Charlotte scrambled up off the ground, finally able to catch her breath enough to argue back.
“You gon’ get yours, you bastard!” she rasped, still holding her bruised neck.
“Get the fuck outta here, you dirty bitch!” Easy called after her.
A man exited the bodega behind him, and the next thing Easy knew he felt a rush of wind and a pair of hands pushing him out of the way. The old black dude from the bodega was taking down a man in a black leather trench coat who held a gun in his hand. Easy’s heart began to pound as he watched the older gentleman clamp down on the gunman’s wrist. The gunman cried out in pain and the gun skittered to the ground.
When the guys on the corner noticed the commotion, they all began to scatter. “Oh shit, a gun!” they yelled. The last thing they needed was for the cops to come around.
Easy couldn’t move; he was in shock.
The stranger calmly picked up the gun, dropped the magazine out of it, dismantled the slide and threw the bottom half of it at the guy on the ground.
“Oh shit! That bitch tried to set me up!” Easy finally found his voice, his heart racing as he realized what had just happened.
The old dude nodded in agreement.
“Fuck! Thank God you were here. That nigga woulda shot me right in the back of my fuckin’ head,” Easy concluded.
The old dude nodded again, but still did not speak a word.
“I‘ma fuckin’ kill him!” Easy screamed, his blood boiling.
The old dude put his hand up to Easy’s chest to stop him.
“Not here. Not now.” The old dude finally spoke.
Easy backed down. Something about the stranger’s calm, fatherly words struck him as soothing. In some ways the man reminded him a lot of Early.
“I’m Eric. But everybody calls me Easy,” he said, introducing himself.
“Rock,” the old dude said, taking Easy’s extended hand and shaking it firmly.
“Yo, man, how can I repay you for that shit?” Easy asked earnestly.
“No need,” Rock said, handing Easy the magazine full of .40-caliber rounds and the slide of his would-be assassin’s gun.
“Nah, there has got to be something. Some money, some food, clothes, something,” Easy offered. He didn’t like feeling indebted to any man.
“Just go inside and get my BC Powder. I have the worst headache,” Rock said calmly.
Easy scrambled to do as Rock had asked.
What had started out as a chance encounter quickly blossomed into a friendship.
Easy and Rock had only been friends for four months when Easy went to Rock for advice about an offer he thought he couldn’t refuse.
“This dude Rolando DeSosa is the man up in Spanish Harlem. He came looking for me the other day,” Easy told Rock.
Rock rubbed his chin, digesting the information. “If he is ‘the man,’ like you say, why would he come looking for a corner boy like you?” Rock asked logically.
“Because he heard I was ‘the man’ out here in Brooklyn. I guess Chulo, the dude I was getting my package from, told him about me. How I’m moving my shit like no other cat out here,” Easy boasted with excitement.
“It just doesn’t sound right. Be careful,” Rock said ominously.
“Nah, man, this is my come up. Besides, I got you to protect me, right?” Easy laughed.
Rock nodded in all seriousness. He had heard the name DeSosa before, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember in what context. He’d definitely be keeping a close eye on young Easy in the meantime.
Chapter 7
Learning Lessons
Candice grips the down pillow tightly in her hands. Her forehead drips with sweat. She stands ominously over the sleeping form, watching the sheet move gently with each slow breath. Candice’s chest rises and falls rapidly—part excitement, part fear.
She will have to be strong enough to withstand the fight. The bucking and thrashing will probably be severe at first. The human body can become quite powerful when fighting to stay alive; this was one of Uncle Rock’s many lessons.
She has been waiting a long time for this. Her arms jerk involuntarily toward her victim. Candice closes her eyes and lowers the pillow over the nose and mouth. She applies the pressure of her entire body weight on top of the pillow. She feels the figure come alive.
A short, muffled scream splits the air; then frantic, louder screams ensue.
Candice pushes down harder. Her victim’s hands valiantly fight, grasping at the pillow material in an attempt to propel the assailant off his body.
