The vision of his friend, a grown man, touching and fucking his daughter, made his blood boil. And the abortion made him seethe more. He treated Lucky, a fuckin’ West, like a side-bitch. And right under his nose! Whistler was riding shotgun with Scott, looking him in the eye while he was dicking down his baby girl. That was a line that should never be crossed, an unspoken rule. If Scott couldn’t pick up on his daughter being exploited; if he had missed all the lingering looks, passing glances, any signs of affection, then what else had he missed? Did Whistler have his children murdered?
“He was like a father-figure to me, Daddy,” Lucky continued.
“A father-figure?” he shouted. “I’m your father, not that muthafucka! He was an uncle to you. He was supposed to be family!” Once again, Scott lost his temper, and he disrupted her lavish apartment with chaos, breaking and smashing more items. “I trusted him!” he roared. “I trusted that nigga with my family, with our lives and this is how he repays me? He abuses and rapes my little girl.”
Lucky smirked. She had to get Whistler out of her system, and the only way she saw it happening was to see him dead. The cat-and-mouse relationship they had wasn’t healthy for her. He was a risk to her and her family. She went back to her theory about how someone was murdering their family and how Whistler had put it all together at their last meeting. He had to know something. The night she was arrested, and she spoke to that cop, he’d planted something into her thinking, and it awakened her.
Lucky thought about numerous theories. Was Whistler a snitch and working with the police? Or was he working with the feds? Was there some conspiracy against her family? Who could they trust? They were a powerful dynasty with lots of money, power, and influence. And there were a lot of enemies everywhere that wanted to see her family fall and suffer, for many reasons. Could someone have corrupted and influenced Whistler to go against the man he had grown up with?
One thing bothered Scott. If Whistler was behind the conspiracy against his family, then why try to convince them it wasn’t Deuce? Why not keep them in the dark? Why not make everyone believe that it was Deuce behind it all?
There was also a small voice in Scott’s mind that warned him to be mindful of his daughter. She was Layla’s daughter too, and there was no telling what his wife had planted in her head. She was a female, and females were emotional. Lucky had something to gain by telling him all this. She too was a woman scorned. And Scott was no fool. Some of it just wasn’t adding up. It wasn’t just about a breakup with Whistler; there had to be more to the story. But there was time to figure it out later. What mattered now was Whistler had been fucking his daughter for over two years. He had violated the code. Since when was it okay to fuck your friend’s daughter?
That night, father and daughter talked intensely. Lucky mentioned the riddle to him. It sounded foolish—his children being killed off in the same fashion as the old-school gangsters a long time ago. But, if true, who would be next? Lucky had done her homework. Lucky Luciano had gotten locked up, and he died of natural causes in the ’60s. She figured she was safe for now. Meyer Lansky lived to a ripe old age.
“It would be Bugsy,” Lucky said. “He would be next on the hit list.”
Scott frowned. He could take nothing for granted. Just because it sounded foolish didn’t mean the threat wasn’t real. He had to take everything seriously. He had already lost too much. If what Lucky was saying was true, then they needed to call Bugsy and warn him right away.
22
A cigarette and a glass of vodka was how Whistler started his morning. Belvedere was breakfast, and the cigarette was to cool his nerves. He was alone, and things were quiet. The bright sun percolated through the bedroom window, indicating it would be another beautiful day. His young female company long gone, he sat at the edge of his bed brooding about his forthcoming meeting with Scott. He felt tense inside. He couldn’t stop thinking about Lucky, knowing how vindictive she could be. He’d fucked up and put his dick into the wrong bitch. He knew the problem with her would not go away so quickly. There were plenty of girls over the years, some of whom he and Scott shared sexually. No girl was off limits, except for family. Whistler didn’t have kids, but Scott had daughters. He should have known better than to cross that line. But Lucky had seduced him first, and he took the bait, unable to resist the sixteen-year-old beauty. It wasn’t supposed to happen, their relationship, but it came about unexpectedly.
