by Ws Greer
Once I’m alone, I exhale as I get off of the bed and step over the dark hardwood flooring to the railing of the loft. I live on the sixteenth floor, the tippy top of North-X-Northwest luxury apartments in the heart of downtown Philly. The view out my window is gorgeous, with the Comcast Technology Center, Comcast Center, both Liberty Places One and Two, and BYN Mellon Center all visible to me. Long, white hanging lights drop down in front of me from the second floor ceiling and rest just above the open first floor of the loft, where red couches and marble white and light gray tables are displayed. To my right are the stairs that I had painted red—along with the railing—to match my favorite color, and just under where I’m standing now is the kitchen, with its marble gray countertops, dark gray cabinetry, and oversized stainless steel hood to match the rest of the appliances. It’s a beautiful place, no doubt, but there’s something about it that can never be forgotten.
When I was confined to my mother’s dank basement in Strawberry Mansion, I knew deep down that one day I would live here. I knew it when I drove through this same section of Philly when I was on my way to a prom that wasn’t my own. I remember that feeling now, as I stand in front of the curved railing of the balcony that leads to the staircase next to me and look out into Center City. I always knew I’d make it here, and after all I’ve been through, I find total and complete satisfaction in the fact that this is my home now. I still own Whitney’s house in Strawberry Mansion, and there isn’t a soul in that neighborhood who would dare come near that house now. Needless to say, my reputation has grown quite a bit over the years, and that house was the epicenter for the beginning of my legacy in this city.
Six months after Whitney died, Nix and I stepped our game up and planned out our first bank robbery. It took us all of six months to figure out what we wanted to do, where we wanted to do it, and to get over the fear of committing armed robbery in a facility as secure as a bank, but we eventually got there. We made sure the bank wouldn’t be in our own city, as the heat didn’t need to be any higher than it was after we hit Julia’s Jewels, meaning I wanted the heat to stay on zero. So, we drove two hours and one-hundred-twenty-five miles to Scranton, and took Citizens Savings Bank for over a hundred grand. Just the two of us. Can you believe it? Two teenagers hit a bank for over a hundred-thousand dollars! With money like that, you’re a legend in a neighborhood like Strawberry Mansion, but Nix and I played it safe, and made sure not to spend a bunch of money at one time. Like I said, the heat needs to always be on zero.
From there, Nix and I expanded our operation and decided we didn’t need to take every single risk by ourselves. We hit a few more places alone, but eighteen months after Whitney died, we started bringing in new people to help us out. Once our reputation started to sound mythical in our neighborhood, we had no problem finding people who wanted to play along in our little game of taking life for everything it owes but tried to keep from us. We even managed to get crews to rob places without us present a few times over the years, and after seven years of heists, a brief stint in gun sales and trade, and even a short time of extortion, Nix and I are kings or Philly. But, being a king isn’t without its problems.
Our problem comes in the form of a little Italian family who thinks Philadelphia belongs to them. I remember the first day I ever heard the name Scarfo. I wanted to rob an Italian establishment just outside Strawberry Mansion, and Nix was quick to tell me we couldn’t go there because it was protected by the Scarfos. I had no clue what he was talking about, but over time, I learned everything I needed to know about them, and everything I’ve learned, I hate.
The family is run by Angelo Scarfo, a seventy-one-year-old prick who just can’t let go of the mob’s glory days, when they could kill whoever they wanted and get away with it. If that were still the case, I’d probably be dead already. But this isn’t the nineties, and I’m a whole new breed of villain! I’ll be damned if I let some asshole think he has a monopoly on my city. Philadelphia belongs to me, and Angelo will not get in the way of what I have planned for this life. Nix always advises me to avoid beef with the Scarfos, but when a war can be started simply by stepping on the wrong turf, it’s not as easy as it sounds. Nonetheless, we’ve done well, keeping from stepping on sensitive little Angelo’s toes by making sure our next hit isn’t one of the establishments they own or use in one of their many rackets. We usually get the heads up on that kind of crap from a little birdie we consult with by the name of Detective Anthony Mason, of the Philadelphia Police Department.
