Goodfellas

by Carl Weber

  Greedy was skeptical of his unc’s proposal, yet excited as he thought of all the dope he could cop, along with the ton of money he’d make if his fam was on the up and up.

  “Okay, then, we good. Bet that up. A thousand dollars a week until I drop ten of them things on you, and I get plugged. Say no more, Unc. It’s done soon. As soon as I get to my phone, I can have one of my people wire you a stack ASAP,” Greedy vowed, cocky as ever.

  “All right, then. I’m gonna slide you this number. Now don’t call this motherfucker until I tell you to. I ain’t bullshitting. If you mess around and spook these Mexicans and fuck shit up, it’s over! You feel me? Ain’t shit popping.” Ed had the number written down to the connect on a brown piece of paper towel. He slid it across the table on the low so the other guards wouldn’t see him passing what they call contraband. It was against the rules to pass anything to visitors and vice versa.

  Greedy nodded in agreement not to call the number until he was given the green light to do so. Ed had given his nephew his blessing, because if any of his kin was gonna play the dope game, he wanted them to represent the bloodline and do it big. Still in teacher mode, he dropped one more jewel on Greedy. He told him that when you come up on that bag, make niggas pay for it. Keep your money stacking up.

  “Huh, what?” Greedy looked at him, puzzled. Dumbfounded, he wondered how he could make the next man pay for his bag and their own bag, plus stack up his money.

  “I see you sitting over there confused as hell. You wanna know how? Shittt . . . I should charge you for this game too, li’l nigga. But you’s family, and I don’t want you bumping your head in them streets. See, you’d fuck around, taking more loss like you crazy when you don’t have to. So, pay attention, Nephew. When you have a direct line to the work, you set your own prices. See, if you getting slabs for say seventeen thousand, you flip them for twenty-eight or better. It depends on who’s buying. Either way, there go free bands that belong to you. That’s called your tops.”

  Greedy nodded at the same time he was rubbing his chin. It was all so clear to him what his uncle was saying. In his mind, the bottom line is he was going to be rich. That day shaped his life into what it is today: a true official force to be reckoned with knowing the plug and the unspoken rules.

  Chapter Six

  Greedy was brought out of his moment of reflecting. Gigi was going, yelling, and talking a million miles an hour. Something was definitely up. He stood up from his chair. All the workers were shaking their heads like, oh boy, it’s going down now. With the bottle of 1738 still in one hand and his pistol now in the other, he bent the corner to the living room. There he saw Gigi all in Dirty Mike’s face. He’d come up short for the last time, and Gigi, of course, wasn’t having it.

  “You bum-ass nigga. Fuck you mean you ain’t got it? Fuck naw, ain’t no making it right. The next flip? Dude, you done flipped your last bag outta this camp,” Gigi barked looking at her man for approval.

  Greedy nonchalantly said, “Put him down in the basement with the girls. If he can sweet talk them into letting him work again, he still got a job. If not, he ’bout done.” He turned the radio up and grabbed the opened bottle of liquor.

  Dirty Mike pleaded with Greedy not to send him down in the basement. He resisted at first ... until he was staring down the barrel of Gigi’s forty cal. She marched him to the basement door. “Please—”

  “Naw, go on, fuck boy. You wanted this life, now live it.”

  Dirty Mike opened the door slowly. Full of fear, he looked down the steps. There they sat waiting patiently. Chelle and Jada, two massive female Cane Corsos weighing in at eighty pounds each, both trained to kill on command. Hesitantly, he looked back over his shoulder at the real-life trap queen, thinking to himself, I’m fucked. Both anger and fear showed in his eyes.

  Gigi took one step back in her pink Air Force Ones. Click-clack was the sound her pistol made when she racked it, putting one up top. “Today, you gonna see a real bitch one way or another, up here or down there. And it ain’t to get your dick wet.” Gigi frowned with attitude pointing her iron at his head. Reluctantly, he descended down into hell one step at a time where his fate awaited him. “Eat!” Gigi ordered her babies and slammed the door shut. She locked it and placed her gun in her waistband. She then pressed her ear to the door. Within a matter of seconds, she heard what sounded like several grown men bum-rushing up the steps on a deadly mission. It was like two lions ripping into a frightened African gazelle on an otherwise quiet summer afternoon. Growls and Dirty Mike’s bloodcurdling screams echoed up the basement steps over the radio. They vibrated through the door and walls up into the entire house.

