Mafioso--Part 6, page 20
part #6 of Mafioso Series
“Ice? What the fuck is that?”
“Jewelry.”
“We already gave you more, and now you want more?” It was all too gaudy for Brown to understand. What was it about Black folks and their flashiness? The name Rolex was an instant trigger for him. If he saw that watch on one of them—them being Blacks, he lost it.
“It’s a matter of believability. Top niggas in the game don’t have one watch. They have at least two—multiple pieces of shine. I can’t keep comin’ round wit’ that same drip. I’m thinkin’ an Audamar watch will grab Meyer’s attention, and he’ll realize that I’m makin’ money hand over fist. He’ll want the introduction.”
Tannery asked, “So you think a new watch will be needed to move this shit along?”
Larry nodded. “That and then some.”
After their volatile yet steamy lovemaking, Layla still felt isolated in Dubai. Scott felt that her actions—constantly arguing with Jacqueline could cost him the foundation he was building with Uriel and was livid when Layla said she gave no fucks. Scott wasn’t spending any time with her, leaving early in the morning, and returning long after she had gone to bed for the night. Scott didn’t include her in the outings, business meetings, or dinners. This behavior went on for weeks, but Layla refused to show weakness. What hurt her the most was when she would go into restaurants and see Scott seated at a table with Jacqueline and the Billionaire Boys Club, and her husband wouldn’t acknowledge her presence. Scott was a shady bastard when he wanted to be. Layla would order lavish meals and smile politely to the wait staff, but she was wrecked inside. Again, Scott had tossed her aside and allowed a female to come between them.
With no one to turn to, Layla called her favorite child.
“Fuck…you…want?” Meyer rudely choked out, no longer feeling he had to respect the woman who gave birth to him. Not when she played a part in murdering his nephew and clearly wasn’t on her way to the states to help facilitate her murder.
“Watch your mouth, boy! I’m still your mother!” she snapped.
“Nah…,” Meyer said slowly and didn’t finish his sentence.
Layla immediately sensed something. “Are you high?”
Meyer nodded as if she could see his response. He was alone inside his apartment, lights out, television on mute, drinking Lean. Meyer had a stressful day, and he had wanted to fuck his stress away, but Lollipop was still ignoring his calls.
“Meyer,” Layla repeated. “Are you high!”
“I’m smokin’, so don’t blow—” he took an unusually long pause and then continued, “my high…wit’ your shit.”
Layla figured he was smoking some potent Kush and wished she had some. “Your father and I are having issues again,” she began, not caring her son didn’t care. Layla just needed someone to listen to her gripes and affirm what she felt wasn’t paranoia. “We met this couple out here, and I can’t put my finger on it, but something ain’t right with them.”
Meyer gave no fucks but continued to listen.
“Everywhere we go, they’re there!” she lamented. “We step on the elevator, go to the pool, the mall, the front desk, and we see those muthafuckas.”
Meyer didn’t understand the issue, so all he could contribute to the conversation was, “And?”
“Nigga I lived in New York all my life, and I ain’t ever ran into any muthafucka like this. We been in the game for a minute, we know shit ain’t random and damn sure don’t believe in coincidences.”
Again, Meyer nodded as if his mother could see him. “What…Pops say?”
“He has a lot to say, mainly that I’m paranoid, fuckin’ up his money, and most recently, miserable.”
Meyer took another sip of his Lean. The thick grape-flavored liquid had him in a chill mode he couldn’t get from weed. “You…think they feds?”
“Scott had them vetted, so no, I guess.”
“You guess?” Meyer repeated. “You?!”
He hadn’t said much, but to Layla, her son had said everything. She now knew what she had to do, but before she hung up, something compelled her to say, “Meyer, you do know how much I love you, right?”
Meyer snorted. “Eat a dick.”
“You first nigga!”
Chapter 20
His eyes had to be playing tricks on him. There wasn’t any way fate could be this cruel to someone he felt was good at her core. He had unintentionally followed her life for decades because she kept making the papers. The two were in the same classes from grade to high school but didn’t run in the same circles. By middle school, she was his dream girl, wifey material—the one he wanted to put a ring on. She was his prom date, study partner, and the one who made his heart skip several beats. Then high school rolled around, and the nerd with the bifocal glasses didn’t interest her anymore.
