Blood of a Boss II: The Streets Is Watching

by Askari

Vrrrrrm! Vrrrrrm!

  He glanced at the screen and saw that the caller was Detective Sullivan. This pussy mutha’fucka, he thought to himself as he accepted the call.

  “Sully, what the fuck happened to you? You were supposed to have met us at the funeral. What happened?”

  “My daughter woke up with a fever this morning, and my wife insisted that we rush her to the hospital,” Detective Sullivan explained, completely blindsided by Agent Long’s demeanor.

  “Well maybe it’s a good thing you weren’t there,” Agent Long acknowledged. “These son of a bitches had Broad Street looking like Baghdad.”

  “I heard about Monica,” Detective Sullivan sighed. “Are you feeling okay? I know how close the two of you were.”

  “To be honest with you Sully, Monica’s the last thing on my mind at this point.”

  “Is that right?” Detective Sullivan asked. Something about this conversation was rubbing him the wrong way. Agent Long was way too calm for a man who just witnessed the murder of a close friend. His voice carried a harsh undertone, and he appeared to be a completely different person.

  “Alright, well I was just calling to check on you buddy.”

  “I appreciate that Sully. Thanks.”

  “Oh yeah,” Detective Sullivan continued. “I spoke to Detective Phoenix, and we’ve made a positive identification on one of the shooters. From the funeral that is.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Is Sontino caught up in a beef with the Italians in South Philly?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Agent Long stated. “But you never know.”

  “Alright, well, does the name Paulie Rizzo ring a bell?”

  “Paulie Rizzo, absolutely,” Agent Long confirmed. “He’s a soldier in The Gervino Crime Family. Are you saying the Italians were responsible for the hit at Easy’s funeral?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  Agent Long gritted his teeth. The more he thought about it, the more it all made sense. He looked toward the front of the diner and spotted Clavenski walking through the door. “Hey Sully, lemme call you back.”

  When Clavenski walked through the front door, he was surprised to see that the small diner was relatively empty. A beautiful Spanish woman was standing behind the cash register, and she was speaking in Spanish to another woman who appeared to be a waitress. In the back of the diner, seated in the last booth, he laid eyes on Agent Long, and began walking in his direction.

  “Terry, did you prepare the video footage like I asked?” he said as he sat down across from him.

  “Not yet,” Agent Long replied, while holding up the iced out lion’s head that was connected to his platinum necklace. The red rubies that represented the lion’s eyes were actually hidden cameras, and he’d been using them to record his interactions with Sonny. So far he had the footage from Donkees where he and Sonny were negotiating cocaine prices, and most recently he recorded the events from Easy’s funeral.

  “Well, you need to have that taken care of by the morning,” Clavenski dictated with a smug attitude.

  He then waved his hand in the air, signaling for the waitress to come over and take his order. The beautiful Spanish woman approached the booth and smiled at him. “Can I get ju somethin’, papi?”

  “Yes, I would like a hot cup of coffee, and a blueberry Danish.”

  After jotting down his order she asked, “Is dat everything? Ju don’t want nothin’ else?”

  “No that’ll be all,” he said, and then dismissed her with the flick of his hand. He returned his attention to Agent Long. “I was going over the transcripts from the Title III wiretaps and I noticed that Sontino keeps referring to a man named Poncho.”

  He laid the brown folder on top of the table and flipped it open.

  “Is that the complete file from the Moreno case?”

  “Yes,” Clavenski clarified. “The copy machine in my office was giving me problems so I decided to take the file home, and just make the copies there. “We’re scheduled to appear before Judge Arroyo and the grand jury on Monday morning. This is why I need you to hurry up and convert that video footage to a USB.”

  “I’ll have it ready by the morning,” Agent Long assured him. “Now, back to those Title III transcripts. You mentioned the name Poncho. What’s that about?”

  Clavenski flipped through the paperwork and held up a black and white photograph.

