The Family Business 3 (27 page)

She would have pitched a bitch at the thought of me following Lou to the Big Apple. Donna had been there before to visit the Statute of Liberty, but something told me that her New York and the one Lou visited were completely different. I had to admit that even though I was a small town guy, I did want to see what New York was all about.

“What time you gotta be to work, bro?” Lou asked as GROOVE 770 went to a commercial, probably not really caring.

“An hour ago,” I answered, cutting my eyes as I shifted the van in an effort to get it over forty miles per hour. I wasn't one to push my luck like this with Mr. Mixon. Even though I had a scholarship to attend college, my wages allowed me to buy my books and live a somewhat satisfying life. There was no way Donna would be dating some broke-ass buster, so I tried not to become one. She liked a man who showed initiative and could take her to dinner at the kinds of places her family had been frequenting for years. Her fancy taste could be stressful on my wallet, but I sure liked to see her happy.

As we drove down the road, there were trustees from the nearby jail, picking up trash and stuff. One of them, in his orange jumpsuit, which looked cleaner than what I wore to work, saw the van coming and held up a hand, a shit-eating grin across his face. A sheriff deputy sat in the back of the truck with his shotgun, alertly watching over him and the others. As we passed, I laid into the van's weak horn, making the deputy a little nervous. The one who waved recognized us and smiled as we drove by.

“How much longer he got?” I asked Lou about a mile down the road, almost as if Donna weren't with us.

“At least a few months,” he solemnly replied, referring to how much time our brother Larry had left on this, his most recent jail stint.

“He's such a loser. It's hard to believe he's related to the two of you,” Donna said as she turned and stared out the back window at Larry slowly fading in the background.

At the intersection of FM 1405 and East McKinney, we waited for the steady stream of big trucks to pass by. The air conditioning wasn't blowing cold enough for me in the back seat, and the car not moving didn't make it any better. The shipments of large pipes and valves rolled out the gate toward parts unknown, shaking the Chevy Nova we were in. The rumble didn't seem to bother the two men seated in front, but the silence in the car led me to nervously check my watch. Today was to be a big day, and I didn't want to mess up on account of being late.

All of this activity was on account of the US Steel plant. A lot of hungry mouths being fed because of oil pipelines in Alaska or somethin'.

Once the trucks were gone, we were again on our way. A mile down the road, we turned into the next open gate on the right and proceeded toward a large warehouse complex big enough to hide anyone or anything.

“We're here, Al,” the driver, Manny, said as he stopped the Nova in the parking lot of one of the warehouses. He was chattier last weekend at the club in Houston, when he drank too many brews and asked me if I wanted more work. Apparently I'd caught the eye of some smart folk.

I wasn't at this warehouse for a pipeline job, though. I was here for a promotion. If Manny wasn't lying, this was my chance to move up and make lots of money.

Miguel and the man he called his cousin led me from the car, sandwiching me in the middle of them like I was somebody important. His cousin wore his black cowboy hat tilted low over his face, with equally dark sunglasses hiding his eyes like he was afraid of the sun. Normally I'd be worried, but if they wanted to kill me, they didn't have to drive this far to do it.

After a double knock by Manny, we entered the office door. Inside, a bunch of men who looked like they belonged on a farm or ranch stood idly by, joking around while wielding shotguns. Their arms weren't for handling cattle, and whatever crops they “managed” paid more than corn or soy beans. I was sure there were several more of them outside that I didn't see.

One look at Manny's cousin and they motioned the three of us through an interior door leading deeper inside the warehouse. No turning back now.

Dead center was where all the action took place. Behind large sheets of plastic that doubled as makeshift walls, several cars and vans were being carefully loaded by elderly men and women who looked as if they had lived hard lives. In my mind, I began counting the armed men around us and memorizing their positions. Just in case. Around Houston, I liked to carry myself like a million bucks, but inside these walls, I knew that I needed to act humble.

A muscled older man no more than five foot five, with long black hair and a thick moustache, looked to be in charge. As he clipped the end of a fresh cigar, he turned to acknowledge us.

