Blood of a Boss II: The Streets Is Watching

by Askari

  Pooky and Mar-Mar nervously glanced at one another. “I’m sayin’ though,” Pooky bitched up. “We don’t even know where this nigga at.”

  Jihad smiled at him. “And that’s why we gon’ ride around North Philly until we see that Escalade,” he stated in his deep voice. “And when we do, we gon’ tear his ass up.”

  ***

  After admitting Nahfisah into the rehabilitaion center, Sonny drove up Germantown Avenue in silence. In the back of his mind, he realized that the only thing strong enough to turn a sweet innocent girl into a crackwhore was the streets. He would never admit it, but deep in his heart, he was ashamed of the role that he played in the entire situation. As he continued driving, he looked at his left hand and examined the scar that brought him and his sister together on that fateful night. A tear slid down his right cheek, and butterflies filled his stomach. An image of Keyonti appeared in his mind, and he promised himself that no matter what, he would never let the streets get a hold of his daughter the same way they did Nahfisah.

  ***

  Back In North Philly

  Pooky, Mar-Mar, Rahman, and Jihad were patrolling the streets looking for Sonny’s Escalade. They were cruising down Broad Street when Jihad scrolled through his iPod and selected The LOX’s song, Breathe Easy. He cranked up the volume, and together they rapped along with the gritty lyrics.

  We gonna R-U Double-F R-Y-D-E/ Revolvers, semi-automatics in the P.G., hooptie/ Get away driver, breathe easy/ Explain things further, murder or get murdered.

  Rahman reached inside of the glove compartment and pulled out an ounce bottle of dust juice. He motioned for Pooky to give him a cigarette, and Pooky handed him a pack of Newports. Rahman removed four cigarettes from the pack, and then one by one he dipped them in the light brown oil. “Here,” he handed each of them a sherm stick.

  “This is that shit right here.”

  “What the fuck is this?” Mar-Mar asked while examining the oil laced Newport. “This shit stinks like a mutha’fucka.”

  Jihad looked at him with an annoyed expression. “It’s a dipper. Now, stop askin’ so many goddamn questions, and smoke that shit.” He leaned back in the passenger’s seat, and sparked up his dipper. A huge flame erupted from the tip of the cigarette. It flickered a few times, and then settled into a burning cherry.

  When they approached a red traffic light at the intersection of Broad and Susquehanna, a black Escalade with tinted windows pulled up alongside of them.

  “Yo, there he go right there!” Jihad shouted and pointed out the passenger’s side window.

  “Oh shit, that is him!” Pooky insisted. He was high out of his mind. “Bitch ass nigga wanna talk all that gangsta shit, but look at him now! This pussy don’t even dig it!”

  The traffic light turned green, and the Escalade pulled away from the corner.

  “Rock, follow this nigga,” Jihad dictated from the passenger’s seat. “The second he stop drivin’, we gon’ hop out and park his dumb ass!”

  “I got you ahk! I got you!” Rahman shouted. The music was so loud that they could hardly hear one another.

  As Rahman cruised behind the Escalade, he rocked back and forth and squeezed the stirring wheel. His eagerness to catch wreck, coupled with the effects of the dust juice had him in warrior mode. This was the type of shit that he lived for!

  They were a couple of feet behind the Escalade when it stopped at a red light on Broad and Columbia. They pulled up on the left side of the truck, and Jihad cracked the passenger’s side door.

  “No! No! Fuck no!” Mar-Mar shouted at the top of his lungs. He was the only one in the MPV with a sober mind. Unbeknownst to Pooky, Rahman, and Jihad, he never smoked his dipper. Instead, he secretly switched it with a regular Newport. “We can’t shoot right here! Y’all nigga’s trippin! Y’all don’t see all these mutha’fuckin’ Temple cops?”

  “Fuck!” Jihad shouted, exuding his frustration. He slammed the passenger’s side door, and then settled back in his seat. “I had this pussy!”

  The traffic light turned green, and once again the Escalade took off down Broad Street.

  Jihad was fuming. “Yo, fuck all dat! The next time this nigga stop drivin’, we gettin’ busy!” He looked into the backseat where Pooky was puffing on his dipper and nodding his head to the music. “Me and you is the only ones hoppin’ out, so you mines well go ‘head and crack the side door!”

