Caesar smiled grandly. “Yes, my señorita, you would.”
Apple wanted to smack that fat bitch in her fat face, but she was on his turf, surrounded by his men. She could feel the seconds counting down on her life expectancy. She looked directly at their son and spoke.
“Oscar, I apologize for my slick mouth. I have a daughter not much older than you; I should know better. Can you forgive me?”
“Um-hmm.” He nodded his head while quickly drinking his soda. Apple had to admit he was adorable. When he finished, he repeated, “She so pretty, Papi. I like her.”
“I like you too.”
“So, are we clear? If so, all I want to hear you say is, ‘yes, Caesar.’”
Apple had been down all along, but what her ego couldn’t get past was his ordering her back into the game. She was a boss bitch, the worst chick Harlem had ever seen. Apple had put in work and then some. He should be kissing her ass and telling her what an honor it would be if she joined their team.
She said, “Yes, Caesar,” and rolled her eyes.
“I see you are still angry? Why?”
“I’m not some—” she had to choose her words—“I’m not a newbie at this, and I don’t appreciate the way you’re handling me. I’ve earned my respect in this drug game. If you know enough about me to know my last name and the food and drinks I like, then you know about how I had the heart to go up against the Gonzalez cartel, and most recently the work I put in down in South Beach. My name rings out, and I should be treated accordingly. Now, I don’t have a problem. In fact, I’m ready to have the Mingo cartel as my connect. You actually rang at the perfect time, but treat me with the same respect you do your men, and it should make this transition that much easier.”
“Your problem,” Caesar sat forward in his seat, cracked his knuckles on his large, powerful hands, and stared at Apple with ice-cold, dead eyes, “is that you think you still matter. Your past wars, your past beefs, are inconsequential to today. The only time your past matters is when you’re dead, and then it becomes your legacy. What matters is what you do today moving forward. Do you want to know why?”
Apple shrugged.
“Because humans have short memories. Any memory that can make a person larger than life is quickly forgotten because it’s a constant reminder that they can’t measure up; makes a person feel inferior. But a dead man, those stories are immortalized because a person can’t compete with a ghost. I personally have to murder someone by my own hand each week. It’s a code that I live by because my men need to see me get my hands dirty. If not, then they will forget why I am who I am and think that they can take my place.”
Apple thought about how quickly everyone at Harlem Week lost interest in her South Beach tales when Queenie came through. Maybe Caesar was correct; she needed to make new street stories.
“I got something to pull your coat to. Cartier ain’t gonna be down with this. She’s out of the game and has no intention of getting back in. I don’t mind covering her territories too.”
Apple was thinking big. She wanted it all.
“Cartier is not your problem.”
“I’m just saying the obvious.”
“Say nothing more.”
The food was finally at the table, and the two waiters were ordered to stand down.
Lena didn’t hesitate to tear into her meal, unfazed by the guns and unaffected by potential violence.
Everyone ate, including Apple, who felt like she had just found a new spot. The seafood paella was the bomb and the drinks were the perfect blend of strong and sweet. Soon the conversation drifted away from the business, and Apple was shocked to discover that Lena was an attorney and Caesar was a former professional baseball player.
“I’ve had my law license for nearly two decades,” Lena said. “I have a modest practice; clients who’ve I’ve worked for over the years. Of course, I don’t work for the money. Caesar and I have more than we could ever spend. We would need a couple lifetimes to spend our money.”
Caesar turned to face his wife. “Lena, my money isn’t ours, sí?”
“I don’t need your money, Caesar. My practice does very well. Too well,” she embellished.
“And yet you have hardly any clients.”
Apple could feel the underlying marital tension and knew there was trouble in paradise. She hated when couples brought their issues to the light in front of guests. She changed the subject. “I can’t believe you were really legit.”
“I was.” He explained that he played Major League Baseball for three years for the Texas Rangers. “My son will play too. He already has a pitcher’s arm.”
Oscar beamed with joy as his father spoke fondly of him.
Before she left her one last question was nagging her. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sí, yes, you can always ask.”
“Are you Mexican and African American?”
He chuckled. “I am not. I’m Dominican born in Mexico.”
Apple nodded. Made sense.
10
Queenie was a few days out of the hospital when she called the mandatory meeting her men knew was inevitable. Lord, Killer Mike, Stone, Rehab, and Nerd all converged in her gaudy living room and waited for their boss to finally emerge from her bedroom. Everyone stood around and hoped this wouldn’t take long. They hated being there; there was something ominous about her apartment. It felt like a museum or funeral home—dead and dark. Her living room walls were painted black with a vast, blue-and-white L.E.S. Crips mural written in graffiti. A matching custom blue leather couch and chairs, ornate glass and gold-trimmed coffee and side tables, a large zebra print rug, and the oversized crystal chandelier made for a tasteless combination that none of her goons found attractive. African masks with strong features carved into pine wood hung on the walls. Two shelves of Santeria dolls were placed directly above an altar of white and blue candles she lit daily, and a statue of Jesus Christ on the cross and an oriental jade waterfall was next to the sage leaves. The cross-pollination of religions was a testament to what was going on inside her head: confusion.
