Mafioso [Part 1]

by Nisa Santiago

  A week after Maxine’s graduation, Scottie took her shopping. It was her graduation gift. Whatever she desired, he spent cash on. She couldn’t bring her new goodies to her parents’ house, since it would raise speculation. Scottie suggested she keep her new things at his apartment, and she did. When she visited him, she would change clothes, enjoy his company, and leave for the summer internship her father had arranged at a law office in the city. After work, she would visit Scottie.

  At the end of summer of ’92, a month shy of her eighteenth birthday, he finally took her virginity. Maxine felt ready. Scottie had always made her feel wanted and comfortable. Whenever he’d tried to force sex, Maxine felt tempted but resisted. Scottie didn’t pout; he was patient with her nervousness to have sex.

  Meanwhile, Scottie was secretly screwing several other girls in Brooklyn, including Sandy.

  The night she lost her virginity to him, it was in his dim bedroom in the project apartment. Scottie gently laid Maxine on her back in his bed. He reached for her panties and slowly pulled them off, exposing her pussy never touched or penetrated by any man. He was excited to be her first. He removed his boxers, put on a condom, then positioned himself between her spread legs.

  There still was a tinge of apprehension, but this time she would go through with it. She wanted to show him how much she loved him.

  As he slowly penetrated her, she squirmed underneath him. Scottie wanted to take his time with her. Inch by inch, he pushed his erection inside of her, hearing her grunt and moan from her first sensation of penetration. It took a moment for him to get a rhythm going inside of her, but once he did, he was on cloud nine. He was thrilled to transform his girlfriend into a woman. She made him come so hard and strong, his body soared into the stratosphere.

  Maxine went from nervousness to ecstasy in less than half an hour. She enjoyed him fully too, and he was all she wanted in her life. For her, there was no other than Scottie. She saw herself marrying him and them having a lovely family together. Just like her parents.

  ***

  Max sighed internally. She had stared at the picture of Scott long enough. The memories from her past were too painful. She tossed the picture aside and continued to seethe.

  “You gonna get your revenge, Max,” Shiniquia said. “My brother ain’t no joke, feel me?”

  Max nodded.

  “Yo, that bitch is crazy to think y’all still cool after all these years and after what she did to you. I woulda had my brother do her dirty for free.”

  Max wanted to execute justice. There was no one else speaking to her. It had been a long time, and she felt forgotten. Everything had changed. No children were coming to visit her, no friends, no family. Her parents were old now, and Louisiana was too far to visit from New York. She only had herself and her reputation to keep her company. The only true friends she’d ever known were the inmates she had been locked up with.

  ***

  Shiniquia was always good company. She and Max had a lot in common. She was from a rough neighborhood in DC and grew up poor. She had little family, besides her mama, brother, and two cousins. She had no kids, and was mostly a loner. She was thirty-eight and, like Max, was doing twenty-five to life for felony murder.

  While high on crack, Shiniquia and an accomplice robbed an elderly neighbor lady who lived alone. It was believed that she kept all her cash and valuables under her mattress. They broke in through the back door of the woman’s home after nine a.m., Shiniquia carrying a loaded .22.

  They moved quickly. Assuming the woman was at church, they rummaged through the place and tore the bedroom apart looking for cash and jewelry. They were desperate to find something to pawn for crack. Shiniquia turned over the mattress to find nothing. Her accomplice worked the second bedroom.

  Suddenly, the woman arrived home and startled them. Shiniquia fired two shots into the old woman’s chest, killing her instantly. It was a knee-jerk reaction from someone not in her right mind. Both girls fled but were caught a week later and indicted. They both pled guilty to murder.

  Over the past two years, Max and Shiniquia became good friends. Shiniquia developed an attraction for Max, but Max made it clear to all the inmates that she didn’t swing that way.

  ***

  “I trust your brother,” Max said.

  “He needs the money, and he’ll get it done.”

