Armored
Page 13
“Sure-“
Banging. “Police open up!”
Teresa was nervous as hell. Maybe, anger found a seat and compassion stood up. Whatever it was, Selange simply said, “Alfonzo’s your daughter’s godfather. He loves them, but if I were you Teresa, I’d disappear. You better hope the police keep their end of the bargain. I forgive you, but I doubt if anyone else will.”
The pounding was harder. “Police!”
“I’m really sorry Selange, I am.” Teresa whispered as she walked to the door. The minute she opened it the detectives hurried in. “Selange Diaz, we have a warrant for your arrest. You have the right to remain silent….”
They didn’t have to worry, she planned to.
Handcuffs were tightened and she was marched downstairs, put in a car, which was uncomfortable when hands are awkwardly angled behind the back. She didn’t cry, not one crystal drop. Years of liquid overflowing had dried up the well.
She had faith in herself and trusted Alfonzo had covered both their tracks.
***
A warrant was issued for Selange’s arrest in absentia. Inside the police station is when she was presented with the document, but it didn’t matter, an assault charge isn’t comparable to murder, neither is the sentence if convicted. There’s the standard 48 hour waiting period before her hearing in front of a judge, where she’d listen to the charges, say ‘not guilty’ of course and then learn her trial date, that is if things went that far.
The case might be dismissed for lack of evidence along the way or the court, which she confidently believed may be the case.
Meanwhile, she had to undergo the process of being booked at the local precinct, which recently received a fresh coat of paint. She smelled the turpentine. Amelda would hate the harsh lighting and probably try to speak with the person in charge and implore them to splurge on the softer illumination.
She stood beside the uniformed officer as he pressed her hand forcefully in the ink, rolling her fingers and not saying a word.
She laughed quietly at his stern demeanor; somebody might assume she personally insulted him with ‘your mama’ jokes.
He didn’t look in her eyes, not once and she wondered if he was too afraid. The officer needn’t worry; Alfonzo wasn’t a maniac, in spite of the false rumors. The only men in uniform he ever harmed were vile criminals.
The procedure was really antiquated. Cell phones have a fingerprint recognition system, the city of New York needed to catch up with the times and go high-tech.
“You can go a bit easier on my hand,” she said when he pressed her thumb down with undo pressure and the other fingers.
He remained silent. Selange figured he was told not to talk to her, which was fine, but the rough handling went a tad far.
“I’m wondering if you’re deriving any form of sexual gratification by punishing my fingers.”
He glared at her then. “What are you talking about?”
The mute can actually talk. “I gave you the definition of a sadomasochist. Punishment tied to sexual gratification.” Selange sighed. “Never-mind, I see you lack humor. Can I make my call now?”
The confidence slightly faded when she observed Mr. Johnson enter with another guy and her situation suddenly became realer. This wasn’t simply a set-up, but also payback. The men entered a room and Selange asked the mute officer who broke his code of silence to use the phone –again.
A detective sauntered over, and she was ushered to a messy desk. “You want to call the hubby?” he asked with a patronizing drawl. “You’d think you rich people would at least have a cell phone. There wasn’t one in your belongings, or in the rental, did you leave it at home?”
“I lost it.”
“Okay gimme your husband’s number so he won’t worry. I hear he’s got a temper. We don’t want to be accused of mistreating his woman now would we?” The insincere detective smirked.
Selange’s eyes narrowed. “I’m calling a lawyer.”
He lifted the receiver, put his ear to the device and then said, “Shucks, looks like we’re having technical problems on the line. I’ll let you try again later or how about you give me the contact information and when the line’s fixed I’ll inform somebody where you are?”
Selange’s lips pursed tight. Today was Sunday; she had planned to be in the air, en route to her children and then home before Alfonzo returned. This unexpected change in plans had an open end closure date. When a person is taken into police custody, the person should have at least a brief opportunity to meet with their attorney before their initial court hearing. Selange was aware of her rights and so were the officers, however they wanted something. By the detective’s omission, that something was Alfonzo’s contact number. She would never give anyone that information.
She was escorted to a holding pen with other female detainees except there was a girl who really looked like a guy. Selange sat on the hard bench and prayed Teresa fled somewhere far.
Selange noticed the woman in Timberland’s, jeans and tank top eyeballing her and she didn’t try to hide it either.
The boot wearing woman sought to engage in conversation. “What the po-po holding you for Miss Universe?” she asked in a masculine delivery, even the tilt of the chin was less than feminine.
Selange chuckled, ah, yep; time to go back to the streets. “Same reason they holding you Mister Universe.”
The other ladies in the cell shifted uncomfortably. The weather was nice but the tiny shorts on a female detainee barely hid her crotch. Sitting in a prim outfit, scared shitless was another woman, perhaps in her fifties practically hugging the wall.
The conversationalist apparently didn’t like Selange’s acerbic response because she abruptly stood. “You’re trying to be cute up in here but there ‘aint no niggas’ in here to fight for your ass bitch!”
And so it began.
