Secrets Uncovered

by Amaleka McCall

  “Is that why you asked to meet me, Agent Tucker? So you could curse at me? So you could make yourself look like a total fool?” Stokes said calmly in his throaty, phlegm-coated voice.

  “No, I asked to meet you so I could fucking kill you, you piece of shit! What type of fucking games are you playing?” Tucker could barely contain his anger. Veins throbbed at his temple and in his neck. He felt like he was having an “Incredible Hulk” moment.

  “What makes you think it was me that tried to harm your family, Agent Tucker?” Stokes asked, peering around the broad backs of his protectors. “Do you really think you are that important to me?”

  “Who else would do it? Who else would have a reason to do it?” Tucker contorted his jaw so hard he gave himself a headache.

  “Did you ever think that DeSosa would do something like that? He is a fucking criminal, Agent Tucker. He knows you were undercover, infiltrating his top drug-dealing thug. Don’t you think he has a reason to go after your family?” Stokes painted these scenarios for him to make him think twice about his current conspiracy theory.

  “DeSosa wouldn’t even know where to find my family!” Tucker boomed, jutting a trembling finger at Stokes. Stokes chortled and then was overcome with a fit of coughing.

  Tucker felt like he’d been bitch slapped by Stokes. His patience snapped. Tucker bulldozed into the three Stokes protectors. “You think it’s funny, you half-dead motherfucker!” he screamed as he dived across the table with his hands outstretched.

  He wasn’t fast enough. He was roughhoused by the suits and put into an arm bar, his arms raised over his head and locked behind his neck. The pain that rushed down his spine as a result rendered Tucker helpless. He had no choice but to calm down. Breathing like a captured animal, he finally stopped flailing and fighting.

  With a deadpan expression Stokes watched Tucker’s face; the old man’s demeanor was as calm as a placid river. Finally he waved his right hand in the air like it was a magic wand. “That’s enough,” he called out, snapping his fingers as though calling off well-trained attack dogs.

  Tucker was released. He collapsed onto a chair and waited for the feeling to come back into his arms.

  “Another hotheaded Tucker.” Stokes shook his head in disappointment, as though Tucker was simply a lazy student who didn’t do his homework.

  Tucker was back on alert; his eyes were hooded over with ill intent.

  “You think I didn’t know about your hero daddy? Agent Tucker, I know everything. But do you? I bet you didn’t know your father wasn’t really the undercover narcotics detective shot dead in a buy and bust,” Stokes said cruelly.

  “You shut the fuck up!” Tucker growled. His teeth were clenched together tightly; his words were barely audible.

  “Your father was no more than a dirty drug cop who was taking payments from drug dealers. He got shot because he wanted out—just like Easy Hardaway. He wanted to get into a game he knew nothing about, and there was no turning back. There’s never a way out, only a fucking way in, A-gent Tu-cker!” Stokes spoke like a preacher in the pulpit; his eyes were dilated and flashing with malice.

  Tucker shot up out of the chair. He was faster this time and managed to catch Stokes around his frail turkey neck. Tucker squeezed as hard as he could from across the table. “You’re a fuckin’ liar! I’m gonna kill you, once and for all!” Tucker howled, snot pouring from his nose. His brain felt as if it would burst through his skull with all of the pressure building inside his head.

  The men in black were on him in a matter of seconds. He held on as if his life depended on it. Stokes was making a horrible rasping noise, like a grating car engine that wouldn’t turn over.

  “Die!” Tucker hissed.

  Finally the men were able to pry him off Stokes. His body shook with angry tremors. Tucker was forced back down onto his chair. He held his head in his hands, while his chest rose and fell rapidly.

  Stokes was ruining his life and tainting the memory of his father. Nothing in his life was off-limits. Everything that was holy and sacred had been desecrated by this bastard.

  When Tucker was ten years old, the New York City chief of police had handed him a folded American flag amid a bevy of flashing camera lights. Avon had felt a mix of emotions—grief and pride, anger and disbelief. He held the triangularly folded flag against his small chest; it was the flag that had been removed from the top of his father’s mahogany casket. A twenty-one-gun salute followed; this was the norm for an officer who had been killed in the line of duty.

