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  “Fucking greaseball,” Tommy said, slapping Freddy. “You come into my place disrespecting me?” Another slap. “Fuck you and your fat boss. We don’t bend for nobody. You piece of shit you. Open ya fucking mouth.” Tommy put the barrel to Freddy's lips. “You had a lot to say before. Open that big-ass trap now.”

  “Tommy,” Here cried. “Fuck is going on?”

  “Just teaching this guinea mutha fucka a lesson.”

  “Tommy,” Here said, easing in his direction. “This ain’t no good for us. Let him go, Tommy.”

  Freddy could see the rage burning in Tommy's eyes. Fat Mike had sent him down here to ask Tommy a favor. Freddy was just a soldier, he wasn’t even a made guy. But that hadn’t stopped him from coming down and playing big shot. A front that was about to cost him his life.

  “Tommy,” Here said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t fuck up what we got going over a messenger boy. Let him up.”

  Tommy gave Freddy one last shove and let him up. “Pussy,” Tommy said. “You come in here talking that shit like dagos got a say in Harlem. Fuck you and Fat Mike. This is nigger heaven up here. Fuck outta here!”

  Freddy gathered himself up off the floor and tucked his tail between his legs. He had brought his nephew Carlo to the meeting in an attempt to impress him with his sway over the blacks. All Freddy ended up doing was embarrassing himself. He was stupid to come down and try to muscle Tommy Clark. Tommy came up under theold codes. All Freddy could do was suck it up and think of a good story to feed his capo.

  Here watched the Mafia men leave and rubbed his head in frustration. Slapping Freddy Deluca around was a bad move; there was bound to be a backlash. “Dumb stunt,” Here mumbled.

  “What?” Tommy asked, taking a pull of his cigarette.

  “Slapping that dago around,” Here spoke up.

  “Fuck him!” Tommy shouted. “Sons of bitches come into my place and wanna sling insults. Fuck them Mafia niggaz. I ain’t scared.”

  “Ain’t about being scared, Tommy. It's about being smart. You putting your hands on that dago could cause a lot of bullshit.”

  “Fuck ‘em. Greaseball mutha fuckas.” Tommy popped a lot of shit, but he knew he had fucked up. Nothing was etched in stone with the Wongs yet, so burning Fat Mike wasn’t the wisest thing to do. The Italians could make things very uncomfortable for Tommy. Not impossible, just uncomfortable.

  “So what’ve we got so far?” Brown asked, as he pulled the Buick into traffic.

  “Well,” Alvarez said, lighting his cigarette, “seems home boy knew more than he let on yesterday. Apparently, Heath knew the kids that killed him. They walk up on him, exchange a few words, and bang. His ass is dead.”

  “Simple as that, huh?” Brown asked. “Well, Mr. Simple As That, do we have a description of these kids?”

  “I’ll do you one better,” Alvarez said, tossing a folder onto Brown's lap. “Pictures, my man.”

  Brown took one hand off the wheel and used it to flip open the folder. Inside were mug shots of two young kids who looked familiar to Brown. He knew he had seen the faces before, but he couldn’t place where.

  “Fuck are these jokers?” Brown asked.

  “I let our informant sift through some mug shots and these were the faces he pointed out. The chubby one is Amine Barrett. The other one is his partner Herman Johnson. Or Legs, as he's called in the streets.”

  “Legs,” Brown said, scratching his head. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “It should. You’ve had to see him coming in and out of the station. He's spent more time in there than we have. He's best known for robbery and petty extortion.”

  “Oh, I think I remember this kid. Didn’t he come through homicide a while back?”

  “Yep. Had him in for questioning in that kid's murder last sum

  mer. Never got anything to stick on him though.”

  “This doesn’t make sense though, J. Other than that incident with Legs, those two aren’t known for murder. Besides, they’re barely old enough to pee straight.”

  “That don’t mean shit, Tone. There's no required age to murder.”

  “Very true,” Brown said, turning the Buick west. “So do we have any leads as to where we might find Mr, Johnson or Mr. Barrett?”

  “Warm at best,” Alvarez admitted. “The kid Legs is a nomad. No family, no permanent address, no ties.”

