Jones’ face was covered with tears. Then the dirt slammed against him, going into his mouth and his eyes. More and more of the earth covered him, quickly suffocating and drowning out his pain and suffering, until he was covered by it and could no longer be seen or heard.
Deuce spat on the man’s grave. He then turned and looked at Jones’ wife, who was on her knees shivering and crying.
Her eyes were swamped with tears. “You monsters!” she shouted at them.
Deuce stared at her with contempt. He was lying when he’d said they would rape her. Deuce was a lot of things—drug dealer, murderer, cold-hearted muthafucka—but he wasn’t a rapist. There wasn’t any need to make her to suffer much longer. He placed the barrel of the .45 to her temple, murmured, “An eye for an eye,” and blew her brains her out.
8
The dark green Durango stopped in front of the modest home on W. 17th Street in Highlands bright and early one Sunday morning. Deuce lit a cigarette and watched the porch and the front door from the passenger seat. It was a charming neighborhood with tree-lined streets, wide, paved driveways, manicured lawns, and well-off neighbors. It was the perfect area for a police sergeant to reside, far away from the urban streets he patrolled. Deuce’s eyes scanned every bit of the area. These folks didn’t have to worry about poverty and gang violence in their lives.
Deuce lingered in the Durango for a moment smoking his cigarette. Staying parked in front of a police sergeant’s home right after murdering a cop was a daring move, but Deuce was a nigga with nothing to lose. Killing Detective Jones was necessary. Deuce respected loyalty, and Jones had none.
He took a few more pulls from the Newport, flicked it out the window, and then looked over at his driver and said, “Let’s do this.”
The driver nodded.
Both men exited the Durango and calmly walked toward the front door. They stood out like Muslims at a KKK rally in the suburbs. They ascended onto the porch, and Deuce knocked hard on the wooden door.
Sergeant Connelly opened the door and saw the two men. Appalled to see them at his door, he frowned and barked, “What the fuck are you doing at my house?”
“We need to talk, Sergeant,” Deuce said seriously.
Sergeant Connelly knew he couldn’t have a murderous drug kingpin standing outside his front door for his neighbors to see. He quickly and reluctantly invited them inside. The door slammed behind him. “Are you fuckin’ crazy, Deuce? I should have you arrested!”
“You’re not that stupid, Connelly,” Deuce replied.
Connelly grimaced. “What is it that you want?”
“I come in peace,” Deuce said.
“Not here, at my damn home!”
“Would you rather we come down to your workplace and talk business there?” Deuce asked.
Connelly suddenly noticed the small briefcase Deuce was carrying. It made him nervous. Connelly hated that he and Jones had gotten into business with him.
“Let’s talk in the other room, shall we?” Deuce said.
The men entered the living room, which was tastefully decorated by Connelly’s wife with a smoky brown leather sectional on the dark parquet flooring. A beautiful dark wood coffee table with an antique chess set sat atop the spread-out area rug, and a large mosaic mirror hung over the bricked-in fireplace. There was no TV or stereo system; the room was for comfort and reading.
Deuce looked around and said, “Nice place you have here.”
Connelly wasn’t for the formalities. He wanted to know why this gangster was inside his home. What business did Deuce have with him on a Sunday morning?
Deuce placed the briefcase on the coffee table and said, “Go ahead, open it—my gift to you.”
The man with Deuce was silent. He was simply there for muscle and intimidation, although Deuce was all muscle himself and a lot more intimidating.
Connelly warily approached the bag, wishing he had his gun on him. He unzipped it and peeked inside. It was filled with bundles of cash. In fact, close to a hundred thousand dollars. “What do you want?” he asked.
“As you may know, I’m back in town, and I want us to continue business,” Deuce said.
“Are you serious? Do you know the chaos you’ve caused out there? The mayor is on our asses for law and order, and the murders are creating unwanted attention. The media is having a field day with the bloodshed, and it’s putting a bad light on my police department.”
“I had to get my rivals’ attention. What better way to come calling than to knock off a few heads?”
Connelly puffed. “Not like this, Deuce.”
“Look, I was embarrassed and betrayed. Did you believe I was going to go down like a fool, Connelly? Let these fuckin’ outsiders annex my business and territory without a fuckin’ fight? They started this war, and I plan on finishing it,” Deuce growled.
“Did you kill Jones?” Connelly asked him. “He and his wife suddenly went missing.”
Deuce smirked. “Now, Connelly, you know I’m a businessman, and Jones . . . well, Jones was a liability. I guess he got spooked and left town.”
Connelly didn’t believe one word.
“Take the money, Sergeant; it would be in your best interest to do so. We’ve done business together for a long time now, and I know a lot about you. You and your wife like the finer things in life. You wouldn’t want everyone to know how you acquired them, would you?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“It’s not a threat, it’s a simple proposition,” Deuce replied.
“I’m not your fuckin’ lackey, Deuce, I’m a fuckin’ cop. Do you understand me?”
“I do, Sergeant. And you’re a cop I still find useful to me. I want information, and I want infiltration on everything happening with the West organization. We’re running this virus out of town. The moment they step foot back into my city, when they try to set up shop somewhere, sell anything—I don’t care if it’s aspirin—I want to know about it. Tell your fellow officers. You all work for me now.”
