“Have they ever found the men responsible for your attack?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“No.”
“Such a shame,” he said.
She sighed. She was there for business, not to open up old wounds. Was he toying with her?
“You know, you come down here behind your mother’s back and you want to play with the big boys. Do you know what you’re getting into?”
It was a rhetorical question. Lucky knew. She remained silent.
Angel added, “I’m like a god. I see and know everything. I know your mother is keeping her mouth shut. I know your father is a respectable man having an affair with his old whore, Maxine. She did twenty years for your mother. Now that’s loyalty. And your brother, Bugsy, he’s smart. I like him. He could definitely be of use to me. But daddy’s little girl, she’s ready to prove herself by aligning with the cartel.” He laughed. “Do you like to get fucked, Lucky? Because the cartel, you fuck us, we fuck you . . . and when we fuck you, it means your life ends and your family’s lives too. I have men that like to wipe out entire lineages.”
Lucky didn’t budge. Her eyes remained firm on him, and she stood firm in the water with extreme confidence.
“Come, we’re done in the ocean,” he said.
He started to make his way toward the sand, wading through the water as Lucky followed behind him. They walked toward a small cabana situated on the sand. Angel took a seat in a beach chair and lit a cigar. Lucky sat next to him. She didn’t want to give up. She was determined to move forward with his business.
“Do we have a deal?”
“No business right now. Relax and enjoy the beach,” he said. “In fact, I’m having a party tonight. I want you to come. Invite your friends.” He gestured toward her goons in the distance.
Lucky was furious. She didn’t want to party. She was about her business, but Angel was skirting the topic. It felt like it was a game to him.
“No disrespect, Mr. Morales, but I’m not in the partying mood. I want your business. I want to build with you. Believe me, I know this business like the back of my hand, and I can make you so much money you’ll be able to buy our government. And I’m ready to renegotiate the original deal my mother had with you to appease you. I’ll be able to take two hundred kilos at thirty-five thousand a ki. Now that’s lessening my profit for you, but it’s still a profit for me.”
They were strong words from such a young girl.
He chuckled and took a pull from his cigar. His eyes were focused on Lucky. He wouldn’t admit it to her directly, but he was impressed by her—her tenacity and ambition were captivating. He remembered when he wanted to make a name for himself and how hard that was. He looked at Lucky, a woman—a young black woman—and wondered if she had what it took. Was she her mother—or better? Was she vicious enough to do what was necessary to survive in a dog-eat-dog world?
He would soon find out. He smiled at Lucky, still puffing on his cigar, and said, “Tonight, dress in something very nice and come down to the lobby at eight.”
Angel was done conversing—no more business. He meant it this time. He removed himself from the cabana, leaving Lucky behind wondering if she left a good impression on him. She needed this badly.
***
Lucky emerged from her hotel room dressed in a sexy, curve-hugging red dress with a plunging neckline and side-tie skirt. Her hair fell in soft waves past her shoulders, and with her four-inch red bottom sandals, she felt picture perfect and ready for Angel’s party. She felt that she’d made some traction with him, but there was more work to be done. She wanted to make an impression on him with her wit and confidence.
She stepped into the elevator alone and descended to the lobby. She found the lobby littered with several of Angel’s henchmen. Her own goons were nowhere around. She wondered where they were and what kind of ploy she was stepping into.
“Angel sent us to accompany you to the event tonight,” one of them spoke, his voice rolling deep with a Latin accent.
She looked at him and felt an unwelcome chill percolate through her body. He had boorish looking eyes and he was muscular and intimidating with his large, meaty hands. He stood six feet tall with tanned skin and a balding head. He didn’t smile. His eyes locked onto Lucky, and she didn’t have a choice but to leave with them.
The men shepherded her out of the lobby and toward an idling black Navigator. She was helped into the backseat and sandwiched between two men. She felt like a hostage. The driver pulled off and traveled from South Beach via the MacArthur Causeway.