With his bad-boy image, flashy cars, and gaudy jewelry, Scott West stole the love of his life and usurped his happily ever after. There wasn’t any way he could compete, so he didn’t. He moved on. Shocked when he read that she had been charged with murder, stunned when decades later he read about her and Scott and the FBI raid of their lavish city dwelling.
But it was her. It had to be. Even with her hair in dreds, crusty lips, ashy skin, and layers of mismatched holey clothes, she was still beautiful to him. Sitting on a cardboard box, parked outside a Chase bank on a busy side street in midtown Manhattan, the woman panhandled nickels, dimes, and dollars.
“Maxine?” Gregory asked.
She averted eye contact and ignored the male.
“Maxine Henderson?” he asked again.
Maxine said nothing, annoyed more than embarrassed that she had been identified. She was homeless, in rags, hadn’t bathed in months, and had allowed her hair to dred. What more could she have done to live in anonymity? She thought.
“Maxine, it’s me…Gregory from East New York, Brooklyn.”
Maxine continued to ignore her government because she had resigned herself to being nameless, faceless, soulless. She was a woman with a mission—two, really, and that was to see Scott and Bugsy West die by her hands. And if the murder of her son wasn’t enough motivation—which it was—Maxine also had two multi-million dollar insurance policies on father and son that had an expiration date. Scott and Bugsy had to die in less than ten weeks because that’s when the premiums were due, hefty sums of money that she would never be able to beg the good citizens of New York for.
Maxine would often sneak off from Wendy and stalk Bugsy’s and Scott’s residences, but there was no movement, no sign of the woman beaters. She became antsy as the clock ticked and expanded her stalking to Lucky and Meyer. No action until finally, Meyer appeared acting weird. Maxine trailed the killer and wasn’t shocked that it led to a double homicide. Meyer hopped on a train, she followed. The young West flagged down a cab; she did too with her last few dollars. And when he dumped the smoking gun in a trash bin, Maxine couldn’t believe her luck. She retrieved the .45 relishing the irony that Meyer West had just supplied her with the weapon that would ultimately put his father and twin six feet deep.
Maxine wondered how long Gregory would stand there stuck on stupid? If being ignored wasn’t a subtle enough hint, crazy always worked. Maxine’s eyes met his, and she growled, “Grrr,”—and then barked—“Ruff! Ruff! Rufffff!”
Gregory’s eyes popped open, wild with disbelief and pity. He backpedaled a few steps before ultimately walking briskly away.
Her day ended when Wendy came ambling up the block, pushing her shopping cart that was now filled with what people considered trash. Maxine enjoyed going back to their makeshift abode constructed of boxes, duct tape, and a discarded tent to find out what Wendy had collected. They both had a part to play in life. Wendy would go through dumpsters and trash cans while Maxine would panhandle. This union was a sisterhood Maxine didn’t know she needed.
The FBI was using different tactics to cripple the Wests than the DEA. They wanted to be thorns in the children’s side until they had enough evidence to build cases against the whole clan. They had no issues being petty. It gave them immense joy. Locking up Bugsy on a gun, having NYPD harass Meyer to ultimately confiscate his money, and freezing their legal cash accounts was deliberate. They figured it would all make sense in the end. And while they were in the states fucking with the kids, two of their top field agents gained traction against the parents.
Agents Randall, Devonsky, Franklin Garrett, and Kimberly Cooper were going over their case in Lower Manhattan’s conference room.
“So what do we know,” Randall said, starting the meeting. “We know that they’re at war with Juarez. One of the underlings in the cartel on wiretap took credit for the slaughters against the West organization. The member bragged that they took at least four hundred million and drugs in the raids.”
Devonsky and Garrett both nodded.
Randall continued, “That explains why Meyer was selling their jewelry and why Bugsy hasn’t made bail.”
