South Beach Cartel

by Nisa Santiago

  “So how you been, my nigga?” his barber asked him.

  “You already know, my nigga. I’m out here gettin’ this money and making these niggas respect what I do.”

  “I feel you.”

  “Yo, keep it light on the sides,” said Scar.

  Neak nodded.

  While Scar was getting his shapeup, Nick sat parked across the street from the barbershop in an unassuming Chevy Cobalt. He’d had eyes on Scar all day via following him around town, and he believed that he’d found his opening. Nick felt the goon Scar had standing near the doorway was easy to take out. They wouldn’t even see him coming.

  He removed the clip to his Browning Hi-Power 9mm, and it was fully loaded. Then he had his backup gun, an 8-shot .45 ACP pistol. He keenly eyed the activity in the barbershop across the street through the large glass windows. He could see Scar in the barber’s chair. Nick didn’t plan on missing him this time—and there would be no smirk or salute from Scar once he pumped bullets into that arrogant fool.

  As Nick sat back and waited, his cell phone rang, and it was Apple calling him again. He decided to ignore her call for the umpteenth time, knowing she would be upset with him. He didn’t have a reasonable explanation for ignoring her call, but he wanted to focus.

  Apple’s call went to his voicemail. He sent her a quick text before tossing the phone in the passenger seat. He couldn’t afford the distraction. Not now.

  It took Neak fifteen minutes to finish Scar’s shapeup. Looking at his image in the large mirror, Scar was satisfied with the results.

  “Nice . . . you always had skills, Neak.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  Scar got up from the chair with the butt of his pistol peeking from his waist. It caught the attention of some of the patrons inside the barbershop, but everyone knew to keep quiet and mind their business. They didn’t want any trouble with Scar.

  Scar removed a large wad of bills from his pocket. He peeled off a few twenty-dollar bills and overpaid Neak for his shapeup. Scar always took good care of the people he liked.

  Neak was grateful. “Good lookin’, Scar.”

  “You know I always got you.”

  “No doubt.”

  Scar turned and gave a slight head nod to his goon standing by the entrance. Both men made their exit from the barbershop onto the busy Queens street. From their view, everything seemed copasetic, until it wasn’t.

  As they were walking to the Escalade, Nick made his move toward the duo moving about in public. With his 9mm tightly gripped in his hand, he urgently marched their way, outstretching his hand, the gun poised and aiming at his target. Big Top spotted the threat right away and became a barrier between Nick and Scar while reaching for his concealed weapon. But he was too late.

  Nick exploded on them.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Big Top took all four shots to his chest, collapsing to the pavement while Scar scrambled into action, ducking quickly and taking cover behind a parked car. He reached for his own weapon and returned fire.

  Bac! Bac! Bac! . . . Bac! Bac!

  Bullets went flying everywhere, as car windows were shot out and several bystanders were hit during the violent melee.

  “Nigga, you back for seconds!” Scar shouted, taunting his attacker.

  Nick continued to release a barrage of bullets his way. He was determined not to miss him a second time. Bullets whizzed closely by their heads, including several rounds striking and shattering the windows to the barbershop. Neak and the others inside had no choice but to hit the floor.

  The reckless echo of gunfire pierced the public street, bringing the immediate attention of two nearby beat cops. They hurried toward the melee with their guns drawn and screamed into their police radios as they moved closer to the gunfire. They ran into two men shooting at each other.

  Scar once again gave Nick his signature salute and then ran up the block. Nick fired wildly at him. The nigga couldn’t get away from him this time. It was like the movies—loud shots, screaming, and people fleeing. Nick knew he should jump back into his vehicle and flee the scene, but Scar’s arrogance drove him, and he angrily gave chase.

  Scar darted through traffic, bullets still whizzing by him. Another bystander got hit in the crossfire. Scar stumbled for a second, but caught his footing and could feel Nick barreling toward him. Unfortunately for him, he was out of ammunition and the only thing he could do was run for his life. Today wasn’t going to be his day to die. He was determined.

