Mirror Image

by Ice-T

  Casey put his Kahr PM9 away, grabbed the new cell phone, and dialed Champa, who picked up on the first ring. “Did you get all that shit we were sayin’?”

  “Yeah, about the guy in the kitchen and backup and all that other stuff?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I also think Shin’s got a point, man.”

  “Champa, I’m not gonna debate this.… Did it transcribe the call, too?”

  “Yeah, it did everything it was supposed to.”

  “Cool, tell Jacob when we have the targets locked, I’m gonna want a report detailing where they at 24/7, the names of their wives, girlfriends, kids, where they eat, and their addresses, all that shit.”

  “Yeah, he already knows—he’s watchin’ the computer transcribe everything you and me’re sayin’.”

  Casey smiled hard—so far, so good. “Tight. Give him Alejandro’s list of names and have him start getting pictures and as much info as he can on every one of those guys. I want a full report by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Okay, anything else?”

  “Nah, that’s it for now. I’m gonna kill this phone till we get there. I’m out.” He powered the phone down and turned to Shin. “How long till we get there?”

  “’Bout forty minutes. So, what’s the plan?”

  Casey calmly sat back in his seat and chuckled. “That’s a good question. I think we just roll up into that joint, take a seat, order, and look for the right opening.”

  Shin looked concerned. “Uh, okay.”

  “What?”

  The driver rolled a shoulder. “I don’t know, man, you always the guy with a plan. I mean, look at all this high-tech computer and phone shit, you know, but now we goin’ in with no backup or any kinda plan.… Don’t get me wrong, dawg—I roll witchu whenever, wherever, I’m just sayin’…”

  Casey knew Shin was right, and even agreed with him—he never liked goin’ into a situation without a definitive plan of action, either. “I hear you, man, but it’s not like I got a lot of time or options. Sometimes a nigga just needs to roll in blind and trust that he’ll see an opportunity and make that shit work. If a nigga don’t know how to think on his feet, well, then he’s a dead man walkin’ already.”

  Shin took it in like a student at the feet of the master. “That’s a jewel.”

  “Trust me, when I’m in it, I will handle the shit perfect, ya feel me?”

  “Solid.”

  As they turned the corner, they hit a morass of gridlocked traffic. Shit. Shin tried the side streets, but it still took them a little over an hour to get to Marat’s. They parked around the corner and walked fast to the restaurant. About fifty feet away, they saw Alek Petrosian exiting the front door, flanked by a pair of bodyguards.

  Damn, too late. Casey instinctively slowed his walk down so he could observe and figure out a course of action.

  Petrosian looked to be about six feet tall and in good shape; Casey guessed he was in his late thirties or early forties. He had shoulder-length jet-black hair brushed straight back and wore a custom-tailored charcoal gray suit. He was low-key but confident, walking into the street like he knew he owned it. His two apes wore off-the-rack suits and were a pale imitation of their boss. As one of them opened the door of his ride, Casey saw a little boy walking next to Petrosian, holding his hand.

  He’s got a kid? The boy looked to be about nine years old and had black hair like his father. The two were laughing as they got into the back of a Rolls-Royce Phantom. To any onlookers, Alek appeared to be a loving father taking his son out for a bite, not a notorious criminal who dealt in heroin and sex slavery. The car was badass—it had twenty-two-inch custom rims; a fly, black-and-silver two-tone paint job; and the lights were smoked out. The muscle rollin’ with Petrosian got in the front seats, and two seconds later, the car was off.

  “Shit, back to square one,” Shin said as he watched the car turn the corner.

  “You think so?” Casey asked with a grin.

  “Huh? You mean you don’t?”

  “You see his ride?”

  “Yeah … pretty fly, so?”

  “Only one guy does that kind of work in this city … Hans Von Ettensberg.”

  Casey turned and started walking back to Shin’s car, pleased that luck was on his side for once. He pulled out his cell, fired it up, and called Champa. “Yo, text me Hans’s math.”

  “A’ight, what happened?”

  “We caught a lucky break, I’ll tell ya ’bout it later. What’s goin’ on over there?”

  “We wrappin’ up, it looks good.”

  “Is Al’s tech flawless?”