It was a beautiful view of the city at night, but Lucky didn’t care for the scenery. Her mind was racing. Where were they taking her? Was it to a party or to a gloomier location? She noticed that all the men were armed and she wasn’t. The only thing she could do was sit calmly and hope for the best—and that meant surviving the night.
They drove for almost an hour to Homestead and arrived at a desolate warehouse on Palm Drive. Surrounding the location was miles and miles of shrub swamps, and there were no residences around. It was a hell of a place to throw a party, but Lucky deduced that there wasn’t going to be a party. Angel definitely had something else planned for her.
The driver steered into the warehouse garage and the gate closed behind them. The place was barren besides a few luxury cars, including a Bentley and Ferrari, aging pillars, and scattered crates. It appeared the building had been abandoned for years.
The Navigator doors opened, and Lucky was escorted from the vehicle. Her stomach dropped when she realized what they were leading her toward. Angel was standing over a man who was gagged with duct tape with his arms bound behind his back and his legs tied to a metal chair. Lucky didn’t take her eyes off them. They were situated in the center of the building. The captive was Latino, and he was sweating profusely with his wide, panicky eyes hooked onto Lucky as she approached. He had been beaten. She didn’t know who he was or what this was about, but it wasn’t going to end well for him.
“Welcome,” Angel greeted with a smile and politely kissed her on the cheek. He wasn’t hostile toward her, so it was good news so far.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
“Business,” Angel replied.
Angel was dressed in a dark tailored suit and bowtie, looking remarkable in such a grim looking place. If this was the type of party he was talking about, Lucky wanted to be uninvited.
“Who is he?” she asked him.
“He’s an innocent man,” said Angel. “He’s a stranger we kidnapped from his home for our benefit—and yours.”
Angel tossed the man’s wallet at Lucky to verify his story. Inside was a picture of his beautiful wife and his two sons. She was taken aback by everything happening, but Angel’s response was far from the truth. Unbeknownst to Lucky, the man tied to the chair was the nephew to Javier Garcia of the Garcia cartel. But he was a civilian, living an ordinary life with his wife and kids. He wasn’t part of his uncle’s vicious cartel.
“Have you ever taken a life, Lucky?” Angel asked her.
What kind of question was that? She looked at him strangely. He was waiting for her answer.
“Of course,” she uttered. “You know my family.”
He chuckled at her comment. “Yes, I do. But do I really know you?” he said. “I need for you to be honest with me. And I don’t mean giving orders for another man to murder for you. Have you killed someone with your own hands? I know your brothers have . . . but have you?”
He no longer was laughing. His stare was intimidating.
“No,” she answered.
“Thank you for your honesty,” he said.
Things became tense. Angel’s men surrounded him and the tied-up man. Angel soon had a pistol in his hand and he placed it into Lucky’s.
He said, “I have a test for you, and in order to move forward with our business I wan
t you to kill this innocent man—a family man—someone that has never wronged you and someone that has a lot to live for. Think about it—he will never get to see his wife and kids again because of you.”
The man squirmed wildly in the chair, desperately trying to free himself from the restraints. His eyes were pleading for his life as tears started to stream down his face. He repeatedly mumbled something underneath the duct tape, but it was incoherent.
“When his life ends, then our business can begin,” Angel said in a soothing voice. He was deceitful and sneaky. His words were encouraging.
Lucky gripped the gun and stared at the man while Angel circled her, his voice hypnotizing her with peer-pressure and masked aggression.
“Can you really kill this man for your own gain, just to have access to my yayo? How desperately do you want it, Lucky?”
Lucky said, “I can.”
She lifted the firearm to the man’s head and squeezed—Bak! A single bullet ripped through his forehead and he was dead instantly. His head slumped forward to his chest as his body lay flaccid in the chair.
