South Beach Cartel

by Nisa Santiago

  A few hours later, Apple and Cartier arrived. They’d been out to dinner. Kola and Apple locked eyes and then they embraced in a sisterly, tight hug.

  “I’m sorry about the baby,” Apple said sincerely.

  It felt like they didn’t want to let each other go. They’d been through a lot—lots of pain and loss. Kola kept her promise and she didn’t cry. She huffed and kept strong.

  After she hugged Apple, she looked at Cartier and they embraced. Cartier hadn’t seen Kola in years, and she quickly remembered when Apple and Kola were at war with each other and she wanted to squash their beef.

  Kola was equally happy to see the Brooklyn girl whose reputation preceded her. Cartier was the first bitch who the hood rumored wore sexy dresses and heels with a .380 strapped to her thigh. Cartier was known to be a beast on the streets—somebody not to be fucked with. She fought bitches and niggas hand-to-hand and busted her gun like a gangster. Kola remembered when she heard about Monya getting shot in the head while doing a drug run out of state. Like she and Apple, Cartier had been through some shit.

  The three women, all shy of turning thirty years old, had been through some serious drama in their young years, but in Miami, all beefs would be settled. On that, they all vowed.

  The next morning, Apple brought Kola up-to-date on their situation and their progress, or lack thereof. They told her about Whiz and Floco and how Apple planned on killing them once her enemies were dead. Most importantly, Citi, Cane, and Scar were still alive. Cartier had been grazed in the leg during the gunplay, and they had failed numerous times to kill, injure, or maim any of the three of them.

  “Where did you go with that injury?” Kola asked Cartier, knowing hospitals were to report all gunshot victims.

  “I ain’t stupid, Kola. I’ve been in this game far too long. We paid a doctor to fix me up.”

  Kola nodded.

  “Who is the strongest on their team?” asked Kola.

  “That would be Scar,” Apple said. “Without a doubt, that nigga is agile like a feline and his trigger finger is quick. It’s like the muthafucka was born with Spidey senses.”

  Apple’s run-ins with Scar were almost legendary.

  “Then we take that bitch’s legs out from under her,” said Kola.

  “But we need to get them alone,” Cartier said. “We separate them, we better our chances.”

  Kola agreed.

  “So who do we go after first?” Apple asked. “I’m thinkin’ Cane.”

  “Cane?” Kola was taken aback by the comment.

  “We catch that fool and lullaby his ass,” said Cartier.

  “Nah, we do that, and we put Scar on alert to hire more men and beef up their security, if they haven’t done so already. No, Scar is the muscle. He falls first, and the others are gonna follow,” Kola said.

  Kola had her game face on. It felt good to be back. Kamel had been blowing up her cell phone, but she refused to answer it. She didn’t want to talk to him and be reminded about her miscarriage. She wanted to jump back into her old self and start where she’d left off.

  30

  A black Chevy Impala pulled up to the small, yellow one-story home with a singular palm tree in the front yard on 9th Street in Liberty City. There were already several uniformed officers lingering around the property, and curious neighbors were gathering behind the yellow crime scene tape that had been put up to restrict the area. Something serious had happened on their narrow, inner-city block, and the looky-loos were flocking to crime scene.

  Two detectives climbed out of the black Impala and approached the crime scene with soft eyes. Detectives Mitchell and Palmer were veterans with Miami-Dade Homicide, and they had over eighteen years of experience between them. Clothed in dark suits, they crossed the yellow tape and approached the yellow home. Already they deduced the house to be a trap house. The windows were darkened, there were security cameras perched near the entrance, and there was a pit bull chained up in the backyard.

  “What we got?” Mitchell asked one of the uniformed officers.

  “Seems like another home invasion. We got one down,” the cop replied.

  Mitchell took a deep breath and proceeded into the house. Immediately, he caught a strong whiff of death. A body was sprawled facedown across the wood floor, his blood pooling and staining the floor. The place had been ransacked. There were definitely drugs and cash involved.

