Back when they were younger, he would run over to her building and knock on her door after he got a beating. He stood there each time with dried up tears on his cheek, snot falling from his nostrils and the saddest frown you ever saw. Dana had no choice but to let him in, because she knew all he wanted was some of her mother’s chocolate chip cookies. She felt bad for Mox. She really liked him as a friend and was one of the few who saw with her own eyes, the struggle he was going through.
Dana tip-toed to the front, grabbed Brandi, and walked her to the back while Mox went to see who was knocking. He glimpsed through the peephole and recognized Cleo standing there with a face full of frustration.
The door opened, and Cleo’s eyes fell on the gun Mox held in his left hand. “I don’t think killers knock on the door,” he teased.
“The last one did.” Mox clarified. He peered in to the hallway to make sure no one else was there. “What’s good cousin? I knew you’d be coming around sooner or later.”
Cleo shook his head with resentment and entered the apartment. “That shit you pulled in Vegas gon’ get us killed for sure. What the fuck is wrong wit’ you, Mox?”
“Keep your voice down Cleo, Brandi and Dana in the back room.”
“Mox, you don’t get it. You initiated a war with the Italians. This shit is serious.”
“It ain’t no more serious than going to war with niggas on the block, Cleo. Don’t tell me you scared of these dudes?”
“It’s not about being scared. It’s about being smart and making the best suitable decision,” Cleo reasoned.
“The best suitable decision?” he repeated. “Listen cousin, our original agreement with the Italians was twenty percent of everything, with the possibility of an increase upon us driving the numbers up. Now tell me if I’m wrong, but from day one until now… those numbers are up and always have been.” Mox sat in the fold up chair next to the sofa and fronted Cleo. “These bastards making millions off us, Cleo, and all we eating is scraps off the fuckin’ table!”
“You greedy Mox.”
“I’m not greedy. I’m hungry. You saw that little girl. Ain’t no denying that, Cleo That’s my reality and I gotta handle that, so this shit ain’t even about me no more.”
Mox got up from his seat and sat next to Cleo on the sofa. “I got too much love for you to let a nigga hurt you. You know that. We family, nigga, and right now I need you.”
“I don’t know, Mox.”
“Hold up. I’ll be right back.” Mox got up and went to the bedroom. He came out with the bag from Vegas. “I got three hundred stacks in here and half is yours. I hit Nate, Javier, Frank and Papi off with a hundred a piece, so everybody is good.”
Cleo gazed down at the bag full of money. One hundred and fifty thousand was much better than the usual twenty percent they got, but it came at a heavy price that he wasn’t willing to pay.
“You had this planned out already, huh?”
Mox smirked. “Not really. I ain’t gon’ lie, I was gon’ take that bread, but then they killed my girl, Cleo. I had to make somebody bleed.”
“I don’t think you understand what you getting yourself in to.”
Mox carefully listened to Cleo’s words. “So, you don’t want none of this?” He asked, ruffling through the stacks of bills.”
Cleo got up from the sofa and gestured to make his exit. “We can’t win this one, Mox. Sometimes you gotta know when to bow out.”
“I ain’t bowing down to nobody, fuck them Italians!” Mox hissed. “You go over there and try to talk to them muthafuckas and they gon’ blow your head off. They don’t give a fuck about you, Cleo, you just another nigga. Do you really think Mikey gon’ ride with you before he ride with his family?”
“I knew Mikey since we were kids.” Cleo reasoned, opening the front door.
TWELVE
Downtown - Brooklyn, New York
The stoplight at Hoyt and Atlantic was temporarily out of order, and traffic was becoming extremely congested. Horns blared and irritated motorists complained aloud about the chaos on the roads.
Javier clenched the steering wheel and mashed his foot on the brake to avoid smashing into the vehicle two feet in front of him. “Watch where the fuck you going!” he shouted. He slowly eased up to where the traffic officer stood trying to direct the gridlock.
The officer gestured for him stop, and approached the driver’s side window. “License and registration” he ordered.
“You just let ten people go past and now you wanna pull me over? This is crazy.”
Javier was furious. He couldn’t understand why he was the only one getting pulled over. He reached for his wallet and gave the officer his license and then he popped the glove compartment open and searched for the registration. He felt the small .380 underneath some papers.
“You’re kinda young to be driving an eighty thousand dollar car. What type of work you do?”
Javier twisted his neck and gave the officer his best screw face. He hated cops, black and white. He was ready to shoot him and pull off, but the traffic was even more backed up now.
“I sell cars.” He answered. He wasn’t technically lying, but the whole truth was, the cars are stolen.
“Oh, yeah... what kind?”
