“What is it, Apple?” Kola answered indifferently. She was having a hard day.
“Question, Kola. I’ll make it quick. Could you call Eduardo and ask if he could get me plus two into an event here in Midtown? It’s a birthday celebration for Kiqué Helguero.”
“Oh my god, you fuckin’ partying right now?” she said. “When you gonna get ya fuckin’ kid!”
Kola was in a mood, and Apple wasn’t ready to deal. Her sister’s outburst had surprised her. Apple’s first inclination was to curse Kola out, but a smarter mind prevailed, and she knew she had to placate her.
“Stop yellin’ and stop worrying! I didn’t update you, but I found a three-bedroom for us. We can move in three weeks,” she lied.
“That’s a month away!”
“I’m doing my best, Kola. You just sprung this on me, but I’m ready. You can count on me this time. Please, call Eduardo.”
“A’ight, I’ll see what I can do. Give me thirty minutes.” Kola’s voice sounded almost hoarse, like she was fatigued. Apple noticed immediately, but her concern had to take a backseat. Kiqué was the last piece to the puzzle, a necessary step for the takeover, so her sister had to come through for her.
Eduardo, with his Colombian cartel connections and money, had a cell phone inside his prison that didn’t have to be hidden. He called Kola regularly when he wanted to speak to his children. Apple just hoped that Eduardo’s reach extended to the Helguero cartel.
Forty minutes later, Kola called back. “You’re in.”
“Let’s go,” Apple said to Hood and IG.
They coolly walked toward the front entrance of El Tempo’s, and Apple looked into the eyes of the two models and gave them the name, “Apple Evans.”
The Hispanic model scanned the electronic list for the name and right away found it—Apple Evans plus two. It was a go. They were allowed inside the extravaganza, and IG and Hood were impressed. They felt there wasn’t anything Apple couldn’t do.
Inside was packed. The who’s who of the underworld was in attendance. Members of drug cartels and their wives and mistresses, drug lords, and drug dealers mingled amongst each other. The décor of the place was magnificent with towering marble columns, soaring ceilings, luxurious inlaid custom floors, and gorgeous chandeliers. Authentic Bolivian cuisine was served, and no expense was spared.
Flanked by her two henchmen, Apple moved around the party casually. There were faces she knew, but she remained withdrawn so far. Her primary purpose was to search for Kiqué. It wasn’t hard to find him. She knew he would be the most guarded man there. Apple told IG and Hood to fall back while she tried to see if she could get a quick face-to-face with him.
She observed her surroundings first. Kiqué was seated at a table flanked by five individuals—four men, one woman. The woman was dressed in an all-white, frilly lace dress with bright red lips and heavy makeup on her aging face. She had a massive amount of thick hair flowing wildly with a red rose pinned just above her right ear. The female looked tacky and was undoubtedly his wife. The table was cordoned off with a black velvet rope, and two armed gunmen stood in front as gatekeepers. The music was loud, Latin, and making Apple’s head want to implode. There wasn’t any way she would be staying long.
Apple approached Kiqué’s security guards, who stared straight ahead, looking past her. Both were ready to shut her down and shove her to the side if need be to let Mrs. Helguero see them rough up this whore trying to get close to her husband.
Apple said, “Tell Kiqué my name is Apple Evans and that Eduardo vouches for me.”
Eduardo was one of the very few who only needed his first name to be spoken, like Cher or Madonna, and still command respect. The henchman nodded and relayed the message to his boss. Apple watched as Kiqué’s eyes looked toward her and then gave a subtle head nod. She was allowed through. One of his men moved, and she took a seat in the plush velvet chair.
“This is my wife, Brunilda,” Kiqué said, making the introduction.
Apple smiled politely and then gave respect. “Hello, Mrs. Helguero. My name’s Apple. Nice to meet you.”
The aging woman had a cold stare that could kill on sight. She was familiar with young, ambitious girls like Apple wanting to fuck their way up the ladder. Brunilda was a powerhouse in her own right and had murdered more than a dozen of Kiqué’s mistresses.
