by Brick
“Is everything set up as I asked?” I said watching the city rise up before.
Lucky sat back relaxed, studying me. “Of course. The Old Italian is currently waiting for your arrival. Can I ask, though, the fact that he was willing to meet with you one on one like this is crazy. How’d you pull this off, new blood?”
New blood? I had to inwardly laugh at that jab because it was true. I was new to the game; however, I felt like I was playing at the table since birth. Never reveal your hand, I learned at five. Be careful who you trust, I learned at eight. Don’t turn your back on an enemy, I learned right after that. So, I sat in the back of a car I had asked Lucky to pick me up in, staring at a brotha who I personally picked to be a part of the Syndicate due to Mama’s notes, and I smiled.
“Simply. You all owe me and, beyond that, you all owe Mama. I feel like cashing in tonight and discussing business before I head back out and home. So don’t be sorry for my loss. I plan on fixing that tonight,” I explained taking the cigar that Lucky offered me.
Lucky’s light eyes widened. He ran a hand over his pant leg then he chuckled. “Our debt to your family runs deep, and goes back decades.”
“I know it does,” I calmly said.
“Hell, many in my circle hoped you didn’t,” Lucky amusingly stated. “I’m just being honest.”
Enjoying the taste of my cigar I rolled it between my fingers appraising it. “Then you all have been taking me for granted.” I took another a deep puff and allowed the smoke to snake from my lips. “What I have planned will use up a good number of IOUs and bring us right back around once we’re done.”
“Damn, are you so sure about that, my friend?” Lucky asked raising an eyebrow studying me. Brotha sat back in a gray tailored suite. I stared at the herringbone pattern of gray and green socks that peeked out from under his pants and the brown spotless leather Italian shoes he wore.
Noticing that I wore something similar in all black, I gave an arrogant nod. “You’re sitting at my table as a Syndicate member, aren’t you?”
“Touché,” Lucky said with a smirk. “I enjoy learning from your new blood ass, friend. Please enjoy my hospitality as your host and I’ll make sure you stay comfortable with your short visit.”
“I appreciate it,” was all I said.
Lucky drove us through Manhattan, giving me a history lesson on how it was once an enclave full of Italians and other ethnic groups. As he spoke about how all of New York City had changed and was still changing thanks to gentrification and other shit, in my mind I kept replaying my fight with Cory. I knew that if I could right it, I would. I’d give half my soul for my brother. I wished he had remembered that when we were fighting. Nodding as if I were listening, though I partially was, I watched as we pulled up through an alley that connected to a major hotel.
Once we got out and walked into the side door of the hotel, Lucky led me to a private conference room. Inside at the center of the room sat three men, including the Old Italian, as Lucky called him, who sat at the head. Next to him were several familiar faces that I had done my homework on. One was a Jewish mobster, and the other a Catholic mobster. I felt as if I was on the cusp of history and I embraced it for my family.
I walked into the room to see the men Mama had spoken about in her notes. I would have laughed at the fact that they indeed looked the part of old-time mobsters had I not been in a business-only state of mind.
The blend of sweet and spicy smoke from cigars accosted my nostrils. I stood with no fear, shoulders back, eyes on every killer in the room, showing them that I could hold my own if they ever sneezed wrong to test me. Several of the men swiveled crystal tumblers of skillfully shaped iced and amber liquid.
When Lucky pulled out a chair for me, I took my time to sit, before I was finally addressed.
“Lucky explains that you’ve come to collect on a debt we owed to Claudette.” The Old Italian asked of me in a measuring tone, “Do you understand exactly what you are pulling here?”
Offering nothing but brief curl of my lip, I folded my hands together and pressed my fingers against my lips before speaking. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
I guess that I pissed someone off with what I said because one of the men in the room gave a grunt, and other shifted in a creaking chair right after. I couldn’t care less. Every last one of these old geezers owed not only the Syndicate, but my family personally. Starting with the man who was Lucky’s uncle.
