It was risky to contact the detective in hostile territory, but this was their only chance. Whistler and Lucky took an empty seat in the back, keeping a keen eye on the detective as he met with Katrice, a beautiful, curvy woman. The two kissed, and Jones smacked Katrice on the ass playfully. She giggled. They downed a few drinks and mingled.
A half-hour passed, and like always, Detective Jones was the life of the party. He continued to fondle and kiss his mistress openly. He was a killer and a drug dealer with a badge, and yet, everyone appeared to love him and treat him like he was their golden boy.
“We gonna do this or what?” Lucky asked, ready to make her move.
Whistler nodded.
Lucky stood up and strutted toward the bar. Turning down a few male advances, she kept her eyes on the detective and subtly stood near him.
Being the dog he was, Detective Jones couldn’t help taking in Lucky’s sexy dress, and his eyes immediately filled with lust. She was too beautiful to resist flirting with. With Katrice away in the bathroom, he turned her way and said, “Can I buy you a drink, beautiful?”
“I’m fine,” Lucky said.
“You’re new here. Where you from?”
Lucky smiled at him and slyly slipped him a small folded piece of paper. He looked hesitant to take it, but he did. She then said to him, “How about I’ll buy you a drink?” She walked off, leaving Jones baffled.
Detective Jones unfolded the piece of paper and read:
We can make you a richer and more powerful man than deuce. If you’re interested in hearing about our offer, meet me in twenty minutes at this location. We come with gifts.
The detective turned to look for Lucky, but it was like she had vanished into thin air.
The address wasn’t far from the bar, ten minutes to be exact. He frowned, not knowing what to think of it. It could be a setup, but he needed to investigate it. The cop in him made him go.
***
After Katrice came back from the bathroom, Detective Jones cut their date short, downed a shot of tequila, and left the bar in a hurry, leaving her scratching her head. He hopped into his truck and sped off.
Immediately, Jones got on his cell phone and made a call to one of his subordinates. “We might have a situation. I need you to meet me at this location right away.”
As he hurried across town, he checked his 9mm for ammunition and his backup holstered at his ankle. He was ready for any confrontation or a trap. The detective stopped his truck in front of the row house and killed the ignition. He cautiously scanned his surroundings as he climbed out of the vehicle.
His backup, Detective Phelps, arrived just in time. “Jones, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’m gonna find out.”
Right on cue, Lucky emerged from the row house.
Jones no longer looked at her like a good piece of pussy to fuck, but as a suspect. He narrowed his eyes at her and barked, “What games you playin’ with me, bitch? You know who I am?”
Lucky smiled. “I do. That’s why we came to you.”
Whistler soon flanked her, and in good faith, tossed a small duffel bag at the detective’s feet.
“What’s this?” Jones asked.
“Our gift to you,” Whistler said.
Detective Jones looked at Phelps, who shrugged. He was just as clueless. Both men seemed on edge. Jones crouched toward the bag and slowly unzipped it. He was shocked to see what was inside—bundles of cash, totaling fifty thousand dollars. It was a lot of money.
“Now that we’ve gotten your attention, can we talk?” Lucky said coolly.
Jones was still apprehensive, but he followed them into the row house, with Phelps having his back.
“Only you, Jones,” Whistler said. “Your partner stays outside.”
Jones shot back, “He goes where I go.”
“Our deal is only with you, not him,” Whistler said sternly.
Apprehensive and reluctant, Jones yielded to Whistler’s demands and told Phelps, “I’ll be okay.”
Phelps nodded.
Detective Jones followed the duo into the kitchen. He still clutched the bag of money.
Lucky lit a cigarette and looked at the cop. “You’re impressive. I like you a lot. You’re very flashy on a cop’s salary—nice home, nice truck, nice watch. Nice side-bitch too.”
“Who are you people? And what do you want with me?” Jones spewed irately.
“Look, we know everything about you, Detective Jones,” Lucky said. “You’re connected to Deuce and his crew. You’re everything to them. Now we want you to become everything to us.”
Jones chuckled faintly.
