Murderville 3: The Black Dahlia

by Ashley

  The kid remained silent, loyal to his team as he refused to answer her question.

  Dahlia smirked. “Listen, you choose either to live or to die. In this moment, it is your choice. Now, answer my question. Who do you work for?” she repeated.

  “East Side Crips,” he admitted.

  “Don’t give me some broad answer. Give me a name,” Dahlia urged.

  “Mikel,” he said.

  “Good boy,” she said. “You are my messenger. You tell Mikel that he needs to contact me within twenty-four hours, or I’m going to make every block in this neighborhood bleed.”

  The boy was so afraid to move that he just stood there, covering himself and shaking uncontrollably, looking straight ahead. He didn’t want to look her in the eye; he was too intimidated. Darkness seemed to surround her. It was as if he was in the presence of the devil. He could feel the evil emanating from her.

  “Go,” her voice boomed. “Before I change my mind.”

  The boy took off running down the abandoned alley. Dahlia looked back at the men she had murdered in cold blood.

  “Cleanup crew?” Salim asked.

  Dahlia shook her head. “No, I want these murders to be known. I want my presence to be seen, felt, and heard.”

  * * *

  “He didn’t take my first threat seriously. Let’s send him a message he won’t soon forget,” Dahlia said. It had been three days, and she had heard no word from Mikel. She had laid down six of his workers, and it irritated her to no end that she had received no reaction. If she were a man, she would be engaged in war right now. The fact that Mikel had swept their beef under the rug had Dahlia seeing red. At this very moment, she sat in the car outside Mikel’s most profitable stash house while she had members of the African Mafia placed at Mikel’s other trap spots across L.A. If he didn’t care about his workers, she was about to target the one thing that any man loved most: his money. Dahlia had reached out to Trixie’s old working girls and had a girl at each trap house waiting to create a distraction. As Dahlia watched the rear of the voluptuous prostitute ascend the steps to the house, she salivated over the victory that was near.

  The hooker knocked on the door, pretending to be a customer, but the width of her hips instantly threw the dope boy who answered off of his square. With a goon posted on either side of the door, guns loaded, ready for action, they quickly spun and walked the hustler back into the house. Dahlia exited the car and walked up the stairs with three additional goons behind her for protection. She palmed a gun in her right hand, carrying it discreetly at her side as she entered the house. The dope boy had already been snuffed out and lay with a leaking hole to the forehead.

  “Get the money, kill the workers,” she ordered.

  The three men behind her dispersed throughout the house. Their pistols were silenced, so the men working inside had no idea that Dahlia’s crew was knocking them off one by one. Finally, she reached the top floor, where her men had cornered one of Mikel’s workers as he kneeled in front of the safe. She entered the room, her Fendi heels announcing her presence.

  “You might as well kill me, home girl, cuz I ain’t saying shit.” The kid was cocky as he was forced onto his knees, hands raised behind his head, baggy Dickies sagging from his behind.

  Dahlia didn’t have time to play. Her patience was nonexistent. She wanted to speak to Mikel, and she would cause as much chaos as possible to smoke him out of his hole.

  She put a heel in the kid’s back, forcing him to fall forward, his hands bracing on the floor to break his fall. She immediately put her gun to one of his hands.

  BOOM!

  She blew a nickel-sized hole through his hand.

  “Aghh! You crazy bitch!” he shouted in agony as he gripped his wrist and writhed, looking at his hand in disbelief. He rocked back and forth as he bit his lower lip. “Fuck!”

  “Open the safe,” she said calmly.

  All of his tough-guy bravado went out the window. “OK . . . OK,” he conceded. “Damn, look at my fucking hand, man!” Blood flowed everywhere as he held it up.

  “Open it,” she ordered. She nudged him with her gun while her men stood around.

  As soon as the kid opened the safe, Dahlia put a bullet in the back of his head. He slumped forward, his head landing on the contents of the safe. She pulled his body off and smiled when she saw the piles of money that were stacked inside. There was at least a quarter million in front of her. She grabbed two thickly knotted piles of bills and made her way to the window. She lifted the pane.

