by Ashley
Zyir watched closely as he remained quiet. He was growing to dislike Monroe more and more by the minute.
Needless to say, when they returned to the States, Monroe turned right back around and headed back to Rio to see Buttons. As Monroe made his way through the airport, he called his grandfather, Estes.
“Papa, I need a favor,” Monroe said as soon as he heard his grandfather’s voice on the opposite side of the line.
“Anything for you,” Estes said in his usual low and raspy voice. It seemed as if Monroe could hear the cigar smoke in his grandfather’s lungs as he spoke.
“I need you to make a couple of calls on my behalf. I need my father’s old connect. I need you to make that happen pronto,” Monroe said as he made his way to his boarding gate.
“Enough said. I was wondering what was taking you so long. I will set up a sit down immediately,” Estes said as if it was a cake walk.
“Yeah. It is about that time. I’m not liking what I am seeing. A lot has changed since I was away.”
“I agree. I never extended the family’s connections because I am a firm believer in keeping the family’s name reputable. I couldn’t trust those that weren’t my blood to uphold that. You understand?” Estes said, dropping game on his only male bloodline.
“Understood. Let’s make it happen. I will be back in town in a couple days. Prices are still the same?” he asked.
“Indeed. They never change for customers like us,” Estes explained as he alluded to the coke prices that his connections offered. People like Estes had connections that never raised prices, no matter how the market was. At that level of drug dealing, bosses sold for the sport . . . not for the money.
Now that Monroe had convinced Estes to introduce him to his Miami connect, it was the beginning of Monroe’s second era. Monroe figured since Carter wanted him to play the backseat, he would just rather take over the whole vehicle. It was Monroe’s turn to take back the streets . . . his way. He was about to make Buttons an offer he could not refuse.
Chapter 9
“Let the games begin, gentlemen.”
—Monroe
Zyir rode through the city, and in a matter of weeks the streets had dried up. It looked like a ghost town. From Opa-locka to Carol City, all the way to Little Havana, all of his operations were at a standstill and nobody was getting paid.
As he pulled up to Seventieth Street and Fifth Avenue he was more than livid. His most profitable blocks were turning no profit, and this alarmed him. He parked his black S-Class along the curb and checked his surroundings. The notorious hood was known worldwide for its ruthless stick-up kids, and Zyir made sure that he was acutely aware of everything moving around him. He pressed a button on his custom radio console, and a hidden compartment slid out. He grabbed the handgun that lay inside and tucked it in his waistline before exiting the vehicle.
He approached the small project building, and all eyes were on him. Zyir was the smallest nigga on the block, but he had the heart of a lion. Slim in stature, many men had learned the hard way by sizing him up at first glance. Zyir didn’t pop his gums, he popped his guns, so anyone he had ever caught beef with usually didn’t live to tell about it. He had made an example out of plenty since arriving in Miami, which was why as he approached he was shown nothing but respect. The littered streets were unusually quiet.
“What up, baby?” he greeted Fly Boogie, one of the young’uns who worked as a lookout. Fly Boogie leaned against the graffiti-tagged wall and was the perfect definition of a new school hustler. Fresh Adidas kicks laced his feet. He wore rock-washed skinny jeans that sagged slightly off his hips, and a white wife beater. His snap back hat, nerd glasses, and chain belt accessorized his outfit. At first glance he looked like a skater kid; one would never guess that he was a thorough shooter. His body count was official. He was never afraid of a gun battle, which was why he was the perfect lookout. He would peel a nigga cap back and ask questions later. No one was coming near Zyir’s trap spot unless they were already authorized to be there. Fly Boogie made sure of it.
“Ain’t shit up ’round here. We dry than a muuu’fucka,” Fly Boogie said in his heavy Southern drawl.
Zyir frowned because that was the exact same response he had gotten from each of his spots. Shit had slowed up, and most of his lieutenants were out of product. This was unusual when each of his spots usually blew through five bricks each week, easy. “What happened to the shipment? Shit just came in yesterday? Why that work ain’t ready yet?” Zyir questioned.