  “A’ight!” Pooky shouted back. They were so high that they didn’t even realize they were shouting.

  As they approached the intersection of Broad and Girard, the traffic descended from green, yellow, to red. The Escalade eased to a halt and the MPV pulled up behind it. The passenger and side doors swung open, and both men hopped out of the mini-van. As they ran up on the SUV, Pooky caught a glimpse of the factory rims, and realized that it wasn’t Sonny’s truck. He lowered his pistol and looked at Jihad. “Naw Haddy, chill!”

  He was too late. Jihad was already squeezing his trigger.

  Bddddddoc! Bddddddoc! Bddddddoc!

  In less than five seconds, the Escalade was surrounded by smoke, and the smell of burnt gunpowder hung in the air. Bullet holes as big as nickels covered the left fender and driver’s side door, and broken glass and empty shell casings littered the street.

  “What the fuck, Ahk? I told you to chill!” Pooky shouted with his hands covering his ears. His eardrums were ringing and he could barely hear himself talking.

  “What?” Jihad shouted.

  “I told you to chill!” Pooky shouted back. “That’s not him!”

  When Jihad realized what Pooky was saying his high quickly descended. He looked through the shattered driver’s side window, and couldn’t believe what lay before him. A middle aged black woman was slumped over the center console. The left side of her face was blown away, and what appeared to be her intestines were protruding through her blood soaked blouse. He returned his gaze to Pooky, and shook his head from side to side. “Yo Pooky what the fuck? I thought you said it was him?”

  “Man, fuck all dat!” Rahman shouted from the minivan. “We gotta bounce ‘fore the cops come!”

  Without saying another word, Pooky and Jihad hopped back in the MPV, and sat in silence as Rahman sped away from the scene.

  ***

  When Sonny reached the intersection of Germantown and Erie, he stopped at a red light, and looked across Broad Street where Club Infamous was in full swing. It was Sexy Sunday, and the line outside of the club was full of beautiful women and young hustlers. The traffic light turned green, and he veered right onto Broad Street. His iPhone vibrated in his pocket, interrupting his thoughts of Nahfisah. He retrieved the phone and saw that the caller was his lawyer. “Mario what’s good? Whatchu got for me?”

  “I’m calling with the information you requested. According to my investigators, Roberto Alverez, a.k.a. Mexican Bobby, is Mexico’s Welterweight Boxing Champion. He’s scheduled to make his American debut at The Blue Horizon, and for the past two weeks, he’s been training with Danny Garcia.”

  “A’ight,” Sonny anxiously replied. “But where’s he staying? Do you have an address?”

  “I’ll do you one even better,” Mario chuckled. “As of right now, my lead investigator’s following him up Old York Road. He’s driving a blue Lamborghini, and he’s traveling with a bodyguard.”

  “A’ight,” Sonny nodded his head. “Tell your investigator to keep a tail on him, and I’ma hit you back in an hour.”

  Click!

  He laid the phone on the center console and continued driving down Broad Street. Up ahead, he noticed a congregation of red and blue lights, and assumed that there must have been some type of car accident. However, the second he spotted the shot up Escalade in the middle of the taped off intersection his heart dropped into his stomach. “Yo, please tell me this ain’t one of my niggas!” he said to himself as he pulled into the gas station on Broad and Girard.

  As he hopped out the truck and fixed his gaze on the crime scene, a wave of
relief washed over him. He spotted the Escalade’s factory rims, and realized that the truck didn’t belong to any of his peoples. After a few seconds of watching the crime scene unit conduct their investigation, he returned to his truck and rolled up a Backwood.

  As he placed the spliff in his mouth and sparked the tip, a pearl white Mercedes Maybach 62 pulled into the gas station and parked at the first gas pump. Damn, who the fuck is that? he thought to himself as he admired the plush automobile. It’s probably either Meek or Gillie. Whoever it is, they gettin’ it off on me right now! He smiled, and then started the ignition. It’s cool though. I got somethin’ for these niggas. Just wait ‘til the summer. Me and Mello pullin’ out the Bat Mobiles!

  Little did he know, the plush sedan was carrying his archenemy, and the shot up Escalade was an attempt on his life. Shit was real and he didn’t even dig it!

