Word got to him about Monique, April’s mother, and he didn’t hesitate crashing into her East New York brownstone and assaulting her. Kwan knew she wasn’t valuable to anyone’s criminal organization and that, besides April, no one else really cared for her. It was a waste of time, but still he wanted someone to die.
All morning, they beat and tortured Monique in her bedroom. Kwan tried to get her to talk, thinking she knew something about someone, but she cried out that she didn’t know anything. Yet they continued to beat her, burning her with cigarettes and throwing buckets of cold water on her. In the end, Kwan killed her anyway. It gave him great pleasure to do it on the morning of her daughter’s funeral.
***
The bodies found at the Motel 6 in Canarsie didn’t register on anyone’s radar. There was an article about the murders of Avery and Dalou in several newspapers. The motel clerk remained silent when questioned by detectives, and without prints, witnesses, and the surveillance video, it was quickly becoming a cold case to the NYPD.
Several days after the murders, a carload of goons from the Dirty South arrived at the motel. It was the address Avery had given them. Rag Tag, Saul, Bonz, Billy Dee, and two others climbed out of the old used minivan and walked to the motel room. They were all ready to put their murder game down. Avery had promised them that there was gold at the end of the rainbow, and they’d come gunning for it. Their palms were itching for that paper.
The men had never been to New York, and the towering skyscrapers, the many bridges that connected into the city, the traffic, the people, and the life, took them aback. It was a busy place, and a far cry from their hometown.
Rag Tag knocked on the room door. No answer. He continued to knock, knowing Avery had to be inside. He was expecting them. Still, no one opened the door. Rag Tag looked back at the other and scratched his head. He looked at the piece of paper the information was written on. It was the right city, the right neighborhood, and definitely the right room. So where were Avery and Dalou?
Rag Tag said, “What da fuck!”
“Where are these niggas?” Billy Dee said.
The men turned around and went to the management office. Rag Tag tried to interrogate the skinny male clerk about Avery Williams, but the clerk told him that he and another man were found shot dead inside the room a few days earlier.
Rag Tag couldn’t believe it. Avery and Dalou were dead? How did it happen? He scratched his head in wonderment. New York City done swallowed them up and spit them out dead.
Avery’s Down South crew couldn’t do anything but turn around and go back home. Broke. It was a long drive for nothing.
Thirty-Four
The overcast day seemed appropriate for a funeral. There was a great chance of heavy rain that afternoon. Hassan sat at the foot of his bed dressed in a dark suit and dark shades, preoccupied by everything that had been going on. He had his issues with Bimmy, but he had adored April and wasn’t going to miss her funeral. He was going to be there while his best friend and right-hand man grieved.
He allowed Bimmy to cry on his shoulder, allowed his parents to take Bimmy’s kids for a few weeks in Jamaica, and even allowed Pearla to cook him meals, though she was against it. It was all part of his plan—make Bimmy feel comfortable and keep him close.
Bimmy was beside himself with grief and blame. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, and he couldn’t think straight. Hassan was perpetually asking him questions, pretending to be by his friend’s side and wanting to know who would kill April. Bimmy would lie and say Cash.
Hassan explained to him that yeah, Cash was a lot of things, but he wasn’t built to walk up to April and blow her brains out in cold blood. Even if he did have the balls, why would he do it?
Hassan and Cash went back to elementary school days, and though Hassan hated him, Cash’s heart didn’t run that type of cold. Hassan knew the truth and was steadily fucking with Bimmy, just to see how far his friend would take it. When he wasn’t blaming Cash, he blamed Kwan.
Bimmy poured his heart out to Hassan, and it was the first time ever he saw a thug like Bimmy cry. He missed April deeply and apologized to Hassan about his actions and negativity toward Pearla. Bimmy was in an emotional state, but Hassan knew the muthafucka was full of shit.
