Fight Doctor nodded his head up and down, saying, “Just chilling, okay. Well, Lucky, I gotta get going. It was good seeing you.”
They hugged.
“Good seeing you, too.”
Lucky had caught the vibe his old friend had sent. Fight Doctor knew of Lucky’s lifestyle and never approved of it, but it was Lucky’s thing so he never said anything about it. But the look Fight Doctor had on his face said that he figured Lucky had pulled Jamel into the fast life and ruined the young man’s possibility at a career in boxing. Fight Doctor and Lucky had known each other since they were kids living in the Robert Taylor homes. It was a notorious housing project where most kids ended up on the wrong side of the tracks. Fight Doctor took to boxing while Lucky relished the fast money and women the hustle of the streets provided. A pro career was on the horizon for Fight Doctor, but was never to be after a good left hook to the eye from Irish Davey Ryan. His eye socket had cracked, and his eye was injured leaving his peripheral vision in his right eye damaged. Fight Doctor could have felt sorry for himself and gone to the streets and sold cocaine and heroin, but he decided that wasn’t the route for him. He decided to train and made a name for himself as a trainer who could get the best out of fighters. When a lot of his fighters in the late eighties and nineties began selling drugs instead of fighting their way out of the ghetto, he became upset since it was some of his childhood friends behind the drugs being put on the street—Lucky was one of them.
Fight Doctor was walking away, but Lucky stopped him. Without Jamel hearing, Lucky asked his old friend for his number. That he wanted to get Jamel back in the gym to see what he could do. Fight Doctor tried his best to suppress his excitement as he handed Lucky his card, knowing that Jamel was one of the best fighters he’d ever seen. The two men hugged then Fight Doctor was on his way.
The ride on the elevator was quiet. Lucky didn’t say a word to Jamel, and the young man knew what his boss was thinking. Lucky had heard from Noonie and the others that Jamel boxed in the police athletic league when he was ten years old, but no one said anything about him boxing with Fight Doctor. Lucky had assumed Jamel had boxed a year or two when he was young when they talked about him fighting in PAL. They stepped out of the elevator and the short walk down the hallway brought them to Dr. Ali’s office. The young receptionist smiled when she saw Lucky and greeted him, then noticed that he wasn’t his cheery self. After handing him the clipboard so he could sign in, she asked, “Mr. Davis, is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, Michelle. I just have a couple of things on my mind. How have things been? Has that young man asked you to marry him, yet?”
Michelle chatted with Lucky whenever she could when he visited the office, had one day rambled about how she’d been with her boyfriend for six years, and he still hadn’t popped the question. She was an attractive sista in her mid-twenties who made decent money as a receptionist for the doctor. She had just received her degree in education and had a job lined up to teach at a middle-school on the north side.
Lucky signed his name then handed Michelle the clipboard. “Don’t wait too long, Michelle.”
Surprised at Lucky’s statement, she said, “Excuse me, Mr. Davis.”
Lucky usually simply listened to her. He was never one to give a person advice about their love life, but lately he’d been realizing that people were wasting a lot of time in life with the things they were doing.
“Michelle, you told me that your man was working full time for Jameson Construction, that his father was a foreman for the company for years and got him the job when he got out of high school. He’s been working there for nearly ten years. Construction work is usually twelve hour days and off in the winter. You said that he has a towing and snow removal service that he runs during that down time. You’re finished with college and start teaching the sixth grade this year. Money isn’t the issue, and you two have been together for years, so if there’s one thing I do know. It doesn’t take a man ten years to know if he wants to marry a woman.” Lucky coughed. “Excuse me. All I’m saying is, don’t waste too much time. You can never get it back.”
Michelle smiled then said, “Thank you, Mr. Davis.”
Lucky sat next to Jamel who was reading an Esquire magazine he’d picked up off the table. He picked up a Time magazine then Jamel asked, “I wonder why they don’t have black magazines in here.”
