by Ashley
CHAPTER 8
THREE YEARS LATER
“Over the past three years, you and I have done a lot of business together. I haven’t seen anyone move like you since the passing of my own son.”
Fly Boogie looked out of the window of the helicopter as the City of Angels illuminated beneath him. His connect’s voice boomed through the headset he wore. He looked over at Baron Montgomery. He was the connect’s connect. The end-all, be-all in the Los Angeles drug trade. He had been a Midwest player before coming to L.A. to take over a new territory. Fly had been personally invited to attend the annual Gentlemen’s Ball. It was his first time being in Baron’s presence. When Fly first left Vegas he acquired a Mexican connect, Josiah, who supplied him with enough pills to start a pharmacy. Fly had moved so much that Baron had insisted he meet the young hustler. Today was that meeting, and Fly was thrown off that Baron was being so open.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have kids, but I couldn’t imagine,” Fly offered.
“No worries,” Baron said. “So tell me. How is it that you move more than Josiah? It seems like I have the wrong man in position. Perhaps it’s time I shift some things around.”
“Nah,” Fly Boogie replied. “I’m more than okay with getting this low-key money. I don’t need the title.”
Baron knew that Fly Boogie was being modest. He had built a fine empire of his own in the past three years. He was major and very sharp.
The pilot landed on a helicopter pad on top of L.A.’s finest hotel. The entire property had been rented out; every single room and ballroom was reserved for the highly exclusive event. It was invitation only, and all the heavy hitters in the game would be there.
“Tonight will blow your mind, young. I still remember my first ball,” Baron chuckled. “It’ll be the best night of your life besides the day you marry your girl or see your kids born. It plays a close third.”
Fly smirked, allowing the corners of his mouth to turn up in amusement. When the two men stepped out of the beast of a flying machine, they were quickly greeted by two Brazilian beauties.
“Hello, Mr. Montgomery. Welcome to the Gentlemen’s Ball. Here are your masks. You and your guest can follow us this way,” one of them greeted them. Fly couldn’t help but take in her essence. Her rear was poking out of a fitted Herve Leger gown. She had curves that should have come with a warning sign. He held the masquerade mask in his hands.
“We playing dress up?” he asked.
“You want your identity concealed. You never know what might happen to you tonight. It’s best if no one bears witness to these festivities. The cameras throughout the building have also been shut off for the private function,” Baron informed.
Damn, Fly thought as he put on his mask without further question. He had no idea what he was getting himself into. Fly followed Baron down into one of the ballrooms. No expense had been spared. The finest of everything—linens, liquor, decorations, women, food.… It had all been arranged with first-class elegance.
“You enjoy the night and when you’re ready to leave, drivers are awaiting you out front to take you wherever you need to go,” Baron said. “Let’s circulate.”
Fly Boogie had checked in his normal fresh threads and was clad in a more mature look. Ralph Lauren suit, personally tailored with diamond cuff links, and Prada shoes made him look like money. His fresh fade and diamond Bezel Rolex rounded out the presidential look. Fly had always wondered why Carter, Zyir, and Money walked around in suits, but as Baron had told him, “When you look like money, you attract money. Everyone in here is somebody. Not all are drug dealers. Some are politicians, moguls, but everyone has achieved a level of power that is respected across the board.” Fly got it now.
Fly moved through the room taking in the vibes as Baron introduced him to player after player. Not one person in the room was a slouch. They were all major. He realized he was being inducted into the big leagues. He wasn’t beat for crowds, and he tried to hide his discomfort as he kept his eyes moving around the room.
“Relax, kid, Baron schooled. “You’re good here. Everybody checks their weapons at the door. Any existing beef is off-limits inside these walls.”
Fly nodded, but still his neck was on a swivel. He couldn’t believe that in just a few years he had worked his way to the top. He was on. He dibbled and dabbled in cocaine, but prescription pills were the new-school hustle. He had been skeptical to try his hand at it, but once he did, he was hooked. There was a drought in L.A.’s cocaine trade, but his pockets had adjusted to the new flip nicely.
