The House That Hustle Built
Part Three
Nisa Santiago
Melodrama Publishing
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The House that Hustle Built - Part Three . Copyright © 2016 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Melodrama Publishing, P.O. Box 522, Bellport, NY 11713.
www.melodramapublishing.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016912059
e-ISBN: 978-1620780787
ISBN-10: 1620780674
First Published: November 2016
Model Photo: Marion Designs
Books By Nisa Santiago
Cartier Cartel: Part 1
Return of the Cartier Cartel: Part 2
Cartier Cartel - South Beach Slaughter: Part 3
Bad Apple: The Baddest Chick Part 1
Coca Kola: The Baddest Chick Part 2
Checkmate: The Baddest Chick Part 3
Face Off: The Baddest Chick Part 4
South Beach Cartel
On the Run: The Baddest Chick Part 5
Unfinished Business: The Baddest Chick Part 6
Guard the Throne
Dirty Money Honey
Murdergram
Murdergram 2
The House That Hustle Built
The House That Hustle Built 2
The House That Hustle Built 3
Killer Dolls
Killer Dolls 2
Killer Dolls 3
Prologue
Hassan, you got a visitor!” The corrections officer stood there staring at him, waiting for him to move.
Hassan sat for a minute on his small cot, not rushing for anyone. He glanced up at the guard, Officer Clinton. He was a fiery nigga with a badge—a bully with a paycheck. When it came to Hassan, though, Officer Clinton thought twice about being a hard ass. The man was a drug kingpin with a level of clout the corrections officer couldn’t even imagine.
Rikers Island was cautious of Hassan, whose fierce, violent reputation preceded him. Though locked down, his influence, money, and power still reigned supreme. In fact, he had authority over the inmates and influence over several guards. An ugly orange jumpsuit and some prison bars didn’t change who he was and what he was about. The inmates respected him, and the guards and prison officials were mindful of him.
Sighing, he stood up from his prison bunk and casually walked toward the guard. He had a lot on his mind. The charges pending against him were serious—gun possession and murder. If handled wrong, he could be looking at twenty-five years to life. His lawyers had told him that they were handling his case expeditiously, making strong moves with the prosecutors and the judge.
The two other codefendants weren’t talking. No one wanted to cop to the guns and the murders. It was like playing hot-potato.
On the Island all movement was monitored, and every day was the same routine—4 a.m., wake up and a shave; 6 a.m., breakfast; 7 a.m., time outdoors; 11 a.m., lunch; 3 to 5 p.m., mail call and time for napping, reading, and working out; 5 p.m., time in the dayroom where inmates watched TV or played chess or checkers; and after that, dinner and lights out around 9 p.m.
Hassan didn’t like routines, and he didn’t like being told what to do. He read a lot, worked out, and when he felt the need, held court with some of his soldiers, sometimes in full view of corrections officers.
Today, there was a break in the routine. He had a visitor. Visitors came to see him frequently. He was popular and well known. He was hoping it was Pearla, but she had come a few days earlier. Sometimes she came to see him twice a week. He missed her and thought about her constantly.
After going through the standard procedures before seeing a visitor, including changing into a gray jumpsuit, Hassan walked into the packed visitors’ room and searched for the guest of honor. The visiting room was swollen with chit-chat and some laughter between inmates and their loved ones. The guards were strategically placed in different areas of the room watching for anything and everything—contraband, violence, or indecent behavior—and the eye in the sky was recording everything. A female guard directed him toward a nearby table where Bimmy was seated alone, waiting for the boss to arrive.
Bimmy stood up when he saw Hassan walking his way. The two quickly greeted each other with glad hands and a brotherly hug then sat opposite each other, a tiny plastic table between them. The chairs were uncomfortable, but they made do. It was only an hour visit.
“How they treatin’ you up in here?” Bimmy asked.
“I’m good. This is just temporary for me, Bimmy; you already know.”
Bimmy nodded. “I know.”
“Talkin’ to my lawyers. They tryin’ to execute a plan for my release, but I got something brewing on my own. I can’t wait around for these suits to play with my life in their hands.”
“Anything I can help out with?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Hassan looked around the visiting room and noticed other inmates with their girlfriends, wives, sisters, and children. His eyes lingered on one particular male inmate holding hands with his girlfriend. She was pretty, he was handsome. The couple seemed in love. Hassan knew the nigga had sucked another inmate’s dick just the night before for some protection from other inmates. Hassan knew many inmates’ secrets; most niggas were fraudulent gangsters when inside the visiting room with their families. But after the visit, back inside lockup, they were more bitch than thug—scared niggas who either sold their booty and their souls, or had it taken from them. Hassan was the real thing, and every single inmate in the visiting room knew it. When they saw him, they quickly turned their heads in a different direction, fearing that if they looked at him wrong, there would be problems.
“How’s Pearla doing?” Hassan always asked about her.
“You know I always kept it one hundred wit’ you, my nigga.”
“Yeah, I know. So what bad news you gonna tell me?”
