Cartier Cartel, Part 3

by Nisa Santiago

  Head hung up and walked toward his cell leisurely. Behind the walls of Sing Sing, there was never a need to rush to go anywhere.

  ***

  One day later, Head sat in the crowded visiting room with Scat, one of his Brooklyn soldiers. Scat was a dark black man with arms so muscular they poked out from his sides. He had a fuzzy low Afro and a scruffy beard. He was Head’s go-to guy when he needed something done quickly and subtly. Scat didn’t mind getting his hands dirty or taking a drive somewhere to drop off or pick up something.

  Head leaned closer to Scat to keep the eavesdroppers from listening to their conversation. “I need you to make a run down to Miami for me.”

  Scat nodded.

  “Get wit’ this bitch in Queens I’ma link you to. She’s holdin’ a small fortune for me. I need you to take five hundred grand down to Cartier.”

  “You want me to make that drive alone?”

  “Yeah. From what I’m told this has got to be on the low. Shit is crazy and not adding up and I’m not gonna front. I’m worried about old girl. My boo needs some protection down there, and I want you to get to the bottom of things.”

  Scat nodded.

  “Christian is missing.”

  Scat leaned back in the chair, taken aback by the news. “Why?”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the why. I know niggas down there violated my baby, and I need that girl back wit’ her moms.”

  Scat nodded.

  “I already got it set up fo’ you — money, guns. You’ll be taken care of.”

  “A’ight.”

  “And Scat—” Head looked around to make sure no one was listening to their business.

  Scat stared at his boss and waited for him to speak.

  “I want you to kill these niggas. Do what you do best, my nigga. Show them country Miami niggas how Brooklyn gets down. Send a strong fuckin’ message.”

  Scat smiled menacingly and nodded. “I got you, my nigga.”

  Both men stood up, gave each other dap, and embraced into a brotherly hug. As Scat started to make his exit from the visiting room, Head sat back down at the table and watched him depart, confident that Scat was going to get the job done.

  Chapter 11

  Cartier tossed and turned, but sleep became irrelevant when there was so much worry on her mind. Her daughter had been missing for several days now, and she was plagued by nightmares. The cell phone not ringing became a burdensome thing. Short by a half a million dollars, she had less than thirty hours to come up with it.

  It was three in the morning, so things were quiet. The room was dark, the shades closed, and the 32-inch flat-panel TV mounted on the wall was off. The motel room Li’l Mama had gotten them was perfect—a Motel 6, right off the Florida Turnpike. It was a few miles south and in a secluded location. She and Li’l Mama had separate rooms directly across the hall.

  Cartier lay sleepless underneath the vividly colored bedspread on the king-size bed, a .380 on the nightstand adjacent to the bed. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Frustrated about her short cash flow and the past day’s proceedings, she tossed the bedspread to the floor and sat up, cursing. She then planted her feet on the carpet and stared at the accented walls.

  Small comfort came to Cartier when she found out that Head was sending one of his soldiers to Miami with the remaining money for her daughter’s ransom. She had expected a base hit and he was delivering a home run. Cartier knew she could always count on Head. He was a powerful man, a kingpin, and a terrific lover. Now more than ever, she regretted doing him so dirty. She wished he was free and by her side, but the state had other thoughts. Her man was in prison all because he fell in love with her.

  More than anything, Cartier wanted to have her daughter home and to be nestled in Head’s powerful arms. She yearned to hear him say, “It’s gonna be a’ight, baby. I got this. Don’t worry.”

  Cartier needed to find another mark. Although she anticipated the money from Head, once she paid the ransom and got Christian back, she would be dead broke. And in order to stay alive, she knew she would need to bounce. That meant getting as far away from Miami as possible. Cartier was prepared to run as far as it took to keep herself and her daughter safe. She would go deep into the land of nowhere, like Utah, or West Bumblefuck.

  Cartier wanted this to be her last jux. And like with Rico, things had to go down smoothly. The Rico hit was risky but it was successful. Once the situation died down, she would unload the ki’s and get ghost. With the streets definitely talking, that was going to be a feat. Things were hot, and cops were on alert. Miami was becoming like the Roaring Eighties again, with the violent murders and kidnappings.

