Murderville 2: The Epidemic (16 page)

“Dope isn’t the only product coming off of that boat. The
Murderville
ship doesn’t discriminate. Women, kids, guns, drugs, counterfeit handbags—it’s all about the money.”

Po cleared his throat uncomfortably, but his conscience was easily pushed to the side when Ayo pointed to another bin that was being lifted by crane from the ship.

“That’s what we’re waiting for right there,” Ayo said.

The crane operator dropped the large container onto the dock, and the three men approached it.

Po snapped his fingers and Ayo’s goons came up from behind them and began to open it. When they popped it open Rocko’s mouth watered in greed. “Damn,” he mut
tered, not believing what he was seeing. The weight in front of him made Samad’s stash look like something a corner boy hid under his mattress.

Po stepped inside the container and said, “Give me a knife.”

Ayo handed him a pocketknife and watched as Po cut into one of the packages and dipped his finger into the snow-white powder. He put the substance in his mouth and within seconds his gums went numb. It was 100 percent raw. He had never had coke that hadn’t been stepped on. Even Samad’s bricks had a cut on it. Po was about to flip this shit ten times over. He stepped out and slapped hands with Rocko.

“We out. I know everything’s good, but being around this much dope out in the open is asking for a federal indictment,” Po said. He turned toward his goon squad. “Package that shit up quietly and quickly. Take it to the warehouse. It’s time to go to work.”

Po, Rocko, and Ayo walked away, each ready for the new era that was about to begin.

TWELVE

PO WAS TOO MUCH OF A HUSTLER
to put the product on the streets as is. It was so potent that he could cut it twice and still have the strongest product out. He wasn’t compromising his product either. Po refused to hire hood chemists to get the job done. He went to
UCLA
and found the top ten students in the chemistry department to do the difficult task of stretching one brick into two. With their tuitions paid in full and a handsome pay schedule to match, the young students were more than willing to render their services.

Po’s little storage unit was no longer big enough so he bought the entire building, paying off the owner and assuming the property under a fake name. He knocked down the walls between the units and set up shop. Watching the minifactory run successfully was better than anything he had ever felt. Rocko no longer ran the low-level street operation. Po assigned that jurisdiction to Ayo’s crew while Rocko and Po handled the big fish.

Once the hood got hold of his dope, his clientele tripled overnight. Within a month, Po became the largest supplier on the West Coast and had ambitions to move to the southern states in the months to come. The way he figured he had three captains. He could maintain the West while Rocko took it back to the Midwest and Ayo took over the South. His manpower wasn’t strong enough to expand, but he could easily reach back to Sierra Leone and bring back more thoroughbreds when the time was right. Po was getting it, and money was the most beautiful distraction from the woes that had recently taken over his world.

*    *    *

Castro sat in his car outraged as he looked at the ghost town that had become his block. Nobody was out; no hustlers, no fiends, no police . . . nothing was moving. He had dominated these blocks for the past five years and all of a sudden he was seeing a drop in his profit. No one had ever had enough balls to go against Los Familia. He never had competition because no one wanted to step on his toes. Po’s operation had put a permanent halt to Castro’s grind, and the lack of income had Castro ready to go to war. The bullshit product that Castro was putting on the streets was no match against Po’s. Po was getting his coke straight off the boat. It didn’t get better than that.

Castro had been plotting on the out-of-towners ever since Rocko showed up on his block, but after his first attempt on Po’s life had failed miserably, he decided to lie low until the opportunity was right. Now Castro feared that
he had underplayed his hand. Po’s hustle had grown, and the new faces on Po’s team gave him the manpower he needed to challenge Los Familia.

Los Familia was one of the most respected gangs in L.A. They put their murder game down over the years and had hidden ties within the
LAPD
. Reputation had kept them from encountering any adversaries in the past, and they had reigned supreme as the untouchable kings of L.A., but Po didn’t care about the hood legends. He was willing to step on any and all toes if he had to. Castro could either accept it or reap the consequences of going against the grain. The choice was up to him, but Castro refused to assimilate. His ego was too large to bow out of the game gracefully. He would rather die on his feet then live on his knees, and if he chose to go to war with Po he just might let his pride take him to an early grave.

