Mafioso [Part 1]

by Nisa Santiago

  She had a short conversation with Ron before pivoting and marching back to her car. She climbed inside and sped off. Next, it was on to the courts at Wonderlin Tennis in Marathon, Florida, where some of the best played. Layla parked and climbed out of the car with her tennis racket. It was a picturesque day, and she wanted to enjoy it thoroughly. Her tennis instructor, Allison, was one of the best trainers in Florida and charged two hundred dollars a lesson. For Layla, learning how to play tennis was simply something to do.

  The Florida Keys had a laid-back vibe, and it was a destination for fishing, boating, and scuba diving. Layla took full advantage of it all. From shopping sprees to tennis lessons, nothing was out of her reach.

  Allison was standing on the court in a white tennis skirt, white Nike top, and tennis shoes. She had long blonde hair and tanned skin. She gripped a tennis racket as she waited for Layla. A white woman in her late forties, Allison had lived in Florida all her life. She’d started playing tennis when she was ten years old. By the time she was twenty, she’d already competed in the Australian Open, where she’d won a few matches, and then was defeated in the final of the Open Gaz de France. By thirty, she was burned out, injuring her ankle and losing her edge. From then on, she became an instructor.

  Allison frowned at Layla’s clothing. A bathing suit and wedged heels was an inappropriate outfit to play tennis in. But Layla didn’t care. After her lesson, she planned on relaxing at the beach and guzzling a few more drinks. Layla felt it was her money and her time, so she could do whatever she wanted.

  “You look nice,” Allison said with a contemptuous gaze.

  “I appreciate the compliment. As do you look nice,” Layla said, trying to sound like she thought the white lady spoke.

  “Let’s get started.” Allison walked to the opposite end of the tennis court with her racket in one hand and a tennis ball in the other. She bounced the ball, her feet parallel to the baseline. She held the tennis ball with her non-dominant hand and held the racket with her dominant hand. She moved the racket behind her as if to hit with a forehand. Her eyes were on Layla, who looked off balance. She still looked inept as a tennis player after three weeks of training.

  “Here we go,” Allison said. She was ready to toss the ball into the air and send it flying over the net to the other side. Having served thousands of times, Allison had perfected the art. Her serve could move as fast as a pitch from a major league baseball player.

  Layla stood ready on the other side, curved over slightly with the racket in both hands. She eyed Allison, knowing how fast the ball could come to her. Already she regretted not wearing the proper sneakers. Before the first serve came flying her way with the speed of a thrown fastball, she hollered, “Allison, wait a sec!”

  Allison paused. “What now?”

  “I’m taking these off. I’ll play barefoot.”

  Allison shook her head. Layla was a waste of her time as a student, but she had money. Allison couldn’t argue with the steady benjamins the ghetto queen was throwing her way. She was hoping the two-hour lesson went by quickly. The Brooklyn lady didn’t belong on her tennis court, but Allison would never say it to her face.

  As soon as Layla kicked off her shoes and stood barefoot on the court, she at once regretted it. The sun against the ground was hot, and her pedicured toes felt like they were about to fry on the sidewalk.

  “Damn. I ain’t know this ground could get so hot,” she griped.

  Allison sighed. “What size do you wear?” she asked.

  “I’m a six.”

  The tennis instructor huffed. She had tennis sneakers in her locker inside the clubhouse, maybe in Layla’s size. It didn’t matter if they played or not, Allison was still being paid. As the instructor walked off the tennis court, Layla’s cell phone rang.

  She hurried over to answer it. She removed the mobile from her purse and looked at the caller ID. Unknown number. Right away she heard a recording saying, “You have a collect call from Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women, do you accept the charges?”

  Layla immediately accepted the charges, and the call went through.

  Maxine said, “Layla, hey.”

  “Maxine, hey, did you get the month’s commissary I sent you?”

  “I did. Thanks, Layla.”

  “Cool.”

  “So how’s the weather in Brooklyn?” Maxine asked.

  “I’m in Florida right now.”

  “Oh really? What’s going on out there?” she asked.

