Mafioso [Part 1]

by Nisa Santiago

  “Good vetting,” Scott said.

  “I learned from the best,” she replied. “You told us, Dad, never get too comfortable in one area, never keep your eggs in one basket, and before you make moves, do your homework, and make sure it’s A-plus work.”

  Scott quizzed, “What else?”

  Lucky thought there wasn’t more to it. She shrugged.

  “I taught you to never build your empire on someone else’s land.”

  Whistler added, “Exactly. Who’s runnin’ the ship down there now?”

  “Some niggas from Baltimore. They call themselves DMC . . . Deuces Money Crew. And the man they report to, his name is Deuce. What they’re pushing, the fiends can’t even get a good minute high on. It ain’t shit, but they’re making millions in just this one section alone off that weak shit they got. Dad, we go down there with what we have, the purity in our shit, and we can make money hand over fist. It’s gonna be a flood of money.”

  Scott said, “Expansion into Delaware means getting your hands dirty, baby girl. The takeover. Are you ready for a war with this crew?”

  “Dad, you know my blood.” Lucky smiled. “Our blood don’t pump red Kool-Aid. I’m ready to make this family some more money.”

  “Unnecessary violence brings the attention of the police, and sometimes the feds, and in a small state like Delaware, the backlash of going to war could be devastating to the family business,” Scott said.

  “The sweet thing about this area, Dad, is the nearest police station has been corrupted by greed. Deuce got a few of these pigs on his payroll. I know this for a fact.”

  “Lucky, you should just stick to what you know,” Meyer said. “Fuck Delaware! We too big of an organization to be going to war with some clown niggas called DMC over some small patch of grass.”

  Lucky spat at him, “Did anyone ask you, Meyer?”

  “I’m just talkin’ here.”

  “You need to shut the fuck up!” Lucky snapped.

  “L, I know you ain’t trying to rise up and bite at your big bro?”

  “Stay in your lane, Meyer, and I’ll remain in mine. Capisce?”

  “You always been ignorant and impatient, reaching for places you know you can’t touch. What the fuck is Delaware anyway? Some hick-ass town not even on the map.”

  “Meyer, I’m so sick of your cynical bullshit! Fuck you!”

  “Enough!” Scott barked out at his kids. “This is a family, and we keep any hostility outward, toward everyone else.”

  Immediately, the minor quarrel with Meyer and Lucky ended. They knew better than to go against Scott.

  Scott, his expression blank, took another pull from his cigar as he eyed his children. He loved his kids greatly, but sometimes the nitpicking between them was tiresome. Each had their own potential. They were young, well groomed, and trained for success in the drug world.

  Scott didn’t need to rush for anyone. He took his time to speak, the room being silent. He took another pull from the cigar and placed it into the vintage ashtray near him.

  “Do you feel you can reach out to the officers and strike up some kind of deal with them?” Scott asked.

  Lucky smiled and nodded. “Yes.”

  “I don’t want any unnecessary problems in Delaware. This is your thing, okay? So handle it with prudence and acuity.”

  “Dad, I got this,” she assured him.

  “I know you do.”

  Scott listened intently as Lucky laid out all the intel she had gathered about how lucrative a takeover could be for their organization.

  With Delaware out the way and Scott sanctioning the expansion, the group continued with other business. Scott turned to Meyer and questioned him about business in the Bronx. Meyer dotted his i’s and cross his t’s. He showed his father the books, and the numbers were up. Business was good.

  Bugsy was up to bat. Heroin use had increased significantly in the city, with areas like Long Island, Whitestone, and Yonkers tripling usage. The ones who feared needles snorted the stuff up their noses. White kids, especially in Long Island, were hooked on it. It was the 70s all over again.

  Tall and handsome, Bugsy wanted to emulate his father. Like Scott, he sat at the table dressed in a sharp black suit, blue tie, five-hundred-dollar shoes, and an Audemars similar to his dad’s.

