Killer Dolls Part 1

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  Nisa Santiago

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Killer Dolls. Copyright © 2015 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Melodrama Publishing, P.O. Box 522, Bellport, NY 11713.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015912274

  Print Version ISBN-13: 978-1-62078-060-2

  eISBN: 978-1-62078-031-2

  EBook Edition: October 2015

  Interior Design: Candace K. Cottrell

  Cover Design: CandaceK. Cottrell

  Model Photo: Frank Antonio

  Cover Model: Nefertiti

  Brooklyn Books - an Imprint of Melodrama Publishing

  www.melodramapublishing.com

  Books By NISA SANTIAGO

  Cartier Cartel: Part 1

  Return of the Cartier Cartel: Part 2

  Cartier Cartel - South Beach Slaughter: Part 3

  Bad Apple: The Baddest Chick Part 1

  Coca Kola: The Baddest Chick Part 2

  Checkmate: The Baddest Chick Part 3

  Face Off: The Baddest Chick Part 4

  South Beach Cartel

  On the Run: The Baddest Chick Part 5

  Unfinished Business: The Baddest Chick Part 6

  Guard the Throne

  Dirty Money Honey

  Murdergram

  Murdergram 2

  The House That Hustle Built

  The House That Hustle Built 2

  Killer Dolls

  Killer Dolls 2

  Prologue

  Winter

  Aoki had underestimated the bitter temperature. As she bowed her head to her chest, the cold breeze blew right through her shearling coat. She cursed herself for not wearing additional layers of clothing, always opting to put fashion sense before common sense.

  Aoki’s hair fell loose about her face, tousled, and tangled, as she walked briskly to her home. She dared to wear her extremely high heels in the winter, but she had to look cute twenty-four/seven. “Ahhhhh!” she yelled out as she slipped and fell to her knees on black ice, scraping both her hands. “Fuck me!”

  Part Jamaican, part Japanese, she was beautiful with a unique name, pronounced A-O-KEE. She was the perfect eye candy with dark chocolate skin, straight, long jet-black hair, and Asian, but very sad, eyes. She had a small face with delicate features like a baby doll. Her accent, intriguing to the guys, and the ladies too, was slightly Jamaican because of her father’s heritage. Aoki was only sixteen years old and stood out like a black swan in a flock of white.

  The frigid air quickly seeped up into the vulnerable areas of her winter coat, and soon her petite frame felt quite icy as she hurried home around midnight, after hanging out all night with her friends. She didn’t have a curfew and wasn’t worried about any punishment raining down on her. Her home was just a house to lay her head and get some sleep, her parents being drug addicts.

  She stormed into the house trying to leave the cold outside, however her home didn’t provide too much warmth. Once inside the living room, she locked eyes with her parents, Maxwell and Lucy. As usual, they were slouching on the living room couch sharing a crack pipe. Not once did they pay her any attention.

  Aoki frowned. She didn’t acknowledge them.

  Her father had come straight off the boat from Kingston when he was just a boy, and her mother Lucy was from Chiba, a city in Japan. A long time ago, they’d both had prominent lives; now they were society’s undesirables—falling deep between the cracks and getting lost in shame and addiction.

  Maxwell was sixty-nine, and Lucy was thirty-six. For a drug addict, Maxwell didn’t look a day over forty-five, though he was sixty-nine. The two met in Japan when Maxwell, an aging staff sergeant in the army, was stationed there. He had rented a house from her parents. They met and fell in love right away, subsequently marrying a month later. Many thought she married Maxwell as an escape. Lucy was seventeen at the time, and he was fifty. He brought her back to the States, where they had Aoki when Lucy was twenty.

  Maxwell was able to pay the mortgage on the house with his disability checks and his police pension. It was purchased long ago when he was viable in society; before the drugs. He’d received an honorable discharge from the military and retired from the NYPD after giving them twenty years.