“They can’t be broke, right?” Franklin asked. “Don’t these dealers usually have safe deposit boxes? Have we run a name check for boxes?”
Devonsky nodded. “I did run a check, and we didn’t find any safe deposit boxes in their names, business names, or any of their well-known associates. Meyer has a long-time stripper in his life, but nothing came up under her name either. She has a Citibank account with a little over nine hundred dollars.”
Randall continued his statement, “We’ve run their parents out of the country, seized their business bank accounts, and locked up the brains of the young Wests’ organization. Let’s also mention that Juarez sucked the life out of their empire in one night—yet, they haven’t made any mistakes. I have to admit I’m impressed.”
“Well, don’t stay that way. We need to break them so that they’re desperate. Every move they make will be out of desperation,” Franklin added.
Randall asked, “What do you have in mind?”
Franklin looked at all the paperwork and pretended this idea had just come to him. Truthfully, he had been thinking about it ever since he got assigned to this case. Pursuing Lucky, their intimate relationship, and every horrible thing Franklin had planned for her was his secret to keep. He said, “Since they haven’t bailed out Bugsy, let’s keep it that way until we’re ready for him to be released. All their liquid is gone; let’s now take their assets. When Bugsy is released, we want him to walk into pure chaos. We can all agree that he’s the organization’s brains out of the siblings.”
“Well, he ain’t that smart if he allowed Angel Morales to confiscate every dime to his name and murder every soldier he had,” Devonsky deduced.
“Good point, but he’s smart enough. We don’t want him out on the streets liquidating assets. We have to contact all the banks. I’m talking even the credit unions and flag all their real estate. No loans get approved, no refinances, no pulling out equity. Once they can’t get fast money, they’ll want to sell. We stay on top of that and make sure the realtors keep those properties on the market indefinitely, and without a buyer—overhead, mortgages, and taxes still due, we can foreclose on the assets that way. Box them all into a corner and allow the beasts to immerge.”
“Won’t their parents step in?” Kimberly asked what she felt was a relevant question. Yet all the men gave her annoyed looks.
“Bugsy impregnated his father’s fiancée,” Franklin said dismissively, “Let’s move on.”
Randall and Devonsky liked that Franklin was on their team. He was thinking outside the box, and that’s how you had to sometimes catch criminals. Devonsky added, “I’ll contact all their credit card companies, personal and business, and have them cancel all cards. They could buy a fucking private plane with the black card!”
The boundaries of what was legal had blurred when they got a second chance to prosecute. An investigation was morphing into strong-arming, which had morphed into violating the civil rights of Americans Bugsy, Meyer, and Lucky, who were presumed innocent until proven otherwise.
Kimberly added, “Shouldn’t we focus more on getting drug dealers to move drugs? Isn’t that where the case begins and ends?” She didn’t wait for a response. She continued with, “They’ve been at war with Juarez for some time, and we haven’t been able to glean why? We also know they dabbled with the Kiqué Helguero cartel for distro, but Meyer hasn’t reached out for any product. I think that if we keep with this petty line of harassment, although you all may find it amusing, it drags us farther and farther away from the ultimate goal. And what about their civil rights?”
“Why is she here?” Franklin boldly asked and then directly said to Kimberly. “Why are you here if you’re too emotional to prosecute? I mean…was she properly vetted because she’s been championing the liberties of the Wests mighty hard right now. Maybe she wants to sleep with one of the black bastards!”
“You’re out of line, Garrett,” she warned.
“Not even close! Unlike you, I don’t want to be invited to the cookout!” he snapped. Randall and Devonsky had no idea what that statement meant, nor did Randall step in and get his team back on track. He allowed Franklin to rant. “I’m here to help my superiors make a conviction stick against the whole West organization. My only goal is to be here for Agents Randall and Devonsky and see that all their arduous work is realized.”
If proud coon was a person, it would begin and end with Franklin. There were nine African American male agents in that office, and Franklin wasn’t counted as one. The other agents called him Mighty Whighty because he refused to hide that he thought he wasn’t Black. He was always boasting about his 23andme DNA test proving he had a meager percentage of the Negroid gene.
