Tarsha downed her fifth drink and laughed with her girlfriends. She was the life of the party. She looked good and she felt great. But looking around, seeing everything they’d bought, the new house, their bills, her clothes, and their wild parties, she knew their stash was becoming smaller and smaller. Soon they would have to reach out to their lifeline again for their five million dollars, and Tarsha wasn’t taking no for an answer.
19
If there was a God, Bugsy was thankful. It was a Friday night when he witnessed a miracle happen. Meyer awakened from his coma. Immediately, the doctors and nurses were in the room to analyze his condition and check his vitals. Though his eyes were open, he looked spaced out. He had no idea why he was in the hospital. At first, he couldn’t respond to anyone. He didn’t speak and he barely moved.
“What’s going on with him?” Bugsy asked the doctor.
“It could be many things—the medication he’s on or a brain injury. You have to keep in mind, your brother has been through a traumatic experience, and emerging from a coma is not like waking up from regular sleep. We will monitor his condition for a few days and run some tests.”
It was good news and bad news. Bugsy worried if his brother would ever be the same again, but he planned on being there for him either way. Although they had their differences, they shared a twin bond.
Day one out of his coma, Meyer had trouble focusing his eyes and responding to Bugsy. However, after several days, he was able to keep his eyes open for longer periods of time, and, fortunately, he didn’t experience any paralysis.
His muscle functions were slow, but they were fine. Movement of his toes, legs, and fingers were signs of improvement, as was the visual and auditory trailing. He was starting to follow sights and sounds. Bugsy would get up and walk around the room, and Meyer would turn his head, his eyes transfixed on his brother. Seeing and hearing his brother was the best form of healing.
Bugsy had sat right by his brother’s bedside every day of his coma. He would talk to Meyer, and though it was a one-way conversation at times, it was therapeutic for them both. Now, they were starting to have shared conversations.
“You’ve been out for months now. You remember anything?”
Meyer looked at his twin, and his memory was still in a haze. Parts of him still ached and he was out of it from time to time, but he knew that he was lucky to be alive.
He shook his head. “I-I . . . don’t remember anything.”
Bugsy didn’t push him. Luna was dead, and that’s what mattered. Now they had to move on and recover from this. He had never seen Meyer so calm before—so humble and unassuming. It felt like Meyer was a different person. Bugsy would closely watch him, trying to see if that fire and that murderous muthafucka were still in there somewhere. Would this change him? Would he be able to get back to business and run the streets again?
“A lot has been happening out there, Meyer. Pop and Ma are locked up, the FBI raided their places, and shit’s been hectic ever since,” Bugsy said.
“Wow . . . that’s crazy,” he simply replied.
“Yeah, it is.”
Meyer showed no anger or empathy behind his words. It almost felt like Bugsy was talking to a stranger. But it had only been a week since he’d awakened from his coma, so Bugsy knew he had to give him some more time to recover.
Bugsy spent an hour or two each day with Meyer, and the rest of his time was spent on the streets handling the organization’s affairs. Now that Scott was incarcerated, Bugsy had a lot more responsibilities. He had to keep an eye on the product from the Garcia cartel, manage his lieutenants and his triggermen, run the trap houses and stash houses, and deal with his father’s attorneys. He did all this while having to be extra careful, making sure he wasn’t being followed by the feds. He was always looking over his shoulder. He didn’t talk on the phone, and he changed up every day—different cars, different routes, and no routines. He couldn’t be caught slipping, not at a time like this. If he went down, then the entire organization was going down.
Heavy was the head that wore the crown.
Since he had taken over, his men started to deeply respect him. Bugsy was a king for sure—able to multi-task the streets, business, and his brother’s recovery. He ruled differently than his father. Scott was a cruel and ruthless man—shoot and ask questions maybe, then came the smarts. But Bugsy was sharp and witty from the get-go, and violence came secondary to him. He believed if everyone wanted to kill each other and was always shooting at each other, then how was money going to be made? There was no business in always going to war. He understood that bloodshed always brought trouble—the feds and agitated rivals. But that didn’t mean he was passive. When violence and murder were necessary, he did it just as viciously as his father.
Bugsy continued to sit by his brother’s bedside and talk. He had one of his lieutenants posted by the door, keeping an eye out. It was that kind of party. Everywhere he went, he needed security.
“We miss you, bro,” Bugsy said.
Meyer looked at him. He was extremely grateful to have his brother by his side. He was still very weak and was constantly going in and out of consciousness. He closed his eyes, sleeping again.
The next day he opened his eyes and there was Bugsy, sitting right beside his bed.
20
Scott sat down on the green cot in his jail cell and stared at the thick gray stone walls. The paint had started to chip over time. The window was a small opening fitted with thick metal bars, and the air was stale and carried the stench of raw sewage. It was a hellish looking place—bleak and ugly, where souls were trampled with inhumanity and despair. Scott knew if things didn’t go his way in court that this would be his life for many, many years—maybe for the rest of his life.
