Checkmate

by Nisa Santiago

  The Red Spot was a plush, high-end, all-in-one chic spot near the West Side Highway. It was a dance club, restaurant, pool hall, and had an indoor smoking lounge with polished décor. Celebrities, music moguls, and the city’s elite frequented the club, and Kola was a regular. It was one of the places she did her business; extracting clientele for her parties and services. She was subtle with her business, passing out her cards and whispering in ears about her events. But mostly, she was profiling the males, and even a few females, in the club.

  Kola strutted toward the entrance like the boss bitch she was. She was instantly recognized by the security and bouncers, and was able to bypass the long wait to get inside and escape the cover charge.

  A beefy bouncer greeted her with a warm smile. “Hey, Kola.”

  “Hey, Bobby,” she replied.

  The velvet rope was unlatched, and Kola entered the 10,000-square-foot space, where the caramel hues and warm earth tones dressed the interior, and the dimly lit chandeliers set off a sensual vibe.

  The DJ had Rick Ross blaring throughout the club, and the place was alive and jumping with partygoers, drinking, and beautiful women.

  Kola didn’t care for the party. She had to meet with Candace and her girls, who were also regulars at the club, and had connections with the owner.

  She moved through the large crowd and headed toward the VIP area. She received stares from men and women as she passed. Her beauty and style were captivating, and her presence was intimidating. She didn’t smile or pay the attention any mind. They weren’t worth her time.

  Kola reached the stairway that went up to the glass-enclosed smoking lounge, for VIP guests only, and two strapping male bouncers made sure only the elite passed through.

  Both bouncers acknowledged her as she approached, smiling and stepping to the side, allowing her up the stairway and into the room. But they quickly turned their heads, admiring her plump backside as she walked up the stairs.

  “Damn, that’s nice!” one of the men said.

  Kola entered the glass-enclosed lounge and was right away greeted by the manager of the club, Pablo, a short, round, Dominican man, with bronze skin and thinning black hair. He was sharply dressed in a grey pinstripe suit and a gold Rolex.

  “Kola, it’s good to see you,” he greeted joyfully.

  “Hey, Pablo.”

  “Candace is already in the office. They’re waiting for you.”

  She nodded.

  Pablo allowed the girls to conduct business in his establishment. He was always paranoid about being watched or indicted. He had cameras watching every angle of his club. He always swept his place for bugs on the daily, so it was hard for any law enforcement to wiretap his club or office. And he screened his employees thoroughly, via his brother having a background in computers and knowing how to hack into any secure account. If someone was fraudulent, then Pablo’s brother, Joseph, had the means to find out.

  It was always business with Pablo and Kola. He was a regular at Kola’s sex parties, and Pablo showed her the same hospitality at The Red Spot that she’d always shown him. She was always on the list, and always invited into VIP.

  Kola nodded and walked toward the backroom, where the main office was located. Beyond that was the balcony area with a phenomenal view overlooking the West Side Highway and Hudson River.

  Kola entered Pablo’s office to find Candace and Patrice seated in one of the swanky chairs, laughing and drinking martinis.

  Meeting at Pablo’s club made it look like they were a trio of ladies only out to have a good time, in case cops or the feds were watching. Both Candace and Patrice were dressed seductively in tight, leather skirts that exposed their thick thighs, revealing tops, and six-inch wedge heels. Candace and Patrice may have looked like promiscuous, partying chicks, but they were skilled killers on Kola’s payroll—and their portfolio was displayed throughout the streets of New York.

  “Look at y’all bitches,” Kola greeted with a smile.

  “We waitin’ for you, boss lady,” Candace said.

  The ladies hugged each other, and it was all smiles, but Kola wanted to shift things to important business. She had a lot of things to discuss with her top enforcer, Candace.

  “What you drinking?” Kola asked Candace.

  “One strong martini.”

  “I’ll take one too.” Kola walked over to Pablo’s private assistant and asked her to get her the same thing that her girls were drinking.

  The young woman nodded and rushed to fulfill her order.

