Cigar Bar (6 page)

Frankie laughed. “Oh, please, I just met that bitch tonight, and she got stuck on my cousin and didn’t wanna give me no pussy!”

“Your cousin?” the man repeated. “Who is this cousin you speak of?”

Dawn looked at him with straight disgust, “Really?”

The man looked at Dawn. “This is problem… One of you I don’t need.”

Frankie insisted, “Well, kill her!”

“What the fuck?!” Dawn screamed. “No, kill
his
bitch ass! That’s my boyfriend and he really doesn’t like that motherfucker over there!”

“Fuck you, nigger!” Frankie screamed at Dawn. “We just met you and this dead bitch tonight!”

The man looked at the pair. “But on the other hand, you are the one who stole from us, and she does look like she could get us more, so okay.” The man stood and put his pistol to Frankie’s head again.

“Wait, wait!” Frankie protested, “Why me?”

“Because you are thief, dumb fuck!” Before he could protest any further,
boom!
The man blew Frankie’s head clean off with a shotgun. His head, bone, and brains were mixed in with the Monique’s bloody remains.

“Let’s go!” the men said, and they grabbed Dawn and ushered her outside. Four more guys were walking into the house, carrying the blue barrels from the truck and into the room.

Just as they were walking back out, two black trucks pulled up in front of Frankie’s house. Spazo and his team exited their vehicles. He spotted his little sister being man-handled by one of the Ukrainians.

He yelled, “Dawn!”

All hell broke loose in the small, suburban town. It was like the shootout at the OK Corral.
Boom! Boom! Rat-a-tat-tat! Pop! Pop! Boom! Boom! Pop! Rat-a-tat-tat! Pop, Pop! Ping!

Both sides were firing. “Get down!” Spazo screamed to his sister as bullets tore over her head.

About to dive to the ground, Dawn was shot by one of the men, who saw her and took aim.

“No! Oh, fuck! No! Dawn!” Spazo screamed when he saw his little sister fly backward into the side of the truck.

Spazo ran headfirst into the man who had shot Dawn. The thug shot Spazo once. With murder on his mind, he jumped at the shooter. The man continued to shoot at Spazo, but only that one bullet struck him. The man was huge but that didn’t matter. Spazo knew how and where to hit. He caught the man in the throat first, then connected with a kick to the temple. Spazo was so fast that the big man had no chance to react, even though he knew what was coming.

Boom! Boom! Pop, Pop! Pop! Rat-a-tat-tat! Ping! Pop! Pop!

The firefight was intense and men started to fall one at a time; first Ukrainians and then GC Crew members, one after the other.

When Spazo was almost near his sister, she was scooped up by the main guy and tossed into the back of the Lincoln. As it sped down the street, Spazo had to shoot his way back to the vehicle to try and catch them.

“Let’s go!” he screamed. Whatever men were left alive loaded into the trucks, and they drove out of there. Spazo tore after the car ahead of him. As he drove down the street in the same direction as Mr. Y.’s men, he lost control and smashed his truck into a pole. He hadn’t seen the small car that was parked on the corner. He nearly ran over it. The truck hit a pole and was demolished. The other truck stopped and picked up Spazo and the remaining men.

“Fuck this shit!” Spazo said. “Go down that block; now make a right, now a left.” They were searching frantically but could not spot the car. He said, “Shit! Let’s head back to the lab.”

The police began to arrive as the men were leaving the area. Sirens wailed in the background. The local police had never experienced anything of this magnitude in their small town, so they had to call in the FBI. When they heard the address of where the incident had occurred, they automatically knew who lived there. There were bodies all over the lawn, big, blue barrels tipped over inside and outside of the house, and two bodies covered in flour in the bedroom.

“The Santoro family? Wow!” said Special Investigator Hunter. George Hunter was the kind of agent who didn’t say things twice, and if he had to tell a person something more than once, that person wished he hadn’t.

“Well, well,” he said. He was the head of the FBI’s organized-crime division. “I think we have a genuine war going on in our own backyard, agents. Listen up! I am Special Investigator George Hunter of the FBI,” he declared, holding his credentials high in the air. “Out here I see too many police officers. So I say this to you: if I don’t know your name, then you may be in the wrong area. Kindly remove yourself from here and stop fucking up my crime scene! You are fucking idiots.”