  Scar ran like Usain Bolt on the public street, dodging and weaving through cars and people, even pushing a few out of his way and knocking some to the ground.

  “Move! Get the fuck out my way!” he screamed.

  Soon, he gained a greater lead on Nick.

  Nick fired three more shots at Scar but missed, and then he squeezed again and heard his gun go, Click! Click! Click! Click!

  He was out of rounds. But that wasn’t the worst of it. From behind he heard, “NYPD! Freeze!”

  “Freeze! Put the fuckin’ gun down now!”

  The two beat cops had their guns aimed at him, ready for a threatening movement by the armed black man. Nick had fucked up. He frowned. He was upset. He then pivoted suddenly toward the officers with the gun in his hand and before he could even blink, both cops lit him up with multiple shots. The gunfire resonated through the Queens street, and Nick went down from a hail of bullets slamming into his muscular frame. His lifeless body hit the concrete hard.

  Both cops were awestruck. They had just killed a man. They’d felt threatened, fearing for their lives. There was a gun. There were shots fired, and several bystanders had been hit. They screamed into their police radios, as news of the police shooting started to crackle throughout the NYPD.

  22

  Apple was lying on her bed in a black corset and thong, looking extra sexy tonight. She had a bottle of Ace on ice, Nick’s favorite champagne, and had ordered steak dinners from his favorite restaurant. Apple wanted to fuck and fuck some more. Nick had texted her this morning and said he would finally be over tonight and that he had something very important to tell her. She was both relieved and upset that he had disappeared without telling her anything. But she couldn’t wait to see her man. She missed him. She wanted to curse him out, scream and yell, and then fuck his brains out. But she wondered what important news he had to tell her.

  Midnight came and went, and Nick never walked through her door. Apple started to worry again. She called his cell phone and it went straight to his voicemail. And then she got angry. Why was the nigga toying with her? Was there a new bitch? Was that the news?

  “What the fuck!” she shouted.

  Nick was trying her last nerve.

  ***

  Apple woke up shortly before 3 a.m. and her face was awash with tears. She’d had a bad dream that she couldn’t really remember, just pieces of it. Someone had a knife and told her that she needed to drive them to Mexico and when she screamed, Nick appeared in the dream. He told Apple that he wasn’t fucking wit’ her and disappeared on a horse. Apple had no idea what the bizarre dream meant, but she felt sick. It spooked her. She got up, grabbed her .45, and walked around her apartment to make sure she was alone. The darkness spooked her, so she began clicking on lights. Apple had never felt so vulnerable in her life. What the fuck is going on? Why am I freaking out?

  She paced around the bedroom and continued to call Nick’s phone, but still no answer. Something happened! Her gut told her so.

  Apple didn’t want to jinx her nigga, but she had to call local hospitals just to prove to herself that she was bugging. Thankfully they didn’t have anyone there fitting his description or with his name. Reluctantly, she dialed the local precincts and gave his government. A sergeant put her on hold. Apple could feel the butterflies swimming around in her stomach—something was definitely wrong. What made h
er call the police? She knew she had to be desperate to do something like that. Someone got back to her and directed her call to a Queens precinct. Queens—what the fuck! she wondered. Once again, she was put on hold. A few minutes later, a different voice spoke to her. It was gruff and unfriendly. “You’re the one calling about a Nicholas Davis?”

  “Yes. He’s my brother. Has he been arrested?”

  “And your name is?”

  Apple paused and then replied, “Lisa Davis.”

  “Well, Ms. Davis, I’m sorry, ma’am, but Nicholas was in a shootout today with an unknown assailant. He didn’t respond to police demands to put down his weapon, and officers had to open fire—your brother is dead.”

  “What are you saying?” Apple was in disbelief. “He was killed by cops? He’s dead?”