Franklin was that ‘yes nigga’, king coon, as the other African American males in the office called him behind his back. He heard the smears but didn’t care. He was climbing up the ladder and liked the view from up top. On the weekends and holiday’s he was invited to the homes of the upper echelon. Often he was the only Black man there. Franklin said he didn’t see color, ‘people are people,’ he’d say. He tried to explain to anyone who gave him five minutes of their time that his white wife could easily be a Black female because he fell in love with her personality, not her race. No one listened. No one cared. It was his life, his choice, yet he had the chip on his shoulder. He was always waiting for a Black judge or Black senator to challenge him, to question his personal choice, so he studied African American history, knowing every nook and cranny to affirm his blackness when needed.
“We’re both here for that same conclusion,” Kimberly refuted, treading carefully. “I also have input on how to get there, but it seems that your approach is more effective.”
Kimberly fell on her sword. She would lose this battle to ultimately win the war. If she got removed from this case, she wouldn’t get another one of this magnitude, and if these childish antics led to a conviction, Kimberly wanted her name attached to that. So she damn near bit her tongue off after realizing her boss, Agent Randall, felt his yes nigga Franklin could do no wrong.
“As I was saying before being rudely interrupted. They have expensive things that they shouldn’t have…items worth a lot.” Franklin wasn’t done blurring lines. “And we’ve been forgetting one thing.”
“What’s that?” Randall wanted to know.
Franklin asked, “Where does one go to get away from all the drama in one’s life?”
Devonsky answered, “Home.”
Markeeta arrived at Lucky’s bearing gifts. She had a half ounce of premium Purple Haze, a bottle of Prosecco champagne, and two steaming plates of Jamaican oxtails, peas, and rice—hoping to put some meat on Lucky’s bony bones.
Today, the shit had hit the fan for Markeeta’s friends, Shirelle and Manny Machiavelli. The DEA had kicked open their front door a couple of hours before dawn, thanks to the information, Markeeta supplied to agents Tannery and Brown. It was far easier for Markeeta to get incriminating information against them than Lucky, and it wasn’t just Shirelle running her mouth. Once the blunts were passed around, Manny couldn’t shut the fuck up. He was always talking real big to impress Markeeta. Without provocation, Manny ran down murders he committed or was about to commit; who feared him, and who was stupid not to. Manny described his operation, who his supplier was, and when he let slip that Shirelle had muled for him a time or two—Shirelle put an abrupt end to their little pow wows. Not only because she was embarrassed, but Shirelle also noticed that Manny’s grin was a little too wide when Markeeta came over, which was all the time. However, it was too late. Manny and Markeeta were already fucking. He’d sneak upstairs and fuck Markeeta, come back down a few hours later, and fuck Shirelle.
Markeeta was in an exceptionally good mood predicated on the fact that Agent Tannery had rewarded her for a job well done. He’d upgraded her Cherokee to a metallic grey Range. The SUV wasn’t new, but new enough. It had less than eight thousand miles on it and had been seized in a drug raid in Pittsburg. Markeeta had been doing rounds in her new whip driving through Brooklyn at all hours of the night so her friends and frenemies alike could see her come up; her son left alone, raising himself.
Markeeta grew fond of Tannery even found herself calling him for advice on situations that didn’t involve DEA-related matters. Markeeta was misguided and a fool. She thought they were friends; Tannery knew she was only business. Tannery recognized her codependency toward him and understood how she could blur the lines. In her mind, he was her provider and protector. Tannery gave her more than her parents, friends, fucking, or hustling could provide. She had no idea that her apartment was wired for video and sound. Whenever he wanted—and he wanted often—Tannery would watch Markeeta in her habitat and be repulsed.
Those flat-screen Smart televisions, cable modems, laptops, desktops, chandeliers, motion sensors, appliances—all recorded her 24/7. Tannery was fully aware she was sleeping with Manny—something she did not mention. He watched her slurp up Manny’s dick and swallow his seeds on many uncomfortable occasions. Markeeta would holler and moan at the top of her lungs with her son’s room just ten feet from hers. She had no class and was uncouth but a great snitch. And that was the bottom line.
