Cartier Cartel--Part 4 Page 4

  “They ran back to Ethiopia shortly thereafter and asked me to go too. But I refused to live in a country that I’d never been to, so here I am.”

  This was a lot to process. Cartier said to Harlem, “C’mon, we’re leaving. Let’s go eat.”

  Harlem followed Cartier out of the apartment wearing the dress Cartier gave her and the clutch purse she’d had when she was arrested. She worried how she was going to explain her long absence to Esmeralda.

  The two of them exited the elevator into the parking garage and walked toward the car. Cartier immediately noticed something on her windshield, but Harlem grabbed it first. It was a white note card with a menacing black skull with hollow eyes, a sharp dagger, blood, and the letter D. The D was handwritten in block letter format—the format criminals use to disguise their handwriting.

  She held it up to show Cartier, and it gave Cartier pause. What the fuck is this? she thought. She stood there for a moment inspecting the card, and Harlem could see some worry written across her face.

  “What does it mean?” Harlem asked her.

  “It’s nothing . . . just someone playing a joke or something. Just toss it away,” Cartier replied, brushing it off and climbing into the driver’s seat of her Bugatti.

  Harlem didn’t toss the card. Instead, she quickly stuffed it into her purse and climbed into the passenger seat. Cartier drove out of the parking garage, refusing to be bothered by what she found on her windshield. She had some business to attend to, and she rebuffed any threats.

  The blue-and-white Bugatti had jaws dropping to the ground as it drove by on the gritty South Bronx streets. For so many, this was a car they only saw in rap videos or in the movies. It slowly cruised by the onlookers, and it soon came to a stop in front of a towering housing project with the Manhattan skyline in the background in Soundview, Bronx.

  Harlem instantly became worried. She stared at Cartier with uneasiness and said, “Thank you for everything.”

  “I want you to wait here,” Cartier said.

  “What? Wait, why?”

  “Just wait here in the car and don’t get out,” Cartier demanded.

  Harlem was baffled by the request, but she didn’t protest.

  Cartier reached into one of the compartments to the car and removed a .45 handgun and concealed it in her Gucci handbag. She climbed out of the vehicle, leaving Harlem inside, and marched toward the projects. She was bold enough to confront Esmeralda on her turf with no more than a .45 to hold her down. It was a risk, but Cartier was used to taking risks and coming out on top. It was the Bronx, but she was from Brooklyn—and like they say in Brownsville, “Never ran, and never will.”

  She strutted into the projects with everyone staring at her and wondering who this nicely dressed bitch was invading their turf. Cartier was attentive to her surroundings, but she remained undaunted and walked into the project lobby on a mission. She stepped into the pissy-smelling elevator and pushed for the tenth floor. Cartier looked stoic about her impromptu meeting with a dangerous female pimp as the elevator ascended.

  Approaching the apartment, Cartier took a deep breath. She knew she had this shit under control. She was Cartier—once the leader of the Cartier Cartel, a ruthless organization that held shit down, made millions of dollars from the streets, and was respected everywhere. No Bronx pimp was going to intimidate her.

  She banged hard on the door, and a shirtless thug soon answered it. He glared at the striking Cartier with her short bob haircut and growled, “Who you, bitch?”

  She looked him dead in his eyes and said, “I’m here to see Esmeralda,” with authority in her voice.

  He continued to glare at her, blocking her entrance into the apartment. Cartier could clearly see that it was hectic inside, and the weed smell coming from the apartment was pungent.

  “This is business,” she added.

  “Business?” he questioned with a raised eyebrow. “She knows you?”

  “No. But I know she will want to get to know me when she sees this,” Cartier said, opening her purse slightly to show him the ten stacks wrapped in a rubber band.

  He stepped aside, and Cartier walked into the apartment filled with goons galore. The smell of weed was amplified, and there were a few girls lingering in the living room, looking like they were ready to turn tricks. All eyes were on Cartier. She knew she was on treacherous grounds. The Bronx was a grimy borough with some grimy people.

