Mafioso [Part 3]

by Nisa Santiago

  The plan was to meet with Deuce’s New Castle drug dealers and simply drop off the re-up.

  The Maxima drove toward the old marketplace and came to a stop. Whistler got out of the car first, followed by Henny and the soldier. He looked around and noticed an old van parked nearby. It wasn’t unusual for owners to abandon their cars in the area, but something about it made his street instincts buzz. He was the only one eyeing the vehicle. He looked at the marketplace, and to anyone passing by, it was an old, decaying building, but inside, there some serious money being made.

  Henny glanced around and proceeded toward the building. The third man removed the rear car bumper, where the kilos were concealed. But Whistler still had a bad feeling about it. Then, the door to the van slid back, and Whistler’s instincts were proven right. Four armed men quickly emerged from the vehicle and opened fire with assault rifles. Henny was immediately gunned down by machine gun fire. He got dead quick.

  “Muthafuckas!” Whistler hollered. He took evasive action and ducked behind the car as bullets whizzed by him. He snatched his pistol from his waistband and opened fire.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  The young soldier did the same. They were pinned down by the gunfire. Bullets ripped through the car and shattered glass. Whistler returned fire. It was a hit—or they’d been set up. Quickly, Whistler pivoted toward the opposite direction of the car, crouching and positioning himself into a defensive stance. He rapidly took aim and caught one shooter by firing two slugs into his chest as he tried to creep their way. In an uncontrolled fever, he pumped two more slugs into the dead man.

  One down and three to go.

  They were outgunned, but Whistler wasn’t going down without taking more enemies with him. He and his ally exchanged hot bullets with their assailants. The area lit up with gunfire louder than fireworks on the 4th of July. He spun around from the car one more time and fired—Boom! Boom!

  Budda-budda-budda-budda-budda! It was returned fire—shredding almost everything in the surrounding area.

  “Fuck!” Whistler shouted.

  Still crouched, Whistler spun around and fired, this time hitting another assailant three times and dropping him dead. But now he was alone in the gun battle. A slug had punched a serious hole in the DMC soldier’s abdomen, and Whistler found him collapsed nearby.

  There were two enemies left. Whistler was breathing heavy, his ammo was running low, and time was running out. It was now or never, and he thrust himself into the now. He spun around to return fire, but in that moment he saw something. They both saw each other from a distance, and they made steady eye contact—him and Bugsy. But the recognition didn’t stop them from trying to kill each other. Bugsy opened fire with the Uzi in his hands. He wanted to take Whistler’s head off. But Whistler was adept with a pistol, and he was pushing both men back.

  For a moment, Whistler stayed low and hidden behind the bullet-riddled Maxima and quickly checked his ammo. He had three rounds left. He was caught between a rock and a hard place. It was his time to die; there was no escaping it. But then everything unexpectedly became too silent—no more gunfire. He heard the van start up and the wheels screeched before it went speeding away.

  “What the fuck?” he mouthed.

  The smoke cleared, and he was the last man standing. He looked around him, and the place was a war zone littered with bullet holes and bodies. He was still alive—but why and how? Had Bugsy spared his life?

  He couldn’t linger in the area too long, so he fled on foot. Maybe Jimmy was right—maybe he did have nine lives.

  29

  Bugsy sat slumped against the door, trying to relax. He held his side and could feel the blood oozing from his small injury. It was only a flesh wound, but it hurt like hell. The bullet had torn pieces of his right side off. He would live, but he missed his chance at Whistler, and two of his men were killed. He knew it was best to retreat and come back fighting another day.

  His driver, Bruce, hurried him away from the scene. He sped toward the highway, but Bugsy needed medical attention.

  “I need to call your father, tell him what happened,” Bruce said with fret in his tone.

  “I’m all right. I just need a quick patch-up,” said Bugsy. “Fuckin’ Whistler. Ooooh, that fuckin’ traitor.”

