by Beanie Sigel
Mack, then, began to wobble in the direction of his car as if he was inebriated. “SP for life!” he shouted, slurring his words. “I’m the mutha fuckin’ boss. I got money to blow!” He continued, walking with unsteady feet.
“Aye Mack!” a voice yelled out aggressively.
The drunken swagger immediately disappeared. Mack spun around with a semi-automatic gripped in each extended hand. The blaring gun shot and bright flash caught Mack’s eye. He responded by firing multiple .40 caliber rounds at the source. The windows of an Escalade that Mack was crouched behind were blown out from the shooter’s return fire.
Mack dropped down flat on the pavement. Looking under the parked cars, his eyes locked on two sets of feet scurrying in an attempt to get closer to him. He raised his gun and fired a single shot into the air. Just as he expected, the feet paused. He, then, repeatedly squeezed the triggers sending eight slugs beneath the cars, striking the men in their legs. Loud shrills pierced the air as the attackers collapsed in agony.
With astonishing agility, Mack, rose to his feet and trotted over to the shooters-turned-victims. Without coming to a complete halt, as soon as they were in range he began firing bullets into their bodies. The Full Metal Jacket slugs dismantled their organs ensuring death.
Hastily, Mack made it to his Mercedes. After a quick and careful scan for potential witnesses, he pulled out of the parking lot.
Taylor Street was active as usual. Pedestrians were en route to their destinations and the hustlers did their best to meld in, while simultaneously being on alert for both customers and the police. Reek sat in his Jaguar casually thumbing through the stack of money that was given to him by the young man in the passenger seat. “You sure this is straight? It’s a lot of counterfeit money floating around.”
“I heard about that. That’s why I double check everything that touches my hands,” the young man responded.
Reek reached under his seat, pulled out an ounce of cocaine and handed it over.
The buyer quickly stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
“Alright,” he said, looking out the window instinctually, “I’ll be calling you for more before the day’s over.” With that said, he slid out of the car and blended into the streets.
Shortly after, a black on black Jeep Wrangler Rubicon swerved to the curb in front of Reek’s car. Mack hopped out, walked directly to the passenger side of the Jaguar and got in.
“Wassup, cannon? I ain’t heard from you in a minute. You stopped hustlin’ or something?” Mack said, while delivering an imposing look to Reek.
“Nah, I’m still getting’ money,” Reek confessed.
Mack shook his head and chuckled. “I help you get on your feet and this is how you repay me?” His temper was clearly rising.
“It’s not that I cut you off. My cousin and his man’s came up from New York with that work. They fronting me a half a brick at a time. How can I turn that down?”
“Do one of them drive a BMW coupe?” Mack asked, remembering the car he parked next to at Dr. Denim’s with the New York State license plates. He thought about the accent of the man who gave him the warning at Club Onyx. Mack described him to Reek, who reluctantly confirmed. “What’s this nigga’s name?”
“Come on, Mack. You know I ain’t with that. I can’t give you information on him. Snitching is snitching no matter how you look at it.”
Mack’s first thought was to pull out his gun and smash it into Reek’s face, but after consideration, he had to respect the kid’s thoroughness. “I’ll tell you what, call him and ask if he hollered at me at Club Onyx. If he say yes, then tell him I want to talk to him.”
“Alright, I’ll do that.”
“Now!” Mack demanded.
Feeling the pressure, Reek grabbed his phone and dialed Terry’s number. He spoke to Terry momentarily. Upon Terry’s request, he handed the phone to Mack.
“Hello?”
“I would ask you what’s good, but seeing that I’m talking to you today, I see that life is good,” Terry said.
“Yeah, life is definitely good. Listen, I appreciate you giving me that heads up. I’ve been hearing a lot about you, and I created a perception of you based on that. It wasn’t a good one. Last night, you did something that you didn’t have to do, and that changed everything. If you don’t mind, I want to have a talk with you.”
“That’s cool. We can talk.”