He was alone—immersed in absolute confinement. There was nothing to do but stare at the walls and wait. He wanted complete silence, but the ruckus of the inmates locked in their adjacent cells sounded like monkeys in a zoo. He wanted to be left alone to contemplate his options.
The meeting with his attorney didn’t go so well. His charges were serious—from RICO to attempted murder. There was no bail, and the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York planned on hammering his ass to the wall and leaving him there to rot. The feds had frozen his legitimate accounts, so there was no legal money to depend on, and his name was being slandered in the media. And with Layla stealing his fifty million, he was less forthcoming about his illegal money.
What was on Scott’s mind the most was Maxine. There was something off about her—she had changed. The FBI was watching him and he didn’t trust his woman knowing where his cash was and risk her carelessly being followed by the feds. Bugsy was smart and stealthy. He knew the game and he knew how to move. Besides, that was his son. Bugsy was born and bred to fill his shoes, but he hoped it was no time soon.
Another thing that bothered Scott was why Maxine was so concerned about what he earned without her. She wasn’t around when he’d built his empire. And where was her engagement ring? No woman loses a million-dollar ring without a logical story behind it. Did she think he was stupid—that he wouldn’t notice it missing? The questions echoed on and on in his mind. What was different about her? Did she really love him, or was it all a ploy to get closer to his money—his empire? Did she have an agenda? Had she played him? Maybe. Scott was sure that she had some kind of motive. Was it revenge?
He had to think about it. In 1994, he completely fucked her over and left her to rot in jail for over twenty years—and he didn’t visit her one time once she went upstate. To add insult to injury, he fucked and married her best friend and had six kids with her. Was Maxine really that forgiving? Could anyone forgive anyone for that?
Scott couldn’t shake the feeling. Worried about Maxine’s true intentions was weighing him down, and he needed to make moves and phone calls.
***
The nex
t day, Scott made his phone call to Bugsy. Knowing the phone was monitored, he would have to watch what he said.
“I need you to do me a favor and keep an eye out for Maxine for me.”
Bugsy was surprised by the request. “Why? What’s going on?”
“I just need you to keep eyes on her twenty-four seven. I think this bitch is seeing another nigga on the side.”
“What? I don’t believe that, Pop. Not Maxine. That woman loves you, and I don’t think she’s the type to step out on you.”
“What the fuck I said to you? Just get it done and don’t question me about it. Understand?” he growled.
“Yeah . . . I understand,” Bugsy replied.
Scott ended the call. He didn’t want to say too much on an open line. He felt confident that his son would get things done. Maxine needed to be watched vigilantly. He didn’t need or want any surprises. He hated them.
“You ready to go, Mr. West?” CO Mahan asked him.
Scott nodded.
Mahan escorted him from the kiosk of pay phones in the dayroom back toward his cell. Scott marched through the corridors of the jail like he was the President of the United States—and the inmates were treating him like he was. The respect was overwhelming, and overnight, Scott had a crew of men behaving like the secret service. They were ready to protect him from any inside threats. He casually moved through the corridor like it was a walk in the park, and passing inmates immediately averted their eyes from him. They didn’t want to inadvertently disrespect him.
Before Scott stepped foot into his cell, Mahan slyly slipped a burner phone into his hand. Scott looked at it like it was an alien device from the future.
“For you, Mr. West. Courtesy of some friends,” said Mahan. “You have plenty of them inside.”
Scott stood there expressionless. The guard seemed infatuated by him. Mahan and CO Karen Jones were becoming his two flunkies. Mahan was a young CO in his early twenties with three years on the job, and Jones was a veteran with a decade on the job. Unbeknownst to her co-workers, she had developed a strong crush on Scott, and she would risk her job to help him get whatever he wanted. Power and money was her turn-on. The two guards brought him unsanctioned meals and contraband without him even asking.
“I’ll have my son look out for you,” he said to Mahan.
“It isn’t about the money, Mr. West,” replied Mahan.
Scott smirked. “It’s always about the money.”
With nothing else to say, he entered his cell and the gate closed behind him. Mahan walked away. Once the guard was out of sight, Scott tossed the phone to the side. He didn’t trust it. So the following day, he passed the burner phone to an inmate—a gift from him for a price. Nor did he eat the food. For some reason, Scott didn’t trust the two guards.
***
The unassuming brown van sat parked on the Manhattan corner for several days. Traffic pedestrians went by the van without giving it a second glance. It was just another ugly vehicle parked on a crowded city street. NYPD traffic had given the vehicle several parking tickets, yet, it still remained—not yet towed away like routine. There was something odd about the vehicle.
An African-American man in his late twenties walked toward the van carrying a brown paper bag containing bagels in one hand and a big traveler of coffee in the other. He observed his surroundings for a second and then he tapped on the sliding door. It quickly opened and he climbed inside.
“Anything yet?” he asked his team.
“Not a damn thing,” one man replied with frustration.
The man sighed. “Fuck!”
“He’s smart,” said another man.
“He’s a fool, and I want to nail this son of a bitch to the wall with everything we have.”
