Hard Candy Saga

by Amaleka McCall

  One night Moore stormed into DeSosa’s hangout spot in Harlem, sweating and visibly upset. He had been searching for DeSosa for days. He needed DeSosa to take care of his little “problem.” But clearly, DeSosa had problems of his own.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Moore asked, noticing the healing cuts and bruises on DeSosa’s face, neck and hands.

  DeSosa had waved off the questions. “What is it that you want from me, Detective Moore? I haven’t been out there, so I don’t have anything for you.”

  “What makes you think I want something?” Moore asked defensively.

  DeSosa raised an arrogant eyebrow. “Because dirty cops only come around when they want something.”

  Moore explained the situation with his daughter. He believed Eric Hardaway to be a no-good street thug who had stolen his daughter away from him and his wife.

  DeSosa dismissed Moore’s paternal concerns, at first. “I’m not doing jur fuckin’ dirty work. You have a personal vendetta against the kid, ju handle it,” DeSosa said dismissively.

  Moore was his employee, not the other way around. DeSosa didn’t fucking have time for this personal bullshit—what with the government breathing down his back.

  Moore, however, persisted like a bulldog with a bone. He simply knew that if Easy Hardaway stayed romantically involved with his daughter, Corine would end up dead in a back alley. It simply wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.

  Exasperated, DeSosa heard Moore out, but he considered a different course of action. Why kill a perfectly good drug dealer? The instruction Stokes provided to DeSosa was to recruit specific types of people for the program—poor people, illiterates, high-school dropouts. These recruits also needed to be hungry for fast money and posses a work ethic strong enough to generate a decent cash flow.

  Easy, in many ways, was a highly qualified candidate for the program. Easy was like a wrapped Christmas gift that had been left under the tree for DeSosa.

  Moore gave DeSosa information about Easy’s last whereabouts, as well as his street affiliations, daily routine, known accomplices, etc. He had done all of the legwork, which meant all DeSosa had to do was track him down and make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  Easy was a kid coming up on the street, making a name for himself; he was known to many for being the quiet kid who ran in silence and violence. Easy was always hungry for his next dollar. He beat the block, day in and day out. He worked tirelessly at his job and was very smart at evading the police radar. No matter how many times they tried to snag him, Easy had strategically avoided detention and arrest. If the cops thought they had enough probable cause to do a “stop and frisk” of Easy’s car, they never found what they were looking for, because there was never enough evidence to haul his ass off to jail.

  Easy was smart about his hustle; he knew Early would have been proud of the name he had worked hard building for himself. Easy became especially careful in his dealings, however, after falling in love with and impregnating the daughter of a cop. He didn’t want to jeopardize his newfound family by making rookie mistakes. Now his main responsibility was feeding the unborn children who grew in his girl’s belly and protecting them all from harm.

  DeSosa sent a man with a message for Easy. “Rolando DeSosa, the biggest kingpin in New York, wants to see you. He heard about how hard you work out here on these streets, and he wants you to come and talk to him. He wants you to move fuckin’ weight for him.”

  Always the skeptic, Easy didn’t take the guy very seriously. In fact, Easy looked the little Hispanic dude up and down, scowling, and said, “Get the fuck outta here with that fantasy bullshit. Y’all niggas always tryin’a set a nigga up. A nigga like me been on these streets for a minute. I was born at night, nigga, not last night!” The small man scampered away like a dog with his tail caught between his legs.

  After that encounter Easy stepped up his arsenal of weapons, strategically placing them at home, in his car and on his person. He didn’t trust a damn soul anymore.

  It wasn’t until DeSosa sent his own men, and not a street flunky, to deliver the message personally to Easy that he even considered the possibility of working for DeSosa.

  He had spotted them walking feverishly toward him from a heavily tinted car. Easy was on the high ready, reaching for his waistband, but they responded by opening their trench coats and showing their bare waistbands. With hands raised in peace, one guapo boomed, “We bring a message from our boss.”

  Still wary of their presence in his territory, Easy kept a safe distance from them. DeSosa really wanted to see him; this was the general song the honchos were singing.