  Palmer crouched toward the body of the young black male, a face he’d never seen before.

  “He’s another one from New York,” Palmer said.

  “How you know that?” Mitchell asked.

  “The tattoo on his right arm, the cross and skull—it’s from a Brooklyn crew.”

  “What we got on our hands? A drug war with crews from New York?” Mitchell asked.

  Palmer sighed. “I don’t know, but whoever is hitting these trap houses, they’re smart and they’re fast—vicious too.”

  Palmer and Mitchell continued to inspect the crime scene. As usual, there were no witnesses—at least none who were willing to come forward. Fear and intimidation ruled the warm metropolis, and when it came to crime, everyone had amnesia.

  This was the fifth trap house robbed in the past month, and the detectives speculated that it was a crew moving in violently on another rival drug crew. This reign of terror had left behind three dead so far, and the cops had no idea how much cash or drugs were taken. They were putting the squeeze on their C.I.’s and snitches. Something was happening in Miami, and they were determined to find out just what.

  ***

  “To my bitches,” Apple hollered, raising her champagne glass in the air.

  “To us!” Cartier said.

  They all downed the bubbly champagne, but Floco and Whiz felt disrespected. They put in work too, but since this third bitch showed up, Apple had been letting her reckless mouth talk greasy to them. Whiz had to constantly remind Floco that the ends would justify the means and to keep his fuckin’ mouth shut. Soon enough they would get their ultimate payday. In the meantime, they were earning a pretty penny doing these licks. Apparently, this Citi bitch had some paper.

  The three girls and their hired guns were celebrating this evening. They had something to drink to and rejoice about. On the bed of a rented motel room was hundreds and hundreds of thousands of dollars—maybe in the millions, a few kilos of cocaine, and guns. They had successfully robbed another one of Citi and Scar’s trap houses. The last one, they left one dead behind and took eighty grand and three kilos of heroin.

  Whiz had a knack for surveillance, obtaining information, and plotting robberies. Together, they seemed unstoppable. They were adept, bold, and took risks and were tearing shit up in Miami. Drug crews didn’t see them coming. Their crew was like a train barreling through a small town fast and strong, and then disappearing into the night. The cut was divided five ways, equally. And no one had any qualms about that because both sides felt that the other’s share would be his or hers in due time.

  Whiz and Floco watched the huge grins on the girls’ faces and thought that all this celebrating was premature. They were older, wiser, and more disciplined. They knew they weren’t getting any pussy here tonight, so they decided to take their cut and bounce.

  “Yo,” Floco began. “We out. We thinkin’ we gonna go and do some more surveillance near the projects. See what’s moving. I mean, these licks are good, but a nigga ready to head up north soon before our luck runs out.”

  “Luck?” Cartier snorted. “You think luck is what’s gotten us this far?”

  Everyone knew it was about to be another epic argument between Floco and Cartier, and no one was up for it tonight. They had been arguing every day for weeks now.

  “C’mon, man. Let’s just go,” said Whiz.

  “Why don’t y’all just fuck already?” Kola assessed.

  “Stop blowin’ our fuckin’
high!” added Apple.

  Both Cartier and Floco smirked.

  Whiz and Floco left to go and track down their intended targets while the ladies turnt up.

  Kola downed the champagne and smiled widely. She was back to her old self. She and her girls danced to Post Malone’s song with 21 Savage, “Rock Star,” because that’s what they felt they were—rock stars.

  Kola’s cell phone rang, and she saw that it was Kamel calling her once again. It had been weeks since she’d spoken to him. Apple sometimes would talk to him, but only to check on the kids. And though Kamel was frustrated and upset about Kola’s sudden absence, he continued to take care of the kids without her. He had no idea when she would be back.

  “You okay, Kola?” Apple asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Bitches, I need some fuckin’ dick tonight,” Cartier shouted out of the blue.

  They all laughed.

  “You ain’t the only one,” Apple replied. “If you run fast enough you might catch up wit’ Floco and that big-ass dick he’s waving around in them sweats.”

