Mirror Image

by Ice-T

  * * *

  On the ride there, he dialed Mick and let him know he wanted to do a one-on-one. Mick was down and told him to meet him at his crib. Casey knew what he was gonna say, but didn’t know the exact script yet. However, working on the fly always was his strong suit, so he figured the words would come when he needed them.

  Twenty minutes later, he drove down Strivers’ Row in Harlem. Strivers’ was a group of beautiful town houses originally built for whites only back in the day. When the development had finally been finished, Harlem was primarily a black neighborhood, and as a result, nobody white had wanted to move in. After the development company went bankrupt, they’d let brothas and sistas start living there.

  Casey pulled up to Mick’s spot and spotted a couple of his guys outside. They immediately recognized Casey and told him to go on in. Casey walked in and was greeted by Mick at the door.

  “Whassup, my nigga?” Mick said with a smile.

  “Chillin’, man—this is a tight spot you got, baby.” Casey admired the hardwood floors and neoclassical moldings throughout the crib.

  “Yeah, Harry Wills used to live here.”

  “I’m not hip—who’s that?”

  “He was a boxer back in the day, one of the best, but you know he got jerked around by the white man ’cause after Jack Johnson won the title in 1910, whitey wasn’t about ta give niggas another shot at the crown.” Mick always had a bit of a chip on his shoulder; he was also a Five Percenter, as were a lot of his guys.

  They went into the living room, where some of Mick’s guys were hangin’ out. Mick told ’em all to scatter and to close the door.

  Once they were alone, Casey got down to it. “Look, Mick, I got where you was comin’ from the other day and I appreciate your support in our endeavor. The truth is that without you, this won’t work, so I need you to be totally in on this. You got a serious rep, so what you say and do matters to everybody.”

  Mick looked at Casey and said, “Come on, man, you a triple OG, how’m I not gonna give you my support? ’Sides, nigga, we go way back.”

  Casey nodded. “That’s cool, brotha. But there’s one more thing—”

  Mick held up a hand. “If it’s about Champa, that’s cool, Crush, I ain’t sweatin’ that.”

  Casey looked at Mick and said, “Right on … it’s something else, though, a certain part of your business that’s eatin’ up our own people.”

  Mick jerked his head back and looked at Casey incredulously but said nothing. Guys like Mick weren’t used to being confronted like that, and when they were, blows and gunshots usually ensued.

  Casey held his gaze and said, “In the end, it’s about paper, right? We only do the shit we do ’cause we want that paper.” He could tell Mick was pissed but was holding it together—he had too much respect for Crush to go left on his ass.

  Mick put his fingertips together very carefully and said, “Nigga, are you tellin’ me to give up—?”

  “No, Mick … I’m askin’ you to do something that will make you more paper in the end, as well as ensure that our people don’t continue to get fucked. Ultimately, you know the white man is really behind all this shit. We’ve had enough Harry Wills in our culture, Mick.”

  Casey kept his stare cool as Mick squinted back at him. “You a clever muthafucka and you right … but, nigga, I’m pulling five hundred K a month off this shit! It’s a goddamn paper train!”

  Casey quickly jumped in. “I know the economics, Mick. Your cost of goods is ’bout twenty percent off that five hundred K, but you also got the headache and high cost of distribution to figure into the mix. What I’m talkin’ ’bout is no cakewalk, either, but it’s a better business.”

  There was a knock on the door, and one of Mick’s lieutenants walked in. Mick whirled around and unloaded on him. “Nigga, when that door is closed, it means stay the fuck out or get shot! Now, get out of my fuckin’ face!” Mick’s lieutenant jumped the fuck out of his skin and damn near busted his ass getting outta the room.

  Casey let Mick pull his shit together, then stood and walked over to him. “I’m settin’ up some fly shit, and you know I’m the nigga to do it. I got a plan for both the paper and the pigs.”

  Still fuming, Mick cocked his head and looked at Casey in disbelief. “The pigs? What the fuck you talking ’bout?”