  It didn’t take long for Kola to get her drink. Any orders coming from the VIP section or Pablo’s office were handled ASAP. She served Kola her martini and exited the room so the girls could talk business in private.

  “Come, let’s talk on the balcony. The air and view is better out there,” Kola said.

  Candace and Patrice followed behind Kola. Kola slid the glass sliding door shut, peered around, and took a few sips from her martini.

  “What you need to talk about, Kola?” Candace asked.

  Kola didn’t respond right away. She walked toward the edge of the balcony and peered over. They were only two stories up, but it was a steep fall. Kola took a sip from her martini, stared at the New Jersey skyline for a moment, and then turned to lock eyes with her girl.

  “Some muthafuckas don’t have an ounce of respect for us, just because we bitches. I mean, look at us. We got shit on lock. But these haters, they ain’t gonna never learn that what any man can do, a fuckin’ woman can do twice as good.”

  “I hear that,” Patrice chimed with a smile.

  “But check this,” Kola continued. “We gonna prove these bitch-ass niggas wrong, starting with Edge.”

  “He always been hating on you, Kola. It’s about time you made something happen to his triflin’ ass. I’m ready to put in work on that nigga,” Candace said.

  “You will, baby girl. You will. His jealousy of me is starting to rage out of control, and I ain’t giving him any more free passes just because he’s Cross’ right-hand man. I’m sick of his shit!”

  “When you want it to go down?” Candace asked.

  “Soon.”

  Candace nodded.

  “I got a lot of shit to prove, y’all feel me?”

  “Hells yeah,” Patrice and Candace said simultaneously.

  “But what about Cross? He’s still in the picture or what?” Patrice asked.

  Kola was silent for a moment, hesitating to answer. She thought about Cross. She still loved him, but love and emotions for any man was a problem when it came to handling her business. Cross had fucked up. He had a gun charge hanging over his head, and a snake friend in his corner that he failed to recognize. Kola felt that Cross was slipping, and she didn’t need his mistakes interfering with her business. She already had his connect, and her name was starting to ring out more than his. In the streets everyone had heard of Cocà Kola—the name given to her by the Columbians because she was moving so much weight. In her mind, she didn’t need a man for shit.

  She wanted to make Cross pay for his infidelity. He had a son with some Brooklyn bitch, and Kola disapproved of it. Kola felt that she was too fine and good of a woman to be cheated on. It would be Cross’ loss, not hers.

  “You know, with Edge out the way, then Cross would have to fall solo on that gun charge,” Kola stated.

  Candace nodded.

  Kola continued with, “Cross fucked up. He’s lucky that a short bid is all he’s gonna get for fuckin’ cheating on me.”

  Patrice took another sip of her Martini. “If you ask me, a couple years away in a State pen is hardly payback. Shit, that’s a mini vacation.”

  Kola shrugged. She knew she wasn’t going hard on Cross and she knew why. She still loved him despite the betrayal. Her mind said to dead him, but her heart said no.
She spoke, “Patrice, that’s the plan for now. But like the weather, shit could change.”

  The girls stood under the canopy of night and towering buildings, excited about their future.

  Kola raised her glass in the air for a toast. Patrice and Candace followed, and then Kola said, “This is our time . . . our fuckin’ moment, and ain’t no muthafucka taking it away from us. Here’s to makin’ paper hand over fist!”

  They clinked glasses together and downed what was left of their drinks. “Here’s to makin’ paper!”

  “Now, let’s go out there and make it happen,” Kola stated. “Show these clown-ass niggas just how good a bitch can do it.”

  Chapter 2

  Chico sat snug in his brand-new, gleaming XJ Jaguar in front of the Pink Houses on Linden Boulevard. The luxurious car caught attention and turned heads from many passers-by as it sat parked on Linden Boulevard, with Chico the sole occupant.

  Chico had felt uncomfortable and apprehensive being in the Brooklyn hood as he waited. He had the chromed Desert Eagle concealed in a stash box and a .380 under his seat. He nodded to a 50 Cent track, and was dressed like a don, looking suave and clean in a dark-gray YSL suit and sporting a pair of David Chu Bespoke Italian wingtips, and a Presidential watch on his wrist. He screamed ghetto wealth.

