South Beach Cartel

by Nisa Santiago

  Amir knew she had Nick’s money and actually trusted his former cellmate Floco and Floco’s cousin Whiz. See, Apple thought she was using him, and Amir felt he would use her too. The game is the game, and it was a matter of who reached the finish line first. Amir knew that Corey would never let the death of his only son not be avenged. Therefore, Apple’s days were numbered. Amir couldn’t let her die without getting his hands on at least some of that money. If he could get some phone sex and a few visits in the meantime, that was just extra gravy over his hot biscuits.

  “Anything for Nick. They better be worth it.”

  “Cool. I’ll give the green light. They’ll arrive in forty-eight.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Now that that’s out the way, what’s up with you, though, sexy?”

  Click.

  Apple turned to Cartier and said, “When this is over we got two more bodies to add to our list.”

  Without hesitation, Cartier replied, “Done.”

  27

  Whiz and Floco arrived in South Beach one day earlier than expected. Apple had wired five thousand dollars for their travel expenses, which was to include car rental, hotel, food, gas, and tolls. Only the pair had stolen a car and slept a few hours in that stolen vehicle, all to cut costs.

  Both had seen and done it all. They vividly remembered all the money they blew through when they were on the streets, hugging the blocks, murdering and robbing muthafuckas. When they got knocked they couldn’t make bail and could barely afford legal counsel. Popping bottles, splurging on whips and women and jewels meant nothing when your attorney wanted a million-dollar retainer. If being locked up had taught them anything, it was that the fast life wasn’t about shit. Whiz and Floco felt this last murder mission was just the kind of break they needed and the amount of money they were going to make would be just enough to help them live comfortably.

  See, Amir thought that they were working for him and would ultimately give him a percentage of the half-million. But Corey, a man hell bent on revenge, had a better deal. Floco got in touch with the OG, thinking that he and Amir were working together and wanted to help avenge Nick’s death. Corey pulled their coat to the million dollars Apple had and only had one request: kill the bitch and keep all the cash. Corey didn’t want a dime. They liked what was behind door number two.

  Floco steered the Nissan Altima to the address he was given. It was a modest, three bedroom furnished rental on the outskirts of town with an attached two-car garage. The key was left under the front doormat. Inside, they showered, prepared some food from the groceries that were provided, and chilled.

  The house was sparsely decorated with just the essentials; a worn sofa, wobbly kitchen table and tattered chairs, second-hand televisions, and full beds in each room with rickety dressers. The cockroaches, spiders, and other insects didn’t bother them at all. The place was almost paradise after the living quarters of the correctional facility.

  Whiz dropped down and did three hundred push-ups. He was determined to keep his body and mind right. Feeling energized, he hopped up and asked, “You think this bitch got that cash down here in South Beach?”

  Floco shook his head. “I wouldn’t.”

  Whiz nodded. “It would make shit easier, though.”

  “We knew shit wasn’t gonna be easy from jump. We do the hits and make it back up north to get paid. Stalk that bitch until we know where she lay her head at, get our bread, and snuff her out.”

  “I heard she a dime piece.” Whiz stared straight ahead and then rubbed his dick thinking about how pretty this Apple might be.

  “So is Rihanna. But I’ll rock that bitch to sleep for a million crispy ones.”

  Whiz cut his eyes at Floco. “You mean a half-million, cuz.”

  ***

  Apple and Cartier arrived at the house shortly after nightfall. They were strapped just in case these fools tried anything. The women walked in and saw two good looking men. They hardly looked like experienced killers who had been through street wars. Neither man had on a shirt, so Apple could clearly see no visible knife or bullet wounds, scratches, nicks, scrapes, or whatnot. Immediately she felt disappointed and copped an attitude. She and Cartier had been through several wars and had the scars to prove it.

  Whiz spoke first. He was light-skinned with soft hair and full, pink lips, and his body was prison buff. Sleeve tattoos were painted on both arms and his throat tattoo of a black skull, cobra, and dagger was distracting. His face looked like Drake and his body looked like The Rock.