  “This is Poncho Nunez, a major cocaine distributor from Columbia. In the mid-eighties, Poncho and his brother Juan, were sent to America by Pablo Escobar. They were originally stationed in Miami, but eventually made their way to Philadelphia. This was during the, Cocaine Cowboy Era, when all we cared about was Pablo Escobar and Griselda Blanco. The Nunez Brothers were so discreet in their endeavors that they managed to slip through the cracks. I’m not certain, but I’ve gotta hunch that Poncho Nunez is the Poncho that Sontino’s was referring to on the wiretaps.”

  Agent Long took a deep breath and cracked his knuckles. “Alright, first and foremost, I need to make the buy from Sontino. The only problem is that due to the events at his father’s funeral, he’s probably gonna hold me off for another week or two. Shouldn’t we focus on securing our strongest evidence before presenting our case to the grand jury?”

  “Not at all,” Clavenski replied. “The date’s already been set for Monday morning, and that’s final.”

  “Come on Andy, cut the bullshit. Why are you so determined to take down The Moreno Family? I mean come on, let’s keep it real. Who’s putting you up to this shit?”

  “Excuse me?” Clavenski retorted.

  “Just keep it real,” Agent Long challenged. “I already know that you’re working for The Gervino Crime Family. I’ve got you on tape talking on the phone with Little Angolo.”

  “Wh—what?” Clavenski stuttered. “Just who in the hell do you think you’re talking to Terry?”

  Agent Long’s nostrils began to flare and his hands trembled with anger. “You know what, I’m sick of this shit anyway.” He reached underneath the table and grabbed the P89 that was lying on his lap. He cocked a bullet into the chamber, and then aimed the barrel at Clavenski’s face. “Murder and Malice,” he called for the waitress and the woman behind the cash register. “It’s time to go to work.”

  Clavenski’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Terry, what the hell is going on?”

  “Pussy, you tell me!” Agent Long barked at him.

  Clavenski jumped to his feet and Agent Long squeezed the trigger.

  Boc!

  The .9mm slug ripped through his stomach and flipped him into the next booth. Agent Long looked at Murder and Malice. “Take his punkass down to the basement.”

  He grabbed his cell phone off of the table and called Grip.

  Ring! Ring! Ring!

  “Hello,” Grip answered.

  “Uncle G, its Gangsta. Where you at?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The emergency room at Temple University Hospital was filled to capacity. People with injuries of all kinds were waiting to be seen by the medical staff, and for obvious reasons they couldn’t keep their eyes off of Sonny. His white Ferragamo dress shirt was covered in blood and he reeked of burnt sulfur. The bling in his Presidential Rolex shifted with his every movement, and for the past hour he’d been pacing back and forth from one side of the room to the other.

  “Yo who the fuck is comin’ at me like this?” He said to himself while cracking his knuckles one by one.

  He knew it couldn’t gave have been Sheed because him and his shooters were dead before the blast. Moreover, he knew Sheed like the back of his hand and he was well aware of his capabilities. This type of drama was of another caliber. Deep in his heart he suspected Poncho, but he couldn’t connect him to a possible motive.

  “Could it be the Italians from South Philly?” He briefly considered, but quickly dismissed the notion. “Naw that nigga Carmine ain’t stupid. He knows that mob shit don’t hold no weight in the hood.”

>   No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t decipher this dangerous enigma, and for the first time in his twenty five years of life he felt completely vulnerable. He had to figure out the identity of his enemy. The lives of his family and team depended on it.

  Vrrrrrm! Vrrrrrm!

  His iPhone vibrated in his slacks interrupting his train of thought. He retrieved the phone from his pocket and saw that the caller was Daphney.

  “What’s up ma? Y’all good?”

  “Yeah daddy, we good. What about Mello?” she inquired. “Is he outta surgery yet?”

  “Naw, they’re still workin’ on him.”

  “Well what about you?” she asked with a deep concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah I’m good,” he sighed. “I’m just worried about Mello. I done lost too many of my niggas as it is. I ain’t try’na lose him too.”

