The Corner II (14 page)

He opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a bottle of Beck’s. He loved the imported German beer. He uncapped the brew and sipped as he stood in front of his picture window and watched a lit up yacht cruise Lake Michigan. It was almost midnight and the light from the full moon reflected off the calm waters of the lake, and the cruising boat made for a beautiful calming scene. He thought about how just a few years ago he was broke, an eighteen-year-old stealing cars for his mentor, Vince. Noonie finally got his break by avenging his mentor’s death by killing Myte when she crossed Slim then fled Puerto Rico with hundreds of thousands in cash. Slim handpicked Noonie to avenge their boy’s death. After a few months, Noonie caught up with the conniving woman—befriended then killed her.

Noonie walked towards the bedroom and could see the dim light escaping the cracked bedroom door. He pushed it open and saw his beautiful lady lying under the expensive high thread count sheets and comforter. She was reading like she always did to pass time. Noonie took a swig of his beer. “You need to be careful. I could have been some hating ass nigga comin’ up in here to do you…harm that is,” he smiled devilishly.

“I heard you when you came in, besides,” she pulled an expensive foreign made silver Walther PPK .380 automatic from under one of the many pillows that covered the head of the king sized bed. “I’ll never get caught slipping.”

He smiled, “My boo. I’m going to hop in the shower right quick and then I’ll be out to…I ain’t even got to say.”

“Well hurry up then, I’m almost finished.”  She held up her book.

Noonie squinted trying to make out the name on the cover.

Chantel rolled on her back holding the book in the air. “It’s called Lies, Lust, Consequences. Some of these women and men remind me of someone we know.”

“Be ready.” He took off his wife beater then playfully threw the tee at her not really caring about the book.

*     *     *

The three young men were standing on Langley Street near 79
^th
Street. They had been hustling all evening and were ready to pack it in and leave the rest of the night hustling to the young men trying to make their bones in the crew. Jamel and two shorties he was responsible for had been grinding most of the night selling everything from crack and heroin to marijuana. Everybody was jumping on their shit and they’d made about eight grand in this one spot alone. Scotty, who was in charge of two youngsters that got out of a Ford Taurus with him, was talking to Jamel when he noticed a minivan cruising up the block.

Scotty looked over at his protégés telling them, “Now ya’ll lil’ niggas, watch how I do this. If these fools want a rock I’m gonna get them to buy some weed also. A hustla baby. I’ll show y’all how to do it.”  He stepped closer to the curb. “You niggaz ain’t making what y’all should cause ya’ll slippin’ and missin’ customers. Missin’ money.”  He scolded the youngsters while looking back at them as he stepped toward the van as it got closer. That’s when the rounds started flying. The first was a blast from the passenger’s side window. The blast from the shotgun knocked Scotty’s short muscular build to the ground.

Instantly Jamel jumped behind a parked car and it was good that he did. The door to the minivan slid open and two men wielding AK-47s cut loose. The two shorties who were with Scotty got it first. They didn’t even get a chance to pull their pistols. They were hit in their backs—they had tried to run instead of pulling their pistols bucking. Either way, they had no chance.

Without looking Jamel pointed his nine over the top of the car and let loose, emptying his clip while pulling another one from his pocket. He watched as his two soldiers were pinned down on the porch of the stash house as assault rifle rounds riddled the place. A car was speeding up the block, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that they were another hit team by the way they were speeding toward the action. Jamel had to make a decision and when four men jumped from the vehicle he knew what he had to do—survive to fight another day. He reloaded his Glock with another magazine and glanced at his boy, Scotty, to make sure he wasn’t leaving his boy if he was still breathing. There were no signs of life. His chest was still and his South Pole t-shirt was bloody and torn from the buckshots. Blood oozed from his mouth and there was no doubt that the soldier was dead, so Jamel made a dash for the alley. No one was on his tail as he dipped quickly away from the action. He could hear the rounds going off and for a moment felt like he should have stayed, but he saw how the youngsters had damn near balled up so he knew he had to save himself and not some cowards who didn’t fight back.

