by Askari
“Pussy you ever touch me again, I’ma fuckin’ kill you!”
The Spanish man could see what was about to happen, and he wanted no parts of the confrontation. Empty handed, he hopped back in his mini-van and pulled off.
The front door to Heemy’s house swung open, and Treesha appeared in the doorway. She scowled at Heemy, and then turned her attention to Pooky. “What’s goin’ on Pooky? I know his lil’ ass ain’t out here showin’ off.”
Pooky took his eyes off of Twany, and looked at Treesha.
“Bitch, you knew these lil’ mutha’fuckas was out here hust —”
Boc! Boc! Boc!
Three bullets from Heemy’s Glock .40 blazed through Pooky’s chest, and the velocity of the slugs knocked him backwards. He stumbled into Mar-Mar, and then dropped to the ground. Mar-Mar was terrified. He reached for his P89, but Twany was already squeezing the trigger on his Glock.
Boc! Boc! Boc! Boc!
The bullets struck him in the chest and left shoulder, knocking him to the ground. He tried to crawl away, but Twany was already standing over top of him.
Boc!
The bullet blazed through the back of his head and burst out the front of his face.
“R—R—Raheem,” Treesha stuttered, totally surprised by his actions. “W—W—Why did you do that?”
Heemy looked at her with a blank expression. He then looked down at Pooky, who was laying on his back struggling to breathe. He aimed the Glock .40 at his head, and then returned his gaze to Treesha. “Do what? This?”
Boc!
Pooky’s head jerked sideways and a red air bubble sprouted from the nickel sized wound in the center of his forehead. Treesha clutched her chest and passed out in the doorway.
Heemy laid the Glock on the stoop, and then carried his mother inside of the house. After laying her on the sofa, he emerged from the house and shut the door behind him. He picked up his Glock and looked at Twany. “Yo, gimmie that burner.”
Twany handed over his Glock and Heemy wiped away their fingerprints. He then stashed the pistols in the abandoned station wagon that was parked across the street.
They weren’t worried about any nosey neighbors calling the cops because every house on the block, except for Heemy’s was either condemned or abandoned. Therefore, they had more than enough time to stash the bodies in a vacant lot, contact Rahmello, and wait for further instructions.
***
After receiving a phone call from Heemy, Rahmello called The Butcher and told him not to feed the alligators. He also called Sonny and told him about the situation on Delhi Street. Sonny offered his assistance, but Rahmello declined. “Naw brozay, I got it covered. The fam needs you right now. Just chill at ya mom’s spot and make sure everybody’s good. I got this.”
“A’ight,” Sonny conceded. “But what about Breeze and the twins? They at Donkees right now. Want me to send ‘em ya way?”
“Nizzaw. I’ma take the young buls wit’ me. Them lil’ niggas need to earn some stripes.”
“More or less,” Sonny replied, and then disconnected the call.
Rahmello waited until nightfall, then he drove to Delhi Street in a black utility van. When he arrived on the block, he drove pass Pooky’s Range Rover and parked the van directly in front of Heemy’s house. His eyes searched up and down the street for any nosey neighbors, but he quickly realized that except for Heemy’s house, the block was essentially deserted. The only thing that made him uncomfortable was the orange streetlight in the middle of the block. It provided enough light for anyone driving or walking down Germantown Avenue to look across one of the lots and see him. He hopped out the utility van and removed his Glock .19 from his shoulder holster. He aimed at the orange light and fired off a single round.
Boc!
The light went dead and broken glass rained down on the cracked sidewalk. Satisfied that nobody would be able to see him, he pulled out his iPhone and called Nipsy.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
“Mello,” Nipsy answered, “did you get here yet?”
“Yeah I’m out here. Where the fuck is y’all at?”
“We around the corner on l0th Street in front of the projects. We comin’ around there right now.”
“A’ight, hurry up.”
Click!
Rahmello looked down and noticed a trail of blood from the sidewalk to the vacant lot beside Heemy’s house. He shook his head from side to side and chuckled to himself. “Amateurs!”
Just as he was about to follow the trail, the three men turned the corner dressed in all black. They walked up to Rahmello and one by one, they shook his hand.
