Blood of a Boss II: The Streets Is Watching

by Askari

  Sheed looked at Jihad. “Stay here and watch this nigga. Me and Rock gon’ go upstairs and see what’s up wit’ his bitch.”

  In the master bedroom, Erika was laying on their king sized bed in nothing but a pair of cherry red thongs. She was eating sunflower seeds and watching a re-run of Love and Hip Hop Atlanta. Her eyes were glued to the 50” screen and she was spitting sunflower shells into a plastic cup.

  “Ahn ahn! K. Michelle is a mess!” She laughed at the scene where the R&B star and Carly Redd were arguing in the middle of a restaurant. “This bitch is shakin’ the table!” She continued laughing as she repeated K. Michelle’s infamous phrase. The bedroom door creaked open, but she was too caught up in the drama to take her eyes away from the television. Assuming it was Breeze, she said, “Bae, your dinner’s downstairs in the microwave.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Sheed replied in a cold voice.

  “What the fuck?” she said, immediately recognizing that the voice didn’t belong to Breeze. She quickly turned her head toward the door and covered herself with the bed sheets. “Sheed?” She looked at him skeptically as he stepped inside of the room. “What the fuck are you doin’ in my bedroom? Where’s Breeze?”

  Sheed smiled at her, but didn’t respond. Rahman walked up behind him. “He’s a lil’ tied up at the moment.”

  When she laid eyes on the light skinned man with the Sunni Muslim beard, she reached for the .25 that was stashed underneath her pillow, but Sheed tackled her before she could reach it. She struggled against his brute strength, but all he did was squeeze tighter. “Stop it Sheed! Get off me!” she screamed, waking up the baby who was sound asleep in his crib.

  “Waaaaah! Waaaaah!” the infant cried out.

  “Bitch, shut ya stupid ass up!” Sheed snapped. He punched her in the face, and then looked over his shoulder at Rahman. “Grab that lil’ mutha’fucka and take him downstairs.” He landed another blow to Erika’s face, and then snatched her off of the bed and threw her limp body over his shoulder. After carrying her down to the living room, he held her body against the wall of the staircase and told Jihad to keep her in that position. He looked around for something he could use to tie her up, and settled on an extension cord that was balled up on the side of the television. All the while, the baby continued to cry as Rahman held him in his arms. He rocked the little boy and gently patted him on the back. “Settle down lil’ man. Settle down. Uncle Rocky’s got you.”

  As the little boy began to calm down, Sheed grabbed the extension cord off of the floor, and went to work. He walked halfway up the stairs, and stuck the cord through the bars of the banister. He tied it in a square knot and left both ends dangling down the wall. After descending the stairs, he approached Jihad who was still holding Erika against the wall face first. Jihad lifted her body, and one by one Sheed tied the ends of the extension cord around her wrist causing her body to dangle from the banister.

  “Haddy, go in the kitchen and grab me a butcher’s knife and a bottle of vegetable oil,” Sheed ordered his large companion. He then walked over to the sofa where Breeze was stretched out and profusely bleeding from his forehead. About a minute later, Jihad returned from the kitchen with a butcher’s knife in one hand and a bottle of olive oil in the other. He handed the knife to Sheed, and sat the bottle of oil on the suede ottoman that sat in front of the sofa.

  Sheed examined the large knife, and then crouched down and sliced the back of Breeze’s left ankle. “Agh! Shit! Yo, what the fuck?” Breeze screamed as the pain in his Achilles tendon shot through his body. His loud screams startled the baby, and Erika regained her consciousness.

  Sheed scowled at the baby, then looked at Rahman.

  “Take him in the kitchen and calm his lil’ ass down.” He flexed his jaw muscles, and then returned his attention to Breeze. “Ahn hun! This some real shit now!” he tormented him. “Y’all gon’ kill my brother over some nut shit, and now y’all niggas gon’ join him!”

  Breeze could barely see. The blood from his forehead was dripping in his eyes, and the pain in his Achilles was so intense that his nervous system was on the brink of shutting down.

  “Sheed, I can’t see. Gimmie somethin’ to wipe my eyes,” he moaned. He was so out of it that didn’t even realize the imminent danger his family was facing.

