by Askari
***
Sonny, Rahmello, and the twins were at Donkees, sitting in his office in total silence. An hour had passed since Sonny broke the news about Breeze and his family, and the energy inside of the room was a mixture of pain and frustration. As Sonny sat behind his desk trying to come up with the right words to encourage his team, his iPhone vibrated on the desktop breaking the uneasy silence.
“Yo?” he answered.
“Hey yo Sonny, this shit is bad bro!” Nipsy cried through the phone.
“Nipsy?”
“Yeah it’s me, bro! They killed Twany and locked up Heemy for that Pooky and Mar-Mar situation!”
“Who? The cops?”
“Yeah bro! They ran down on Heemy while he was at his mom’s house, and then they kicked down my front door lookin’ for Twany! He musta thought they was Pooky’s peoples because he blazed one of ‘em before they killed him! This shit is bad, bro! I don’t know what the fuck to do!” Nipsy continued crying.
“Damn!” Sonny whispered, eliciting the concern and speculation of Rahmello and the twins.
Rahmello hopped up from the sectional and approached his desk. “Damn brozay, what the fuck happened now?”
“It’s Nipsy. He said the cops killed Twany and locked up Heemy for that shit wit’ Pooky.” He returned his attention to Nipsy. “Listen scrap, just calm down. Tell me where you at and I’ma have the twins come scoop you up.”
Nipsy wiped away his tears and regained his composure. “I’m in the projects at the playground on 11th Street.”
“A’ight, my nigga, the twins is on they way. For now, I just need you to be easy.”
After disconnecting the call, he lounged back in his swivel chair and cracked his knuckles one by one. It was hard for him to mentally process everything that was happening, but he knew he had to step his game up and be the general that Mook had raised him to be. He opened the cigar box that was positioned at the front of his desk and removed a Cuban cigar. He then reached inside of his desk drawer and pulled out a gold lighter and a gold cigar cutter. After clipping off the ends of the cigar, he nestled the wrapped tobacco leaf in between his lips, and then used his solid gold lighter to ignite the tip of the stogie.
After taking a deep pull and blowing out a thick cloud of smoke, he glanced around the office, and one by one looked his homies in the eyes. “Aight my niggas this is how we gon’ move,” he removed the cigar from his mouth and wedged it between his thumb and index finger. “We gon’ tighten the fuck up and hold this shit down like Block Boys. I know we had some major setbacks, but we gon’ bounce back accordingly.
“The first order of business is Sheed and them bitch ass niggas he runnin’ wit’. Them niggas is the common denominator to all of our problems and these mutha’fuckas gotta go.” He took another pull on the cigar and blew out a cloud of smoke.
“The second order of business is pop’s funeral. As y’all already know, it’s scheduled for Friday mornin’ at the Baker’s. It’s a strong possibility that Sheed’s gonna make a move so we gotta be on point. Not only my mom and grandmom, but Daph and the kids are gonna be exposed. So therefore, I need y’all to have y’all eyes on them at all times.
“The third order of business is the funeral for Breeze and his family. I already sent his mom enough money to handle all of the arrangements so we good on that end.”
“The forth order of business is the young buls from Delhi Street. We gotta help Nipsy wit’ the funeral arrangements for Twany, and I’ma holla at Savino about gettin’ Heemy outta jail. Speakin’ of which,” he looked at Rahmello. “I thought you took care of that situation?”
“I did,” Rahmello quickly replied. “I don’t know how the fuck they chargin’ him. They ain’t got no bodies and the young buls ain’t say nuffin’ about no witnesses. Plus, I made sure that they cleaned up as much blood as they possibly could. I’m tellin’ you bro, it’s no way they can prove a murder beyond a reasonable doubt. I don’t even know how they filed charges in the first place.”
“A’ight,” Sonny nodded his head. He stubbed out the cigar, and sat it in the ashtray. “They probably try’na shake him up to get a confession. It’s either that or they got a witness. We won’t know until Savino hops on the case. Hopefully, the lil’ nigga’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. If he does, he should be good.
