Blood of a Boss II: The Streets Is Watching

by Askari

  “Awww shucks,” Ferraci whined. “Isn’t there another way we can settle this?”

  “Shut up and turn your punk ass around,” Grip demanded. “And poke your ass out so the lil’ brotha can get off a clean shot.”

  Reluctantly, Ferraci did as he was told. He leaned forward, and then peeked over his shoulder as Grip handed the young man his pistol. The feel of the pearl handle was something that the young man had never experienced before. He looked at Ferraci and took a deep breath.

  Grip noticed his apprehension, and felt the need to talk him through it. “Just take your time, youngblood. Nice and easy,” he nodded his head. “Nice and easy.”

  The young man looked at Grip for reassurance, and then returned his gaze to Ferraci. Begrudgingly, he steadied his aim and fired.

  Boom!

  “Agh!” Ferraci screamed as he fell to the ground and reached for his backside. “You fucking bitch!”

  Grip towered over him. “That’ll teach your funky ass about abusin’ your authority. And I swear to God Johnny, if I hear one goddamned word about this shit I’ma murder your whole fuckin’ family.” He reached inside of his slacks, and pulled out a wad of cash. After peeling away $500, he crumbled the bills into a ball, and then threw them at Ferraci‘s head. “For your trouble.” He turned his attention to the young man and retrieved his pistol. “You cool, youngblood?”

  “Yas suh.”

  “Is you able to walk?”

  He nodded his head up and down. “I think so, suh”

  “Alright, follow us back to my car, and I’ma take you wherever you need to go.”

  After climbing inside of the large sedan, Grip threw the transmission in drive, and then cruised down Columbia Avenue at a moderate pace. He looked in the rearview mirror and locked eyes with the young man. “Say, what’s your name youngblood?”

  “Gregory Johnson, suh.”

  “Well say now Gregory, you talk like you from big foot country. What you doin’ all the way up in Philly?

  “I’s from Nawth Ca’lina. My momma sent me up nawth to attend school. I’s a freshman at Temple University, suh.”

  “A college boy, huh?” Grip smiled.

  He immediately thought of the numerous ways that an educated black man could help him with his criminal endeavors. From that day forward, he paid Gregory’s college tuition and insisted that he attend law school. His investment paid off big time. Fifty years later, young Gregory Johnson from Nawth Ca’lina was Federal District Judge Gregory Johnson, and above all else, he was Grip’s best kept secret.

  Back To November 24th, 2014

  “Uncle G, you good?”

  “Huh?” Grip responded.

  He looked up and saw that his nephew Gangsta was standing in front of him. Gangsta gestured toward the burning cigar stub that was wedged in between his thumb and index finger. “Yo, lemme find out you try’na burn the house down,” he chuckled.

  Grip stubbed out the cigar and wiped the ashes away from his housecoat. “I must’ve zoned out for a minute.” He returned his gaze to his nephew and smiled at him. Gangsta was the son of his sister Angela and his best friend Russell Fitzgerald. When the two of them were murdered back in 1975, Grip inherited his one month old nephew and raised him to the best of his ability. He never wanted Gangsta to be a part of the criminal lifestyle, and he did everything to deter him from it. He sent him to boarding school, college, and even the military. Unfortunately, none of these things could trump the Moreno and Fitzgerald blood that ran through his veins. He was destined to be gangsta.

  At 6’2” and 180 pounds, he was the spitting image of Russell. He had a strong build, medium brown skin, a chiseled face, and dark brown eyes.

  “So nephew, what’s goin’ on?”

  “Everything’s goin’ according to plan,” Gangsta answered while plopping down in the chair beside him. He pointed at the Sony projector screen and asked, “Whatchu watchin’?”

  “This bullshit down in Ferguson, Missouri. The grand jury refused to indict that cracker ass cop who killed that young bul, and now the whole city’s goin’ ape shit.” He pointed at the screen where a local pastor was trying to get the people to calm down. “Now, look at this mutha’fucka right here. He’s supposed to be a leader, but he’s leading the people in the wrong direction.”

  Gangsta shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t care one way or the other, but out of respect for Grip, he expressed a fake concern. “How’s that?”