  Sheed removed a red bandana from his back right pocket and used it to wipe the blood out of Breeze’s eyes. “Yeah nigga, I want you to see every bit of this shit!”

  “Yo Sheed, what the fuck is you doin’? I don’t even know what’s goin’ on right now,” Breeze continued moaning. He looked up and saw Erika hanging from the banister, and his body temperature elevated. “Hey, yo Sheed! What the fuck, son?”

  “Nigga shut the fuck up!” Sheed snarled through clenched teeth. In a fit of rage, he swooped down and sliced the Achilles tendon on Breeze’s other leg.

  “Agggghhhh!” Breeze grimaced from the pain. His loud cries sent Erika into a frenzy. She jerked her body from side to side, desperately trying to free herself. She bucked, wiggled, and squirmed, but none of these movements seemed to help her cause. Defiantly, she attempted to get her feet on the ground but she was so high up on the banister that the tip of her toes couldn’t even touch the carpet. She broke down crying and rested her forehead against the wall. “Sheed, why the fuck is you doin’ us like this?”

  He ran toward her and violently smacked her across the back with the blade of the butcher’s knife.

  Whack! Whack! Whack!

  “Agggghhhh!” she screamed. “Sheed stop! Please!”

  “Bitch, shut the fuck up!”

  Whack! Whack!

  Despite the fact that Breeze’s hands were tied behind his back, he rolled off the sofa and attempted to stand. Unfortunately, the wounds to the back of his ankles wouldn’t allow it. Frustrated, he laid on the carpet face first, cursing himself for not being able to help his family.

  Erika continued screaming, and Jihad removed the .9 mm that was tucked in the small of his back. He cocked back the hammer, and placed the lips of the barrel to the side of her face.

  “Bitch, you scream one more time and I’ma blow ya fuckin’ brains out!”

  She stopped screaming and her body went limp. She looked at Sheed and cried uncontrollably. “Why is you doin’ us like this? What did we do?”

  He looked at her, and then scowled at Breeze. “Ask ya punk ass baby daddy. He know what the fuck he did.”

  Breeze looked at him with a confused expression.

  “What the fuck did I do?” he shouted. “I ain’t did nothin’ to you, Blood!”

  “Y’all faggot ass niggas killed my brother!” Sheed shouted back.

  “What?” Breeze screwed up his face. “Scrap, I swear on my mutha’fuckin’ flag that I don’t know nuffin’ about that shit! My word! I don’t know nuffin’ about Pooky gettin’ killed!”

  Sheed shrugged his shoulders and lowered his voice. “Maybe you do, and maybe you don’t. Either way Sonny and Rahmello was behind this shit, and the only way to get to them niggas is by goin’ through you. So now,” he walked toward the sofa and stood over him, “if ya ass wanna live, and you care about the well being of ya bitch and ya son, then I suggest you tell me where these niggas be layin’ they mutha’fuckin’ heads at.”

  Tears poured from Breeze’s eyes, and he shook his head in disappointment. He heard the cries of his son, and at that point all the love and loyalty that he had for Sonny went flying out the window. “He lives in Montgomery County. In the same mansion that his pops bought for him and his moms back in the day.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “I don’t know the address. I’ve only been over there one time, and that was last year when they first moved in.”

  Sheed shook his head in disbelief. “See, this the shit I be talking ‘bout.” He looked at Jihad, then reverted his attention back to Breeze. “I gotchu tied the fuck up and bleedin’. Ya bitch is hangin’ from the banister, and ya stupid ass got the nerve to be playin�
�� games.” He grabbed the bottle of olive oil from the ottoman. He twisted off the top, and then poured the warm liquid in his right hand. He then pulled out his Desert Eagle and lathered up the six inch barrel.

  “See, I tried to be diplomatic about this shit,” Sheed continued. “But now you forcin’ my hand.” He walked over to Erika and snatched off her thong.

  “No!” she screamed. “Sheed don’t do this! He’s tellin’ you the truth!

