Bishop's War (Bishop Series Book 1)

by Rafael Hines

  He couldn’t share his story with the two undercovers who arrested John and Felix, but still felt obligated to warn them about the shit storm that was coming their way.

  “Look fellas, all I can tell you is that Valdez is all the way connected. He got a lot of power in this town, and he gonna be seriously pissed off you two.”

  “Come on, Sarge. We’re NYPD. Nobody fucks with us. I think you’ve been sitting behind that desk for too long. You need to kick some ass on the street with us for a few days and get your bal… your head back in the game.”

  Happy knew it was only the chevrons on his sleeves that made the officer say “head” instead of “balls.” It pissed him off that they saw him as a timid house cat, but he kept his cool.

  “All I know is there’s a big welcome home party just a few blocks from here for the war hero you just processed and he ain’t gonna make it. Both nephews are in the system now and we can’t undo it, so you’d best get ‘em outta here. Did they make a call?”

  “I asked the soldier if he wanted to use my phone, but he said he didn’t want to get in trouble,” said the lead officer.

  “Actually, what he said was that he didn’t want you to get in trouble. I didn’t think anything of it at the time,” his partner said.

  “Well, at least he’s looking out for you guys. That’s a good thing, but too many people know ‘em and the word’s gonna hit the street. As soon as it does this building’s gonna be surrounded by an angry mob.” Happy didn’t add that he’d already been captured once and wasn’t about to let it happen again.

  “Get a car right now and take ‘em down to Central Booking before the shit jumps off.”

  “You think that’ll be the end of it?”

  “Can’t say for sure. You apologize hard enough to the cousins on the way downtown they might put in a good word for you.”

  “Apologize for doing our job?”

  “Up to you. From what I just told you, you know Valdez is a serious player with lots of pull, and the man definitely holds a grudge.”

  “Gonzalo Valdez, huh?”

  “Yeah, the one and only Gonzalo Valdez.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “Just hope he doesn’t.”

  Gonzalo was born in Panama in nineteen-fifty, the eighth of Maria and Juan Valdez’s seventeen children. The Panama of his youth was a daily adventure filled with fun and excitement with the country in a flurry of activity after World War II. Life was good in those early years. The Valdez family had money, was well respected, and they lived in a big house near the Canal. It was good until his father Juan, who ran a small club and gambling joint for GI’s, was killed in a shootout with corrupt Panamanian police who tried to rob him. The same crooked cops who killed their patriarch confiscated the house and overnight the family was in a freefall.

  Within weeks Maria was forced to beg for food and shelter to keep her children alive. Life became a daily struggle and everyone had to contribute. Gonzalo earned money entertaining the same U.S. troops that used to drink at his father’s club by fighting in bare knuckle boxing matches. The winner takes all purse was a dollar, and driven by hunger, Gonzalo rarely lost. He literally grew up fighting for survival and his mother would hide her tears when he proudly handed her his winnings each night. “Gracias Negrito,” was all she could manage to say as she cleaned and bandaged his handsome face that quickly became battered and scarred for life.

  They were a proud family. They fought hard to keep it together, but as time went by their plight became increasingly desperate. Each dawn brought on a new struggle that slowly crushed their morale. No one spoke of it, but there was a collective sense of defeat and the realization that their days as a family unit were numbered.

  One dreary night during the rainy season when the heavy clouds dumped bucket after bucket on the muddy city of Colon, a soaked Gonzalo angrily stomped into their temporary shelter feeling dejected after being knocked out for the first time. His mother called to him from a dirty mattress on the floor. She had been sick and bedridden for a week. Her voice had faded and was little more than a coarse whisper.

  “My son, you must promise me something.”

  “Yes, mama.”

  “You’ve fought so hard to keep us all together negrito. You’re the one who everyone looks to. Even your older brothers know you are the strongest.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You must lead the family now.”

  “Lead us? Lead us where? How can I do it? I couldn’t even bring you a dollar today.”

  “The family is lost Zalo. We stay here we die. You will go to America and send for your brothers and sisters once you’re settled. Take this.” From under her worn blanket she handed him a thick wad of cash wrapped in rubber bands.

  “But how?” he asked, staring wide eyed at the fortune.

  “Your father’s final gift to us. He buried it years ago in case anything happened to him. I waited until today to dig it up. Now there is no choice and no time. You’re the only one who can save us.”

  “I’m not strong enough.”

  Using the last of her strength Maria pushed herself up and slapped him hard in the face before falling heavily back down onto the bed.

  Wheezing from the effort, Maria croaked, “You have the strength of your father and his fathers before him. Don’t you remember the stories they told you?”

  “It just seems so long ago.”

  “Zalo, you must never forget. Never. Always remember who you are. You come from men who fought and died for their freedom in those mountains out there. You come from great Kings… and now, now it is your turn… You must wear the crown my son. You must lead this family to a better life.”