Brunilda nodded but didn’t speak.
Apple shifted her body toward Kiqué. He was an average sized man with naturally tanned skin and a sleek, jet-black ponytail and matching mustache and goatee. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit with custom crocodile cowboy boots and a pencil tie. Kiqué wore a custom diamond rosary of St. Jude, the patron saint of lost souls and a diamond watch flooded with so many diamonds it weighed his arm down.
“Out of respect for Eduardo, I added you to my guest list when he called,” Kiqué said. “What is it that you want? What’s so important that you interrupt my party?”
“No disrespect, Mr. Helguero.”
“An interruption is a sign of disrespect.”
“This was the only way I could get your attention. But I’ll leave.” Apple stood to leave, and he gently placed his arm on hers and pulled her back down. She was beautiful to look at.
“Please, tell me, how can I help you?”
“I need a connect for heroin, and I hear you distribute the best.”
“You are correct. My Bolivian heroin is premium quality, but why is it Eduardo isn’t your supplier? This makes me nervous.”
“It’s not like that. Eduardo and my sister, Kola, have a thing. He’s like family, so mixing our personal lives with business doesn’t work.”
He was listening. “What territories?”
“I’d like to start off with Manhattan and the Bronx.”
“No!” Brunilda snapped. Apple looked at her sideways. She had no idea the bitch was ear hustling. “We’ve already vetted someone for those territories.”
“Whoever he is, I’ll guarantee to move more weight.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Kiqué said. “You sound like an amateur. Who guarantees in our business?”
“I will.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry you traveled all this way, but no. We will not be doing business. But stay, have drinks and food, celebrate me.”
“Or not,” Brunilda said. “Adios!”
Apple tried again. “The men I rub shoulders with in this business trust me because I’ve earned their respect. It would be easy for me to move that white and brown powder through Eduardo, but a bitch like me don’t do shit easy. I get my coke through the Mingo cartel, and I would like my heroin to come through you. Please, ask around about me before you make a decision.”
His interest was now piqued. Eduardo and Caesar? Maybe she was someone to consider. Apple knew little things while sitting at the negotiation table, and one was that the Helguero and Mingo cartels had been fighting over territory for over a decade. The Mingo cartel only pushed white powder, so Kiqué’s organization monopolized heroin in the five boroughs and as far north as Massachusetts and as far south as Florida. Kiqué would consider giving her those areas because now he wanted to eventually pull her from Caesar so she would cop his heroin and cocaine. He wouldn’t decide on his birthday. He would first need to do a thorough background check on the ambitious drug dealer.
“I will consider you. Now, please, leave so I can enjoy my wife and my party.”
Apple stood. “Pleasure meeting you both.”
Apple, Hood, and IG grabbed a table, and then they ordered buckets of champagne and food. The unlimited supply of food and liquor was all free. Initially, she had planned to leave directly after she spoke to Kiqué, especially since Tokyo was sitting outside waiting on them. But why was she rushing home? No one was there waiting on her. Besides, this party was drenched in the underworld. There was no telling what additio
nal connections she would make.
The deejay played Migos, mixed in Lil Yachty, and gradually played the music they actually wanted to hear. The party was turning out all right.
Hood whistled. “This shit gotta cost a grip. At least a million.”
“You see his jewels?” IG asked. “Shit, he got that drip niggas will body him for.”
“They could try,” said Apple. “But it won’t be no smash-and-grab type of jux.”
“True,” Hood agreed.
IG said, “Yo, App, this gonna be us! Mark my words. This time next year, the city gonna belong to us.”
Apple loved that they were all on the same page. When the champagne arrived, Hood asked Apple if she wanted him to text Tokyo to tell her she could leave since it appeared they would be staying.
Apple smirked. “I placed her outside for a reason—to watch our backs. It may seem we in here in vacation mode, but don’t ever sleep. It could always jump off at any second.”
“Speak of the devil,” Hood said and nodded toward the front door. Apple’s head turned on a dime and she watched as Queenie, Lord, Stone, and Rehab came through. Just then Apple’s text lit up from Tokyo, warning her of the obvious. Apple hit her back and told her to be on high alert.
