South Beach Cartel

by Nisa Santiago

  “Baby, how long we gonna sit and wait here? You know I got things to do,” Miranda moaned.

  Lynch cut his eyes at her and barked, “Bitch you in a fuckin’ rush? You got shit to do, besides spend my fuckin’ money?”

  “I’m just saying, baby, I’m too cute to sit around in the ghetto looking crazy,” she protested.

  “Walk somewhere then. I got fuckin’ business to take care of. Don’t fuckin’ rush me, bitch. I don’t fuckin’ know what you think this shit is.”

  She sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes and then sighed. She wasn’t walking anywhere, especially in a pair of $600 heels.

  Lynch went back to his phone conversation. “Nah, not yet. I got Steel meeting up wit’ me right now. That nigga must be crazy! He been talkin’ greasy ’bout me for some time now, but when I see that ugly, dead-eye nigga he don’t never do shit! . . . Who? In my city? Scar is more bitch than his bitch. If he wanna see me, he know where the fuck I be. I’m right here all day ev’ry day in my fuckin’ hood. These niggas love me out here. They fuckin’ worship me! I wish a nigga would try me . . . Yeah, but I’ma see him and his bitch. Nah, man . . . Citi, I’m gonna fuck that cute fuckin’ bitch,” he said in front of his trophy jawn.

  Now Miranda was the one cutting her eyes. “Nigga, you seriously gonna talk that cheating shit right in front me? That’s so fuckin’ disrespectful, Lynch!”

  “Like I give a fuck, bitch!” he retorted.

  They argued briefly while a black-on black Beamer with chrome rims rolled up on the block and parked right in front of Lynch’s Benz Coupe. It was his right-hand man Steel arriving on the block to meet with him on an imminent issue with Scar.

  Lynch opened his door and placed one foot on the ground. He was about to exit the vehicle to meet with Steel on the street, but Miranda continued to curse at him, and she was making him upset.

  “Look, bitch—” he started.

  His girlfriend’s fury swiftly shifted into full-blown panic—something out of the blue had gripped her immediate attention. A masked gunman came from out of nowhere, his right arm extended and a SW99 pistol gripped in his hand. Lynch had his back turned to the threat, as he was fussing with his girl. Her eyes widened in terror, and before she could warn him or scream, it happened—gunshots and turmoil.

  Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak!

  The back of Lynch’s head exploded. His blood splattered everywhere, and the force of the bullets thrust him into Miranda and left his cranium dropping against her lap. She released a deafening scream. She was terrified that she was going to be next, as she locked eyes with the masked gunman.

  Pandemonium soon followed the explosion of gunfire. Covered in her man’s blood, Miranda hurriedly ejected herself from the car and flung herself to the concrete, scraping her knees and elbows.

  Steel immediately flew out of his Beamer with a pistol in his hand. Lynch was down, and the killer was dead in his sights. “You muthafucka!” he screamed as he released a barrage of bullets at the masked man.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Steel scowled and rushed forward, gunning for the killer.

  Miranda continued to hug the concrete and scream, trapped in a hail of bullets from different directions. Locals took cover, but the sound of gunshots and murder wasn’t new to them.

  Steel continued to rush wildly toward his target, hell bent on retaliation for his friend’s death. But unbeknownst to him, there were two shooters instead of one. The second gunman craftily came from behind and opened fire on Steel, striking him multiple times in the back and in the back of the head. He collapsed forward, lying facedown against the black pavement.

  The second shooter stood over Steel’s body and pumped several more rounds into him. He then glanced at his partner in crime and they both ran off and jumped into a black Crown Vic that came to a screeching stop. The car took off, and Lynch’s girl was left there on the sidewalk completely traumatized.

  Seated in a SUV a block away was Scar. He had witnessed the entire thing unfold. It was his order to take Lynch out because he believed the man was a snake and partially responsible for the violent attacks against him. If Scar even thought you were about to cross him, or if you dogged his name out on the street, he was coming for you.