  “Yeah, man, it’s solid.”

  “A’ight, I’m gonna swoop by there and get my whip. I’ll talk at you in the A.M., Shin will drop you guys off, I’m out.”

  A moment later, Casey’s phone buzzed with the contact info for his old friend Hans. He dialed the number and listened to the phone ring a few times, thinking he was gonna get voice mail, but then a man with a thick German accent picked up, “Hallo, this is Hans.”

  “What up, Hans—”

  The other man interrupted him. “Crush Casey! Maaaaan, a blast from my past. What is up, man? I heard from Champa you were out.”

  “Thas right, how you doin’, playa?”

  “I am good, man, but I am about to sit down to dinner with the family right now. Do you have time tomorrow to come by and see my place? I can text you the address. This is a cell phone right?”

  “Yeah, around ten A.M. cool?”

  “Perfect. I’m looking forward to it, Crush.”

  “Me, too. See you tomorrow.” Casey hung up while Shin dodged potholes, driving back to Jacob’s place.

  Hans was from Stuttgart, and was the number-one guy on the East Coast when it came to pimpin’ out cars. There wasn’t a pro athlete, rock star, or boss baller that didn’t take their cars to him to get ’em customized with a new interior, a paint job, sounds, and rims. Certain customers, like Champa, got things that weren’t on the menu, like the concealed 9 millimeter hiding place in the dash.

  Back when Casey had first met Hans, it was a totally different story. The two had run a chop shop for years back in the day. They had an efficient setup: Hans and he would go to salvage auctions and buy twenty vehicles over a few weeks. These cars were deemed “totaled” by insurance companies, but their titles and VIN numbers were intact. They would stash those cars in a rented warehouse, and then go out and steal similar makes and models. Hans and his German buddies would rivet new VIN numbers to the dash and replace the secondary VIN on the car’s firewall, take the safety sticker off the doorjamb, give it a new coat of paint, and spruce up the interior as needed. Then they would take a picture of each one and e-mail the jpegs to a guy in the Czech Republic who would find buyers who’d pay a premium for American cars. Having the proper paperwork and VIN numbers was a necessity for getting them through customs. Once they got word that all the cars had been sold, Casey would load them into cargo containers and ship them overseas. On average, Hans’s crew could turn around three to five cars a week. Between the two of them, they were pulling down about $400K every forty-five days. As a side business, Hans would pimp out the rides for everyone in the crew. The man was a master, a true artist; his shit was second to none. It was just one of the many vibrant businesses that Casey had overseen before he was betrayed by Rono.

  With less traffic on the street, they pulled up behind Casey’s SUV at the back of Jacob’s building in thirty minutes. Casey told Shin to hold tight, and that Al P. and Champa would be down in a minute.

  He got out and walked to his car, where he noticed two men with dreads down to their waist sitting on the front of his Escalade, smoking trees. What in the fuck is this shit? He hit his alarm button on the key fob, the loud shrieking of the Klaxon startling the two men.

  They jumped off the hood, pissed, and turned to glare at Casey. “Hey, mon, what the fook you doin’?”

  Casey could tell their Jamaican accents were fake an
d rolled his eyes. What a goddamn joke. He dead-eyed the two men. “If I catch you dumb niggas messin’ around my shit again, I’ll put a cap in yo’ ass, now get to steppin’.”

  Both men were about the same build as Casey, reeked of weed, and had bloodshot eyes. One stepped into his face and was about to say something when Casey snap-punched him in the throat. The wannabe Rastafarian fell to his knees, grabbing his throat and gasping for breath.

  “Whassa matter—cat got your tongue, dumbass?”

  His partner came at Casey like a shot, hauling off and taking a roundhouse swing at him. Casey calmly leaned back and hit him with two quick jabs and a powerful left hook to the side of his dome. The guy stood up for a half second, wobbling like he was on ice skates; then Casey hit him with a direct shot to the nose that knocked him flat on his ass. Casey shook his wrist to cast off the needles of pain that threaded up his arm.

  Seeing this go down, Shin ran up behind the other dude and grabbed him by his long dreads. He dragged the squealing man around the corner and jolly-stomped his ass in the alley.

