by K'wan
Placing the chart back in it’s place, the orderly walked around to stand at the head of the bed. He regarded the patient for a while. He looked so peaceful; lying there all bandaged up he looked more like the child he was than the thug the streets had made him. The orderly leaned over and placed a tender kiss on the patient’s forehead and his eyes fluttered open. It took a minute to focus, but when he realized who it was standing over him, his heart was gripped with panic.
“Remember me, muthafucka?” Big Monk sneered down at Omega.
Omega’s free hand flapped around trying to find the call button that was lying on the bed next to him. Before he could snatch it up, Monk grabbed it and ripped it from the wall.
“Now why you wanna go and break up our little party before we’ve had a chance to talk?” Monk removed the oxygen mask from Omega’s face and leaned in to whisper, “The last time I saw you, you were sitting on my couch rolling a blunt, and do you remember what I told you that night?”
Omega remained silent. He just glared hatefully at Big Monk.
“Let me see if I can refresh that memory of yours.” Monk slammed his fist down onto Omega’s stomach. When Omega opened his mouth to scream, Monk clamped his large hand over it. “I told you that if anything happened to my son I was going to hold you personally responsible. I thought we had an understanding and then I hear that somebody is out there trying to kill my one and only child. Did you know about them trying to put my boy to sleep?”
Omega shook his head frantically that he didn’t.
Monk slammed his fist into Omega’s gut again. “Don’t lie to me, boy. I ain’t in the mood. You touch my child?”
“No, Li’l Monk was my brother. I’d never cross him,” Omega croaked.
“Then who did?” Monk pressed him.
Once again Omega went silent.
“Oh, you think I’m fucking around, huh?” He ripped the cord loose from the television and looped it around Omega’s neck. “If you’re willing to die for whoever you’re trying to protect, I’m more than willing to kill you for who I’m trying to protect. Give me a name, muthafucka!” He began strangling him.
Spots danced before Omega’s eyes as he tried to catch his breath. He was trying to call for help, but couldn’t get the words out over his shrinking windpipe. Omega thrashed violently in the bed as Monk choked the life out of him.
“You’re gonna sing, little songbird, or you’re going to die!” Monk said sinisterly. “I want a name!”
“Ramses!” Omega was finally able to croak out.
It had been a long day for Huck. He had been running back and forth all day handling organization business. Had it been twenty years ago he could’ve gone for days without rest, but he was an old man and couldn’t hang like he used to. When he got home he had never been happier to see the small house that he owned in Yonkers.
Huck had quite a bit on his mind, mostly to do with Ramses. He had known him a long time and had never seen him as rattled as he had been over the last couple of weeks. Though he wouldn’t admit it, the business with the Clarks was starting to take a toll on him. Huck had gone to his friend on more than one occasion and suggested that they all sit down and hash out an amicable agreement rather than all-out war, but his advice fell on deaf ears. He was committed to the will of Pharaoh even if it meant sacrificing them all in the name of his ego.
In Huck’s opinion Ramses had been making some very questionable moves, one such was the assassination of Chicken George. The minute Huck heard the story King Tut came back with he knew it was bullshit. George might’ve been guilty of trying to double dip with the Clarks to try to increase his profits, but him having Petey killed made no sense. George sold a moderate amount of cocaine out of his chicken shack to make some extra money, but he had no designs on being a boss. Encroaching on someone else’s territory wasn’t just pointless, it also wasn’t in George’s character. He was a greedy son of a bitch, but he was no killer. In Huck’s gut he knew there was more to the story than King Tut was telling, but Ramses took him at his word and authorized the murder of a man they had known for over twenty years. It made Huck wonder how Ramses would react if someone ever pointed the finger at him for something? Would their friendship be enough for him to see reason, or would the will of Pharaoh dictate his movements?
The slaying of Chicken George troubled Huck, but not as much as what Ramses was trying to do to Li’l Monk. Li’l Monk was a good soldier, and one of the few who Huck could actually say he liked. He was a young man of principles and honor, things that you didn’t see often with his generation, yet Pharaoh had ordered him gunned down like a common dog without any real proof that he was guilty. The sad part was that Ramses was willing to go along with it. When he saw a man who always had a voice in the organization start following orders blindly Huck knew they were approaching the end of an era. The game he had once loved so much was dying in his arms and he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to stomach it.
After setting his alarm system Huck went upstairs to shower and change into his pajamas. He was too wound up to sleep, so he decided to make himself a snack and watch television. He whipped together a sandwich and grabbed a beer before going into the living room and cutting on the TV. King of New York was playing on cable, which was one of his favorite movies, so he decided to settle in and watch it until he got tired.
Huck had just settled into his favorite chair when he realized he felt a breeze on his neck. His living room window was open, which was odd, because Huck never left the house without making sure the windows and doors were locked. He closed the window and settled back in front of the television. When Huck picked up his beer to take a swig, he realized that it was now half empty. He was just trying to figure out what was going on when he heard someone whistling an old tune that he was familiar with, “Camptown Races.” Huck’s first instinct was to go for his gun, but in his heart he knew it was already too late.
