by Zaire Crown
Her face tightened as anger trumped regret. “Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, Tuesday, but I don’t adhere to your thug codes or share your little ghetto sensibilities about what it means to be a gangster. I graduated from Oxford and I’m a classically-trained pianist—I don’t even pump my own gas.”
None of the armed men standing around expected Tuesday to go after their boss. La Guapa sprang back terrified when Tuesday lunged. The soldiers grabbed Tuesday before she could get a hand on her.
They twisted her arm so hard Tuesday thought it would snap in two. Then someone thumped her on the head with the butt of their rifle. The blow brought Tuesday to her knees.
La Guapa stood over her but at a safer distance. “If you can check your emotion, you’ll see this is the easiest decision you’ll ever have to make: a large nine-figure check versus a situation that puts those two beautiful daughters at risk.”
“Bitch, don’t threaten my family.” Tuesday looked up at her, blazing hatred.
La Guapa returned the glare. “He’s the only reason you’re not dead already. Killing you might complicate things but it doesn’t mean you’re untouchable.
“Fight me, Tuesday, and I won’t just destroy you, I’ll destroy his precious legacy. I’ll leak his true identity to the press with all the juicy details, let the world see Marcus King for who he truly is. All the good work he’s done with Abel will be washed away in a tidal wave of controversy when the people learn that beautiful glass tower was built with bullets, blood, and heroin bricks.
“And think about your kids. Is little Dani starting to ask what happened to her real mother yet? I’ll make sure she finds out on Headline News along with everybody else at her school.”
Tuesday spat, “You slimy ass bitch.”
“Take the money, hoodrat. Go buy yourself all the gaudy jewelry, luxury cars, and strip clubs you want. Just know that it’ll never buy you class.”
She added: “And just so you know: after we put a bullet in your husband’s head, his body was dismembered and fed to four-hundred-pound hogs at a farm my family owns outside of Port Arthur. Does that make you feel any better?”
La Guapa seemed to expect some measure of defeat in Tuesday, but when she was yanked back to her feet, Tuesday’s eyes had the color and hardness of steel.
“Listen to me.” Her voice was so calm yet commanding that even the men holding her came to attention. “Somehow, some way, I’m gone get you alone in a room where it’s just you and me—no lawyers, no goons, no guns. Just you and me. In that room, all yo’ money, all yo’ power, all yo’ fancy degrees won’t count for shit. Then we’ll see who’s the better woman.”
La Guapa put on a seductive smile. “And once we are all alone, what do you fantasize about doing to me?”
“FUBAR—I’m gonna fuck you up beyond all recognition. I’m gonna punch and punch you ’til every bone in your skull is broken, ’til that pretty li’l face look like hamburger meat. Then I’m gone put my hands around your neck and stare you right in the eye as I choke the life outta you. I’m gone kill you with my bare muthafuckin’ hands.”
She leaned closer. “I will get you in that room, Reina. I’m gonna dedicate the rest of my life to this purpose. I won’t rest until I accomplish this.”
La Guapa seemed more amused than frightened. She shook her head, looked at Tuesday the way a patient parent would a petulant child in the throes of a tantrum.
She started in a scholarly tone: “You would seek to reduce our contest to a simple street fight because you’re a simple street person. You’re used to being poor, and for poor people, the only type of power at your disposal is physical. You have no comprehension of real power, because you have no experience with its various forms—industrial, political, institutional—other than being on the subjugate end. Tuesday, power doesn’t lie in your ability to beat me up. It lies in my ability to send a text from Monaco and have your throat slit in Australia.”
With a gesture La Guapa signaled to her troops that it was time to leave. All the men in black and the few in colorful shirts began to pile into the two long Chevy Tahoe ESVs. A few came out of hiding that Tuesday didn’t even know had taken up sniper positions in the warehouse. The two men holding Tuesday didn’t release her until La Guapa was far away from her.
