The Fix 2 (5 page)

When Petey stepped inside the restaurant he expected to be greeted by Maria, the owner's wife and his mistress, but she was nowhere to be found. That was unusual because Maria was always around. He looked to the counter and found the happy young girl who always took his orders was at her position, but that day she wasn't smiling. There was a terrified expression on her face. It suddenly registered to Petey that something was terribly wrong.

Several shots rang out, dropping Petey's entourage around him and leaving him standing there, alone and scared shitless. His nervous eyes drifted toward the direction the shots had come from. Occupying the booth where he usually took his meetings sat a young black man. Next to him was Maria. The black man had his arm draped around her, with a smoking gun in his hand. Sitting on the table in front of him was a large canister of olive oil.

“What the fuck is this?” Petey asked nervously.

“A going-out-of-business sale,” Tut told him. “Come sit down and let's rap for a taste.” He waved Petey over, but Petey didn't budge. “Petey, whatever you're thinking you might as well unthink. I dropped your boys without getting up from this seat, so you'd be a dead man before you could ever make your move. Now sit your ass down so we can talk.”

Slowly Petey approached the booth and took the seat opposite Tut and Maria. “Who are you?”

“The repo man, come to collect,” Tut told him. “Let my visit serve as your official notice that shop is closed for you boys.”

Petey's face twisted into a mask of anger. “You black bastard, you've got some pretty big balls coming into my fucking territory giving me orders.”

Without warning, Tut shot Petey in the arm. “Watch your fucking mouth in the presence of a lady.” Tut removed his arm from around Maria and set the gun on the table between him and Petey. He cocked the hammer and looked Petey dead in the eyes. “Let's skip all the fake tough guy shit and get straight to the facts. You are done, over,
finito
.”

Petey clutched his bloody arm and winced in pain. “You won't get away with this. My father has run this neighborhood for twenty years. You think we don't have allies who'll retaliate for this shit? My uncle is Poppito Suarez.”

The name rang familiar to Tut, but he was too busy showing off to think about where he had heard it before. “Dig this, no disrespect, but I don't give a fuck who your father was or who your uncle is. Anyone of your thousand and one Spic-ass relatives are more than welcome to come back acting like they want a problem and they'll all find themselves in a bad way. It's already done, Petey, and me paying you a visit is just a formality. There's progress being made on the streets and you, my friend, are in the way,” Tut snatched the gun up and shot Petey twice in the chest.

The women screamed in horror as Petey's life drained away into the booth's bench. He gasped to catch his breath, but couldn't because his lung was punctured. He watched helplessly as Tut got up from the table and picked up the canister of olive oil and began pouring it over his head. Tut pulled a lighter from his pocket and sparked it, holding it in front of Petey's face so that he could get a good look at the flame. When he decided he was done toying with Petey, he dropped the lighter into his lap and stepped back as Petey burst into flames.

“Now that's how you send a fucking message.” Tut laughed while watching Petey burn.

“Ms. Chandler,” Father Michael called, reminding Persia that he was still standing there, waiting. His dark eyes stared at her from beneath his busy eyebrows, urging her to hurry up.

Persia had been in Father Michael's office more than a few times, but it always made her uncomfortable. It was an ode to everything ancient, with its overflowing racks of dusty history books, and shelves littered with knickknacks Father Michael had collected during his travels over the years. His newest addition to his office was what looked like an old airplane propeller, mounted to the wall behind his desk. Persia was staring at the propeller, trying to guess what kind of plane it had come off and how Father Michael had come into possession of it, when the door slammed behind her, causing her to jump.

“Sit down, Ms. Chandler.” Father Michael motioned toward the chair Mr. Thompson had just vacated. Persia did as she was told. Father Michael walked around to the other side of the desk, smoothing his black shirt before he sat down. He took his time, rummaging through his drawer for his hairbrush, and proceeded to tighten up the loose strands of hair on his salt-and-pepper head. Father Michael wore his hair slicked back like the mobsters Persia had seen in the old movies her mother was always watching. In fact, that's what he reminded Persia of: a mobster. The way he talked, the way he walked, it was all street. The only thing that let on to the fact that he was a man of the cloth was the black shirt and collar he wore. After he'd completed his grooming, he addressed Persia. “Why are you here, Ms. Chandler?”

Persia shrugged. “Because Sister Francine sent me.”

“I know that, Ms. Chandler, but that's not my question. Why are you”—he jabbed his finger at her—“here? Persia, I have to admit, when you came back to us nobody thought you had it in you to climb back into the fight and get on track with your class work, including myself. Much to everyone's surprise, you seem to be readjusting very well. Even when you found out you were short several credits, and wouldn't be able to march with your class in June, you took it in stride, and kept your nose to the ground to get your diploma in January. You were on course to serving all your detractors a nice helping of crow, and then you went left. Your grades are on point, but you focus has slipped. Has something happened between now and when you came back that's distracting you?”

The question sent Persia's mind back to a dark time in her life and the root of her problem.

The period immediately after Persia completed the rehabilitation program was very dark for Persia. The doctors had suggested that she check into an inpatient program, but Persia didn't want to. She wanted to try to kick on her own. They compromised and Richard paid for her to receive outpatient treatment at a private facility. The physical pains of withdrawal were worse than anything she had even been through, even falling out of a window. In the first few days she was racked with cramps and fits of vomiting. It was like she had a flu that wouldn't go away. There were times when Persia felt like she was going to die, and few times she wanted to, but death was not in God's plan for her; suffering was. It got so bad at one point that she couldn't even control her bowels, and would pee and shit the bed. It was utterly embarrassing for her to have her mother clean her up like she was a baby, but there was no way she could do it on her own. It was during her rehab that she saw how strong her mother really was, because Persia doubted if she'd have been able to care for an adult as her mother had cared for her. She loved her mother for that.

