Last Call

by James Grippando

  Moses gave the attitude right back to him. "Who the fuck are your

  The door jerked wide open, giving the doorman a start, and suddenly Levon was standing in the doorway. "Get inside," he told Moses.

  Moses entered. Levon shut the door and secured it with the deadbolt and the chain. He and Moses exchanged the symbolic handshake that marked them as gangsters aligned under Folk Nation, and then Levon led him down the hall to a large, windowless media room in the back of the house. Rap music blasted from state-of-the-art surround-sound equipment, and all of the furniture had been stacked against the opposite wall to create a large open space. About twenty young men were standing around in small groups, all dressed more or less like the doorman. They talked and laughed as several vials of cocaine changed hands, each gangster taking a hit when it came his way Several bottles of coconut-flavored rum were also making the rounds. A movie played on the plasma-screen television mounted on the wall – some hot blonde chick on her knees trying to decide which of three black studs to suck first.

  "Do me!" said one of Levon's men, exposing himself to the TV screen.

  "Bitch wants a meal, not a snack," said another.

  Loud cursing and shoving followed, but it was quickly broken up.

  Moses noticed a guy lying flat in the fetal position on the floor beside the couch. He appeared to be breathing, but his face was a battered mess, and his shirt was drenched in his own blood.

  "Wannabe number one didn't make it through the initiation," said Levon. He pulled one of the chairs from the stack and climbed up to stand tall above the group. "Listen up!" he shouted.

  Conversations faded into silence, and someone lowered the music. The fact that Moses was standing to Levon's right was the first indicator of his importance. Levon said, "This here's Moses. He's my new main man in Miami. He'll be staying with me a while, till the heat cools in Florida."

  Hiding from law enforcement in another jurisdiction was one of the biggest advantages of an alliance with a national gang like Gangster Disciples. Most of these guys struck Moses as expendable morons, but any gangster was smart enough to grasp that Levon's reference to the heat in Florida had nothing to do with the weather.

  "What's the crime?" asked the doorman.

  Levon answered for him. "Murder."

  "Killed a state trooper," said Moses.

  "Cool," said another.

  "Twelve hours after he got outta prison," added Levon.

  A guy with a rum bottle flashed a mouthful of gold teeth." Very cool"

  Moses' status was established immediately.

  Levon said, "Moses has full rights of a Gangster Disciple while he's here. So bring on the next wannabe!"

  The men howled like drunken football fans. The rap music cranked up again, and Blondie, the on-screen porn star, was working feverishly on stud number two. A pair of older gang members left the room and returned with a fifteen-year-old black youth who was already blindfolded and stripped to the waist. Crude tattoos covered his chest and arms, and his head was covered with a black-and-yellow bandana. As they led him to the center of the room, it was difficult to tell who was having a harder time walking a straight line, the soldiers or the wannabe. The rum and drugs were kicking in.

  Levon went to the wannabe, stood face-to-face with him, and removed the blindfold. The music stopped and the room fell quiet again.

  Levon said, "Kenny Butler: Are you ready to become a Gangster Disciple?"

  "Yes, sir!" he shouted.

  Levon pulled a revolver from his belt and held it in the air for everyone to see.

  It was a Russian Ml 895 Nagant, and the excitement in the room gave Moses the distinct impression that everyone understood the significance of the chosen firearm – everyone except him and the wannabes.

  Levon quieted the gang and said, "Bring me Wallace."

  The two soldiers walked over to wannabe number one. Wallace was still bloody and lying on the floor, and he groaned with pain as they jerked him to his feet.

  "Front and center!" shouted Levon.

  The soldiers brought Wallace to their leader and left him there to stand on his own power. His face was swollen from the earlier beating, and he couldn't open his left eye. The blood around his nose was starting to dry a crusty brown, but the big gash on his forehead was still running red. The kid tilted to one side, unable to stand straight, his whole body battered.

  "On your knees," Levon said.

  Wallace complied as quickly as he could, which wasn't quick at all, his every movement painful.