The first night with Lucky was supposed to be a one-time thing. It happened in the back seat of Whistler’s SUV.
***
It was a warm, spring evening with light rain cascading over the city. He was chauffeuring Lucky from school to home. Scott was out of town on business, and Layla was handling new business in Florida. Whistler had become a surrogate father to Lucky, but Lucky wanted a lot more from him.
First, the conversation between them was harmless. Lucky fussed about her parents’ absence, and she talked about the boys in her school, complaining she wasn’t interested in them because they were young and immature. “I want a man like you, Whistler,” she said.
Whistler ignored the remark. He stared out the windshield and focused on the road and taking her home. Traffic on the East Side was a nightmare. It was after six in the evening, and 3rd Avenue traffic was absolutely gridlocked. He had no choice but to wait it out and listen to Lucky talk.
Lucky’s plaid miniskirt didn’t cover up enough of her thighs. Her black hair was in two long pigtails, and the schoolgirl shirt she wore was tight around her upper body, making her tits protrude from her chest.
“I know you be lookin’ at me, Whistler,” Lucky said to him. “It’s okay. I look at you all the time. I think you’re fine.” She leaned in closer to him and placed her hand on his leg.
Whistler glanced at her. He remained nonchalant. Lucky’s touch traveled farther to his crotch. He knew he should have stopped her then, but lust was crippling him.
“How big is it?” she asked.
He didn’t reply. Once again, he felt silence was his best weapon against temptation.
“I know you kill people for my father. How many people did you kill?” she asked. “The type of man I want is a nigga like you—one that can protect me and fuck me right at the same time.”
He remained silent.
She had naturally positioned her left hand between his thighs and reached for the imprint of his dick through his pants. She squeezed it, and he didn’t resist.
“Damn! It feels like you got a big dick, Whistler. Can I see it?” She massaged his member through his pants and could feel him becoming hard through the fabric. “I don’t kiss and tell. In fact, if you were to fuck me right now, no one would ever know, not even my father.”
The traffic slowed to a snail’s pace on the Upper East Side, and the raindrops fell increasingly against the windshield with the wipers keeping his vision clear.
“Can I suck it?” she asked. “I know you like young pussy, Whistler. Am I not young enough for you? You don’t think my pussy is tight and wet enough for you?”
“You’re family,” he said.
Lucky chuckled at the comment. “Family. Nigga, please! You’re my father’s right-hand nigga in the drug game, and you kill people for him. Don’t act like we blood. Nigga, I just want some dick tonight. After that, you can go your way, and I’ll go mine.”
Lucky was a peculiar and very smart girl. She wasn’t a stranger to her father’s illegal street businesses, and she knew about her twin brothers’ roles in the organization. She’d clarified to her father that she wanted in.
She continued to massage Whistler’s dick through his pants, working her fingers a certain way between his legs and stimulating him into submission. She undid his zipper and removed his dick from his pants. He didn’t resist—there was no fight, but there was relenting from Whistler’s end as her touch excited him.
“Damn! You definitely are all
man,” she said. His dick was black, long, and full in her manicured hand. She tilted further into his lap and neared her full lips closer to the hard erection she’d created.
Lucky gave Whistler a blowjob while they were stuck in heavy midtown traffic in the pouring rain. Her glossy, sweet lips pressed around his big dick, causing his breathing to become ragged, and her head bobbed up and down in his lap as the downpour splashed against the car. She knew how to deep-throat too, another bonus that crippled him.
“I want you to fuck me,” she said, coming up for air.
He wanted to be against it. His dick in her mouth was already immoral and could kill him. But her seduction was intense, and curiosity about what her pussy would feel like was the victor over his morals.
So Whistler found a parking garage a few blocks south, steered the SUV into the garage and out of the rain, and nestled the vehicle between two cars, among dozens of others. They situated themselves in the backseat. His jeans hung around his ankles, and Lucky’s panties came down, her miniskirt rose up, and she slowly mounted his erection. The penetration was divine, and it was supposed to happen only once between them.