  “Because,” Grip continued. “The whole concept of marching and protesting is only a facade. It’ll never produce long term results, only a temporary pacifier. The only way to fight against this type of injustice is through the local elections. You see, our people have a misconceived notion when it comes to the voting process. When it comes to voting for the president, we’ll show up in record breaking numbers, but when it’s time to vote for local officials from the governor down to the district attorney, the majority of us won’t lift a goddamned finger. I mean, how can we as a people be so misdirected and irresponsible. We’ve made ourselves obsolete by neglecting to use our voting power within our local governments, and as a result, our local governments can treat us in any manner they see fit without the threat of any political backlash. This is why the cops can kill us and get away with it, and why the courts can unjustly give us a million years. It makes no goddamned sense.”

  Gangsta sparked up a Newport and leaned back in the suede theater chair. “That’s the reason we move the way we move. We put political pieces in certain political places, and that way we’re always two steps ahead of these mutha’fuckas.” He took a drag on his Newport, and then quickly changed the subject. “I looked into that situation on Delaware Avenue, and just as we expected, Carmine’s been conducting business on the docks.” He took another drag on his cigarette, and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Ever since you left for Cuba he’s been shakin’ down everything from the drugs to the casino. Any and everything that’s been coming into the city from the Delaware River, he’s been taking a percentage. Our percentage.”

  “I figured that,” Grip replied. “When the big dog’s away, the cats are gonna play. It’s the nature of a pussy.” He looked Gangsta square in the eyes. “This is what I want you to do. Get with Murder and Malice, then report back to me. We're gonna send these mutha’fuckas a gee mail.”

  Gangsta nodded his head, and then stood to his feet. “Just gimmie a couple of days to handle the other situation and after that I’m on it.”

  “Alright,” Grip replied. “We can’t afford any mistakes so be careful.”

  “I already know,” Gangsta assured him. “Is there anything else that we need to discuss before I leave?”

  “No, just tell Muhammad to get Gregory on the phone.”

  Gangsta left the theater room, and a couple of minutes later, Muhammad appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in a black suit and a cell phone was clutched in his left hand. “May I enter, sir?”

  Grip gestured for him to enter the room, and Muhammad handed him the phone. “Brother Gregory,” Grip addressed his old friend. “I’m assuming that everything worked out according to plan.”

  “For now,” Judge Johnson sighed. “It’s that goddamned Clavenski. I’ve never seen a prosecutor so hell bent on taking down a specific individual. This is like Guiliani and Gotti all over again.”

  “Humph!” Grip chuckled. “Gotti couldn’t have touched me with a ten foot pole, and Clavenski isn’t half the prosecutor that Guiliani was. He’s too soft.”

  “But yet and still,” Judge Johnson countered. “He’s got a hard on for you that you wouldn’t believe.”

  Grip laughed. “He’s reaching for straws. There’s nothing he can do to me at this point. No Smitty, no case.”

  “I’m telling you, Gervin. That son of a bitch is up to something.”

  Grip chuckled. “Tell me something I don’t know!”

  Chapter Six

  The Following Day...

  On Columbia Avenue, from 19th to 22nd S
treet, the Block Boy Turkey Giveaway was more like a block party. The music was blasting, and the strip was full of people dancing. A Power 99 truck was parked up on 19th Street, and news van were parked on 22nd. An 18 wheeler was parked in front of the King Center, and the cargo bed was filled with frozen turkeys. Dressed in mink coats, Sonny and the Block Boys were standing behind the 18 wheeler. A large group of people were crowded around, and eagerly waiting to get their hands on a free turkey.

  “Yo, what’s goin’ on? Everybody good?” Sonny asked with a smile on his face. He was happy to be doing something positive for his community. “We got enough turkeys for everybody so calm down and stop pushin’ each other,” he announced.

  His words were pertaining to the two old ladies who were standing in front of the crowd shoving one another.

  “Ahn ahn Sonny. This heifer try’na act like she next. She ain’t fucking next. I was standing here first,” the younger of the two hissed at him.

  “Bitch, I was standin’ here first.” The second woman staked her claim, refusing to back down.