Selange was hungry and irritable. She sighed because it was a damn shame she received flak about her appearance even when sitting and minding her business. What the hell was wrong with the crazy woman she wondered, that her looks had her riled up so bad?
Thank goodness, she’d changed out of Amelda’s expensive dress for more comfortable clothes. Maybe, the outfit contoured to her figure and moderate heels with the discreet designer logo on the bottom produced jealous stimuli that caused some form of an epileptic rage.
What else could explain why the stranger zeroed in on her, Selange thought and went batty for no damn reason?
How was Selange to know she’d end up in jail beside a low esteem hater whose problem might simply be Selange hadn’t worn the stereotypical, ‘Hoochie Gear’ or ‘Gutter Persona’ to appease her hateful ass?
Selange had taken precautions, flown in on a private jet under Amelda’s name to avoid detention. Now she wished she’d worn jeans and sneakers in preparation for the initiation which ultimately determined if she was a punk or a pussy. Take it to the street was the mess she did when she was a kid. She was a mother; and a person with a measure of self-respect.
Selange scoffed and opted to reserve her energy for the legal fight ahead. The crass comment didn’t warrant a response.
A roll of the woman’s head occurred. As long as the he-she kept a safe distance, Selange didn’t care what she said.
“Oh, somebody got quiet, real good bitch because if you open your mouth again I’m gonna’ put my fist in those pretty lips.”
Selange shook her head. “You’ve got the verbally abusive dude role down to a T. But, here’s some advice, if you want someone on your good side –try avoiding threats you confused bitch.” Selange quipped and then jumped to her feet as she said the comment because the reaction was expected.
The female bull charged a skilled matador and met hard knuckles.
Selange beat the food out of the hussy’s stomach. She hadn’t broken a manicured fingernail, because she didn’t fight like a girl. Her husband and Crazy Nicky taught her how to curl her fingers. A girl can do damage and she doesn’t have to be a man to do it.
Selange bet the dike didn’t have an inkling who she messed with, but Selange was determined to give her ample schooling. A soft appearance can be misleading. Someone who knows how to tussle doesn’t need to boast and talking loud isn’t intimidating to a woman accustomed to bullets.
She grabbed the boot wearing woman, twisted her arm behind her droopy pant ass and shoved her face in the nasty commode. Sputtering was all the wannabe guy could do against the force of somebody provoked. And if the guards hadn’t intervened, Selange would’ve cracked the woman’s head against the cement wall many times for every bad episode in her life and every death she witnessed.
Selange’s arms were seized roughly before she could furiously propel her cellmate’s skull to the wall.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mature males in leisure attire watched the revelry from the confines of a VIP room concealed by a wall of colored glass. Those in the elite section could see out, but no one could see the Very Important People in the rear of the club.
Young adults gathered on the dance floor to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of a Mafia’s son. A proud father observed with a lackluster smile his son’s guests who attended. Don Natta’s family emigrated from Sicily before the war, he didn’t speak a lick of the language, yet spoke of it with pride although he visited only twice in the forty odd years on the planet.
To love something’s great, but like a woman there should be a private intimacy, a yearning, an understanding as well as appreciation, and a protective reverence. There’s nothing pretentious or boastful, like a breath –love is intrinsic to the soul.
That is what the distinguished guest at the VIP table in his tailored suit mused as Natta went on and on about the wonders of Sicily.
Then move there pendejo!
Among the paler clan who avoided sunlight, Alfonzo’s skin was a healthy honey-gold hue that shimmered like the natural highlights of his silky hair. His face was stern, and the opaque cobalt irises flittered under the jumping lights.
Natta’s Underboss, Capo, Consigliere and a relative were seated eyeing the less senior, high positioned Big Boss, who’d been assigned the nickname, Concrete Don. He graced their clan with his presence and arrived an hour ago with an entourage of armed shadows with fierce expressions, but he didn’t drink their wine.
They weren’t aware the youth in his Yankee cap slightly tilted to the side, mingling with the crowd was part of their group, too. Lorenzo came late and entered through the front door after picking up the car. Alfonzo hadn’t said anything, it was best to let the kid have fun. Besides, a hot chica asked him to dance and Lorenzo’s smile brought back memories of his philandering days uptown. Carefree is how he felt then; today he was weighted by somber men with questionable smiles.
The car was an extravagant gift; a small token of appreciation.
There are presents that elicit genuine gratitude and then there are those that receive gasps of shock. That is the reaction a Capo de Tutti expected later when he presented the boy with keys to the Ferrari 458 Dragon Edition, but he had to wait until the right moment.
The gold dragon decals and Chinese characters on the red body of the vehicle were way cooler than the white flag stickers on the Americana Edition. Only a select number of the cars were made to lure in Chinese billionaires and Alfonzo had one of them. He wasn’t Chinese but appreciated a work of art on wheels, most car enthusiasts can.
The car was perhaps too expensive for a young man –but this was a calculative move to ensure peace. Mafia lords possess large egos; they are sensitive when a Don repeatedly declines their invitations, busy or not they seek confirmation their loyalty is valued by the guy pulling the strings.