  “What about the other kid?”

  “We got an address from about two years ago, I don’t know if his people still live there or not.”

  “We can always check it out. If he doesn’t live there, he probably still plays that hood. If he isn’t out there, someone's got a lead on him. Where we headed, J?”

  “A Hundred Forty-fourth and Lenox. Harlem world, baby.”Brown mashed the gas pedal causing the Buick to jerk. He ran through a red light and almost caused an accident as he merged with the northbound traffic on the West Side Highway.

  By about twelve thirty the driveway started getting crowded. Cars, trucks, and limos were pulling up left and right. Poppa stood to theside of the house with Hope greeting the guests. He flashed his widest grin as he shook the hands and kissed the cheeks of various political officials and entertainment personalities. Poppa had turned out to be a respected businessman. Long way from the street thug that he was so many decades ago.

  In the early days, when he came over from Trinidad, Poppa had made quite a name for himself. Back then, he was working part- time as an enforcer for a local Mob boss down in Miami. Poppa was known for his brutality and his way with a machete.

  Poppa looked out at the guests sprinkled over his vast lawn. He had risen from a poor refugee to a kingpin. Shortly he would be on his way to becoming one of the most respected businessmen in the country. He had come a long way all right. A hell of a long way.

  “Look at my fucking head,” Freddy said, touching the purple knot Tommy had given him. “That spear-chucking son of a bitch has gotta go.”

  “Hold on,” said Fat Mike, flicking the ash off his cigarette. “Slow the fuck down, Freddy. You don’t come in here telling me who goes and who doesn’t. I’m running things down here. Understand?”

  “Sorry, Mike.”

  “That's more like it. Now tell me what happened.”

  “It's like I said. I went down to Shakers to see this prick, just like you asked. I lay the offer out to him and he starts talking reck

  less. That spade called you all kinds of filthy names and said that you should go fuck yourself.”

  “Tommy Clark said this to you?”

  “On my mother's eyes, Mike.”

  “I dunno,” Mike said, rubbing his chin. “Tommy's a hothead, but he isn’t stupid. He knows that saying or doing the wrong thing could catch him a dirt nap, regardless of whom his father is. It just sounds fishy.”

  “What's fishy?” Freddy asked, getting animated again. “Some nigger slaps around one of your soldiers and it's fishy? Mike, I don’twanna sound like I’m outta line or anything, but this shit ain’t right. Had this happened to a soldier from another family, that eggplant would be stiff right now.”

  “Well,” Mike said, flashing Freddy an evil glare, “this ain’t another family. I’ll tell you what else: had someone else heard you make that statement it wouldn’t look good on you. Makes you sound like you’re not happy with us. Is this so?”

  “No, no,” Freddy pleaded. “I love this family. All I’m saying is that I felt disrespected by this Tommy kid. If he can get away with slapping soldiers around, who's to say that he wouldn’t try it with a made guy?”

  The thought of Tommy's crazy ass running up on him didn’t sit well with Mike. In all actuality, he really didn’t care that Tommy had kicked Freddy's ass. Chances are Freddy probably said something to set him off. But right or wrong Mike couldn’t let it slide. He had to do something to make it right so he could save face with the other soldiers.

  “Tell you what,” Mike said, getting up from his recliner. “I’ll handle it.”


  “Thanks, Mike.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Freddy,” Mike said, throwing one of his flabby arms over Freddy's shoulder. “We’ll get it all worked out, Freddy. I always take care of my own.”

  Angelo made his way through Newark Airport, followed by his second in command, Fritz. Angelo was a very tall and thin man. He had soft olive skin and hazel eyes. He also had curly black hair that he wore in a low cut. When Angelo walked, he seemed to be flowing instead of taking actual steps. He was as silent as a snake and twice as deadly. It was for this reason that Poppa had chosen him for the mission.

  “Fuck is this nigga at?” Fritz asked, again looking at his watch.

  ”Patience,” Angelo shushed him. “Our charge has to maintain a low profile. He can’t very well be standing around out in the open. Itwas hard enough getting his hot ass on the plane without arousing suspicion.”

