Diamonds and Pearl

by K'wan

  “They call him Diamonds,” TJ said proudly.

  “Yeah, I think I’ve heard of him,” Blanco said in a less-than-thrilled tone. “He’s supposed to be some kind of witch doctor.”

  “Diamonds is what you would call a spiritual man,” TJ said modestly.

  Blanco snorted. “I hear he’s more than that. There are some who say he’s protected by the devil and can’t be killed.” He recalled some of the stories he’d heard about the young upstart from the swamps.

  “Anyone can be killed,” Eddie said confidently. “Now, for the sake of argument, let’s say your people are successful in taking Pana down. There will still be those who are loyal to him, even if only in memory. That could cause some nasty fallout.”

  TJ couldn’t stifle his laugh. “Eddie, with all due respect, you obviously haven’t been listening to anything I’ve said. When these muthafuckas hit a town, it’s like a swarm of locusts, gobbling up everything in their path. Alexandria, Houston, Fort Worth, and several cities in Florida are still trying to heal from the wet bites they took out of their asses. By now I’m sure you’ve spoken to our mutual friend in Orlando, and he’s confirmed everything I’m telling you about these cats.”

  Indeed, Eddie had spoken to the man in Orlando, who’d told him a story so gruesome that thinking about it made him shiver. Just as TJ claimed, Diamonds and his crew had been eating a path through cities out West and now up the East Coast. They’d established themselves in Miami and had started branching off into neighboring cities, including Orlando. Most rolled over and got out of their way, but there was a man in Orlando who decided he wouldn’t be muscled by the roving bandits. He sent Diamonds a message by putting a price on Diamonds’s head, but when the assassination attempt failed, Diamonds sent a response to his message that was heard in the underworld circles throughout the country. Days after the botched assassination attempt, the police found the mauled remains of not only the man who had put the price on Diamonds but his family as well. They had been cut open and tied to trees for the gators to finish off. The youngest victim was a child of nine years old. Word got out, and it was clear that any man who would feed an entire family to alligators wasn’t someone you wanted to fuck with.

  Eddie thought long and hard on it. He was skeptical, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to have such savage killers as allies. They would instantly make him a power player in the New York City drug trade. Michael wouldn’t be happy about it, but so long as it was quick and clean, he would get over it. “Okay, TJ. Do what you gotta do, but if this comes back on me, I’m going to deny any knowledge of what you were up to and put a bullet in your head personally.”

  “Don’t worry, Eddie. My boys are professionals. You don’t have anything to worry about,” TJ promised. He took out his phone and began composing a text message.

  “So how long do you think you’ll need to pull this off?” Eddie asked, still unsure if he had made the right decision.

  “Not long.” TJ hit send on the text. “Not long at all.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bonita’s was a very nondescript-looking place that sat on 161st Street between Amsterdam and Broadway. It wasn’t very big and its furniture was out-of-date, but Bonita’s boasted some of the best Mexican food in the five boroughs. During the day it was a place where you could bring your family to get a good meal with an ethnic feel, but when the sun went down, they rolled out their makeshift bar and let the good times roll.

  It was still fairly early in the evening, so the dinner crowd was only just starting to filter in. There were a few people eating at the counter and a few more sprinkled in the booths on the floor, but there weren’t many people there yet besides some of the regulars.

  At a table in the rear, hunched over a large steak, was a squarely built Mexican man. Between bites of the steak, he was saying something to the two men sitting with him and raining food all over the table. The two men listened intently, as if he were revealing to them the theory of relativity. Two waitresses and a manager moved in rotation, constantly checking with the man to see if he needed anything else. Pana Suarez was an important man, and everyone north of 135th Street knew it.

  Bonita’s was only one of many establishments where he received that kind of love. Pana had his hands in everywhere from restaurants to corner bodegas. For a small taste, Pana would make sure your business ran smoothly and keep the wolves off your back. Probably because when the wolves came, he was likely the one who sent them. There was no doubt that Pana received more than his share of love, but he prided himself on being feared.