  Meyer was the opposite of his twin brother, choosing to sport urban gear, a stylish T-shirt, denim shorts, Timberland boots, a Yankees fitted skewed on top of his soft hair, and a thick gold link chain. He wanted to be the rough and edgy thug in the family. He frequented the strip clubs, showed off his wealth by making it rain on the stage with big bills, and slept around with numerous females. Meyer and his crew could get down and dirty, deadly in the streets, like they had something to prove.

  Scott ran a tight ship, and he didn’t like to be in the dark about anything. He knew about all his kids’ activities—their relationships, their habits, their likes and dislikes, and their wild ways. Out of all his children, Meyer was the craziest. Meyer and Luna were good friends outside the family business, and they hung out together, sometimes got into trouble together, and most likely, killed people together. Scott didn’t want his son to get too involved with the soldiers; they did their thing, and his family did their thing. The last thing he needed was one of his kids to get caught up in some bullshit, maybe jailed because of a dumb thing they did. The thought of it always made him cringe. But he couldn’t watch over his children and tell them what to do and what not to do forever. They were growing up, becoming their own men and woman.

  The meeting was in its second hour. Scott was in no rush for handling business and affairs. If it took all day, he was patient. Each man sitting at the table spoke, either about business or grievances. Occasionally, murders were green-lighted.

  Before the meeting ended, Meyer had one complaint he needed to bring up. He looked at his father and said, “Pop, you know that thing we spoke about last month? Well, it’s becoming a bigger headache for me.”

  Scott, chomping down on his cigar once again, stared at his son. He knew the conflict Meyer was talking about was a difficult one.

  “This fuckin’ cop, he’s out of control, Pop. He thinks that badge and gun give him the authority to fuck wit’ me. He’s getting too greedy,” Meyer griped. “Ten thousand a month we pay him; now he wants twenty-five thousand a month. What the fuck is his problem?”

  Scott sat in his seat quiet, pondering. Killing a cop was bad for business, but a few rotten apples became too big for their britches. They got greedy and wanted more money for lesser protection. Scott had dealt with these types of officers over the years. Some you could talk to and they would get the message; others were just assholes who wanted to milk a drug dealer dry. But this Sergeant Douglas McAuliffe was becoming a major tumor inside the body. The Irishman was a twenty-five-year veteran of the police force working out of the 43rd Precinct in the South Bronx. He had several killers with badges who were helpful to Scott over the years. But now McAuliffe was looking to retire. He was raising the cost to do business with Meyer and his crew. With his pension, McAuliffe was trying to build a healthy nest egg to fall back on.

  But Scott knew the real reason his son wanted the cop dead. McAuliffe had an appetite for black women, which included fucking some of the drug dealers’ girlfriends. Word around town was he had a nine-inch dick, and the black women loved to sample his goods. It so happened that Sergeant McAuliffe was having an affair with Lollipop, a popular Bronx stripper that Meyer had become smitten by.

  Meyer said, “Pop, he gotta go. He’s bad for business, you feel me?”

  “We can’t just open fire and kill a seasoned sergeant like McAuliffe,” Whistler said.

  Meyer looked at Whistler. “Why not? It’s been done before, right?”

  Whistler responded, “Youngblood, you think me and your father are two fools? C’mon, set the record st
raight—Your issue with this cop isn’t just about him wanting fifteen thousand dollars extra a month—He’s putting his big dick into the bitch you like.”

  Lucky chuckled.

  “Fuck outta here!” Meyer said loudly.

  “Watch your mouth,” Whistler sternly warned.

  Meyer frowned. “Either way, he’s becoming a problem for us!”

  Scott gave no answer. Situations like these couldn’t be resolved right away, and twenty-five thousand dollars a month was chump change that could be easily recouped in days.

  Scott said, “I’ll have people look into it.”

  “Look into it?” Meyer was annoyed with his father’s reply.

  “What did your dad say?” Whistler chimed at the twin. “You think because you’re sweet on some young pussy down at the club that we gonna kill a cop, a sergeant at that, one that is still reliable and resourceful? Think, Youngblood, think—business before your bitch!”

  Meyer leaned back in the leather chair and continued to frown.

