by S. W. Frank
AFFIRMATION
Alfonzo Volume VIII
COPYRIGHT © 2012 S.W. FRANK
ISBN-13: 978-1484141144
ISBN-10: 1484141148
Printed in the U.S.A by Createspace
Publisher S.W. Frank
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system in any form without prior written permission of the author. Piracy of the book is a crime. Alfonzo detests thieves and liars, he also believes in Karma. Sometimes it is not laws which govern a person, it is what a person does when nobody watches which is the test of good character and the law of self.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and events portrayed in this story are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Cover image for illustration purposes only
~Dedication~
Thank you to my wonderful family, book clubs, the Inner Circle and VIP Divas. A special thank you to Tiffany Edmonds, you are the best chica. I appreciate everything you’ve done and to Karen M., thanks for being a second pair of eyes. And to the broken-hearted; even in the deepest depths of the ocean floor comes light. And to the lovers, enjoy life’s dance.
~S.W. Frank
“First say to yourself what you would be:
And then do what you have to do.”
-Epictetus
"Never forget the road leading to your destination,
Those who do find themselves quite lost.”
-Alfonzo
Blurry
God made you for me and me for you
How I know this
He'd shown me throughout my dreams
Slipped
Confused my dream with my fantasy
Lost
For a while everything
Hunger for another
Pain caused spread like cancer
Unable to walk the road destined
Focus came through remembrance
Now with tears in my eyes I look down and cry
Again a third time my dream rewarded me with eyes like
Mine
Forever yours
You’re forever mine
Happiness not in moments but a lifetime.
-Kim Curry
Chapters
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Prologue
The end of winter and the prospect of warmer climate gave Sergio something to look forward to, except the lingering frost season seemed reluctant to go away. Apparently, it loved bringing hardship to a dude who preferred temperatures above fifty degrees. He only stayed in New York because it’s where the action happened, although presently things weren’t looking too good. Frankly, his primary plans of a get rich quick scheme hadn’t yielded the returns expected, matter of fact, it’d put him deeper in debt with seedy characters he’d rather forget. The only viable option was his least favorite and it came with the most resistance.
The rapper Jay Z and Alicia Keys modernized the phrase, ‘concrete jungle where dreams are made of,’ in a musical version of this New York mantra. There’s one thing for certain, if you didn’t have a vision, New York can eat you up and ground you down to the bone.
Sergio began to think, it’s also a place where the destitute die believing they’ve lived, and the wealthy survive by chewing on the meat of hardworking souls. He desperately wanted out and to do it, he revised his entire game plan. His cousin, Alfonzo Diaz was the ticket and Sergio intended to use it.
After reflecting on what Alfonzo said, Sergio enrolled in an evening course on The Fundamentals of Construction at a local community college. He really didn’t know anything about construction and this course proved it. Spackling, weight bearing walls, NYC Building Codes, OSHA regulations and much more were covered. Physical labor isn’t what he thought he’d be doing for a living, but the fundamentals were needed if he ever wanted access to Alfonzo’s business. Each week the students were tested on building materials and estimating. Sergio barely passed the exams. He didn’t care about scoring high, what mattered is he accomplished a goal and once Alfonzo saw the certificate, he’d see Sergio meant business. He had the fancy sheet of paper with his name on it tucked securely in his pocket.
Tonight, he was going home to eat, relax for a minute and then hit the club to celebrate his accomplishment. He massaged the peach fuzz on his chin and stretched his neck to glimpse his reflection in the rearview mirror while idling at a red light. He needed a shave, that’s for sure, otherwise he looked good for a broke motherfucker. But, looks fade and the ladies are vocal when it does. You better have money because there’s nothing appealing about poverty on a busted-ass man!
The light turned green and Sergio proceeded down Surf Avenue, scanning the dark streets from the confines of his BMW and thought about how crappy it looked compared to the tropical splendor of Puerto Rico.
The public housing complex where he lived existed alongside similar Soviet style buildings perpendicular to the Atlantic Ocean. You’d think an ocean view meant something; it didn’t when you live in a dreary project with tenants who didn’t take pride in anything except making your life a living hell.
The building sat atop acres of prime real estate which gluttonous swine salivated to get their hands on. The only problem is the land was property of the NYCHA and the city wasn’t giving it up. They’d receive flak from every advocacy group which championed the poor. He could imagine the public outcry if they considered displacing thousands of low-income families, many who were elderly and lived there for decades.