“Do you know where Warm Daddy’s restaurant is?” Mack asked.
“I think so. It’s on...Delaware Avenue and Reed Street, right?”
“Yeah. Can you meet me there within a half an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
They hung up. Mack gave the phone back to Reek.
“So, where does that leave us?” Reek questioned.
“You’ll know after I talk to the bawh.” Mack left Reek, hopped into his Jeep, and then left.
Reek sighed and slid the compact 9 mm he had concealed in his left hand back under his thigh, relieved that he wasn’t forced to use it.
Inside of the restaurant, Mack took a seat next to the window. From that location he was able to see everyone who neared or entered. The waitress delivered his order of marinated grilled steak, scrambled eggs with cheese and seasoned home fries. He wasted no time tearing into his food.
A moment later, Terry stepped inside, Mack waved him over with the fork still in his hand.
He approached the table and extended his hand to properly greet Mack. “Wassup, bruh? I’m T-Lova.”
His greeting was accepted with a handshake. “I’m Mack. Have a seat.” Terry sat down. “My bad for ordering before you came, but I’m a big boy. I can’t be around food without eating.”
“It’s alright.” Terry chuckled. He signaled for the waiter who immediately came over and jotted down his order of baked turkey wings, macaroni and cheese, and greens.
“I’ma get straight to the point. I asked you to meet me, because you made the decision to give me that warning last night. That decision might have saved my life, but it definitely saved yours.”
“Is that right?” Terry responded without displaying too much emotion.
“It’s some niggas out there looking for you as we speak.” Mack popped a slice of steak into his mouth and chewed while his comment lingered like a dense cloud of smoke. “You see, I don’t have a problem with you gettin’ money, but I do have a problem with you taking money out of my pocket.” Terry remained stone faced. “Under any other condition, I would have allowed your life to be taken. Consider my warning a returned favor.”
“So, you’re telling me that I have to stop hustling in South Philly?”
“Yeah,” he answered plainly.
“I appreciate the warning, but packing up and running away is not an option for me.”
“You’d rather get killed in a city you barely know than leave?”
“I’d rather kill than get killed. But I’d rather die as a G than live as a coward.”
“I gave you the warning. Once this conversation is over, it ain’t no turning back.”
“I respect that,” Terry said, “but you have to respect the fact that I’m not out here hustlin’ because it’s cool. I’m providing a way for me and mine’s...just like you. We’re more alike than you think, Mack. Let’s not be like these other niggas and kill each other over a block when we don’t even own the buildings on them. Money is gon’ continue to be printed whether we live or die. It’s enough money for everybody to eat. If we come together, we can run this city.”
“For one, what makes you think you can catch me slippin’, and rock me to sleep?” Mack asked, no longer concerned with the food. “And two, what sense would it make for us to get together when I already have South Philly on lock, and you’re just trying to get your foot in the door?”
“To answer your first question, no one is bullet proof. You never know, I could have the drop on you right now.”
“And, it could be a gun pointed at you as we speak,” Mack countere
d.
“It could be,” Terry acknowledged. “As for your second question, there is something valuable that I can bring to the table. I have a Mexican connect. I’m paying fifteen stacks a brick and he fronts me whatever I buy.”
Mack’s eyebrows rose with interest. “Are you serious?”
“No question.”
“Damn, I’m paying double that for a jawn. I’m making this Dominican muthafucka rich, knowing he’s stretching the coke.”
“The birds I’m getting is untouched and my plug is cartel connected. Like I said, I’m not in this game because it’s cool. My ultimate goal is to make enough money to switch my hustle and make the same amount of money, or more, legally.”
“I’ve been brain storming on the same thing,” Mack admitted.
“You see, we’re more alike than we are different.”
“I can tell that you have morals and integrity. I don’t see any deception with you. With loyalty, we will become monumental. With deceit, we will be nothing more than memories.”
“I’m not driven by greed, Mack. In this game, greed only brings a long prison bid, or an early death.”