  “Follow me,” the thug at the door said to her.

  He led her down a long hallway and knocked on the door to the master bedroom. Cartier stood behind him on alert, keeping her gun close and trying to ready herself for anything that came her way. She was deep in the lion’s den.

  “Come in,” said a voice on the other side.

  The door opened, and Cartier continued into the bedroom. Surprisingly, the place had been converted into a small office. The windows had been blacked out, and there was a large flat screen mounted on the wall, couches and a love seat, and a small desk. Seated behind the desk was Esmeralda. She was a well-dressed, petite, dark-skinned woman with long dreadlocks, and she carried a cold gaze.

  “Who this bitch, Tony?” she asked the thug from the door.

  “She says she got some business with you, Esmeralda,” he replied.

  Cartier boldly interrupted their conversation with, “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but we have someone in common.”

  “And who’s that?” asked Esmeralda with some interest.

  “Her name is Harlem.”

  A glimmer of shock passed through Esmeralda’s eyes. “I’ve been looking everywhere for that fuckin’ bitch.”

  “Well, right now she’s with me,” Cartier said.

  “With you? And, once again, who the fuck is you?”

  “I’m someone who’s willing to take Harlem off your hands for a price,” Cartier sternly replied.

  Esmeralda laughed. “You got fuckin’ balls bitch to come up in here and proposition me. And once again, who are you? And what makes you think we won’t fuck you up right now and put your pussy up for sale?”

  Cartier stepped closer to the desk, locking eyes with the woman and looking unworried by the threats she threw out. “You wanna know who I am? My name is Cartier Timmons, and you probably heard of my organization, the Cartier Cartel from Brooklyn. If so, then you already know I’m not somebody you want to fuck with.”

  Cartier tossed the ten stacks from her handbag onto Esmeralda’s desk. Ten grand was light cash for Cartier—it wasn’t shit with the amount of money she had from South Beach.

  Cartier kept her stern stare aimed at Esmeralda. If it were anyone else, male or female, they would not have made it out of the office alive. Fortunately for Cartier, her name did ring out, even in the Bronx. Esmeralda had run with Kola back in the day, and they had prostituted girls back then. Also, Cartier’s name was echoing heavy in the streets of New York from the work she had put in down in South Beach. She was lethal, and the streets knew it. Cartier was considered family to Apple and Kola, and although Esmeralda had a deadly and robust team, she didn’t want any trouble with Apple, Kola, and Cartier. Especially not over a young bitch like Harlem.

  Esmeralda stood up from her chair, and the mood in the room suddenly changed. “I’ve heard of you and definitely know what you’re capable of. Do you want a drink?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  “So, ten grand for Harlem,” Esmeralda chuckled. “You like the bitch that much?”

  “She somewhat grew on me,” Cartier replied, being terse.

  “She has that effect on people.”

  Esmeralda picked up the cash from her desk. Briefly, she wondered if she should give it back in good faith to get on Cartier’s good side, but she knew it would make her look weak amongst her men.

  “You can have the bitch, Cartier. Her debt is paid as far as I’m c
oncerned.”

  Cartier slightly nodded. It was respect. “So we good?”

  “Yeah. We good,” Esmeralda assured her. “But I’m curious—what brought you back to New York from South Beach?”

  It was her personal business, but Cartier didn’t get offended. She replied, “My nigga.”

  “I can respect that,” Esmeralda returned.

  Cartier didn’t want to prolong her business with Esmeralda. She had what she came for, and now it was time to leave. The two ladies gave each other a nod, and then Cartier turned around to leave.

  “A word of advice,” Esmeralda called out. Cartier paused, her back still to the pimpstress. “Don’t trust her. She’s a slick bitch.”

