Mafioso [Part 3]

by Nisa Santiago

  “Fuck the hospital,” he exclaimed.

  “Wacka, don’t be stupid! What can I do for you? Nothing! I’m no doctor.”

  He huffed in pain and agony. He was getting blood all over her floor. His body felt cold. The light in his eyes refused to fade out. He scowled and he cursed. Maxine had gotten the best of him again, and the thought of her still living gave him strength to stay alive.

  Tarsha, however, was becoming tired of taking care of Wacka. He only came running her way when he was jammed up or tired of running through random pussy and wanted to bed her down. She was tired of trying to put him back together like he was Humpty Dumpty. He was broke, and her bills needed to be paid. She had a son to look after, but once again, he needed her attention too.

  Wacka wasn’t his old self; something had changed in him. Before it was about that money, and Tarsha received some of that money to help with their son. Although he was a monster on the streets, he still was taking care of his son.

  Even though she didn’t say it to his face, she strongly felt that his days as a career criminal were over. That meant they would most likely stay broke. She would need to get a real job, because public assistance wasn’t enough to pay the bills.

  She couldn’t let him die. She couldn’t let him suffer anymore. He was in pain and his hands were mangled. The hospital was their only choice. What she would tell them this time? What excuse could she give the doctors to keep the local police from investigating them?

  “I’m takin’ you to the hospital. You don’t have a choice. You’re not dying on my living room floor,” she said as she hurried around her home collecting things and got ready to call her friend to come and watch their son.

  Wacka propped himself against the wall, nursing his mangled hands and frowning heavily. Three fingers gone, and he was losing too much blood. His skin looked ashen.

  Tarsha did her best to comfort him, but she carried a stink attitude. She was not happy about it. Wacka wasn’t stupid. He knew what her attitude and disrespectful treatment were from. There he was again, bleeding and fucked up, but this time it was from a car accident instead of multiple gunshot wounds.

  A half-hour later, Tarsha was helping Wacka into the emergency room. Unfortunately the doctors could do nothing for his fingers. They explained to him they should have been on ice, and they couldn’t reattach them. His days of carrying a pistol were over, and guns were the foundation of Wacka’s criminal operation. He was a handicap—a fuckin’ cripple—to Tarsha. If he couldn’t rob, steal, or kill—then what was he good for?

  13

  The bright red Bugatti Veyron was a beautiful vehicle. It stood out—almost an anomaly among the other cars crowding 125th Street in Harlem, New York. Heads swiveled toward the extravagant car as it parked in front of Sneaker Palace, a shoe store nestled among dozens of other businesses. People waited to see who would emerge from the vehicle, believing it would be a rap star. Two teens were already wide-eyed and itching to leap at the occupants of the car for a pic with whoever it was.

  The doors opened, and Meyer and Luna emerged from the vehicle with all eyes on them. They weren’t rap stars, a disappointment to many, but they looked like them with their platinum jewelry shining brightly, fresh Timberland boots, sharp jeans sagging, and designer bubble coats.

  Meyer smirked at the onlookers and said, “What the fuck everyone lookin’ at? Niggas ain’t never seen a Bugatti before?”

  With Luna watching his back, Meyer walked into the store looking to purchase high-end sneakers. They both had major money to spend. Once inside, they were immediately greeted by Lenny, the manager of the store. They were regulars, and Lenny would give them the royal treatment.

  “Gentlemen, whatever you two need, I got you,” he said with a smile.

  “Lenny, you know what we like—the exclusive shit,” Meyer said.

  “Of course.”

  Eyes were on the two men as they walked around the store with the manager kissing their asses. Their personas screamed “drug dealers.” But people knew not to gaze too hard for too long; it would most likely provoke a confrontation they didn’t want or weren’t ready for. So the shoppers minded their business.

  Meyer walked to the display wall of sneakers and observed their selections. He was a sneaker head, and he was very picky about his shoes.