  ****

  Since Chico’s return from North Carolina, his name had started ringing out again on the streets. He had established a strong, but temporary connect with the Johnson brothers, who had him supplied for a few months. But he needed a firm cartel connection. The Haitians’ product was unreliable and weak. Chico was also willing to invest his money into anything profitable, but with the continuing war with Cross and Kola, he knew that he needed a crew of killers in his corner to maintain his stronghold over the neighborhood. He got that from a young, wild kid named Two-Face.

  Two-Face was a sixteen-year-old assassin from a small town in Mexico called Ahome. He’d migrated to the States when he was eleven years old. Two-Face came from a family of thugs and assassins that murdered anybody that got in their way—government officials, diplomats—and extorted drug dealers and raped women. His father was in the corrupt Mexican military, which was nothing but assassins with badges, and Two-Face’s family was associated with Los Zetas, a notorious Mexican cartel.

  When Two-Face had turned twelve, he joined a ruthless Mexican gang and passed initiation by pumping two bullets into a schoolteacher’s head. He followed the petite and well-liked school teacher coming from school one afternoon, and rushed up on her, raised the loaded .45 he carried and pressed the gun to the back of her head.

  Before she could react or scream, Two-Face shot her in the back of the head twice. He had received his first symbolic trophy—a tiny tattoo teardrop under his right eye that indicated how many people he’d killed.

  The sixteen-year-old kid had gotten the name Two-Face for many reasons, but one particular reason was because he had the ability to become your friend, have you trust him with his boyish features and catching smile. But then with the blink of an eye, he was easily able to betray you and set you up, and kill you without hesitation. Two-Face was feared anywhere he went. In his hometown, they gave him another nickname, Body-Count. Killing was a skill for Two-Face. He had learned it through his father, his older brothers and uncles, who were all notorious in violence and warfare. They knew how to torture and steal, and wreak havoc wherever they rested their heads.

  Chico had come across Two-Face during his short stay in D.C. He was conducting business out there with a few locals and kept hearing the name, Two-Face, in passing. It was like a constant tune in his ear wherever he went. Two-Face this, and Two-Face that. The name was notorious wherever he went in D.C., and it caught his interest.

  Many figures in the underworld didn’t like or want to deal with Two-Face because he was young, too deadly, and out of order. The major heads in the city feared him, and so many of the young locals looked up to him. But Chico saw an opportunity, especially when he got word that Two-Face had two murder warrants out for his arrest.

  Chico began asking around about him, and after a few days of searching, he finally came face to face with the young killer at a downtown bar in Capitol Hill.

  “Yo, you the nigga lookin’ for me?” Two-Face had asked, his face full of scorn, and eyes narrowed at Chico.

  “Yeah, I’ve been hearing about you,” Chico replied coolly.

  “Why the fuck you lookin’ for me? You know what I’m about?”

  Chico was far from intimidated by the young thug, having seen his fair share of killers over the years, including himself.

  “Yeah, I know what you’re about. I can use a nigga like you.”

  “What the fuck you mean?”

  Chico figured it was better to show him than tell him. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a wad of bills totaling ten thousand, and tossed it to the young killer.

  Two-Face caught the rolled-up stack of money in his hands. “What the fuck is this for, homes?”

  “Call it a down payment for your services.”

  “How about I just kill you and take whatever else you got on you.” Two-Face lifted his shirt and revealed the butt of a 9 mm tucked in his waistband.

  “And then what? I’ll be just another body under your belt instead of a golden opportunity for you. And then you’ll be ignorant.”

  “Homes, who the fuck is you? You in my nest, yo. I run these streets.”

  “And you’re a wanted man out here. I guarantee if you don’t leave here soon, you’ll be locked up.”

  “And go where, homes? You know where I’m from, what I’m about?”