But it happened again a week later—same vehicle, different location. The sex was stupefying. And then came a third time and a fourth, until they couldn’t get enough of each other. Before he knew it, Whistler was caught up. It was risky, but the reward was fucking phenomenal.
Two years later, his relationship with Lucky found him sitting on his bed with a lot to think about. He was uneasy and felt himself becoming unhinged.
***
Whistler’s cell phone rang around nine, and he reached for it. It was Scott calling him.
He answered. “Hello.”
“Change of location, Whistler,” Scott said.
“Where are we meeting at?”
“Meet me at the warehouse in one hour. You know which one I’m talking about.”
“Why the change-up suddenly?” Whistler asked, feeling apprehensive.
“We got a beat on Deuce, and we need to react quickly on this nigga.”
“And that thing I needed to talk to you about . . .”
“I know. I didn’t forget.”
“We definitely need to talk,” Whistler said.
“We’ll talk. But business first. One hour.” Scott hung up.
The phone call left Whistler in a bitter mood. He felt that something was off. Scott’s tone was almost unsettling. He didn’t want to fret, but every bone in his body was telling him to be extra cautious today.
He stood up and got dressed. Shortly, he was looking sharp in an Armani suit, a black derby decorating his head.
He left his apartment armed with two pistols, one strapped to his ankle, the other holstered under his suit jacket. Each step outside the apartment was a careful one. He entered the underground parking garage where his Escalade was parked and deactivated the alarm, and the sound echoed through the enclosed area. The time on the dashboard read 9:20; he still had some time.
Whistler took a deep breath as he lingered in the driver’s seat, his mind racing with concern. He popped a few uppers into his mouth, needing the extra stimulus. The SUV’s engine started, and he pulled out of the parking garage and drove toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
Twenty minutes later, his Escalade did a slow turn onto Van Brunt Street in Red Hook, and he cruised slowly toward the brick warehouse at the end of a dead-end street. A block over was docking for a water ferry service from IKEA and Pier 11 in Lower Manhattan. Whistler drove by the Holland-style factory buildings and came to a stop across the street from his location. He was fifteen minutes early and saw no one. Activity was rare on the two-way street because it was in a withdrawn area with no residences and no commercial businesses within a three-block radius.
Whistler didn’t see Scott’s car. He figured they were already inside. He lingered in his vehicle and tossed another upper into his mouth. His eyes stayed glued to the building. He watched the rolling gate and the side door. It all looked shut down.
Out of the blue, the side door opened, and a man exited to smoke a cigarette outside. When Whistler noticed who it was, he perked up and removed his 9mm from the holster. He watched Yayo lean against the building to smoke and make a call from his cell phone.
Seeing Yayo present was bad news for Whistler. Yayo was one of Scott’s top enforcers. He was a serious muthafucka with an appetite for murder and destruction. He didn’t come around unless there was a serious assignment to do for Scott—like hunt a nigga down and make a body disappear. Yayo was the Grim Reaper. Seeing him there said one thing to Whistler—this would not be a friendly meeting with his friend. It indicated to him that Lucky had already had a conversation with her father and revealed everything to him. He smelled a setup. Scott probably wanted to have him murdered brutally the moment he stepped foot into the warehouse.
Whistler put the vehicle into reverse and was ready to sneak away from the scene. So far, Yayo hadn’t seen him. He was too busy with his cigarette and phone conversation. But the door opened, and another man exited the building to join Yayo outside. He was a young goon with a slim physique, average height, and long cornrows. His name was Rick.
Rick said a few words to Yayo, bummed a cigarette from him, and then his eyes stared across the street at the Escalade in reverse. Rick squinted his eyes at the vehicle, looking carefully to make out the driver.
Whistler gripped the steering wheel in one hand and his 9mm in the other. He was ready to react.
Rick was watching the SUV’s movement attentively, and it didn’t take him long to figure it out. He shouted, “Yo, that’s Whistler. That muthafuckin’ pedophile is right there!” He snatched the gun from his waistband and charged at the Escalade with his arm outstretched and let loose a hail of bullets as Whistler drove off.