Everybody stopped for a minute and just looked. “Move!” he screamed and all the officers hurried and moved out of the way. His team loved the obedience. They just knew that he was going to do it.

Scene contamination happened at every scene and Hunter hated that. He continued. “Now that we got the dumbasses out of the way, let’s get to work. We all know what to do.”

The team spread out around the crime scene, from the lawn to the sidewalks, snapping pictures of the men and the scene.

Agent Hunter was an older gentleman and had a short, gray afro. He was a light-skin, smooth, older black man, and he was the best in the country at what he did. He would stand in the middle of the crime scene, light his cigar, and turn slowly. In his mind, he could see the whole scene play out.

He walked in the direction of the dead black gunmen. He looked down and saw the screech marks from the two large vehicles. He could see the men fall down across the lawn. It appeared as though they were caught off guard. Some of the men were struck in the back and sides. “Hmmm…” he said to himself.

Then he traveled across the lawn, where he saw several shots flying from every direction. “Wow!” he said. “It was a real, live war going on out here!”

Within a matter of seconds, he had all the information that he needed, but, as usual, he waited to see what extra evidence his team might come up with.

“Hey, Hunter,” one of the men called out. He held up the wrist of one of the dead men. It had the letter Y on it.

“Fuck!” he yelled upon seeing the mark on the man’s wrist.

After going over the scene for a couple of hours, the mobile offices arrived. They were setting up shop right there in the neighborhood.

When the local police saw the trailer that he had brought in, they were stunned. The inside of the trailer looked better than some of their houses did. It had everything from computers to a private office for Hunter, as well as a mini cafeteria, with a guy who was making lunch for them. They never really used the office, but with a case this big, they couldn’t help themselves.

The team sat down and Hunter walked in. He started by putting up eight pictures on the large evidence board in front of them.

His team consisted of himself and five members. There was Josie Rodriguez, a pretty, petite Puerto Rican girl from the Bronx; she was a Marine and as tough as she was pretty. Then there were Zach and Paul, two extra-smart nerds; they were the computer geeks on the squad and were able to find anything and get any clearance necessary for the job.

Lastly, there were TJ and Johnny. TJ was a well-built, young black male who was handsome and smart. Despite the fact that he spoke four languages, he was a triple black belt and was used mostly for his shooting and fighting skills. Johnny was his workout partner and was a sniper. He could shoot the head of a nail from more than one thousand feet away.

“Josie, could you do me a favor? Go out there and grab the chief and Captain Dan, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hunter turned to address his team. He waited until the chief and captain walked in, then took their seats. “Gentlemen, I have one question for you: Have you ever run across this in any of your collars around here?” Agent Hunter was at the board, pointing to the Y found on the man’s wrist.

“Well, no, can’t say that we have,” Captain replied.

Hunter continued. “Okay, well then, let me explain what is going on in your little town—which, by the way, looks like a very lovely town, if I may say so myself. Tenafly is it called? All right, well, gentlemen, if this is going on in your backyard, we have a problem! I like this town already… Hell, do you know that as soon as we arrived here, an old lady offered us tea?” Everybody smiled when he said that.

“But the reason why I’m telling you this, gentlemen, is because if you see me or any of the five agents seated to your left, then there is a major problem! We don’t get called up unless it’s absolutely fuckin’ necessary. From what I see, it is a huge fuckin’ necessity!”

He added, “This right here is a soldier from a Mr. Yehorenko’s mafia. He is the boss of his ruthless Ukrainian family, sect, gang, or mob. Call it whatever you like, but the point is, these men are brutal and extremely dangerous! They don’t come out for
anything
unless it involves major crimes. They deal drugs and basically are hired out from other families to kill. So if they are in
your
town, well, we need to get them out. I don’t think they’re here right now. Can either of you tell me more about this man?” he asked, pointing to the recently deceased Frankie Santoro.

Captain Dan spoke up. “Yeah, Frankie’s just some low-life scumbag dope fiend. We’ve had numerous run-ins with him; multiple drug-related arrests and even arrests for tearing up his house. The fuckin’ kid had an attempted-murder charge that just disappeared. We figured that he had to be connected. Every time we thought we had him, in walked this fuckin’ lawyer who was dressed with diamonds all over his fuckin’ fingers. Then,
poof!
Nothing! You’re free to go, Frankie!”

