Mafioso Page 18

  Skip slid into the passenger’s seat ready to get this day over with.

  “What’s good, Max?”

  “I need help with this bitch ASAP.”

  “Help?”

  “I’m going to get to the point. There’s this bitch that I need you to scare with this pistol.” Maxine pulled out an untraceable .45 and placed it on her lap. “If you threaten her, I got two large for you. If you kill her, then ten stacks.”

  Skip was conflicted. She wasn’t a killer, but that ten large would help her in South Carolina. She could decorate her new home and buy herself a hooptie car. But she couldn’t do it; kill someone. And the two grand just wasn’t enough for her to get involved with whatever mess Max had going on. She declined.

  “I can’t, Max. We already have the U-Haul almost packed. I’m hitting 95 South at four in the morning. I need to get back home, finish packing, and get some sleep.”

  “Skip, this isn’t a negotiation. I need your help and you owe me. I could have died on a deal you put together. Now if you turn your back on me then I’ma start thinking that you were a part of the shit.”

  “You know I don’t get down like that!”

  “Are you in or out?”

  “In what? What is it that I need to do?” Skip lips were poked out. Her whole demeanor expressed her anger. Her heaving chest and her scowl were clear indicators that she was pissed.

  “All you need to do is point this pistol at this young bitch and say this, ‘Your mom wants you to take the stand or else you die.’ I need you to scare the shit outta her!”

  “Who is this bitch?”

  “Don’t matter.”

  “Why can’t you do it?”

  “You actin’ pussy right now. The less you know, the better. Do this and then bounce.”

  “Max, I got a bad feeling about this.”

  Maxine lied, “Listen. Real talk. Soon I’m going to come into a large sum of money. Leave me your address and I promise I’ll bless you with six figures. You my girl and I’ma look out.”

  Suddenly, Skip’s frown turned around. Thoughts of easy money gave her comfort.

  “Show me this bitch. I’ma do her dirty.” Skip leaned in and gave Max a hug. “Thanks for always looking out for me. You good peoples, for real.”

  It didn’t take long for Maxine to spot Lucky across from her building. It was just after two in the afternoon and it was cool for late spring. Lucky ran out of her building wearing six-inch heels, yoga pants, and an NYU hoodie, and her long mink coat swept the ground. She was going on a food run. Maxine parked far enough back to not be spotted but close enough to see the action. She handed Skip the gun and told her to meet her several blocks over for her escape.

  “She’s crazy about Asian food. There’s a Thai restaurant a couple blocks over on Seventh Avenue. Scare the shit outta this bitch, but be careful. She may be carrying too.”

  “I got this.”

  Skip caught the unsuspecting Lucky coming out the restaurant. She quickly snatched her up by her hoodie and pulled her off to the side. She parked the .45 in Lucky’s ribs and whispered, “Your mother said you better take the fuckin’ stand, bitch! If I have to come back then you’re a dead ho!”

  Skip was so close spit flew in Lucky’s eyes, temporarily blinding her.

  “Understand, bitch?”

  Lucky nodded feebly, which empowered Skip.

  “In fact, run ya shit! Give me this fuckin’ coat!”

  The coat meant nothing to Lucky. She took it off without incident and handed it to the dead bitch on borrowed time. Skip draped it over one arm. Lucky’s burner was tucked in her waistband. She was about to reach for it when Skip stopped her.

  “Oh, you’s a bold bitch, huh?”

  Skip was doing too much and had gone off script. She grabbed the girl’s pistol and placed it in her free hand like it was a western, pointing both guns at Lucky.

  “Stay here for five minutes! If you move my partner gonna blow your fuckin’ brains out!”

  Skip backpedaled away as Lucky stood there glaring. With the mink coat safely hiding the burners she turned around and did a jog away from the scene of the crime. What she didn’t expect was, “Stop her! She robbed me! That’s my coat!”

  Skip began running as a superhero civilian stepped in to tackle her. Skip pulled out her gun just to back him down when two beat cops turned the corner and took in a frightful scene. Both cops pulled their guns and yelled, “Police, drop the gun!”—before unloading both their clips into her.

