by Erica Hilton
“I’ll bring you some clothes in the morning,” said Bacardi.
“Okay. And, Ma, please don’t tell my sisters where I’m at, especially Charlie.”
Bacardi paused. She wanted to ask why, but deep down inside, she felt that she already knew the answer. The revelation came quickly, only after Chanel’s remark. She agreed to keep Chanel’s location a secret.
The following morning, Bacardi packed a few of Chanel’s things, including a few things for herself, panties, bras, toiletries, and some comfortable clothing, and she kissed her husband goodbye and told him to hold the household down until she came back.
“I’m glad you goin’ to be wit’ her, Bernice. She needs you. Make sure you tell her that Daddy loves his baby girl.”
“She knows.”
Butch earnestly asked, “Does she?”
Bacardi drank in the question. It stopped her in her tracks. She and Butch had been terrible parents to Chanel. “Well, Butch, she will know now and that’s all that matters.”
Bacardi decided to put all of her energy into helping her daughter.
Chapter Thirty-Four
God sat parked outside the somewhat dilapidated brownstone in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn and smoked his cigarette. He kept a keen eye on the residence. He hated that it had to come to this, but he didn’t have a choice. His head was on a constant swivel watching his surroundings. It was late at night on a summer day, and there were folks lingering on the block, but he felt that now was the time.
He dowsed his cigarette in the ashtray and once again looked around the block. When he was comfortable it was clear, he stuffed the .45 into his waistband and climbed out of the vehicle. He coolly strolled to the door and rang the bell. He had an envelope filled with cash for Tonya.
There was movement behind the door, the foyer light turned on, and he heard, “Who is it?”
“It’s God, Tonya. Open the door. I got ya money.”
Hearing “money,” she unlocked the door and swung it open. Tonya stood in front of God dressed in a blue housecoat and slippers, indicating that she was about to go to bed. She was an average looking woman in her early forties with her hair styled in a flat twist crown and she was slightly thick in the hips and the chest area.
“You got some money for me?”
He held up the bulky envelope and Tonya’s eyes smiled. It was what she wanted to see.
“Can I come in? Can we talk?” he asked.
After a brief hesitation, she stepped to the side and allowed God into her home and closed the door behind him. God handed her the cash and Tonya quickly went through the hundred-dollar bills.
“We good?” he asked.
Her eyes shot up at him, and they told him yes. She smiled and said, “I deserve this money, you know. I lost my son.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And where were you when Fingers was killed? He trusted you, God. You were like a brother to him,” she fussed.
“I know, Tonya. I’m still fucked-up about it. But best believe I’m out there lookin’ for who did it. They gonna pay for what they did to him.”
It was music to Tonya’s ears. She believed him.
“But look, can I use your bathroom? I gotta take a mean piss,” he said.
She nodded toward the bathroom.
God went down the hallway and shouldered the door open, making sure he didn’t touch anything. Once inside the bathroom, he removed a pair of black latex gloves from his pocket and stretched them on. He glanced at his image in the bathroom mirror, and a twinge of guilt hit him. He was about to do the unthinkable to Fingers’ mother, someone he had known for years. But she left him no choice. She threatened to tell his secret—to go to the cops. God couldn’t afford to have that happen. He couldn’t leave that bitch around as a loose end that could get him locked up or killed.
He breathed out, knowing what had to be done.
He made his way out the bathroom and joined Tonya in the disheveled living room. Tonya had always been an unorganized and cluttered woman. The disorderly ambiance of her home matched her life.
She still had the money in her hand. God moved closer to her. His smile was awkward toward her when they locked eyes. And then, out of the blue, he reached up and wrapped his gloved hands around her slim neck.
Tonya was caught off guard. The envelope fell from her hands as fighting for her life became more important. She desperately grasped at God’s wrists, trying to break free from the powerful grip he had around her neck. He squeezed and squeezed, and she could feel her neck almost breaking and her breathing becoming restricted.
God stared deeply into her eyes as he strangled the life out of her. She gasped and continued to fight him until he squeezed the final breath from her lungs and her body fell limp in his hands. God had watched the life gradually fade from her eyes. He huffed and puffed while doing so.
“You blackmail me, bitch!” he growled.
This murder was personal, so he took his time and savored the moment. He could have killed her quickly with a gun, but God wanted that bitch to have time to process what was going on—that he was going to squeeze the life out of her with his bare hands and he wasn’t going to be fucked with. He was a monster—a killer, a rapist. Pure evil.
He didn’t care that it was Fingers’ moms. What mattered to him the most was survival.
God left her body on the floor. He picked up his money and headed out. Tonya lived alone, so either her body would lay there and rot for days, or maybe someone would find her corpse before the maggots got to it.
God calmly walked to his car and climbed in. Tonya was one problem gone, but there were other problems that he needed to solve. No way would Chanel or anyone else be the end of him. It was about survival—by any means necessary.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Bacardi couldn’t believe her eyes when she first entered the luxury suite in the city. She was impressed. Mateo was in a coma, yet Chanel was still coming up, and she still had people looking out for her. She continued to see Chanel as her golden goose—her lucky child, the one who was coming up somehow. She started to care more and more for the girl, with them having long talks and quality time together while enjoying the suite.