  “I would fuck the shit outta dude,” Cartier admonished.

  “Me too,” said Apple.

  “Me three,” Kola replied, and they all laughed.

  Apple opened another bottle of champagne and they stripped down to their skivvies and continued with their private party—girls only. Cartier went to the money on the bed and grabbed a fist full of hundreds and started to toss it everywhere, making it rain inside the room.

  “Make it rain, bitches, make it rain,” she laughed.

  Apple and Kola joined in, tossing money up everywhere as it floated around the room. They danced around in it. Cartier leaped onto the bed and started to cover herself in money. It was a good time. The girls hadn’t laughed so hard or had so much fun in months, maybe years. But tonight, they were like three teenagers enjoying the fruits of their hard labor.

  Still, Apple knew that no matter how many trap houses they robbed in South Beach, how much money they took from Citi and Scar, or how many of Citi’s men they killed, the only prize for her was seeing Citi dead. Then she could really let loose and celebrate.

  While Kola and Cartier danced and drank, Apple began packing up the money and guns to go back to the duplex. As she scurried around the room she thought about Peaches. Apple missed her greatly. Though they were making moves in Miami, getting money and plotting her revenge, the life was taking a toll on her. She kept that undercover, though. She kept a rough and hardcore exterior, but being gone from Peaches this long was killing her inside. The streets kept her mind busy, so she would continue to rob, stalk, and kill to appease pain, but her heart was elsewhere.

  Apple remained on the balcony for a moment, becoming lost in her own thoughts. The music blared behind her. Kola and Cartier were now drunk, and it damn near looked like they were going to have a lesbian exploit behind her. Cartier grabbed Kola from behind in her arms, dancing and swaying together, and then Cartier kissed the side of Kola’s neck and cupped her tits. Kola laughed. The two continued to dance closely and then they fell against the sofa, entwined in each other arms.

  While that was happening, her burner phone rang, and Apple answered.

  Amir said, “How much you said you payin’ fo’ information on Scar again?”

  “Ten,” Apple reminded him.

  “A’ight. I got sumthin’.”

  Apple was listening.

  ***

  It took a miracle, but Cane had survived his gunshot wounds. One bullet passed through his side, and the other was lodged in his back, just barely missing his kidney. His surgeon went to great lengths to repeatedly tell him that had the bullet gone one-eighth of an inch to the right he would have been paralyzed. Cane knew he was trying to scare him into going straight. It worked too.

  Each day his sister came to visit him surrounded by her security team, yet Cane still worried. Scar was a loose cannon, and being laid up in the hospital, Cane had no idea what was going on. He was still shell-shocked that Scar would accuse him of selling out his very own sister. That showed that he was unstable. Cane needed a way to get Scar out of Citi’s life.

  “I don’t trust that nigga, Citi. We gotta get rid of him,” he pleaded.

  Citi looked around to make sure no one had heard her brother’s treason. “We can’t, Cane, and you know why. Those bitches are cuttin’ me down day by day. I need him. It’s not up for discussion.”

  “You take his side, even after what he did to me?”

  “It’s not about sides, Cane. Let’s not act juvenile. You didn’t die and that’s all that matters.”

  “I just barely survived!” Cane thought he shouted, but his voice was low and raspy. His anger came out as a whisper.

  “And Scar’s sorry for what he did. He told me to tell you that.”

  Cane knew he couldn’t get through to her. So, he had another approach. He’d set the nigga up to get knocked. It was a bitch-ass thing to do, but he was desperate.

  “The losses y’all taken are crazy. Did you move the trap house?”

  “Scar did.”

  “So where is it?”

  “One of them hoods.”

  “But where, though?”

  “Why, Cane? You’re in no position to guard it.”

  “I’m your business partner. Or have you forgotten? Just ’cause I’m in here doesn’t mean I’m out the game. I wanna know everything.”

