by Tranay Adams
“Well, I was thinking more like fifteen a bird.”
“Fifteen grand a kilo? Not a chance. Let’s go, Jackie Boy.” He turned around and made way for his car with his right-hand on his heels.
“You know, I’d sure hate to find out how Hesh would react to know that you’re running your own operation. I hear the drug game is frowned upon by your people. It brings much unwanted heat, that and the fact that The Man is hitting fools with football numbers.” He cracked a devilish smile when the big man froze where he was. Before he knew it the wise guy was on his way back in his direction.
“You want me to drop this fool?” Zeus whispered to him as he slid his meaty hand inside of his suit where his gun resided.
“Nah, nah, nah,” Mufasa angled his head but kept his eyes on the approaching man. “I got him right where I want him.”
“Did you just threaten to snitch on me?”
“Hey, I didn’t say anything about snitching, you’re jumping to conclusions,” he assured him. “All I’m saying, is it would have been a crying shame had word got back to him.”
“It would be.” Franklin’s frightening eyes peered into Mufasa’s unflinchingly, his clenching his teeth made his jaws throb hard. “It would also be a shame that the barer of that news’ severed head would be perched at the top of a stop sign.”
The men stared one another down with so much intensity that it seemed as though one of them was going to lash out at any moment then. But a cooler head prevailed between them.
Mufasa shut his eyes and took a deep breath, running his hand down his face. Licking his lips, he looked back up into the Mafioso’s face.
“Listen, I hear you’re looking to make active boss.”
Franklin frowned up. He looked to Jackie and Joey-T, who shrugged then back to Mufasa. “How’d you know about that?”
“I have my sources.” He capped with a grin, brushing imaginary lent from his suit and adjusting his cufflinks.
“Look, there’s no secret that the old man’s a dick, but still he’s held in such high regard that should anything happen to him its gonna raise quite a bit of a stink as you people say.” His eyes glanced to Jackie Needles and Joey-T then back to their boss. “You wanna take that throne for yourself? I’m just the nigga to make that happen.” He patted his masculine hand over the left side of his chest.
“I can take care of the old man myself.”
“True, true, true,” he nodded his understanding. “But as soon as he’d made to lay down, who do you think all eyes are gonna be on?”
“Me,” Franklin said as if he hated to admit it, blowing hot air.
Mufasa made his hand into the shape of a gun and pointed it at him. “Bingo. The way I see it no one is going to suspect you when a couple of jigs do the deed, you picking up what I’m sitting down?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “What do ya want in exchange?”
“Fifteen a kilo.”
“Fifteen a kilo and you cop at least thirty when you shop.”
“My man, you’ve got yourself a deal.” He outstretched his hand.
Franklin allowed it to linger in the air before shaking it.
“Deal.”
****
A couple of nights later
Hesh and his wife sat high up in the burgundy balcony of the theater watching the opera. A heavy set woman dressed up like she was in the medieval times era wailed huskily for all to hear. Her voice was incredible, powerful and beautiful. So beautiful that it had many wearing tear streaked faces, even Hesh, the Don of the De Lucci family. The mammoth of a man’s plump fingers held his wife’s hand while the other held his handkerchief. He constantly patted his tearing eyes and whimpered like a teenage girl having received her dream car at her Sweet Sixteen birthday party. This was a far cry from the big bad Mafioso he was known for throughout his crew, but appearances can be deceiving. For as sensitive as the made man was, he was just as vindictive and ruthless. This was a man that had a car rigged with explosives that a snitch and his entire family were in. When the hit man called to tell him that there were an infant and two small children on board, he replied “It’s better them than me.” Needless to say, his orders were carried out and he was looked at as one of the coldest criminals of his time.
“Are you alright, dear?” Mrs. De Lucci watched her weeping husband as he held her hand, staring downward at the busty woman singing center stage.
He cleared his throat and sniffled, patting his eyes dry the best he could before he responded. “Yes, honey, I’ll be fine. It’s just that...it’s just that. The way she sings it’s...it’s so amazing, astonishing, and sentimental. It speaks to my soul.”
