Scott was over a thousand miles away in New York, and Layla suspected his infidelity. There were rumors about other women having children by him, but she had no proof. Scott had enough money and power to cover anything up. He was a handsome and powerful man, and so many ladies wanted him. There were a few he wanted back. Though Layla was his wife, sometimes, she felt like the mistress.
***
Fabian smelled the weed, looked up, and caught Layla getting lit. He smiled, wanting to partake in the illegal recreation, but she was the boss.
“Is it hot enough for you today?” she asked him.
“It is.”
She smiled. “You want some of this bomb-ass Kush?” They stared at each other again; she could see him contemplating her offer.
“I’ll pass, Mrs. West. I need to get these hedges trimmed,” he said.
“Your loss.”
Fabian went back to tending the bushes, and Layla pivoted and walked into the bedroom. The day was growing late, and she had some business to take care of.
Layla stepped out of her Florida home looking fabulous in an ivory lace mini-dress and raffia-detailed heels. With the top down on her Jaguar XK, she soared out of the driveway and headed toward the construction site. She was upset with the unexpected lack of progress in her development project.
Once again, she met with the site manager, Ron. There was an issue with the inspection, and she was becoming dismayed at the spiraling costs. She thought she had everything under control before construction. She had meticulously gone through the right channels, spoken to the right people, funded the right amounts, and paid off what needed to be paid. Scott wasn’t around, so she had to put her boots on the ground and make moves. Now she was facing bureaucratic obstructions.
Layla climbed back into her Jaguar and headed to the city. She had a bone to pick with her property development consultant, Braxton Gambaro. He had twenty years in the business and was patient enough to explain the business to her. With a high cost. She was new at developing, but she had the money to buy up city blocks.
Layla parked in the garage under the twenty-two-story glass high-rise in the city. Gambaro was on the fifteenth floor. His office was professionally decorated with pieces of artwork from different countries—African masks, wooden sculptures, and vases. The dark furnishing blended in with the unusual patterns of décor to create a cohesive, unique atmosphere.
Layla took a seat in the leather armchair opposite Braxton’s executive desk and high-back leather chair, while he talked on the phone. A balding white man of average height with piercing blue eyes, he was sharply dressed, articulate, and smart, and he had an infectious smile. Not to mention, an eye for business and real estate.
Braxton curtailed his phone conversation and smiled at Layla. “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. West.”
“Let’s cut the formalities, Braxton, okay?” Layla replied sharply. “I just came from the construction site, and suddenly my site manager is telling me about a mountain of problems. What’s going on? You’re supposed to help me avoid these problems. I just wanna build something for my family down here and not go broke doing it.”
“Cost overruns are the nature of the business, Layla. We talked about this,” he replied.
“You keep telling me this, but I’m no fool, Braxton. I may be black and from Brooklyn, but I know what’s goin’ on here—Y’all wanna put the squeeze on me. How much?”
“Excuse me?” Braxton uttered, somewhat taken aback by her question.
“Braxton, you and I both now how things work—It takes a little extra somethin’ to get somethin’ done and done on time, right?”
“Mrs. West, are you implying that I bribe someone?”
“Look, I’m putting millions of dollars into this project for my family. Everybody always got their hand out lookin’ for something, so let me just cut through the red tape and make it easier.” Layla reached into her purse and removed a stack of hundred-dollar bills. She placed it on the center of Braxton’s desk. “That’s twenty-five thousand dollars. I don’t want any issues, Braxton. No problems with the building inspectors, no issues with getting permits, and no problems with any unions. Do you feel me?”
Braxton stared at the cash on his desk. He took a deep breath, leaned forward in his chair, and picked up the money. Braxton Gambaro was a property developer at least marginally corrupt. Layla knew to come to him with her project because of his political influence in Florida and alleged ties to the mob.
“I feel you,” Braxton said.
“Good.” Layla stood up from her seat. “It’s better to deal wit’ me than to deal wit’ my husband. He’s a very dangerous man, an’ he isn’t as patient as I am.”
She marched out of the man’s office feeling confident there would be no more issues with her project.
