“All right, man. You made your point,” Reece stated to Samson. “Go ahead and finish it.” Samson chuckled knowingly and scooped the victim up from behind. He wedged one of his massive arms underneath his chin and grabbed the back of his head with the other hand. Samson pulled up with his arm and pushed out with his hand simultaneously. There was a loud popping sound. Samson released the now lifeless body to let it slump to the ground.
“Good, now take me home. I got an early morning,” Reece demanded.
* * *
Hours after the incident in the cabin, Samson, Chabo, and Gil sat in one of Samson’s many Carolina hideouts smoking weeds and sniffing raw cocaine.
“Ju know, man, I don’t know ’bout ju friend,” Gil was saying to Samson. “Him no seem like him ready for ’dis. Are ju sure he can handle dis? Are ju sure he can handle dis pressure?”
Samson inhaled a huge cloud of powder into his nose. “Man, listen, King Reece is as thorough as they come. So, hell yeah, he can handle the pressure.” Samson punctuated his sentence with another deep snort.
It was Chabo’s turn to speak up. “Hey, man, maybe ju should slow down on the cocaine. Powder and juice no mix, vato.”
Chabo was referring to the steroids Samson was taking. Ever since his plastic surgery, Samson had been taking huge doses of steroids, partly to enhance his looks, partly to assist him in his other trade. He was required to lift heavy loads and do plenty of manual labor. Not to mention look imposing (like that was ever hard). All of this was part of his new occupation.
“Vato, you loco. I feel mas fuerte than ever,” Samson retorted, flexing his muscles to illustrate his point. Everyone chuckled, but Chabo remained firm.
“Sí, vato. Tú eres fuerte. But if ju man is like ju say. Him no want no weakness. Sí?”
Now Samson was offended. “Look, vato, I said I’m straight. I’m six-foot-five barefoot. Three hundred eighty-five pounds! How the fuck am I weak, anywhere?!” Samson snatched off his shirt to reveal bulging muscles and entrenched veins. It appeared that his heart was in each individual vein the way they pulsated. Samson’s voice raised a couple of octaves. “I AM A MUTHAFUCKIN’ MACHINE!!! I bow to no man, okay, vato!” He spat the words out like a vile cuss.
Chabo was used to the mood swings, although they were becoming more and more frequent lately. Yet Samson was his comrade. He wished him no harm or ill intent. Therefore, he only wanted to ease the tension.
“Calm down, amigo. I only want the best for ju. Just be careful wid ju amigo. Him no seem like forgiving type, de ac-cuerdo?”
Samson calmed down just like that. “Of course, mi amigo. I got things under control. Now that King Reece is home, we can finally put the pieces together. Just like I’ve been telling you.”
Everyone resumed their cordiality for the rest of the night. They got high and became immersed in their own thoughts. Each one was thinking about the future of their crew. Gil and Chabo were never official members of the Crescent Crew. They were more like honorary members. Still, as went Samson, so went Gil and Chabo. Everyone wanted to succeed. They were all wealthy beyond their wildest dreams. In Samson’s case, he was filthy rich. He had come a long way from his humble beginnings in Mobile, Alabama, through the ranks of the U.S. Army, and now the second-in-command of one of the largest, longest-going criminal enterprises in the nation.
Yes, Samson had come a long way, and he refused to turn back. No matter the cost.
Chapter 9
Los Angeles, California
Qwess maneuvered the Impala through traffic on the freeway. Reece rode shotgun with Doe and Amin in the back. They were in California and loving it. Earlier in the day, Flame and Saigon had taped a very well lip-synched performance on Soul Train. They were now separated and doing their thing with some handlers from the label in tow, while Qwess, Doe, Reece, and Amin did their thing. They were supposed to be going to check out an A & R to submit some tracks for a hot new Cali artist. However, simple was never the case when they got together.
Reece sat in the tricked-out drop, real cool-like taking in the scenes of L.A. When Qwess finally hit the strip, Reece couldn’t believe his eyes. The women were drop-dead gorgeous! Women that made Halle Berry look like a duck. And damn if it didn’t seem like everybody was in shape. This wasn’t Reece’s first time in Cali. He had been out here a few times on business, and a few times with Destiny; therefore he had never paid any attention to anything else except what he came to do or who he did while he was here.