  As usual, he was dressed in a sharkskin suit, his shoes polished to a high shine, and no socks. Beneath it he sported a horrid banana-yellow shirt, unbuttoned at the top so you could see the multiple gold chains lying over his nappy chest hair. He looked like an extra in the movie Scarface, and fancied himself just as wild a cowboy as the infamous Tony Montana.

  Bonita, the owner of the spot, came out from the kitchen and strolled over to Pana’s table. She was an older Spanish chick who still had a body to rival those of a lot of girls much younger than she. Her golden-brown hair was pulled up into a messy bun that leaned to one side. The gold hot pants she wore made a swooshing sound when she walked and her thick thighs rubbed together.

  “Pana, baby, you need anything else?” Bonita asked in a heavy accent.

  He paused from chastising his men, his face softening when he replied. “No, thank you. I gotta get outta here in a few.”

  “Okay, papi. I’m going in the back to watch my soaps. If you need something, Miguel will get it for you.” She nodded at a teenage boy who was lounging behind the counter. After giving Miguel some last-minute instructions, Bonita swished to the door marked PRIVATE and disappeared inside.

  “Mommy still got it,” remarked the man sitting closest to Pana. He was thin and sported a five-o’clock shadow along his tanned jaw.

  “And the pussy is as sweet as a spring bloom.” Pana smirked, remembering the last time he’d bedded Bonita.

  “You hit that?” the second man with Pana asked in surprise. He was a chubby pale fellow and new to the crew.

  “We do a little something from time to time,” Pana said, as if it were no big deal.

  “You the man, boss!” the chubby man praised him.

  Across the room, a cell phone blared so loud that it got Pana’s attention. He looked up and saw an older black man sitting at the counter and eating a bowl of soup. He was dressed in an off-the-rack brown suit and shoes of the same color, their heels worn. At his feet rested a black briefcase. He paused his slurping and retrieved a cell phone from his pocket, and then spoke for a few seconds with whoever was on the other end before hanging up and slipping the phone back into his pocket.

  Pana watched curiously as the man with the loud cell phone dabbed his mouth with a napkin and slid off the stool. When he turned, he could see his face clearly. He was an older gentleman with hard eyes. He walked calmly in Pana’s direction, but before he could get too close, the men who had been sitting with Pana were on their feet, guns drawn and ready.

  “Something you need?” the tall one with the five-o’clock shadow asked in a hostile tone.

  The man was clearly frightened but managed to find his voice. “I was just going to the bathroom.” He pointed to the restrooms, which were just beyond Pana’s table.

  Pana looked over his shoulder at the doors to the restrooms, then turned back to the man and glared at him for a long moment. When he was satisfied that the man posed no immediate threat, he waved his men off. “You guys, relax. You’re too fucking tense.”

  The two men stared at the stranger for a while longer before doing as they were told and backing off.

  On shaky legs, the man skirted between the two men past Pana’s table. He kept looking back over his shoulder like he was afraid they might renege on their pass and jump on him. He was so shook that he decided to skip the bathroom and leave the restaurant altogether.

  “Fucking pussy.�
�� The chubby one laughed at the fleeing black man.

  “Some guys have no balls.” Pana chuckled, digging into his pants pocket for his bank roll. He peeled off fifty dollars and dropped the bills onto the table. Pana’s meal was free, but the tip was for Miguel. He liked the young boy and always made sure he had a few dollars in his pocket. In another year or so he would be ripe for recruiting, and Pana planned to add him to his ranks.

  The money had barely touched the table before Miguel swooped in and took it. He wanted to get to it before one of the other staff members stole it. He thanked Pana for the money before clearing the abandoned dishes off the table. The dinner rush would be in full swing soon, and Bonita liked for them to be prepared.

  “Let’s get out of here. I got some shit I need to handle later on,” Pana told his men, and started for the door. He stopped short when heard Miguel’s voice. He was walking toward them, holding a briefcase.

  “Señor Pana, that negro forgot his briefcase!” Miguel announced.