  “So who’s Apple?”

  “That’s me.”

  “And I’m Cartier.”

  Floco spoke. “I always wondered how to pronounce that shit. Whether it was ‘ay’ or ‘air’.” He smiled and couldn’t take his eyes off the Brooklyn beauty. She was brown-skinned and pretty with an edge—just how he liked them.

  Cartier drank in this thirsty looking fool and knew he thought he had a shot at some pussy. Floco stood six-one with a narrow face and dark eyes. His body was lean and athletic, like a runner’s frame, and he had incredibly large hands and feet. The sweats he was wearing outlined his massive package. Cartier would have entertained a quick fuck, but she wanted her pussy to be tight when Head came home, and from the looks of Floco’s shit, he could do some damage.

  She said, “So I see y’all made it here safe. We came to take y’all to drop off the rental and get a new one with Florida plates.”

  “We didn’t rent a car,” Whiz offered up.

  Apple smirked. She knew they specifically said that the five grand covered rental costs. “Then how the fuck y’all get here?”

  “Look, ma, I don’t like your tone. Now if we gonna work together there needs to be a mutual respect. I don’t know what type of niggas you used to deal wit’, but we ain’t some fuckin’ flunkies. Now we can either help you wit’ this problem or bounce,” said Floco.

  Apple knew they weren’t going no-fuckin’-where. Not with so much money at stake. She exhaled. “How did y’all get here? I still wanna know.”

  “We stole a non-descript toy. It’s in the garage and we planned on dumpin’ it and takin’ off the plates.”

  Cartier and Apple looked at each other, befuddled. Did they want to go back to prison? Why would they take such an unnecessary risk, especially when it wasn’t their money that was paying for shit?

  “A’ight. So let’s get rid of the car. We’ll drop you to the rental place and then we figured we can do some recon.” Apple pulled out several pictures she had printed from Citi’s social media pages of her, Scar, and Cane. “These are our targets. And here’s a list of nightclubs they might frequent. You and Whiz should stalk one or two nightclubs per night. Maybe buy one bottle of champagne to get near VIP, but don’t ball outta control. If Scar is there, he’ll take notice.”

  Cartier said, “The bottle service girls will have the most info on the high rollers. But information don’t come cheap, so don’t splurge on just any bitch. Some will lie just to get paid—”

  Whiz interrupted. “Shorty, we got this. We were doin’ this shit before y’all were born.”

  Cartier nodded. “Cool. Okay, so during the day, Apple and I will hit up all the eateries and shopping centers. That way we’re all on the clock, twenty-four-seven. Sooner or later we gonna run into this bitch. South Beach ain’t but so big.”

  “I agree,” Apple continued. “And if you spot them use this burner to call me. I want to be there to take that bitch out.”

  Apple handed them a phone with her number stored.

  “We good?” Cartier asked.

  “Almost,” replied Floco. “We need some money for our expenses.”

  Apple smirked. “What the fu—I mean, I already gave y’all five large for expenses.”

  “That was to get us here.”

  Cartier felt she needed to have her friend’s ba
ck. “Not five fuckin’ grand, nigga. Who you think you talkin’ to? Y’all stole a fuckin’ car, arrived here a day earlier so there’s no way y’all booked a hotel room. I say y’all got plenty of fuckin’ dough left for the clubs.”

  “No disrespect, shorty, but this ain’t your bread so I don’t even know why ya runnin’ ya fuckin’ mouth.” Floco walked aggressively toward Cartier, and she did the same.

  Apple jumped in between the two to quickly defuse the situation.

  “How much will y’all need?” said Apple. “Cartier, go sit in the car. I got this.”

  “Whatever.” Begrudgingly, Cartier exited the home and sat inside the Lexus with her hand trained on her .380.

  Inside, Apple finished her negotiating with the cousins. She agreed to drop them three large in the morning.

  “What about the rental? Y’all still want us to take you?”

  “Nah, we a’ight. We can handle shit on our end.”

  “Ok then,” Apple said as she exited to join Cartier outside.