  Scott continued smoking his cigar. Whistler sometimes was his voice; the two connected like brothers. They grew up together and did many crimes together. Without Whistler in his life, Scott knew he would have lost his a long time ago.

  Scott sanctioned Whistler, Lucky, and two soldiers to drive down to Wilmington, Delaware to make inroads with cops, dealers, and the fiends. They were to take enough cash to bribe their first cop for information on DMC, and to also get a snitch in the town. They needed to know who the major players in the Deuces Money Crew were, kill them off, and infiltrate the area. They made no move with no intel. Having intel was the key to success or failure.

  “This meeting is adjourned,” Scott said to everyone.

  Right away, everyone lifted themselves up to their feet and left the room.

  When the door closed behind the last man leaving, Whistler turned to Scott. “I’m worried about him, Scott.”

  “He’s ambitious, that’s all. All my kids are.”

  “Meyer is sweet on this bitch though. Maybe too sweet.”

  “Get our peoples on this problem. I wanna know how big an issue this is between the sergeant and my son. Helen of Troy brought an end to an entire city; I don’t want this bitch and a cop bringing an end to my son.”

  Whistler nodded. He embraced Scott with a brotherly hug and exited the room.

  Finally alone in the room, Scott walked to the window and stared out at the flatbed truck bringing junk cars into his scrap yard. Covering two acres of land on Stillwell Avenue in Coney Island, it generated legal income for him and helped to get rid of evidence. His scrap yard had proven to be a wise venture.

  5

  It was a stunning six-bedroom estate on ten acres of pristine land in the Florida Keys. The spectacular home was 6,000 square feet of luxury, with nearly every room offering water and garden views. The kitchen boasted granite countertops, stone floors, and high-end wood cabinets, and the master bedroom came with a private balcony and fireplace. Other amenities included a 60-foot boat dock, two golf courses, tennis court, an infinity-edge pool, and an attached mudroom for fishermen. The price tag for such a lavish home was 2.5 million dollars.

  Layla sauntered through the grandiose house clutching a tennis racket. She was dressed in a paisley romper over her bikini, wedge heels, diamonds, and pearls. She put a cigarette to her lips and entered the kitchen, where her twin children, Bonnie and Clyde, were at the kitchen island eating breakfast prepared by Gwendolyn, the housekeeper. The twins were beautiful, with cocoa brown complexions, and tall like their father. They were spoiled. They had everything they could ever imagine—clothes, jewelry, sneakers, shoes, and cars, although they had no permit yet. Gwendolyn was preparing a meal of shrimp, cheese grits, and caviar for Layla. It was usually Layla’s favorite.

  The smell of the food bothered Layla. She said to Gwendolyn, “Throw that shit away. I don’t have a taste fo’ it right now.”

  “Late night, Mother?” Bonnie mocked.

  “My nights are none of ya damn business, Bonnie,” Layla hissed.

  “When is Dad coming back?” Bonnie asked.

  “Whenever he gets back. You know your father is a busy man.”

  “Well, we’re bored,” Bonnie said.

  “Then go be bored out of my damn view.”

  Bonnie sucked her teeth.

  Gwendolyn did as she was told and tossed the meal into the trash can. It had taken her almost an hour to prepare.

  Layla dropped her ass into the kitchen chair, leaned back, crossed her legs, and said to Gwendolyn, “I need a fuckin’ drink. A dry martini—shaken, not stirred.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Clyde said, “It’s not even noon yet.”

  “Nigga, do I tell you what to eat or drink?”

  Clyde sucked his teeth. “It’s your life.”

  “And I gave you life, nigga,” Layla said, “so don’t worry ’bout mine.” She twirled the tennis racket in her hand. “Besides, I got lessons today, so I need somethin’ to relax.”

  “The next Serena Williams in the house. Whoopee!” Bonnie hollered.

  “You little bitch. You keep mockin’ me, and I’ll throw ya ass in the fuckin’ pool and make you stay at the bottom.”

  “I’m at the pool, Mother. Bye.” Bonnie rolled her eyes and sashayed out of the cool kitchen into the heat Florida was known for. Clyde followed behind her.