“I like the way you talk. We’re both thinkers. If we get together and hustle with a common goal, not only will we reach it, but we will run circles around all these niggas out here,” Mack stated confidently.
“Do you smoke weed?”
“No question.”
“Let’s bend a couple of corners and see if we can put a master plan together.”
“Aaight.” Mack slid his Beretta Pico .380, he held under the table at Terry, back into his pocket.
He stood up just in time to see Terry sliding his Kahr Arms compact .380 into his pocket. “What was you doing?”
“Nothing that you wasn’t doing,” Terry responded as he stood up, pulling out a stack of bills to pay for their meals.
“You’re right.” Mack issued an approving smile. “We are more alike than we are different...”
CHAPTER 11
Creating a merger turned out to be an extremely wise and lucrative decision that catapulted Mack up the ranks. With the understanding that although the distribution of cocaine was illegal, it was a business nonetheless. They created a controlled structure for their enterprise.
Mack and Terry were the bosses. They dealt directly with the connect, oversaw the entire operation and made all vital decisions.
Jihad was the president. He supervised and controlled all of the street activity on a higher level.
Shawn was the vice president. He took care of any business Jihad was unable to.
They basically worked together as a team to ensure that every hustler who purchased a kilo or more never ran out, and did business exclusively with them.
Reek and Boogs managed the streets. Reek sold everything from three-point-five grams to one hundred twenty-five grams of cocaine. Boogs made sure that all of the drug houses that sold ten and twenty dollar bags ran properly. If a house was raided by police, or bringing too much heat, he was responsible for finding a new place and migrating the customers.
Twan made sure that all of the drugs were cut, cooked and packaged properly. He knew the amount of drugs everyone on the team was to receive and, he made sure that they had their product on time.
Sandra was the secretary. She gave notice to every SP member about all meetings. She also kept a guarded list of addresses and numbers of everyone in case there was a need for urgent contact.
Within eighteen months they had amassed enough capital to finance a legitimate venture. They decided to establish a luxury rental car service that catered to sports stars, entertainers and affluent businessmen visiting the
city with a desire for high end, temporary transportation.
The growth of Dynasty Luxury Rentals exceeded their expectations. What began with ten high end vehicles expanded to over forty premium cars with a line up consisting of Lexani Executive vehicles. Bentleys, Rolls Royces, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and more.
Their business also provided them with the opportunity to meet and become acquainted with very prominent and influential people, including the Mayor of Philadelphia. Because of their immediate success and the introduction to people who could become paramount to their continued elevation, they were forced to maintain a lower profile in the streets, allowing Jihad and Shawn to become the faces of their illegal enterprise. This not only gave them more time to focus on marketing and promotions for Dynasty Luxury Rentals, but they were also readily available to attend celebrity parties and corporate functions. This was important not only for putting faces to their brand, but also for promoting and connecting with other entrepreneurs.
Their short journey together had been exceptional, and with the mindset that if they’re going to be thinkers, they must be big thinkers. Their room for growth was limitless.
Their success or demise would come as a result of their choices and actions...
CHAPTER 12
MANHATTAN, NY
A gentle kiss stirred Marty Frankel out of his sleep. His mouth formed a smooth smile as his eyes adjusted on Kate’s comely figure, his wife of just over a year.
“Good morning, Princess,” he said in a raspy voice, yawned, and then wiped crust from his eyes.
“Rise and shine, lazy bones. You have to be to work in less than an hour.” Kate stood over him in a jasmine colored, silk nighty. Her honey-blonde hair rested on the shoulders of her petite, shapely frame.
“That means I have time to give you the best ten minutes of your life.” Marty reached out and grabbed her by the waist, trying to pull her closer.
Kate’s emerald green eyes twinkled as she smiled and softly pulled away.
“Sorry, lover boy, but you have to take a shower and I have to make you something to eat. Didn’t you say that you had an important meeting today?”
