Mirror Image

by Ice-T

  Casey knew tomorrow’s meeting was gonna be a battle of wills. A lot of the sets he now controlled were eventually gonna have to walk away from dealing hard drugs. That was gonna be a tough financial hit. It also meant that other independent crews would see opportunity and try and set up crack and heroin operations in his territories. Casey had to make it worthwhile for them to play ball because none of these guys had a moral compass worth a shit. He had less than six hours to figure it all out, but he was a pressure player, always had been, and knew he’d come through.

  He pulled up in front of his place, glad to have some alone time to contemplate. As fine a woman as Carla was, sometimes a brotha just needed to sort some shit out all by hisself.

  Casey rode the elevator up to his crib; the elevator doors pinged like the bell for the start of a title fight and opened. As Casey walked to his door, he heard music; either someone had broke into his crib and was messin’ around, or Carla was there. He reached into his right pocket for the baby 9, pulled out his keys with his left hand, and opened the door slowly.

  As the music grew louder, he heard Carla singing. Casey relaxed, put the 9 away, walked in, and shut the door. Casey’s pad was pimped out in a modern Japanese style, with plenty of gleaming black lacquer and soft cushions for relaxing. Not only did it suit his sense of style, but he dug the clean lines and efficiency of it. Of course, he had the latest gadgets and guns hidden all over the place, as if he was gonna have a gangsta Easter egg hunt.

  Carla saw him and bounced over, giving him a wet kiss. She looked fine as fuck: barefoot and wearing some white booty shorts and a tight spaghetti-strap top that made her tits look even bigger than they already were.

  “What’s up, baby?” Carla asked when she saw the look on his face.

  “Ain’t no thang … but in the future, I need you to drop a dime when you rolling through,” Casey said.

  Carla gave him a WTF look and was about to get into it before Casey interrupted her. “Hold up, now. Before you go left, you know what I do.… I heard noise in here and went into combat mode. A simple text would have taken that stress off my neck.”

  Carla still had a trace of a salty look on her face as she stared at him. “Are you sure that’s all it is, Crush?”

  “No, it ain’t, and you best drop that eyeballin’ right now. I’m in the middle of some shit at the moment, and sometimes a nigga needs some time to think alone!” Casey took a breath before he went any further off the deep end. “Look, we got a good thing, baby, so this doesn’t have to be no drama.”

  Still glaring at Casey coldly, Carla said, “You got that right, nigga. Fuck it, let me get the hell outta your way, then.” She stormed past him and headed for the door.

  Casey was two seconds from completely losing his shit with the day he’d had and the shit still to come. The last thing he needed right now was his bitch trippin’ and causing needless drama.

  “Carla…” She kept walking toward the door, grabbing her purse. “Carla!” he said in a tone that made her jump and then freeze in her tracks. She turned slowly, clearly hurt, biting her bottom lip while looking at the ground.

  Casey let a breath out between his teeth—he hated all this female drama shit, but he knew every woman was the same. Stepping closer to her, he reached down and tilted her face up to look at him. “Look, baby, we’re good—shit, we’re great. You’re it for me, okay? I just got some heavy shit goin’ on right now, and you already know ’bout my morning. I’m just sayin’ let a brotha know when you’re coming through because I got a hectic life and I wanna make sure what’s important to me is safe, you dig?”

  “That all sounds good, Crush, but sometimes…” Carla stared back at him again, but still had that vulnerable look on her face.

  Casey narrowed his eyes and figured he knew what was comin’. “Come on, say what you gotta say, baby girl.”

  “It’s just sometimes I feel like you takin’ me for granted. You know, you come by when you wanna come by, we hang, which is great and all, but then you bust a nut and bounce out the door. Now, don’t get me wrong, the lovin’ is all good, but sometimes your leavin’ makes me wonder if that’s all you about, y’know?”