“Now, for the fifth and final order of business. After pops’ funeral, we gotta get back to this money. We got a shit load of work to move, and we still gotta feed the corners. On top of that, my nigga from Pittsburgh is comin’ through to grab 10 birds.” He looked at Rahmello. “After the funeral, I need you to go to the stash house and grab 14 of ‘em. Bring 10 of ‘em straight to me so I can get Pittsburgh outta the way and the other 4 is for the corners. Drop ‘em off wit’ the caseworkers, collect the money from last week, and make sure everybody gets paid.”
Sonny looked at Egypt and Zaire. “I need y’all to go through the projects and pick up Nipsy. Find out exactly we he needs for the funeral, and then bring him to see me.”
Egypt nodded his head. “Say no more, Sonny. We on it.” They saluted him and Rahmello, and then left the office.
Rahmello took a seat in the chair that was positioned in front of Sonny’s desk. He took a deep breath. “Bro, I need to holla at you about somethin’.”
Sonny stared into his blue eyes and noticed a sadness that he, himself once experienced. It was the sadness of a man who’d lost his first love. “It’s Olivia ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” Rahmello admitted. “I know you told me not to fuck wit’ lil’ buddy, but when you told me that we was already fuckin’ wit’ each other.”
“For how long?” Sonny asked.
“A little over six months.”
“Six months?” Sonny shot back. “And you ain’t never tell me?”
“Naw,” he slowly shook his head. “She made me promise not to tell nobody. She wanted to keep our relationship a secret because she was afraid that Poncho would find out.”
“So lemme guess, Poncho found out and he made her cut you off?”
“Naw, not exactly. I got tired of keepin’ our relationship a secret, and I wanted to step to Poncho correct so I asked her to marry me.”
“Marry you?” Sonny chuckled. “After six months? That Columbian pussy must be somethin’ special,” he continued laughing, trying to lighten up the mood.
“Naw,” Rahmello cracked a smile. “Well yeah, this pussy’s definitely official, but that’s not the only reason I wanted to marry her. I wanted to get married because we found out she’s pregnant.”
“So what was her answer?”
Rahmello lowered his head. “She said she couldn’t marry me because she didn’t wanna disappoint Poncho.”
“Damn brozay,” Sonny reached across the desk and massaged his shoulder. “Look, after pop’s funeral I’ma holla at Poncho and see if there’s anything I can do to fix the situation.”
Rahmello couldn’t believe his ears. He assumed that Sonny would be mad at him but on the contrary, he was rocking with him.
“Yo, what’s up wit’ the sudden change of heart?” Rahmello asked him. “What happened to all that shit about stay away from her because she’s the connect’s daughter?”
Sonny lounged back in his swivel chair and locked his fingers together. “That’s your problem now.”
“My problem? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that after we run through this last shipment, I’m leavin’ all the street shit to you. The weight. The corners. Everything. So therefore, if ya love for ol’ girl is strong enough for you to jeopardize ya business relationship wit’ her pops, then that’s on you.”
Rahmello thought it over, and for him the answer was an easy one. He thought about the love that he had for Olivia and a huge smile appeared on his face.
“I ain’t gon’ hold you, if I had to choose between the game and Oli. I’m chosin’ Oli.”
Instead of responding, Sonny just smiled. He was rais
ed on principles, and one of those principles was to want for his brother what he wanted for himself. So therefore, if he desired to enjoy a peaceful life with his wife and their family then obviously he wanted the same for his younger brother.
“Yo, what the fuck is you smilin’ for?” Rahmello asked him.
“I’m smilin’ because I’m proud of you,” Sonny said.
“Proud of me for what?”
“For you choosin’ ya family over money. It ain’t too many niggas out here that’s willin’ to do that.” He looked at Rahmello with a newfound respect, and then he reached across the desk to shake his hand. “Family over everything?”
Rahmello accepted his gesture with a firm handshake. “Nothin’ before family.”