Politicians were greedy, but they weren’t stup
id. They wanted their jobs. There were many perks associated with government positions.
Sergio drove into the parking lot of his building and noticed someone had the audacity to park their SUV in his designated spot. Motherfuckers violated the tenant parking rules and the dumb-ass security didn’t do anything about it. He got out his car, took the retractable blade from his pocket and slashed every one of the tires. “Take that bitch!” He sneered and then angrily climbed inside his car to find a safe spot to park his metal baby.
Twenty minutes later, he walked the long path to his building and stopped to greet a group of guys from the building. They were beneath the dim lights, right in the open smoking weed and shooting dice.
“What’s up son?” One of the men sporting jeans and an oversize North Face jacket asked.
They exchanged shoulder contact and a handgrip. “I’m good,” Sergio responded then gave an up-chin to the teen shaking the die in his clenched fist. “What’s up Lil T?”
“Nothin’ much Serge,” Lil T said and then he stepped away from the group and gestured with his head for Sergio to follow. “Yo, let me holla’ at you for a minute.”
When they were out of earshot, Lil T gave Sergio the 411. “Yo son, there was some dude asking about you a while ago. Motherfucker didn’t look too right. If I were you I’d bounce right now son.”
An uneasy feeling crept up Sergio’s spine. He was fifty in the hole with a loan-shark from Canarsie and another ten down from a bad investment in funny money. He’d managed to hold off his debtors with promises of repayment. He didn’t have the funds to pay anybody and his contingency plan was to get his certificate and skip town before anybody got wise. Apparently, somebody grew impatient and came looking before he implemented his plan.
“Yo, Lil T, you’re holding up the game!” One of the du-rag hustlers shouted.
Heat from Sergio’s breath joined the cold air and formed a smoky cloud in front of his face. “What did he look like?”
“Tall, white dude with a broken tooth and…”
“Yo, Lil T bring your ass over here!”
“Hold-up a sec!” Lil T yelled and then tossed deuces in the air. “I gotta go, but watch your back Serge, I’m serious.”
Sergio nodded and hurried into the building. Yeah, he had to get the hell out of New York ASAP. The minute Lil T described the man, a glob of saliva became lodged in his throat. The description could only be one person and that sucker was bad news.
He rode the elevator to the seventeenth floor with his torso pressed against the wall and his eyes glued on the numbers above the door as it climbed from eight to nine and then into the double digits. “Come on…come…come on!” Sergio muttered anxiously.
The vertical transport finally came to a halt and the familiar dull chime he’d grown accustomed to since he was a kid signaled the doors opening. The depressing dull grey similar to prison blocks greeted him as well as a fist to his chest. At first he didn’t know what the hell hit him when he crashed against the side of the elevator until he looked up and saw the man Lil T described along with his flunkies who had tree trunks for limbs.
“Get him up!” The brolic leader with the chipped tooth exclaimed.
Sergio was roughly hoisted upright. The pain to his chest came with heat that caused perspiration to appear over his brow. The ache radiated to his neck and threatened to erupt straight out of his head, it hurt so bad.
The solid human trees held him immobile, but it’s not like he was going anywhere, right?
Whoever struck him had cinder blocks for fists. He was outnumbered and couldn’t fight them all. If he tried, he was certain to find himself on the losing end. He inhaled, and gathered his senses as his lungs inflated.
“Where the fuck is my money?”
Sergio tried to formulate an answer but he could only think about Lil T’s warning. The others outside hadn’t said shit, they must’ve known something was about to go down and he figured they were paid or threatened not to speak?
Lil T was a stand-up kid. He reminded him of his cousin Aaron. It’s a shame he didn’t have a chance to bond more with the teen before he died. The boy had spunk, and right now he could surely use that gun.
“Yo Chip,” Sergio began, once he could breathe again. “I’ll have your money. It’ll be in your hands in a week or two.”
Chip’s mean eyes twinkled with amusement. The pretty boy Sergio was a trip. He’d given the punk fifty grand months ago and word on the street is he came into some money and paid off gang-bangers from Bed-Stuy, but during the repayment effort, Sergio failed to make good on a more important debt. He knuckle punched the smooth talker in the eye and it instantly swelled. “Motherfucker, are you spitting bullshit at me, huh?”
Sergio grunt and thought, ‘Damn that hurt!’
His eye stung and he squint trying to bring Chip’s face into focus. He should’ve known better than take money from the guy. Rumor had it Chip had connections with big-time mafia guys. Whether it’s true or not, Chip wasn’t anybody you messed with and those who did were lying in the morgue.
