A Hood Legend (7 page)

“How many you say?” he yelled over the loud helicopters circling about.

“Two . . . bring two . . . no, three,” replied the officer in uniform. DJ saw the plainclothes officer rush toward a paramedic, who then searched the back of an ambulance and gave him three body bags. DJ walked slowly up to the gate as far as he was allowed. Dwight was there too now. Helplessly they stood, eyes focused on the front door, waiting to see last of the living legend come out in a body bag. Vapor let out a long howl, causing everyone to shiver. Dwight clenched his fists. He desperately needed to vent his anger.

* * *

Chandra sat at her computer alone while her roommate was at basketball practice. Her mind drifted to Menage. She knew about the chop shop and occasionally tried to talk to him about getting out of the game. He made a promise to her that once he and Dwight each reached a million, he would get out and wash his hands clean. She glanced at the picture of him on top of her computer. He was standing in front of his Escalade with Vapor and Vigor. She was looking forward to spending time with him during spring break. She turned off her computer and ran her fingers through her soft, curly hair and recalled the day she met him.

It was a year and a half ago, and she was up in Raleigh, North Carolina, visiting a friend that attended Shaw University. They had gone to Crabtree Valley Mall to buy gifts for Christmas. She had to smile, remembering how Menage made his presence known. While she and her friend were leaving the mall, Chandra nearly stepped out in front of Menage's midnight black Acura RL. He was quick to get out to see if she was okay. With his smooth tongue, he persuaded her into letting him take her out to eat. They got along well, and what shocked her was that he waited around a few months to have sex with her. He grew to trust her with everything he had. She rubbed her stomach and wondered how he would take the shocking news that she was carrying his first child. She wondered if he was ready for what she had in mind—marriage. Putting on her Fubu tennis shoes, she started to head out the door to go wash her peach BMW X-5. Just as she was about to leave, the phone rang. She started to let the computer take the call but she went ahead and answered it.

“Hello?” she said.

“Chandra, this is Felix. How are you?”

“Oh, hi Felix. I'm doing fine. Menage tell you I'm comin' down for spring break?”

“Ah, yes, yes, he did.”

“Felix, is something wrong?” She knew it was odd for Mr. Marchetti to be calling her. She slowly sat down.

“Chandra, Menage has been shot.”

“Oh my God, Felix . . . no . . . h-how is he?” she said standing back up now.

“Listen, calm down and come to the airport. My private jet is on its way. How soon can you get there?”

“I . . . I'm on my way now . . . Felix, how is he?” she said, bursting into tears. She heard him take a deep breath.

“He's in critical condition and on life support. That's all I know as of right now. But it's important you get here, so drive carefully, Chandra, and don't worry. He'll pull through.”

Chandra wanted to ask who was responsible, but she had to make it to the airport and get to Menage's side. His mother received the same call from Mr. Marchetti and an hour later, she, too, was aboard another one of his private jets from New York to Miami.

* * *

It had been almost thirty minutes since the helicopter had flown Menage off to the hospital. Detective Dominique Covington finally had the crime scene under control and he was thankful that it was no longer raining. Now he could stand outside and smoke his Newports. Earlier as he had finished taking statements from DJ, Dwight, and Tina, the nosy-ass TV reporters rolled up in their vans. He had also confiscated DJ's 9 mm and Dwight's .357 until further investigation. DJ's Lexus, with its front end smashed, would be under investigation as well because of the blood on the fender. DJ didn't seem to mind; he was upset over what had happened to his friend. Detective Covington got down on one knee and pulled back the bag from the body in the driveway.

“Four dead bodies—three by gunshot wounds and one by a dog . . . fucking headache,” Covington said to himself. At thirty five, he was the head man on the street for homicide. Three things made him unique: He was the youngest person and the first black to ever hold the position. The other thing that made him unique he kept on the low. Crushing the butt under his shoe, he stood up and stretched. He pulled out another Newport but changed his mind. “Okay guys, let's not fuck up this scene. Collect all spent shells,” said Covington.