  Casey ran his whole plan down in detail over the next thirty minutes while Mick sat and listened without saying a word. Holding Mick’s attention was no easy feat, but he did it. During that time, Casey’s phone buzzed more than once, but he ignored it, knowing he was dealing with something fragile that could fall apart easily.

  At the end of Casey’s breakdown, Mick nodded and said in a low voice, “That’s a good plan, and you might be able to pull it off, but if you don’t, then what—I’m left with jack shit? How am I supposed to eat then?”

  Casey sat back in his seat. He knew Mick was down to play ball; now it was just logistics—once Mick agreed, so would everyone else. “The proof’s in the doin’, my man. Till I pull this off, it’s business as usual, that way there’s no risk. When I prove my plan works—and it will—you’ll need to give up selling the hard shit. Pot’s cool, but everything else has to go.”

  “What about some other cat coming in and picking up where I left off?” Mick asked.

  “As far as other people trying to move into your territory and start a business, you handle them like you do every other muthafucka who tries to challenge you.” Casey smiled. “Only difference now is that you gonna have some helluva backup.”

  Mick looked at Casey and said, “I’ma sleep on this, but if you can deliver what you say, then I’m good. But I’m gonna need to see this shit in action before I change up my game plan, you dig?”

  Casey gave Mick a nod, bumped fists with him, and said, “My man.” Mick walked Casey out, passing the guy that had interrupted their meeting, who now wallpapered himself against the wall.

  Mick turned to him. “Nigga, would you relax?”

  Casey chuckled. “Mick, you still a goddamn trip.”

  In false modesty, Mick replied, “Who, me?” then laughed his ass off at his own joke.

  Casey got in his car and rode out a few blocks, then checked his messages. There were two missed calls from Champa and Shin, and a text from Carla that said, Whatever Crush, I’m tired of being on the hamster wheel to nowhere.

  Casey replied, That’s not what’s happening, I know you’re working, I’ll call you later, and we will sort this out. He wasn’t gonna let this drama with Carla distract him; there was too much goin’ on to not be on point. He listened to the voice mails from Shin and Champa, each one letting Casey know that everything was on track to meet the phone guy, Jacob, and Shin’s Armenian sister-in-law that night.

  5

  The next day, Casey got a text from Champa saying he had a meeting set up that night at the Arthur Avenue Bakery in the Bronx with the phone guy.

  The Arthur Avenue Bakery was a world-class bakery that sold the best bread in the city. Casey remembered being a kid and smelling it a block away. It was a little hole in the wall that had two tables in front and also sold pastries and coffee. The bakery was a low-key place that afforded privacy, unlike Palombo’s down the street, which always seemed to be packed with firemen. Not that he had beef with firemen; it’s just that they carried badges, and he wasn’t down with dudes that carried badges, cops or not.

  Champa had set the meeting for 5:30 P.M. Casey got there a little early and parked down the block and walked there. Across the street from the bakery was the War Memorial Park. As Casey passed the park, he paused for a second and looked at the kids and their parents. They all seemed very happy, the kids playing on the monkey bars and swings while the parents looked on contentedly. He wondered if that could ever be his reality—kids, family, the domestic life. He knew Carla was the right woman for him, but he probably wasn’t the right man for her. Whenever she brought up family, it triggered thoughts about how things had all gone wrong
with Antonio. Even if he hadn’t been locked up when his son got killed, would that have really changed anything? His son would have been surrounded by gangsters and crime 24/7 had he been free. How could he tell a kid to forsake the life his father led, when it wasn’t important enough to him to leave it behind for himself and his family? That hypocrite shit fucked with Casey’s head—the “do what I say, but not do what I do” was total bullshit!

  He knew his relationship with Carla was coming to a head, and decisions would be made, one way or the other. He didn’t want to lose Carla, but the only way he felt Carla and he had a shot at having a family was if he squared up and moved to a new locale. Away from the memories and the drama that he knew would always find him, no matter what. Maybe I should just walk away and spare her any more disappointment or worse. Let her find a square cat that’s a solid earner and gung ho on having a family and shit. Carla was thirty-eight, still young enough to have another kid. The idea of him having another kid just made him feel vulnerable to his core. If something happened to him or the kid, then what? And what if something happened to Carla? Then he’d be raising a kid solo—that shit seemed insane. Crush Casey, single father and gangsta? Nah, fuck that.

