The Syndicate (20 page)

“With the people I pick, of course,” I added while reading through the pages of papers before me and noting the images.

“Indeed. As of now, the Irish MC is responsible of transport of meth, heroin, guided transportation and protection of firearms and other weapons of mass destruction as you Americans seem to believe only come from the Arabs, to the heartland and South circuits from Ireland. It is from there that it passes to the hands of the MC leaders on the West Coast.”

“Seamus.” The Old Italian clucked his tongue in a tsk and shook his head. “Do not insult the nation that lines our pocket and harbors our families.”

Inwardly, a frown spread across my face. I wasn't jigging on how the father spit out that insult as well, but I let it ride.

“But of course. It was just a light critical assessment of course.” The father crossed his heart with his rosary tapping against the table, then continued. “When you eradicated Cormac, you effectively isolated and ended their ties to Ireland,” the father explained.

“Father Seamus, Cormac was a problem for even this table. You know this,” the Old Italian stated. “Mr. McPhearson did us a favor by ending that pissant. I never knew why Claudette kept him at the table. She could have rid herself of him and brought in another. But she did things her way and I won't question it now. My concern is our property in Atlanta that they weren't managing well. That must be prioritized in being handled as well.”

Everyone at the tabled grumbled in agreement and I sat back feeling vindicated in killing Cormac, although I would have felt that way regardless.

Clearing his throat, Father Seamus looked my way then flippantly swept a hand out. I knew his type. All he saw was a black kid in front of him. No, a dangerous black man. An insect for him to crush and probably try to turn into his bitch if I had been a young child. Dude made my skin crawl. I was nothing to him. Just a monkey and it pissed me off, but amused me, only because I was that monkey he'd have to work for, or die for, once I was done.

“Within the files, you have all the information you need,” he drily stated then added, “as requested via our debt owed to you.”

I tilted my head to the side at the figures, real estate, pipeline boundary lines, and more, as Father Seamus spoke up with his slight Irish brogue. “I'd say this is a good change for Ireland to revive the stalled pipeline. 'Tis my suggestion that you introduce yourself to the Irish MC, before they make a play first. For they will stop at nothing to end you in the name of Cormac.”

“As for the rest, it is agreed that we will supply you with your additional needs,” the Old Italian announced.

“I want them hit so hard it will take them years to rebuild what it is lost. I want them hit in Ireland and I want the rest in Atlanta to feel it,” I said coolly.

A collective murmur went around the room. Father Seamus looked as if all the blood drained from his already pale face.

He looked at the Old Italian. “You can't very well be thinking about hitting me home base in Ireland,” he said, almost incredulously.

“If that is what Javon demands, we must comply,” the Old Italian replied.

“That is me home. That is where the main supply for the pipeline comes from. My son—”

“Don't not beg in front of company, Seamus. What must be done, must be done.” He cast a gaze at everyone then stood. “This meeting is adjourned. Mr. McPhearson, walk with me. Unless you have questions?”

I could tell Father Seamus was about to blow a gasket. Something about that made me smile on the inside. I didn't come to fuck around. I meant business and it showed.

“Yeah, I have a question,” I said in response to the Old Italian. “If you all knew Cormac was an issue then he should have been handled by . . .” Slamming my finger down on the table before me, I glared. “Every. Single. One. Of. You. I shouldn't have had to handle him.”

“Cormac was in the Syndicate. We have no dealings with the Syndicate other than when Claudette pulled us in for business. That was her turf and she handled it how she saw fit,” the Jewish mobster stated.

“He is right,” the Old Italian said. “We had no power in the Syndicate. That's something you should think about.”

The grumbles started again; then I pushed back from the table, grabbed the thick stack of folders, then walked out. I didn't give a shit what they said, whether they had a say-so in what happened at the Syndicate's table. They knew Cormac was a problem and if he had something to do with Mama's death like I suspected, then I would hold it against the Old Italian and his comrades. They knew the man was a ticking time bomb.