“As you can see, we mean business,” Lucky said, pointing to the bag of money he held onto.
“And why should I trust you two? I don’t know shit about you or him.”
“You know my father, detective?” Lucky asked.
“Who the fuck is your father?”
“Scott West. From New York.”
Jones had heard the name and some of the stories.
“What would he want with a small city like Wilmington, Delaware?” Jones was bewildered by the proposal.
“The same reason Deuce is down here—there’s lots of money to be made in Delaware, and we want in. DMC’s product is far inferior to ours, Detective, believe me. With what we’re bringing to the table, profits will increase tremendously.”
“And so will the violence and bloodshed. We got a good thing going here, and why would I want to rock the boat, huh?”
“Either with or without you, we’re coming, Detective, and we’re gonna be like Rome, annexing everything we can get our hands on. When it’s over, there will be nothing left to profit from,” Lucky said.
Jones suddenly found himself in a tight spot.
“Right now, all we’re asking from you is intel,” she added.
Detective Jones stood silently for a beat. He had a lot to ponder quickly. “I want double what DMC was paying me.”
Lucky nodded.
“I can assure your crew, your dealers, your drug mules, and enforcers absolute protection from my people when they’re in town from New York. You’ll have complete run of the town to profit anywhere. You’re gonna have to murder DMC’s crew within a reasonable timeframe, because Deuce will know a new product has infiltrated his town, and he will know I’m cooperating with his competition. But no violence—no bloodshed in my city, you understand? I can’t have bodies dropping and piling up all over the streets. This isn’t New York—that type of heat in Wilmington will attract attention and the feds. And I can’t protect you from the feds.”
Lucky smirked at his comment. Like he could protect her from anything.
“We have our ways of doing things, Detective,” Whistler replied coolly.
If they had to dump the bodies in another town over, burn, or bury them, it would get done.
Jones told them if the money was right, he would give up everything he had on Deuce and the DMC. Just like that, the cop switched sides. The deal was made, and Jones shook hands with Lucky and Whistler.
As Jones was about to leave, he said, “Don’t underestimate Deuce. He’s as vicious and as deadly as they come. You deal with him, or he’ll deal with you.”
Lucky took the warning in stride.
Outside, Phelps asked Jones, “What was all that about?”
Jones chuckled slightly. “We just got traded to the other team.”
10
Dressed in a black tank top highlighting his lean physique, black cargo shorts, and black Nikes, Meyer took a pull from the Newport as he watched Lollipop work the stage at She Dreams. He sported a huge diamond in his left ear, diamond rings, a Rolex watch littered with small diamonds, and a long chain around his neck. He was too jumbled with diamonds. Having been born into street royalty, Meyer fel
t he was the prince of Brooklyn and the Bronx. She Dreams was his personal playground and a front business for his father. He was young, rich, handsome, and powerful. And spoiled. As promiscuous as he was flashy, he’d had sexual relations with several of the strippers.
“Diced Pineapples” blared throughout the Bronx strip club. The provocative song made all the girls amped.
Wearing nothing but clear stilettos and glitter, Lollipop put on a show for the audience. She twerked and spread her legs, exposing her sweetest asset. Then she moved to the pole and worked it like a snake, coiling around the polished staff and suspending herself a few feet above the stage.
Lollipop was flexible and beautiful. She had bouncy tits, a flat stomach, and a brown bubble-ass. Her hair was cropped and wavy, bringing out a cute baby face and innocent smile that could light up the dim club. She slowly worked her way down to the stage and rolled around on the parquet, showing off her tricks for a treat.
Meyer stood there amused and stimulated by the sight of Lollipop and her talents. Jealousy bubbled inside him as he watched customers touch her naked assets and tip her money.
Out of all the girls he’d fucked in the club, she was the only one who made him feel a certain way. He didn’t know why. She was twenty years old, and a high school dropout with a one-year-old daughter to support. He took another pull from the Newport and exhaled.
Though young, Meyer was sharp with business and the streets. He learned from the best, and he came from the best. His father trusted him with handling a multi-million-dollar segment of the family organization.