  Layla didn’t know it yet, but she would bankroll her own demise. The fifteen-thousand-dollar check was to go to Wacka, Shiniquia’s wild, crazy brother. Wacka was a cruel and disturbed man, and for fifteen grand, he would wipe out an entire family. For now, he would start with the youngest and work his way north.

  Max had no regret. The wheels had been set in motion, and there would be no stopping it. She wanted Layla to feel tremendous pain, and Max only saw that happening by attacking the things she loved most—her family and her husband. Twenty years had neither buried Maxine’s pain nor dulled her hatred for the bitch who betrayed her. In fact, twenty years inside had only fed the bitterness and intensified her thirst for revenge.

  7

  Lucky drove her black Benz G-Wagon down the New Jersey Turnpike. Traffic was flowing freely, and she did 75 mph while Whistler rode shotgun. An inconspicuous white Sonata carrying two armed goons, Tommy and Urge, followed behind them on the Turnpike. Delaware was twenty miles away.

  Whistler and Lucky rode in silence for the moment. Whistler was never much for conversation. He had a hard face and a harder stare. Dressed in a neat black suit, he looked more like a businessman than a stone-cold killer and a drug lord’s right-hand man. He always looked blank and was an introvert most times. He looked out the window, watching cars pass by, and already he was thinking a hundred moves ahead of the game.

  “You think my father trusts me on this move?” Lucky asked him.

  “If he didn’t, then he wouldn’t have sanctioned it.”

  “I just want to make him proud of me, Whistler.”

  “He’s already proud of you.”

  “And what about you?” she asked him. “What do you think?”

  He stared out the windshield. “You’re doing fine.”

  “I just feel Delaware is the place to make some serious money. I did my homework on these niggas, and they’re stupid sloppy. We can annex these muthafuckas like the blink of an eye.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone to Delaware by yourself, Lucky. It was a dangerous move. I’m just happy that your father didn’t find out about your recklessness.”

  “I’m not a little girl anymore, Whistler. I’m a grown-ass woman, and I know how to handle myself. I can travel somewhere and not create attention. Besides, I was carrying.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but always have precaution in this business. You never know. And having a gun on you doesn’t always mean security.”

  “I got you, right?” she said, smiling at him. “You’re my precaution.”

  Whistler remained stoic—no response.

  “You need to lighten up more, Whistler. You always so dry and unemotional.”

  “Lucky, in this game, one can’t afford to have emotions. Emotions will get you killed.”

  “Whatever!”

  Lucky was just like her mother Layla—domineering with a strong personality. Sometimes she could be stubborn, and she got what she wanted by any means necessary. She loved to be in control and took no shit from anyone.

  It was a beautiful July day with temperatures in the nineties, and the AC was on full blast in the car. Lucky felt she was too beautiful to be sweating. She had a Beyoncé CD playing in the car, listening to “Formation.” Since Whistler wasn’t much of a talker, she needed something to engage her.

  Eager to start things in Delaware, she sped on the Turnpike. This was her project—her territory. Just thinking about the control she could have over the area made her salivate. They crossed over the Delaware Memorial Bridge
, paid the toll, entered Delaware, and shortly arrived in Wilmington. Lucky steered her G-Wagon into the hapless-looking blue-collar town.

  Whistler took it all in. The city moved with life, but it wasn’t a major metropolis. Every ten blocks they traveled, he noticed a police car. Some areas looked run-down, and some areas were re-developed, but overall, it was still a poor town.

  Lucky stopped her truck on N. Church Street and moved near the curb. She kept the engine idling as she climbed out of the truck and stepped foot onto the city ground. Whistler followed her exit, and the goons in the Sonata did the same thing.

  Lucky looked around at the people and the properties, and she smiled. Dressed in a navy blue jumpsuit, multi-colored bangles decorating her wrist, and heels, she looked more like a famous supermodel than the daughter of a drug lord. Her long, black hair blew in the passing breeze, and her eyes were covered with large, dark shades.

