by Marcus Weber
“Uh . . . stash account? Didn’t I teach you that a woman, especially a kept woman, always needs to have her own secret bank account for this same reason? I thought I preached this so much you could recite the exact words in your sleep, Paige. It’s called rainy day money . . . get mad money . . . get out money . . . whatever you want to call it, it is important, Paige. I don’t want you to struggle. Ever,” Lillian said, getting slightly choked up.
Paige knew that her mother’s background was the reason she had hammered home these lessons. Although Lillian had grown up wealthy, when her father committed suicide, the following revelation of bad investments and mounds of debt had left Lillian’s mother in dire financial straits. One of her father’s life insurance policies had lapsed, and the one policy that was good had a limited amount of cash back and was nothing compared to the wealth they were used to. This left Lillian’s mother devastated and off to find another wealthy husband. But, when Lillian caught the eye of Gladstone Tillary, of the well-to-do Tillary family, Lillian’s mother aggressively encouraged her to accept a date invitation from the future senator.
Lillian thought that the Tillary heir was extremely good looking but too old for her. Feelings aside, Lillian let Gladstone pursue her, and she entertained him. Lillian would’ve done anything to be in her mother’s good graces, knowing and lamenting over the fact that she was her least favorite because of her complexion. Lillian went on that date, and it didn’t take long for Gladstone to sweep her off of her feet. After they married, she gave birth to Paige. Paige, with her fair skin, gray eyes, and natural blond hair, was the apple of Lillian’s mother’s eye. She would do anything for Paige. Anything accept treat Lillian with dignity and love.
“So, the story will be that you’re feeling sick . . . maybe even pregnant . . . and had to leave,” Lillian whispered. “I don’t need these old bags knowing that you didn’t contribute. In fact, I’ll write a check and pretend it was from you.”
Paige sucked her teeth and shook her head. “Okay, mother. I guess we’re just going to continue faking it through life, huh?”
“Paige, life is a series of fake-it-til-you-make-it episodes. You should know this by now. Your husband is the pro.”
“Goodbye, mother,” Paige groaned, hitting the bathroom doors so hard that her palms stung.
Chapter 5
In the Trenches
Antonio had been shown all of Emil’s legal business operations: the imported cars, the shipment company, and the overseas markets, but he had yet to be introduced to the part of the business that could make him the fast cash he needed. Antonio had heard that his father made mounds of cash in the streets, but Hayden had been taking baby steps showing him the ropes. Antonio had spent his days and nights learning from Hayden—his smooth, well-dressed, lady-catching brother.
“So, Pop wanted me to talk to you about something,” Hayden said, breaking the silence inside of his Mercedes S500.
Antonio looked over at him. “Yeah, whatever you need to say. I’m all ears.”
“In order for you to move to the next step in this thing . . . there was something Pop wanted,” Hayden said, apprehension in his voice.
“Anything. I already told all of y’all that I’m all about the family.”
“That nigga that took you for your paper. Your so-called friend—” Hayden started.
“Rich?”
“Yeah, that rotten-ass nigga. He needs to be dealt with.”
Antonio raised his eyebrows. “Dealt with? I don’t even know where he ran off to. But, that’s him. Over the years, we fall out, and he comes back. He usually makes it good,” Antonio said assuredly. “He’s basically harmless.”
“Nah. That’s the point. We need proof you’re down for the other side of this business. He has to be taken care of.”
Antonio swallowed hard. “Taken care of?”
“Exactly. Taken care of. We are Cartwrights, and we don’t let no fuck niggas cross us and get away with it. Pop wants that message sent loud and clear.”
Antonio had never heard Hayden speak like this. He was used to the street persona from Jackson, but this was the first time Hayden had showed anything but his refined businessman side. Antonio knew he couldn’t back down. His family depended on him.
“Yeah, aight. It’s whatever.”
“Good. So, let’s go,” Hayden said, whipping his car around and making such a reckless U-turn that Antonio had to brace himself.