  Back in the driver’s seat, Cartier stared at Harlem with a straight face. She couldn’t reconcile her willingness to help this stranger, other than that it was in her DNA, buried deep under heartbreaks and heartaches. As a teenager, Cartier protected her cartel by any means necessary—even if that meant losing her own freedom when she copped to manslaughter. Cartier was an alpha female who protected—not preyed—on the weak. When Monya, Shanine, Lil Momma, or Bam needed her, she rescued them all time and time again. And now she found herself liberating this pitiful prostitute, this Monya-esque little liar.

  Harlem didn’t know what Cartier was thinking or what to expect from her. But she knew one thing for sure: Cartier had to be somebody special to leave Esmeralda’s place unharmed.

  Finally, Cartier said, “You don’t have to worry about Esmeralda anymore.”

  Harlem was shocked. “What?”

  “You’re free.”

  “Bullshit. You actually did it?”

  “Don’t ever doubt me,” Cartier said.

  4

  The gray Audi came to a stop in front of the two-family home on New Lots Avenue in East New York at two in the morning. Head killed the ignition. For a moment he stayed behind the wheel and watched the residence. It was dark and still, indicating that his great aunt was most likely asleep. Aunt Gloria was old and loving. He was paroled to her place and was trying to keep a low profile.

  The home was for sale with a high asking price of just under a million dollars. Head stared at the For Sale sign and smirked. He couldn’t believe that the dilapidated building with ancient linoleum floors, peeling paint, tiny rooms, and outdated fixtures could fetch that much. Every day there was a mouse caught in a trap, and there were too many roaches to count. He’d only been living at his great aunt’s for a week, and he was grateful that she had taken him in. However, he didn’t plan on being there long.

  He had been driving around in Pebbles’ gray Audi with no regard for whether she needed the vehicle or not—nor did he pick her up from Central Booking the previous week. He knew it was fucked up, but he felt nothing. She had been calling his phone repeatedly, filling up his voice messages and leaving multiple texts. He blocked her number for the moment. It wasn’t anything permanent; he just wanted some space—some alone time—and Pebbles was becoming bothersome.

  Head wanted some peace tonight to focus on putting together an operation out in Flint, Michigan. Inside the pen, Head met a lot of well-read men who opened his eyes to world views and self-awareness—influential men who preached not like Brother Malcolm or Dr. King, but more in the vein of Dr. Yosef Ben–Jochannan, AKA Dr. Ben.

  Upon his release, a lot of Head’s old friends came to see him and they had blessed him with ten stacks or better. It was respect. He still had lots of cash stashed away for a rainy day, which his Aunt Gloria held for him. The entire time he was locked away she never touched a dime. Gloria was one of those overly religious individuals who believed what she preached. There wasn’t any way she was going to spend his drug money. Most hypocritical church folks would preach about greed and morals, but the moment a hustler tossed a stack of money their way, they couldn’t spend it fast enough. But not Aunt Gloria. She didn’t want anything to do with it. She did him that one favor, and that was it.

  Head finally hopped out the car with some urgency to get what he needed and go inside. He walked to the trunk but then he stopped suddenly and gazed into the night. He eyed a car driving too slow for his comfort with its high beams blinding him. He was a thoroughbred hustler who knew to carry his pistol on him, even though he was on parole. Head would rather be caged for carrying a gun than dead for not. He reached for the gun tucked against the small of his back, but as he did so, several rapid shots rang out—Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  The gunshots echoed deafeningly. Head took cover behind Pebbles’ Audi and managed to pull out his pistol and return gunfire at the vehicle. Six slugs tore into the Audi’s exterior, but thankfully he wasn’t hit. The lights were still blinding him, so it was difficult for him to shoot with accuracy. Finding his moment to flee, he took off running from his great aunt’s home, not wanting to bring anymore heat there. She didn’t deserve that kind of drama. He ran away like a track star, and to his benefit he wasn’t being followed. But it was embarrassing that he had to run in the first place.

  Four blocks later, he made it to a gas station. He was out of breath and sweaty. He kept the gun in his hand, knowing it was a risk to keep it. It would be worse to get caught without it if the same car was still lurking, though.

  “Fuck!” he cursed at the top of his lungs.