“I know, dear, I know.” She leaned closer and kissed him on the cheek.
Suddenly, the woman stopped crooning and took a bow at the waist. The audience rose to their feet applauding and making all kinds of noise for an encore of her performance. Hesh and his old lady were so engrossed with giving the singer her just due that they were ignorant of the impending danger lurking within the shadows of the theater. Death was cloaked within one of the recesses of the establishment watching and waiting for the chance to bring its mark’s life to an end.
An hour later
Ding, the elevator sounded as soon as it reached the lobby’s floor. The doors parted and the De Lucci’s head honcho and wife came out arm and arm. They’d just kissed affectionately and turned their heads around when they ran into a nigga wearing a beanie, sunglasses, and a blue bandana over the lower half of his face. From underneath his blue plaid shirt, he produced a .32 pistol with the silencer. When his gloved hand came up, Hesh and his wife’s eyes lit up and their mouths opened to scream. Sound managed to escape his wife’s mouth, but he got one straight in his grill. His wife stood by helplessly with her hands to her face screaming for help as her husband lay on his back bleeding and twitching. When she turned back around, she got the business too, right in the face. She lay right where her husband was, side by side, resting in peace. With the deed done, the killer tossed the burner on the floor beside them and speed walked out of there.
Mufasa received the price he wanted on the bricks of yay after he’d executed Hesh. At the time, the Italians had a beef with the blue rags over turf so it made sense to them that the gangbangers would put a hit out on their boss.
After Franklin was made acting boss, he called for the heads of the people responsible for Hesh’s murder. He couldn’t very well give his people Mufasa, so he asked him to offer up a couple of sacrificial lambs to make him look good in front of his crew. With that request having been made, he was brought three Crips to deal with as he pleased. These three men had run off with some drugs that Mufasa had fronted them and he had finally caught up with them, so they were perfect for the death sentence that the big man had in mind. Franklin gagged and bounded these poor bastards before hanging them upside down inside of a basement. They jerked around violently murmuring and trying to force the gags out of their mouths with their tongues. Having grown tired from their futile struggling, they hung there dangling in suspense. Their chests thumped hard and fast seeing Franklin approach, aluminum baseball bat in his meaty hands. He whistled as he advanced in their direction patting the baseball bat in his palm. His crew stood surrounding him; their faces were balled up, ready to see the men responsible for their boss’s death beaten beyond recognition.
“Uhhhhhh!”
“Uhhhh!”
“Uhhh!”
The gangbangers moved around frantically, swaying back and forth bumping into one another. A dark spot grew at one of their crotches and rolled down their jean’s leg, meeting their neck and dripping to the floor. Franklin’s eyes darkened and took on a frightening look. He took a baseball player’s stance and gripped the bat firmly, practicing swinging it at the one that had pissed in his jeans head. The intended victim shut his eyes and tears came bursting from between his eyelids. His entire body trembled like he was inside of a freezer. Franklin, licking his lips and then biting down on
his bottom one, continued to practice his swinging and taunting his prey. This last time he cocked the bat back; he aimed for the side of the crip’s skull, and let the first swing go. Thockkk! The crip spun around on the rope bumping into his homeboys and sprinkling burgundy blood on the basement surface.
Swoop!
Thockk!
Swoop!
Thockkk!
Thockkkk!
Thockkkkk!
Franklin swung the baseball bat faster and harder against the crip’s head, sending bloody chunks of brain fragments and pieces of skulls every which way. The victim swung around and around becoming almost a blur as he was brutally assault. Specs of blood clung to the big man’s face and white button-down shirt. He had unforgiving eyes and a tight lip, making him look insane. Taking a step back, he meaty hands took a firmer hold of the bat and he swung it with all of his might. The side of his victim’s dome exploded and spun around for a time before stopping. His hollow skull dripped blood and pieces of brain. Eyes stretched wide open and mouth ajar; horror was etched across his face.
