Secrets Uncovered

by Amaleka McCall

  The following day, Candice took a different route to the city. She already knew the nanny was heading to the petting zoo at Central Park, but not before she would pull up to the Starbucks just outside of the park to grab her light caramel macchiato. She consistently left both children in the idling car.

  Candice was already parked across the street from the Starbucks when the familiar black hybrid pulled up. “Like clockwork,” Candice whispered, an involuntary smirk spreading across her lips. She watched Flora get out, run around the back of the car and rush into the Starbucks.

  Go! Candice prompted herself. She scrambled out of her car, raced across the street, crouched down on the side of the car that was facing the street, and used a gloved hand to open the vehicle’s back door.

  Little Rolando sat up and looked at her, his little head tilted curiously. His baby sister was sound asleep.

  “Shh,” Candice whispered, placing her finger up to her lips. “Rolando, you wanna see a doggy?” Candice reached inside and unfastened his car seat strap. The boy still looked at her strangely; then he smiled and nodded his agreement.

  Rolando wasted no time showing that he was a big boy, happy to be free from the captivity of his car seat. He hopped out of the seat and took Candy’s proffered hand. She closed the door, careful not to wake the baby.

  “C’mon, let’s go see the doggy,” she announced. She lifted him between two parked cars and put him on the sidewalk. “Go, look at the doggy over there,” she said, pointing to a dog-grooming service two doors down that had their latest customers on display in the window. “Go ahead, big boy,” Candice urged when he hesitated. She patted him on the bottom; then she looked around, making sure she didn’t draw too much attention to herself or to the boy.

  As expected, Rolando took off running.

  Candice watched him for a few seconds, keeping her body low. She peeped at the Starbucks and saw that Flora was already coming toward the door with her drink. A flash of heat engulfed Candice’s chest. She was spurred into action. She turned quickly, but she couldn’t dart across the street just yet. The Manhattan traffic was whizzing by.

  “Shit!” Candice huffed, jumping back. Breathing hard and tapping her foot, Candice waited, eyeing the car. Flora was inside now.

  Finally there was a break in traffic. With her heart hammering wildly, Candice sprinted back across the street, hoping the woman hadn’t noticed her next to the car. With her chest rising and falling rapidly, and her nostrils wide, Candice slumped back into her car. Once inside, she let out a long sigh of relief.

  Candice glanced at the black hybrid and noticed Flora standing beside it with a look of terror etched on her face. Her hands were up in the air, swaying wildly, and her head whipped left and right in a frantic motion. She looked to be on the verge of screaming or fainting.

  Candice lowered her window slowly so she could hear the commotion more clearly.

  “Help! Por favor! Help!” Flora screamed, her voice a grating, high-pitched call of distress. Flora yanked open the backseat door and snatched the crying infant to her side as if afraid that she would disappear as well. “Help me!” she screamed again at the top of her lungs. People began to stop and look. Some Good Samaritans offered to dial 911, while others tried to calm her down. Flora continued to whirl around; hysteria was setting in now.

  Sirens blared in the distance. Candice knew the boy’s exact whereabouts. He had done more than just look at the dogs in the shop’s window. When a dog owner had exited, he quickly slipped into the grooming store, which fit beautifully into Candice’s plans. A warm sense of satisfaction rose from her stomach into her heart.

  Flora was sitting down in the driver’s seat of the vehicle; her feet and legs were hanging out the door. The baby was perched on her lap, and the crowd of Good Samaritans was around her, anxious for the authorities to arrive. A few of them volunteered to look for the little boy and they spread out across the block, calling out “Rolando.”

  Candice knew that it was only a matter of time before the boy was found in the pet shop.

  Four police cars, with flashing blue and red lights, arrived at the scene, parking haphazardly around the vehicle. Two officers questioned Flora; two spoke to the bystanders; the rest of the officers began a methodical grid search.

  Candice had to chuckle a bit. The boy was right under their noses. The police began checking the stores almost immediately, just as Candice predicted. The officers who would find the boy would be dubbed heroes back at the station for reuniting the lost child with his nanny.

