“It’s gotta be him. Who else has means and motive to touch one of our own?” Bugsy asked.
“This is the handiwork of someone who’s smart but also has patience. A hood nigga like Deuce would have tried to take out the head and watch the body fall. He woulda come at Scott, not his kids. These hits were professional. No witnesses, no fuckin’ warning!”
“You talkin’ ’bout some mastermind—some character out a fuckin’ novel,” Meyer cursed.
“I’m saying to everyone in this room that these aren’t business-related murders. It feels personal and deliberate. They were methodical and well planned.”
“Then give us a name, Whistler,” Bugsy said.
“He don’t have a fuckin’ name. He’s full of shit,” Meyer said. “Makin’ shit bigger than what it is. This is drug beef, niggas. We fightin’ over territory block by block. You know what it is.”
Whistler’s face tightened like a rubber band stretching to its limits. He clenched his fists and was three seconds from leaping over the table at Meyer. The boy was a hothead with no common sense. If it weren’t for Scott, Meyer would have been dog food on the streets.
The brothers continued to bicker back and forth with Whistler, who always felt he was the smartest guy in the room. Whistler had no name for the assailants, but he knew it wasn’t Deuce’s doing. He needed to investigate more. There was someone in the shadows coming at them. Their true enemy had not yet revealed himself. Deuce executing this shit just wasn’t feasible. Whistler needed to make Scott and Layla believe that. But they were too emotional. They were angry and wanted bloodshed. Someone needed to die, which was understandable.
“Give me time, and I’ll find a name. I’ll locate the muthafuckas responsible for these attacks,” Whistler assured Scott. “I’ll burn them alive for ever fuckin’ with the West Empire.”
“We don’t have time for this nigga to play Sherlock Holmes, Pop!” Meyer shouted. “We need every fuckin’ nigga out there wit’ a fuckin’ gun—Whistler included—taking out everything that belongs to Deuce. Now this nigga wanna play detective!”
Whistler said, “You put all your eggs in one basket, and what happens when you still come up empty, Meyer? We kill Deuce, and we still have a problem out there. Cover all areas, and leave no rock unturned.”
Meyer was ready to retort, but Scott intervened, saying, “Shut up, Meyer!”
Meyer scowled, especially at Whistler. He felt his father had always chosen his friend over him—his own flesh and blood. What was so special about Whistler that garnered Scott’s trust and his undivided attention?
***
Lucky was taken aback by Whistler’s theory about the murders of her sister and brothers. She sat there in silence and listened intently as he laid out his assumption that they were being set up and hunted by some mastermind. He made sense. Her attack was too deliberate. One minute she was inside her apartment getting ready for bed, and then instantly, she was swallowed up by two intruders and assaulted in the shadows. How did they get into her building? How did they get past security? How did she not see or hear them coming? Quickly, she was beaten and knocked unconscious and placed into the back of a van, and they viciously beat her. That night repeatedly played in her mind. She couldn’t escape it.
Another night Lucky thought about was her arrest. The arresting cop had also mentioned something about her name and her siblings’ names. Her brothers and sisters had all been named after murdered gangsters in a different era. He somewhat inadvertently had connected the dots for her, too. Lucky felt she was smart, and these clues on her siblings’ murders had not only escaped her, but her father. Why hadn’t Scott connected the dots? Why didn’t he see there was a possibility of an enemy coming at them from afar?
Whistler was on to something. She hated to admit it. In her mind, Whistler couldn’t hold a candle to her father’s intelligence. She always felt that Scott was the smartest man in the room. But Whistler wasn’t to be taken for granted. He was decisive, shrewd, sharp, and adept at a lot of things. If he could, then he would have started up his own organization instead of being a right-hand man for her father.
Was he loyal to her father and the organization?
Was he loyal to her and their relationship?