Candice exerts all of her body weight over the thrashing form. The head attempts to turn sideways, but Candice bunches her forearms and strengthens her hold. The muscles in her arm cord against her skin.
The thrashing is worse than she’d anticipated. The torso bucks just before the screams fade against the material. Candice is being scratched and slapped by the hands now.
She takes it.
She gnashes her teeth and wills the force of gravity to aid her in her endeavor. The abuse Candice endures is short-lived. She feels the arms go weak and drop down to the side of the limp body.
One last body jerk and it is all over.
Candice stands proudly above the victim, congratulating herself on a job well done. She picks up the pillow to take a look at her handiwork. She wants to see the lifeless face and feel the satisfaction of knowing she can at last be at peace.
Candice’s heart comes to a stop.
Her father’s face gazes back at her with wide, vacant eyes.
“No!” Candice woke up, screaming out loud. Her nightgown clung to her chest, soaked in sweat. Candice blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to collect her thoughts. A round of loud knocks on her door forced her to get her bearings quickly.
“Dulce! Are you awake?” Cyndi called out from the other side of the door.
Candice looked around the room. Shit! She jumped up and wrapped a thick robe around her fat suit.
“Dulce!” Cyndi impatiently called out again.
Candice quickly padded over to the door and pulled it back. A fine sheen of sweat still covered her head.
Cyndi looked at her suspiciously.
Candice was immediately concerned that her wig was twisted or maybe her fat suit was hanging the wrong way.
“Are you all right?” Cyndi asked.
Candice hugged herself, still visibly shaken from her too vivid dream.
“I’m fine. Just stayed up late with the baby—that’s all,” she said, almost forgetting to add her accent.
Cyndi eyed her up and down. She didn’t have time to deal with Dulce’s odd behavior right now.
“We are heading to the funerals. Everyone is going, so it’ll just be you and the kids today,” Cyndi said solemnly.
Just a week ago Cyndi had been crying and upset when she’d come home from work.
“What’s the matter, Mrs. DeSosa?” Candice had asked innocently, her forehead furrowed for good measure. Of course, she had already heard the story on the news, but she wasn’t about to let on to her employer that she had been following the story so closely.
Cyndi took one look at Dulce, her nanny, and collapsed onto her chest with racking sobs.
Candice didn’t know what to do. So she stood stock-still, hoping that Cyndi would be so caught up in her grief that she wouldn’t feel the fakeness of her ample stomach and breasts, or smell the caked-on makeup coating her face, or notice her contact lenses.
Candice pried Cyndi’s arms from her body and moved her to the cream leather sofa, which was rarely sat upon. In the end Cyndi had just wanted someone who would listen to her and feel her pain.
“There was a shooting at Baile Caliente,” Cyndi sobbed, swiping at her eyes with an overused, crushed tissue.
“Oh no,” Candice commiserated, giving her Academy Award—worthy performance.
“Yes ... and my brother ... my brother ...” Cyndi was crying, barely able to get the words out.
“Did som
ething happen to your brother, Mrs. DeSosa?” Candice asked softly, trying very hard to keep her excitement at bay.
“He is dead! They killed him!” Cyndi wailed.
Her words had sent a surge of satisfaction over Candice’s body that felt better than an orgasm. She sat silent and relaxed as Cyndi DeSosa continued to pour her heart out to the hired help.
“I hope you’ll be okay today,” Candice said, snapping out of her reverie. She was sure to lay the accent on thick this time.
“I don’t know how I’m going to stand watching my mother mourn for her only son,” Cyndi replied, tears welling up in her eyes.
Candice looked at the pain in her eyes and actually felt some sympathy for the woman. She wondered if Uncle Rock had seen that same pain in her own eyes when she’d lost her family.
“I understand your pain. I lost two brothers myself,” Candice said without thinking. It was a slipup, but she didn’t regret the words at all. She was witnessing a pain she had already experienced.