  Pana’s brain froze for a half second, as if he were trying to decipher what Miguel was saying, but when he hit the play button again, panic clutched his heart. Without saying a word, Pana turned and bolted for the exit.

  Pana had barely cleared the door before there was a loud boom, followed by a fireball engulfing Bonita’s. Miguel was lucky—he died instantly from the blast—but the chubby man who had been with Pana wasn’t as fortunate. He stumbled from the rubble of the ruined doorway, screaming as fire ate away at his skin and clothes.

  Pana laid facedown in the street, dizzy from the force of the blast and trying to regain his wits. A shadow fell over him, causing him to look up. Much to his surprise, he found the stranger from the restaurant standing over him. He was no longer cowering, but grinning triumphantly and pointing a .45 at him.

  A split second before the bullet struck the ground where Pana’s head had been, he rolled to his left and was on his feet, drawing his 9mm from his waist. He was getting on in years, but he was still a seasoned killer and moved as such when he needed to. Pana blasted away with the 9mm while running for cover. Pana dashed toward an alley, but he found that route cut off when a second man stepped from the shadows. He was wearing a ski mask over his face, but Pana could see, behind the man’s sneering lips, what looked like diamonds in his mouth. Pana scurried in the other direction, trying to dip across the street, but he found that exit cut off by two more men wearing masks. He was trapped between a quartet of killers.

  Pana’s head whipped back and forth nervously as the four men closed in on him. He figured he could take two of them out, three if he were lucky, but his chances of surviving the ambush were slim to none. Just then fate threw him a bone, and there was an additional gun added to the skirmish.

  The tall man with the five-o’clock shadow came staggering down the street, firing his pistol. His face was badly burned and smoke rose from his clothes, but he still had some fight left in him. He fired shot after shot, but his wounds made his aim unsteady, and most of the slugs missed their targets by a wide berth.

  With an amused smirk on his lips, the man with the diamond teeth strolled casually toward the tall man with the five-o’clock shadow, ignoring the bullets whizzing by him as if they were little more than passing flies buzzing around him. The wounded man’s gun clicked empty just as the man in the ski mask closed the distance between them. Calmly, he placed his gun to the man’s head and cocked the hammer back with his thumb. A look between sadness and disappointment settled in his eyes before he blew the other man’s brains out.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Domo sat in the back of the minivan, wringing his hands nervously. For the millionth time since he’d gotten into the van, he wondered if he had made the right decision.

  Him finding the electricity shut off in his apartment was the last straw. He knew he had made a promise to his mother to try to fly straight and focus on school, but he could no longer sit idle and watch her struggle. He was a man and men took action. With this in mind, he went and found LA to let him know that he was in. LA didn’t appear at all surprised when Domo came looking for him. He knew Domo’s family and their struggles and was just biding his time until the young man decided to come out of his shell and get into some real gangster shit, which is exactly what they were about to do.

  Next to him on the backseat was LA’s sidekick Rafik. He was a wild young dude who sometimes talked too much, but Rafik lived his life like an outlaw and was always down for whatever, so long as it put a few dollars in his pocket. Rafik was a live wire and way too reckless for Domo’s tastes. Had he known prior that Rafik would be rolling with them, Domo would’ve probably changed his mind again, but by that point it was too late to turn back.

  LA was slunk low in the passenger seat, smoking a blunt of something that smelled like horseshit. He and Rafik had been ping-ponging the blunt back and forth and hadn’t attempted to pass it. Not that Domo would’ve taken it anyway. There were rumors in the hood about LA sometimes dabbling in things heavier than weed, but Domo believed to each his own and didn’t judge him for it. So long as he never tried to lace Domo when they smoked together, he didn’t have a problem with it. LA’s thumb clicked the safety of his gun on and off in a rhythm, and he seemed jittery. Domo wasn’t sure if it was his nerves or the effects of whatever they were smoking.