  This incident would be the first of many tragedies that would befall the DeSosa family in the coming weeks, if Candy had anything to do with it.

  Shortly after the cops arrived, a white Range Rover came to screeching halt near the police cars. Arellio DeSosa, whom Candice recognized from her photo collage, was out of his car before it even came to a full stop. Rolando DeSosa’s eldest son burst through the throngs of onlookers and officers and headed straight for Flora. His body language was rigid and menacing.

  Before Arellio could even utter a harsh word, a petite blonde, with a lithe build, rushed from behind him. Her hands were extended in front of her as if ready to scratch Flora’s eyes out.

  “You bitch! Where is my son?” the blonde screamed.

  Candice slouched down even farther in her seat and smiled. She’d finally gotten to see Arellio’s wife. A police officer grabbed the woman’s arms behind her back and directed her toward the Range Rover before she could do any real harm to the nanny. The woman’s hands and mouth were moving a mile a minute.

  Arellio scolded Flora, his finger wagging accusatorily in her face. Snatching his daughter from her arms, he headed back toward his wife.

  “You’re fuckin’ fired!” the blonde screeched, trying to outmaneuver the officer. “Where is my son?” The woman broke down, her shoulders shaking, as she covered her face with her hands.

  Flora was sobbing as well. She had always been careful. There was no way the boy could’ve unfastened his own car seat straps. The thought caused Flora’s knees to give out. She almost hit the ground before an officer caught her in his arms.

  Candice watched intently as Arellio handed his daughter to his wife and engaged in an intense conversation with the police officers. Candice watched him still trying to be the cool kingpin as the pressure mounted. Candice hated him more and more by the minute. She made her hand into a fake gun. Closing her weak eye, she aimed it at Arellio’s head.

  “Boom!” she whispered as she pulled back her pointer finger in a mock trigger pull.

  Arellio went over and embraced his wife; their baby daughter was snuggled between them.

  Such a loving family, Candice noted sarcastically.

  Alas, the play was nearing its final scene. Heads turned simultaneously to the left as shouting could be heard in the distance.

  “Found him! We found him!” a police officer belted out as he walked with a child in his arms toward the crowd. Cheers erupted from the worried onlookers.

  Arellio and wife rushed toward their child. “Thank God!” the woman cried as she scooped her son up into her arms and squeezed him tightly. Arellio was right on her heels. He kissed his son on the top of his head and held on to his wife and children for dear life.

  The scene sent sparks of white-hot anger over Candice’s body. Her cheeks were aflame and she bit down so hard into the side of her mouth that she broke the skin.

  “Now I know how to locate your Achilles’ heel,” Candice vowed aloud as she followed Arellio DeSosa with her eyes. Family clearly mattered to him, as much as it did to her. If that was his point of weakness, then that was where she planned to strike first.

  Standing nearly six and a half feet tall, Arellio DeSosa was a hard-to-miss target. He was nearly the spitting image of his father—olive-colored skin, shiny black hair, strong broad shoulders, large flat nose and long prominent chin. He joined his father’s business when he was just seventeen years old and was groomed to be just as ru
thless. Unlike most teenage boys, however, Arellio’s rite of passage into manhood was murder.

  Harlem, New York 1991

  As a .357 Magnum shook in Arellio’s hand, his father and his goons waited for the young protégé to find the cojones to finish the job.

  “There is no hesitation, Arellio!” Rolando DeSosa barked.

  Arellio jumped at the sound of his father’s voice. He had always been scared of his father, who was very much an authoritative figure in his life.

  “When a man betrays you, your family, everything you stand for, you have no choice but to kill him—no matter who he is. There is no coming back for a man who has no dignity and no pride,” DeSosa lectured his son.

  “This man stole from me. He lied to my face! He threatened our family by talking to the police. He is a snake ... no, more like a fuckin’ rat,” DeSosa hissed, his accent strengthening.

  Arellio looked down at the bloodied man whom he’d once called Uncle. The man squirmed on the floor in a last-ditch effort to edge toward the door and save his life; he really did look like a slithering snake.

