Secrets Uncovered

by Amaleka McCall

  “Yes, she did. Ms. Sanchez sent me because Flora was fired for losing your son in the city or something like that,” Candice relayed mendaciously.

  Cyndi’s facial expression grew dark; her eyes went into slits at the mere mention of Flora’s name.

  “That bitch is lucky to be alive,” she said menacingly. “Let me show you around. I am very particular about my house, my children ... and my husband,” Cyndi said sternly, summoning Candice to follow her like a true subordinate.

  Candice’s knowledge of the incident had sealed the deal. She was officially in. She followed Cyndi through the beautiful house. It was clear that everything inside was expensive. It had all of the trappings of what Candice imagined a drug kingpin or a Mafia boss’s house looked like. The inside boasted Italian marble floors, large gaudy accent pieces and shiny gold or black lacquer furniture. The vast window banks in the formal living room were dressed in gold and cream silk draperies, which looked as if they’d been imported from some faraway place. Gold and cream seemed to be the theme colors throughout. A bit opulent for Candice’s taste, but definitely rich. Cyndi was obviously very proud as she pointed out her Picasso paintings and Kwan Yen statues. Candice tuned out Cyndi’s boasts and took mental notes of doors, windows and things that could be obstacles to a fast break, if she ever needed to get out fast.

  “Your sleeping quarters are upstairs, right next to the children,” Cyndi continued.

  As Candice followed Cyndi up the winding staircase, she looked intently at the gallery of family portraits on the long wall leading up the steps. She could probably name everyone in the pictures by now, and that made her smile inside.

  When she got to the last step at the top, there it was: a larger-than-life portrait of their patriarch, symbolizing his position as head of the family. Candice’s pulse quickened as she stared at the picture. He was older now; a jagged line of silver ran through his thinning dark hair. He was sitting in a wheelchair, flanked by his family.

  Candice had read all about Rolando DeSosa getting shot. Behind them, a huge neon sign blazed in red letters: BAILE CALIENTE. Candice squinted her eyes into dashes. She couldn’t peel her eyes away. No emotions, Candy. No emotions right now. Suddenly her right contact lens began to itch as her eyes started to well up with angry tears.

  “That’s my father-in-law. And that’s my husband’s and my club. He cut the ribbon that day,” Cyndi explained after noticing her interest in the painting.

  Candice nodded her head and smiled nervously. She wondered how long she’d been staring at the picture.

  “You’ve seen him before?” Cyndi asked suspiciously, trying to see how much Candice knew about their family.

  “Um ... no. It’s a nice picture, ma’am,” Candice fabricated on the spot.

  Cyndi gave her a sideways glance.

  “Well, he used to be a very important and very dangerous man ... not so much these days. He lives with us now and is winding down his life to be a grandfather and, finally, a father. I hope Ms. Sanchez told you the requirements of working here in this family... .” Cyndi looked at her expectantly.

  Candice nodded.

  They were both on the same page.

  Mrs. DeSosa took Candice on a tour of the remainder of the 12,000-square-foot home.

  “My father-in-law lives on that side of the house. He is a very sick man, and the kids only see him when he comes over here. He loves them, but they can sometimes be too much for a man in his condition,” Cyndi explained as they passed through a long hallway leading to the off-limits wing of the house.

  Candice knew she’d be venturing over there at some point. Cyndi told Candice she’d expect her to stay some nights because she often traveled with her husband or worked at the club late into the early-morning hours.

  Candice met the children for the second time that week. The baby screamed as soon as Candice touched her soft, round cheeks, and little Rolando remained hidden behind his mother’s legs. Candice wondered if the kids could tell that her hair, eyes, fat stomach and legs were all phony, just like her resume. Children, in Candice’s experience, were much more discerning about people’s intentions than adults.

  Cyndi didn’t appear too concerned with her children’s reluctance to meet their new nanny, however.

  “They’ll get used to you,” Cyndi told her, only slightly embarrassed by her children’s reactions.