“Jewelry.”
“We already gave you more, and now you want more?” It was all too gaudy for Brown to understand. What was it about Black folks and their flashiness? The name Rolex was an instant trigger for him. If he saw that watch on one of them—them being Blacks, he lost it.
“It’s a matter of believability. Top niggas in the game don’t have one watch. They have at least two—multiple pieces of shine. I can’t keep comin’ round wit’ that same drip. I’m thinkin’ an Audamar watch will grab Meyer’s attention, and he’ll realize that I’m makin’ money hand over fist. He’ll want the introduction.”
Tannery asked, “So you think a new watch will be needed to move this shit along?”
Larry nodded. “That and then some.”
After their volatile yet steamy lovemaking, Layla still felt isolated in Dubai. Scott felt that her actions—constantly arguing with Jacqueline could cost him the foundation he was building with Uriel and was livid when Layla said she gave no fucks. Scott wasn’t spending any time with her, leaving early in the morning, and returning long after she had gone to bed for the night. Scott didn’t include her in the outings, business meetings, or dinners. This behavior went on for weeks, but Layla refused to show weakness. What hurt her the most was when she would go into restaurants and see Scott seated at a table with Jacqueline and the Billionaire Boys Club, and her husband wouldn’t acknowledge her presence. Scott was a shady bastard when he wanted to be. Layla would order lavish meals and smile politely to the wait staff, but she was wrecked inside. Again, Scott had tossed her aside and allowed a female to come between them.
With no one to turn to, Layla called her favorite child.
“Fuck…you…want?” Meyer rudely choked out, no longer feeling he had to respect the woman who gave birth to him. Not when she played a part in murdering his nephew and clearly wasn’t on her way to the states to help facilitate her murder.
“Watch your mouth, boy! I’m still your mother!” she snapped.
“Nah…,” Meyer said slowly and didn’t finish his sentence.
Layla immediately sensed something. “Are you high?”
Meyer nodded as if she could see his response. He was alone inside his apartment, lights out, television on mute, drinking Lean. Meyer had a stressful day, and he had wanted to fuck his stress away, but Lollipop was still ignoring his calls.
“Meyer,” Layla repeated. “Are you high!”
“I’m smokin’, so don’t blow—” he took an unusually long pause and then continued, “my high…wit’ your shit.”
Layla figured he was smoking some potent Kush and wished she had some. “Your father and I are having issues again,” she began, not caring her son didn’t care. Layla just needed someone to listen to her gripes and affirm what she felt wasn’t paranoia. “We met this couple out here, and I can’t put my finger on it, but something ain’t right with them.”
Meyer gave no fucks but continued to listen.
“Everywhere we go, they’re there!” she lamented. “We step on the elevator, go to the pool, the mall, the front desk, and we see those muthafuckas.”
Meyer didn’t understand the issue, so all he could contribute to the conversation was, “And?”
“Nigga I lived in New York all my life, and I ain’t ever ran into any muthafucka like this. We been in the game for a minute, we know shit ain’t random and damn sure don’t believe in coincidences.”
Again, Meyer nodded as if his mother could see him. “What…Pops say?”
“He has a lot to say, mainly that I’m paranoid, fuckin’ up his money, and most recently, miserable.”
Meyer took another sip of his Lean. The thick grape-flavored liquid had him in a chill mode he couldn’t get from weed. “You…think they feds?”
“Scott had them vetted, so no, I guess.”
“You guess?” Meyer repeated. “You?!”
He hadn’t said much, but to Layla, her son had said everything. She now knew what she had to do, but before she hung up, something compelled her to say, “Meyer, you do know how much I love you, right?”
Meyer snorted. “Eat a dick.”
“You first nigga!”
Chapter 20
His eyes had to be playing tricks on him. There wasn’t any way fate could be this cruel to someone he felt was good at her core. He had unintentionally followed her life for decades because she kept making the papers. The two were in the same classes from grade to high school but didn’t run in the same circles. By middle school, she was his dream girl, wifey material—the one he wanted to put a ring on. She was his prom date, study partner, and the one who made his heart skip several beats. Then high school rolled around, and the nerd with the bifocal glasses didn’t interest her anymore.