  “What are you doing?” Salim asked.

  “This isn’t a robbery. I’m just proving a point. We don’t need this money. That’s little paper to us. We’re making it rain over the neighborhood. Giving away Mikel’s hard-earned money. I’m making him come to me,” Dahlia said with a smirk. She tossed the money out of the window and watched as it fell slowly to the ground below.

  “Merry Christmas, muthafuckas!” she shouted. She went back and forth to the safe until it was empty, causing a frenzy in the hood as people began to scramble for the free money. She walked out of the house unnoticed, her goons following her. The money was too much of a distraction for anyone to even care. She got into the car and drove away, knowing that she had just insulted Mikel’s entire operation. The clash between the two of them was now inevitable.

  THIRTEEN

  MONEY. POWER. THE AMERICAN DREAM. DAHLIA HAD it all, and after her little stunt, she had the devotion of the entire city. Her name was being spoken on the blocks of every hood in L.A. She was not to be fucked with, she had made that crystal-clear, and now the money was flowing. Either you were paying weekly tithes to the African Mafia for their protection, or you were hustling Dahlia’s products. There was no negotiating, and since she had brought conflict to Mikel’s doorstep, she had not heard of even one of his traps reopening. Now that she had a hold of the lowest level of her business, she felt that it was time to tame another aspect: diamonds. While the streets were the least lucrative venture, she knew that it was important for her to turn her name into legend. As long as she had the streets, then her other business would work flawlessly. Her reputation could only be built up in the hood, on the block, and on the tips of the tongues of the people. Now that she had done that, she could elevate.

  She looked around the home that the five families had purchased for her. It was her welcome gift. She was in a new league, and she appreciated the fact that she was being accepted with open arms. It was a four-bedroom beauty that sat in the Hollywood Hills. She admired the lights of the city as L.A. came to life beneath her. The space around her was empty. Much like her personal life, her home was lonely, neglected, and dark. Her thoughts momentarily drifted to Po—not of the love she had for him, because there had been none. He was a means to an end. However, when she thought of him, she thought of the love that he and Liberty had, the same love that she had ruined. He had been at the top, in the exact same place that Dahlia now occupied, only he had chosen someone to share it with. Dahlia’s realm was lonely. There was no room for anyone else. She was too in love with power and control to ever share everything she had earned with another. “Fuck love, I’m married to the money,” she whispered.

  DING DONG!

  The ringing of the doorbell announced a visitor. She knew that it could only be one person. Salim was the only other person who knew where she lived. Dahlia crossed the room and made her way to the front door. She opened it to find a large cardboard box on her doorstep. She walked outside and down the driveway until she reached the street. Her head swiveled right, then left, only to find the road deserted. Her eyes lowered into suspicious slits as she looked back at the box. Chills went down her spine. She immediately pulled out her cell phone to call Salim. She paced back and forth, feeling as if something was awry.

  RING! RING!

  Dahlia’s head snapped toward the box as the sound of a ringing cell phone blared through the air. Her stomach knotted, and she walked slowly back toward her front door. She
lifted the flap on the box.

  Blood. Salim. Chopped into pieces and wrapped in clear plastic. His dead eyes were wide open as he stared up at her, hauntingly. She backpedaled, tripping over her own feet, as fear and shock pushed her against the door frame. Vomit tickled the back of her throat, and she couldn’t stop herself from keeling over. She gripped the side of her house as she lost her composure on the manicured lawn.

  She reached down and picked up the white letter that was taped to the box: “Beverly Wilshire Hotel. 9:00 P.M.”

  Dahlia balled up the note and exhaled sharply as she put a fist to her forehead in distress. Anger pulsed through her, and she bit her bottom lip. She knew exactly who was behind this. She had been struck, but it was a low blow. Her counsel had been taken from her. Salim was like a crutch to her. He made her transition into power much easier, because his wisdom guided her choices. Now that he was gone, the weight that he had carried seemed to build on her shoulders.