Javier’s hand eased off the pistol. “All types, they’re used. Here, take a card.” he pulled a business card from the middle console and handed it to the cop.
“Javier’s Auto” He read out loud. “That's cool. Here you go,” the officer gave Javier his license back and let him pass.
The glare from the sunlight was in his eyes so he pulled the sun visor down, made the right onto Atlantic and ran into some more traffic.
“Shit!” He hit the Bluetooth button and spoke to the system. “Call Rene.” he said slowly and clearly so he could be heard. After a few rings, a sexy, female voice came through the speakers.
“What’s up, baby?”
“Rene, I’ma be there in like a half hour.”
“A half hour?... Nigga my pussy wet right now. You playing games, Javier. I swear I hate fuckin’ wit you.”
Javier smiled “Oh, word?” He was feeling himself. He knew every time she said that, she meant the exact opposite.
He saw an opening in the lane next to him, stepped on the gas, and turned the wheel quickly. The Town car behind him was coming too fast and smashed the rear of his new Audi.
Javier’s body jerked and he was pushed forward into the steering wheel. “Oh, shit!”
“Hello?”
He grabbed the back of his neck and grimaced. “Somebody just crashed in to the back of my shit,” he grumbled.
“You alright?”
He turned to look out the back window and caught sight of the two dark suited, gun toting, white men moving in quick.
His survival instincts immediately kicked in and he got as low as he could, opened the glove compartment and snatched the gun. He raised his arm and blindly let off three shots through the back windshield, dropping one of the dark suits.
The traffic officer around the corner heard the shots and radioed for back up. At the same time, a blue and white NYPD patrol car was cruising Atlantic on the opposite side where traffic was at a minimum. Hearing the shots, he sped up to where the accident was and jumped out the vehicle with his gun drawn.
The other dark suit fired the fully automatic machine gun he held in his hands and bullets ripped through windshields striking innocent bystanders as they sat in the backed up traffic.
Javier hit the clutch, shifted gears and smashed his foot on the gas pedal.
The cop’s gun was blaring and sirens howled in the background. He turned the wheel and tried to maneuver his way out, but only got fifty feet before crashing into a delivery van.
The gunfire was loud and continuous as Javier staggered from the wrecked automobile. He felt his left arm go numb. When he looked down, he saw blood leaking from a hole in his shoulder. There was no time to worry about that because dark suit’s gun was still spitting out rounds.
After he dropped one officer, the dark suited gunman turned and fired on the traffic cop who was ducking behind cars trying to shield himself. This gave Javier a few seconds to execute his next move.
He hobbled to a grey Toyota Camry that was twenty five feet in front of him and tugged at the door handle. It was locked. The driver, an elderly white woman, was slumped in her seat with a bullet hole in the back of her head.
Javier smashed the driver’s side window with the gun in his hand and opened the door. He yanked the dead woman’s limp body from the seat, tossed her to the ground, jumped behind the wheel and escaped the lurid scene with minimal damage.
__________
It was 9:30 pm and the projects were a ghost town. Except for a few stray cats and a junkie here and there, Ryan was the only one out, huddled in the cut on the side of building 80.
He let the smoke flow through his nostrils and plucked the clip of marijuana into the grass. When he looked up, he saw a common face approaching.
From a distance he nodded and she nodded back.
“What’s up, what you want?”
“Please, Ryan, jus gimme two for thirty-five this one time. You know I always come straight.”
“I don’t take short money. Look at these shits.” Ryan bragged. “This is the best shit out here.” He held up two clear, glassine baggies filled with cocaine in his palm.
Priscilla’s eyes enlarged at the sight of the irresistible drug. She grew extremely eager and her mouth twitched. “C’mon, Ryan, I’ll bring it back. I swear.”
He tucked the drugs back into his pants pocket. “I heard that lie a thousand times, Priscilla. You full of shit. Get the fuck outta my face.”
Apprehensive and jittery, she crammed her hands back into her pockets hoping some money would magically materialize. She felt something, dug deeper and pulled out a brand new pair of diamond studded earrings.
“Look. I got these!” She bellowed and shoved the two half karat stones in his face.
“Let me see those.” Ryan grabbed Priscilla’s wrist, twisted it and dumped the rocks into his hand. He eyed the beautiful nuggets and then he looked at Priscilla and shook his head. He opted to just turn around and walk off, but his feelings were hurt by her actions.
Ryan put the earrings in his pocket.
Priscilla smiled. “Ok, so what you gon’ gimmie for ‘em?”
“What I’ma give you for ‘em?” He reached into his sweat pants and backed out a chrome .45 ACP with black plastic on the handle.