  Levon flipped open the revolver's six-chamber cylinder, which was empty. He took one round of live ammunition from his pocket, inserted it in the first chamber, closed the cylinder, and gave it a spin, Russian roulette style. Then he handed the gun to Butler and guided the barrel of the gun to the base of Wallace's skull.

  "You got a choice, Butler," said Levon. "Squeeze the trigger. If the gun don't go off, both you and Wallace is in."

  That drew a loud woo-hoo from the peanut gallery.

  "What's my other choice?" said Butler.

  "You can do the line, just like Wallace did."

  The line was a common initiation rite that even Moses and the O-Town Posse had used. The wannabe walks between two lines of gangsters who punch and kick him repeatedly. Only those candidates who walked on their feet from one end of the line to the other are admitted into the gang. If they fall, they have to start over, usually on another day, when the injuries have healed. Wallace had obviously failed in his attempt.

  "And if I make it through the line?" said Butler.

  "You're a Gangster Disciple," said Levon.

  "What about him?" he said, pointing to Wallace, who was still on his knees.

  "You walk the line, Wallace is out. The gun is the only way you both get in."

  Wallace bit down on his lower lip. Part of him looked as if he wanted to stand up and run, but he remained on his knees.

  Butler swallowed a lump in his throat.

  "The gun!" one of the soldiers shouted.

  "Shit, yeah!" said another, and soon a chant filled the room: "Gun, gun, gun!"

  Levon raised a hand in the air, silencing them. "What's it gonna be?"

  Butler stared down at the top of Wallace's head. It wasn't hot in the room, but both kids were sweating.

  The chant continued: "Gun, gun, gun!"

  Levon said, "I need an answer!"

  Butler's hand gripped the revolver. The tip of his finger caressed the trigger.

  "Gun, gun, gun!"

  Still on his knees, Wallace's expression tightened. "Gun!" he shouted.

  Butler seemed caught off-guard. It was a ballsy decision for a guy on his knees with a gun to his head.

  Levon said, "It ain't Wallace's call. It's yours, Butler."

  "Gun!" Wallace shouted again.

  The other gangsters cheered.

  Butler's arm went straight as a rod, as if he were trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the target. The gun moved high and then low, left and then right, all around the back of Wallace's skull.

  It was obvious to Moses that the kid had never shot anybody in his life – let alone a friend.

  Butler retracted the gun and dropped his arm to his side. "I choose the line," he said.

  The gang groaned and booed with disapproval. Levon snatched the revolver from his hand and brought a knee to Butler's groin. The kid doubled over and fell to the floor. Levon kicked himhard in the face, bloodying his nose and mouth. "There ain't gonna be no line, you pussy."

  Levon's soldiers grabbed Butler and dragged him away. Wallace was still on his knees, smart enough not to move until Levon gave the order.

  "Moses!" said Levon.

  All eyes shifted to the man from Miami as he stepped forward. Levon handed him the firearm, saying, "He's all yours, bro'."

  The rhythmic chant resumed: "Gun, gun, gun!"

  A flat smile creased Moses' lips. He opened the cylinder, and he didn't even have to verbaliz
e his request. Levon knew what he wanted. He handed Moses another bullet.

  The gang cheered, loving the way Moses had changed the odds and upped the stakes.

  Wallace placed his hands behind his waist, wrists crossed. Moses noticed they were trembling.

  Even so, the kid shouted, "Gun!"

  Moses inserted the second round in one of the empty chambers, slapped the cylinder closed, and pushed the barrel of the revolver firmly against the back of the teenager's skull.

  The room went stone silent.

  "What you want, Wallace?" said Moses in a booming voice.

  "Do it!"

  Without a moment's hesitation, Moses pulled the trigger.

  It was almost simultaneous – Wallace falling face-first to the floor and the loud crack of the hammer against an empty chamber. But his head was intact. Raw nerves and emotion had caused his collapse.

  Moses popped open the cylinder and let the two unspent rounds drop to his feet.

  Levon shouted, "Meet the newest GD!"