Qwess observed Reece out the corner of his eye with a sly smirk on his face. Qwess was no stranger to L.A. He had become a regular fixture in the lives of a few L.A. actresses and models. As he was a connoisseur of all things beautiful, it was only fitting that he regularly visit the land of beautiful people. He even had a cozy little loft up the coast. After spending thousands of dollars on hotel rooms monthly due to his pleasure and business trips, he deemed it cheaper to lease a place. Qwess wasn’t thrifty by any means, just practical. He’d figured like this since he was going to be doing the damn thing real big in Cali, he might as well cut corners other ways. Oh, and he was going to be in Cali. Qwess had grown up on a beach, but Myrtle Beach couldn’t hold a candle to L.A. It was like the difference between a Hyundai and a Rolls-Royce.
Even Allah-fearing Amin and old-faithful Doe were catching hell trying to abstain. Their heads were snapping so vigorously, it was only mercy that prevented whiplash.
“Man, goddamn!” Reece finally unleashed. “Now I see why your ass stayed out in Cali so much. These bitches finer than a muthafucka!”
“Reece, could you please stop disrespecting these sistahs, brother?” Amin piped from the back seat.
Reece looked behind him in pure disgust. “Man, for the last time, I told you this my fuckin’ mouth. I don’t know why you trying to save these hoes—or acting like it, anyway. You trying to cut just like every other nigga out here. You ain’t different ’cause you know how to put bullshit in a pretty package.”
The car erupted in laughter. Amin wasn’t laughing. “I mean, yeah, I get mine, but I don’t disrespect the sistahs.” Qwess scoffed at him. Amin clarified. “Or at least not until they disrespect themselves.”
“Negro, who you think you talking to?” Reece wasn’t convinced. “I saw you at my party grabbing ass like you was Mike Tyson and shit. Now you all holier than thou? Negro, please!
“Check it. You go through the shit I been through or see the shit I’ve seen, then we can talk, Mr. Sheltered. You forget I own a strip club. I seen the best at work, and I’m here to tell you. Ain’t none of them shit. Sooner or later they show they true colors. All those bitches!”
Reece turned the music up louder. That was that with that. How is a dude who never left the house as a kid gon’ tell a certified don something about women? thought Reece.
Reece felt that, when it came to women, Amin was the dumbest rich dude he had ever seen.
Surprisingly, Doe spoke up in Reece’s defense.
“You, Ock, I used to feel the same way you did. Me and this brother used to go at it all the time, but I have to tell you. In the end he was right. Over the last few years I done seen broads that you’d never expect do things you’d never believe.” Reece was vigorously nodding his head in the front seat. Doe continued.
“Bottom line: Ninety-nine percent of them hoes ain’t shit.”
“Oh, so Niya’s a hoe?”
Silence enveloped the car. Even the music stopped.
“N-now see, my wife’s different,” stuttered Doe after a while. “She’s that one percent.”
“Is she?” Amin pressed on. “I mean do you really know? After all, you are out here right now. For all you know a brother could—”
“You, stop playing!” Doe interrupted. Just the thought of someone laying pipe to his angel made his stomach turn and his blood boil.
Up front, Reece was silent, but behind his huge square designer shades, his eyes were slits. He was thinking the same thing. One never knew with a
woman.
“Seriously, though, Ock. What makes your woman so special? I’m sure there are a lot of dudes who thought their women would never be backstage giving ‘professionals,’ but they do.”
“Yeah, but that’s different.” Agitation was evident in Doe’s response.
“Oh, so you telling me that out of all the women in the world—millions—you lucked up and got the one faithful one? I mean, that is if your assessment is true.”
Mild-tempered Doe was getting heated. His cheeks were now red, courtesy of his light complexion.
Qwess observed the whole exchange through the rearview. It was entertaining at first, but things were getting out of hand. “Yo, man, chill out with that shit. Word up!” said Qwess, attempting to defuse the situation.
“Nah, brother. He defending this Neanderthal!” He pointed at Reece.
“Man, I done told you about playing with me!”
“’Cause he right!”
“Man, chill out!”
