by C. J. Hudson
A strange feeling settled in the pit of Flora’s stomach as she made her way toward her living room. Flora froze when she turned the corner. Her heart stopped when she saw three men sitting on her sofa.
“Damn, bitch, whoever you were up there with tore that pussy out the frame,” Duck said, laughing.
“Who the fuck is y’all? What y’all doin’ in my place?”
As cool as a summer breeze, Darnell got up from the couch and walked over to her. Before she knew it, Flora felt herself falling to the floor, courtesy of a backhanded slap from him. While she was on the floor, he kneeled and got face-to-face with her. His eyes were cold and hard. His voice dripped with malice.
“If I don’t ask you a question, you don’t open your fuckin’ mouth, you got that?” he asked in a sinister voice. Flora took one look into his eyes and immediately knew that he meant business.
She didn’t know what the hell was going on, but from the looks of it, she’d walked into her own residence and stepped into a pile of shit. When she didn’t answer fast enough, Darnell grabbed her under her chin and squeezed.
“I asked you a question. Have you fuckin’ got that?”
Flora nodded silently as her entire body shook in fear.
“Good. Duck, go handle that.”
Darnell waited until his minion was gone before turning his attention back to Flora. “Now, let’s talk. A little over an hour ago, we saw you coming out of a house inhabited by an acquaintance of ours. His name was Pee Wee. Do you know him?”
Flora didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to lie to the gangster but was afraid to tell him the truth. Darnell smiled at her just before slapping her back down to the floor.
“I see you don’t hear too fuckin’ well. Now, let’s try this shit again. Do you know a muthafucka named Pee Wee?”
With tears cascading down her face, Flora nodded slowly.
“Now, we’re getting some-damn-where.” Darnell stared at her for another ten seconds before shaking his head. “Nah, sweetheart. You don’t know him. You feel me? If anybody asks you about him, you weren’t there, and you ain’t seen that nigga in two weeks. You got that?”
Not wanting to get slapped a second time, Flora nodded her head in agreement before Darnell could even complete his sentence.
“Good.” Darnell then reached into his pocket and pulled out a lump of folded bills. He peeled off five one hundred-dollar bills and handed them to her. Flora’s hand trembled as she accepted the cash.
“That’s real good.”
Darnell nodded to Lard, and the two men headed for the door. Right before he left, he looked back at her sternly. He put his finger over his lips to remind her to keep her mouth closed. As soon as they were gone, Flora ran to the door and locked it. The visit by the goons had utterly blown her high. Suddenly, she jumped when she heard someone knocking at her door. Fear gripped her as she couldn’t help but wonder if the thugs had come back to exterminate her. After a few minutes, she had finally gathered enough courage to get up and go to the door. Cautiously, she opened her front door and saw a piece of paper taped to it.
No matter where you go, I can still reach out and touch you, it said. Flora’s entire body trembled in fear. She cautiously stuck her head out the door a little more, knowing that if they wanted to kill her, she would be dead already. It wasn’t until her head swung to the right that she saw the horrific sight. Flora screamed at the top of her lungs when she saw Victor stretched out on the porch with three bullet holes in his chest. The message was loud and clear. If she wanted to keep her life, she would keep her mouth shut and accept the hush money.
Chapter 7
Detective Little sat at his desk, twirling a pen in his right hand. The task in front of him was to fill out paperwork for an armed robbery suspect. He’d arrested the man a few days earlier so that he could be processed. But an assignment that should’ve taken him no longer than forty-five minutes tops to complete was now approaching an hour. Every few minutes, he would glance down at his cell phone lying on his desk. It had been three hours since his fool of a partner, Detective Anthony Warren, had called him. He’d told him that he was going to try to take down one of the city’s most notorious drug dealers by himself. It was a stupid move, and Little was praying that Warren hadn’t signed his own death warrant.