  Warm tears trickled down her face. She desperately wanted to be by his side, but he wouldn’t allow it. After the drama at the funeral, he sent her and their family back to their estate in Montgomery county. He also sent the twins and gave them strict orders to hold everything down until he returned.

  “Just be strong daddy. Everything’s gonna be okay, “she replied in a soft, comforting voice.

  Sonny took a deep breath and used his free hand to massage the back of his neck.

  “A’ight ma, I gotta go. Kiss the kid for me and tell my mom and my grandmom that I love ‘em.”

  “I most definitely will,” she confirmed. “Just keep us updated on Mello’s condition.”

  “You already know.”

  “And Sontino,” she blurted out at the very last second.

  “What’s up, ma?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you more.”

  Click!

  As he placed the phone back in his pocket he noticed that every eye in the room was glued to the television in the far left corner. They were watching the six o’clock news, and the room was so quiet that if you listened closely you could hear a cockroach pissing on a cotton ball. When he looked up at the screen and saw a picture of Suelyn a lump formed in the back of his throat. Directly above her picture the caption read, DEA Agent Murdered By Car Bomb.

  “A DEA agent?” he questioned, while squinting his eyes at the screen. “Yo what the fuck is this?”

  Almost immediately, her picture was replaced with the gory scene outside of the Baker Funeral Home. Roland Rushin was standing in front of the Mercedes Sprinter van that saved the lives of him and his family. The reporter was holding a microphone in his right hand, and eloquently speaking to the citizens of Philadelphia.

  “It was here, directly outside of this funeral home, where Agent Monica Brown was blown to pieces, and where seven men were savagely gunned down in a hail of gunfire.

  “According to the Philadelphia Police Department, the bomb that killed Agent Brown was placed underneath this Mercedes hearse,” he announced while positioning himself in front of the decimated vehicle. “The DEA’s office has yet to issue a formal statement, but a spokesperson did in fact verify that at the time of this incident, Agent Brown was participating in an undercover operation.”

  The middle aged black man paused for a moment, and then placed his left hand on his earpiece. He nodded his head up and down, and then returned his gaze to the camera.

  “Okay, it was just confirmed that one of the victims in this incident was Rahmello Moreno, the twenty one year old grandson of Black Mafia crime boss, Gervin Grip Moreno.”

  Pictures of Grip and Rahmello appeared at the top of the screen as Roland Rushin continued his live broadcast.

  “For those of you who don’t know, The Black Mafia also known as The Moreno Crime Family has plagued the streets of this city for over five decades. But from the look of things, it appears as though they’ve attracted some serious enemies, and I’m assuming that these gangland murders are the beginning of something far worse. This is Roland Rushin reporting to you live from North Philadelphia. Back to you Jenny.”

  As Sonny stood there thinking of all the evidence the federal government could possibly have against him, a short white man dressed in green scrubs entered the waiting room. A stethoscope was dangling from his neck, and a brown clipboard was clutched in his right hand. He glanced at the clipboard, and then looked around the room.

  “Rahmello Moreno!” he announced. “Is there anyone present on behalf of Rahmello Moreno?”

  The people in the room recognized the name Moreno from the news, and they all looked at Sonny. His light skin, chiseled face, and wavy hair were a dead giveaway. The resemblance between him and the pictures of the two men that were just displayed on the television was inescapable, and they didn’t doubt for a second that the young man in the blood stained shirt was related to the infamous Moreno Family.

  “Yeah,” Sonny stated as he approached the Jewish looking man. “I’m Sontino Moreno. Rahmello’s my little brother.”

  The doctor extended his right hand, and Sonny accepted the gesture with a firm handshake.

  “My name’s Dr. Levy and I’m the surgeon who operated on your brother.” He glanced around the room full of spectators, and then returned his gaze to Sonny. “Do you mind if we go to the back so we can have some privacy?”

  “Naw not at all,” Sonny replied, then followed the doctor through the doubledoors. As soon as they were alone, he began his interrogation. “So what’s up wit’ my brother, doc? Did he make it?”

