If she pillaged from Scott, would she want to give it to Wacka? And the five hundred thousand—her father worked his ass off to buy that house. Now Wacka wanted to take it from her. She had to think about it. She needed Wacka dead, but how? She couldn’t go to Scott and tell him to kill him. Well, she could, but since Wacka kidnapped her Scott would probably torture him first and get him to talk, and Wacka would quickly give her up.
No, she couldn’t involve Scott. Scott colliding with Wacka was something she couldn’t chance. And she was sure that she couldn’t take him out alone. Not like she had with Miguel. There was no way around it. Until she found an appropriate way to get rid of the problem for good, she needed to pay up.
***
It was Tarsha’s plan that Wacka was following. She had become the root, and he was the tree. She made him call Maxine, and the money exchange was set for a public place. It was a very public place—One Police Plaza.
Maxine was taken aback by the location chosen. Why there? What was his motive? What was he trying to pull? Had he become a snitch? She wanted to know. Maxine clarified it to him she didn’t like the idea. She was very reluctant to walk anywhere near One Police Plaza with five hundred thousand dollars in cash and simply give it to him.
“I’m not doing that, Wacka. Are you crazy?”
“Look bitch, you either be there wit’ the cash or pay the consequences. I ain’t fuckin’ around. And if you try anything—if I even feel I’m walkin’ into a trap, you and I are both doing life in prison. I don’t give a fuck! I’ll be a snitching muthafucka to the cops, the feds, anyone that will listen about the murders you consigned to me. I have all the copies of the letters and photos you and my sister sent me, with names and all that good shit! And if you try to send niggas after me, you’ll regret it, cuz I’m letting you know that this shit don’t stop wit’ my death. I got a crew of muthafuckas who’ll make sure Scott will get the info on you. And I promise you, you kill me and you’ll follow me to hell. Real talk, bitch!” Wacka said a mouthful. “I hate you, bitch! And the only reason you ain’t a dead bitch is because I wanna get paid. Period! So keep talkin’ that slick shit, and the money might not mean that much to me.”
He was serious. He was angry and he wanted revenge. He blamed his family’s death on Maxine, and she could do nothing about it but comply with his every demand.
She was stressed out, not eating, and losing weight. Her mind was spinning out of control. Wacka was taking things too far. He was supposed to be this hardcore thug, not a snitch. But either she paid him or risked life in prison or death by the hands of the man she loved. Both options were bleak.
It felt like Wacka had her in checkmate, but she had to continue playing the game somehow. This couldn’t be her end. There was still so much to do. She wanted to crush her enemies, starting with Layla. She still wanted Layla dead, but not before her precious lifestyle was ripped away and Scott married Maxine. She wanted Meyer dead, and she wanted Lucky to see life in prison. Those were her wishes.
***
It was show time, and Wacka put on his game face. Tarsha bought some black leather gloves, wrapped sticks in duct tape until they were the length of his missing fingers, and secured the gloves to his wrists. With a black hoodie, Timberland boots, and his usual mean grill, he was looking as menacing as ever. Hiding his sudden handicap was important. He had enemies everywhere, and if word got out, the wolves would come charging to tear him and his family apart. And if anyone, especially Tarsha’s cousins, knew that the violent and murderous Wacka would most likely never be the same, he was a dead man. They would come for everything, including the cash they expected to receive from Maxine. Tarsha’s cousins were ruthless too, and unpredictable, and they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot Tarsha and Wacka in the head and leave their bodies in the Buick—money gone.
One Police Plaza was a busy place in lower Manhattan—lots of towering buildings, traffic, and people moving about freely with their busy lives. The place was a stone’s throw away from the Brooklyn Bridge, and the block bordered Park Row, Pearl Street, and Police Plaza. Since 9/11, the area had been locked down tightly with police, security, and bomb-sniffing dogs.
Maxine moved around the area nervously in her wool blend coat, clutching a gift bag with the money inside. Also on her person was a .380 for her protection. She didn’t know what to expect from Wacka. Would he kill her right there, in front of hundreds of witnesses and police? She didn’t doubt him one second. He was crazy enough.
Maxine was never more alert, watching everything within her radius and trying to predict his actions. But he could come from anywhere, and she probably wouldn’t see him coming.
A few feet away, watching Maxine wander about with the gift bag, was Tarsha, and sprinkled around the area were both of her dangerous cousins. Wacka sat in the Buick, keeping out of sight. They all had been there for hours staking out the area and looking for a setup. But nothing seemed shady.
