*
Ascia relaxed in his three thousand dollar executive chair. The furniture salesman had tried to sell him one at twice the price, but this one felt better, more comfortable. When he leaned back, like now, it cushioned and supported just right. It no longer mattered that someone else had a more expensive chair; this one was the perfect chair for him.
He kicked his stocking feet up onto his desk, sipped thirty‑year‑old scotch, and ruminated on the state of things.
Other than the huge, prior mess out in Anglewatts with Jackson and his top management, business had been good all summer. Houston, his hometown and the city his predecessor and mentor first settled in, ran as smoothly as any drug and prostitution operation possibly could. The guys back East didn’t mess with him; there was no real competition for the mainstream parts of the city. His money laundering operation even turned a profit.
He’d successfully expanded his drug business in Billings with slave prostitutes from Russia, which gave him three cities under his full control. Thinking of the Billings hookers reminded him he needed to call Fast Eddie, tell him to send over some new girls. Maybe some who could understand a little more English.
Ascia’s phone rang. “Jimmy” showed on the display. No pictures, no last names. It was Jimmy Trent, the man Ascia had following D’andre. Ascia tapped his cell phone. “Yeah?”
“Hey, boss, I think your man, D’andre, isn’t gonna fly right.”
“What makes you think so?” Ascia asked.
“He and his guys went to Compton the past few days. I didn’t think much of it the first couple times, but then today, he met with several players. A guy named Poco runs that area. He was there. Also a third guy came with his muscle.”
“Who was this third guy?”
“Never saw him before, so I followed him back to Long Beach and asked around. Guy’s name’s Trevon. He has the corners in North Long Beach.”
“Could mean a few different things. Maybe, like you said, he won’t fly right and is shopping around. A hidden problem with that is it shows he’s alone and weak. If either of these other mopes recognizes that, they could make a run on him.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think of that,” Jimmy said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Stay close to him when he’s on the street,” Ascia said, “and let me know about any more meets in either Compton or Long Beach.”
“Sure thing.”
“Keep an eye out for either of them showing up in Anglewatts, and stay on them. If Poco, or this new guy, Trevon, looks to make a move on D’andre, we’ll have to take him out.”
“You got it, boss.”
Ascia savored another sip of scotch, then called his mentor and former boss.
“Good morning, Mr. Gibbs. Things may not be working out too well on replacing the late Mr. Jackson out in California.”
“Explain,” replied Mr. Gibbs.
“I sent Jimmy out to the coast to keep an eye on things. He tells me our guy, D’andre, looks like he’s shopping around. Yesterday, he met with apparent potential suppliers from the Mexicans and a new player from Long Beach.”
“Long Beach, you say?” Mr. Gibbs briefly paused. “A guy named Slim runs that show. If he’s strong enough, he might be interested in moving north, up to our area.”
“Slim isn’t the name Jimmy gave me.”
“It wouldn’t be. He’s at your level out there. He’d send one of his guys. Who did Jimmy say it was?”
“Trevon.”
“Never heard of him. Doesn’t matter. If he’s from Long Beach, he’s working for Slim. Who’s the contact for the Mexicans?”
“Poco, out of Compton,” Ascia replied. “He worked with Jackson from time to time. When Jackson was alive, we never had any problems with him concerning our operations.”
“Poco sounds Mexican,” Gibbs said.
“No. He’s Black.”
“Would it make a difference if he was out of the picture?”
“Only if he moves on Anglewatts. About Compton, I don’t think so. The word is he has a strong, experienced organization; several of his lieutenants could move up easily enough. Do you think I should find out more about his setup?”
“Information is always good, but I don’t expect you’ll find a lot of weaknesses you can exploit without undue cost. I suggest you keep your eyes on Mr. D’andre, and let’s help him make the right decision. He and his woman could open up the West Coast for your Russian operation. Plus, they’re both pretty stupid. Once the business is up and running, I’m sure you can find some hungry talent of your own to move in and take over. It’d be quite disappointing to lose such a good opportunity.”