  Greedy and Gigi, along with three dudes on their payroll, stood in the trap house kitchen. The worker with a scar across his throat stood back. He looked as if he’d been through his fair share of hood wars and came out on top, but this was different. His face twisted up six different ways. He closed his eyes, and then put his hands over his ears. Dirty Mike’s screams were still louder than the radio. Scar Throat had done some unspeakable acts to people, but nothing on this level. He thought the money was gravy he was stacking up fucking with the team for the last three months. But he wasn’t with this shit these motherfuckers were capable of. He had made up his mind right that moment, he was done dealing with these bloodthirsty goons, bag on deck or not.

  Zack, a trusted soldier, was in the back room weighing and bagging up work. Used to that type of treatment, he rushed into the front room where Greedy, Gigi, and the rest of the crew were now standing at. “Yo, come smoke this shit over! Nigga done got popped with a mill ticket,” he yelled as he shot back into the room.

  Everybody quickly followed him to the rear room. They all stood posted in front of the seventy-inch TV mounted on the wall, except Zack. He had time-sensitive work to do. He sat back at his work table big enough to seat six people. On the table was a digital scale and two bricks of cocaine broken down into chunks. Ounces of cocaine bagged up for distribution sat to the side. Zack’s only job was to break down the work and weigh it up into ounces. He reached down under the table and grabbed a box of baggies and set it on the table. Then he pulled one out of the box. Placing it between both his hands, Zack began rubbing his hands back and forth together until the baggie was static free and easily opened up. He looked up at the TV while he reached and turned the scale on. Then he put a chunk of ’caine in a baggie and set it on the skillet. Briefly, he glanced down at the numbers. They read twenty-eight point zero. Zack smirked. He did his job well, and his eye was always on point.

  Greedy and Gigi watched the news like the rest of their counterparts. They’d already seen one report of some people getting knocked earlier that had them spooked. But since they had yet to have official verification it was their connect, they kept it tight to the chest. Besides, that wasn’t the workers’ business or concern anyways. Listening to the suited up reporter speak, the pair held their breath as the camera zoomed in on the alleged criminal apprehended in the back of the police car. Greedy gripped the neck of the liquor bottle tight and took it to the head. The man’s face appeared to be swollen, but it was obvious who it was. His fear from earlier was now a confirmed reality, a hustler’s nightmare. The plug had got knocked. Gulping down the liquor, Greedy’s throat burned. He stopped drinking, then took two long pulls on the blunt Scar Throat had just passed him. He held his breath letting the THC absorb into his bloodstream. When he felt like his chest was gonna explode, he blew the weed smoke up at the TV. A long gray cloud covered the screen. Dry mouthed, he looked to his side at Gigi with a what-the-fuck expression on his face. She slow stroked his back with her hand, attempting to soothe her man. Discreetly, she nodded her head toward the door so he would follow her lead.

  Reeling from alcohol, weed, and the shock of celebration-turned-to-silent-chaos in both their heads, he followed Gigi out of the room. Greedy began setting up chess moves in his head to keep shit in order until he figured out what the fuck truly happened.
For the plug to get jammed up with what was reported to be close to half a million dollars, including some he had just given to him less than twenty-four hours ago, was crazy. He knew someone had fucked up big time, and there definitely was gonna be repercussions by the law—and in the streets.

  Chapter Seven

  Meanwhile, 1,630 miles away, in Laredo, Texas, the Flying J Truck Stop was buzzing. Truckers were pulling out. Some were pulling in to eat, shower, rest, or gas up their rigs. Lot lizards black, white, and Mexican, were out trolling. Not even a half mile away up the road, the Mexican police stood guard over four mutilated bodies. More than likely casualties of the ongoing cartel drug wars. The police on the far end of the city had a shoot-out with some members of the CSI Cartel. Eight officers were killed and one foot soldier. These brutal occurrences had become normal to Laredo citizens. If you lived in Laredo, you are affected by or affiliated with the cartel, one way or the other.

