The Family Business 3 (11 page)

“Gentlemen, you've given us a lot to think about. We'll be in touch.” Orlando and I rose, shaking hands with Popeye Wilson and Tony Williams, two of the most powerful black gangsters in the world. Popeye, a short and stout, well-dressed man, ran his operations out of Washington, D.C., and Tony was a skinny-as-a-rail know-it-all from Atlanta. We'd distributed narcotics to both of their organizations for years, which technically made them beholden to us, but with everything going on with Brother X, they were suggesting a merger, so to speak. Our recent problems were putting us in a precarious situation, as far as the power structure was concerned. People who were once reliant on us were now looking to become partners.

“Well, LC, you know we're here for you if you need us,” Popeye said.

“Yeah, man. We Blacks need to stick together like the Koreans, the Italians, and the Jews,” Tony commented as they headed out the door.

“I know we need soldiers, Pop,” Orlando's voiced under his breath as we watched them leave, “but are we really going to do this?”

“It's something to consider. Besides, it's better than the offer we got this afternoon, don't you think?” Truthfully, it was starting to look like we didn't have a whole lot of options. At least none that I liked.

“I don't know, Pop. I'm afraid that if we let them in, we're never going to get them out.” Orlando's tone was serious. He'd been that way ever since he was a kid, always thinking things through and imagining every possible outcome. It was the reason I had chosen him to take over the family business when I retired—if I ever got the chance. It seemed every time I thought things were falling back into place, another crisis hit the family and I was forced to delay my plans. Still, I appreciated Orlando working side by side with me through it all.

“You know as well as I do that Popeye and Tony will sell us down the river first chance they get.”

“I know that, Orlando, but blood has already been spilled on both sides. With Junior MIA and Kennedy dead, we're going to need all the help we can get. Those men have small armies—armies we may need to use to take X and his people out.”

“Maybe, but I'm starting to think that the offer we got this afternoon might be the way to go. It's a win-win for us all.”

“Everything that glitters isn't gold, Orlando,” I replied, pulling a crisp Cohiba cigar from my breast pocket. “Let's just hope Vegas has good news.”

“Okay, if you say so, Pop.” I patted him on the back.

“Look I'm gonna step out back and smoke this stogie.” I ran the cigar across my nose, inhaling the scent. “And don't tell your mother I was smoking.” I loved my wife, but the older we got, the more she started to act like my mother. That was the reason I only smoked after hours at the dealership, when no one else was around.

“Wouldn't think of it, Pop. I know how much it relaxes you. Look, I'm going to see if I can get a hold of Junior. I'll be in my office if you need me,” he said.

“Sure thing,” I replied as I headed for the rear entrance and the new car prepping lot. I sat on a bench, cutting the tip off my cigar and lighting up. There used to be a time at the end of the day when my brother Lou and I would go out there, light up, and look at the cars. Lou used to call it “enjoying the fruits of our labor,” but I'd been so busy lately that I hadn't taken advantage of one of my simpler pleasures.

A dark blue Range Rover caught my eye. She was a real beauty. I had a mind to go inside, grab the keys, and take it for a ride. That's when I felt a buzzing in my pocket and reached for my phone. It was the call I'd been waiting for the past three days.

“Did you hear about Kennedy?” I said as soon as I answered the call.

“Yeah,” Vegas said sadly. “Rio told me when he picked me up at the airport. What's up with Junior? What's his status?”

“He's been MIA since this morning. I told your mother he's working on something for me so she wouldn't worry, but we need to locate him before X does.” I took another pull off of my cigar. The sweetness of the smoke did little to counteract the bitterness of this conversation. “How'd your trip go?”

“Not as well as I expected.” I heard a heaviness in Vegas's voice that hadn't been there when he left town. It damn near broke my heart, especially since I had a good idea why he sounded like that.

“So it wasn't him?” I felt bad for my son. Somebody had to be playing a nasty trick on him, but what choice had he had other than to check it out? It must have felt like he had lost his best friend twice. I'd had my doubts about the outcome of his little trip to begin with, but even I didn't question Vegas when he set his mind to something.

“No, it was Daryl in the flesh,” he said.

“Are you sure?” I found this hard to believe, considering the fact that after his death I'd had some of my people break into the morgue and take pictures of his burnt-up body for my own peace of mind.

“Yeah, it was him. I spent almost five hours talking to him. Felt like we'd seen each other last week,” Vegas reminisced.

“That's all nice and dandy, but then why do you still sound like you have bad news? Was he on the plane with you, son?” I couldn't hide the desperation in my voice. We needed all the help we could get at the moment.

“No, Pop. He wasn't.”

