Cartier Cartel--Part 4

by Nisa Santiago

Caesar chuckled. “So cute. You should see your face. Your eyes say they want to kill me dead. That kind of rage is what has kept you alive and will work well in my organization. Rival cartels infiltrated some of my Brooklyn and Queens territories when you killed Citi, and I will take them back. And I feel that you are the right person to help with expansion.”

  She was half-listening.

  Caesar didn’t have a problem speaking openly about drugs and expansion in front of his young son. The knock on the door interrupted their talk to some extent, but it was expected. It was the waitress entering the room with Cartier’s order and a bottle of wine for them to enjoy.

  “Gracias,” Caesar told the waitress before she left the room.

  Caesar went back to business. First he poured wine for him and her, took a taste, and said to Cartier, “I will start you off with ten kilos, but eventually, I want your numbers up to fifty kilos a month from me.”

  She was taken aback by the demand. “You’re not listening. Give me one reason that would make me change my mind.”

  “The reason is obvious. Money. I could come at you with threats to have your fingernails removed with pliers and your body dipped in a vat of acid while you beg for the pain to stop. Or have Apple’s daughter’s skin peeled from her body with a cheese grater as you helplessly watch the young girl call out for mercy that won’t be given. There are so many things a man in my position could say in hopes that we have a meeting of the minds. But, you see, I am different. I’m a very optimistic businessman, and I believe that you’ve never lived up to your potential. I want to help you with that.”

  “My potential? I’ve done very well for myself. I ran my cartel for years, accumulated some wealth, and now I’m retired and still young.”

  “That stolen money won’t last long. You’ve already made unwise investments, beginning with that gaudy vehicle parked outside.”

  “It’s a Bugatti.”

  “It’s every drug dealer’s mistake. If you died today no one would care. You have nothing, no one, and, most importantly, no legacy.”

  That remark hurt. Cartier thought about her murdered child, Christian, and her two sisters, Fendi and Prada, and then finally Trina. He was right. She had no one.

  “And moving your ki’s is supposed to give me all of that?”

  “If you’re smart then you take the money and do something good with it, create something so that long after you’re gone your name will remain.”

  “But fifty kilos—I’m only one person.”

  “You are a hustler, I see . . . and I respect the work you’ve put in on these streets. Especially being a young black woman. And from my understanding, you’ve never been one to back down from opportunity or risks.”

  “No. But that’s the kind of risk I’m trying to break myself away from.”

  “Why? I grow. You grow.”

  The problem was, she didn’t want to continue to grow in the drug trade and take unneeded risks. When she was in charge of her organization, she was never that large.

  “Fifty kilos a month is a lot for me to handle, Caesar,” she said.

  “The problem is, you are of little faith. Only in the darkness can you see the stars,” he said.

  Did he just quote the bible or something? she asked herself. He was different. And it seemed like he wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer.

  “Listen, I will do you this one favor. I will front you ten kilos on consignment. If you move them, good. If not, then you return them to me—no penalties,” he stated. “And I will reevaluate letting you out of our business deal. But note that if you can’t hold up your end, then Apple will have to take your place and be responsible for Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, and the Bronx. That would be a lot of pressure on the single mom.”

  She didn’t like the terms, but she agreed.

  “I guess I don’t have a choice, right? Unless I’m ready to go to war again,” she deduced.

  “I knew you were smart. So, we do these terms, make some good money, and everything will work itself out. Right?”

  “Yeah,” Cartier replied halfheartedly. She stood up to leave.

  “You don’t eat?”

  “Like I said before, I’m not that hungry.”

  “It’s not good to waste food. Hundreds of people die every day because of starvation,” said Caesar. “Take it with you to go.”

  It felt like more of a command than a suggestion.

  She didn’t want it in the first place, but she took it with her to go and couldn’t exit the restaurant fast enough. Exiting covertly behind her was Majestic and Scooter.

  “You good, Cartier?” Majestic asked her outside the restaurant.

  “Yeah. I’m good.”