  It all happened as Maxine watched in horror. Lucky slid away, not wanting to be attached to the bizarre crime scene.

  34

  Layla had crossed yet another line, and the goon she had sent to threaten Lucky was dead. It had been a while since Lucky had stepped foot into the Metropolitan Correctional Center to visit her mother, and, undoubtedly, this would be her last. It was a visit Lucky wasn’t really looking forward to, but she couldn’t wait to tell Layla the good news—well, good news for her and bad news for her mother. Since her last visit, Lucky had accomplished a lot. Whoever doubted her could kiss her ass.

  She went through the security procedures a confident woman looking fabulous in her $900 Manolo Blahnik heels. Her expensive jacket covered her growing stomach, and her long, sensuous hair was flowing. She was glowing as a pregnant woman, but also as a very rich woman. Her mother’s imprisonment was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

  Lucky sat down at the square metal table and waited for her mother to show up. The room wasn’t too crowded, and things weren’t hectic. The corrections officers were situated throughout the visitation room like statues watching everyone. Ten minutes later, Layla was escorted into the visitation room by a male guard, and the look on her face wasn’t friendly.

  Layla sat across from her as routine, and their greeting wasn’t pleasant.

  “Bitch, you got some fuckin’ nerve showing your face after what you said to me,” Layla growled at her.

  “What I said? You send a thug to threaten me and you’re the victim?”

  Layla was perplexed. “Thug? You tryin’ to be fuckin’ funny? Lucky, don’t try this bullshit or I’ll beat your fuckin’ ass myself! You know I ain’t do shit but sit and wait for you to start actin’ like my daughter!”

  “I knew you’d deny it.”

  Layla frowned. She knew Lucky was calculating and was cooking up something to justify turning her back on her when she needed her most.

  “There ain’t shit to deny ’cause I didn’t do shit!”

  Lucky locked eyes with her mother. She wasn’t there to talk about her run-in with the ghetto bitch or what she did or didn’t do. She was there to gloat. She smirked at Layla, leaned closer to her and said, “I found it!”

  “You found what, bitch?”

  “The money—your money. Or shall I say, my money,” Lucky said.

  The reaction on Layla’s face was priceless. The news almost made her faint. Layla didn’t want to believe it. There was no way.

  Lucky continued to grin and said, “You don’t believe me, huh?”

  Layla didn’t respond. She could feel her heart beating and her mind spinning with the possibility of it being true. Lucky had to be lying.

  “It was tedious work, but I’m smart—something you feel only describes Bugsy. I went through all your paperwork and properties and I had to think, where would you be able to hide millions of dollars and think it would be safe from everyone, including your own children? Then it dawned on me. You bought part of a cemetery, the same place where my sister and brothers are buried. You purchased part of that business without anyone knowing, and you had the money stored in a refurbished, climate controlled mausoleum. Guess what? I got the cash, every last dollar of it. I’ve gotta give it to you. It was a genius plan. Who would think, millions and millions of dollars stored among the dea
d?” Lucky said with a smirk.

  The look on Layla’s face was anger and shock at the same time. Her eyes burned into Lucky, and with her teeth gritted, she angrily grumbled, “You better not fuck wit’ me, Lucky. You touch my money, I’ll kill you.”

  “You ain’t killing shit. You’re broke, with not a dime to your name. I got it all! Me! I did it! I outsmarted you and took control of everything,” Lucky retorted. “See, you let this dead-eye bitch beat you.”

  Lucky couldn’t let that insult go. Her mother’s words hurt her deeply and Layla didn’t understand how sensitive Lucky was about her eye. Calling Lucky a dead-eye bitch put Lucky on a new path of vengeance, but asking her to take the stand put Lucky on a mission to break her mother, and she finally did by finding that money.

  “You better spend that money fast because when I get out, I’m gonna fuck you up. And guess what? Not just me, but the Juarez cartel is gonna fuck you up too. You jump into bed wit’ them with your inexperience, it’s gonna be your death sentence,” Layla said. “You gonna need me, bitch!”