  Though Layla and her husband were filthy rich, owning homes, businesses, and land, she still was a loud, obnoxious, wannabe-bougie bitch. Whatever rich people did, she did. She ate at the finest restaurants in Florida, from South Beach to Palm Beach. She had a golf membership, but couldn’t golf. She had lots of money, but no class. The country clubs despised her presence, but they tolerated her and talked about her behind her back. They wouldn’t dare say it to her face.

  She tried to shed her Brooklyn roots to fit in with the white people down in the Florida Keys. She tried to clean up her speech, but that Brooklyn slang was still in her and would sporadically spill out when she wanted to sound proper. She would say, “Lemme ax you somethin’,” instead of ask. She would behave like this mostly around rich or white folks, but around her family, she gave no fucks.

  Gwendolyn brought Layla the martini, and she downed it like a true alcoholic. She smoked another cigarette and gathered the energy she needed to make it through the day. She removed herself from the chair and walked into the living room, where Gotti, her youngest child, was playing his Xbox One. He barely acknowledged his mother while engaged in a session of Grand Theft Auto. She went over to him and kissed him on the forehead.

  “Ma, you messin’ up my game!” he said.

  “I just wanted to give my baby boy a kiss. Is that so terrible?”

  “You gonna make me die,” he griped.

  Layla smiled and let him play his game.

  Gotti had almost every game for the Xbox. He also had a PlayStation 4 and 3, and so many toys, his room looked like Toys “R” Us.

  “I love you,” Layla said.

  Gotti said nothing back to her, his eyes fixed on the 90-inch flat-screen TV lit up with game activity. The room boomed with reverberation from the surround-sound speakers. He shifted left and right in the seat, his thumbs pressing buttons on the controller as his avatar paraded violently through a computer-generated city, shooting up cops. He was a gamer. He was about to level up.

  Layla walked out of the mansion, deactivated the alarm to her pink Maserati parked in the circular driveway, and slid behind the steering wheel. She started the engine, and the car purred smoothly. She turned on the stereo and peeled out of the driveway, tires screeching, like she was in the Indy 500. She merged onto the highway and accelerated to her first destination.

  Layla’s Maserati entered a large and dusty construction site that was less than two hundred feet away from the
ocean. The area was covered with mounds of dirt, bulldozers operating, dump trucks going in and out, an array of building materials everywhere, and over three dozen busy workers. Seven mansion-style homes were being built on the compound, and when finished, would host tennis courts, indoor and outdoor pools, and basketball courts. The main house on the lot would be the largest and would be the parents’, and each additional home was for one of their children so they could all remain close. The foundation on each home had already been poured, and Layla would oversee the development occasionally, since her husband was a busy man and always out of town. This was her passion project; from the first shovel dug into the ground, she was there.

  She climbed out of her car looking out of place in her romper. Her wedges pressed into the dirt.

  Immediately, the site manager approached her in his hard hat and dusty clothes. “Ma’am, you need to put on a hard hat.”

  Layla shot a look of contempt at him. “And mess up my fuckin’ hair? I don’t think so. I’m the boss here, so I do what I want.”

  The site manager sighed, not looking too pleased with her reply.

  Layla marched forward. The workers knew who she was. Her presence was a distraction. She was always complaining about something. She was tough, and she took no shit from the contractors who tried to give her inflated bills and high overheads. Layla had to be on her game, knowing these crackers looked at her as a rich, ghetto bitch with no knowledge of their world of construction and development.

  “Talk to me, Ron. How are things coming along? We on schedule?” she asked him.

  “Copasetic so far,” he said, “except for one thing.”

  “What one thing?”

  “The permits for the plumbing are being delayed, and the inspector came by threatening building code violations,” he said.

  “Delayed? For what reason? And what violations? The damn houses aren’t even finished yet.”

  Ron sighed. “Listen, it’s politics, I assume.”

  Layla frowned. Florida was a hard state to build in. She’d fought for her right to develop something for her family, either with her mouth or her money. She’d come this far, and she would not back down. She gazed around the large site, envisioning something so grand for her family, it would make celebrities envious.