The Fix 2 (4 page)

Sister Francine stalked toward Persia, face flushed red. “You think you're smart don't you?”

“No, but I'm not a dummy either,” Persia told her. She had been counting her father's money since she was three, so math came natural to her.

“Are you and I going to have a problem, Ms. Chandler?” Sister Francine asked, with her hand tightening around the ruler.

Persia looked from the ruler to Sister Francine's angry face. “Not unless you create one.”

Sister Francine looked like she was thinking about it, but decided against it. “Go downstairs and see Father Michael.”

“For what? I got up and solved the problem like you asked.”

“Yes, but you disrupted my class in doing so. Now leave, or I'll have you removed,” Sister Francine told her.

“This is some bullshit,” Persia grumbled, walking back to her desk. She snatched her bag, hastily stuffing her books into it on her way to the door. As she was walking out, she gave Sister Francine the finger.

“It's that attitude of yours that got you into trouble in the first place,” Sister Francine called after her. “There are no shortcuts to an education, Ms. Chandler. You can either get it in here or on some random street corner. The choice is yours!”

Persia sat in the waiting area outside Father Michael's office, waiting her turn to see the school's headmaster. From the shouting coming from the other side of the door, somebody was getting ripped a new asshole. Persia didn't know who it was, but she would've hated to be the recipient of whatever punishment awaited them. There were two other girls in the waiting area, too, sent down for one offense or another to be punished. One of them, a girl she had classes with, tried to engage her in small talk, but Persia wasn't very receptive. She was still fuming over what had happened with Sister Francine.

From her first go at the school, Persia had never been a favorite among the faculty. She was one of the few black girls who attended the prestigious school and the most outspoken. Her mother and Richard contributed to the school, so Persia was given more leeway than most, and she always seemed to be testing her boundaries. When Persia had to come back to St. Mary's, hat in hand, some of the faculty was glad to see her humbled, Sister Francine being one of them. Her mother urged her to be strong and not feed into the bullshit, but at the end of the day she wasn't the one sitting in a classroom getting embarrassed. Thankfully, Persia would be graduating soon, and could put Sister Francine and all the other bullshit that came with being in high school behind her.

The was a break in the screaming, and Father Michael's door swung open, and someone shoved a young girl through it, before slamming it shut again. She was a thin blonde, with pale skin and pouty lips. Her uniform skirt looked wrinkled, and her tie hung askew around her neck. On her face she wore a bored expression, but her eyes seemed to light up a bit when she saw Persia. The blonde walked over to the row of seats where Persia and the other two girls were sitting. She looked at the girl sitting closest to Persia and motioned for her to move over. The girl didn't utter a word; she just vacated the seat.

“One day someone is going to kick your little pasty ass for being such a bitch all the time, Sarah,” Persia told the blonde.

The blonde shrugged. “Probably, but even after the beat down, I'll still be a bitch.”

All Persia could do was laugh. “Even when everything else has changed, you're still the same, Sarah.” Persia was Sarah's best friend. She and Marty had been the only two white girls to embrace Persia when her family moved into their predominantly white neighborhood years ago. They were like the three
amigos
. When Persia was running the streets with Karen and her crew, she didn't see much of Marty and Sarah, but tragedy brought them back together. While Persia had been on her drug binge, Marty was brutally raped by some rappers they had met at a club. The mental trauma of what had happened was too much for Marty to cope with so she committed suicide, reducing the number of
amigos
to two. Marty's death hit both of them hard, but it rocked Persia. She felt like when her friend needed her most, she wasn't there.

“So, what're you in for, Ms. Goody Two-shoes? I thought you were cleaning up your act,” Sarah said.

“I am, but Sister Francine is in rare form today.”

Sarah sighed dramatically. “Why doesn't that old bitch just die already?”

“We should be so lucky. So what did you do this time? I hope you didn't stick firecrackers in Brother Lance's cigarettes again. It took a month for his mustache to grow back the last time.” Persia laughed. Sarah didn't. From the look on Sarah's face, Persia could tell whatever she did wasn't a simple prank this time. “What happened?”

“Fucking snitch is what happened,” Sarah said angrily. “A few days ago I sold those trailer park tramps Vickie and Jean a couple of beans. Them and a few of their nitwit friends popped them and one of the girls tweeked out. Of course when the pressure came down all of them pointed their fingers at me as the supplier. My dad is in there talking to father Michael now, pleading with him not to call the police. I'm in some deep shit, Persia.” Sarah broke down and started crying.