“Understood.”
Ascia hung up.
*
The phone on Trevon’s desk beeped. Two buttons were lit up—one was an outside call; the other would be Natalie, his secretary. He punched the inner office button. “Yeah?”
“Miss Betty, line one.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Trevon picked up the receiver. “Hi, Miss Betty.”
“Hi, Trevon. Seems your coming back into my life on a regular basis has been a good thing for me. I think I’d like a little help.”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Sugar came by my place. She thinks trouble’s coming to a meeting at my house tomorrow. She got word that a guy who’s been causing grief with some women is planning on showing up. I don’t think he’ll make a big mess, but I could use some man‑type support. Can you make the time to come up?”
“How much grief do you think he might cause?”
“Apparently, he’s mostly a punk,” she said. “I’m sure we can handle him. Problem is, if we get busy with him, it’ll attract a lot of attention we don’t want. The police will surely show up, and we need to avoid them. Thing is, a couple of our girls are intent on taking him out and any issues with the police tomorrow would telegraph their intent.”
“So you want me to quietly move him out,” Trevon said. “Basically save him, so you ladies can cap him later. Is that about it?”
“Pretty much,” Miss Betty said. “Be helpful if you could persuade him to find something else to do with his time. Also, since you’ll be up this way, it’d be nice to see Brandon. He’s such a sweet boy. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“Brandon won’t be able to come. He’s at a family reunion in Alabama. I’ll tell him you sent your love and said he was sweet.”
“I sure do appreciate you coming up this way to help me with this. Since Big John died, I’ve been out of the life and didn’t need this kind of backup. No matter, though. The hood’s still the hood and things are bound to come up.”
“Not a problem,” Trevon replied. “I’m seeing a shorty who lives up your way, over on the beach. This’ll give me an excuse to spend some time with her. Now, I’m telling you this so you understand my helping you is purely for my good. I don’t want you harboring any ideas that I like you or some stupid, weak girlie stuff.” Trevon couldn’t remember when he and Miss Betty had begun teasing about not liking each other. Their banter had been going on so many years, it was as natural as saying “good morning” to his own mother.
“Oh, I know you’re hardcore, through and through,” Miss Betty said. “I also know that’s only for your street business. I know the real man, the one under the hard boss others see.”
“Don’t tell anyone. They might get ideas, and then I’d need to kill the fool. Speaking of fools, did Sugar say anything about D’andre?”
“No. You think he’s involved somehow?”
“Probably not. Messing with some women isn’t what he’s about. I only ask, because things between me and him are coming to a head soon. It’d be best not to tell your women’s group you called for backup. Better that word about my being in the area doesn’t make it back to him, since I’m not ready to make my move yet. So yeah, I’ll come up, but I need to fly under the radar.”
/> “Thanks,” Miss Betty said. “It’ll be good to see you again. Oh and there’s a young woman I think you might like. She grew up here, but was gone for several years. She’s back now, all grown up real good.”
“I appreciate you looking out, Miss Betty, but I don’t need your help finding me a shorty.”
“Your loss.”
“Back to your little problem. What’s his name?”
“We call him the ‘rat bastard,’” she said.
“What? Wait, I’m working with a legal client from up your way, and she’s in jail over a fight with a guy they call the ‘rat bastard.’ His name’s Jerome Johnson. Is this the same guy?”
“One and the same. Looks like our paths have already crossed. Seems there’s a running problem between him and some of the women. He’s been shot, apparently a few times, and still won’t leave well enough alone.”
“Small world. I’ll bring someone else to run point. Since he’s the state’s witness on my case, I can’t have a public issue with him. Not a problem. I’ll take care of how to handle it.”
“You do whatever you think is best,” Miss Betty said.
“Will you be good before the meeting?” he asked. “Do you need me to send up a guy to stay close by until then? By the way, what time’s your meeting tomorrow?”