Franklin let his hand fall to his side, tilting his head back and breathing hard. He wiped the beads of sweat and blood from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Haa! Haa! Haa! Haa!” The big man pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket, patting his face dry as best he could. Next, he tucked it into his back pocket and turned around to his crew. “I’m parched.” One of them twisted off the cap of a bottle of water and passed it to him. He guzzled half of it down, watching the last two gangbangers tremble with their eyes squeezed shut, waiting for a fate that they knew that they can’t escape. Franklin smiled evilly seeing how terrified his last two victims were. Passing the bottle of water back to his man, he stepped back to his business, administering death with his baseball bat. Blood flew every way that it could, clinging to wise guys of the De Lucci family and their shoes. The light shining in from the small basement window, casted the shadow of their boss swinging his bat at the Crips as they spun around on the ropes that held them in place.
Once he was done, he dropped the baseball bat and headed for the staircase. “Clean this mess up and bury these spades in the desert.”
With that gangland style execution carried out, Franklin Trombone went on to become one of the most ruthless and powerful men to have ever set at the head of the table of a family.
****
Present
Franklin stood in the ring sparring with Danny, a twenty-two-year-old Puerto Rican kid out of Spanish Harlem, who held the title of middle weight champion in his division. Franklin outweighed the youngster by about two hundred pounds, but that didn’t stop him from hopping into the ring with him. Besides, the don had paid him three hundred bucks to go a few rounds with him since no one else had the balls to square up.
The strapping young man had heard of Franklin’s fierce reputation in and out of the ring, but his heart didn’t pump any fear. Besides, the gangster was putting up dough and he could use the extra loot. He had a little girl, a mother, and a sick father to take care of at home. So he had no qualms with shooting a fair one with the boss of the De Lucci family.
Franklin took it easy on the kid, pulling his punches and allowing him to land a couple of punches here and there. It was his way of showing him he wasn’t quite the monster the streets made him out to be.
Willie, the old man black man that ran the gym, sounded the bell and the sparring partners touched gloves having finished their session. The mob figure’s face, shoulders and chest were covered in beads of sweat. Removing his headgear and making to get out of the ring, he saw a balding white man with slicked back hair wearing a leather jacket waiting for him. The man looked to be in his late 50s or early 60s. He wore diamond earrings and two thin gold necklaces over a burgundy sweater. A gold Rolex watch adorned his right wrist, which held onto a briefcase.
Already knowing what the man was there for, Franklin removed his gloves and approached him. The man popped the locks on his briefcase and showed his client the photographs and video footage.
His face contracted further and further as he looked everything over. His eyes turned glassy from the hurt he was experience, but it was quickly snuffed out by the flames of rage. Satisfied with what he had seen, the mobster shook the old Jewish private investigator’s hand and thanked him.
“In case you require my services again,” the private investigator held out his business card and he took it He gave it a good look before tucking it inside of his trunk.
“Yo, Danny, ya wanna turn that $300 bucks into six?” Franklin called out across the gym to the young boxer, who was chopping it up with a couple of other boxers. He smacked his gloves together and shadow boxed as he awaited his response, causing sweat to go flying from off of his him. Seeing the conformation of his wife’s infidelity had him on one and he was ready to unleash all of that pent up anger and aggression he was holding on to.
“Hell yeah,” Danny yelled back across the gym. Franklin nodded to the ring. Danny put his headgear and gloves back on and climbed back in.
Willie saw the madness in Franklin’s eyes. He wanted to urge Danny not to climb into the ring, but the fear of what the mobster might do to him kept him silent.
Franklin climbed in between the ropes and into the ring.
Standing toe to toe with the young man, the kid gave him the once over, seeing that he didn’t have on any of the protective gear.
“Aren’t chu going to gear up?” he asked with furrowed brows.
“Nah, I’m good,” Franklin assured him with a head nod before turning to Willie. “Sound the bell.”
The bell sounded and the men stormed from their corners to the center of the ring. Danny threw a few punches and jabs that Franklin easily avoided. Finding a chink in the kid’s armor, he released a six punch combination that spun him around and sent him slamming into the ring, hard as a mothafucka. The Puerto Rican fighter hit the canvas head first, his eyes staring out of their corners, his mouth wide open. His was wearing the face of a dead man.
