The Union

by Tremayne Johnson

  “Be easy, he's on his way.”

  Vito mumbled something under his breath, but Cleo didn't catch it.

  “You said something, Vito??” He questioned.

  As soon as Vito went to speak, Mikey T walked through the door.

  “My colored brother, Cleo! What the fuck is goin' on guy?” He yelled.

  Unlike Vito, Mikey T and Cleo were the best of friends. They attended high school together and both were starting defensive linemen on the varsity football team.

  Mikey T knew his position in the family; he just didn't have the same views as they did regarding blacks. He possessed a genuine love for Cleo, but he would never go against his blood.

  Cleo pushed his seat back and stood to greet Mikey. “My Caucasian twin, Mikey mutha-fuckin T!” he embraced him.

  “It's been a minute, eh, Cleo. Good to see you, bro. You still big as a house, I see.”

  They laughed together.

  “That's good eatin’ Mikey. How's The Old Man?”

  “Hangin' in there. You know how it is. Lately he's back n forth to the doc. This freakin' diabetes is killin' him, and you know how The Old Man is... he don't listen to nobody.”

  While Mikey and Cleo got reacquainted, Vito boiled. Mikey hadn't even acknowledged his own brother and here he was laughing and joking.

  “How's my little bro doin’?” He finally asked, tapping Vito's chest.

  Vito got up from his chair to hug his older brother. He wanted to tell him how he really felt, but circumstances of that nature could never be discussed in public. Besides, Mikey knew Vito disliked that he showed Cleo so much respect, but there was little he could do about it.

  “Could be better, could be worse.” Vito answered.

  Mikey took a seat at the table. “Who ya tellin'. So, Cleo...eh, where's Mox?”

  On cue, Mox appeared at the front door, black as night sporting a pearl white, fox bomber with the hat to match. The five inch, Cuban cigar he puffed produced a thick, white cloud of smoke.

  “Speak of the devil and in he walks,” Cleo laughed.

  “Look at this fuckin' clown!” Vito barked.

  Mikey jumped up. “Hey, cool it Vito.” He approached Mox. “No smokin' in here, bro.”

  Mox stopped at the table, took another puff of his cigar and blew the smoke into the air.

  “Fuck you, Mikey. Tell them white guys over there to stop smokin'. We came to talk business, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “So, this is my proposal and rest assured my partner feels the same way. Right, Cleo?”

  Cleo didn't speak; he just nodded his head. Truth was, he didn't know what the fuck Mox was about to say. They spoke on a few percentages, but Cleo told him it was too early to get those types of numbers. They were just getting in good with the Italians and to demand a higher percentage on all endeavors was something Cleo knew they wouldn't go for.

  Mox continued. “We want a piece of Queens.”

  Vito cut his eyes over to Mikey. They both held a look of surprise. “Queens??” they said, in unison.

  “Yeah, Queens.” Mox repeated.

  “I don't know what you talking about, Mox.” Mikey lied.

  “You know what I'm talkin' about Mikey… Astoria. That warehouse, seven hundred thousand a month. Any of this ring a bell?”

  “You're a funny fuckin' guy, you know that, Mox?” Mikey snarled. “You should be here discussing how much compensation you gonna give The Old Man for knocking off one of his major dealers.”

  “Fuck, Supreme! That nigga was a snitch! Cleo, what's thirty-five percent of seven hundred thousand? Quick.”

  “Is this true, Cleo?” Mikey asked.

  Cleo rubbed his fingers together. “Yeah, it’s true.” he paused and looked at Mox. “Two hundred and forty-five thousand.”

  Mox kept smoking his cigar. “It don't matter anyway, Supreme is dead. I came to talk about Queens and our two hundred and forty-five thousand a month.”

  “The Old Man still needs something,” Mikey bargained.

  “Well the Old Man ain't getting shit from me till I get a piece of Queens.”

  Vito raised up. “Hey, watch your fuckin' mouth, guy.”

  “Fuck you, Vito!”

  Cleo stood. “Mox, chill.”

  “Nah, Cleo. Fuck these EYE-Talians!” He stressed. “We don't need these muthafuckas… they need us!”

  Mikey fixed his tie. “Cleo, talk to your boy. Maybe come back tomorrow. Things might be different, eh?”

  “Yeah, tell ‘em to shut up, Cleo before I do it myself.” Vito added.

  Mox smiled at the two brothers. If he really wanted to, he could kill them both right now, but the chances of him and Cleo surviving were slim to none.

  The only reason he hadn't started a war was because the money was coming in at rapid rates. The Italians controlled the ecstasy market throughout the five boroughs as far as the manufacturing went, but Mox and Cleo provided the muscle and protection for those labs to operate.

  They produced thousands of ecstasy pills a day that were sold and distributed to wholesalers, who in turn, re-sold them at market rate which varies from $7 to $10 a pill. At the time, the four major manufacturing labs are located in Brooklyn, Staten Island, Manhattan and the Bronx.

  Each factory roughly accumulated five to eight hundred thousand dollars a month in revenue and Mox and Cleo’s cut was 20% of everything.

