A Hood Legend

by Victor L. Martin

  “Any new info?”

  “Yes,” said Joe Troublefield, the Director of Central Intelligence. “We now know for sure that Felix has a godson or something. His name is . . . just a sec . . . okay . . . here we go . . . Menage Unique Legend—black male, twenty-four, which tells us nothing. But I heard the FBI has thier eyes on him . . . you gave them the tip. It’s a coincidence, don’t you think, him now being tied to Felix? But I’ll leave that up to you. Now back to Felix. The last time I checked there were only twenty armed guards on his island, but it’s real lax. He’s been there for ten years or so and nothing’s ever happened. As of now, I don’t know if the Secretary of State will approve of us snatching him up like we did our friend in Cuba. But for the time being, your mission is still max classified and the FBI Hostage Rescue Team will be able to help. And you are not to make a move unless the word comes from me.”

  “Yes, sir, I fully understand,” Scorpion said. He hung up the phone and smiled. He had other plans that neither the FBI nor the CIA knew about. In the end he’d cross both organizations. The FBI wanted Felix for several offenses, including drug trafficking and racketeering. Troublefield had told Scorpion that Felix was suspected of dealing with an enemy of the United States. Scorpion had his own ideas. First he’d take Felix’s girl and force him to give up his shipment as ransom for her return. Then he’d kill them both and collect four million as payment from a rival crime family. “Life is so good,” Scorpion said to himself. He knew he had to make his move before the FBI sent in the HRT. He wasn’t worried about the money that he was supposed to pay the mercenaries. He pulled out a black Glock G30 and put the barrel in his mouth. This was how he planned to pay his help in the end. He loved the feeling of the barrel in his mouth.

  Scorpion left the room in a disguise—a lifelike, latex mask, known to no one—including the CIA and FBI and they could only reach him by phone. He didn’t worry about fingerprints in the room because they didn’t exist on any file, and when he paid for the room the night before, he had worn the mask over his face. Before leaving, he closed the dead girl’s eyes and kissed her lips. “Thank you,” he said and walked out the door laughing.

  * * *

  Detective Covington entered his office to see Hamilton reading Stuff magazine. He walked to his desk and sat down, first checking his memo box.

  “So what’s up?” Covington asked.

  Hamilton put the magazine down. “Well, you’re the boss. I should be asking you. And you picked a fine time to come in . . .”

  “Chill out. It’s only a little after four.”

  “Well, I’ve been down in the lab all day—still nothing new though,” Hamilton said.

  “I think we should go back and check out Menage’s place tonight. Maybe we missed something,” said Covington.

  Hamilton sighed. “Like what? We videotaped the search and ripped the place apart. All the prints were lifted . . . but if you got a feeling, I’m with you.”

  Covington searched his desk for his Newports. “Last night I went over the statements again and our friend DJ said the guy he shot was reaching for a weapon.”

  Hamilton rubbed his forehead. “I know. They say he was acting in self defense.”

  “Yeah, right on the money,” Covington said tapping his new pack of Newports against the back of his hand.

  “Maybe if Menage wasn’t in a coma he could shed some light on the dark areas in this case.”

  “That would be nice,” Covington said now searching for his lighter.

  Hamilton reached into his coat and pulled out a red notepad. He flipped through it quickly. “I did a follow-up with the gardening service and they believe the break-in was early Saturday morning.”

  Covington lit his Newport. “That still don’t tell us much. But whoever wants Menage dead ain’t playing no games.”

  Hamilton closed his notepad. “We’re missing something. I really don’t need an unsolved case on my record—not now.”

  The men sat in silence. Covington felt relaxed as he pulled deeply on the Newport. Hamilton fanned the smoke from his face. Before either could speak further, there was a soft tap at the door. Hamilton turned in the metal chair as Sonya, the dispatcher, stepped into the office. Sonya turned every single head in the station with her shapely body that once graced the pages of Penthouse. She carried a lot in her pants. The breast job from her rich ex-boyfriend added to her sexy frame, and Covington had to admit that she was hot for a white girl. She stepped in with a box of glazed doughnuts that Hamilton gladly took from her.