“Al!” he belted out as if we were friends. “Please. Have a seat,” he instructed me as a single chair was waiting behind him. Talk about a hot seat. He was military and very formal when he spoke; probably educated up north. Even while being polite, his voice was threatening, like he was used to not being questioned. Those with questions probably asked them no more.

I listened and sat my ass down, knowing how to play the game.

“That bumbling idiot Gerald Ford is President now,” the man in charge said, obviously having no love for him. He went so far as to imitate the President's fall down the stairs of Air Force One, which we'd all seen on the television. “But this DEA that Nixon started has us concerned. We don't know if they're serious about drugs like they were about alcohol during the Prohibition Era, but perhaps that is good for what we do. Just a few years ago we were worried that marijuana might be legalized, but of course it wasn't. Nevertheless, we must always plan for the future. And that involves expansion and forging new alliances.”

From my seat, I listened to his history lesson, nodding like it was the only thing that mattered. But I also watched a team of younger men busy switching out license plates on several cars as if on an assembly line. I saw the New Jersey plate on the car closest to me and smiled. They must've known I could drive—and fast.

“Do you know why you're here?” he asked, seeing what really held my attention.

“No,” I replied, feigning ignorance as I repositioned myself in the chair. I suddenly hoped I wasn't here as a lesson myself.

“You represent the new breed who can blend in, and that is why you've been given this opportunity. That is an asset,
Al
,” he lectured, stopping to chuckle. The other men followed his lead and laughed even harder at my expense.

But they could laugh at me all they wanted. Unimportant, jealous fools were what they were to me. I was the one being given the opportunity to run with the wolves, to prove I deserved more than just peddling joints in nightclubs and bars.

I focused on the shiny new Gran Torino I was about to have all to myself. I imagined the highways opening wide for me, like the actor Steve McQueen in
Bullitt,
dealing out justice from behind the wheel. Except that was a Mustang Steve McQueen drove. Well, I could have one too one day, but for now the Gran Torino would do. And if they let me keep it, who knows how much pussy I could get around here.

“You want me to drive the Torino for you, no?” I asked as I dared to stand up. With my sudden move, I heard one of his men chamber a shell into his shotgun. My employer motioned to them it was okay and smiled wildly at me.

“Oh. That's not what you will be driving,” he stated. He had his men pull the plastic down from around another car. This one had a Jersey license plate too, but was quite different.

“A Country Squire,” I muttered aloud as I grimaced over what I was being shown. It was an old station wagon. Not a new Gran Torino, but a fucking station wagon, complete with wood panels along the sides. It was like something you'd see on
The Brady Bunch
for all those fuckin' California kids and their stupid dog. But even theirs looked better than this monstrosity.

“That. That is what you will be driving for us, Al.” He cackled gleefully as he let a puff of cigar smoke blow into my face. “It's good, no?”

“But . . . I don't understand, sir,” I began as respectfully as I could. This had to be a joke. “It's a station wagon. I will look like a fool.”

“What? You thought we would let you go out there in a flashy racecar? You are already too flashy with your pretty hair and gold chains. We're sending you to deal with the head Italians, but not in a car that will attract the attention of the police or this new DEA.”

“What do you mean, sending me?” I questioned, no longer hiding my annoyance. Reckless, I know. “I thought I was making a normal run.”

“Oh, you are, Al. We're delivering a healthy sample of our best crop to the Mafia in New York. You will be in charge of getting the shipment to Sal Dash, a low level lieutenant with their families, as an overture for future cooperation.”

“Why me?” I asked, genuinely stunned by the responsibility I was being given, but at the same time bursting with pride.

Neither Manny nor his cousin had said a thing since we arrived. Instead they stood off to the side as if deaf. I guess they knew better than to give me a heads up.

“We've been watching you, Al,” he answered, motioning for me to sit back down. I quickly complied. “We've seen you in the discos, and we see how easily you can blend in with any group. Manny says you are a charmer, so you can bullshit your way out of certain situations.”

“Well, I do what I can.” I smiled, suddenly feeling my normal confidence return.

“The families in New York don't know about our venture. These are delicate times as we try to branch into the Northeast, which they control. And if the Northeast Italians discover us encroaching on their territory, it will be unfortunate . . . for you. Understand?”