“Humph. Interesting—” he said before I interrupted him.
“Long ago, my mother came to New York and ended up saving your life, sir. I think that story is not only interesting, but also telling of her character. It reflects on how she raised her children.”
The Old Italian shifted in his chair, lifted his drink to his lips, and took a sip. He hovered it just above the table and watched me. “Your mother saved my life, yes. She stood in the line of fire and took multiple bullets for me, risking everything. Do you understand what that is, young man? Because I’m not convinced, as of yet, that you carry that same fire and leadership. And as you know, what you ask of us does not come free even with what we owe you.”
I opened my mouth to counter the insult he had spit out and the bald-faced lie he just told me but, before I could, the old man held a hand up. Motherfucker must have known that I had something else up my sleeve to counter that lie. Yes, the three men in this room had enough power to collectively start a war that none of us would come through alive if they didn’t want us to, but in their elder years they took more to running things behind the scenes. That was all well and good, but they still owed Mama and I intended to collect by any means necessary.
Straight up, I was pissed at that. The insult stung deep considering everything I had been doing to keep the family safe and secure in the Syndicate. But, I was taught to be a businessman, so anything I had to say in grievance would be said to the Old Italian privately.
However, I couldn’t stop myself in saying, “My leadership and fire has brought the rise of the Syndicate to a new era. One that many of you just cannot reach. But, yes, our problem is with the Irish.”
The Old Italian nodded.
The Jewish mobster said, “Tell me how you came to be in the crosshairs of the Irish again.”
I told him what he wanted to know. Told them how Cormac had sent men after me while I was in public with my fiancée. Told them how when I wouldn’t comply with Cormac’s demands, he kidnapped my little sister and my little brother.
“By then, I was no longer in a talking mood. He had already shown he had no respect for me by removing my mother’s chair, sitting at the head of the table, and taking what didn’t belong to him. I had to put up or shut up. So I put up. Cormac’s dead and now his family comes after me and mine? They wouldn’t even give me the fucking bodies back. They sent dead raccoons to me with pictures of my brother’s and sister’s faces attached,” I snapped. My eyes watered and I had to catch myself so I wouldn’t let my emotions get the better of me. “I tried to do shit diplomatically. Even went as far as to tell them if they just gave me my siblings’ bodies back, I would back down. They spit on me. Spit in my fucking face!”
“So now you’re here and want to call in your mother’s debt to repay them.” The Catholic priest’s croaky voice made me turn his way.
“Yes,” I answered with no qualms.
“Calling in this favor means you want us to start a war with the Irish, a war that may come back to bite us in the ass one day,” the Italian said.
I sat up, back straight, eyes never leaving the Italian’s eyes. “Frankly, I don’t give a damn. The Syndicate is mine and I won’t stand for any level of disrespect. Not when I tried to back out of the fight peacefully. I was willing to concede this fight if only for their dead bodies to be given back to me and my family. Cory and Inez deserved a proper burial.”
I stopped talking then. I could feel my anger rising. So much so my fisted hand started to shake. Part of me wished Shanelle were here
with me. She could help level out my anger and emotions, but I had to do this shit on my own. Had to prove to myself and others why Mama chose me as the leader over everyone else.
The Old Italian looked at the other two men in the room then back at me. “We do this for you and what do we get in return?”
“Not a damn thing,” I snapped. “This is a debt owed to Mama and since she is gone, you owe it to her kids, me specifically as the leader of the Syndicate. Don’t try to play me like I’m some remedial dimwit. I came to you with respect. I passed through all the proper channels by reaching out to Lucky first and having him bring me here. I respected the chain of command and I expect the same in return,” I said sternly. So much so that each of the old men glanced at one another and nodded one by one. I knew what was owed to my mother. They wouldn’t fleece me out of anything more.
The Old Italian looked at Lucky and said, “Get the others in here. Father Seamus to be exact.”
Lucky nodded and went to do as he was told. I watched as about fifteen to twenty other men walked into the room. Some were in suits. A few others in clerics clothing. All of them dangerous.
