by Carl Weber
LC
52
Everyone around the table had started getting antsy, but no one more than me. It had been a little less than a week since Consuela and her people had stormed our compound. She’d gone into hiding after she left with our blessing, but I was still second guessing myself about the decision to let her go. Chippy and the boys seemed to think I’d done the right thing. The common thought was that killing a cartel princess, even one that had a price on her head from that very same cartel, would not be good for business.
When it came to business matters, we were in a holding pattern as far as H.E.A.T. was concerned. I still couldn’t believe that the vote had resulted in a tie, but the only one I could blame was myself. I’d taken such a hard line with Paris that it had left her vulnerable to Chippy’s duplicitous plan to win her vote. I wanted my headstrong daughter to let go of her youth and take on the responsibility that having a child required, but my insistence that she grow up could actually be the thing that cost us this vote—along with the money and prestige H.E.A.T. would bring us.
If the vote for H.E.A.T. went in my favor, we’d control the cartels and they would be indebted to us. I relished the thought of gaining my version of world dominance through the distribution of H.E.A.T., so for the moment, I refused to think about how things would go if Vegas voted against distribution. Of all my children, Vegas was the biggest risk taker. My only hope was that prison hadn’t mellowed his passion for winning.
I glanced over at the envelope sitting on the table in front of Sasha. In there was the answer we had assembled to hear, but we couldn’t open it until Orlando showed up to lead the meeting. He was already twenty minutes late. When he got there, I would have to remind him that as head of the family business, his job was to set an example of leadership. Twenty minutes late to a board meeting would not cut it.
“If he’s not going to be here on time then we should do this without him. I have shit to handle before my trip,” Paris complained, trying to get everyone riled up.
Luckily Orlando chose that moment to step into the conference room. He closed the door behind him. Instead of his dark designer suit, he was wearing his lab coat. He looked like he’d pulled an all-nighter.
“What’s going on?” I asked before anyone else started in and made things more tense. I had my own motives for needing this to be settled quickly. I couldn’t risk Chippy using this platform to make a last stand.
“Nothing. Everything.” Orlando sat down at the head of the table looking defeated.
“Sasha, you got something for us?” I motioned toward the envelope. She picked it up, strode to the end of the table, and handed it to Orlando. He took the envelope, but instead of opening it like we all expected, he ripped it in half.
“What the fuck?” Rio shouted.
“Orlando, have you lost your mind?” Harris asked him.
“We have a four-four tie. We need that vote,” London reminded him.
“There’s really no reason to find out what side Vegas chose,” Orlando said cryptically.
“Bro, you talking crazy,” Junior said.
Paris rolled her eyes and threw up her hands. “This shit is cray-cray. You must be taking your own drug.”
“Son, what the hell is going on?” I felt my blood pressure rising. I needed a lot more clarity. Everything he worked for was on the line, and he was talking nonsense.
“There is no reason because I’m changing my vote,” Orlando said, wringing his hands.
“What!” I shouted over all of the other confused voices.
Harris said, “We have a lot of money invested on your word and your drug. You mind telling us why you’ve had this sudden change?”
Orlando stood up. He searched around the room, connecting with each and every one of us before he spoke. “I have no problem explaining myself. H.E.A.T. is wrong. I’m not willing to let all these people die on my watch.”
“Do you forget what we all do for a living? We’re drug distributors,” I reminded him. “Sometimes people die from overdoses. Shit happens. You’ve never had a problem with that before.”
“Yes, I know, but this is different.”
“Different how?” I questioned him.
“I just found out the drug has some unexpected side effects, and I can’t live with that.”
Orlando
53
Two hours earlier
My mind was still buzzing from my conversation with Ruby. As much as I wanted to get my people to work tracking her down, I knew I couldn’t allow it to distract me at the moment. She had my son and there was nothing more important to me than him, but she was also capable of throwing me completely off focus. The events that took place at Alejandro’s compound had already proven to me that Ruby could push my buttons, and when my emotions got in the way, I made costly mistakes. I couldn’t afford to do that again. This thing with H.E.A.T. was massive and capable of changing the way we did business. Everybody was counting on me, so I had no choice but to put my personal issues aside and stay focused.