On the one hand, Little understood why his partner was so anxious to take down Darnell McCord. For years, they’d been trying to put him behind bars, but the Cleveland kingpin had successfully beaten the rap on any and everything that they’d thrown at him. Not even the FBI had been able to make anything stick on him. The growing sense of frustration was being felt by law enforcement throughout the city. For all intents and purposes, Darnell McCord had become the modern-day Al Capone. He had become . . . Mr. Untouchable. Whichever law enforcement officer or precinct that was skilled or lucky enough to bring him and his crew down would be looked upon as legends. But when dealing with a criminal like McCord, you had to be patient. He was armed with a team of goons and killers and had one of the most powerful lawyers in the entire state of Ohio on retainer. When you went at him, you had to be sure. It had taken Detective Warren, working over two years as an undercover agent, to gain his trust. That’s why Little couldn’t understand why his partner wanted to rush things suddenly. When the bust went down, they would have over twenty FBI agents and uniformed officers at their disposal. All he had to do was wait.
Little knew it was a risky move, but he couldn’t help it any longer. He snatched up his cell phone and dialed Warren’s number. When the call went directly to voicemail, he hung up and tried again but got the same result. His throat became dry. His stomach began to feel queasy.
Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in his gut. He slammed his phone back down on the desk so hard that it nearly cracked the screen.
A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He went back and forth in his mind, debating whether to tell his captain what Warren was up to. He jumped when his cell phone buzzed. Without even looking at the caller ID, he snatched his phone off the desk and screamed into it.
“Jesus Christ, Warren, where the hell are you?”
“Uh, I don’t know where the hell your partner is, but I do know where the fuck your wife is.”
Little looked at his watch and cursed silently. He was so worried about Warren that he’d completely forgotten about the dinner date he had with his wife. He could almost feel her anger seeping through the phone.
“Oh my God, baby, I’m sorry. I completely––”
“Forgot, Harold?” she said, finishing his sentence for him. “Yeah, you seem to be doing a lot of that lately.”
“Baby, I swear to God, I’m gonna make it up to you.”
“Yeah, right. That’s another load of bullshit you keep feeding me, but to be honest, Harold, I’m getting tired of swallowing it.”
Little rubbed his face. His wife had a point, and he knew it. He hadn’t done it intentionally, but over time, he’d started spending more and more time at the police station and less at home.
“Harold, does this have anything to do with Steven?” she asked.
Harold pulled the phone back from his face and looked at it. A touch of anger rose inside of him. When he didn’t respond immediately, his wife knew that she’d touched a nerve.
“Look, I’m sorry, Harold, but I had to ask. I know that this isn’t the ideal situation for us, but Steven is our child. It’s our responsibility to take care of him.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Harold said, a little louder than he intended to. “And what has Steven got to do with me forgetting a damned dinner date?” he said angrily. He didn’t like what she was insinuating. He would never stay away from his son, regardless of his condition.
Steven’s autism put a tremendous strain on the Littles’ marriage. Not only were they burdened with caring for a child with a disability, but also the financial strain threatened to drive a tree-sized wedge between them. Medical bills were mo
unting up. With his wife Tracy being a stay-at-home mom, Harold’s income was all they had to depend on. Harold had never thrown it in her face, but he was tempted to do just that after hearing her accusatory tone. He took a deep breath and was about to let her have it when she abruptly apologized.
“Harold, baby, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to come at you the way I did. I just hate not being able to spend as much time with you as I would like. And I know you’re not intentionally staying away from your son. I’m sorry I said that.”
Harold smiled slightly as the anger drained from his face.
“I’m sorry too, baby. I’ll be at the restaurant as soon as I can.”
“Don’t worry about it. My sister agreed to keep Steven for the night, so you just bring your fine, sexy ass home to me,” she said in a voice that let the detective know that he was going to get lucky tonight.
“Yes, ma’am!” he said before ending the call.