The soaking tub was huge and the marble bathroom was well appointed—and Bacardi made sure to take long, hot baths and sip on some wine. The moment Bacardi arrived, Chanel had hit her off with some cash and Bacardi, like always, stuffed the money into her bra. She never complained about getting money, no matter who it was from.
They ordered room service, took in the picturesque view that the suite had to offer, and although the suite had a pull-out sofa, Chanel wanted her mother to sleep with her in the king size bed. Bacardi didn’t have a problem with that. To her, it was like she was on a vacation—a paid one.
The next morning, mother and daughter had a nice breakfast from room service, and out the blue, Bacardi asked, “Why didn’t you want me to tell your sisters that you were staying here?”
Chanel sat there in silence, wanting to brush off the question. She didn’t want to say the words out loud, but Bacardi continued to push.
“You can talk to me, Chanel. You can talk to me ’bout anything,” she said. “I’m here for you now, and I know I’ve been a terrible mother to you, but I’m tryin’ to make up for it.”
Chanel remained quiet. It was still hard for her to open up about that night.
Bacardi read into her daughter’s concerns and fears, and she was able to put two and two together. “Was it God and Fingers who hurt you?”
Hearing those two names made tears leak from Chanel’s eyes, and a stream moved down her face. She nodded. Yes. She knew it was them. She felt it deep inside her gut. It was so embarrassing and degrading that she couldn’t say the words out loud.
Bacardi’s face changed from gentle to absolute anger and rage. She jumped from the table up
set and exclaimed, “I’m gonna kill that nigga!”
“Ma, please . . .” Chanel faintly uttered.
“This nigga thinks he can rape and assault my youngest daughter and fuck my oldest, and stay inside my home, smiling in my face after what he did to you!”
“Please, don’t mention it,” Chanel pleaded.
But how could Bacardi not mention it? She wasn’t one to let shit go, especially not this. The nigga was a monster—he was two-faced, and she wanted to make him pay.
“He hurt you, I fuckin’ wanna hurt him.”
“I just want to focus on helping Mateo get better right now, that’s all.”
“He needs to fuckin’ pay for this, Chanel.”
“And he will. But not now. I-I just want him gone from the apartment.”
“Oh, he’s gone, all right. I can promise you that, Chanel.”
It was good to hear. But Chanel knew that with God gone, she wasn’t out of the woods yet. She continued to confide in her mother. She was worrying about Mateo, and she worried whether he would still want her if he survived this—would he still want to be with her after finding out it was her fault? She allowed Charlie to come over when he’d forbidden it. She was an emotional wreck and she blamed herself for everything—the shooting, the home invasion, even her own rape.
Bacardi saw that Chanel was truly a wreck and that she would need some counseling in the future. Bacardi was familiar with her daughter’s horror. Having been an ACS employee for several years, she’d done seen it all—the nightmares that some of these young girls go through—rapes, molestation, abuse, abandonment, starvation, some even committed suicide. She was familiar with counseling.
“Until you get through this, Chanel, I’m right here,” she said sincerely.
Chanel smiled.
“You think I could stay here with you till the time’s up? I don’t trust myself not to go after that muthafucka with a knife and butcher that son of a bitch from head to toe—cut off his dick and balls and carve him up like a fuckin’ jack-o’-lantern.”
Bacardi also questioned her parenting skills. How could she raise a daughter that would be okay with this? Who was Charlie? And why would she do this to her own sister?
Day after day, Chanel, and sometimes Bacardi, would go visit Mateo. He had been transferred from ICU and placed in a private room. Chanel would sit by his bedside for hours and take his hand into hers and kiss it. Sometimes she would climb into bed with him and kiss his face, and she would whisper loving things into his ear, play music for him, read to him, and, most important, she would pray for him.
Pyro continued to pay for the hotel room, and he managed their drug empire alone. He knew about the apartment Mateo had bought for them, but he figured that Mateo would want to be the one to take his new bride there if he ever woke up from his coma and fully recovered. It was supposed to be a surprise for Chanel, and he didn’t want to take that away from them.
In the meantime, what he could do for his friend was execute his revenge. It was taking longer to kill God than he had expected. When Pyro would drive to the Glenwood Housing Projects to spy on the apartment, it seemed that the local police were watching God too.
Chapter Thirty-Six
August
You sure these fools got paper like that?” God asked Charlie.
“I’m sure, God. These fools are fuckin’ paid,” Charlie assured him.
God nodded. “A’ight, cuz you know we need this fuckin’ money. We gotta leave town fo’ a while.”
Charlie nodded. “I’m wit’ you, baby, fo’ real. Let’s get this money.”
The two were like fireworks ready to go off—a bit edgy and less prepared than with their previous licks. They were hungry for another payday, and Charlie felt that this was it. The couple was like two crack fiends parked outside the Queens residence. The home invasion had become addictive to them. The money was good, but it was the rush of kicking in doors and committing murders that got them high and excited.
Charlie had found another mark for them to rob. However, doing a lick without Fingers around was an odd feeling.