Perhaps, what is really at stake is not disloyalty but an insurgence. There was talk, which filtered up the chain to Alfonzo’s ears. Dons had become jittery. This tempest brewing due to Domingo had a ripple effect on business. The triangle, which the Feds sought to bring down, had expanded. Associates of a Capo de Tutti were nervous because Alfonzo’s associates were put under a larger microscope, since the Israeli arrived in the mix. Alfonzo assured them his position hadn’t changed, in case they were skittish about who called the shots.
Becoming a household name is great for legitimate companies but not for organized crime affiliates who prefer to stay low-key. Although, there wasn’t any evidence to support Alfonzo’s connection to the many rackets across the globe, having the eye of the law trained on lower factions stirred mistrust. Allies might grow balls.
Who rats; who acts?
Who sits; who waits?
Big fall and the small seek to rise. This is the daily worry of a Don.
The party music continued to blare. Alfonzo took a discriminate sip of beer. He opted for this beverage in lieu of the heavier stuff; there was something uneasy in his gut. Despite the joyful assembly, he sensed tension in the air.
The hour grew late and the last song by the DJ was a throwback.
That’s the shit, Alfonzo thought as the 50 Cent jam boomed out the speakers. The acoustics in the place was crazy.
The Don smirked as Alfonzo’s head began to bob up and down. “Catchy tune. I don’t particularly like rap, but hey, what do I know about music,” he said.
“It’s a matter of taste,” Alfonzo replied.
The Canadian’s Capo smirked. He was about fifty-ish, prominent nose and when he talked it seemed only one side of his mouth moved. Alfonzo heard the man had a stroke in his thirties. Mob stress, he supposed.
“I met your dad once,” the Capo stated. “Bigger than life he was back then. He lit a cigarette and Alfonzo wished he didn’t in the closed room. The material he wore breathed the odor in. The Capo peered at Alfonzo with a squinty eye as a tobacco cloud formed over his head. “I remember and always polished, like you. He spit you out.”
“Sounds like he made quite an impression on you and apparently so have I.”
“Yeah, I started dressing better, but from the quality of your duds I might have to change my tailor.”
Alfonzo gave a snort. The frayed seams of the Capo’s jacket, polyester blend trousers and those pleather wingtips certainly weren’t testament to that, but then again he didn’t have a throwback picture for comparison. “Do I look like a fashion reporter for Old Hobo Magazine, because I don’t really give a fuck about your clothes?”
The Canadian chuckled. “My Capo just had a little too much to drink.”
But the humor didn’t carry over to Alfonzo or his men. “But the liquor’s not talking; the thoughts are flowing from the brain.”
“My apologies Don Diaz; I was only trying to make small talk.” The Capo leaned back to say.
“I’m not a small talk kind of person.” Alfonzo sneered. Talking fashion and reminiscing about the Luzo days wasn’t why he was there. Plus he didn’t care for the man’s stare. He didn’t like the vibe he got from the dude; frankly, he planned to cut out soon. There was a palpable tension hovering in the air.
Alfonzo wondered if the music had increased or had the hyped crowd added to the bass.
‘Go shorty, it's your birthday,
We gonna sip Bacardi like it's
your birthday,
And you know we don't give a fuck it's not your birthday…’
Alfonzo took another sip of beer and discreetly scanned the partygoers. There was something odd. Why were there fewer girls in the crowd?
Shit, every party he went to ladies outnumbered the guys. They came in a group, that’s why.
“I understand the Israeli has joined your family,” The Canadian Don said.
There’s the belief that when a person’s in tune with their soul, instinct can save their ass but only if they don’t ignore the warning signs and act. That’s what he was about to do.
Images of tragic scenes flashed before Alfonzo’s eyes. He saw himself in a coffin. He saw his children without a father and a wife minus a husband.
The Israeli’s enemies were many. They were mainly people who found his business tactics of strong arming competition by threats and death bad for their health. To leaders who used force as a last resort, he was an abomination, worse than the gangbangers who shot innocent children.
Then it clicked.
Sophie’s marriage to Yosef was perceived as unification with the Israeli Mafiya. To some, Alfonzo had forbidden them to partake in certain illegal trades only so he could reap the spoils. These are the sentiments which can spread like a wildfire behind Alfonzo’s back.
“The Israeli and I do not do business. In any case, my position remains the same. Your commissions increase by five percent to cover any additional cost you incur by the upping precautionary measures to avoid detection,” Alfonzo stated. He put up his finger. “Hold on a sec, let me take this call.”
The lyrics seemed to shout, instead of being the laid-back rap that suave dudes vibe to as they smoked weed and dipped chin to chest and up again in rhythm. The hook played followed by the first verse.
‘You can find me in the club, bottle full of bub…
So come gimme a hug if you're into getting rubbed…
If you watch how I move, you'll mistake me for a player or pimp,
Been hit with a few shells but I don't walk with a limp…’