  Appeased by what he saw, he grinned and said to Coogie, “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

  33

  Scar and his goons fucked up leaving behind an eyewitness. Miranda knew everything. Scar had murdered her nigga and she wanted revenge. Overnight she went from being a hustler’s wife to just another project broad. In less than forty-eight hours she found Apple. She began running her mouth like it was a marathon. Cartier, Apple, and Kola had listened to a long, drawn out epic saga detailing how she and Lynch met, how he was gonna marry her, how she was trying to get pregnant—all delusional, heartbroken shit.

  “Kill that nigga,” Miranda said, her face awash in tears. “Kill him fuckin’ dead!”

  “We need to know where that nigga sleep at,” Apple calmly began. “Catchin’ that slippery nigga on the streets is proving to be difficult.”

  “I don’t know where he live at.”

  Cartier snapped. “Then what do you know!”

  “I know shit,” Miranda said, and cut her eyes at Cartier. “I know about a bitch he checks up on at club Floss. It’s not his home, but it’s something!”

  Floss was located off Alton Road in Miami Beach. Night after night, they worked in shifts, either Floco and Cartier or Apple and Kola. It didn’t take long for Scar to show up, only he wasn’t ever alone. He came two dozen deep. Goons were guarding him like he was President Trump doing a speech at a Black Panther rally.

  Floco and Cartier were able to follow him to a residence and Floco, still hot over the death of his cousin, wanted to get out and just start blazing.

  “Are you crazy?” Cartier barked. “That’s fuckin’ suicide.”

  “That nigga killed my cousin! I’ma blow his fuckin’ brains out!”

  “I know. Just not tonight!”

  Cartier felt Floco was a loose cannon. He was showing unstable tendencies, and his patience had dissipated weeks ago.

  Floco missed New York, wasn’t getting steady pussy, and now he was down his fam. Floco wanted to hurry this shit along because he still had an agenda. Apple needed to die and now the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow would be all his.

  The next day, Cartier, Apple, and Kola sat inside the Lexus and from across the street, they keenly surveyed the quaint home on Virginia Street in the Coconut Grove section of Miami. The area was somewhat middle class with its smooth paved roads, medium homes, and tree lined streets. It was mid-morning, and the area was quiet. They observed Scar pull up to the charming residence and climb out of the Escalade. He didn’t come alone. Four dark colored SUVs with tinted windows pulled along the curb and waited for their boss.

  The girls were on the same street as Scar, only a few homes away from him. They were tucked away in the shade of palm trees and shrubbery. Scar moved from his SUV to the modest looking home, unaware that he was being watched. But he moved carefully, his head swiveling as he keenly scanned the area. The crazy killer had two guns on his person, a Glock 34 and a Sig 226.

  Scar knocked and the front door swung open. A Latina girl loomed into view. She was pretty and voluptuous with big tits, a flat stomach, and a curvy ass. It appeared that she’d had some plastic surgery done. Scar hugged her, and even though her arms were wrapped around him intimately, Scar kept his reach close to his guns—always alert, eyes open.

  She ushered him into the home. The girls watched the door close. Now they had a beat on Scar.

  “This dumb fuck is gonna die over some pussy,” Cartier said.

  “You see how niggas be cheatin’ and shit,” Kola said. “Citi waiting at home on this ugly ass, dead-eye nigga and he up in here eating the next bitch’s puss
y.”

  “Oh please, Kola,” remarked Apple. “How many next bitches have you been in your lifetime? You sittin’ here actin’ all innocent and shit.”

  Kola cut her eyes at her sister. “You still salty that I took your man all them years back, bitch?”

  “And you see how that shit turned out, right?” Apple came back with.

  The two started bickering inside the car, until Cartier had to shut them up. They were like the two young siblings that she never had, but enough was enough already.

  “We’re supposed to be focused, not arguing,” Cartier spat.

  The sisters knew she was right. They tossed a halfhearted apology at each other.

  “How long you think he gonna be in there?” Kola asked.

  “Don’t know. Maybe all night. But now we got a location on this fool,” Cartier said.