Queenie ran directly to the dance floor the moment the deejay switched back to Latin music. The salsa music blared throughout the nightclub, and Queenie and one of Kiqué’s men, Arturo, were about to dance the night away. Spiritedly they glided and slid across the dance floor in perfect harmony. Tonight Queenie was glowing in her sexy blue salsa dress and clear stilettos. They danced through several songs. Arturo grabbed Queenie from behind and twirled her around and then he lifted her into the air, and she came back down without missing the beat. They did shimmies and spins and rapid moves, each keeping up with the other.
She was a natural, as this was her element. Queenie was having an amazing time until she spotted Apple.
“Look at this blue bitch with the blue eye.”
“What you want us to do?” IG asked. “You want us to chill, right?”
Apple nodded. “That bitch knows better than to disrespect Kiqué with her bullshit. He’s implemented a strict no-fire zone within the ten-block radius. Anyone who disrespects his party will have to deal with him. But watch my back.”
“With my life,” said IG.
Queenie was taken aback that Apple was at the event, but she kept her cool. She tapped Lord and gave him the heads-up and all mingled as if things were copacetic—as if they hadn’t tried to murder Apple a few weeks ago. Lord did have an uneasy feeling that she was flanked by Hood and IG. It wasn’t fear he felt; they were just someone to consider—another layer standing in front of successfully murdering Apple. Lord knew that being second-in-command meant that Queenie’s life was in his hands. If he was being honest, he had to admit that things had been going well for them for a minute. No one had tried them in some time, which he felt was evident and embarrassingly humbling. Four shooters—him, Rehab, Stone, and Queenie—weren’t able to kill Apple at the shootout. They were rusty. To now have to go up against Hood and IG—two dirty, thirsty niggas starving for a come up—would test their resolve.
He had to admit, even if Queenie didn’t, that Apple was a movement all by herself. The way she pulled out both burners and backed down four shooters was impressive, like she was born for this life. Killer Mike had described how nice she was with her hands, which only affirmed what the streets had been saying about her for years.
Apple remained unruffled. The only thing exchanged between the two ladies was a hard glare. The red dress Apple wore stood out. It was a direct contrast to Queenie’s blue gown. Red was in honor of Apple’s name, but it irked Queenie because it was the color that represented the Bloods, the Crips’s main rivals. Apple wasn’t in the Bloods gang, but the color didn’t sit well with her foe.
Queenie was a simmering pot of anger. How the fuck did she get in? she wondered, as her paranoia kicked in. Queenie felt that Apple had stalked her there, tearing a page from her playbook.
Lord approached Queenie, and she whispered in his ear, “I want that bitch thrown out of here, but mi don’t want to make a scene. You think I could ask Kiqué’s people to kick her out?”
“It will be a bad move on your end,” he warned her.
She contested. “Mi want that likkle redbone bitch gone!”
“You’ll look weak, Queenie, and besides, this party isn’t about you. This not your shit. Apple’s not a threat right now, and there are too many important people in here for you to worry about her,” he said. “Let’s handle business, and forget about that bitch . . . for now.”
She gritted her teeth and scowled. Lord was right. It wasn’t the time or place to make a scene.
“This party earns her a few hours of amnesty, but mi want you and Rehab back on her first thing tomorrow. I have a couple cinderblocks wit’ her name on ’em.” As Queenie spoke, she felt some regret about killing Mike. He was easier to handle and rarely challenged her authority as Lord did. Mike wouldn’t have given her order to have Apple thrown out a second thought. He was just as petty as she was.
“You already know we’re gonna handle that,” Lord affirmed. “I think we should also find out why she’s here. It could be a problem if she’s connected to the Helguero cartel too. I told you about her sister and the Colombians. This shit don’t smell right.”