Though her family welcomed her back with open arms, she still felt ashamed of what she had put them through. They had been respected members of their community and she's dirtied their name with her antics. They tried to keep it as secret as possible, but thanks to the young man from their neighborhood, who had spotted Persia at a drug house when she was still getting high, word had gotten out. No one ever directly said anything, but she heard the whispers and she felt the looks they gave her whenever she was around. Even stores that she had been going in and out of since she was a kid were now treating her different. They would sometimes follow Persia around as if they expected her to steal something. She felt subhuman, like a crackhead.

As if the mental scars weren't enough, there were her constant cravings. The doctors had warned her that even though her system was clean of the drugs, she would always have the desire to get high, and they were right. It was like a pregnant woman who wanted chocolate ice cream in the middle of the night and no matter what flavor you fed her, it failed in comparison to chocolate. There were times when Persia found herself sneaking into the city, with the intentions on buying drugs, but she couldn't do it. She refused to put herself or her family through that madness again. In order to keep her mind off drugs, Persia needed to find something else to focus on, so she threw herself headfirst into her schoolwork. After a while she was able to restore some semblance of normalcy to her life and then she got the phone call that threatened to undo all her progress.

Their meeting spot wasn't far from where the train let her off, so Persia walked the few short blocks. It was a sit
-
in delicatessen off of Thirty-third Street. When Persia arrived, she saw that Chucky was already there, sitting at a table in front of the window. He'd likely picked that seat so that he could see whoever was coming and going. Chucky had visibly lost some weight since the last time she'd seen him, but for the most part he still looked the same: well dressed, clean cut, and chatting away on his cell phone. He had yet to even notice her, but she could already feel herself getting caught back up in his thrall.

“No, everything is fine. I just need to focus a little harder,” Persia told Father Michael.

“Good, because contrary to what you think, I want to see you succeed, Persia. I have a vested interest in you, so to speak,” Father Michael told her.

Persia raised an eyebrow. “And what's that supposed to mean?”

Father Michael spared a glance at the door as if he suspected someone might be on the other side listening. “Persia, St. Mary's is one of the most prestigious schools in the state. To get in, you have to have one of three things, the money, the grades, or the connections. Some kids come from money families, and then you have the ones who test high enough for our scholarship programs. You, my dear, had all three. It wasn't by accident that you landed in St. Mary's. It was a part of your father's plan.”

“What does my father have to do with this?” Persia asked, surprised. By the time she was old enough to attend St. Mary's her father was already in prison, so she wondered how he could've had a hand in it.

“Me and Face go way back, back to the days before I wore this collar.” He tugged at the white band around his neck. “I used to be a volunteer coach for a summer basketball league in Harlem, back in the eighties. Your dad played on my squad for a couple of years.”

This came as a shock to Persia as she had never known her father to have an athletic bone in his body. She found it hard to imagine her father, who she had always remembered being so serious, running up and down the court dribbling a ball. To her knowledge the only balls Face had ever passed were eight balls.

“Don't look so surprised. Your dad was actually a half-decent player, and maybe could've made something of it if he hadn't been so distracted by the streets. Even after your dad gave up basketball, and I took my vows, we kept in contact. Over the years, he would often come to me for advice about this and that. One subject we talked quite a bit about was you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Persia. From the time your father found out your mom was pregnant he immediately started laying the ground work for your future. Knowing he was about to become a father was his awakening of sorts. He came to me seeking advice on legitimate avenues to take with his money. Face was terrified that feeding you with blood money would taint your life, as his father had tainted his,” Father Michael informed her.

Persia couldn't hide her surprise at how candidly the priest was speaking about her father's other life. Up until then Persia had thought it was a secret from the people who knew them in Long Island City. She'd been proven wrong twice in under an hour and couldn't help but to wonder who else knew their dark family secrets.

“I gave him a few leads, which thankfully turned out to be fruitful,” Father Michael continued. “Gradually, he began to set the wheels in motion to make sure his family was out of harm's way. Around this time I was up for the assistant principal's position here at St. Mary's. That's actually what put the idea in your father's head to buy the house out here. It was far enough from the hood to keep you out of harm's way, but close enough for him to still stay on top of his other affairs. Face wanted to change so that he could be there for his family, and I wanted to do everything I could to help him make that change, including making sure Face's daughter had a topnotch education.”

“So, you're saying that I got into St. Mary's because of who my father is?” Persia asked defensively.

“No, you got into St. Mary's because you're an outstanding student, but you were readmitted because of who your father is,” Father Michael corrected her. “Persia, I know you've been having a rough time of it, and I sympathize with you, but I also know you're strong enough to overcome it. It's in your genes. Not only that, but you've got a great support system behind you. For whatever gripes you have with your mother's husband, he's a good man.”

“I know,” Persia said, reflecting on how Richard had been there for her through her whole recovery. “So, if I'm not in any trouble, can I go back to class now?”

Father Michael just stared at her, studying her face and thinking how much she looked like her father. She had that same determined look in her eyes that he did, and he knew so long as she kept it, Persia would be okay. “Yes, Ms. Chandler, you can go.” He went back to his formal tone. “I trust we won't have any more incidents that could possibly jeopardize you receiving your diploma in January, correct?”

“No, sir. No more incidents,” Persia assured him.

The intercom on Father Michael's desk beeped. The small black box was another one of his odes to everything ancient. “Yes, Sister?” he asked, depressing the talk button.

“Mr. Lansky is here,” the mechanical voice announced.