  “Yeah, but it won’t be the first time,” Apple said.

  “He got lucky before, but his luck is about to run out,” said Cartier.

  34

  Precision Auto was a popular body shop on 7th Street in Little Havana, and Citi had her mangled Range Rover towed there for repair. The baby blue SUV was one of her favorite vehicles. Miami was becoming more of a nightmare than the paradise she expected. Trouble had followed her from New York, and if Scar didn’t do his job, then she would have no choice but to replace him—if that was possible.

  It was a clear, hot, and sunny day, and Citi climbed out of the E-Class Benz looking stunning in a black spaghetti-strap mini-dress, boasting her long legs and showing off her red bottoms. To everyone inside the mechanic shop, her appearance screamed money and power. She was a stunning woman—the type of woman who seemed out of place in the auto body shop. But not too far behind her were two men, not the type of men to take lightly. They read trouble and killers.

  Right away, the owner of the shop approached Citi. His name was Manuel. He was a carbon copy of Ricky Martin—tall, handsome, bearded, and he looked more hands-off with the cars than hands-on.

  “How can I help you, miss?” he asked Citi.

  For a moment, Citi’s eyes were stuck on how handsome he was. The mere sight of him lit a fire inside of her that was going to be hard to put out. She had to take a deep breath and try not to stare so hard at him.

  “I need help,” she at last said.

  “I can see that. What happened?” he asked, staring at the wrecked blue Range Rover that had been towed to his shop.

  “I want her up and running.”

  “We can make that happen. We know how to work miracles here,” he said.

  I bet you do, she thought. She smiled at him.

  Manuel smiled back, being nice. Citi was a very pretty woman, but he instantly knew what she was about. He knew drug money when he saw it, as he was former player in the drug game. Manuel had gone legit a few years ago, after serving some time in prison and almost losing his life in a bad drug deal. He took his earnings and opened his shop.

  For a moment, Citi created a distraction inside the shop, as all eyes were on her—her sexy black dress, her long legs, her luxury Benz in the background. She was the best thing they’d seen all week. But while Manuel’s employees were ogling her, Manuel remained cool and kept things professional. He wasn’t swayed by her beauty and her flirting.

  “So handsome . . . . How long until she’s fixed?” Citi asked. She stepped closer to him and placed her hand on his chest. She could feel his muscles through the fabric.

  Manuel coolly maneuvered himself from her flirtatious touch, taking a few steps back from her. “I need to do an estimate first,” he said.

  “That’s fine, handsome. I got time,” she said, still smiling his way.

  He didn’t know much about cars, but he did know how to operate a business. He had his mechanics to help him, and they were some of the best in Miami. Citi continued to flirt with him, and he treated the young beauty with the utmost respect. He decided to put his best man on the job.

  “Irving, come over here,” Manuel called out to one of his mechanics.

  A young black man with light brown skin, glasses, and a trimmed beard with soft hair braided back into cornrows approached them. Citi looked his way. He was cute, looking like a young Malcolm X, but it was Manuel who had her undivided attention.

  “This is Irving, and he’s my best mechanic here. He’ll be the one to fix you up,” said Manuel.

  Citi gave Irving the once-over, and he looked like he’d never done a dishonest thing in his life—complete square. His father was a pastor who also owned a body shop back home in Connecticut.

  “Hello,” Irving said politely.

  “Hey,” Citi replied dryly.

  “He’ll take down your information, and whatever you need, he’ll take care of you from now on,” Manuel told her.

  “And he’s the best?” asked Citi.

  Manuel nodded. “He’ll have your Range Rover looking brand new in no time.”

  “Money is no issue for me,” she said.

  “I understand,” Manuel replied.

  “I’ll keep you updated when the parts come in for your Range, ma’am,” Irving chimed.

  Citi chuckled. “Ma’am—that’s cute.”

  Irving was respectful. On her way out, he opened and held the door for her. He continued to greet her with “ma’am,” and it was unreal for Citi. He was sweet boy, but not her cup of tea at all. It was Manuel who she had her eye on. Citi was sexually frustrated, and she saw Manuel as her opening to pure pleasure and a good dick down. He was something to take her mind off her troubles. She needed the sexual escape.