  “Nothin’ much. Just business.”

  The two talked like no time had passed, and they were still best friends—like it hadn’t been twenty years since Maxine had been incarcerated.

  “You good, Maxine? What’s the situation wit’ them bitches that been fuckin’ wit’ you?”

  “I been avoiding them,” Maxine replied in a meek tone. “That’s all.”

  “Maxine, you need to stand up for yourself. Damn, fuck a bitch up.”

  “Layla, I’m no fighter . . . never have been.”

  “That’s always been ya fuckin’ problem, girl.”

  Layla could only imagine what they were doing to her girl inside the prison. She envisioned Maxine being raped and sodomized. She saw her eating out a bitch’s pussy late nights by force. She saw her girl washing drawers and being punked and beaten. She even imagined a few male correction officers were getting pussy from her.

  “I need another favor, Layla,” Maxine said shyly.

  Layla knew it was coming. “How much this time?”

  “Fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “That same bitch, Shiniquia?”

  “She runs things up in here,” Maxine said.

  “I can handle her a different way, Maxine,” Layla said.

  “I can’t have that on my conscience, Layla. You know that’s not me.”

  “A’ight, I’ll put some money into that bitch’s commissary and send a check to her fuckin’ family. It’s no thang. But I hate to see them take advantage of you like this.”

  “Thank you,” Maxine said. “I’ll be okay.”

  The money was to keep the wolves off Maxine’s back and give her some breathing room inside the prison. Maxine was grateful that Layla was paying the extortion money. She didn’t have to. But she did.

  “Maxine, you know what that jury and that fuckin’ prosecutor did to you was fucked up. You don’t deserve this.”

  Maxine replied softly, “It was a long time ago.”

  “I know, but I think about that night every day,” Layla lied.

  “I try not to.”

  “You know, Maxine, it’s your fault too for not listening. You could have handled things better that day, you feel me?”

  “Yeah, I feel you,” she replied halfheartedly.

  “I told you let’s bounce, but you wanted to see blood that night. You were so in love wit’ dude.”

  “Um, hmm.”

  Maxine allowed Layla to spew lies and say it was her own fault she’d received a twenty-five-year sentence.

  Layla continued, “But I held you down anyway like a fool. Shit, it coulda been both our asses up in that fuckin’ prison over some nigga!”

  Maxine could hear Layla getting upset. “You’re right. I was young and dumb back then. And I’m sorry I put you in such a compromising situation.”

  “No need to apologize, girl. We’re like sisters, and I will always have your back.”

  Layla went on and on about how she was such a good friend for looking out for Maxine and promising her that the day she got out, she would be taken care of—money, clothes, a house, cars. Whatever she needed, Layla promised it would be there for her.

  The conversation soon reverted back to Layla’s life. “Guess what?” Layla spoke excitedly.

  Maxine was nonchalant. “What?”

  “I’m building my famil
y something big. My husband and I bought some land down here in Florida, and we started construction on several homes for us and the kids. Can you believe we’re putting almost twenty million into this project? I’m gonna send you some pictures when it’s done.”

  It drove Maxine crazy that Layla never had a conversation with her about marrying Scott. One day, shortly after Maxine was incarcerated, Layla mentioned she had gotten married. And then she was pregnant. It was all a mystery until she began sending photographs, and there he was. Scottie.

  “How are the kids?”

  “They’re doin’ fine.”

  “Good to hear,” Maxine replied dryly.

  “Next time you call, hopefully, I’ll have Gotti wit’ me. I’ll have him speak to his auntie. I know he would like it.”

  Maxine could not care less. On her last phone call to Layla, Layla asked Gotti if he wanted to talk to his Auntie Maxine, and he refused. He was a spoiled brat. Bonnie and Clyde also declined to get on the phone and speak to Maxine. They didn’t care about her. They’d never met her and gave less than a fuck about her and their mother’s war stories from the past.

  A beep chimed into Layla’s cell phone. It was Scott.

