“Agghh! Agghh!” Dray let out a bloodcurdling scream as the man exerted pressure on his man sac.
“You still don’t wanna tell me who hit my moms, and where the fuck Phil is hiding?” Junior barked, extremely agitated. The area behind his eyes was throbbing.
Dray’s head was hanging low; his chin was damn near touching the middle of his chest. He was too exhausted to scream anymore. Junior walked over to him, grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head upward.
“I said fuck you and your mom’s nigga,” Dray rasped.
Junior bit down on his bottom lip. He released Dray’s head and pulled out his weapon.
“No, fuck you and your whole crew. They’ll meet you in hell, bitch nigga!”
Junior leveled his gun at Dray’s head and squeezed the trigger. He didn’t stop shooting until the entire twelve-round magazine had been emptied into Dray’s body.
“Get rid of him,” Junior whispered harshly as he exited the room. “One down. One to go.”
* * *
“In breaking news today, a mysterious shooting outside of Baile Caliente, a popular Latino salsa club, left two men dead. Police officials report that the shots seemed to have come from a distance, indicative of a sniper shooting,” the newscaster said. “Police say that surveillance video in front of the club did not show any cars driving by or any shooters on foot. The two victims are rumored to work for Arellio DeSosa, the owner of the club and the son of the alleged former head of the Sindicato drug cartel. Arellio DeSosa’s whereabouts at the time of the shootings were unknown. Police officials are combing the area looking for clues as to where the shots came from. We will continue to bring you live coverage as we receive updates.”
Avon’s head snapped up from the file he was reading when he heard the name “DeSosa” mentioned on the hotel television. “Shit!” he gasped, turning up the volume.
The shootings had Candy’s signature written all over them. That was her modus operandi—take out her targets like falling dominoes. It was her way of building up to the big fish.
A lightbulb went off in Avon’s mind. Candice was going after the most dangerous kingpin in the tristate area: Rolando DeSosa.
No wonder the fuckin’ government was trying to find her—to keep her from assassinating their man.
Avon began pacing the floor. Candy was way out of her league. This was way different than fucking with a few street punks. She was playing a dangerous game now. Even more dangerous than the first time.
Avon had to contemplate his next move. He had been so immersed in the Easy Hardaway files that he’d lost sight of what he really needed to do . . . find Candy before the government or DeSosa did.
His cell phone rang, almost causing him to jump out of his own skin. Avon rushed over to the small desk in the far corner of the hotel room and looked at his phone. The number came up “unknown.” It could be Elaina and the kids, he reasoned. He picked it up, with his nerves on edge.
“More people might die if you don’t reconsider the deal I offered. That could’ve easily been Elaina or your son or your daughter. . . . Who knows who could go next?” Grayson Stokes threatened on the other end of the line.
Stokes’s words coldly echoed in Avon’s brain. He tightened his grip on the mobile device. His rushing breath was the only response Stokes received. His message had clearly hit home.
“Seems like our little friend is a trained assassin. I happen to know she’s been trained by the best. I also happen to know where your family is, Agent Tucker,” he rasped into the phone.
Avon closed his eyes. Why was he being put in the middle of this shit again? All he’d ever wanted was to be like his father—a good law enforcement officer who dedicated his life wholeheartedly to the job of bringing criminals to justice. Avon had made some mistakes along the way, yes, but nothing to warrant this sort of harassment.
“Let me find her on my own. I will bring her in,” Avon finally spoke up. The only choice he had right now was to get down or lay down.
“Don’t cross me, Agent Tucker. I don’t like to be crossed. You should take example from Brad Brubaker. I hate liars and traitors,” Stokes warned before hanging up the phone.
Avon looked at the phone for a long, hard minute. It had now become a matter of saving innocent lives. He snatched up the file he had been reading. He needed to know more.