Just when he had taken the tension out of his shoulders and begun to relax, a young boy crashed into him, spilling champagne all over Fly Boogie’s jacket. Fly pulled out his handkerchief and brushed off his jacket. “Yo’ fuck is this, a day care? Little homie, watch where you…” He didn’t finish his sentence. When he looked down at the young boy, his words stopped in his throat.
“Mo?” Fly Boogie whispered in disbelief. It was as if he had seen a ghost. He was staring at Monroe’s son, a boy whose memory they had buried.
Mo’s eyes flickered in recognition, but before he could respond, Baron came walking up with a smiling Baraka at his side. Baraka held a pretty Asian girl’s hand. “Take care of him, sweetheart,” Baraka said, handing Mo off to the girl, who looked to be no older than sixteen herself. Mo walked away with the girl, looking back only once at Fly before proceeding to be led away. Fly Boogie’s heart stopped in his chest when he noticed Miamor and Carter’s son trailing behind Baraka. Mo and C.J. were the only faces in the ball uncovered. Fly had never interacted with Baraka, so Baraka had no idea of his Cartel affiliation.
“I see my young boy has ruined your suit. My sincerest apologies,” Baraka said. “These boys are like sons to me. I try to bring them here to get their first peek, and they turn into a ball of nerves.”
Baron’s laugh was deep and genuine as he made the formal introduction. “Fly, this is Baraka. Baraka, this is Fly Boogie,” Baraka said.
“Interesting name,” Baraka said.
“Interesting plus ones,” Fly replied, referring to C.J. and Mo, who were clearly out of place.
Seeing Miamor’s son brought back the feelings he had suppressed since leaving Las Vegas. He hadn’t thought of her in years, but just now in this moment his loyalty to her resurfaced as if it had never left him. He had witnessed the strongest woman he knew break down over the loss of her son. Yet this very boy was standing here in front of him alive and, from the looks of it, well. He knew she didn’t know. She couldn’t have. Miamor would have left a trail of bodies behind her as she searched for her son if she had even a whim that C.J. was still alive. Both he and Mo had been missing from their families for three years. Everyone thought they were dead. Fly Boogie wanted to tell himself that it wasn’t his business. He wanted to walk away because they weren’t really his problem, only they were. The love he had for Miamor wouldn’t allow him to just pretend he hadn’t discovered this.
“Oddly enough they were the sons of the men responsible for my daughter’s death,” Baraka offered freely. “When I took them, I intended them harm, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.…”
They all knew what “it” was. He couldn’t murder them without the soul of a dead child weighing him down.
“So instead, I turned them into my sons. The sons I never had, and my enemies will mourn them forever at the mere thought of them being gone,” Baraka finished.
“Mental warfare,” Baron commented, indifferent to the entire situation.
“Muscle wins battles, mental wins wars,” Baraka insisted.
“Indeed,” Fly stated. He stopped a waitress who passed with an empty tray. He grabbed her gently and whispered in her ear. “Louis neat … two of them … and water, no ice,” he ordered. “And keep them coming.” Only she heard his order. He turned to Baron and Baraka. In no time the waitress was back with their drinks and Fly Boogie passed the cognac to the gentlemen and kept the water for himself.
“Good
choice,” Baraka said as he smelled his cognac. He nodded toward Fly’s cup. “Vodka is a young man’s drink.” He laughed as if shaking off memories. “I couldn’t even get that down.”
Fly smirked and replied, “It’s all preference.” He lifted the glass. “To a good evening and potential business.”
The men downed their cognac, and Fly took in the water, wincing slightly.
The waitress was back with another in no time.
Baron placed a hand over his heart. “None for me, sweetheart. I’ll leave you gentlemen to it,” he said.
Fly and Baraka toasted again. Fly Boogie made small talk, passing the time, as the waitress brought the third round, then the fourth, and finally the fifth, before Baraka conceded, “I’m done, son. My tolerance isn’t what it used to be.”