  Maria Blanco, however, wasn’t affected by the powers that be. She was affiliated. Her father was a top-ranking member of the cartel while he was alive. He raised Maria by himself after the money and drugs drove her mother crazy. She got strung out on dope, and one day, her husband snapped. He shot Maria’s mother in the back of the head. Callously, he dumped her body in the desert. Some years later, her father got killed in a gun battle when a cocaine-processing lab was raided by a rival cartel. The only living family she had was her father’s brother, Uncle Juan. He ran the over-the-road drug operation from Arizona and Texas to the Midwest. All in the family, Maria waited tables at the truck stop and recruited truck drivers for the cartel to smuggle drugs across the United States.

  Maria, however, was tired of the same old day in and day out truck stop job the cartel had assigned her to. She wanted excitement, adventure, and power. More importantly, she wanted in on the family business. Word of her uncle Juan getting arrested with a ton of money traveled fast. Soon after, she was approached by two goons. They had a message from one of the top-ranking Los Zetas drug bosses. A short, dark Mexican with a big stomach and thick facial hair did all the talking. The lanky Mexican with him said nothing and kept looking around suspiciously. Maria was directly told of her uncle’s situation up north. And the fact they needed a driver today that was willing to take a load of work to Detroit, Michigan. The job paid $50,000. She could keep twenty racks for a finder’s fee. Instantly, she thought of the perfect trucker for the job: Bobby Bands. He definitely could use the money. Maria knew he could because he’d told her on the phone while he was driving to Texas to drop a shipment of dry goods from up north in Michigan. He had serious past due bills on his head. Back home, his taxes were past due and his truck note past due. Without that ticket paid, he couldn’t work. Maria was set to meet him at the Flying J Truck Stop before he headed back up north. So this was perfect timing.

  Bobby sat at the counter sipping a cup of hot, black coffee waiting on Maria. Excited, she called him and asked him if he wanted to make some quick money. She didn’t go into detail over the phone, but she had Bobby’s attention. He needed a blessing or bump from somewhere. Exhausted, he sat back. His mind drifted off to when he first hooked up with Maria.

  * * *

  Bobby Bands was new to the trucking game. He had just beaten a federal indictment on a technicality. If he had gone to trial and got found guilty of a Count One: distribution of dangerous drugs, three to life in prison. Count Two: murder in the first degree, twenty-five to life in prison. Count Three: possession of an illegal firearm, five years in prison. Thanks to sloppy police work and one dead rat that didn’t make it to the witness stand, Bobby Bands knew he had to give up the dope game. He knew he had to do something to eat and keep a roof over his head. He chose truck driving, because it would keep him on the road away from the hood and off the feds’ radar. He was cool with cutting loose his gold digger bitch who always had her hand out for cars, jewelry, two houses, and the ballers’ lifestyle as long as he was free.

  This particular day he’d dropped his truckload and went into the Flying J Truck Stop for a hot meal and a cup of coffee. Maria was attracted to Bobby Bands at first sight. He didn’t notice how attentive she was while she served him his food due to his lack of sleep. Maria was confused, wondering why Bobby wasn’t sweating her like all the rest of the truckers. She had a pot of coffee in her hand as she approached him sitting at the counter eating his burger and fries.

  “Would you like another cup of coffee?” she asked him as he took another bite of his burger.

  The red meat gave him life again as he looked up. “No, thank you.” He looked at Maria closely for the first time since he’d sat down. She had attractive brown skin, long, dark hair, nice-shaped hips and ass, with full lips. He looked at her name tag. “Maria, I think it would be a good idea for me to go get about an hour or two of sleep in my truck. Then come back so you can show me around Laredo. I wanna get to know you both.”

  Maria’s face lit up with a smile as she spoke. “And your name is?” He told her his name. “Nice to meet you, Bobby, where you from?” They gently shook hands with each other as he answered her question. The attraction was evident. She looked at the clock on the diner wall and said, “My shift doesn’t end for another three hours. I can do that, show you around town. There isn’t much to see but wetbacks and the Rio Grande.”