“Hey!”

It wasn't until I heard Lucky behind me that I stopped.

“You pissed them off, fam.”

“Yeah, then we all even with it then,” I grumbled. “Look, where does your old-ass uncle want me to meet him at, or walk with him at?”

Lucky gave a chuckle then stepped around me with his hands in his pockets, the ends of his shirt bunching up. Dude walked ahead of me with a cocky swagger and said, “Follow me.”

We walked a bit, took a glass elevator up to another level then ended up in a private penthouse suit. The room was immaculate. Yes, we were in a hotel, but the feel of this place was straight luxury home living. Glass was everywhere. I'm meaning the windows. If you wanted, you could see all of Manhattan in one clean swoop. The skyline was impeccable leaving those who were swayed by such displays of wealth feeling like a living God. Plush white drapery accented silver Art Deco–designed framing along the large windows. Beyond those windows was a large patio space with lush green grass and a few trees.

Inside, it was as you would imagine a mob boss of today would live. A huge bar was separate in its own parlor where Lucky relaxed talking to an older black woman. I couldn't see her, but I could clearly hear the age and culture of my race in the tone of her articulate vernacular.
Interesting.

Where I stood was a sunken sitting area with two large dark leather couches with those dimple marks throughout them. I call them therapist couches. In between them was a floating glass table with a decanter of liquor, two glasses, and two cigars with a cigar cutter and lighter next to it on a tray.

Behind me on several white or gray walls were old-world paintings, mixed with several current artworks. A glass fireplace was in the center of the penthouse next to where I sat waiting. It wasn't long after that the Old Italian made his appearance. By that time, I was sitting studying the files. I didn't even stand when I heard the sound of his shoes clip-clopping against the dark wooden floors as he walked into the room. By that time, I was still very much annoyed as fuck.

“Javon Williams-McPhearson,” the Old Italian said with excitement in his voice.

My head snapped up at him using my government name. In doing so, I saw the old man walk around undoing his blazer. He made a graceful motion in taking a seat opposite me; then he took off the simple white brimmed hat that he wore, setting it on the table between us. The old man had a still youthful quality to him. All white hair from the tip of his wavy low-cropped hair to the white beard around his face. The man had a slight golden coloring to him marking him clearly as being pure Italian. He had a Robert De Niro quality to him.

Rumor had it, true Italians had black African in them due to the Moors and, at that time, Persians, anyway. So, to see it in the old man didn't trip me out at all. I just wondered if he was the type of Italian who embraced that ancestry. Glancing at Lucky, whose back was to me as he spoke to the same elder woman I could not see in the partially closed-off parlor, I gathered that the old man did embrace that truth. Again, that was interesting to me.

“I know that you know my full name too.” He reached forward and grabbed the crystal decanter of amber liquid in front of us. Liberally pouring a stream of liquid into the two glasses that sat next to the decanter, he pushed a glass toward me then said, “I'd be disappointed if a son of Claudette's didn't.”

Rebuffing the glass, I shifted the folders away and stretched out an arm over the back of the chair. “No, thank you. I don't indulge while I'm doing business.”

“Smart young man,” he leisurely stated. “Then you are more like Claudette than I assumed.”

“Of course I am, sir. Which is why it amuses me that you lie in front of your council of mobsters about just how interwoven the debt is.” Leaning forward, I pushed the glass away then reclined, keeping my gaze on the old man and folding my hands over the files on my lap. “Each and every one of you owes my family a debt. Many. That will not erase itself just for me being here.”

A quick glint of anger flashed across the old man's face. “What do you know of debts owed! Debts paid off with Claudette's murder!” he barked out, ice clinking in his glass.

“Nothing was paid off with my mother's death! Nothing!” I found myself shouting fist clenching at my side. A simmering passion blazed through me as I stared at a man Mama had mentioned countless times in her journals. A man who allowed her to die, in my eyes, if Cormac had anything to do with her death.

