South Beach Cartel

by Nisa Santiago

  While Apple was at Kola’s place checking up on her sister and seeing her daughter, Nick sat there in the dark silence of his apartment going over every move they’d made that night. He and Apple took a huge risk by acting off emotions instead of strategy. Then he had to think about the witnesses that were outside during the shootout, and he worried about Apple and him being captured on surveillance footage.

  The shootout at Junior’s restaurant had made the evening news and it was a front page announcement in nearly every New York City newspaper. Nick had purchased the Daily News and read about the incident that he and Apple created. The bystander who had been shot in the chest was alive, but he was in critical condition. Witness accounts to journalists described the abrupt shootout like being in the wild, wild west.

  “It was crazy,” said one witness. “Bullets just started flying everywhere. It seemed like the shooting wasn’t going to end.”

  Nick paid close attention to witnesses’ accounts to see if there was anything that would connect the shooting back to him and Apple. So far the statements were vague and any surveillance footage in the area was unclear. The police had nothing to go on. They had no suspects.

  Nick felt he and Apple had gotten lucky. Things could have gone terribly wrong for them, and he could have been sitting inside a jail cell right now with serious charges against him.

  He dowsed his cigarette into the ashtray near him and stood up. He couldn’t stop thinking about Scar. He couldn’t take his mind off that salute Scar threw his way with a smirk on his face. Nick hated to be taken as a joke, and now he felt this young thug was laughing at him.

  Two twin 9mm Berettas were on the living room table. They were ready for action, ready to aim directly at Scar’s face and spill his blood. This time, Nick was going to make sure he wouldn’t miss the fool.

  Nick finished his night by smoking another cigarette, pouring himself a shot of Hennessy, and formulating a precise plan to strike. Nick felt he worked best by himself, and this time it would be calculated and spot-on. He loved Apple, but he needed to make moves alone.

  ***

  The following week, Nick avoided Apple and her phone calls. He had been staying at his place until he wrapped up these last murders. He hit the streets with a strong motive on his mind. The first phase was information gathering and surveillance. He remembered the faces of the two shooters in the Yukon who tried to protect Citi and Scar. Their image was embedded into his memory and he knew that it was in his best interest to start from there. He needed to put names to the two faces, but he knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

  The first week he hit every bar, nightclub, strip club, lounge, and hole-in-the-wall searching for faces and information. What he needed was a name—any name—a location, any weak link that would connect him to someone affiliated with Citi or Scar. He passed a few bills around to get certain folks to talk. For that first week, Nick came up with nothing.

  The subsequent week, he met a stripper named Candy, and she had something for him for the right price. He gave her a few hundred dollars and she gave him a private lap dance in one of the backrooms inside the club. Nick gave her Scar and Citi’s names and she was familiar with their organization.

  “Scar comes in here like a big shot. I rarely see him, though. He’s mean and cheap and most of the girls stay far away from him and his kind. But his man Damon is a regular. He gets sloppy drunk and leers like a pervert, but he pays for a private dance when he’s here.”

  “Tell me about him. What’s his story?” Nick asked her.

  “He’s one of Scar’s goons . . . a nasty and dangerous muthafucka.”

  “Where can I find this nigga?”

  “He comes in here most Wednesdays and handles his business,” she said.

  “He fucks you?”

  Candy smirked, “Never that. I got that good pussy that ain’t for sale.”

  Nick raised his eyebrow skeptically. “Really?”

  “I smile. I twerk. I shake my phat ass for these niggas and then go home to my kids.”

  “Anyone else? Anything you can think of?” Nick sounded desperate.

  Candy shook her head. “I told you all I know.”

  Nick went back into his pocket and pulled out his huge wad of bills.

  “I need you to do me a favor,” he said.

  “Go on,” she replied.

  “When you see him again, give me a call. I need to have a chat with him. It’s important.”

  “How important?”

  Nick peeled off several hundred dollars and placed it into her hands. “That important. And there’s more where that came from when I get to see this Damon face-to-face.”