“I . . . I don't know about this,” I mumbled, no longer comfortable or as confident about my latest job opportunity as when I strutted in there. But I had parents and sisters that I helped to support. They depended on the money I made to keep my sisters in school and not working in some sweatshop. As much as I feared the road ahead, the idea of winding up another mouth to feed worried me more.

“So, you think you can handle it, or do we need to get another man for the job?” his voice thundered, as he questioned my ability to handle the assignment.

“I will return from New York with every dime you've been promised,” I swore to the men who were now watching me too closely.

“Good, because to disappoint us would prove fatal,” my boss assured me, his tone steel and ice.

 

 

My first three years at school taught me more about life than I could ever begin to learn in the outside world. I had sopped up those lessons like a hungry bitch going in on a plate of biscuits and gravy. And now, with graduation right around the corner, I would be the student awarded the grand prize for most accomplished. That's if I got to graduate, because bitches like this one kept challenging my last nerves.

I tightened my grip around her neck, pulling her into a headlock. She whipped around and flipped me over her head, onto the ground. In seconds I was up on my feet, crouching like a caged animal ready to strike again. Her hand shot out, coming down on my shoulder. The pain shot through me but there was no way I'd let her be the first one to finally take me down. I had an uncontested track record of wins. I kicked her in the solar plexus and kneed her in the jaw, causing three of her teeth to fall to the ground. I grabbed her in a bear hold, bending her arm behind her back until her short gasping breaths grew almost inaudible, making her drop the weapon at my feet. Still holding on to her I slid my hand to the floor and retrieved the Glock 9.

“
Ggamdungi,
” she spat the words at me.

“
Shang nyun, Sheba-nom!
” I responded then jerked her arm harder, causing her to squirm in pain.

“Fuck you too, bitch!” She spat the words at me.

“Oh, so now you speak English? 'Cause I prefer to be called a beeyotch in English and not your slanty-eyed language!” I schooled her. Although my orders were not to cause physical harm, I wasn't feeling particularly generous. Last fool to use the N-word on me couldn't walk for a week and will probably never be able to impregnate a woman. I swiftly clocked her on the side of the head.

“
Paris!
” Yosef, my instructor, a former Israeli rebel fighter, grabbed me tightly from behind, his fingertips boring into my shoulder blades. The pain forced me to let go of Jae Kim, who fell in a heap on the ground and passed out. She probably fainted at the sight of her missing teeth.

A group of students gathered nearby, ecstatic to watch the spectacle.

“Knocked her the fuck out!”

I heard two palms slap together in a high five.

“Bam! Just like that.”

“Damn! I told her not to mess with Paris,” I heard one girl say as Jae Kim stirred near her bloody teeth.

“I wouldn't. Chick is fuckin' lethal,” another added, then received a rousing round of agreement from the other girls.

It occurred to me that this would be a good time to practice passivity and restraint, but my head and my badass attitude were out of alignment with my reality.
Fuck him, her, and the rest of these motherfuckers. I won this exercise fair and square.

“I won!” I yelled out. There was no way they were going to mess up my record.

“Why do you do these things?” Yosef, the gorgeous six foot four inch, 240-pound Israeli instructor admonished me. He smacked me hard on the neck. “How many times do I have to speak to you about your inability to follow orders? Have you lost your fucking mind? Look what you've done.”

I could hear the sound of my own heavy breathing as I tried to contain myself so that I could respond appropriately instead of what I really wanted to do, which was curse his ass out.

Yosef wasn't much older than us, but he was the one person in the school who I truly respected. Not only was he built like a Mack truck but he was also capable of killing you with his bare hands without giving it much thought. I knew better than to piss him off too much because he could make your death look like an accident. It would take me years to know all of his secrets, but during our “private” lessons I made sure to get extra instruction, which somehow turned intimate over the past year. He wasn't the first man I'd ever slept with; however, he was the only one who put fear in my heart. As much as I pretended to hate, it I found it sexy as hell. Most men who acted all tough got the pussy and promptly turned into pussies. But not him; he kept sex and work separate, and right at this moment he was all business, which basically meant I was fucked, because I'd never seen him this upset.

