Elaina shook her head from left to right and gnawed on her bottom lip. The pain and burden of it all was evident on both of their faces.
Elaina stepped closer to him, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She reached out a trembling hand. “Look, Avon, for what it’s worth . . . it didn’t mean anything to me. It was the closest thing I had to you,” Elaina confessed, her voice cracking and tears rimming her eyes.
He flinched and moved a safe distance from her grasp. Her words sent a sharp pang of hurt through Avon’s chest. Elaina had been the first woman Avon truly loved. But she had also hurt him in the worst possible way. He knew his pride would never allow him to be with Elaina again, but divorce proceedings were the furthest thing from his mind right now.
Avon shoved his hands deep into his pockets to keep himself from reaching out and touching her. He wanted to embrace her, hold her face in his hands and tell her he was sorry for leaving and not calling. He wished he could explain that it had all been part of his job; it had all been for her safety. But he knew that wasn’t entirely true, and they didn’t need any more lies between them.
Her eyes begged him to understand, to love her again.
“I gotta go. I want you to stay inside the house as much as possible. Call me if you have to leave for longer than a few minutes,” he finally said in an all-business tone.
Elaina had hoped to hear a glimmer of love or affection in his parting words. Instead, his parting words had been cold and formal. Without a glance backward, he turned his back on her and walked out of her life once again.
Avon pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to release some of the tension in his head. He looked down at the box he had just hefted from his trunk. Digging inside, he pulled out the next notebook and began to lose himself in the story unfolding before his eyes. It was a necessary and welcome distraction.
He was starting to feel like he knew Easy. He could only imagine what a man who’d grown up like Easy must’ve gone through to protect his own family.
Avon Tucker was even more compelled to find Candy now.
Brooklyn, New York, 1986
“You see that bitch-ass right there?” Early asked.
Easy looked over and stared out the window on the side of the car Early sat on.
“You gon’ jump out, blow that weasel’s head off and get right back in here. You gotta earn ya wings. Ya dig?” Early said, still staring out the darkly tinted window.
Easy watched as the man walked out of the club with a woman on each arm.
“He’s a fake-ass pimp, ya dig. He owes me more than a little bit of bread, and I’m tired of waiting. He been in that club all night spreading my bread around like he Jesus feeding the hungry,” Early told Easy.
“You just gon’ kill him over some money?” Easy asked incredulously.
Early stared at the sixteen-year-old boy as if he were speaking a foreign language.
“Li’l nigga is you dumb, deaf or blind? Which one? I ain’t gon’ kill the muthafucka in the first place. You gon’ kill this jive-ass weasel over my bread. And for the record, I’ll kill a nigga just to prove a point, so what is you sayin’? I mean, if you scared, I can go find me a real soldier,” Early demeaned. He didn’t like to be questioned or second-guessed.
Easy had seen Early’s wrath more than a few times in the three years he’d been living under the older man’s tutelage.
“Um . . . no. I can do it. I—I ain’t scared of n-nothing,” Easy stammered. He didn’t really have a choice.
Early had given him a home and a job since he had found him homeless and hungry. Early had offered him protection and introduced him to everybody who worked the streets. This task was simply part of the job. Easy owed him that much. If he refused the order, life as he knew it would be over.
“I thought you would come around,” Early said, smirking. “Here. This baby will do the trick and ain’t got a lot of recoil either. Nothing more reliable than this baby here.” Early handed Easy a silver Colt revolver.
The gun felt as cold as ice in Easy’s trembling bony hand.
“Now go on over there and return the favor I did for you when I got rid of your auntie’s no-good husband.”
Easy’s heart hammered intensely; he felt like he was going to be bruised from the inside. Inhaling deeply, trying to calm his nerves, he grabbed the car door handle. His sweaty fingers slipped off the metal.
Early grabbed Easy’s arm. “Calm down, li’l nigga. This is part of being a man on these streets,” Early said.