“Oh, fuck, there must be over two hundred fucking shells in there!” a rookie cop replied.

“You keep talking and I'll have you do it all by your damn self! Now, as I was saying . . . collect all, that's A-L–L, spent shells, and please, please, make sure the CSI gets enough pictures of the bodies before they are moved. Peterson!”

“Yes, sir,” Peterson, a rookie cop replied.

“Order some pizza, I'm starving. Okay, girls, let's get to work!” Detective Covington said as he walked toward the house, looking up at the dark clouds overhead.

* * *

At Jackson Memorial Hospital, Dwight sat in the waiting room with his head against the wall, eyes closed. Tina sat next to him, stroking his hand. DJ sat in the corner alone, rubbing his throbbing, aching head. Mr. Marchetti stood looking out of the rain-streaked window with his hands behind his back. Next to him, facing the room, were his two bodyguards. Occasionally a doctor or nurse was paged over the intercom, breaking the silence. The only other thing that seemed to make any noise was the soft humming of the water fountain by the exit. No one knew what to say, and silence ruled. Outside the sky was getting darker and thunder could be heard in the distance. Time seemed to stand still.

“Mr. Marchetti, Mrs. Lovick has arrived,” whispered one of his bodyguards, having received the information from a small mic that was in his left ear. Anyone who didn't know Marchetti would have mistook him for a government official and figured that his two guards were secret security agents. But in truth, he had as much power as the Mayor of Miami—maybe even more. Another pair of Marchetti's bodyguards escorted Chandra in, and he immediately got up and hugged her and then slowly walked her to a seat. He could see that she had been crying. As they sat down, she choked up on her words as she sought answers to what was going on. Dwight couldn't keep his eyes off Chandra, knowing what she had to be going through.

Menage's mother arrived about an hour later. At fifty-two she still looked young and in shape. She thanked everyone for coming, not really knowing what to say. Then she and Mr. Marchetti went to a corner to speak privately. Later on, sitting next to Chandra, she told her she was glad her son finally had some taste. She liked Chandra and the two seemed to get along well, considering the circumstances and them meeting in person for the first time.

“Baby,” Menage's mother said softly holding Chandra's hand in her lap, “my son would want you to be strong, so we got to be strong right now . . . come pray with me.” She and Chandra got down on their knees and held hands. Mr. Marchetti got down on his knees as well and prayed with them. Then Dwight and Tina, followed by DJ, joined them. The two bodyguards, keeping their eyes fully open, lowered their heads. Chandra tried to be strong, but she had to lean on Mr. Marchetti for support and sobbed as Menage's mother began to pray: “Dear Lord . . . Oh Mighty Father . . . I ask you in Jesus' name, to save my son—your child. Oh heavenly Father, show your mighty power and grace and let the sun shine on his face again. Oh Lord, let him know that it's you who will bring him back. Oh Lord . . . oh Lord . . . let it be your will. My faith in you is strong, oh Lord, so I . . . so I now put it in your hands, Oh Lord, my Savior. Glory be thy name . . . oh Jesus . . . ohh Lord . . . in Jesus' name I pray and I thank you.”

After the prayer, Chandra sat with Menage's mother as every one continued to wait. When Chandra was able to talk, she told her that she was two weeks pregnant. Mrs. Legend, raising her head for the first time since her prayer, let a single tear run down her face. “This tear is for your baby—not my son,” she said softly. DJ sat alone rubbing his eyes, trying to hide his tears.

After four hours of waiting, a doctor in a surgical mask and gown walked over to the group. Everyone stood with questioning looks on their faces. Mr. Marchetti directed the doctor toward Menage's mother. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Legend, but I must be fully honest with you . . .” He never got to finish. Chandra screamed at the top of her lungs. “N-o-o-o-o-o, God please, no-o-o-o!” She passed out and Dwight caught her before she hit the floor. Everyone began to yell and scream.

“This . . . this can't be . . . it can't be true!” Dwight muttered to himself as he held Chandra in his arms.