Pearla walked into the bedroom and took a seat on his lap. She wrapped her arms around him and snuggled against him. She could see he was thinking deeply about something, and she had an idea what it was. The grimy muthafucka was on both their minds.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m good,” he replied softly.
She released a deep sigh. She knew Hassan was keeping Bimmy close while knowing about his betrayal. Bimmy wanted her dead, and she couldn’t live with seeing the nigga every day knowing that he’d put out a contract on her head. Somehow, fate had kept her alive, and she was grateful. Karma was a bitch, but she had to play nice to the grimy nigga because Hassan asked her to. He was going through a lot, but what about her? She didn’t give a damn about Bimmy. Pearla felt like she’d lost ten years of her life because of him. She’d thought that, by now, Bimmy would be dead, hacked to pieces and left in a shallow grave somewhere dark and dirty.
The morning was fading, and April’s funeral service was approaching. Hassan had been to too many funerals in his lifetime, having lost a lot of friends. The streets never played nice. If you were weak, stupid, or got caught slipping or snitching, then most times a second chance was nonexistent. Brooklyn was a graveyard full of lost souls.
But Hassan had ended the lives of so many of those who went up against him. Being a shot-caller, he had made mothers, wives, girlfriends and sisters cry.
“You ready for today?” Pearla asked him.
“I’m always ready. It’s just another funeral.”
“She was a friend.”
“In this game you gotta know how to separate friendship from business. You get too soft, these niggas will lick you up like ice cream. Death is death, Pearla. You gotta know that shit is always goin’ to happen out here. People always gonna die. It’s just part of the world I live in.”
Hassan was preaching to the choir. Pearla already knew the world he was talking about. She was no silver-spoon, privileged bitch from the suburbs. She grew up with a rough and vile mother and had to fight and steal to get the finer things in life. She fought for her respect in a bad neighborhood, and she even had to fight in her own home.
Briefly, she thought about that day when she’d killed her best friend for having sex with Cash. It was a cold moment in her life, and one that she now regretted.
The couple exited the suburban home and climbed into the black stretch limousine, and Bimmy was right behind them.
Pearla was disgusted by his presence, but she sucked it up and simply wanted to go and show her respect at his baby mama’s funeral. Though she hadn’t known April for too long, she had become a good friend. She held her sharp tongue, swallowed her malevolent, vengeful spirit, and rode to Brooklyn in silence.
Today, April wasn’t the only one being buried. Hassan and Bimmy’s friendship had died too. Hassan was only prolonging the inevitable until the time was right.
The black limousine pulled up on Howard Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up Monique. Bimmy had been calling her phone all morning, but she wasn’t answering. Bimmy and Hassan knew that Monique wouldn’t miss her daughter’s funeral for anything. The news of April’s murder hit her like a ton of bricks. She’d cried and cried.
Monique had a tight relationship with her daughter, so it was going to be hard to live without her. April used to spoil her mother with whatever she needed. Clothes, cars, jewelry, exotic trips anywhere around the world, it was all paid for by April. The two were like sisters. Monique was a woman in her forties, vibrant and full of life, but the loss of her daughter tore her apart.
Bimmy called her phone for the umpteenth time this morning, but still n
o answer. “I’m gonna go see what’s up wit’ her,” Bimmy said.
“You go do that,” Hassan said. “We ain’t got time to waste.”
Bimmy stepped out of the limousine looking sharp and handsome in his black suit and white tie, his black alligator shoes shinier than a Marine’s up for inspection. His Rolex watch sparkled brightly like the North Star, and the diamond stud earring in his ear was almost the size of a boulder.
He walked into the brownstone and went up to her floor. As he approached the apartment door, he noticed that it was ajar. Instantly, he knew something was wrong.
Cautiously, he entered the place and pulled out his gun. He could feel it already—the stillness around him. He looked around and noticed the disturbance in the living room that continued to the bedroom.