“If anything . . .” I paused and toned down my anger before continuing. “If anything, it's double bound due to your neglect in not protecting her and not protecting the one thing she loved. Us.”

Silence blazed between us. An unspoken challenge of wills had been kicked off because of what I now clearly could see: our love for Mama and our grief.

“She chose him over me,” the old man grumbled low.

The tone was so harsh that I noticed Lucky looking our way from the parlor and taking a few steps toward the room before a hand stopped him. It was then that I could see the elder woman. Immediately, I pushed up from the couch and almost fell backward in fear. I was staring at Mama. She was alive, looking over Lucky's shoulder. I blinked rapidly, trying to comprehend who I was looking at because I was there when we buried Mama, so I had to be losing my gotdamned mind as I stared at her mirror image.

When Mama's twin moved around Lucky, she turned her back to me. African-print fabric swirled against the floor where she moved. She wore what I could tell was a couture-style dress, with dripping diamond necklaces around her neck. On her fingers were various rings and around her wrists were diamond bangles. Coiled gray hair swung against her back, and because she was closer, I could see she was slightly younger. This wasn't Mama, but it was almost a twin in a sense, with varying differences, such as the jewelry and her state of dress.

“I loved your mother dearly,” I heard by my side. “Even in our . . . complicated friendship. I loved her, and tried to move heaven and earth for her. So when whispers in the crime world started that some heat might have possibly been coming for the Syndicate, your mother was the last one I ever thought would be the one to be eliminated. She knew something was brewing. Told me as much, but she told me it was what came with the territory. Said not to worry about her. I was too late, son. There is much that you can't even begin to know. So tell me clearly, what of the debt specifically are you pulling here?”

With a glance, I stared at the side of the face of a man who was in just as much pain as I was over Mama's death. My shoulders almost dropped at what was told to me, but I kept my cool, then turned my attention back to the woman in the room.

“She stopped a bullet from going into your heart,” I said.

I couldn't believe how much that woman looked like Mama. I turned to back to the old man.

“Yes. That's the first debt I owe her.” A gentle smile spread across his face as he lit up a cigar. “Let me share with you why because what I want to share wasn't appropriate for our meeting with the others.”

He made sure that I understood that in the life of a leader, not all parts of you are meant to be shared, just the overview; and I respected that. “It was the late eighties. Your mother came to New York at my request to work for me and as a means to secure her own rise in the South as a queen pin. After King had died, word on the street was that his woman was taking his place. I knew this to be true as King and I done business before. Good business. I'd met Claudette before then, got the scars to prove it. I felt something for her the moment I first laid eyes on her. With King gone, I figured she was fair game on the other side of business if you know what I mean.”

I nodded.

Plumes of smoke rose between us. It was then that I turned to grab that offering of amber liquid. Yeah, just moments before I said I didn't drink and do business, but I needed something to be able to handle all I was hearing. I listened to him tell me things about Mama I had no clue about. I was sure that there were more journals that I needed to read about Mama's early days.

“She glowed in her intelligence and ability to command a room. At her side was her trusted right hand and protection. A young kid named Snap. At the time, I was intent on having my own time with her, because her beauty and the way her mind could summarize business deals and plans aroused something in me.”

I glanced at the Old Italian, then chuckled. It didn't take anything to fill in the cracks of what wasn't being said. Shit, I was experiencing a taste of that same game through Lucky. So, I chuckled low realizing that this was the additional piece of Mama's life not written in the journals I did read.

Sliding one hand in my pocket just to relax, I said, “You made sure to keep him busy?”

“Of course, I tried, but Claudette wasn't about to allow him to be treated like the help. He was her right hand after all. Besides, whenever Claudette visited, my coffers runneth over with coins. So she kept all of us busy anyway. She was good like that. Could make me work when I said I wouldn't.”