“Maannn, you gotta ask them niggas,” Fly Boogie responded. “You know I’m just the lookout. As long as I don’t see them red and blues or no niggas lurking then I’m good. I don’t worry too much about that other shit, Zy. I play my position, you feel me?”
Zyir kept his hand near his hip as he hooked his fingers in his belt loop and nodded his head. “Yeah, I feel you, fam. Keep an eye on my whip. If the police roll by here, drive my shit around the block,” he instructed as he pulled out a knot of money and peeled off a one hundred dollar bill for the young kid.
“No doubt,” Fly Boogie responded as he shook his head and pushed Zyir’s hand away. “I got you, fam. It’s not necessary. I’m sitting here anyway. It’s my job to patrol the block. Your car good, bro. Handle your business,” he said.
Zyir liked the kid’s style. Most thirsty niggas would have pocketed his money, but Fly Boogie was loyal. He felt honored for a dude of Zyir’s stature to even talk to him, let alone trust him with his car.
Zyir tossed him his car key and ascended the steps that led to the second level of the raggedy apartment building. He operated out of every unit on the top floor. There were four in all. One was where the coke was cooked; in the second unit his young’uns stacked the dough; the third served as an artillery closet with every type of automatic weapon in that apartment; and the fourth was a parlay spot for his workers.
He knocked four times on the door in a distinct rhythm, and a small rectangular peephole slid to the side. He was allowed inside immediately upon recognition.
“Hey, Zy!” the ladies called out sweetly as he walked through the apartment, headed toward the back. Ten beautiful stallions stood in high heels and nothing more, cooking up hard for the fiends and bagging powder cocaine for the free base users. There was so much product cooking in the small space that Zyir could smell the distinctive scent in the air. He walked directly toward the back and entered the bedroom, which functioned as a small office.
“Zyir, what’s good, baby?” Angel, his head lieutenant, greeted.
“You tell me,” Zyir said. “From what I’m hearing nobody’s making money. Where’s the shipment? I pay you the most because I give you the most responsibility, fam. If you can’t handle your position, it’s a lot of hungry mu’fuckas under you who would love the opportunity to step up.”
Zyir wasn’t one to raise his voice, but just from his disposition Angel could tell that his boss wasn’t pleased.
“I don’t want to have to come all the way to your side of town only to find out that my money is short. Fuck is going on, fam?” Zyir asked.
“The shipment wasn’t on deck, and we running off of last month’s product. It’s only a matter of time before this shit runs out. Plus niggas ain’t fucking with us. Some new mu’fuckas set up shop out in Hialeah. They selling the shit for dirt cheap. Niggas is selling bricks for sixteen thousand dollars. That’s them 1999 prices, you feel me? I sling these shits for that and we losing money. We can’t compete with that. So anybody buying weight is going to these new niggas. We still got the lower level shit on lock, but like I said, we almost out, and if we don’t re-up we gon’ lose our footing in the streets real quick,” Angel explained.
“I’ll check on the shipment. I just met with my man, so that should have been right on time. In the meantime run the competition off the blocks. We can’t compete with their prices, but they can’t compete with our muscle. They can stay, but they got to pay a tax. This real estate belongs to The C
artel, so the niggas got to pay rent if they want to hustle this way. Be diplomatic, and if they buck, then we put our murder game down. I hope it doesn’t come to that. In war nobody makes money,” Zyir stated. He slapped hands with his man and then made his exit.
Fly Boogie threw up a salute and tossed Zyir his keys as Zyir walked by. Zyir sped off and immediately called Carter. Business with Buttons had always gone according to plan. Their dealings with him were so consistent that there was never room for error. This missed shipment was no mistake, and Zyir couldn’t put his finger on it, but something fishy was in the air. He pulled out the burnout phone that he used to contact Buttons. He dialed his number from memory, knowing that the information was too sensitive to ever record.
“The number you have reached is not in service,” the operator announced.