* * *

Detective Covington looked at his watch. It was almost eleven o'clock. He sat in his unmarked Ford Crown Victoria smoking a Newport as he watched a tow truck haul DJ's Lexus from the driveway. Things didn't add up from his viewpoint. He looked at his pad and glanced at the details of the case as the smoke burned his eyes. “Two bodies out back—one with one or two shots in the neck and the other . . . killed by one of the dogs.” He let out a chuckle.

He then looked at DJ's statement regarding the shooting of the man in the driveway. DJ had said the guy ran toward him—unarmed—and he blew his head off at close range. Covington was now certain that something wasn't right. “It's going to be a long week,” he sighed and looked down at his muddy suit. They had called the pound to pick up the dog. He seemed friendly, but as soon as some fool let it loose to go into the van, it took off toward the gate, dodging ten or more officers, including Covington, who slipped and fell face first.

He took off his muddy tie and tossed it onto the back seat. The yellow crime-scene tape flapped in the wind, as he flicked his Newport out the window. Looking at the once beautiful mansion, he shook his head in disbelief, started the car and drove home.

* * *

Tina sat crying in her bedroom with the lights out, while Dwight sat at a bar getting drunk. He never experienced a pain so deep. Menage was like a brother to him, and Dwight knew that the only thing his friends cared about was the paper chase. Yet and still, Menage set rules, like no carjackin', or involvement with drugs or drug trafficking, so this all made no sense to Dwight.

“Why?” he whispered to himself. “Jealous-ass niggas . . . it's all bullshit . . . just so . . . so . . .” He flung the bottle of wine he had been drinking against the wall. He knew he had to stay in control but he felt compelled to do something. However, there was nothing to do but wait.

* * *

Mr. Marchetti left two of his guards at the hospital as he flew back to his island. His gut told him that whoever did the hit on Menage had to have had a specific reason, being that Dwight or DJ weren't shot. He vowed to find out who it was and deal with them in his own way.

Tears slowly ran down Chandra's face as she looked at Menage. She carefully dabbed his lips with a wet towel to prevent them from drying. Chandra did her best to stay strong, since his mother wasn't able to stand the sight of her only son being kept alive by a machine. She refused to think of life without Menage, and she became hysterical and shouted at the doctor when he told her of the odds of him coming out of the coma. Menage's mother simply turned around and dropped to her knees and prayed. Over and over Chandra whispered in Menage's ear, begging him to fight and telling him how much she loved him. She once recalled seeing a special on TV about people waking up from deep comas, claiming to have heard music, so she relayed it to Felix, who quickly had someone get the CD she asked for, along with a portable CD player. After turning out the lights, she stopped and looked at all the machines that kept Menage alive, casting an orange glow on his face. Before Felix's bodyguard returned, she heard a song on the radio that caught her attention and the tears ran freely again. Closing her eyes, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed as the song “Many Men,” by 50 Cent filled the room at a low volume.

Menage's medallion, which spelled out his last name, lay on the table behind where Chandra sat. The bullet that would have hit him in his heart had ricocheted off the letter D and created an imperfection. Even before this incident, Chandra knew her man had one foot in the grave because of the life he was living. She also knew that he had to pull through soon because his mother wouldn't let him remain this way for too long. She fell asleep inches from his bed as the music played softly in the background.

 

“You been to see Menage yet?” said Coonk.

“Nah . . . I don't get along wit' hospitals,” Dough-Low replied. The two sat at a hand car-wash on Seventy-first Avenue.

“Man, that's some fucked up shit. 'Nage cool as fuck, yo!” Coonk said frowning.

“Yeah, he don't be tryin' to shine on folks. I been thinkin' if he ever told me 'bout some cats he had beef wit' or somethin'. But you know as well as me, all he do is bang some shorties and make that paper,” Dough-Low said. Coonk stood up and looked outside to see if his ride was ready. It wasn't.