Tarsha calmly approached Maxine, watching her every move. The moment she got up close on Maxine, she right away asked, “Is all the money there?”
Maxine pivoted and was taken aback by the woman asking about the money. She looked the ghetto looking bitch wearing the purple bubble coat and bamboo earrings up and down and said, “Where’s Wacka?”
“He’s around, but you’re dealing wit’ me.”
“I don’t think so,” Maxine refuted. “I want to see Wacka.”
“Look, don’t make this difficult. Just give me the money and I’ll go.”
Maxine hesitated making the matter difficult. The woman caught her by surprise. Who was she?
The two ladies had an exchange of words while trying to look pleasant. No one wanted any attention on themselves.
Maxine feared she was getting played. “I’m only giving the money to Wacka. I don’t know you.”
“He’s around, watching your every move. And if you fuck this up you won’t make it back home alive. But let’s not continue this dance; I know everything about you putting hits out on children. If that ever got out, you would be so fucked up.”
Maxine didn’t want to hear any more. It was bad enough she knew. She handed over the gift bag to Tarsha, and while taking the bag, Tarsha eyed everything that she had on. The bitch was classy with it—the clothes and the diamond/platinum engagement ring on her finger, it was a dead giveaway that she was worth more than a simple half million.
Tarsha didn’t say another word to her. She walked away briskly and hailed a taxicab. Maxine stood there dumbfounded; praying it was over with, but deep inside, she knew it wasn’t. The feeling these people would not go away so easily ate away at her.
In the back seat of the taxicab, Tarsha opened up the bag and smiled. The money was inside, stacks of it; she even leafed through each bill to make sure they were all hundreds instead of singles. Everything was the real deal.
Wacka and her two male cousins followed the taxicab in the Buick. Once they were sure she wasn’t being followed, Tarsha had the cab pull over several blocks from One Police Plaza. She paid the driver and hopped out, then slid into the backseat of the Buick with Wacka. The first thing out of her mouth was, “Yo, that bitch is loaded. She’s holding out on us. We need to get more money from her.”
Maybe had Maxine just handed over the gift bag to a nervous Tarsha, it would have been the end. But Maxine had asked too many questions and delayed the drop. In doing so, Tarsha had time to size her up. She felt that Maxine had played them, and asking for five hundred thousand was stupid—it was punk money. Divided between the four, the cash would be gone within a week or two. They gave her cousins fifty grand apiece and were left with four hundred thousand.
Tarsha had expenses, and Wacka had no fingers or family because of Maxine. She needed to suffer and pay them more money. The ring on her fingers was worth millions. Tarsha had noticed similar rings before from websites, TV shows, and celebrities sporting high
-end diamonds and whatnot. The information was golden and Wacka was energized. He wanted to drain Maxine of everything she had and owned. She was living like a celebrity and his entire world had been turned to shit.
No fucking way!
Less than twenty-four hours later, Wacka made another phone call to Maxine and harshly said, “Bitch, you think we stupid? I want five million dollars in a suitcase in the trunk of a Bentley, and you got two weeks to do it. Don’t fuck wit’ me!”
Maxine was flabbergasted and pissed off.
Wacka had become enemy number-one, and her main goal was to destroy him somehow and someway. She would not be bullied!
Epilogue
It was go time for Meyer. He was packed and ready to go—and a few hours from now, he and his lady would be chilling and relaxing in Maui. Passports, plenty of cash, and first-class plane tickets were all in Meyer’s possession. He was preparing to exit his home and scoop up Zoe from her place. Downstairs was a limousine waiting to take him and Zoe to JFK Airport for a red-eye flight. He deserved a vacation. This trip to Hawaii would be extravagant—the best money could buy. He had reservations to an elite resort where their cabanas were directly above the beautiful blue sea. The floor was glass, and you saw the sea, sharks, fish, and everything oceanic beneath your feet.
Zoe’s ninety-day countdown of no sex was finally coming to an end, and Meyer wanted some pussy. But he wanted to do something special for his beautiful queen—and it couldn’t get any more special than taking her on an exotic trip to Hawaii.
As he was moving through his place, checking to see if everything was secured and shut down, he heard nothing, but he felt a sudden presence. It was a feeling he couldn’t shake. So he went for his pistol on the night table where he’d left it, only to find it missing. Odd—Meyer never misplaced a gun, unless someone picked it up. He slowly turned around, hoping that it was only an eerie feeling and maybe his nerves were getting the best of him, but no such luck. He stared down the barrel of a .45 snub-nose pistol.
Expressionless, he said, “I let you live.”