  Lucy was a tiny woman who mostly took the brunt of his rage. For many years she had been contented with being a housewife to her husband, following his every lead. Lucy was Japanese, and culturally the women of Japan were unusually dedicated to their families, especially their husbands. Lucy was raised in a society where women did not seek personal fulfillment through a career. Instead, she got her satisfaction in helping other family members achieve success. She always put her husband first.

  For a time, life was good for Aoki. She was living a normal childhood, growing up biracial and beautiful. Then came Maxwell’s retirement from law enforcement, which led to his depression, anger, and rage. The drug use went from every so often, to frequently, and it didn’t take long for her mother to become addicted as well.

  The small three-bedroom house had a putrid smell to it. Every room in the house was dirty, dishes a week old piled up in the sink, trash overflowed in the kitchen, and clothes, drug paraphernalia, and remnants of carryout were everywhere.

  Aoki escaped into her bedroom—the only clean place in the entire house. She made sure of that. She closed her room door, locked it and sighed. Her parents needed rehab.

  She found coziness in her little haven. She had a neatly made queen-size bed, one window curtained with a square of starched colorless cotton fabric that drew over the panes by means of a white cord that ran at the top, a tiny dresser, an old-fashioned gilt mirror, and frayed carpeting.

  Aoki sat on her bed and started to undress. She was tired. She needed some sleep. Clad in her panties and bra, she climbed under her thin blanket, folded herself into the fetal position, and closed her eyes. For the moment, everything was still and quiet.

  Not even a half hour went by before loud screaming awakened her. It was common in her household. Her father was prone to drug-fueled outbursts. She could hear his loud, raspy voice through her bedroom door. He was in a rage. She heard her mother screaming back—almost a shriek. Her high-pitched voice and thick Japanese accent pierced Aoki’s ears.

  Aoki frowned at their conflict. She shut her eyes and tried to ignore it, but they got louder. Then the shrill screech coming from her mother was like nothing Aoki had ever heard before.

  She jumped out of her bed and snatched opened the bedroom door. She rushed into the living room and was horrified at what she saw. Wide-eyed and in shocked, she witnessed her father standing over her mother as he repeatedly stabbed the thin woman in the chest with a pocketknife. Blood was everywhere.

  Maxwell went from stabbing his wife in the chest to stabbing her in the neck and face—almost a half dozen times. Right in front of Aoki, he was mutilating her mother.

  Aoki stood frozen; she didn’t know what to do. Her mother’s eyes were lifeless as she lay dying.

  Maxwell turned around bug-eyed. He dropped the knife and was transfixed by something. He turned his attention to Aoki, looking edgy, his eyes dancing around the room.

  Out of the blue, he exclaimed to Aoki, “What’s in ya damn pockets?”

  Aoki stood tensely in front of him. The pocketknife was on the floor, near his foot. But her father was still a big man, and he was high and hallucinating.

  He started to babble something loud and incoherent about voodoo, hexes, and witches. Maxwell would suddenly start talking out loud as if he was in the middle of a conversation and would carry on with his insane script.

  “She really wasn’t ya mudda, Aoki, she wasn’t,” he exclaimed. “She wasn’t ya mudda. She was some demon. I saw it. She wanted to hurt us, Aoki. I saw it. I fuckin’ saw it!”

  Aoki stared down at her dead mother’s body.

  Her father started babbling something incoherent again. She knew it was time to leave the room.

  His eyes glared at her again, and once again he shouted, “What’s in ya damn pockets?”

  Aoki slowly brought her hands up and showed her father that she wasn’t a threat. She had no pockets. She was in her panties and bra. “Nothing,” she replied.

  Maxwell sat back down near his wife’s dead body. He picked up the crack pipe he’d dropped and started smoking crack again.

  Aoki snapped out of her daze. She calmly left the room and walked into the kitchen. Something needed to be done. She refused to live in fear in her own home. There was no trace of tears in her eyes. She had no time to weep over her mother’s death. She pulled open the kitchen drawer, reached inside, and wrapped her hands around the handle of a serrated knife.