“You know that new cat that took Menage's spot done raised the prices and everything, and the fool tried to get fly when I told him that me and Menage already had a deal. Word, Dough, I was 'bout to wet that bitch ass!” Dough-Low looked at Coonk to see if he was serious about what he had just said.

“What's his name?” Dough-Low asked rubbing his bald head.

“Shit . . . uh . . . DJ, yeah, yeah.”

Dough-Low closed his eyes and tried to recall where he heard that name. “Damn, man, DJ . . . DJ,” Dough-Low said slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand. Then he remembered. At the cookout, Menage had told him something about DJ bringing a fucked up ride to the chop shop. Keeping it to himself, he planned to find out what this DJ was all about.

Finally their rides were ready. Coonk pulled his BMW up next to Dough-Low's Yukon Denali XL. “Hey, yo, man, I'ma go see Menage later on, so I'll hit you on the two-way or something. Nine times outta ten, I'ma be on the block. What you 'bout to do?”

Dough-Low put on his shades and shrugged his shoulders. “Just hit me later on, partner. I'ma just chill.”

“Bet dat!” Coonk said as he came off the clutch, smoking the back tires of his Z8.

Dough-Low fanned the smell of rubber out of his face and cruised out of the parking lot with his system booming. He adjusted his gold plated. 380 in the small of his back at a stoplight. By his feet on the floorboard was his smooth action. 40 cal.

Dough-Low pulled up to the front of Kamesa's apartment in Carol City. His truck was new and not as familiar as his Hummer H2, and he snuck up on two Cuban cats, Hector and Raul, who owed him several thousand dollars. They sat on the hood of a kitted-up Corvette. They'd been avoiding him for two whole months. One of them even had his girl tell Dough-Low that the law had sent him back to Cuba. The other one obviously didn't give a fuck.

Dough-Low pulled up behind them as they chatted with three other men.

“Yeah, amigo, it's true!” Dough-Low yelled with his .40 cal. pointed at the two Cubans. The other three started to back off. “Oh, no, move another step and it's on!” His gold .380 in his right arm froze them in their tracks. “Get on the ground!” he yelled at the three standing to his right. Two of them did as they were told but one of them, being a brave ass, cursed him in Spanish. Dough-Low popped him in the kneecap with his .380. He fell to the ground holding his bleeding knee. “Oh, it's true, amigo!” Ignoring the man's cries, he turned to Hector and Raul. “So, you no gotta my money? You thinka you can play ol' Dough-Low for a fool, huh? Oh, what, you don't speak English no more!”

Hector spoke first. “H-hey man . . . we been looking f-for you, I swear,” he pleaded.

“Yeah, after I set your ass ablaze, your thoughts come back! Nah, this how it's going down. You got two . . . no fuck it . . . tonight, I want my dough, understand? Now take your friend to the hospital—need ta get some fuckin' manners.” Dough-Low took off before the police hit the set—if they were coming at all. He called Kamesa and told her what went down and that he'd meet her later on after he switched rides.

* * *

“Yes, I believe it was someone close to him but now I'm not sure,” Mr. Marchetti said sitting across from Dwight in the living room of his mansion on his private island.

“That can very well mean me or DJ, and we know Chandra wouldn't do no shit like this. Really, Mr. Marchetti, I'm at a loss,” said Dwight.

“Yes, I understand, but things just don't add up. Everyone in this city—this county—state—knows of my family and me. Yet someone had the balls to take a chance and put a hit—twice—on Menage who is like . . . like a son to me.”

Dwight pondered what he had said and remained silent.

“Look, Dwight. I brought you to my island because I don't like this one bit. If this was done by a rival family it would have been nice and quiet and I hate to say it, but we would be mourning Menage's death. But it was sloppy. Someone with money, but not enough—someone that knows my limit, your limit . . . and Menage's as well did this.”

Dwight took a sip of his wine and leaned back against the Italian leather sofa. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander.
Think, Dwight, think!
Then he spoke aloud. “What about all of the women he slept with? Maybe he messed with the wrong one!” Dwight's eyes were open now, and he waited for Mr. Marchetti's reply.