* * *
Antonio reluctantly followed Hayden through a maze of doors inside of the nondescript, pale brick building they’d pulled into. He didn’t want to seem like a scared bitch, so he hadn’t asked any questions, although his shaky legs and pounding heart threatened to betray him. To say Antonio felt faint was an understatement. The sound of his and Hayden’s hard-bottom dress shoes ringing off against the laid concrete floors did nothing to ease Antonio’s nerves. Finally, they approached a door, and Antonio froze. The familiar voice had stopped him as if he had a pause button on his back.
“Yo! I don’t know you niggas! I ain’t do shit to you motherfuckers!” Rich barked.
Hayden nodded at Antonio and let him enter the room first. Antonio moved like his feet had suddenly turned into cinder blocks.
“Tony! Yo! What the fuck, man?” Rich screamed, fighting against the heavy nautical rope that bound him to the cold steel chair. “Help me, man! Who the fuck are these people? What the—” Rich screamed, his face turning dark red with a mixture of rage and terror. A crushing blow to his face shut him up for a few seconds. Blood mixed with snot and tears made a mess all over his face. His legs trembled, and his teeth chattered.
Antonio flinched, and his eyes went wide. He blinked rapidly as Jackson came into focus.
“This yo’ nigga, right?” Jackson growled. He lodged another balled-fist blow to the left side of Rich’s face.
Antonio balled his toes in his shoes, trying his best not to show his discomfort.
“You ready to be a part of this family for real, for real, nigga?” Jackson gritted, getting in Antonio’s face.
“C’mon man, just tell—tell me . . . wha . . . what this is about. Tony . . . help me,” Rich stuttered, raspy.
“Hah, nigga! God can’t even help you right now. Traitor-ass nigga,” Jackson chortled as he circled Rich like a flock of buzzards over dead meat, ready to destroy. “Nigga, God, your mama, your ex-best friend.... Can’t nobody help you.”
“What the fuck, Tony? I don’t know what’s going on!” Rich cried, his chin falling to his chest. He was exhausted. It had been eight hours since he’d been snatched from one of his side chicks’ house in Richmond in the middle of the night. He had endured Jackson’s abuse for four hours at this point.
Jackson stepped over and bent down in Rich’s face. “Nigga, you know what’s going on. You stole from my brother, and you ain’t know he was a Cartwright. You wrote your own death warrant,” Jackson spat, the rubies and diamonds in his huge gold chain glinting at Rich like eyes of the devil.
Jackson was definitely the screw loose in the Cartwright family. Antonio’s stomach churned at the thought of how many times he’d probably done something like this to their enemies.
“I . . . I . . . swear.... I don’t—” Rich stammered through tears.
“Shut the fuck up!” Jackson boomed, stomping on Rich’s bare feet with his Timberland boots. Everyone in the room cringed at the sound of the bones in Rich’s toes cracking.
“Agh!” Rich howled, his words tumbling back down his throat like hard marbles.
“A’ight, a’ight, Jax.” Antonio stepped between his brother and his battered friend.
“You ain’t doing shit, and the nigga stole from you. I could give a fuck less about your broke ass, but my father wanted to send a message to everyone in the world that you’re his,” Jackson hissed, scowling at Antonio with so much disdain it was physically palpable.
“I’ll take it from here,” Antonio replied, his jaw tense.
“Well, ha
ndle it then,” Jackson sneered, throwing his hands up. “Let us all see what the fuck you’re made of, basketball boy.”
Antonio had fire flashing in his eyes as he had a stare off with his brother. His nostrils flared as he prepared himself for what he knew he would have to do. He told himself that Rich had done him dirty and this was what the fuck he deserved. Antonio looked over at Hayden, and he nodded. Antonio stepped closer to his battered friend.
“Yo, Rich. I’m only going to ask you once. Where is the money? My money and all the money you took from the investors,” Antonio said in a low, gruff voice that told the story of the conflict raging inside of him. “You ain’t got no more chances.”
Rich shook his head from left to right. He sobbed loudly, and his naked body quaked so hard it vibrated the chair.
Antonio sighed. He knew what this meant. He silently begged Rich to just answer the fucking question.
“The money, Rich?” Antonio’s voice cracked, emotion evident in his words.
Hayden stepped over and handed Antonio a silver, long nose .45 Desert Eagle.