Connelly knew he meant business. He had no choice but to take the money. Deuce had enough dirt on him to ruin his career, embarrass his family, and send him to prison for a long time. He was under Deuce’s thumb and could do nothing about it.
Deuce and his goon exited, leaving a bad taste in Connelly’s mouth.
“You have a beautiful day, Sergeant,” Deuce said.
Connelly watched the men climb into the Durango and drive away. He sighed. Luckily, his wife and teenage daughters were at church.
***
Jimmy sat inside the old blue Ford on E. 4th Street with a close watch on a three-story decaying building. He watched as three males exited a black Tahoe and went toward the building. Security had been upgraded with several cameras, and armed goons were placed everywhere. The building was a distribution warehouse for the West organization. DMC had them paranoid.
Jimmy hooked his eyes on one of the three men. His name was Knock, a notorious lieutenant from the Bronx who worked closely with Meyer and Luna. Knock, in his early twenties, was slim, average height, and had long cornrows. He was wearing black cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and fresh Nikes. He was a rising star in the drug game and nobody to play with.
Jimmy sat in the distance and watched them operate. One phone call from him and he could have a half-dozen shooters on the scene to kill everything moving. But he saw the usefulness of keeping these men alive today. He was doing surveillance, and though it was a tedious job, it was his forte. He was a patient man and could easily lie in wait in the shadows for hours undetected to find people who didn’t want to be found. And he always saw you before you saw him.
Knock was Jimmy’s target. Jimmy had been following the young, temperamental hustler for a week now, studying his routine and habits. Knock was an easy person to follow and watch. He wasn’t a cautious man.
Jimmy’s groun
dwork was paying off. He’d started from the bottom and was working his way to the top. His agenda was to get intel on where Scott and his family laid their heads. He wanted to know the workings of their organization—who was who and what heads to cut off so their empire could crumble. Deuce didn’t want them just gone from Delaware; he wanted them to suffer and to be obliterated from the face of the earth. This drug war had become personal, and Deuce trusted Jimmy to help him get the advantage he needed to bring down one of the most powerful men in the game.
Jimmy, a hardcore criminal, was doing detective work at its finest. Parked half a block down from the location, his attention was trained across the street as he smoked his cigarette. The Ford was twenty years old and unassuming, so no one would think twice about it sitting on the block day after day. With his high-priced Canon camera, he snapped a few pictures of the men before they walked into the building.
Now he was waiting for their exit. There was no telling how long they would be inside. He continued to smoke his cigarette and stay alert. With a loaded .45 in the passenger seat, his head rotated left and right, and his eyes were constantly in his mirrors. The last thing he needed was someone creeping up on him.
Twenty minutes later, the men walked out the building and climbed back into the Tahoe. Their ignition started, and his did right after. Jimmy watched the truck drive off, and subtly, he followed them. The only man important to him was Knock.
It was a quick drive to Browntown, where Knock got out of the vehicle and went toward a two-story house nestled in the middle of the block. The Tahoe rolled off.
Knock knocked on the door, and a young female answered. Jimmy stayed with Knock. He figured, with business done with for the day, it was now time for his target to play. He allowed for some time to pass, making sure Knock was comfortable inside with his female friend before catching him with his pants down.
Jimmy flicked his Newport out the window. He picked up the .45 and stuffed it into his waistband and climbed out of the car. The block was quiet.
Jimmy moved swiftly and in stealth. Crouched low in the dark, he went around back and picked the lock to the weather-beaten back door. For him, it was easy as one, two, three. He broke into the home with his pistol in his hand. The house was dark and sparsely furnished, and Jimmy could hear activity from the bedroom above.
Upstairs, Jimmy found the main bedroom door ajar. He peeked into the room to catch the girl on her knees and facing Knock, her mouth full of dick. Her head bobbed up and down, as she sucked and licked the young thug like he was a lollipop. Knock was enjoying the oral treat with his eyes closed as he held on to a fistful of her hair.
Jimmy quickly pushed open the door and charged into the room with his gun trained on them both. The girl suddenly shrieked, and Knock opened his eyes and frowned.
“Knock, you and I, we need to talk,” Jimmy said.
“Fuck you!”
“You really wanna play it like that?” Jimmy calmly replied.
The interrogation was about to start. Jimmy needed information, and he knew ways of getting some of the toughest niggas to talk. Like the feds with their conviction rate, Jimmy had a 95% success rate.
9
Max showered and quickly got dressed on a hot August morning. Miguel was on his way to pick her up. They hadn’t seen each other since the day of her release. She had much to do, but she had to be careful doing it. Her parole officer was on her back, and Layla’s visit had put her on high alert. The last thing she needed to do was underestimate people. She had gotten away with murder, but she couldn’t get sloppy. She had to keep things methodical.