  She marched back into the living room, gripping the knife, her eyes narrowed, rigid, cold, and hard. In that moment she knew what had to be done—for her safety, for her survival. The feelings of her heart went into her eyes.

 
Maxwell was still cradling his crack pipe, puffing every last bit of rock into his system, his wife’s body slumped in the corner next to him.

  Aoki approached and, without any hesitation, slammed the knife deeply into her father’s chest. He jerked from the thrust of the blade sinking into him, and his eyes popped opened.

  Aoki pulled out the blade and slammed it into him again. She figured twice would do the trick. She stood up with the knife still in her hand and stepped backwards, her eyes still on her father. She felt no remorse as his blood trickled from the blade. He deserved it.

  Maxwell clutched his bloody chest, but surprisingly, he stood up.

  Aoki was shocked to see him stand erect, his hand against his chest and his eyes on her like a zombie. She felt he could charge her way at any moment, so she readied herself.

  But then Maxwell sat back down, his back against the wall, his knees propped upwards, and he picked up his crack pipe. He added the remaining crack into it, lit it up, and took a strong pull. It was going to be his last high.

  What the fuck!

  Aoki approached closer, the knife still clutched tightly. She sat across from him and simply watched him die. She began telling her father how he fucked up their lives and how he wasn’t shit. She cursed him heatedly. She wanted him to listen as he fought to breathe. Still, there were no tears in her eyes, no remorse for what she had done.

  He simply nodded as she confronted him with all of her anger from past years. But, right before the light drained from his eyes, he looked at Aoki. His last words to her were, “Ya ain’t gon’ be shit, eda.”

  Both her parents were dead now, and Aoki didn’t know what was next.

  ONE

  The winter sun was shining directly in her face. It was a new day, but nothing felt new in Aoki’s life. Last night felt like a nightmare. Was it real? Did I dream something terrible happened? The house was quiet.

  Aoki stretched and yawned. She then stripped down naked and hopped in the shower. She washed the yesterday from her skin and lingered under the cascading warm water, trying to collect her thoughts. After toweling off, she went on her smartphone to answer some Facebook requests. Then she moved on to Instagram, where she flirted with a few cuties before getting dressed.

  Today, she decided to wear her high-heeled boots, tight jeans, and a Montclair Flat Goose coat. She was a tiny woman like her mother, standing five feet even. Aoki never wore sneakers or flat shoes. She always wore stilettos, heels, or high-heeled boots, never anything less than five inches. She was the only girl around her neighborhood to fight in heels and hold her own. She was a tough cookie and had a reputation for being violent and crazy.

  Dressed in her finest, Aoki checked her image in her mirror and was satisfied with her wardrobe. She was definitely wearing what she had on.

  She walked out her bedroom and went into the living room where her dead parents still lay, rotting away. She picked up both knives and cleaned them off with steaming hot water. Then she placed the serrated knife back into the kitchen drawer and placed her dad’s pocketknife into her own pocket, for keeps. She looked around her home, and it was just a mess. Aoki felt she didn’t have time to clean up. The mess could wait, and so could her parents. She had more important things to take care of.

  It was cold outside; Brooklyn felt like it had repositioned on the continent of Antarctica. Aoki expected to see polar bears and penguins soon. She bundled up and walked away from her home and toward the Pink Houses projects, a thirty-minute walk, but she was used to it.

  As she walked to meet up with friends, she thought about the tragedy back home. What am I gon’ do? she asked herself. She had to figure out what to do with the bodies and how to clean up. Calling the police wasn’t an option for her. She was only sixteen. She could spend the rest of her life in jail for murder.

  It was still early, and the Pink Houses projects looked deserted. The hustlers and troublemakers were still sleeping. Brooklyn, in the winter, was desolate and almost gloomy. The days were too short, the trees stood stark like x-rays of their summer selves, and the streets were decorated with winter frosting.