  Dr. Levy sighed, and then said, “Your brother suffered a single gunshot wound to his left leg, and the bullet severed his femoral artery. The bullet was recovered during surgery, but as a result of him losing so much blood, he slipped into a coma. We did everything that we could do for him at this point.”

  “A’ight, but will he survive?” Sonny asked with tears in his eyes.

  The doctor lowered his voice a few octaves.

  “It’s touch and go at this point. Like I said,” he shrugged his shoulders, “we did everything we could do for your brother. The femoral artery is one of the main elements that the body uses to circulate blood. To be honest with you, it’s a good thing that you got him here as fast as you did. Had you got him here a few minutes later he would have bled to death.”

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  The doctor looked at his pager, and then returned his gaze to Sonny.

  “Listen Mr. Moreno I need to get going, but I’ll be checking on Rahmello throughout the night to evaluate his improvement or lack thereof.”

  “A’ight doc, but how long do these comas last? And is it okay for me to see him?”

  “I’ve seen comas last anywhere between a few hours and a couple of years. In this particular case, your brother lost a substantial amount of blood. At this point, the only thing we can do is have patience. Now as far as you seeing him, that’s not a problem. Just check with the receptionist at the front desk, and she’ll provide you with all the necessary information.”

  When Sonny returned to the waiting room he noticed that Grip was at the receptionist’s desk inquiring about Rahmello. He stopped in his tracks and took a deep breath. There was so much bad blood between the two of them that he honestly didn’t know how to address the situation. Damn, I wanna kill this mutha’fucka so bad. But if it wasn’t for him, me and my family would be dead right now, he thought to himself as he stood there in full gangsta regalia. He was ice grilling the man who undoubtedly turned his world upside down.

  Grip spotted him out the corner of his eye and turned to face him. “Sontino how are you?” Grip asked. “Is everybody safe?”

  “Yeah we a’ight,” Sonny confirmed while staring in his blue eyes.

  “What about Rahmello?”

  A warm tear slid down the left side of Sonny’s face.

  “He’s in a coma, and the doctor said he might not make it.”

  Grip stepped in closer and wrapped his arms around him.

  “Grandson, will you please forgive me? I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for
you and our family.”

  Sonny broke their embrace and took a step backwards. He wiped away his tears, and then glanced around the emergency room where everyone was watching as if his life were a movie. Grip looked up at the television and noticed that the news was broadcasting from outside of the hospital.

  “Come on Sontino. We need to get out of here.”

  “Get outta here?” Sonny screwed up his face “I’m not leavin’ my lil’ brother in this mutha’fuckin’ hospital. Somebody’s try’na kill us, and I gotta be here to protect him.”

  Grip took a deep breath and slowly nodded his head.

  “Yeah, we definitely have a powerful enemy,” he agreed, catching Sonny off guard by using the word we. He fiddled with the diamond ring on his right pinky, and then said, “Don’t worry about Rahmello. He’s safe.”

  “Safe?” Sonny retorted. “He’s laid out in a coma. Anybody can creep in here and finish what they started.”

  Instead of responding, Grip nodded his head toward the two black men who were strategically positioned by the entrance. He then gestured toward the front row of chairs where another black man was sitting at full attention. They each had a clean shaved face, a neatly trimmed haircut, and were dressed in black suits with red bow ties.

  The man who was sitting in the front row had a Final Call Newspaper lying on his lap, and underneath a nickel plated .45 was clutched in his right hand.

  The two men positioned by the entrance had expressionless faces. Their dark, cold eyes scowerrd the large room, and their body language personified discipline heads straight, shoulders squared, and their hands were folded in front of them, right over left.

  After studying the three men Sonny returned his attention to his attention to Grip.

  “They witchu?”

  Grip nodded his head in the affirmative.

  “Now come on, it’s imperative that we leave this hospital.”

  As they left the emergency room and stepped into the chilly December weather they were immediately bombarded by flashing lights and news cameras. News reporters from every local station were crowding the walkway, and they all wanted a piece of The Moreno Crime Family.