“Had I known you were coming by, I’d have made sure to stock something a little heavier than beer,” Huck said, not bothering to take his eyes off the television.
Monk emerged from the shadows, holding his trusty sawed-off. “Been awhile, Huckle Buck.” He called him by his full nickname.
“Not long enough if you ask me.”
“Then it’s a good thing I didn’t ask you,” Monk shot back. He came to stand between Huck and the television. “I take it that you know why I’m here?”
Huck looked from the shotgun to Monk’s hard face. “Indeed I do.”
“You touch my boy, Huck?” Monk asked.
“Nah, Monk. I never touched him. As hard as it might be for you to believe, I was actually quite fond of him. He kinda reminds me of you when you were out there on top of your game,” Huck told him with a smirk.
“Yeah, he’s just like his dad as far as being about his business. He’s also like me when it comes to making bad decisions when it comes to who to trust.” Monk slapped Huck with the butt of the shotgun and knocked him off the chair. “That boy loved Ramses more than he loved me and what’d it get him, Huck? What’d it get him?” he barked emotionally.
“It got him the same thing it will eventually get all of us in the end: fucked when we’ve outlived our usefulness!” Huck spat.
Monk’s eyes flashed with rage. He snatched Huck to his feet, and delivered a vicious backhand across his face, sending him flying into the television. Before Huck could get to his feet, Monk was over him with the shotgun. “Fuck, nigga, I’m gonna kill you!”
Staring down the barrel of the shotgun, Huck eased back. He rested on one elbow, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “Damn, I’m surprised at you, Monk. You gonna come in here and gun down an unarmed man? Shit, the Monk I knew from back in the day had more honor about him than that. He’d at least give a nigga a fighting chance. I guess that pipe done stripped you of your honor as well as your dignity.”
Monk gave Huck a knowing smirk. “I see your game, old timer, and I’m more than willi
ng to play it.” He propped the shotgun against the wall. “Get up and show me something.”
Huck pushed himself up and brushed the broken glass from his pajamas. He rolled his shoulders and took a fighting stance. “You know those fists of yours were legendary in the streets. Some say they’re made of iron.” He danced on the balls of his feet.
“Well now you’ll get to see firsthand before you leave this world,” Monk told him and moved in.
Huck was far more agile than one would’ve thought for a man of his age. He met Monk’s bull charge with a flurry of punches to the face, with most of them connecting. The blows would’ve dropped most men or at least slowed them down, but Monk ate them like dinner mints. Huck saw Monk rear back to strike, and had braced himself but was ill-prepared for the force of the blow that landed on his side. It was like being shot at close range with a gun. Huck had to take a few steps back, trying to catch his breath.
“I guess the pipe ain’t took everything from me,” Monk sneered. He faked low and when Huck instinctively went to protect his midsection, Monk fired a left hook at his face. Huck raised his arm just in time to deflect the blow, but it came with a cost. A smile spread across Monk’s face when he felt the bone in Huck’s forearm snap. Monk laid into Huck hitting him with vicious combinations, trying to break every part of Huck that his fist made contact with. He kept hitting him until Huck crumbled like a sack in the corner, bleeding and gasping for air.
“I see there’s some truth in every legend.” Huck hugged his broken ribs, coughing blood onto his pajamas.
“So it would seem.” Monk picked up his shotgun and went to stand over Huck. He leveled the barrel with Huck’s face, and fingered the trigger.
Huck looked down the barrel of the shotgun with sad eyes. He knew without question that his time on earth had come to an end. “I never laid a hand on that kid!” he declared.
“You might as well have. Then at least you wouldn’t have died for nothing,” Monk told him before blowing Huck’s brains all over the wall.
After dispatching Huck, Monk went into his kitchen and grabbed a garbage bag. He then proceeded to make his way through Huck’s home, taking anything he could find of value. Once he had picked Huck’s place clean he was ready to make his exit. As an afterthought he went back and took the gold watch and pinky ring off Huck’s corpse. “Don’t see too much need to be flossing in hell.” He laughed to himself. With his loot slung over his shoulder like Santa Claus Monk walked out the door whistling a happy tune.
CHAPTER 37
Chucky cruised the streets in his BMW wearing a shit-eating grin. The sun was shining, he had a few dollars in his pocket, and for once one of his plans seemed to be working. Life was indeed good and by the end of the night it promised to get better.
Maggie starting that argument and causing him to come across her chin couldn’t have come at a better time if he planned it. She would no doubt be pissed that he’d slapped her around and be looking for a way to spite him. The most obvious way would be for her to use up all the drugs before Chucky came back, which was all the better, at least for Chucky.
Simply telling Maggie and Rissa that it was the end of the road for their relationship wouldn’t have done. After dragging them up and down the coast, tying them to all his schemes, abruptly ditching them wouldn’t go over well. There was nothing worse than a woman scorned, especially when the woman had enough dirt on you to bury you. Maggie and Rissa had seen and heard too much to leave them dangling in the wind. The two girls and the secrets they carried had to be buried.