  The Telescos thought they were being slick by secretly opening up another lab in Queens, thinking Cleo and Mox wouldn't be too worried about it. They were wrong. Mox caught wind of the situation and wanted in. Cleo, on the other hand, really didn't care, but what's right is right. They made an agreement and the Italians were trying to renig.

  Mox removed the hat from his head and grilled Vito. “Try it, Vito. I dare you.”

  They eyed each other intensely.

  “C'mon, Mox.” Cleo tapped his shoulder. “Mikey, we gotta make this thing right. I'll be in contact. And tell the Old Man I said, get well.”

  Mikey frowned, “Sure, Cleo.” Then he remembered. “Oh, I almost forgot; sorry for your loss, Casey was a good kid, it's a fucked up situation.”

  “Yeah, it is.” He replied.

  Cleo and Mox stepped out the door and into the windy, pedestrian filled streets. It was four days before Christmas and the holiday shoppers were out in abundance, scurrying to get their last minute gifts.

  Cleo pulled his cell phone out to call a cab.

  “You still fuckin' wit' them cabs, huh?” Mox questioned, knowing exactly what Cleo was doing. He couldn't understand why he hadn't bought a car yet. He had more than enough money.

  “I can't find a truck comfortable enough for my big ass,” he joked.

  He wasn't lying though, Cleo shopped around for a new truck, but the ones he test-drove didn't fit him the way he wanted. He wasn't in a rush to buy a vehicle any way; he took cabs everywhere he went.

  “Man, fuck that cab. I got the truck around the corner.”

  “Cool, but Mox you gotta be easy with these Italians. Right now ain’t the time to be stirring up a war.”

  “Fuck them degos, Cleo!” He fumed. “Pasta eatin’ muthafuckas. I don’t trust ‘em and you shouldn’t either. Those assholes knew exactly what they were doing when they opened up that lab in Queens. They thought we wouldn’t find out, but I want mines, and if I gotta get it in blood, so be it.”

  Cleo knew Mox was hotheaded, but he wasn’t about to let stupidity come in the way of millions.

  He took a deep breath. “We don’t need any more problems, Mox. That’s all I’m sayin’. We gettin’ good money from these dudes and The Old Man’s beginning to show some leniency. Let’s not fuck up a great a situation.”

  “It may be great for you, but it ain’t great for me. I want more.” Mox said, starting the truck.

  Gluttony was something that Cleo despised. The way he saw it, the only thing greed could get you is a pine box or a hundred years in a cell. He didn’t want either of t
he two.

  While in the truck, something dawned on Cleo. “Mox, what about the bitch?” he asked.

  Mox pulled the truck from the curb. “I left that bitch on the side of the Roanoke River.” he laughed loudly.

  NINE

  Pellegrino’s Restaurant, Little Italy, NYC

  December 22nd 2010…

  Pellegrino’s Restaurant, located on the infamous Mulberry Street in Little Italy is a fairly new establishment mixed in with hundreds of years of Italian heritage.

  Tucked away in the cut, Pellegrino’s serves as one of the Telesco’s favorite hangouts. Frequently, you can catch Mikey or Vito sitting at a table feasting on a plate of penne al la vodka and salad. At times, you may even catch Vinny Telesco himself sitting at the bar.

  Sunny tossed his cigarette to the ground and stomped on it before he walked through the doors to Pellegrino’s. The restaurant was packed.

  Upon entering, he removed his hat and unbuttoned his wool pea coat. He slid past the two couples waiting to be seated and walked over to the bar area.

  “Lemme get a straight gin. No rocks.” He told the bartender.

  Sunny looked around for a familiar face. Seeing none, he tossed his drink back and ordered another one. It was like a flame burning in his chest. He was warming up now. His nerves were calming and he was feeling more like himself. He felt normal. The confidence he previously lacked was building up like a snowball racing down the Appalachian Mountains.

  His fears evaporated like boiling water in a pot.

  He was ready.

  He turned to exit the restaurant and stopped short as if he had forgotten something.

  “Hey!” He screamed, turning back and reaching into his pants. The shotgun he lifted from his waist was sawed off.

  “Mox says, suck his dick!”

  The explosion that followed was ear-splitting. Standing patrons fell to the floor, waitresses panicked in fear for their lives.

  Sunny put two more slugs into the half gun, cocked it and pulled the trigger once more.

  The smoke clouds were so thick, Sunny could barely see in front of him. The bartender, crouched behind the marble bar, nervously fingered his old .38 snub-nosed. He was waiting for a clear view. Quickly, he stood up and let off four shots, two striking Sunny in the chest.

  The impact slammed Sunny's frail frame to the floor. He tried to crawl to the front door, but he wasn't able to. Just trying to breathe was difficult enough. He gagged on his own blood. Finally, his body shook and his heart stopped beating. It was over.

  The few customers and employees who didn't get hit, scurried to the exit and pushed their way out of the restaurant and into the streets.

  In the rear of the restaurant, ten feet away from the kitchen, Vito poked his head up slightly above the table that hid him. He was terrified, but he couldn't show it.