  Cartier’s eyes were bloodshot. She felt like she’d aged twenty years. She reached for her pack of cigarettes and pulled one out. She lit it and took a long drag from it, savoring the nicotine surging through her body. She remained perched on her bed. The cigarettes from the pack began to dwindle as early morning moved stealthily outside the motel window, with the sun percolating through the blinds. Cartier had been up for hours.

  Knocking at the door brought her out of her daze. She stood up and approached cautiously with the .380 in her hand. Looking through the peephole, she saw Li’l Mama. She unlocked the door and opened it.

  Li’l Mama walked in and made an observation. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “No, not really.”

  “You need to rest, yo. This ain’t healthy for you.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Cartier snapped. “Your kid ain’t the one fuckin’ missing!”

  “Just tryin’ to help out.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry I keep snapping, but shit is heavy.”

  “We gonna get the money,” Li’l Mama said.

  Cartier went into the bathroom to splash some water in her face and freshen up. She looked at her appearance and saw bags under her eyes. She groaned. Desperation was building inside of her. Every minute was precious, and though Head’s people were supposed to be coming with the money, they needed to strike another mark in case they didn’t get there in time. She was ready to go to the clubs and stick up niggas for their Rolexes, jewelry, and paper, but that wasn’t going to get her the money she needed. Besides, it was too risky. Cartier stared at her reflection and said faintly, “I’ma get you back, baby.”

  ***

  Li’l Mama and Cartier went to meet with Quinn, hoping she had a potential victim to hit up. They picked Quinn up in front of her home and drove to the nearest diner for breakfast and a discussion. They ended up at Denny’s, right off South Dixie Highway. The place wasn’t crowded, and the staff was light. The girls took a corner booth near the back of the restaurant.

  Cartier was on her second cup of her coffee. She truly needed the caffeine. She was pressing Quinn for another stickup. “Give me something, Quinn. Time is runnin’ out.”

  “I got one possible mark, ay, but it’s gonna be like playing Russian roulette.”

  “I don’t give a fuck. Just say who.”

  Quinn looked reluctant to say who the target was. She took a sip of coffee and looked Cartier in her eyes. She saw the desperation in her friend.

  “Just fuckin’ say it, Quinn,” Li’l Mama whispered.

  “This is at least a five-to six-man job, at least . . . ’cuz this place ain’t no joke. And if we fuck this up, it’s gonna be a death sentence fo’ all of us.”

  Cartier replied, “Well, it’s gonna have to be a three-woman job, ’cuz we don’t have time to look for anyone else, and I don’t fuckin’ trust no one at this fuckin’ moment.”

  “I don’t feel like dying anytime soon, Cartier,” Quinn said, “so we better come wit’ our fuckin’ A game on this one.”

  Li’l Mama spat, “And you think we fuckin’ do?”

  Quinn ignored her. “Look, there’s this meth lab, and the kicker is that it belongs to my brother.”

  “Hector?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Oh hell no! Are you seriously gonna say
you ready to set up ya own damn brother to help us out?” Li’l Mama said incredulously. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You think I care what the fuck you believe? Do you really think you’re that relevant?” Quinn was finally fed up with Li’l Mama and her accusations. “When are you gonna get it through your thick fucking head that this is about Christian!”

  “It’s only been about Christian for me!”

  “Again, this isn’t about you! I’m not helping out you and Christian. Or you and Cartier, you fucking moron.”

  “And why? Huh? Why are you willing to go against your own family for Cartier? Y’all ain’t grow up together. We grew up together. We know each other like the back of our hands. All we are to you is some black bitches from Brooklyn,” Li’l Mama said with a puckered brow.

  “Fuck you, Li’l Mama! Cartier is like a sister to me.”

  “A sister to you? Bitch, I’m her fuckin’ sister, and I don’t trust this —”

  “This isn’t ya decision to make.”

  Cartier remained quiet, thinking about the plan.