  Despite the gloomy weather, Aoki still ventured out into the cold to hang out with her friends. She was a busybody, constantly moving, doing something, or starting trouble. She walked into the lobby of the building on Loring Avenue, where the dark hallways lacked security cameras, and elevator service was spotty.

  But the projects were home to Aoki. She felt safe and protected there, even though she didn’t reside there. She had her crew. She had her reputation.

  A few days earlier, a seventeen-year-old boy was shot and killed in one of the dimly lit stairways of the housing project. He wasn’t a friend of Aoki, but she could feel his pain.

  The seventh floor was her destination. She knocked on the brown door and heard hip-hop music blaring from the other end. She waited a moment and then knocked again. Either her peoples didn’t hear her, or they were playing games. She wasn’t in the mood for games.

  Finally, the door opened, and Tisa, popping her bubble gum and smiling, stood in front of her. In tight jeans and a pair of UGGs, Tisa was a typical seventeen-year-old with long, black hair, loud earrings, and a feisty attitude. She liked boys and toys, skipped school often, and idolized thugs and the street life.

  “Damn! What took ya so long ta open da door?” Aoki hollered, her Jamaican accent surfacing.

  Tisa popped her gum. “Bitch, we ain’t even hear you knockin’.”

  “Ya need a fuckin’ doorbell.”

  “You need to call first.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since we ain’t hear you knockin’.”

  “Whateva!”

  Aoki stepped into the apartment. The heat was on blast, and the living room windows were open.

  Rihanna, Ri-Ri for short, was in the kitchen getting her hair done. Gena, her mother, had just finished weaving Tisa’s hair with two bundles of sixteen inches of Brazilian locks.

  Gena, cigarette in her mouth, was great at weaves. Thirty-two years old and a hood rat, she loved to talk shit. She had her daughters when she was in high school, which prompted her to immediately drop out. Gena wanted her daughters to make a come up with a hood-rich nigga, someone to take care of them and get them all out of the hood someday. More like a good friend than their mother, she constantly tried to school them on how to get and keep a man, but they barely listened.

  “You know how y’all bitches can get and keep a man, first, by keeping them pussies tight and clean. You think a nigga want a bitch wit’ a stink pussy?” Gena took a pull from her Newport.

  She continued doing Rihanna’s hair, styling it into a long and fabulous weave for her to show off.

  “You get a nigga to trick on you gradually. You give him enough to come back for more, but not too much, cuz you don’t want to spoil him. Give him that nice, wet pussy; make the sex unforgettable for him. And y’all bitches gotta learn how to suck a nigga’s dick. Shit, you make a nigga come real hard, and he’ll give you the shirt off his mommas back,” Gena chuckled at her dry humor. “Beat that bitch down to give it to you, then break into Fort Knox to get you some gold bars.”

  “Um, fuck Fort Knox! Cuz ain’t no bitch tryin’ to walk around the hood wit’ some heavy gold bars. I’ll take a nice ride, some spending money, clothes, and some diamonds,” Tisa joked.

  The girls laughed, but Gena didn’t. She was serious about finding a hustler to spoil her with the finer things in life. She spat at Tisa, “See, that’s what’s wrong wit’ y’all young bitches today—y’all not educated.”

  Gena thought she knew it all, and was always plotting, scheming, and backstabbing. She was willing to do whatever it took to climb out of the crab barrel.

  Gena fixated her eyes on Aoki, and they lingered on the biracial beauty. There was something about Aoki that Gena didn’t like, but she tolerated the girl because she was a best friend to Rihanna and Tisa. Aoki was too pretty, too sexy, and she was still young and vibrant. To top it off, her slight Jamaican accent mixed with a twang of Japanese was appealing. Gena wished she could be her. The look in Aoki’s eyes said that she was a go-getter and could effortlessly snatch up any baller to take care of her. She’d heard her daughters talk about how much the boys liked Aoki.