  “Do you need us for anything else?” Scooter asked.

  “Nah. I’ll be okay. Y’all can go. Thanks.”

  The two killers nodded and went their way. Cartier got into her car and lingered behind the wheel. She thought about moving fifty kilos a month. It was going to take a lot of manpower and skills and moving in the shadows. It was something she wasn’t ready for, but she had to be ready for it. Caesar was a man you didn’t disappoint.

  She started her car and left. As she was driving, she thought about Caesar bringing his young son to that kind of meeting. She didn’t understand why a man who was worth so much—a man who was head of the Mingo Cartel and who had enemies—would endanger his child. But unbeknownst to Cartier, Caesar had nearly five dozen men moving in and out of the restaurant and blending in. Some were even staff. They would have mowed down any threat in a nanosecond. Caesar Mingo was in good hands. He was always protected, even when you didn’t see it.

  Before Cartier crossed back over the Brooklyn Bridge, she called Apple to warn her. She had no idea how her friend was going to take being coerced, but Cartier feared there would be drama.

  “Yo, you gonna live a long time,” Apple said. “I was just talkin’ ’bout you.”

  Cartier grinned. “I miss you, bitch.”

  “Then come through. I’m bored as fuck.”

  Cartier could hear voices and loud music in the background, horns and sirens, and a child hollering. Wherever Apple was, it was bustling with activity.

  “Soon,” she promised. “I’m calling to pull your coat to some bullshit, but before I go in, I need you to know that I’m not up for another South Beach.”

  “You worried ’bout Señor Mingo?”

  “Worried is a bit strong, but yeah, that’s why I’m calling. Did you meet with him?”

  “His peoples called and we meetin’ next week. But it’s all good on my end. This phone ain’t secure, so all I can say is that I’m leveling up. Whatever numbers that bitch Citi was doin’, I’ma triple that. You know I’m the queen of New York and he got that good ish.”

  Cartier chuckled. Apple stayed in competitive mode. “Don’t you mean the queen of Manhattan?”

  “Nah, I don’t.”

  “A’ight, whatever. So you good, though?”

  “I’m chillin’. Lookin’ forward to making this shmoney.”

  “A’ight, be careful, ho.”

  “Ya dead mama’s a ho,” Apple retorted.

  Cartier chuckled. “Ya dead mama’s a slut.”

  Cartier ended the call and headed home. At least one of them was excited for this new business endeavor.

  The skies were cloudy and gray and rain was looming when Cartier walked out of her building. To her surprise, she saw Harlem sitting on the sidewalk leaning against her BMW with her head on her knees. She was clearly asleep. Cartier stared at the young girl and shook her head. It had been a week since she kicked her out, and it was obvious Harlem had nowhere else to go. She was homeless. Cartier sighed, almost feeling terrible. She had yanked Harlem from her pimp and then kicked her out on her ass.

  “What I’m gonna do with this bitch
?”

  Cartier walked over and nudged Harlem to rouse her awake. Harlem’s eyes popped open as if she was startled and they shot up to stare at Cartier towering over her. Harlem had no words. She was embarrassed. It showed on her face.

  Cartier tossed her a set of keys and said, “Go upstairs, wash your ass, and get some sleep.”

  Harlem nodded. She was exhausted and sluggish. She rose to her feet and it struck Cartier that the girl looked like she wasn’t eating at all. The look in her eyes toward Cartier showed gratefulness. “Thank you,” she said.

  She walked a couple of steps before Cartier grabbed her arm forcefully. Through clenched teeth, she said, “You steal from me again and next time I won’t be so nice. Consider this your last warning.”

  Harlem nodded. She understood perfectly. She didn’t want another ass-whooping.

  It didn’t take Cartier long to get back into the drug game. Caesar was right; the way she was spending money she would be broke soon, and she wasn’t going back to her days of poverty. She was allergic to broke. She knew what it was like to try to live off tips, fuck niggas for a roof over her head, and work sixty hours a week for minimum wage. After South Beach it was her intention to settle down with Head and build something legit. But since he was being an asshole and it was clear that he couldn’t forgive her for fucking with Hector, she realized that she had to move on from him. Although she hated to admit it, there was a thrill to moving coke. She felt powerful, respected, and feared—a great distraction from heartbreak.