  Chapter Eleven

  When Sonny pulled up in front of Donkees, he could tell from the vehicles in the parking lot that everyone was there. Easy’s triple black Jaguar XF was parked in between Breeze’s silver Maserati and Rahmello’s snow white Aston Martin Virage. A couple of parking spaces down, he spotted Egypt and Zaire’s twin cherry red Porsche Panameras.

  He entered the sports bar and approached Easy and Breeze who were shooting a game of pool. Easy was dressed in a white Versace dress shirt with gold buttons, black Versace slacks, and a pair of black crocodile boots. The diamonds in his Presidential Rolex shined bright, and the ice in his wedding ring shifted with his every movement. Breeze on the other hand was dipped in Chanel For Men, and from his ears to his wrist, his jewelry was covered in VS1 diamonds.

  Sonny looked at his father and shook his head in contempt. He didn’t say anything, but deep in his heart he blamed Easy for everything that was happening to Nahfisah.

  Easy looked at him skeptically. “What's wrong, Sonny?”

  “I’ma holla at you later,” Sonny replied, and then looked at Breeze. “What’s up wit’ Mello and the twins? Where they at?”

  “They chillin’ in ya office,” Breeze said as he knocked the 3-Ball down the right side pocket. “You want me to go get ‘em for you?”

  “Naw,” Sonny shook his head and waved him off. “We about to go back there anyway.” He approached the bar where Bianca was serving a customer. “B, when you finish his order pour me a double shot of Henny.”

  She smiled at him and nodded her head. “I got ju papi.”

  After receiving his drink, they headed straight for Sonny's office. When they stepped inside of the large room the first thing they noticed was that Rahmello was sitting behind Sonny's desk rolling up a Dutch Master. The twins were sitting on his suede sectional, sharing a Backwood, and playing Madden on his X Box One.

  “Yo, turn that game off,” Sonny said to the twins. “And you,” he pointed at Rahmello. “Get ya ass outta my seat.”

  Without saying a word, Rahmello got up from the desk and joined the twins on the sectional. Breeze took a seat on the edge of Sonny’s desk, and Easy leaned up against the door.

  Sonny sat down in his swivel chair and got straight to business. “A’ight, so this is the situation,” he sparked up the Dutch Master that Rahmello left on his desk and took a deep pull. After exhaling a thick cloud of Kush smoke, he fixed his gaze on Breeze and the twins. “From here on out, we’re changin’ the way that we conduct business. Instead of coppin’, the usual 100 bricks at the beginning of the month I’ma start coppin’ 200. I’ma drop y’all consignment price from $30,000 to $25,000. So therefore, y’all can keep y’all prices at $35,000, and make an extra $5,000 off every brick. At the same time, I’ma start frontin’ y’all 50 bricks instead of the usual 30, so y’all gon’ have to step y’all game up.” He paused for a few seconds and examined them closely. “At the end of every month I’ma need $1,250,000 from each of y’all. Can y’all handle that?”

  They nodded their heads in unison, but Breeze was the only one to verbally confirm.

  “Yeah we can handle it.”

  Sonny looked at Easy. “ Pops, you ready for ‘em?”

  “Yeah,” Easy nodded his head, and then headed toward the closet. He opened the door, and one by one, he handed them a duffle bag full of bricks.

  “A’ight,” Sonny continued, then exhaled another cloud of Kush smoke. “Now, for the second order of business.” He reached inside of his pocket and pulled out the two pictures of Mexican Bobby. He passed them around the room, and then lounged back in his swivel chair. “This nigga gotta die tonight, and as a favor to Poncho we gon’ be the ones to park him. According to Poncho, this nigga pissed off the wrong people and now he’s gotta go. As we speak, I’ve got people watchin’ his every move, and we need to have him parked by the mornin’. No mistakes.” He looked at Breeze. “I need you and the twins to stash that work at Mello’s apartment, and then wait for me to call wit’ further instructions.”

  “Say no more,” Breeze replied.

  He stood to his feet, and motioned for the twins to follow him out of the office.

  Sonny turned his attention to Rahmello, who was secretly texting back and forth with Olivia.

  “Lil’ brozay, I need you to go to The Swamp and put shit in motion. I already holla’d at The Butcher so he’s expectin’ you.” He pointed at Breeze and the twins who were leaving the office. “They should be there in the next couple of hours.”