A deep chill ran down Lucky’s spine. She always thought about that night when he didn’t allow her to step foot inside his apartment. What was he hiding? She figured it was a bitch in his bed. He had become cold and distant toward her after her assault. When she needed him the most, he wasn’t there. He wouldn’t fuck her, or console her. In fact they hadn’t fucked since the night of her attack. He looked at her with pity or disgust, like it was her fault. And right after she’d threatened to tell her father about their relationship, she was arrested with several kilos of cocaine in her car. It was all game, a game that only a mastermind could implement. Had she been caught with meth, then it would have been too obvious, because she was the meth queen.
Whistler continued to plead his assumptions. Her brothers weren’t backing down. Her mother only sat there and listened. Scott spoke out, unconvinced about this unknown mastermind coming at his family so suddenly.
An outrageous thought popped into Lucky’s mind. What if Whistler wasn’t who he said he was? Someone was trying to destroy her family, and they were doing it from the inside. She believed it could be Whistler. Maybe he’d developed some resentment toward them after all these years. Maybe he was tired of being the second-in-command and wanted to run the entire operation himself. There was a possibility he could be behind the murders and the attack. Just the thought of Whistler setting her up to be beaten and incarcerated stirred up a whirlwind of rage and hatred inside of her.
To Lucky, it felt like he was describing himself. A mastermind.
The meeting concluded with the majority siding with the twins. Both Scott and Layla agreed that Deuce was behind their kids’ murders. No one else. Scott was convinced. But now there was a change of plans.
“I want Deuce brought to me. Alive.”
3
Maxine slid into the bath water, letting the steam consume her naked frame. She exhaled and closed her eyes, resting her back against the porcelain. She blocked out everything around her. It had been so long since she’d had a bath, she’d forgotten what it felt like to be tranquil. In prison, there was no such thing as relaxation. It was only a quick shower, then keep things moving. There was little comfort in confinement.
She had been home for a week now, and she was trying to adjust to life outside of prison. She still felt institutionalized—waking up at dawn and making her bed a certain way. When she ate, she covered her plate, as if protecting it from others.
Her reunion with her mother was comforting, but it was also awkward. The moment she stepped foot into her mother’s home, it hit her how much time had passed. Her mother was happy to see her, and Maxine couldn’t help but tear up. She hugged her mom tightly, and vice versa. The two women were almost afraid to let each other ago. Her mother was in tears too. Her daughter was finally home, and finally in her arms.
Her mother had aged though, her hair graying and thinning. She had sad eyes, and her body seemed fragile. She was thin, dressed in a floral housecoat. The death of Maxine’s father and the incarceration of her only child weighed heavily on the woman, and it was painful. So much had been taken from her, it made her a different person. And it showed. She was alive, but she didn’t seem too lively.
It broke Maxine’s heart to see that her mother wasn’t doing too well. She moved around slowly, and sometimes she needed a cane to get around. She had high blood pressure and diabetes. Life hadn’t been kind to her. She was in her late sixties and doing more existing than living.
The house was clean, but everything looked retro and outdated. Her mother had not kept up with the times, so there were no modern amenities. She had the same TV from twenty-something years ago, if that was possible. The living room wa
ll was inundated with pictures of family, mostly of Maxine and her father during happier times. The furniture was antique, and the place smelled like moth balls. Despite all that, for Maxine, there was no place like home.
Maxine was staying in her old room, and it was just as she’d left it so many years ago. She guessed they held on to the idea that she would be coming home soon, and keeping it the same gave them hope. The night of her arrival, it felt great to sink into her bed and stare at her surroundings. She became overwhelmed with nostalgia. Everything she looked at and everything she touched inside her room brought about some painful reminder of what she’d lost and what she’d once had. She cried over her father’s death. Not attending his funeral would haunt her for the rest of her life. Prison had taken away so much, and there was no way she could get those years back.
A deep sigh escaped Maxine’s lips. She lingered in the tub with her eyes closed and thought about her plan. Everything Layla had taken from her, she planned on taking right back. Revenge was her motivation—her only purpose. The thought of Layla losing everything, from her kids to her wealth, fueled Maxine’s vengeance.