Cyndi seemed slightly caught off guard by Candice’s admission, but her face quickly softened. “Oh, Dulce, I’m very sorry. I can only imagine what you must’ve gone through. I never want to think about anyone experiencing the pain that I feel right now,” Cyndi lamented.
Candice looked at her and tried hard to feign sympathy.
“Cyndi, let’s go!” a man’s voice boomed from the bottom of the stairs.
Candice and Cyndi both jumped, but for different reasons.
Cyndi closed her eyes tightly and exhaled a windstorm of exasperated breath.
“Dulce, I have to go. Please kiss the kids for me when they wake,” Cyndi said softly. She cracked a small smile, satisfied that she’d chosen the right nanny this time around. Cyndi turned to walk away and Candice followed her with her eyes.
When she’d disappeared down the steps, Candice walked to the edge of the staircase balcony, watching the DeSosa family. They were like one solid unit, comforting each other. Arellio placed his hand on the small of Cyndi’s back, ushering her forward, while his brother, Guillermo, navigated his father’s wheelchair.
It was the first time Candice had seen all three men gathered together. Heat rose from her feet and settled in her chest. She gripped the railing to keep herself from screaming out. Watching DeSosa with his sons reminded Candice of her own father and brothers.
Hardaway Household, 2005
Errol and Eric Jr. were Easy’s two eldest children. They were twins, but polar opposites. Even as little kids, Errol was always quiet and reserved; he was the one who thought all of his actions through before making a move. Eric Jr., whom everyone called Junior, had always been the one to act first and think later.
Easy had a close relationship with both of his sons. As soon as they were potty trained, Eric had the boys play every Little League sport imaginable—soccer, basketball, baseball, football—you name it; they played it. He also did typical father-son activities like watching professional sports together and going camping with their Boy Scout troops.
As the boys got older, though, things started to change.
“Get the fuck off me! I hate you!” Eric Jr. screamed as he fought against Easy’s death grip.
“Calm the fuck down, boy! What has gotten into you?” Easy tried to restrain his son, using his arms as a human straitjacket.
Eric Jr. gnashed his teeth and thrashed his body wildly, bucking like a wild animal. It was like some unknown force had taken over him.
Easy was seriously struggling to maintain his grip. The gangly sixteen-year-old was almost as big as his father now. It wasn’t as simple anymore as holding him down until the fight left his body. Easy’s arms were aching and his back stinging. His son seemed to gain strength by the minute.
“I’ma kill you! I’ma kill you!” Eric Junior threatened now; his lip was bleeding from his own teeth biting down into it.
The entire house was awake now.
“Oh my God! What is going on?” Corine cried out as she raced to the scene. She had been worried about her son lately. His violent outbursts had become more and more frequent. It was like she didn’t even know her own child.
“I said, get the fuck off me! I’ma fuckin’ blow your brains out!” Junior screeched.
Easy was so shocked that he loosened his grip for just a minute. His son broke free, like a caged animal turned loose. He turned on his father and stood toe-to-toe with him. Junior’s eyes were wild; mucus ran out of his nose, sweat covered his face, and his chest was swollen like someone had inserted a balloon under his shirt.
“They told me to kill you! You are the enemy!” Eric Junior hissed. The fire was visible in his eyes.
Lately Junior’s behavior had become increasingly erratic; he continued to threaten his father with bodily harm and violence. His behavior was characteristic of a schizophrenic.
Easy sighed with deep regret and sadness. The “voices” were obviously telling him to kill his father.
“You better sit the fuck down,” Easy barked. Sometimes the easiest way to handle his son was to take a no-nonsense approach. He took a few steps away from his crazed son in the event that Junior decided to strike him.
“Eric Junior, please! Stop it!” Corine screamed now.
Junior looked at his mother for a minute with a fiery glare. The look in his eyes chilled Corine to the bone.