Meyer controlled the cutting, packaging, and sale of cocaine in the city, operating two large mills in Brooklyn. Both locations were fortified with walls reinforced with steel and concrete, high-end surveillance equipment, and guards with machine guns. He supplied the dealers in the urban jungles of New York City. He was their connect.
One of Meyer’s goons whispered something in his ear.
Meyer nodded, finished his cigarette, and flicked it away, not caring who it hit. He pivoted and marched toward his office in the back of the club. Upon opening the door, he saw Sergeant McAuliffe seated behind his desk, looking like he owned the place. The cop had company—one of his corrupt pigs to have his back.
Meyer frowned at the presence of the sergeant. “Why you here?”
“It’s that time of the month, Meyer. Come on, don’t act brand-new to this,” McAuliffe replied.
Sergeant McAuliffe was in his early fifties and was as white as they came. He was a big-framed man with a thick chest and a large stomach, a long, wide face, a head full of salt-and-pepper hair, and the puffy eyes of a drinker. He wore a wrinkly shirt with no necktie, blue jeans, and discount footwear.
“You in my seat,” Meyer complained.
“It’s a very comfortable chair; I might have to get me one myself.”
“I’ll give the chair away to charity, since you done tainted it. Maybe you can take it to your cage to rot in,” Meyer mocked.
Sergeant McAuliffe smiled. “I don’t want to do a song and dance with you, Meyer. I’m a very busy man. And, lately, you’ve been shaky with me. Now, the new arrangement I proposed—did you run it by your father?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“I’m still waiting for an answer. To jump from ten grand to twenty-five grand a month—it’s a significant number.”
“Spare me the pity. Your family can afford it.”
“How about we replace you altogether?” Meyer said, half-joking.
“Is that a threat?”
“You can take it as you want, Officer—I never liked you in the first place,” Meyer said through clenched teeth.
Sergeant McAuliffe lifted himself from the expensive leather chair, looking at Meyer coolly. His partner remained nonchalant in the corner. McAuliffe removed his badge from his hip and placed it on the desk, for Meyer to see.
“You wanna measure dicks, you smug little muthafucka? I guarantee mine will have a longer reach. I’ve been loyal to your family’s organization for years. Helped protect y’all from prosecution and demise, so don’t fuck with me! You see that badge? You know what that is? That’s longevity, muthafucka. You may think you and your family are untouchable, but I’ve seen your kind come and go. Your family has some staying power because your father has always been smart. He understands there’s a balance to this thing we do. You start tipping the scales, and everything will fall over. Don’t a damn thing last forever—You better not forget that.”
Meyer stood silent. He was unmoved by the cop’s speech. He nodded to his only goon in the room, who promptly disappeared.
McAuliffe picked up his badge from the desk and reattached it to his hip. “I’m retiring soon, and I want to be very well compensated for all I’ve done for this organization. Twenty-five thousand dollars a month isn’t asking much. And don’t think I haven’t been keeping records. I’m not ignorant. Y’all have a file on me, and I have one on y’all. We can throw all the dirt and get muddy, but what’s the point? Balance is the way of life, right?”
Meyer’s thug returned and placed a large stack of cash on the desk. Meyer locked eyes with McAuliffe. “There’s your payment—ten thousand. Like I said before, the raise hasn’t been approved by my father yet. We’ll see.”
Sergeant McAuliffe picked up his money and smirked at Meyer. “This doesn’t have to be difficult, Meyer.”
“It doesn’t have to be anything,” Meyer replied.
There was substantial tension between the two men. Meyer had his personal reason for not liking McAuliffe. The sergeant’s penchant for young, black pussy had become a nuisance to him. He was an asshole and a pervert.
Before departing, McAuliffe grinned at Meyer. “You have a very balanced life, Meyer.” He and his secondary left the room.
Meyer stood in the doorway and kept his eyes trained on McAuliffe as he moved through the strip club and then stopped where Lollipop was standing. He gently took her arm and pulled her closer to him, whispering something into her ear that produced a smile and a giggle from her. Then he fondled her ass.