  Arellio followed him now, leveling his gun at his chest. He couldn’t breathe. His heart beat so fast—he thought he’d go into cardiac arrest.

  “What are you waiting for? He is no longer part of our family. He betrayed me, our family name and everything we stand for.” DeSosa was urging his son to finish the job. He needed to know that Arellio had the heart to kill. It was the only way he could guarantee his family’s reputation as cold-blooded businessmen.

  “This is your chance to live up to the DeSosa name. You must not feel anything for a rat bastard like this. Now, prove to me, and everyone here, that you’re worthy of this family’s name,” DeSosa growled. He was growing frustrated with his son’s apparent hesitation.

  With his body covered in a cold sweat, Arellio lifted his gun hand and aimed it at the man’s head. His uncle flipped onto his back. He looked into his nephew’s eyes, pleading for a small measure of compassion.

  “Please, please ...” the man’s voice quavered. “Your mother is my sister. What will she think when she finds out I’m dead at your hands? You can’t devastate her like this. You’re just a young boy. You don’t understand what is going on here,” the man cried out, his words barely audible through swollen lips.

  Arellio gazed at the men gathered in the room to witness his first kill. He couldn’t disappoint his father in front of all of his workers. Arellio had to prove that he was worthy of the family business and of his father’s love. This was his chance.

  “Shut up! Don’t talk about my mother!” Arellio shouted. “You are a fuckin’ rat bastard, just like my father said!” Arellio could nearly feel the testosterone flowing in his veins. He got closer to the man and put the gun to the man’s temple.

  “You must die,” he announced to his uncle. He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger before he could have any second thoughts.

  The gun blast reverberated up Arellio’s arm and caused his body to rock backward. When he opened his eyes, he saw part of the man’s brains lying on the floor. There was so much blood. Arellio felt his knees go weak. Blood and brain matter had splattered all over his shoes and the bottom of his pants.

  Taking the man’s life made him feel as powerful as God Himself. He gripped the gun more tightly now. He looked around wildly. His eyes darted from face to face. He locked eyes with his father. Arellio bit down into his jaw and tried not to crack a smile. Instead, he adjusted his features into a scowl, as was appropriate for a murdering man.

  “Good job, my son. I knew you could do it,” DeSosa said proudly as he clapped his son on the shoulder.

  Arellio could not stop staring at his handiwork. The smell of the blood, like raw meat gone bad, made him feel like an animal in the jungle prowling for his next meal. Only Arellio didn’t think this particular appetite could ever be truly satisfied.

  Junior sat across from Rolando DeSosa Sr. Their eyes were locked on each other. DeSosa lifted a Cuban cigar to his lips slowly, sucking in, and blew a smoke ring in Junior’s direction. His infamous diamond skull and crossbones gleamed on his front tooth. Junior bit down into his jaw and adjusted his neck.

  “Junior,” DeSosa drawled, rolling the R at the end of his name.

  Junior didn’t break eye contact.

  “You come here for my help, no?” DeSosa said in an unnervingly calm tone of voice.

  Junior nodded slightly.

  “But you question me also?” DeSosa followed up. He didn’t appreciate the way Junior had accused him with fingers pointed.

  “Look, DeSosa, I’m sorry for the way I busted in here. I’m just telling you what this dude said. First he said you worked for the government, and then he said he was a fuckin’ DEA agent,” Junior confessed as he recalled the nightmarish scene that had unfolded weeks earlier.

  On that night Junior had discovered that his right-hand man, Tuck, was really an undercover DEA agent. “I had no idea. I feel like my ass had been set up by you, by him... . I just want some answers, man. I also want help with this problem,” Junior continued, humbly now. He was very careful with his tone as he warily eyed DeSosa’s goons positioned on either corner of the room. Another was stationed on the other side of the closed door.

  DeSosa moved his shoulders back uncomfortably. “You came here for my help? You say Phil harmed your family? Is that right?” DeSosa asked, blowing out more smoke rings. He completely ignored Junior’s concerns about him being down with the government.

  Junior nodded, rocking in his chair now. His frustration was mounting.