Yeah, something is most definitely up, Zyir thought. They had been doing square business with Buttons for too long for things to change now. Zyir immediately thought of their recent trip to Rio. The only factor that had changed in the situation was Monroe. He didn’t know exactly what had gone down, but Zyir’s hustler’s intuition told him that Monroe had fucked up the game for everybody.
* * *
Carter sat on the wooden park bench tossing crumbs to the birds as he sat in deep contemplation. His life had come full circle, and it seemed as though all the people he had thought were lost to the game had come back to him. His family felt more complete.
Carter had handed over leadership to Zyir for good reason. The streets had sucked the life out of him. After killing Mecca, Carter knew that the game had pushed him too far and that it was time to step down. He was confident in his successor, but now that Monroe was back it created confusion. Jealousy was in the air, and Carter knew that he would have to play mediator between his blood brother and his brother by circumstance.
“Look at you, big homie, out here in the open. I know retirement don’t got you slipping like that. If I wanted to get you—”
“You couldn’t,” Carter finished as he stood and turned around to greet Zyir, who had approached him from behind. He pointed his finger fifty yards ahead of him and then off to both sides, showing Zyir that he was never left unprotected. Three of his shooters patrolled the perimeter of the park, eyes on Carter at all times.
Carter moved like a boss. He knew the position that he had in the streets. He was like a trophy to thirsty young wolves. The reputation one could get from taking him out was enough to make him a target. The only thing that kept him secure was the respect he had earned over the years. Many niggas had the courage to take the shot, but very few had the courage to miss. Hitting Carter was easier said than done, and should someone try and fail, the repercussions were deadly.
Zyir smirked and shook his head. “I should have known,” he said. The two men began to stroll through the park as Zyir filled Carter in on the situation. “I think we’ve got a problem with Buttons.”
Carter stopped abruptly and turned toward Zyir attentively.
“The shipment didn’t come in. I just left from the trap and shit is Sahara dry,” Zyir stated.
“Did you call Buttons?” Carter asked.
“Line is disconnected. It’s like he cut all ties with us after the meeting with Money. I know that’s your bro and all, but I’m allergic to snakes, if you get my drift,” Zyir said seriously. “We’ve been doing square business for years, and now when Money come into the picture the shit turns sour?” Zyir looked at Carter skeptically. “That sound right to you?”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Monroe’s car pull up. “Speak of the fucking devil,” he mumbled as the aura turned thick.
“I’ve got it. Money’s official. Buttons and anybody else that got a problem with him better get comfortable with his presence real quick. We’ve got to keep our circle strong, Zyir. All we’ve got is the family,” Carter said seriously.
Zyir held his tongue. He had serious doubts about Monroe, but he was aware that it was a sensitive subject so he treaded lightly. Monroe approached and slapped hands with Carter.
“What it’s laying like, bro?” he asked.
Carter noticed that Monroe never acknowledged Zyir. He glanced at his two brothers, one adopted through life’s tests of loyalty and the other blood born. He would have to fix this divide for sure, but decided not to force it. Time would cause the two men to respect each other, or so he thought.
“I’m sending Zy back down to meet with Buttons. We out of product and suddenly he’s unreachable,” Carter explained.
Money nodded and smirked, knowing that he was the reason why all communication had ceased. As long as Zyir was the leader of The Cartel then the entire Cartel wouldn’t eat. Monroe would make sure of it. A position of power like that had to be earned, and Zyir was handed the crown by default. Monroe would burn the entire kingdom to the ground before he allowed Zyir to rule. He definitely didn’t want Carter finding out he had undermined him, however.
“You want me to fly over there and make sure everything’s smooth?” he asked.
Carter shook his head. “I don’t think that’s wise. Zyir’s more familiar with Buttons. He’ll be more comfortable with him. We are easing you back into the swing of things, Money. Trust me, more responsibility will be delegated to you in due time.”
Delegated to me? I’m a boss; a nigga ain’t delegating shit to me. He want to send his mans to Rio, I’ma make sure he don’t come back, Monroe thought angrily. He showed no signs of displeasure outwardly.
“Whatever you say. You’re the boss,” Monroe stated.
