The House that Hustle Built, Part 3

by Nisa Santiago

  While waiting for Pearla to come, he went to the window and briefly stared outside. The motel he was staying in was low-key and didn’t have too much activity. The last thing he needed was unwanted company kicking in the front door and coming bursting into his room trying to kill everything that moved.

  His eyes and ears in Brooklyn were telling him that Kwan was on a murderous rampage. He’d heard about Tony’s murder. The heroin addict always had a big mouth, but this time he bit off more than he could chew by dealing with a maniac like Kwan.

  There was no telling what Hassan was up to. Pearla had assured him that things were cool, but Cash couldn’t escape his gut feeling that things weren’t as cool as she was saying. There was too much going on out there, and he couldn’t be sloppy. Cash knew it was even a risk having his Pearla come to the motel room, but he needed to keep her close because he needed information, and he needed her help. If she was as close to Hassan as she said she was, then most likely he would listen to her and respect what she had to say. But that was taking a big chance.

  Cash was starting to feel lost again. Every day was the same thing, stuck in a motel room with not much to do and trying not to become too paranoid. Every car that went by he was watching. Every knock at his door made him edgy, even though it would only be the motel maid to clean his room. Everyone he came across he kept a keen eye on. And most importantly, he went nowhere without a gun, two at the least.

  He finished the blunt and doused it in the ashtray on the nightstand. He continued to pace around the room. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He was antsy. He thought about his father and his mother. He hated the fact that Ray-Ray was still out there begging for petty dollars and coins. He hated that his father was vulnerable to an attack from his foes, fearing that one day if they couldn’t find him, then they would take their anger out on his father.

  Cash had proven before that he would do anything for his pops, even kill. He hadn’t seen nor heard from his mother in weeks. He had no idea where she was. Though their relationship was rocky, he still loved her.

  He walked toward the window again and stared outside. He sighed. He found himself rolling up another blunt while waiting for Pearla to show up. The weed calmed him down. He needed something. Surprisingly, he wasn’t having sex like that anymore, so smoking marijuana was a substitute.

  He sat on the bed and inhaled. The television was still off, so the room was extra quiet. After three puffs of potent Kush, the rapid knocking at the door startled him, almost making him drop the blunt in his lap.

  He jumped up and grabbed his gun and cautiously moved toward the door. He took a peek outside and saw Pearla. He sighed with relief and opened the door.

  Pearla walked into the room wearing a thin jacket, tight jeans, and heels. She looked extra sexy with her long black hair flowing.

  “What took you so long?” he asked.

  “There was traffic.”

  “You came alone, right? You weren’t followed?”

  “Cash, you need to stop acting so shook. I’m okay. I did what you told me—sometimes do twenty miles over the speed limit, make random turns, and constantly look into my rearview mirror. Believe me, I’m alone. No one is following me.”

  Pearla started to feel that she’d liked him better when he wasn’t paranoid, when he was bold and arrogant, and a fuckin’ sex maniac. This new Cash, the one always on guard and alert, was starting to irritate her. But she’d come a long way from her home.

  Cash shut the door. He still had the gun in his hand.

  Pearla looked down at it and said, “Baby, you’re not going to need that thing. Put it away.”

  Cash nodded. He placed the gun on the nightstand. “You went to see Hassan again?” he asked.

  “Not this week.”

  “What about Bimmy? He’s been by your place recently?”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  Pearla unzipped her jacket and removed it from around her and tossed it onto the bed. The top she wore was tight and flattering.

  Cash’s eyes lingered on her clothes. She always had good taste in clothing. She knew how to stand out. It was one of the things he loved about her.

  Pearla walked closer to him. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to feel him, and kiss him. She wanted so much from him, the nasty and the good. She looked in his eyes. “Why can’t I fuckin’ quit you, Cash?”

  “I don’t know,” he simply replied.

  “You do shit to me that I hate. But every time, I forgive you and come back to you like it’s a new day.”

  They looked at each other seriously. He took her hands into his. When they’d first met, and had sex, it was fireworks twenty-four-seven. It felt like they would always love each other and have each other’s back. Well, that was what Pearla had predicted. But their relationship had been so rocky, it felt like a few more hard bumps and they would be knocked off the road.

  “What you think we should do?” Cash asked.

  “What?”

  “What was your plan? The last time you were here, you said you had a plan.”

  “Well, what about your plan? You said you had a plan too. Why does it always have to be me who saves the day?”

  “What day you saving?” Cash asked, insulted. “I had a plan, but it fell through.”

  Pearla didn’t want to talk about a plan, not now anyway. Maybe after sex. But why did he want to know about her plan? It bothered her. Did he only want to see her because he was looking for an escape route from the danger surrounding him?

  If push comes to shove, would he take a bullet for me? Would he? Would he sacrifice his well-being for mine? “I don’t want to talk about no plan right now, Cash.”

  “I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “You coulda done that over the phone. I came here to be with you.”

  “I know.”

  “Don’t do this to me, Cash. I can’t continue to become your fuckin’ puppet. You just can’t always have things your way. What the fuck I look like to you—Burger King?”