Detective Mason gets on my last nerve, but because of his status as a detective and his ties to the Scarfos, I listen to Nix when he says Mason is off limits, meaning I can’t kill him if he pisses me off. This guy has been around a long time, and he’s been a dirty cop his whole career, working with the mob families on the east coast with anything he could get his greedy little hands on. A man like Mason has no loyalty to anything except whoever has paid him most recently. He’s a snake, and I’d love nothing more than to chop his head off, but every day I manage to not take my box cutter to his throat at the counsel of Nix. Every day it’s a challenge, and today will be no different.
After another moment of taking in the view of my city, I take a deep breath and walk back over to my bed. I grab the cellphone off the glass nightstand resting on top of gray marble legs, and see that I have a text notification. The message is from Nix, of course, and just reading it sends a spike of heat shooting through my veins.
Nix: Mason called again.
I tilt my head to the side, stretching out my neck as the tension starts up my back and reaches for the back of my head.
Me: And?
Nix: Wants to meet today. Race Street Pier. Noon.
Me: I see.
Nix: You good with that?
Me: Tell him we’ll be there.
Nix: Got it. I can tell you’re not good with it. Don’t do anything, Solomon.
I choose not to respond to Nix’s last message.
Race Street Pier is a nice little place—lots of tourists and families come here to get a pretty view of the Benjamin Franklin Bridge and the waterfront. It’s always packed here, and that makes life difficult for a man like me in a number of ways. One of those ways is when I’m trying to park my eighty-nine-thousand dollar, dark red, Alfa Romeo 4C RS between the soccer mom’s minivan and the nine-to-five dad’s Camry. The looks on these people’s faces when I get out of the car, close the door, and adjust the black, diamond-encrusted watch on my wrist in the reflection of the pitch black tint, is enough to make me happy and furious at the same time. I’m thrilled that I’ve come up this much in life that people are looking at me in astonishment, and I’m also annoyed by the unashamed glares. I adjust the watch, straighten out my purposely inconspicuous black t-shirt—although the car is conspicuous enough—and walk to the entrance of the pier, where Nix is already waiting for me in his black and white t-shirt, blue jeans, and black sneakers, holding a black backpack over his burly left shoulder. His black hair is slicked back, his beard is thick and long, and his glasses cover his usual stone-faced expression as I weave through the crowd toward him. When I reach him, we don’t shake hands, we just turn towards the pier and look out into the Delaware River.
“He got here about an hour ago,” Nix says, looking now to the end of the pier, where tons of people stand, taking pictures and going about their happy day. “I watched him scope the place out like usual, but he was alone. He’s at the end, like always.”
I turn my eyes to where Nix nodded his massive head, look through the flowing bodies walking around like inebriated zombies, glance through the trees scattered throughout the center of the pier, and find a bald-headed black guy wearing a gray suit, standing at the end of the pier with his back towards us. All confidence and arrogance, Detective Anthony Mason stands there, leaning forward with his forearms resting on the railing. From way back here, I can already imagine throwing his cocky ass over that railing and watching him drown in the Delaware River.
“That all of it? I ask Nix, gesturing towards the bag.
“Yeah.”
Without another word, Nix and I begin making our way through the crowd down the long sidewalk that runs parallel with the edge of the bridge above us. When we reach Mason, Nix stops a few feet behind him, while I take my place directly to his right and lean forward onto the railing, mirroring him.
“Care to take a swim, Mason?” I sense Mason’s body tighten at my words, which quickly perches a smile on my lips. He tries to hide it when he forces himself to relax, but I notice. Coward.
Mason looks down at his watch before focusing his attention back out on the river. “Punctual as always, Solomon. I always appreciate that.”
“Do you?” I snip. I’m not sure what I hate more, Mason’s stupid face, or the fact that I’m not supposed to kill him. I’ve told Nix countless times that telling me I can’t kill the detective just makes me want to kill him even more. “I think you forget that I don’t care what you appreciate. I’m here on time because I’m a business man who knows how to properly handle business. Being late is bad for business.”