  Money talks and bullshit walks. Nick put five hundred more dollars in her hands and it was the easiest money she ever made. With the promise of more, Candy was willing to help him out. She didn’t care what beef they had, as long as she got paid.

  Nick was about to exit the room, but Candy called out to him with an addendum. She grinned at him and pulled back her thin shirt to expose her perky tits and said, “You know, if I did have sex with clientele I bet you’d be a memorable fuck.”

  Nick smiled. She was cute. He pivoted and exited the room. Apple gave him plenty of pleasure.

  ***

  The call from Candy came three days later.

  “He’s here,” she said to Nick.

  “Keep him busy,” Nick replied.

  Nick moved with a sense of urgency. He picked up a 9mm Berretta and a Glock 19 and marched out the door and to his vehicle dressed in all black, looking like some kind of Navy Seal Operator. He had one thing on his mind—killing. He and Damon needed to talk about some things.

  ***

  The black Ford Fusion traveled north on I-87. While driving, Nick listened to some old school like The Temptations, The Isley Brothers, and Marvin Gaye. The music put him in a calm mood. He sang along and nodded to the music. He felt one step closer to hunting down Scar.

  He traveled thirty miles north of the city and reached a small town near Connecticut. He came to a dark wooded area, where there were no people and no homes, just a small lake, trees, grass, and animals. Nick navigated the Ford through a winding dirt road and came to a stop and killed the ignition. He observed the area and there was nothing around for miles.

  “This should do,” he said to himself.

  He climbed out of the car and went to open the trunk. Damon was inside tied at his wrists and ankles. He had been badly beaten, and his face was bloody and bruised.

  Seeing Nick towering over him, Damon immediately shouted, “We gonna fuck you up, nigga! You know who the fuck I am?”

  Nick stared down at him coldly and put on a pair of black latex gloves.

  Damon squirmed in his restraints, trying to free himself, but Nick had the zip ties extra tight around his wrists, and he’d tied thick rope securely around his ankles. Damon wasn’t going anywhere. Damon glared back. He refused to be intimidated by the stranger that kidnapped him.

  “You don’t scare me, muthafucka!” Damon cursed.

  Nick smirked. “In due time.” He was about to show Damon just how scary he could be.

  Nick had all kinds of tools in the car to assist with the interrogation. He walked away from the trunk and reached into the backseat to grab a few things, including a blowtorch. He then loomed back into Damon’s view, displaying the goodies to his captive.

  “I just want some information from you, that’s all,” Nick said.

  “Fuck you!” Damon cursed.

  “Fine, we’ll do this the easy way. And in case you’re wondering, I got a lot of time on my hands, and the only living things out here that will hear you scream are the birds.”

  Nick decided to start with the knife and the ice pick. He leaned closer to Damon and started with his bare feet—this piggy went snap, and so did the next.

&
nbsp; “Aaaaaaaaaaah,” Damon hollered. And then he hollered some more and some more.

  Slowly but surely, Nick was deforming Damon’s body from his feet, to his legs, to his knees. Then he reached his genitals, using the ice pick to puncture his balls and the blowtorch to sizzle the skin. It was agonizing pain, and Damon screamed like a banshee. There was the smell, but Nick was tolerant to it.

  “You still a tough goon, nigga? Huh, Damon?” he mocked. “Ya’ll still think a nigga weak? I’m a fuckin’ joke? Huh, nigga!”

  With his genitals burnt and grossly mangled, along with the lower half of him, Damon begged for death. He had no idea who this man was at all or why he was being targeted. “Please . . .” he panted. “Please . . . stop,” as drool slid down his chin to his neck.

  Damon’s face was awash with tears and slobber as he screamed out in anguish and pain. How many times had he been the aggressor? Not so long ago, he’d participated in murdering one of his closest friends, Wise.

  Nick indicated that he was going to start with his face next—kill him really slowly and make him suffer. Damon wanted to die. He gave up Pacho. He gave up Scar and Citi. Nick had his way of making the tough thug talk.