“And by the way,” La Guapa said. “The only way you’ll ever get in that room with me is the same way you came to be in this one: I will have led you there every step of the way just like a little rat through a maze. Did Sebastian tell you that when I was thirteen years old, I became the FIDE’s youngest female International Chess Master? That means I will always be nine moves ahead of you.”
Tuesday scoffed, “Bitch, we ain’t playin’ board games.”
The cargo door rolled up letting the afternoon spill into the dank building, stirring the stale air. La Guapa was headed for the rear of the sleek new Range Rover when Tuesday called out to her.
She said, “You like calling me ‘hoodrat’ and ‘ghetto.’ Ask yourself if that makes me more or less dangerous.”
La Guapa paused, nodded thoughtfully as if she were pondering that for a second then fired back: “I’m stronger than you, I’m smarter than you, and I no longer have the great Sebastian Caine to worry about. Ask yourself if that makes me more or less dangerous.”
Tuesday could only stand there in the gloom staring daggers in her direction as the trio of shiny burgundy SUVs backed out of the warehouse to be burnished by the pre-evening sun.
Chapter Nineteen
“You’re still alive because Sebastian was clever enough to protect you and the girls.”
Brandon handled the wheel of his Bentley sedan. He had found Tuesday limping down Wilshire Blvd. looking like a homeless person. Although they discovered no bomb in the Benz, he insisted she ride with him and called for the company car to be towed.
“If something were to happen to you then ownership of the shares would split equally to your daughters, only they’d sit in a trust until Danielle turns twenty-four. Now if something were to happen to all of you, then the family trust would become its own legal entity and assume ownership of Abel. Because the trust can’t make decisions or facilitate running the business, it would function much like a limited partnership. The shares would be trapped in this sort of lock box for the entire life of the company. I just found out myself but apparently he set this trust up months ago.”
He glanced over at Tuesday who was staring out the passenger window, her expression vacant. From behind her left ear, a thin trail of blood trickled down her neck. Being struck with the rifle had probably given her a mild concussion but she dismissed it when Brandon asked about taking her to a hospital.
She appreciated his concern and the explanation of the trust, only she was too distracted by her own thoughts to be engaged.
“I’ll see to it that something particularly unlucky happens to Martellius.” Brandon held the wheel tightly, flexing his hands in expensive leather driving gloves as if eager to do lethal work with them.
With everything else, Tuesday hadn’t considered her chauffeur until then. Martellius drove her for nearly four months and she couldn’t know if he were a mole La Guapa planted from the jump or at what point he came to be on her leash. Tuesday thought back on all the times she had been alone with him in the car: eyes closed, guard down, vulnerable.
“Don’t even bother,” she said in response to Brandon in a voice that sounded far away. “He’ll turn up dead in a couple of days. He’s not important enough to protect and she’s not gonna leave a loose end like that.”
Brandon announced his agreement and frustration with a heavy breath. He navigated the Bentley along the Pacific Coast Highway where the descending dusk triggered the head and taillights of commuters. Tuesday continued to stare out her window, eyes still focused on something invisible in the distance.
Tuesday always took pride in being a planner. Her ability to read the strengths and weaknesses in people and a mind cursed to be obsessed with de
tails allowed her to stay ahead in the robbery game. She was used to being the smartest person in the room—that was until she met Marcus.
Back when her crew had targeted Sebastian Caine, the mysterious street king had been several steps ahead of Tuesday the entire time. He read her like no other man had been able to do since her first love, A.D. Using men had always come so easy, but Marcus was just the second she ever met who she couldn’t manipulate.
She hated to admit it but La Guapa was a female version of her husband. Smart, calculated, with an ability to see straight through her. But what Tuesday couldn’t get over was how she had toyed with her, literally played her like a video game.
The maze, the colorful shirts, she had even given a clue when she referred to them as ghosts; Tuesday only put it all together during that ride home. La Guapa had made her play a real-life game of Ms. Pac Man, and that fact pissed off Tuesday more than anything La Guapa had said about her or Marcus.