  Bugsy had a hunch what Whistler was up to—that he may have been the one to give up the organization’s secrets to rivals. He wasn’t shocked to see Whistler working for the other team. Bugsy had sources everywhere, and it was alleged on the streets. But it was a sad sight for Bugsy to see with his own eyes. Whistler and DMC working together. He had to tell Scott about it. It would not be easy news to relay. Knowing his father, the man would hit the roof.

  “I just need a doctor to patch me up. I’ll be okay,” Bugsy said. “Find me a doctor; I don’t care how you do it.”

  Bruce nodded. This was Scott’s son, and he didn’t need the boss’s son dying on his watch—although Bugsy appeared to be fine.

  Bugsy sighed. The last person he wanted to find out he’d been shot was Alicia. He feared it would be too much for her and he would lose her. He couldn’t lose Alicia, and he couldn’t go back to her bandaged up from a gunshot wound. She was a nurse, and it would be difficult to hide it. He’d promised Alicia he would never lie to her or hide anything from her.

  Bruce pulled into a hospital staff lot and waited a few minutes. It wasn’t long before he saw the man headed to his car.

  Dr. Knight had just worked fifteen hours and simply wanted to go home and get some rest. But his plans would change. The unexpected assailant came from behind, the barrel of his pistol pressed to the back of his head.

  “If you wanna live till your next shift, I suggest you get your kit and come with me,” Bruce said.

  Dr. Knight had no choice but to oblige the gunman. It was late and it was dark, and they were alone. There was no help on the way.

  Dr. Knight treated Bugsy’s wound in the back of the van. He was lucky it was a through-and-through—no bullet to remove from the flesh. The doctor put in a few stitches and bandaged to the wound.

  “He’s fine,” said the doctor. “Can I go now?”

  Bugsy nodded. The van door opened. Before Dr. Knight left, Bugsy tossed the man a ten thousand dollar stack—for his time and trouble. The doctor looked reluctant in taking the cash; he was just doing his job, helping a man in need.

  “Don’t think about it, just take it. You helped me out,” Bugsy said.

  Dr. Knight exhaled and walked away with the cash.

  Bugsy looked at Bruce and said, “Now, take me back to New York.”

  ***

  The next day, Bugsy drove his Benz into his father’s Brooklyn scrap yard and climbed out of the car. He was alone and in a serious mood. He was feeling much better from the shooting, knowing he was lucky to be alive after being shot a second time. His black shoes crunched against the gravel as he trekked toward the building, and his injuries were concealed by the overcoat he wore. The place was busy with workers and a few of Scott’s goons loitering nearby. They greeted Bugsy, showing their respect, and kept on with their labor. The boss’s son was back in New York.

  Bugsy entered the building and went straight to his father’s office. He knocked before he entered and opened the door to see his father seated behind his desk, going over some paperwork and smoking his cigar. It was the first time since Maxine’s accident Bugsy had seen him somewhere other than at the hospital watching over her.

  Bugsy closed the door and looked at his father. “Pop, we need to talk.”

  Scott took a pull from the cigar and leaned back in his high-back leather chair. It was an expensive piece of furniture that appeared to be an anomaly in the ordinary looking office. The boss had to be comfortable.

  “What happened in Delaware?” he asked.

  Bugsy approached closer. The look on his face indicated to Scott he woul
d receive no good news.

  “Whistler is working with Deuce. We got into a shootout. He escaped.”

  Scott stared at Bugsy. It was hard news to swallow, but his son wouldn’t lie to him. Whistler, working with Deuce. The audacity of that muthafucka. His teeth chomped down on the cigar in his mouth, almost breaking it in half. He jumped up from his chair and in one rapid and angry motion, he swept everything off his desk. Everything scattered across the floor.

  Bugsy just stood there. He’d expected this type of reaction.

  Scott remembered when Lucky had told him that Whistler was the mastermind behind his children’s murders. It was true. All along, Whistler and Deuce were working against him. His right-hand man was fucking his daughter and killing his children. The fury that Scott felt was biblical—he wanted to shake the earth to destroy these two men.