“Did you tell him what's going on? That we need him. That the family needs him.” I felt myself getting worked up. Daryl was like another son to me, so I was happy to hear he was still alive, but it was hard to understand how he could have ignored the call to come help. He and Vegas together were as formidable a team as there ever was. Throw in the girls, hopefully Junior, a couple of Daryl's Israelite buddies, and favors from a few business associates, and we actually had a chance of surviving this whole mess.

“Of course I told him. He has his own issues, Pop,” Vegas assured me.

“Well, obviously I don't know the whole story, but I have to say I'm a more than a little frustrated that he's putting something else before family. I did not raise my kids that way, and I treated that boy like one of my own.”

“His wife is dying.”

“I see,” I finished, knowing that I had to let it rest.

Vegas changed the subject. “What's this Ma's telling me about you meeting with Popeye and Tony the pimp?” Vegas had never really liked Tony; something about some woman they both messed with a few years back. But of course, there was always a woman involved where Vegas was concerned.

“They're suggesting we all pool our resources. Merge together so we have a united front against our enemies and a stronghold on the black drug trade.”

“They're looking for weakness, Pop. They don't give a damn about any united front. If we weren't up against X, they'd never come to us with this crap.”

“You sound like your brother Orlando.”

“Can't fault a man when he's right,” Vegas replied.

“One thing's for sure,” I said. “We need to get our soldiers together because like it or not, we're at war.” I sighed, suddenly feeling too damn old for this shit.

“Sure sounds like it. I just wish we had more options. I can't believe that with all the money we make for these people, no one is coming to our aid.” Vegas sounded as frustrated as I felt.

“We did have the same visitor from Williamsburg who offered not just to help, but to solve our problems. As far as I'm concerned, that's a route of last resort.”

“I agree. We take that deal, we might as well close up shop.”

“Tell that to your brother when you see him,” I said.

“Let me make some calls. I already pulled together some guys from the old days that were always dependable,” he suggested, but neither of us finished that sentence with the words I was sure we were both thinking: “Not as dependable as Daryl Graham.”

“You do that. I'll see you back at the house.” I hung up the phone.

I heard a sound coming from behind me and turned toward the back of the lot. A slight movement caused me to pull out my .38 as I went over to investigate. Halfway there, I saw a figure appear from the shadows.

I raised my gun, pointing it dead center, until the person was close enough for me to see his face. “What the hell are you doing here?” In that instant, I saw a flash from the corner of my eye and felt a strange warm sensation on my chest. It took me a second to realize what had just happened.

“You—you shot me?” I put a hand on my chest and felt the warm, sticky blood oozing through my shirt just before I collapsed and everything went black.

I rode in the middle car of a small caravan of vehicles, wearing all black from head to toe, with Bonnie strapped to my hip. From the moment Orlando had called and said the old man was shot, I'd taken over security at the house, orchestrating things to get my family to the hospital safely.

Despite my cool demeanor, I was feeling overwhelmed. The stagnant silence in the car seemed to be sucking all the oxygen out of the atmosphere, but it didn't matter, since I could hardly breathe anyway. Ever since I got Orlando's call, I'd felt like I was suffocating, and being in the confined space of the car made it even worse.

We couldn't have pulled up in front of the hospital soon enough. I needed out. I think I jumped out of the car before it had even come to a complete stop. I exhaled and began issuing orders.

“I need two men on the front entrance and two men around back. Richie, case the place for any side entrances, and make sure that wherever there's an entrance and an exit, it's covered with one of our people.”

Once my men affirmed their understanding of my orders, I made my way back toward the rear of the car, checking the perimeter. When I was sure the coast was clear, I opened the door and allowed my mother to exit. I had to give it to her: She took “Never let them see you sweat” to the next level. She got out of the car looking as unruffled as if I were just taking her on a Sunday afternoon drive. There I was trying my best to be strong for her, but like always, she was the one holding me down.

We were joined by Harris and London, who'd traveled in the car behind us. I led the family to the automatic sliding doors at the hospital's entrance.

I turned to give one last order to my men, who would be staying outside. “If you see anyone who looks like they might have so much as a fingernail clipper, stop and frisk them.”

“What about the police?” one of them asked me.

“What about them? You all have carry permits. Tell them to call Captain Marks of the hundred and third if they have any problems. Harris has already spoken to him.”

He nodded his understanding, and I ushered my family into the reception area.

“Duncan,” I said to the woman behind the intake desk. “I need to know which room LC—”

“Fourth floor, surgery,” the woman responded, cutting me off. Apparently she'd been asked this question already. We dashed off to the elevator bank without even saying thank you. I pressed the button to go up.

As I paced back and forth in front of the doors, I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard my mother's soothing voice. “Calm down, honey.”

“I'm all right, Ma,” I replied, although we both knew that wasn't true.