  11

  The music was loud and the club was packed, but Harlem nimbly moved through the sea of people with ease, carrying sparkling bottles of champagne to the VIP sections of the club. Escape was the place to be. Whether it was the weekend or the weekdays, they always had a crowd.

  Harlem loved her job. She was making great tips and making good friends. One particular friend she met was a regular guy in the club named Sincere and they had hit it off instantly. He was in law school and he was only twenty-six years old. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and he was nice. Harlem became smitten by him.

  She had introduced Sincere to Cartier, and Cartier felt that he was a winner. But she also advised Harlem, saying to her, “Don’t fuck him too fast—make him want you.” Surprisingly, Harlem listened to Cartier’s advice, and she and Sincere were taking things nice and slow.

  Someone else who came into Harlem’s life via the nightclub was Sana. She was a twenty-year-old biracial woman who had a black mother and white father—a father she had never met. She was a woman who could easily pass for white with her pale skin, thin nose, and short haircut dyed blond. And she only wore Ruby Woo lipstick from MAC. The two had an amicable relationship at work. Harlem considered Sana a friend.

  “So you don’t have anywhere to go?” Harlem asked her once she had dropped off the flaming champagne and headed back to the staff area of the bar.

  “No. My mother’s tripping, and she kicked me out. I was staying at the dorm rooms at my college, but they’re so expensive that I couldn’t afford to stay there anymore. So I’ve been couch surfing.”

  “That’s fucked up.”

  Harlem could relate. She had been in the same situation not too long ago. She wanted to help out. Sana always kept to herself. She did her job at the club, got paid big tips, and would remain aloof from the other bottle service girls—mostly the black ones. Most of her friends were white girls.

  “I know, but what can I do? I can’t afford rent and tuition.”

  “Look, I might be able to help you out,” said Harlem.

  “You can?” Sana eyes lit up.

  “I’m staying with a friend and she looked out for me, so maybe she’ll look out for you.”

  Smiling, Sana replied, “If you can help me out with a place to stay, I would highly appreciate it and I would definitely owe you, Harlem.”

  “We good. I just wanna help. Come with me after work and I’ll introduce you and we’ll take it from there. Don’t worry, girl, I got you.”

  Sana hugged Harlem. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  After work, the girls traveled to Cartier’s place via cab and got there in the early morning. It had been a long night at work and they were on their feet the whole time. Harlem wanted to strip away her clothing and flop against her bed face-first, and she wanted to sleep all day. But first she wanted to get Sana in good with Cartier.

  They walked through the front door and immediately saw Cartier coming out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee. Cartier looked at Harlem and then her eyes cut to Sana, who she assumed was a white girl. “So you like pussy now, Harlem? You’re bringing white bitches to my home to fuck?”

  “No. It’s not like that, Cartier. She’s a friend of mine from work who needs a favor,” Harlem explained.

  “A favor? What kind of favor?”

  “She’s homeless.”

  “And?”

  “And she doesn’t have anywhere else to go, and I figured that since you helped me out—”

  “That I’m gonna help out this white girl too,” Cartier interjected.

  Sana stood there quietly. She didn’t know what to expect, but she allowed Harlem to talk for her. But she felt proud to hear Cartier call her a white girl. It was a compliment to her.

  Harlem continued to talk, but Cartier had heard enough. She moved closer to the girls and stared at Sana with such intensity that it made her turn away nervously.

  “Don’t get shy. I like to look a bitch in the eyes when I talk to her. Look at me,” Cartier said to Sana. “You need a place to stay, then I need to look you in the eyes when we talk.”

  Sana locked eyes with her.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sana.”

  She was pretty like Harlem.

  “Well listen, Sana, this is my home and I make the rules here. Do you understand me?”