Lucky said, “Because a diverse group of people come here. Besides, most of the magazines in here are giving knowledge.” He pointed to the table. “Time, Newsweek, People. You have Sports Illustrated for the sport guy and Cosmopolitan for the women.”
“White women,” Jamel added.
Lucky smiled because Jamel was right. “That Esquire you have in your hand, men with money subscribe to that. You can learn from some of the articles, and it also has money making ideas in it. Ways for a man to prosper.”
“You didn’t need this magazine and you make mad loot.”
“Mr. Davis,” Doctor Ali said as he stood in the doorway to his office. He was all smiles and ready to see Lucky. Usually it wasn’t the doctor who called you to the back and that made Lucky slightly nervous.
When Lucky stood, he felt a sharp pain in his gut, and it wasn’t from the cancer. It was from Jamel’s statement. He knew that the young man looked up to him. That a lot of young people who were on his team did. It was the second time in less than thirty minutes that he’d been reminded that he was doing more harm than good. And he was coming to the realization that it was time for change.
Lucky shook hands with the doctor then exited his office. He had been with the doctor for about forty minutes. He’d had a couple of x-rays taken, blood drawn and a talking to from the doctor. Lucky’s health hadn’t changed. The cancer in his lungs hadn’t spread, but it was still there. The doctor again recommended chemotherapy, but Lucky wasn’t having it. He was thinking if God was ready to take him, it was his time. He just hoped that he could do some good before he left the earth. If he had to pay for his sins by dancing with the devil, he was ready.
Jamel and Lucky were at the exit of the parking garage. Jamel paid the attendant, the arm rose, he and Lucky were on their way. The sky was cloudy, and a light rain began to fall. Lucky remembered when he was a young boy, and his grandmother used to say that it was God crying. He remembered asking her since God could do anything, why would he be crying? A smile painted his face when he thought about her telling him to shut up, that he thinks too much.
Lucky glanced at Jamel then asked, “You still have your equipment?”
“Huh?” Jamel asked wondering if he’d heard Lucky correctly.
“Huh? If you can huh, you can hear. You heard me,” Lucky said.
Jamel said, “Nah, threw it away.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Man, this one Mexican kid. He was from the east side. I read in the paper where he had made Golden Gloves and was fighting to make the Olympics. He’d made the Pan Am games and everything,” Jamel said as he clicked the power up on the wiper blades as the rain began to fall heavily.
Not sure where the young man was going, Lucky asked, “What does that have to do with the question I asked you?”
“When I saw that shit, I got pissed and threw my gear away. Well, let me take it back. I just gave it to this one shorty in the ’hood who wanted to box. I was pissed because I had beaten that Mexican dude’s ass bad, twice. I had knocked that motherfucker out in the first and second round.”
Jamel brought the SUV to a halt at a red light. He then punched his right hand with his left. “He talked shit to me after the first fight even though I knocked him out, so when we fought again, I toyed with him the first round to teach him a lesson, then knocked him out in the first fifteen seconds of the second round.”
Lucky smiled. “You’re right handed?”
“Yeah.”
“But your first reaction when you got mad was to punch with your left,” Lucky said of Jamel punching his hand.
&n
bsp; The light turned green, Jamel gave the Escalade some gas. “I can fight right or left. My luck is that I fight better southpaw, so I’m able to surprise most fighters, and that’s what I did to that Mexican mothafuckah!”
Lucky calmly said, “Respect your fellow fighters is the first thing you should remember. Jump on the next on ramp and head south.”
“I thought you had a lunch date here downtown,” Jamel questioned.
“Change of plans, young man. For me and you,” Lucky said as he took his cell off his hip and began to dial. He cancelled his lunch date then told Jamel that they were about to head to the sporting goods store to purchase him some new training gear. Everything he needed to box. That he was no longer to participate in the street hustle.
“Man, Lucky. What’s Noonie and the boys gonna say? Man, I’m down for them niggas.”
Lucky said, “And they’re down for you, so they will understand. Anyone who doesn’t understand really doesn’t give a fuck about you. You have a gift from God. A talent and I’m not about to sit and watch you waste it. You down? If not, let me know.”