The van was fitted with wireless security cameras and state-of-the-art listening equipment. From where they were parked, they were able to hear a fly fart and a gnat sneeze. Headphones stayed glued around one or two agents’ ears daily.
The three federal agents occupying the brown van parked near the jail were listening in on conversations made from a certain cell phone. They had been on the West case for nearly a month, and they sat day in and day out listening to the conversations from the tapped cell phone. They wanted to make a stronger case against Scott West. He was a very dangerous man and a very wealthy man, and although his accounts had been frozen, they understood he had plenty of money elsewhere.
For all the days of listening to the cell phone, the agents heard nothing relevant to their case against Scott. It was a lot of gibberish between various inmates, but not one voice matched Scott’s. They deduced that he wasn’t using the cell phone at all and had likely given it away. Was he on to them and the corrections officer? They were a bit worried.
They heard phone sex with inmates and their girlfriends or wives, certain confessions that would be labeled as misdemeanors, and a few idiots using the phone to further their criminal enterprise, but it wasn’t what they really wanted. The big fish they wanted to pull in was West, and he was smart enough not to go near it.
“What now?” an agent asked.
The black male in charge of the operation looked away. He didn’t know what to do next. A bugged cell phone had seemed like a good idea. They were still trying to make a solid case against the West organization, but Scott and Layla weren’t slipping up. They ran a tight ship, and their minions rarely snitched. Still, the feds still had one secret weapon under wraps.
21
Maxine scurried around the penthouse trying to prepare for her meeting with her extortionist. She needed to keep Wacka quiet, but his blackmail was driving her crazy. She couldn’t function and she couldn’t think straight. Every day it felt like she was living on borrowed time. The pressure was building and building. She thought, if she managed to pay them their five million dollars, what would stop them from coming at her for more? They were always going to want more money from her as their greed continued to grow. She was their meal ticket to a life of luxury.
Maxine stared at the leather satchel that was filled with money—$990,000 to be exact. It was enough cash to run away with and start a brand new life somewhere in another state. She could say fuck this and leave—somehow ditch the men who were watching her and get on a bus and travel far away—maybe the west coast, maybe the Midwest. Who would think to look for her there? She could live a simple life under a new identity, change her look and change her lifestyle.
Maxine turned her eyes away from the satchel of money and started to think realistically. If she ran away with loose ends, she would always be looking over her shoulder no matter what state she was in. Once the truth about what she had done was out there, Scott wouldn’t sleep until he had her murdered. Yes, he would most likely be confined to prison for a lifetime, but he still had clout and resources everywhere, and, most of all, there were his children. They would want to hunt her down and avenge their siblings’ deaths. Lucky would probably become the most relentless and vicious one to try and track her down. She never liked Maxine in the first place.
Running away was not an option. She would have to deal with Wacka and her secret until she came up with a permanent way of handling it. There was only one way she could think of, and that was somehow killing Wacka and his bitch.
Maxine grabbed her long mink coat for the cold outside but quickly put it back. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. She wrapped her wool pea coat around her petite frame, picked up the satchel, and left her penthouse suite. She was to meet with the extorting couple in an hour.
The cold air was aggressive, so Maxine hurried into the backseat of the SUV with the tinted windows and closed the door. Her two armed guards were up front. Avery turned toward her and asked, “Where to?”
She needed them to take her to West Side Highway, at Pier 86. Once again, Tarsha wanted to meet in a public place.
Maxine didn’t reply righ
t away. The SUV sat idling in front of her building. She wanted to ask them a question. She was desperate to do something. “I need to ask you two a question.”
“What is it?” Mason asked dryly.
“If I needed y’all to do something for me, would y’all be able to do it and keep it a secret between us?”
They had no idea where this was going, but Mason responded first. “Whatever you need from us, we gotta clear it with Bugsy first, and Bugsy might gotta clear it wit’ Scott. We do what they tell us. You understand?”
Maxine needed to push further. “I’m Scott’s woman and I need something done that doesn’t need to get back to Bugsy or Scott.”
Again, Mason replied. “Miss, we have strict orders from the top, and unless the boss tells us differently, then we react on that. No disrespect to you.”
Maxine continued with, “And I don’t want anyone to feel disrespected. Bugsy is like a son to me, but I don’t want to involve him in this petty issue that I have going on. He already has too much to deal with. And Scott has his own problems. What if I say there’s money in it for y’all? Could we keep it among ourselves?”
The driver, Avery, spoke. “How much we talkin’ ’bout?”
Mason rapidly uttered, “It don’t matter how much money you throw at us, the boss made it crystal clear that we don’t answer to you. We’re only here to protect you! Capisce!”
Maxine cringed inside. She wanted to rip his throat out. He was making things difficult. He was truly loyal to the family, but it was easy to see that she had Avery’s interest. But he didn’t say another word because of Mason. Mason sat in the front seat with a frown. He was doing his job, but he didn’t care for Maxine at all. He was completely loyal to Scott and Layla. He felt that Maxine was trouble from the beginning. The moment she came around was when everything started to fall apart.
“Just take me to the damn west side—Pier 86,” she snapped.
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