AZ sent his wife flying out the front door, in the cold, her face anguished with dismay and horror. He slammed the front door and then fell to his knees. He felt ashamed, embarrassed, and outraged. It was moments like this that he missed Aoki. He wished she was still alive so he could confide to her about his wife. She was the only friend he could talk to, the one who knew everything about him and from whom he hid nothing.
But Aoki had made her own bed, and she had to suffer for her choices. Oscar had told AZ that he’d murdered Aoki and asked if he had a problem with it. At the time, he was pleased with his decision. Oscar had done his dirty work for him. He and Aoki were at odds, and it was inevitable that one was going to kill the other.
But when the dust settled, AZ realized that Aoki didn’t deserve to die the way she did. She had been gunned down and her body thrown in some dirty marsh to never be found. There had been no proper funeral, nothing at all. Aoki and her crew had taken a contract that was way over their heads, and it was a death sentence for them. There would have been no way Aoki and her crew would have come out of that nail salon alive.
A small part of AZ felt responsible for setting her on the path that ultimately led to her death.
*
On a 53-meter luxury yacht with six cabins, an outdoor bar, and a Jacuzzi, Oscar emerged from his master suite cabin and stepped onto the deck port-side. Dressed in a pair of white linen pants, barefoot, and shirtless, he stared up at the sun and smiled. It was a beautiful day in January. The temperature was 85 degrees, and the dazzling blue waters were calm and soothing. His yacht was anchored in the Atlantic Ocean, three hundred miles away from Miami, Florida. In fact, he could almost see Cuba in the horizon.
He lit a cigar and inhaled the smoke, his eyes stuck on the ocean. The stillness of the sea was therapeutic. The earth, the sea, and their beauty was his medication. A loss of eight hundred kilos with a street value of fifty million dollars would have crippled any organization, but not his. He was a big fish, able to swallow a massive loss like that and still swim faster and deeper than the other fish.
That didn’t mean the people responsible for the loss wouldn’t have to pay. There had to be retribution. He had to make a statement. The DEA knew exactly which trucks to target, and where and when. Oscar was angry about the seizure, but he kept his cool.
He puffed on his cigar and made his way toward the back of the boat. The deck wood felt easy on his feet. There was nothing better than being barefoot on a yacht in the Atlantic Ocean on a bright and sunny day. There was nothing to interrupt his blasé mood for miles. He walked farther toward the back, and then he went from stepping on a smooth wooden deck to plastic lining that was spread everywhere across the stern.
Oscar smiled and looked at the five naked, beaten men on their knees, their heads lowered to the floor, their wrists tied behind them. Four of his henchmen held them hostage at gunpoint.
“Gentlemen, I’m sorry it had to come to this,” Oscar said.
“Oscar, look, we had nothing to do with Texas. I swear,” one of the men cried out.
“Fifty million dollars is a lot of money to lose, Hector. And though I’m still a very rich man, I hate to lose that kind of currency, especially to the States.”
“I know, but we didn’t talk. We didn’t tell anyone anything about your shipments. I swear it wasn’t us.”
Oscar took another pull from his cigar and walked closer to the men. He stood directly in front of them. He could either be their savior or their Grim Reaper. All five men were shivering with fear. He hadn’t brought them deep into the Atlantic just to have some friendly chitchat.
Oscar’s eyes didn’t show any empathy. He squatted down, looking into their frightened eyes. “If you didn’t do anything, then why ask for my forgiveness?”
The men were all shaking, and one had peed on himself.
“Usted elige la manera que quieres morir, el cuchillo o la pistola,” he said, giving them the choice to die by the knife or the gun.
“Please, I have a family!” one cried out.
Once again, in a deadpan tone, Oscar said, “¿Cuchillo o la pistola?”
They couldn’t decide. Either way, their choice would lead to their deaths.
Frustrated that the men were crying out and not choosing their deaths respectfully, he stood up and exclaimed, “Fine. I’ll decide for you all.”