  “Thanks, Sonya,” he said, not able to take his eyes off her breasts.

  “You’re welcome . . . and how are you, Dominique?” she said sitting on the edge of his desk. She had a thing for Covington and he knew it.

  “It’s the same old shit—nothing new, nothing old.”

  “Why didn’t you come to my pool party last month? I was hoping you would show up, Dominque,” she said coyly. Hamilton rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling as he listened to the exchange between the two and grabbed a doughnut from off his desk.

  “You know I’m married, Sonya, and we’ve been through this how many times ... too damn many.”

  “Not hardly,” she said. “I’ll leave the two of you alone. But you, Mr. Covington, I’ll speak to you later.” She made sure to sway her hips as she walked out the door.

  “She never gives up. Hey, let me get one,” Covington said eyeing the doughnut in Hamilton’s hand.

  “The answer is no. Remember yesterday,” Hamilton said smiling.

  “Man, please, you can’t be for real. You got a whole damn box. Stop playing.”

  “Be convinced that I am not playing, Covington. Be very convinced!”

  “Fuck it then . . . hope your white ass chokes.”

  “If I do, it will be on the last one and you still won’t get any,” Hamilton said.

  “Be that way. Yo, what did you do last night? I tried to call you.”

  Hamilton slowly bit into another doughnut. “Mmm . . . ain’t you a detective? Figure it out.”

  “Funny,” Covington said.

  “I had a date. Is that allowed?”

  “You!” yelled Covington, nearly choking on the smoke as he inhaled his Newport.

  “Yeah, and why is that such a surprise, huh?”

  “Come on, Hamilton—look at you . . . you got no class. But anyway, did you get any pussy?”

  Hamilton closed the box of doughnuts and slid them to the corner of his desk, but seeing Covington’s eyes, he changed his mind and placed them on the floor by his feet. “Ha, ha, very funny, but I keep my personal life on the low down,” Hamilton said.

  Covington burst with laughter. “It’s down low, not low down . . . you crazy as hell, Hammie.”

  “Who cares about . . . about slang talk? It only means you’re uneducated anyway,”

  Hamilton said with a serious tone. “And it’s Hamilton—not Hammie!”

  Covington put down his burning Newport and leaned forward on his desk. “Is that so? Is it your high level of intelligence that prevents you from becoming acquainted with street language, Mr. Harvard, or is it your lack of concentration that makes it difficult for you to grasp the true meaning or aspect of slang—the simple alteration of the meaning of mere words? All that confusion makes you feel less invincible, huh?” Covington said. He smiled, picked up his Newport and inhaled and exhaled, blowing a cloud of smoke into Hamilton’s face. Hamilton was speechless.

  * * *

  Dwight had just escorted Lydia out of his office. They had just completed an order for a supply of various Clairol tones for hair color. To show his gratitude for the decent deal she gave him, he didn’t charge her for the manicure. They planned to have a business lunch, and at first he was unsure about it because he sensed she was flirting. But the pictures of he and Tina were plainly visible in his office. He was busy on the computer when one of his barbers knocked on his door. It was Jamal—his head barber from Haiti.

  “Yo Dwight,
do you have a second?”

  “Yeah, come on in,” Dwight said sliding his keyboard to the side.

  Jamal closed the door and took a seat. “Who was that lady? Man, I swear I seen her face somewhere before.”

  “Latosha Mandrick . . . you might have seen her at a hair show or something; she sells hair products,” Dwight said.

  “Latosha . . . that name don’t ring a bell, but man she was fly.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. But anyway, she’s going to be doing some business with us, so you might be seeing her around.”

  “Now that sounds good. Hey, maybe you can like, put a bid in for me. I didn’t peep no ring on her finger.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. As a matter of fact, when I call her, maybe I’ll tell her about this conversation and see if it’s okay to pass her number on to you.”

  “Yeah, I can deal with that,” Jamal said trying to remember where he had seen her face before.

  Dwight stood up and walked to his filing cabinet. “You just keep your head up, Jamal. There’s plenty of women in Miami, so don’t rush it—okay?”