Marty swung his feet over the edge of his California-king sized bed and sat up while running a hand through his hair. Her question sparked the realization that this was a day he was not looking forward to. His wife knew that the meeting was significant, but she had no clue that it could cause his ruin. “Yeah,” he answered flatly.
Kate dismissed his drab response. “Well, get yourself together and I’ll make breakfast. It’s much harder to focus on an empty stomach.” She whirled around and scurried down the stairs of their ultra-luxurious apartment.
He stood, stretching his six-feet-two-inch, toned frame. At forty-three years old, Marty relied on a strict diet, and rigorous exercise to help combat the signs of aging. It also felt good to know he didn’t look out of place when out with Kate, who was nine years younger than him.
Marty staggered to the bathroom and pressed number two on the wall mounted key pad. Instantly, water of his preferred temperature streamed out of the multiple shower heads, and Def Leopard’s Pour Some Sugar On Me blazed through the surround sound speakers. He undressed and stepped into the spacious walk-in shower. The steaming water massaged his muscles while the music invigorated him. His mind traveled through all the possibilities of what lay ahead. He chased away the pessimistic thoughts and committed himself to handling the day in the same manner he did when confronted with burdensome situations of the past.
Marty descended the spiral stairs and walked into the palatial kitchen dressed impeccably in a tailored navy-blue Ralph Lauren Purple Label suit, white Egyptian cotton shirt, a red silk tie, and brown leather Ferragamo shoes. He sat down to a plate of poached eggs, lightly buttered wheat toast, and a bowl of oatmeal. Mastering the art of multi-tasking, Marty ate, engaged in a light conversation with Kate and scanned through the Wall Street Journal.
After a quick glance at his Rolex Sky Dweller watch, Marty stood, and kissed Kate on her forehead. “I’m sure the car is out front waiting on me. I’m going to stop by the gym after work, but I’ll be home no later than four.”
“Ashly and I are going to an art exhibit in New Jersey, so I may not make it in until after six.”
“I’ll take it that means w
e’ll be going out for dinner?”
“It’s either that or you can whip us up something,” Kate said.
“Not a chance, young lady. I’ll make reservations. Try not to spend too much on those paintings. You’re still developing your eye for art.”
“I’ll try,” Kate responded.
Marty left his penthouse, boarded the elevator, and exited in the lobby of the ritzy Dakota Building. Walking out of the doors, he inhaled a deep breath of crisp, morning Manhattan air. Although it was only six-thirty in the morning, the New York streets were bustling with people and cars in a hurry to reach their destinations. Parked directly in front of the building rested a gleaming, black Rolls Royce Phantom. The chauffeur stood near the rear and opened the door as Marty approached.
“Good morning, Mr. Frankel.”
“Good morning, Larry.” Marty eased into the back seat, pulled out his phone, and checked his emails. The driver navigated the grand sedan to the Goldman Sach’s Building.
Marty Frankel had worked tirelessly for Goldman Sach’s for over eight years as a commodities trader. He engaged in high volume, risky trading of natural gas derivatives. He essentially made bets based on the future direction and unpredictability of the price of natural gas. His base salary was four-hundred-thousand dollars per year, however, he earned millions of dollars in bonuses and incentives. He was extremely talented in his field, and did whatever was asked of him by his supervisor, Jack Goldberg.
Jack was the head trader in the Commodities Derivative Group. He was responsible for Goldman’s strategic decisions and trades. In addition to being at the helm of trades, Jack managed Goldman’s commodities trading strategies and ensured that Goldman’s trading books were accurately valued each day.
Jack used his unrestrained market power to manipulate the prices of natural gas and futures contracts. The higher-ups turned a blind eye towards his actions. Their main concern was him becoming sloppy and that millions of dollars would not continue to pour in.
As prudent as Jack was, a thorough review of Goldman’s trades by a major accounting firm led to the discovery of Jack’s mismarkings. It was also discovered that despite Goldman’s full access to Jack’s trading records, Goldman’s risk management and supervisory systems failed to intervene. Three months ago criminal and civil charges were filed against the company and selected employees.