*    *    *

Castro walked into the laundromat with a basket full of clothes and looked around, spotting the man he had come to see. The seedy establishment was in the middle of Chinatown and was half-empty as Castro strolled over to Bower Anders, the police commissioner for the city of Los Angeles. Under normal circumstances, the two would not run in the same circles, but when Bower married Castro’s older sister, Castro acquired a very useful connection inside of the LAPD. Anders kept the police off Castro’s ass and out of his territory for the small convenience cash fee of $25,000 per month. Their arrangement had been running smoothly for
years . . . until now. Suddenly Castro had come up short, and Anders wanted to know why.

Castro walked over to machine and threw in a light load of clothes, pulling spare change out of his pocket to start it. Any onlookers would never be able to tie the two men to each other. They were simply doing laundry; nothing more, nothing less. Anders sat in the seat directly behind Castro so that their backs were to each other and grabbed the
L.A. Times
that sat nearby. Opening it, he held the newspaper in front of his face.

“What happened to my money this month?” Anders asked.

“I’ve got a problem on my hands. Some nigger came to town. Opened up shop. Now my blocks ain’t making no money. I don’t eat, you don’t eat. It’s that simple,” Castro replied in frustration. “I need you to help me get rid of him.”

Anders’s head spun around as he looked right, then left, making sure that no one was watching or listening. “And how do you suppose I do that?”

“Get him out of my territory. Have your boys raid his spots. I’ve heard that his product comes in at the port once a month. I’m working with dirty cocaine from Mexico, and this black fucker is getting pure cocaine delivered to him from across the seas. I can’t compete with him . . . unless I use you as my leverage,” Castro said.

“I don’t know about this,” Anders replied.

“What do you mean,
vato
? If you want my drug money to keep paying for that pretty house you got my sister and
nephews living in then you better help me fix this,” Castro stated.

Anders sighed, regretting the day that he ever got involved with the street life. He was once just a dedicated beat cop until he met his wife. When his connection to Castro started he became crooked and began to contribute to the crime that he had once been so determined to stop. The money had blinded him, but now he was so far in that he couldn’t pull out. He was living way out of the means of a police commissioner and needed Castro’s drug money to maintain his lifestyle. He had to provide for his family. He couldn’t go back to the straight and narrow.

“What’s his name?” Anders asked.

“Po.”

“Po what?” Anders asked.

“Just Po, that’s all I know. He runs with a goon named Rocko and some African fuckers. Niggers are black as tar and cold as ice. If you get them out of the picture, then I can get back to business as usual,” Castro explained.

“Consider it done. But I want my money immediately. I don’t care if you have to pull it out of your personal stash,” Anders said.

“I’ll have it for you as soon as this nigger’s out of my hair,” Castro stated. He stood up and before leaving he said, “Kiss my sister for me.”

*    *    *

Rocko was like a shift manager at a local factory as he walked back and forth, watching the cook-up team to ensure that
no one got sticky fingers. He had no problem being the enforcer. If anybody tested the system he’d put a nigga to sleep. Rocko heard a knock at the door and answered, knowing that it was the local crackhead coming by at her usual time to sell his people chicken dinners.

“What up, Tiny? How many you got for me?” he asked, following his normal routine.

“Ten,” she replied as she danced in her own skin, fidgeting, looking around from side to side. She was antsy and excited about the crack that she was about to receive as payment for her meals.

Rocko pulled a knot out of his pocket and handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

“Come on, Rocko,” she contested, complaining because she preferred to be paid with drugs instead of money. Rocko always hooked her up and gave her way more than the dinners were worth.

“Man, take that money and go home, Tiny. Put some fucking groceries in your fridge for your fucking kids,” he said as he flicked off another fifty and tossed it to her.

She grumbled as she took the money and walked off the porch, cussing him out for being in her business.

