Carl Weber’s Kingpins: The Dirty South
Treasure Hernandez
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Carl Weber’s Kingpins: The Dirty South
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Copyright Page
Carl Weber’s Kingpins: The Dirty South
by Treasure Hernandez
Prologue
New Year’s Eve 2014
“Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one! Happy New Year!” The crowd cheered as confetti fell from the ceiling of the Columbia, South Carolina, nightclub. Champagne flutes, bottles, and cups with assorted light and dark liquors filled the air.
“I’d like to wish a special Happy Thirtieth Birthday to the queen bee of not only the South but also the BK! Kafisa the Don! I see you, baby girl! If you don’t know, you better know now, ’cause she one badass bitch!” Mister Cee, the DJ, shouted through the microphone as he switched songs. “This one’s for you, ma!” he added.
Just then the sounds of Biggie Smalls’s classic track “Juicy” boomed through the massive speakers that lined the nightclub’s walls, and shook the building. It was her thirtieth birthday, and Kafisa felt she deserved to go all out and splurge for her special day, which was why she had chosen Club XS.
Club XS had exactly what the name implied, excess. Excessive was all that it was hyped up to be, from the walls to the luxury VIP sections, to the gigantic bathrooms and the twenty-thousand-square-foot building. The three main bars and the two service bars were designed to meet the supply and demand in the high-energy hot spot. The sound and lighting system was state of the art and was truly mind blowing. The owners had poured over one million dollars into the establishment to give partygoers the ultimate nightlife experience right in the heart of Columbia.
Kafisa loved that Club XS was four clubs in one: a nightclub, a live music venue, an ultra lounge, and an outdoor oasis with cabana seating. On any other occasion, she and her crew would be chilling in one of the cabanas, but tonight was a special occasion. You turned thirty only once, and Kafisa wanted to make sure it was memorable, especially with all that was going on back home. And that she did.
In her VIP section Kafisa held her glass up higher than she already had it raised, and nodded. Her birthday was one of the best times of the year for her. Being born on New Year’s Day meant that she really gotten to celebrate on the ultimate party night. Because her dad observed the Islamic faith, she had never got to indulge in the luxury of receiving gifts on Christmas, like other children, but on her birthday, she had always been showered with more gifts than she knew what to do with.
All the while that she had been on her own, she’d made sure that she went all out on her birthday, the way her father had when she was under his watch. Tonight Kafisa felt she had everything she had ever wanted or could possibly need in three lifetimes: good health, a loyal team, an unlimited drug supply connect and, most of all, more money than she knew what to do with. She was glad she had made the decision to leave the Big Apple. After she’d left Brooklyn, things had fallen into place for her.
In just one year she had managed not only to lock South Carolina down in the coke department, but also to cut into a piece of the action in Atlanta, North Carolina, and Virginia. She felt like she was on top of the world. The two hundred grand she had dropped to rent out the club and pop bottles of Cîroc and rosé all night long was nothing to her, especially on her special day. She knew the DJ, Mister Cee, personally from back home and had flown him in to rock her party, which was why she was not surprised to hear her favorite song, by one of her hometown’s hip-hop legends.
Her female entourage followed suit. They held their glasses in the air to toast with their boss. Most of them were from the borough of Brooklyn, also known as BK, and had joined Kafisa’s team of money getters in the South. Kafisa turned and smiled approvingly in her team’s direction, and the whole while the cameraman shot away. His flashing lights added to the ballin’ ambience surrounding Kafisa and her female entourage. They were indeed the center of attention in the upscale club. Kafisa held her hand up to her eyes to block the flash from the camera as she raised her glass to her lips. Between all the rosé she had consumed and the flashing lights, she was getting light-headed. She dismissed the cameraman with a wave of her hand. He nodded and directed his attention to the crowd.
Kafisa took a sip of her rosé. Just before she tilted her head back, something caught her eye. In a New York minute, she went from party mode to combat mode. Her smile was quickly replaced with a scowl at the sight of the two bodies standing up in the VIP section next to theirs. The glare from the chrome weapon one of the men was brandishing was what caught Kafisa’s attention. One look at them and she knew they weren’t local. Kafisa instinctively reached for her weapon tucked in her LV belt, despite the fact that the two unidentified gunmen already had their weapons raised and pointed in her direction. By the time her crew realized the imminent danger surrounding them, Kafisa had already sprung into action, and the sound of gunfire filled the air.
Chapter One
1995 . . .
“Fee, I want you to put all of these ones together for Daddy,” thirty-four-year-old Kafis Jackson instructed his daughter, Kafisa Jackson. “Take your time and count to a hundred. Then put one of these rubber bands around each stack and put ’em in there.” He pointed to the black drawstring bag lying on the floor of the living room in their Brooklyn brownstone, next to a mountain of singles.