  He lifted himself up and tried brushing some tomato sauce off his suit. “Shit!” he cursed, checking his body for wounds. Trembling, Vito, pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number.

  Someone picked up on the other end. “Vito?”

  “Mikey, we got a problem.” He whispered.

  __________

  “Lick the head… yeaahh… ohhhhh, I love that shit.” Mox moaned. He bit his bottom lip and let his head fall back on the plush leather.

  Kim held his dick with two hands and slid her tongue up and down his long, heavy shaft. A long stream of saliva hung from her chin as she devoured his thick, chocolate Mr. Goodbar. Kim loved sucking Mox's dick. It was huge. Each time she tried to deep throat, she gagged and tears poured from her eyes.

  Mox raised his head and palmed Kim's soft ass with both his hands. He slapped the black panther tattoo on her ass check.

  “Ooooohhh! Wait…open your mouth. Ahhhhhhhh!??.”

  Kim sucked until Mox shot a load of warm, pearl white cum all over her face.

  She licked her fingers, blew a kiss at the camera and smiled.

  “Mox, you always taste good.”

  He picked his cigar up out of the ashtray, lit it and then hit stop on his HD camera.

  “You should be a movie star, Kim.” He picked his pants up off the floor. “I swear to God, you put on an Oscar winning performance every-mutha-fuckin-time.” He laughed.

  “I need a favor, Mox.” Kim asked.

  “A favor?”

  “Yeah. Can I hold some money?” She asked, snapping her bra straps.

  “Hold some money?” Mox repeated, sarcastically. He actually didn’t have a problem giving Kim money. He knew she was an independent female who took care of her responsibilities and this was the first time she had ever asked him for anything other than some dick.

  Mox chuckled.

  “I’m serious, Mox, it’s been rough for me raising little man by myself. Shit, every penny I get goes toward bills and the baby. I just wanna treat myself to somethin’ nice.”

  “Where that little nigga’s father at?”

  “Who the fuck knows, Mox. I ain’t spoke to that nigga since the day I told him I was pregnant.” Kim barked. She flicked through the channels on the remote. “And my brother ain’t helpin’ out either; he runnin’ around in the streets somewhere. When was the last time you saw Supreme, Mox?”

  Hearing his name made Mox’s antennas rise. He was trying to be cool. “Supreme, who?” He asked as if he didn’t know.

  “My brother, Supreme, nigga. Who else?”

  “Oh, Preme,” Mox slowly repeated. “Shit, I ain’t seen dat nigga, Preme in like…two weeks; maybe three.” He lied.

  Mox had honestly forgotten that Supreme was Kim’s older brother, not that it would have stopped anything, but maybe he would have thought on it a little longer. He really admired Kim, and not just because she sucked good dick. She was a smart and outgoing person. The few females Mox dealt with were money hungry groupies. Kim was different, but her brother was a snitch, so he had to go.

  How could he explain to Kim that her only brother was dead, and on top of that, he was the one who orchestrated the hit? Her poor little heart would be crushed and Mox just couldn’t live with that.

  With concern in her voice, she said, “Well, I hope he’s alright.”

  Mox’s cell phone rang, and at the same time, someone was knocking on Kim’s front door. Seeing the caller ID, he grabbed the phone and answered it.

  “Gimmie a second and I’ma call you back.” He spat quickly, pressing end before Cleo could speak. “Get the door, Kim.”

  Mox put his sweatshirt on and glanced down at the Smith & Wesson.9 millimeter lying on the end table next to the sofa.

  “Who is it?” Kim sang as she pranced down the hallway to the front door. Without looking through the peephole, she undid the locks.

  Hulk sneered when the door opened. “Vito sends his regards,” he chuckled, lifting twin .50 caliber desert eagles.

  Two shots pushed Kim’s 130 pound body five feet down the hallway. She was dead on contact.

  When Mox heard the blast, he snatched his gun from the table, reached in his pocket and slipped the clip in. Quickly, he let off six shots hoping it could buy him some time, and then he got low.

  “C’mon, muthafuckas!” He whispered under his breath, holding his weapon firmly.

  Hulk stepped over Kim’s stiff corpse and peeked around the corner. He pushed his back off the wall and let the twin 50’s rip. The small missiles tore through the air crashing into anything in the way. Glass shattered, dust and smoke filled the atmosphere and Mox sat composed, awaiting his chance.

  He counted silently. “4, 3, 2…” Hearing both guns click, Mox knew they were empty. He sprang to his feet, gunning like Joe Montana on 4th down with the game on the line.

  Every slug that came through the barrel slammed into Hulk’s wide chest, dropping him to the plush carpet. He was choking on blood, but he still had a bit of life in him.

  Mox waited to see if there were any more shooters and then he made his way over to where Hulk was. Seeing that he was still breathing, he
tried to roll the 6’4 240 pound man over on his back and after two attempts, he finally got it.

  “Who sent you?” He growled, shoving the hot gun barrel to Hulk’s temple.

  Surveying the apartment, he could see Kim’s petite frame lying in a pool of blood. His anger intensified. “I’ma ask you again. Who—”