Deep shit was an understatement. Sarah's father was a pharmacist and she would regularly tap his inventory, and push pills to the locals. It had been Sarah's side hustle for years and never once had she gotten caught, until now. Not only was Sarah looking at getting expelled, but her father could potentially lose his license and be sent to prison for what she was doing.

Persia hugged Sarah close, and tried to comfort her as best she could. “Everything is going to be okay, Sarah.”

Father Michael's door opened again, and out stepped Sarah's father, Herman Thompson. He was wearing a white lab coat, and his glasses sat askew on his nose, as they always did. His thinning white hair sat on top of his head messily, as if he just stuck his fingers in a light socket. Mr. Thompson was a jovial man who was always smiling, but not that day. His thin blue lips were turned down into a frown and anger danced behind his eyes. Persia had never seen him like this and it made her uncomfortable enough to let go of Sarah.

“Are you happy now, Sarah?” Mr. Thompson said in a rough voice that didn't match his nerdish demeanor. On the rare occasions that he got angry you could hear the faint traces of his Polish accent. “I work my fingers to the bone to give you a life better than the one I had growing up. The best clothes, the best school, all the latest electronics. Do you know how many extra hours I have to put in to keep up with the tuition at this place?”

Sarah looked frightened, more frightened than Persia had ever seen her. “No, Papa,” Sarah said, barely above a whisper.

“Of course you don't, because you've never done an honest hour's work in your entire life!” Mr. Thompson snapped. “I deny you nothing and in return you piss on my head and tell me it's raining every chance you get.”

“Papa, it didn't happen how they said. I was just—” Sarah started explaining, but was cut off when Mr. Thompson slapped her across the face.

“I've had enough of your damn lies!” Mr. Thompson raged. He looked like he was about a slap her again, but Persia stood up and got in between them.

“I think you should calm down, Mr. Thompson,” Persia said in her most respectful tone. She hadn't meant to get between the father and daughter, but her legs had already shot her to her feet, before her brain could relay the message that it was a bad idea.

“And who are you to tell me anything, when you're worse than her?” Mr. Thompson looked Persia up and down. “Persia Chandler, you're in no position to give me advice about my daughter with the way you spit on every effort your parents have put forth to give you a good life.”

“That's not true,” Persia argued.

“Isn't it? Persia, I know all you kids think I'm just the nerdy guy from the pharmacy, who is too caught up in the table of elements to pay attention to what's going on in everyday life, but I know a bit more about the way of the world than you give me credit for. I know your mother and both your fathers, so I know the sacrifices that were made to keep you flying straight. Your father gave his freedom for you to be able to have more than a fighter's chance in the world and you piss your blessings away just like this idiot.” He pointed at Sarah. “The problem with you the kids of your generation, we give you too much, and never make you earn your keep so you wouldn't know a blessing if it slapped you in the face.”

“I know I'm blessed,” Persia said, thinking of all that she had gone through and lived to tell about it.

“Then why don't you start acting like it and stop giving your mother and your stepfather your ass to kiss, when they're just trying to make sure you stay straight? If you want to be a statistic, like your little friend Marty, be my guest, but don't bring my kid down with you.”

Mr. Thompson's remark cut Persia deep. It had never been a secret that he didn't care for Marty, but to speak ill of the dead was uncalled for. “See, I was trying to keep from disrespecting you, Mr. Thompson, but your ass is out of line. It's easy to point the finger at Sarah, and even me, and talk about how much we're fucking up, but what about the part you play in it as an absentee parent?”

“That's ludicrous! I've been in Sarah's life since the day she was born,” Mr. Thompson said proudly.

“Paying the bills and throwing money at her to keep her out of your hair doesn't qualify as ‘being there.' Half the time you don't even know where Sarah is because you're either too busy working or entertaining your private clients,” Persia spat. A look of shock came across Mr. Thompson's face. “Don't look so surprised, Herman. Just like you know my dirt, I know yours. Don't sling mud if you aren't prepared to have it slung back at you.”

Mr. Thompson was so embarrassed that his face turned beet red. “If you were my kid, I'd knock you in the mouth for what you just said.”

