The Reluctant King: Book 1: The Book of Shadow

by K'wan

  “Sometimes I fucking hate you,” Lolli sighed before grabbing Nefertiti by the back of her head and pulling her in for a kiss.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was just after eight a.m. when the black town car carrying Chancellor King pulled to a stop in front of Morning Star Meats. It was a drab little butcher shop and café in Williamsburg where you could procure all you kosher meat needs and enjoy a bitter cup of coffee. It wasn’t much to look at, but people in the neighborhood swore by it for their cuts. Besides being a community landmark, Morning Star also served as a place where important men could meet to have serious conversations.

  Little Stevie was the first to step out of the car. He shook the folds of his black overcoat to dislodge any lint, stomping his high-polished black Stacy Adams on the concrete. Although he could be considered small—standing a shade over five five—that wasn’t how he had earned his moniker. He had been dubbed Little Stevie after the famous singer because he always wore black sunglasses and sported cornrows with colorful beads at the ends. He’d rocked this hairstyle since the seventies, and even as age crept in and his hairline had receded, he still refused to cut his hair. When it became too short on the top, he took to wearing hats.

  Stevie was in his fifties but carried himself like a much younger man. He worked out regularly, drank plenty of water, and minded his own business. If you asked him why he was such a zealot about his body he’d always say the same thing: “I stay ready just in case I ever have the misfortune of bumping into a young nigga who done got liquored up and decided he wants to show his ass for his birthday.” If you understood it, this was a stone-cold Little Stevie jewel. He was good with his fists but gifted with pistols. His hands were Old West fast; he’d shot more than a dozen men since he’d been in the service of Chancellor King.

  After surveying the block to ensure everything was clear, Stevie motioned to the two passengers in the back.

  Delores Reese, who was affectionately called Chippie, exited the vehicle next. She was a tall brown drink of water, with full lips and thick black hair pulled into a tight bun. Cinnamon eyes hid behind her thick black glasses, which seemed to slide down her nose every few minutes, forcing her to adjust them. When Chippie cleaned herself up she turned every man’s head, but her everyday style was usually Plain Jane. She wasn’t big on glam or dressing up. In fact, the only pieces in her closet that didn’t make her look like a schoolteacher had been picked out by either Maureen or Lolli. She was a quiet woman and never said more than she needed to, but she watched everything. That was her job—to watch and interpret. She was the only woman outside of the family who could put her mouth in his business.

  Last but certainly not least to step out of the town car was the king. When you first laid eyes on Chancellor King, he looked nothing like what you’d expect based on the stories of his exploits and the weight of his name. He was of modest height, around five nine. Well into his fifties, his wavy black hair was still thick and full, but strands of gray had begun to show in his dark beard. Per usual, he wore an all-black outfit, his rubyencrusted wedding band the only splash of color.

  Chippie stood in front of Chance but behind Stevie. She glared at the establishment with distaste; it was a slum and somewhere she’d rather not be. On the other side of the window she could see a man sitting on a stool watching them. His head was cocked, listening to someone beyond Chippie’s line of vision. He nodded and stood, walking to the door to meet them.

  “I don’t like this,” Chippie said.

  The man wore a cotton jogging suit and track sneakers. One side of his jacket dipped a bit, suggesting he was carrying something with weight to it. His whole persona screamed organized crime.

  “How many times do I have to tell you that we’re good?” Stevie said. “I know the guy who runs this joint. He and I go back a taste. Besides, this place is sacred ground. Ain’t nobody gonna try shit. Even if they did, I’d make ’em regret it.”

  Chippie looked to Chance, who just shrugged. “If Stevie says we’re good,” he said, “then I’m inclined to believe him.”

  The man in the jogging suit held the door open for the trio. He waited until they crossed the threshold before informing them that he needed to pat them down.

  “Let me save you the trouble,” Little Stevie said, unbuttoning his coat. There was a large handgun hanging from a leather shoulder holster. “I’m packing and I ain’t got no plans for giving it up.”