With his bad-boy image, flashy cars, and gaudy jewelry, Scott West stole the love of his life and usurped his happily ever after. There wasn’t any way he could compete, so he didn’t. He moved on. Shocked when he read that she had been charged with murder, stunned when decades later he read about her and Scott and the FBI raid of their lavish city dwelling.
But it was her. It had to be. Even with her hair in dreds, crusty lips, ashy skin, and layers of mismatched holey clothes, she was still beautiful to him. Sitting on a cardboard box, parked outside a Chase bank on a busy side street in midtown Manhattan, the woman panhandled nickels, dimes, and dollars.
“Maxine?” Gregory asked.
She averted eye contact and ignored the male.
“Maxine Henderson?” he asked again.
Maxine said nothing, annoyed more than embarrassed that she had been identified. She was homeless, in rags, hadn’t bathed in months, and had allowed her hair to dred. What more could she have done to live in anonymity? She thought.
“Maxine, it’s me…Gregory from East New York, Brooklyn.”
Maxine continued to ignore her government because she had resigned herself to being nameless, faceless, soulless. She was a woman with a mission—two, really, and that was to see Scott and Bugsy West die by her hands. And if the murder of her son wasn’t enough motivation—which it was—Maxine also had two multi-million dollar insurance policies on father and son that had an expiration date. Scott and Bugsy had to die in less than ten weeks because that’s when the premiums were due, hefty sums of money that she would never be able to beg the good citizens of New York for.
Maxine would often sneak off from Wendy and stalk Bugsy’s and Scott’s residences, but there was no movement, no sign of the woman beaters. She became antsy as the clock ticked and expanded her stalking to Lucky and Meyer. No action until finally, Meyer appeared acting weird. Maxine trailed the killer and wasn’t shocked that it led to a double homicide. Meyer hopped on a train, she followed. The young West flagged down a cab; she did too with her last few dollars. And when he dumped the smoking gun in a trash bin, Maxine couldn’t believe her luck. She retrieved the .45 relishing the irony that Meyer West had just supplied her with the weapon that would ultimately put his father and twin six feet deep.
Maxine wondered how long Gregory would stand there stuck on stupid? If being ignored wasn’t a subtle enough hint, crazy always worked. Maxine’s eyes met his, and she growled, “Grrr,”—and then barked—“Ruff! Ruff! Rufffff!”
Gregory’s eyes popped open, wild with disbelief and pity. He backpedaled a few steps before ultimately walking briskly away.
Her day ended when Wendy came ambling up the block, pushing her shopping cart that was now filled with what people considered trash. Maxine enjoyed going back to their makeshift abode constructed of boxes, duct tape, and a discarded tent to find out what Wendy had collected. They both had a part to play in life. Wendy would go through dumpsters and trash cans while Maxine would panhandle. This union was a sisterhood Maxine didn’t know she needed.
The FBI was using different tactics to cripple the Wests than the DEA. They wanted to be thorns in the children’s side until they had enough evidence to build cases against the whole clan. They had no issues being petty. It gave them immense joy. Locking up Bugsy on a gun, having NYPD harass Meyer to ultimately confiscate his money, and freezing their legal cash accounts was deliberate. They figured it would all make sense in the end. And while they were in the states fucking with the kids, two of their top field agents gained traction against the parents.
Agents Randall, Devonsky, Franklin Garrett, and Kimberly Cooper were going over their case in Lower Manhattan’s conference room.
“So what do we know,” Randall said, starting the meeting. “We know that they’re at war with Juarez. One of the underlings in the cartel on wiretap took credit for the slaughters against the West organization. The member bragged that they took at least four hundred million and drugs in the raids.”
Devonsky and Garrett both nodded.
Randall continued, “That explains why Meyer was selling their jewelry and why Bugsy hasn’t made bail.”
“They can’t be broke, right?” Franklin asked. “Don’t these dealers usually have safe deposit boxes? Have we run a name check for boxes?”
