Mafioso [Part 2]

by Nisa Santiago

  He made a phone call. It took two rings until Scott answered. Whistler immediately said to him, “Are we really going to go down this road?”

  “You’re a dead man!” Scott shouted.

  “How long have we known each other, Scott? Let’s talk.”

  “You’re a fuckin’ dead man!” Scott reiterated.

  “She came on to me a long time ago, and I resisted—”

  Scott screamed, “You’re a fuckin’ dead man when I find you!” He hung up.

  Whistler saw there was no reasoning with him. He knew that Scott would do everything in his power to make his demise happen, and Whistler would do whatever it took to avoid it. He felt he had a slight advantage. He had no kids, no family, so there was no one Scott could torture and hold hostage for his surrender. But Scott had plenty to lose, from his family to his business to his pregnant mistress, Penelope. He’d made a home for himself a long time ago, whereas Whistler had no home, just locations to lay his head. He could walk away from everything in a heartbeat. There was enough liquid cash, real estate throughout the US, and overseas accounts in a different countries for him to depend on.

  Whistler torched the SUV somewhere far. It was too hot, and the bullet holes and broken windows stood out. He needed a different means of transportation. Using his street tactics, he broke into a car and hot-wired it, breaking the steering lock and connecting the ignition wire to the battery cable. It started, and he sped off. It was something he’d learned to do when he was fourteen.

  He traveled to New Jersey and took up temporary residence inside a modest two-bedroom home in South Orange. It was a home he owned under an alias, so it couldn’t be connected to him. The house was furnished with just the bare necessities—bed, table and a few chairs, and a TV. For now, he felt safe there.

  He got rid of his cell phone and depended on a burner phone, since it wasn’t easily traced, was easy to discard, and wouldn’t leave a trail back to him. He sat shirtless on a twin bed in the unfurnished bedroom and dialed a number he thought he would never dial again. He doubted she would pick up because it was an unknown number he was calling from, but she did.

  Lucky answered, “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Call off your father, before everything gets really ugly,” he said to her. “Tell him it was all a lie.”

  Lucky didn’t falter with regret upon hearing Whistler’s voice. “You made your fuckin’ bed, so now you die in it.”

  “You think it will be that easy?”

  “You’re scared. It’s why you’re calling me. But I have no more love for you, nigga. I gave you everything. I loved you, nigga, and you shit on me for a new bitch when I needed you most. Burn in hell, you bitch-ass, snitch-ass, pervert!”

  It wasn’t true. He loved her too, but their relationship could never be. It was a fantasy. They could never become a family.

  She screamed at him, “When my father kills you—and he will kill you—I’m gonna pour a forty-ounce of malt liquor on your unmarked and shallow grave and piss on it, because that’s all you fuckin’ deserve. Go to hell, Whistler!”

  The call went dead.

  Whistler realized there was no getting through to her, either. She was a young, jilted, evil bitch; unreasonable and arrogant just like her father. He’d made the biggest mistake of his life fucking her.

  But did they forget that he was a stone-cold killer too, and he was ready for any killers that Scott sent after him?

  Whistler went into the closet of the bedroom and switched on the lights. He looked at his small arsenal of weapons. He removed several guns from the closet and placed them on the bed. In his possession were two sawed-off shotguns, an Uzi, several handguns, and his favorite, a Heckler & Koch G36C. The weapon was a very efficient killing machine. If they wanted a war with him, then he would give them the fight of their lives.

  24

  The Uber driver stopped in front of the Mount Vernon home around 11 p.m. Bugsy gave the driver a healthy tip and climbed out of the vehicle. He took a deep breath and looked around the suburban neighborhood with middle-class homes. The block was so silent, he could hear his own heartbeat. Bugsy made sure he was careful with his trips to his girlfriend, switching up transportation and not having a routine. And when he spoke to her, he used a burner phone, and he remembered her number by heart.