  “I can’t answer any further questions until we conduct a full investigation.”

  “Where is he? I wanna see him!” Apple screamed. “I want to see his body!”

  “Look, it’s late! I know it’s hard to hear, but your brother is dead.”

  “No way is he fuckin’ dead, you hear me?” Apple wailed. “No fuckin’ way!”

  The cop rudely hung up.

  Apple was devastated by the news. She dropped the phone from her hands and stood there in disbelief. Not Nick! She collapsed on her bed. Her crying became so hysterical that she felt weak and nauseous. Apple ran to the toilet and began to vomit up the remnants of her romantic dinner. The pain from her stomach contracting couldn’t match the heaviness in her heart. It felt like it would implode. Part of her wanted her heart to implode because she couldn’t take the agony of continually losing those she loved. Did she ever tell him that? Did Nick know that she loved him before he died?

  She needed this all to be a dream. She wanted to wake up tomorrow to her nigga in her bed.

  “Why did you leave me?” she screamed out. But Apple knew the truth. Nick would still be alive if she hadn’t pushed him to get involved with her plot for revenge. She was sure that this had something to do with Citi and Scar. If not, who else?

  Now Nick was dead. What was she going to do?

  ***

  Scar rushed home from the shooting, and he was a bit shaken up. It was the second attempt on his life, by the same fool that tried to kill him at Junior’s. What the fuck had he done to this nigga? Who was he? Scar intended to locate this elusive muthafucka before a third attempt. Sure, he felt like he had nine lives. But he didn’t.

  The Astoria, Queens apartment was quiet and safe, he supposed. But to make sure he was in good hands, he went into the bedroom and removed two Glock 19’s and a MAC-10 from under his bed and kept them close. He made numerous phone calls to his soldiers on the streets to let them know what had happened. He roused his goons and wanted to execute his own sneak attack—his own revenge.

  He stayed locked inside the apartment the entire day. To ease his apprehension, he poured himself a drink, preferring Hennessy. The brown liquor soothed him.

  Scar contacted Citi to let her know what had happened and to warn her to be alert. Shit just went down and they had lost one man. He contemplated his next move. Someone had to be talking or snitching on him and his crew. He felt some disloyal fool had betrayed the organization. He continued to down the brown juice and think, and chill, and seethe, and laugh.

  “Muthafuckas can’t touch me!” he uttered. “I’m Superman, bitches!”

  The following morning, Scar seemed a lot calmer. He turned on the TV to get his mind off his troubles, but they were only beginning. The shootout was on the news, nearly on every station. Footage of the incident in Queens had gone viral. The authorities were looking for the second shooter. Scar learned that three people had been killed outside the barbershop—one bystander, Nicholas Davis, and Scar’s goon, Jason “Big Top” Williams.

  Detectives heavily plagued the entire area, going to local businesses and asking questions. They subpoenaed any surveillance footage from the area, hopefully using it to apprehend the second shooter, and also asking anyone who may have captured anything on their phones to come forward.

  Scar frowned. “Shit!”

  He felt the pressure. It wasn’t his fault that Nicholas had come at him. He was defending himself. But still, cops were looking to crucify the second shooter. He knew now would be a good time to make himself scarce from the streets. There were a lot of people around—lots of faces and cameras. But what troubled him the most were the niggas inside the barbershop. They knew who he was. They knew his face and his name. He didn’t know if any of them would get cute and start talking to the police. Cops were putting up a reward for any information leading to an arrest, and that was trouble for him. That was snitch bait.

  ***

  Citi called a meeting with Scar and her brother. She was sick over losing so much product, her organization was down nearly six million, and there wasn’t much more where that had come from. It would take years to rebuild. But she was somewhat relieved when both Cane and Scar said that their enemy was murdered.

  Her organization had taken too many hits. And with the cops looking for the second assailant, New York was starting to feel small.

