Cartier Cartel--Part 4

by Nisa Santiago

  “You always thought you were so fuckin’ cute.” Cartier chuckled.

  “Monya, do you remember the Harlem twins, Apple and Kola?” She shook her head rapidly. “Apple—she has this unquenchable thirst for the game. She’s strong willed, but reckless. Sometimes I fear that I’ll be visiting her buried six feet deep in the very near future or vice versa.”

  Cartier enjoyed her moment visiting her friend, but it was also painful, and she felt it was time to go. She crouched down and kissed her index and middle finger and pressed them against Monya’s headstone, showing her love to the deceased.

  When she got back to her car there was something on her windshield. It wasn’t supposed to be there. She was in a cemetery, so who would be advertising something? Right away, Cartier opened her Hermes handbag and placed her hand on her pistol. The 9mm gave her some quick comfort. Her head swiveled like a rotating chair until she was certain there weren’t any threats nearby.

  She snatched the item from her windshield and flipped it over. It was white cardstock that displayed a skull, a dagger, and blood with the handwritten letter O in black ink.

  O? What does it mean? Cartier asked herself. And where did it come from?

  The card somewhat spooked her. Someone knew she was at the cemetery and she believed that she was being followed. First her home, and now the cemetery. It wasn’t cute. However, she shrugged and tossed the damn thing over her shoulder. Someone was definitely playing head games with her. She got behind the wheel of her Bugatti and peeled out of the cemetery.

  9

  Oh shit,” Head groaned with pleasure while he was sleeping. It felt like he was having a wet dream, but when he opened his eyes, he was waking up to the most amazing blowjob he’d had in a long time.

  Pebbles had started deep-throating him. Her lips rapidly slid up and down his hard and long dick, her head moving like a bobblehead as she sucked and slurped. Head was in absolute bliss. The sensation of her full, sweet lips was making his toes curl and his eyes roll around in his head like he was possessed.

  “What the fuck?” he muttered.

  She curtly stopped her pleasurable act to reply, “Just relax, baby. I got you,” and she went back to her business.

  It took fifteen minutes for her lips to pull the cum from his dick. After Head nutted in her mouth, Pebbles rolled out of bed and left the bedroom naked to go make him some breakfast. Her cute face wore a satisfied smile that looked painted on.

  Head had to collect himself for a moment. The blowjob had him stuck. He figured that she had gotten a new contract and wanted to treat him to something nice this morning. He wasn’t complaining.

  He remained in her bed, relishing the moment for a while, and then he got up and walked to the window butt naked and took a look outside. He peered at the city block—a very busy Manhattan. Some time ago it was his city.

  While Pebbles was in the kitchen cooking for him, Head decided to pick up his smart phone and check out her Instagram page. It was the quickest way to find out information nowadays. Once he was on her page, he saw Pebbles in countless posts taken in high-end stores—Chanel, YSL, Prada, Hermes—buying bags, shoes, scarves, belts, and outfits. She also had all types of hash tags—#spoiled #mymansbetterthanyours #wedoitbig. But what really got under his skin was that all those posts mentioned @Heads___Home. He went to the handle and there was his face with several pictures of them from when she came to visit him. Some were more recent and some were of him sleeping in her bed. He had warned her that he wasn’t down with that kind of exposure, but Pebbles had created an account that made it seem he liked that dumb shit. He had over two hundred thousand followers.

  “What the fuck!” he muttered to himself.

  Pebbles was trying to make him a social media icon. But what bothered him too was seeing the new clothes, jewelry, and shoes in the pictures. He casually walked to her closet and looked through all her belongings. She had indeed bought everything with the twenty thousand he’d given her. The ignorant, materialistic woman had put her image before home.

  “This fucking airhead,” he said with disappointment.

  To cool off, he decided to take a shower. While the water cascaded down on him, Head closed his eyes and he knew that it was time to put his plans into action. During his time in prison, he did a lot of reading, absorbing books that amplified his knowledge and spiritual awakening. He became enlightened to the world around him. His past was behind him, but his future was looming fast like a speeding train. As he lingered in the shower collecting his thoughts, he heard knocking at the door. It was Pebbles telling him that breakfast was ready.

  “I’m not hungry,” he casually replied.

  His reply left her stunned. “Huh? You’re not hungry? But I cooked you a good meal.”

  “I said I’m not hungry,” he reiterated.

  “Well, do you want me to join you?”

  “Nah. I’m almost done,” he said.

  “You sure? I can come in there and soap you up from head to toe and continue what I started in the bedroom.”

  “I said I’m almost done.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  Pebbles knew something had changed with Head all of a sudden. Why was he being so terse with her? She sighed. She figured it was either a bitch or business. Pebbles turned around and went back into the kitchen while Head continued to shower.

  After spending about a half hour in the shower, Head exited the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist to see Pebbles standing naked in the hallway waiting for him to come out. She grinned his way but he didn’t smile back.

  “Henry, why the sudden attitude with me?”

  He ignored her and went into the bedroom.

  She followed behind him. “Did I do something wrong?”

  He continued the silent treatment while he started to get dressed.

  “I wake you up sucking your dick like a porn star and this is how you do me?”

