The Corner III (No Way Out)

by Alex Richardson

  10

  “Your ass won’t be saying that shit in a minute, you mark ass nigga,”—BIG SAM

  Reese was parked down the street from Shaun’s house. It was eight in the morning, and he’d been calling Shaun only to receive no answer. Reese took offense to the fact that Shaun was ignoring his calls, especially since he’d heard through the grapevine that Shaun was seeing a Russian woman, and the description matched one of the women they’d been introduced to by Ivan as his woman. Reese immediately thought about the young lady, Mariska. Reese knew Shaun’s penchant for women and could be a pussy hound at times, but to fuck one of the Russian’s women was completely out of the question. It was a foolish move that could fuck up business and when it came to the Russians—killed.

  Once Shaun’s Lexus came to a halt, Reese drove the short distance and by the time Shaun stepped out, Reese had the Suburban coming to a halt next to him. Shaun jumped slightly and was about to reach for his pistol then noticed it was Reese.

  “Nigga, what the fuck? You know you almost caught one?” Shaun barked.

  “Fool, your ass would have been got, get your ass in,” Reese said nonchalantly while looking straight ahead out the windshield.

  Shaun got in the truck and the tires made a quick screeching sound as Reese gave the SUV too much gas. Shaun took a look at his house thinking about Teresa and how he knew she was going to have something to say since he had spent all night out and his lie was that he and Reese were out of town on business. He knew she was going to figure out that he was with another woman since she was in the doorway when Reese pulled up.

  Shaun asked, “What’s up, you trying to get breakfast or something picking me up in the a.m. like this?”

  Reese was steering with his right and rubbing his goatee with his left. “Nah, nigga, but breakfast is something I have to do, but with Slim. He wants to meet with me about some shit. But don’t worry, it’s not about what I’m about to put on your brain.”

  “What’s going down, nigga?” Shaun asked wondering what was up.

  “You and that Russian broad.”

  “Huh?” Shaun said to get a moment to gather his thoughts and lie.

  “If you can, huh, you can hear, nigga. I’m going to say this shit one time and one time only, you pussy hungry mothafuckah.” They came to a halt at a stop light. “Leave the Russian bitch alone.”

  “What—”

  Reese kept his nonchalant demeanor. “Don’t fuckin’ try to play me. You know I’m talkin’ ’bout Ivan’s bitch. You know what could happen if the white mothafuckahs were to find out that you’re fucking one of theirs?”

  Shaun knew he couldn’t say shit. Every time he met with Mariska, he had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, but the out of this world sex always made him forget about the forbidden sex they were having once a week for the past four months.

  “I feel you, my nigga. That shit would fuck up our paper,” Shaun replied.

  “Nah, nigga. That shit will leave your ass slumped! Put a halt to the shit!”

  “It’s done. I swear it’s done,” Shaun said as he shook his head side to side.

  “Good,” Reese said as he made a u-turn so that he could head back to Shaun’s house. “I got one question though.”

  Shaun could hear the seriousness in Reese’s voice. He asked, “What?”

  “That skinny assed white broad look like she can fuck,” Reese laughed breaking the tension that was in the air.

  Shaun laughed, “Man, you don’t even know. That bitch can make you bust a nut without even being up in her!”

  “No shit?”

  “Fo’ real!”

  They shared a laugh as Reese neared Shaun’s house.

  “Man, I used you for a lie. Now Teresa’s gonna know something was up,” Shaun said.

  Reese brought the Tahoe to a halt. “Sorry, baby boy, don’t know what to say. Make sure you honor your word. Kill that shit with that Russian broad.”

  “Bet,” Shaun said as he gave Reese some dap then exited his truck and walked up the walkway dreading the mile a minute mouth he was going to encounter.

  * * *

  Chavez walked into the study, and sitting at the desk was LaTanza. He still couldn’t get used to seeing someone besides his friend and boss, Carlos, sitting in the high-back ostrich leather chair. But with Carlos in prison, his wife, LaTanza, was the boss and in charge. She was ruthless as was Chavez. The only difference was she would cut anyone’s throat to get what she wanted. It was part of her being mentally unstable from years of abuse. She grew up feeling powerless to a man who was supposed to protect her, but did nothing but abuse her, so now that she had power and respect, she vowed to never give it up.