Kafisa listened as her father gave instructions. At ten years old, she thought the assignment was the most important task her dad had ever asked of her. She was always ecstatic when he asked for her help. Since she was old enough to crawl, she had been curious about her father’s job. Every chance she got, she managed to make her way into their living room or kitchen while her father worked.
She reflected on the times when her father picked her up off the floor and sat her on his lap while he was working. One time when he was counting money, he grabbed a brick of bills and said, “This is all for you, baby girl.” Another time, when they were sitting at the kitchen table with product in front of him, he warned her, “Don’t ever let me see you use this. It would break Daddy’s heart, you hear me?” And like an obedient little girl, she nodded her head yes. Still, she would try to reach out and grab the substances and objects on the table, like any little child would do. She remembered how her father would pop her hands and then put her down, sending her off to her mother. Now, years later, Kafisa knew better than to disturb anything without permission, let alone touch it, when her father was “at work.”
“This pile r
ight here.” Kafis pointed to the stack of five-dollar bills opposite the singles. “I want you to do the same thing, but count by five. “Can you do that?” he asked his daughter.
“Uh-huh!” Kafisa shook her head repeatedly. She was determined to prove to her dad that she was now old enough for him to count on her.
She had never seen her mother help her father with his work, not one time, and she was happy that her father had chosen her over her mother for such an important task. Kafisa believed her father took his job very seriously. She couldn’t understand why her mother did not understand. She recalled staying up and listening through the wall that separated her bedroom from her parents’ to the arguments they would have over the late-night hours he kept. She remembered hearing her father telling her mom, “I’m out here puttin’ all this work in for you and Fee, and all your ungrateful ass can do is complain? I work hard for the shit we got, and instead of you appreciating it, you worryin’ about what time I’m comin’ in the fuckin’ house.”
Some of the words Kafisa was too young to understand the meaning of, but in her young mind, her father was right. He did work hard at what he did. She couldn’t figure out why her mother couldn’t see that. Kafisa resented her mother for the way she stressed out her dad. The feelings drew her closer to her father. In her eyes, Kafis Jackson was the best daddy in the world.
“A’ight. I’m going to be in the kitchen, baby girl. If you make a mistake or forget your count, start all over again, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy.” Kafisa nodded. She tried to match her father’s stony facial expression.
Kafis smiled at his daughter, seeing what she was trying to do. There was no denying, even if he wanted to, that Kafisa was his child. When he looked at her, all he saw was a female version of himself. She had inherited his deep-set brown eyes and his wide-flared nostrils, along with a mouth that was the same shape. She even had his dimples when she smiled. Like him, Kafisa was dark skinned and had dark brown hair. Over the years of traveling the continent, both Kafis’s skin tone and his hair had darkened, but still anyone could see that Kafisa was all him. She was a certified Jackson, one he had made.
Kafisa began to smile to herself when she saw her father shoot her his famous wink, followed by a smile all his own. It was times like this when they shared a father-daughter moment.
“Come here,” he said to Kafisa.
Kafisa moved closer to him. Kafis bent over and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“I love you, Fee.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
After flashing another smile at her, Kafis turned around and headed for the kitchen. For a brief moment, he wondered whether it was a bad idea to have his ten-year-old daughter counting his blood money, but just as quickly as the thought had appeared, it excused itself.
He knew that he was pressed for time and couldn’t count money and do the other thing he needed to do all at once. He had been up most of the night, counting all the hundreds, fifties, twenties, and tens. The count had reached 380 Gs. He still had to cook up the last ten bricks of cocaine he had sales for, so he could meet his quota and pay his connect. By two in the afternoon, he had to come up with six hundred thousand dollars to give to his Colombian coke connect.
To cut corners, Kafis took the one hundred thousand in cash he had inside his safe and added it to the 380 stacks he had counted, but this still left him with 120 Gs to come up with. In singles and fives alone, he had over two hundred grand, but his connect, Pepe, would allow him to give him only fifty thousand in small bills. Kafis had already intended to get the other seventy from the three bricks he would sell, which would be at around 1:00 p.m. He knew his options were limited. The only way he could pull everything off in time, and effectively, was if he let Kafisa count the money while he finished cooking up kilos of cocaine. She was the only person in the world he could truly trust.
Camilla, who was his longtime girlfriend and the mother of his only child, on the other hand, could not be trusted when it came to his money. Camilla’s behavior had led Kafis to this conclusion. He knew he was somewhat to blame for this, because he had practically raised Camilla and had made her the way she was by spoiling her and refusing to let her work a regular nine-to-five.
Kafis was three years Camilla’s senior. The two had known each other forever but got together when Kafis was on the rise. When he’d come up and made it out of the projects, he’d taken Camilla with him. In the beginning, everything had been all good. He’d spoiled her rotten, lavishing her with gifts, trips to anywhere she desired to go, and vacations beyond her wildest dreams. He’d put her up in an American dream house, bought her an expensive car, given her an unlimited credit card and access to a healthy supply of cash, all on the basis that she had been with him from day one, when he’d first got in the game.