Carter turned to Zyir. “You’ll leave in the morning.”
* * *
Monroe sat in his car, watching as Zyir and Carter pulled off. His distaste for Zyir was growing by the day. Monroe had been away from his family for too long, and he couldn’t help but feel as though he had been replaced. Monroe picked up his cell and placed a call.
“Hola, Monroe,” Buttons answered.
“Hola, Buttons. I just called to give you a heads-up. Carter is sending Zyir down to Rio with his goons. He’s upset that he’s been cut off. They will be there tomorrow. It’s in your best interest to annihilate anyone associated with The Cartel if they show up on your doorstep. They are coming to kill you. Make no mistake about it,” Monroe said. He knew that if he put Buttons on the defensive, there would be no way Zyir would come back alive.
“I will prepare for their arrival,” Buttons said, his voice menacingly cold.
Monroe ended the call and then checked his rearview before pulling away from the park. “Let the games begin, gentlemen.”
* * *
Carter entered his home and for the first time since he purchased the place it felt lived in. His world had been so cold and lonely that he never appreciated the things that he had attained. The aroma of food filled the air and reminded him that he had neglected to eat. He walked into the kitchen and found Miamor over the stove. He smiled when he saw that she wore nothing but a bra and thong. Her long, shapely legs, juicy behind, and slim waist instantly sent sparks to his loins. The stilettos that graced her French-manicured feet caused him to smile. He stood back and watched her work. She clearly knew her way around a kitchen. He had missed her in his life, and her return made his entire existence complete. He walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his head in the creases of her shoulder as he inhaled deeply, loving her scent.
“I could have gotten you. You didn’t even know I was behind you,” Carter whispered as he kissed her neck. Miamor’s head fell to the side as she enjoyed the feel of his lips against her skin.
“Hmm. That feels good,” she whispered. She turned toward him and kissed his lips, deeply and sensuously. “A nigga will never catch me slipping, Carter Jones. Take a look under that kitchen towel.” Miamor slipped out of his embrace and walked over to the cabinet, grabbing two wine glasses.
Carter lifted the towel and saw a small-caliber pistol lying underneath it. He chuckled and thought, Dam
n.
He found her incredibly sexy. The fact that she was so thorough impressed him. He was getting to know this new side of her, and now that there were no secrets between them, he respected it. She was feminine and incredibly sexy, but the little bit of street she had in her drove him wild. She made up the perfect recipe of a woman.
“Now come have a seat and let me feed my man,” she said.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked as he sat down in the chair that she had pulled out for him. She was treating him like a king.
“Steak and seafood,” she replied.
“And for dessert?” he quipped.
“Me,” she answered.
Miamor straddled Carter. The only thing that stopped her wet pussy from soaking the crotch of his pants was the tiny fabric of her thong. The sexual chemistry that was between them was supercharged. That was the one part of their relationship that they had always gotten right.
“Or we can have dessert first,” she whispered. Carter stood, lifting her as he swept everything off of the table. Dishes and silverware went flying to the floor as he laid her down on top of the expensive marble.
He removed his manhood, and in one Casanova movement he slid her thong to the side. Her wetness warmed him as he slipped inside of her. With one arm wrapped around her arched waist and the other braced against the table he controlled the pace. He stroked her slowly, powerfully, as their bodies move rhythmically.
“I love you,” Miamor whispered as he kissed her neck.
His dick penetrated depths of her that she didn’t even know existed. Carter’s sex game was official. An unselfish lover, he always pleased her first. His touch was gentle, but he moved with authority, making commands of her without ever speaking any words.
His girth made her blossom bloom, and with every dip of his hips she matched his intensity. She grinded upward, throwing her love at him as their bodies became one. Miamor knew that she had the best pussy around. Very few had sampled it, but the ones who had were easily put under her spell. Miamor had that “make a nigga fall in love” pussy. It was inevitable to become trapped in her world, but with Carter Jones she fell just as hard. Like a magnet, she was drawn to him and not Mecca, not life, not death, could pull them apart. It was serendipitous for them to spend eternity loving each other.