“I’m serious. I have a relative who’ll give me the money, for real.”
“Yeah,” Chip smirked, “a family member with deep pockets and yet you live in a shit-hole.” Chip’s flunkies laughed. “Is it the uncle who works for the MTA or maybe your baby sister, what’s her name, the other civil servant, oh yeah the rookie cop?”
Sergio jerked at the mention of his sister. Tonya wasn’t anything like her brother; she was the good one and did everything right. Her boyfriend recently graduated med school and they recently rented an apartment over on Eastern Parkway in downtown Brooklyn where many Jews lived. She was happy and he was proud of his baby sis. Scum like Chip didn’t give a rat’s ass about that. His kind never did!
“I’ll have your money Chip, just cut me a break. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Damn straight you’re not going anywhere except to join your mother. You have two weeks to bring me my money or your sister is going to eat a bullet. Then I’ll go down the line until I get payment in full. Blood or money; it makes no difference to me as long as my pail is full!”
The men let go of Sergio’s arms and he stumbled backward.
Chip smirked at the sight as he strolled closer. A menacing finger tapped Sergio’s temple. “By the way, there’s interest on your loan. The fact I had to come to the shitty boondocks for a personal visit increases the pay-off amount to one fifty.”
CHAPTER ONE
Alfonzo’s Swagger
Slaughtering stride,
Swag,
Boricua Sicilian pride,
Swag,
Confident smooth gait,
Swag,
Determined pace,
Swag,
Limbs muscular strong,
Swag,
A Mafioso born,
Swag,
With killer,
Swag,
Swag,
Swag.
The hem of the black cashmere coat swung with each step of its male wearer. Walking these Manhattan streets in the evening was a throwback to youthful days. The panhandlers weren’t jostling pedestrians for money and there wasn’t one homeless person sitting on the ground. Cops directed the heavy traffic around the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge. The President of the United States was in town and there was a special emergency session at the United Nations. There were diplomatic license plates mingled with the already dense traffic. The vehicles crawled along Second Avenue. He’d sat in the back of a fortified limo from the Westside Highway to here in shitty traffic and his patience had worn out. At another stall on Fifty-Eighth, he got the fuck out and decided it was quickest to walk the short distance. He instructed the driver to keep an eye out for anyone tailing and
circle the location, but under no circumstances is he to park in front of the address.
As he leaned in the driver’s side window, he tapped the base of the door and there was a 'bing' sound when his ring struck metal. He gave a final instruction. “Wait for the call.”
The man walked casually through the bumper maze to the sidewalk. The traffic cop’s whistle blew and a school of human fish crossed beneath the entry to the Roosevelt Island tram. Tall, with a handsome face, he noticed glances from the women even guys checking him out. The black soft leather shoes connected with the pavement adding to the nocturnal sounds of the city; just another well-dressed pedestrian flanked by others in the human sea of many, except the cut of the clothes worn by the man with the confidant stroll were tailored by the world’s top designers strictly for him and set him apart.
He didn’t scurry with the other rats; instead, his gait was steady, purposeful and strong. He walked with his head up and a do not fuck with me attitude, and the lethal way in which his torso pivoted backed it up. This was a man who meant business and his shadows reinforced the image. Go ahead, fuck around and test this dude and your ass might die!
The yellow taxi’s and honking cars during the Friday evening rush hour traffic were part of the ambience to a city dweller, except the former New York native felt detached from his birthplace. In every city there exist other inner cities. There’s the glitzy tourist hub, the poorer sections many wanted to escape, the wealthy areas where the destitute dreamed of living and spots where illegal activity dwelled hidden in plain sight. In those underground places, you don’t get in without connections and money doesn’t buy a pass. They’re exclusive to a privileged few. The blue eyed impeccably dressed pedestrian held VIP status.
A day of meetings with executives of companies to reinforce his agenda, inspire loyalty, commitment and productivity were foremost on his mind. The quarterly reports which reflected a loss in the millions had him upset. His largest construction company, the one he built with his own sweat was seeing a dive in stocks. The investor skittishness was due to a false rumor the competent CFO planned to resign. The rumor most likely originated from a competitor’s camp and damage control consisted of the CFO’s assurances to stockholders via memo, he was completely committed to the business’ success.
A media kit went out and hopefully the stocks would rebound soon because losing millions isn’t easy to swallow when you remember the taste of being poor.
