I pulled up into the motel parking lot in upstate, New York and approached the ground floor room, with a .380 tucked in my waistband and fifty-thousand dollars in the back of my truck.
I knocked on her room door and Iris came to the door wrapped in a white towel.
“You alone…?” I asked. My hand was near my weapon.
“Yeah…”
I walked in slowly and observed the room; it was small. A single made bed, a badly maintained television and cheap carpet, with a small wooden desk near the door.
Iris was freshly out the shower and was looking good. I took a seat on
the bed and said, “What time do we meet?”
“Around ten, tonight…”
It was only five in the evening and getting dark. I sighed laying back. The drive to Connecticut was about two hours away.
We had time to spare. Iris dropped her towel to the floor and approached me in the nude. She slowly straddled me, while unfastening my jeans gripping my hard-on and guided it inside her. I moaned, getting in rhythm with her and held her in my arms thrusting.
We rode silently to Connecticut to meet up with a Colombian named Grotto. How did Iris link up with these Colombians, no idea—but the bitch was very resourceful when it came to the streets.
Around nine-thirty, we arrived in Westport, Connecticut, a few miles south of Bridgeport. The area was dense with many trees. The back roads were dark and winding.
In Compo Mill Cove, we drove up to a sensational and customized home. The driveway was lit with tiny lights engraved in the pavement. It was part of a gated community.
“We here,” Iris said, getting out the truck.
I made sure the strap was in the right place before getting out.
“You trust these peoples?” I asked.
She smiled, and headed for the entrance.
From what I knew, her connect was from Miami—Columbians. I was nervous going into a situation I knew nothing about.
It was stupid of me. I armed myself. They could ask me to check my weapon at the door.
I followed Iris to the house. Two men dressed in dark suits stood guard at the front door. I didn’t see any artillery on them. They stood at ease and were alerted by the sight of Iris and me. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and have these muthafuckas cap me.
“Estamos Aqui’ a Se, Grotto,” Iris spoke in Spanish as we approached the men.
I was shocked, not knowing that she spoke any Spanish. But people always thought the same thing of me.
She told them
we were here to see Grotto
.
“Espera aqua’,” one of the guards replied.
Pulling out a small, two-way radio, confirming our arrival, the guard told us we had to be searched before we were let in.
Shit!
I thought.
“I tell you right now, dawg, I’m already armed,” I enlightened him.
I was intensely stared down and quickly relieved me of my weapon. It was then that I noticed the bulge under his jacket, he was packing heavy.
I felt helpless and hated going into the situation unarmed. This was their turf, therefore their rules.
One of the guards led the way into the place. Iris entered first and I followed behind. Inside, there was a three-story atrium living room, with beamed ceilings, a fireplace and handsomely finished white oak floors. We passed a large, open dining room with French doors. The guard guided us to the great room. I noticed the large size projection television and expensive stereo equipment.
There were three men in the room, two dressed in dark suit. One clad in a dark color velour sweat suit, seated by the doors that open to the deck. His leg was propped up on the armrest of a big La-Z boy leather chair. He slouched, playing with the remote to the stereo. Classical music played and the man in the sweat suit seemed to be enjoying the composition.
He looked early forties, with a gray goatee, aging light brown skin, dark eyes and salt and pepper crimped hair. He seemed low-key in fashion, showing no bling, the only piece of jewelry I spotted on him, was a thin gold chain around his neck and a small cross for a pendant.
“Iris…?
He was a tall and handsome man. He looked calm approaching Iris greeting her with a hug and kiss on the cheek.
“Grotto…éste es el hombre que te decía alrededor, Vincent,” Iris said.
I nonchalantly pretended I didn’t understand what they were saying. She was talking about me.
Grotto didn’t say anything for a short moment, but I could feel his powerful presence sizing me up.
“I hear you’re coming up in Queens,” he said to me in a cool manner.
“I try,” I replied.
“Iris, come over here,” Grotto said.
Iris went to him without any hesitation. He put his arms around her and said, “I used to fuck her since she was fifteen…when she used to dance her tight little ass off at my club in Miami. She’s a good and sweet woman… literally.” He smiled eying me.