“You need to gather your things and get to the headmistress', office,” he said as he led me through the tunnel that connected to the catacombs and back into the main building. It was the perfect place to flip this shit in my favor. I darted ahead of him, stopping and blocking his path.

“Yosef, she started it,” I whined, flirting with him. He held up one finger, silencing me. Damn, even deep in the shit he made me get all moist and turned on. I leaned closer to him, brushing my lips against his neck.

“Please.”

“Paris, you are such a hellion!” he snapped at me.

“Isn't that what you like about me?” I slid my hand over the outline of his penis. It quickly hardened under my touch. “Instead of sending me to the office, wouldn't you prefer me putting my lips on this?” I rubbed his growing dick, motivating him to cave.

 

 

An hour later I found myself sitting in front of the headmistress, Madame Joan Marie, as she gave me her version of a come-to-Jesus talking-to. Yosef got the goods and still sold me out.

“Do you realize what you have done? Ms. Kim is from one of our most important families in South Korea. Imagine the conversation I will be having when her father arrives today. Do you want to explain to him why his daughter needs extensive oral surgery?”

“No, Madame,” I answered submissively.

“Young lady, you are among the best and brightest students to ever cross the threshold of our establishment,” she continued in her thick French accent. “Rarely have I gleamed such raw potential in a person your age but you are also your own worst enemy. You act as if rules only apply to others. And no matter how many times I've talked, you continue to disobey orders and protocol, and now you have proven to be a danger to others.”

“Madame, I am so sorry for my behavior. It really was an accident,” I lied, trying to sound as apologetic as possible so I could be on my way. I was ready for my vacation to begin.

“Mademoiselle Duncan, I believe that you believe that your apology is genuine. Then again, you always sound sincere after you've crossed a line. Unfortunately, the very next moment you rush headfirst into more conflict. I cannot allow you to continue to remain a hazard to the other students and to yourself.”

She stood back, studying me. I tried to appear as vulnerable and defenseless as possible. If only this had been a man I'd have talked my way out of it already, but women didn't always get my charm. Finally she shook her head, resigned. “I must contact your father.”

My bad attitude deflated and her words set off loud, scary bells in my head.
Danger! Danger!
“Nooooo!” The panic rang out in my voice. Anything but that. My father would have my head, and that would only be the beginning of my demise. “I promise I will change. Please give me another chance to make you proud. To make my father proud. Please, Madame,” I begged and pleaded. This time I meant every word because I had never been more desperate. If my dad knew that I was over here in Switzerland showing my ass and messing with his name it would be bad.

“You will have to change both your behavior and your attitude,” she continued.

“I will. I promise.”

“I sincerely hope that my decision to give you one more chance will not be wasted.”

“No, Madame.” I leaned up and gave her a quick squeeze, something you just didn't do with these Nordic types. She looked shocked. Shit, I would have dropped to my knees and had my first try at cunnilingus if it would have prevented her from calling my father.

“Good! Now we are done with this unpleasant conversation.” She opened the door and led me into her outer office, where a group of students were gathered in front of the fire.

I joined her, partaking in the roaring flames, tapping my foot on the wooden floorboards beside my matching Louis Vuitton luggage. I threw on my designer sunglasses and quarter-length fur despite the heat being produced by the fireplace. Felt good to be out of my school uniform, so I bit my tongue and kept my impatience to myself while the jealous hoes who were my classmates looked on. They'd never be as fly as me and they knew it. Nor would they know how close I came to being a former student.

Psh . . . finishing school.

Luckily, my electives—while not my raison d'être, but my reason for being here—were da bomb dot com.

“Mademoiselle Duncan, you will be sure to enjoy yourself back home in the U.S., no?” Madame Joan Marie asked as she kissed me on both cheeks. Right before removing my sunglasses and placing them back in my hand. Of course, she meant the opposite of what she and her big-ass smile said. You had to look beyond that and into those tiny, cold eyes of hers. She wanted me to behave myself back home. Rein a bitch in 'n' shit.