Brooklyn, New York, 1988
Easy stood over Early’s casket. He wanted to cry, scream, fight, spit and jump up and down—all at the same time. Early didn’t look like himself. His face was extremely swollen and his lips looked like fish lips. The undertaker had told Easy that the shots Early had taken to his head made it hard for them to work with his natural face. They added a fair amount of wax and makeup for the open-casket service. Easy had protested against the casket being open, but he’d lost to Early’s old lady, Syrita.
In fact, it was Syrita’s ear-shattering screams that brought Easy out of his stupor in front of the casket. Syrita was making her way to the front of the funeral parlor in the most dramatic fashion possible.
Easy moved backward and took a seat in the front pew. He watched as one person after another came up to Early’s casket to pay respects. Without a doubt, many of them simply wanted to assess the damage the bullet holes had done to his body.
Easy grew angrier by the minute. He was angry with himself for not being around when Early took the shots that sealed his fate.
Easy had been on his run, picking up an important package. The story went that Early was leaving the pool hall with Bosco, his right-hand man, when someone called his name real loud.
The street reporters said Early turned around; but before he could even blink, seven shots entered his head.
The story unsettled Easy, causing him severe stomach cramps. The method by which Early was murdered was nearly identical to the one he’d used two years earlier when he’d killed a man at Early’s request. Easy felt in some degree responsible for Early’s premature death, like it was Karma coming back to bite him in the ass.
Easy also felt more alone than he ever had in his life. So many street dudes hated Easy because of his association with Early. Now there was no one left to shelter or protect him. He must be his own man on the street. After the years he spent following Early like his shadow, he knew he could think, walk and talk like Early. And, most important, when need be, he could be as ruthless as Early as well.
Once Early was buried, Easy set out to make his mark. He had to stand on his own two feet now.
The first thing he did was move his belongings out of his makeshift room in the back of the pool hall. Easy got a room inside of an old rooming house in East New York. He had a little money saved, so he decided to take a chance and go see the big man from whom he regularly picked up packages. Easy planned on convincing the man he could take over Early’s operations on the street.
* * *
Easy stood in his spot on the corner, his hands shoved down into his pockets. It had been a year since he’d earned enough trust to get his own package. Though he was surrounded by loudmouthed wannabe gangsters, he never fed into their ways. He was always quiet and unassuming while conducting his hand-to-hand sales.
Easy had been out hustling all day and had almost finished his bundle when he was approached by a basehead named Charlotte.
“Easy, lemme get something on credit,” Charlotte begged.
“Nah,” Easy said in a low tone.
“C’mon . . . don’t be like that. You usually hook a sista up,” she pleaded.
“I said nah,” Easy said firmly.
“You muthafucka! I’m one of your best customers and you just gon’ put me off like that? You can’t hook me up ’til check day?” Charlotte spat out, getting too close and too loud for Easy’s comfort.
“Why don’t you go ask one of them dudes,” Easy said calmly, nodding toward his noisy counterparts. They were making fun of an older dude whom Easy had seen going into the store.
“You know your shi
t is the best out here. Stop playing!” Charlotte screeched. She nervously scratched against her arms.
“Yo, go ’head, man. I’m not giving you anything on credit.” Easy dismissed her with a look of utter disgust.
“Fuck you! You ain’t shit, anyway. I know a couple of niggas who will beat ya ass and take all ya shit.” Charlotte wagged a skeletal finger close to Easy’s face. She hawked up a mucus-filled wad of spit and spewed it into Easy’s face. Loud roars erupted from the rowdy corner boys. Easy had been played.
Easy quickly grabbed the bag-of-bones girl around her neck, lifting her off her feet. She dangled like a choked chicken. He scowled as he squeezed her neck without the least bit of conscience.
“Yo, kill that bitch!” one of the boys screamed out.
Easy was in a blind rage. He was about to catch a case.
“Yo, nigga, she about dead. That bitch turning purple!” someone yelled out.
It was the only thing that snapped Easy out of his rage; he couldn’t commit murder in plain sight like this. He quickly came to his senses and dropped Charlotte back to her feet. She was coughing and rolling around wildly trying to catch her breath.