  Easy had some questions that needed answering first. “Little ol’ me? Why me? Of all the hustlin’ dudes in BK . . . why me?”

  The men assured him that all of his questions would be answered when he met with their boss.

  Though Easy was flattered by the offer, he worried that he was being set up. Perhaps DeSosa wanted to get rid of all the competition and expand his own enterprise. Everyone knew DeSosa—he was the man pushing the fast-moving cocaine, which not only cost less than other street drugs, but brought in more profit by sheer volume of sales than heroin or weed could ever net.

  After two sleepless nights of weighing the pros and cons of doing business with DeSosa, Easy finally had decided he would strap up and at least meet the man in person. He would hear the man out; and if DeSosa even hinted at taking over Easy’s spots, the meeting would be over before the shit even started.

  In the meantime, Easy remained cautious with whom he shared his news. He knew better than to blab his mouth to any of the jealous dudes he worked around on the streets. In fact, there was only one person Easy trusted, aside from Corine, and that was Rock Barton.

  Easy appeared in DeSosa’s Spanish Harlem club office. His baby face was clear of blemishes, wrinkles or worry. The budding goatee he grew was the only indication that he was even old enough to drive. Easy stood a gangly six foot two inches; his rail-thin frame was covered in his best digs. He was decked out in a butter-soft leather blazer, cashmere mock neck sweater, Potenza slacks and his first pair of suede Salvatore Ferragamo loafers. A lone gold crucifix with a ruby crown at the top sat in the middle of Easy’s chest, a diamond pinkie ring graced his left pinkie. His gaudy way of dressing screamed drug dealer or pimp. This was something his friend Rock had been lecturing him to change lately.

  “Sit down, Easy,” DeSosa instructed in his thick accent.

  Easy nodded respectfully and took a seat. Easy’s heart hammered and his palms were soaking wet. He splayed them open, flat on his pants legs, and rubbed them dry.

  DeSosa’s style was simple. No jewelry, no flashy clothes, just a very regal presence that said, I’m in charge. DeSosa stubbed out his customary cigar and leveled Easy with a look.

  “I selected you for my own reasons,” DeSosa began. He bombarded Easy with a series of questions; within an hour they were speaking fluidly and comfortably.

  Easy felt a great amount of respect for DeSosa. He felt like DeSosa was a kindred spirit, someone whom Easy had known his entire life. Easy and DeSosa built their relationship on mutual respect and on a common goal—getting rich fast.

  DeSosa educated Easy on the business of marketing mass quantities of crack cocaine at prices that would guarantee sales at lightning speed. In weeks Easy became the man to see in Brooklyn. Everybody knew he was pushing weight and he was offering a fair price for his product. Soon Easy’s drug operation grew, and he became one of the biggest crack cocaine distributors in New York City.

  Rolando DeSosa was his lone supplier. It was like a match made in heaven. At first, Easy was just getting eight ounces or so at a time, worth about $15,000. But as Easy’s drug empire expanded, he began putting in orders for kilos’ worth of crack cocaine, worth tens of millions of dollars. Easy never asked DeSosa any questions about his access to such vast quantities of product. That was one of the reasons his relationship with DeSosa worked so well. DeSosa did the su
pplying and Easy met the demands on the street—no questions asked.

  Before long, Easy became a certified kingpin, with over a dozen crack houses in Brooklyn, churning out $30,000 to $50,000 a day in profits. His network of drug dealers sold so many crack rocks daily that Easy gained as many enemies as he did loyal customers.

  Easy was making money hand over fist. Little did he know that the millions he made could be directly attributed to the CIA and DEA operatives who supplied DeSosa with unlimited amounts of cocaine. Easy was a boy from the hood—a squirrel trying to get a nut; DeSosa was fulfilling his agreement with the government and the Reagan administration. It all worked like a well-oiled machine.

  Their business relationship soon evolved into a personal one. DeSosa often invited Easy to break bread with him and his family, and sometimes DeSosa even dropped by the Hardaway house for a social call.