  He coolly glanced her way and continued to say nothing. Her nakedness wasn’t enticing at the moment. The only thing he wanted to do was leave.

  “Just tell me, what did I do wrong?”

  He threw on his Timberland boots, stood up, grabbed a gym bag, coolly looked at her, and replied, “I’m out.”

  He walked to the front door. Pebbles was right behind him, looking desperate to hear him say something—some kind of explanation for the sudden attitude.

  “Baby, just talk to me. Please,” she begged.

  She grabbed his forearm to prevent him from leaving so abruptly, but Head turned to look at her with a sharp stare that could cut through steel. Pebbles knew to remove her grip from him.

  “Like I said, I’m out.”

  He walked through the door and Pebbles was left standing there naked looking like a lost puppy.

  Outside, Head climbed into an Uber.

  “Where to?” asked the driver.

  “Valley Stream, Long Island,” said Head.

  “Okay.”

  Head sat back and gazed out the window. From Manhattan to Long Island was a long drive, but he didn’t care. He needed to think. He needed to rebuild and stay focused.

  An hour later, Head climbed out of the Uber at First National Bank in Valley Stream, Long Island. He peered at the building on the busy boulevard before heading inside to meet with the bank manager. After Head provided the information needed for security reasons, the manager escorted Head to an area filled with safety deposit boxes.

  “I hope everything is to your satisfaction, Mr. Jackson,” the bank manager said.

  “It is.”

  “Well, I’ll give you some privacy,” the manager said and left the room.

  With his key, Head opened one of the safety deposit boxes that he’d long ago set up via a dummy corporation. Inside was exactly $200,000. Head might not have buried his millions like Pablo Escobar, but he was dil
igent in hiding his cash in different locations.

  He removed the money from the box and placed it into the small gym bag he brought with him. With the gym bag zipped and tossed over his shoulder, he left the bank two hundred thousand dollars richer. Subsequently, he got into a cab and told the driver to take him to Northern Boulevard in Queens.

  The car dealership where all hustlers went for the hottest cars without any red tape was where Head wanted to be dropped off. The moment Head stepped foot onto the lot, he had a salesman approaching him with a wide grin and encouraging behavior.

  “You look like a man who knows what he wants,” said the salesman.

  “It depends,” Head responded.

  “I’m Mark,” he said, shaking Head’s hand.

  “Henry Jackson.”

  “So, Mr. Jackson, what brings you to our dealership? Are you looking for something in particular?”

  “I need something nice.”

  “Well, look around you. We carry the best cars New York has ever seen. And as far as the paperwork, we can take care of that too.”

  “I know. That’s the reason I came here.”

  “So I take it that you’ve done business with us before?”

  “In the past.”

  Mark smiled. “Well, we’re glad to have a repeat customer.”

  Head went looking around the car lot where exotic and luxury vehicles such as Ferraris, Bentleys, Maseratis, and Aston Martins were for sale for a hefty price.

  “You look like a man that would do well in a McLaren,” said Mark.

  Head chuckled. “Seriously? Me in that?”

  “It will definitely get the ladies’ attention.”

  “I don’t need a car like that to get the ladies’ attention,” he countered.

  “I believe you. You do look like a ladies’ man.”

  Head walked toward something that caught his eye. It was a black-on-black Range Rover. He knew he would blend better in a Range. He wasn’t a rapper or a ball player, or even legit.

  “I see you’re an SUV kind of man. I should have predicted that,” said Mark.

  “I like this. What’s the price on it?”

  “It’s ninety-five thousand. But for you, I’ll let it go for ninety and it’s truly a first-class travel experience. It comes fully loaded with top-of -the-line technology, touch-sensitive switches, along with beautiful leather interior—”

  “I’ll take it,” Head interrupted his pitch. He didn’t need to hear any more.

  Mark helped him with the paperwork, and Head handed him the cash for the purchase. He then drove out of the dealership in his late-model custom black-on-black Range Rover. It was his type of ride—sitting up high and cruising around town like a boss.

  After leaving the dealership, Head drove to the Courtyard Marriott in Queens where he booked a room for the week. He wanted a low-key hotel he could easily get to without traffic and hoopla until he was able to get his own apartment.

  He breezed through the streets of Brooklyn a single man. And while cruising, Pebbles called him repeatedly but he refused to answer. She didn’t leave him any of the messages he thought he would hear, like saying she needed money to pay her bills.

  Back at the Courtyard Marriott that night, the only thing he could think about was Cartier.

  10

  Cartier sat parked outside the Spanish restaurant in East Harlem on 116th Street. She hesitated to get out the car and go inside the place, which had a line of customers inside. But she wasn’t there because she was hungry. She was there because she had been summoned by Caesar Mingo, who was the top man in New York City. It was the last place she wanted to be.

  How the fuck did I get on his radar? she wondered. She had agreed to the meeting with Caesar, but it wasn’t like she had a choice. When Caesar Mingo summons you to meet him somewhere, you had better show up on time and be ready to hear what he has to say.