Jamel stopped in the back of a house that was four blocks away. He couldn’t hear any shots being fired, only the sirens of police cars. He hoped that the gunmen didn’t make it inside the house and get the money and drugs. He already had to explain how his men had been killed, but definitely didn’t want to add the sting of letting his boss know that their stash had been jacked. He opened his cell and was breathing heavily. He dialed Greg’s number and hoped for the best.

*     *     *

The blue light of the cell phone lit up the top of the nightstand as it vibrated. Noonie didn’t pay it any attention as he stood at the edge of the bed holding Chantel. Her back was on the bed and her legs were around his waist. He held on to her hips as he thrust in and out of her enjoying the warmth of her velvety love. She licked her lips and moaned as his rhythm caught hers. Pecan colored skin mixing with a lighter shade of tan. Noonie inhaled the exotic smells of the oils that were burning in oil burners and the flames from the tea candle that heated the oils flickered, casting a romantic glow in the room.

Chantel clutched the satin sheets and bit her pillow. She was now on her knees and forearms as Noonie was hitting her from the back. He leaned forward, reached under her and massaged her clit with his forefinger as he drove deeper and deeper. Noonie rose up and continued his thrusting as he massaged and slapped the heart-shaped ass. He liked to watch himself slide in and out of her. Just the sight of that shit made him want to come but he contained himself for he wanted to savor the moment. Chantel’s shit was so good that it could make a man nut quickly but Noonie learned to master her shit managing to give her more than just one orgasm an encounter.

The cell vibrated again and this time Noonie noticed, but he was in the middle of switching positions. Chantel wanted to ride him. Besides, Greg was to take care of any business tonight so Noonie could get some rest, so he figured that the call couldn’t be important.

Chantel had been riding Noonie like she was the last cowgirl in the world. She would lean over and lick his nipples and nibble on his chest while she used pussy control to send him to Chantel’s world—a world where pleasure was the only option. She loved how toned Noonie was. At six one, one-eighty he was slim but very muscular with a six-pack that the women loved to rub and kiss on.

The cell continued to dance on the nightstand.

Noonie began to grunt and Chantel moaned. She was tweaking and licking her nipples something she did to heighten her orgasm. Noonie’s grunts became a roar as he let out a load and Chantel screamed as she sat still on him and clawed his chest as she came.

The cell danced then fell off the nightstand.

The two lovers caught their breath. Chantel told Noonie how she loved him and he told her the same and in his mind he reminded himself that he had a good woman and that his player days were over. Chantel went to the bathroom to get a warm washcloth to clean her man with. Noonie decided to check the phone that tried to cock block. When he read the incoming calls he noticed that Greg had called many times. He checked the messages.

Hit me up it’s an emergency. It’s bad, nigga. It’s bad.
Noonie ended the messages then called his boy.

“What’s up, homie? Shit’s straight?” Noonie asked Greg. He knew that something had happened on the block seeing as how Greg was in charge of them. He assumed that five-o had rolled up and took some cash and or arrested some of the shorties working the corners. Little did he know that their crew had become five men short.

“I need to meet with you, like yesterday,” Greg told Noonie. He sounded pissed and rightfully so. One of the young boys that had gotten killed was his little cousin.

“Tell me what happened,” Noonie told him as Chantel came walking into the room. She attempted to wash him with the warm washcloth, but he waved her off. She assumed that it was serious business so she went to the bathroom to take a shower while her man handled his.

Chantel had just begun to lather her body when Noonie pulled the curtain back. She continued to wash still feeling the effects of the hella orgasms, as she asked, “Is everything okay?”  Even though she could tell that it wasn’t. Noonie hadn’t even taken a shower and was dressed in his jeans and wife beater with his t-shirt clutched in his hand. His pistol was in his waistband, so she knew he was ready to head out into the streets to take care of business.

