The Union II

by Tremayne Johnson

  Chris hit the gas, sped up, and made the tires screech as he came to a full stop right in front of Vito’s Bar & Grill.

  “Welcome home Billy!” Cleo yelled, then aimed the high caliber weapon out the window.

  He squeezed the trigger, and fire shot from the nozzle.

  The ear popping sounds of gunshots echoed through the vacant streets. The 7.62 caliber bullets pierced flesh and tore away portions of the concrete structures.

  Spent shell casings jumped from the flame spitting war gun as Cleo emptied the thirty round magazine at his adversaries.

  A bullet struck Billy in the neck before he could attempt to get to the ground. Blood shot into the air.

  “Billy!!”

  Mikey watched as his body crumbled to the cement. He reached for his shoulder holster, backed out his chrome 9 millimeter Beretta, and returned blind fire. Windows of parked cars shattered along the street, but aimlessly missing his intended target.

  An older married couple exiting the restaurant walked directly into a shower of stray bullets. Both were cut down on contact.

  “Pull off Chris!” Cleo tapped the back of the headrest and ducked back into the vehicle.

  The nose twitching redolence of burnt rubber and gunpowder mixed with the nauseating, stench of death lingered in the air.

  “Nooooo!! Billy,” Tears flooded Mikey’s eyes as he kneeled beside his first cousin and tried to lift his limp body from the warm ground.

  The dead weight was too much for him to manage. When he looked down, his jacket and hands were covered in Billy’s blood.

  Screaming sirens could be heard in the distance. The sound was moving in closer with each passing second.

  Vinny heard the shots from inside and made his way out to the street in a panic. He could barely catch his breath. “Mi… Mikey, you hit?” he coughed and caught a glimpse of the blood spilling out from underneath Billy’s body. “Goddamnit Billy…” he reached down and shut his eyes.

  Mikey tried to stand up, but his shattered ankle wouldn’t allow him to. “I think I took one in the foot, Pop.”

  He slowly lifted his pants leg and saw the red juice covering his shoe. Immediately he felt the burn.

  “Shit!” Vinny spat. He could see the flashing lights closing in. “Gimme that.” He grabbed the hot pistol from Mikey’s hand, stuffed it in his jacket pocket, and called to his longtime comrade. “Hey, Sal! Get him outta here.”

  The lurid display of death was a picturesque scene that mimicked a classic mob flick.

  Parked cars riddled with bullets.

  Billy Telesco’s stiff corpse lolled across the filthy pavement, soaking in a pool of blood. He was in his best suit, most expensive pair of shoes, and his Hermes tie was flipped up over his shoulder.

  The two innocent bystanders, lying on top of each other, blanketed in blood, were dead at the front entrance of the restaurant.

  __________

  “Yo, lemme get a pack of Newports and three of those Dutchies.” Tyrell slapped a twenty dollar bill onto the counter.

  “Ty, you see this shit?” Six was staring at the 15 inch color television affixed to the back wall of the bodega. “Somebody hit the Italians last night, shit crazy.”

  Tyrell turned and looked up at the local news report on the screen.

  I’m standing only fifteen feet away from where the notorious Italian mob gangster, Billy ‘The Butcher’ Telesco and two others were gunned down late last night in a hail of bullets.

  Reports say the victims were leaving a welcome home celebration for the mob affiliate when a dark colored vehicle rolled up to the front of the restaurant and one of its occupants opened fire.

  This restaurant, Vito’s Bar & Grill, is owned by reputed mob boss, Vinny Telesco, whose youngest son, Vito, was murdered less than a month ago. Vinny Telesco was said to be inside at the time of the shooting, and police have yet to identify the other two victims. For more on this story, tune in at 7 pm.

  This is Kathy Lee reporting live from White Plains, New York for channel Twelve News.

  “Damn. Son jus’ got home, too.” Six shook his head.

  Tyrell got his change, took his bag off the counter and moved to the exit. “Word… nigga probably didn’t even get no ass yet. That’s fucked up.” he giggled.

  In a little over a month’s time, Tyrell, with the help of Uncle Earl, assembled a team, flooded the streets with product, and proceeded to make his mark in the drug trade.

  His crew consisted of Uncle Earl, the Wolf brothers (Damion and Daren), and his longtime friend Six.

  On average, Tyrell’s weekly profits would total 25 to 30 thousand dollars. He controlled the flow of crack cocaine within the gates of the projects and his clientele was growing by the hour.

  He now felt the need to expand further into the surrounding area, but he was knowledgeable of the repercussions that would occur with that move, so he prepared himself.

  The clouded sky gave off a murky grey tint. A cool September breeze whizzed by, blowing pieces of loose garbage into the street as Tyrell and Six exited the corner store.

  A group of seven or eight hustlers were gathered about fifty feet up the block in a detached circle, badgering a short dark skinned kid who was about to roll the dice.

  “Watch his face when he ace!” one of the men shouted.