  Nick spent an hour in the woods dismembering Damon’s body and dumping pieces of him into the lake, and then driving a few miles away and burying what was left of him. He wanted to make the fucker disappear.

  One down, three to go. Pacho, Scar, and then that bitch Citi.

  16

  Cartier released a deep sigh as she took a seat inside the break room after her shift. She had been on her feet all day, and it felt like she had been stepping barefoot on hot coals. What she yearned for was a massage. Working at the Starbucks in the city was starting to take its toll on her. The business was packed every day with non-stop foot traffic—sometimes the place seemed more packed than a nightclub. Those white folks loved their Starbucks.

  It was almost dusk, and as no surprise, the sky was gray and overcast with looming rain. It was predictable Seattle weather, and Cartier wasn’t looking forward to it, especially on a bicycle. But she had no other choices.

  As Cartier was preparing to change clothes and leave, her coworker Cindy came into the break room carrying the tip jar. It was halfway filled. She smiled at Cartier and said, “It’s about that time. Let’s see how much these cheap bastards left us in tips.”

  Cartier managed a tired smile. Her friend spilled the money from the jar onto a nearby table, and from there, the two started to split up the cash. In total, there was $55. Cartier took her half, which was $27 in tips for her.

  “Something is better than nothing, right?” Cindy said.

  “I guess,” she replied nonchalantly.

  “So, what are you doing tonight?”

  “I’m going home and relax . . . get some needed sleep,” said Cartier.

  “Why don’t you come and hang out with us tonight? It’ll be fun. And you might even meet some cute guys.”

  “I’ll take a rain check on that, Cindy. The only cute thing that’s going to have my attention tonight is my bed.”

  Cindy chuckled. “Okay, but you’re missing out, girl.”

  Cartier simply smiled and continued to change her clothes. She kept things simple with her coworkers, most of whom were white. They walked around work young and carefree with their upbeat attitudes and their privileged lives. Working at Starbucks was the only thing Cartier had in common with them. She came from a different world than theirs. She had seen things they couldn’t imagine—shit that would give the average person nightmares for life. To them, she was the quiet girl who minded her business and rarely went out. There were a handful of occasions when Cartier let her hair down, but in the back of her mind she kept her guard up, knowing her past could always catch up to her.

  Cartier grabbed her mountain bike and trekked outside. Her bike was a far cry from the luxury vehicles she was used to. If her enemies could see her now, riding a bicycle to and from a mediocre job like Starbucks, they would gloat at her painful fall from grace. They might even let her live so she could continue to suffer in her new life. For many, death would be better than living a life like Cartier’s.

  She tossed her backpack over her shoulders and straddled the bike, and she started to pedal home. But then her cell phone rang. Seeing Edward’s name on the caller ID made her sigh with distress. She reluctantly answered.

  “What?”

  “Hey, can you do me a favor and pick up some dinner tonight? I’m swamped at work, but I promise I’ll pay you back,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes but said, “Okay, I can do that.”

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  Of course, he did. But there went her tip money. Things were awkward between her and Edward—almost like a love-hate relationship, more hate than love. Edward gave her a place to stay, and she would always be thankful for that, but then again, he was mostly a grade-A asshole who wanted to control her life when she wasn’t his to control.

  She arrived home with Chinese food just in time before the downpour started outside. Cartier kicked off her boots near the door, dropped the food on the table, and left a trail of clothes from the door to her bedroom. All she wanted to do was take a shower, eat, lay around in her bedroom, and smoke weed and chill.

  Edward arrived at the apartment an hour and a half after Cartier in a stank mood. He’d gotten caught in the rainstorm, not to mention that his girlfriend Jill was pressuring him to kick Cartier out. Jill didn’t want Cartier gone because she wanted to move in, but because she believed there was something more between the two of them besides just being roomies.