“I gotta go take care of some shit.”

Chantel could hear it in his voice that it was something serious. “What happened?”

“Some of our soldiers got killed—“

“Damn, anybody I know?” she asked.

“Nah, just some shorties on the block. Some fools rolled up and started blastin’. I gotta go holla at Greg and see what’s really goin’ on.”

She leaned her soapy body toward her man and told him to be careful. He fanned the steam then looked into her eyes and told her that he loved her. They kissed and then he was on his way. He called DC while he was on the elevator heading down from the twentieth floor. DC told him that he’d be at the spot when he arrived. Noonie closed his cell and clipped it on its clip just as the elevator was opening. He was on the ground level to the parking garage. He stepped into his Expedition and was on his way. He drove out from the underground parking garage heading for Lake Shore Drive. The black Durango that had followed him to this condo waited a moment before it turned on its light. The two Spanish men in the truck didn’t bother following Noonie; they were done for the night. They now knew where he laid his head—a spot that no one knew of. They’d caught him slipping.

*     *     *

Carlos was in his plush suburban home standing in front of the large picture window gazing out at the lawn. It was after midnight, but several garden and floodlights illuminated the plush landscape for beauty and security. He had met with his father earlier in the night, and the meeting hadn’t set well with him. His father, who had been slightly ill as of late wanted to go out on top, wanted to make sure that when he left this earth, his family was left in good hands and in control of the drug trade in Chicago. One of their rivals, Sammy, was sitting in MCC looking at serious fed time, and with Sammy gone he didn’t think that the gang banging South Side crew stood a chance without his brains. They were too caught up in the gang thing. So without a leader with his head on like Sammy, it was only a matter of time until they would fall, and the Godfather, Freddy Fuentes, wanted his crew to be there to take over.

Carlos puffed on his Montecristo and blew the smoke from the full-bodied cigar in the air. He couldn’t believe that his father wanted to move on the other two crews. ‘Like the old days’ his father told him. His father believed that when the time was right, they needed to move on the other two major crews. Carlos knew that this was true, that Sammy’s crew was weak without him—full of hotheads who’d make bad decisions. And Slim’s crew was being run by Lucky and word on the streets was that Lucky was content with what they were making. No lives lost and only every now and then the police might pick someone up on a charge, but that was part of the game that Lucky could live with as long as that person didn’t become a snitch. But Carlos wanted to buy time. He had his reasons to want to get to Slim. One was the fact that Slim killed one of his top men, Felix, and took control of part of the territory that Felix once controlled—Chicago’s fourth district, the area near the Indiana border. Mostly Hispanics populated the area, but Slim was supplying the mid-level dealers in the area, and since Noonie was Hispanic, he was responsible for getting them their dope.

Carlos’ back was to the door of his study when he heard the knock. He told the person on the other end to enter. It was his most trusted soldier, Chavez. He walked in and closed the door behind him. He walked toward his boss and Carlos turned to him.

In thick Mexican accent, Chavez asked, “Enjoying the view or thinking?”

Carlos took a long puff of his cigar then reached for the box that was on his desk. He opened it and held it out to his friend. Chavez clipped the end then took the cigar to his mouth and Carlos lit it. The two men puffed and smoke filled the air with a bluish white haze.

Carlos told Chavez to have a seat. He went around and sat in one of the two fancy leather chairs that accented the solid oak desk. Carlos sat in his chair and leaned forward to slide an ashtray toward Chavez then he leaned back into the soft leather.

Carlos blew smoke into the air. “So what happened?”

“Five of them down, they didn’t have a chance. Missed that young boxing dude, Jamel, though, he got away on foot.”

“Shit, five out of six, I can live with those odds.”

Chavez puffed and nodded in agreement as he rolled the expensive cigar between his fingers. “That was smart to use them black dudes from Gary.”

“You pay them right?” Carlos asked.