The Cost of Vengeance (3 page)

“You don’t need to know all that. What you need to do is pack up your shit so I can take you someplace where y’all will be safe.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Rain,” Lakeda said, and I looked at this bitch like she was stupid. I started to pull my gun and say oh yes you are, but I took a deep breath.

“People might be on their way here right now to kill you and your kids. So for once in your life, you need to act like you got some sense and realize that I am all you got.”

Lakeda sat back in her chair and gave me a fuck-you-bitch look. Then she got up and started getting stuff together. Once I made sure that they were someplace safe, I went to shut this shit down before it went any further.

Nick was talking to me, but I wasn’t listening. I knew where he was taking me and the only thing on my mind, was what I was about to do. It had been a long time, but I was having the dream again. I was dreaming about the night that I found Cassandra dead.

When it first happened, I used to have the dream all the time. It would always be different, but it would always end the same way. No matter what I did, Bart would always kill her and I would wake up in a cold sweat.

“Black, are you listening to me?” Nick asked.

I didn’t answer him. When he put the car in park, I got out, took out my gun, and walked toward the house.

“What’s wrong?” Nick shouted and got out of the car. “You want me to come with you?”

“No! Get out of here!” I shouted and unlocked the front door, turned off the alarm, and stepped inside.

“Cassandra,” I called out; but as usual, there was no answer. I went into the living room and the television was tuned to the local news on CBS, just like it was that night. That night, I called out for her again and she didn’t answer. The remote was on the couch, so I picked it up and turned off the TV. I remember thinking that night,
where the hell is she?
I dropped the remote on the couch and headed upstairs, thinking that it was funny that she would have gone out just that fast.
Maybe she’s hidin’
. I took my time looking into each of the upstairs rooms, but she was nowhere to be found. I knew then that somethin’ wasn’t right. I came back downstairs and opened the kitchen door, and I immediately fell to my knees.

There on the kitchen floor, I found her; lying there with her arms out in front of her and her face turned to the side. Both eyes were blackened, nearly purple; there were blotches of blood on her cheek. Her face was swollen so much that I couldn’t believe I was looking at my wife. There was so much blood, and there were bullet wounds in her back: one just below her left shoulder blade, another a little below it, and two near her lower back.

This time would be different.

I went upstairs and started down darkened the hallway. As I got closer, I could see that there was somebody standing by the bedroom door. “Ms. West? What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know. This is your dream,” she said and dropped that giggle that always makes me wanna strip her down and fuck her brains out. But that wasn’t what I was there for. Or maybe it was. Just the fact that she was there made the whole thing different.

“I don’t know either, but you better stay close to me.”

Ms. West smiled. “I plan to.”

I opened the door and stepped inside slowly. There he was, Kip Bartowski; the man who killed Cassandra. He was sitting on the bed with his gun on his lap. I looked around the room for Cassandra, but she wasn’t there. Bart stood up when he saw me. Then he smiled and looked at the gun in his hand. He put the gun on the bed and motioned for me to come toward him. I handed my gun to Ms. West. “You want me to shoot him for you, Mr. Black?”

“No. Just hold it for me,” I said and moved toward Bart. Ms. West sat on the bed, and in her usual ladylike manner, crossed her legs.

I hit Bart in the face with everything I had, left and right, left, and right again, but it didn’t faze him. Then he hit me so hard that I fell to the floor. “Sure you don’t want me to shoot him for you, Mr. Black?”

“No!” I shouted and got up. “I can take him!”

I rushed at Bart and he hit me again, and I went down again. This time he didn’t wait for me to get up. He dove on top of me and wrapped his hands around my throat. I tried to pry his hands away, but his grip was too strong. I jammed my thumbs in his eyes and pressed as hard as I could until he let go. I pushed him off of me and got to my feet.

Bart was still on his knees, so I grabbed his head and rammed my knee into it over and over again. I looked around for a weapon to use against him. There was a fireplace in the room where there never was one before, and a poker sitting in the rack. I grabbed the poker and wrapped it around Bart’s neck. I put my knee in his back and pulled as hard as I could. Bart struggled to get away, but he couldn’t. His body went limp and fell to the floor. And just to make sure he was dead, I jammed the poker in the back of his head.

“I knew you could take him, Mr. Black,” Ms. West said and got up from the bed. She walked toward me and handed me the gun, and we started out the room.

When I opened the door and stepped into the hallway, Diego Estaban was there and he started shooting at me. He had Cassandra kidnapped once, and I killed him for it. I pushed Ms. West back in the room. “Wait here.”

“Whatever you say, handsome,” she said and pushed those pouty lips of hers together. It made me want to forget about Diego and kiss her.

Diego was a punk that I never had any respect for, so I walked boldly down the hall as he continued to fire at me. When I got to him, I snatched the gun from his hand and backhanded him to the floor. I stepped on his neck and put one in his head. I heard Ms. West giggle that giggle. I turned to see her sashaying down the hall. The way 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
woman
. I’ll be around when you want me,” she said and left.

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
her
again. I will never be able to compete with her. Well I won’t be here when you get back,” I heard CeCe say as I left the room.

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.

“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 André 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 59
^th
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.

Freeze picked Mr. Anderson up from the ground and slammed his body against the car I was leaning on. Freeze reached in Mr. Anderson’s pocket and took out his keys. He threw them to me. I hit the alarm and the lights flashed in a sweet Lamborghini that was parked down the street. And it was black. “You’ll get this back when I get my fuckin’ money,” Freeze said and hit Mr. Anderson again. We left him laying on the car, and drove away in his car. Two days later, he called with my money. There will never be another Freeze.