  “I won’t rest until we find them, Pop. I promise you that. I’ll fuck up that traitor for good,” Bugsy said.

  Scott looked at his son. He was proud of Bugsy. He represented him, the family, and the organization well.

  “You burn that fuckin’ city to the ground if you have to, to smoke out that muthafucka,” Scott growled.

  Bugsy nodded. “I have my ways.”

  “I know you do. That’s why you’re my favorite, Bugsy. You never let me down.”

  Bugsy stood expressionless from the comment. He was sharp in his black suit and gray tie. His shoes were neatly polished, and his posture was more businessman than thug—but he was a gangster—a smart muthafucka who got shit done.

  Scott, however, was still unraveling. It looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and his clothing wasn’t as neatly put together as his son’s—a wrinkled and unbuttoned shirt and a five o’ clock shadow. Scott knew he needed to put more boots to the ground and defeat his foes once and for all. Even though he’d placed a bounty on both of their heads, they were still breathing, and to find out that they had joined forces was an intolerable feeling. Layla’s words were the extra bonus to his anger—her taunts about how he allowed Deuce to kill their kids and how he’d beaten his daughter nagged him.

  Scott’s irrational thinking made him believe that killing Deuce and Whistler would absolve him of any guilt.

  30

  Whistler had almost lost his life, but it wasn’t the first time. Whistler was a survivor by any means necessary—a Brooklyn-born thug who pulled himself up by his bootstraps to become a productive, respected, and feared man. Time was winding down—tick-tock-tick-tock—and Deuce wasn’t a kind man. There would be no extensions, only consequences. It would be war or appeasement with Deuce—no gray area.

  During his drive north, Whistler thought about a question he had for Deuce once he got back on his good side. He wanted to know why he had Lucky beaten within an inch of her life only to let her go. Why the games? It seemed too personal for a drug beef. These were his thoughts as his car hugged the highway toward what he had hoped was a means to an end.

  The trip to New York was fast, and Whistler chose the meeting ground. It was a day before the deadline, and Lucky had called him with the good news that she’d found someone to match her description and she had the bitch tied up in the trunk of her G-Wagen. Whistler told her to meet him near the Brooklyn Navy yard.

  It was late and dark when Lucky showed up at the chosen spot, the perfect place to meet because traffic and people were few and far between. It was somewhat shady looking, but she wasn’t afraid. It was cold, and a full moon glowed from above. She sat in the idling car and called Whistler.

  “I’m here,” she said.

  “Change of plans,” he said, throwing a wrench into everything.

  “What the fuck? Why?”

  “Because I said so. I want you to meet me near the Brooklyn Bridge in a half-hour,” he said.

  She sighed. She had no choice. She drove off and headed toward the bridge. She came armed with a .45, but it was in the glove box. She didn’t trust Whistler and she had to protect herself just in case. He had proven himself before to be a snake. But who was worse—him or her father?

  Lucky lit a cigarette and traveled to the Brooklyn Bridge. The area he chose was a restricted parking lot right near the bridge. It was quiet and empty of cars. There was no parking attendant and no residents. It was another shady looking location. Lucky parked and swiveled her head—no Whistler. She called him again. He answered, more bad news—change of location. What the fuck? She was becoming frustrated.

  “You’re fuckin’ with me, Whistler!” she exclaimed.

  “I’m just being cautious.”

  He told her the new location, and she left. When she got to the third location, she called, and he changed shit up on her again.

  “Last time,” he promised.

  Lucky wanted to kill him herself. He was wasting her time. Why didn’t she just leave? He needed her. She didn’t need him even though he kept saying she did. He was supposedly protecting her from Deuce. The monster was coming for her.

  The fourth location was farther from the others. It was in another parking lot off of Sullivan Street, near the Red Hook projects. The area was industrial—warehouses, large parking lots with broken down trucks, buses, and trailers, and old factories from block to block. On one side of the location, abandoned trailers were left overnight, maybe longer. They were cluttered together.