  “And what about his brother? His family?” DeSosa asked.

  “I told that nigga I didn’t have nothing to do with the shit that happened to his brother. It was all Broady. He thought Phil killed his best friend, Razor, so he took revenge. I didn’t have nothing to do with that,” Junior explained. “But Phil hit my moms,” Junior finished with venom. Nothing more needed to be said.

  DeSosa seemed to contemplate what he was being told.

  “Yes, I know everything, including the fact that you allowed a narco into my midst. Into my business!” DeSosa snapped, finally acknowledging Junior’s confession.

  “I didn’t know Tuck was an undercover rat. It doesn’t matter, anyway, does it? Aren’t you untouchable?” Junior replied snidely. He was tired of the DeSosa bullshit.

  DeSosa eyed him evilly. “You think Easy would’ve ever brought a rat into his company? You think he would’ve been that weak? You never were as good as he was at this business,” DeSosa said cruelly, chuckling.

  Junior swiped his hands down his thighs and shifted in his seat. He could feel heat rising in his chest. His eyes darted across the room at the two men standing around, trying to look casual, their weapons making visible bumps under their suit jackets. Junior knew better than to express his outrage. He was here to ask for help, after all.

  “Do you remember the day Easy brought you to me, Junior?” DeSosa asked. The rolling R sent a cold chill down Junior’s spine. “You were so poor, so pathetic. Coming from nothing,” DeSosa said, curling his lip to show his disgust.

  Junior swallowed hard. DeSosa liked to antagonize, and he knew just what to say to crush his opponent.

  “You could never be Easy, eh, Junior, because you always make things so difficult for yourself.” DeSosa laughed at his play on words.

  Junior rolled his eyes to the ceiling. He couldn’t escape Easy’s shadow for the life of him. His lips formed a hard, straight line as DeSosa ripped into him.

  “You were a skinny kid. Hungry to be a part of something. Easy was proud of the job he wanted you to do. He had given you the responsibility of taking the package. . . the same way he started out. Easy was always loyal when he trusted someone,” DeSosa recounted, puffing on his cigar.

  It was all too much: the words, the disrespectful smoke, the memories. Junior sat uncomfortably erect, uneasy. His hands were curled into fists; the veins in his wrists were bulging with restrai
nt.

  “Ah, yes, Easy Hardaway, the consummate humanitarian. He fed you. He taught you. He trusted you. You wanted to be him. I remember the day I met you. You stunk of envy. You reeked of animosity. I could see it in your eyes. You secretly hated the man who had fed and clothed you. From that day forward, I never trusted you. I knew when Easy wanted out, you would be the one I could count on to keep up the deal I had made with the devils, but I still didn’t trust you. I knew you were so hungry for power that you would kill any man who stood in your way. You were born a snake. It is in your blood ... a fucking cold-blooded killer like your father,” DeSosa hissed cruelly.

  Junior’s temple throbbed and sweat beads lined up on his hairline like ready soldiers. His chest heaved at hearing the truth. If he hadn’t been so outgunned, he would’ve slapped the shit out of the old man for speaking to him so disrespectfully. But DeSosa was no real threat to Junior. He was just an old bastard trying to assert himself like he was young and ruthless and in charge. Junior saw him for what he was: a shell of his younger self, a feeble old man racked by Multiple Sclerosis.

  “Easy was not a saint. He killed one of my best friends, and he was a power hound. You know this. He only got out of the game because of Rock. A fuckin’ hypocrite hit man acting as Easy’s gotdamn moral compass,” Junior denounced.

  DeSosa stubbed his cigar out and dropped his hands at his sides. He pushed on the wheels of his wheelchair until his entire body emerged from around the table.

  Junior looked at him without sympathy. He secretly wished he had been the one who’d put the bullet years ago into DeSosa that had taken away his ability to walk.

  The “sniper’s bullet” had been a hiccup in DeSosa’s career, but it had not taken him out of the game. Now, though, the disease had done what a bullet couldn’t do; it made him weak and vulnerable. Seeing his time on earth as limited, DeSosa was forced to tie up some loose ends from the past.