  “This is some bullshit,” said Fritz, adjusting the crotch of his Pepes. “I ain’t no fucking babysitter.”

  “We ain’t babysitting, man. Poppa asked us to pick his nephew up from the airport and bring him back to the City. Simple as that.”

  “Still sounds like babysitting to me. Why the fuck doesn’t this cat just hop in a cab?”

  “Fritz,” said Angelo, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We went over this in the car already. The boy is hot, with a capital ‘H.’ All I really know is that the kid is Poppa's nephew from Florida. He got into some kind of trouble and had to get low. So here we are.”

  “Florida, huh?” Fritz asked, stroking his thin mustache. “Probably another one of them front’n ass niggaz, talking all crazy.”

  “I don’t know, man. I only met Gator once, but I heard the kid is a gangsta.”

  “Gator? Are you serious? Man, I can’t wait to see what this fool looks like.”

  “There he is over there,” Angelo said, motioning to a man slouched near the pay phones. Gator noticed Angelo at the same time and began slinking in his direction.

  To Fritz's surprise, Gator was hardly what he had expected. Gator was a man of average height. He stood maybe six feet. He had a square jaw that seemed to be hinged by iron pikes. Though his waist was slim, almost to the point of looking feminine, his chest was broad. On his head, he wore a rasta-type cap, pulled low.

  Gator's menacing brown eyes swept over the people that milled around the airport. He was scanning for any signs that someone might recognize him or that the law might be hip. Gator might not have the advantage of a pistol, but he worked best when his back was against the wall. Before his escorts had arrived, Gator had taken the liberty of loosening several of the iron rods that supported the rope dividers for the ticket lines. If need be, he could get to one of them and bash his way out of the airport.

  Fritz inadvertently took a step back as Gator approached. The man didn’t come at him sideways, but there was something about him that screamed “Get the fuck back!” His brown face bore battle scars, and his nose was somewhat crooked from being broken more than once. Gator looked from Fritz to Angelo and smiled, exposing two rows of crocodile-like gold teeth.

  CHAPTER 5

  SHAI STEPPED OUT onto the lawn looking as sharp as ever. He wore a black pinstriped suit, with a matching vest. He was going to wear a tie but decided not to at the last minute. Instead he let the red silk shirt hang open. The three-quarter suit jacket stopped exactly at the knee. All eyes were on him as he glided over to where his father was standing.

  Poppa was standing near a six-foot swan made of ice, talking to two men. The first man Shai didn’t recognize, but he knew the second man was Sol Lansky. Lansky was one of Poppa's business partners. He was a Holocaust survivor who had taken up roots in New York shortly after World War Two. He started out with just a little pawn shop on the East Side. It was through this shop that Sol fenced stolen goods for the Mob. He eventually opened up a liquor store a few years down the line. The one liquor store turned into three and so on, until eventually Sol had a chain of liquor stores. He might’ve looked like a humble shopkeeper but Sol Lansky had money and heavy underworld connections.

  Poppa and Sol had heard of each other but neither had ever had a reason to do business. That was until about 1987 or so. Sol was having a problem with one of the local crews around his store. He reached out to his Mob connections, but they figured that settling beefs between niggers and Jews wasn’t on their immediate things to do list. Poppa had always admired the old businessman, so he stepped in and made Sol's problem vanish. They had remained friends, trading favors over the years. When Poppa made his decision to go legit with the majority of his money, Sol took him on as a partner. The duo amassed millions over the years.

  “Shai,” Sol said, flashing a wide grin. “How you been, son?”

  Shai walked over and shook the elderly man's hand. He made sure that his grip was firm but didn’t apply much pressure. Sol's little gnarled-up digits felt as if they might snap off if he squeezed too hard. The charcoal-gray suit that he wore hung loosely on his slim frame. As withered and gray as Sol might’ve seemed, he was a tough old bird. Shai had heard rumors about the Jew in his prime.

  “Good to see you, Sol,” Shai said,

  “Sorry about the little trouble you got in.”

  “Shit happens,” Shai shrugged. “I’ll get back on track.”

  “I know you will,” the old man said, patting him on the shoulder.