The elevator chimed and the doors opened. I raced in and hit the button for the fourth floor, pacing inside as we rode up. When the elevator arrived on the fourth floor, I darted out in front of the others, looking around until I spotted Orlando staring out a window overlooking the parking lot. He looked as bad as I felt.

I called out to him, and when he turned to me, I gasped at the sight of his shirt covered in blood. I'd seen plenty of blood in my life, but knowing that it was my father's blood that stained my brother's shirt was almost more than I could process.

“He's in surgery, Ma, but it doesn't look good,” Orlando said to us as we approached. He was obviously trying to hold back tears.

Despite everything, my mother was still stronger than all of us. I watched as she embraced Orlando. London lingered close by, touching his back, not quite sure what to do.

“Vegas, can I talk to you for a second?” Harris tugged on my arm and then led me a short way down the corridor. This did not sit well with me. I already didn't like the guy, and now he was pulling me away from family at the worst possible moment.

“What?” I asked bluntly, looking back to where Ma and Orlando were still embracing.

“So what are you going to do?”

I looked back at Harris to see him standing there with his arms folded like he was scolding one of his kids. If I didn't already have bigger things to worry about, I would have laid his ass out for this arrogant disrespect.

“In reference to what?” I asked, swallowing the urge to punch him in the throat.

“Everything,” he huffed. “LC's on his death bed, the girls barely escaped three Muslim hit men at the Marriott, and I just heard Kennedy's dead. You're the Duncan messiah. With LC dead, how the hell do you plan on stopping them from killing the rest of us?”

I flexed my fists, still contemplating how good it would feel to break his jaw. “First of all, you arrogant son of a bitch, my old man's not dead yet. This isn't the first time he's been shot,” I growled under my breath, glancing back at my mother, who was engrossed in conversation with Orlando and unaware of me and Harris. London, however, was trying to ear hustle. At least she was smart enough to keep her distance. “And second of all, I'm nobody's messiah, but if you don't get the fuck out my face with this bullshit, I'm gonna nail your yellow ass to a cross like Jesus Christ himself and use you as bait to catch whoever did this to my father. So I suggest you step the fuck off.”

I was reminded of why the little part of me that did like Harris could tolerate him. He was so damn good at following Duncan orders. He backed right the fuck up.

I walked back over to Orlando, who was now by himself, staring up at a television. My mother had released him, and she was now consoling Paris, who'd just arrived with Sasha.

“You see this shit?” Orlando said.

I looked up at the screen to see a breaking news story about the shooting at the Marriott. Thank God it was being reported as a gang-related event.

“O, what happened?” I asked, pulling him over to a row of chairs where we could talk alone.

“I . . . don't know.” He dropped his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes as if it could erase the images of all that he had seen. “We had just finished our meeting with Popeye and Tony. Pop went outside to smoke a cigar, and I went to my office to see if I could reach Junior. Ten minutes later . . .
Bam!
” He looked up at me, his eyes wet with tears. “He was just lying there, Vegas. I didn't even know if he was still alive.”

“You think it was X and his people?”

A look of fury passed over his face. “Who else? Vegas, I'm gonna kill that son of—”

“Excuse me.” A deep-voiced doctor interrupted us as he stepped into the room and announced, “I'm Doctor Hondo.” He was scanning the notes on the chart in his hand.

Everyone raced over to the doctor. “How is he?” my mother asked, revealing her desperation for the first time. “How is my husband?”

“Not much has changed. He's still in surgery. We're doing all we can. There was a lot of blood loss,” the doctor said.

“Doc, come on,” I said, urging him to keep it straight with us. “Truthfully, is he going to make it?”

He removed his glasses and looked me dead in the eye. “We've got our best people in there, but if you believe in prayer, now would be the time to pray,” he said with no emotion whatsoever, then he turned and left the room.

I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to wipe away any expression that would give away the true fear I felt. I had to remain strong for my family.

Orlando and I went back over to the chairs to continue our conversation, but my mother was right behind us.

“How are my boys doing?” she said, sitting down next to me and putting an arm around my shoulder.

“Never mind us. How are you?” I said.

She looked to me then Orlando. “I'll be better when this is taken care of. Do you understand?” Even with the doctor's news, she was standing strong as ever. The fight in her overpowered her pain—a true Duncan trait.

“I got this, Ma,” I said. “I promise I'll take care of it.”

“I know you will, Vegas. Orlando, give him whatever help he needs. I don't care what it costs or who has to die. I want this taken care of sooner rather than later.” She walked away, leaving me and O to take in her words.

“You heard, her little brother. It's time to make some moves. X has his way of fighting, and so do we.” Orlando didn't say anything. Technically my little brother was in charge of the family business, but as the older and more experienced brother, it was my job to bring down our father's shooter.