  Sonny laughed. “Hold up y’all. This ain’t that type of party. We showin’ love out here today. This that North Philly love right here. We ain’t doin’ none of the drama.” He looked down and smiled at the little boy that was standing beside the first old lady. “Ain’t that right lil’ man?”

  The little boy smiled back and nodded his head up and down.

  Sonny looked into the back of the 18 wheeler where Easy was bagging up turkeys. “Pops double up two of them bags for me.”

  Easy nodded his head, and then placed two Butterball turkeys inside of two separate bags. He handed them to Sonny, and Sonny handed each of the old ladies a bag. “Y’all have a Happy Thanksgiving.”

  As the two old ladies walked away from the crowd, Sonny was approached by a middle aged black man and a camera crew. “Hello, I’m Roland Rushin, the news correspondent for Channel 10 News. Everyone’s telling me that you’re the guy who’s responsible for all of this. Sontino Moreno, right?” He extended his right hand and Sonny accepted the gesture with a firm handshake.

  “Yeah, I’m Sonny Moreno. What’s poppin’?”

  “Well, I like what you’re doing for the community and I was hoping that you would give me an interview for the one o’clock news.”

  Sonny looked him up and down, and then shrugged his shoulders. “A’ight, but just for the record, I’m not doin’ this for publicity. I’m doin’ this because I know how it feels to be trapped in the hood, fucked up, and lookin’ at the world like don’t nobody give a fuck about you.”

  The reporter looked at his black waist length mink, his iced out Rolex, and the VS1 diamonds that smothered his BBE charm. “Yeah, I’m sure of it,” he replied sarcastically. He motioned for his cameraman to start filming, and the fat white man aimed the lens at him and Sonny. In true to the hood fashion, everybody crowded around, desperately trying to get their faces on the news.

  “Good afternoon Philadelphia. This is Roland Rushin, and I’m reporting to you live from the Martin Luther King Jr. Center in North Philly, where people from all over the city are here to receive a free Thanksgiving turkey. Standing to my right is the man who’s responsible for this event, North Philly’s own, Mr. Sontino Moreno.”

  He held the microphone to Sonny’s face. “Mr. Moreno, what’s the motivation behind your philanthropy?”

  “My what?” Sonny shot back, looking at him like he was crazy.

  Roland Rushin smiled at him. “What’s the motivation behind you giving to charity?”

  “Oh,” Sonny shrugged his shoulders. “I just do it on the strength of those who are less fortunate.”

  “Well, you seem to be doing pretty good for yourself young man. May I ask what you do for a living?”

  “I’m co-owner of Donkees Sports Bar, and aside from being the manager at Club Infamous, I just started a record label, Block Boy Entertainment.” He held up his BBE charm and the diamonds shined bright.

  “I see,” the reporter said. “Now, a large number of these people were out here marching last night, protesting the grand jury’s decision in Ferguson, Missouri. Do you have anything to say about that situation?”

  “Naw, not really,” Sonny quickly shot back. “But since we talkin’ politics,” he looked into the camera. “Free my nigga Sean Sean. Free my Uncle Tone. Free my cousin Cheese, and free my nigga Tali Da Don.”

  Roland Rushin shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’m assuming that’s all of the political talk we’re going to get from Mr. Moreno.” He scratched his head, and then looked at Sonny skeptically. “Moreno? You wouldn’t happen to be related to the Infamous Gervin Moreno? The reputed boss of the Black Mafia because maybe that would explain your extravagance,” he continued, then nodded toward Sonny’s BBE charm.

  Sonny’s face turned bright red and he flexed his jaw muscles. “Mello, get this silly mutha’fucka outta my face.”

  Rahmello mugged the reporter on the side of his head, and pushed the cameraman in his chest. “Get the fuck outta here!” he snapped while reaching for the Glock .9 that was tucked in his waistline.

  Roland Rushin noticed the gesture and hurried back to his news van. Still fuming, Sonny threw on a fake smile and continued handing out turkeys.

  ***

  Up the block, sitting behind the tinted windows of a navy blue Ford Excursion, Agents Terry Long and Monica Brown were surveying the entire scene. Agent Long was watching The Block Boys through a pair of binoculars, and Agent Brown was taking pictures nonstop.