“Well I ain't your kid and if you even think about raising your hand to me, what's going on with your kid in school will be the least of your concerns,” Persia said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Mr. Thompson stood there, glaring at Persia as if he was trying to decide whether he wanted to test her. He was angry, but he was no fool either. For as much as he wanted to slap the taste out of the teenage girl's mouth, he knew there would be repercussions. Mr. Thompson had enough to deal with already and didn't need the kind of problems that would come with getting into it with Persia.

“Mr. Thompson!” Father Michael called from the doorway of his office. He was leaning against the doorframe, thick arms folded across his barrel-like chest. He had seen and heard enough.

Mr. Thompson gave Persia one last look before addressing his kid. “Let's go, Sarah.”

Sarah snapped to attention like she had just been struck by lightning. The whole time her father and Persia exchanged words, Sarah stood in the corner, too afraid to move or speak. She knew her father had a bad temper and didn't want her friend getting hurt trying to defend her. Sheepishly she followed her father to the door. Before she left she looked over her shoulder at Persia and mouthed that she would call her later.

Persia took slow deep breaths, trying to calm herself down. She had known Mr. Thompson since she was little, and he had always been kind to her so she felt bad for disrespecting him, but she felt like he forced her hand. When the time was right, she would reach out to apologize, but it wouldn't be any time in the near future.

“See, that's the problem with you cats. You spend all your time living for the now and don't give much thought to the future. I'm all for enjoying life, but I wanna enjoy it for more than a day. I wanna enjoy it for all my days,” Tut was saying to the young men gathered around him. There were about four or five of the young cats and all their eyes were locked on him, hanging on every word that he said. Tut was young, but he had the charisma about him of an old head, which is what put him on Ramses's radar.

Tut was a kid from the rough side of the Bronx, trying to make the best out of a bad situation like everyone else. Unlike the other kids he hung around with on street corners, Tut was from a two-parent household where both mother and father worked and neither of them did drugs. They weren't rich, but they weren't poor either, so Tut getting caught up in the streets was by choice and not circumstances. He watched his parents bust their asses day in and day out at their jobs, just to have to struggle to pay bills and not enjoy their lives and he was determined that wasn't how he was going to go out. Tut could never see himself working for forty years just to put his boss's kid through college. Tut wanted the immediate gratification that came with fast cash, so he set out to make his way.

He started out hustling packs for an older dude in his neighborhood. He was able to make a few coins, nothing major but enough to fill the gaps in his pockets. Tut was trying to stack what he made working for the older dude to one day buy his own work. For as appreciative as he was for the opportunity to feed himself, Tut had never been very good at following the direction of others. He wanted to be the master of his own destiny. His plan was cut short when somebody came through one night and blew his employer's brains out. Tut now found himself back at square one. He needed to find a new plug.

As it happened, Tut went to school with a dude named Omega, who was said to be getting big money uptown. Every time he saw Omega he was dressed in whatever the latest fashions were and kept a bad chick on his arm. Tut knew Omega from having classes with him, and sharing some of the same friends, but he didn't know him well enough to step to him about getting money. One day an opportunity presented itself that would change that.

Some dudes had run down on Omega in the bathroom and tried to rob him for his chain. Tut just happened to walk in on the robbery. He didn't have anything to do with it so he could've easily walked away and left Omega to his fate, but he saw it as his way in. That day in the bathroom, Omega and Tut had stood back to back and fought off the kids. From then on, he and Omega had started hanging out around school, and their relationship eventually spilled over into the streets. Omega started bringing Tut around and introduced him to Benny and Chucky. Tut never really rocked with Chucky, but he had major love for Benny. It had been Benny who gave Tut his first job with their organization, and he always looked out for him when he could.

Tut was a quick learner and a loyal soldier, which helped push him up the ladder of the organization. Between Tut and Omega the future of the organization was looking bright, but Tut's path took a detour when he got locked up. He and Benny had been together when something popped off, which led to Benny pulling a gun on a kid. Nobody got hurt, but someone called the police. When Tut and Benny were heading back to the block their car was pulled over and the police found the gun. Benny was already on parole for a gun, so Tut claimed ownership and took the charge. The whole time Tut was going through is legal troubles the police kept pressing him for information about Pharaoh's organization. They had a hard on for Pharaoh that would make a porn star jealous. They had even offered to let him walk, free of all charges, if he gave them even the smallest bit of information that led to a conviction. Tut never uttered a word. For his silence Tut ended up getting three years' state time for possession of a weapon. It was this display of loyalty to the crew that put him on Ramses's radar. It broke his heart when he was in prison and got the letter, letting him know Benny had been killed, because they had been close, but his sadness wouldn't last long. When Tut came home from prison he was presented with an apartment, $20,000 in cash and a promotion within the organization. He would be elevated from soldier to lieutenant. It was just as Ramses had promised at the beginning of his bid: they took care of their own.