Easy nodded his head up and down rapidly. He didn’t even realize his eyes were blinking faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Taking a deep breath, Easy finally got the car door open.
His target was bigger than he had appeared from the car. At six feet three inches tall, the man looked intimidating. The giant laughed; his voice was deep and guttural. Two women flanked him as they huddled together, sharing a white reefer joint.
Easy was walking fast now; his legs were seemingly moving on their own. His mind was adrift, blank. One of the women noticed Easy first.
“Aw, look at this little cutie-pie. You came to pay for some pussy, didn’t you, baby bo—” Her words halted, and the smile plastered on her face crumbled into a look of abject horror.
Easy raised his hand and let off three shots into the man’s face before the woman could shriek.
The man let out a scream that was nothing less than primordial. He staggered for a few seconds; his face seemed to break off and explode with each subsequent shot. His large body crumpled to the ground like a wall of bricks. The man’s fedora lay under his head and served as a makeshift bucket for the blood leaking from his head.
Easy stood frozen with fear. His mind told him to run, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. It was Early’s booming baritone that finally spurned Easy into action.
“Get yo’ ass over here!” Early barked.
Easy raced into the car. He was hyperventilating; his chest rose and fell so hard. He tried to swallow back the vomit. As the car sped down the streets, making hairpin turns, he lost all hope for keeping his cool. Easy placed his head between his legs and threw up the contents of his stomach.
“Damn, boy! I can tell this was your first time offing a nigga. Well, you can bet that it ain’t gon’ be your last. You gotta be that ruthless, nigga, on these here streets, baby boy. You gon’ have to get used to this shit without losing your lunch.”
Early laughed unsympathetically as Easy retched.
Chapter 19
The Insider
Candice pressed the doorbell and waited, tapping her left foot rapidly on the concrete step. She could feel sweat beads running a drag race down her back.
“Can I help you?” asked the woman who had snatched open the door.
Up close, her icy blue eyes and lemony blond hair had Candice stuck on stupid. Arellio DeSosa’s wife looked as though she had just stepped out of the pages of Vogue magazine.
“Who are you and what do you want?” the beautiful Caucasian woman snapped, her forehead furrowed.
“I’m sorry. I am here from the agency . . . the nanny job.” Candice stumbled over her words, her fake accent making her tongue feel foreign in her mouth.
She had been watching Flora long enough to know which agency she worked for and was finally able to get up the nerve to go inside and apply for the job.
The woman gave Candice the once-over and her face softened. At least they hadn’t sent a beautiful young girl, like they usually did. Cyndi DeSosa wouldn’t have to watch her husband around this little, fat, frumpy girl. There was an awkward pause as both women took measure of the other.
“Come in,” the woman finally said, stepping aside from the door. “I hope you have your act together . . . not like that last one,” Cyndi grumbled.
Candice felt slightly weak in the knees as she crossed the threshold of the DeSosa home. A funny feeling came over body; her nerve endings felt alive. She was inside! She was so close that she could hear the D
eSosa woman breathing and smell her rich perfume.
Uncle Rock would’ve warned against this method. He liked to be the furtive hit man who took his targets by surprise. Candice was the opposite. She wanted to be near her victims, to witness their pain up close as she picked their lives apart, piece by piece.
“Did they tell you there were two children . . . little ones, very active,” the woman explained.
Candice just nodded. Her brain was having trouble sending the right signals to her tongue. The room swayed around Candice and her ears rang. Her stomach had huge bat-sized butterflies bouncing around in it. The excitement and nervousness was overwhelming Candice.
“What’s your name?” the woman asked as she noticed the glazed-over look in her eyes.
“Um . . . I—I am Dulce,” Candice stammered, her horrible attempt at an accent coming and going like the uneven slopes of a mountain.
“Hmm, Dulce, like candy, is Spanish? Interesting,” Cyndi commented.