  That moment, sitting next to his ailing mother on the floor of that broken-down shack in Panama, changed his life forever. His back straightened and his spirit lifted upon remembering the stories his father and grandfather used to tell him of his lineage. He could feel his own power for the first time and knew that there was nothing that could ever again stand in his way.

  “And the promise?”

  “Promise me that you will keep the family together. Bury me next to your father, then go to New York. My nephew is there and he will help you, but promise me that you will send for all your brothers and sisters.”

  “Bury you? I’ll send for you first.”

  “No, my son. It is my time, and your father has been waiting. I go to him now. But I can die happy once I know my children are safe in your hands… Promise me! Promise me, Gonzalo.”

  He took her hands in his and swore that they would all be together.

  “Good. Never forget who you are, and the power of the blood flowing through you my son. Now call the others so I can say goodbye.”

  And she did. The entire family gathered around her and she explained to them what they all must do. Maria died that night and right after the funeral Gonzalo boarded a ship bound for New York. He kept his promise and within a year his eleven brothers and five sisters had all joined him on the Lower East Side.

  Maria’s nephew was a small time dealer who introduced them to the drug trade and with his brothers behind him, Gonzalo and the “Valdez Boys” quickly became a powerful force on the streets. LES in the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s was a war zone with almost as many abandoned, boarded up, and crumbling buildings as those that were lived in. Most of the neighborhood was just an open drug market where dealers, junkies, hookers, pimps, and gunmen strutted the streets that the police rarely bothered to patrol.

  Gonzalo planted his flag, staking claim to an area known as Alphabet City. Running from Avenue A to D, and from Houston to 14th Street, he “owned” about twenty square blocks of prime real estate. There were many casualties over the years. Four of the brothers were gunned down in the early days, another was sent to prison for thirty years, and Gonzalo himself had been shot several times as they fought and died to build their multi-million dollar drug and gambling empire. Then, in the 1980s with his power base secure, he beca
me careless with security, and the family suffered its most devastating loss.

  Christina Valdez was the youngest of the seventeen siblings. She was tiny at just five feet, with beautiful bright shining eyes and a dazzling smile. She spoke very little English and had such an amazing voice the neighbors from all the adjacent buildings would open their windows wide so they could hear Christina singing from her kitchen. A happy little bundle of energy, she touched every person who ever knew her, infecting them with her joy of life.

  In contrast, Michael Barrington Bishop was a feared Valdez enforcer who spoke little Spanish, stood tall at six foot four, and was pale skinned with long tangled dreadlocks. He grew up on the mean streets of Kingston, Jamaica and had a thick island accent.

  With the language barrier, and the foot and a half height differential, Christina and Michael may have seemed like an unlikely couple, but for them it was love at first sight.

  Gonzalo liked the young man a lot, and after warning Michael not to break his little sister’s heart, he gave the happy couple his blessing. John Michael Bishop was born soon after they were married and Christina, who named him for her father Juan, only called him Juanito.

  Madly in love and inseparable, they doted on their baby boy and only child. Those early years with his parents were happy times for John even though his cousins used to tease and torture him for his light skin and his gringo name. He used to come home in tears of rage and his mother would comfort him by pulling him to her breast and sing softly to him in Spanish. His father, being more practical, taught him how to fight and the teasing stopped soon after.

  On a warm summer morning when John was nine, Christina asked Gonzalo if they could borrow his new car for a family outing. He sent the Cadillac over with his driver and they piled in the back, excited to take a trip out of the city. Heading south on Avenue D, the Bishop family was laughing and looking out of the dark tinted windows when the world exploded all around them.

  Christina screamed as machine gun fire ripped through the doors and windows. Michael pushed John down to the floor a second before the tires were blown out and the car crashed into a bodega on the corner. The attackers didn’t let up. Bullets twanged into the car’s metal frame and thumped into the seats. Then Michael was thrown back by a shot to the chest. Husband and wife stared sadly into each other’s eyes. Badly wounded, Michael coughed up blood, then dove onto Christina to shield her body with his. “Mi amor,” she whispered just as the next fusillade of steel jacketed shells came in through all sides, killing them both along with the driver.

  When the shooting stopped John was the only survivor. Blood poured down his face where a sharp piece of metal from the crumpled door frame had viciously slashed him from his forehead deep down into his cheek. He sat up trembling in fear, covered in gore, staring in horror at the bodies of his parents. From above the shoulders it looked like they were sleeping peacefully with their arms wrapped around each other in what John would always remember as a warm and loving embrace, but below there was only carnage where they had both been struck multiple times by the high velocity rounds.

  The hit was aimed at Gonzalo. The killers thought he was the one sitting behind the tinted back windows. His street name, “El Gato Negro,” The Black Cat, was given for his luck at surviving the many attempts on his life as much as for his dark complexion and yellow cat-like eyes.

  Gonzalo was wracked with guilt for being so careless. He blamed himself for the death of his beloved little sister and even vengeance did nothing to cleanse him of his grief. The shooters themselves were quickly tracked down and slaughtered, although it took him another year to capture the two men who ordered the hit: the Davis brothers.