The Old Italian stoically stared at me then chuckled. “Father Seamus, hand our young man the file of information about our little Irish family in Atlanta.”
A fat, old, leather-faced man with muddled brown hair quirked a glossy eyeball my way. He sat as if he were king, dressed in an all-black suit with a cleric collar around his neck. The disdain in his eyes let me know that he didn’t trust me. Which I really didn’t give a fuck about. I was just here for business. I watched him shift in his groaning chair, handing a stack of folders to a female attendee. I observed the exchange is patience.
Curious enough, she looked like Lucky, like she could be his sister. That was all that I noted about her, besides the Glock tucked against the small of her back.
“As you see,” Father Seamus started, “the Irish MC became problematic for us, even back in Ireland, once they start mixing with unsavory rednecks. They forgot how not to draw attention to themselves and we in Ireland had to limit our partnership. Alas, that is corrected now and their dealings with the heartland pipeline will become yours, once we switch hands.”
“With the people I pick, of course,” I added while reading through the pages of papers before me and noting the images.
“Indeed. As of now, the Irish MC is responsible of transport of meth, heroin, guided transportation and protection of firearms and other weapons of mass destruction as you Americans seem to believe only come from the Arabs, to the heartland and South circuits from Ireland. It is from there that it passes to the hands of the MC leaders on the West Coast.”
“Seamus.” The Old Italian clucked his tongue in a tsk and shook his head. “Do not insult the nation that lines our pocket and harbors our families.”
Inwardly, a frown spread across my face. I wasn’t jigging on how the father spit out that insult as well, but I let it ride.
“But of course. It was just a light critical assessment of course.” The father crossed his heart with his rosary tapping against the table, then continued. “When you eradicated Cormac, you effectively isolated and ended their ties to Ireland,” the father explained.
“Father Seamus, Cormac was a problem for even this table. You know this,” the Old Italian stated. “Mr. McPhearson did us a favor by ending that pissant. I never knew why Claudette kept him at the table. She could have rid herself of him and brought in another. But she did things her way and I won’t question it now. My concern is our property in Atlanta that they weren’t managing well. That must be prioritized in being handled as well.”
Everyone at the tabled grumbled in agreement and I sat back feeling vindicated in killing Cormac, although I would have felt that way regardless.
Clearing his throat, Father Seamus looked my way then flippantly swept a hand out. I knew his type. All he saw was a black kid in front of him. No, a dangerous black man. An insect for him to crush and probably try to turn into his bitch if I had been a young child. Dude made my skin crawl. I was nothing to him. Just a monkey and it pissed me off, but amused me, only because I was that monkey he’d have to work for, or die for, once I was done.
“Within the files, you have all the information you need,” he drily stated then added, “as requested via our debt owed to you.”
I tilted my head to the side at the figures, real estate, pipeline boundary lines, and more, as Father Seamus spoke up with his slight Irish brogue. “I’d say this is a good change for Ireland to revive the stalled pipeline. ’Tis my suggestion that you introduce yourself to the Irish MC, before they make a play first. For they will stop at nothing to end you in the name of Cormac.”
“As for the rest, it is agreed that we will supply you with your additional needs,” the Old Italian announced.
“I want them hit so hard it will take them years to rebuild what it is lost. I want them hit in Ireland and I want the rest in Atlanta to feel it,” I said coolly.
A collective murmur went around the room. Father Seamus looked as if all the blood drained from his already pale face.
He looked at the Old Italian. “You can’t very well be thinking about hitting me home base in Ireland,” he said, almost incredulously.
“If that is what Javon demands, we must comply,” the Old Italian replied.
“That is me home. That is where the main supply for the pipeline comes from. My son—”
“Don’t not beg in front of company, Seamus. What must be done, must be done.” He cast a gaze at everyone then stood. “This meeting is adjourned. Mr. McPhearson, walk with me. Unless you have questions?”