  “Cartier, I know you’re not buying this. This shit has gotta be a fuckin’ trap. She tryin’ to set us up. We got our peoples comin’ down soon, so we ain’t gotta fuck wit’ this bitch anymore.”

  “I’m really gettin’ sick an’ tired of you disrespecting me, Li’l Mama.”

  “Bitch, you feel hot then pop off!”

  “Enough!” Cartier cried out.

  The two looked at Cartier.

  “I just wanna know when and where?” Cartier said to Quinn.

  “Cartier, I know ya not seriously thinkin’ about doin’ this shit.”

  “I am.”

  “But —”

  Cartier glared at her friend. “Li’l Mama, shut the fuck up! Do you have a better suggestion at this moment?”

  “Head got his people comin’ down.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  Li’l Mama was quiet.

  “Exactly!”

  Quinn smirked. Li’l Mama was ready to smack that bitch, but she kept her cool and was ready to follow instructions. Whatever Cartier wanted to do, she was willing to back her one hundred percent.

  “So how we gonna do this?” Cartier asked Quinn.

  “Methodically.”

  Quinn knew if her brother ever found out she had anything to do with one of his meth labs being robbed, blood or no blood, he would literally cut the skin off her bones. It was all about respect in her gang, and with her family. Betrayal was a death sentence. And Hector would lose respect if he found out that his sister had the audacity to rob him.

  But Quinn had her own hidden agenda. Helping Cartier out was also helping herself out in a big way.

  The ladies ate their breakfast, but Cartier wasn’t really hungry. She hadn’t had an appetite since her family’s murder. She nibbled on a few things and continued to glug down her hot coffee.

  The three ladies exited the restaurant an hour later and went their separate ways. When Cartier was finally alone, she pulled out her throwaway cell phone to make an urgent call to New York. She parked near the overpass of the expressway underneath a rapidly graying sky. It smelled like rain.

  She heard the phone ring a few times. Becoming impatient, she was about to hang up, but then she heard a woman say, “What?”

  “Apple?” Cartier asked skeptically.

  “Yeah. Who the fuck is this?”

  “Girl, you a boss bitch in New York right now and you don’t know how to answer your phone?”

  “Don’t play games wit’ me. Speak ya business or get an earful of dial tone.”

  “It’s Cartier.”

  “Oh shit! It’s been so long.” It felt good to Apple to hear the familiar voice of someone she had mad love and respect for. “I heard you was MIA from the game and went south.”

  “True. And a lot done changed.”

  “I see,” Apple said. “Life is all about change and challenges. It separates the weak from the wolves.”

  Cartier became aware of the sharpness in Apple’s voice. She remembered a time when the quiet, shy girl from Harlem looked up to her. Now word on the street was that Apple was now on the block and getting major paper. And she had dramatically changed, becoming a coldhearted bitch and, rumor had it, a killer. Cartier had always liked Apple and her twin sister Kola. At one time, the Brooklyn native had mentored the young, wide-eyed teenager from Harlem. Cartier was the big sister that Apple had always wanted in her life.

  “You a’ight?”

  “Of course I am, but like you said, Cartier, a lot done changed.”

  “I’m at war down here.”

  “And I’m at war up here.”

  Cartier didn’t want to sound insensitive to Apple’s plight, but as far as she was concerned, Christian took precedence over any drama Apple was involved in. Besides, let the streets tell it, Apple was always at war. “They kidnapped my little girl. Apple. Muthafuckas took my baby!”

  “What! Damn, Cartier! I’m sorry to hear ’bout that,” Apple said in a sad tone. She had a pocket full of woes herself, including kid drama.

  “I need a favor though,” Cartier continued.

  “Like what?”

  “I’m goin’ through it, and they holdin’ my baby for ransom. I need some cash to float me and a few soldiers on loan.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred stacks.”

  “Shit, Cartier! That’s pretty steep.” Apple sucked her teeth. “This ain’t Monopoly money you asking for.”

  “This is for my baby, Apple,” Cartier pleaded, trying to hang on to some dignity and keep from begging. “I need my daughter back. I just can’t lose her. I can’t. I can’t have her die because of me.”