The fighters who’d been training inside the gym stopped what they were doing, and stared in shock at Danny’s limp body. Franklin paced back and forth in the ring, smacking his gloves together while wearing a face of concentration, beads of sweat ran down his body.
Willie dove into the ring and scrambled over to the flat-lined boxer. He checked his pulse and looked up at mob boss with a grim expression, shaking his head regretfully. It was from that, that Franklin knew he’d killed the kid. The cold part about it was is that he didn’t really give a shit.
“You know my numbers, Willie; make sure his family gets in touch with me. I’ll pay for the funeral and I’ll take care of them, all of them. You got that?” The old man nodded and Franklin draped a towel over his shoulders and climbed out of the ring.
An hour later
Franklin staggered through the door of his home in a drunken stupor. Hanging his hat and coat on the coat-stand, his nose drew in the delicious aromas escaping the kitchen. His stomach grumbled. All he’d had that day was an egg Mcmuffin and a cup of coffee, and that was 8:30 that morning. Though the smells coming from the kitchen were enticing, his appetite would have to be postponed. He had other pressing matters to attend to.
Franklin loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, retrieved the manila envelope from his coat. He headed for the kitchen where he heard Marbella shuffling around singing. Crossing the threshold into the kitchen, his hard-bottom ostrich skin shoe made a soft creak that startled her. She spun around with her hand to her chest, mouth wide open.
“Jesus Christ, Franklin, you scared the living shit outta me,” she admitted, shutting her eyes briefly and taking a deep breath. There was an awkward silence between them that she could no longer stand, so she decided to break the ice. “Well, I made your favorite dish: baked Ziti, garlic bread, Caesar salad, and that broccoli & cheese soup I made last Thanksgiving you liked so much. Oh, and I got your favorite wine and movie.” She smiled, hol
ding up a bottle of red wine and a Casablanca DVD.
Franklin didn’t utter a word. He stood in the doorway staring at Marbella menacingly with glassy eyes, nostrils flaring. She never felt so uncomfortable in her life. She wished she could jump out of her skin and run away, but that shit wasn’t happening. “Is something wrong, sweetheart?” Marbella questioned with concern, worry lines across her forehead as she pulled off her oven mitts.
“Nope, everythings hugs and Christmas gifts,” he answered with an obviously angry face. “I’ve got something for ya.” He handed her the manila envelope. She frowned, wondering what could possibly be inside the envelope. Curious, she opened the envelope and pulled out the photographs. Marbella was in shock when she saw that the photos were of Zonyai and her having sex. Her stomach twisted into knots and her hands trembled from fear.
“Franklin, these pictures are old. I haven’t seen him since...” that was as far as she got before his hand swept across her mouth with a loud smack. The force of the blow flipped her over the kitchen counter and left her lying on the floor wincing.
“You still fucking that nigger behind my back, huh? Making a fucking boot outta me, yeah?” he barked as he unbuckled his belt. The sound of the clinking metal buckle and the leather as it was being pulled through the loops of his slacks made her queasy. She could actually feel her lunch threatening come up.
“Franklin, I’m sorry, please,” Marbella cried as she held up her hands. Franklin whipped off his thick leather belt and proceeded to beat her viciously. She screamed as the belt stung her arms and legs, leaving red welts behind.
Franklin gave his wife a merciless beating that left him exhausted and panting out of breath.
“How could you do this to me? I fucking loved you,” he bellowed as he leaned against the counter, wiping the sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his meaty hand.
“I’m sorry, baby. He means nothing to me. I love you,” she told him, her body burning all over from the welts.
A movie of Marbella and Zonyai having hot, passionate sex played in Franklin’s head. He squeezed the leather belt in his palm and clenched his jaws, murder flashed in his eyes. “Fucking liar, you love that motherfucker!” he barked, looping the belt around Marbella’s neck and tightening it with a strong pull. “Die you fucking whore,” he shouted, raining spittle into her face. He smiled sinisterly as he stared her dead in her eyes.