Miguel would be perfect with his military background. How handsome and enticing he was, with his muscular physique and dark eyes! Nadia was lucky—though being locked up so far away, she couldn’t enjoy him. Thinking about him made Max slide her hand between her spread legs and penetrate herself with her index and middle fingers. She played with her clit and worked her middle, thrusting in and out. It’d been a while since she’d pleasured herself.
She sighed. Home felt welcoming. Her mother was waiting on her hand-and-foot, making grilled cheese sandwiches, homemade tomato soup, and hot cocoa for her daughter to enjoy. There was nothing better than a home-cooked meal. She’d missed her mother’s cooking. Max’s mother took pleasure in caring for her daughter. It gave her something to do. Max allowed it, seeing it brought her mother some joy.
Max removed herself from the bathtub and toweled off. She went into her bedroom and took her sweet time getting dressed. She was on parole, so there wasn’t much for her to do right away. Her first meeting with her parole officer wasn’t a friendly one. Ironically, his name was David Liberty. Her first meeting with him didn’t make her feel liberated. He was rude and frank with her from the beginning.
***
The moment she sat across from him in his office, the vibes weren’t right. David Liberty was a black male with a military background, having been in the Army. He was tall and clean shaven with cropped hair, brown eyes, and chiseled features. He looked like he worked out regularly and was dressed fittingly for his job in a white button-down shirt, black tie, and a black jacket. His credentials hung on the walls of his neat and organized office. He had a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice from John Jay and ten years on the job as a parole officer. He was a stickler for law and order. Max suspected that maybe he suffered from just a touch of OCD.
Immediately, he made her take a drug test, which she passed with flying colors.
Then he broke down the rules of her parole. “First off, a job—you need to find one,” he said sharply.
Max nodded.
“I see you live with your mother.”
She nodded.
“Once a week, every Wednesday morning, you report to me. You stay clean, honest, and focused on me at all times, and it will keep you out of prison. Find yourself a decent job; make an honest pay for once. You stay away from old friends and old habits. You have a curfew, which is ten o’ clock. You miss it, and you’ll be violated. Do you understand me?”
Max nodded.
“I do random checkups on all my parolees. That means I can show up anywhere at any time, from your place of employment to your residence. If you live with family, they don’t need to give me a hard time. It’s your ass on the line, not theirs or mine. Do you understand me?”
Max nodded.
“I’m not the one to play with. You fuck up, and I’ll violate your ass faster than you can fart. Do you understand me?”
Max did, absolutely. He would be a pain in her ass and an asshole. She knew she needed to watch her step in every way since he would be like a magnifying glass up her ass.
***
Parole was the last thing on Max’s mind as she lingered in her bedroom, staring out the window and watching life happen on the block. There were no neighbors she recognized. They’d either moved away or were dead.
She remembered Ms. White and her assortment of baked goods she used to share with her family. Ms. White made the best cakes, cupcakes, and cookies in the city. She could have started her own bakery if she’d wanted to, but Ms. White was content with sharing her delicious goodies with her neighbors and seeing the joy on their faces when they took a bite. Max used to crave Ms. White’s cakes when she was young.
Then there was Timmy and his little sister that lived across the street from her. Timmy was four years her junior, and he had the deepest crush on Max. Every day he saw her, he smiled and flirted with her. He was a playboy in training. He wasn’t scared to ask her out on dates, although Max always turned him down. He was cute, and she was flattered, but Timmy was a little boy back then. She knew he was a grown man now. She wondered, if she saw him again, would she recognize him, and would he recognize her?
Then there were the Hendersons, a newlywed couple two doors down. Max thought the husband was too fine. He reminded her of Denzel Washington. He was tall, dark, and so suave. He was always dressed neatly, well groomed, and drove a black Lexus. Mr. Henderson was Max’s first real crush, and she envied Mrs. Henderson for marrying such a hunk of a man. She wondered, after so many years, were they still together, or were they happily divorced? Did they have any children? Looking at the Hendersons’ seemingly perfect life made Max want to start her own family back then.