  After the funeral Gonzalo brought the heavily bandaged Juanito home with him. His wife Grasiella could not have children of her own and Juanito became the center of their lives. Gonzalo reduced his workload in order to care for his nephew full time and together he and Grasiella were tireless in their efforts to bring the little boy back to life. They tried everything, but months after the attack he had retreated into his own world. Frantically rocking back and forth, he would constantly touch his own face like a blind man following the contours of the jagged scar. He refused to speak, rarely ate, and would wake up screaming from the nightmares that tortured his sleep. Each night Grasiella and Gonzalo lay on either side of him trying to make him feel safe and loved while he sobbed for hours in their arms.

  Fearing that Juanito was at the point of no return, Gonzalo finally approached his younger brother Carlos who was Felix’s father. Felix was two months older than John and they had been playmates since birth.

  “Carlos, I have something very serious to ask of you. To ask of you both,” Gonzalo said to Carlos and his wife Marci.

  “You’re the head of this family, mi hermano. There is nothing you can ask of us that we can deny.”

  “I’m not asking as the head of the family. I’m asking only as your brother and you or Marci can say no. Her answer is just as important as yours in this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Will you give Felix to me?”

  “What?!” screamed Marci.

  “I am asking you to let Felix come live with me and Grasiella to save Juanito.”

  Carlos closed his eyes. “You ask too much,” he said.

  “Yes, I know. I knew it was too much before I came. Still, I’m here. I had to come, and I have to ask. If we don’t act now Juanito will be gone forever. Also, know this. Grasiella and I will never, ever try to replace you. You are his mother and father and always will be.”

  Marci and Christina had been best friends. She loved Christina and Michael and their beautiful boy so much that after many tears she too agreed that it was their last hope. The next day they delivered their son.

  For John it was a blessing. Felix had always been a terror and his energy was infectious. Soon after he moved in John was up and out, playing, eating, and being a kid again. Even the nightmares gradually faded, but his face and heart were scarred for life. A shadow remained over him, a darkness and a deep pool of anger. It was something he would use to his advantage in the military many years later.

  John, Felix and Gonzalo went everywhere together and because they were the only ones in the Valdez clan with the “yellow eyes” they were soon known as “los tres gatos,” the three cats.

  As the years went by the bond between the three grew stronger and stronger, and although they always called him Tio, both boys truly loved Gonzalo like a father. He taught them all he knew about life, the family’s long history going back almost two-hundred years and the journey from slavery in Panama to riches in America. He taught them about the streets, about leading men, and being the head of a family. He also taught them to play chess. In return he demanded that they would not be fools.

  “You’ll make choices every day for the rest of your lives. Some are small, but many, many will be big life-changing decisions. Think before you make them. Think before you act.” He repeated this over and over again to them until they could hear him saying it even when he wasn’t there.

  Chapter 5

  Sweet Dreams

  BACK IN CENTRAL Booking Bishop sat on the bench brooding, reflecting on his life, and thinking about how he wound up in jail on his first night back home. In the end he knew it wasn’t Felix’s fault that they’d been arrested. If anything he was just angry at himself. He shouldn’t have been sipping on Henny and driving no matter what the occasion. Most important of all he didn’t want his uncle to think he was a fool after all he had taught him and after all these years.

  “Hey Fletch,” John said.

  “Yeah Johnny, what’s up?” Fletcher said eagerly.

  “My bad for jumping down your throat like that. Been a long day and I’m missing my welcome home party.”

  “Don’t sweat it, man. It’s great to see you back, but sorry it’s in here. Listen papa, there’s a Muslim dude against the bars over there who’s been scoping you.”

  “Yeah
, I saw him. Thanks for the heads up. How much time you looking at?”

  “Probably eleven months.”

  “I’m gonna get someone to look into your case, but you know if you don’t wanna do the time, you’d have to go to rehab. You down with that?”

  “Yeah, sure. I mean, thanks Johnny. Really, papa, thank you.”

  “You’re getting too old to run these streets, Fletch. You get yourself clean, there’s a job waiting for you when you get out.”

  “For real?”

  John nodded his head.

  “I don’t know what to say, man. Getting busted today turned out to be the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” They both laughed and shook hands.

  While John was in his reverie he’d sensed someone watching him and the man Fletcher had just warned him about was standing with his back to the bars across the room, still staring intently. He looked Middle Eastern with dark curly hair, a close beard, deep set eyes under a heavy brow, and a freakishly long hooked nose that gave him an almost hawk-like appearance.

  Clearly enraged, he was scowling at John and started clenching and unclenching his fists. John didn’t want any trouble. For a moment he stared back impassively, but looked away just as the guy screamed out, “Allahu Akbar!” (God is Great) then reared back and spit at him. The thick gob landed just short of his polished boots. John sat there looking down at it for a moment, then exhaled deeply.