“Yo, we sorry to hear about ya pops,” Heemy expressed their condolences. “Whatever you and Sonny need us to do, we all over that shit.”
Rahmello stared the young man in his eyes. He was looking for any signs of weakness, but all he could see was loyalty and determination.
“Right now, I need you to run in the house and get a pot of cold soapy water.” He pointed at the bloodstained sidewalk. “We can’t leave this like that.”
“Say no more,” Heemy nodded his head, and then ran up the steps and disappeared inside of the house.
Rahmello went to the back of the utility van and opened the back door. He motioned for Nipsy and Twany to join him, and then he handed each of them a roll of carpet. “Yo, use these to wrap them niggas up.”
As they ran toward the lot where the bodies were stashed, Rahmello heard a snapping noise from across the street. In one swift motion he spun around with the Glock .19 clutched in his right hand. The block was so dark that he could only see a few feet ahead of him. He cautiously made his way across the street with the gun aimed in the direction of the noise. As he approached the abandoned house that was adjacent to Heemy’s, he noticed that the front door and windows were boarded up. He looked to his right and examined the vacant lot that was next door. Out of nowhere a large rat sprang from underneath the rubble and scampered across the street.
“A fuckin’ rat,” he shook his head in amusement. “How ironic is that?” He holstered his weapon, and then returned to the van where Nipsy and Twany were stuffing the bodies in the back compartment.
A few minutes later they were sitting in the van watching Heemy do his best to clean up the blood. As soon as he was finished, he climbed inside the van and looked at Rahmello.
“So how we ‘posed to get rid of these niggas?”
Rahmello started the ignition, and then slowly pulled away from the curb.
“We taking ‘em to The Swamp.
***
When the black utility van left the block, a dark shadowy figure emerged from the vacant lot where Rahmello heard the snapping sound. The dark figure was wearing a dingy trench coat and the top of his head was wrapped in a white gauze. A wrinkled Newport 100 dangled from the corner of his mouth and a can of Old English 800 was clutched in his left hand. He staggered across the street toward Pooky’s Range Rover and opened the driver’s side door. He climbed inside of the SUV and began rummaging through Pooky’s belongings. He opened the glove compartment and found a zip lock bag that was filled with cocaine. Quickly, he stashed the bag in his pocket. He looked in the backseat and noticed a black gym bag lying on the floor. He grabbed the bag and opened it slowly. Oh my mutha’fuckin’ God! This shit cannot be happenin’ to ol’ Bushnut! Anybody but you Bushnut! This shit can’t be real! he thought to himself as he thumbed through the stacks of money. Unbeknownst to him, he had stumbled across the $300,000 that Pooky owed Sonny for his last shipment. Bushnut, you back babyboy! You back!
As he sat there gloating and referring to himself in third person, he heard a distinctive humming noise.
Vrrrrm! Vrrrrm!
He looked down at the center console and saw the illuminated screen on Pooky’s cell phone. He picked it up and saw that the caller was Sheed. The word was already out that Sheed was home from jail, and that him and Sonny were beefing. Being the shady individual he was, Bushnut used this information to
his advantage.
“Thello,” he managed to mumble, and then winced from the pain of his broken jaw.
“Yo, who the fuck is this?” Sheed spat, clearly not recognizing the voice. “Put Pooky on the phone.”
“I gant,” Beaver Bushnut slurred.
The wiring that was holding his jaw in place was restricting his speech.
“What?” Sheed asked, barely understanding his words.
“I gant. Ooky got gilled.”
“Pooky got killed? Yo, who the fuck is this?”
“Lithen, Ooky got gilled on Elhi Theet.”
“Slow down,” Sheed instructed him. “You said Pooky got killed on Delhi Street?”
“Yeth and Thontino gilled him!”
Chapter Nineteen
Sheed threw his phone against the wall, breaking the small device into pieces.
“Fuck!”
“Baby, what’s wrong?” Jasmyn asked while sitting up in the bed. “Is everything okay?”
“Fuck no! Them bitch ass niggas killed my fuckin’ brother!”