Mrs. DeSosa wore slim-cut jeans, a pair of black patent leather stilettos and a close-fitting Lycra shirt that hugged her ample breasts. Simple but elegant—both at the same time. She had the body of a Victoria’s Secret model.
“I’m Cyndi DeSosa . . . Mrs. DeSosa to you,” the woman introduced rudely, not bothering to offer her hand. She needed to establish a strict employer-employee relationship early on. No more little bitches close to her kids, close to her husband.
“You have the papers from the agency?” Cyndi asked suspiciously.
Dumb ass. You should’ve asked before you let me in. I could’ve killed you and your family by now. Candice put on a fake smile and dug into her oversized purse, careful not to let the woman see her two best friends—Glock and SIG Sauer—lying snugly inside. Candice retrieved the paperwork and Cyndi snatched it from her hands. She looked at Candice and then back down to the paperwork.
“I only deal with people that Ms. Sanchez sends. Did she send you?” Cyndi looked at Candice with one raised, speculative eyebrow.
Candice thought about how she had put a gun to Flora’s head, threatened her life and took all of Flora’s agency paperwork. She’d then put the barrel of the same gun into Ms. Sanchez’s mouth and told her that if she ever contacted the DeSosa family about her little visit, she would die. Both women had readily agreed, but Candice still left them with a nice gun butt scar to prove she meant business.
“Yes, she did. Ms. Sanchez sent me because Flora was fired for losing your son in the city or something like that,” Candice relayed mendaciously.
Cyndi’s facial expression grew dark; her eyes went into slits at the mere mention of Flora’s name.
“That bitch is lucky to be alive,” she said menacingly. “Let me show you around. I am very particular about my house, my children . . . and my husband,” Cyndi said sternly, summoning Candice to follow her like a true subordinate.
Candice’s knowledge of the incident had sealed the deal. She was officially in. She followed Cyndi through the beautiful house. Gold and cream seemed to be the theme colors throughout. A bit opulent for Candice’s taste, but definitely rich. Candice took mental notes of doors, windows and things that could be obstacles to a fast break, if she ever needed to get out fast.
“Your sleeping quarters are upstairs, right next to the children,” Cyndi continued.
As Candice followed Cyndi up the winding staircase, she looked intently at the gallery of family portraits on the long wall leading up the steps. She could probably name everyone in the pictures by now, and that made her smile inside.
When she got to the last step at the top, there it was: a larger-than-life portrait of their patriarch, symbolizing his position as head of the family. Candice’s pulse quickened as she stared at the picture. He was older now; a jagged line of silver ran through his thinning dark hair. He was sitting in a wheelchair, flanked by his family.
Candice had read all about Rolando DeSosa getting shot. Behind them, a huge neon sign blazed in red letters: BAILE CALIENTE. Candice squinted her eyes into dashes. She couldn’t peel her eyes away. No emotions, Candy. No emotions right now. Suddenly her right contact lens began to itch as her eyes started to well up with angry tears.
“That’s my father-in-law. And that’s my husband’s and my club. He cut the ribbon that day,” Cyndi explained after noticing her interest in the painting.
Candice nodded her head and smiled nervously. She wondered how long she’d been staring at the picture.
“You’ve seen him before?” Cyndi asked suspiciously, trying to see how much Candice knew about their family.
“Um . . . no. It’s a nice picture, ma’am,” Candice fabricated on the spot.
Cyndi gave her a sideways glance.
“Well, he used to be a very important and very dangerous man . . . not so much these days. He lives with us now and is winding down his life to be a grandfather and, finally, a father. I hope Ms. Sanchez told you the requirements of working here in this family. . . .” Cyndi looked at her expectantly.
Candice nodded.
They were both on the same page.
Mrs. DeSosa took Candice on a tour of the remainder of the 12,000-square-foot home.
“My father-in-law lives on that side of the house. He is a very sick man, and the kids only see him when he comes over here. He loves them, but they can sometimes be too much for a man in his condition,” Cyndi explained as they passed through a long hallway leading to the off-limits wing of the house.