“Big mistake.”
“So you gonna do me like this? I’m ya brother!”
“My brother—we always say that to each other, but then you abandoned me,” Luna said.
“What choice did I have? My mother wanted you dead.”
“Fuck that bitch, we were all we got. And what life do I have outside of the family—outside of New York? This is all I know, what I live and breathe for—and just like that, I’m supposed to run away and give it up? No crew, no money—nothing! I expected you to go to bat for me, but you didn’t.”
Meyer frowned. He went to bat for Luna, but his hands were tied.
“So not killing you is not going to bat for you?”
They argued, but there was no getting through to Luna. He raised the pistol toward Meyer. Ironic, now the shoe was on the other foot. Meyer held his ground and glared at his friend, his brother from another mother, and expected the worst to come. And it did. Luna fired—Bak! Bak! Bak!
Luna emptied the clip into Meyer, and then he reloaded, placed the barrel of the gun under his chin, and fired.
Bak!
He dropped to the floor near Meyer’s body. It appeared to be a murder-suicide, as if it was a love story.
Four Hours Later
Maxine laid nuzzled against Scott on the king size bed, their naked bodies entwined under the sheets with sleep still consuming them both. It had been a passionate night between them—lots of sex and lots of love. Scott came so many times inside of her, she could’ve sworn she felt herself getting pregnant. It would be a blessing.
The bedroom was dark and still. Things were calm until they weren’t.
Bang—the noise immediately lifted Scott from the bed and his woman’s sweet grasp. His feet slammed against the floor, and he instantly went for his weapon.
Bang—the noise grew louder, and Scott grabbed his gun believing it was a hit. Maxine startled awake too. Her eyes grew wide with panic. She looked at Scott for answers, but he was clueless too.
“Hide, baby,” he said to her.
But she didn’t want to hide. He screamed, “Get under the damn bed!”
He then charged into the next room with his gun in hand and aimed at the threat. Maxine heard someone say, “Gun!” and then she heard repeated gunfire—Boom! Boom! Boom!
It sounded like a thunderous bomb in the next room. She heard, “FBI, get down! Get the fuck down!”
Unbeknownst to them both, it was the feds kicking down their front door and bursting into the room with arrest warrants, guns, and hordes of agents. There was screaming and confusion. Maxine hurried into the next room to see Scott lying on the floor, bleeding profusely. He had been shot twice; one bullet went into his chest, and the other went into his shoulder.
“Ohmygod!” Maxine screamed.
She attempted to rush to his aid, to grab her man into her arms and comfort him, but the feds prevented her from going anywhere near him. They grabbed her tightly, and she resisted.
“You assholes!” she yelled.
The alphabet boys were rude—and the big bad feds had blown the house down. Things were chaotic inside the large penthouse suite. Maxine was subdued; her arms aggressively were folded behind her, and they threw on the handcuffs. They handcuffed Scott too, even though he was bleeding badly, his blood staining his expensive Berber carpeting.
“Call an ambulance! Please, get him some help,” she yelled at them. “He’s dying!”
They weren’t worried; if he lived or died, they still had their man in custody. Maxine threatened them with legal action, but they felt it was a clean shooting. He’d brandished a gun, and they feared for their safety.
They could’ve done things the easy way—knocked on his door at a reasonable hour, shown him the arrest and search warrants, and taken him away. But what fun would that be? They came in the wee hours of the morning in full swat gear, disturbing the entire building and capturing their man dead or alive—it’s what they lived for.
Not having anything on Maxine yet, they had to let her go. But the damage had already been done. She had to watch EMS carry her man out on a gurney. He was in bad shape, and the paramedics worked on keeping him alive. To make matters worse, the media was outside their building—capturing everything with their cameras. To add fuel to her raging fire, they prevented Maxine from riding in the ambulance with Scott.
She had to hail a cab to the hospital. She hurried toward admitting and explained to them that her fiancé was there for multiple gunshot wounds and demanded to know his status.
“His name?” they asked her.
“It’s Scott West.”
She had swiped Scott’s phone to call Bugsy and his men. But the minute she attempted to make a phone call, it rang. The caller ID showed that it was Layla. Maxine pushed talk and immediately heard chaos on the other end of the phone.
“Scott! Scott, the concierge said the feds are on their way up with a warrant for my arrest! What the fuck did you do? What the fuck is going on? I’m hiding in my panic room! Shit, they’re kicking in my door! Noooooo!”
The phone went dead.
All hell was breaking loose, and Maxine found herself in the center of it all.
Mafioso [Part 3] Page 22