiction.

  “Cora, you need to go back into rehab,” Tiffany stated casually as she opened her stainless-steel refrigerator door and pulled out a glass bowl of freshly washed lettuce. Her robe flopped open, exposing her breasts and a pair of matching silk red panties that featured a diamond studded sash. Cora’s eyes immediately zeroed in on the silver chain and jewels wrapped around her waist and dangling over her hip.

  Cora, family or not, don’t get any ideas. You know me better than that. Don’t get fucked up.

  Tiffany shut her robe, stopping the show once and for all. Cora slid her tongue across her lower lip then stepped closer, bouncing nervously from foot to foot.

  “I will go back to rehab, Tiffany. I will. But I really need—”

  “You said that last time. And the time before that. You know I hate junkies.” She looked at the woman with scorn. “You wasted my goddamn money. I spent thousands of dollars to get you into New Hope and you pissed it away. Gable wasn’t going to take a chance on you again. You’ve fucked over just about everyone in the family,” Tiffany spat before slamming the refrigerator door closed and pulling out a fork from a drawer.

  “All I need is fifty dollars, Tiffany, damn! That ain’t nothing to you. Look at all this shit you got!” The woman looked about the place as if it sickened her. “You live by yourself, ain’t got no kids, no man, no nothin’! You can help your family out. Without us, you’d be nothin’.”

  “If by nothing you mean a college graduate, then I guess you’re right. I should have listened to my mother and kept my ass in Oak Creek where I had it good, right?” Tiffany smirked. Grabbing a bottle of Lite Ranch dressing, she headed to the table.

  “I’m not talking about college. You know damn well you couldn’t have made so much as ten percent of what you have now, even if you were a damn doctor. My brother showed you the ropes, got you into the game!” The woman spun around, glaring at the walls, furniture, and accessories. “All of this shit is name brand! Not even the trashcan is from Walmart. Your clothes are designer stuff, your jewelry is all real, you have a brand-new Mercedes and yet, half of your family is still in the projects. You owe us, Tiffany. Instead, you walk around like you better than everybody else, make me beg you for a little cash. Like I ain’t ever did shit for you.”

  Tiffany rolled her eyes and plopped down in a chair. She unscrewed the top on the dressing bottle.

  “Half the family isn’t in the projects, just you and Tony. You’re a crackhead and Tony is on some bullshit and won’t get in where he fits in. Secondly, I can sleep just fine on my 800-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets—the jade green set is my favorite. Thirdly, I’m not your damn personal bank.” She grabbed a long cigarette out of a silver case, lit it, and blew smoke out of the side of her mouth. “You come sniffing around m
e now because Gable is not paying you any attention, and you’re scared because now he has taken off, made a trip to Michigan, which means you won’t have any money coming in whatsoever … indefinitely. You don’t give a damn about me, you never have, and you’ve not done shit for me besides be a thorn in my side.”

  “That ain’t true and you know it, Tiffany.”

  “Oh, it’s not? The only family I have, besides my parents, is Gable and Aunt Shirley. Your brother and mama are the only ones who gave a damn about me. All you’d do when we were kids is stand around and make fun of me, tellin’ me I talked like a white girl, that I was a nerd and was dark and ugly. How ya like me now?” Tiffany cackled as she casually tapped her cigarette into the black ashtray beside her.

  “We were kids, Tiffany!” Cora threw up her hands. “Kids do dumb shit and say dumb shit, too, all right? What’s that got to do with right now?”

  “Everything.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked the woman up and down. “Men drop to their motherfuckin’ knees to get a whiff of my ass while you stand on a street corner sellin’ yours to get that next kite ride … fuck you.”

  “You feel better now, Tiffany?” The woman’s hatred poured out in those four simple words.

  “Not yet. I’m just getting started.” She grinned. “This little heart to heart between you and me has been a long time coming. I’ve given you too many passes.”

  “And my brother should’ve passed you by and put me in charge instead.”

  “Ha! Girl, you are so funny.” Tiffany clicked her tongue against her inner jaw. “You don’t know shit about money, about growing wealth, about using what you got to get what you want. You never come around unless you want something, and I don’t appreciate you walking up in here anytime you please.”