  “Besides, if I don’t, I’m sure I can depend on you to give me a job. Maybe vice president of your company?” Shai joked.

  “Yeah, you’re a ballbreaker, just like your old man.”

  “Watch it, Sol,” Poppa said. “I hear you got a mistress or two in the stash.”

  “Poppa, you’ll forever be a putz.”

  “Damn right. Oh, Shai, I’ve got somebody I want you to meet. This is Bill O’Connor, the guest of honor.” Shai smiled and shook the redheaded man's hand. He knew who Bill was, but tried not to let on. It was Bill who got Shai his Ecstasy connect; his son was Shai's supplier. He’d never tell Poppa this though. Bill said that the reason he looked out for Shai was because he liked the way he handled himself. They both agreed that it would be best if Tommy and Poppa never discovered the extent of their relationship. City official or not, Poppa wouldn’t have hesitated to have the man killed.

  “Been some years since last I saw you, kid,” O’Connor said with a wink. “I hear you’re quite the scholar.”

  “I try,” Shai said humbly.

  “Well, at least you’re going,” O’Connor continued. “A lot of young people decide to skip college and pursue other things. You understand where I’m coming from?”

  “Yes, I do. That life isn’t for me. Poppa and Tommy have got bigger plans for me.”

  “Good. Speaking of Tommy, where is that crazy guy?”

  “He’ll be here,” Poppa said. “Running a little late.”

  “And speaking of running,” Bill said, “I hear Tommy's gonna be running your street operations?”

  “Yeah.” Poppa nodded. “I’m done, Bill. My time in the streets is over. I tried to convince Tommy to hand it up, but this is what he wants.”

  “I know it's what he wants, Poppa,” Bill said, scratching his chin, “but do you think he's ready for it? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Tommy's always been a good earner, but he's not the most subtle kid. Running this on his own might be a bit much for him. It's a big job, Poppa. Tommy's smooth as silk, but he isn’t the most diplomatic kid. There's already a lot of tension on the streets with you stepping down. Maybe giving Tommy total control will make it worse before it gets better?”

  “Look, Bill,” Poppa said defensively, “I know just what kinda kid Tommy is. Hell, I made him. I know he's a little rough around the edges, but so were we back in the day. Tommy's still got some growing to do, but he’ll be okay. Besides, who the hell else could I get to take care of things on the streets?”

  “What about the kid?” Bill asked. He made it seem like an honest question, but he had an ulterior motiv
e. He had made quite a bit of money with Shai through his son. He knew that if somehow Shai had a say-so in what went on with the Clark organization, he could profit from it. Bill liked Poppa, but deep down he just saw him as another avenue to get money.

  “Shai knows the streets,” Bill continued, “but he ain’t poisoned by ‘em. Maybe you should think about letting him play a part? I’m not saying to give him total control either, but maybe he and Tommy could balance each other out?”

  “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Shai cut in. As soon as the words left Shai's mouth, he wished he could take them back.

  Poppa's burning gaze fell on Shai. “Nothing doing,” Poppa said, shaking his head. “That ain’t for you, Shai. Fuck that!”

  “But, P—” Bill tried to reason.

  “This conversation is done, Bill.” One of the security guards came over and whispered something into Poppa's ear. Poppa nodded and sent him off. “If you’ll excuse me, gents, I’ve got something to attend to in the house.” Poppa walked off, leaving Shai to play host.

  Shai sucked his teeth, but he made sure that Poppa was out of earshot before he did it. He and Bill looked at each other, but didn’t say anything. They just went their separate ways. Sol cast a curious glance at the both of them, but let it go.

  Poppa walked into the receiving area where his visitor was waiting. The man sitting on his sofa was light skinned with a curly Afro. When he noticed Poppa come into the room, his visitor pulled his six-nine frame from the love seat and moved to greet the lord of the manor.

  Poppa had first met James a few years back out in Queens. He was a young college hoop star who was working as a coach for a team that Shai was playing for. The young man was a bit of a loud mouth, but his game was serious. He and the young Shai spent a lot of time together. He kept him off the streets, so Poppa took a liking to him, even invited James out to the house a few times.