In order to accomplish his task Chucky had to reach out to an old fiend who used to cook up for them named Butch. Had Butch not been a degenerate addict he could’ve been a world-renowned chemist. The man had an intimate knowledge of chemicals and could whip up just about anything given the proper materials, including a lethal drug cocktail, which was what Chucky had commissioned him for. He had Butch whip him up a batch of cocaine cut with several things, including beuthanasia, a chemical used to euthanize animals. Maggie and Rissa would never see it coming until it was too late. All Chucky had to do was wait then go back to the apartment and clean up the mess.
Of course Butch was suspicious, but the $5,000 Chucky promised him for the cocktail put all his apprehensions to rest. Just like any other addict his greed trumped his morals. He planned to make the cocktail for Chucky, take his money, and the minute he was gone he intended to double-cross him by calling Ramses to try to collect on the price on Chucky’s head. It was a greasy move on Butch’s part, but he figured it was no greasier than whatever Chucky was planning to do with the poison cocktail. Butch thought he was slick, but Chucky was slicker. Instead of the $5,000 Chucky had promised him, he paid Butch with two bullets to the head. Chucky had learned from his mistake with Karen that murder was best committed with no accomplices.
He had some time to kill before going back to the apartment so he set about to handle some last-minute errands. It had been ages since his car had been cleaned so he took it to the carwash. While they were cleaning his car Chucky went to the store across the street to grab some beer, cigarettes, and a newspaper. He wanted to see what time the football game was the following night so he could plan accordingly. Persia had promised she would have Vaughn’s address for Chucky when she came by that night and he planned to hit Vaughn in his home after the game. From there he and Persia were going to jump on the I-95 and head for Florida. It was as good a place as any to start their new life.
While he was in the store he tried calling Charlie again. He had been trying to reach him since the night before but his cell phone kept going to voicemail. It was unlike Charlie to not answer his phone, especially when Chucky was calling. He was the only friend Charlie had left in the world, if you could call someone like Chucky a friend. Initially he thought that maybe Charlie had a change of heart and had snitched, but quickly pushed the thought out of his mind. Charlie might not have been the shooter, but he had taken Chucky to the apartment, which made him just as guilty and he would’ve been just as dead. It had to be something else. As Chucky stood in the line waiting to pay for his purchases and flipping through the newspaper he realized what that something else was.
Inside the newspaper he found an article about a shooting that had occurred in Harlem, leaving several people dead. Among the listed dead was Charles Parker, aka Charlie. Chucky damn near dropped his beers when he read the name. According to the article, Charlie had been found missing most of his head so he had to be identified by his fingerprints. Charlie’s death was just one more sign of Chucky’s fortune turning. Though he doubted Charlie would ever tell anyone about his involvement in the killing of the old Italian, he planned on killing him anyhow instead of taking chances. With someone having done the job for him Charlie was no longer Chucky’s problem.
Though Charlie being killed solved a problem for Chucky, it also raised a series of questions. Who was the killer? The other corpses at the scene were identified as associates of the Parizzi crime family. It was possible that they were the ones who had murdered Charlie, but if that was the case, who had murdered them? From the brutal way in which they were all killed, Chucky had his suspicions as to who was responsible. If he was right then his little blame game hadn’t worked as well as he’d hoped. For as much as Chucky was tempted to tangle with his old nemesis one last time it wasn’t worth risking. He might’ve survived the first attempt on his life, but it would’ve only been a matter of time before somebody put that rabid dog down. It was just too bad he wouldn’t have the pleasure of doing it himself.
When Chucky figured enough time had elapsed for the cocktail to take effect he started making his way back to the apartment. On the way he stopped at the hardware store to grab some things he’d need: trash bags, gloves, and cleaning supplies. It would’ve probably been easier for him to leave them where they were and find another hideout, but he didn’t have the time or the cash to rent another apartment. Besides he didn’t want to raise suspicions with Persia over
the sudden move.
Chucky was smiling and whistling a happy tune when he turned down the block to his apartment building. The smile quickly faded when he got to his building and found it crawling with police.
It didn’t take Li’l Monk long to find the building Persia had given him the address to. It was a rundown tenement, wedged between two buildings that looked just as shitty. It was a sleazy neighborhood and just the right kind of place for a piece of shit like Chucky to be hiding.
Gaining access to the building was easier than he’d thought it would be. The lobby door was broken. After taking a cautious look around Li’l Monk slipped inside the building. The lobby reeked of urine and there was no elevator, so he would have to walk up the three flights to Chucky’s apartment. As he reached the stairs he noticed two unsavory types loitering at the bottom. They both looked high out of their minds. They watched Li’l Monk as he passed, but he avoided making eye contact with them. He would just be another nameless face to them.
He tiptoed up the broken stairs, stepping over trash and broken paraphernalia. The dilapidated building that Chucky now called home was a testament to how far he had fallen. Didn’t matter; he’d fall even further when Li’l Monk sent him to hell. Kunta wanted to make Chucky confess, but Li’l Monk liked the idea of presenting his head better.
When he reached Chucky’s apartment door, he placed his ear to it and listened. He could hear a television playing inside, but no voices. This gave him pause. Persia had assured Li’l Monk that Chucky would be home that night, but what if she was wrong? He had come too far to turn back so he decided to take a gamble.