“What is the matter, baby?” she whined. Her head was tilted in dismay and confusion. Corine had never come to terms with the fact that her oldest son had serious psychological issues. “Please, baby, just listen to your daddy” she pleaded, trying to reach the innocent baby boy she knew lurked inside. Her words appeared to fall on deaf ears.
Eric Jr. growled like a lion in heat and charged into his father like a wrecking ball crashing into an old landmark. The demons inside him had full control of his limbs.
“Oh my God! No!” Corine screeched as her husband went crashing to the floor. The back of his head slammed into the hardwood floor. He lay still for a few seconds; Corine feared that Easy had been knocked unconscious.
Junior was on top of his father immediately after the fall, pummeling his dad’s face and head with punches.
“They told me to kill you!” Eric Jr. growled again. “I have to kill you!”
“Who are you talking about? Who told you to kill your father?” Corine cried out. She hoped her son wasn’t hearing voices in his head again. They had taken him to several psychiatrists. However, each time they wanted to put him on medication, Corine had refused. She was regretting her decision now.
The entire house was awake now; the commotion had roused them all from their sleep.
Candice rushed down the steps toward the noise.
“Daddy!” she screamed, her mouth and eyes wide at the sight.
Easy groggily regained his bearings. He put his hands up in defense and grabbed his son around the neck. Easy picked his throbbing head up off the floor slightly and applied pressure to his son’s neck. He squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. Junior’s body began to go limp; saliva dribbled from his lips and his face turned a garish shade of purple.
“Eric, you’re gonna kill him! Stop it!” Corine screeched at an ear-shattering pitch.
Errol nearly barreled over the heap of tangled body parts. This was not the first time he pried his father loose from his brother’s deranged grip. This time, however, it was his brother’s neck that needed to be rescued from his father’s brutal clutch.
“Daddy!” Candice screamed, jumping up and down. She was crying hysterically.
It was her voice that snapped Easy out of his murderous trance. Easy’s grip relaxed; Errol managed to pull his brother’s limp body away from his father.
Easy stood up; the room swayed around him. He looked at his son, who lay on the ground, coughing and rolling around, gasping for air. Easy had come so close to taking his own son’s life. He couldn’t understand what was going on with the kid.
“Are you all right, baby?” Corine bent down at her so
n’s side. “What’s the matter with him? It’s like he’s on something!” she cried out, looking to Easy for some explanation.
Easy couldn’t call it. His son’s behavior had grown more and more erratic lately. Easy had never put two and two together that his son’s behavior had gone off the chart right around the time Easy had started grooming his boys to join the family business. He was too preoccupied with his feelings of failure that one of them was clearly mentally unstable. He’d lost a lot of sleep over the matter lately. He was beginning to think that Junior needed medication to keep his moods in check.
“Daddy” Candice whispered as her father stormed out of the room, disappearing in his office. Candice approached the closed door and debated whether or not to knock before she entered. She could hear her father talking on the phone.
“Rock! I need to see you right away. This shit is a matter of life and death,” Easy had rasped into the phone.
Why did her brother and father have to fight all of the time? And what was her father planning with Uncle Rock? Candice slid down the wall, onto the floor, and began sobbing. She just wished her family could all get along with each other. She felt totally helpless, caught between a deep love for her father and sympathetic feelings for her brother, whom she’d watch spiraling out of control.
Candice crept around Rolando DeSosa’s living space. It smelled of liniment and hospital disinfectant—not exactly a smell she would expect to find in the lodgings of a self-proclaimed “Scarface” type of kingpin.
Candice felt anxious as she walked through the man’s private rooms. She glanced at the bed and wished she could just place a poisonous snake under DeSosa’s covers and be done with it. But she had some digging to do first. She quickly headed to the small makeshift office. A cherry wood desk with pictures of his sons and grandkids sat atop the desk. The bookshelves were also sprinkled with family photos, much like Candice’s father’s own office. She rifled through the drawers of the desk, looking for any important documents. What she came across was mostly hospital bills, utility bills and random notes. Frustrated, Candice tossed the papers back into the drawer.
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