Layla climbed into her Jaguar and sped out the parking garage. She needed to keep herself busy and focused, mainly because she was a horny bitch with no dick in her life. She was trying to live the fabulous life to the fullest, but her sex life was in shambles while Scott was away doing God-knows-what.
16
Meyer and Bugsy stared stone-faced at Marty and listened to him talk about Deuce and DMC. He was telling them everything he knew about the organization, including the locations of a few stash houses, the muscle they had protecting it, and how DMC did business.
Marty chain-smoked, feeling uneasy in their presence. Meyer was especially unnerving with his impatience with Marty, no matter how helpful he tried to be.
“Talk, nigga!” Meyer shouted. “You fuckin’ dumb fiend! We look like we got all day for you to tell us something?”
“I’m-I’m sorry,” Marty stammered.
“Muthafucka, don’t be sorry. Open your fuckin’ druggie-ass mouth and do your job, nigga!”
Marty fretfully took a drag from his cigarette and glanced at Bugsy and Luna. They were quiet, allowing Meyer to humiliate him. These dudes looked like they could tear him apart if something went wrong or if they didn’t believe him.
Meyer frowned. He wanted to put out his Newport in Marty’s eye. He didn’t care about anyone’s feelings. He continued his taunt. “Nigga, we still waitin’ to hear something from you. Do I gotta slap you? Huh?”
Marty said, “Their main dude is Rock; he’s the town drug dealer that cops from DMC.”
“What’s he moving?” Bugsy asked. “And how many kilos?”
“He’s ’bout that powder, both brown an’ white. Don’t know the exact amount of ki’s he’s moving,” Marty said.
“We need to get at that nigga and fuck his world up,” Meyer said.
“Remember Whistler’s instruction—No unnecessary violence. We do things chill and discreet,” Bugsy reminded Meyer.
“So we just sit back and play like the police? Do surveillance on these muthafuckas and take notes, huh? What? We gonna fuckin’ indict them on charges? We came down here to make moves, not sit on our asses and play scared!”
“When we move, we gonna move correctly, Meyer. There’s still a lot to learn about this group,” Bugsy said.
“What the fuck more is there to learn, Bugsy? It’s been a fuckin’ week now, and we just lounging around lookin’ fuckin’ crazy. I’m about to lose my fuckin’ mind,” Meyer griped.
“We continue to watch them and learn more about them,” Bugsy said.
“And who made you the fuckin’ boss over me, huh?” Meyer stepped closer to his brother with a dark frown.
“Fall back, Meyer,” Bugsy warned.
“Or what, bro? Huh? You gonna run and tell Pop? That’s what you gonna do? You his little bitch, or better yet, you Whistler’s bitch, right? When we ain’t around, you get on your knees and suck his dick, right? Play nice with him and shit? Tickle his balls to give him some encouragement?”
Bugsy scowled and clenched his fists. He didn’t avert his look f
rom Meyer. He was intimidating, but Bugsy had the same fierce pedigree. The disrespect was uncalled for. Bugsy did his best to keep his composure, but Meyer knew how to push his buttons.
“You finished with your little tantrum, little brother?” Bugsy replied.
“I’m fuckin’ tired of this shit.” Meyer sucked his teeth. “This sneakin’ around, watchin’ shit, and takin’ fuckin’ pictures—we lookin’ like roaches in the fuckin’ dark.”
“We do this right, or we don’t do it at all,” Bugsy said.
Meyer sighed heavily. “Y’all got a nigga fuckin’ stressed out. Yo, I’m fuckin’ some bitch tonight. I don’t give a fuck.”
“Continue, Marty,” Bugsy said. “And sorry for the interruption.”
Meyer blew out his mouth. “Yo, what the fuck you apologizing to this fuckin’ fiend for? Huh? Who the fuck is this nigga for you to be apologizin’ to? He a bum nigga!”
“I’m just tryin’ to work wit’ ya,” Marty said.
“Yo, shut the fuck up!” Meyer screamed. “In fact, get the fuck out my face, nigga!” He rushed over and pushed Marty violently to the ground.