“Rich,” Antonio rasped, fighting back tears. Suddenly he couldn’t help but think back to their childhood.
* * *
Antonio and Rich had met as little kids in grade school. They were total opposites. It was probably why their friendship worked from day one. Rich was handsome, gregarious and always had other kids flocking around him, even at that young age. He was always that cool, smooth-dressing popular kid. Everybody liked him, and he always had the best of everything—clothes, sneakers, girls, clout. Antonio became endeared to Rich after he saved Antonio from the worst ass whooping of his life. After that, they became inseparable, like real blood brothers.
Antonio could never forget the day. It was sweltering hot outside, thanks to the heat wave that had hit the Bronx. There was an older dude everyone called Biggie, and he fucked kids up every day. He was the biggest bully in the state of New York, they were sure. He towered over all the kids and even some of the teachers. He was the true meaning of menace to society.
That particular day, Antonio had gotten into the sights of Biggie. Rich had walked up and found Biggie and his bully crew surrounding Antonio. They had taken Antonio’s sneakers and his book bag. One kid had pushed Antonio to the ground, and Biggie had been moving in for the kill with this fake brass knuckles that he’d made out of thick, silver electrical tape. Antonio had his arm up, cowering and ready to die at Biggie’s hands, when suddenly, Rich came out of nowhere and broke through the crowd that had formed to see Antonio’s worst nightmare come true.
“Why the fuck y’all don’t mess with dudes your own age and size?” Rich boldly stepped up and said in Biggie’s face.
Antonio’s eyes stretched so wide they ached at the edges. His mouth had hung open, too. Rich had stepped up like he was a grown man, and he didn’t look scared at all. Biggie had immediately turned his sights to Rich.
“I know this shitty-face fuck nigga ain’t talkin’ to me,” Biggie had growled, preparing his knuckles to meet Rich’s face. But when Biggie moved in on Rich, Rich pulled his arm from behind his back and WHAM! Rich slammed a huge, jagged-edged rock into Biggie’s head. Biggie had dropped in less than a second, his fat stomach and nasty butt crack exposed to the crowd.
“Who the fuck else wants to step up to get beat down?” Rich had yelled at the crowd. Antonio’s shock hadn’t faded from his face, but inside, he felt proud of Rich. Of course, none of the other bullies and cowards in Biggie’s group stepped up to Rich. In fact, they had scattered like roaches when the lights come on. It had been clear to Rich and Antonio that none of them were shit without their fat, ugly bully of a leader.
Antonio had watched in shock and admiration as Rich walked over to him, extended his hand, and helped Antonio get up off the ground. Rich had a lot of friends, but he had suddenly become Antonio’s most important friend.
Kids didn’t tease Antonio anymore about being so lanky and skinny. The relentless names like, “starving African,” “stick man,” and “beanpole,” suddenly just stopped after Rich accepted Antonio as his closest friend. Until then, Antonio had always had desperately low self-esteem, but being aligned with Rich back then had changed all of that.
* * *
“Yo! You taking care of this thief-ass nigga or what?” Jackson barked, snapping Antonio back to reality. “It’s like you in a fucking daze and shit.” Jackson turned to Hayden. “I knew this nigga wasn’t no real Cartwright.”
Antonio gripped the gun so tight now the veins in his wrist throbbed.
“I said where is the money?”
“I . . . I . . .” Rich stammered.
Antonio closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
“Agh!” Rich squealed.
Antonio’s head spun, and his hands shook like crazy.
“Where’s my money?” he growled, his stomach in knots.
“Tone . . . man . . . it . . . it’ s me,” Rich begged, his words coming out in short puffs.
“You soft. This nigga is playing you,” Jackson egged on. “He stole your whole life savings. Left your ass for dead where you can’t even feed your bougie-ass wife. And you know where I found this nigga? Laid up in luxury with two bitches . . . one sucking his dick and the other one playing with his asshole. But you being Mr. Softee right now. I would’ve been done off this nigga. No false shots,” Jackson pressed cruelly.