  “Is that what’s doggin’ you?” Casey asked, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “You know you it for me, baby, don’t ever doubt that! Shit, it’s not like I don’t like seeing your fine booty greetin’ me as I come in the door. But I got 99 problems with putting the VKs and everything else together, and I don’t need some wannabe boss-baller thinkin’ he can get to me by comin’ after you. I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you, a’ight?”

  She nodded slowly while easing closer to him. “I hear you, baby.”

  “A’ight, then. I got some thinking to do, then I got a big meeting that’s gonna go late. I’ll call you after that, and stop by for a late dinner, cool?” He put his arms around her and kissed her. Carla melted into his embrace, and Casey just held her for a few moments.

  When he pulled back a bit, Carla asked, “You promise?”

  “Yeah, baby,” Casey said, and with that he sucked on her bottom lip and squeezed her butt hard. “Mm-mm! Damn, woman, how could you think I’d ever wanna leave this?”

  Carla laughed softly, smacking Casey in the chest. “’Cause you stoopid, like all men, that’s why.” She pulled the door open. Halfway out, she turned to look at Casey one last time. “Later tonight … right?”

  Casey smiled and said, “Come on, girl, get outta here.” The door shut and she was gone.

  He went to the window and looked at the light of the city gleaming below him. His turf, all of it. How long could he keep the Kings on point, his girl chilled, and himself out of the joint and breathing?

  Fuck, what a day.

  3

  The next morning, Casey got up early and hit the gym. While pushing weights around, he spied in the mirror two detectives coming his way. He ignored them until they tapped him on the shoulder. Casey turned and said nothing. The two detectives flashed their badges and started peppering him with questions about Rono’s murder. Everyone around him gawked as the two pigs talked loud enough for the whole gym to hear. It was typical cop shit to try and embarrass him, but Casey didn’t give a flying fuck.

  “Look, Casey, we know you were involved, we just haven’t figured it out … yet,” one of the detectives said.

  Casey kept bench-pressin’ his three hundred pounds. “Well, till you do, get the fuck out my face!”

  The cops eventually split and Casey finished his workout.

  For the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, Casey contemplated his situation and the fate of the VKs. He’d been out of the pen for all of three months, and this gangsta lifestyle was already threatening both his freedom and life. He had gotten his revenge—for all the good it had done him—but he had got it. He had the Kings under his control and he had a great broad by his side. But in the end, his trip to Antonio’s resting place had made him realize any personal peace he could find would be elusive at best, and a dangerous trap at worst.

  So what’s the point—it’s a fuckin’ losing battle. Doing a quick accounting in his head, Casey figured he was sittin’ on close to $2.3 million in cash—enough to get him gone and give him time to figure out how to survive as a square. As far as the Kings were concerned, he could turn them over to Champa to run, and if he didn’t want ’em, well, it wouldn’t be his muthafuckin’ problem.

  Casey mulled over the issues that would crop up if he decided to stay, mainly, how to keep the guys on point and how to make sure there was no splintering off. How was he gonna make sure the cops, the FBI, the DEA, and anyone else with a badge was not gonna destroy what he created? Casey caught himself and thought, What the fuck is this shit? I feel like I’m having a gangsta’s midlife crisis.

  As Casey leaned back on his sofa, he exhaled and surveyed his apartment. On the wall was a copy of the famous Japanese print, The Great Wave off Kanagawa. He studied the picture intently: The waves looked like great claws,
and in the background was the seemingly very small Mount Fuji. It almost looked like the waves were about to swallow Mount Fuji because of the perspective. Mack D always said “life is all about perspective.” And then it hit him.

  “Sonofabitch.” Casey slowly sat up as Mack D’s voice echoed in his head: “The opportunity to secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.”

  When he’d first heard that quote in Attica, Casey had been knocked out. “Oh shit, nigga, that’s a jewel right there, wow.” It was one of Mack’s favorite Sun Tzu quotes. Mack often spoke passionately about how, in any conflict, you needed to see the weakness in others and do to them what they’re trying to do to you. He explained that the enemies’ strategy against you needed to be applied against their weakness for you to defeat them.