When he went into the bedroom, he was shocked to see Monique’s naked, battered body tied to the bed. Not today! he thought to himself. “Shit!” he uttered in disbelief. He moved closer to the body and touched it to see if she had a pulse, but there wasn’t one. The body was still warm, and rigor mortis hadn’t settled into her muscles yet. He’d probably missed her attackers by minutes.
He pulled out his cell phone and called Hassan downstairs.
“What?” Hassan answered curtly.
“Yo, we got a situation up here.”
“What’s the situation?”
“She’s fuckin’ dead.”
m
Hassan, Pearla, and Bimmy stood over the body. Monique was lying face down, bound to the bed by her wrists and her ankles, and had bruises on her back, neck, and arms, and cigarette burns all over her body. Monique didn’t deserve to die like this, especially on the day of her daughter’s funeral.
It was Kwan; there was no doubt about it. They all knew it. Kwan had no moral compass. He was a ruthless and mindless thug who was hell-bent on causing murder and destruction and hunting down everyone he hated. He wanted to wear the crown. He wanted to become the king of New York.
“What we gonna do wit’ her?” Bimmy asked.
Hassan was silent. He had to think. They still had a funeral to go to.
“The nigga is out of fuckin’ control, Hassan,” Bimmy growled. “He killed April, and now he kills her mother. We need to find this muthafucka!”
Pearla was teary-eyed in the bedroom. She had never met Monique, but April used to speak about her all the time. “Fuck it! Leave her here,” Hassan said.
Pearla said, “Leave her like this?”
“What can we do for her now? She’s gone, and we still have a funeral to attend. Did you forget?”
If they were to call the cops, it was inevitable that they would miss the funeral today. Hassan had paid for everything. He barely knew Monique, but he was saddened by her demise. He turned and started to leave.
At first, Pearla looked hesitant, but then she followed him.
Bimmy frowned and lingered in the bedroom for a short moment. He puffed out his frustration and was the last to leave the room.
***
Bimmy struggled to hold back his sorrow as he stood over the mahogany casket in the church. Still, his tears flowed gradually and silently down his stock-still face. He had made the fatal error of hiring inept goons from the South, and that resulted in his baby mama lying in a casket. He would never again see the warmth in her eyes, feel her embrace, or be surrounded by her love. He felt completely numb.
There were over hundred people at her funeral and more flowers surrounding her casket than at a Kardashian wedding. There was nobody dressed better at the funeral than April. She was dressed in a twenty-thousand-dollar vintage Versace gown, and her hair and makeup were impeccably done. She lay inside the casket, her hands folded over each other. She looked asleep, not dead. The mortician had done a wonderful job with the body.
Bimmy lingered over her casket. He clenched his fists and frowned with tears falling down his face. He wiped them away quickly, almost feeling ashamed that he was feeling and looking so weak. Although the men who’d done this to her were dead, it still didn’t ease the pain.
Before long, there were speeches from many guests and a song sung by a childhood friend of April’s. The heartfelt song brought on a fresh wave of tears from everyone.
Afterwards, there were words from the pastor as everyone sat still and saddened inside the crowded church. He first read a passage from the Bible, and then he gave the eulogy.
Hassan and Pearla had front row seats.
Pearla became emotional. She couldn’t fight back her tears. They trickled down her cheeks like her face was a drizzly day. She had been there when April was killed. The whole ordeal was still playing like a movie inside of her head—the sound of the gunshots ringing out and the image of April falling. It was hard not to think that it could have been her.
She couldn’t take it anymore. It was all too much for her. “Excuse me, I need to leave,” she huffed at Hassan and immediately stood up, quickly moving down the aisle and separating herself from the sadness and the casket. She hurried out of the church and into the street. She took a deep breath, but suddenly burst out in more tears and grief. Her body felt like it was about to collapse on itself. She took a seat on the church stairs and continuously took deep breaths to calm herself.
Everywhere she turned, there was drama and murder. Every man she loved was always part of some kind of criminal or illicit activity. When had her life ever been normal? When was there ever a time when she didn’t have to look over her shoulder?