  Casey looked menacingly at the dude whose bell he’d just rung and slowly walked over to him while he struggled to get up. Casey was too quick for him, and gave him a boot to the head. He wasn’t even breathing hard, but he was exhilarated and enjoying the rush. He pulled the ganja man up to his feet and repeatedly punished the dude with blows to his head and body with the skill of a boxer. Casey heard the dude’s ribs crack like dry wood when he pistoned two strong shots to his opponent’s breadbasket. He stepped back and let the dude fall to the ground and curl up into a ball. Now Casey was sweating and breathing harder. He heard Al P. and Champa talking when they came around the corner of the building. The two saw that shit was being taken care of and quickly jogged over, but gave Casey his space.

  “What the hell happened? Who’s this nigga?” Champa asked.

  Still a little winded from his impromptu workout, Casey ignored the question and wiped his brow. “Gimme your knife, Champa.”

  His man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a razor-sharp five-inch blade with a black rubber handle. Al P. put his hands on the top of his head and turned away, not wanting to see what was gonna happen next.

  “Think this through, brotha?” Champa said as he handed the blade over.

  The Rasta looked wild-eyed at Casey with eyes as big as saucers and quickly started to beg for his life, his voice losing its fake accent.

  “Shut up.” Casey kicked him in the chest, then flipped him over on his stomach.

  He pressed his knee into his back, and the dude started squirming and yelping. “Come on, man, please don’t do this, gimme a chance, brotha, please—”

  “You ain’t no brotha a’ mine.” Casey snapped the blade open with a flick of his wrist and grabbed a fistful of dreads in his other hand. He started hacking at the tangled knot, and one by one they came loose. That humiliated Rasta wailed like he was getting castrated.

  Champa let out a “Daaayum!” and started laughing while Al P. shook his head, obviously freaked out.

  Grabbing the last bit of locks, Casey set them free with one more swipe. He tossed them aside, closed the knife, and got up, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve. He tossed the blade to Champa, pulled up the dude—who was crying like a bitch—and pushed him hard against the wall.

  He got an inch from the sobbing man’s face and said, “Now, look here, nigga, when someone asks what the fuck happened to you, you tell them it was Jah nigga known as Crush Casey, and he’s back and not takin’ shit from nobody!” And with that, Casey cocked back his arm, rocketed another shot to the man’s ribs, and let him crumple to the ground.

  Shin came around the corner, his shirt wet with sweat from the exercise he’d just had. He gave a fist pound to Champa and then saw the dreads scattered all over the ground and looked at Champa. “Damn, I shoulda thought of that!”

  Champa laughed. “Well, youngblood, that’s one reason why you ain’t the boss, now, ain’t it?”

  Casey composed himself and addressed the guys. “We need to scatter. Shin, take these guys where they gotta go. Champa, I’ll connect with you tomorrow afternoon.” Casey leaned against his SUV and shot a hard look at Al P. “You delivered today, nigga, but that don’t mean you still can’t get your own haircut. No more fuckups, you got it?”

  Al nodded in agreement and said, “I got it, Crush, I got it.”

  Champa just laughed; Casey knew he loved this type of gangsta shit.

  Casey got in his Escalade, turned the motor over, and headed home. His knuckles throbbed from the pummeling he’d just delivered, but it felt familiar and it felt good. He was glad Al P. had witnessed that beatdown, too; it was insurance that the nigga would stay focused and wouldn’t fuck up again.

  Casey turned off the radio and drove home in silence with the windows down. He knew he’d sleep well tonight, and he did.

  9

  At 9:30 A.M., Casey was on the Cross Bronx Expressway going to see Hans. Usually a rat’s nest, the CBE wasn’t too bad this morning. From there he took the West Side Highway, and was at Hans’s showroom in thirty minutes.

  His old friend’s place was on the bottom floor of the new Chang Electronics building, a fifty-five-story skyscraper with a design that seemed to be inspired by the Apple Store. Damn, Hans, you done come up in the world.

  Casey parked his car in front and walked inside. The showroom was a playa’s paradise: at least ten thousand square feet of luxury rides, all blessed with Hans’s customized touch. When Casey walked in, he was greeted by a stunning Asian woman fitted to the nines in a tailored suit that made all her curves pop. “Welcome to CEC, how may I be of assistance, sir?”