“Indeed it is, which is why I love doing business with you,” Mason says, finally building up his courage to lock his dark brown eyes on mine. His pudgy face is saggy around the eyes, and there are tons of razor bumps under his chin from using a razor to shave everything but the ridiculous goatee around his mouth. To top off his douche baggery, Mason wears one tiny diamond stud in his left ear, nothing in the right. Not sure why I hate it so much, seeing as how I don’t have either of my ears pierced, but something about Mason makes everything more annoying.
“I imagine you do enjoy it, seeing as how you reap the benefits of doing absolutely nothing,” I reply, glaring at him without blinking. “It must be just wonderful to make the money you make without having to raise a single finger.”
“If I recall correctly, it was me who made sure there weren’t any patrol cars in the area around First National Bank,” he replies, trying to toe the line between confident and faux bravery. “I told you where to go, and that kind of advice isn’t free. Not even for you, Solomon.”
“Not even for me?”
“Look, I know you’re the so-called king of the underworld these days, but everybody has to pay somebody for something. You know nothing is free in this world. Not even the things you steal.”
“Spare me the philosophical bullshit, Mason,” I snip, struggling to keep my volume low as a dad and his young son walk up and stand next to us, peering up at the bridge. I bring my voice down to a whisper and lean in so only Mason can hear. “Never make the mistake of convincing yourself that I need you to do what I’m fully capable of doing on my own.”
Mason watches me for a second without moving, wondering what I might do next as I stare daggers into his pathetic soul. After remembering that I’m not dumb enough to kill a man in a public place like this, he clears his throat and speaks up.
“That temper of yours is every bit as terrifying at people say it is,” Mason admits as he straightens out his jacket. “And as much as I respect it, you’d do well to remember who I work for. Not only am I a detective in this city, I’m also paid by Angelo.”
Anger is a tricky thing, and there’s two ways you can use it. One way is to completely lose your mind and blow your load all over everything the second something offends you. In a situation like that, I’d be throwing Detective Mason over this railing after having put six or seven bullets in his stomach using the chrome nine millimeter I have tucked into the back of my pants.
The other way to use your anger is the way I’ve always used mine. I let it come to a silent boil within me, while on the outside, my victim hasn’t the slightest idea that I’m plotting how to kill them. I find joy in manipulating people with a sly smile on my face as I setup the perfect revenge. That’s how I feel right now as I stare at Mason’s face as he awaits my reply. I feel Nix staring at me from behind us, worried to death that Mason may have just dug his own grave by telling me what to do. I don’t need to remember anything, and I couldn’t possibly care less who Mason works for or is paid by. I fear no one! Mason would do well to remember who he’s standing in front of, and Angelo Scarfo better remember that no one is off limits in my world.
But I don’t act on what I’m feeling inside. Instead, I smile from ear to ear and let out a soft chuckle that seems to put Mason on edge as much as me reaching for my gun would.
“Nix,” I say over my shoulder, and my childhood friend steps forward and tosses the backpack to Mason who struggles to catch it as it hits him hard in the chest.
“Do I need to count it?” Mason asks. Another strike.
I lick my lips, take a step toward the bald detective, and look him square in the eye as I smile again.
“Race Street Pier is awfully comfortable at noon, isn’t it?” I say to him in a low tone, still smiling. “Your house up in Northwest Philly is comfortable too, isn’t it? Roxborough, right? That’s a nice neighborhood. How are the views up there at night?” Mason swallows hard as the smile never leaves my face. “This city is beautiful during the day, but nights are long, Detective.”
“Are you thr . . . threatening me, Solomon?” Mason barely manages to ask as the furrow in his brow grows deeper.
“Why would I do that when we’re such good business associates?” I stretch my smile to the edges of my face before turning on my heel and walking away. When I reach Nix, I speak to Mason again without breaking stride or looking back as Nix turns to leave with me. “You’d do well to remember who I am, Mason. Sleep well, Detective.”