He looked at the first man and uttered, “¡Cuchillo!”
Quickly, one of his henchmen reacted, placing a Bowie knife to the man’s throat and carving into his neck, spilling his blood. He gagged and choked and then collapsed face down against the plastic lining. His blood pooled underneath him.
Oscar looked at the second man and uttered, “¡Pistola!”
A Desert Eagle was placed to the back of his head and his brains were blown out. He dropped dead.
Three men remaining were quivering and crying.
Oscar said, “¡Pistola!” and a round was fired into the back of the third man’s head.
For the last two men, Oscar said, “¡Cuchillo!” and their throats were cut viciously like the first man’s.
The plastic lining soon turned crimson with their blood. Oscar stepped back from the pool of crimson, not wanting to get their blood on his feet, and stared down at the bodies.
“Clean this up,” he instructed his men, and he turned and walked away.
His goons wrapped the bodies in body bags before weighing them down with dumbbells and tossing each man overboard. Each body went sinking slowly down to the Atlantic floor.
Oscar went back inside his yacht and went to his bar. He needed a drink. He poured himself a glass of Richard Hennessy Cognac, priced at $4,800 a bottle. He needed to taste the good stuff. He was still warring with another cartel, and the pressure was building in the United States. The DEA, FBI, ATF, and Homeland Security were all gunning for him. They wanted to lock him up in an American prison, throw away the key, and let him rot away. He wasn’t going to allow such a grim future. He would rather die in Mexico than be imprisoned in America.
He was retreating to Mexico, his mother’s homeland, where he had the protection of his Gulf cartel. He had to pack up his organization in the States and flee. He didn’t want to, but he refused to be captured by any authority.
Oscar walked toward the window, glass of cognac in his hand, and stared outside. He took a few sips. Then he called for one of his top lieutenants to see him.
Pena soon walked into the room and stood there coolly, waiting for orders from his boss.
Oscar turned and looked at him. “It’s time to clean house, my friend.”
Pena nodded. “Who?”
“I want a five-million-dollar contract on three names—AZ, Heavy Pop, and most importantly, Mateo.”
“Consider it already done.”
“I can’t afford to take any chances. It’s time to rebuild and restart. We take out the old and re-erect with something new. I want all three men dead by month’s end.”
Pena nodded.
Oscar told him, “I have a bad feeling about them, Pena. Make sure it happens quickly.”
Pena pivoted and left the room, leaving Oscar to drink his cognac and relax on his yacht. The hammer started to swing, and soon three nails would be pounded.
Twenty--Seven
AZ had called several times, but still not a word from Oscar. He couldn’t help but to worry. Despite the busts in Texas, AZ was sure that Oscar had other methods of shipping kilos into the States and supplying him with the large amounts he needed to deal with Mateo. He had a fleet of minivans ready and half a dozen mules prepared to transport his cocaine from the pickup to the drop-off locations. But he couldn’t reach Oscar. It seemed like it was all falling apart. Everything he had built was crumbling brick by brick.
He paced around his office downing vodka. Lately, he’d been drinking like a fish. The alcohol was
his only reprieve. His wife was a disappointment, and his sons weren’t his. He had to keep himself busy to keep from going insane.
Mateo was calling, arguing about his shipment, and AZ gave him excuse after excuse why it was late. Mateo was pushy and desperate for the kilos. He seemed nervous about something. He said really needed the cocaine—people were depending on him. It should have raised red flags with AZ, but he wasn’t thinking rationally at the moment.
AZ also had other concerns. What if Wendy decided to go public with everything, revealing his homosexuality and press charges against him? He had threatened her if she did, but there was no telling what a woman scorned might do. But his threat was real. He was going to kill her if she tried to embarrass him or come at him legally. Though his sons weren’t his, he did miss them. They had grown on him, but the pain was still fresh in his heart.
He tossed back another glass of vodka down his throat and rumbled from the taste. Where was his mind taking him? Where was his sanity going? He was thinking too much, worrying too hard about so many things. But he couldn’t help it; both his livelihood and his reputation were in danger.