  “Yeah, easy for you to say; you got a woman at home, and ain’t it ’bout time the two of y’all tie the knot?”

  Dwight turned back to his desk and sat down. Yes, it was time he made Tina his wife. He was ready and so was she. All he could picture was good times as long as she was in his life.

  “In due time, Jamal.”

  “Well, I’ma get back to work, but hit me back when you hear something. And, oh, yeah, check out my new whip.”

  “What is it?” Dwight asked not looking up from the paper in front of him.

  “It’s a black-on-black Pontiac G-6.”

  “Big wheel,” Dwight said.

  “Yeah, right. When I can buy my shorty a whip, own a BMW and have a Viper on the side, then I’ll be big wheel. But I’ma check you later, Dwight.” They gave each other dap before Jamal left.

  Dwight called Tina, who was at the other salon across town. The phone rang twice before it was answered.

  “Hello, MD Salon . . . Akissi speaking, how may I help you?”

  “Hey, this is Dwight. Is Tina in?”

  “Oh, hi Dwight. Yes, she’s in. Just hold one second.” The line switched to a song by Brandy. Seconds later Tina was on the line.

  “Hey, baby.”

  “What’s going on with you?” he said leaning back in his leather chair.

  “Baby, it’s busy as hell but that’s good, right?” she said cheerfully, making him smile.

  “You know it is. Do you have any idea what time you’ll make it out of there tonight?”

  “Hmmm . . . ’bout eight or nine I guess.”

  “Okay. We might have a good deal on some hair color,” Dwight said then went on to tell her about Latosha.

  “That’s great. Anything on Menage?”

  “Nah, boo, it’s the same story.” He let out a deep sigh.

  “I hope he makes it, Dwight . . . I really do. I know we didn’t always get along, but it was all in fun.”

  “I know, baby, and he knows it too—trust me. I’d still feel better if I knew something . . . anything.”

  “I know, honey,” she said softly.

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you . . . I called DJ over for dinner tonight to get things right so that we’ll be on the same level. Just because Menage was in charge don’t mean he’ll automatically take over his job.” He waited for her to say something. “Tina . . . Tina, you still there?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m here. I . . . I was just thinking about what to cook on such short notice, that’s all,” she said. She couldn’t believe that DJ would be under the same roof with she and Dwight. And right now she didn’t want to see DJ at all. She closed her eyes and thought about that last night they shared together. She wasn’t shocked to find herself wanting him inside her again. Fuck you, DJ. It’s over, she thought.

  “Don’t stress it,” Dwight said breaking her train of thought. “It’s not a classy affair, but after I get off the phone with you I’ma call him. Just try to get off as soon as you can, okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I’ll have Akissi close up,” she said.

  After saying their I love yous, they ended the call. Dwight sat back in his chair and picked up a picture of Tina. He loved her more than anything. She was perfect and made him happy—not to mention the sex. In his heart he knew it was time to make her his wife, for what they shared was real love.

  * * *

  Rosita and Chandra were tanning on the sundeck of Felix’s 108-foot yacht. The Leight Notika was triple-decked, built at a Turkish shipyard. Equipped with a sky lounge and full accommodations, the yacht was able to comfortably carry eight guests and six crew members. Chandra was having a light discussion with Rosita, telling her how Vapor had come into the room while she and Menage were sleeping and snatched the blanket off the bed, running all around with it.

  Menage walked out onto the pier of Felix’s mansion and covered his eyes from the sun as he looked toward the yacht sailing in the calm waters. He pulled out his cell phone and called Chandra to tell her that he was going somewhere on the island with Felix. He knew that whatever system Felix had jamming the phones inside his home didn’t stop calls from being made outside. He turned and walked back toward the mansion. Vapor was running down the beach trying to catch some seagulls.

  Menage whistled and Vapor came at once. He let Vapor into the back of one of Felix’s Hummers and then got in himself. Felix started up the Hummer and headed down the beach. Menage sat next to him eating a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich that Miss Welton had packed for their trip. The Hummer plowed through the thick sand with ease and Felix handled it with skill as it drove up a slope.

  “Didn’t you eat enough this morning?” Felix said as Menage reached for another sandwich.