  The driver took off, and he walked toward the front door.

  The front yard was all open lawn, without shrubberies or trees for anyone to hide behind, no flower garden or obstacles, and it provided a clear view from the sidewalk to the front door. Bugsy hadn’t come alone, though. Concealed on him was a .45 handgun in his jacket, loaded with a few hollow points. He didn’t take the warning from his father lightly, but it would not prevent him from seeing Alicia. She was the only thing that felt normal in his life. She was a breath of fresh air and a ray of sunshine.

  ***

  Bugsy was beside himself with anger and grief at the hospital the night Lucky was beaten. As he lingered in the hallway, Alicia, one of the nurses on the evening shift, noticed his pain. She went up to him to console him, and at first, he was standoffish. But it didn’t scare her away. She had a friendly spirit, and she was soft-spoken. Her beauty was natural, and her smile was bright. She calmed him.

  Low key, the two had coffee at a diner a few blocks away from the hospital. Their conversation flowed like a stream, and it was polite. She was young and ambitious, but she was innocent to his world of chaos, death, drugs, and destruction. Bugsy felt drawn to her.

  When she asked about his career and ambition, for a moment, he wrestled with himself about whether or not he should tell her the truth. She was honest with him, so he didn’t want to lie to her.

  “I’m in the family business,” he said.

  “And what’s your family business?”

  He looked at her calmly and replied, “Drugs, money laundering, illegal and legal businesses—we’re into a lot of heavy shit.”

  He felt it was stupid at first, exposing himself to a woman he hardly knew. Why did he do it? Why did he violate a family rule—never reveal yourself to anyone that wasn’t family?

  At first, he thought she would get up from the booth and walk away, but she didn’t. Her reply was shocking.

  “You’ve got kind eyes,” she said.

  “Kind eyes?” He wondered whether she was looking into the right man’s eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not the best person, Alicia.”

  “And who is?”

  Though he wasn’t vile and malicious like his twin brother, Bugsy still was a killer, and he had blood on his hands too. She didn’t judge him. It seemed like she understood him.

  They continued to talk. There was no way Bugsy would let her go. It felt like she knew him. His honesty didn’t scare her away, and he was impressed by it.

  But he kept Alicia away from his family. He didn’t want an innocent person like her to get mixed up in the drama that was spiraling out of control. He loved his family, especially his father, but he feared his family’s stench getting all over her. Bugsy felt relaxed with her in her home, talking to her about anything. He could kick off his shoes, have great sex with her, and not worry about his life being in danger.

  ***

  The house was dark, indicative that Alicia was still at work. She had transferred to a new hospital in Mount Vernon two months earlier, which made traveling to see her easier, and she worked the evening shift. Bugsy was happy all around. He didn’t like the long hours she worked and the long commute from Mount Vernon to her former Staten Island hospital. He always feared she would fall asleep at the wheel, and he couldn’t lose her. Usually, after her shift was over, he would travel at night to come see her. He rarely spent the night, knowing he had to travel back to the city and conduct business. But the nights he stayed over, it was harder for him to leave.

  Bugsy slid
the key into the locks and entered the place. It was quiet and dark. He turned on the living room lights and looked around.

  Alicia was a meticulous person. She liked things clean and in order; she hated clutter. Her wood floors were polished, her classy furniture was positioned a certain way throughout the house and well maintained, and the place smelled refreshing with a flowery fragrance. Alicia had made her house into a home for Bugsy.

  He kicked off his shoes and raided her fridge, making himself a quick sandwich and grabbing a beer. He then called Alicia’s cell phone and asked what time would she be home. She told him her shift would be over at one a.m.

  He smiled. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.”

  In the living room, he put his gun on the table and sat on the couch, picking up the remote to the 50-inch flat-screen TV and powering it on. CNN came into view. Alicia always liked to keep up with politics and current events. Anderson Cooper 360 was showing. He sat back and watched the show for a moment.