“You still preaching to the choir?” Omega joked as he walked up. His long dreads hung loose around his shoulders making him look like a lion. “What up, O?” Tut gave him dap. “What brings you up to this end of the world? You know you don't fuck with the Bronx like that.”

“I do when its cash involved. You wanna make some extra paper?” Omega asked.

“That's a dumbass question. I'm always looking to come up. What's the lick?” Tut asked greedily. He made decent money on the strips Ramses had given him to look over, but his was one of the smaller and less lucrative locations. To make sure he had Pharaoh's tribute every month, he sometimes had to take on extracurricular work, such as whatever Omega was offering.

“Take a walk with me, right quick.” Omega led Tut away from the youngsters so they could speak in private. “Dig, you know me and Li'l Monk got everything sewed up from like 133rd to 145th, right? Ramses doesn't want us dipping any farther south because most of that belongs to them niggas from Harlem Crip. There's more of us than them, but it'd be less messy just to let them have it instead of going to war. There's no doubt we'd win, but fucking with Gutter and Danny Boy, we'd likely lose a lot of soldiers in the process.”

“So what does that have to do with me?” Tut asked impatiently. He wanted to get to the part of the story where he got paid.

“If you'll give me a minute, I'll get to that,” Omega told him. “Like I was saying, we can't really dip any farther south, but he didn't say we couldn't push north. I wanna lock down everything from across the 145th Street Bridge to the Grand Concourse, and redirect all that money to us, and I'm even willing to make sure you eat off this, too.”

“What's the catch?” Tut asked suspiciously.

“These wetback niggas who're set up over there are in my way. It's only a handful of them and they ain't hardly moving enough product to present a problem if we wanted to muscle them, but Ramses won't give me the green light.”

“Why not?”

“Well, apparently the kid, Petey, who runs things that way has some kind of history with Pharaoh. I guess his dad and the big boss were cool back in the days. Ramses agrees with my theory about the increase of income if we locked down the border, but doesn't want them squeezed out by none of his people because it would look like disrespect to his later father's memory on Pharaoh's part. You know them old niggas are real big on honor.”

“But if something happens randomly to Petey by a third party, it would leave Pharaoh completely blameless and open the block up for you to take fair and square after you topple their leadership.” Tut picked up on Omega's thinking.

“Exactly,” Omega agreed. “Man, I've tried everything with these dudes from offering profit shares to flat out buying the territory, but they're making this shit way harder than it has to be. I can understand where Ramses and Pharaoh are coming from, but them Spanish niggas are in the way of progress right now.”

“I can dig it, but let me ask you something. Why come to me instead of sending your personal attack dog, Li'l Monk?” Tut asked. He had never cared for Li'l Monk, not because of anything he had ever done, but because of where he was in life and where Tut wanted to be. Before he went to prison, he knew Li'l Monk as the dirty little kid who was always fighting. To come home and see Li'l Monk in a position that Tut felt was reserved for him was like a slap in the face. He tolerated Li'l Monk for the sake of keeping the piece in the organization, but he also deeply resented him and every so often the resentment peeked out.

“Knock that shit off, man. Li'l Monk is my partner, not my attack dog. My nigga is a beast out here on the streets when shit needs to get handled, but make no mistake about it, that's my brother. Ya dig?”

“Yeah, I dig,” Tut said in a less than convincing tone. “So what's my part in this and my take of the spoils?”

“You help me move dude out and you and your people can run the spots we take. You can add those corners to whatever Ramses has blessed you with so far. In essence, your territory gets bigger and both our borders are guarded. You kick up to me, and I kick up to Ramses and Pharaoh for both of us. It's a simple plan.”

“It's always a simple plan to the nigga who ain't putting his ass on the line,” Tut capped. “Now, you've already said that Pharaoh and Ramses really don't want these dudes muscled, so what happens when they find out what I did?”

