“I knew Trevon and Brandon when we was kids. They’re both soft pussies.” D’andre grabbed the remote, turned on the TV, and started skimming through the channels. “Plus, Poco over in Compton is sending me some more men.”
“Why’re you messing around with Poco?” Sugar asked, raising her voice over the noise of the TV. “He only wants to move in on your turf.”
“No, he doesn’t have the people to handle the streets here. He’s looking to help me so he can hook up the supply.”
“You know he’s a backstabbing snake. You heard what he did to those people’s families a couple years back. I don’t trust him for nothing. As soon as he sets up the supply, he’ll start testing to see where you’re weak. He’ll squeeze any weak spot on your crew.”
“Let me worry about him. I can take care of Poco if I need to.” D’andre hit the remote to turn off the TV, then threw it onto the coffee table. It skidded off the far edge onto the floor. Leaving it there, he picked up a second remote and cut on the sound system.
“What about Ascia?” Sugar asked. “He’ll be pissed if you decide to run with Poco.”
“Fuck him, too. He might be OG in Houston, but he’s got no juice here. He needs me. I don’t need him.”
“I’m behind you all the way, D, you know that. But I’m worried you’re playing with fire, pissing off those Houston guys. You told them they was in and they’re not going away just because you change your mind.”
“You’re just pissed about losing them Russian hos. I don’t give a shit about selling no Russian pussy.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I am excited about getting those Russians,” Sugar said. “We can make a grip of money off them.”
“Won’t nobody be making shit, if we don’t take care of Trevon. Call Jerome. Get that punk over here. I know a way to fix this thing.”
* * *
The hot, bright, late-summer sun baked the bleached-out courtyard. Only the well-tended, well-watered potted plants sitting by one of the doors remained in good condition after the long summer of mostly ninety degree days.
Jerome pimp-walked to the same table outside of Sugar’s apartment where he’d met D’andre earlier. “What up, dog? Hey, Sugar.”
Sugar looked up, nodded, “Hey,” then focused back on her phone, tapping out a text.
Slouched in his chair, with chest tattoos showing around the straps of his wife-beater T-shirt, D’andre smiled. “Pour some tea, and sit down in the shade out of that hot sun. You and your crew are coming up with an important job.”
At the mention of his crew, Jerome swelled with obvious pride. “Sure, I’m down for whatever you need.” He filled a glass with ice from the cooler and poured it full of tea.
“What do you know about the Pussy Squad?” D’andre asked.
Jerome pressed the glass of iced tea against the side of his sweaty face. “I know lots about pussy, but I never heard of no Pussy Squad. Are you talking about Sugar’s girls?”
D’andre smiled again. “Naw, man. Good guess, though. No, this ain’t about none of Sugar’s girls. This shit’s all about you.” He clinked glasses with Jerome, and winked.
“Really? How’s that?”
“The bitch who shot you pulled a bunch of women together to protect each other. Like they really can do something. Stupid bitches won’t do nothing but talk shit. If we’re smart, we can use it to help us.”
“You’re telling me them bitches Michelle and Nikky have a crew?” Jerome asked.
“No, not a crew,” Sugar said. “They’re just some women getting together. There’s a couple, like T-Dog and me, with crews; us, and a few other solo women. We agreed to cover each other’s backs. Supposed to be in case they run into trouble. That’s bullshit; it’s all about you. They’re worried about you being pissed because you been shot. Michelle and her friends didn’t put nothing together; they don’t have the juice to call a big meeting. Miss Betty got all the women to come.”
Jerome smirked. “They should be worried. I’m gonna jack them bad, soon as the opportunity pops.”
“Well, here’s your chance,” D’andre told Jerome. “I need you and your crew to make a run on Michelle and Nikky. They’ll be at a gathering of the Pussy Squad tomorrow afternoon.”
“You know I’m down; I’m happy to take them bitches out. Especially that cunt, Michelle. She needs to be capped bad, and I wanna take her out myself. What about the rest of them? Who else will be at this meeting? Will they be strapped?”