  When the ladies left, the guys couldn’t help but to discuss them.

  “You saw the look in that bitch’s face?” Floco said. “She wanted to kill a nigga!”

  Whiz laughed.

  “I think I love her.” Floco whistled. “Carti . . .yay . . . I bet she suck good dick and could fuck too. She look like one of them aggressive bitches in the bed, take charge on a nigga. Calling me daddy while I smack dat ass.”

  “Nah, that’s Apple you describing.”

  “You must be crazy!” Floco exclaimed. “She look like she just lays there and want a nigga to do all the work.”

  “You sleepin’ on her, cuz!”

  “Maybe. She is pretty, though,” Floco agreed. “Don’t matter, ’cause soon she will be a dead pretty bitch.”

  ***

  The next day Apple dropped off the money as promised, and Whiz and Floco discussed strategy and finances. Whiz was running the numbers.

  “So we got a little under forty-seven hundred left from the five grand, and with this three we just about up seventy-seven hundred. I say we cap our nightclub expenses at a hundred per week. Hopefully we find these fools by then. No bottle poppin’. We buy one drink each, a glass of Henny, and lay low. And we certainly ain’t paying no bitches for information.”

  Floco added, “Do clubs still let muthafuckas in free before a certain time? We need to find out.”

  Whiz smiled at his cousin’s brilliance. “And food—they got dollar menus now. And we can go to the supermarket and stock up on ramen noodles and frozen shit on sale.”

  “We doing all this, but what if that bitch is runnin’ through all our fuckin’ bread out here splurging in South Beach? You heard her say that they were in charge of stalkin’ the malls and shit. Fuck around and when we get our hands on the million it won’t be but half that!” Floco angered himself like he had ownership in Apple’s blood money.

  “There you go wit’ that negative shit. Damn, nigga. All that does is motivate me to find this nigga Scar, his bitch, and her brother. The quicker we find them the faster we get paid. Let’s keep our eyes peeled and show them how niggas in their forties get down.”

  ***

  For weeks they all worked around the clock trying to spot Citi, Scar, and Cane and kept coming up empty. Apple was highly frustrated, and Amir’s calls and Floco and Whiz’s begging wasn’t helping. Working with these dudes was highly stressful, but she kept Nick at the forefront of her mind. Something had to give. And then she got what she considered a sign from her boo.

  28

  The Runaway Café was a popular spot with rich and tasty food. The décor was inviting, and the beach was just a stone’s throw away. There was dining indoors and outdoors. The patrons were engrossed in enjoying their good meals and having good conversation under the setting sun.

  Among the cafe’s occupants were Citi and Scar. They were dining at an exterior table, enjoying smothered chicken, baked macaroni and cheese, and southern style biscuits. Three of their men sat nearby low-key, not wanting to draw attention or intimidate the other customers. For Citi, South Beach was the place to be. But it was Scar’s first time there, and he felt like a fish out of water. He was a Brooklyn goon, and Miami, with the continuous sunshine, warm weather, and bikini clad beauties, was a stretch for him.

  “So, you like it here?” Citi asked him.

  “It ain’t Brooklyn,” he responded.

  “I know . . . it’s paradise,” she joked.

  Scar didn’t laugh. Citi looked happy, but he had to remind her that being in Miami didn’t mean that they were completely safe. This wasn’t a vacation. It was business. After that shootout in Queens, he felt that it was in his best interest to let the heat die down in New York.

  When they first arrived, Citi got straight down to business by reconnecting with Caesar Mingo and feeding the Miami streets. She was thirsty to make up for the losses she had taken. Soon she and Scar began to have differences of opinion on how to run her empire. Or, basically, who should be running her empire. Scar thought Citi quickly got lazy and preoccupied by tropical breezes and beaches, drop-top whips, nightclubs, and Spanish speaking dudes in flip flops and linen suits. He felt that the hot sun had fried her brain cells. She was snorting coke like she was guest starring on a 1980s Miami Vice episode. Scar had repeatedly laid hands on her, but she was a stubborn bitch. His beatdowns were no longer able to set her straight.