Just then his cell phone rang. He answered. It was Pena. Hearing one of Oscar’s lieutenants on the other end at once brought him some relief.
“Pena, damn, it’s good to hear from you. I’m trying to reach Oscar.”
“I know, but I call to tell you to just sit tight and we’ll get to you.”
“When?”
“Soon. There’s been a drought, so business is slow.”
AZ sighed. It was news that he didn’t want to hear. He’d been waiting for weeks now, and not only he, but his clientele was growing impatient, including Mateo.
“Oscar says not to worry; you’ll be taken care of,” Pena said.
He hung up.
AZ frowned and cursed. “Fuck me!” He didn’t want to hear about any drought. He had to make moves on his own. He couldn’t depend on Oscar. His connect was running scared, but he wanted to make money. Oscar couldn’t be his only lifeline. He decided to make another call and push things through on his own. No matter, business had to continue to keep spinning like the earth. If it stopped, then he would die.
*
AZ and Heavy Pop managed to scrape together fifty kilos from another connection and keep their meeting with Mateo. The meeting was set in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, at one of Mateo’s storefronts on 2nd Avenue that doubled as a drug depot. AZ walked into the building first, followed by Heavy Pop. This time they came with armed security. The storefront was closed for the day, and the only occupants were drug dealers and goons. The minivan with the fifty kilos pulled into the alleyway of the storefront, and one of their workers climbed out and tossed Mateo the keys.
“Fifty kilos? I asked for five hundred,” Mateo griped to AZ.
“I’m sorry, but there’s a drought, Mateo, and shit is slow right now.”
“I don’t care about no drought, I care about my kilos.”
“Look, you’ll get what you asked for. You just need to be patient.”
Mateo feigned disappointment. He stood in front of AZ and Heavy Pop dressed sharply in Armani, alligator shoes, sporting a Rolex and diamond rings, looking like a pretty boy. Things became tense in the room. AZ and Heavy Pop kept their cool.
Mateo started bitching. “If y’all niggas are too small-time to fulfill my order, then maybe I need to take my business elsewhere.”
“You’re going to play that card with me, Mateo? After two successful runs we had? You’re the one that upped the order last-minute,” AZ said gruffly. “We’re the ones that took a chance with you when nobody wanted to touch you.”
“I respect that, but business is business, and I’m four hundred and fifty kilos short.”
“And you’ll get your shipment. It’s just gonna take some time.”
“I don’t have time.”
“Why not?” Heavy Pop chimed. Suddenly there was something about Mateo he didn’t trust.
“I don’t like when people make promises to me they can’t keep,” Mateo said.
“Our word and our product are still good.”
“What about your connect?” Mateo asked.
“What about him?”
“Where is he? I want to meet with him. I want a face-to-face. I want him to tell me about this drought.”
AZ laughed. “It’s not happening, Mateo.”
“I’m not some dime-store hustler. I move a lot of weight, and I deserve a sit-down with the man. I deserve that much, don’t I?”
“Why? Heavy Pop and me, we ain’t good enough for you? We never wronged you. We kept fair and accurate count with each shipment every time. So why would you want or need to meet with our connect? You think we’re fools?”
“I simply like to know who I’m dealing with. Look, there’s been a lot of noise in the streets lately. I heard about that raid in Texas, and I’ve been under fire and under pressure and in this game for too long to feel comfortable with all my eggs in one basket. I simply want to know that who I’m dealing with won’t come back on me.”
“It won’t.”
“Is your man connected to that shit that happened in Texas? That’s why you tell me about this drought. Why I can’t get my five hundred kilos? Do I need to move on from y’all?”
AZ dared him. “And go where?”
“I have the money, and I have the clientele.”
“And you also have a bad name in the game, Mateo. People don’t trust you. I took that chance with you.”
“And because of that chance, my name is back out there again.”
“Our guy won’t meet with you,” AZ repeated, adamant.