  “I’m cool with that.” Bobby smiled; then he gave Maria his cell phone number to call him when her shift ended. She typed his number in her cell. Bobby went in his pocket to pay for the meal and coffee after she’d place the tab on the table. He put a fifty-dollar bill on the countertop and told her to keep the change.

  Maria batted her eyes with a girlish smile. “Muchas gracias.”

  Hours later, Bobby awoke from a much-needed sleep. He was feeling fresher and horny as he thought of his new Mexican female friend. He had showered inside the Flying J before he went to sleep. So all he had to do was get dressed and meet up with Maria. No sooner than he’d got finished, she called his phone. They agreed to meet in the trucker’s parking lot. Bobby grabbed an unopen bottle of vodka and some blunts he had rolled up. His rig was parked in the back of the lot away from the other trucks for privacy and less noise so he could rest. On his way through the truck lot, he grew highly aware of his surroundings. The night air was muggy, mixed with the smell of burning diesel fuel coming from idle semitrucks. It was a smell Bobby never got used to. He put his free hand over his nose. Stepping along the gravel, it crunched under his wheat Tims.

  Seeing something out of the corner of his eye, he paused. Movement from in between two freightliners caught his attention. It threw him off guard for a split second. A fat white man had a lot lizard bent over. It was light enough to see them, so he knew they saw him as well. But they kept fucking, and Bobby kept it moving. He walked another ten yards. He then saw two big Mexican dudes with bandannas tied over their faces. They were speaking in Spanish as the duo pistol-whipped a man. Bobby couldn’t make out if the guy getting beaten was white or Mexican, and to him, it didn’t matter. He acted as if he didn’t see them as well and kept walking. He knew better than to care. Growing up in Detroit, you mind your business when you see shit you ain’t trying to see. Your ass will come up dead or missing if you forget that hood rule. Bobby looked back to see how much distance he had put between him and whatever it was taking place. He saw the man being stuffed in the trunk of a car and still kept moving. Laredo, Texas, reminded Bobby of the eastside of Detroit, so he almost felt at home.

  He soon saw Maria. She had on a red sundress and white sandals leaning against an old blue Chevy pickup truck. When he got close up on her, he noticed her face was slightly beat. Her hair was jet-black and curly. She was even more attractive than he thought.

  “Damn, you look like a bag of money, girl.”

  She blushed, batting her brown eyes at him. “Thank you, señor.” Maria seductively stroked his arm. He smiled, holding up the bottle of liquor. “So are you going to get me drunk and take advantage of me?�
��

  “Not unless you want me to.”

  They both laughed and got in the pickup. Maria and Bobby Bands drove around the less seedy side of town, drinking and talking, getting to know each other. Maria periodically checked the time. Bobby was starting to feel some type of way. “Dig, what’s up, ma? You got to be somewhere? You keep looking at the time. What, your dude got you out on a timer or something? I know how these Mexican guys are about their women.”

  Maria giggled as she steered the old truck around a corner toward the Rio Grande border line. “I don’t have a man, boyfriend, and I am not married. Nor do I have kids. I move how I please.” Suddenly, she pulled over on a side street a block away from the border and killed the engine to the truck. She positioned herself in her seat facing Bobby.

  He took a gulp of liquor. “Yeah, I can dig that. You move like I move, something like a free spirit. I don’t have any of that baggage. That’s why I’m a truck driver. You feel me?”

  Maria looked in the review mirror. She saw six to eight figures moving quickly toward her truck. Bobby didn’t see them coming. However, he heard them jump in the back of the pickup one after another. The truck rocked up and down as the illegal aliens climbed in and sat in the bed.

  “Con rapidez,” the apparent guide of the group repeated in Spanish.

  Maria glanced in the back of the truck making sure everyone was in. “Hurry up! Hurry up. Let’s go!”

  Normally, hood-raised Bobby Bands was ready for anything at any given time. He was trained to go off bell, but this abrupt commotion damn near gave him a heart attack. “What in the entire fuck!” he yelled out, surprised. It was as if a live documentary on the National Geographic channel was taking place right before him.