  Walking through the front door, he immediately saw Cartier’s things spewed all over the place. First he tripped over her rain boots at the door, which caused him to start griping. Her messiness inside his apartment immediately added to his foul mood.

  After the rain boots by the door, he saw the dishes in the sink and the mess she’d left from her breakfast. Then he saw her backpack on his sofa, and she left behind what black females called their hair in a doobie wrap with bobby pins. Edward pursed his lips tighter. The leftover Chinese food on the kitchen table sent him over the edge. He charged down the hallway and abruptly barged into Cartier’s bedroom with her barely dressed.

  “Didn’t I tell you that I don’t eat that shit! I hate Chinese food. Yet, you keep bringing home pork fried rice and chicken wings.”

  “Nigga, are you stupid? Don’t be charging in my room beefing about no Chinese food,” she hollered, cutting her eyes at Edward.

  She donned a robe, marched right by him with an attitude, and went into the kitchen to get another helping. Edward was right behind her, yapping at her.

  She spun toward him. “Eat spit, your fuckin’ fingers, or my asshole, but don’t kid yaself into thinkin’ that I give a fuck!” Calmly, she added more chicken wings and rice to her plate. “I’m not in the mood for ya shit tonight.”

  “You fuckin’ disgust me,” he spat. “I’ve tried to class your ghetto ass up, but you’re nothing but a damn hood rat!”

  Hood rat?

  Cartier continued to be sardonic toward him by smacking on her chicken wings, adding more hot sauce to her food, and licking her fingers repetitively out of spite. “Watch ya mouth, fool.”

  “Would it have killed you to bring home some sushi rolls and a bottle of red wine?” he complained.

  Cartier continued to ignore him and continued to be spiteful by enjoying her Chinese food in front of his face and subsequently adding more hot sauce.

  Edward continued to rant by saying, “Look at this place! You hardly keep it clean anymore. We barely fuck, you don’t suck my dick, and now I can’t get a decent meal in my own damn place.”

  She laughed at his rant. “If you want some pussy, then go fuck that white bitch Jill. Go put your little dick in that fuckin’ snowflake.”

 
There was a shocked pause from him. Edward had no clue that she knew about Jill. But he retorted with, “Maybe I will.”

  Cartier shrugged at his comment.

  He suddenly lost it and got loud and belligerent with her. “You know what? Fuck you, you ghetto hood rat!”

  Cartier was ready to knock him out if he even dared to put his hands on her. She continued to eat her wings and made herself another plate, taking the last of the wings and rice. It was a delight seeing Edward upset, because she didn’t give a fuck. She was marching by him when her cell phone rang.

  “What’s up? Who this?” Cartier answered.

  “Bitch, this is Apple.”

  “Apple! Hey, girl. What’s good?”

  “You monkey looking parasite,” Cartier heard Edward shout in the background. He was irritated that he couldn’t get under her skin. “Hang up the got-damn phone when I’m talking to you!”

  “Hold on, Apple. Don’t hang up. This won’t take but a minute,” she said.

  Cartier coolly placed her cell phone on the kitchen counter, picked up a half empty Hennessy bottle, and swiftly pivoted, bashing Edward upside his head with it. It shattered to pieces and brown juice went spilling all over him.

  “Ouch!” he hollered as he stumbled.

  Little did he know, that bottle upside his head was only the beginning. Next came the skillet across his head, and then Cartier went berserk. Her fists went crashing into him harder than Mike Tyson’s in the ring, followed by kicks to his side as he cowered in the corner, bleeding from his face and forehead.

  “Please, stop! Ouch, ouch! Aaaah! Please!” he cried out.

  “I told you, you clown-ass muthafucka, I’m not the one to fuck wit’. I’m tired of your shit!” she shouted.

  “Aaaah! Please!”

  When he tried to get up, she continued to pound on him. “Sit ya bitch ass down!”

  He continued to cower in the corner with his loud cries. This was a side of Cartier that he’d never seen before. It scared him. She’d overpowered him and he thought that she was going to beat him to death.