The whole car was up in confusion with both Reece and Qwess turned facing the back. In the fracas, Qwess never saw the red light.
A horn blared and caught his attention. He slammed on the brakes desperately. The Impala skidded through the light with a loud screech, coming bumper-to-bumper with a maroon Cadillac truck. The truck had screeched to a halt as well.
Qwess did an appraisal before exiting the vehicle. Doe had hit his head on the back of the seat. Other than that, everything was cool. First thing Qwess checked was his bumper. It was mere centimeters from the Cadillac. The driver of the truck had yet to exit the vehicle. All types of people began to crowd the intersection, pointing with their hands covering their mouths.
“Shit, just what I need!” fumed Qwess. He bent over to inspect the bumper of the truck. He was still bent over when the driver approached.
Qwess abruptly stood and looked eye-to-eye with Lisa Ivory. Slasher extraordinaire. Model-actress-singer-producer. Lisa was only twenty-two years old and had conquered the entertainment industry already. She had begun her career as a model at the ripe age of fourteen. Over the years she had evolved to be every bigwig’s dream and every man’s nightmare. Raised in the Bronx, New York, by an Italian mother and Jamaican father, she was a devout Catholic and rumored to be a virgin, in the sense that a man had never touched her. There were numerous rumors that she was gay.
On this particular day Lisa wore white spandex pants and a matching sports bra with Nike cross-trainers. Her hair was done in her trademark cornrows. Nothing fancy. Just straight to the back. Still, she was gorgeous, and Qwess couldn’t peel his eyes away from the beauty.
“Ohhh, I apologize,” offered Qwess. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I got preoccupied for a minute, and . . . and . . .”
Lisa Ivory put her hand up to silence him. “Don’t worry about it. It looks like no harm was done except maybe spilling my juice.”
Qwess did a double take and noticed the damp spots on her bare stomach and sports bra. He had been busy checking her out the first time so he didn’t notice. Now he did. Juice glistened off her smooth, cream-colored skin. She hadn’t bothered to wipe it off. She let it stay glistening under the California sun.
“Oh, that’s my fault. I feel so bad. Here I am, almost took out an icon in a traffic stop! Not the way to go out.”
Lisa smiled. “What you talking about? I almost sent a musical genius into early retirement.”
Now it was Qwess’s turn to smile. “No, no, it was clearly my fault.”
Lisa shook her head. “I’m not talking about a car crash. I’m talking about road rage. When my drink spilled on my new workout suit I just knew I was gonna flip on somebody.”
They both laughed. Qwess checked out her accent. Despite living out in Cali for a long time, she still maintained a pure New York accent with a hint of Jamaican patois. Qwess dug it in a big way. She sized him up with her eyes lingering in certain places.
Before they could indulge in the conversation, police arrived on the scene. After all, they were clogging the intersection of a busy strip. The patrolmen assessed the lack of damage, requested autographs from both, and suggested they take their convo out of the busy street, before leaving to direct traffic.
“Well, I guess that’s our cue,” Lisa joked.
“Yeah, I guess so. Hey, look, I’m in town for a couple of days. Won’t you let me take you out to dinner or something? You know . . . to make up for this,” Qwess added.
“Hmmm, I don’t know.”
“Come on, what’s a meal between friends?” he insinuated.
Lisa laughed. “Oh, so we’re friends now?”
“Hey, I’m an optimist.”
“Okay, Mr. Optimist.” Qwess flashed the smile. Diamonds lit up the day. His whole bottom grill was iced out.
“Sure. Why not?” Lisa decided. She had heard enough about him to know that at the least she’d have fun. Plus, his southern accent tripped her out. It would be entertaining enough just to sit and hear him talk for a couple of hours.
She went back to her truck to retrieve a business card. While she was gone, one of the patrolmen shot Qwess a rebuke. It was obviously time to go. Lisa returned just in time. Qwess slid her his card as well and promised to call her.
When Qwess returned to the Impala, Reece was in a deep trance on his c-phone. Doe and Amin had, thankfully, changed the subject from the topic that caused the accident, but were still debating. That was just their thing: Amin couldn’t see the glass paradox he lived in, and Doe couldn’t see his naïveté when it came to women. And the world kept turning.