He hopped off the bed and put on his boxer briefs. He then ran to the closet and threw on a black Polo sweat suit and a pair of black Air Maxes.
Jasmyn slid up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Baby, you need to calm down and think for a minute. I can see that you’re hurtin’ right now, but you can’t go out there actin’ off of emotion. Somethin’ bad could happen.”
He pushed her arms away then grabbed his Desert Eagle from the Timberland box on the top shelf. He ejected the magazine, checking to see if the gun was fully loaded. Satisfied, he shoved the magazine back in the handle, and then cocked a bullet into the chamber.
“Jas, I ain’t try’na hear that shit right now.”
She reached out to bear hug him, but he mugged her in the face. She fell to the carpet, but defiantly hopped back up and wrapped her arms around his legs.
“No, you’re not going!” She screamed while holding on for dear life. “I love you Rasheed, and I’m not gonna stand here and watchchu throw your life away!”
Tears began falling from his eyes and his hands began to tremble. Not only was Pooky his older brother, he was his best friend. Ever since the day their parents died in a car accident, he was the only true blood relative that Sheed had left. He looked down at the beautiful woman who held the key to his heart, and he understood her fears and concerns. Unfortunately, if Pooky was truly dead his only option was revenge.
He reached down and helped her stand to her feet. “I love you too Jas, but if my brother’s really dead I gotta ride for him,” he said in a compassionate voice. “I’ma do everything I can to make it home in one piece, but if I don’t it’s a canary yellow Corvette parked out front. It’s paid for so if you want, you can sell it and keep the money for you and your daughter.”
“No Rasheed, I don’t want your money,” she broke down crying and rested her head against his muscular chest. “All I want is you.”
He ran his fingers through her silky hair, and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m sorry Jas, but I ain’t got no other choice.”
He kissed her one last time, and then grabbed the keys to her Mazda and left the apartment.
***
In South Philly
It was 7:40 p.m. when Little Angolo walked inside of his restaurant on 14th and Porter. He shook hands with the maître d’ and handed the man his trench coat.
“Michael,” he addressed him. “Did Carmine get here yet?”
“Yes, Mr. Gervino,” he pointed toward the back of the dimly lit dining room where Carmine and Alphonso were waving him over, “He’s right there.”
“Good,” Angolo nodded his head. “Bring us a bottle of Merlot.”
As he headed toward the back of the restaurant the patrons smiled at him and waved. He smiled back and continued toward Carmine and Alphonso. He felt good to be back home in South Philly. Here, the Italian community treated him like royalty. Ever since his father Big Angolo established The Gervino Crime Family back in the 1940’s, the only Italian who was more recognized in Philly was Rocky Balboa, and technically the man didn’t exist.
At the age of seventy three, everything about Little Angolo screamed one thing, mafia. From his tailor made Brooks Brother suits to his oversized square framed glasses, he was every bit the old school mobster. He moved through the restaurant with the grace of a don and when he reached their table, one at a time they held his right hand and kissed the diamonds on his pinky ring.
“So, how was your flight?” Carmine asked as he stood to his feet and pulled out a chair for him.
“A little jet lag, but I’ll be fine,” Little Angolo replied as he took a seat.
He reached across the table and grabbed one of the bread sticks that were piled on the appetizer tray. He took a bite and enjoyed the savory flavor.
“So, what’s the problem boss? Why was I sent for?” he joked with his grandson.
“It’s this shit with the Moreno’s,” Carmine complained. “That fuckin’ Grip is really tryin’ my patience. I mean the nerve of this moulie. He leaves the country with the docks up for grabs and the second I make a play, he crosses the fuckin’ line.”
Little Angolo glanced around the restaurant, and then gestured for him to lower his voice. Carmine nodded his head and continued talking in a lower voice. “And to make a bad situation worse, he whacks Romey Noodles and hangs his burning body from a fuckin’ bridge.”
The maître d’ approached the table with a bottle of Merlot clutched in his hands, and Carmine stopped talking. The maitre d' could see they were going over business so he sat the bottle on the table and left without saying a word.
“So,” Little Angolo resumed the conversation. He opened the bottle and poured himself a glass of wine. “Why am I here? I’m supposed to be in South Beach right now. Just me and an 18 year old broad with tits the size of volleyballs,” he chuckled. “I’m friggin’ retired ova here.”