  Candice smiled and nodded in agreement. She’d have to get used to them too.

  The most important thing for Candice was that she was within striking range of her targets, and close to bringing justice to her family.

  Junior wrestled with the key in the old rusted door lock. His hands were sweaty and his heart was pumping hard and fast. He didn’t know why he was so nervous to find out the truth, but he was. Junior told himself the only reason he had even come to Rock’s apartment after all of this time was to get clues on Candy’s whereabouts so he could turn her over to DeSosa like they’d agreed.

  After Rock killed himself, Junior received the keys and a letter from Rock in the mail. Rock’s punk ass had apologized for being an absentee father who had stood by and watched his son grow up rough. The note had informed him cryptically that there were things inside the apartment that would explain everything, but that he needed to be careful because enemies on both sides of the law would be watching him. Junior didn’t give a fuck about any of that shit in Rock’s final note. His sole purpose right now was hunting down Candy.

  Junior entered the apartment and scrunched up his face in disgust. “How was this nigga living?” Junior whispered as he looked around at the shabby decor: old moth-eaten curtains, scratched and chipped wood furniture, mismatched table chairs, worn-out couch and holey chair.

  He walked over to the coffee table; there was a box in the center. Junior peered inside and his heart leaped in his chest.

  He had found what he was looking for.

  After leaving the apartment, Junior rushed into Rolando DeSosa’s office in a huff.

  “I have an address for you,” he blurted out. He wasn’t going to tell DeSosa about the other things he’d found inside Rock’s home.

  “Very good, Junior. You work very fast,” DeSosa commented.

  “I really want this nigga Phil badly. He is hiding out, but I’m sure you have the power to find him,” Junior cajoled.

  DeSosa started laughing. “How about we take baby steps first. One man at a time,” he said, extending his hand for the information Junior gripped to his chest.

  Junior handed it over somewhat reluctantly.

  “Go with them,” DeSosa instructed, pointing toward his shadow men.

  Without much of a choice, Junior did as he was told.

  “Which one of y’all bitch niggas hit my moms?” Junior growled. His face was so close to Dray’s that he could see the perspiration beads above the other man’s clean lip.

  “I don’t know, man! I wasn’t there!” Dray’s arms burned as they were extended unnaturally far over his head. The metal chains dug into his wrists and his fingers had no feeling. They were already turning blue and purple from the lack of circulation.

  One of DeSosa’s goons walked in front of Dray’s naked chest and laid his fist into Dray’s sternum.

  “Agh!” Dray screamed. His body bucked, which caused more pressure on the chains, and thus more pain.

  “You still gon’ act like you don’t know shit about this? Phil is supposed to be your man, and you see what that shit got you?” Junior spat out. A large green vein was pulsing at his temple.

  “Fuck you,” Dray managed in a low growl, spitting up a mouthful of blood in Junior’s direction. Dray wasn’t going to let no Brooklyn cat make him into a pussy. If he was going to die, it was going to be on his feet and not on his knees.

  “A’ight,” Junior said, stepping back for a minute, swiping his hand roughly over his face. He nodded to the broad-shouldered Hispanic man whom DeSosa had assigned to assist him. The man rushed over and grabbed a gorilla fistful of Dr
ay’s balls.

  “Agghh! Agghh!” Dray let out a bloodcurdling scream as the man exerted pressure on his man sac.

  “You still don’t wanna tell me who hit my moms, and where the fuck Phil is hiding?” Junior barked, extremely agitated. The area behind his eyes was throbbing.

  Dray’s head was hanging low; his chin was damn near touching the middle of his chest. He was too exhausted to scream anymore. Junior walked over to him, grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head upward.

  “I said fuck you and your mom’s nigga,” Dray rasped.

  Junior bit down on his bottom lip. He released Dray’s head and pulled out his weapon.

  “No, fuck you and your whole crew. They’ll meet you in hell, bitch nigga!”

  Junior leveled his gun at Dray’s head and squeezed the trigger. He didn’t stop shooting until the entire twelve-round magazine had been emptied into Dray’s body.