  His head was on a rotation. The early morning hour made it easy for him to keep track of things, with the traffic and activity being sparse. For several minutes, he stood at the gas station on alert, waiting for something that probably wasn’t coming. Whoever it was, they took their shot and missed. Head puffed out his frustration and decided to call an Uber.

  After twenty minutes of waiting at the gas station on high alert and keeping his gun close, his Uber finally arrived. Head was highly irritated. Veins were bulging near his temples and his jaw was tightly clenched. The Ford Taurus slowly pulled into the gas station with the female driver looking for her pick-up. Head noisily exhaled. He was relieved that it was a female driver. If it was a man, he would have kept his gun in his hand. Still, he didn’t trust anyone. He coolly walked toward the Taurus.

  “You my Uber, right?” he asked.

  She nodded and asked, “Is your name Henry?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Okay. I’m Jennifer.”

  Head got into the backseat. The gun was tucked back into his waistband. He kept his eyes open as he scanned the dimly lit streets to see if they were being followed.

  “So where are we going?”

  “To my girl’s place,” he replied.

  He gave her the address and she started to pull out of the gas station.

  “Hang on. I need you to do me one favor first, though.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, hitting the brakes and turning toward him.

  “I just want to drive by my aunt’s place to see if she’s okay. I’ll give you a nice tip for that.”

  “Sure, that’s not a problem. We can do that.”

  As Jennifer pulled around to his Aunt Gloria’s home, Head remained slouched in the backseat trying to stay out of sight in case his enemies were still lingering. The block was quiet, Pebbles’ Audi was still parked out front, and Gloria’s place seemed untouched. Head was pleased to see that. It took away a lot of worry. The last thing he wanted was for his aunt to get hurt, or worse.

  Jennifer dropped Head at Pebbles’ place, and he gave her a healthy tip for her help. She was thankful. He marched toward Pebbles’ door and banged. It was early in the morning and sometimes Pebbles slept like a rock. Fortunately for him, she heard his steady banging at her door and finally answered it wearing a long white T-shirt.

  “Damn, baby, what the fuck? Why you knockin’ on my door like that?” she wanted to know.

  Head pushed past her and walked straight to her bedroom.

  Pebbles followed behind him like a concerned puppy. “W
hat’s wrong? What happened tonight?”

  He spun around to look at her and slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. “Yo, some muthafuckas just tried to get at me!”

  Pebbles’ face went from worry to shock. “Wait—somebody tried to kill you?”

  “They did, but they missed,” he said, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Muthafuckas must got death wishes. Fuckin’ roaches!”

  Head had no idea who wanted to see him dead, but he strongly suspected that it was someone trying to make a name for themselves by murdering a street legend.

  5

  Cartier sat at the table in the kitchen drinking her coffee and watching Harlem try on numerous outfits. From her long legs to her perky tits, you could tell she loved herself. Harlem wanted Cartier’s approval on which outfit complimented her most. Cartier was amused. Harlem was Monya reincarnated. Monya would wear the tightest jeans and flaunt her little bony body around proudly. You couldn’t tell her that she wasn’t the bomb-dot-com.

  Harlem had been staying with her for a week now, and so far everything had been copasetic. Their conversations were easy, and Cartier was learning a lot about Ethiopia. Besides, Harlem was some help in taking her mind off of Head—or Henry—and his bullshit.

  Cartier had her good days and her bad days. Today felt like it was going to be one of those bad days when she tried not to think about him but couldn’t stop. She needed to unleash the rage inside her because Head wasn’t cooperating with her; he wasn’t giving their love a chance. The only thing that kept her going in Seattle and in Miami was that they would be together when he came home. Now, he was running around town with some new bitch. Cartier said to herself, Not on my watch—not while she sat around and let the streets tell their love story.

  She came up with an idea. She didn’t know why she thought of it, but doing the unthinkable would somehow placate her. She had a temper, and it was hard for her to control. Thinking about Head being with Pebbles set her off like a rocket. She didn’t want to face the fact that she had lost him.