Fly laughed lightly. “Understandable,” he said, completely unfazed. “Enjoy your night.” He watched as Baraka walked away to network with the other guests. He didn’t miss the fact that he couldn’t walk a straight line and that the dapper businessman had begun to sweat. The liquor was throwing him off. Fly scanned the room until his eyes rested on C.J. and Mo, who were seated at Baraka’s table. A million thoughts ran through his mind. He was trying to talk himself out of interfering, but he knew he wasn’t leaving the ball without those boys. They didn’t seem to be in danger. They weren’t being tortured, or paying for their mother’s sins, but this was not where they belonged. Miamor deserved to be reunited with her son. Fly hugged the bar, this time getting himself a real drink to take off the edge. He was in a building full of powerful players and about to do the unthinkable. Fly discreetly reached down across the bar and grabbed a visible corkscrew, sliding it up his jacket sleeve.
“Gentlemen, the auction is about to begin. Please make your way to ballroom B,” an announcer said. Fly watched as most of the men began to shift from their places. The auction was the main event of the night. His eyes followed Baraka as he beelined for the restroom. C.J. and Mo stood outside the door while Baraka went inside.
Fly hadn’t wanted them to witness what he was about to do, but it was now or never. He made his way over to them.
“You remember me?” he asked as he pulled off his mask.
“You used to work for my family,” Mo said. “Are they here? Did they come for us?”
“Nah, they not here, man. I’m going to take you home, though, a’ight,” he said. “Go to the lobby and wait for me.”
“But Baraka said—” C.J. began to speak, but Fly interrupted him.
“I don’t give a fuck about what Baraka said,” Fly shot back.
“He’s going to kill them if we ever try to leave. He said he would kill everybody we love,” Mo insisted.
“I won’t let that happen, homie. Go now. Wait for me in the lobby,” Fly urged. He walked into the bathroom where Baraka was using the urinal.
“One too many drinks,” Baraka chuckled as he concealed himself and then began adjusting his clothes.
“I hear you,” Fly said casually as he walked by to get to the next urinal. He slid the corkscrew down his sleeve and gripped it tightly in his hand. Baraka never even anticipated Fly’s treachery. Fly jammed the corkscrew into his neck so deep that it felt like his head would pop off.
“Aghh,” Baraka cried, his eyes bulging out of his head as Fly Boogie held him up by his collar.
“Miamor sends her love,” Fly stated as he removed the corkscrew and stuck it into his body, stabbing him up quickly.
Baraka stumbled as he grasped his neck, trying to stop the profuse bleeding. Fly Boogie grabbed the man’s head and snapped his neck. He had so much aggression and a look of pure evil in his eyes as he ended Baraka’s life. He had put his murder game down before, but this time it had been personal. He had just touched the untouchable and by doing so, he had freed Miamor from her self-induced seclusion.
He pulled Baraka into the last stall and then walked out. It was time to shake before anyone saw his bloodstained suit.
Finding C.J. and Mo waiting anxiously for him, he ushered them toward the exit.
They stood, shocked and afraid as he hightailed it toward the door.
“Where are we going?” C.J. asked as he tried to keep up.
“Home, C.J. I’m taking you both home.”
CHAPTER 9
Miamor held the broom in her hands, sweeping as the sounds of the ocean crashing onto the shore soothed her soul. She hated the silence. It left her with too much room to think and whenever she got into her emotions, the past would come back to haunt her. Now she understood how Aries could leave it all behind. When her best friend had moved to suburbia and established a new identity, Miamor had judged her. Now, here she was, years later, doing the exact same thing. Living a lie, a beautiful lie, where she was a bar owner named Lisa, married to a man named Brandon. Miamor and Murder had become two regular people, living in paradise, under false pretenses. Nobody knew that their marriage was fabricated. It was forged with fake documents, fake identities. Nobody knew that they barely spoke. Nobody knew that they slept in separate beds. All people saw was what Miamor wanted them to see. They were ordinary and far removed from the violent path of bodies that they had left in their wake. Miamor had thought of leaving Murder, but the security that he provided was priceless. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t paranoid. After fleeing the country and buying a little piece of property on a beach in the Bahamas, her nerves had settled. She and Murder were ready for Baraka. Whenever he decided to get revenge, they would be prepared. Two guns were better than one. They were partners and she respected him for sticking by her side, despite the fact that she didn’t love him. She had to admit that he was loyal.