“You’re not afraid of some civilian bitches that don’t know nothing about being in the life or on the street, are you?” D’andre asked.
“Fuck that; I ain’t afraid of no one,” Jerome said. “I need to know how to plan, so I can tell my crew.”
D’andre held up his hands. “Relax, man, I’m jus’ messing with you. It won’t be no problem. They’re meeting at an old woman’s apartment. Old Miss Betty and maybe a couple of other women not in the life will be hanging out. Those women don’t know their asses from nothing. We’re not concerned with the others, only Michelle and Nikky.”
“All right, all right, that’s good. Long as I get a straight-up shot at those ho bitches, Nikky and Michelle.”
“Good,” D’andre said. “That’s exactly what I need. I knew I could count on you for this.”
After Jerome had passed through the gate on his way out, Sugar asked, “What do you think, D? Can he do this thing right?”
“Don’t matter. It’s not about some bitches; it’s about Trevon. Miss Betty’s tight with him. Back in the day, he was connected to Big John.”
“So?”
“See, that’s why I’ll be on top of this city. You don’t pay no attention to the important shit. Big John was married to Miss Betty before Lewis killed him. Trevon will come up, acting like a superhero to protect his old friend. You do your part; you get word back to Betty about the problem. Make her believe her friends are in danger, and she’ll reach out. Her call for help is a guarantee Trevon and his faggot buddy, Brandon, will show up.”
“I’ll call Miss Betty now.”
.
.
Twenty-Two: Pieces In Play
D’ANDRE’S EXPLORER PULLED UP to the corner, where graffiti-splattered plywood covered the windows of the empty storefront. Multiple piss stains spread out across the sidewalk away from the small alcove leading to the boarded-up front door. The odor of ammonia wafted out from the recess used by druggies for a bit of privacy to pee.
The rear side window came down. D’andre sat in the backseat and Willie pushed off the wall to stroll over.
“Get in, dog,” D’andre said. “We need to conversate.”
“Yo, T,” Willie called to his friend, “I’m going with D’andre a minute. Cover things here ‘till I get back.” D’andre stayed in the rear passenger seat forcing Willie to run around to the street side and climb in.
“You and Terrance did good working with Jerome,” D’andre said. “I can keep you on the crew if you wanna work for me. Bam’s dead, and you need to make a decision.”
“We’re good,” Willie said. “We’ve never had no problem with you. We always worked direct for Lewis before, but he’s gone, so we’re good with you running things.”
“You wanna stay good, step up and show me you’re solid,” D’andre said.
“What do you need?”
“I want you to go with Jerome for an important job. You go with him to do some more of what you guys did before.”
“Man, jacking those bitches was some weak shit. We only did it because we were pissed about what happened before.”
“So, you’re saying you won’t do this thing for me?”
“Naw, D’andre, it’s not like that. It’ll just be better if we go after the bitches that jacked us.”
“You’re going after who I tell you to go after. That’s what you’ll do.”
“If you’re sure, it’s good as done.”
“Look, muthafucka, I told you what I want, so that’s it. You
in or out?”
“Yeah, sure, we’re in,” Willie said. “Whatever you say, D.”
“You’re goddamned right you’re in.”
D’andre tapped the back of the driver’s seat. “Pull over here.”
They had only gone about five blocks and were still in the same section of the hood. Without a word, the driver pulled over in front of a used car lot with a handful of very used cars. Scraggly weeds grew at the base of the bright orange-yellow, cement-filled, three- foot- high poles buried around the lot’s perimeter.
“Ride’s over,” D’andre said. “On the short walk back, take a minute to figure out what to say to Terrance. I don’t want to hear no shit later.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“That’s right, it’s no problem. Don’t fuck this up. Jerome should be by soon to give you the four-one-one on what I want.”
On the way back, Willie stopped at a gas station convenience store and bought a couple of Gatorades, and when he got to his corner gave one to Terrance.