Devonsky nodded. “I did run a check, and we didn’t find any safe deposit boxes in their names, business names, or any of their well-known associates. Meyer has a long-time stripper in his life, but nothing came up under her name either. She has a Citibank account with a little over nine hundred dollars.”
Randall continued his statement, “We’ve run their parents out of the country, seized their business bank accounts, and locked up the brains of the young Wests’ organization. Let’s also mention that Juarez sucked the life out of their empire in one night—yet, they haven’t made any mistakes. I have to admit I’m impressed.”
“Well, don’t stay that way. We need to break them so that they’re desperate. Every move they make will be out of desperation,” Franklin added.
Randall asked, “What do you have in mind?”
Franklin looked at all the paperwork and pretended this idea had just come to him. Truthfully, he had been thinking about it ever since he got assigned to this case. Pursuing Lucky, their intimate relationship, and every horrible thing Franklin had planned for her was his secret to keep. He said, “Since they haven’t bailed out Bugsy, let’s keep it that way until we’re ready for him to be released. All their liquid is gone; let’s now take their assets. When Bugsy is released, we want him to walk into pure chaos. We can all agree that he’s the organization’s brains out of the siblings.”
“Well, he ain’t that smart if he allowed Angel Morales to confiscate every dime to his name and murder every soldier he had,” Devonsky deduced.
“Good point, but he’s smart enough. We don’t want him out on the streets liquidating assets. We have to contact all the banks. I’m talking even the credit unions and flag all their real estate. No loans get approved, no refinances, no pulling out equity. Once they can’t get fast money, they’ll want to sell. We stay on top of that and make sure the realtors keep those properties on the market indefinitely, and without a buyer—overhead, mortgages, and taxes still due, we can foreclose on the assets that way. Box them all into a corner and allow the beasts to immerge.”
“Won’t their parents step in?” Kimberly asked what she felt was a relevant question. Yet all the men gave her annoyed looks.
“Bugsy impregnated his father’s fiancée,” Franklin said dismissively, “Let’s move on.”
Randall and Devonsky liked that Franklin was on their team. He was thinking outside the box, and that’s how you had to sometimes catch criminals. Devonsky added, “I’ll contact all their credit card companies, personal and business, and have them cancel all cards. They could buy a fucking private plane with the black card!”
The boundaries of what was legal had blurred when they got a second chance to prosecute. An investigation was morphing into strong-arming, which had morphed into violating the civil rights of Americans Bugsy, Meyer, and Lucky, who were presumed innocent until proven otherwise.
Kimberly added, “Shouldn’t we focus more on getting drug dealers to move drugs? Isn’t that where the case begins and ends?” She didn’t wait for a response. She continued with, “They’ve been at war with Juarez for some time, and we haven’t been able to glean why? We also know they dabbled with the Kiqué Helguero cartel for distro, but Meyer hasn’t reached out for any product. I think that if we keep with this petty line of harassment, although you all may find it amusing, it drags us farther and farther away from the ultimate goal. And what about their civil rights?”
“Why is she here?” Franklin boldly asked and then directly said to Kimberly. “Why are you here if you’re too emotional to prosecute? I mean…was she properly vetted because she’s been championing the liberties of the Wests mighty hard right now. Maybe she wants to sleep with one of the black bastards!”
“You’re out of line, Garrett,” she warned.
“Not even close! Unlike you, I don’t want to be invited to the cookout!” he snapped. Randall and Devonsky had no idea what that statement meant, nor did Randall step in and get his team back on track. He allowed Franklin to rant. “I’m here to help my superiors make a conviction stick against the whole West organization. My only goal is to be here for Agents Randall and Devonsky and see that all their arduous work is realized.”
If proud coon was a person, it would begin and end with Franklin. There were nine African American male agents in that office, and Franklin wasn’t counted as one. The other agents called him Mighty Whighty because he refused to hide that he thought he wasn’t Black. He was always boasting about his 23andme DNA test proving he had a meager percentage of the Negroid gene.