  Detective Moore had been watching Easy and DeSosa’s relationship progress. He was waiting for the day he could shake DeSosa’s hand and thank him for blowing off the head of the man who’d destroyed his daughter’s life. He was furious with DeSosa for falling back on his word.

  “You fucking lied to me! We had a deal!” Moore had screamed when he stormed into DeSosa’s new club, Baile Caliente, gun in hand, badge in the other. He was a man possessed. He didn’t get very far before he was hemmed up by DeSosa’s henchmen.

  “You’re a fucking liar, DeSosa . . . after all I did for you! All of the times I saved your ass!” Moore strained against the stronghold he was placed in, his veins cording against his skin.

  DeSosa was very calm; his smug demeanor infuriated the detective even more.

  “Detective, I think you have your son-in-law all wrong. You should try to get to know him. He is a good, loyal kid,” DeSosa said, blowing a smoke ring in Moore’s direction. “As for what you’ve done for me? I don’t think you would want me to tell your chief what I’ve done for you over the years. I’m sure you didn’t claim those bags of cash on your taxes,” DeSosa countered, following up.

  Moore’s frustration mounted. He had watched his daughter run off with a known drug dealer, get herself pregnant and then marry the bastard. He hadn’t even seen or held his own grandchildren. DeSosa had promised he would take Easy out. But what had he done but empower the man by supplying him with endless amounts of product? Now Easy was not only rich, but impossibly powerful, which placed his daughter and grandchild in even greater danger.

  Detective Moore cursed DeSosa out and vowed that this wouldn’t be the last time DeSosa or Easy heard from him.

  “I will get my daughter out of this lifestyle if it’s the last thing that I fucking do! Even if it means bringing you to your knees too,” Moore threatened.

  DeSosa had laughed at the peon detective. He wielded no power compared to the people DeSosa was involved with.

  Shortly after Detective Moore’s tirade and threats, the local police suddenly became very interested in one Eric “Easy” Hardaway and his associates. In a task force led by Moore, the NYPD became dedicated to putting Easy and his counterparts out of the crack cocaine business.

  The first time they attempted to arrest Easy, they didn’t have enough evidence to keep him detained. Following that, prosecutors from New York approached Easy and tried to get him to become a government informant. Easy had scoffed at their offer. He had laughed uproariously and told them to kiss his ass and speak to his lawyer; he was no snitch, he’d told them.

  Those fucks actually thought he would talk to them about where the loads of cocaine they saw hitting the streets was coming from. Easy immediately reported this run-in with the NYPD to DeSosa. Needless to say, the NYPD’s operation was short-lived. The locals had unwittingly stumbled into CIA territory, jeopardizing Operation Easy In, but not for long.

  When Grayson Stokes swept through the NYPD Brooklyn South Task Force Office, he left captains shuddering in his wake. Detective Moore was forced to turn in his badge and shield; he became known throughout the law enforcement community as the detective who’d made the biggest drug fuckup in New York’s history. He went home that night, placed his personal weapon between his lips and blew off his head.

  Corine heard the report of her father’s suicide from the eleven o’clock news. She never realized that her father’s quest to destroy her husband, and to get his baby girl back, was ultimately the cause of his own demise.

  Easy comforted Corine for the days and weeks that followed her father’s suicide. Easy had held her, telling her it would be all right and that it was not her fault. But something about Moore’s death had unsettled Easy. He’d known the man to be a very proud and religious person; he was a man who would never have taken his own life.

  Rock immediately set out to discover as much information as possible about the circumstances surrounding Moore’s suicide. Rock briefed Easy in person about the information he came across. Only once had they spoken over the phone about the information Rock had learned about the CIA’s involvement with DeSosa.

  Rock regretted this slipup until the day he died.

  The CIA had been tapping all of Easy’s phones. Rock’s revelation about the CIA’s plans to distribute crack cocaine in poor neighborhoods had raised red flags.

  Rock, of course, had tried talking Easy out of the game. Unwittingly, Easy had been a pawn of the government, helping to kill off his own people. Rock thought the decision would be a no-brainer.