The large apartment felt cramped with the oversized furniture taking up precious real estate. You couldn’t walk inside without banging a knee on a sharp table or a toe on a hard object. And to add insult to injury, your nostrils were instantly assaulted when you exited the elevator on Queenie’s floor. The strong stench of cat urine permeated throughout the hallway, causing all of her neighbors to complain to members of the homeowners association. The H.O.A. of Queenie’s condominium had initiated an eviction process, which Queenie was fighting.
Within seconds of being inside, Nerd’s eyes began to tear up and his nose started to run. Queenie knew he was allergic to cats, yet he was summoned.
“Yo, I wish she’d hurry up,” Rehab said. His eyes angrily scanned the room and landed on two of her cats, Cersei and Jamie Lanister, who were perched in her window. Queenie was obsessed with the HBO mega-series Game of Thrones. The other three cats—Tyrion, Daenerys, and Jon Snow—were chasing each other throughout the apartment, amped up off catnip. Her men’s nerves were about to ignite if she didn’t come out soon. Like a match to a stick of dynamite, their anger was a slow burn about to erupt.
Tyrion came running across Killer Mike’s Timbs, and he didn’t hesitate to give him a reactionary, swift kick.
“Me-oooow!” Tyrion’s high pitched yowl expressed his pain as his body went crashing into the wall after somersaulting in the air. He landed on his feet and took off running toward Queenie’s bedroom.
Finally, Lord yelled, “Queenie, what’s good? You comin’ to politick or what?” They all were highly agitated, and once Nerd itched, it started a chain reaction. Each man used their strong fingers to dig into their skin to relieve the imaginary itch that needed to be scratched. It seemed like a zillion cat hairs were floating in the air, getting clogged in the
ir throats, and blocking their airways.
She didn’t respond. Lord hollered again, “Queenie!”
Heavy footsteps could be heard thundering down the hallway. Queenie had something to prove. She appeared in full combat mode—army fatigue pants, Timbs, bulletproof vest, and a Walther PPK tucked in her waistband. But what gave these grown men pause was her attempt to cover up her bruises with makeup. Four days in, and the swelling around her left eye had ballooned to an almost inhuman size. The discoloration had progressed to a deepened red and a darker shade of blue-black. Her brown eye had several blood vessels inflamed, and they looked like red vines that had almost absorbed the remaining white of her eye. Her busted, split upper lip now protruded over her thin bottom lip, and it now appeared as if she had an overbite. Her men could only imagine how fucked up her body felt.
When Queenie spoke, the words came out muffled. Her mouth twisted to one side as she squeezed out sentences. It looked like her jaw was wired shut, but it wasn’t. She did have nine stitches though, a consequence from when Apple’s fist smashed into the side of her face, causing her to chomp down on the inside of her cheek.
“That . . . bummboclaaat . . . dies . . . tonight.” Her words were delivered slow and with great pain. She pointed toward Nerd, who looked like he needed an EpiPen, and continued. “Find . . . where . . . Kola lives . . . She’s next.”
“Queenie, chill,” Lord began. “We got this. Let us handle this beef.”
Queenie’s heat was permeating; circulating throughout the room, strangling anyone who dared to go against her. Her nostrils flared as she gritted her teeth. It hurt to talk, and this nigga was undermining her in front of her henchmen.
She looked at Mike, who was on borrowed time. He owed her his life as he stood before her. Killer Mike was on payroll to protect her, and he allowed her—his boss—to get her face smashed in. For each stitch sewn into her body, she thought of new ways she wanted Killer Mike killed. But now wasn’t the time. Queenie was about to ignite a war that the streets of New York hadn’t seen in a long time. For now, he lived because she needed all the firepower to go up against the twin-faced bitches.
To Mike, she said, “Let’s . . . go!” Surely he would jump at the chance to redeem himself—a second chance to right his wrong.
Mike hesitated, debating on whether he should follow the orders of the second-in-command, which was to avoid this beef by any means, or his boss. He looked at Lord, and Queenie peeped this. Before Lord could respond, she pulled out her gun, outstretched her arm, and fired, Pop! and Killer Mike dropped with one to his right temple.
“Fuck, Queenie!” Rehab said and jumped back, not wanting any blood splatter to get on his new kicks. His vintage edition Gucci sneakers were fresh out the box. He looked at his man and knew he was gone.
“Let’s . . . go!” Queenie repeated, now to everyone, and so they did.
Queenie’s Lincoln Navigator held Lord in the driver’s seat, she sat shotgun, and Rehab played the backseat with Stone. Nerd was left at Queenie’s apartment with dead Mike and her cats, which felt like a death sentence. They rode around for hours looking for Apple at all the known spots, continually circling her block while listening to Queenie keep demanding, “Shoot . . . on . . . sight!”
Lord was in deep thought. He’d fucked up and felt that Mike’s death was on his hands. He wanted to stop Queenie and try to reason with her, but right now she was out of control. His boss was a runaway train with no brakes ready to cause mass destruction.