  Avon remembered how the sun had burned his eyes as he tried to look up at his mother’s wet face. Her body was shaking with sobs as a chunky, older woman belted out a soul-stirring rendition of “Amazing Grace.” Holding his flag with one arm, Avon reached out and grabbed his mother’s hand. A wet, crumpled piece of tissue clutched in her palm prevented the skin-to-skin contact that Avon craved. Nonetheless, he would settle for any sort of comfort at this point. He squeezed her hand tightly and closed his eyes. He wanted to see his father one more time.

  Avon always liked the way his father’s gun looked holstered at his side with his belt badge shining in front. He had always felt a sense of pride when his father came home with yet another police award for valor. Avon even remembered his father once pinning his NYPD police lapel pin to his Easter Sunday suit.

  He hated having those memories sullied by Stokes.

  Stokes coughed through his maniacal laughter. “Now, Agent Tucker, are you ready to hear everything? Are you ready to talk so we can work together to find the girl and protect your family?” Stokes asked.

  They appeared to be back at square one.

  With his chest heaving and nostrils flaring, Tucker narrowed his eyes and glared at Stokes. He would at least hear him out. If it involved his family, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect them.

  “All right, then. Now that I have your full attention, let me start from the very beginning,” Stokes said, sliding a file in Tucker’s direction. “I know you’ve already seen these, but you only have the Hardaway files. I don’t think you know much about Joseph Barton or Rolando DeSosa ... or the government for that matter,” Stokes said.

  “I don’t wanna read any more of your fuckin’ lies! Be a man. Tell me the truth, eye to fucking eye! Tell me how you manipulated a man into selling drugs that poisoned his own fuckin’ people. Tell me how the fuckin’ government sells drugs to buy weapons for fuckin’ militants in other countries... . Yeah, tell me!” Tucker growled. He wanted Grayson Stokes to know he was not on his side now, and he never would be a part of his fucking games.

  “All right, then, Agent Tucker, I can do that. But you have to be able to handle the truth,” Stokes replied. The old man then steepled his fingers together, allowing the pad of each digit to match with its counterpart on the opposite hand. Stokes began to narrate, cleansing himself of it all and taking Tucker on a journey through the past.

  He might hate Stokes’s guts, but this was exactly the kind of information Tucker needed to help Candy.

  Chapter 11

  Players and Traitors

  New York 1984

  “Hit him again,” Grayson Stokes growled, circling the victim like a buzzard over a dead body.

  Stokes possessed the body of a U.S. Marine and the face of a Calvin Klein model; yet he was as ruthless as a black widow spider. His new mission had come directly from the director of the Central Intelligence Agency—an honor for an agent as high as being knighted by the queen of England.

  At his direction a huge gorilla-shaped man approached. The man’s meaty hands held the opposing ends of two battery cables; the clamps squeezed open like the hungry mouth of a shark. Stokes nodded at the man, giving him the signal.

  Without any facial emotion the man roughly clipped the menacing metal clamps onto the victim’s exposed nipples.

  The other man fiddled with a box; soon there was a crackling electric sound, like an old transistor radio. Guttural screams emerged from the victim’
s diaphragm and echoed off the walls. Stokes rubbed his chin, contemplating his next move.

  “Rolando DeSosa ... the Dominican kingpin of New York City,” Stokes said sarcastically, circling again. “Are you going to tell me to go fuck myself again, or are you going to get with the program?” Stokes pushed DeSosa’s suspended body, causing it to swing like he was a slab of meat in a butcher shop.

  DeSosa’s body was racked with tremors; he was a far cry from the cocky, slick-talking Tony Montana-wannabe who had strode into the room earlier.

  “Fuck you,” DeSosa rasped, his throat feeling like he’d swallowed acid.

  Stokes’s eyebrows arched high at DeSosa’s bravado. “Fuck me, huh?” Stokes laughed. Then his smile faded as fast as it had formed. Stokes quickly nodded to his henchmen. One of the suited thugs came forward with a scalpel.