Tuesday sat there humiliated, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “I’m killin’ dat bitch!” The words left her mouth like a viper spitting venom.
Brandon leaned back in his seat. A bit of the anger over Martellius drained from his face. “You’ll be jeopardizing the very thing he gave his life for.”
She ignored him. “I need you to tell me how we can beat her.”
Brandon was silent long enough for her to turn and give him an expectant look.
He finally said: “Tuesday, you’re a wonderful woman, I see why Sebastian chose you, but I need you to understand something. Reina Rodriguez isn’t like any of the enemies you faced back in Detroit. She’s not some low-level gun dealer or some dancer from the club looking to come up. This woman has very powerful friends and a very strong team. She is the most dangerous type of individual: extremely high I.Q. with no moral code.”
Brandon relayed a story from back when La Guapa had first taken over her father’s business. He explained that a Colombian family of smugglers out of Medellin stopped respecting the Rodriguez family after they put a woman in charge. They challenged her for control of the border towns but after eleven months of bloodshed, the two regimes had fought to a stalemate.
“Somehow Reina learned who would be catering their granddaughter’s fifteenth birthday party and hid twenty pounds of C-4 in the girl’s cake. After her little present, the Colombians and the Mexican cartel bosses fell in line.”
Tuesday spoke the words slowly, emphatically. “She put a bullet in the back of his head, cut up his body into pieces, and fed them to pigs!”
Brandon tried to calm her. “It’s natural to want revenge, but going at Reina doesn’t bring back your man. Just like her wanting revenge for her brother is what started this whole thing and didn’t bring him back either.”
“Marcus told me what happened to Rico wasn’t his fault.”
Brandon pursed his lips in a way that said “don’t be stupid.” “I loved Sebastian, worked for him almost from the beginning, but that man wasn’t no saint. He always wanted power, knew Rene Rodriguez had a seat at The Table. Sebastian was always a helluva puppeteer, used the son to get to the father. Then got rid of Rico when he had the old man’s favor—who do you think told their enemies which club Rico would be at?”
“You’re saying Reina was right and Marcus sold out his best friend?” Tuesday looked at Brandon suspiciously. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because life is a series of serious choices. Because in the game, you have to make choices like that. Hard choices, and then you have to live with them. Back then he chose to be a boss rather than a goon. Just like he chose to protect his family and keep Abel clean.”
Tuesday shook her head. “He chose to die.”
“So that you and those girls could live. And live well! The trust he put in place ties La Guapa’s hands, but the knots are really loose. If you test her—”
“So what am I s’posed to do?!” she roared at him. “This bitch killed my husband, the father of my children, and I’m s’posed to just take that shit?”
The old man’s patient tone provided ice for her fire. “I don’t know what you’re supposed to do but I do know one thing. Three twenty-five up front and four percent of the flip is a damn good deal.”
Tuesday frowned like he had just committed blasphemy.
“Look, I’m not telling you to betray him. I’m just saying you have your own choice to make. You never wanted the company and you walk away with enough to give your children an amazing life.”
“I made my choice.” Tuesday turned her attention back to something outside her window. “I’m killin’ dat bitch. And just to be clear, I’m not askin’ yo’ permission.”
“Tuesday, we’re family. I’m on your side and I stand by whatever decision you make.” Her stepfather ran his gloved hand over the thick curly hair that now boasted more salt than pepper. “And just to be clear, you never needed my permission.”
Chapter Twenty
Miles away, just outside of Los Angeles County, the burgundy SUVs pulled onto a small private airfield purchased through a dummy corporation. The secluded ten-acre parcel had a landing strip long enough to accommodate an executive-class jet; however, it was unknown to the FAA or any regulatory industry, so the two luxury King Air 350i planes awaiting on the runway had landed illegally. This place served several wealthy owners who might need to discreetly fly themselves or their product in and out of California without the scrutiny received at a large commercial airport.
Within minutes, La Guapa, most of her men and their weapons, would be in the air and headed back to Texas. A small group would stay behind to handle unfinished business in L.A.