  “Bitch, don’t start that screamin’ shit again,” Jihad warned. “You ain’t gon’ do nothin’ but make me squeeze this mutha’fuckin’ trigger.” He held the gun in front of her face, and her brown eyes nearly popped out the sockets. She lowered her head and continued sobbing.

  “Come on Blood! You ain’t gotta do this!” Breeze pleaded. “I told you everything I know!”

  “Naw nigga, you think this shit’s a mutha’fuckin’ game! But I’ma show you!” He placed the triangle shaped barrel between the crack of her ass and shoved it inside of her rectum. “Ummm!” she cried out, desperately trying to muffle her screams.

  Sheed smiled at Breeze and plunged the massive barrel in and out of her rectum. “Is you feelin’ me yet? This stankin’ ass bitch of yours is feelin’ me.” He chuckled, and then looked Erika in the face. “Ain’t that right baby? Ahn huhn, yeah I know,” he nodded his head up and down. “You feelin’ me like a mutha’fucka.”

  “Come on, Blood! Chill da fuck out!” Breeze shouted at the top of his lungs. “I told you everything I know!”

  Again, Sheed shook his head in disbelief. “See, there you go fuckin’ around! You really think this shit’s a game.” He shoved the barrel deep inside of Erika’s ass and squeezed the trigger. Her body jerked violently and a fountain of blood burst from her stomach and splattered against the wall. He slowly removed the blood covered barrel from her rectum, and a thick glob of bloody fecal matter fell to the carpet. Her head lollied to the side and the energy of life eased from her brown eyes. Breeze cried like a baby. “What the fuck Sheed? This shit ain’t right, Blood. I told you everything I know.”

  Sheed towered over top of him and aimed the barrel at the back of his head. “Nigga, I’ma ask you one more time. What’s his fuckin’ address?”

  “I swear on my flag,” Breeze sobbed. “I don’t —”

  Doom! Doom! Doom! Doom!

  The .50 caliber slugs ripped through the back of his skull, and his warm brains decorated the bottom of the sofa. His body convulsed, then calmly came to a stop.

  Disgusted, Sheed kicked him in the ass, and then looked at Jihad. He held up the smoking gun. “Find me somethin’ I can use to wipe this jawn off.” He gestured toward Erika’s dead body. “This nasty ass bitch got blood and dookie all over this mutha’fucka.”

  Jihad looked around the living room and settled on the yellow baby’s blanket that was lying on the sofa. He tossed it to Sheed, and Sheed wiped down the gun. He tossed the dirty blanket on Breeze’s body. “Let’s go in the kitchen to see what’s up with Rock.”

  When they entered the kitchen, Rahman was pacing back and forth trying to get the little boy to stop crying. Sheed stepped to him and exchanged his gun for the baby. He hoisted the baby in the air and smiled at him.

  “Your dada’s so stuuupid,” he cooed in a baby’s voice. “Uncle Sheed told him to give up Sonny’s address, but him wouldn’t tell Uncle Sheed what him wanted to know. Him so stuuupid!”

  The little boy stopped crying and giggled at the sound of his voice. Sheed carried him over to the stainless steel oven, and then leaned forward to open the door. He removed the top rack and gently placed the little boy inside of the oven. When he closed the door and reached for the keypad that controlled the heat, Rahman reached out and grabbed him by the arm.

  “Nah cuzzo,” he shook his head from side to side, “he’s just a baby.”

  Sheed looked at him like he was crazy, and then snatched his arm away. “Fuck that! Them bitch ass niggas killed my brother, and now I’ma kill everything they fuckin’ love.” He pressed the keypad until the digital screen read 375 degrees. “And I know whatchu thinking,” he said to Rahman. “You hopin’ that I leave the kitchen first so you can turn the oven off while I’m walkin’ away.” He shook his head from side to side. “Well that’s not happenin’. So please,” he gestured toward the back door where Jihad was waiting for them to make their exit, “after you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Following Morning...

  Clavenski was sitting at his desk drinking a cup of Columbian roast, and going over the Title III wiretaps where Sonny and his team were discussing everything from drug distribution to murder.

  SONTINO MORENO: A’ight, so this is the situation. [Brief Pause] From here on out we’re changin’ the way 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 of 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. [Brief Pause] At the end of every month I’ma need $1,250,000 from each of y’all. Can y’all handle that?