“Oh, I will most definitely enjoy myself,” I replied, meaning exactly what I motherfuckin' said. Couldn't wait to get out of here and back in the NYC, specifically Jamaica, Queens where my family lived and ran things like motherfuckin' bosses. Yeah. To sleep in my own bed, eat some less bougie food, and see my fam would be all to the good.

Oh, yeah. And some good American dick, too. Don't get me wrong. These Euros could eat some pussy like nobody's business, but I missed the rhythm real niggas had back home when they were layin' it down.

But that could come later. For now, I really missed my family. And that was most important in this fucked-up world: Family.

There was my daddy, Lavernius Duncan, who everybody called LC, head of Duncan Motors, the largest African American– owned car dealership chain in the tri-state area. My beloved moms, Chippy, had his back and was the rock of the family. Held it down for me and my four brothers: Junior, the big diesel one who was loveable as fuck; Vegas, the heart of the family whom I would die for; Orlando, the calculating one whom I would have to think about dying for; and Rio, my wild and crazy twin who I lived for. Oh, and my older sister London was part of the family too, but the less said about her the better. She and her lawyer husband, Harris, already thought their shit didn't stink,
but now that she was pregnant?
Fawk. Would never hear the end of it. Was almost enough to make me want to remain in Europe over break.

Almost.

Once I touched down back home, I'd just have to be civil. Steer clear of her, Harris, and the demon spawn in her gut.

Besides, it was only a month after all. Then back here to complete my schooling.

“Is your family sending a car for you, Mademoiselle Duncan? Or will you need transportation arranged?” Madame Joan Marie asked before she turned her attention to the next departing student, this Croatian bitch with bad skin. Madame Joan Marie liked everything to run with Swiss precision. And when it didn't, heads rolled.

The text I'd been waiting for came through on my phone, leading me to tune her ass out momentarily.

“No, Madame. My ride is here now,” I said as I looked up at her, flashing my first genuine smile of the day.

“Very well, mademoiselle. Adieu,” she commented as she took a slight bow and gracefully stepped aside. Funny that she never referred to me by my first name. Probably thought being named Paris, after a city, was
ghetto
or sumthin'. But not ghetto enough to refuse our money.

Had been counting down all week to this moment. So with a deep sigh of relief, I stepped, luggage in hand, toward the thick reinforced doors strong enough to survive a bomb blast. The inconspicuous school in this town, not far from the border of France, was on a lake bearing the same name. Until my parents sent me here to Neuchâtel, I only knew of this town for the Swiss chocolates they sold in America.

But my school was no Willy Wonka experience. No Oompa-Loompas around here. And creepy men in top hats and coats would get got.

Place was originally a hospital until, back in the late 1800s, it was converted into a school for the betterment and civility of young ladies like me, whose parents had the money and desire to have them molded into so much more.

Leaving the toasty confines, I pulled my fur close to shield me from the cold rush of air on a sunny day. Just as the text said, a car horn to my right alerted me to the all-black Citroën C6 rolling in my direction down the slightly uneven Rue du Pommier. If I knew my daddy, he probably had it armored. I couldn't contain myself and waved frantically, dropping the poise and polish drummed into my head twenty-four seven over the past year. I hoped LC had made the trip across the ocean to surprise me. I couldn't wait to show him the new me I'd become and what I'd learned from my instructors.

Standing in the cold air I spotted Jae Kim being comforted by her fine-ass British hottie, who attended the male equivalent to our school in the next town. We exchanged bitter, hostile glares when I noticed him checking me out. Instead of continuing down the steps, I stopped for a moment and a smile spread across my lips. When I finally approached them on the first landing of the steps I saw a look of confusion flutter across her face.

“Bye, Jae. Have a great spring break,” I offered in my most conciliatory voice. “You heading back to Korea?”

“Don't you speak to me, you fucking bitch!” She glared then turned her back to me to punctuate her seriousness. But he shot me an apologetic smile. I stepped to him.

“If you didn't have such shitty taste in women I'd consider giving you some.” I reached into my pocket and handed him a card with my phone number on it. “Just in case your taste improves,” I finished, the sounds of them arguing followed me down the stairs.