Mafioso--Part 7, page 13
part #7 of Mafioso Series
Snitching had opened her eyes to new possibilities. That’s what Tannery had exposed her to, and she was hooked.
The walk-in closet held designers she could hardly pronounce, and the tags had astronomical figures. Shirts cost five thousand or more, dresses were ten large, and furs were more than a fully loaded car. Everything she tried on was her size down to the footwear.
Markeeta settled on a one-piece Valentino jumper and YSL pumps and flat ironed her hair that fell past her shoulders. She took scissors and evened out her bang to accentuate her eyes and high-arched eyebrows. Markeeta looked more like Lucky than herself and loved every second of the upgrade. There was a buffet of high-end perfumes; without reading the bottles, she sprayed one.
James had thought of everything, including makeup which the bathroom was fully stocked. Nude lipstick, eye shadow, and blush brightened up her face giving her cinnamon-colored skin a glow.
“Okay, bitch,” she said in the mirror. “Do you!”
James was punctual. He arrived at precisely six and let himself in at Markeeta’s annoyance. When she heard the front door open and slap shut, she ran downstairs with the scissors gripped tightly.
Without introduction, she deduced, “Dough, you can’t just be walkin’ up in here whenever you like! I could have been undressed!”
“Markeeta West,” James calmly said. “If you ever speak to me in tones louder than this, I will send your ignorant, unemployable ghetto ass on the next flight out to New York. Do we understand each other?”
The threat was straight, no chaser.
Markeeta was tightlipped and followed James into the living room. They both sat down, and she found it hard to give him eye contact because his face was so frightening. It felt rude, like she was staring. The type of disrespect you’re taught as a child, and there’s someone with a perceived handicap, and your parent says, “Don’t stare!”
Agent Dough was a hideous sight to Markeeta. Looks that would stop your heart if accosted on a desolate block after sundown. He was a tall, lanky sasquatch. Unavoidable.
He began a litany of questions.
“What made you want to inform on your family, knowing what the outcome would be?”
“Excuse you,” she said in an offended tone.
“You heard the question. Answer it.”
Markeeta blew out air and considered the statement. What was this? An interview? Interrogation? Could she answer incorrectly and be sent home where she had no home?
Truthfully, she replied, “I didn’t care. I don’t care what’s gonna happen to any of them. All I’m concerned with is me and my son.”
“Fuck everyone else?”
“Fuck ‘em,” she said and shrugged.
James’s lips curled slightly. A barely negligible movement that couldn’t qualify as a smile. But was. He asked, “Is it fair to say that you would feel nothing if I told you that Lucky was dead?”
“Is she?”
James nodded. He searched Markeeta’s eyes, and body language, for any sign of empathy or compassion and saw none. Although the news made her stomach rumble inside, her exterior was stone.
She asked, “Who did it?”
“One of our agents.” His tone was cavalier, flat.
Markeeta thought about the sex tape uploaded to the gram and wondered if there was a nexus. She wanted details and had questions but asked nothing. It was better if she didn’t concern herself with things that didn’t concern her.
“Manny Machiavelli. How did you get him to trust you?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. Manny just did.”
“If you learn anything from me, please learn that shit just doesn’t happen. There are no coincidences, and opportunities are created. Manny trusted you because you made him trust you. I want to know your methods; what did you do?”
“I fucked him,” she began. “Is that the right answer?”
“Depends on how good you are in bed.”
Markeeta took a moment of silence to revisit the question. “I listened to him ‘cause he liked to talk about himself. When I moved into the building, Shirelle, his girl, was probably tired of listening to his war stories. So, I acted interested, followed up with questions, and his mouth kept running.”
James nodded knowingly. “Tell me about his girlfriend. Did she know you were fucking her man?”
Markeeta’s head shook. “Not at all.”
“How are you so sure?”
“Because Shirelle would have fought me over her nigga. She ain’t no punk bitch, and neither am I.”