  Lucky shook her head at the remark and giggled calmly. Surprisingly, her mother was still trying to put up a fight with words. It was all she had—unkind and harsh words. But her visit was over. She came, she saw, and she conquered. Her only reply was, “You always been a self-centered, selfish, and evil bitch, and Meyer would have never gotten shot up had you not forced him to rob Bugsy. It’s your fault everything went to shit. You’re the one who put Bugsy in the hospital, not Luna, and you’re the one who almost had Meyer killed. But you’re not gonna fuck up my life. I’m done with you, bitch. No more visits and I hope you rot in jail.”

  She stood up, indicating she was done visiting.

  Layla cursed, “Bitch, you wanna go to war wit’ me! I’ll give you a fuckin’ war! I will destroy you! If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have shit! Lucky, don’t walk away from me! This ain’t over! It ain’t fuckin’ over!”

  Their quarrel caught the attention of the COs and other visitors and inmates. There was trouble in the West house.

  Lucky was done. She didn’t need to reply to her mother’s angry outburst. She walked away and several corrections officers rushed over to contain Layla from charging at her daughter.

  Lucky stepped out of the correctional facility feeling empowered.

  35

  I want that bitch dead!” Tarsha shouted. “She has some thugs come into my home and attack us and our son! She’s fuckin’ dead!”

  She furiously paced around her bedroom cursing and carrying on. Wacka understood her rage. She wanted Maxine dead, and he wanted to find the three thugs that broke into his home, attacked his family, and took everything they had from them. Tarsha was convinced Maxine was behind the robbery, but Wacka didn’t subscribe to that theory. It didn’t make any sense to him. Why would she leave them alive? No, he was sure it was stick-up kids that’d caught them slipping.

  “I want you to find them niggas, baby. I want you to fuck them up! I want you to gut them like pigs and bring their guts to me. They fucked wit’ our son and our home! They put their hands on our baby and threatened to rape him! I swear you better find these niggas!” she yelled.

  “I’m gonna find them, baby. I swear to you, they already dead men.”

  “And that bitch, she gotta fuckin’ go! I want her DEAD!” Tarsha was highly emotional. Her tears of upset and rage wouldn’t stop. The thought of three men violating her family and taking everything they had replayed over and over again in her head.

  Wacka suited up for war, despite his handicap. He wasn’t about to let anyone get away with this. Tarsha called over reinforcements, her two cousins Speedy and Trick. The moment they heard what had happened, they rushed to the house.

  “What these niggas look like, cuz?” Speedy asked.

  “I don’t know. They wore masks,” she said.

  “You got a clue who these niggas might be? I swear, we gon’ find these niggas and handle these muthafuckas,” said Trick.

  “There were three of them—tall and I don’t know, but I know who sent them, this bitch named Maxine. She sent them,” Tarsha said.

  Speedy and Trick were down for whatever. They had much respect for Wacka, knowing his pedigree and they loved their cousins. Whenever their cousin Tarsha needed something done, whether a beat down, help in the streets, or a murder, she could depend on her cousins when Wacka wasn’t around.

  “Y’all niggas ready?” Wacka asked the two men.

  “Nigga, yeah . . . let’s do this,” Speedy said, lifting his shirt to reveal the 9mm tucked in his waistband.

  The men left with Wacka to search B-more and beyond for the fools that robbed him. They took nearly six hundred thousand dollars from them and some expensive jewelry, and Wacka was determined to find them and get his money back. That type of score would have niggas talking.

  Alone in the house, Tarsha continued to fume. Her son was with a friend. She didn’t want him in the house. She vented by smashing things and yelling. She was biased because Maxine had beaten her ass. Revenge was inside her heart, and she wanted Maxine to suffer like she had. There was no turning back. She felt that bitch pushed her over the edge and Tarsha wasn’t thinking logically. She believed that the home invasion had Maxine’s fingerprints all over it and didn’t once consider what Wacka said—why would Maxine leave them alive? Tarsha wasn’t thinking with reason; she was thinking with emotions and vengeance.

  “That bitch wanna fuck wit’ my family and play games? A’ight, bitch, I can play games too and fuck your entire world up. See me, bitch!” she said to an imaginary Maxine.