  Cartier heard Apple exhale. Maybe she was contemplating giving out the loan and some of her soldiers.

  Apple explained she had a crisis going on in Harlem and needed every loyal man by her side. She asked where the fuck was Cartier when bullets were whizzing past her head or when she and Kola were at war? And most importantly, she asked Cartier where was she when her daughter, Peaches, was snatched from her and sold on the black market? She told Cartier that Peaches was still out there, and yet Apple didn’t call on Cartier for help. Apple read Cartier and asked where her pride was.

  Cartier ignored the sermon. She could feel the shade coming from the other end and she made a promise to herself. If Apple didn’t give her the support she was asking for, and if anything, anything happened to her daughter because of Apple’s disrespect, then she would personally track her down and put two shots to the back of her dome. She would do the hit herself, just on GP. “Time is running out for my daughter, Apple.”

  Reluctantly, Apple replied, “Fifty stacks is all I can spare for now. And I’ll send a man down to help you out wit’ ya situation. He’s on point . . . able to get any job done.”

  It was half what Cartier had asked for, but she was still grateful. “Thanks, Apple.”

  “Just get your daughter back and kill whoever’s responsible for ya pain,” Apple coldly advised.

  “I plan to.”

  After the call ended, Cartier lingered in the driver’s seat for a moment with the gun lying in the passenger seat. She peered at the freeway above her. The sky darkened, indicating heavy rain was about to come down on the city. And then, abruptly, the sky roared with thunder, and the heavens split open, setting free massive raindrops that cascaded off the windshield.

  ***

  Rick Ross’s raunchy lyrics blared throughout Mansion, the trendy Miami nightclub that resembled a mansion with its opulent chandeliers and plush interior design. The club had two levels, with high-voltage dance floors and eight bars, and was also known for its exclusive VIP areas. Bottle service started at five large, and only the city’s most elite customers were able to afford such extravagance.

  Bottles of champagne were being popped all night, and the ladies, in their scanty party clothes, swarmed the dance floor, grinding and win
ding against their male partners. One of the exclusive VIP sections was crammed with Bones and his Miami thugs. His right-hand man, Shotta, was trying to ease the pain of losing his cousin Rico.

  Bones wore loose jeans, a tight wifebeater, a belt with a large oval buckle, and a white do-rag. His scowl was intimidating, and his cold eyes manifested a seething rage building inside of him. He rested against the plush, cushioned banquette that ran along the wall of the VIP room, flanked by bitches and his crew. And in front of him was a long table cluttered with expensive bottles of tequila, vodka, champagne, Voss water, several glasses, and a bucket of ice.

  Shotta was in a throwback baggy blue-and-black Adidas tracksuit that concealed his muscular frame. He wore a pair of white-on-white shell toes and dark sunglasses, his bald head gleaming like Mr. Clean’s. He took a swig from the Moët bottle in his hand and lightly nudged Bones in his side, saying to him, “Playboy, we gon’ find out who got Rico, an’ when we do, it’s gon’ get fuckin’ ugly.”

  Bones didn’t respond to his friend. Rico’s murder weighed heavily on his mind. It had been three days now, and the detectives didn’t have any leads, though he had his own suspicions on who bodied his cousin. He wasn’t looking for any handouts or favors from the cops. In his world, his henchman was the judge, jury, and executioner.

  Shotta refused to leave his friend’s side. He continued to sip from the bottle, his eyes on a big-booty, honey-dread ho in a short leather skirt. He leaned back in his seat, sitting like a boss with his legs spread, and the bottle between his thighs.

  A moment later, one of Bones’ young goons walked up with a girl in her early twenties.

  “Yo, Bones, we need to talk,” the youthful soldier said.

  Bones wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. “About what, muthafucka?”

  “I just got some news about ya cousin, yo.”

  That got Bones’ attention right away. Shotta sat upright also and stared at the young man togged up in sagging jeans and white tank top underneath the black leather vest and a heavy rose-gold chain around his neck.

  “What the fuck about my cousin?” Bones asked.

  “Shorty here says she got some info.”