“Okay, well, that there is because his father is Veto Santoro of the Santoro crime family.” The two officers’ ears perked up. “From what I can tell, the Santoro family had nothing to do with this. We have come to the conclusion that the recently deceased Frankie somehow got in way over his head, and Ukrainians came to collect. However, there is something else going on here. You see, Mr. Y’s crew never seem to get caught off guard. We are missing something and that is what we need to find out.” Hunter pointed and said, “What is the missing piece that connects these gentlemen here to the young black men and these men?” As he pointed to the Y, he concluded, “I just pray that they’re done here in your lovely, little town.”

Mr. Y

Dawn was tied up in an office, but she had no clue where. The men had their own doctor remove the bullet that had struck her. It was a small wound to the shoulder. What saved her life was the fact that when she dove, the men were also struck while they were shooting at her.

It hurt like hell. To make matters worse, she had some sort of bag over her head. She couldn’t see a damn thing, and all she heard were men arguing in a foreign language.

Then the bag was removed. Sitting in front of her was Mr. Y, and in his hand he held a glass of vodka. “Hello, young lady,” he said. She couldn’t respond because there was tape covering her mouth. “Do you know where I can find the rest of my money? Your friend with the eyes, I never had a chance to meet him…I’m hoping you can tell me who he is and where I can find my money. Okay, fine.” He stood up and instructed one of his men to remove the tape.

The first thing that she did was scream. “My brother is going to fuck you up if you hurt me!”

The men laughed and Mr. Y nearly choked on his vodka. “You almost made me spill vodka. Now pay attention. I don’t care about your brother or anyone else! Just give me my fuckin’ money!” he said as he walked up and squeezed the girl’s face extra hard.

She shook loose. “Fuck you!”

Mr. Y looked at the young girl and asked, “Was that your brother who came up and killed my men?”

“Hell fuckin’ yeah, and when he finds you, he’s gonna do the same thing to your ass!” Dawn promised.

Mr. Y grabbed his chin and walked into the other room with the man. They spoke in their language. He spoke to Dawn again when he returned. “Tell me the name of the man you call your boyfriend.”

“Well, his name is Tony, and he’s supposed to be coming to pick me up later on today. Listen, I don’t think I can do anything for you, so, please, just let me go.”

“On the contrary, ma’am, you can do something big for me.” Mr. Y came so close to her face that she smelled the pungent odor of vodka and cigars. She gagged and almost threw up. And to make matters worse, he was also spitting in her face, and she couldn’t wipe it off because her hands were tied.

Dawn said, “Do me a favor please since I’m tied up already. I’ll do whatever you want, just get the fuck out my face, please! Dayum! You’re spitting on me and shit, and your breath is fuckin’
horrible
!
And could somebody wipe my face, please?”

The mobsters fell to the floor laughing. Even Mr. Y had laughed so hard that he had to take off his glasses because his eyes had watered.

“Humph. Oh my goodness! You are very spunky, young lady!” he said, a smile on his face. “Okay.” He motioned toward his men to remove the girl’s ropes. She rubbed her hands together and took the bottom of her shirt to wipe the spit off.

“Can I ask you a question, Mr.?”

“Sure,” he said, motioning for her to follow him.

“Why did they kill my friend?”

He turned to her and said, “I am sorry.” He said nothing else.

“Are you gonna kill me too?” she asked. “Because if so, I’m not going in no back room. You can just kill me right here!”

He smiled. “No. We like you. You will live. But I cannot let you go until we speak to your brother.” He turned and began to walk into an office.

Dawn was right behind him. All of the bodyguards, except his right-hand man, actually walked away and left them.

Mr. Y walked in and sat behind an enormous expensive desk and loosened his tie. His man went to a cabinet and took out three glasses, pulled out a bottle, and poured some alcohol. He handed one to the girl, and
Mr.
Y and the man watched her.

She smelled it first, then threw the whole thing back, made a crazy face, and then shook it off. The two men screamed something in their language and pointed at her. They smiled and followed suit by tipping theirs back, then slamming the glasses onto the table.