Rocko was about to step back inside when he noticed an unmarked police car sitting across the street. The white men inside stuck out like sore thumbs. He hadn’t seen a white face on that side of town besides the fiends he served, and the two collared shirts he was staring at were definitely not crackheads.

“Yo’ flush that shit! All of it!” Rocko stated.

The workers halted in hesitation and looked at him questioningly.

“Flush it now!” he yelled.

Rocko didn’t know how long the police had been sitting on him, but he was sure that if they were that close, then it wouldn’t be long before they were kicking down his door.

He worked frantically to get all of the white powder down the toilet, but it was no use. Just as he suspected, the front door came crashing in.

BOOM!

“Put your hands up! Put your fucking hands up now!” the police screamed as they swarmed into the drug house. Rocko pulled his gun off his hip and thought about shooting it out with the cops, but he knew that he was outnumbered. “Fuck,” he exclaimed. He pulled the window up and squeezed his body through the tiny frame. He fell clumsily to the ground and heard, “Put your hands up!”

Rocko came up shooting and hit the cop straight in the chest. The bullet didn’t pierce the cop’s vest but was enough to knock him off his feet. Then he took off, hopping the high fence in the backyard over to the next block. He turned around and shot at the officer who was attempting to hop the fence and give chase. His bullets kept the cop at bay while he ran full speed through the back alleys of the neighborhood. He dashed into a local eatery, half-scaring the customers because he was so frantic. He quickly calmed himself, putting his gun in his waist holster, then hurried to the back of the restaurant where the restrooms were tucked away. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Po’s number.

“Hello?”

Breathing heavily he mumbled into the phone. “My shit just got raided, bro! Come and scoop me
ASAP
before these fucking cracker-ass cops find my ass,” Rocko said.

He gave his location to Po, then locked the bathroom door. He leaned over the sink gasping for air as he caught his breath while thinking how close he had come to spending the rest of his life in prison. “I know I moved smart,” he said to himself wondering how the police had gotten the drop on his spot. The raid had come out of nowhere, and he was just grateful that he hadn’t been caught.

*    *    *

“What the fuck happened?” Po grilled as Rocko discreetly slid into his front seat.

“I don’t know. Nigga, you know how I move. My shit was clean, the trap was discreet, no bullshit, no traffic in and out,” Rocko explained.

Po’s phone rang, and he put up a finger for Rocko to be quiet as he answered. “What up?” he said.

“We’ve got a problem,” Ayo informed.

Po exhaled deeply. “Nigga, you fucking right. Rocko’s shit got raided an hour ago,” he informed his lieutenant.

“I wish that was the biggest problem on our plate right now,” Ayo replied. “The shipment got flagged by Customs at the port. Shit got intercepted.”

“Fuck!” Po shouted outraged. It seemed as though suddenly the house of cards he had built was starting to crash around him.

*    *    *

Po’s business was on a standstill as Omega worked to get him a new shipment as soon as possible. Po’s entire warehouse was dry, and since he couldn’t supply the streets, Castro stepped right in and picked up where Po had left off. The streets weren’t loyal, and Rocko’s customers quickly jumped ship. Po’s elite clientele were more understanding after Po assured them that he would give them a good deal if they exercised patience.

Castro’s hold on the hood was stronger than ever. Now that he was back on, he refused to be knocked off again. His operation was secured, and anybody that was not affiliated with Los Familia wasn’t welcome to eat at their table. Castro wasn’t playing any games. He used his LAPD connect to ensure his safety, paying Anders double just to make sure that he had police protection when he needed it.

“I don’t want no black faces on my block unless they copping. A nigger ride through this mu’fucka you light they shit up,” Castro told his workers.

So as Po lost his footing in the drug game in L.A. Castro found his, and this time, he wasn’t going to let go. He would go to war with Po and leave the African mafia leaking in the streets before he took another loss.

*    *    *

Po sat in front of his computer screen and waited for Omega to enter their Skype session. The time difference kept them on separate schedules and since he returned to L.A., Omega had not been able to speak with Po directly. Ayo kept him informed on the daily business, but with the
emerging street war with Los Familia, Omega felt that it was time to step in.