Seeing this, Meyer fumed, ready to storm the officer’s way and confront him with violence. But his henchmen took hold of his forearm and prevented him from moving further.
“Meyer, not now,” one of them said. “Keep cool. He’s tryin’ to fuck wit’ you.”
Sergeant McAuliffe knew how Meyer felt about Lollipop. He purposely looked Meyer’s way to see the reaction from him. The officer smirked then exited.
Meyer couldn’t help himself. He went to Lollipop. “What the fuck did he say to you?”
She saw the seriousness on his face. “He said, ‘Smile, because you’re too beautiful not to.’”
The thought of that white pig touching Lollipop enraged Meyer. “Meet me in my office,” he ordered her.
She went into his office, and the moment she stepped foot through the door, Meyer roughly slammed her against the wall and wrapped his hand around her neck. “I don’t want you talkin’ to that muthafucka, you hear me?”
“He came to me,” she said.
“I don’t give a fuck! You stay away from him, you hear me?”
Lollipop nodded meekly.
Irritated by the cops’ presence, Meyer needed a release. He ripped away her thin G-string, pushed her against his desk, and turned her around forcefully. She knew the deal. Her body curved over his desk, he quickly unfastened his jeans and took her from the back, slamming himself inside her. Lollipop was his bitch, and he wanted no one else touching her.
11
Scott rode with Meyer and Bugsy through the Holland Tunnel heading toward New Jersey. Also with the family were three armed goons. The roomy, luxurious black Lincoln Navigator provided enough space for everyone. The trip to New Jersey was mostly quiet, each man occupied by his own thoughts. Scott puffed on a cigar
and gazed out the window. He was seated beside Meyer, and Bugsy rode shotgun.
Bugsy looked casual in a pair of black slacks, a button-down, and shoes—wanting to emulate his father—and Meyer looked hood in a throwback Falcons jersey, jeans, beige Timberlands, and lots of jewelry.
Finally, Scott broke the silence inside the vehicle and said to Meyer, “I want you to pay Sergeant McAuliffe the twenty-five thousand a month.”
Meyer looked stunned by his father’s decision. “You serious?”
“I am.”
“But, Pop—”
“It’s my decision, Meyer. Don’t go against me,” Scott advised his son.
Meyer couldn’t help but to tighten up his face and look away from his father. He was disappointed. A regular cop extorting them for more money? In his eyes, it showed a sign of weakness. They were an influential family, and McAuliffe was nothing to them. He was itching to get rid of McAuliffe—give him an early retirement party of his own. He remained quiet, longing to change his father’s mind.
The Lincoln Navigator drove into a suburban community in East Brunswick, New Jersey and toward a semi-large church with a large brick steeple pointing into the blue sky. The boys were stunned to be at a church.
The driver killed the ignition, and Scott and his sons climbed out of the truck. They were there to meet their supplier, Javier Jesus Garcia.
“Hell of a location,” Meyer joked.
Scott didn’t reply to his son’s comment. He coolly fastened the buttons to his suit jacket and walked toward the front entrance. His sons and his goons followed behind.
Inside the foyer of the church, the men were greeted by several of Javier’s security guards. The men weren’t strangers to each other. Javier’s men searched the group, and they were allowed to enter farther to meet Javier inside the congregation area.
Javier walked down the aisle, his eyes focused on Scott and his two sons. “You’re a punctual man, Scott. One of the things I like about you.”
“I don’t do CP time,” Scott replied.
The two shook hands. There was a level of respect between the two.
Javier Garcia was Mexican-born and raised in a small town of Imala, Sinaloa. He grew up destitute. His life of crime started at eight years old, when he joined a band of thieves to rob and steal from tourists and local businesses. By the age of twelve, he’d graduated from petty theft to drugs, smuggling, and murder. By seventeen, Javier was a seasoned criminal with a fierce reputation and had become a top enforcer, moving up the ranks of the cartel through sheer violence and cunning.
Mafioso [Part 1] Page 7