  Caesar didn’t look like most cartel figures. He didn’t wear suits, smoke cigars, nor was he born into the drug game. He was a handsome dark-chocolate man with shiny jet-black curly hair. He wasn’t Mexican, Colombian, or Cuban. Caesar Mingo was actually a Dominican born in Mexico, and he was a former Major League Baseball player. He played for the Texas Rangers for three years before he was injured in a motorcycle accident. He was just a young man at the time, only twenty-one years old, and he was a hothead. Now, at 40, he’d long ago switched professions.

  Caesar had been married to a Jewish lawyer named Lena for nearly two decades. They had to hire a live-in housekeeper to keep the house tidy. Caesar and Lena had one child together, a chubby little boy named Oscar, and Lena hardly had any clients. She had hooked Caesar in high school because she knew he was going to play pro ball. However, Caesar was in love with a Puerto Rican girl named Clarita back then. Most of his peers were marrying outside their race to get the good endorsement deals, so he did what his mind told him to do, not his heart. Lena was overweight, lazy, and considered a slob, but no one dared to make fun of his wife. They figured he was with her for special reasons.

  Caesar controlled 1/10th of narcotics on the east coast from his suburban farm in upstate New York. He was a powerhouse in the city and highly connected to the streets, to law enforcement, and in the political world. There was no telling how many cops and politicians he had on his payroll. But he lived a humble life—drove a minivan and Ford F-150. He was beloved in his community and he rarely came to the boroughs unless it was for something like today—for new business arrangements.

  Caesar had done his homework and research on Cartier. She was low- level to him, however, he knew that she was capable of much more. He knew about her jail time for manslaughter, her run-in with the Gonzalez Cartel, and how she had taken out one of his top earners, Citi Byrne.

  After spending some time in her Bugatti outside the restaurant, Cartier finally climbed out of the vehicle. Although she walked into the restaurant alone, her two new enforcers, brothers named Majestic and Scooter, were already seated among the customers. The brothers took orders well and were ready to protect her by any means necessary. They were killers, and they respected Cartier, whose name rang out on the streets of New York.

  Cartier came to the meeting at the restaurant looking her best in an expensive silk dress, high heels, and clutching her designer handbag with her pistol concealed inside. As she took a seat near the entryway her eyes were darting everywhere, cautiously taking in her surroundings and examining faces. It was a typical atmosphere to a New York City restaurant—busy staff moving about fulfilling orders, chitchat filling the air, and patrons enjoying their meals. There was no sign of Caesar.

  Five minutes after she arrived, Cartier was shocked to see him arriving driving a Chrysler minivan. She immediately knew it was him. He was alone except he had brought his three-year-old son with him. Cartier kept her eyes on Caesar from the time he parked the minivan, removed his son from the car seat in the back, and walked into the restaurant. He didn’t look like an intimidating man, but anyone who really knew about his pedigree knew not to judge a book by its cover. He had on Crocs and an outfit that cost him no more than $30, and there were signs of a developing beer belly. His hairline was shaped up to perfection, his chocolate skin glowed like he got weekly facials, and it was clear that he had gotten a manicure. Caesar walked like a rock star, something only someone who had deep pockets could project.

  Cartier stood to greet him. He gave her a stern look and said, “We’ll talk in the back.”

  It was clear to her that he owned the place. She followed him through the restaurant to a private section in the back that was closed off from everything else. He closed the door behind them and they took a seat at a decorated table. She was nervous but she didn’t show it. With his son seated on his lap, it was time to talk business. A waitress was assigned to take only their orders.

  “Order whatever you like. It’s on the ho
use,” Caesar told her.

  “I’m not really that hungry,” she replied.

  “It’s never good to talk business on an empty stomach. You come and you eat.”

  “Business?”

  Caesar nodded.

  She didn’t want to argue with him. She smiled at the pretty waitress and said, “I’ll have a turkey club and some fruit . . . and a bottled water.”

  “Asegúrate de que no estemos perturbados,” Caesar spoke to the waitress in Spanish, telling her to make sure they weren’t disturbed.

  The waitress nodded and left the room. Once she was gone, Caesar stared at Cartier straight-faced and said, “I’ve heard great things about you, Cartier, and I bet you are curious as to why I called you to meet.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re smart and motivated, and I see you as an asset to this organization—valioso,” he said. “Those attributes are the sole reason I didn’t have you killed when you took out Citi. Your actions left distribution wide open, and that’s a position you’re going to fill.”

  Cartier was aggravated. “I’m out the game—but you know this.”

  Caesar shrugged. “In, out—just semantics, little details we can’t get hung up on. Sí?”

  “Look, Caesar, I understand your position, but please get this. What happened with Citi was personal, and if that spilled into your business, then it is what it is. I can’t rewrite history, but what I’m also not gonna do is be bullied into getting back into the game.”

  Caesar slowly nodded and replied with, “This isn’t a negotiation.”

  “Everything is negotiable.”

  “As I said, with distribution now open, you will oversee Brooklyn and Queens and your coconspirator Apple will handle Manhattan and the Bronx. Yes?”

  Cartier stood to leave.

  “Siéntate!” His voice rose. “Why you make me angry?”

  Cartier sat back down with a thud and rolled her eyes. “I can’t do it.”