She wore shapeless sweatpants, an old T-shirt, and old sneakers. The simple outfit wasn’t flattering, but she had no cash for lavish shopping sprees and expensive makeovers. All her money was tied up in her master plan. She remembered when she used to prance around Brooklyn looking so lovely, everything she wore perfectly put together. She used to take her sweet time getting dressed and would never leave her house looking unkempt. She had to wear the right clothing, with the right perfume, and the right hairstyle. It was all about her looks, and it was all for her man, Scottie. Now, looking at herself in the mirror, she hated what she’d become—raggedy and unappealing.
Upon their first meeting, Miguel didn’t give her a second look. He might have even been repulsed by her. But she knew twenty years ago she would have had him kissing her feet and begging for a taste of her cookies.
She sighed. There was no time to reminisce, but there was such a thing as revenge and making things right.
The house phone rang on the bed. It was Miguel calling her. She answered, “Yeah.”
“I’m outside,” he said.
“I’ll be down in one minute.” She hung up and gathered a few things, including a small blade for her protection, before departing her bedroom.
Before going downstairs, she stopped by her mother’s room and took a peek inside. The door creaked opened. Her mother was sleeping in a light blue night slip. She was doing a lot of that lately. Her skin was wrinkling more and more and blemished with spots, either from old age, the stress in her life, or maybe both. The change in her mother was palpable to Max. She had become a different woman, moving more slowly, taking a sea of pills in the morning, and she barely left the house.
Max walked into the room and lightly placed the blanket over her mother. She propped her head against a few pillows, making her comfortable, and kissed her on the forehead. “I love you,” she murmured before leaving.
Max wished she could do more for her mother, but her mother continually assured her that having a home was all she needed.
Miguel sat in his old Accord feeling irritated. He had better things to do with his time than to chauffeur Max around town. He and his girl were being extorted. But after one look at Max and her condition, he wondered how that was possible. How could she harm Nadia, who was still incarcerated in Louisiana, when she was free and in New York? What connections did she have?
Over the weekend he’d taken a cheap flight to Baton Rouge to visit Nadia at LCIW. It was a long and tiring trip, but he needed to see her. He needed to touch her and kiss her. Even though it would be brief, the feel, touch, and sight of his lady would be worth it. He also wanted to tell her something face to face that he didn’t want to discuss over the phone.
Miguel and Nadia held hands and sat opposite of each other in the visiting room, hugging and kissing each other briefly when the chance came. Nadia was elated. It had been months since his last visit.
Miguel leaned closer and quietly said, “This bitch, Max . . . she needs to go, Nadia. I want to take her out. What power does she have over you?”
“Miguel, don’t!”
“Why not? We already got paid. Who gonna miss her? She ain’t in here anymore. How she gonna get to you inside?”
“You can’t do anything stupid. Please, don’t go after her. She’s smart, and she’s ruthless.”
Miguel sighed heavily. He saw the look of fear on his girl’s face.
“I just want to do my time, baby, and come home to you and my babies. I can’t explain it, but she still has reach. Women in here are loyal to her, and they will kill me. I tell you no lie. Besides, a deal is a deal, and she’s held up her part of the deal. We need to do the same.”
Miguel sighed with irritation and reluctantly agreed. He was salty because the ten grand was long gone, and there just wasn’t any incentive to do a murder. He was the one at risk. Love was a muthafucka, and he would do anything to protect his lady. But now he wanted more money. He sensed that Max had no more cash to give. Nowadays you could get a hit done for five hundred dollars, sometimes less. Max had paid top dollar as an inmate. Miguel figured she received an inheritance or somehow had come into a lump sum of money, and he wanted more.
The front door opened, and Max emerged from the house.
Miguel took one look at her and frown
ed. “Frumpy-lookin’ bitch,” he muttered to himself.
She climbed into his car. There was no good morning or warm welcome, just business. “We need to find and follow someone,” she said.
“Who?”
“His name is Bugsy.”
She’d brought up the name before.
“So where do we start?” he said.
“I have a few locations where he might be.”
Miguel was ready to get the day over with. He couldn’t look at Max for too long. He looked straight ahead and drove off.
Max lit a cigarette and filled his car with smoke.
They rode in silence for a moment. The first destination was downtown Brooklyn. The agenda for today was gathering intel on Bugsy.
Layla bragged a lot in her letters, talking about her kids, her money, and the places they owned from New York to Florida. The stupid bitch even sent a few pictures of real estate to her. The letters were like a treasure map to Max, telling her more than she needed to know. She even knew all the West children’s birthdays, favorite colors, and levels of education. Layla wasn’t writing to Max as a friend, but as a “frenemy.” Layla envied Maxine back in the day, and why not? Before her incarceration, Maxine had it all—loving, caring parents; a good home; beauty; intelligence; and a bright future. And she had Scottie, a drug dealer on the way up who doted on her, spoiled her, and supposedly had her back.
As Miguel navigated his car through the morning traffic, Max looked his way, her eyes fixed on his biceps and triceps as he steered the car. His olive complexion seemed to glisten in the sunlight coming through the windows, and his tattoos summarized who he was as a man. She wanted to place her hand in his lap, fondle his crotch, and see his dick. She was ready to put him into her mouth if given a chance.
Mafioso [Part 2] Page 6