  DeSosa moaned. There was only so much pain a man could tolerate in his lifetime. “No, no, no,” he mumbled, his battered eyes assessed the torture tool. His mind was barely able to comprehend the cruel trick that fate had played on him, for surely he would suffer dearly for his sins before he died.

  The thugs made several small incisions on DeSosa’s chest, like tribal initiation markings. Then they poured salt and alcohol onto it. DeSosa didn’t have any sound left in his voice box; his mouth just hung open in sheer terror.

  Stokes turned his back, anxiously rubbing his fingernails on the breast of his suit. He closed his eyes as DeSosa finally got enough wind in his lungs to let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  “Now, Rolando. Again, let me tell you who I am. Maybe your English is not too good, so you didn’t understand me the first time. I work for President Ronald Reagan. You do know who that is, right? He’s the man who allowed scum like you to enter our country, only to find out that you came here to get rich by selling drugs,” Stokes said condescendingly, addressing the top of DeSosa’s downturned head.

  DeSosa couldn’t and wouldn’t dare answer. He’d had enough.

  With the flick of his hand, Stokes’s people were pulling DeSosa down from the chains and relocating him to a cold metal chair. His head was fighting a major battle with his neck; eventually it lobbed forward until his chin hit his chest. Stokes stood menacingly in front of him.

  “You feel better sitting on the chair?” Stokes continued, not giving DeSosa a chance to even respond. “So, now, this little thing we want you to agree to. It’s sort of like an immunity deal. We take you out of prison. We give you access to the newest spin on cocaine, and you do our good president a favor by finding the right people in the worst neighborhoods to distribute this new phenomenal wonder drug—which we call crack cocaine—to. You following me, DeSosa?”

  Stokes grabbed a handful of DeSosa’s thick, dark hair so that he could look him directly in the eye. DeSosa could barely keep his battered eyelids open long enough to stare back.

  “Rolando, I have about twelve more ways to make you say yes. Why don’t we avoid using those methods? All you need to do is just open your mouth and repeat after me: ‘I, Rolando DeSosa, will agree to help this great country of the United States, which allowed my cockroach spic ass to come here and make money off its people,’” Stokes dictated. “Or should we start with that machine right there? I believe it does something permanent. Tell me, how much do you value your eyesight, Rolando?” Stokes threatened in a maddeningly calm tone.

  DeSosa still did not acquiesce right away; instead, it took four more methods of torture before he finally cracked. In the end he agreed to the CIA’s program to distribute crack cocaine in low-income neighborhoods in New York City and Los Angeles.

  At the time no one, not even the CIA, knew the distribution was being used to fund Reagan’s Contras. Stokes had only agreed to the program because he was told that controlling the distribution of this new and cheap spin on regular cocaine would help the government rid its country of the worst ghettos, like a self-inflicted genocide.

  Stokes had signed on because he was a loyal employee of the government. He had thrown his moral compass in the trash compartment many years ago, and had no intention of retrieving it anytime soon.

  Easy Hardaway was recruited into Operation Easy In, after his name had been passed to DeSosa by an NYPD detective named Francis Moore. Francis Moore was a decorated police hero; he was a rising rank-and-file detective, street legend and hard-nosed narc, who had put the worst of the worst behind bars for life.

  Rolando DeSosa knew Moore differently. He knew Moore as the dirty detective he had kept on his payroll for years. Their relationship had proved very beneficial to DeSosa. Each and every time he had a run-in with the NYPD, his name would be cleared; then he’d be back on the street in a matter of days, and sometimes hours, thanks to Moore’s diligent work.

  Until Moore’s only daughter, Corine, had begun dating a scraggly street kid known to every cop and detective as Easy, his life had been pretty uncomplicated. As the protégé of Early, a longtime criminal, Moore naturally had concerns about the safety of Corine in the presence of Easy.

  One night Moore stormed into DeSosa’s hangout spot in Harlem, sweating and visibly upset. He had been searching for DeSosa for days. He needed DeSosa to take care of his little “problem.” But clearly, DeSosa had problems of his own.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Moore asked, noticing the healing cuts and bruises on DeSosa’s face, neck and hands.

  DeSosa had waved off the questions. “What is it that you want from me, Detective Moore? I haven’t been out there, so I don’t have anything for you.”