  The man in the jogging suit looked like he was about to give them a problem when a voice announced, “It’s okay, Phillip. He’s good.”

  Phillip moved aside so that they could pass.

  Stevie led the trio inside, where they encountered the man who the voice belonged to. He stood behind the butcher’s counter wearing a blood-soiled smock, wiping down the edge of a very large cleaver with a rag. He appeared to be in his early sixties, with thinning black hair flaked with gray and a bushy handlebar mustache. His deeply tanned skin and aquiline features suggested that he had been born somewhere other than on US soil—somewhere in the Middle East, maybe. Cold brown eyes sat behind wire-framed glasses, which remained glued to the trio as they crossed the room. When they reached the counter, he slammed his knife into a nearby butcher’s block and glared at the group. “If you people are looking for the fried chicken joint, it’s a few blocks over,” he said in heavily accented English.

  “Nah, I was kind of in the mood for turkey today,” Stevie said, making a pun on the man’s nationality—Turkish. Never taking his eyes off the butcher, Stevie pushed his jacket open to show the gun.

  The butcher removed a curved gutting knife from the sink and darted around the counter. He stood a few feet away from Stevie, twirling the knife between his fingers.

  “That might prove to be a bit too tough for those dentures of yours,” Stevie snarled.

  Chippie took a step back, but Chance remained where he was. A moment of thick tension hung in the room. Just when it seemed like it was about to pop off, Little Stevie flashed a smile.

  “Good ol’ Ahmad. Forever the ball-breaker!”

  The two embraced without dropping their weapons.

  “My favorite spade!” Ahmad said affectionately, patting Stevie on the back. “When was the last time I saw you? Ten years ago?”

  “Fifteen,” Stevie said.

  “Is everything okay?” a young man asked from somewhere in the back. He too was dressed in a butcher’s smock and held a knife. Despite his skin being slightly darker than Ahmad’s and his hair slightly coarser, the resemblance between the two men was obvious.

  “Everything is fine,” Ahmad assured him. “My youngest, Terrence,” he told Stevie.

  “Turk,” the youngster said, preferring to be called by his street name.

  “We’re good here, Terrence,” Ahmad said. “Why don’t you go finish carving up the brisket for me. I promised Mrs. Schulman we’d have it done by noon.” He flicked his knife across the room to his son, who caught it by the handle. Ahmad waited until Turk was behind the butcher’s counter before turning his attention back to Stevie. “Sorry, you know how kids can be.”

  “I wasn’t fool enough to have any,” Stevie replied. “In all the time we’ve known each other, I never heard you talk of having a son, only daughters.”

  “Terrence and I are only recently acquainted,” Ahmad said in a way that told Stevie he didn’t want to get into it right now.

  “You bringing him into the business?” Stevie asked.

  “Terrence was already in the business when he came to me. I’m just showing him how to play the game well enough to where he doesn’t get killed. The Turk, as they call him, is quite gifted with a blade, but still rough around the edges when it comes to tact.”

  “If he’s anything like his old man, I don’t think that will be an issue,” Stevie said, recalling some of the tales attached to Ahmad’s name. “And your daughters: how are they?”

  “Allison is away at school, studying law, of all things,” Ahmad said with a chuckl
e. “Beula lives out west with her husband and my two grandsons.”

  “Wow, you’re a granddad? Congratulations.”

  “Thanks to you. Had you not done what you did for my baby, I’d have been paying for her funeral instead of her wedding. I’ll never forget you stepping in for my Beula when she got tangled up with those colored hoods in Flatbush.”

  Beula was a wild child. Several years earlier, she had gotten herself mixed up with some Haitian drug dealers and hooked on heroin, running the streets acting crazy—robbing, lying, whoring, and doing whatever it took to get a fix. One day, she and her boyfriend at the time thought it wise to rob one of the dealers they hustled for. The end result left Beula’s boyfriend dead and her running for her life. It would only have been a matter of time before the Haitians caught up with her and buried her in a hole next to her boyfriend. Luckily, she was saved by a miracle. As it turned out, Little Stevie had business dealings with the Haitians. When he found out about Beula’s troubles, he stepped in on the girl’s behalf and brokered a deal for her life.