  “Maxine, my husband’s calling. We’ll talk later. Keep ya head up, girl.” She hung up quickly and switched over to Scott’s call. “Hey, baby.”

  6

  Maxine frowned as she placed the phone receiver on the hook. The dayroom was filled with female inmates and chitchat, and Judge Judy was playing on TV. It was the prisoners’ favorite show to watch during the day. Dressed in light blue from her shirt to the pants, she turned, looking deadpan. If Layla could see her today, she wouldn’t recognize her. A lot had changed about her. Her cornrows were long and fat, and the look in her eyes was a lot harder than twenty years earlier.

  Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women (LCIW) in St. Gabriel was the only female correctional facility in Louisiana. The place had been home to Maxine for two years now. Her arrival created no problems with the other inmates and the locals from the state. Throughout the past two decades, Maxine had been moved a few times due to her violent behavior. Inside the prisons, she was known as Max. There was no more Maxine. The only person who called her Maxine was Layla. Layla thought she was still a gentle, weak person people picked on and took advantage of. Layla had no clue about this side of her, and that was the way Max wanted it.

  An inmate attempted to turn the channel, but Max quickly shouted, “Bitch, you turn that fuckin’ channel and I’ll break your fuckin’ arm.”

  The inmate, who was bigger than Max, bowed down and took a seat quietly in the chair.

  Inside the prison, Max was top dog. She had plenty of women who pledged their allegiance to her. Her prison record showed a vicious girl and a tough nut to crack. In her last prison, she broke a girl’s nose with a metal chair, putting the bitch in the hospital for three days. Before that, she’d assaulted two girls who stole from her by slashing their faces. Both girls were put into ICU, and criminal charges were brought up on Max but were eventually dropped. Not even correction officers were safe from Maxine’s wrath. She’d broken a rookie female officer’s wrist when the young girl made the mistake of putting her hand through the slot in the jail door. Max had a profound dislike for the woman, and when the opportunity surfaced, she grabbed the guard’s hand and twisted it until it snapped. The female officer cringed from the pain and hollered while Max smirked.

  Max was now a forty-year-old O.G. doing time for murder. Inside the prison, she peddled drugs, sanctioned hits, and ran the dayroom.

  Back in 1994, it was a hard pill to swallow that Maxine, a meek, pretty law student, could beat a bitch like Sandy to death. It was a cold act to kill a pregnant woman, and that stigma stuck with her.

  Her parents were highly disappointed and shocked at the crime she was charged with. For years, they felt she had been railroaded into taking the blame for someone else. They were determined to free their baby girl and clear her name from any wrongdoing, but it didn’t work out the way they’d planned.

  Once upon a time, Maxine saw herself becoming a successful trial lawyer and, subsequently, a federal judge. But that dream died long ago. Now she was consumed by bitterness.

  Max took a seat alone and watched Judge Judy for a half-hour in the dayroom, then went back to her cell. She sat on her cot and removed a few pictures from under her bunk. They were pictures of Layla and Scott and the life they’d made together.

  Although Max had become hardened in prison, the place didn’t turn her out. She refused to become a dyke. She refused to ever give her heart to anyone, male or female. She pleasured herself with her fingers, but it was rare because her main desire was seeking revenge on everyone that did her wrong, primarily Layla.

  Shiniquia walked into Maxine’s cell and asked, “So she gonna send out the check?”

  “Yeah, sometime this week,” Max said.

  Shiniquia smiled. “Stupid bitch.”

  “Words right out of my mouth.”

  Shiniquia sat next to Max. They looked at a few pictures of Layla’s glorious life with her money and her family. Contempt was on Max’s face. Layla had some audacity, showing off her wonderful life to Maxine, when she was the one who’d murdered Sandy and the unborn baby. Not only did Layla allow Maxine to take the fall and carry the weight, she also married Maxine’s man, Scottie, and gave him six kids. Max couldn’t put the betrayal into words. It stung so deeply, her blood boiled with rage. No one on earth could get over what had been done to her. Max couldn’t cry anymore. She was done crying. She’d accepted her fate a long time ago. She’d become the bitch she should have been twenty years ago.