“Get. Off. Her. Dick!” Queenie took her index finger and poked Lord in the head with each word. Her disrespect was on full display, and as a man, Lord’s first reaction was to knock her the fuck out. It took full restraint, something that had to be built up over time, to not get his Ali on. Queenie didn’t appreciate that Lord had kept her alive on more than one occasion and that he was fiercely loyal to the gang—his brotherhood—over his own self-respect. But laying hands on him in front of his peers had diminished his resolve to murder her archenemy. If Lord fell back and allowed Apple to take out his boss, it would leave her operation wide open for him to fill her shoes.
Lord’s voice was even when he said, “Please don’t touch me again.”
Queenie craned her neck to look up at her underling. “Know your place, Lord. Mi won’t warn you again.”
As the night progressed, Apple was no longer in a festive mood. She had been ready to leave but didn’t want Queenie to think she had run her out of the place. And then she saw him again. The guy from Harlem Week had just entered the party and approached Queenie. Apple noticed how Queenie became overly animated toward him. The two hugged, and it looked like they were flirting with each other from Apple’s viewpoint. They chatted briefly, and then Touch walked away. He wanted to mingle.
Apple had watched the interaction between Queenie and Touch like a hawk. She observed Queenie’s eyes following Touch around the party. Queenie had a thing for him—it showed in her face, and although Apple was once disinterested in him, suddenly she felt differently.
“Who is that nigga again?” she asked Hood.
“Who?”
“Your six o’clock.”
“Oh, that’s my man Touch. You want me to bring him over here?”
“Nah, what for? I was just asking ’cause he keeps showing up at all the events. He moves weight?”
“That choir boy?” Hood chuckled. “He’s some big-time poker player out in Vegas.”
“Poker?” Apple said incredulously. That was different.
“He’s doin’ something right. He travels the world and shit, getting paid,” said Hood.
“What’s up with him and that bitch?” she asked.
Hood shrugged. “Ask him.”
Apple went to the ladies room alone on more than one occasion to try to get Touch to notice she was there. Finally, she and Touch made eye contact. Apple kept it moving back to her table, and egotistically felt he would approach her just as he had done before. But he did
n’t. When she saw him exiting, she realized maybe it was time to do the same.
“Let’s bounce,” she announced.
As Apple, Hood, and IG snaked through the crowd and made their way to the exit, she saw that Queenie, too, was having a sit down with Kiqué and Brunilda. What stood out the most were the smiles and hugs exchanged between the women.
Apple had a bad feeling that the man she assumed was being vetted for the Manhattan and Bronx areas was a woman. And that woman was her archenemy.
14
Touch woke up before the sun and immediately started his morning routine. One step was to bow down to Allah in scheduled prayer, one of five prayers each day. He made sure that his body and his place of worship were clean of dirt and impurities.
While standing, he raised his hands up in the air and said, “Allah Akbar.” Still standing, he folded his hands over his chest and recited the first chapter of the Quran in Arabic. Touch raised his hands up again and said, “Allah Akbar,” once more. He bowed and then recited three times, “Subhanarabbiyaladheen,” which meant “Glory be to my Lord Almighty,” before concluding his prayer.
Next, he worked out doing mostly calisthenics for about an hour. Afterward, he finished a bottle of water and made himself a breakfast of eggs and waffles with a cup of green tea. Touch was physically fit and healthy, and he trained his mind daily to focus on only what gave him joy. He spent an hour each day playing memory building games, Sudoku, jigsaw puzzles, and online chess to sharpen his short and long term recollection. His father, Jorge, taught him at a young age how to discipline himself and control his thoughts, so he was perplexed as to why he was struggling to keep her out of his psyche. Last night at El Tempo’s he had seen Apple; her beautiful face couldn’t be overlooked even amongst all the revelers. He wanted her. He wanted her time, and he wanted to make time for her.
Touch had watched as she glided across the room, slow paced and sensual. She obviously was a woman who knew her curves, knew what men liked and how to please. It took all his strength to not approach her, especially since he saw her with Hood and IG, but he would not play himself. Not when she had made known that she wasn’t checking for him. Being in the same club and trying to avoid her was a balancing act he wouldn’t attempt, so Touch left and didn’t look back.
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