Harold had no idea where his partner was. But the sexy tone his wife had just spoken to him in had caused him to stop giving a damn. Whatever mess Warren had gotten himself into had better be something he could dig himself out of. It had been almost two months since Tracy had given him some, and there was no way he was going to miss this opportunity. Faster than he’d moved in years, Harold put his paperwork away and moved toward the exit. He was just about to leave when he heard his captain call his name. With a rock-hard dick and his mind on his wife, Harold ignored his boss and kept it moving.
* * *
Darting from one lane to another and back, Harold drove down Saint Clair Avenue on a mission. He was about five minutes from hopping on the freeway when he cut his eyes down one of the side streets and spotted two fire trucks and a coroner’s van.
“Fuck,” he shouted as he slowed down and made an illegal U-turn. Harold had briefly thought about ignoring the situation and continuing on his merry way, but his conscience wouldn’t allow him to. He had taken a sworn oath to protect. So no matter how much he wanted to get laid, he had a job to do. When he came to the side street, he made a right and cruised to a stop behind a parked SUV. He got out of his car and took his badge out. As he made his way through a sea of onlookers, he heard a familiar voice.
“Everyone, get back, please. This is police business. Move along, please.”
Harold showed his badge and was waved through by one of the uniformed officers.
“Hey, Ted! Ted, what have we got?” Harold asked a fellow detective.
“We’re still gathering information, but from the looks of it, two people were blown to bits while sitting in a car. Body parts are all over the place. The only thing we know for certain is that the car belongs to Preston ‘Pee Wee’ Wilson. Luckily for us, the blast blew the license plate clean off the car and over there by a tree. We were able to run the plate.”
Howard raised an eyebrow. “Please, don’t tell me that this is the same Pee Wee Wilson that runs with Darnell McCord.”
“The one and only. Hey, I heard something about Warren being undercover regarding McCord,” Ted whispered. “How’s that going? Are we getting any closer to nailing that son of a bitch?” Before Harold could answer, an officer called out to them.
“Hey, Detectives, I think you guys should come over here and see this.”
The officer’s face was as white as a sheet. Howard knew that there was something terribly wrong. A bad feeling washed over him. With each step he took, the knot in his stomach got tighter and tighter. By the time he got halfway to the bushes, the officer who had called them over grabbed his stomach and was throwing up. Seeing this, Harold and Ted both picked up their pace. They needed to see what had caused the officer to lose his lunch. A collective gasp escaped both of their mouths when they looked down and saw a head lying in the bushes.
“Oh my God . . . It’s Warren,” Ted said in disbelief.
Chapter 8
Pier Ten was an upscale restaurant sitting on the edge of the water bank in downtown Cleveland. Some influential people often ate there. The food was excellent, the service was outstanding, and there was never a long wait to get served. The menu consisted mostly of seafood, but the place did offer a variety of premium steaks taken from the finest cuts of beef. They were also one of the few places in town that served lamb. Over the past five years, Pier Ten had twice been voted the classiest place to eat in Cleveland.
Most of the high-end customers didn’t know that Pier Ten was once a meeting spot where some of Cleveland’s dirtiest politicians would meet with figures of the underworld. It was at these meetings where back door deals were arranged. Hits on judges or witnesses who couldn’t or wouldn’t be bribed were made. It was the perfect place for them to conduct their business.
The nearest operating business was three miles away, so privacy was pretty much guaranteed. That all changed when a judge’s egotistical son got drunk and ran his mouth to a woman he was trying to screw. He wanted to impress her by bragging on his status and connection to prominent Cleveland figures. Unfortunately for him, it worked a little too well. After fucking the woman two or three times, he got bored with her and let her know that it was time to move on in no uncertain terms. Needless to say, the woman was pissed off. She’d foolishly thrown away her marriage on a weekend affair that was just that. By the time the woman had got done running her mouth, not only had the local police started sniffing around but also the FBI had put the place on their radar as well.