  “What are friends for?” Stevie said now.

  “Speaking of friends,” Ahmad said, looking over at Chance.

  “Damn, where are my manners? Ahmad, this is one of my oldest and dearest friends, Chance King.”

  Ahmad gave a respectful nod. “The man who launched the rainbow coalition.”

  “So they say,” Chance replied modestly.

  “And Chance, this is a friend of ours, Ahmad Kaplan,” Stevie said, patting Ahmad on the back.

  “Who in the underworld doesn’t know the Butcher of the Kore District?” Chance said. The Butcher had been a legend long before arriving in the US in the late seventies. He had cut and killed his way out of the district and built a career for himself doing contract hits in the States. The Butcher was hired to do nasty jobs—he had a flare for violence. Chance approached him and they shook hands. “The last I heard, you had retired.”

  “I have,” Ahmad said with a shrug. “I’m only here as a go-between as a favor to Stevie. Other than that, I’m out of the game.”

  “Bullshit!” Stevie butted in. “I’ll bet that if the bag was right you wouldn’t have a problem sharpening up that hatchet of yours and splitting some poor bastard from the rooter to the tooter!”

  “Let’s hope for both of our sakes that that’s a wager you’ll never have to make,” Ahmad said. “Now, onto the business.”

  “I appreciate you allowing us to have this meeting here,” Chance said.

  Ahmad nodded. “Mr. Schulman is waiting for you in the back. Unfortunately, because of the sensitive nature of your business, he’s requested that whatever is said stays between the two of you. Your people will have to wait.”

  “No problem,” Stevie said. “You go on and handle your business, Chance. Me and Ahmad can keep Chippie occupied by telling her some of our old war stories.”

  “I can even fix you guys some sandwiches while you wait. We’ve got the freshest meat in the city,” Ahmad boasted.

  “Thanks but no thanks, old friend,” said Stevie. “I know how you made some of those bodies disappear back in the day, and respectfully, we won’t be eating anything out of this joint.”

  Chance ventured behind the counter and through a door that led to a back room with several small tables. At one of these tables sat Paul Schulman, sipping an espresso with his back to the wall and a manicured pinkie finger extended. Paul looked like an old movie star, with loose tresses and frigid blue eyes. His tailored gray suit coat stopped just shy of his wrist and the collar of his white shirt had been starched within an inch of its life. The top three buttons were undone, and a V of exposed skin showed a silver pendant bearing the Star of David.

  Chance and Paul weren’t friends but they were cordial. Their paths often crossed in business dealings. Paul was a member of a small group of Jewish businessmen led by Paul’s uncle, Benjamin Levitz. Paul’s family owned several jewelry stores throughout the city and serviced everyone from the rich and famous to the criminally inclined. They didn’t discriminate when it came to profit. Through his jewelry business, among other things, Benjamin had made some very powerful contacts over the years.

  Unlike Benjamin, who was more of a businessman, Paul was a gangster. Behind the tailored suits and charming smile lurked a man who had been through some things. He’d gotten his first taste of the criminal lifestyle as a lad running around the streets of Queens with a crew of neighborhood kids who called themselves the Flushing Boys. Although they established a reputation of being tough guys and petty thieves, Paul aimed for bigger scores. He had been raised in the jewelry business so he knew the quality of stones better than most and had the outlets to fence them. When Benjamin caught wind of it, he wasn’t pleased, but he didn’t refuse the merchandise his nephew brought him. Benjamin turned a blind eye to Paul’s shenanigans so long as there was no heat on him and he got his taste off the top. Thanks to Paul, his uncle’s jewelry business was booming. Chance knew all of this, of course, but he hadn’t come to talk about ice.

  Paul eyed Chance over the rim of his espresso cup. He let the older Black man stand for a few ticks before inviting him to take the empty seat across from him—an intentional slight. This was Paul’s way of telling Chance that they were on his home turf and that Paul would be the one who dictated the conversation. He let the silence linger between them before finally saying, “Welcome, King of Five Points.”