***
At Police Headquarters
Heemy was sitting in a holding tank that was known throughout the streets of Philly as The Bubble. It was a large holding cell with cream colored walls and a large plexy glass window that permitted the Turnkeys to monitor the actions of the detainees who occupied the cell. Three wooden benches sat in the center of the room, and three pay phones were screwed into the left wall. A broken toilet was positioned in the far right corner, and it filled the cell with a pungent odor.
“Damn, it stinks in this mutha’fucka,” Heemy said to himself as he was beginning to lose patience.
His young eyes scowered the cell, taking in the slightest movements of the other detainees. This was the first time he’d ever been in custody, and he was nervous to say the least.
A frail white man who appeared to be a heroin addict was sitting on the first bench shivering and crying. He was obviously dope sick. He got up from the bench, and staggered over to the toilet stall. Heemy could tell from the nervous expression on the man’s face that he was struggling with the decision of holding his bowels or releasing them in front of a room full of strangers. He anxiously shifted from side to side, and then staggered inside of the toilet stall. The walls on the stall were only three feet high and it didn’t have a door. The man didn’t care. He turned his back to the toilet and unbuckled his pants. As he lowered them to his knees and squatted over the toilet, a large black man who was sitting in the back row stood to his feet. “Mutha’fucka, you better sit ya ass back on that bench.”
Terrified, the white man began to cry. “But mister, I’m dope sick! I have to take a shit really bad, and I can’t hold it any longer!”
“I don’t give a fuck!” the black man snapped. He stormed toward the toilet stall and stood in front of him. “It’s already stankin’ in this mutha’fucka! So what, I’m 'posed to just stand here and let you make it worse than it already is? Fuck dat!”
“I’m sorry mister, but I can’t hold it!” the white man whined. He squatted over the toilet bowl, and began to release his bowels.
Enraged, the black man kicked him in the chest, knocking him backwards. As he reached out for the white man’s neck, Detective Sullivan banged a pair of handcuffs against the plexy glass window.
“Knock it off!” he shouted.
The large black man scowled at him and flex his jaw muscles.
“I’m not fucking around,” Detective Sullivan warned.
The man returned to his seat, and Detective Sullivan turned his attention to Heemy. “McDaniels! Front and center!”
Heemy stood to his feet and approached the large window.
“Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” Detective Sullivan instructed.
Heemy did as he was told, and the detective opened the small latch in the door. He placed the handcuffs around Heemy’s wrist, and then turned his head toward the officer at the front desk.
“Open the door to the bubble.”
The door popped open and he guided Heemy out of the cell. As the door closed in front of him, Heemy noticed that the dope sick white man was standing in front of the toilet stall with a stupid expression on his face. He took a closer look and noticed that the front of his pants and sneakers were covered in diarrhea. Damn that’s fucked up, he thought to himself. At least this dick head detective came to get me ‘fore I had to sit in there and smell that nasty ass shit.
Detective Sullivan led him to the elevator and took him to the second floor where the robbery/homicide division was located. When they stepped off the elevator, they made a right turn and walked down a long hallway before making a left and approaching a brown door that had the words, Interrogation Room, printed on it in white letters.
Detective Sullivan opened the door and ushered him inside of the room. The walls were eggshell white and a small brown table was screwed into the wall. Two metal chairs were connected to both ends of the table and a surveillance camera was positioned in the top left corner. A large two way mirror was built into the wall that was adjacent to the table, and the only thing that Heemy could think about was the television show The First 48.
Detective Sullivan removed one of the handcuffs and motioned for Heemy to take a seat at the table. He then took the wrist that was still handcuffed and cuffed him to the metal chair.
“Just sit tight, Mr. McDaniel’s. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
Exasperated, Heemy sighed and laid his head on the table. “My own fuckin’ mom lined me up,” he said to himself as he sat there replaying the entire incident in his mind. He thought about Pooky and a tear slid from his right eye. “Damn man, that bitch shoulda told us.”