Bak-Bak-Bak-Bak-Bak-Bak!
Whistler hunkered down into the seat, holding on to the steering wheel firmly, and frantically peeled away in reverse from the threat as the passenger glass shattered around him. He accelerated to 60mph in reverse. The truck swerved, but he kept it in control. He could hear the bullets pounding into his vehicle, shattering another window and exploding shards of glass all around him. He didn’t panic. Panic would kill him. Instead, he blew through the intersection speedily while Rick chased after him, emptying his entire gun clip.
Whistler did another block in reverse, losing the shooter and escaping death. Quickly, he spun the truck around and made his escape. All Rick and Yayo saw was the back of the Escalade fading away from two blocks down.
***
The gunfire sent Scott and others flying out the building. Everyone was armed. It sounded like the Fourth of July on the street.
“What the fuck is going on?” Scott asked.
“We just missed Whistler,” Rick said.
“What the fuck you talkin’ about? He was here?” Scott asked.
“Yeah, sittin’ in his truck and watching us from across the street. I was on dat nigga. I emptied my clip at his truck, but he got away,” Rick said.
Scott was furious. Rick’s impulsiveness was uncalled for. Scott wanted Whistler inside the building, where he was to be taken care of, but now that all changed because of one man’s recklessness.
Believing he did the right thing, Rick looked proudly at Scott. He was confident Scott would praise his effort.
Scott stared at him intently and said, “You missed the nigga, huh?”
“Yeah, but I ain’t gonna miss him again, fo’ sure!”
Scott wanted no attention to the warehouse, and multiple gunshots definitely would bring it. And now Whistler was on to him and would be looking for revenge.
Without pause, Scott lifted the Desert Eagle to the side of Rick’s head, the triangle barrel thrust against his skull, and he pulled the trigger—Bang!
Rick’s body immediately collapsed to the pave
ment, right by Scott’s feet, and gun smoke billowed from the .50-cal.
“Fuckin’ idiot!” Scott said. “Take the body and dump it somewhere. It’s time to leave.”
Scott’s men removed the body from the pavement, carried it back into the warehouse, and tossed it into the trunk of a car. It would be taken care of immediately.
Scott pivoted and marched into the warehouse. He gave instructions to shut the place down—clean up and clear out quickly. He knew that no one was safe. Whistler was a lot more deadly and ruthless than any of his killers, and he was smart and perceptive too. The only killer that Scott felt could measure up to Whistler was Yayo.
“Fuuuuuck!” Scott screamed madly, knowing the position Rick had just put him in.
Whistler was aware now, and that meant trouble for his organization and his family. Whistler knew all of Scott’s tricks, hideaways, and secrets. Twenty years of friendship and doing business together now brought vulnerabilities and concerns to Scott. Scott had to increase his security and alert everyone about Whistler, including Lucky, his only remaining daughter. He figured Whistler would go after her too. Scott would send a hit squad after him, but he had his doubts that it would resolve his problem.
Scott was about to retreat from the building, and then his cell phone rang. He was shocked to see who was calling. He answered right away, scowling.
23
Whistler drove his bullet-riddled truck to the edge of Brooklyn, fifteen miles south of where they’d just tried to take his life. Parked near the Coney Island boardwalk, he had a view of the Verrazano Bridge. The morning was crazy. He was upset and angry. He barely got away by the skin of his teeth. A bullet had grazed his head, and there was minor blood, but it was nothing that couldn’t be easily taken care of with a cloth, some rubbing alcohol, and a small bandage. Whistler needed time to collect himself and think. Lucky had fucked everything up, and now he had to go off the grid and change his entire life. He already had a go-bag packed with stacks of money, fake IDs and passports, and guns. He also had various places to hide and remain low-key. He would regroup from this incident and survive. Because that’s what he’d been doing all his life.
Mafioso [Part 2] Page 14