  “Nah, you don’t.”

  “Whatever moves you’re gonna make, Cash, you need to do them on your own. I’ve always tried helping you.”

  “I know.”

  “I believed in you. I loved you,” she said from the heart. “Did you ever love me just the same? Or was I just an opportunity for you? Huh, Cash?”

  “No woman could ever compare to you, Pearla, but you know me, I’m a fuckup. Sometimes I wonder how you could ever love a nigga like me.”

  She looked at him, trying her best to hold back the contempt from engulfing her. Love was hurtful, but Cash was a fuckin’ train wreck. He had always been dangerous, starting with her heart and her emotions.

  Unexpectedly, Cash asked, “You ever wondered who tried to have us killed that day at the house?”

  “Of course, I did, Cash. But I try not to dwell on it.”

  “Why not? Whoever hired them shooters, they’re still out there.”

  “I can’t live my entire life in absolute fear, Cash. Yes, I’m cautious, and I watch over my shoulders, but I’m not like you. I can’t just live out some motel room in the boondocks. I want to enjoy things—enjoy success and love. I want to be rich and free, and I’m going to keep moving forward, no matter what it takes.”

  “And you think I don’t want the same thing?”

  “Cash, most times I don’t fuckin’ know what you want.”

  “I don’t wanna die, that’s for sure.”

  “And I don’t want you to die.”

  “So I need for you to do me a favor,” he said.

  A favor? she thought. Did he have the audacity to ask her for a favor, after everything he was putting her through?

  “You know my beef wit’ Kwan is because of you. I went against him only to protect you, Pearla.”

  “And I am grateful, Cash, and
have shown you in so many ways. I’m risking my life just by being here, ready to please you.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  “Listen, I’m asking you to have a word with Hassan and let him know that I’m tired.”

  “Tired?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. “Tired of what?”

  “I just want to end my beef wit’ him. Squash it all.”

  “And how am I supposed to do this?”

  “Let him know that his beef isn’t wit’ me, but wit’ Kwan. And that I saved your life from him.”

  Pearla remembered the last time she took up for Cash. Hassan had slapped her so hard, she could still feel the grueling tingle from his hand against her face. No, she wasn’t getting involved.

  “I can’t do that, Cash.”

  “Why not?” he replied, looking angry at her response.

  “I won’t do it. We make our own choices and paths, and you’ve made yours, and I’m making mines with Hassan. And you know what? He’s been there for me when you weren’t.”

  “Well, you need to explain to him that you and I, we’re nothing more than friends. And you were supposed to be my friend and have my back, Pearla.”

  Hearing Cash refer to her as nothing but a friend hurt her, cut her deeply in the heart. It only brought up bad memories of when he’d left her alone in their Jamaica Estates home, knowing there were people out there trying to kill them.

  Pearla gave Cash a long look of disappointment and shook her head. Finally, the blindfold was off, and she saw him for who he truly was—a self-centered asshole and grimy prick who’d dug his own hole.

  “I’m done,” she announced to him loud and clear.

  “Done?”

  “You don’t want me, and you don’t love me. You never did. I’m just mad at myself for not seeing it sooner.”

  Cash frowned. He didn’t like what he was hearing.

  Pearla picked up her things and said, “You get yourself out of your own troubles. I’m gone!”

  She marched out of the motel room and didn’t look back, leaving Cash standing there looking dumbfounded. She got into her Benz and vowed to never come back. He was no longer worth the effort.

  Eighteen

  Hassan sat in his small jail cell reading The Art of War by Sun Tzu. He was fully into the book, trying to become distracted from his confined environment. He read about how Sun Tzu emphasized the importance of positioning in military strategy. Hassan thought about his own army and his war with Kwan. Hassan felt there was little he could do while incarcerated on Rikers Island. The book was helpful and it was entertaining. With his face in the book and his attention on the chapter describing detail assessment and planning, a corrections officer called out for his attention.

  “Hassan, he’s here.”

  Hassan looked up to see the stout African American guard escorting Lamiek to his cell.

  “You have ten minutes with him,” the guard said. “Then I gotta take him back to his area.”

  “I’ll only need five minutes, Jason,” Hassan replied.

  “Cool.” The corrections officer nodded then turned and walked away, leaving Lamiek behind for Hassan to have a word with.

  Lamiek stood at the border of the cell, looking intimidated and tense. Hassan fixed his eyes on his codefendant. His look alone was chilling.

  Lamiek was a frail character with a bald head and hard eyes. His body was enveloped with tattoos, his arms thin like strings. But what he lacked in physicality, he made up for in sheer heart. Though he was a menace and a warrior on the streets, to Hassan, he was a simple subordinate.

  “Yo, come in, nigga. I need to talk to you,” Hassan said.

  Lamiek slowly walked closer to Hassan. “What’s good, Hassan?”

  “Have a seat.”

  Lamiek chose to stand rather than take a seat on the same cot as Hassan. He remained cool, though he had an inkling why Hassan wanted to see him.

  “I know you heard about Wayne-Oh,” Hassan said.

  “Yeah, I did. I’m sorry he went out that way. He was a good dude.”