“Let’s try to stay away from violence, okay?”
“Absolutely,” she agreed. Markeeta didn’t come here to be fist-fighting anyone. She came to get paid. Markeeta asked, “You mentioned that if I get you what you want, there’d be a payday for me.”
James shrugged indifferently when Markeeta wanted absolutes. She pushed further. “How? How am I getting paid?”
“There’s a law on the books that few people know about. It says you’re legally entitled to a small percentage if you help the government retrieve ill-gotten gains. When dealing with dealers, racketeering or white-collar crimes could be substantial.”
“Like a whistleblower?” she asked, and James was impressed.
“Yes, exactly.”
“So, this law…the reason the hood ain’t heard of it is that the government doesn’t extend it to us, right?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
She doubted that. James knew exactly what she was getting at. Markeeta clarified with, “You see wives like Mrs. Madoff whose husband stole billions get to allegedly walk away with millions—no jail time. And then you see these mob wives get reality shows and collect these phat-ass checks—no jail time. And then you see my homies and think, what happened to Pookie’s wife? Feds kicked her out of her home, took all vehicles, jewels…didn’t leave her with a fuckin’ crumb. Locked her up, the mama up…grandmama’s mama up, and treated everyone from A to Z like pieces of shit. Where was her cut? Where was this law? Because as I see it, they’re all criminals.”
“If Pookie’s wife was locked up, it’s because she was involved or had criminal knowledge of his enterprise.”
“And these white women didn’t? They had no clue their husbands were doing shady shit? No fucking clue whatsoever?”
“Evidently, they didn’t.”
“Nor are these women forced to take the stand and testify against their dudes. Y’all never make these women turn snitch. That’s left up to us.”
“Look, no one’s forcing you to inform. We can part ways now if you feel a way about this setup.”
“I’m making conversation,” she admonished. “I thought with all that reading material you assigned, you wanted conversationalists.”
The two locked eyes and James waited for Markeeta to break the stare first. She didn’t. Until then, he had her summed up as a one-dimensional hood rat. And he knew she was that, but could she be a smidge more? He was stumped.
Dough finally asked, “Bo Jangles. You up for the challenge? He has specific tastes and loses interest quickly.”
“I can pull any nigga I want. Just make the introduction, and Bo Jangles is mine.”
Markeeta stood up and walked to the bar.
“You want a drink?”
His head shook as she poured herself a glass of cognac.
James noticed that she was feeling herself. It was how she was strutting around in the expensive heels, her body movement in the pricey garment. He didn’t like it.
“You look a couple months pregnant. Are you?”
Markeeta’s face twisted. His question and her inability to respond the way she knew made her uncomfortable. Her usual response would be to lash out, but she kept her composure.
“Last I checked, no.”
“Then check again,” he snapped and continued, “And your makeup is too light for your complexion. You look clownish right now.”
Markeeta’s heart sank at the onslaught of insults. She didn’t know what prompted his harsh language.
“When I heard about what you did on the Machiavelli case, I thought you were a dime piece. I couldn’t wait to get you here.” Now it was James’s turn to stand up and pour himself a two-finger glass of scotch. Meanwhile, Markeeta was hanging on to his every word.
“Sight unseen, I upgraded your housing from a condo to a townhouse. Put two luxury vehicles in the driveway and stuffed the closets with nearly a million in clothes, handbags, and shoes.”
He looked down at Markeeta’s feet.
“Speaking of which. You really wear a size nine?” James snorted. “God damn…that’s huge. Most women I know your height…what are you? 5’3?”
She nodded.
“Exactly,” he admonished. “You should wear a six or seven at the most.”
“I don’t, though,” she snapped, not checking her tone. “But I’ll do my best to make this work. Big feet and all.”
Markeeta hoped he would change the subject and move on.
“Yeah…yeah…that’s what I want to hear.”
Apparently, yeah, was appropriate English as long as it was coming from him, she thought. Dryly she asked, “Anything else?”