  Citi’s position was that Scar felt threatened by his second-in-command status after they were virtually run out of New York. He constantly felt like he had to prove he was a heartless killer who gave no fucks. Seventy-two hours after arriving, Scar had captured, tortured, and dismembered two men he said was following them. No one knew if that was true or false because nobody saw shit. The men feigned innocence, but that didn’t stop Scar from putting on a show for all her men to see.

  Scar needed to be the head nigga in charge. She knew that he was a ticking time bomb and if she gave him her connect, Caesar, she would be a dead bitch. Thankfully, Caesar would never do business with a thug like Scar. But she still had to think three steps ahead. See, Scar thought that she was slacking and moving less ki’s per week. That wasn’t true at all. She was still doing her numbers, but she kept some things in her organization a secret.

  What Scar didn’t know was that she was a sneaky bitch. She grew up knowing that you never let the right hand know what the left hand is doing. That’s a mantra to live by. Citi needed to reduce Scar’s bottom line because money was power. If she made that man too wealthy then she was expendable. Sure, Caesar wouldn’t fuck with him. But there were the Colombians, Jamaicans, Panamanians, and rival Mexican cartels that just might give him some play.

  Scar eyed Citi with a frown. She was an airhead to him, and he hated dumb fucks with a passion. “Remember, we ain’t just down here on some personal shit,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “I’m still lookin’ into who this Nicholas muthafucka was and why he was coming for me,” said Scar.

  “You and me got enemies . . .”

  “And that’s why we need—”

  Before Scar could finish his sentence, the sound of a gunshot rang out.

  Bak!

  To Scar’s right, one of his goons was instantly struck down by a bullet. And then a hail of gunfire followed that first shot.

  Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak!

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Not again! Citi screamed to herself. She and Scar hit the ground hard and fast while their two remaining soldiers took up position and went into battle mode.

  Scar’s head was on a fast swivel as he pulled out the Glock 19 he had on him. Where was the gunfire coming from? It felt like it was coming from everywhere.

  Apple and Cartier, along with Whiz and Floco, charged forward, desperately aiming for Citi as she tucked herself under the tabl
e with Scar trying to protect her. Citi’s men shot back, and the scene abruptly transitioned from a peaceful outing to an all out gunfight. Many ran and took cover. There was screaming and absolute terror among the patrons and staff.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Tables were overturned and chairs went flying everywhere. Cartier thought she had Scar in a losing position. There he was, crouched near a table. She was about to strike him center mass, but then he sprung up, pushed Citi toward safety, and took off running. He ducked and then angled his body and slid between a car for cover—on some stop, drop, and roll type of move. He was swift. He wouldn’t be taken easily. He quickly recovered and shot back at Cartier. One bullet grazed her leg and she went down.

  Apple tried gunning for Citi. She wanted to take the bitch’s head off with a 9mm, but Citi was a slippery bitch. One of Citi’s goons became a barrier between her and Apple, and he was fiercely firing her way. Apple had to take cover herself, but not before she and Citi locked eyes.

  It was the first time Citi got confirmation that it was Apple and Cartier. She had stared the bitch right in her face. It was a what-the-fuck moment. She was praying that Scar or her goons murdered them both right there.

  With Cartier injured, Apple had to retreat. They’d made the night ugly and violent, and they had the element of surprise, but it didn’t pan out. Now Citi knew they were coming for her.

  ***

  An area of South Beach had turned into Iraq. Surprisingly, the shootout only left one dead, Scar’s hoodlum. But uniforms and detectives flooded the scene asking questions and collecting evidence. The culprits had managed to get away.

  Although Citi survived another attempt on her life, it left an impression on her. Not only did they try to take her life, but she had lost her thirty-thousand-dollar Birkin bag during the violent melee. She was super pissed. She stormed into the luxury condo they were renting on South Beach screaming and kicking shit over, and she was ready to go to war.

  Citi screamed, “I want them bitches kidnapped! I want them fuckin’ tortured and ass fucked! I want them bitches raped and to finally fuckin’ die!”