  Luna stood behind him, examining the dozens of sneakers on display and muttered to Meyer, “You know Gap talkin’ that shit about us.”

  Meyer was listening, but his attention was on a pair of blue-and-white Jordans with a price tag of $198. “I like these. I might cop these too,” he said. Then he glanced at Luna and said, “What that cocksucker sayin’?”

  “He’s talkin’ ’bout we’re weak now because you broke away from your father’s operation. He talkin’ shit about us, especially your mother—called her a cunt and everything. Plus, he ain’t tryin’ to pay what he owes,” Luna whispered.

  The information made Meyer fume inside, but he kept his cool in the sneaker store. He picked up one of the blue-and-white sneakers to get a closer look.

  Gap had been in business with the Wests for nearly two years. A two-bit drug dealer from Brownsville, Brooklyn, he was moving one or two kilos a month for them. Gap had dreams of coming up large, but he was steadily falling on his face because of his gambling debts and mismanaged finances. Meyer had been forced to put him in check a few times.

  Gap wasn’t the brightest candle on the cake. He was a ruthless and mindless thug who caught a lucky break by meeting Meyer in the club. The two conversed, and Meyer saw he had some potential. Now Gap thought because of the split in the family, he could talk reckless and there would be no consequences.

  “Yo, handle that shit fo’ me. He’s been dead weight for too long now. I thought the nigga had potential. Guess I was wrong,” Meyer said, giving the code to Luna.

  Luna nodded. “I got it. I never liked that muthafucka in the first place.”

  “Where the fuck is Lenny with these sneakers?” Meyer said.

  As if on cue, Lenny emerged from the backroom of the store carrying two sneaker boxes, a size 11 for Meyer and a size 12 for Luna. He smiled at the two men and said, “Here they are . . . the exclusive shit.”

  “Open it up and let me see them shits,” Meyer said.

  Lenny crouched down in front of the two men as if they were kings and removed the lid to the sneaker box. Meyer and Luna gazed at the sneakers in admiration and excitement. The black and gold Nikes—the Just Don—were limited edition and so exclusive they were hard even for celebrities to get their hands on. But Lenny always knew to put the special shit aside just for Meyer and Luna.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” said Luna.

  “How much?” asked Meyer.

  “For the two of you, six hundred apiece,” he said.

  It was pennies to them. Meyer looked at Luna and indicated to pay the man. Luna reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of mostly hundreds and fifties totaling ten grand. The huge wad turned heads inside the store, but the customers and employees glanced cautiously, not wanting to be caught staring at a drug dealer’s cash.

  “Yo, throw in some Yankees fitteds and a few Nets caps while you at it,” Meyer said to Lenny.

  “I got you.”

  While Lenny and Luna were going through the transaction at the cash register, the door to the sneaker store chimed and opened, and in walked in a young girl who looked to be Puerto Rican. She immediately caught Meyer’s attention. She was beautiful—exotic looking—and Meyer stared at her with awe.

  “Damn,” he muttered to himself.

  She was tall with light skin and green eyes. Her hair was dark and rich, and it fell in waves to adorn her glowing peach skin. Her eyes were framed by beautiful long and dark lashes, and she had full lips and high cheekbones. Meyer was completely hypnotized by her.

  The girl
walked toward the toddler section in the store, and Meyer trekked her way, determined to get to know her better. He watched her as she picked up a pair of tiny sneakers and looked at them. He stood behind her and said, “Whatever you need, it’s on me.”

  Her head swiveled in his direction and she looked him up and down. “No, thanks,” she returned nonchalantly. “Do I look like I can’t afford them myself?”

  “You look exquisite, but I know you used to hearing that every day.”

  “I hear many things; it doesn’t mean I’m used to it,” she replied sharply.

  He smiled and chuckled. She would be a challenge for him. “I know you do, but I wasn’t tryin’ to offend you. Just making conversation with you, that’s all.”

  “It’s a free country, you can talk all you want, and it doesn’t mean that I have to listen.”