Marty landed roughly on his side and scraped his elbow from the fall.
Meyer stood over him and spat on him. “You get up when I say you can get up!”
Bugsy asked, “Is all that called for?”
“We ain’t being violent out there. Shit, my aggression gotta go somewhere.”
“You’re an idiot,” Bugsy said.
“Fuck you, nigga!”
Luna stood to the side smoking a cigarette and looking demonic. He didn’t interfere with family arguments.
Just as things were getting out of hand, Bugsy’s cell phone rang.
“I need to take this, little brother. It’s Whistler,” Bugsy said almost mockingly, stepping away from Meyer.
Marty remained on the floor, not wanting to anger Meyer.
***
They’d been in Delaware for a week, and they’d not yet seen any action. Whistler’s instruction was to observe then report and plan. Keep things quiet and subtle. He was in New York with their father dealing with other business, while the lieutenants were doing the tedious job of surveillance and learning the way things worked with the rival crew.
The brothers moved around town in an unassuming dark blue Ford Bronco with Marty as their guide. They were observing how members of DMC moved. They took down the dates and times of particular activities and watched drug dealers and other members operate from afar. Bugsy even snapped pictures of some of the activity and the cars they drove.
DMC’s setup was smart. They rarely talked on the phones, and when they did, everything was said in code. Most meetings were face to face, and they frequently changed up, moving the locations of certain stash houses to confuse law enforcement and stickup crews. Their security was tight and their dealings nomadic, so it was hard for anyone to get the drop on them.
***
The stash house on Pine Street was one of their busiest. The location on N. Jefferson Street was saturated with townhouses and working people. The house on N. Jefferson Street seemed the easiest to go after. There wasn’t much traffic around, and it was near the I-95 expressway.
It was late evening and hot. Bugsy sat behind the wheel of the Bronco, Meyer sat shotgun, and Luna was in the back seat. They’d been watching the place for three days. Rock ran both stash houses, so he was their primary focus.
A black Lexus came to a stop in front of the townhouse, and Rock stepped out dripping in jewelry and wearing nice clothing, looking the part of a high-end drug dealer. Rock was a young, portly African American with starting dreads. He was on his cell phone, speaking in code, unaware he was being watched.
They observed Rock go into the townhouse. He stayed inside for several minutes before coming back out, jumping into his Lexus, and driving off.
Bugsy followed him closely but subtly for several miles. He eventually ended up at Canby Park off Maryland Avenue.
Rock was to meet up with two Maryland hustlers named Black Sean and Rasun. He had been their supplier for little over a year, and his operation with them was simple. To ensure he never got caught with a large quantity of narcotics, he would meet with his clients and give them an address face to face. It was a different address twice a month. Black Sean and Rasun would drive to the location and retrieve several kilos for street distribution. Everything was built on trust with them.
Rock pulled into the parking lot of the park and waited.
Luna and the brothers were close by, watching his every movement. Five minutes passed, and they soon noticed a Tahoe drive into the park and park near Rock.
“Bingo!” Meyer was excited to see some activity happening.
Black Sean climbed out of the SUV and climbed in Rock’s Lexus.
A few moments passed, and Black Sean exited the Lexus and jumped back into the Tahoe. Black Sean had the location to pick up five kilos of heroin that he’d already paid for. The meeting with Rock was prompt and straightforward.
Bugsy followed the Tahoe with the two men, since they already knew Rock’s movements and locations. They drove for miles before they arrived at the Colony North Apartments.
In the parking lot, Rasun exited the Tahoe with his gun concealed in his waistband and went into the building to pick up the product. It was being maintained by one of Rock’s trusted crew members.
Black Sean remained seated in the Tahoe. He was armed, but he was relaxed, having done the routine so many times without incident. He smoked a cigarette and waited for his partner in crime to step out the building with the ki’s.
For the brothers, it was now or never. They were in the same parking lot ready to strike. Meyer and Luna cocked back their weapons and exited the Bronco. Meyer was itching to take care of business, but Whistler had warned them to keep things on the sly without any unnecessary violence.