“But all this, including four men dead . . . over a piece of pussy? I don't think so.”

Dwight glanced over at a long staircase with an ivory rail behind where Marchetti sat. “Maybe that girl he took the bullet for . . . Benita . . . I think that's her name,” Dwight said leaning forward, his elbows on his knees rubbing his temples. “So what do we do now?” he said.

Mr. Marchetti lit a Cuban cigar with a gold lighter. “We continue, Dwight. I hate to sound harsh like this, but we must go on,” he said after filling his lungs with the rich smoke. “As you know, DJ will keep things running for the time being. At first he didn't want to take the position, but I talked him into it. Has he told you about how he stopped that guy?” he said looking off into the distance. “Maybe if that . . . piece of shit had lived I could have made him talk. I got my ways. I'm sure you're aware of that, Dwight.”

“Yes, sir, but what about the DB-7? I'm sure you know it's from L.A.”

Felix brushed ashes from his silk shirt. “I talked to DJ and he said it was an easy take, so he took it. But I advised him of the rules that Menage set and I asked him to follow them. For now it's best you let it sit. It's your call, Dwight . . . when will you be heading back to Miami? The helicopter will leave soon and I know how you get airsick,” Felix said with a grin.

“Well, if it's not too much of a problem I'd like to stay here tonight—just to unwind. But I'll need to call Tina. I'm having a problem with my cell and two-way.”

Felix smiled. “Not a problem.” He was about to tell Dwight about how he had a system that could block out all outgoing and incoming calls, but he figured he'd keep it to himself. Recording devices also monitored his phones twenty four/seven. “Dwight, I have rooms I haven't even seen myself,” Felix chuckled. They both stood.

“I wonder how he's doing,” Dwight said finishing his fourth glass of wine. He felt warm.

“No need to worry. I have a direct line with Dr. Wilson and his staff, so I'll be the first to know of any change in his condition,” Felix said.

“I wonder ... I mean, I can't believe that Chandra is having his child and he doesn't even know it,” Dwight said softly. Felix told him not to worry again as he picked up the phone.

“Ah, señorita ... yes ... I'm fine. We'll be having a guest for dinner tonight, and fix up a room also. Yes, thank you ... that will do.” He hung up the phone and drew hard on his cigar. His eyes met Dwight's. “Dwight, we'll find out who did this and they will pay—that I can promise you. But for now, we wait. Time will tell and the streets will talk, so just go along as usual and let me handle things, okay?”

“Mr. Marchetti, do you think that if... I mean when he comes back, he'll stay in the game? I was just thinking ...”

Felix put out his cigar and spoke slowly. “Truth be told, Dwight, at times I try hard to put myself in the next man's shoes to stay ahead in this game. But with ... it's so different ... he's in his own world ... and he's playing the field.”

Dwight recalled the last night they had gone out and how Menage acted in the parking lot, as if he was on a stage. Menage thrived on attention.

“Well, I'm sorry, I have some business to take care of. But I'll be seeing you at dinner tonight.”

“Yes, Mr. Marchetti.”

“Good. Miss Welton will tend to your needs . . . and Dwight, the last thing you need to do is feel guilty. I know how close the two of you are and I'm so sorry,” he said taking Dwight's hand.

“Thank you.”

Felix walked out of the room, followed by an Afghan hound that had been curled up by the door. Convinced that all he could do was wait, Dwight poured his fifth glass of wine. Standing in front of the huge, floor-to-ceiling window, he looked out at the Miami skyline. He then watched Felix's helicopter take off just a few yards from his luxurious yacht. He began to loosen his silk tie just as Miss Welton silently walked up behind him and tapped him on his shoulder. He was startled.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. Macmillan. I didn't mean to startle you,” she said. Dwight looked down at the small woman. She was old enough to be his grandmother.

He smiled. “It's okay. I'm fine. I'm just stressed, that's all. And you can call me Dwight.”