Franklin was that ‘yes nigga’, king coon, as the other African American males in the office called him behind his back. He heard the smears but didn’t care. He was climbing up the ladder and liked the view from up top. On the weekends and holiday’s he was invited to the homes of the upper echelon. Often he was the only Black man there. Franklin said he didn’t see color, ‘people are people,’ he’d say. He tried to explain to anyone who gave him five minutes of their time that his white wife could easily be a Black female because he fell in love with her personality, not her race. No one listened. No one cared. It was his life, his choice, yet he had the chip on his shoulder. He was always waiting for a Black judge or Black senator to challenge him, to question his personal choice, so he studied African American history, knowing every nook and cranny to affirm his blackness when needed.
“We’re both here for that same conclusion,” Kimberly refuted, treading carefully. “I also have input on how to get there, but it seems that your approach is more effective.”
Kimberly fell on her sword. She would lose this battle to ultimately win the war. If she got removed from this case, she wouldn’t get another one of this magnitude, and if these childish antics led to a conviction, Kimberly wanted her name attached to that. So she damn near bit her tongue off after realizing her boss, Agent Randall, felt his yes nigga Franklin could do no wrong.
“As I was saying before being rudely interrupted. They have expensive things that they shouldn’t have…items worth a lot.” Franklin wasn’t done blurring lines. “And we’ve been forgetting one thing.”
“What’s that?” Randall wanted to know.
Franklin asked, “Where does one go to get away from all the drama in one’s life?”
Devonsky answered, “Home.”
Markeeta arrived at Lucky’s bearing gifts. She had a half ounce of premium Purple Haze, a bottle of Prosecco champagne, and two steaming plates of Jamaican oxtails, peas, and rice—hoping to put some meat on Lucky’s bony bones.
Today, the shit had hit the fan for Markeeta’s friends, Shirelle and Manny Machiavelli. The DEA had kicked open their front door a couple of hours before dawn, thanks to the information, Markeeta supplied to agents Tannery and Brown. It was far easier for Markeeta to get incriminating information against them than Lucky, and it wasn’t just Shirelle running her mouth. Once the blunts were passed around, Manny couldn’t shut the fuck up. He was always talking real big to impress Markeeta. Without provocation, Manny ran down murders he committed or was about to commit; who feared him, and who was stupid not to. Manny described his operation, who his supplier was, and when he let slip that Shirelle had muled for him a time or two—Shirelle put an abrupt end to their little pow wows. Not only because she was embarrassed, but Shirelle also noticed that Manny’s grin was a little too wide when Markeeta came over, which was all the time. However, it was too late. Manny and Markeeta were already fucking. He’d sneak upstairs and fuck Markeeta, come back down a few hours later, and fuck Shirelle.
Markeeta was in an exceptionally good mood predicated on the fact that Agent Tannery had rewarded her for a job well done. He’d upgraded her Cherokee to a metallic grey Range. The SUV wasn’t new, but new enough. It had less than eight thousand miles on it and had been seized in a drug raid in Pittsburg. Markeeta had been doing rounds in her new whip driving through Brooklyn at all hours of the night so her friends and frenemies alike could see her come up; her son left alone, raising himself.
Markeeta grew fond of Tannery even found herself calling him for advice on situations that didn’t involve DEA-related matters. Markeeta was misguided and a fool. She thought they were friends; Tannery knew she was only business. Tannery recognized her codependency toward him and understood how she could blur the lines. In her mind, he was her provider and protector. Tannery gave her more than her parents, friends, fucking, or hustling could provide. She had no idea that her apartment was wired for video and sound. Whenever he wanted—and he wanted often—Tannery would watch Markeeta in her habitat and be repulsed.
Those flat-screen Smart televisions, cable modems, laptops, desktops, chandeliers, motion sensors, appliances—all recorded her 24/7. Tannery was fully aware she was sleeping with Manny—something she did not mention. He watched her slurp up Manny’s dick and swallow his seeds on many uncomfortable occasions. Markeeta would holler and moan at the top of her lungs with her son’s room just ten feet from hers. She had no class and was uncouth but a great snitch. And that was the bottom line.