The sound of heavy footsteps behind her didn’t raise the hairs on the back of her neck. She knew it was Murder, coming to take her home after a busy day at the bar.
“Give me one minute, Murder. I just have to finish cleaning,” she said without even turning to look his way.
“You take all the time you need, ma, but when you’re done, I’m taking you home.”
She froze at the sound of his voice and then spun around in shock. Fly Boogie stood before her. He had changed. He had grown. He was still fly as ever and carried the same charming smile. “How did you find me?” she asked, now worried that she wasn’t as low-key as she thought.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. He didn’t want to tell her that he had committed their last conversation to memory. He couldn’t tell her that she crossed his mind often. He wouldn’t chump himself. Miamor had always been out of his league, but the new gift that he was about to give her would level the playing field. “I came to tell you that it’s safe to come back. I took care of your problem for you, and I have someone who really wants to see you.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
Fly Boogie walked up into Miamor’s space. He aligned his mouth with her ear and whispered, “That nigga is a fucking memory.”
Miamor gasped as she pulled back and looked up at Fly. You killed Baraka? she thought in disbelief.
He nodded, confirming the question that her eyes were asking.
“Am I interrupting something?” Murder asked as he entered the bar. “What up, little nigga? I see you still pussy-whipped and ain’t even hit that shit yet. Fuck is you doing here?”
Fly Boogie stepped up to Murder coolly, holding out his hand as if it were all love. Murder eased up a bit, but suddenly Fly’s demeanor changed and he grabbed Murder’s neck and shoved his head into the bar top. “Don’t fuck with me. I ain’t come here for this, but it can go there if that’s how you want to play it,” Fly threatened through gritted teeth.
Miamor stood there, in shock. Fly had never been afraid of a challenge, but he had changed. He had bossed all the way up and carried an aura of power that he hadn’t possessed before.
Fly mushed Murder’s face into the wood hard before releasing him, tossing him.
“Let’s go, Miamor,” Fly said confidently. He spoke the words as if he k
new she was going to comply.
“What you mean, ‘let’s go, Miamor’?” Murder challenged. “She ain’t going nowhere, nigga.”
Miamor gripped the broom so tight that her palms hurt. “Miamor can speak for herself,” she said. “Fly, can you give us a minute?” she asked.
Fly nodded, but never looked her way. The stare-down between him and Murder was malicious.… Their egos were involved. “Fly?” Miamor said again.
Fly looked at her and then stepped off.
Miamor turned to Murder, who was seething in anger. He grabbed her neck roughly, pinning her against the bar as he pointed a chastising finger in her face. “You called that nigga here?”
Miamor hadn’t felt this gut instinct in a long time … the urge to murk something … to bark … to attack, but as Murder gripped her neck she felt her old self emerging. Miamor reached her hand beneath the bar where she’d taped her gun. There were weapons planted all around the place. She never knew when she would need one. It was in her nature to stay strapped.
She brought the gun to his temple. “Have you lost your mind?” she asked.
Murder licked his lips in amusement. “My Murder Mama,” he whispered. The way he said it sent a chill down her spine. She could never grow with Murder. He obsessed over her being the same young, murderous girl she had always been. There was no room for maturation with him.
Miamor shook her head and lowered her gun. “You have to stop. You have to stop obsessing over me and trying to make me into who I was over ten years ago. I’m not yours, Murder. I haven’t been in a long time. I loved you once, but you have terrorized my life … stalked me … kidnapped me … put my back up against the wall, all to make me stay with you. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not doing it. It’s time we both let go. You are a part of my past, and I appreciate you for showing me how to survive. You and I could have been good friends, but you have ruined that. You have ruined any chance of me ever wanting to keep a connection to you. I’m not yours. I’m not a possession, Murder. Damn! Just let it go. You go your way, I’ll go mine. You can have half of the money. It’s just time we say good-bye and it’s time to move on. You have to accept that.”