  “You know what I smell, Whistler?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Opportunity.”

  Whistler said nothing back. He was there to protect and guide her. Knowing she could be hellfire sometimes, he was prepared to do his job and make sure Scott’s little princess was unharmed.

  Tommy and Urge stood near Lucky and Whistler with dark, serious expressions. It was easy to tell they were muscle for the two. Standing firm and dressed in black despite the summer heat, each man had a Glock pistol holstered beneath his light jacket.

  “We need to move on,” Whistler advised. He didn’t want to attract too much attention. It was easy to tell they were new in town.

  Lucky nodded, and they climbed back into their vehicles and drove off. Soon, the group checked into a DoubleTree hotel on the outskirts of town. Tommy and Urge shared a room on the second floor, and Whistler and Lucky had their own rooms on the third floor.

  Whistler removed his expensive suit from his body and carefully placed it on the bed, next to the two 9mm pistols he was carrying. He was a clean-shaven man with a bald head and intense eyes. He was rather meticulous, always well dressed and careful with his things and his movement. He stood in a pair of boxers, his dark skin showing signs of years in the drug game, the streets, and prison. Scars ran down to his abdomen, a sign of his gunshot wound years earlier. There was an old stab wound to his upper back, and another gunshot wound on the right side of his chest. His physique was still muscular and showed little decline, though he was forty-one.

  He went into the bathroom and took a needed piss. Afterward, he looked at his image in the mirror for a beat. The stories he could tell. The things he’d seen, and the murders he’d committed—some were personal, but many murders were for business, precaution, and under orders.

  Not many people knew Whistler’s story—where he came from, who he was. It was a mystery to everyone. Whistler was Scott’s confidant, bodyguard, and second-in-command in the drug dealing operation. Still, Scott didn’t know everything about his trusted right-hand, although they’d grown up together. Whistler had no children, no living parents, and his quiet demeanor sometimes intimidated people.

  A knock at the door disrupted Whistler from his thoughts. He spun around, marched out the bathroom, and retrieved one of his pistols from the bed. He glanced through the peephole and saw Lucky standing outside the hotel door. He loosened up a little and opened the door. Lucky charged into the room excitedly and threw her arms around Whistler and slammed her lips against his. He wrapped his arms around her, and they kissed passionately for a moment.

  She took a break from kissing his lips. “I want you, baby.”

  Whistler closed the door. The last thing he needed was prying eyes. Lucky stood in front of him looking enticing. “You couldn’t wait?” he said.

  “No, I couldn’t. Shit, I wanted to suck your dick on the ride down here.” She touched his naked chest, aching to feel all of him inside of her.

  They moved farther into his room.

  Lucky kissed him zealously once more and felt every bit of her womanhood become moist with anticipation. Her hand reached into the slit of his boxers, and she grabbed his big dick and stroked him into a full erection. She dropped to her knees and wrapped her lips around his hard flesh.

  Whistler groaned from the tantalizing feeling of her full lips sliding back and forth around him. What she was doing to him was forbidden in the eyes of her family. Daddy’s little girl was sucking a grown man’s dick—a man old enough to be her father and there to protect and guide her while in Delaware.

  Lucky moaned while having Whistler inside her mouth. She enjoyed pleasing him. She enjoyed feeling the pulsation of his penis inside her mouth and alongside her tongue. Lucky made the forty-one-year-old so weak in the knees he needed to sit down while she continued her blowjob.

  Her parents had no clue about their love affair, which had been going on for two years, when Lucky was sixteen years old and Whistler was thirty-nine. If discovered, it would be the end of Whistler. His body parts would be scattered across the tri-state area. Whistler loved her and saw nothing unethical about it, but he was wise enough to keep things between them a secret.

  With Whistler’s help, Lucky peeled off her clothing and stood butt naked in front of him. Her young body was a marvel to see. Her tits were perky, her mound was shaven, and she had an ass like a bubble.