Carmine sighed. “Listen gramps, I just need your advice. You’ve dealt with this moulie in the past and you know he operates. Tell me what I need to do to get rid of this fucker.”
Little Angolo took a sip of his Merlot, and then looked at Alphonso. “You're the underboss, what do you think needs to be done?”
Alphonso looked at Carmine, then returned his gaze to Little Angolo. “I think we need to go at him with everything we got.”
“Bingo,” Little Angolo smiled, and then looked Carmine square in the eyes. “In the meantime, I’m gonna talk to Clavenski. He’s responsible for some of this shit, and you need to hold him accountable.”
Chapter Twenty
Later That Night...
After discovering Pooky’s ransacked Range Rover and the partially blood stained sidewalk, Sheed, Rahman, and Jihad were in Allentown, Pennsylvania. They were sitting in front of Breeze’s house in Rahman’s MPV. It was 10:35 p.m., and they’d been there for the past hour.
“Lil’ cuzzo, you sure this nigga ain’t in there?” asked Rahman. “It’s a Hummer in the driveway,” he pointed at the large SUV, and then pointed toward the second floor of the house, “and one of the lights is on.”
Sheed shook his head from side to side. “Naw Rock, that nigga be ridin’ around in a Maserati. When I was locked up they used to always send me pictures to keep me in the loop. Breeze drives a Maserati. Egypt and Zaire got twin Panameras and Rahmello be ridin’ around in an Aston Martin.” He pointed at the H2. “That’s his baby mom’s car. She’s probably the only one in the house right now. Her and the baby.”
“I’m sayin’ though,” Jihad spoke up from the backseat. “How the fuck don’t none of y’all know where the bul Sonny be layin’ his head? That was ya man right?”
Sheed shrugged his shoulders. “That’s how the nigga be movin’ these days. Ever since his bitch got killed, he won’t let nobody near his family except for Breeze and Rahmello. He moved his mom off of Reese Street, and the only mutha’fucka who knows where they live and who we can ge
t to right now is Breeze. That’s why we goin’ at him first.”
“A’ight, but what about the young bul Rahmello?” Rahman asked. “I heard he’s from 24th and Somerset. What they be callin’ it now?”
“24th and Bloodline,” Sheed answered.
“Yeah that’s it,” Rahman nodded his head. “Niggas be sayin’ the young bul about his work. I’m thinking about g’tting’ his ass out the way a.s.a.p!”
He reached inside of the glove compartment and pulled out an ounce bottle that was halfway filled with dust juice. As he twisted off the lid and tilted the bottle, they heard the powerful humming of Breeze’s Maserati. The silver sedan cruised pass them, and then turned into the driveway. Sheed wasted no time. He hopped out the passenger’s side door and crept toward the Maserati with his Desert Eagle discreetly tucked behind his leg.
As Breeze climbed out the car, he noticed that Sheed was walking up the driveway. He was never informed about the murders of Pooky and Mar-Mar, and therefore, he had no reason to suspect that him and his family were in danger. He smiled at him.
“What’s poppin’ Blood? Whatchu doin’ all the way in Allentown?”
Instead of responding, Sheed swung the Desert Eagle and hit him on the left side of his forehead. Breeze fell against the back left fender and slid to the pavement. Dazed and confused, he looked at Sheed in disbelief. “Yo, what the fuck is up witchu Blood?”
“Pussy, shut the fuck up!” Sheed snarled. He cracked him on top of his head with the massive handgun, knocking him out cold. Rahman and Jihad ran up to the Maserati, and quickly began the process of tying Breeze’s hands behind his back. Sheed scooped his key ring off of the pavement, and then headed for the front door. After trying a couple of keys, he found the right one then cautiously opened the door. He glanced around the living room and there were no signs of Erika and the baby. He looked over his shoulder, “Yo, pick that nigga up and bring him inside.”
Rahman hoisted Breeze over his right shoulder and followed Sheed inside of the house. He laid him on the suede sofa, and then gestured for Jihad to lock the front door.