  “That king bullshit is used by grunts and people who address me by my last name. I’ve always just been Chance amongst my friends.”

  “Is that what we are now? Friends?” Paul set his espresso cup down. “I can count on one hand how many times you’ve ever bothered to speak to me if it didn’t involve business with my uncle or the High Court.”

  “Blame it on my head and not my heart,” Chance said. “We’ll be thick as thieves when you hear why I asked to meet.”

  “It must be important for you to request such a discrete rendezvous. I mean, I’m all for discretion, but this could give some of our mutual associates the wrong idea,” Paul said, referencing the governing body of Five Points, the High Court. “Maybe I should’ve let my uncle in on this?”

  “You’re still welcome to do so, if you like. Though I think by the time I’m done you’ll understand what you stand to gain by keeping your mouth shut.”

  “You think that imaginary crown on your head holds more weight than my loyalty to my uncle?”

  “Not at all, but your loyalty to your own best interests will ensure your silence. I’m here to offer you something that you could probably use right about now.”

  “And what’s that?” Paul asked.

  “A lifeline.”

  Paul cocked his head slightly to the left. “Now why would I need a lifeline?”

  “To keep you from drowning—why else?”

  “I assure you, my ship is airtight.”

  “There are some who would beg to differ,” Chance countered. “Rumor has it that things have been a little tense between the two of you lately.”

  Paul gave a shrug. “That’s not a rumor, it’s a fact. My uncle has never approved of my extracurricular activities, but we make our arrangement work.”

  Though he downplayed it, the rift between Paul and his uncle had been growing steadily for some time. Paul wanted to take the organization into the new millennium, but Benjamin kept him on a short leash. It had caused some tension in the organization between the youths and the elders. It was a family issue; few outside the circle were aware of such tribulations. Yet here was Chancellor King, waving the information before Paul like a loaded gun.

  “Right,” Chance continued. “He turns a blind eye to your exploits so long as your shit doesn’t spill onto his clean floors. You’ve been doing a hell of a job at keeping your two worlds from colliding, until now.”

  “You gonna keep talking in riddles or spit out whatever it is you’ve come here to say? You’re not the only person on my calendar today.”

 
Chance folded his hands on the table and stared directly into Paul’s eyes. “I hear your uncle’s greatest fears are about to come to fruition. The prince of Hebrews is about to burn and take the whole kingdom with him.”

  Paul leaned forward. When he spoke, his movie-star face disappeared—in its place came the leader of the Flushing Boys. “Be careful, Your Highness. This isn’t Five Points. You can’t sling threats in here without repercussions. We make you stand on your words at this end of town.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me, Paul. I didn’t come here to threaten you. No, I came to enlighten you. The feds are trying to build a case against you.”

  “So what? They’ve been the bump on my ass for years and still haven’t managed to tie me to anything thus far.”

  “But now they have an informant. Someone who can tie you directly to a federal crime.”

  Paul breathed a sigh of relief. It had been almost a year since he’d gotten his hands truly dirty, and since then he had always given orders through a third party. He made it a point to keep himself insulated and therefore it was near impossible to directly link him to any of his numerous crimes. There was no way Chance’s information could be accurate.

  “Listen,” Paul said, “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed and, as a result, wasted both our time. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He rose from the table as if to dismiss Chance, but the king wasn’t done.

  “Ira Sherman,” Chance said.

  “What about him?” Ira was a member of Paul’s crew and one of the few people he dealt with regularly.

  “Went missing a few weeks back, didn’t he?”

  “I wouldn’t call it missing. He took some time to fly out west to visit his sick mother,” Paul said.

  “Can anybody verify that?” Chance asked. “You see a plane ticket? Has he called to check in with you?”

  Paul hadn’t heard from Ira in the week or so that he’d been gone. He had reasoned that Ira was just busy with his mother, but truthfully he hadn’t put much thought into the situation.