“Your hair.”
“What about it?”
“It’s long but thin and stringy. I want sexy, full hair, not what’s equivalent to a man’s comb-over,” he stated. “I have someone, top in the industry, to give you a weave.”
Markeeta’s head shook rapidly. “I don’t want no weave. That’s what thinned my hair in the first place! Bitches be pulling out ya edges and popping ya strands on purpose!”
James ignored the profanity and assertive remarks. “This isn’t a democracy.”
The glass of scotch was finished, and so was their meeting.
Angel only needed to hear Lulu humming along, crooning to Thalia and Vincente Fernández—both Méxican singers before promptly hiring a vocal coach. His daughter barely spoke complete sentences, but to Angel, he was listening to nothing short of greatness.
Marbella got in on the action too. “She’s a natural, Angel. A born entertainer. We shouldn’t stop at vocals; let’s get her dance classes too.”
“You don’t think that’s too much?”
“We can certainly afford it.”
“Yes,” Angel agreed. “Let’s hire only the best choreographers for Lucchese.”
It didn’t take long for Marbella to be just as obsessed with the child who had known two other mother figures—both not wanting anything to do with her. But Marbella was childless and realized she could finally have it all—man and child.
And Lulu instantly warmed up to her new guardian, wrapping her arms tightly around her neck for hugs and crawling into Marbella’s lap for a bedtime story.
At first, Angel was jealous. He didn’t want to share. But then that emotion suddenly subsided because Lulu had enough love to go around. She brought nothing but smiles to the faces of her siblings. Even his hired henchmen were clamoring over her.
Angel spent his days trying not to think about Dahlia. He missed her and wished she could have loved his child. Maybe he reacted too harshly. Perhaps he should have given her a couple of sterner warnings. But Angel knew thinking of her was fruitless, and nothing would come of it, so he stopped.
He was surprised when he received the call from America, and once Scott identified himself, Angel remained guarded.
“What is it that you want, Scott?” Angel wondered if Lucky wanted her daughter back. And if she did, then there would be another war.
“I got some bad news that I thought you should know.”
“What’s happened?”
“It’s Lucky. She’s missing.”
“Missing? You must know more than that?”
“Not much, but it’s being handled.”
“I know it’s difficult knowing what you’ve been through with your other children,” Angel said earnestly. “But my heart isn’t really breaking here. And missing isn’t dead, sí? Should things turn for the worst, I promise our daughter will know who her birth mother was.”
Scott got to his point. “That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Of course not.” The sarcasm in his voice wasn’t undetected by Scott. Angel knew the West family wasn’t concerned about his daughter’s welfare.
“I have my hands full in New York concerning the family business. And I have firsthand knowledge that the remaining sicarios are now my problem. Remember Félix and Pedro? The spicks you hired to go after my children’s empire and left everyone dead?”
“So?” His response was cavalier.
“These men are under the thumb of the Garcia cartel, and my wife’s life is in danger, which by default means mine too.”
“This is not my business,” Angel deduced. “You and I shook hands like men. I did the same with Javier, so…I’m…as they say, Switzerland.”
Scott knew a closed mouth don’t get fed. And right now, he needed a full plate of allies he could forge an alliance with because the impending war would be monumental. The full force of the Garcia cartel, sicarios, their militia, and FBI—combined would take him out and his family.
The gangsta was above begging, but as a businessman, he knew how to negotiate.
“You and I know it’s only a matter of time before Juárez and Javier Garcia are back at war—”
“I don’t run Juárez, Scott. You know this,” Angel said. He was walking through his mansion, his cell phone pressed against his ear. Scott’s call had stirred conflict and dissension, making him feel alive. He missed picking up the phone and ordering a man’s death. Or watching the carnage on the news of murder sprees, he’d orchestrated. But then he thought of Lulu. And said, “I benched myself for the love of my niña, your grandchild.”