  Although she had committed some deplorable acts in the past, the unexpected sight of Salim’s remains disturbed her. She knew that she couldn’t reach out to her men to dispose of the body. She trusted no one enough to let them know where she rested her head. Frustrated and pressed for time, she knew that she would have to move the body herself. Leaving it out in the open would raise suspicions. She stepped out of her Louboutins and pushed the box off of her porch. It took all of her strength to get the box to her garage. Sweat had formed on her forehead, and she heaved as she tried to calm herself. A calm mind made rationale decisions. The last thing she wanted to do was panic.

  She rushed back to retrieve her shoes and then swiftly got into her car and backed it out of the garage. She ensured that the garage closed behind her before pulling off into the night.

  * * *

  Goose bumps formed on her arms as she sat in front of the five-star hotel. She checked the clip of the small .22 handgun that she kept tucked beneath her car seat. It was full, and although it wasn’t heavy, it would keep a nigga up off of her if she found herself in a bind. She exited the car. It was the first time she had been without protection since becoming affiliated with the African mob. She felt naked without her goons there ready to buck at the inkling of trouble. It was just her against an unknown enemy. Mikel may as well have been a ghost. She only had a name. Dahlia had no idea what he looked like, but tonight he had shown her what he was capable of. She had underestimated his gangster. Salim had been the price to pay. She had to be careful and move smart.

  As she looked at the hotel, her nerves settled slightly. He’s not going to do anything in a public place. He picked this spot so that it could remain civil, at least for now, she thought. She checked her rearview mirror before she got out of the car. She discreetly tucked the pistol into her Birkin and then swiftly trotted across the street. Her long, toned legs were complemented by the red-soled heels that graced her feet. She wore a trench coat and a silk scarf draped in true Hollywood fashion around her face. She looked like a posh heiress, which helped her blend in perfectly with the night scene of the rich and famous who frequented Rodeo Drive. She entered the hotel, every single one of her senses on full alert. The smell of fresh-cut flowers met her nose instantly. The sound of mixed chatter flooded her ears. Goose bumps formed on her neck from the cold air that circulated throughout the building. Most important, her eyes were all-seeing as her neck swiveled from left to right.

  Dahlia was on edge. She didn’t like the fact that her enemy had her at a disadvantage. Mikel knew exactly what she looked like, whereas she may as well have been blind. Any one of the men in the room could have been Mikel, and there was no way for her to distinguish friend from foe.

  Dahlia turned on her heels, scanning the lobby, and then decided to wait at the chic lounge. She would rather blend in with the crowd than stand in the lobby out in the open, looking like an easy mark. She sat on one of the stools in the crowded bar and turned around so that her back leaned against the countertop and her eyes were on the door. Impatience turned to anger as she sat, checking her watch every few minutes. A tap on the bar caused her to turn to find a striking redheaded bartender sliding her a drink and giving her a friendly smile.

  “Here you go,” the bartender said.

  “I didn’t order this,” Dahlia responded.

  The bartender pointed to a table in the corner of the room. “The gentleman over there put you on his open tab and sent it over,” the girl responded.

  Dahlia’s eyes shot to the corner of the room. “Mikel,” she whispered.

  “Let me know if there is anything else that I can get you,” the girl said.

  Dahlia dismissed her with a wave of her hand and then focused on Mikel. He was everything other than what she had expected. She had thought she would be meeting with some hoodlum, a gang leader with a body count that was reflected in tattoo art on his face. She had expected baggy pants and gangster swag, but the man she saw was so inconspicuous and well put together that she was thrown off guard. He looked more like a Fortune 500 Wall Street guy than the head of a criminal enterprise.

  He was strikingly handsome, with Spanish features. His dark hair was slicked back neatly. The Ferragamo suit he wore was custom-tailored into a slim fit, hugging his athletic build nicely. He was mysterious and at the same time one of the most attractive men she had ever laid eyes on. How had she missed him when she had scanned the bar? He lifted his glass to her with a smirk of amusement on his face. Clearly, he had been watching her as she watched out for him. Just as she suspected, he had the upper hand. She stood and crossed the room, her body’s curves gaining her unwanted attention. She turned down numerous pursuits before she finally landed before his table.