Easy lifted his foot and gave her a swift kick in the ass. “Don’t let me see your fuckin’ ass around here ever again!” Easy spat out.
Charlotte scrambled up off the ground, finally able to catch her breath enough to argue back.
“You gon’ get yours, you bastard!” she rasped, still holding her bruised neck.
“Get the fuck outta here, you dirty bitch!” Easy called after her.
A man exited the bodega behind him, and the next thing Easy knew he felt a rush of wind and a pair of hands pushing him out of the way. The old black dude from the bodega was taking down a man in a black leather trench coat who held a gun in his hand. Easy’s heart began to pound as he watched the older gentleman clamp down on the gunman’s wrist. The gunman cried out in pain and the gun skittered to the ground.
When the guys on the corner noticed the commotion, they all began to scatter. “Oh shit, a gun!” they yelled. The last thing they needed was for the cops to come around.
Easy couldn’t move; he was in shock.
The stranger calmly picked up the gun, dropped the magazine out of it, dismantled the slide and threw the bottom half of it at the guy on the ground.
“Oh shit! That bitch tried to set me up!” Easy finally found his voice, his heart racing as he realized what had just happened.
The old dude nodded in agreement.
“Fuck! Thank God you were here. That nigga woulda shot me right in the back of my fuckin’ head,” Easy concluded.
The old dude nodded again, but still did not speak a word.
“I’ma fuckin’ kill him!” Easy screamed, his blood boiling.
The old dude put his hand up to Easy’s chest to stop him.
“Not here. Not now.” The old dude finally spoke.
Easy backed down. Something about the stranger’s calm, fatherly words struck him as soothing. In some ways the man reminded him a lot of Early.
“I’m Eric. But everybody calls me Easy,” he said, introducing himself.
“Rock,” the old dude said, taking Easy’s extended hand and shaking it firmly.
“Yo, man, how can I repay you for that shit?” Easy asked earnestly.
“No need,” Rock said, handing Easy the magazine full of . 40-caliber rounds and the slide of his would-be assassin’s gun.
“Nah, there has got to be something. Some money, some food, clothes, something,” Easy offered. He didn’t like feeling indebted to any man.
“Just go inside and get my BC Powder. I have the worst headache,” Rock said calmly.
Easy scrambled to do as Rock had asked.
* * *
What had started out as a chance encounter quickly blossomed into a friendship.
Easy and Rock had only been friends for four months when Easy went to Rock for advice about an offer he thought he couldn’t refuse.
“This dude Rolando DeSosa is the man up in Spanish Harlem. He came looking for me the other day,” Easy told Rock.
Rock rubbed his chin, digesting the information. “If he is ‘the man,’ like you say, why would he come looking for a corner boy like you?” Rock asked logically.
“Because he heard I was ‘the man’ out here in Brooklyn. I guess Chulo, the dude I was getting my package from, told him about me. How I’m moving my shit like no other cat out here,” Easy boasted with excitement.
“It just doesn’t sound right. Be careful,” Rock said ominously.
“Nah, man, this is my come up. Besides, I got you to protect me, right?” Easy laughed.
Rock nodded in all seriousness. He had heard the name DeSosa before, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember in what context. He’d definitely be keeping a close eye on young Easy in the meantime.
Chapter 20
Learning Lessons
Candice grips the down pillow tightly in her hands. Her forehead drips with sweat. She stands ominously over the sleeping form, watching the sheet move gently with each slow breath. Candice’s chest rises and falls rapidly—part excitement, part fear.
She will have to be strong enough to withstand the fight. The bucking and thrashing will probably be severe at first. The human body can become quite powerful when fighting to stay alive; this was one of Uncle Rock’s many lessons.
She has been waiting a long time for this. Her arms jerk involuntarily toward her victim. Candice closes her eyes and lowers the pillow over the nose and mouth. She applies the pressure of her entire body weight on top of the pillow. She feels the figure come alive.