  Lucky made the call. She was heated. Whistler was giving her the runaround. She didn’t abandon the plan, although she felt like it.

  When Whistler answered, he replied, “I’m already here.” He flashed his headlights, catching her attention. He was parked subtly nearby, behind her. “I apologize for the runaround; I just had to make sure that you were alone—that you weren’t followed. Get out the car.”

  He had to make sure she wasn’t setting him up. Lucky’s truck was the only other car in the parking lot. Whistler looked around; there was no approaching traffic, and her silhouette was the only one inside the car. He climbed out of his vehicle, and she got out of her Benz. He approached her carefully. He was still cautious. Immediately, he patted her down, making sure she wasn’t armed.

  “Seriously?” she uttered.

  “I’m just watching my back.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Once he saw she was free from any weapons, he looked at her and said, “So, the bitch in the back, she’s alive or dead?”

  “She’s alive.”

  “And she’s in the trunk, right?”

  “Muthafucka, would I be here if I didn’t have her?” she shouted.

  “Don’t get touchy, Lucky. I got enemies, you know.”

  “I know, me and my father included,” she said gruffly.

  “Let’s just get this over with,” he said.

  They walked to the back of the G-Wagen and he peered into the vehicle, seeing someone who appeared to be bound and gagged. Whistler had to respect Lucky’s gangster. She was a cold-hearted bitch. She had no trouble in having some regular Jane Doe killed for her benefit.

  “Open it up,” he said.

  “What? No! Are you gonna do it here?”

  “No, I just need to see for myself who you chose to take your place—if she can pass for you. I know you better than anyone,” he said with a leer and touched her hip slightly. “You are still sexy, you know that right?”

  She stepped back. What happened to the man who just last week got on his moral high horse and didn’t want to fuck her? Now it seemed like he was throwing sexual advances her way. But it was who he was—one minute he was into her, and the next he would behave like they’d never met. She wasn’t in the mood for his game or his bullshit. She was there for business.

  “I want you to open it,” he repeated.

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “Let’s say that we don’t trust each other,” he replied.

  Lucky didn’t argue with him. She went
to pull open the rear door to her truck. Whistler watched her every move intently. He was armed with a Glock 17, but it was stuffed in his waistband. He had no reason to suspect any treachery from Lucky, not at the moment.

  Lucky stepped aside to allow Whistler to view the female. He approached slowly. His eyes were fixed on the girl in the fetal position. After a closer look at her, he saw who it was—but before he could react, Layla popped up like a Jack-in-the-box and aimed the pistol at his head and fired—Bak! He dropped. Layla climbed from out the back and stood over the body. She fired one more time into him—Bak!—to ensure he was dead.

  “Good fuckin’ riddance,” Layla said with distaste.

  Lucky looked down at him, blood pooling beneath him, and she felt nothing—no remorse. Whistler had dug his own grave, and she betrayed him before he could betray her.

  Damn, how far you’ve fallen, she thought.

  “What you wanna do with the body?” Lucky asked Layla.

  “Leave him there to fuckin’ rot, and let the rats chew on his ass,” Layla said. She then kicked his lifeless body. She hated Whistler.

  “Let’s go,” said Layla. “One down and one to go.”

  31

  Tarsha let the warm water cascade down her brown skin and sighed. She lingered in the shower trying to collect her thoughts. Wacka was still injured and useless, and his situation wasn’t changing soon. She had to strip to make money to support her son. Even though the money was sometimes good, she wanted more of it. She wanted the finer things in life, and she was used to getting it from Wacka. He’d taken care of her, now she was taking care of him, and it was a strange feeling.

  Her time in the shower spawned an epiphany. She let the soap rinse away and then stepped out of the shower and toweled off.

  After finishing in the bathroom, Tarsha went into her bedroom to put on something decent. She opened the curtain and rays of sunshine touched her face.