The Range Rover traveled with two Tahoes in the front and rear of it. In the back seat, Reina and her sister sat in silence, each absorbed by her own interest. Through her phone Reina was on a fashion site previewing the spring couture collection from Galliano. Her sister Roselyn’s attention was on a worn, dog-eared copy of Atlas Shrugged.
Reina frowned her disagreement over a studded ball gown with a feathered train getting positive reviews from the fashion bloggers. She said, “You think I’m being reckless.”
She never looked up from her phone. “I can do the math, Rose. I can calculate to a thousandth of a cent how much this entire demonstration cost us in money and manpower. And it wasn’t all just so I could taunt her.”
Through her stylish wooden frames, Roselyn peered down at her book. Roselyn was present for everything that took place in the warehouse. She witnessed the exchange between her sister and Tuesday from behind the Range Rover’s tinted glass.
Reina said, “Taunting someone is a proven psychological ploy. Athletes will often prod their opponents, make them angry to affect their performance. Empirical data shows that people do not function at optimal ability under duress. It’s nothing personal.
“And if this were anyone else we would proceed in the same manner. Precisely the same. This isn’t about him—it never was. I explained that from the start.”
Roselyn quietly turned a page in her book.
“My objectivity is not compromised,” Reina said angrily. “I’m not arguing that we couldn’t have hidden behind a veil of anonymity and purchased the company without her ever knowing. It’s not that I’m so vain that I would’ve never been satisfied with just cutting her check. I’m aware that I humiliated her today but it was necessary. I’m not some sadistic bully picking on the weakest kid in class.
“I know what I’m doing, Rose. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
The twin never looked up from Rand’s wisdom. They sat in silence for a beat, swaying in their seats when the Range passed over a divot in the road.
It was only a few seconds before Reina started again. “Yeah, I have been beating this ‘Revenge for Rico’ drum for twenty years, and now we have it, but I’m not just going after Sebastian’s family in a blind rage. I’m not jealous. We need the company and she has it. It’s cold, hard math and she’s just a variable to be
extrapolated, a thing to be solved and moved past. Inconsequential.”
Roselyn crossed the pleated pant legs of a pinstripe men’s suit by Sergio Hudson that had been tailored to a woman’s physique. She wore a lacy blouse under the jacket to feminize the look.
Reina looked up past the driver and passenger in the front seats to the two large blue-and-white dual prop planes awaiting them on the runway. Her expression grew pensive.
“Sebastian Caine easily had the most tactical, far-reaching, disciplined mind we’ve ever faced, and it would be a mistake to assume he married someone strictly for their looks. And don’t even say it Rose: after all, he didn’t even marry me. Ha ha ha.”
Roselyn’s lips stretched into a thin smile. Her eyes never wandered from the page.
“And of course I know there are examples of rare people for whom pressure makes them focus. Her whole soliloquy about the room was amusing but did you see the look on her face when she threatened me? I saw fire and focus. I better than anyone should know not to underestimate a scorned woman.”
She brooded over that for a moment then shook her head as if to dislodge the idea. “She’s just a hoodrat that he found and took pity on like some stray animal—part of his new magnanimous persona. She’s nothing to be concerned over.”
Reina studied a Gautier dress with a sweetheart neckline then tucked her phone. She looked over to Roselyn who was turning another page, still wearing a content little smirk.
“What could you possibly glean from that book that you didn’t get the first twenty-nine times you read it? I found her analysis trite and unremarkable when it was assigned to us in fifth grade; the cynical observations of a closeted lesbian who was mad at the world because the social constraints of her time wouldn’t permit her to openly suck all the pussy she wanted.”
“Your mistake was that you misjudged her motivation.” Roselyn adjusted her glasses and Reina knew her sister wasn’t talking about Ayn Rand. “You offered money to a woman who already has wealth. She’s not motivated by greed; she’s motivated by survival. We’ll have to adapt our strategy accordingly.”