  Sana nodded.

  “Harlem will let you know, don’t fuck with me, and if you break my rules or disrespect me, or if you have the audacity to steal from me, I will fuck you up. Do you understand me?”

  Sana nodded.

  “I’ll let you stay for a moment, until you’re able to get back on your feet. But don’t ever take my kindness for weakness or you’ll find out the hard way how much of a crazy bitch I can become. I can become your best friend or your worst nightmare.”

  “I won’t disrespect your home,” Sana humbly replied.

  “Don’t! That’s all I ask from you.”

  With that said, Cartier walked away from the two of them. Harlem smiled at Sana and said, “I told you. I got you.”

  “Thanks, Harlem.”

  Right away, Sana got settled into her new place. She really liked the apartment; it was trendy and spacious—without a doubt something she could see having for herself.

  Cartier received another anonymous threat, and this one was a white card with a skull, dagger, and blood with the handwritten letter Y in black ink. Y? The cards she was receiving from out of nowhere were starting to irritate her. She wanted to catch the person who was dropping them on her car, and she wanted to beat the shit out of them, torture them, and get to the bottom of things. But it seemed nearly impossible. The cards started to bother her and she decided to look for help in figuring them out, or catching whoever was responsible for them.

  She met with Majestic and Scooter in confidence to fill them in on the strange messages. The three of them were in the living room at Cartier’s place. It was late-night, meaning Harlem and Sana were working at the club, so they didn’t have to worry about anybody eavesdropping.

  Cartier said to her two shooters, “Someone’s playing head games with me, and I need you two to be extra vigilant. I’ve been finding these note cards on my car, and it’s starting to piss me off. I want the shit to stop!”

  She handed the card with th
e Y to Majestic and he inspected it and handed it to Scooter.

  “We on it, Cartier,” Scooter replied, handing the card back to Cartier.

  “We watchin’ ya back n’ I’ll have some peoples keep an eye on ya place. Whoever is playin’ fuckin’ games wit’ you, we’ll find out n’ take care of it,” said Majestic with assurance.

  Cartier liked the sound of that.

  “And ’bout that other thing,” Scooted started, “we were able to get a few mo’ hustlers to cop ya product because of the quality of the coke, which is moving fast in Cypress Hills and Baisley Projects. Shit is doin’ the highest numbers in those two areas.”

  “Yeah, a lot of these niggas are excited that ya back in the game. I got niggas hittin’ me up n’ they ready to link up wit’ you,” Majestic added.

  Cartier already knew this. The streets were talking. Cartier Cartel was officially back in business, and a mountain of hustlers and shot-callers wanted to get onboard. They trusted Cartier, and her product spoke for itself. Niggas from OT were hitting her phone looking for distribution. Things were looking up. Still, Cartier knew that word of mouth through the streets could be a blessing and a curse at the same time.

  12

  The hot July sun was blazing outside, so Head decided to spend the afternoon in the comfort of his air conditioned hotel room. He was still at the Marriott, unable to come to terms with Pebbles and her social media shenanigans. Home less than sixty days and he had already managed to piss off the two women he felt something for. Head knew he still had strong feelings for Cartier, and he also knew that he cared about Pebbles. But he still had moves to make and a business to run. Things in Michigan were going easier than he had hoped thanks to the teachings and guidance he had received from Brother Kareem.

  Kareem was a Hebrew Israelite and had been his cellmate the last four months of Head’s bid. Kareem had just been hit with three life sentences for murder and drug conspiracy and a host of other charges that he never wanted to discuss. He was a man with a lot of regrets and nuggets of wisdom mixed with delusion he liked to spew. Kareem was in his late fifties and a career criminal. His salt-and-pepper hair peeked out from under his kufi cap and his Malcolm X horn-rimmed glasses sat perched on his broad nose. He was of average height for a man with a strong, muscular body. While serving life sentences, talking and teaching helped him pass the time, and persuading others to think like him gave him a sense of power in a powerless environment.