I could tell Father Seamus was about to blow a gasket. Something about that made me smile on the inside. I didn’t come to fuck around. I meant business and it showed.
“Yeah, I have a question,” I said in response to the Old Italian. “If you all knew Cormac was an issue then he should have been handled by . . .” Slamming my finger down on the table before me, I glared. “Every. Single. One. Of. You. I shouldn’t have had to handle him.”
“Cormac was in the Syndicate. We have no dealings with the Syndicate other than when Claudette pulled us in for business. That was her turf and she handled it how she saw fit,” the Jewish mobster stated.
“He is right,” the Old Italian said. “We had no power in the Syndicate. That’s something you should think about.”
The grumbles started again; then I pushed back from the table, grabbed the thick stack of folders, then walked out. I didn’t give a shit what they said, whether they had a say-so in what happened at the Syndicate’s table. They knew Cormac was a problem and if he had something to do with Mama’s death like I suspected, then I would hold it against the Old Italian and his comrades. They knew the man was a ticking time bomb.
“Hey!”
It wasn’t until I heard Lucky behind me that I stopped.
“You pissed them off, fam.”
“Yeah, then we all even with it then,” I grumbled. “Look, where does your old-ass uncle want me to meet him at, or walk with him at?”
Lucky gave a chuckle then stepped around me with his hands in his pockets, the ends of his shirt bunching up. Dude walked ahead of me with a cocky swagger and said, “Follow me.”
We walked a bit, took a glass elevator up to another level then ended up in a private penthouse suit. The room was immaculate. Yes, we were in a hotel, but the feel of this place was straight luxury home living. Glass was everywhere. I’m meaning the windows. If you wanted, you could see all of Manhattan in one clean swoop. The skyline was impeccable leaving those who were swayed by such displays of wealth feeling like a living God. Plush white drapery accented silver Art Deco–designed framing along the large windows. Beyond those windows was a large patio space with lush green grass and a few trees.
Inside, it was as you would imagine a mob boss of today would live. A huge bar was separate in its own parlor where Lucky relaxed talking to an older black woman. I co
uldn’t see her, but I could clearly hear the age and culture of my race in the tone of her articulate vernacular. Interesting.
Where I stood was a sunken sitting area with two large dark leather couches with those dimple marks throughout them. I call them therapist couches. In between them was a floating glass table with a decanter of liquor, two glasses, and two cigars with a cigar cutter and lighter next to it on a tray.
Behind me on several white or gray walls were old-world paintings, mixed with several current artworks. A glass fireplace was in the center of the penthouse next to where I sat waiting. It wasn’t long after that the Old Italian made his appearance. By that time, I was sitting studying the files. I didn’t even stand when I heard the sound of his shoes clip-clopping against the dark wooden floors as he walked into the room. By that time, I was still very much annoyed as fuck.
“Javon Williams-McPhearson,” the Old Italian said with excitement in his voice.
My head snapped up at him using my government name. In doing so, I saw the old man walk around undoing his blazer. He made a graceful motion in taking a seat opposite me; then he took off the simple white brimmed hat that he wore, setting it on the table between us. The old man had a still youthful quality to him. All white hair from the tip of his wavy low-cropped hair to the white beard around his face. The man had a slight golden coloring to him marking him clearly as being pure Italian. He had a Robert De Niro quality to him.
Rumor had it, true Italians had black African in them due to the Moors and, at that time, Persians, anyway. So, to see it in the old man didn’t trip me out at all. I just wondered if he was the type of Italian who embraced that ancestry. Glancing at Lucky, whose back was to me as he spoke to the same elder woman I could not see in the partially closed-off parlor, I gathered that the old man did embrace that truth. Again, that was interesting to me.
“I know that you know my full name too.” He reached forward and grabbed the crystal decanter of amber liquid in front of us. Liberally pouring a stream of liquid into the two glasses that sat next to the decanter, he pushed a glass toward me then said, “I’d be disappointed if a son of Claudette’s didn’t.”