A short, muffled scream splits the air; then frantic, louder screams ensue.
Candice pushes down harder. Her victim’s hands valiantly fight, grasping at the pillow material in an attempt to propel the assailant off his body.
Candice exerts all of her body weight over the thrashing form. The head attempts to turn sideways, but Candice bunches her forearms and strengthens her hold. The muscles in her arm cord against her skin.
The thrashing is worse than she’d anticipated. The torso bucks just before the screams fade against the material. Candice is being scratched and slapped by the hands now.
She takes it.
She gnashes her teeth and wills the force of gravity to aid her in her endeavor. The abuse Candice endures is short-lived. She feels the arms go weak and drop down to the side of the limp body.
One last body jerk and it is all over.
Candice stands proudly above the victim, congratulating herself on a job well done. She picks up the pillow to take a look at her handiwork. She wants to see the lifeless face and feel the satisfaction of knowing she can at last be at peace.
Candice’s heart comes to a stop.
Her father’s face gazes back at her with wide, vacant eyes.
“No!” Candice woke up, screaming out loud. Her nightgown clung to her chest, soaked in sweat. Candice blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to collect her thoughts. A round of loud knocks on her door forced her to get her bearings quickly.
“Dulce! Are you awake?” Cyndi called out from the other side of the door.
Candice looked around the room. Shit! She jumped up and wrapped a thick robe around her fat suit.
“Dulce!” Cyndi impatiently called out again.
Candice quickly padded over to the door and pulled it back. A fine sheen of sweat still covered her head.
Cyndi looked at her suspiciously.
Candice was immediately concerned that her wig was twisted or maybe her fat suit was hanging the wrong way.
“Are you all right?” Cyndi asked.
Candice hugged herself, still visibly shaken from her too vivid dream.
“I’m fine. Just stayed up late with the baby—that’s all,” she said, almost forgetting to add her accent.
Cyndi eyed her up and down. She didn’t have time to deal with Dulce’s odd behavior right now.
; “We are heading to the funerals. Everyone is going, so it’ll just be you and the kids today,” Cyndi said solemnly.
Just a week ago Cyndi had been crying and upset when she’d come home from work.
“What’s the matter, Mrs. DeSosa?” Candice had asked innocently, her forehead furrowed for good measure.
Cyndi took one look at Dulce, her nanny, and collapsed onto her chest with racking sobs.
Candice didn’t know what to do. So she stood stock-still, hoping that Cyndi would be so caught up in her grief that she wouldn’t feel the fakeness of her ample stomach and breasts, or smell the caked-on makeup coating her face, or notice her contact lenses.
Candice pried Cyndi’s arms from her body and moved her to the cream leather sofa, which was rarely sat upon. In the end Cyndi had just wanted someone who would listen to her and feel her pain.
“There was a shooting at Baile Caliente,” Cyndi sobbed, swiping at her eyes with an overused, crushed tissue.
“Oh no,” Candice commiserated, giving her Academy Award–worthy performance.
“Yes . . . and my brother . . . my brother . . .” Cyndi was crying, barely able to get the words out.
“Did something happen to your brother, Mrs. DeSosa?” Candice asked softly, trying very hard to keep her excitement at bay.
“He is dead! They killed him!” Cyndi wailed.
Her words had sent a surge of satisfaction over Candice’s body that felt better than an orgasm. She sat silent and relaxed as Cyndi DeSosa continued to pour her heart out to the hired help.
“I hope you’ll be okay today,” Candice said, snapping out of her reverie. She was sure to lay the accent on thick this time.
“I don’t know how I’m going to stand watching my mother mourn for her only son,” Cyndi replied, tears welling up in her eyes.
Candice looked at the pain in her eyes and actually felt some sympathy for the woman. She wondered if Uncle Rock had seen that same pain in her own eyes when she’d lost her family.
“I understand your pain. I lost two brothers myself,” Candice said without thinking. It was a slipup, but she didn’t regret the words at all. She was witnessing a pain she had already experienced.
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