“You’re no less retired than me. We both know Louis will call you to ask how to tie his shoes. If you greenlight this operation, Louis and Juárez will back you.”
“What is it that I get out of this? And don’t insult me with money.”
“You get to play a role in your daughter’s grandparents staying above ground. Think five moves ahead, Angel. Should anything happen to you—natural causes or otherwise—you should feel confident knowing someone with resources can pick up where you left off.”
Angel chuckled. “The grandparents who wanted my daughter dead?”
“The past, Angel. Let’s move forward. Because as I remember correctly, you wanted her just as dead. And if it wasn’t for my daughter, there would be no Lucchese.”
Angel wanted to change the narrative. He didn’t like the tale of the father who wanted his innocent child killed. Scott made a good point, though. What if something were to happen to him?
Still, he said, “Switzerland.”
And disconnected the call.
Lacey’s Soul Food Restaurant was a popular eatery on 135th Street, on the west side of Harlem. It was known to have some of the best soul food in the city, from its tasty ribs, fried fish, and cheesy macaroni to its peach cobbler and sweet potato pie. It was frequented by locals and tourists, but today it would be Bugsy’s place for business. Their parents had benched Meyer. He had only recently kicked his addiction to an opioid, so they weren’t ready to trust him to have a sit down with potential undercover agents.
Bugsy walked into Lacey’s well-dressed and sat at the back of the restaurant where he could watch the comings and goings of everybody. He sat alone, but he wasn’t alone. Standing outside was two armed men, covertly carrying holstered pistols and watching the area like two hawks perched on a ledge. And inside, his men unassumingly mingled with other patrons.
Ten minutes later, Pablo and Diablo arrived. The two men stood out like Klans men at a Muslim Mosque. People looked their way and were somewhat taken aback by their presence. One man was suited sharply in a three-piece suit, and the next was wearing crocodile boots, cowboy hat, and a bolo tie.
The location didn’t bother the two men. They wanted Bugsy to trust them. They walked into the establishment unbothered—cocky and confident, consumed with a swagger you couldn’t fake and approached Bugsy in the back. Bugsy didn’t take his eyes off them; finally, seeing these two men face-to-face was interesting. There was no denying that the two had a presence.
Bugsy chose Lacey’s because he knew the restaurant’s owner, the place wouldn’t be bugged, and it was in public. The aged woman, Lacey, was close with the family and had been for years.
Pablo and Diablo came to the table, ready to sit down and talk business. However, before they did that, Bugsy slightly nodded to an individual seated in the restaurant. Mason removed himself from a table and came their way. He locked eyes with Diablo and then Pablo. Mason quietly said, “Before Bugsy talks about anything, y’all muthafuckas need to be searched.”
They relented. One by one, Mason escorted them into the restroom and thoroughly patted them down—no weapons, no wires. But Pablo or Diablo hadn’t expected their cell phones to be confiscated.
It was cool, though. Pablo and Diablo didn’t need to wear a wire, which being undercover agents afforded them. Their testimony alone had held up in each case they were involved in.
Satisfied, they were allowed to join Bugsy at the table in the back. They sat across from him. Bugsy immediately sized them up, one dressed opposite of the other, contradictory. He studied their movements and features; he wanted to read their minds to see what they were about.
Diablo was the first to speak. “Are we waiting on your brother before we start?”
“He won’t be joining us.”
Scott had drilled into Bugsy’s head to not say anything incriminating. And unbeknownst to Bugsy, the restaurant was already crawling with several agents posing as customers, Black and Latino. They were there for backup in case Pablo and Diablo’s meeting went south. Outside of Lacey’s, were two federal vans parked on opposite ends of the place, one block north and one block south. And agents in non-descript vehicles were ready to react if something went terribly wrong inside. Everyone knew the young Wests were at war with Juárez and their parents with the Garcia cartel. They didn’t want their men caught in the crossfire. It was a tense moment for everyone.