  Casey ran over all of this once more in his mind, crystallizing what his next move would be. Glancing at his watch, he realized he needed to get to the office for the powwow with his field generals. He grabbed his jacket and headed out the door. As he pulled onto the street, he was formulating his master plan and what he would say to the guys. It was too early to let everyone in on what he had planned, but it was important that all the guys knew how shit was gonna work from here on out.

  He drove to the office, constantly and unconsciously checking his rearview mirror. Casey pulled his black Escalade into the garage and saw Champa, who was just parking his gleaming silver Aston Martin DB9.

  Casey got out and whistled at his brotha’s new wheels. “Whassup, nigga, that the new whip?”

  Champa smiled. “Yeah, man, some of the spoils from that little escapade of ours.”

  Casey surveyed the car admiringly; Champ had customized the interior, splashed it with a new paint job, added bigger wheels, and put fresh CEC rims on it.

  “Damn, that shit is tight. Who did the work, Hans?” he asked.

  “None other. He also installed bulletproof glass and added some voice-activated benefits,” said Champa.

  Casey knew that besides doing hella custom work, Hans was great at adding other “benefits,” such as secret compartments that concealed guns.

  Casey and Champa got in the car and shut the doors. Champa smiled big and said, “Are you ready for this shit, nigga?” He paused, making sure he had Casey’s attention, then said, “Düsseldorf.” On the dash, a panel slid up, and the handle of a SIG Sauer P226 popped out. Casey smiled at Hans’s handiwork—he never would have guessed the dash had been customized—it looked that natural. Champa explained that he’d originally had the password set to “gun,” but the damn thing was opening all the time, triggered by the rap lyrics he was listening to and by his phone conversations. He could just imagine a cop pulling him over, asking him if he had any guns in the car and that damn compartment opening. “So I changed it to ‘Düsseldorf,’ ’cause most niggas is clueless to that shit.” Casey laughed and they got out of the car.

  They kept the talk light as they walked to the elevator and rode up to Casey’s Urban Victory office on the tenth floor. The garage couldn’t be trusted to be secure, but once in Casey’s office, they’d dispense with the small talk.

  The office looked like most nonprofits in the city: cheap desks crowded together in a drab interior, a bit disheveled, and one step away from shutting down. It was exactly the way Casey liked it—deceptive. They walked into the Urban Victory lobby and past the gold logo on the wall, which looked like it was seconds from falling down. Underneath was written the organization’s motto:

  If you want to lift yourself up, lift up someone else.

  —BOOKER T. WASHINGTON

  Shinzo was waiting in the shabby lobby. “Whassup, boss man?”

  “Hey, Shin, what it do?”

  “Just waiting on these guys to arrive—you want ’em in the conference room?”

  “Yeah, it’s nice and clean, right?”

  Shin knew by “clean,” his boss meant that there were no bugs. “Yeah, the cleaning crew left it nice and tidy.”

  “Okay, you know the drill—when everyone arrives, call me on the cell.”

  He and Champa walked past the windowless conference room and into the back office. He shut and locked the door, and rather than sit at the desk, Casey walked to the bookshelf and called a number on his iPhone that triggered the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf to pop out. Casey pulled the bookshelf farther out on noiseless hinges, revealing a heavy wood-paneled door with a retinal scanner next to it. Casey put his eye on the scanner, the door opened, and he stepped into his plush office.

  As he walked in, Champa chuckled and said, “James fuckin’ Bond.”

  Casey smiled and said, “Come on, nigga, you know how we do.”

  The carpet was jet black, as was the furniture; the door and windows were bulletproof, and the windows heavily tinted as well. This was Casey’s sanctuary and, if need be, his safe room. Casey sat down at the desk and turned on two fifty-inch LED flat screens mounted on the far wall. One showed the conference room and the outside of his door on split screen, and the other showed the lobby, garage, and elevator. All the cameras were HD and had the ability to pan, zoom, and provide audio if Casey wanted to listen to whoever was talking.

  Casey sat behind his desk while Champa sat on the plush black suede sofa. They had about twenty minutes until everyone showed up. Casey leaned his elbows on the desk, looked at Champa, and said, “The opportunity to secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.”