“Lucky, you’re like the father I never had, so whatever you say. I just wanna make you happy,” Jamel said. He’d been wondering what he could do to get the cancer off Lucky’s mind, and maybe this could be it. He envisioned all the men he’d dropped like a bad habit in the ring. Then a frown came over his face. Lucky noticed.
“What’s wrong?”
Jamel said, “Fight Doctor. He told me to never set foot in his gym again since I chose the streets over boxing. I have to admit, he did help me a lot, and I fucked him over by leaving like I did.”
Lucky told Jamel, “Let me handle that.”
* * *
Chacho held the leather leash with diamond studs as the German shepherd walked obediently by his side as he entered a warehouse. It was hot and dusty, typical for the summer in Mexico. Chacho had taken off his suit jacket and loosened his collar when he’d exited his Hummer. His main bodyguard, Trejo, was two steps behind his boss. Both men wore expensive suits, but it was the custom made cowboy boots that made their outfits. Trejo wore boots by Wheeler that where seventeen hundred dollars, and his boss wore boots that Forbes magazine rated as the most expensive cowboy boots, custom boots made by Michael Anthony of Sonoma, California. It is said that Chacho paid close to nine thousand for the boots that were made from ostriches.
“Fucking traitor,” Trejo said as they neared a man who was tied to a chair.
Chacho walked with confidence. “Well, Trejo, I am going to show you what I do to traitors. Ain’t that right boy?” Chacho said as he tugged lightly on the leash of his Shepherd.
Three men stood near the man. They looked like peasants, dressed in overalls and boots, but the AK-47s they held told a different story. They were killers for Chacho and had been tasked to catch Antoine Villarreal. A drug lord who was a main supplier for the Midwest United States and moved millions of dollars worth of cocaine, heroin and marijuana for Chacho, but was found to have been leaking information to the American government, and in the billion dollar drug trade that was something a drug lord didn’t tolerate.
Chacho stopped in front of Villarreal. He motioned with his hand to one of the soldiers. He handed Chacho a pair of latex gloves as Chacho handed Trejo the leash and the Shepherd obediently stood by Trejo’s side. Chacho snapped the gloves on then slapped Villarreal on the cheek a couple of times to wake him. The man opened his cartoonish-looking eyes and fear settled in them. He was in his early forties, but during four hours of torture it seemed as if he’d aged a thousand years. His jet-black hair was matted to his head with a mixture of dirt and blood. His Armani slacks were cut to shreds from slices that one of his captors used to slice painful, but non-lethal cuts on his legs.
Chacho barked, “My son has a baseball game, so I won’t be long. He would be very upset if his papa wasn’t at his game. He’s only eight so he wouldn’t understand me having to take care of business. So…I have a commitment.”
Chacho grabbed the horse whip from one of the armed men, then whacked Antoine across the chest. The man screamed, then begged for his life.
Chacho calmly said, “You have no idea what commitment is, do you?”
“Wha… What?” Antoine asked.
“Commitment, motherfucker. You have no idea what that is, you piece of shit!” Chacho barked. His tone switched. He calmly said, “You talked to the government, and I’ve lost millions. I need to know what you’ve said.”
Antoine was a strong man. He had been a gangster ever since he was a young boy. He was born the son of a peasant who worked as help on a farm. Antoine saw his father struggle for scraps and swore that he’d never do the same. In and out of jail since he was a teenager and that was where he met men who were in the drug trade. Smart, ambitious and ruthless, Antoine made his way up the cartel food chain and eventually became the man in charge. But what no one knew was, years ago he’d made a deal with drug agents from America. While in Laredo, Texas, he was arrested, and authorities cut a deal with him that he’d feed them information on men in the other cartels and the movement of drugs, and they’d ensure that his crew would be left alone with very few raids brought upon them. Only enough to keep other cartels from getting suspicious. But Chacho was smart and noticed that Antoine’s crew was only taking minimal losses. When a Mexican politician, who Chacho had in his pocket, alerted the kingpin that Antoine was a snitch, swift justice had to be applied.