  “Man, don’t you know I gotta get my strength back? And I have to keep up with Chandra . . .”

  “I understand,” Felix said smiling.

  “Where we going anyway?” Menage asked, only seeing jungle and palm trees.

  “It’s a surprise,” Felix said pulling out a Cuban cigar.

  “When your damn lungs get as black as Vapor’s, you gonna wish you never smoked. Those things stink anyway, but nope, you don’t wanna listen to me,” Menage said holding onto the door grip.

  “Since when did you become the spokesperson for cancer?” Felix said making jabbing motions with the cigar toward Menage, while keeping his eye on the narrow path. He didn’t light it up because he knew it would cause Menage discomfort. They rode on for another five minutes.

  “Okay, here we are,” Felix said as the Hummer shot out of the foliage and back onto the beach. They were now on the opposite side of the island at the northern end. Menage could make out what looked to be a small building just about where all the greenery ended. Vapor jumped out and walked around, sniffing the ground. “Come on, this way,” Felix said walking toward the building. As they got closer, Menage noticed another Hummer parked behind the building. The door opened before Felix could knock. A young kid with long hair, dressed in shorts and a tank top motioned them inside and with a quick glance, Menage noticed that he was carrying a gun. His eyes quickly adjusted as they entered a dark room. The left wall was filled with TV screens, computers, and what looked to be a radar screen. Sitting on a rolling stool was another kid wearing headphones. He was busy watching the screens.

  “What the hell is this, Felix?” Menage asked.

  “You don’t know? Well, that’s odd coming from an ex-Marine.”

  “Former Marine,” Menage corrected him.

  The kid with the long hair spoke. “It’s state of the art . . . well, really, it’s a small Russian radar outpost—nothing big, though. But we can see anything coming toward this island within a thirty mile radius or more, depending on the weather, and it stays on twenty-four hours a day.” He then pointed to the screen at Felix’s yacht, and with a few commands on the computer it showed
a digital outline of the entire island. Felix then led Menage back outside and walked down a path behind the building.

  Menage was shocked when they reached an underground shelter. The four-inch steel door swung open and Felix led him down five steps and then to another door. They went down another ten steps. When Felix turned on a light, Menage’s jaw dropped. The shelter was packed with wall-to-wall weapons. “My little collection,” Felix said smiling. Menage walked to a crate marked Property of U.S.S.R. Next to it was a case filled with pistols that he’d never seen the likes of before. But what caught his eye was an H & K MP-10 sitting on a box wrapped in plastic.

  Later on the drive back, Menage asked Felix why he had shown him the radar post and shelter. “So you and Chandra can feel safe,” he said.

  “Felix, only a fool would try to come out here. But yeah, I feel safe. I—”

  “Can’t stay on the Island ...I know,” Felix said interrupting him. Menage looked at him as he loaded one of the new Glock 9 mm that he took from the shelter. “I got people thinking you’re still in a coma. I figure that whoever did this will make some kind of slip-up ... and ... well, I really think that if you show your face back in Miami not knowing the enemy, you could end up dead. I know you can’t stay here forever but just give me two days or so. I got a plan. Trust me on this one, Menage. Besides, you owe it to Chandra.” He knew that his last statement would hit home ... it did.

  * * *

  Back at the mansion, Menage stood on the pier looking toward Miami with Vapor panting alongside him. Felix’s yacht now sat motionless in the blue-green waters. Chandra and Rosita were back in the mansion talking about baby clothes, wedding dresses, and everything else in between. Menage was a father now ... well, he’d be one soon ... and no more being the center of attention. But nothing else had the same importance now—not even being so close to his dream of making a million. It all seemed so frivolous with a baby on the way. Still, he really wanted to get back to Miami and he was becoming restless. Moments later Felix walked down the pier.

  “You miss it, right?” he said. Menage didn’t reply. “You don’t feel right unless you’re in a flashy car, do you? I know you want to get back in the game, but now you have Chandra and the baby to think about. Look at all that I have, and yet you risk your life for a million. You’re like a son to me, but you never asked for anything free; you’ve worked for what’s yours and I fully respect that.”