  Champa looked at Casey cockeyed. “Nigga, what the fuck you talking about?”

  “I got a plan to keep the cops in check. But I’m gonna need your help,” Casey said.

  Champa arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Oh, really? Well, damn, nigga, let’s hear it.”

  “This is some next-level shit we’ve never played before, Champa. We gonna need to create our own special ops units. We gonna need top-flight computer guys to hack into systems all around the city, not just personal computers, but businesses’ computers and government computers as well.”

  Champa focused intently on Casey, intrigued. “Uh-huh, okay, I’m down with you so far.”

  “I’ma need guys that can record audio and video in different locations undetected, as well as record phone conversations on landlines and mobile phones,” Casey continued.

  “Damn, nigga, you really are goin’ James Bond, that’s some hella stealth shit. Who we settin’ up for the takedown?” Champa asked.

  Casey looked at Champa for a beat and coolly said, “The N … Y … P … D!”

  Champa stared at Casey, caught totally off guard. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again and started laughing his ass off. Casey just leaned back and let him get it out of his system.

  “Wow, nigga! Damn, that’s some shit,” Champa said once he’d caught his breath. “How the fuck we gonna do that and why? I mean, how’s that fit into your grand plan? I don’t get it.”

  “Champa, what are the cops always trying to do to us?”

  “Shee-it! Catch us out of pocket!”

  “Specifically…”

  “Catch us breaking the law so they can put us under—”

  “Exactly, but now we gonna turn the tables on ’em. We gonna compile evidence on all the dirty cops and their loved ones and, at the right moment, let ’em have it.”

  “Turn it in to their internal affairs people?”

  “Not just them, brotha…”

  And then it hit Champa like a thunderbolt. He sprang to his feet. “Ohhh shit! The press—awww, nigga, I love it!” Champa was dancing and jumping around. “It’s gonna be like our own—what’s that shit called?—y’know, run by that crazy English muthafucka—”

  Casey smiled and said, “WikiLeaks, and he’s Australian—”

  “Exactly! We gonna target the cops that’re already watching our asses. And at the right moment, we put ’em on blast. Those cops we put
on the hot seat will need to be put on leave or fired on the spot ’cause there’ll be too much public pressure, which means we won’t be having anyone on our ass the minute we spring shit. It’s our Get Out of Jail Free card. When shit starts getting hot, we drop that bomb, which creates a hella diversion.”

  Casey could tell the beauty and the brilliance of the plan were not lost on his friend. Champa fell back onto the sofa, deep in thought, before looking at Casey again. “Nigga, you a stone-cold genius.”

  Casey laughed and bumped fists with his second-in-command. “First things first: We gonna need to find out who the dirty cops are as well as see which ones are assigned to us.”

  Champa stopped laughing at that. “What if the cops watching us all ain’t dirty?”

  “Well, then, nigga, we’ll create some evidence that makes them look like they are, just like their punk asses do to us all the muthafuckin’ time!” Casey said.

  “That’s right, nigga, I got you,” Champa said, smiling back at him.

  Casey looked up at the flat screens. “Looks like they’re almost all here—we gotta make this quick. I want to keep this plan on the DL, just you and me for now, a’ight? Once things start to get set up, then we start clueing in other people, but right now it is on a need-to-know basis only.”

  “I hear ya, nigga. So what’s shakin’ tonight?”

  “For this meeting, I’m lettin’ everyone know that you’re my right-hand man, and that Shinzo’s their day-to-day cat. Any problems, they talk to Shin, then Shin talks to you, and if you think it warrants it, I will step in.”

  As if on cue, Casey’s cell phone rang. He read the caller ID and picked it up. “Yeah, Shin, they all here? Okay, we’re coming now.” Casey closed his phone and said, “Let’s do this.”

  Champa got up, but turned to Casey and said, “You really think Shin is up to handlin’ his weight?”

  “Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t put him in place if I didn’t. Why?”