  “So,” Agent Brown said after snapping her final picture of Sonny. “Do you think Clavenski’s gonna get behind our investigation?”

  “Absolutely,” Agent Long confirmed while nodding his head up and down. “He’ll do anything to get his hands on Grip, and if taking down Sontino is our only option, he’ll support us.”

  Agent Brown returned her focus to Sonny. He and Rahmello were leaned against his Rolls Royce, laughing and joking with the people of North Philly. It appeared as though the two brothers didn’t have a care in the world, and this was one of the many reasons she hated drug dealers.

  “So, what’s the status on the meeting with Clavenski and the other agents?” she asked without taking her eyes off their target. “Did you schedule a date?”

  “Yeah, it’s scheduled for next Saturday,” said Agent Long. “I sent an email to Clavenski and made it clear that the meeting was pertaining to the Gervin Moreno case.”

  Agent Brown sighed, and continued watching Sonny through the tinted window. “It hasn’t been a full two years and the streets are treating Sontino like he’s a fucking legend.”

  “What else would you expect?” Agent Long stated. “Aside from running Grip out of the city, he inherited a multi-million dollar drug empire. Michael Brooks’ death was the best thing to ever happen to this guy, and he appears to be handling himself accordingly.”

  “Well, do you think we have enough information to persuade Clavenski to sign off on the buy money?” she asked.

  Agent Long caressed the iced out lion’s head that hung from his platinum necklace. “We’ve got more than enough.”

  ***

  At Club Spontaneous

  Carmine was sitting in his office counting the kick up money that he collected from his capos the night before. A black money counter was positioned in front of him, and piles of money were scattered around his desk. As he removed a stack of hundred dollar bills from the tray, a soft knock sounded from the door.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  “Who the hell is it?” he shouted. “I’m friggin’ busy ova here!” He hated to be disturbed when he was counting money, and today was no exception.

  Alphonso stuck his head inside of the office. “Yo Carmine, are you watchin’ the news?”

  “No, Why?”

  Alphonso entered the office and walked toward the television. He pressed the ON button, and then turned to the Channel 10 news.

  Carmine looked at the 50” screen and
saw two black guys handing out turkeys to a crowd of people. Hardly impressed, he shrugged his shoulders. “What the fuck is this?”

  Alphonso pointed toward the screen and replied, “The dude in the black mink is Sontino Moreno, and the guy standing beside him is his younger brother, Rahmello. They’re Grip’s grandsons.”

  Carmine waved him off, and returned his attention to the digital screen on the money counter. He fed the machine another stack of hundreds, and after sifting through the bills the digital screen read 100. He nodded his head and removed the money from the tray. He secured the stack with a rubber band, and then grabbed his ink pen and jotted down $10,000 in his notebook. Without looking up he said, “Fuck ‘em. They’re nobodies.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Alphonso disagreed. “Sontino’s been makin’ his bones all over the city. He’s responsible for most of the cocaine between Philly and South Jersey, and he’s gaining a lot of power in the process. I think it’s time that we send for him.”

  Carmine loaded the tray with another stack of hundreds, and then settled back in his chair. “You know what Phons, I did hear about this kid. Romey Noodles was tellin’ me about him. He’s supposed to be the reason that Grip left the country. Can you believe it?” He chuckled and pointed at the television. “This sonofabitch tried to whack his own grandfather. Kudos to you kid.” He saluted with his right hand and started laughing. “You got a lot of friggin’ balls!”

  “Exactly,” Alphonso nodded his head. “That’s the reason I think we outta send for him. We haven’t had a presence in North Philly since your Uncle Joey was dealin’ with those niggers in the Richard Allen Projects.”

  “And we all know how that turned out,” Carmine reminded him. “That fuckin’ T. Hill made a fool outta Uncle Joey, and ‘til this fuckin’ day our friends in New York won’t let him forget about it. Now, consider everything that’s goin’ on within the family. By me being the new boss, I can’t afford that type of shit. These moulies are great earners. I’ll give you that, but at the same time they’re rats waitin’ to happen.”