“We’re okay for now. And we start at one o’clock. A couple of the girls will be here early for lunch. The one I want you to meet is one of them.”
“Betty, you are too much. Thanks, but I’ll stay out of the house and out of sight. I’ll call when your street’s covered.”
“After we’re done, I hope you can come in for a quick minute. I’d like to visit some before you run off to be with your beach lady.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
Twenty‑One: Backfire
NIKKY CARRIED A LARGE BOWL of tossed green salad while Michelle, who adamantly refused to admit to any cooking talent, brought her usual: a large supply of napkins; red solo cups; paper plates; and plastic forks, spoons, and knives. Together, they walked up to Miss Betty’s and rang the bell.
When Miss Betty answered the door, the welcoming smell of hot buns and buttered mustard greens greeted them. “Hi, Michelle, Nikky. Come on in. Here, let me take some of that.”
Two hello‑hugs later, Miss Betty said, “Michelle, before you sit down, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, what do you need?”
“A friend of the family’s out front, probably over by the big tree, standing in the shade. You might have seen him coming in.”
“Didn’t really notice anyone,” Michelle said.
“He’s that way, sometimes—first you don’t see him, then all of a sudden, he’s standing there, proud and loud as a peacock. He’s done that ever since I met him when he was a kid in high school. Anyway, he’s visiting, but he doesn’t want to come in while we’re having our meeting. Said this many women made him nervous. Would you be a sweetheart and take these teas out to him and his friend?”
“Sure, be right back.” Michelle picked up the two large glasses and, after heading out onto the front porch, a big smile broke out on her face as she immediately recognized Trevon leaning against the tree. Strolling across the lawn, she said, “I believe this tea is for you and your friend, who I don’t see.”
Trevon called across the street. “Hey, Gus, come get your tea.”
Gus climbed out of the pearl‑white Lexus parked across the street and headed over, moving like a man who knew exactly how to take care of himself.
“Friend?” Michelle asked.
“Friendly. He’s an employee,” Trevon replied.
“Bodyguard?”
“Employee.”
“Right, and I’m a Catholic nun. Most people call me Mother Theresa, but you can call me Terry for short.”
“Okay, Terry, he’s a bodyguard, and more. He helps with serving summons, that type of thing. All of my clients don’t come from the best parts of town.”
Michelle handed Gus the large glass of iced tea. “Hi, Gus, I’m Michelle, though some people call me Terry, but really, Michelle is best. Glad to meet you.”
Gus shook her offered hand, nodded, “Good to meet you,” turned, and went back across the street.
“Big talker,” Michelle said.
“Absolutely loquacious.” Trevon winked and smiled.
“Fuck you and your loquacious comments, lawyer man.” Michelle winked and smiled back. “How do you know Miss Betty?”
“I knew her growing up. She’s family to me.”
“Small world. She and my mom were close back in the day, and we all went to the same church. We might’ve seen each other when we were kids. Now here we are, all grown up, and you’re still afraid of being in a room with a bunch of women,” she teased.
Trevon bugged his eyes out in mock fear. “Nothing in this world is scarier than a room full of women. Although”—he slowly grinned—“you might be able to convince me of a little one‑on‑one later on this evening.”
“You’re so full of shit. All I have to do to convince you to spend the night with me is say yes.”
“Meaning you are saying yes?”
“That’s exactly what I mean. I should go back inside,” Michelle said. “Sugar and a few others just went in. Most of them had interesting‑looking dishes, and I’m hungry. How about you? You hungry? There’s always a lot of extra good food. I’m sure we can make up a plate for you and Mr. Verbose.”
“No, the tea’s enough.”
“Okay, see you later.” After turning to head back across the lawn, Michelle glimpsed a plain white van and a tricked‑out black Toyota coming up the street as she went up the steps. Before going back inside the apartment, she heard Trevon call to Gus to switch places. That’s odd, she thought. But there’s a lot about Trevon that’s a little odd.