She dropped the gun and directed her attention toward Angel. He showed no expression. He picked up the gun and said, “Well done. You’re a treacherous and cold-hearted bitch. You know, my father gave me the same test and I failed it, miserably.”
She didn’t believe him.
“You don’t believe me, huh? I see it in your eyes. How can a seasoned killer have to be coerced into committing murder?” he said. “But it is the truth. I couldn’t pull the trigger.”
Hector, one of Angel’s OG’s and a former lieutenant for Angel’s father, confirmed his story.
“Long ago, I was a different man, Lucky, and my father saw me as weak and he beat me and ridiculed me,” Angel said. “I wasn’t ready for his organization. But that’s another story. We still have some work to do.”
Lucky thought she was done, but Angel indicated there was more. He walked away and she followed him. Next, they entered a dark room. Angel turned on the lights and Lucky received the shock of her life.
“What the fuck is this?” she exclaimed.
He smirked and handed the gun back to her.
Lucky stood inside the room with her eyes wide-eyed in shock. There they were—her three goons on their knees and tied up with their hands bound behind their backs and duct tape covering their mouths. The moment they saw Lucky, their eyes pleaded for help and they started mumbling something incoherently. They all hoped that Lucky would be their savior. They had no idea why were they being held captive by the cartel.
Angel looked at them and then at Lucky. “Your test isn’t over.”
“What is this? Why are my men tied up?”
“Business can cost, as you know.” He stood between Lucky and her men and added, “Killing a stranger is easy to get what you want. But can you murder your own men? Men who’ve sworn allegiance to you and your family? Men who put their lives on the line to save yours?”
Lucky stood there and watched her men moving to free themselves, and their eyes were swamped with terror. But they were in a no-win situation. Even if they did manage to free themselves, they would be met with a half-dozen of Angel’s murderous triggermen.
Angel nodded to one of his men, and he at once tore the duct tape from each of her men’s mouths. To see them tied up was one thing, but to hear them plead and beg for their lives would make it a lot more difficult for Lucky to pull the trigger. Her test had just gotten harder. All three begged Lucky not to kill them.
“Please, we done nuthin’!”
“He’ll kill yuh too!”
“Don’t trust him! Please, you don’t have to do this!”
“No, not like this! I’m beggin’ you, he’s playin’ you.”
Despite their pleading, Lucky knew that her hands were tied and there wasn’t anything she could do for them. They continued to drown her ears with begs for mercy. She gripped the gun tightly, holding it parallel to her side. It was hard to look at them. They were soldiers—her soldiers—but soldiers were meant to die in war, and she couldn’t take hearing their pleas any longer. She quickly stepped closer to the first one and put the barrel to his head and fired—Bak! He collided backwards with the concrete in death. She repeated the same action with the other two—Bak—Bak! Each man went down with a bullet to the head. Their slain bodies coiled in their restraints as thick crimson spurted and pooled around them from their wounds.
Lucky stood over their bodies with the smoking gun in her hand and felt some contrition. It had to be done. She needed to progress forward by any means necessary. The end result for them, whether she had pulled the trigger or not, was death. Her heart was heavy, but it didn’t mean anything to the newly departed.
Angel laughed and clapped his hands. “Well done. You are a vicious bitch, I must admit.” He removed the smoking gun from her hand.
She turned to him with a callous look and asked, “So, when do I get my kilos?”
He said, “Soon . . . real soon.”
18
The thin Jewish man wearing a kippah held the 10x loupe to his eye and meticulously inspected the large Tiffany diamond ring. Wacka and Tarsha stood in front of him waiting for the results of his inspection. This was big for them. They knew the ring was costly, but just how big of a payday it would be for them was up to the jeweler.
They were in the Diamond District in Midtown Manhattan, home to nearly 2,600 independent businesses. Just about all of them dealt in diamonds or jewelry. When Tarsha showed the jeweler the ring she wanted to sell, he grew excited and directed them into a back room.