Louie Calhoun, the bar owner, felt that for the safety and freedom of all involved, it was best to close the place. It remained that way until a young businessman inquired about what it would take to purchase the property. At first, the owner refused to sell. He had no desire for his building to be taken over by an African American, or moulie, as he liked to call them. It wasn’t until a few of the city’s underworld figures put pressure on Louie that he caved. Louie did, however, voice his reluctance.
“If we start letting this moulie control real estate, we’re all fucked. The way I understand it, he’s already on his way to controlling the dope game.”
“He’ll control what we let him control,” a broad-shouldered Italian named Pete said. “Now stop bitchin’ and sell the fuckin’ building.”
The way they saw it, Louie could jack the price up 25 percent, and they could all stand to make a good piece of change. Even though Darnell knew that he was getting fucked on the price, he still agreed to buy it. Turiq never could understand why, and Darnell never felt the need to explain it to him. Once he purchased the place, Darnell didn’t waste any time fixing it up. By the time he was done with it, it was one of the more elegant spots in the city.
Darnell was also smart enough to know that it would be extremely detrimental to put the place in his name. A few greased palms and well-placed bribes essentially ensured that the place was owned by a ghost. But today, the place was being used for more than an eatery. Some business had to be discussed—serious business.
Darnell walked into his conference room with Duck and Lard following closely behind. After taking his seat, he tossed a large manila envelope on the table. From the other end of the table, Turiq chuckled as he looked at his watch.
“I see you on Negro time, my nigga.”
“Yeah, well, you know how it is. Did you tell these niggas what’s going on?”
“Nah, I figured you’d want to relay that message.”
“You figured right,” Darnell said, his face turning deadly serious. Also seated at the table were four of Darnell’s top street lieutenants.
The longest-tenured was Blue. He was a no-nonsense cat operating out of Cleveland’s West Side. When it came to making that paper, Blue was all business. He kept his team in line and ruled with an iron fist. On more than one occasion, either Darnell or Turiq had to rein him in because he was too hard on his workers. At five foot seven, Blue had a serious Napoleon Complex. He would often stand on his toes in an effort to appear taller than he was. He was also hard on the eyes. With a scar running from the corner of his eye to h
is ear and an above-average-sized nose, Blue had to shell out a pretty fair amount of dough to get some of the finer women to keep time with him.
Trey was the total opposite of Blue. He too operated out of the West Side of Cleveland. Together, he and Blue supplied the area with 85 percent of its cocaine. Trey was six foot two, handsome, and a smooth talker. The ladies flocked to him in droves. A flashy cat, Trey loved to wear expensive jewelry and roll around in his gold Mercedes-Benz. Tariq had tried to get Darnell to make him tone it down, but Darnell refused. Darnell felt that since it was Trey’s money, he could do with it whatever he pleased. Trey’s problem was that he was careless. On more than one occasion, he’d gotten robbed by young women that he’d entertained at his house. He would do a few lines of coke with them, have sex with them, and then fall into a deep sleep. Darnell suspected that Trey might have been dipping into the very product that he was supposed to be selling, but as long as his money never came up short, Darnell couldn’t care less.
Sitting across from Trey was Damon. Damon was a greasy, low-life cat who’d been trying for years to get his weight up. Neither Darnell nor Turiq really cared all that much for Damon. In their eyes, he was a grimy muthafucka who would use his own mother as a stepping-stone in order to come up. He proved to be just as foul as they thought he was when he set up the previous lieutenant, Frank, to be robbed. Although Damon had been working for Frank for a year, he felt that he and Frank deserved a bigger piece of the pie than Darnell was giving them. Frank, on the other hand, felt that Darnell was more than fair.
Darnell hadn’t had any problems with Frank, and he wasn’t about to let Damon start any. In his mind, Damon had a lot of nerve even to be complaining. He was damn near starving when he first started working for Frank. Damon had been pushing prescription pills and Viagra when Frank offered him a chance to make some real bread. He saw the young man’s hustling potential and envisioned him making a lot of money for the team. But just as it always does, greed reared its ugly head. Damon wanted more buck for his bang.