Priscilla was stumped. She didn’t have a clue of what was going on, and she had never saw Ryan with so much disgust in his eyes. “What are you doing, Ryan?” she panicked.
The strike was immediate. As soon as the butt of the gun touched her face, blood shot from her nose. She folded and fell to the ground. Ryan stepped back, raised his leg and kicked her in the stomach while she was down.
“You stupid, bitch! I bought these earrings for Brandi’s second birthday! You sniffin’ that much fuckin’ coke, huh!?” He was steamed. He stood over Priscilla as she fought to get back to her feet.
“Ryan, I’m sorry…” She sobbed. Blood was trickling from her nose like a leaky, project faucet. She touched her face and scowled. Her nose was broken. She could feel it.
Ryan cocked his right hand and struck her in the abdomen with a ruthless blow, sending her back to the pavement in agony.
“You out here twisted. Get your shit together, Priscilla!” He said, and strutted up the empty project strip.
Priscilla bled on the freezing concrete. Eyes closed. Envisioning a life she always dreamt about, a life she once lived. She thought about her daughter and all the people she wronged. Knowing she was better than what the world saw, Priscilla promised herself she would listen to Ryan for the first time and really get her shit together. It was a must.
__________
Cleo lounged in the backseat of the cab fidgeting with his new phone. “Chris, wassup… you don’t seem like yourself today. Is something bothering you?”
Chris kept his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road. Something was troubling him, but he didn’t want to burden Cleo with his problems, so he downplayed it.
“You know; regular problems with my girl, nothing crazy.”
Cleo knew he wasn’t telling it all, but it was his business and if he didn’t want to share it, that was fine too. “Ok… yea, I got those problems too.”
They both laughed.
Cleo’s phone rang and it surprised him. He couldn’t figure out how someone had already gotten his new number. He only had the phone for two days.
“Hello?”
The caller hung up.
“They starting this shit already.” He whispered. Cleo looked up and noticed they had been sitting at the light for longer than usual. “Wassup with this light Chris?”
He looked up at the light. “I don’t know, Cleo. Maybe it’s broken.”
Suddenly the backside passenger door swung open and Vito grilled Cleo with a six shot .38 in his hand and one knee wrapped in gauze. “Get in the car.”
Cleo spun his head.
The other door came open and a short, fat, slick haired white guy had a twelve gauge shotgun pointed at his chest.
“I ain’t going nowhere.”
A black Town car pulled up to the open door and the back window came down.
“Hey, Cleo. Get in the fuckin’ car!” The Old man hollered.
Seeing how serious he was, Cleo complied. He tapped Chris’ headrest. “Go head, I’m good from here.” He slowly exited the cab, and entered the black Town car with the Mafia Boss himself, Vinny Telesco.
Chris never looked back. He pressed on the gas, went through the light and continued to the highway.
Another Town car pulled up and Vito limped to the backseat. The slick haired, fat guy jumped in the front seat of Vinny’s car and they peeled off.
Cleo looked out the window at the passing scenery. He paid no attention to The Old Man.
“You can’t even look me in my face, Cleo.”
“It wasn’t my fault, Vinny.” He tried to explain.
“The fuck if it wasn’t your fault. He’s been your responsibility from day one.” The Old Man wheezed. “You vouched for him Cleo. If I didn’t like you, I’d have Sammy the scar up there put a few in the back of your fuckin’ head.”
Sammy turned in his seat and smiled. The sight of his discolored, rotten teeth made Cleo’s lip curl. “Turn the fuck around, Sammy… I ain’t talking to you.”
“Just give me some time Vinny. I’ll take care of it,” Cleo lied.
“Time’s runnin’ out. I’m giving you one chance and one chance only. I don’t wanna hear any more about Mox.”
It took him a minute, but soon enough, Cleo finally caught on to what The Old Man was trying to say. He couldn’t believe what he was being asked to do.
Cleo looked at the Mafia Boss for the first time since he’d been forced into the car.
“I can’t do that, Vinny,” he pleaded.
The Old Man rubbed his hands together, loosened his tie, and fixed his beady eyes on Cleo. “It’s either blood on your hands or dirt on your grave. Whichever one you choose, Cleo.” he hit the button to let the window down and a cool breeze caressed his face. “Jimmy, pull over,” he instructed. “Now get the fuck outta my car.”
Cleo wanted to tell The Old Man to fuck off, but he was smarter than that and being ignorant in this situation was only going to lead to one outcome; a casket. One thing was for sure, he wasn’t taking orders from nobody. He was going to handle the situation however he saw fit. Fuck the Telescos.