“She ain’t right.”
“What?”
“I caught that bitch nigga Cash going inside your crib the other night, and he ain’t come right back out. He was there for a few hours. I know she fucked him.”
Hassan just sat there, staring at Bimmy. Inwardly, he was heartbroken, but there was no way he would express his hurt to Bimmy or anyone else inside the jail. He couldn’t get upset and look weak with so many eyes watching.
“You sure it was him?”
“I know it was that faggot muthafucka. I can’t mistake him. He was there. In fact, I think he been showing up regularly at Pearla’s place since you been incarcerated.”
Hassan countered, “It doesn’t mean she’s fuckin’ him.”
“What? That bitch nigga is a fuckin’ pervert! And you know how Pearla always felt about Cash.”
“I know. She promised me that it was over between them.”
“Hassan, she broke that promise. She can’t be fuckin’ trusted.”
Hassan knew the truth, but it was hard to accept it. He wasn’t a stupid nigga. He knew she’d fucked Cash, but he didn’t wan
t to process that image while he was locked up and couldn’t do anything about it on his own.
He strongly wanted to believe that it was a mistake. Pearla wouldn’t cheat on him. She wouldn’t lie to him. She wouldn’t go running back to Cash after everything Hassan had done for her. In fact, she was the same girl who had taken a bullet for him. That was love! But what was it about her connection to Cash that she couldn’t let go? Did he sex her better? It definitely wasn’t his wealth, because Hassan had it all.
Hassan felt he could only get straight answers face to face, looking in her eyes. He wasn’t going to react and give Bimmy the orders to murder her.
Speaking softly, Bimmy leaned closer to his boss. “What you want me to do with her?” Both men knew it wasn’t safe to relay orders there. Too many ear hustlers were around, from the guards to other nosy muthafuckas.
Hassan sat quietly, brooding. Bimmy was trying to read his boss. If it was him locked up instead of Hassan and he had heard this bad news about April, he would have gone fuckin’ berserk. He would have wanted Hassan to cut that bitch’s head off and feed it to his pit bull. The thought of April fuckin’ the next dude made his stomach queasy. So why was Hassan not affected by the news?
“Yo, just say the word, my nigga, and I can take care of it,” Bimmy murmured to him. “It won’t even come back on you. If you want it quick or long, it can happen.”
Hassan looked at his right hand goon and simply. “Nah, just chill.”
“Why?”
“I got this under control, Bimmy. Don’t touch her.”
“You serious?” Bimmy was dumbfounded by the response.
“Like fuckin’ cancer, nigga! I’ma give that bitch enough rope to hang herself.”
“That bitch is always swinging, my nigga.”
“Then let her swing some more. I got this. I don’t want you touchin’ one hair on her fuckin’ head, Bimmy. That’s a fuckin’ order.”
“Yeah, I got you, boss,” Bimmy replied dryly.
Bimmy didn’t understand it. What kind of effect did Pearla have on Hassan to make him not react? If it were anyone else, there wouldn’t be a doubt or any hesitation; Hassan would have given the word, and Bimmy would have implemented murder immediately. Hassan was playing games.
Hassan noticed Bimmy’s sour reaction. “You got a problem with what I said, Bimmy?”
“Nah, no problem.”
“Okay, because I don’t want her touched at all.”
“And if she continues fuckin’ with Cash, then what?”
“I’ll be home soon, and I’ll handle her,” Hassan said with conviction.
“In the meantime, she’s playing you—fuckin’ another nigga in your home, in your bed. How you cool wit’ that?”
“Nigga, I don’t give a fuck what you think. Don’t touch her!”
Bimmy frowned. He felt that the rope was so long, Pearla could have hung herself ten times over. He’d never had a problem expressing himself, but he knew not to cross that line and disrespect his boss.
Hassan couldn’t allow his true feelings out, but he couldn’t understand why Bimmy was taking this so personally. Pearla wasn’t his bitch. “If you’re so worried about Cash and my bitch, why is that nigga still breathing?”
“Me and my soldiers been on it, Hassan.”
“Maybe not hard enough! Kwan out there too fuckin’ up my shit. What the fuck am I paying you for?”
“I never let you down, and I’m not about to start now. Both them niggas will be toe-tagged,” Bimmy whispered loudly.
“Just do your fuckin’ job, Bimmy!”
At the end of their one-hour visit, the two men gave each other dap and a brotherly hug, and Hassan then pivoted and marched away with the guard’s escort.
***
Bimmy lingered over his boss’s words. He couldn’t believe Hassan didn’t want to do something about Pearla. She was conniving, and a fuckin’ whore. Bimmy felt that bitch had put a spell on Hassan, because he wasn’t thinking rationally. That spell needed to be broken somehow. That bitch was making him look weak.
He left the island hoping he would never see the jail as his home. It wasn’t a place for men like him. He wasn’t scared of jail. He strongly felt that confinement was for animals, not for men.