  “Get rid of him,” Junior whispered harshly as he exited the room. “One down. One to go.”

  “In breaking news today, a mysterious shooting outside of Baile Caliente, a popular Latino salsa club, left two men dead. Police officials report that the shots seemed to have come from a distance, indicative of a sniper shooting,” the newscaster said. “Police say that surveillance video in front of the club did not show any cars driving by or any shooters on foot. The two victims are rumored to work for Arellio DeSosa, the owner of the club and the son of the alleged former head of the Sindicato drug cartel. Arellio DeSosa’s whereabouts at the time of the shootings were unknown. Police officials are combing the area looking for clues as to where the shots came from. We will continue to bring you live coverage as we receive updates.”

  Avon’s head snapped up from the file he was reading when he heard the name “DeSosa” mentioned on the hotel television. “Shit!” he gasped, turning up the volume.

  The shootings had Candy’s signature written all over them. That was her modus operandi—take out her targets like falling dominoes. It was her way of building up to the big fish.

  While working undercover for the past year, Avon had figured out that Candy was Easy’s daughter and that she was out to avenge her family’s deaths. When Candice had found out that Junior, Broady and Razor were not the ones responsible for the murders, but, in fact, it was her own brother, also named Junior, she had been devastated. Her brother had apparently been brainwashed by Rolando DeSosa to turn on his own father.

  A lightbulb went off in Avon’s mind. Candice was going after the most dangerous kingpin in the tristate area: Rolando DeSosa.

  No wonder the fuckin’ government was trying to find her—to keep her from assassinating their man.

  Avon began pacing the floor. Candy was way out of her league. This was way different than fucking with a few street punks. She was playing a dangerous game now. Even more dangerous than the first time.

  Avon had to contemplate his next move. He had been so immersed in the Easy Hardaway files that he’d lost sight of what he really needed to do ... find Candy before the government or DeSosa did.

  His cell phone rang, almost causing him to jump out of his own skin. Avon rushed over to the small desk in the far corner of the hotel room and looked at his phone. The number came up “unknown.” It could be Elaina and the kids, he reasoned. He picked it up, with his nerves on edge.

  “More people might die if you don’t reconsider the deal I offered. That could’ve easily been Elaina or your son or your daughter... . Who knows who could go next?” Grayson Stokes threatened on the other end of the line.

  Stokes’s words coldly echoed in Avon’s brain. He tightened his grip on the mobile device. His rushing breath was the only response Stokes received. His message had clearly hit home.

  “Seems like our little friend is a trained assassin. I happen to know she’s been trained by the best. I also happen to know where your family is, Agent Tucker,” he rasped into the phone.

  Avon closed his eyes. Why was he being put in the middle of this shit again? All he’d ever wanted was to be like his father—a good law enforcement officer who dedicated his life wholeheartedly to the job of bringing criminals to justice. Avon had made some mistakes along the way, yes, but nothing to warrant this sort of harassment.

  “Let me find her on my own. I will bring her in,” Avon finally spoke up. The only choice he had right now was to get down or lay down.

  “Don’t cross me, Agent Tucker. I don’t like to be crossed. You should take example from Brad Brubaker. I hate liars and traitors,” Stokes warned before hanging up the phone.

  Avon looked at the phone for a long, hard minute. It had now become a matter of saving innocent lives. He snatched up the file he had been reading. He needed to know more.

  Brooklyn, New York, 1988

  Easy stood over Early’s casket. He wanted to cry, scream, fight, spit and jump up and down—all at the same time. Early didn’t look like himself. His face was extremely swollen and his lips looked like fish lips. The undertaker had told Easy that the shots Early had taken to his head made it hard for them to work with his natural face. They added a fair amount of wax and makeup for the open-casket service. Easy had protested against the casket being open, but he’d lost to Early’s old lady, Syrita.

  In fact, it was Syrita’s ear-shattering screams that brought Easy out of his stupor in front of the casket. Syrita was making her way to the front of the funeral parlor in the most dramatic fashion possible.