  Behind the wheel of the minivan was the girl he had seen earlier in the BMW. She had changed out of her green wig and dress, and now wore a black wig and black hoodie. Domo had learned that her name was Vita. She hadn’t said much, but from the few words she did speak, he picked up on an accent that placed her origins somewhere in the Deep South. From where exactly that was, he wasn’t sure and he dared not ask. There was something about Vita that gave him the creeps. As if she could feel his thoughts, she glanced up at the rearview mirror and looked at him.

  As they crossed the George Washington Bridge and rolled into the section of New York known as Washington Heights, Domo’s heart beat a little faster. They had almost arrived at their destination. It was time to put up or shut up.

  Vita turned to LA. “Everybody know what they’re supposed to be doing?” she asked as she pulled the minivan to a stop next to a fire hydrant in front of a tenement building.

  “Sho nuff.” LA chambered a round into his gun.

  Vita turned around and addressed the two youngsters in the backseat. “Remember, no cowboy shit. Y’all follow my lead, and we all walk out of there in one piece, get it?”

  “No doubt. These muthafuckas ain’t gonna know what hit ’em!” Rafik boasted.

  “You sure you up for this, pretty boy?” Vita asked Domo, seeing the worry on his face.

  “I’m gonna hold up my end.” Domo patted the .22 on his lap. It wasn’t the most intimidating pistol, but it was all he had.

  Vita laughed when her eyes landed on the small gun. “Nigga, not with that piece of shit you won’t. Reach up under the seat.”

  Domo fished around under the seat until his hand brushed against something metal. He came up holding a small yet powerful-looking handgun.

  “Glock .45,” Vita informed him. “You only got ten shots, but when that bitch spits, it makes a statement, just like me. It’s from my personal stash, so make sure you return the muthafucka when the job is done.” Then she jumped out of the van.

  LA and Rafik followed closely behind Vita into the building. She warned them that no matter what happened, they were to keep their guns hidden until she said otherwise, which bothered Domo. If they were going to rob the spot, then it’d be best for them to already have their guns out so no one could get the drop on them. From the looks on LA’s and Rafik’s faces, that didn’t sit too well with them, either, but Vita was calling the shots and so they did what they were told. She bounced up the steps and then motioned for them to wait on the second-floor landing until she gave the signal.

  On the floor just above them they could hear Vita speaking to a man in the hallway. Domo tried to eavesdrop, but he couldn�
�t understand what they were saying because Vita was speaking to the man in Spanish. The conversation started off in a soft tone; then they heard the man yelp, followed by two quick chirping sounds. A split second later there was the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Assuming that was the signal, they rushed up the stairs. Vita was standing in the middle of the hallway, holding a 9mm, smoke coming from the silencer screwed onto the end of the barrel.

  “Damn, how you gonna start the party without us?” Rafik asked in disappointment.

  “Shut the fuck up before these niggas hear you and you get us killed,” Vita hissed as she fished through the dead man’s pants pocket. She came out holding a single key at the end of a leather strip. “Now look, we gonna go in here and bag these niggas for all their shit and get gone. She addressed Domo. “Pretty boy, you play the top of the stairs and cover our backs. Anybody come up these bitches, you drop their asses. You got it?”

  Domo nodded. Too nervous to speak.

  “Good.” She eased the key into the lock. “Now let’s go in here and relieve these pussies of their shit.”

  Vita and the others had barely been in the apartment thirty seconds before the shooting started. They had left the door open, so it gave Domo a clear view down the long hallway that ran the length of the apartment into the living room. The people inside the apartment scrambled back and forth, some returning fire while others were just trying to get out of the way. LA and Rafik were like two cowboys, going from room to room and shooting anything moving. Vita was more poised, taking her time and measuring every shot before she took it. Watching her was like watching a professional figure skater going for Olympic gold. A woman came darting out of one of the rooms and was running down the hallway toward the open front door. She had almost cleared it when something slammed into the back of her head and she pitched forward. A few feet behind her, Vita stood. She put one more bullet into the woman’s body for good measure. They had invited Domo to participate in a robbery, but what was going on inside the apartment wasn’t a robbery; it was an extermination.