  Chavez was wearing jeans and a Chicago Bears throwback jersey. He and a couple of friends were at the Bears’ football game when he got the call from LaTanza telling him that she had some important information for him. That he needed to meet with her when the game was over. Chavez and his boys usually would hit a couple of bars downtown after the game, especially if the Bears had won, so they could party. The Bears had beat the Vikings 27-13, but there would be no bar hopping tonight with the news LaTanza was about to drop on him.

  The stocky Mexican sat, then asked, “What’s going on Mrs. LaTanza? We have a problem?”

  “Not anymore. You know that stash house that got hit?”

  “The one off 51st Ave.?”

  “Yes. Well, as you know, that is the third house of ours that has been hit. Come to find out, it is Bone’s people who are doing the hits,” She told him.

  “Is that right? How did you find this out?” Chavez questioned.

  “The one black kid who our people shot, well, Fernando interrogated him. A painful interrogation I might add. Well, he gave up Bone. Looks as if Bone is thinking of getting out of the thing we have going with the Russians,” she lied.

  LaTanza had orchestrated the hit using some young thugs from the city of Gary who she paid well. She never met the men, it was Fernando who did, and he gave the men the time to hit the stash houses—the time when they were the most vulnerable. The last place the young men hit was a house where twenty kilos of cocaine were being cooked. The men took the cocaine, but during their escape, one was shot and captured. No one was around when the interrogation occurred and that’s because Fernando had killed the man so he couldn’t speak on them being paid by a Hispanic to hit the house. Chavez was in Texas at a relative’s funeral, so he wasn’t able to be there during the supposed interrogation so he didn’t think anything of it.

  Chavez asked, “So what are we going to do about it?”

  “I have some things in the works so I won’t have to continue to deal with the Russians.”

  Chavez said, “We have an agreement. Breaking it off might bring about problems.”

  “That’s true,” LaTanza said then sipped her bottled water. “But after I give you this information, there will be one less of us dealing with the Russians, so I see it as our opportunity to get out. We’ll leave Slim to deal with the problem.”

  LaTanza held out a manila envelope. Chavez’ thick brow furrowed, wondering what she was handing him. He read, and LaTanza wanted to smile when she saw the fire in his eyes swell. She even thought his lips trembled for a moment. What the natural born killer was reading was a detective’s report from the Chicago PD. It stated that a man name Jacques Stevens had been questioned in the hit on Chavez’s baby momma. The report went into detail of what they had on the young man, but he had a couple of alibis, his girlfriend and Bone. The investigation was filed as a cold case when the detectives received word that the young man was murdered by a single gunshot to the back of the head—execution style.

  Chavez’s voice was stern, but respectful, “How long have you had this report?”

  “Many months,” she replied.

  “And you didn’t tell me?” Chavez barked.

  LaTanza dismissed his tone due to the fact that she knew the information would have him heated. She leaned b
ack in her chair as she rested her hands in her lap. “The man was dead, and we were in with Bone so I wasn’t going to fuck up our money not knowing for sure. I have paid the detective who gave me that information dearly—”

  “Who, that crook Styles?”

  “No, a homicide detective, but what I’m trying to tell you is, that the man we caught robbing us, he corroborated the story. He gave up Bone as the one who ordered the hit while we were at war. For you hitting our spots and trying to eliminate Slim.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Remember the initial police report? The one that stated the make, model and color of the SUV the killer was driving?”

  Chavez simply nodded.

  “Well, Bone’s plan was to make us think that it was Slim’s lieutenant, Noonie, when in fact it was his ass.”

  Chavez unclenched his fist. He was calming down even though anger still flowed through his veins—a controlled anger. “So what do you plan to do?” Chavez questioned.

  “I give you the okay to do what you feel so—”

  “I’ma kill him, you can best believe that!” he said before cutting her off.

  “You’re owed that much. But I want you to know when it’s done, you need to have our soldiers on point. And we are going to have to prepare for battle because I’m breaking from the Russians and Slim.”