Me: Nothing in this world is free. If you’re successful, then we’ll talk. If not, then not.
215–555–1115: I got this.
I READ THE response and put my phone down on the glass table in front of me just as the door to the Box is opened by Lenny, and Nix comes sauntering in, followed by four men I’ve seen a few times in the past, but not any time recently. The five of them stride in without saying a word, swimming in the music from the club and the aroma of countless variations of cologne and perfume from the many patrons of Club Asylum. I adjust myself in my seat to see them all better, letting the legs of my black pants rise a bit as I cross my feet under the table. I’m sleeveless tonight, sitting at the table wearing a black wife beater and flawless tattoos. The blue and orange flames of the fire-covered crown on my left forearm are bright, and blend in well with the rest of my colorful ink and intensely focused demeanor. I let my body relax as the entire group sits down in the open seats around the table, the red leather chairs squeaking from the weight of their bodies as they make themselves comfortable in my secure little haven.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I greet them with a smile as Nix is the last to take a seat in the chair to my right. It’s fitting, because Nix is literally my right-hand-man.
I survey the four men in front of me in silence. We all know each other but it’s been a while since we last spoke. The closest to Nix and me is Terry “Rock” Brenham. Terry is a six-foot black guy with a perfectly shaped beard and thick masculine jaw. His shoulders are nearly as wide as Nix’s and he has a long, jagged scar running down his left cheek from a brutal gang initiation when he was a kid. From what he says, a few of his so-called friends decided to hold razor blades while they jumped him into the gang, and he has a body covered in scars that will never go away to go along with his fractured mind. Rock is the loosest cannon of every man sitting in front of me, but I’m sure he’d say the same of me.
It’s his craziness that drew me to him two years ago when I commissioned him to work with some local gun runners in St. Louis on my behalf. When the negotiation began to go south, Rock killed the three middle-men he was dealing with using a fully-automatic AR-15 from the stockpile he was negotiating for, and negotiated the deal with the supplier in Mexico himself. When a guy has balls that big, you keep him around. So I’m glad to see him stretching out the fabric of a black suit as he crosses his arms in front of me now.
&
nbsp; In the seat next to Rock is the very young and spry Marcell Pemberton out of Buffalo, New York. Marcell is an evil genius-type who specializes in hacking and information collection. Standing at five-foot-ten and weighing all of a hundred-fifty pounds at twenty-two years old, Marcell is the guy Nix turns to when we need more detailed knowledge of a job. The last time we used Marcell, he was the one who got us the account and pin numbers for the thousand accounts we hacked at First Trust Bank, and withdrew four hundred-fifty dollars from each account, for a grand total of four hundred-fifty-thousand dollars split three ways. All of the accounts were loaded with cash, and the withdrawal was just small enough for none of the account holders to really care enough to look into it. I doubt they even noticed the miniscule amount of cash being withdrawn. Nix and Marcell are like two peas in a pod with their knack for focusing on details I don’t like being bothered with, and that’s why I love them both.
Marcell sits in front of me with his short cropped hair and thin black glasses on his slender, dark-skinned face, resting his bony hands on the table as a waitress, Shelly, is let into the Box to take drink orders before we begin our meeting. He orders a Hennessy on the rocks, adjusts the collar on his over-sized gray leather jacket, then gives me his full attention.
Shelly makes her way around the table taking orders in a skimpy red bikini, the last of which come from the brothers at the end, both of them wearing white, long-sleeved shirts and faded black and gray denim jeans. Ricky and Donny Fontane are two years apart and consummate stickup men. Ricky is usually the driver of the duo, while Donny is the gunman who loves to wield weapons so large they have to be held with two hands—think shotguns and rifles, even for the smallest of jobs. They’re not twins, but they definitely look alike, with dark brown, slicked-back hair and thin beards on their pale white faces. Donny is the oldest and tallest, but Ricky is the brains of their operation.