  The gang went wild. They were suddenly all over Wallace, slapping him on the head and body, screaming and yelling in his face – all a form of congratulations and praise.

  Levon pulled Moses into another room, leaving the gang to celebrate. It was time to get down to business. He closed the door and locked it. They were in a bedroom with no bed – just a table, a few chairs, and a wall of tall metal lockers. Levon opened the one on the far right with a key, removed a packet, and tossed it onto the table in front of Moses.

  "Your new ID," he said.

  Moses opened the packet and inspected it. There was a Social Security card, a Georgia driver's license and voter registration card, and two credit cards.

  "Miles?" said Moses, making a face. "My new name is Miles Becker?"

  "I set you up in twenty-four hours, and this is the thanks I get?"

  Moses grumbled, but he didn't protest. He tucked away the IDs and said, "What else you got?"

  Levon opened another locker. It was loaded with weapons – handguns, rifles, even an Uzi. "I assume you dumped the piece you used to waste that trooper," said Levon.

  "You assume right."

  "What do you like?"

  "Nine-millimeter," said Moses.

  "How about a Glock?" Levon said, as he laid it on the table with two ammunition clips.

  "Glock is good," said Moses.

  Levon went to the next locker. This one had two locks on it. He opened them both and pulled a cardboard box from the top shelf. He placed it on the table and opened it. The inside was lined with green plastic. He punched a hole in it, just big enough for Moses to see the contents.

  "This is the best shit we got in six months," said Levon. "We cut it three times and it still kicks ass. Your boys in Miami know their trade."

  "We aim to please," said Moses.

  "I'm serious," said Levon. "Filthy Mexicans have been killing us in Atlanta. Latin Kings got way too much turf. Eighteenth Street is here, too. Last week I seen two old guys – must have been in their forties – all the way from L.A. Tacos are makin' a push here. But you keep this up, and we'll cut their balls off."

  "There's plenty more where that came from."

  Levon made the hole in the bag a little larger. "Wanna sample?"

  Moses shook his head. "Ain't touched that shit in ten years."

  "Twelve for me," said Levon. "Not one brotha' I grew up with back in Robert Taylor Homes did the shit and got outta Chicago's South Side alive."

  "Guess that's why we're the old men in this business."

  The celebratory noises from the media room were getting louder. The two thirty-something-year-olds exchanged knowing smiles, as if to acknowledge that most of those flunkies would be lucky to see seventeen.

  Moses' cell rang. He didn't recognize the displayed number of the incoming call, but he answered it anyway. It turned out to be the right decision.

  The caller was Jefferson – the correctional officer at TGK.

  "Holloway dropped the ball," said Jefferson. "Knight's alive and well"

  Moses took the news without any display of emotion, trying not to tip off anything to Levon. "Anything else?"

  "Yeah," said Jefferson. "I hear the prosecutor is dropping the charges against Knight for helping Reems escape. He'll be on the street today, tomorrow at the latest."

  "Got it," said Moses.

  Jefferson hung up. The entire conversation had lasted only thirty seconds. Moses felt his anger rising, but he said nothing as he tucked the phone away in his pocket.

  Levon said, "Something wrong?"

  Moses thought for a moment, then looked at Levon and said, "I'm gonna need some cash."

  "How much?"

  "Enough to set me up in Miami for a few days."

  "Miami? You going back already?"

  "Yeah"

  "What for?"

  "It's like they say" said Moses, his expression turning deadly serious. "You want something done right, you do it your fucking self."

  Chapter 36

  Jack spent the night at his abuelas house.

  It surprised people that a guy named Jack Swyteck had an abuela. Most shocked of all were folks who met him in a bar or at a cocktail party and, tongue loosened, spoke to him gringo-to-gringo about the damn Hispanics taking over south Florida. Jack's mother was born in Cuba. She was a teenager when Castro came to power and her parents spirited her away to Miami under the Pedro Pan program, a humanitarian effort that allowed thousands of Cuban children to escape the dictatorship and live in freedom. The vast majority of families were ultimately reunited in the States, but Jacks abuela couldn't get out of Cuba until Jack was in his thirties, long after his mother had died giving birth to him. Abuela made it her mission to Cubanize her grandson.