  Easy had been very unsettled with the information Rock had provided him with, but there was no easy and quick way out. To Rock’s great dismay, he continued with the farce. After all, they both were aware that the only quick and sure way out of the game was through death. Neither was prepared for that inevitability. Nevertheless, Rock vowed to protect Easy, no matter what.

  Naturally, Grayson Stokes was not pleased to hear that Rock Barton, one of his debriefed cleaners, was smack-dab in the middle of Operation Easy In. Rock served as the catalyst for the CIA’s decision to turn Rolando DeSosa against Easy Hardaway. They needed a scapegoat for the mayhem that would ensue when DeSosa turned against his protégé.

  Stokes set about planting seeds of doubt in DeSosa’s head about Hardaway’s allegiance to him. When Stokes presented DeSosa with pictures that he’d taken of the NYPD hauling Easy into the precinct, DeSosa quickly wrote Easy off as a traitor. Stokes convinced DeSosa that Easy had turned government informant.

  Easy’s latest discussions with DeSosa about leaving the game was the final nail in his coffin. Easy Hardaway had reneged on his deal, and for that he must be eliminated.

  DeSosa sentenced Hardaway to the worst sort of death—death by the hands of his oldest son, his namesake Eric Junior. Where DeSosa was from, a man killed by his own offspring let people know he was the lowest of the low, the scum of the earth. In DeSosa’s mind traitors like Easy were deserving of such a fate.

  Chapter 25

  Sins of a Father

  Rolando DeSosa slammed his fists down on his desk until the sides of his hands went numb. He made an animalistic moaning sound, like he’d been mortally wounded. Pain was etched in every worry line on his face. His rage was palpable, and everybody in the room felt like it was alive—a big ugly monster standing in the middle of the room.

  Arellio stood up to remove the pictures from his father’s desk. He was kicking himself now for giving them to his father, but he didn’t know what else to do, whom he should turn to. He reached out to grab the photos, but DeSosa came down on his hand, hard. He gave Arellio a look that would have felled a small creature. Arellio snatched his hand back and sighed. He thought it morbid that his ailing father wanted to stare at the disfigured and depraved photographs of his brother.

  “Papi, let me take them away,” Arellio whispered, trying to reach out to his father. “We will get whoever is responsible for this,” Arellio consoled, stepping around the desk and clapping his hand on his father’s shoulder.

  DeSosa let his head hang low. Arellio could hear a cry bubbling up from deep inside his fat
her’s chest. He had never seen his father so broken down; it was killing him to see his father in this condition.

  Rolando DeSosa hadn’t cried since he was a boy in the Dominican Republic and his mother had been shot during an uprising in the small, poor ghetto where he had grown up.

  DeSosa had become hardened by the event and had never shed tears for anybody since. But today the tears came and they could not be stopped. He wailed for his second-born child. Family meant the world to DeSosa. Someone would pay for his son’s death. Revenge was high on DeSosa’s list of rules to live by. If people went around committing evils without any consequences for their actions, the world would be an inhospitable place for everyone.

  “It had to be Junior,” Arellio said, breaking the silence, squeezing his father’s shoulder in commiseration. “He was the only person . . . the only one who you recently had a problem with. We have to find him and fuckin’ destroy him.” He hoped that by steering his father toward avenging his brother’s untimely death, he could bring him out of his melancholy state.

  “No,” DeSosa whispered, his voice cracking like a woman’s.

  Arellio stepped from behind his father and looked at him oddly. “Papi, don’t tell me no. You can’t protect these fuckin’ bastards. I know Junior was the one who did this shit.... There’s nobody else. . . .” Arellio was decisively protesting his father’s dismissal; his eyes were ablaze with rage.

  “No!” DeSosa snapped once more; his aching hands were clenched tightly in front of him. The veins in his neck pulsed dangerously close to the surface.

  Arellio visibly shuddered at his father’s grating, high-pitched shout.

  “I took care of Junior,” DeSosa whispered regretfully. “But it wasn’t him. I knew it wasn’t him. I thought he was lying to me, so I put Phil on him. Junior is taken care of, but this—this was not his doing. He didn’t have the heart or the balls,” DeSosa was saying, shaking his head as if he had all the regrets in the world sitting on his shoulders.