As he walked toward his car, Bimmy couldn’t escape his feelings about Pearla and Cash. Something needed to be done, whether Hassan sanctioned it or not. Hassan was too pussy-struck to see what was clearly happening. That bitch was playing him for a sucker and would certainly cause his downfall. Since Bimmy considered himself a true friend, he wasn’t going to allow it to keep happening.
He climbed inside his vehicle and lingered behind the wheel while parked in the jail parking lot. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed area code 678: Decatur, Georgia.
The phone rang several times before a male’s voice answered.
“Yo, who dis?”
“Avery, it’s your cousin, Bimmy.”
“Bimmy, what’s good, my nigga? Long time no hurr or see.”
“I know. But this ain’t a social call, it’s something else.”
“Speak, my nigga.”
“You still runnin’ that library?” Bimmy asked.
Avery chuckled. “Hell yeah. What book ya need to read?”
“I got ten large for you to read this bitch a bedtime story.”
“Bedtime story, definitely. Ya can check dat shit out right away,” he said, knowing a bedtime story meant murder. “Who’s da bitch?”
“You don’t need to know all that right now. I just need you to show up here, and we’ll discuss the details then.”
“A’ight, cuz, we in New York,” Avery said breathlessly.
Bimmy hung up. He sighed. Going against Hassan’s order could mean bringing death upon himself, but he was ready to risk it. By hiring out-of-town killers, Bimmy figured there would be no way Pearla’s murder could be connected to him.
One
After receiving the call from his cousin, Avery grinned like a Cheshire cat. He sat on the tattered living room couch, a burning blunt in one hand and a cup of dark alcohol in the other, chillin’ with Dalou, his partner in crime.
“Who was dat on the phone that got ya smilin’ like that?” Dalou asked.
“That was my cousin from New York. He fixin’ to pay us some gwop to do a job for him. Nigga, we ’bout to be in the money.”
Dalou smiled. “Word up?”
“Word up.”
Both men were short on cash. Hearing about some work in New York made them excited. They didn’t care what it was, as long as they got paid.
“Yo, pass the fuckin’ blunt, nigga,” Dalou said, aching to continue his high.
Avery took a long drag from the blunt, followed by a swallow of liquor, and then handed the blunt to his friend.
That afternoon the two men were in a trap house on the rough side of town. Decatur, Georgia was becoming too small for them. They did it all, from shoplifting, rape, drug dealing, and robbing convenience stores to murder. If it paid, then it was for them, but carjacking and home invasions in Georgia was their bread and butter.
They had no education, no genuine ambition, and were living each day out like it would be their last day on earth. What mattered to them was drugs, drinking, and making a quick buck.
Avery sat slouched on the couch looking like a bum nigga. He was black, skinny, and tall. The white T-shirt he wore was oversized, and his jeans sagged down to his ass crack. He sported short, nappy hair, a gold grill, and had no facial hair.
Dalou was a shorter, skinnier man. His frayed clothes resembled Avery’s: oversized white T-shirt, long jean shorts, and Nike sneakers that had seen better days. He too sported a gold grill, short cornrows, and rocked a fuzzy goatee.
“When we leavin’ for New York?” Dalou asked.
“Soon.
”
Dalou nodded.
For Avery, ten thousand dollars was heaven. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on that money. It was going to make him feel like a king.
***
Before Bimmy’s mom passed away the year before, she would always tell him about all the trouble Avery had put their family through with his recklessness. Bimmy’s mother always thought her boy was much better, smarter and more successful than his cousin from the South, whereas Avery was nothing but a two-bit common thug with a lengthy rap sheet.
***
Avery was such a two-bit thug, he would have done the hit for five hundred dollars. Immediately, he had plans for what he was going to do with all that money. Of course, he would have to split it with Dalou, but that was still five grand in his pockets. It was simple: pack his shit and drive to New York, shoot that bitch, and leave. Afterwards, he would finance a drug package, try to flip his cash and become what he’d always wanted to be—a big-time drug dealer.
“Yo, ya wanna hit da strip club tonight?” Dalou asked him.
“Fuck it, yeah! Get my dick sucked and celebrate our come-up.”
“Dis is our time.”
“It is, nigga!”
“Ya cousin, he good for it, right?”
“He is. He ain’t gonna fuck us.”
Both men finished off the blunt and continued to drink. Already, Avery was rolling up another blunt and pouring himself another cup of brown juice. It was definitely time for them to make moves elsewhere.
Avery was ready to prove to his cousin that he was worth every dollar he was being paid. Maybe if they did a good job, Bimmy would permanently put them on the payroll.
Two
Hassan sat in Rikers Island’s dayroom playing chess with an older inmate named Sammy Grant. Sammy, in his late sixties, was an old-school gangster from Harlem, New York who ran with Frank Lucas and Nicky Barnes back in the day. Sammy was known in the eighties as “the crack king.” He used to control so many corners, real estate, and territory between 110th and 135th Streets, they also called him “the black Donald Trump of Harlem.”
The House that Hustle Built, Part 3 Page 1