I was wound up, but that had become somewhat of a theme lately. I felt no different than a child on Christmas Eve. The expectation and excitement coursed through my veins, making it impossible for me to calm down, so I jumped in my car and headed to my lab. For as long as I could remember, my workplace served as my private sanctuary. It allowed me the freedom to channel whatever stresses the world had piled on me in a productive direction. Work was the one place where I refused to allow everyday life to intrude.
I was feeling a lot better by the time I arrived outside the lab. I waited until my bodyguards had surveyed the perimeter and consulted with the two men stationed outside the building. I’d assigned guards to work shifts at the lab so that someone was watching it twenty-four hours a day. We couldn’t risk anyone getting hold of the formula for H.E.A.T.
When I entered, I found my assistant hunched over a table. He was so busy working that he didn’t bother to look up as I entered the lab and headed for the cage where Socrates, my favorite rat was lying on his back. I shook my head in amazement. These rats were so well trained by H.E.A.T. that Socrates was playing dead as soon as I walked in the room. At least that’s what I thought until I opened the cage and picked him up.
“What the fuck? Julio, Socrates is dead!” I shouted at my assistant.
He finally stopped what he was doing to look at me. “All the rats are dead,” he said. “I’m doing an autopsy on this one to try to figure out why.”
I put Socrates’ body back in the cage and walked over to the table. “Whoa! What the fuck is that?” I asked, looking down at the half-dissected rat on the table and pointing to the big, black mass in the center of its stomach.
“I’ve cut open six other rats today and they all have the same thing. It’s cancer,” he said without a hint of emotion in his voice. This guy was all science, all the time. That was a big part of the reason I’d hired him. Nothing rattled him, including creating illegal drugs in my lab.
I, on the other hand, was having trouble staying calm as I imagined the worst case scenario. “Julio, are you sure?” I asked, hoping like hell he was wrong. “Please tell me this is just some kind of rare rat disease or something.”
“No, Orlando, this is cancer—but not just some basic cancer. It’s faster than anything I’ve ever seen. It’s metastasized already.”
“Are you serious?” I started to pace around the room.
“In a few weeks it’s done what normally takes six to eight months,” he told me.
In a panic, I went back over and grabbed Socrates out of his cage, put on some gloves, and cut him open. His abdomen was full of the same large, black mass.
“This can’t fucking be happening. Julio, have you been feeding them anything irregular?”
“The only thing those rats have been eating aside from their Oxbow rat food is H.E.A.T.,” he said.
“You’re telling me that H.E.A.T. causes cancer? Is that what the fuck you’re saying to me?” I shouted,
coming dangerously close to hitting him. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but my ability to rationalize was just about gone.
“Orlando,” he said, remaining calm, “you cut Socrates open. You saw this rat. What did you see for yourself?”
“I want everybody who’s been working on H.E.A.T. back in this lab in fifteen minutes,” I shouted at him. We both knew I was on the verge of breaking down. I collapsed into a chair, and Julio approached me cautiously.
“What are you going to tell your family?” he asked.
“I have to tell them that I can’t support H.E.A.T.”
Epilogue
Sergeant Dwayne Hammond glanced at his watch, smiling at the fact that his shift would be over in less than two hours. The average person wouldn’t exactly call what he did work. He spent his time working out in the officers’ gym then sitting at his desk with his feet up, watching Jerry Springer and the judge shows. Nonetheless, he was clocked in and getting paid for doing the bare minimum every day. The only time he dropped his “lord of the manor” vibe was when one of his superiors was around. That was why he took his feet off the desk and tried to look busy as Captain John Stevens walked into his office. Stevens dropped some papers on the desk, which annoyed Hammond. It meant he was about to be asked to do what his state paycheck required of him—work.