Another shot rang out. This time, blood splashed back, and Antonio tasted it in the back of his throat. He stumbled backward, the contents of his guts threatening to spew out of his mouth. He examined the mess in front of him. Antonio couldn’t take it anymore. The smell and taste of his friend’s blood, the idea that he might never see Rich again, and the idea of what he’d done, period. It was all too much. Antonio dropped the gun, turned around, bent over at the waist, and threw up.
Raucous laughter erupted behind him. “You aight?” Jackson asked through his laughter. “This shit is hilarious to me.”
Hayden stepped over to Antonio and took the gun from him. “That’s enough, Jax. Be easy.”
Jackson spun around, pulled his gun out, smiled evilly, and leveled it at Rich’s head. One last shot ended it.
Antonio dropped to his knees and gagged some more. He couldn’t think straight. What the hell had he gotten into with this family?
“Thank me later, nigga,” Jackson snarled next to Antonio’s ear.
Unfazed, Hayden moved close to Antonio so that he could whisper in his ear. “You did fine. The first time is never easy, but trust me, it gets easier each time,” Hayden said in an unsettlingly calm voice that sent chills down Antonio’s spine.
* * *
Emil Cartwright stood behind a double-sided mirror watching his sons do what they needed to do. Emil hadn’t taken his eyes off of Antonio—the one son he saw something in that he didn’t see in the sons he had actually raised all of their lives. Emil took great satisfaction in watching Antonio take revenge on a man who had crossed him, even if the man was his friend. It took a big man to leverage revenge on a man you once considered as close as a brother. Emil knew that Antonio wasn’t struggling because of the revenge; instead, he was struggling against the monster he knew lived inside of him and was afraid to unleash. Emil cracked a little smile. He knew this act of violence, once it really settled in to Antonio’s psyche, would thrust him all the way into the business. Their real business.
“Yo, Pop.” Jackson’s loud voice interrupted Emil’s deep thought. Something Emil hated. He cringed every time he had to deal with Jackson, his black stain son. Emil turned around slowly and mean-mugged Jackson. Emil wasn’t happy with how his son had carried on.
“You see how your son bitched up? Crying and shit when that fuck nigga had stolen from him and shit,” Jackson said, thinking he was impressing his father. “I’m telling you, that dude ain’t cut out for this business. He’s a square. He better go back and try to pick up that round rock and find a new team. Nigga ain’t hard enough
. He ain’t got that extra thing. He soft as fuck . . .”
Emil held up his left hand, halting Jackson’s incessant blabbering. He squinted his eyes and flexed his jaw. Jackson could tell his father was trying to hold onto his patience.
“What about what we discussed?” Emil asked, his jaw going stiff and his eyebrows dipping on his face.
Jackson could tell his father was in business mode. He quickly cut his losses and got down to the business at hand.
“It’s just like I told you. That motherfucker Max King made a connection in Mexico that directly violated the agreement you had with him. I told you, the streets are talking, and the Cartwrights are looking weak these days. King made some connects and stepped directly on your toes. Matter of fact, he stomped on your toes,” Jackson said. He walked closer to Emil, “We need to make a move sooner rather than later, or we gon’ be losing millions per week.”
Emil nodded. Jackson was a hothead, but he was Emil’s best and most reliable street soldier. Emil loosened his tie and flexed his neck. Suddenly his expensive Armani suit and custom-tailored dress shirt felt too small and too scratchy against his skin. Just hearing the name Max King had that effect on him.
Max King was the quintessential old school black gangster. For decades before Emil emerged, Max had reigned over the drug, gambling, and escort rackets in New York. Max never liked Emil, and he once told Emil to his face that he viewed him as a threat. Emil was younger back then. It was in the early days when he was just a youngin’ coming up in the game. Over the years, Max went out of his way to stop Emil from gaining leverage in the game, including: going head-to-head with Emil over territory, poisoning other gangsters against Emil, and using some powerful political connections to bring case after case against Emil. Max had been unsuccessful over and over again at taking Emil down. Despite Max’s best efforts, Emil’s businesses were booming on the legal and illegal sides. But, here Max was again, fucking with Emil’s life.
“I’m telling you, Pop. You don’t stop that motherfucker now, it’s never,” Jackson continued, circling around his father. Emil studied his other sons through the glass, his nostrils flaring.