  Citi exhaled. “Oh, Cane. You’re lucky you’re my brother so you get a pass. Just one, though.”

  “What the fuck you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “Why do you wanna know locations, huh? So you can set Scar up to get murdered? Call one of your amigos from Queens to come down here and murder my muscle? I told you that I needed him and when I no longer need him he’ll be dealt with. But on my timeline. Not yours. My empire doesn’t revolve around your revenge.”

  This dumb, smart, selfish bitch was on point. He would have to get at Scar another way.

  ***

  “How much did they take?” Citi asked.

  “Close to a hundred thousand this time,” one of her soldiers said.

  Citi fumed. The heavy losses were crippling her organization. It was embarrassing. How were they finding out things about her? How were they coming after her?

  “Fuck!” she shouted. She picked up her phone and flung it across the room, and it smashed against a wall.

  She cut her eyes at Scar and glared at him. “Do something!” she screamed at him.

  Scar retorted, “What the fuck you think I’m doin’ out there, bitch! I got soldiers everywhere, I amped security at every location, and we got a fuckin’ bounty on Apple and Cartie B.”

  “Cartier, you dumb fuck!”

  ***

  Apple felt the info she had received from Amir was a dud. Apparently, the old-adage is true, there’s no honor amongst thieves. Scar had shot Cane up, and Cane was recuperating in a local hospital. Cane spoke with his brother Chris, who was doing time in Otisville and updated him on his situation. Chris wouldn’t shut up about that nigga Scar violating his brother and wanting him dead. This looming beef quickly circulated throughout the state and federal prison systems.

  Amir had a Puerto Rican mami who came to see him. She did her rounds through the correctional facilities and each year she was with a new inmate. Gabriella was a forty-seven-year-old mom of six kids by six inmates. She had low self-esteem and a penchant for bad boys that she felt she could control through commissary, collect calls, and letters.

  Amir wanted Gabriella to be the go-between and deliver the message to Chris that they might be able to help him solve his Scar problem. All Chris had to do was help set him up. Amir and Gabriella had already put in the paperwork to get married so he would get conjugal visits. The money would help her get a house closer to the prison. Neither
loved each other. It was just a transaction.

  Apple was skeptical. “Now what’s going on?” she asked Amir.

  “Old boy is out of commission.”

  “Okay, and what?”

  “And we think she can get Chris to fill in the missing pieces.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah, shorty, that’s what I said.”

  “And why would he do that? Why would Chris snitch to the bitch that has an agenda against his peoples?” she replied, talking in riddles.

  “Scar ain’t his peoples,” Amir snapped.

  Apple felt Amir wanted to get his hands on it any way he could. He didn’t give a fuck who ended up with it as long as it wasn’t Apple.

  Apple rolled her eyes. “So, what’s my tab?”

  “Twenty long.”

  “For what?”

  “For the information!”

  “What fuckin’ information? You ain’t tell me shit!”

  “Yo, shorty—”

  “My fuckin’ name is Apple. I’m not your queen nor am I anybody’s shorty!”

  Amir bit down so forcefully that he nicked his cheek and shed blood. This bitch could really get under his skin. He felt like she had two sides.

  “Apple, you owe a dime on that Cane information. If you don’t want us to make a connection to Chris, okay, no problem. But send Gabby what you owe.”

  “Straight up, I’m not sending that bitch shit. Fuck I look like? Mrs. Claus? Nigga, don’t call this line again unless you got some real shit to relay. Otherwise, eat a dick!”

  Apple filled the girls in on the new information from Amir. She felt it was thin at best. Cane could already be dead or so fucked up that killing him wouldn’t be a priority. And why was Citi still with the nigga that shot up her brother? They had no idea.

  “I’ll start calling around the local hospitals, see what I find on Cane,” said Cartier.

  As Cartier called hospitals, Kola had a thought. Maybe that information was useful after all.

  “Apple, check this,” Kola began. “If we find Cane alive we should go to him.”

  “And kill him at the hospital? I mean, damn, you trying to do life?”