“Yo, Queenie, we been out here for a minute. I’ma breeze through this bitch’s block one more time and then we gotta bounce. We have been at this shit for hours. Mike’s body gonna be a problem—”
Simultaneously, they all spotted the black Maserati pull into an open parking spot. The passenger climbed out and surveyed her surroundings. As the Navigator came to a rolling stop, Queenie hopped out before Lord could place it in park and took off running down the block.
Bak! Bak! Bak! Queenie’s heart raced as she ran with her eyes trained on her target, Rehab and Stone a few paces behind her. Instinctively, Apple reached under her driver’s side seat and pulled out her 9mm and reached in her waist and gripped her .45. Apple had prepared for this. She did a Matrix spin, extended both her arms and busted off numerous shots.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! the guns blared back as she backed both assailants off of her.
Apple took fire from all angles as she took cover behind her pricey car. She heard, “ting, ting, ting!” as bullets ate through each vehicle parked on the high-end block. Glass shattered, and she could hear Queenie screaming obscenities. Apple could see she was outnumbered, as Lord had now joined his crew. Rehab tried to inch closer, and Apple pushed him back again.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
She had only one opportunity, and she took it. There was a steel basement door that the superintendent was supposed to lock each night at nine p.m. However, he never did. If she could get to it and bolt the door, it could save her life.
Apple’s clips were nearly empty, so the time was now or she’d die. Skillfully she shot out the street light to give her cover from the darkness and then returned fire.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Apple snaked through several parked cars and then darted down the basement steps and kicked the door. It flung open, and she slammed it shut. The large bolt was quickly locked, and Apple raced underground through the massive corridors, up one flight of steps, and out the front door, which exited one block away.
She was safe.
11
The noise from the visiting room was just slightly above what most would consider loud. Several children sat across from fathers, mothers sat across from sons, and wives sat across from husbands. Ironically, Apple sat across from Corey, a sworn enemy. Their unconventional relationship was moving along nicely. She woke up some mornings looking forward to their visits, eager to hear his wisdom and to look into his familiar eyes. Apple wanted Corey to meet her daughter, and she wanted to introduce him to Kola, but what she thought about was his freedom. She figured he could be a real asset on the streets.
“Have you ever thought about hiring an attorney to look into your case to possibly get your sentence reduced from life to time served? The Rockefeller Drug Laws were reformed, right? Weren’t sentences commuted?”
Corey looked into Apple’s eyes and saw a mixture of concern and hope. He had weaseled into her heart without even trying. He knew the ghost of his son played a huge part in her trusting him. That was the thing with women; they always got attached the moment a man showed kindness. It was a flaw—sometimes a fatal one.
Corey shrugged the question away. He had so many bodies on his résumé that even if the drug charges got reduced, he still would have to die twice before he could be released. “I’ve done my due diligence, and I’m okay with the choices I’ve made.”
“But you should at least try. I can help you with lawyers if you want. I’d pay for your appeal,” Apple offered.
“Just drop it,” Corey replied curtly.
“Done.”
Sitting across from Apple was reminiscent of having visits with his son. He knew something was bothering her and whatever it was, the problem involved the streets.
“What’s on your mind?”
Apple wanted to share her issues with him. She had thought about confiding in him since the incident. However, for just a fleeting moment, she wondered if it was fair to burden him with her troubles. Apple wanted an organic relationship with Corey, so she didn’t want their visits to be reduced to her being the receiver. If he saw just a hint of usury in her, then he would never accept that she loved his son. And to Apple, that was important. Even with Nicholas being dead, she wanted his father’s approval.
“Just a little tired after the drive.”
Corey could extract the truth from almost anyone. Sternly, he said, “Don’t bullshit an old
man. Give it to me straight. What’s up?”
“I took some heat the other night,” Apple said. “I barely made it off my block alive.”
He understood. “Does this involve my son’s murder? Is this the same beef that got him killed?”
“Nah, this some new shit. Twice now I was ambushed by this young, weird bitch named Queenie.”
“L.E.S. Crips?”
“You’ve heard of her?” The inflection in Apple’s voice was pure disbelief. His response stung like a million bees attacking her pride, ego, and overall self-importance. She knew that the streets knowing of Queenie was to be expected; she drove flashy cars and was gang affiliated. But when your reputation transcended through the cement walls and iron bars of correctional facilities, then that was validation.
“I have.”
“Had you heard of me?”
Rapidly, his head shook. Each time Corey’s head swung left to the right, it felt like a knife shredding what was left of her baddest chick status. Apple felt gut-punched. Was she really now officially a nobody?
“How will you handle this?” he wanted to know.
“She came to my front door,” Apple said. “She’s dead.”
“I understand,” Corey said. “But I suspect there’s more at play here. You want more than just the death of your enemy. You want respect? Adulation? Infamy? It’s the reason you hunted your prey in South Beach.”
“It’s not like that, Corey. She came at me.”
He nodded. “You know, if you kill her, you won’t get what you want. I’m trying to make you see that. All you’ll have is blood on your hands. This situation will be just a placeholder until you find someone else to scratch your itch.”
Apple was confused. “You know better than to suggest that I’ma sit this one out and let this nobody have my crown.”
“The advice isn’t to bench you. It’s to suggest that you dribble the ball for a while before you go for the layup.”
A puzzled look was her response.
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