  Rahmello smiled, then eagerly hopped up from the sectional. It had been months since the last time he’d caught some wreck, and he was happy that Sonny was finally allowing him to do what he did best. Murder shit!

  “Brozay,” Sonny called out, stopping him in his tracks. “I need you to bring me his hands and his tongue.”

  Rahmello nodded his head, and then followed Breeze and the twins out of the office.

  Easy approached Sonny’s desk, and sat down across from him. He knew his oldest son like the back of his hand, and he could tell that something was bothering him. “Alright Sontino, tell me what’s bothering you.”

  Sonny stubbed out his Dutch Master, and then cracked his knuckles one by one. “I had to pop off on Pooky earlier today.”

  “On Pooky?” Easy shot back in disbelief. “Naw, not Pooky?” he chuckled. “You’re the main one who’s always stickin’ up for him! What happened?”

  Sonny took a deep breath. “Them niggas violated, and I popped they fuckin’ tops.”

  “Them niggas?” Easy squinted his eyes and leaned forward. “I thought you was only talking ‘bout Pooky! Who else you killed?”

  Sonny scowled at him. “First of all, I ain’t killed nobody! I should have, but I didn’t. It was Pooky and Beaver Bushnut. I had to fuck them niggas up.”

  “Beaver Bushnut?” Easy couldn’t believe his ears.

  His old running mate was a crack head bum, slumming around the city, pimping crackwhores. What the fuck was Sonny doing bumping heads with the likes of him?

  “Yeah nigga, you fuckin’ heard me!” Sonny snapped, and jumped to his feet. “And it’s all your mutha’fuckin’ fault!”

  “All my fault?” Easy retorted, and then stood to his feet. “How the fuck is this my fault? I ain’t tell you to be out there rollin’ around in the dirt, fightin’ mutha’fuckas! Fuck is you talking ‘bout?”

  “Nigga it is ya fault!” Sonny continued shouting. “If you woulda been a man, and not thrown ya daughter to the mutha’fuckin’ wolves none of this shit woulda never even happened!”

  Easy screwed up his face. “Thrown my daughter to the wolves? Sontino, what the fuck are you talking ‘bout?”

  “Pussy, I’m talking ‘bout Nahfisah! You remember her? Ya mutha’fuckin’ daughter?”

  At the mention of Nahfisah Easy’s body became rigid. “What happened to her?”

  “The streets!” Sonny barked at him. “That’s what the fuck happened to her! She was out there smokin’ crack, and her daughter’s in a mutha'fuckin’ foster home!”

  Tears welled up in Easy’s eyes. He was more than familiar with
the effects of crack cocaine, and throughout his years of getting high, he’d seen a gang of young women fall victim to their addiction.

  “Listen man, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, you sorry a’ight,” Sonny antagonized him. “Had you been a man about this shit from the jump, it woulda never happened. How you gon’ turn ya back on ya daughter? I woulda never did that to Fat-Fat!”

  “But Sonny, I—”

  “But nothin’!” he interrupted. “Get the fuck outta my office!”

  Easy searched for the words that would express his feelings, but he couldn’t find any. Disgusted with himself, he lowered his head and left the office.

  Sonny sat back down and retrieved his Dutch Master from the ashtray. As he rekindled the cherry, his iPhone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw that the caller was Mario.

  “Mario, what’s poppin’?”

  “As of right now our little Aztec warrior is spending way too much money on champagne and lap dances. And to think, this guys supposed to be training for a fight.”

  “Aztec warrior? Champagne and lap dances? Yo, Mario, whatchu talking ‘bout?”

  “Mexican Bobby. He’s partying at Club Spontaneous.”

  “A’ight, say no more.” He disconnected the call, and a soft knock sounded the door. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me,” Suelyn responded as she cracked the door open and stuck her head inside of the office. “I need to download a file from your computer. Tax season is right around the corner, and I need to make sure that everything’s in order.”

  He got up from the desk and motioned for her to come inside. “That’s cool. I’ma be at the bar so just holla if you need me.”

  “Okay,” she smiled, and then took a seat at his desk.

  As the door closed behind him she reached underneath his swivel chair and removed the listening device that she planted earlier in the week. She kissed the small black box, and then quickly placed it inside of her bra.