  The short dark skinned kid shook the dice in his closed fist and blew on them three times. “Scared money don’t make no money. If I ever go broke—” he unleashed the square ivory cubes from the palm of his hand and they bounced off the wall and rolled across the cement. “I’ma take yo’ money!” they landed on four, five and six.

  “That’s some bullshit!!” One of the dicers complained.

  “Fuck all that. Pay me nigga.” He collected his winnings around the circle. “Twelve hunit comin’. All downs a bet, everything good in my bank, call em’ out!” he bent down and schooled the dice.

  Tyrell and his partner were approaching the circle when Six thought he saw Dana crossing the street on the opposite side.

  “Ain’t that your cousin right there?” he pointed out.

  “Yeah, that’s her. She ain’t fuckin’ wit’ me right now.” he chuckled. “Fuck that tho, I want some of this money.” he stepped closer to the circle, pulled out a stack of cash and started flipping through the bills. “What’s in the bank?”

  Without turning around, the dark skinned kid answered, “It’s five hunit left, what you want?”

  “I want the whole thing. Stop it up.”

  The words caught dark skin’s attention. He turned to see who was speaking. When he acknowledged it was Tyrell, he smiled. “You sure you can cover that lil’ nigga?” he grinned.

  Tyrell returned the smile. “I can cover anything you put in there, lil’ nigga.” he dropped the stack of hundred dollar bills on the ground in front of him.

  Dark skinned picked the dice back up and went into his routine. “This Gahbe’s block nigga!” he raised the dice over his head, gave them a good shaking and then tossed them against the wall. “Show me six, bitches!”

  The dice hit the wall and one bounced off someone’s shoe. When they stopped, two of them were face up, showing the number three. The last one lay in a crack showing the number one.

  Tyrell reached down and picked up his stack of money and the dice. “Three, three, one. Nigga, pay me, that’s an ace.” he said.

  But Gahbe was opposed to losing. “Nah, that was in the crack. I aint payin’ that.”

  The hostility in his voice made Six step up and say something. “You ain’t bout that life Gahbe, you know bedda than that.”

  “Who the fuck is you?”

  Six answered by pressing the cold steel barrel of his .45 against Gahbe’s cheek. “How bad you wanna know?”

  Two of the dicers took off running and the few that stayed were in too much of a shock to move. They just watched.

  Tyrell got excited. “That’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ ‘bout, Six! Handle that shit! Boy, I was star
tin’ to wonder about you.” he laughed.

  “Empty ya’ pockets nigga.” Six looked at the other dicers and then waved the gun at them. “All y’all niggas hurry the fuck up too!”

  Gahbe was mumbling something under his breath.

  “You said somethin’ homie?” Tyrell was close enough to kiss him.

  His teeth were clenched, but his words were clear. “Y’all niggas gon’ pay for this… word.”

  Six shoved the gun back in his face. “Shut up nigga. Gimme that watch, gimme that chain, oh,” he looked at Gahbe’s hand and saw the diamonds shimmer in his pinky ring. “And gimme that fuckin’ ring too, nigga.” he pulled it off his finger and stared at it. “This shit nice right here, kid. Look at this shit, Ty.”

  Tyrell grab the ring and examined it. “This shit icy, Six. Lemme get this?”

  “It’s yours kid.”

  “Good lookin’.” Tyrell put the ring on his pinky finger. “Perfect fit too. Yo hurry up, cars comin’ down.”

  Six stuffed all the money he took into a plastic bag and cocked his weapon back.

  “Easy my nigga, don’t do that shit right here.” Tyrell grabbed his arm.

  Six moved in close on Gahbe and whispered in his ear. “You lucky nigga.” he went to put the gun back on his waistline and had a second thought. “Fuck that,” he gripped the barrel and slammed the butt end of the firearm into Gahbe’s nose.

  A shot went off.

  Gahbe stumbled on the uneven cement and fell against a parked car, palming his bloody face. Six ran off into the projects with Tyrell in tow.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Priscilla was resting on a single bunk, staring up at a fly trapped in the light fixture that was mounted to the ceiling. In the back of her mind, she was rooting for that fly to escape its confinement by finding the hole it had once come in through. In a sense, it reminded her of her own struggles and how she was once a prisoner of a certain lifestyle. She thought about what it took to overcome her pain, suffering, and lack of self-confidence. She realized how difficult it was to make that transition and break free from her self-slavery. In spite of all her misfortunes, it felt good to stand on her own two feet and accept responsibility for her doings.

  As she gazed, her eyes fell to the bare pale walls. She reflected on the last couple months of her life. She was fortunate that there was still breath in her lungs, but her heart had been shattered into three pieces, and two of those were missing.

  After Ms. Kathy located Brandi’s a few weeks ago, she revealed the news to Priscilla. Since then, she’s been able to breathe a little bit easier.

  Knowing that her daughter was in a safe environment settled Priscilla’s nerves, but the fact that she had been in the custody of CPS enraged her.