  When she walked away, approaching the E-Class Benz parked on the street with her two thugs standing nearby, Irving and Manuel watched her.

  “She sure is pretty,” Irving mentioned.

  Manuel looked at him and snapped, “Get back to work.”

  ***

  Two days later, the E-Class Benz came to a stop in front Precision Auto. Citi exited the car looking too cute in a red designer dress and a pair of Fendi heels. Manuel had been on her mind since the day she saw him. And like most, she loved a challenge. She knew Manuel wasn’t feeling her and that he was married, and it made her want him even more.

  Unfortunately for her, he wasn’t there that day. But Irving was. He greeted her with politeness and chivalry.

  Every couple of days, Citi made it her business to show up at the body shop out of the blue, and she made sure the outfits she wore there were sexy and eye-catching. But the moment Manuel would spot her, he would make a quick exit from the shop. He didn’t want anything to do with her, but he valued her business. He wanted Citi and her associates to use his repair shop for their business—stash boxes, insurance scams, the works.

  Unlike most men, who would have fucked Citi for bragging rights, Manuel loved his wife. She held him down when he did a long bid and he never cheated on her once he came home. He didn’t want to break up his happy home for a cheap affair. Citi was beautiful, but she wasn’t worth the heartache she would bring. Besides, he wasn’t attracted to her type.

  It was Irving whose eyes lit up each time Citi walked into the shop. He would smile, and his heart would swell with emotions. Seeing his eagerness for her, Citi would try to use Irving to make Manuel jealous. She and Irving would laugh and talk. She even gave him a few hugs inside the shop, but it wasn’t Manuel that was stirred with jealousy, it was Irving’s coworkers. To them, it seemed like Irving had formed some kind of odd friendship with the young beauty.

  But the more Citi thought she was using Irving, the more she started to respect him. She realized that he was running the place. All the workers came to him for advice on how to fix certain things. If they second-guessed a repair, Irving would advise them on what to do and what not to do. He was a savant when it came to repairing cars. Yet, she noticed that he wasn’t in a managerial position.
r />   Unexpectedly, while he was on his lunch break, she asked Irving, “How much do you make an hour?”

  “You mean me?” he said incredulously, looking embarrassed that she asked him. His eyes darted down to the ground, the introvert in him coming out. He knew that he could never afford someone as fancy and stylish as Citi.

  “Who else?” she snapped.

  He huffed and replied, “I make close to five hundred a week. But I’m supposed to get a raise soon.”

  “And what about him?” She pointed to the head mechanic, another Hispanic male.

  The man was old, lazy, and smelly. He was always stuffing Spanish food down his throat with his greasy fingers and dirty fingernails. Citi immediately took a dislike to him. He never spoke English, like he hated the language, and he was rude. She heard that he was related to Manuel somehow.

  Irving whistled and replied, “He makes a lot more than me.”

  “You’re letting these Mexican muthafuckas play you,” she stated. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you your worth.”

  “They’re Cuban,” he corrected.

  “Who gives a fuck what they are? You’re too smart for them to play you, Irving,” she exclaimed.

  He wished she would lower her tone. He didn’t want to start any trouble with his coworkers. He liked his job and he didn’t want to get fired.

  Citi peeped his nervousness and she felt sorry for him—the good-hearted underdog. She saw something special in him and felt the urge to protect him.

  ***

  The following day, Citi showed up at the auto body shop again, but this time she no longer looked for the owner. She was there to see Irving. Mistreating the only black guy in there who was singly-handedly running the shop—shit like that irked her. She remembered being treated as such, as if she was nothing.

  Irving appeared in front of her wearing a white tank top under his dark blue overalls, which he removed due to the Miami heat. Citi stood there in awe, seeing his muscles bulging from his shirt. He wasn’t brawny like Michael Jai White, but he was slim and physically fit. She thought he needed protection, but physically he was appealing. Mentally, he was shy.