Antoine glared at Chacho for a moment. He knew his life was about to end and had made up his mind that he wasn’t going to tell anything. That he would go out like a gangster. He gargled his throat and mustered up the best clump of spit and mixed it with the blood that was in his mouth. He spit as hard as he could at Chacho’s face. He missed, but the phlegm landed on Chacho’s chest, sticking to his expensive shirt.
“I’m not telling you shit, you fat fuck!” Antoine said then mustered up a half-hearted laugh.
Chacho gritted his teeth. He then smiled devilishly as he unbuttoned and peeled off his shirt. “If only you were as strong when the American government put the screws to you,” Chacho said as he wagged his finger at Antoine.
Chacho was shirtless. Hairy chest and expanded waistline was exposed and he looked even larger than his two hundred and sixty pounds. He walked behind Antoine to a table. “You know when my brother, God rest his soul, was in the military, he told me of tactics they used to get people to talk.”
Antoine heard the fizz of a bottle of soda being opened.
Chacho continued, “Out of all those methods, there was one that I really liked.” He grabbed a bag of cayenne pepper. Poured some of the soda out then added a nice helping of the pepper. Calmly he walked behind Antoine who sat tied to the chair. “My brother told me that this method worked ninety percent of the time, and I think that you are going to fit in that ninety percentile.”
Chacho held the bottle in his right hand, covered the opening and shook. He put Antoine in a solid chokehold and held the man as he placed the bottle under Antoine’s nose and shot the mixture up his nose. His scream was piercing as Chacho let go. He shook his head back and forth violently as Chacho walked around him. He knelt in front of Antoine who was moaning in agonizing pain.
Chacho said, “Now, you will tell me what I want to know.”
4
“The dope may be gone, but you’re gonna tell me where the money is, bitch!”—Detective Rivera
Slim and Trish were walking on Oak Street Beach. They walked down the beach as the sun was setting on the eighty-five degree day. Slim thought Trish was beautiful as the orange rays of the sun hit her golden-toned skin. She wore sandals, jean shorts and a yellow tube top with a white short-sleeve shirt that was left unbuttoned.
People were playing volleyball, running, walking small dogs, tanning and swimming. To put it simply, they were relaxing and living. Trish had never been to the downtown beach, and the scenery of the skyscrapers in the background was beautiful.
Slim noticed the way Trish smiled when she saw the couples. He asked, “So, why don’t you have someone?”
“Huh?” she asked, even though she’d heard him clearly.
“Someone, why don’t you have someone?”
She laughed, “Guys always ask women that. Can’t a woman enjoy being single?”
Slim nodded, yes. “But doesn’t it get old? Women usually want someone. Hell, some act like they have to have a man.”
“Well, I’m not one of those women. I do fine by myself. But being honest, relationships are so complicated that we women sometimes would rather not even deal with men.”
“Is that when you all turn to women?”
Surprised, she emphatically said, “Oh, I don’t get down like that. Strictly the d-i-c-k.”
They laughed.
Trish had her guard up. In reality, she wanted a relationship but wondered if she knew how. She’d basically been on her own since her mother passed when she was sixteen, and her experience with men was they would sex her then leave her. She also got the wrong idea of love from Detective Styles. When she got in trouble, he acted as if he really cared about her well-being. He kept her out of jail and was nice to her. Helping her with a couple of bills and throwing some cash her way. But then she realized why he was doing what he did. He was using her for one thing—her body. She was young and beautiful with a body of a goddess. Her Black and Hispanic heritage was a combination of genes that enhanced her looks.
Slim laughed, “Strickly the d-i-c-k. I got you. I just figure no children, beautiful and a great personality.”
He stopped in his tracks, and Trish did after realizing he’d stopped. She was a couple of steps ahead of him when she turned and asked, “What?”
The Corner III (No Way Out) Page 7