  Easy moved backward and took a seat in the front pew. He watched as one person after another came up to Early’s casket to pay respects. Without a doubt, many of them simply wanted to assess the damage the bullet holes had done to his body.

  Easy grew angrier by the minute. He was angry with himself for not being around when Early took the shots that sealed his fate.

  Easy had been on his run, picking up an important package. The story went that Early was leaving the pool hall with Bosco, his right-hand man, when someone called his name real loud.

  The street reporters said Early turned around; but before he could even blink, seven shots entered his head.

  The story unsettled Easy, causing him severe stomach cramps. The method by which Early was murdered was nearly identical to the one he’d used two years earlier when he’d killed a man at Early’s request. Easy felt in some degree responsible for Early’s premature death, like it was Karma coming back to bite him in the ass.

  Easy also felt more alone than he ever had in his life. So many street dudes hated Easy because of his association with Early. Now there was no one left to shelter or protect him. He must be his own man on the street. After the years he spentfollowing Early like his shadow, he knew he could think, walk and talk like Early. And, most important, when need be, he could be as ruthless as Early as well.

  Once Early was buried, Easy set out to make his mark. He had to stand on his own two feet now.

  The first thing he did was move his belongings out of his makeshift room in the back of the pool hall. Easy got a room inside of an old rooming house in East New York. He had a little money saved, so he decided to take a chance and go see the big man from whom he regularly picked up packages. Easy planned on convincing the man he could take over Early’s operations on the street.

  Easy stood in his spot on the corner, his hands shoved down into his pockets. It had been a year since he’d earned enough trust to get his own package. Though he was surrounded by loudmouthed wannabe gangsters, he never fed into their ways. He was always quiet and unassuming while conducting his hand-to-hand sales.

  Easy had been out hustling all day and had almost finished his bundle when he was approached by a basehead named Charlotte.

  “Easy, lemme get something on credit,” Charlotte begged.

  “Nah,”Easy said in a low tone.

  “C’mon ... don’t be like that. You usually hook a sista up,” she pleaded.

  “I said nah,” Easy said firmly.

  “You muthafucka! I’m one of your best customers
and you just gon’ put me off like that? You can’t hook me up ’til check day?” Charlotte spat out, getting too close and too loud for Easy’s comfort.

  “Why don’t you go ask one of them dudes,” Easy said calmly, nodding toward his noisy counterparts. They were making fun of an older dude whom Easy had seen going into the store.

  “You know your shit is the best out here. Stop playing!” Charlotte screeched. She nervously scratched against her arms.

  “Yo, go ’head, man. I’m not giving you anything on credit.” Easy dismissed her with a look of utter disgust.

  Charlotte’s skinny, poorly dressed frame made her look like she had one foot in the grave already. Her clothes hung off her bony body and she had visible dirt on her pants and the front of her shirt. Her hair was a wild bird’s nest atop her head.

  “Fuck you! You ain’t shit, anyway. I know a couple of niggas who will beat ya ass and take all ya shit.” Charlotte wagged a skeletal finger close to Easy’s face. She hawked up a mucus filled wad of spit and spewed it into Easy’s face. Loud roars erupted from the rowdy corner boys. Easy had been played.

  Easy quickly grabbed the bag-of-bones girl around her neck, lifting her off her feet. She dangled like a choked chicken. He scowled as he squeezed her neck without the least bit of conscience.

  “Yo, kill that bitch!” one of the boys screamed out.

  Easy was in a blind rage. He was about to catch a case.

  “Yo, nigga, she about dead. That bitch turning purple!” someone yelled out.

  It was the only thing that snapped Easy out of his rage; he couldn’t commit murder in plain sight like this. He quickly came to his senses and dropped Charlotte back to her feet. She was coughing and rolling around wildly trying to catch her breath.

  Easy lifted his foot and gave her a swift kick in the ass. “Don’t let me see your fuckin’ ass around here ever again!” Easy spat out.