  He was drained and exhausted. Tonight, he only wanted to lay and cozy up with Alicia in her comfortable bed. He didn’t want sex this evening. He wanted to hold her and just chill, get a good night’s sleep.

  Bugsy spent a half-hour watching Anderson Cooper. Still hungry, he picked himself off the couch to go back and get a snack. As he turned toward the window, he noticed a quick flash of light beam through the bay window and a red dot dancing around him. Abruptly four bullets pierced the window and slammed into his chest, knocking him off his feet and sending the plate he held crashing to the floor, shards of white porcelain scattering everywhere.

  25

  He looked like Neo from The Matrix, plugged into various machines that were monitoring his vital signs. His pulse was weak, his blood pressure was all over the place, and his body temperature had to fall. His breathing was so thin, he needed a machine to breathe. Wacka had been in a coma for eleven weeks, and once awake, he could barely speak and he couldn’t move. His body felt like it was encased in a hard block of ice. The doctors did what they could, but it was an uphill battle for his survival and his recovery.

  When he’d arrived at the hospital with multiple gunshot wounds, they operated on him immediately. His lungs were filled with fluid, and his brain was on the fast track of shutting down. He was alleged to be brain-dead, but he held on. He was supposed to die that night, but his body fought somehow, and he survived.

  Wacka had been in ICU at the Holy Cross Hospital in Silver Spring, Maryland for months. At first, his coma felt like a long dream. When he woke up, he was hysterical, and he couldn’t remember much, but it all came back to him gradually. He could hardly speak. All he could do was just lay there and be tended to twenty-four/seven.

  After getting shot several times at his mother’s apartment, he’d leaped from the bedroom window, crashed into the ground, and hobbled away from the danger as bullets zipped by him. Bleeding profusely, Wacka stumbled to his car and took off. He fought the impulse to pass out and give up. They’d killed his mother and his friends. They’d attacked his home, and revenge was inevitable.

  Somehow, Wacka made it to his baby mama’s place in Maryland. When he arrived, he collapsed at her front door. He’d lost a lot of blood and was in bad shape.

  The shooting made headlines and the evening news. And there was an all-points bulletin for him because he was a person of interest in the gangland shooting at the Frederick Douglass Garden Apartments.

  There, at his baby mama’s home, he cleaned his hands from any gun residue and left his .50-cal. with Tarsha, his son’s mother. That long detour and those precautions almost cost him his life. The doctors removed the bullets, but his body was racked with problems, and he was still touch-and-go even after being awake from his coma.

  Once he was fully conscious, as with every gunshot victim, the police were called. It didn’t take them long to visit Wacka in the hospital and bombard him with questions about his injuries. Two detectives visited him, and they had his hands tested for gun powder residue and confiscated his clothing to see if he had any weapons or drugs on him. Both came up negative. But he wasn’t out of the frying pan yet. They soon went after the person closest to him, his baby mama. They questioned her relentlessly, trying to get her to name the person that shot him. Where was he when he was shot?

  Tarsha told the detective she found him banging on her front door and dying. Being from the streets herself, she was aggressive toward the police and no pushover.

  Fortunately for Wacka, they didn’t tie him to the DC shooting—not yet anyway. In the files, he was a gunshot victim in Maryland with no ID. There was no reason to suspect he was a killer, so the Silver Spring detectives lost interest in him.

  Tarsha remained by his bedside faithfully. She knew about his menacing nature, the people he’d killed—and he probably deserved the bullets pumped into his flesh—but he was still her baby’s father.

  She looked at Wacka in his fucked up condition and wondered if his life was spared for good or evil.

  26

  Bugsy lay sprawled across the wood floor. At first, it was hard for him to breathe. It felt like a Mack truck had slammed into him at full speed. He felt ran over and compressed to the floor. The impact from the four bullets had lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing to the floor.