“Did you ever notice how the trashcan by the front door of Pete’s store always stinks like rotten garbage and dead coffee?” Willie asked.
“Not really. So what? This place stinks, too.”
“That’s what I mean. Those asshole druggies piss on the door every night, but we ignore the stink; it’s like we’re used to it. But when I walk past some nasty trashcan, the stink bothers me. Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know.” Terrance shrugged. “What’s up with these stupid questions? Just tell me what D’andre wanted.”
After Willie explained, Terrance shrugged again. “I don’t know . . . What we did to Lil Taye and JJ wasn’t right. I didn’t think Jerome would grab them. I thought we would take care of those bitches who ripped us off. Them, or the bitch that busted a cap in his ass. I won’t do that shit again; I won’t jack some bitches that didn’t do nothing to us.”
“I feel you, dog, but if we don’t do this shit,” Willie said, “D’andre will be real pissed. Things being like they are, he might bust a cap in our ass to show he’s boss. Something’s up with him. He’s being a complete asshole; worse than Lewis ever was.”
“How did that punk, Jerome, come up with so much juice with D’andre?” Terrance asked. “He’s a weak-ass, rooty-poot coward that’s always been scared of his own shadow. And now we’re stuck with him in this mess.”
“Yeah, but the timing was good for us. It kept us out of the heat last time between Bam and D’andre. If we hadn’t been with Jerome, we would’ve been right in the middle of that shit at the park. With your no-shooting butt, we probably both been capped. You hiding, and me trying to save you.”
“Fuck you,” Terrance said. “Like you’re some hot shooter. You have the stones, but can’t shoot for shit. But, yeah . . . you’re right about us maybe being shot. I still don’t like jacking no bitches that never did nothing to me.”
“What, are you scared or just stupid?”
“Piss off. You know I’m not afraid of nothing. And don’t call me stupid. It pisses me off.”
“Do you think D’andre gives two shits about a bunch of bitches?” Willie asked. “Hell no, he couldn’t care less. This isn’t about some women, or about Jerome. It’s gotta be about something bigger. D’andre moved on Bam and took him out, and our being gone helped him. I don’t give a rat’s ass about Bam; he was a stupid asshole. Still, if we were at the park, everything might be different now. With two more shooters, who knows? Except, we were with Jerome, and that was no accident. No, this is more than us jacking some bitches. Our helping Jerome is part of something D’andre’s planning.”
“Well, I still don’t like it.”
“Man, T, it’s the best place to be! Something big’s happening, and we’ll be off on the side. We’ll be messing with bitches while everyone else is shooting each other’s asses off. Fuck that. I’m glad to be with Jerome where nobody’ll bust a cap in my ass. And if you’re smart, you’ll be with me.”
“Yeah, all right, you’re probably right.”
“Hey, speak of the devil, that’s Jerome’s car coming up.”
Jerome parked, got out, and leaned against the rear fender. “What up, dog?”
“Sup?” Willie replied, and Terrance nodded.
“We’re in-line for some good shit,” Jerome said. “D’andre is putting some serious shit down and needs us to do an important piece. He wants us to cap them bitches that shot me. They’ll be at an apartment tomorrow afternoon where an old woman lives.”
“All right,” Willie said.
“I’m cool with capping the bitches that deserve it,” Terrance said, “but I don’t want no part in messing with an old woman. I won’t do it.”
“I feel you, dog. It ain’t like that. We hit Michelle and Nikky, that’s all. Nobody else’s gonna be hurt.”
“I got your word on that shit?” Terrance asked.
“One-hundred percent, T. One-hundred percent,” Jerome promised.
.
Twenty-Three: Strategy
ASCIA RELAXED IN his three-thousand-dollar executive chair. The furniture salesman had tried to sell him one at twice the price, but this one felt better, more comfortable. When he leaned back, like now, it cushioned and supported just right. It no longer mattered that someone else had a more expensive chair; this one was perfect for him.