“Why not? Huh? What’s his name?”
Mateo was wired up, so everything was being recorded. He needed the name. Mateo was facing two life sentences. For his cooperation in the federal case, the prosecutor had worked up a deal, and once the case ended, he would do twenty years with the possibility of parole. But if he was able to help nab the big fish, then the prosecutor was willing to lighten his sentence to ten to years. And with a federal sentence, he would be required to do eighty-five percent of his time, providing he was on his best behavior inside. Mateo needed his name, the kilos, and the convictions of the major drug traffickers.
“Don Esposito, that’s who you’re dealing with, right?” Mateo said.
“Don Esposito? You think we would get into bed with that fuckin’ nut? Nah, Os—”
AZ quickly uttered, “Heavy Pop, chill! It don’t matter who he is, Mateo, as long as you get your product.”
Mateo frowned. He tried to outsmart AZ, coming at him with a few more tactics, but AZ didn’t give Oscar up, not because he was on to Mateo’s betrayal, but because there were rules to the game. One primary rule was to never let other dealers know who your connect is because they’ll cut you out and go straight to the connect for a much better price.
AZ and Heavy Pop exited the storefront and climbed into Heavy’s Escalade.
“What the fuck was that about?” Heavy Pop said.
“I don’t know.”
“That nigga was acting all weird and twilight and shit. You don’t think—”
“Nah, don’t go there, Heavy Pop.”
“I’m saying, he already got a bad reputation. What if he’s working with the feds?” Heavy Pop said what they both were thinking.
“But I vetted that nigga.”
“I don’t care, AZ. Something’s up with that nigga, and I don’t like it. He got me nervous now.”
Mateo had AZ nervous too, but he refused to show it. AZ sat back in the seat. He had to think. What if Mateo was working with the feds? What if it all had been a fraud from the beginning? The consequences would be severe. The feds were savvy enough to falsify Mateo’s information. AZ had hired the best hackers in town to vet Mateo’s criminal record, to
make sure the cocaine bust the hood was whispering about didn’t happen and he wasn’t working with law enforcement. But what crack did he miss? What hole didn’t he look through?
It didn’t matter now. If Mateo was working with law enforcement, AZ knew they were fucked.
Twenty--Eight
Cristal got off the bus in Maryland behind the other passengers at the Greyhound station on Haines Street. She blended in with the daytime crowd coming and going from the bus station, dressed in blue jeans, black sneakers, a North Face coat, and a baseball cap and carrying a duffel bag filled with guns, cash, and knives. She felt ambivalent searching for Daniel. It was more than likely he was dead and her efforts to save him would be in vain. However, she was also flooded with memories about Daniel, the places they used to eat, the things they used to do together, and the love they had.
There was no doubt that The Commission had people already planted in the city and were waiting for her to show her face. If they had tracked her down in New Orleans, it would be easy to track her in Baltimore. Cristal didn’t care anymore. Daniel was in trouble, and she needed to help him, even if it meant trading her life for his.
She climbed into a cab and told the driver her destination. She checked in to a motel on Wilkinson Boulevard, west of the city. It was an outdoor motel in a not too busy area. It wasn’t the perfect place, but it had to do. Then it was time to go to work.
Her first stop was at Daniel’s school. There she was able to break into the admissions department, locate his files, and find his new apartment.
She arrived at his place, and the moment she walked inside, she knew something had happened. The signs were there. A knocked-over chair, papers tossed around, and his school books opened. His apartment looked like it hadn’t been lived in for weeks. He was a clean person, but his bed was unmade, there was dust in the rooms, and his bedroom look disturbed. He had definitely been snatched. Cristal knew it was her duty to find him. She felt guilty. It was her fault. If she hadn’t come into his life, kept in contact with him, then he would still be around, going to school to become a doctor soon. He didn’t deserve a grizzly fate. He didn’t deserve to die, or to be tortured. The man was kind and smart and had a bright future.
Killer Dolls, Part 3 Page 16