Pearla had lost friends and family. She thought, If that was me in that casket, then who would come to my funeral? She had alienated herself from everyone. She only had Hassan, but what if something was to happen to him, then what? She had her insurance stashed away in a bank—a break-the-glass course of action, in-case-of-emergency account—but if she was to ever leave New York City, where would she go? Would she ever find love again if, God forbid, something terrible ever happened to Hassan?
She took a deep sigh and dried her tears.
***
The Evergreens Cemetery, 225 acres of rolling hills and gently sloping meadows in Brooklyn and Queens, was April’s final resting place. Dozens of people gathered around the open burial site and watched through their teary eyes as her casket was gently lowered into the ground.
Thirty-Five
Kwan was out of control. His bloodthirsty appetite for revenge was spiraling into a murderous turmoil that had bodies dropping all over the city. He didn’t care who he killed or where he killed them. Any association with his foes, and they were dead. He had become a maniac. Sophie’s murder fueled the fire inside him even stronger, and it came bursting out onto the city streets like hot lava from an erupting volcano. His kills were brazen, guns blazing, bullets tearing into flesh and bones, and a body or bodies left in public for the city to clean up.
Two men connected to Hassan were shot in the head in a white Cadillac on Remsen Avenue. They were found slumped in the front seat. Two weeks later a couple was viciously gunned down in front of their home on Clarkson Avenue. Over a dozen bullets savagely chomped their bodies. The couples were once close friends to Bimmy and April.
But the murders that made the headlines and lit up the media like the Rockefeller Christmas tree was a cop and his entire family slaughtered in their Bensonhurst home on 71st Street. Sergeant Mark Dornier was a fifteen-year veteran on the police force. Some suspected that he was a dirty cop and had ties to Hassan, but it was never proven. His wife of twenty years and both his sons, ages sixteen and nineteen, were shot execution-style in their bedrooms. The horrific crime caught the attention of the police commissioner and the mayor and was plastered all over the evening news. The NYPD had declared war against the culprits responsible for the heinous crime.
Kwan was behind it all. He was getting Hassan’s attention, but there were men in his crew who were having second thoughts about it all. They we
re all hardcore killers, but when you execute a cop and his family, there was no coming back. Kwan was becoming more and more paranoid. Those who spoke out against him were dealt with accordingly.
He climbed out of the Tahoe flanked by several armed men and walked into the small warehouse nestled in the industrial part of Brooklyn, near the Navy Yard. He was escorted inside and led to a back office, where a few more of his goons were watching over two men, each bound to a chair and stripped to their underwear. They had already been beaten, but the best was yet to come. Both men pleaded with Kwan, begging for their lives.
Word had gotten back to Kwan about the two stirring up tension inside his crew, wanting to revolt against him. They felt he was leading them all to their downfall. It was becoming them against the world, and the world was too big of a place for a Brooklyn crew to take on.
“Look, Kwan, whatever you heard, it ain’t true!” one man shouted.
“How the fuck you know what I heard, M?”
“I’m sayin’, Kwan, it’s a lie!” the other man declared.
“Shut the fuck up!” Kwan shouted. “Y’all muthafuckas think I’m stupid?”
“Nah, man, we never thought that.”
Kwan wasn’t in the mood to talk. He’d come for one thing, and that was to set an example. He turned and nodded to one of his men, who handed him a wooden baseball bat. He stepped closer to the first man, M, clutched the bat tightly, lifted it into air, and cracked him over his head with it.
Blood spewed from M’s head as the bat crashed against his skull, and he screamed out in pain.
Kwan continued to hit him again and again. No part of M’s body was safe. Kwan broke bones in his hands, face, and arms. He broke his nose and eye socket. After repeated blows from the bat, M’s face started to look like chopped hamburger meat. Then it got to the point where he stopped moving and screaming. He had fallen to the floor, and his blood started to pool underneath his body.
The House that Hustle Built, Part 3 Page 18