She’d known him before the streets named him “Big Fis.” She had been there when he was just little bum-ass Kafis from the projects. Once upon a time, she had known him for him, and not for what he had or what he could do for her. When the paper started rolling in, Camilla had begun to change. Instead of sending her back to the ghetto, like he’d wanted to, Kafis had let her stay, especially after she told him that she was six weeks pregnant with his child. It was because of that, and that alone, that they stayed together for the last seven years of their eighteen-year relationship.
Kafisa took her time, just as her father had suggested. With each hundred-dollar stack of singles she rubber banded, she felt confident she had not messed up the count. There must be millions of singles in this pile, she thought to herself, deciding that the twenty-five rubber-banded stacks she had already counted didn’t even make a dent in the pile. She had yet to start on the pile that contained only five-dollar bills. She wondered if her dad was a rich man, like all the kids at her private school talked about their dads being. She figured that he had to be. She drew her conclusion based on the elite school she attended and the clothes he could afford to buy her all year round, along with any and everything a young girl her age would want.
Kafisa was just about to rubber band her twenty-sixth hundred-dollar stack when she heard her mother’s voice. The unexpected sound startled her.
“Kafisa Martisha Jackson!” her mother shouted, calling her by her full name. She could tell by her mother’s tone that Camilla was angry at her. She had no clue as to why, though.
“Ye—” Before she could get the words out of her mouth to answer her mother, she was met with an open-hand slap to the face. The blow sent her flying across the room.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, little girl?” Camilla Daniels yelled. She was now standing over top of Kafisa.
“Nothing!” Kafisa cried. She honestly had no idea what her mother was talking about or what the cause of the slap was.
Tears had already begun to stream down Kafisa’s face. She grabbed her right cheek. The pain from her mother’s slap was intense. It felt like her right cheek was on fire. She feared what her mother would do next. She had never seen her mother so upset at her before. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve a slap to the face like that. Neither her mother nor her father had ever beaten her or even slapped her in her life. Whatever the cause, she knew it had to be something serious for Camilla to react the way she did.
Camilla snatched Kafisa by her arm and yanked her up off the floor.
“Mama, I didn’t do anything!” Kafisa sobbed innocently, fear and shock in her tone.
“Shut up, Kafisa! Don’t you ever let me catch you . . .” Camilla’s words were drowned out by Kafis’s.
“Yo, what the fuck you think you doing?” he barked. He had entered the living room after hearing Kafisa’s cries from the kitchen.
Camilla swung around in Kafis’s direction, still holding Kafisa tightly by the arm. “What does it look like? I’m chastising my daughter!” she spat.
“Take ya muthafuckin’ hands off of her!” Kafis spat back as he moved in closer to Camilla.
His reque
st went unheeded.
He repeated himself, only this time he made sure Camilla knew how serious he was. “I said let my muthafuckin’ daughter go!” Kafis grabbed Camilla by the throat.
Instantly, Camilla released Kafisa’s arm. She gasped for air. With one hand, Kafis seemed to be choking the life out of her. He had cut off her air passage. Were it not for his daughter’s cries, he would have surely killed Camilla in front of his only child.
“Daddy, no!” Kafisa cried out.
As much as she was angry with her mother for what she had done to her, Kafisa did not want to see her father hurt her. She loved them both, but she loved her dad more. She knew that when it came down to her or her mother, he loved her more also, which was why she believed he would listen to her cry.
With his hand still wrapped around Camilla’s throat, Kafis looked over at his daughter. He could see the hurt and the fear in her eyes as he applied more pressure to Camilla’s larynx.
“Daddy, please! Please stop, Daddy!” she begged and pleaded with her father.
Kafis removed his hand from around Camilla’s neck. He tossed her backward like a rag doll. He picked Kafisa up and hugged her.
“It’s all right, baby girl. Everything is all right,” he said to Kafisa as he began rocking her the way he did when she was just a baby. “Daddy’s sorry,” he continued. “I didn’t mean to hurt Mommy. I didn’t mean to scare you. I love you and Mommy.” He wiped her tears.
“You don’t love me, nigga!” Camilla shouted. She had just regained her breath. “You gonna put your fuckin’ hands on me for doing what’s right for my daughter? Oh, hell no! You must be out yo’ rabbit-ass mind if you think I’m havin’ that shit.”
Keeping his composure, Kafis put Kafisa down. “Fee, go to your room. I need to talk to Mommy,” he told his daughter.
“You not gonna hurt Mommy, are you, Daddy?” Kafisa asked.
“No, I’m not going to hurt Mommy. I promise,” he assured her. “Now, go on in your room.”
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