  “New York. Come work for me. And believe me, I have plenty of work for you. That ten thousand in your hands, it’s only a start.”

  Two-Face stood, thinking about the opportunity.

  “My name’s Chico.”

  “If you ain’t serious about this, or playin’ game wit’ me, homes, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

  “Oh, I’m serious as ever. Do I look like the type of nigga to play games? Especially when it comes to money? Who else would be willing to just hand over ten stacks to a kid?”

  Two-Face nodded.

  It was the beginning of a sweet and deadly business arrangement. The next day, Chico and Two-Face were on I-95 headed toward New York. After Two-Face’s first month in New York, he was already implicated in three homicides. And like in D.C., his name was becoming notorious in Harlem and the Washington Heights areas.

  ****

  Chico glanced at the time as he continued to sit in his XJ Jaguar. “What the fuck is takin’ this bitch so long?”

  It was getting late, and he didn’t like lingering in Brooklyn too long. He was unknown in that part of town, the Pink Houses, where Brooklyn held the reputation for being one of the grimmest boroughs. He picked up his phone and was about to make a heated phone call, until he noticed Blythe exiting the lobby.

  She strutted toward the gleaming Jaguar with her sultry looks, wearing a pair of tight-fitting Seven jeans with pink stitching, a snug-fitting baby pink Benetton shirt that highlighted her ample breasts, and a pair of pink-bowed peep-toe ankle strap wedges.

  Blythe had full lips, round hips, butter-like complexion and almond-shaped, cinnamon eyes that captivated any man with one stare. She was a queen in her hood—wanted and envied by so many people.

  ****

  Chico had been dealing with Blythe for a month, and she’d become his new flavor. It was rumored that she used to fuck with the rapper Fabolous on the down low for a moment, and she was a high-end woman with an appetite for expensive things and having a good time.

  The two met in downtown Manhattan, at an industry event and listening party for an upcoming rapper who was coming out under the Def Jam label. Chico was there with his friends, showing his presence and looking int
imidating with this thuggish posture. But he was at the listening party only for pleasure. He was friends with one of the producers that he grew up with in the Heights, and had a personal invite.

  Chico and Blythe locked eyes, and Blythe showed that she was interested in him with her pleasant stare and inviting smile. Chico casually made his move on her, spoke a few nice words in her ear, and things took off from there. Soon after, Chico began sporting his young, beautiful prize all throughout Harlem. He flaunted her in his new Jaguar, and bought her nice things, taking her shopping on Fifth Avenue and downtown. They were starting to look like the “it” couple in the hood. Blythe was a good look under Chico’s arm, and she was falling in love with her newfound boyfriend.

  But unbeknownst to Blythe, Chico had simply started dealing with Blythe only to try and bring Apple out of hiding, have her come out from whatever rock she was hiding under. He was missing her, and she was still in his heart. It had been months since her disappearance, and no one knew or didn’t have a clue where she was.

  Chico had gotten tired looking or asking around about her, especially with Denise, Apple’s mother, being so resistant and uncaring. Denise had tried to drill into Chico’s head that Apple had left on her own accord.

  “Look, Chico, I don’t know where that bitch went off to. She just ain’t been around lately. Fuck her anyway! Bitch gonna kick me outta her swanky crib, like her own shit don’t stink. Nigga, just stop lookin’ for that tramp! ’Cuz I ain’t fuckin’ worrying! And neither should you.”

  Chico’s plan was to be with Blythe and flaunt her around Harlem in an attempt to bring Apple back to him maybe because of jealousy. But days became weeks, and soon after, Chico found himself having feelings for the girl.

  And she was more than just a pretty face with a terrific figure. She was enrolled in New York City Technical College for Legal Assistant Studies. When she told Chico that she wanted to become a lawyer, he knew that she could be just the type of chick he needed on his arm. If Blythe got her law degree she could very well be an asset to his empire. It was small details such as that which started to chip away at his feeling for Apple. Apple was street-smart and had the heart of a lion. But with Blythe, there was a full package. She was book and street smart; it was an unbeatable combination.