  Her first inclination was to become rash and extremely violent, but instead, she held her peace. She had come to understand that her old ways of handling things would only make the situation more detrimental and further devastate her chances of getting her daughter back.

  The process in which she had to endure was a monotonous and tiresome struggle, but it would be the only route to travel at the present time.

  In order for Priscilla to regain full custody of Brandi, she needed to show CPS that she’s able to keep a paying job, secure adequate living arrangements, and stay alcohol and drug free.

  Today, Priscilla had the day off from work. She planned to use it to relax and reflect on exactly what she needed to do. Her open custody case with CPS had been going on for two weeks and everything seemed to be in good standing as far as she was concerned. The only dispute she may have had was about having to enter into another drug program after she had recently completed one.

  “Priscilla!” Ms. Kathy shouted from the front desk.

  She looked at the clock on the wall, then jumped out of the bed. “Yes, Ms. Kathy?”

  “Somebody’s on the telephone for you. I think it’s your job.”

  My job? It was an hour before she had to be at her drug program. “I hope they ain’t asking me to come in today.” she reached for the cordless. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Ms. Davis. This is Mr. Porter from Stop & Shop, how are you doing today?”

  Priscilla rolled her eyes. “I’m doing pretty good.”

  She couldn’t stand Mr. Porter. He was a black guy trying to be white, with no indication of his own heritage, and just as ignorant as he could be. His horrible breath and the sound of his high pitched voice annoyed most people he came in contact with, so he was definitely a loner.

  “Well, that’s good Ms. Davis. I’m calling you today because it is very urgent that I speak with you. Is it possible for you to stop by today?”

  Speak with me? She was stumped. “Umm… I guess that’s not a problem. Can I come in now?”

  “Sure, the sooner the better.”

  “Okay, see you in about twenty minutes.” She hung up.

  Twenty-two minutes later, Priscilla was knocking on Mr. Porter’s office door.

  “Yes, come in, Ms. Davis.” He was wearing his usual; black slacks, black shoes, white collar shirt and a burgundy tie. He pushed some papers aside and sat on the front of his small steel desk. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice.” He reached back and grabbed a folder with some papers in it. “Unfortunately, it has been brought to my attention that we may have ourselves a slight problem.” he passed Priscilla the folder. “Do you know anything about that?”

  When she opened it, the first word she saw was Grievance.

  She thumbed through the rest of the papers. They were all grievance slips that had her name on them.

  “What is this?” She asked, handing the folder back.

  “You tell me. I’ve gotten one of these every week since you’ve been working here. The reason I took so long to address it, is because things have been really busy around here. It seems like you and Ms. Holland have an issue. Is this correct?” His eyebrows raised as he waited for an answer.

  Holland? Priscilla couldn’t pin-point the name, but it was definitely familiar. “I’m sorry; I don’t know anybody by that name.”

  Mr. Porter had a hard time believing her. “C’mon, Ms. Davis… Tara Holland? The girl who worked at the register you’re currently working at.”

  “Tara!?” She snatched the folder out of Mr. Porter’s hand and looked through the papers a second time. “No this bitch didn’t,” she mumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.”

  She checked every slip. At the bottom of each one was Tara Holland’s John Hancock. “This bitch is lying.” Priscilla tossed the folder onto the desk.

  Mr. Porter stood up. “Ms. Davis, please watch your language.”

  Priscilla was fuming. “Fuck that! This bitch is tellin’ a bold face lie. I hope you don’t believe any of this, Mr. Porter.”

  “Well, Ms. Davis you’re making it very hard for me not to. What I need to know is, how did you get on that line that you’ve been working on?”

  Priscilla shook her head, she couldn’t tell him the truth because that would get Randy in trouble. “Regardless of how I ended up at that register, she’s lying on me. I never once threatened that girl’s life.”

  “You know something,” he walked to the coffee maker that sat on a table in the left corner of the office and poured a fresh hot cup. “In matters such as this, we usually call the police and let them handle it, but seeing that I’ve never had a personal problem with you, I opted to just handle it myself—”

  Priscilla cut him off before he could finish. “Okay… so what does this mean? What are you gonna do, cut my hours, make me do extra work, what?”

  Mr. Porter took a slow sip of his coffee and peered up at Priscilla. “I’m sorry Ms. Davis, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.”

  The humming of the air conditioner was the only sound heard for a moment, and then Priscilla spoke. “Are you serious?” she smiled and tried to laugh it off. “Let me go? I know you’re not gonna fire me over some lies this l
ittle white bitch is makin’ up.”

  “Ms. Davis, you know the final decision is not mine to make. I’m just doing my job.”

  Priscilla was getting nervous. “Wait,” she sat back down in the chair facing Mr. Porter’s desk. “I don’t think you understand. I really need this job Mr. Porter. I’m in a difficult situation right now, and in order for me to get my daughter back, I need to be working. Can you please reconsider?”

  Mr. Porter slurped at his coffee. “That’s not my concern Ms. Davis, that’s your problem. Please slam the door on the way out.”