  “What about Bone’s crew? They’ll come after us.” He grinned as he rubbed his waistband where his .40 caliber Glock rested under the jersey.

  LaTanza smiled, “There is dissention in their ranks. I met with Reynard to confirm that Bone did the hit. He’s ready to take over, and they are going to get their drugs from us as we are going to get them from Chacho.”

  Chavez smiled, “He has come through, huh?”

  She nodded with a fabulous smile.

  He stated, “It’s about time, I like dealing with my people, anyways.”

  “I’m going to meet with him this weekend in Cozumel to iron out things.”

  “You run it by Carlos?” Chavez wanted to make sure LaTanza wasn’t getting too ahead of herself without consulting his friend and head of the family.

  “No, not yet anyway. He would be against killing Bone right now since he and Lucky are the ones who agreed on dealing with the Russians. But now that we can buy from Chacho, we don’t need the Russians. I’ll let him know once Bone is dead because Reynard agreed not to deal with the Russians.”

  “So that is our way out.”

  “Correct,” she said as she stood. Chavez did the same as she came from behind her desk and to where Chavez stood. “I ask one thing. No one knows about this. You can let him know why you are killing him but he must die after that and this information dies with him.”

  “Don’t worry, you know how I do.”

  With that El Diablo, The Devil, was on his way to formulate his plan. He wasn’t going to let Bone live past the next three days. He wouldn’t want him to die accidently before he could get to him. If Bone was to get hit by a car by accident, Chavez was filled with so much anger and rage that he would dig Bone’s body up and kill him again.

  * * *

  Poncho Perez entered the ring wearing his signature trunks that were white with a green and red stripe going down the side with the Mexican flag embroidered on the left leg. He was dancing to a Mexican song as the crowd went wild. Jamel was in his corner hopping slightly and throwing short punches to keep warm. He looked confident as Fight Doctor spoke to him in his ear. Fight Doctor was animated when barking at Jamel, pointing at Perez the entire time. Jamel was focused and knew if he won the fight he would be on his way as a professional. When he was in the training room waiting to be introduced so he could make his way to the ring, he told Lucky that the fight was dedicated to him. Lucky smiled and told him that he loved him like a son and knew that God had a plan for him and that’s why he had him as his driver all that time. That he wanted to keep the young man close to him to ensure no harm was to come to him.

  Slim was dressed in a Hugo Boss suit and Trish a plunging lace-applique dress by Mandalay. They were sitting behind Lucky, who was wearing an all black Stacy Adams suit and Anthony and Tesha, who were also dressed to impress. Noonie, Chantel, Reese and his date, a thick chocolate woman named Meka, were sitting in the same row as Slim, only a few seats to the right. Jamel, who was wearing a black and white robe, the colors of the southeast side gym, had given them a wave when he walked past them as he headed for the ring, while the song Swagger Like Us blared through the speakers pumping up the crowd who was rooting for Jamel. Jamel was unknown to most fans, but today it was like usual. An African-American was fighting someone of another race and that brought cheers from all the blacks toward Jamel.

  The crowd was cheering, and they were ready for some action. After introducing the fighters, the ring announcer called the young men to the center of the ring. He recited the rules to the men then gestured for them to bump gloves. Poncho walked off, not acknowledging the young man who he remembered beating him in a sparring match. Jamel smiled as he headed back to his corner.

  When Jamel returned to his corner, Fight Doctor barked at Jamel over the crowd. “That’s what you want, baby! He knew he couldn’t touch you then, and he can’t now. He just showed fear. Don’t go to southpaw unless I tell you. Got it?”

  Jamel bounced up and down keeping an eye of the tiger stare on Poncho, and Jamel could swear he saw fear in the man’s eyes. The bell rang, and Jamel was on Poncho landing two quick left jabs. Poncho tried to throw several different combinations, but Jamel was simply too fast. Jamel kept jabbing and moving, collecting points and making the heavily favored boxer look bad. Lucky smiled, and relished the moment. Jamel was toying with Poncho and when there were thirty seconds left in the round, Jamel finished Poncho off by forcing the running Mexican in the corner and hitting him with a flurry of punches that reminded Fight Doctor of Sugar Ray Leonard. Poncho was being hit with several combinations, and it was obvious that he was much slower and weaker than Jamel. With forty seconds left in the first round, the predominantly Hispanic crowd was stunned. They couldn’t believe what they were seeing and neither could the rest of the crowd. No one knew of Jamel, but they were getting a quick lesson. To the boxing experts, promoters and other boxers who were in attendance they saw a young man who they had figured to have been hidden by Fight Doctor’s team, but the truth was Jamel was a talent who simply had skills. A young man who’d gone to the streets but was brought back by faith. Jamel and Lucky’s chance run-in with Fight Doctor had put the young man back on track to a life of promise.

