Inside, they were greeted by the sounds of a piano sonata that World thought was a record, but it was Ceylon sitting in his living room playing Mozart himself. As Duke and World entered, Ceylon kept his eyes closed and continued to play. The guards closed the door and left them alone with Ceylon.
Duke looked at the man behind the piano, eyes closed like he was meditating. He was nothing like Duke expected. Instead of a suave Spaniard, Ceylon was small, almost tiny, skinny and frail. He reminded Duke of a bookkeeper. His sharp aquiline nose gave away his ethnicity.
Ceylon was of Turkish origin, and although he was small, his power was huge. He was a diplomat, and the man he represented would make Frank Sosa look like a corner hustler. Ceylon himself was far from a drug dealer. His international influence merely made it easy for men like his clients to flood the streets from New York to Frankfurt with the deadly white poison.
Ceylon dined with presidents, dictators, world bankers, and terrorists, and now here he was, meeting with two brash young thugs from the ghetto. Never underestimate the power of the streets. He had called Young World and asked to meet him personally, something he rarely did, and Young World knew why. World knew he wasn’t moving a fifth of what he used to move, and Ceylon’s patience was running thin. How thin, World didn’t know. He made World wish he still had his burner on his waist, just in case.
Ceylon ended his sonata on the Steinway and sat stone still, eyes remaining closed, as the last vibration of notes dissipated into silence.
“Mr. Cey-”
“Shhh,” Ceylon softly whispered, putting a finger to his lips. “Music is like fine wine. It must be savored, and talk is bad for my digestion,” he philosophized in a nasal Turkish accent. He sounded like a cross between Elijah Muhammad and Einstein.
Young World and Duke exchanged glances. After a few seconds, Ceylon rose from the piano bench and approached his guests.
“Mr. Young World and Duke, I presume,” Ceylon greeted. Duke nodded.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ceylon,” Duke replied extending a hand, which Ceylon disdainfully regarded then totally ignored.
Ceylon folded his arms behind his back and responded, “It remains to be seen if it is a pleasure to meet or not.”
Duke lowered his hand, gritting his teeth on the low. Ceylon turned to World.
“I would offer you a drink but you won’t be staying long. I am a man who does not mince words and waste time, and you, Mr. World, are wasting my time.”
World’s ego stiffened and he wanted to answer him with some fly shit but checked his tongue.
“Mr. Ceylon, with all due respect, I’m doin’ all I can but things are hectic right now. Wit’ everybody snitchin’, the Feds everywhere and the mob-” he tried to explain, but Ceylon smoothly cut him off.
“Excuses are never good reasons,” Mr. Ceylon said with a patronizing smirk. He turned on his heel, went to the bar, and poured himself a drink.
“I am fully aware of your current situation, painfully aware actually. You have lost major portions of your territory to rival factions and defections from your own camp. The mob, as you call them, has muscled you out of entire cities and you appear powerless to do anything about it.”
Ceylon sipped his drink and approached Young World.
“Do you know how much product Dutch distributed weekly? No less than twenty-five hundred kilograms of heroin. While you, his chosen, so-called protege, can barely muster thirteen hundred or fifteen hundred a month,” Ceylon explained, steadily eyeing World.
“I ain’t Dutch,” World stated as a matter of fact, returning his gaze.
“This, too, is obvious,” Ceylon agreed before placing his drink on a table. “There are few men I have trusted, five… no, four, because I can’t always include myself. Four, and I have known countless. Dutch is one of those four. Do you know why?” he asked as he looked Young World in the eye.
Young World didn’t respond, so he continued.
“Because of the eye,” he said, tapping his eyelid and turning away. “It never lies. To know a man is to know the truth as to what he will or won’t do, and it all lies in the eye. I have searched many eyes and read them all. Except Dutch. Do you know what I saw in his eyes? Nothing except the reflection of myself.”
“What do you see in mine?” World asked, wanting to know where he stood in all this.
“Fear, hate, confusion, but most of all, determination to overcome all of that.”
Young World didn’t know if he had just been insulted or complimented so he thought carefully before he spoke.
“Look, Mr. Ceylon. I didn’t come here to make excuses. Like I said, shit is hectic. They bleed, we bleed, then they bleed some more. That’s how it goes on the streets ’cause not everybody got the luxury of sitting around playing piano.”
Ceylon smirked at Young World’s snideness. “This is very true… But, I wonder, Mr. World, if you know the difference between a goon and a gangster?”
“I suppose you gonna tell me.”
“Every gangster starts out as a goon. He must because power is born of force. But when a man continues to use violence, it means he didn’t use it right the first time. He is still a goon. His power is always in question, therefore it will one day be usurped. But a gangster, ahhh, a gangster is a man who makes his own rules and the rest are left to follow. His nod is his gun, a mere smile seals the deal, and his word is law.”
Ceylon dropped his jaw, then added, “Now, because I trusted Dutch, I trust his judgment. So therefore I am open to trust you because yours is the name he left. It is against my own judgment, but after all, that is what trust is about, no?”
World nodded. Duke wanted to speak but World was in charge so he played his position.
“Whatever I gotta do to rep my bloodline, I’ll do. You got my word on that, Mr. Ceylon,” World vowed, meaning every word. “Just give me six months and-”
“Thirty days,” Ceylon interrupted.
“Huh?”
“You have exactly thirty days to double your output. After that, you shall be cut off and cut out, and please do not try to replace us with another supplier. It would be deemed disrespectful and treated as such.” Ceylon smirked, unveiling his threat.
“Mr. Ceylon, I can’t-”
Ceylon’s nasal tone escalated a decibel. “Can’t is not a word men of caliber use, unless, of course, it precedes the word fail.”
He turned away quickly and went back to sit at the piano.
“To your credit, I can see the potential Dutch saw in you. You do have determination and you do have zeal. You just lack the audacity it takes to be our mutual friend’s successor. Good evening, gentlemen.”
With that, Ceylon began to play his piano again, and as if on cue, the double doors swung open. The guards had been waiting to escort Young World and Duke out.
Duke was heated. He and World drove in tense silence. He pulled on his Newport forcefully, and it glowed fire- red to match his temper. The old man had dissed World to his face, threatened him like a schoolyard bully, and talked to him as if he was a child.
The old man must’ve thought they were illiterate, but Duke knew exactly what Ceylon meant. He had basically called World a dumb fuck and a coward, and World didn’t even defend himself. In so many words, Ceylon had even threatened to take the streets they controlled. Niggas bled so they could eat and World let some old man tell him to his face that he’d take it.
Duke shook his head. Young World was getting soft. He had been suspecting it, and tonight confirmed it.
“What?” World asked, glancing at Duke. “You got somethin’ to say?”
“Nothin’, kid,” Duke replied, then tossed his cigarette out the window.
“Naw, Ock. Don’t bite your tongue. You got something to say, say it,” World insisted.
“Man… who the fuck does that nigga Ceylon think he be fuckin’ talkin’ to? I don’t give a damn who he know or where he from. Ain’t nobody takin’ shit from us!” Duke exclaimed, in his mind replacing “us” with “me.”