I listened unemotionally to him.
“You fucked her too?” he asked me.
“I thought we were here to do business,” I said.
He chuckled then turned to look at his men and said, “Papi aqui no puede incluso conseguir probablemente a su dick blando para arriba para la perra.”
His men laughed at my expense. I knew what he said about me, he practically called me a limp dick and said I probably couldn’t fuck the bitch right. I kept my composure and continued to look like I didn’t understand.
Iris nestled in his arms and looking flawless in a bustle wrap sweater dress. I watched Grotto slowly moving his hands up her thighs and under her dress. His eyes were focused on me. Iris looked hypnotized by his touch.
“You like to watch?” he teased, whispering.
I smiled.
Grotto continued to fondle Iris like they were the only ones in the room. He cupped her breasts and I knew he was finger fuckin’ her with his hand under her dress. Iris let out a blissful cry and looked lost in his arms.
Grotto then looked at me and asked, “She feels this way for you too?”
“It’s your world,” I said wishing he’d end the show.
Grotto smiled releasing Iris from his fondling grip and said, “I like you already…a man that doesn’t get emotional over a bitch.”
“I’m here for business,” I said.
He nodded and walked over to the bar.
“You want a drink?” he asked.
“I’m good.”
Grotto poured himself a drink from the bar and then said, “So, you’re ready to do business with me. How do I know you’re not the police?”
“How do I know you’re not a cop?” I asked.
He smiled and returned, “True.”
I suddenly noticed the gun in his hand, it looked like a Glock. I got extremely nervous. I thought that I was fucked but he turned the gun on to Iris. Her eyes widened.
“Grotto…no!” she exclaimed.
Bang! The gun went off. Iris dropped dead with a bullet to her head.
My mouth dropped opened and I was frozen to the floor, wondering,
was I next?
“Like I said, I used to fuck her since she was fifteen. I loved that little bitch and warned her, that if she ever fucked another man, I’d kill her,” he stated. “I never forget, my friend. Love is a very dangerous emotion…I’d rather hate a woman than to be in love with one. That should prove I’m not a cop.”
“Do I need to be worried?” I asked calmly but my heart felt like it was about to rip my chest.
“No…it was between us. You, on the other hand, have a fresh start with me. Let’s talk some business,” he said, walking from behind the bar with his drink in one hand and the smoking gun in the other.
I looked down at Iris sprawled out dead on the polished oak floors with a hole in her forehead and blood escaping from the back of her head, staining the oak floors.
“Don’t worry, my men will clean up the mess….come, let’s talk,” Grotto said, walking away from the body.
I sighed and thought,
damn, what a waste of some fine piece of ass.
I walked with Grotto into the den area, where he shut the door.
“Have a seat, my friend, mi casa, your casa.”
I took a seat on a plush burgundy leather couch. Grotto took a sip from his glass and sat behind his polished cherry wood desk.
“You came for business, let’s talk business,” he said. “I got fifty kilos of heroin that needs to be moved. There’s another fifty keys of cocaine and ecstasy just sitting around in the cold. I want it all gone. Are you the man?”
I thought about it for a short moment and said, “Yes. I have a connect in Philly that’s waiting for a re-up and I can move product in Queens too.”
“Good,” he said.
“I have one problem,” I said.
“And…?”
“I got some peoples in Queens that’s going to make it hard for me to move your weight.”
“I see…the competition. Do I need to deal with them?”
“I need muscle to back me. They’re both well known men. I kill them and their peoples will put a bullet in my ass. I need you to have my back on this. I’m fucking wit’ their money.”
“My friend, don’t worry. I have power everywhere, you understand? Okay, the price is eighteen thousand a key, can you do?”
I smiled—could I? Shit, that was three thousand less than what Tyriq was charging me.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Good.”
“I can give you fifty thousand in cash up front…if you can front me everything else on consignment,” I said.
“A man that comes prepared, I like that. We have a deal,” he said.
I smiled.