“What’s this, Cap?” Hammond asked, hoping it was something he could clean up quickly. His prisoners knew better than to start any shit while he was on duty. He lived for the opportunity to exert his authority over them and they knew it, so things usually remained under control on his watch.
“Take a look,” Stevens replied, the permanent scowl on his face looking more serious than ever. “We’ve just been fucked in the ass.” Neither of them loved their jobs, but tonight Captain Stevens had even more reason to dislike his, thanks to the word he’d just received from the warden’s office.
Hammond looked down at the paperwork. “Get the fuck outta here!” His expression now mirrored his captain’s. “You gotta be kidding me! Is this for real, Cap? I mean, April Fools’ Day isn’t for a while now.” He really wanted to hear that this was a carefully planned hoax and not an actual order.
“It’s no joke. This shit here is for real.” Stevens ran his hands through his thinning hair, wishing he was closer to retirement so he would no longer have to deal with the inconsistent bureaucratic bullshit his superiors dropped on him. He’d seen a lot of things that bothered him over the years, but this one just plain pissed him the fuck off.
Hammond felt the same way about their current orders. He asked, “Any way around this, Cap? I got a kid in college.” They were both in the same boat with this order, both about to lose a ton of money.
Stevens shook his head. “Nope. This comes straight from the top.”
Hammond wasn’t a man used to feeling powerless, so this didn’t sit well with him at all. Hell, the biggest incentive for taking a job in corrections had been that he could lord over thousands of prisoners who were forced to respect and answer to him in order to survive their time. He was on top; they were on the bottom. It was the human food chain, and except for now, Hammond had enjoyed a sense of control.
“I’m gonna need to talk to him, though,” Stevens said. “You want to handle it, or do you want me to give it to someone else? He’s supposed to be your guy, but I don’t want you to kill him before he gets to my office.”
In response, Hammond grabbed his nightstick and left, ready to confront or create any problem necessary in order to put it to good use. At that moment, the thought of bashing some heads was very pleasing to him. “I’ll do it. Like you said, he’s my guy.”
“Sergeant on two,” Hammond growled at the officer in charge of buzzing people in and out of the locked ward. As he strode down the walkway, inmates beat a path out of his way. Prisoners hollering and talking shit lowered their voices to a mere whisper. All eyes were on Hammond as he passed, the nightstick raised threateningly. As usual, Hammond was ready for anyone to get out of pocket, and the prisoners knew enough not to test him. It was obvious that some bad shit was about to go down, and each man just hoped it wouldn’t be his ass in the line of fire.
Finally Hammond stopped outside of a cell, and it was as if every prisoner released the breath they’d been holding in anticipation and fear.
Hammond entered the cell, focused on the man kicking back on the bottom bunk.
“You, Crawford! Out!” he commanded.
Jay Crawford jumped up and went to grab some things. Hammond landed a hard blow to his back, relieving a small bit of his tension. “Out!”
“Damn! I’m going.” Crawford rushed out of the cell, holding up his hands just in case Hammond decided to deliver another blow.
Hammond stared up at Michael Johnson, the man who was known as Vegas around the cell-block because of his gambling and book making abilities.
“What the hell crawled up your ass, Hammond? You didn’t have to hit the brother like that.” Vegas was sitting on the top bunk reading a copy of J. A. Rogers’ From “Superman” to Man. He hopped down off the bunk. Unlike the other inmates who cowered in Hammond’s presence, Vegas’s body language said that he was doing his bid entirely on his own terms.
“What’s up?”
“It’s payday,” Hammond said.
“Payday isn’t until Friday,” Vegas replied.
“Well, I changed the day,” Hammond told him in no uncertain terms. “You got a problem with that?”
