her hips moved made me want her. I reminded myself that fuckin’ her wasn’t why I was there.
“That was too easy,” Ms. West said, gently touching my face.
“Diego always was a punk,” I said and went into the next room. In there was CeCe, tied to a chair. She didn’t belong there either. DEA agent, DeFrancisco, was holding a gun to her head. He was involved with Diego and had Cassandra killed, and tried to fame me for the murder. I killed him too.
“What are you doing with her?” CeCe shouted.
“I’m going to take him from you. That’s what I’m doing here,” Ms. West taunted.
I turned to Ms. West. “I thought you said you didn’t know what you were doing here.”
“That was so ten minutes ago.” Ms. West kissed me on the cheek. “You go ahead and save your
I turned back to DeFrancisco and CeCe. I raised my gun and shot DeFrancisco in the head, then went and untied CeCe. “Wait here,” I said and started out the room.
“No, you ain’t goin’ after her!” CeCe shouted.
“I’m goin’ to save Cassandra,” I said.
“Not
I went downstairs and headed for the kitchen, knowing that I should have gone there first and wondering what the significance of CeCe and Ms. West being there meant. CeCe I could understand; she has always felt like she couldn’t compete with Cassandra. But what about the lovely Jada West? Did I subconsciously want her to take me from CeCe?
I went into the kitchen and the only one in there was DEA agent, Pete Vinnelli. He orchestrated Cassandra’s murder. Monika and I killed him in Mexico; but not before I ruined his life. I raised my gun and shot him twice in the head.
I searched the house again and nobody was there. No dead bodies, no CeCe, no Ms. West, and definitely, no Cassandra. “Where is she!” I shouted.
Chapter Four
“Black,” Victor said.
“Huh?”
“You all right?” he asked and his eyes cut to the gun in my hand.
“Yeah, I’m all right. Just nodded off for a minute,” I said and looked at the gun in my hand and then over at him.
I liked Victor, I thought as I put away my gun. He’s a smart guy, pays attention to what I tell him and he learns quickly. There are even times when he reminds me of Freeze. But Victor and Freeze are two completely different people, so I try not to make comparisons, because there will never be another Freeze.
I remember when Freeze really started to work for me. It was after he rounded up all four of the guys who highjacked our load. The Kid, that’s what we used to call him, did it quick, and by himself. He earned everyone’s respect that night, and we all started to take him seriously. Before that, he was little more than an errand boy.
After that night, I started taking him with me when Andre sent me to collect for him. “What do you want me to do, Black?” Freeze asked that first time.
“Nothing, understand; you keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, and you don’t do shit unless I tell you. Understand?”
“Understood.”
“Good. Now let’s go,” I said and started to walk off. Then I stopped. “You armed?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me see.”
Freeze lifted up his shirt and showed me a.38 snub nose tucked in his waist.
“Guess we need to get you a gun,” I said and took him to Cynt’s office. Once she opened the safe, I looked at Freeze. “Pick one.”
Freeze stepped up and looked in the safe. Cynt kept a small arsenal in the safe in her office those days. Now, all of the spots we run have two: One in the office and the other, behind the bar. It has come in handy on more than one occasion.
Cynt leaned close to me. “Bet he chooses the.44 Magnum,” she whispered. But the Kid surprised us both when he came out with a Sig Sauer SP2022 9mm pistol with a 15- shot magazine. “I’m impressed,” Cynt whispered.
When we left Cynt’s, me and Freeze caught the train to 59th Street, and then caught the D train to Tremont Avenue. From there we walked up Tremont to a building on Martin Luther King Boulevard. We were going to see a dealer named Mark Mitchell, who liked to get high on his own supply. When we got to the door, I started to go over the rules again, but Freeze hadn’t said a word since we’d left Cynt’s, so I didn’t think he would start now.
I banged on the door and waited. It wasn’t long before I heard, “Who is it?”
“It’s Black. Open the fuckin’ door before I start shooting through it.” I actually heard him say, “Shit,” before he opened the door.
“What’s up, Black?”
As soon as I was inside, I punched him in the face and he went down from the blow. I kicked him in the face while he was laying there. “That’s for making me come down here,” I said and kicked him again. “Help him up, Freeze.”
Freeze stepped up and helped Mark to his feet. I punched him in the stomach and when he doubled over; I went to the face with a knee lift. He went down again. Then I went into the living room and sat down. Freeze came and stood near where I was sitting, and we waited for Mark to get up and join us. I was glad that I didn’t have to tell Freeze not to help him up.
When Mark did finally join us, he ran down some long, drawn out story about why he didn’t have the money. But as usual, he promised that he would have it if I’d just give him some more time. I got up and smashed his face into the wall a couple of times before I left that day, and ended up killing Mark when I found him the next week.
As time went on, Freeze learned the craft. It got to the point that we worked together that we didn’t need words. Freeze knew exactly how and when I wanted him to deliver pain. And Freeze was brutal. I think its the thing that separates Victor most from Freeze. Victor is smart, efficient; he does what needs to be done to get results. Freeze enjoyed hurting a mutha fucka.
I remember a guy named Irving Anderson; a stock broker whose only vice was that he liked to bet baseball. After a run of bad luck, he owed me fifteen thousand dollars. We found him one night at a bar on Seventh Avenue. Me and Freeze got to the door, but instead of going inside, I went and leaned against a car. “Go on in and bring him out,” I said.
Freeze smile. “You ain’t goin’ in, Black?”
“I’ll be right here.”
Freeze went in, and five minutes later, the doors swung open and Irving Anderson landed at my feet. I looked at Freeze as he came out. “Mr. Anderson I presume?”
“That’s him,” Freeze said.
“He’s all yours.”
Freeze smiled again, but went straight to work on Mr. Anderson. I watched him while he worked. And I looked in his eyes and could tell that he was lovin’ every second of it. Hittin’ him with fists, forearms and elbows; kickin’ him, rammin’ his head into cars.
“Is there a problem out here?” some big mutha fucka that I assumed was the bouncer asked as a crowd formed to watch.
I showed him my gun. “Does it look like I’m havin’ a problem?”
“No problem,” he said wisely.