  “I’m here to see Hans. My name is Marcus Casey.”

  “Indeed, we are expecting you, sir. If you will excuse me for a moment. Please take a look at our portfolio and let me know if you see anything you like.” The Asian beauty disappeared into the back. Casey strolled around, admiring the custom cars. He estimated there had to be at least ten million dollars’ worth of inventory here, and was happy that Hans had come up so large. Shee-it, maybe he’s got the right idea here—there’s a truckload of money to be made on the up-and-up.

  The woman reappeared a minute later. “Hans will be with you in a moment. May I park your car in our garage during your visit?”

  Casey thought that was a bit odd, but wasn’t one to refuse the hospitality, and he handed her the keys. A moment later, a thin man with white-blond hair, a pin-striped suit, and a big smile emerged from the back with his arms out stretched.

  “Maaaan, this cannot be Crush Casey I’m looking at!”

  The two men did their gangsta hug and shot the shit for twenty minutes while touring the showroom. Hans was knee-deep in Bentleys, Benzes, Ferraris, and even a Bugatti. Hans showed Casey the custom jobs he’d done in loving detail, speaking of each car like it had a personality and mind of its own.

  After the tour, they stepped into Hans’s office on the second floor. His space was the epitome of style, containing a sleek, black glass desk with a Herman Miller Aeron chair. A Bang & Olufsen stereo system hung on the wall, putting out classical music at low volume, and the room was filled with modern chrome and leather Italian furniture. On his desk was a picture of a different, even more beautiful, Asian woman with two little kids, set in a gold Cartier frame.

  Casey admired it before looking at Hans again. “You a family man now?”

  Hans nodded, beaming with pride. “Absolutely. Those are my twins, Sacha and Henrich, and my wife, Sabrina. Her father is the chairman of Chang Electronics and owns this building.”

  “Is that right? By the looks of this place, that’s one caked-out dude.”

  “You have no idea, my friend. It is nuts—private jets, homes in London, Hong Kong, Gstaad, and Anguilla.”

  “I’m happy for you, man.”

  “Yeah, it’s crazy. Sabrina is an amazing lady. She is hip to my past, and doesn’t trip about
that. She actually works here, handling the accounting.”

  “Perfect.”

  “So you got a lady, Crush?”

  “Yeah, you remember Carla Aquina?”

  “Of course. I heard she’s running the Astor Palace Hotel—that spot is incredible. Man, I have not seen her in years. We should all go to dinner next week, man—you can meet Sabrina as well.”

  “Definitely, that’s sounds tight.”

  “You want something to drink? We have everything.”

  Casey declined, and Hans motioned for him to take a seat on the couch. “Having a lady who knows your past and is still down with you is a rare combination.”

  Casey reflected on his own lady for a moment before nodding. “You know it.”

  Hans shifted on the butter-soft leather. “Speaking of the past … that shit with Rono was pretty fucked up. I am glad that bastard is in the dirt. You know I never liked him.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s just a bad memory now. Did he keep the chop shop goin’ after I landed in the joint?”

  “Nah, after you went down, I closed the warehouse down and bounced to Europe for a few years. I heard he was looking for me and was pissed, but I was not going to work with that dude. That’s the time I met Sabrina. Eventually, we returned to the city and I opened up a small spot customizing cars and built the business up from there.”

  “So, you one hundred percent legit now?”

  Hans gave Casey a wry smile. “You are asking me that because of my conversation with Champa last week?”

  A frown passed across Casey’s face, but he smoothed his features quick. “Nah, I’m not hip.”

  “Okay, well, I will leave it up to him to talk about it.”

  Casey was curious, but he let that shit slide; he had a different agenda anyway. “I need to talk to you about one of your customers, a guy called Alek Petrosian. I was gonna ask you for an introduction, but it looks like you got too much at stake.” Casey pointed to the family picture.

  Hans digested what Casey said before carefully replying. “I do know Petrosian, and you are right, I have far too much to lose to do what you would like. Word on the street is that he is one ruthless motherfucker, pushing a lot of H, among other things.”