“Say, wasn’t that ole girl Lisa, Ebony or something like that?” Amin asked as they continued down the strip.
“Ivory,” corrected Qwess.
Doe bust out laughing. “Oh, shit. Qwess almost slumped Lisa Ivory!”
“She looks smaller in person, though,” Amin commented.
“Hmm-mmm,” Doe cosigned.
“She got a nice ass, though. I ain’t know she was holding like that,” Amin added as an afterthought. That put more fuel on the fire. The debate started back up.
Qwess wanted no part of it. “Who dat?” He tapped Reece on the arm. Reece put up his hand and mouthed, “Chill nigga.” His face was all scrunched up. A few minutes later he wrapped the call up.
“Who was dat?” repeated Qwess.
“Destiny.” The word rolled off effortlessly.
“Who!”
“Destiny.” He had everyone’s full attention.
“What she calling you for? What she talking about?” Doe demanded.
Reece was real calm. “Nothing really, except giving me my little man.”
“Word?” Qwess was shocked. “For good?”
“Yep. Pretty much.”
“When?”
“ASAP.”
“Get the fuck outta here! You serious?”
“Yep. Pretty much.”
This news was too much to handle. First, Destiny contacting Reece. Reece actually talking to her for a change. Then the bit about the son? This was too much. Everyone in the car grew silent and watched Reece. Reece sat idly with a far-off look behind his huge shades. His bald head shone. He stroked his goatee in deep thought.
“Wait. So you telling me Destiny is going to give you your son?” Doe persisted.
“Yep. Pretty much.”
“Why would she do that?” Amin piped. Even he knew about their tumultuous history.
Reece removed his shades and stared into Amin’s face with the most penetrating gaze. “Brother, I told you. You’ll never know what goes on in the head of a woman. They’re crazy.” He said it in slow, measured tones, then put his shades back over his eyes. Leaned back in the seat. Zoned out. Only Qwess knew from the conversation that Reece wasn’t quite telling the truth. He had an ulterior motive. Qwess knew Reece better than anyone. He only prayed that Reece’s ulterior motive wouldn’t jeopardize their investment.
* * *
“Yo, man, this stack here is not com
ing up right! What’s up with this?” Samson spoke to Phil.
Samson was in the main office of Club Flesh, seated at the head of a huge green marble conference table. Club Flesh was Reece’s strip club, but it doubled as headquarters for the Crescent Crew. This was where business was conducted for the Crew. The office was soundproof and contained all of the state-of-the art accoutrements: video monitors, stereo equipment, communication devices. It even contained a small cache of weapons.
A meeting was being held with all of the Crescent Crew captains. It was time for all of the captains to turn their money in.
Once a month all twelve captains took the journey from their respective cities to Club Flesh for the sit-down. Present this day were Phil Black, who ran Columbia, South Carolina; Ant Live, who had a stronghold on Myrtle Beach; AB, who controlled Charlotte; Roy Rogers of Wilmington, North Carolina; Damien the Don, who repped Greensboro; DT, who held down Greenville, South Carolina; Eye Born, who ran Florence, South Carolina; Love, who weighed in for Newberry, South Carolina; Naseem, who checked in for northern Georgia; Jihad, who was present for Tennessee; Wadu, in for Virginia; and of course Bone repping Fayettenam and all surrounding cities. Bone had much clout in the Crescent Crew, so he occupied the opposite end of the huge table.
“Yo, what you mean it’s not coming up right?” Phil Black inquired.
Samson pulled the money machine closer to him and slipped the money stack inside again to illustrate his point. The machine wheezed briefly then beeped twice, totaling up the exact same sum.
“It says $9,900. The other stacks had an even ten—like they’re supposed to.” Samson pointed to the remainder of the stacks of Phil’s pile that cluttered the table. “Now is this just a problem with this one, or are the rest short, too?”
“None of them should be short,” Phil insisted.
“My thoughts exactly.” Samson grabbed another stack of money, inserted it into the machine. Ten thousand showed up on the machine. The remainder were on point also, so after Samson counted them all, Phil reached into his pocket and gave Samson a hundred dollars.
King Reece Page 9