  “Wow, you’re assertive, I like that,” he said. “Boy or girl?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The sneakers in your hands—are they for your son or daughter?”

  “Neither. They’re for my little brother. He’ll be two next week.”

  She continued to look standoffish. So far, Meyer wasn’t making any ground with her. But he wasn’t giving up that easily. When he wanted something, he went after it wholeheartedly, and this one, she stood out. Already, he knew there was something different about her. While Meyer was trying to make a connection with the woman, Luna stood on the sidelines watching his friend work his charm on the young beauty.

  “Let me introduce myself to you. I think I came off wrong. My name is Meyer.” He extended his hand for her to shake.

  She looked hesitant at first, eyeing Meyer with some uncertainty, but eventually, she shook his hand. “I’m Zoe.”

  “Beautiful name,” he said.

  “You’re not gonna go away, are you?” she said.

  He smiled. “I like you.”

  “You don’t know me at all.”

  “We can change that right now,” he said. “I can see it in your eyes, though.”

  “See what?”

  “That you’re already judging me without getting to know me.”

  “That’s because I know your type,” she said.

  “My type?” he laughed. “I’m a businessman, beautiful.”

  “Yeah, my uncles are and were in the same kind of business too . . . and now they’re either in jail or dead,” she said.

  “Beautiful, you simply got me mistaken. I own real estate, clubs, and I do promotion for rappers and celebrities. What is it that they always say? ‘Never judge a book by its cover’ . . . and you’re reading me already and didn’t even open me up. What’s wrong, you don’t like my cover?”

  Meyer read her too, and he realized that she was used to dealing with legit men. Her speech was educated, and her mannerisms said that she expected the best. Meyer felt she was authentic and he would not let this one get away.

  Zoe was different from the women Meyer usually dated. She was a beauty queen, and she was still competing in pageants and winning. She was the former Miss Puerto Rico. She was classy and stylish, and she had goals and ambition. She was a sophisticated girl, independent—not looking for someone to take her out the hood.

  “How about dinner? Tonight or tomorrow night? You can pick the restaurant,” he said.

  She smiled. It was about time he got her to smile at him. “You serious?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  “I can have expensive taste.”

  His eyes never left hers. “Do I look broke to you?”

  She simply stared at him, seeing the jewelry, the clothes and then there was the bright red Bugatti she saw parked outside.

  “I assume that’s your shiny new hot-wheel car outside.”

  He chuckled. “You’re cute and funny—hot-wheel, I like that. But yes, that’s me. You wanna go for a ride?”

  “No thank you,” she said. “But I’ll take you up on your offer for that dinner. Why not? I’ll give you a chance.”

  “See, how simple was that?” he said.

  Mission accomplished, Meyer felt. But Zoe had more to say.

  “I’ll give you one chance to impress me. Tomorrow night, dinner. I’ll call you with the restaurant that I’ll pick. And I expect you to be on time. I don’t do CP time, and I don’t like to be embarrassed.”

  “I’m far from embarrassing,” he said.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” she replied. “And wear something nice. I don’t do hip-hop gear. And to let you know . . .” She leaned closer to his ear and said, “I’m not some easy-ass bitch that’s gonna spread her legs for a few dollars and a nice meal. So don’t think I’m an easy fuck! Okay?”

  He grinned. “I hear you, beautiful.” He was up for the challenge.

  “And my name is Zoe, not beautiful.”

  “Zoe,” he said. “I got you.”

  Meyer loved her poise and the boldness she carried. No woman had ever spoken to him like that. She took down his number and promised to call him. She pivoted and walked away, leaving her mark on him.

  Luna walked over with the bags in his hands and asked, “What was that about?”

  “Damn, my nigga. She a hard-ass bitch to break in, but she real. I like that. Her name is Zoe.”

  “You trust that?”

  Meyer glanced her way, once again captivated by her beauty. “We’ll see.”