  Casey walked across to the bakery and took a seat outside and realized he had to compartmentalize that train of thought so he could keep his head in the game. He called Shin and told him to meet Champa and him at the bakery in forty-five minutes and just chill in his ride when he got there.

  A minute later, Champa rolled up in his Aston Martin with the phone guy in the passenger seat. He popped out and walked over to Casey with his usual swagger. “Whassup, Case, this is Al P., Mr. Telephone Man.”

  Casey stayed silent and seated, bumped fists with Al P. Then the guys sat down and ordered coffee.

  Al had been a fixture in the hood for a long time. Champa and Casey both knew of him, but didn’t really know him. His rep in the hood was clean: He wasn’t a troublemaker or a snitch. He’d worked at the phone company for many years until a car plowed into a pole he was working on. Al plummeted forty feet to the ground, and had been in the hospital for a month. After that, he had a bit of a limp and went on disability, but he was far from disabled. He just constantly complained to the insurance company about aches and pains for a year until they finally said fuck it, put him on permanent disability, and sent him a check every month.

  With a lot of free time on his hands, Al cultivated a pretty shitty dice game that always kept him in debt. As a result, he got into every type of phone scam possible to make money to feed his dice habit. He ran fake calling cards, 809 frauds, and used a war dialer on a VOIP service to steal people’s credit card numbers.

  The credit card scam was social engineering at its best, because people willingly gave up their information. Al had programmed a computer to auto-call numbers all over the U.S. over the Internet. When a person picked up the phone, a computerized voice would tell them the credit card company suspected illegal charges were being made to their card, and it was investigating. The computer voice prompted them to say yes or no if they had recently charged three hundred dollars at an auto parts store, invariably they would say no, and the computer would ask them to confirm the credit card number and their billing zip code. After that, the computer would inform them that the charge would be credited back to their account after the next bill. One out of ten people would fall for this scam, and with the war dialer constantly dialing people, Al averaged about six hundred credit card numbers a month. He had a couple guys he sold numbers to and pocketed about $1,500 a week. A nice little scam, but it hardly made him rich.

  Casey sized up Al P. He was a dark-skinned brotha in his mid-forties. He was also one of the few guys who was slick enough not to have done any time—a bold distinction in this day and age. Casey squinted at him. “You been pretty good at dodging the police and not getting popped.” What he was really asking was, Are you rattin’ muthafuckas out to stay outta the joint?

  Al P. was noticeably taken aback. Having someone like Crush Casey lean on you like that was enough to get anyone a bit unglued. Casey knew people were more likely to be truthful when they were caught off guard. Al cleared his throat and replied, “I’m a one-man operation—I stay on the move and I don’t get greedy.”

  Casey worked the silence a bit, knowing that Al was already uncomfortable and on the defensive. “So why you wanna be down with us, then?”

  A ghost of a smile flitted across Al’s face. “When I spoke with Champa, it didn’t sound like I had a choice.”

  “Nah, this meeting’s mandatory, but joining up is a choice,” Casey said. “I’m fixin’ to do some real fly shit on a lot of levels, and I need a guy with your skills to make sure it goes off without a hitch.”

  Al leaned forward. “What’s the proposition?”

  Casey eyed the slender man. “Nigga, you gonna have to roll them bones and commit on my word or walk away.”

  Al stared back at him for a moment, then burst out laughing, breaking the tension at the table. He shot Casey a grin and said, “Well, Casey, I guess my reputation precedes me.”

  “Uh-huh, you gotta commit right here, right now, all or nothing. The details’ll come once you’re down. All I can tell you at the moment is that the job would be for a few weeks and it’ll be long hours. Also, when I give the word, you’ll need to hold off on all your other activities and devote one hundred percent of your time to the operation.”

  “What’s the paper look like?”

  “For that, I’ll pay you fifty K.”

  Al P. couldn’t contain his excitement over a score like that. “Hell yeah, I’m in,” he said loudly.