  “I take it you would be Mikel?” she asked.

  The man shook his head and then nodded behind her. “That is Mikel,” he said. Dahlia turned around as she suddenly felt cornered. Her eyes scanned the room. “He’s the Mexican kid, white button-up, jeans, by the bar.” Dahlia spotted him and simultaneously noticed the slight bulge on his hip where his pistol rested. She turned back to the man in front of her. “I am Jacob Mares. I’m his connect,” he said.

  Dahlia smirked, knowing that no matter where he was getting his dope from, she was much more major. It didn’t matter if he was from Cuba, Colombia, the Dominican Republic, or wherever. There was no cocaine, no heroin, no diamonds comparable to those found in Africa.

  “The money that you poured into the streets belonged to me.”

  “You don’t own those streets. I do. And unless you pay me, you’re not going to occupy them long,” she replied smoothly.

  Jacob smiled charmingly, sat back, and crossed one leg over the other. It was such a feminine move, but when he did it, Dahlia thought nothing of the sort. He owned her attention as his arm draped casually across the back of the booth. “You are a unique woman,” he said.

  “I’m a woman who means what she says.”

  “I didn’t call you here to engage in a war of wit,” Jacob answered. “I know who you are. I’ve done my research. The entity that you represent is very powerful. I would like to propose somewhat of a partnership.”

  Dahlia laughed.

  Jacob stood and walked behind her, purposefully rubbing his crotch against her behind as he reached around her body to pull out her chair. “Please sit. Hear me out,” he offered. “Please just hear me out.”

  Dahlia obliged reluctantly and watched him like a hawk as he rounded the table to reclaim his seat. “I don’t need a partner,” she said.

  “I’ve been doing business in these streets for years, love. I know the ins, the outs. I know the major players. I know the heads of all the gangs. I also know that drugs are minuscule on your scale. I know your ties with the Africans. You deal diamonds, not dope. You have access to women and jewels. You don’t have time to focus on the street element. I could introduce you to some very important men, men who buy the type of product to which you have access.”

  “I know men who buy diamonds. I don’t n
eed you,” Dahlia said smugly as she sipped her drink.

  “You don’t know men who buy women, though, or women who buy women, for that matter. There is an entire network of wealthy businessmen who will pay to play,” Jacob stated. “You have no idea the amount of money you are missing.”

  Now he had her attention. The main reason Dahlia had focused on the dope game first was that she was familiar with it. Selling sex was much harder. She had to establish the right circle in order to step into human trafficking. She didn’t know if she was ready. The thought of that realm was highly intimidating.

  “So you would extend this network to me, but what do you get in return? Full run of my streets?” Dahlia asked.

  “Yes, but the trade-off will be worth it. I won’t pay you to move product on those blocks, but I can purchase my product from you for a good price,” he stated.

  “You want me to become your connect,” she concluded.

  “You say connect, I say partner. It is a win-win,” Jacob said. “Neither of us wants to enter into a war. It will attract attention. It will put the spotlight on, and neither you nor I will make money from it.”

  “You have already smacked my cheek,” Dahlia replied as she peered at him. “You kill my right hand and send him to me in a box, but you talk as if you don’t want war. That is war.”

  Dahlia noticed the color drain from Jacob’s face, and she turned around to see what had caused him such a fright. She was shocked when she saw her own men, members of the African Mafia—her protection—entering the bar. She hadn’t even requested their presence. She had told no one where she was going, but somehow they knew when she needed their protection. She was apparently never left alone or unprotected. There was always someone watching. She hadn’t ordered them to stand down, so she was guarded at all times. She watched as her goons positioned themselves discreetly around the room.

  “As you can see, we did not appreciate the loss of one of our own,” Dahlia said smoothly. She had no idea how her men knew where she was, but at that moment, she was more than grateful for their presence.