Vegas took a step closer to Hammond, a gesture to let the C.O. know that he wasn’t intimidated by him or his nightstick. The thought of challenging Hammond crossed his mind, but he dismissed the idea, not wanting a confrontation on visiting day. He didn’t like anyone, especially someone as slimy and crooked as Hammond, trying to force him to do anything, but in two hours he’d be in a trailer sharing a conjugal visit with his beautiful Latina girlfriend, and he didn’t want a trip to the hole to spoil that. Hammond’s time would come, though. Vegas had something on Hammond, but he wasn’t quite ready to pull his hold card yet.
“No, no problem.” Vegas turned to his bunk and lifted his pillow to reveal a wooden box. When he lifted the top, Hammond could see that it was full of money. Vegas took out some bills and counted them before handing them to Hammond.
“Here you go. Twenty-five hundred. We had a good week.”
Hammond smiled, still staring at the box of money. “Me and my colleagues were thinking that we’d like to get paid by the month now instead of weekly. It would just make things simpler, if you know what I mean.” Of course, he’d never discussed the monthly payment with anyone, but Vegas didn’t know that, and neither did his so-called colleagues, Captain Stevens and the others who would be cut out of their share.
Once again Vegas hesitated, staring into Hammond’s eyes, but this time he stepped up and did not hold back his tongue. “You trying to shake me down, Hammond? Need I remind you of the last jarhead screw who tried that?”
Hammond took a step back, tightening his grip on the night stick, but Vegas didn’t pay it any attention. He was the kind of person that you would only hit once, and he was sure Hammond already knew that.
“Nope. Just doing what I was told. It will be clear to you in a couple of hours,” Hammond said.
“It better be.” Vegas turned back to the box and counted out more bills. He handed the money to Hammond, who placed it in his pocket with a half-smile. He was going to miss his weekly cut of Vegas’s gambling and loan sharking business. One thing was for sure: Vegas damn sure knew how to make money. In his fifteen years on the job, Hammond had never had a sweeter deal or a better earner on his cell block.
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” Vegas said.
With his money safely tucked away, Hammond said, “Okay, Johnson, now pack your shit. We’re taking a little trip.”
“Where the fuck we going? I got a visit today.”
“And I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you. Now pack your shit.” Hammond glanced a
t his watch. “Look, Johnson, don’t give me a hard time. I got less than an hour and a half left on my shift and the captain wants to see you.”
Vegas did what he was told, but he didn’t like it. It wasn’t unusual for a person of Vegas’s status to be moved, especially if the prison brass felt it was in their best interests, but something bigger was going on that Hammond wasn’t saying. Vegas could feel the strange vibe coming from the corrections officer. He just couldn’t put his finger on what it could be.
Twenty minutes later, Vegas Duncan AKA Michael Johnson walked into Captain Stevens’ office followed by Sergeant Hammond. Hammond took a seat, while Vegas stood in front of his desk. The captain didn’t mutter a word or lift his head from the file he was reading for the first two or three minutes they were in the room.
“Who the fuck are you, Johnson?” he finally said, lifting his head to stare at Vegas. “I’ve been studying your file for the past twenty minutes and it’s all bullshit. I wanna know who the fuck you really are.”
“I’m Michael Johnson, sir. Just a regular guy from Queens, New York,” Vegas replied, not quite sure where this was going.
“That’s exactly what the fuck I mean. Your file says you’re some low level street hood from Queens who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, but you’re no street hood.” The captain sighed, sitting back in his chair. “No street hood could run the blacks, hang out and play cards with Italians, play dominoes with Latin Kings and MS-13s, and have the White Brotherhood give you respect. So I know you’re no street hood. You’re connected somehow . . . or maybe a cop.” He glanced back down at the file. “Are you undercover in my prison, Johnson—or whoever the fuck you are?”
“Look, I’m no cop or fed, okay? I’m just a likeable guy who’s trying to do his time.”
“Likeable guys don’t kill twelve Armenian mobsters then admit it in open court and live,” Stevens countered.