  “Calm down, nigga!” Casey looked him over one last time. “Gimme a minute with my man over here.”

  Al P. got up and strolled across the street to the park, grinning the whole way. When Casey was sure he was out of earshot, he turned to Champa. “Are you sure this cat’s as good as it gets and ain’t gonna put us in the mix?”

  “Yeah, the nigga’s tip-top. I’ve known him for a while—besides, he knows your pedigree, so believe me, he ain’t gonna fuck any of this up. Hell, I kinda feel like he was glad you’re interested in him. Flying solo has its hazards, so he knows he’s gotta affiliate with someone sooner or later. Last but not least, he’s in a bit of a spot with Sean E Sean right now.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He owes him eight Gs, and from what Sean tells me, he’s been duckin’ his calls lately.”

  Casey shot Champa a look. “Well, there’s a vote of confidence. Okay, wave him back in.”

  Champa raised his hand and Al came over.

  “Okay, nigga, this is what’s up. I’m gonna lace you with five K now and square your debt with Sean E Sean. That’s a nigga you don’t need to be owin’ anything to, you feel me?”

  Al just nodded as Casey spoke.

  “You gonna need to keep your nose clean, so lay off that gambling shit until we done.” The slender man just kept nodding. Then Casey broke the whole plan down for Al. He told him he’d have his list of targets in the next couple days and there’d be a lot of ’em. When Casey pulled the trigger, he’d want all their phones tapped 24/7.

  Al’s grin grew from wide to shit-eating in thirty seconds. “Shee-it, man, not only can I do that, but I can track their movements minute-to-minute, see all their text messages and e-mails, and turn any cell phone into a high-tech, long-range listening device.”

  Casey said, “Hold up. Speak on the last part, the listenin-in bit.”

  “Once I install the right program, all I gotta do is dial a number to tap into that phone’s mic and hear everything goin’ on around it. The phone don’t even ring, and its owner has no idea you’re virtually there. Even if they change the SIM card, I can still get ’em, and be totally undetected. I can constantly gather as much data as you need and keep it on a remote server. The hard part’s gonna be reviewing everything I get. If you have that many phones tapped, the manpower to listen to it all will be
huge, and I’m just one guy.”

  Casey was unconcerned by this. “Leave that to me. So, how you gonna put the program on the target’s phone without ’em gettin’ wise?”

  Al snapped his fingers. “Hell, that’s the easiest part. I just shadow the target and load the software by Bluesnarfing.” Off Casey’s frown, he continued. “I wait for the target to pass a bar, and then send ’em a Bluetooth message with a photo ad about Happy Hour. When the target sees the message, he’ll think it’s a new tech campaign the bar’s running. On the message, there will be an X in the corner that the target thinks will close the message, but it actually accepts the app and downloads it into the phone.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Casey saw Shin drive up, but he stayed focused on the task at hand.

  Champa whistled at this. “Pretty goddamn sneaky. And you’re sure there’s no way to check the phone to see if it’s been hacked?”

  Al P. feigned a hurt look. “Nigga, who you think you dealin’ with? Ain’t no one gonna know, not with my apps. The only way to make sure their phone’s clean would be to take it to the dealer and have them do a factory reset. Even the virtual shields you can buy won’t stop my programs from being loaded.”

  Casey got up. “Okay, we’re done here. Champa will reach out to you when we’re ready.” Al P. and Casey bumped fists.

  Casey was impressed with his skills, and knew $50K was nothing compared to the results he was gonna get, not to mention the hell he was gonna raise. He wasn’t worried about his or Champa’s phones being tagged with this Dick Tracy software ’cause they always talked in code about their shit or used burners. But in the back of his mind, he always wondered if someone was eavesdroppin’; knowing who he was talking to was a puzzle piece he didn’t want anyone to have.

  As Casey signaled Shin to pull up, he turned to Al P. and said, “This is Shinzo, he’s gonna take you back to your spot and give you your bread.” Al glanced at Casey, a little suspicion crossing his face, and Casey said, “Nigga, you can take a cab if you want.”