  He sat up suddenly and breathed like he’d never breathed before. It felt like hot coals were burning into his chest. He was winded and in shock. He grabbed his chest in a panic, and felt the thick Kevlar that saved his life. Nothing went through—no penetration, thank God. Shit! What the fuck just happened? Someone just tried to kill me.

  Two things immediately came to his mind. Why did he leave the blinds open? Second, he was thankful he’d taken his father’s advice and worn a vest. If not, he would have been dead. He was tempted to take it off inside the house to relax and watch TV, believing he was safe and no one would find him in Mount Vernon, but thankfully he was too lazy. They’d tracked him down—and they probably believed he was dead.

  Soon after he picked himself up from the floor, he heard tires screeching in the night. Bugsy remained crouched low and stayed hidden from the window. He hurried for his gun and snatched it from off the coffee table. He cocked it back, and he remained crouched, not taking any more chances.

  With his gun in hand, and the Kevlar still on, Bugsy remained quiet and watchful of everything as he moved slowly to the door. Oddly, everything was silent—nothing moved. Did the neighbors hear the gunshots? Did they not listen to the disturbance of breaking glass and tires screeching in the dark? No one was coming to his rescue. He had to handle and protect himself.

  Cautiously, he opened the front door and aimed into the night; he looked everywhere and saw nothing. He had to leave. Unfortunately for him, he had no vehicle. He figured it would be safer to travel Uber or taxicab into Mount Vernon than risk having his own car tagged and tracked, creating a difficult situation for him. He knew that he needed to make a phone call to have his people come get him.

  Half an hour later, a black Tahoe arrived, and four soldiers approached the house. Aware of what had just happened, they were heavily armed. They ushered Bugsy toward and into the vehicle, and he was secured like a commander-in-chief in hostile territory.

  He called Alicia and told her not to come home. He told her to check into a hotel, and he’d pay the expenses. Bugsy was sparse with the information, not wanting her to panic, but not telling her what was going on made her panic more. She agreed to check into a hotel. He would go see her, but not tonight. He had to compose himself.

  He vowed to find the people who tried to take his life. They’d violated his girl’s home and turned her residence into a battleground. He had two of his goons sit on the house to make sure it didn’t get looted and that no unwanted company came snooping around.

  Riding in the back seat of the Tahoe, Bugsy finally removed the vest from his body and ex
amined the damage carefully. They’d struck him center mass. He definitely would have been dead.

  “Muthafuckas!” he uttered with disdain. He knew whoever tried to kill him was professional. It was a quick, tight shot. A sniper, Bugsy thought, but from where and how far? He saw nothing strange when he had arrived at the house. He’d been looking for any anomalies, but there were none. Was the killer that good to camouflage himself? Was he held up in a neighbor’s home, holding a family hostage and stalking Alicia’s house? Bugsy had so many questions.

  First thing tomorrow, he would have someone board up the broken window and immediately have it fixed. He would have his men clean everything up. There would be no police involvement. He and his family would be the judge, jury, and executioner of the perpetrator or perpetrators.

  27

  Day after day, Tarsha sat by Wacka’s side, stewing. Most days it wasn’t looking good for him. His body and mind were still in treacherous territory, but the doctors continued to do all they could for him.

  She wanted to believe that God had kept him alive. Wacka had cheated death. He became conscious and spoke coherently, but his voice was raspy and coarse. He had lost nearly forty pounds and was freakishly thin, and his right leg, with several metal pins fastened through it, was hoisted in a sling. He had shattered his ankle and knee when he jumped out the window.

  Tarsha was upset that when the nurses would administer pain medication and Wacka showed various levels of consciousness, all he would repeat was, “Maxine . . . Maxine . . .” He’d uttered the name quite a few times. Tarsha didn’t know who Maxine was.

  “Who the fuck is Maxine?” she asked.

  Wacka was still groggy in the head, but it all came clear to him. She wasn’t a friend; she was the reason his mother and friends were dead.