  “I’ll call my brother tomorrow and let him know we all good on our end,” Shiniquia said. Max nodded, her eyes lingering on Scott’s picture. So many years later, he was still handsome and looked more distinguished. The picture she liked the most was Scott seated in a high-back leather chair in some office, clutching a cigar and looking stoic. He was wearing a gray suit with a blue tie, had grown a goatee, and a low Caesar haircut. Twenty years ago, she would have done anything for him. He was the love of her life. He took her virginity, and he was the only person she had ever been with.

  She remembered the first time they met. She was so childlike and chaste. She was seventeen and about to graduate from a prestigious private school in Brooklyn. Good Shepherd Catholic Academy groomed some of the best young minds in the borough. Maxine was smart and had wanted to be a lawyer since she was young. She had been accepted to several colleges and had scholarships lined up because she was an A+ student. She’d chosen John Jay because she wanted to stay close to home. Her parents were proud of her. They’d raised a fine, beautiful young girl uncorrupted by the grime of the streets. But all that changed a week before her graduation.

  ***

  It was a balmy June, with the sun beaming down on the city. Maxine exited the elevated subway on Rockaway Avenue with her school friends. Dressed in their Catholic school uniforms and carrying their books, they talked happily about the coming graduation day.

  Scottie, riding shotgun in a black Benz, spotted the beautiful face from afar. Maxine looked his way but turned suddenly. She was shy. Scottie was smitten by her beauty and told his friend to pull over.

  He exited the Benz and approached Maxine and her friends. “Congratulations,” Scottie said to the girls clustered in front of the bodega.

  He had their attention. He was a tall, handsome young man dressed in expensive jeans, a tank top that accentuated his muscular build and tattoos, and Timberland boots.

  “Why you congratulating us?” the mouthy girl in the group asked.

  “Because y’all about to graduate, right?”

  They looked shocked.

  He smiled and said, “The yearbook in y’all hands gave y’all away.”

  They all looked somewhat embarrassed.
<
br />   Scottie set his eyes on Maxine. He couldn’t turn away. It was apparent to the group of girls who he wanted to chat with.

  “And what’s your name, beautiful?” he asked Maxine.

  Maxine’s friend Jennifer spoke for her. “Maxine.”

  Maxine shot Jennifer a look like, Why did you tell him my name?

  Jennifer shrugged.

  “Since y’all ’bout to graduate, let me buy y’all something,” he said. “My treat.”

  One of the girls said, “Oh, you ballin’ like that?”

  “I do me,” Scottie replied.

  Maxine was the only one who looked reluctant, which turned Scottie on more. Something about her was alluring. Maybe it was her shyness; he didn’t know. He knew one thing for sure, though. He had to have her.

  Scottie treated the girls to Chinese food and sneakers from the local clothing store. Maxine turned down his generous offer. How would she explain brand-new sneakers to her parents? She wasn’t working.

  He didn’t push. He respected her decision.

  Looking at Maxine, he said to the girls, “Listen, can I get a moment alone wit’ your cute friend here?”

  “If she’s cool with it,” Jennifer said.

  Maxine didn’t know how to react. The thought of being alone with a handsome thug like Scottie sent her into panic mode.

  “I need to get home,” she said.

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “Girl, we good, and he fly. Do you, Maxine. Have some fun for once,” Jennifer said.

  Maxine sighed heavily. Peer pressure made her accept the ride home. She nervously climbed into the back seat of the Benz, while Scottie sat in front with the driver. Scottie asked questions, and she gave him one or two-word answers, simply smiling and nodding. He complimented her beauty countless times, which made her blush.

  It took a lot for her to open up to him. But Scottie was relentless, and she opened up finally. He couldn’t drop her off directly in front of her parents’ home. She couldn’t be seen climbing out of a drug dealer’s car. Scottie had his friend park a block away from the house and made his friend step out of the car while he and Maxine stayed seated and talked for almost an hour. He loved everything about her. She took down his number and promised to call him.