In a Brooklyn nightclub, Charlie had found some bitch from Queens who was fucking with a grimy Brownsville dude. Charlie noticed the woman’s Hermes bags, the Rolex watch, earrings—the whole nine yards. She just knew they had paper. Charlie had befriended the woman and gotten close to her, close enough to get her address. Now it was action time—mayhem and murder.
God handed Charlie a .45, and he cocked back a 9mm. The home looked average—nothing spectacular about it. There was a Ford Explorer in the driveway and a lawnmower left out in the yard.
Watching the place from across the street in the dark, God and Charlie felt they were ready to go. They saw their opening when another car pulled into the driveway. It was going to be as simple as 1, 2, and 3—push their way into the home and take over shit. They’d done it countless times.
A woman got out of the Chrysler 300. She was dressed nicely and carried a different color Hermes bag. Charlie had her eye on that bag. She ached to snatch it from that bitch’s hand.
“Let’s go!” God said.
God threw the black hoodie over his head, somewhat masking his face. Charlie did the same. Both wearing all black and black latex gloves, they promptly exited the vehicle and darted across the street in the shadows toward the unsuspecting victim. But unbeknownst to them, they were also being watched from a short distance.
The moment the woman stepped foot on her porch and put her key in the door, God and Charlie lunged at her from behind. Charlie thrust the barrel of her gun in the frightened woman’s face and they pushed their way into the home. Before she could even scream, Charlie was all over her, violently pistol whipping her. God hurried through the house and caught the boyfriend completely off guard in the kitchen. He aimed his 9mm at him and told him to get down on his knees. The man complied.
The couple was duct taped and restrained in the kitchen, and God and Charlie started to ransack their house. Charlie immediately went to their bedroom to find those designer Hermes bags that she always saw that bitch with. She came across half a dozen of them in the closet. But Charlie had an eye for fashion and she spotted the difference in stitching and material. They were fake. All of them. And the jewelry was fake too.
“What the fuck!” she cursed.
God and Charlie vehemently went through the entire house, tearing things apart, turning things over, tearing down pictures and cutting up the couches and chairs. Where was the safe? The money? The clothes? There was nothing inside the house worth taking.
God looked fiercely at Charlie and shouted, “You told me they had fuckin’ money!”
“I thought they did!”
All the couple had combined in the house was $97.00. Furious, God marched into the kitchen and went for the boyfriend, angrily pistol whipping him until his face turned bloody and there were several gashes across his forehead. Blood ran from his hair and forehead into his eyes and down his face.
“Where the fuck is everything?” God shouted at the boyfriend.
The boyfriend didn’t respond. He had been badly beaten. He was a bloody mess. God had injured his hand during the attack and cross contaminated his DNA with the victim’s. He wasn’t thinking straight. He wanted cash, jewelry, drugs—anything.
“You fuckin’ heard him!” Charlie shouted at the female.
She viciously assaulted the female while she was restrained. She kicked and pistol whipped the girl. Her face became puffy and swollen, a result of several hard blows to the face.
“They ain’t got shit here worth taking!” God shouted.
“We need to go.”
There was no payday. The couple had been fronting around town like they were ballers. But they weren’t. It was only a gimmick. God felt that they’d left him with no choice. He lifted the barrel of the gun to the man’s head
and fired—Bak!
He coldly walked toward the girlfriend and repeated the same action, firing a bullet into her face at close range. Her body dropped face-down against the kitchen floor.
They hurried out the front door, God with the smoking gun still in his hand, and moved for their car parked across the street. They left the house with less than a hundred dollars, and God didn’t plan on sharing it with Charlie.
Pyro watched the couple leave the Queens home in urgency. He bolted from his car with a .50 Cal Desert Eagle in his hand, a gun strong enough to bring down a charging elephant. The weapon wasn’t meant to leave anyone alive.
Although he’d given Chanel his word not to harm her sister, this was his only opportunity to avenge Mateo’s shooting, and he was going to take it. He charged toward the couple and started to cut loose the cannon in his hands—Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
The gunshots echoed through the streets like thunder, the rounds shattered car windows, and one bullet dangerously grazed God’s ribcage. He stumbled and went down near the car. Charlie immediately ducked to the ground and was dumbfounded by the sudden attack, but she was miraculously spared. She had no idea who was shooting at them or why.
“Oh shit! Oh shit, what the fuck! Shit, I’m fuckin’ hit!” God cried out in a panic. He could feel the warm blood against his skin and his adrenaline pumping.
Charlie provided him some cover when she fired back at Pyro, causing him to take cover behind a parked car. The distraction gave God and her just enough time to thrust themselves into the car they came in. God hurried to start it, and they peeled away from the scene, tires screeching and speeding away from Pyro trying to kill them both.
“Shit!” Pyro shouted. He’d missed his shot.
God felt like he had been hit with a large brick that came at him lightening speed. He was hit, but when Charlie inspected the wound, she told him that all he needed was a few stitches and a maybe a band-aid. The bullet had only grazed him, and the wound wasn’t too deep.
“That muthafucka was from your sister’s man—his friend,” God exclaimed. “She fuckin’ sent him.”