  BRIAN PENDELTON: Yeah we can handle it.

  Clavenski highlighted Sonny’s statements, and then took a sip of coffee.

  “I’m gonna get this son of a bitch,” he said to himself, and then continued reading.

  SONTINO MORENO: Now, for the second order of business. [Brief Pause] 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.

  Clavenski exchanged his highlighter for a pen, and then jotted down Sonny and Poncho’s name. He then drew an arrow between the two names and wrote, Possible Drug Connect? He laid the pen on his notepad then lounged back in his swivel chair and locked his hands behind his head. Technically, this was more than enough to secure an indictment against Sonny and The Block Boys, but he wanted more. He wanted Grip.

  Up until now, he never had the airtight case that was needed to get the Black Mafia don off the streets. In the late eighties and early nineties when he was Philadelphia’s District Attorney, he did everything in his power to dismantle the infamous Moreno Crime Family, but the slippery Grip would always escape his wrath. Witnesses to his crimes were too afraid to testify against him. On the rare occasions when a witness wasn’t afraid to cooperate they were found dead, belly up in the Delaware River. Evidence against him and his organization would turn up missing, and if somehow it did manage to make it inside of a courtroom, Grip’s high powered attorneys would find a way to have the evidence suppressed.

  As Clavenski leaned forward to continue reading the transcripts, he heard a soft knock on the door. He looked up and cleared his throat. “Come in.”

  Agent Long walked through the door with a blank expression on his face. He was dressed in a Mitchell & Ness Pittsburgh Steelers jacket, a matching fitted hat, a white T-shirt, and a pair of Levis. The iced out lion’s head that hung from his platinum necklace shined bright, and the five carat diamonds that decorated his ear lobes did the same. He closed the door behind him and approached Clavenski‘s desk.

  “What’s up, Andy? What’s that?” He pointed at the stack of papers on the desk.

  “The Sontino Moreno transcripts,” Clavenski smiled. “Monica dropped them off about an hour ago. She also provided me with the file on Ervin Moreno. Speaking of which, do the state guys have any suspects in that case?”

  “Nah,” Agent Long replied while sticking a piece of bubble gum in his mouth. “I spoke to Detective Sullivan on the way over here, and according to him the PPD aren’t too concerned. To them, he’s just another dead drug dealer.”

  “Well what about the funeral?” Clavenski asked. “Did the family ma
ke any arrangements?”

  “I believe so,” Agent Long nodded his head in the affirmative. “Yesterday while conducting our surveillance, me and Monica followed Sontino and his mother to the Baker Funeral Home on Broad Street. So we’re pretty sure that Baker’s is the location.”

  “Okay, what about Gervin? Did he make any appearances on our surveillance footage? I mean, after all this was his son.”

  “Nope, not yet,” Agent Long stated. “Hopefully he’ll show up at the funeral, and if he does we’ll need him to interact with Sontino. That would definitely bolster our conspiracy charge.”

  Clavenski downed the rest of his coffee, then lounged back in his swivel chair. “I need you to get as close to Sontino as possible. Because I’m telling you right now, if he’s anything like his grandfather,” he gestured toward the wiretap transcripts, “these won’t mean a goddamned thing.” He reached down and grabbed the leather briefcase that was lying on the floor beside his chair. He laid it on the desk and popped it open, revealing the rubber banded stacks of hundred dollar bills.

  “This is the $350,000 that you formally requested. Now listen up closely, this is a lot of money right here. You make the buy and bring the cocaine straight to me. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Absolutely,” Agent Long nodded his head.

  Clavenski pointed at the red rubies on his lion’s head pendant. “And make sure those cameras are rolling when you make the buy. It’s imperative that we have this transaction on tape.” As he closed the briefcase, his Samsung vibrated on the desktop.

  Vrrrrrm!

  He picked up the phone and examined the screen. “Goddamnit!” The caller was the very last person that he wished to speak to, Angolo Little Angolo Gervino, the former boss of The Gervino Crime Family. He slid the briefcase across the desk and dismissed Agent Long with the flick of his left hand.