Candice knew she’d be venturing over there at some point. Cyndi told Candice she’d expect her to stay some nights because she often traveled with her husband or worked at the club late into the early-morning hours.
Candice met the children for the second time that week. The baby screamed as soon as Candice touched her soft, round cheeks, and little Rolando remained hidden behind his mother’s legs. Candice wondered if the kids could tell that her hair, eyes, fat stomach and legs were all phony, just like her résumé. Children, in Candice’s experience, were much more discerning about people’s intentions than adults.
Cyndi didn’t appear too concerned with her children’s reluctance to meet their new nanny, however.
“They’ll get used to you,” Cyndi told her, only slightly embarrassed by her children’s reactions.
Candice smiled and nodded in agreement. She’d have to get used to them too.
The most important thing for Candice was that she was within striking range of her targets, and close to bringing justice to her family.
* * *
Junior wrestled with the key in the old rusted door lock. His hands were sweaty and his heart was pumping hard and fast. He didn’t know why he was so nervous to find out the truth, but he was. Junior told himself the only reason he had even come to Rock’s apartment after all of this time was to get clues on Candy’s whereabouts so he could turn her over to DeSosa like they’d agreed.
After Rock killed himself, Junior received the keys and a letter from Rock in the mail. Rock’s punk ass had apologized for being an absentee father who had stood by and watched his son grow up rough. The note had informed him cryptically that there were things inside the apartment that would explain everything, but that he needed to be careful because enemies on both sides of the law would be watching him. Junior didn’t give a fuck about any of that shit in Rock’s final note. His sole purpose right now was hunting down Candy.
Junior entered the apartment and scrunched up his face in disgust. “How was this nigga living?” Junior whispered as he looked around at the shabby décor: old moth-eaten curtains, scratched and chipped wood furniture, mismatched table chairs, worn-out couch and holey chair.
He walked over to the coffee table; there was a box in the center. Junior peered inside and his heart leaped in his chest.
He had found what he was looking for.
After leaving the apartment, Junior rushed into Rolando DeSosa’s office in a huff.
“I have an address for you,” he blurted out. He wasn’t going
to tell DeSosa about the other things he’d found inside Rock’s home.
“Very good, Junior. You work very fast,” DeSosa commented.
“I really want this nigga Phil badly. He is hiding out, but I’m sure you have the power to find him,” Junior cajoled.
DeSosa started laughing. “How about we take baby steps first. One man at a time,” he said, extending his hand for the information Junior gripped to his chest.
Junior handed it over somewhat reluctantly.
“Go with them,” DeSosa instructed, pointing toward his shadow men.
Without much of a choice, Junior did as he was told.
* * *
“Which one of y’all bitch niggas hit my moms?” Junior growled. His face was so close to Dray’s that he could see the perspiration beads above the other man’s clean lip.
“I don’t know, man! I wasn’t there!” Dray’s arms burned as they were extended unnaturally far over his head. The metal chains dug into his wrists and his fingers had no feeling. They were already turning blue and purple from the lack of circulation.
One of DeSosa’s goons walked in front of Dray’s naked chest and laid his fist into Dray’s sternum.
“Agh!” Dray screamed. His body bucked, which caused more pressure on the chains, and thus more pain.
“You still gon’ act like you don’t know shit about this? Phil is supposed to be your man, and you see what that shit got you?” Junior spat out. A large green vein was pulsing at his temple.
“Fuck you,” Dray managed in a low growl, spitting up a mouthful of blood in Junior’s direction. Dray wasn’t going to let no Brooklyn cat make him into a pussy. If he was going to die, it was going to be on his feet and not on his knees.
“A’ight,” Junior said, stepping back for a minute, swiping his hand roughly over his face. He nodded to the broad-shouldered Hispanic man whom DeSosa had assigned to assist him. The man rushed over and grabbed a gorilla fistful of Dray’s balls.
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