  The results had been mixed. On their most recent trip to an espresso bar, Jack wanted a cafe mocha instead of a cafe cubano, which was embarrassing enough to Abuela, but then he drove the dagger straight through her heart by ordering a cafe moco – which in espanol meant "coffee booger."

  "Buenos dias" said Jack, as he entered her kitchen.

  Abuela was standing at the counter spreading queso crema on sliced strips of fresh Cuban bread. The strips were for dunking in cafe con leche, and from the first time Jack had tried it, bagels and cream cheese just didn't cut it anymore.

  Jack gave her a kiss and smiled as she called him mi vida – literally, "my life" – a term she used only with Jack, and which pretty much summed up the depth of her feelings. He took a seat at the table. Abuela placed his breakfast in front of him and started to wipe down the counter.

  "Sit with me" said Jack. "I can clean up."

  The way she looked at him, it was as if Jack had said, "I can have a sex change." Abuela was definitely old school.

  Jack dunked his first strip of pan y queso, trying not to think too vividly about Theo and Trina waking inside his house on Key Biscayne. Theo had been released from jail late yesterday afternoon. Anyone who thought make-up sex was great had obviously never experienced just-got-out-of-jail sex. There was nothing better, according to Theo, even if the term of incarceration was only a few days. Who was Jack to argue? Theo's problem, however, was Uncle Cy in the next room.

  "Dude, I need your place tonight," Theo had begged him.

  "Find a hotel."

  Jack might as well have said, "Buy Trump Tower." For Theo, it was the kind of response that didn't compute between friends. Like an idiot, Jack had handed over the keys and planned to spend the night at his grandmother's.

  Abuela had been awake since 5:00 a.m., the radio tuned to a Spanish-language talk show. Jack understood Spanish much better than he spoke it, so he listened. An old woman carried on about pochos, a pejorative name for second-generation Mexicans who knew only as much about their heritage as the George Lopez Show could teach them and raised children who didn't speak a word of Spanish.

  Abuela switched off the radio, and Jack prepared himself for the Cuban version of a well-meaning lecture. But
she surprised him.

  "You do not mention Rene once since you are here," she said. Her English was roughly on the level of Jack's Spanish, so she often stuck to the present tense.

  "I didn't?" he said.

  "No. How is she?"

  "I don't know. I haven't talked to her in a while."

  "Oh? When last?"

  "Actually… when she was here in Miami."

  Abuela looked horrified. "You no call her?"

  "We said good-bye in the airport. She said she would call me as soon as her plane landed in Africa. She didn't."

  "Ay} mi vida" she said, shaking her head with disapproval.

  "Don't worry your grandson's not that small a person. I allowed for the possibility that something happened, so I called her. Left a message on her cell. Sent her an e-mail, too."

  "She no respond?"

  Jack dunked another strip of bread. "No. That's just the way Rene is."

  Abuela came to the table and sat across from him. "Why you put up with that?"

  "That's an excellent question."

  "What about that FBI girl?"

  "What about her?"

  "Why you no call her?"

  "Don't tell me. Has Theo turned you into an Andie fan, too?"

  "A fan? No. Pero, if she is Cubana…"

  He smiled and kissed her hand. The doorbell rang. Jack and Abuela exchanged glances, as if to ask, Are you expecting someone? Neither one was.

  "I'll get it," said Jack. He walked down the hall to the front door and checked the peephole. A big eyeball was staring back at him. He knew it could be only one person, so he opened the door.

  "Hey, thanks for last night," said Theo, obviously in a great mood.

  "I'm not the one you should be thanking," said Jack.

  "You got that right. You would not believe-"

  "Please, spare me the details."

  "No, you don't understand," said Theo. "Some women reach for your joystick like it was a doorknob in the bathroom of a rundown filling station, but Trina, she grabs hold of you and-"