The crooked jeweler took his time inspecting the diamond and was amazed by the quality—knowing the ring was hot and a high quality brand. He remained expressionless in front of the ignorant couple standing there and waiting for his verdict. It felt like Wheel of Fortune, with the wheel spinning and them hoping for the needle to land on big money. Tarsha was eager for a huge payday. She could already see it—Gucci, Prada, Chanel, Fendi—all the expensive brands. The famous 5th Avenue was nearby, and she was ready to indulge herself in a shopping spree.
The man removed the loupe from his eye and looked at the apprehensive couple with a stoic gaze.
“So what’s up? How much can we get for it?” Tarsha asked.
“Where did it come from?” the man asked.
“Why do you care? It’s yours for the right price,” Tarsha said. “You the fourth jeweler we seen today. If you ain’t interested in it, then we can take our business elsewhere.”
He said, “Seventy thousand.”
“Boy, bye. Gimme my fuckin’ ring,” Tarsha shouted.
He panicked. “Okay, okay, okay, okay.” He took another look at the precious stone.
“I’ll give you three hundred thousand for it. Final offer.”
They had no idea the true value of the ring, and they both felt they had made a killing.
“Three hundred thousand,” Tarsha said. “We want that in cash.”
“Of course.”
The jeweler disappeared from their view for a moment, went into another back room, and shortly emerged with their cash stuffed into a leather briefcase. Tarsha was the first to reach for it. For a moment, it felt like she had an orgasm. Wacka was amazed by how easy it was for this middle-aged Jewish man to come up with $300K. He looked at the jeweler with a predator’s stare. If this was back in his glory days, it would have been easy money for him. He would have taken the mark for everything he had—probably his life too.
And that was it; the deal was finalized by a simple handshake and the Yiddish expression—mazel und brucha.
The couple exited the jewelry shop situated in the middle of a one-way street lined with jewelry shops, boutiques, and retail stores. Tarsha could feel her pulse thumping in her clenched hand on the handle of the briefcase. From the Diamond District, it was over
to 5th Avenue for some shopping. In an hour she spent close to forty thousand dollars on furs, jewels, clothes, jackets, and shoes.
***
Wacka and Tarsha rented a five-bedroom, two-bath home on E. University Parkway in Baltimore. The place was 1,800 square feet with parquet flooring, a fireplace, and a sizable kitchen. The neighborhood wasn’t the greatest, but it was a step up from their previous one. Their loot was dwindling from expenses and all the shopping they’d done for the past several weeks. There was a high-end stereo system with large speakers in the living room, and the entire home was tricked out with big flat screen TVs, king size beds, and oversized sofas. They bought two refrigerators and stacked them with food, beer, and liquor. There was a grill on the small deck out back and a pool table and cases and cases of Hennessy and Grey Goose stacked in the basement, Tarsha’s two favorite liquors.
It was party time. In fact, almost every night was a party. Their home would be full of folks, the music blaring, the alcohol flowing, the men playing pool in the basement, and the ladies gossiping and laughing. Tarsha played hostess in her stylish designer clothing and jewelry.
This was it, the good life. It was what she wanted—to boast her fashion and wealth in front of her family and friends and prance around her new home in red bottoms like she was the shit. Maxine’s extortion money had Tarsha sitting pretty on her pedestal.
She tossed back her fourth Hennessy of the night, and she didn’t plan on slowing down anytime soon. Her nieces and nephews were running around the place and playing video games, and there was Wacka, flaunting his large bankroll for everyone to see.
He was generous to the family, giving the kids a hundred dollars each, and the adults soon came begging behind the kids with their hands out with promises to pay him back. Some told Wacka their heartbreaking stories—looming evictions, cars breaking down, doctor bills, child support, and so on. Wacka, with his new direction in life, became their Santa Claus and handed out a thousand there, five hundred here, and maybe five grand over there. Wacka felt like a baller again. The money was a high, and feeling needed felt good—damn good!
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