“Oh . . . well, Mr. Dwight, if you'll follow me, I'll show you to your room,” she said.

“Uh . . . Miss Welton . . . are you French? Your accent is strong.”

“Yes, I am, Mr. Dwight,” she said leading him upstairs.

“Did Mr. Marchetti mention to you that I need to use the phone?” Dwight spoke in flawless French, surprising her. She stopped and slowly turned back to look at him with a smile on her face. She spoke back to him in French.

“Your French is excellent, Mr. Dwight, and yes, there is a phone in your room and a change of clothes to suit your taste is laid out for you.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Mr. Dwight, who speaks good French.” They both laughed as she showed him to his room.

* * *

“Where can we meet?” Tina said standing in her bathroom taking off her make up.

“Come to my place 'bout nine thirty. Are you sure Dwight'll be staying at the island with Mr. Felix?” DJ asked.

“Yes, I'm sure. And where are you anyway?” she asked, not really caring where he was.

“Getting the system fixed in my truck,” he lied.

“Oh . . . well, I'll be there.”

“Hey, you gonna wear that see-through bra and thong set?”

“That's just a waste, DJ,” Tina said laughing.

“So what are you doin' right this second?”

“Mmm . . . rubbing some scented cream on my thighs. I just stepped out of the shower, so I'm naked.”

“You need to drop Dwight, girl,” DJ said glancing at the new Jacob on his wrist.

“Oh, really! I don't think so, DJ. Your money ain't long enough, so don't go catchin' feelings for me!”

“So my money ain't long, huh? But how about my dick?”

“DJ, don't start. I told you day one how it would be, so do you want to see me or not?” DJ said that he did and hung up his phone.

“Stupid bitch!” Erasing her from his mind, he went back to counting the money stacked up on his kitchen table. He stopped at seventy-two thousand and he still had a few stacks left. He lit a blunt and headed back out to distribute his coke and make a few sales. DJ now had a good deal of control at the chop shop and did his best to fill Menage's shoes. He couldn't believe how Tina had dissed him, but still she would be over his crib later on. As he pulled up to Lou's mansion, he smiled to himself, thinking about his new rank. He now had money and power. The money was good and the power, a glock .40 was sitting on his lap. As far as respect was concerned, he'd make sure he got it if he had to. He now hung out with rappers, fucked model chicks and lived the life he'd always wanted—in the limelight.

* * *

Dwight looked at his watch. It was now almost half past seven. He sat at Felix's large wet bar with its marble top and gold edges. He told the bartender he would pour his own drinks. He filled up his glass with Bacardi Limon. Resting his elbows on the bar, he let his mind wander.
Tina . . . what would I do without her . . . my man is laid up in a coma . . .
he thought to himself. He knew Felix was right; things had to move forward, but he knew it would be different without Menage around. He finished his drink in one swallow and refilled it. He lifted the glass to his lips and noticed that his hand was trembling. He closed his eyes and slowly placed the drink down.
Slow down, man, don't fucking over-do it.
His mind was racing. Things would have to change. He now had the last word on how things would be run at the chop shop, but for now he would let DJ hold it down until he got everything in order. He sat alone in the dark. He desperately needed to hold Tina in his arms. Earlier on the phone she had told him to stay on the island to relax. He slowly stood, walked up the long staircase and made his way to bed. At first he thought sleep wouldn't come, but as soon as he fell onto the king-sized bed his exhaustion overcame him.

* * *

Tina stood in front of the mirror naked. She cupped her breasts and thought of what DJ was going to do to her. She quickly got dressed and jumped into her two-door, deep shadow blue, pearl PT cruiser convertible. She didn't see anything wrong with sexing—no—fucking DJ, because it was only to help out Dwight. DJ was fine and loved to please her, and he had no limitations on doing as she asked. She just hoped he wouldn't fall in love with her . . . maybe this would be his last night inside of her . . . well, maybe. Tina knew things would be different now that Menage was out of the picture. And to think that he turned her down one night . . . must be a fag!