I had an easy hundred keys of coke, dope and ecstasy to distribute. I had a new connect and acquired some muscle in the process. My climb to the top was moving rapidly and my head was spinning. I went through so many bumps in the fucking road.
We shook hands. Grotto pulled me close to him, fixed his eyes on me. “You fuck me over, and it’ll take them years to find all of you. Remember Iris as an example. I loved her,” he said in a grim tone.
“I’m no bitch.”
“Let’s hope not,” he smiled.
Grotto got the money from the back of my truck. I left with fifty keys of coke and dope in the back of my truck. It was after midnight when I left Connecticut. I was tired and thought about poor Iris, she trusted Grotto and was the one who ended up dead. I watched two men in black cleaned up the body. They replaced the furniture like it never happened. God bless her soul. I had to thank Iris for the hook-up. It was time for me to show Tyriq that I was no longer under him.
Thirty-Four
Two months later....Tyriq
“Ayyite! This nigga, thinks he can fuck with me? Fuck that, nigga! I’ll put that punk muthafucka in the fucking dirt. He thinks cuz we grew up together that he can fuck me over? I’m gonna get at this nigga!” Tyriq exclaimed from the passenger seat of the pearl white Benz that drove down Hillside Avenue.
They were on their way to meet with the Jamaicans and Bones was behind the wheel. Vincent was on the rise, making major moves and word quickly got out that Vincent was moving weight across state lines. He had gotten a strong crew together, including Lil’ Goon and a few others. Soon, his reputation was spreading like the virus.
Vincent growing business was cutting into Tyriq’s profits, and Tyriq and the Jamaicans were clearly upset about this. Money was power and power was influence. Next came greed, egos and violence always follows, flooding the streets with blood.
“Yo, fuck him and the Columbians. He wanna be a gangsta. I’m gonna show this nigga how. Fucking backstabbing muthafucka! I brought this nigga in! I wanna murder this nigga!” Tyriq shouted.
“It’s a done deal,” Bones assured.
“Ayyite, he want a war? I’ll give this nigga a war. He ain’t got enough soldiers to fuck with me,” Tyriq screamed.
“It’s a spit in your face, my nigga…very disrespectful,” Bones
instigated.
Tyriq was ready to break windows and crack skulls. There were no more friendship and bond. I was now his foe and a bitter rival.
Tyriq created a monster. With the Columbians supplying and backing Vincent for protection, he was making kingpin moves—distributing weight in Philly, Delaware and B-more.
Murders started happening and Tyriq began questioning the disappearance of Iris. It was two months since he last saw her.
Tyriq had other important things to deal with than worrying about Iris. He had to meet with the Jamaicans about issues. He hated meeting with the Jamaicans, they were unpredictable at times. He didn’t know if he was walking into a meeting that would bring about his demise or someone else’s.
The Benz pulled up to a Jamaican restaurant on Hillside Avenue, near the Cross Island Expressway. Two lavish looking Escalades were parked outside the restaurant, indicating that the major players were already inside.
Tyriq got out, followed by Bones and made their way to the front entrance. They were bothered by what the Jamaicans would do about the escalating feud.
Vince had the pipeline to Philly, that made Tyriq look bad. The situation flipped on him. Vince was eating lovely and putting a minor dent into Tyriq’s organization.
The
Jerk -n- Stuff
Jamaican restaurant was a quaint eatery that catered mostly to a West Indian crowd. It was able to seat a crowd of twelve, but was also takeout. Pictures of the scenic island of Jamaica lined the walls of the restaurant with the colorful green, black, and yellow flag representing the island displayed throughout the place. The aroma of Jerk chicken and patties lingered through the dining area.
Tyriq walked into the dining area with a screw face. The staff was busy in the kitchen quarters. Bones was behind Tyriq, a .9mm tucked in his waistband. He was a young nigga under Tip’s guidance and was willing to continue killing because he did that best.
A dread-lock Rasta with thick long knotted hair crawling down to his back emerged from the kitchen, eyeing Tyriq and Bones. He was in a blue and white sweat-suit, dark shades covering his eyes.