  Whistler removed his boxers and situated himself between her open thighs and thrust inside of her roughly. This was exactly how she liked it. Lucky didn’t have time for weak and gentle sex; she loved having her hair pulled, her pussy ravaged, and her ass smacked. Whistler had proven to her repeatedly that he was her guy. He had the stamina of a young bull.

  Both of them were rocked by intense orgasms. Lucky, held in the arms of her older lover, always felt wanted by him, and the sex with him never let her down. With their pleasure completed, it was time for business.

  8

  Leaving Lucky’s G-Wagon parked at the hotel, the foursome climbed into the Sonata and drove into Wilmington. Dust had settled in the urban environment, but the heat still raved on. This time, Lucky was dressed for street business, wearing tight jeans that highlighted her best qualities, a T-shirt, Prada sneakers, and a baseball cap. She sat in the back seat with Whistler, while Urge drove and Tommy rode shotgun.

  They turned into a drug infested area via Chestnut Street and stopped in front of the High Low Street Bar, a hole-in-the-wall cornered on Chestnut and Dunkin Streets. Word around town was that fiends and a few dealers frequented the bar, the owner once a heavy drug user himself. The plan was simple—gather information by cash or force. Whistler felt that paying off fiends for information could be useful, since drug users were the ghetto internet of the neighborhoods. They knew the players, the users, the locations, and who did what.

  Tommy and Urge stepped out of the car and walked into the bar. The two men could be as subtle as a lion in a bank. Whistler followed them into the place. Inside was seedy and dim, with sketchy characters scattered everywhere. The place was smoky with a low ceiling, and its ripened wood furniture looked ready to come apart at any moment. It was happy hour, with one-dollar beers and three-dollar drinks from seven to ten p.m. The jukebox played Otis Redding’s “Let Me Come on Home.” The chitchat was thin, but the feel of the place was tense.

  Whistler approached the bar. He stood out immediately in his black suit, gold Rolex, and alligator shoes. His two henchmen took a seat at a corner table, where they remained quiet and alert.

  Whistler told the bartender, “A shot of whiskey.”

  The man nodded and went to fix his drink.

  Whistler scanned the place and noticed everyone and everything. He wasn’t worried about the customers that bordered him. Most looked unassuming and listless, and too consumed by alcoholism to become a problem for him.

  The bartender set the whiskey on the bar counter in front of Whistler, who passed him a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the cha
nge. The man was grateful. Whistler downed the shot and asked for another. Two would be his limit.

  Whistler pulled out two hundred-dollar bills and slipped them to the bartender, saying, “In fact, drinks are on me right now.”

  The announcement of free alcohol quickly brought life to the dead inside. Twelve patrons in all felt like they were the luckiest people on earth. Whistler watched them drink everything, from white and brown liquor to Bud Lights and Coronas.

  Fifteen minutes went by before Whistler decided it was time to get down to business. He got up from the bar counter and approached his first fool, a lean man with thinning hair, sunken eyes, and dressed in hand-me-down clothing. Everything about him screamed, “drug fiend.”

  Whistler sat opposite of the man and stared at him intently. “Can we talk, my friend?”

  “It-it’s your world, friend,” the man stammered.

  Whistler nodded. “How can I get in contact with the group DMC?”

  “DMC? Dem boys are rough,” the tipsy one said.

  “I just need a name.”

  “Um, um, maybe Marty,” the man said.

  “Where can I find this Marty?”

  The man shook his head. “Don’t know.”

  After a minute of conversation with him, Whistler thought he was unreliable, figuring Marty was a figment of his imagination. He worked the next patron. His idea was to get the men drinking, because alcohol usually made lips loose, and plus, he didn’t want them to hardly remember him and that he was at the bar questioning them about the drug crew.

  His next fool was a younger fiend, late twenties with bad skin and bad hair, but he still appeared to be in his right mind. Whistler approached and sat next to him coolly. The fiend locked eyes with Whistler.