*
“Hey, Michelle,” a few friendly voices chorused from the dining room table, which was full of food and surrounded by smiling faces.
“Hey, everybody,” Michelle replied, noticing Sugar drop her phone into her purse and scoot her chair back a bit, though she didn’t get up.
“Here you go,” Nikky said. I saved you a seat.” She removed her purse from the chair next to her, and Michelle had almost reached it when, outside—BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!—shots rang out, which were almost immediately answered: BLAM! BLAM!
Everybody dove. On one side of the table, chairs slammed against the wall, while on the other side, they toppled over backwards into the open room.
The only one not lying flat on her stomach, Michelle speed‑crawled toward the stairs. On the way, she saw Nikky sliding across the living room floor, headed toward the pile of purses on the couch while the shooting outside continued.
At the top of the stairs, Michelle slipped into the first room on the street side and found herself in a bedroom. Heavy blackout drapes hung open on sliding glass doors leading to a small balcony overlooking the front yard. She crossed the room, dropped to her knees, and pulled open the door.
Good, no wind blowing the drapes.
Who’s shooting?
A wrought iron rail surrounded the balcony, which offered almost zero cover. After sliding over to the edge, Michelle took in the scene at a glance. Gus, the man she gave the second glass of tea to, stood by the tree where she and Trevon had talked. From behind his cover, he fired a shot in the general direction of a white van parked to her left about forty feet in. The van’s passenger door stood open and a man crouched behind it. Another man ducked down in the seat next to him. Both shot at Gus behind the tree.
The van’s driver popped up and fired two rounds out his side window—BLAM! BLAM!–then jerked back inside and ducked down. His shots spidered the front window of a car about sixty feet up the street.
From her spot in the middle and up high, Michelle saw almost everyone.
Shit, that’s Trevon’s car. They’re shooting at Trevon!
&n
bsp; The passenger door of the car across the street opened, but from her position, Michelle couldn’t see who it was or what they were doing. Seconds later, a few shots rang out from the far side of the car—BLAM! BLAM!
Okay, he’s still alive.
From the passenger side of the car parked behind the van, a man jumped out and scurried out of sight between the van and the car, probably to join the gunmen shooting at Trevon.
The van’s driver popped up again and fired several more rounds. Trevon’s car took more hits.
That’s Jerome!
Holding her Glock in a two‑handed grip, Michelle rested her bottom hand on the balcony’s floor. She let out a long breath, pausing while counting—one, two, three, four—then pulled the trigger. A hole appeared close to the center of the van’s windshield and Jerome jerked up straight, as if surprised.
Almost instantly, another bullet blew through the driver’s side of the windshield, and Jerome slid sideways, slumping down between the seats.
Michelle focused on the man still crouched in the van’s passenger seat. Apparently he hadn’t realized Jerome had been hit. Her angle from the balcony only gave her a slight wedge of a shot between the open door and the jamb. It was a much smaller target than what she had with Jerome. It had to be enough.
She focused her aim, let out her breath, then held steady. She started a measured count—one, two—felt her heartbeat slow—three, four—as muscles relaxed, distractions dissolved. A calm settled over her whole being as her world focused on the shot. She aligned the razor‑sharp image of her sights perfectly with the slightly blurred image of the target. Then she pulled the trigger the last fraction of an inch. The gun barrel bounced.
The man slid down in front of the seat. A gun clattered into the gutter. The man behind the open door ducked his head, then peeped out, looking toward the tree.
Gus had stopped shooting with the slide on his 9mm locked open. He was out of ammo.
A large American car pulled up behind Trevon’s Lexus, and a heavy‑set White man carefully slid out the door. He moved around the back of his car to stop behind the rear fender. He pulled his gun out of a shoulder rig and took aim at Trevon.
Get Even: A Michelle Angelique Urban Action Adventure Thriller Series Book #2 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Assassin) Page 15