“That's the best part, they ain't gonna know. Petey and his crew been beefing with the Dominicans and the Jamaicans so anyone of them could be just as guilty in punching his clock. Outside of you I haven't spoken to anyone else about this plan, so the only way it'll get back to them is if you or your people are talking, because I sure as hell ain't gonna tell them. I could be just as much in the dog house as you for going against Ramses.”

Tut weighed his options. It was a risky plan that could potentially put him out of favor with Ramses and Pharaoh, but on the flip side it could increase his profits and his reach. A wise man once told Tut, “Scared money don't make no money,” so he had to put his balls on the table every so often to get where he needed to be. “A'ight. I'll take care of this for you, but on one condition.”

“Name it,” Omega told him.

“I want a piece of Seventh Avenue.”

Omega looked surprised. “Nah, I get too much money on Seventh. You bugging.”

“Nah, I think you the one that's bugging, Omega. You just came through my hood and asked me to commit treason. I could be killed just for having this conversation with you, or I could be rewarded for exposing your bullshit.”

Omega's face twisted into a hard mask. “Damn, I come through here offering you an opportunity to get some bread and you talking about snaking me?”

“Never that, O. We got history. It ain't about snaking you. It's about being the best negotiator in a business deal,” Tut said slyly. “Don't take it like that, Omega. I ain't asking for all of Seventh Avenue, I just want one square block, from 142nd to 143rd. The rest of it is yours.”

“Why those blocks?” Omega asked curiously.

“Let's just say they have sentimental value to me,” Tut told him. Benny had kept an apartment on Seventh Avenue between 142nd and 143rd. He and Tut had some memorable times on that block, living wild and free. It was where Tut had made his very first crack sale in Harlem. He wanted that block to honor Benny's memory.

“Fuck it, you can have it,” Omega relented. “But if I give you that block, you gotta split the take with me because technically you'd be cutting into my money.”

“You got it, boss,” Tut said sarcastically.

“How soon do you think you can have it done?” Omega asked.

Tut looked at his watch. “No time like the present. You got a picture of this dude?”

Omega opened his flip phone, and pulled up Petey's MySpace page. Tut stared at he picture for a while, committing Petey's face to memory.

“A'ight, I got it. Before the sun sets this problem will be a thing of the past,” Tut told him.

“I appreciate you doing this, Tut,” Omega told him.

“Don't tell me, show me. Make sure my pockets are heavy enough to where I'm more focused on them than this dummy mission I'm signing up for,” Tut told him.

“You got that,” Omega agreed, “but for what you're asking, I don't just need him gone. I need a message sent.”

Tut laughed. “My messages are better than Hallmark cards. Ask ya man Ramses. Don't worry about it, O. I'm gonna make sure your voice is received loud and clear.”

 

 

Petey came out of his building and stretched like he had just awakened from a long slumber. It was the middle of the day, but to a man who didn't get out of bed until 5:00 p.m. every day, it was early. As usual, he was dressed in a sweat suit, flip-flops and tall white socks with his father's signature straw hat. He was on his way to the local Spanish restaurant where his father had held his meetings every day. Being that their numbers had been decimated over the years since his father's death, it was more out of carrying on tradition than necessity. He strolled down the block waving to the residents of the neighborhood who acknowledged him. Having the love and respect of the people of his neighborhood made Petey's heart swell with pride. His domain only stretched four or five blocks squared, but it was still his. In Petey's little square of the Bronx, he was treated like a mafia don.

Petey had inherited his neighborhood from his father, Peter Suarez Sr. Peter Sr. had been the brother of the notorious Puerto Rican drug lord Poppito, who operated out of Old San Juan, Puerto Rico. Peter Sr. was small time in comparison to his brother, but inherited the notoriety that came with being a part of that family, which garnered him the respect of the larger crews in the area. When he died, the mantel was passed to his son, Petey, but by that time there wasn't much left of Peter Sr.'s kingdom except few scarce blocks, where he was able to run through a few ounces per day via hand-to-hand sales. It wasn't much to hold on to, but it was all he had so Petey kept things going as best he could.

Along his way to the restaurant he was joined by his constituents, who consisted of some neighborhood knuckleheads and a few older dudes who were still loyal to his father. There were only a handful of them but they held on to what was theirs ferociously. Everyone still in Petey's employ knew that what they had left was only being held on to by a strand.