  23

  The shooting of Nicholas Davis made front page news and became a national headline—another black man shot dead by police officers. The video of Nick’s death had been captured by several cell phone cameras, and it soon went viral via WorldStar and social media. The public felt that the police were racist and overzealous in killing another black man, although he was armed and dangerous.

  Nick’s father, Corey, sat among a few friends in the dayroom watching a Lost rerun. He was an old man, but he was still a dangerous figure with some clout and was well respected. He sat quietly in his chair, doing more listening to the other inmates and watching TV than talking. He always felt that silence showed strength. But today, he had a lot on his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about Nick and his son’s future with this woman named Apple. Although Nick was tough, Corey felt that his girl was making him bite off more than he could chew.

  Amir entered the dayroom, carrying the same respect as an OG like Corey. He and Corey shared a brief conversation about Nick. They were on the same page about his girlfriend Apple. They didn’t like her, and they didn’t trust her. She was trouble.

  C.O. Mitchell walked into the room with what appeared to be a sense of purpose. His eyes scanned the dayroom for an inmate and he soon spotted him. He went up to Corey and said to him, “Come with me. The warden wants to see you.”

  Corey looked up at C.O. Mitchell with a look of confusion. “What’s this about?”

  “I don’t know. He’s just asked for you. Let’s go. I don’t have all day.”

  With a stoic look on his face, Corey slowly stood up and followed behind the guard, marching calmly toward the warden’s domain. If he was worried, it didn’t show on his face. In fact, he cracked a joke while walking the corridor with the guard. But the guard didn’t laugh.

  Corey was ushered into the warden’s office. It was neat, it was nicely furnished, and the place seemed a world away from the prison. Warden Cacti was seated behind his desk in his leather chair, and he was dressed immaculately in a black suit and blue tie. He was a white male around Corey’s age. Both men had seen their fair share of violence and bloodshed in the prison. Cacti had been around for nearly fifteen years, and sometimes he felt trapped inside like the inmates.

  Corey wanted to get straight to the point. He stared directly at the warden and asked, “Why am I here, Warden? What’s this about?”

  Warden Cacti looked at him with a slightly despondent expression. “Have a seat, Corey.”

  Corey already knew that it was bad news. “Why?” Corey responded, showing resistance. “I would rather stand.”

  The warden took a deep breath. He knew there was no easy way to say it—no other way to tell Corey the grim news.
r />   “I got word this morning that your son is dead,” the warden said.

  For a moment, Corey stood there frozen. Did he hear the warden right? Did he say that his son was dead?

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Warden?” he finally spoke.

  “Nick was killed in a shootout yesterday with the police.”

  Corey could only stare blankly and swallow his anger. His only child and only living relative was gone—murdered by the police.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “The details are hazy, but from my understanding, he got into a shootout with some men and the police intervened.”

  “It ain’t right for a parent to outlive their child.”

  “I know . . . it isn’t. My condolences to you, Corey. I can only imagine what you’re going through.”

  Corey cut his eyes at the warden. Fuck his condolences! No, the privileged fool would never know what it was like to be him. He went home to his family every day. He got to see and hug his children, while his was lying somewhere cold in a city morgue.

  “Will I be able to go bury my son?” he asked.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s it?” Corey asked roughly.

  The warden nodded. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  Corey pivoted and marched out of the office. Still, he kept his anger and his emotions contained. The last thing he wanted to do was show any emotion around other inmates. But he was angry. He wanted answers about his son’s death. Who was Nick in a gunfight with, and why? Corey’s intuition screamed at him that Apple had something to do with it.

  C.O. Mitchell led Corey back to general population. He walked back into the dayroom looking normal and expressionless. He exchanged looks with Amir and then decided to leave the room. He needed to be alone, though it was difficult to find solitude in a maximum security prison.

  Once Corey was alone in his cell, a few tears leaked from his eyes and trickled down his face. He quickly wiped them away.