  Tarsha sat down at the kitchen table and started writing. Pen to the paper, she spilled it all in a letter to Scott, outlining all the evidence and explaining Maxine’s role in his children’s deaths. It was emotional and it was detailed. Wacka had told her everything, and it was all coming out in the letter.

  Fuck that bitch, she told herself as she wrote and wrote.

  “You wanna play games, bitch? I can play games too and tell all your dirty secrets, bitch.”

  She couldn’t shake the image of men threatening to cut off her son’s fingers and rape him while she watched. It infected her with rage and insanity. No way she was letting that go. Maxine needed to be put down.

  When she finished writing, the letter was four and a half pages long. It was ready to be signed, sealed, and delivered to one of the most notorious men living. Tarsha couldn’t wait to see the outcome of her tell-all. She mailed the letter off and it somewhat helped her anger and rage. Still, she wouldn’t be completely pleased until she saw the three men who invaded her home killed in a very gruesome way.

  ***

  Bugsy sat in the backseat of the Yukon and looked at the New York City skyline from over the East River via the Brooklyn Bridge. One World Trade Center, standing erect over everything else in the city, caught his attention. What was once the World Trade Center was now a towering, gleaming structure. What terrorists knocked down on 9/11, the city rebuilt as the tallest building in the Western Hemisphere and the sixth tallest in the world. It was a statement to the world—no matter what you throw at us, this city will continue to stand and continue to show power. One World Trade Center represented power and strength, and it was precisely what Bugsy wanted to show to his enemies and everyone else. They were trying to knock him down, he and his family, but the Wests weren’t going anywhere. Bugsy was that bright, shimmering tower—standing erect in the air, towering over the city’s skyline and standing out above everything.

  But there were planes ready to knock him back down and wipe him out completely. They were circling him like vultures and ready to slam into him on a takeover mission.

  One headache in particular was Gambino. He had gotten the message from Bugsy with Mackie’s bloody and beaten body found in Brownsville. Gambino lashed out by shooting up one of Bugsy’s trap houses and killing t
hree people. Then there was a West soldier Gambino’s men threw off the rooftop of a ten-story project building—and it got gruesomely ugly below. The bloody war was spiraling out of control, and the last thing Bugsy needed was the negative spotlight. With his parents under federal indictment, he knew that he needed to calm things down or he was going to find himself in the same predicament his father was in.

  Bugsy sighed as they arrived into the city. It had been a stressful day and the saying was fitting for how he was feeling—heavy is the head that wears the crown. His head felt heavy and leaning. He was sleeping less and worrying more. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. His only relief was being with Maxine. She made him feel good and forget about his troubles. But that was stress itself, knowing Maxine was forbidden grounds, knowing every night he spent with her was a profound betrayal to his father.

  And her problems became his problems. Wacka needed to be dealt with immediately and he was on top of that crisis. It was one of many crises he had to deal with.

  First, he put the word out that he wanted a face-to-face meeting with Gambino to talk civilly. Maybe they could work something out. Bugsy wasn’t waving the white flag, but he needed shit to settle down.

  Second was Wacka. He wanted Maxine to have peace of mind. The West family had connections everywhere, and Bugsy was determined to use his clout to find Wacka by any means necessary. He had someone inside all the cell phone companies—Verizon, Sprint, T-Mobile, and AT&T. He handed out significant amounts of cash for anyone who could track down the location of that cell phone number. He gave his contacts the number, and a day later, he had an address in Baltimore. The place was registered to a girl named Tarsha Smith. Right away, he sent two expert killers to the address and gave clear instructions to kill everything inside that house—nobody lives.

  ***

  It was two in the morning when the black Tahoe slowly turned the corner of the urban Baltimore street and came to a stop in the middle of the road. The home they stopped in front of matched the address provided to them, and parked outside were two black Range Rovers that stood out among the ordinary vehicles parked on the street. It was quiet outside, and the late-late hour made the area sparse of residents. Two black men sat in the front seat of the SUV and scoped out the front entrance of the home. The house was dark, indicating to them that everyone was asleep inside. The driver puffed on a cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and flicked it out the window. The passenger nodded and put on a pair of black latex gloves and gripped a Glock 19 in his hand and twisted the six-inch silencer onto the end of the barrel.