For as long as he could remember, he yearned for the feeling of a father’s love, and when he finally had the chance his mother robbed him of the opportunity. Now, all because of her he had to spend the rest of his life knowing that he murdered his own father.
“Damn!”
The door opened and Detective Sullivan reappeared with a brown folder clutched in his right hand. He laid the folder on the table, and then sat down across from Heemy. “So Raheem McDaniels, we have a lot to talk about young man.”
He opened the folder and extracted the written statement that Treesha provided earlier that day. He slid the three page statement across the table. “I want you to take a look at that, and then tell me what you think.”
Heemy picked up the statement and couldn’t believe his eyes. Treesha had written down everything that happened all the way up until the point she passed out on the stoop. There was no mention of Sonny and Rahmello, and therefore the police were unaware that him and Twany were ever connected to The Block Boys. In their eyes, Heemy was just another poor black kid from the hood, that with the help of the Public Defender’s Office, would get railroaded in the Philadelphia judicial system.
“Yo this is bullshit!” Heemy spat. “I never even heard of these niggas!”
“Oh I doubt that Mr. McDaniels,” the detective smiled, trying to press his buttons. “Not only was Pooky your father, he controlled the drug trade on Delhi Street. Mar-Mar on the other hand, he was the one who actually sold the drugs. Now according to your own mother, you and your friend Twany killed the both of them in cold blood.”
Heemy screwed up his face. “Man, that smokin ass bitch is lyin’! Me and Twany ain’t do shit! If you don’t believe me, just ask him! We don’t even know these niggas!”
“Ask who? Antwan?” Detective Sullivan continued smiling. “I can’t. He’s friggin’ dead!”
Heemy’s brown face became tight and flustered. “Dead? What the fuck you mean he's dead?”
“You heard me!” Detective Sullivan raised his voice a few octaves. “He’s friggin’ dead! Pooky and Mar-Mar’s crew killed him,” he lied, desperately trying to push Heemy’s buttons. “And now they’re lookin’ for you.”
Before Heemy had the chance to respond, the door swung open and Mario Savino stepped inside of the small room. His gray Ferragamo suit was tailor made, and his powder blue dress shirt and yellow necktie added an elegant touch. His diamond cufflinks shined bright, illuminating the, MS, that was stitched on each sleeve, and his diamond bezeled Yacht Master, a gift from Sonny, shined even brighter. His hair was trimmed to perfection
and with a clean shave, he appeared to be more mafioso than attorney. He smiled at Heemy, and greeted Sullivan with an ice grill. “Excuse me detective, but this interrogation is over. My client has nothing to say in regards to this matter, and as of right now, Judge Rogers is reviewing my Motion To Dismiss.”
Savino reached inside of his jacket pocket and pulled out a copy of his motion. “Here,” he handed the paperwork to Sullivan. “As you can see, pursuant to the United States Supreme Court’s decision in Inre vs. Winship, the court will have no other choice but to dismiss these charges due to a lack of evidence.”
Heemy and Sullivan both looked at the dapper Italian. “You can say whatever you want,” Detective Sullivan scowled at him, “but your client is going down for murder.”
“Bullshit!” Savino snapped. “Don’t waste my time detective. You haven’t a scintilla of evidence that my client is guilty of these alleged crimes. Moreover, given the fact that the Commonwealth has yet to produce a body for either of these gentlemen, there’s nothing to suggest that these alleged murders even took place.”
Detective Sullivan was confused. “How do you know all of this? We never even—”
“Detective!” Savino interrupted him. “As I’ve previously stated, Judge Rogers is reviewing my motion, and you have about,” he glanced at his Yacht Master, “72 hours to produce a body or anything else that would link my client to these alleged crimes.”
Heemy sat in his chair smiling from ear to ear. He could barely comprehend the words that Savino was using, but understood enough to know that the dapper attorney was about to get him out of jail.
Detective Sullivan scowled at Heemy, wondering how he got the money to hire such a stellar attorney. He then returned his gaze to Savino. “Well if nothing else, we have DNA evidence and a material witness!” he propounded.