While Black Sean smoked his Newport in the driver’s seat, Meyer and Luna emerged at him with swiftness.
Meyer thrust the barrel of his 9mm into the man’s face, stunning him. “You move, nigga, and I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off right now,” Meyer exclaimed.
Black Sean scowled. “I’m cool.”
They disarmed him and joined him inside the Tahoe, holding him at gunpoint. They laid low in the back seat of the SUV, ready for Rasun to come out the building with the kilos.
“Stay cool, nigga, and you get to see tomorrow,” Meyer said.
Black Sean remained still and upset. He had been caught slipping. Meyer had the gun to the back of his neck, his finger on the trigger, as they waited for his partner to come out the building.
Bugsy sat in the Ford watching it all go down. In case things didn’t go as expected, he was ready to let loose the cannon he had in his hand—a .50-cal. The gun could bring a charging elephant down.
“How long this nigga gonna be?” Meyer asked.
“He’ll be out soon. Just chill,” Black Sean replied.
“Nigga, don’t fuckin’ tell me to chill!” Meyer growled, pushing the gun against the back of Black Sean’s skull.
Black Sean sat still and uneasy. There was no way he could get the drop on Meyer and Luna. And how could he warn Rasun without getting his head blown off? He knew the two stickup men were dangerous. He’d been in the game long enough to recognize a viable threat.
The look in Meyer’s eyes was almost satanic. His eyes were bloodthirsty, and his movements were certifiable. Black Sean just stared straight ahead, not knowing if he would live or die. They didn’t wear masks, which made the situation a lot scarier for him. Usually when men didn’t wear masks, they didn’t plan on leaving behind any witnesses. When he saw Rasun exiting the building, he felt things were about to get a lot more serious.
Rasun walked toward the truck carrying a black book bag large enough for the five kilos.
&
nbsp; Black Sean heard the clicking to the pistol, indicating a bullet could soon be cut loose into his flesh. He took a nervous deep breath, feeling defenseless and defeated.
Meyer and Luna were ready for his partner. The passenger door opened, and Rasun climbed into the seat unaware of the danger.
The moment Rasun was inside the truck, Luna pounced on him, pistol-whipping him severely. “Ask me if it’s loaded, bitch!” He shoved the gun into Rasun’s face while violently restraining him.
Black Sean scowled and gritted his teeth, wanting to help Rasun, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He angrily uttered, “Y’all know who you stealin’ from?”
“We know, muthafucka!” Meyer retorted and then bashed the pistol against his head, spewing blood. “Drive, nigga—nice and slow. We goin’ for a nice ride.”
Black Sean reluctantly started the SUV and put it into reverse. He slowly backed out of the parking spot and drove away coolly.
Meyer instructed Black Sean, “Drive toward the freeway.”
***
It was daybreak, with the sun freshly rising in the sky. It was gradually becoming the start of a new day in the DMV area (DC, Maryland, and Virginia). It would be another scorching day, with the weatherman predicting temperatures soaring to 99 degrees with oppressive humidity. Rush-hour traffic was piling up on the highways, especially I-95 going south into DC.
Two miles from the highway, on an isolated road in Maryland, a state trooper pulled behind what appeared to be abandoned vehicle on the shoulder of the road. The truck had Maryland plates, dark tints, and chrome rims. The trooper saw no activity inside the Tahoe. He quickly ran the plates, and they came back clean. He climbed out of his car and cautiously approached the truck with his hand near his holstered gun. He took a peek into the front seat but saw no one or anything unusual. He continued to look into the truck, making his way toward the rear, and what he saw shocked him. Stuffed in the back of the truck were two bodies contorted against each other. The stunned trooper quickly called it in.
A half-hour later, homicide detectives opened the rear door to the Tahoe, and there were Black Sean and Rasun. Dead. Both men had been shot in the head execution-style. The cops found no drugs. The killers wanted DMC to think that the two men were ambushed in their own town and never made it to Delaware.
Mafioso [Part 1] Page 10