  It was two minutes into the fight when a left hook caught the slower Poncho on the temple, sending him to the canvass, hard. Poncho fell from a punch, and his record fell just as fast—from twenty-one and two to twenty-one and three.

  * * *

  Bone was sitting on a barstool at the corner of the bar cheering on Jamel. The barmaid, whose breasts were too large for her slim frame, set another Bud light in front of Bone as he lit a Newport. One of his partners, Big Sam, was talking his ear off so Bone had to tell him to hold the noise when Friday Night Fights came on ESPN 2. He had a couple of tickets to the fight, but decided to give them to Reynard. Bone wasn’t down with large crowds. He’d rather sit in a small bar and watch sporting events such as the Super Bowl, NBA finals even the World Series or even better on the sixty-inch Sony 3D television in the confines of his west side home.

  As Jamel trotted out of the training room and into the ring, Bone noticed him waving at Lucky and Slim. Bone grinned slightly, knowing Lucky had to be proud of the former young gangster, and in a way, Bone was also. Even though they were rivals who have come together to make a substantial profit, Bone wanted Jamel to succeed. He liked when brothas from Chicago made it to stardom. Kanye, Common, Derrick Rose and Michael Turner just to name a few. So he really wanted to see Jamel make it because he had a love for boxing, and when it did happen, he would be able to say that he knew the fighter.

  The fight had started, an
d the bartender served Bone another cold one. He’d taken two hefty swallows of his brew when Jamel sent his opponent to the ground.

  After the referee finished his count and Jamel was hailed as the winner, Big Sam barked, “Man, that was some bullshit! That’s why I don’t fuck with boxing no mo’! If I had paid pay per view for this shit, I woulda been pissed!”

  Bone said, “It was on ESPN, so how the fuck would you have paid for it, nigga?”

  “Man, I’m just saying. If it ain’t football or basketball, this is the way shit always goes. Anyway, I was hoping the Mexican would’ve knocked that lil’ nigga out!” Big Sam said as he reached into the pretzel basket and ate a few of the free snacks.

  “Just cause we beefed with them niggas for a moment don’t mean you gots to run with the Mexican cat over the brotha,” Bone said as he downed his beer. He wasn’t feeling the bar anymore, so he decided to run over to one of his many hoodrats apartments to blow off a little steam by blowing the young skeezers back out.

  Bone snatched his leather jacket off the stool next to him and slipped it on over his long-sleeve Polo. “I’m ‘bout to dip out this motha,” he said after flipping a twenty on the bar as a tip.

  “Shit, Bone, where you headed? Let’s run and shoot a game of pool.”

  Not feeling like hanging with a hard leg, especially Big Sam’s no pussy getting ass, Bone said, “I’m flying solo tonight, Sam. ’Bout to slide in some good sista pussy.” He slapped Sam hard on the arm stating, “Know what I’m talkin’ ’bout!”

  There was a pause.

  Bone laughed, “I didn’t think so with ya no pussy getting ass.”

  As Bone walked out of the bar, Big Sam downed his E&J and coke. He wiped his mouth and gritted his teeth. “Your ass won’t be saying that shit in a minute, you mark ass nigga,” he muttered. He then yelled, “Bartender, another one, and change that fucking channel.”

  “Change your fucking attitude, you cheap liquor drinking no tippin’ ass nigga,” the woman hissed.

  As Bone crossed the street, the October chill hit him, and he thought about how he should have had his skully to keep his head warm. As he neared his Monte Carlo SS, he noticed the lean to the opposite side. “A fuckin’ flat!” he mumbled.