  “He was.”

  “So why I’m here?”

  “Lamiek, you always have been a ruthless nigga in Brooklyn. Your name does ring out.”

  “Not like yours, boss.”

  “It doesn’t, do it?” Hassan replied, almost mocking his soldier.

  Hassan stood up. He outweighed the young boy by sixty pounds. He locked his eyes into the man’s. Lamiek was his last choice.

  Lamiek knew that Hassan would be a fool to kill him, ensuring he would most certainly take the weight for the guns and the bodies if he was the last one standing. But he also knew that Hassan was diabolical and, if pushed, would certainly have him murdered then face the consequences with a good lawyer.

  “You know why I’ve called you to my cell, right?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “You see, we, or shall I say I, have this dilemma, and you are my solution.”

  Lamiek frowned. He was a young dude, just barely twenty years old. No one wanted to go to jail for life. Period! But he didn’t want to die either.

  “I have two kids, Hassan,” he informed his boss.

  “You do, huh?”

  “Yeah, they’re two and three, and I want to see them grow up.”

  “That’s nice,” he replied dryly. “You’re a good father, I see.”

  “I try to be.”

  “I respect that. But I need you to respect this, too,” Hassan said casually. “I’m a businessman, you understand me?”

  Lamiek nodded. “I do.”

  “And you’re a killer, nigga, and that’s what we needed in my organization. Your lethal ass, if lucky, would have had a few more years left on the streets before you would have gotten murdered. You were too reckless, Lamiek, with your hothead ass, and it was only a matter of time before your two kids would see their father no more.”

  Lamiek knew Hassan was telling the truth. He had a fierce and deadly temper. He was a hothead. He had a lot of bodies under his belt, and he was constantly dodging the law, with numerous warrants for his arrest, always on the run or hiding out because whenever a murder happened everyone suspected it was Lamiek. Also, he couldn’t stay out of those seedy after-hour spots, and he was always “blunted,” making it too easy to catch him slipping.

  Hassan continued to talk while Lamiek just stood there and listened.

  “On the streets, you benefited my organization profoundly with your gun. Now in here, I’m gonna need you to help benefit my organization in a different manner, by showing me loyalty.”

  “Loyalty,” Lamiek repeated.

  “Yes, loyalty, Lamiek. Besides, how can a dead man raise his kids?”

  Lamiek just stood stoically.

  “I have a proposition for you, Lamiek . . . a very favorable one toward you and your two kids.”

  “I’m listening,” Lamiek said quietly.

  “Good. You always have been a smart man, and you know where this is leading. I’m gonna need you to cop out to the charges—plead guilty to the guns and the murders. You let the prosecutors know that I had nothing to do with anything. I’m an innocent man. In exchange for this, I’ll help you. I’ll take care of you and your family, whoever—your kids, your mother, your baby mammas—one million dollars to you or them.

  “Of course, it wouldn’t be all at once. It will be in installments. You will receive two hundred thousand when my charges are dropped and I’m released at my next bail hearing. Then there will be another four hundred thousand when you’re sentenced to these charges. Afterwards, forty thousand a year to your family for the next several years for your loyalty to this organization. We won’t forget you, Lamiek.” Hassan hooked his cold eyes onto Lamiek, waiting for his reply.

  Reluctantly, he agreed. “Okay.”

&n
bsp; Hassan smiled. “Like I said, you’ve always been a smart man and always showed loyalty to this organization.”

  Lamiek was smart enough to keep his comments to himself. He had sold his soul to the devil a long time ago. What was he to do or supposed to say? Money or no money, the answer had to be yes. He didn’t want to become Wayne-Oh, part two. And then Bimmy was a major threat to his family in the streets. He thought about his kids and his family, and the sacrifice had to be made.

  “We done here?” the guard asked.

  “Yes, we’re done here,” Hassan said.

  Lamiek turned around and left the cell with the guard. The only positive thing he could think about was that his family would be taken care of financially. He only hoped Hassan would keep his word and pay out the money, once he ate the murder and gun charges and gave his life away to the state.

  m

  Several hours later, with the lights out and the majority of the inmates in Rikers Island sleeping, Lamiek was wide awake, staring at the bland jail walls. The hardcore gangster and killer found himself crying in the dark.

  Nineteen

  That’s that nigga right there, Kwan,” Asher pointed out, watching a young black male with long dreadlocks climb out of a black Audi A4 on 41st Avenue in Queensbridge.

  Kwan nodded and took a drag from the cigarette in his mouth. He kept a clear eye on Bimmy’s cousin, the nigga named Run-Run, one of the higher-ups in Hassan’s organization. They were parked right across the street from the building he was going into. So far, Tony’s information was on point. But Kwan was still skeptical. He remembered the last time he and his men were about to make a move, and it blew up in his face. This time, he came to Queensbridge with two carloads of men armed to the teeth and ready for anything coming their way. Kwan’s head continuously swiveled back and forth, not wanting to be the victim of another ambush.

  Queensbridge Houses was the largest public housing project in the United States. Kwan was there to execute someone—but not before he and his men got him to talk—to make a very violent statement.