  “What makes you think I want something?” Moore asked defensively.

  DeSosa raised an arrogant eyebrow. “Because dirty cops only come around when they want something.”

  Moore explained the situation with his daughter. He believed Eric Hardaway to be a no-good street thug who had stolen his daughter away from him and his wife.

  DeSosa dismissed Moore’s paternal concerns, at first. “I’m not doing jur fuckin’ dirty work. You have a personal vendetta against the kid, ju handle it,” DeSosa said dismissively.

  Moore was his employee, not the other way around. DeSosa didn’t fucking have time for this personal bullshit—what with the government breathing down his back.

  Moore, however, persisted like a bulldog with a bone. He simply knew that if Easy Hardaway stayed romantically involved with his daughter, Corine would end up dead in a back alley. It simply wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.

  Exasperated, DeSosa heard Moore out, but he considered a different course of action. Why kill a perfectly good drug dealer? The instruction Stokes provided to DeSosa was to recruit specific types of people for the program—poor people, illiterates, high-school dropouts. These recruits also needed to be hungry for fast money and posses a work ethic strong enough to generate a decent cash flow.

  Easy, in many ways, was a highly qualified candidate for the program. Easy was like a wrapped Christmas gift that had been left under the tree for DeSosa.

  Moore gave DeSosa information about Easy’s last whereabouts, as well as his street affiliations, daily routine, known accomplices, etc. He had done all of the legwork, which meant all DeSosa had to do was track him down and make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  Easy was a kid coming up on the street, making a name for himself; he was known to many for being the quiet kid who ran in silence and violence. Easy was always hungry for his next dollar. He beat the block, day in and day out. He worked tirelessly at his job and was very smart at evading the police radar. No matter how many times they tried to snag him, Easy had strategically avoided detention and arrest. If the cops thought they had enough probable cause to do a “stop and frisk” of Easy’s car, they never found what they were looking for, because there was never enough evidence to haul his ass off to jail.

  Easy was smart about his hustle; he knew Early would have been proud of the name he had worked hard building for himself. Easy became especially careful in his dealings, however, after falling in love with
and impregnating the daughter of a cop. He didn’t want to jeopardize his newfound family by making rookie mistakes. Now his main responsibility was feeding the unborn children who grew in his girl’s belly and protecting them all from harm.

  DeSosa sent a man with a message for Easy. “Rolando DeSosa, the biggest kingpin in New York, wants to see you. He heard about how hard you work out here on these streets, and he wants you to come and talk to him. He wants you to move fuckin’ weight for him.”

  Always the skeptic, Easy didn’t take the guy very seriously. In fact, Easy looked the little Hispanic dude up and down, scowling, and said, “Get the fuck outta here with that fantasy bullshit. Y’all niggas always tryin’a set a nigga up. A nigga like me been on these streets for a minute. I was born at night, nigga, not last night!” The small man scampered away like a dog with his tail caught between his legs.

  After that encounter Easy stepped up his arsenal of weapons, strategically placing them at home, in his car and on his person. He didn’t trust a damn soul anymore.

  It wasn’t until DeSosa sent his own men, and not a street flunky, to deliver the message personally to Easy that he even considered the possibility of working for DeSosa.

  He had spotted them walking feverishly toward him from a heavily tinted car. Easy was an the high ready, reaching for his waistband, but they responded by opening their trench coats and showing their bare waistbands. With hands raised in peace, one guapo boomed, “We bring a message from our boss.”

  Still wary of their presence in his territory, Easy kept a safe distance from them. DeSosa really wanted to see him; this was the general song the honchos were singing.

  Easy had some questions that needed answering first. “Little ol’ me? Why me? Of all the hustlin’ dudes in BK ... why me?”

  The men assured him that all of his questions would be answered when he met with their boss.

  Though Easy was flattered by the offer, he worried that he was being set up. Perhaps DeSosa wanted to get rid of all the competition and expand his own enterprise. Everyone knew DeSosa—he was the man pushing the fast-moving cocaine, which not only cost less than other street drugs, but brought in more profit by sheer volume of sales than heroin or weed could ever net.