He kicked his stocking feet up onto his desk, sipped thirty-year-old scotch, and ruminated on the state of his business.
Other than the huge, prior mess out in Anglewatts with Jackson and his top management, business had been good all summer. Houston, his hometown and the city his predecessor and mentor first settled in, ran as smoothly as any drug and prostitution operation possibly could. The guys back East didn’t mess with him; there was no real competition for the mainstream parts of the city. His money laundering operation even turned a profit.
He’d successfully expanded his drug business in Billings with slave prostitutes from Russia, which gave him three cities under his control. Thinking of the Billings hookers reminded him he needed to call Fast Eddie, tell him to send over some new girls. Maybe some who could understand a little more English.
Ascia’s phone rang. “Jimmy” showed on the display. No pictures, no last names. It was Jimmy Trent, the man Ascia had following D’andre. Ascia tapped his cell phone. “Yeah?”
“Hey, boss, I think your man, D’andre, isn’t gonna fly right.”
“What makes you think so?” Ascia asked.
“He and his guys went to Compton the past few days. I didn’t think much of it the first couple times, but then today, he met with several players. A guy named Poco runs that area. He was there. Also, a third guy came with his muscle.”
“Who was this third guy?”
“Never saw him before, so I followed him back to Long Beach and asked around. Guy’s name’s Trevon. He has the corners in North Long Beach.”
“Could mean a few different things. Maybe, like you said, he won’t fly right and is shopping around. A hidden problem with that is it shows he’s alone and weak. If either of these other mopes recognizes that, they could make a run on him.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think of that,” Jimmy said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Stay close to him when he’s on the street,” Ascia said, “and let me know about any more meets in either Compton or Long Beach.”
“Sure thing.”
“Keep an eye out for either of them showing up in Anglewatts, and stay on them. If Poco, or this new guy, Trevon, looks to make a move on D’andre, we’ll have to take him out.”
“You got it, boss.”
Ascia savored another sip of scotch, then called his mentor and former boss.
“Good morning, Mr. Galletti. Things may not be working out too well on replacing the late Mr. Jackson out in California.”
“Explain,” replied Mr. Galletti.
“I sent Jimmy out to the coast to keep an eye on things. He tells me our guy, D’andr
e, looks like he’s shopping around. Yesterday, he met with apparent potential suppliers from the Mexicans and a new player from Long Beach.”
“Long Beach, you say?” Mr. Galletti briefly paused. “A guy named Slim runs that show. If he’s strong enough, he might be interested in moving north, up to our area.”
“Slim isn’t the name Jimmy gave me.”
“It wouldn’t be. He’s at your level out there. He’d send one of his guys. Who did Jimmy say it was?”
“Trevon.”
“Never heard of him. Doesn’t matter. If he’s from Long Beach, he’s working for Slim. Who’s the contact for the Mexicans?”
“Poco, out of Compton,” Ascia replied. “He worked with Jackson from time to time. When Jackson was alive, we never had any problems with him concerning our operations.”
“Poco sounds Mexican,” Galletti said.
“No. He’s Black.”
“Would it make a difference if he was out of the picture?”
“Only if he moves on Anglewatts. About Compton, I don’t think so. The word is he has a strong, experienced organization; several of his lieutenants could move up easily enough. Do you think I should find out more about his setup?”
“Information is always good, but I don’t expect you’ll find a lot of weaknesses you can exploit without undue cost. I suggest you keep your eyes on Mr. D’andre, and let’s help him make the right decision. He and his woman could open up the West Coast for your Russian operation. Plus, they’re both pretty stupid. Once the business is up and running, I’m sure you can find some hungry talent of your own to move in and take over. It’d be quite disappointing to lose such a good opportunity.”
“Understood.”
Ascia hung up.
.
Twenty-Four: Glad To Help
Hard Betrayal: Action Adventure Pulp Thriller Book #2 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Series) Page 13