The knock on the door interrupted her nostalgic moment.
“Come in,” she said.
The door opened, and her mother eased herself into the room. Her mother’s smile made her smile. “Hey, sweetie, can you make a run to the store for me and grab a few things?”
“Yeah, sure.” Max removed herself from the window. She needed some fresh air anyway. She grabbed her shoes and a shirt and asked, “What you need, Ma?”
“I’m cooking you something special tonight.” She handed Max a small list and a fifty-dollar bill.
“Ma, you did so much for me already. You don’t have to do that.”
“Nonsense. I want you to feel at home and welcome. They took you away from me for over twenty years. And I want you to eat good and healthy. I know they weren’t feeding you properly in that place. You need to eat, and you need to enjoy your home.” Her mother almost looked tearful. “And take the cart with you.”
Max smiled. She felt like she’d gained twenty-five pounds in one week. With Max home, the food was going quickly, and although her mother didn’t mention it, Max knew that money was tight. Fifty dollars to buy food was too much, but her mother would not take it back. Max knew she had to contribute to the household somehow, and soon. Her mother was living on her social security check and not much else. High medical bills from her husband had wiped out their savings account, and his funeral took the rest. Still, her mother’s home was paid in full, so there was no mortgage to worry about, only the yearly taxes.
Maxine walked out the door and inhaled the fresh air. It was a sunny and beautiful day. The block was quiet and the traffic average. Pathmark was a few blocks from her home. The walk felt needed. Since she’d been home, she’d kept herself locked in her bedroom and thought a lot. Even from Brooklyn, Max’s pull inside the prison was still strong. She had only to keep money flowing into her enforcer’s commissary to keep Nadia safe.
She thought about Miguel and was tempted to call him for personal reasons, but he wasn’t interested in her. Miguel had made it clear to her that she was in his life only for business and that he co
mpletely loved Nadia.
Since Max been home, she thought about sex a lot. Twenty years of not getting any made her feel like she was a volcano ready to explode. Her body felt ready to ooze with desire. Her naughty little episode in the bathtub had stirred up some long-forgotten feelings. Max needed some sexual gratification.
Pathmark was teeming with shoppers. So many people moving about effortlessly overwhelmed Max slightly. Twenty years of captivity had her fucked up for a moment. She stood at the entrance to the store and looked around with apprehension. She clenched her hands. Her feet stood rooted to the floor, she looked like a statue, feeling lost and out of place.
Adjusting to everyday life wasn’t as easy as she thought it would be. Everyone had a smartphone in their hands, and with their Bluetooth headphones, appeared to be talking to themselves. There were new gadgets to help folks shop, and more cameras to watch shoppers’ every move. Even security at the store looked threatening to her. The world seemed so much faster, and people seemed more rude than she remembered.
Max took a deep breath and unclenched her fists. She had to get herself together. She couldn’t fold in on herself and look weak. Another exhale, and she moved. She removed a shopping cart from the selected area and traveled deeper into the store. She joined in with the other shoppers and executed her mother’s list, going down aisle after aisle, collecting the items.
She spent twenty-five minutes shopping for her mother. The shopping cart was cluttered with items. Max traveled throughout the entire store and noticed the new food created, and everything cost so much more. She saw why her mother was struggling.
Max did the numbers in her head while she waited in the checkout line. She was hoping she didn’t go overboard with the shopping. Her mother had given her fifty dollars, and it would be embarrassing if she didn’t have enough. Pricing things silently, she figured the total cost, included taxes, would be $47.98.
The checkout clerk rang up her items, and the total for everything was $48.97. Max was close. Max was always smart. It was just too bad that her talents had been wasted in prison. She handed the young woman the fifty-dollar bill and took her change.
Mafioso [Part 2] Page 2