  Just then, his cell phone rang, and it was Layla calling. He felt reluctant to answer, but knowing his mother, she would continue to call until he picked up.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I need to see you and Lucky,” she said.

  “Now? I’m kinda busy.”

  “I’m not asking, Meyer,” she said. “In an hour, and don’t be late.” She hung up.

  Meyer sighed and said to Luna, “Let’s go.”

  Before leaving the sneaker store, Meyer glanced back at Zoe one last time and nodded his head. He couldn’t wait to see her again.

  14

  Deuce, Jimmy, Whistler, and several DMC thugs sat in the VIP section of Club Pussy Cat, a prominent strip club in Baltimore. They were all in a celebratory mood. They all felt they’d come up in a smooth lick and made off with millions of dollars. They lounged in the extended booths in the extravagant VIP surrounded by beautiful and sexily dressed ladies, popping bottles of champagne and liquor, blowing through lots of cash, and having a good time. The DJ blared “Love Me” with Lil’ Wayne, Drake, and Future through the club as the girls bounced, twerked, and grinded to the catchy song.

  They were all balling and flaunting their wealth—each man was loud, vulgar, and fondling the girls in their company. Deuce sat in the center of it all, throwing his glass up, showcasing his diamond bracelet, pinky rings, and platinum chains. He was dressed to the nines in a mink coat and pristine Timberland boots and gripped a stack of hundred-dollar bills, making it rain on a few hoes.

  Whistler sat right next to him, tossing back a bottle of Moët and watching the nude, big-breasted and big-booty stripper work the catwalk across the room. She had long platinum hair and worked the pole with a few guys on each side. She bent over and tried to pick up a dollar with her teeth while the guys behind her caught a full view of her goodies. Whistler was fixated on the stripper’s activity. She pushed her tits in a man’s face and made him suck on her nipples, and he laughed. Shit was crazy.

  Deuce suddenly threw his arm around Whistler. The alcohol was working on him, jollying his temperament as his breath smelled of champagne. Deuce abruptly stood up, catching everyone’s attention, and he looked at Whistler and raised his glass in the air to give an impromptu toast. “Everyone shut the fuck up and let me say this,” he exclaimed.

  Everyone knew to be quiet when Deuce had something to say. The music still blared, but it felt like the volume dimmed in their a
rea. Deuce towered over everyone like he was the Statue of Liberty; his presence alone was commanding. His eyes shot down at Whistler like they were kindred spirits and said, “You did good, Whistler—really fuckin’ good. That shit was lovely, and you were on point. This my nigga right here. You fuck wit’ him, then you fuck wit’ me.”

  All of Deuce’s henchmen stood up and toasted with their boss.

  Whistler remained nonchalant, knowing it could have gone the other way if they had come up empty. But it worked out in his favor. He was sure that Scott and Bugsy would be smart enough to move the money and not let it sit when their network had been corrupted. Deuce was happy about it, though, and so were his men. To take away that amount of cash—millions of dollars—would stir up the other side and create mayhem. Was this Whistler’s home now? DMC—his crew? It wasn’t too long ago that he was plotting against them, and now he was drinking and partying with them, and Deuce was toasting him and showing him love inside the club.

  Whistler smiled and went with the flow. Damn it, it felt good taking that much money from Scott. The man tried to kill him, and his daughter was a cunning slut!

  While everyone was all smiles, throwing back champagne and feeling on tits and pussy, there was one man among them who wasn’t. Jimmy had this sour look about him, and it caught Whistler’s attention. Jimmy was feeling a certain type of way about Whistler, and it showed. He and Deuce had roots that ran deep, while Whistler was a small plant in their jungle.

  “My nigga, I got you tonight—pussy, drinks, whatever. We partying like rock stars today, cuz we take what we want and we don’t give a fuck,” hollered Deuce.

  People cheered, and more champagne was ordered. The girls gave out lap dances and clarified to the men that anything was fair game with them.

  However, Jimmy sat aloof from it all, and he was feeling insecure as if Whistler could be taking his place. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t trust him.