Zero Degrees Part 1 (17 page)

My mother’s mother was Korean and her father was Black. They’d met in New York when grandfather was a world-renowned photojournalist. Yasho Min was a beautiful Korean American Broadcasting student at NYU. They fell in love and had two sons and one daughter. My mother was the youngest.

Yasho Min and Darryl Robertson both landed their dream jobs at CNN. They traveled around the world with their three kids and made lots of money during their careers. My mother started modeling at the age of thirteen and lived a charmed life. She was spoiled rotten and in a house full of men often got her way. She entered pageants as a preteen and with her rare exotic beauty brought home most of the titles. This led to her modeling career. She mostly did print ads because she wasn’t that tall. She stood an elegant and shapely 5’7. She knew that she was beautiful and raised us to have pride in our appearance. With her beauty, confidence and poise came the snobby attitude of a woman raised with riches. I knew that she loved me, but we had a major difference of opinion.

Although we had money I was not as stuck up as she wanted me to be. True, I was arrogant and conceited at times, but I never turned my nose up at what she referred to as “common people”. Common people, according to my mother, were those individuals who didn’t earn over a million dollars annually. I found those people very intriguing.

“Seantay, darling,” my mother said in her usually over exaggerated way. “Come and give your mother and father a hug. We haven’t seen you in weeks.”

We hugged and she kissed my cheeks lightly. Next I hugged my father.

“Sweetheart, Jacques took the bags upstairs. We have some things for you and your sisters,” he said once we’d separated.

I nodded and figured I’d go peek through the bags later.

Mother sat down and kicked her royal blue Prada pumps off. “My feet are killing me. Sean, sweetheart can you please massage your wife’s feet?”

Dad sat down like the hen pecked sap that he was and rubbed her feet.

My parents were “the perfect couple”, or so everyone thought. They appeared to be perfect because they looked so perfect together. Mom was gorgeous, and dad was extremely handsome. My father was 5’11, with gray Smokey Robinson eyes, creamy, smooth skin, wavy salt and pepper hair, nice lips and a wide masculine smile. Mother had a perfect deep brown complexion, firm skin, dimples, dark, exotic eyes, long, thick lashes, perfectly arched eyebrows, and full seductive lips. They’d played the part of “the perfect couple” for years; however their relationship was far from perfect. As I watched them, I realized that although they weren’t perfect they seemed to be made for one another. It was obvious that my father would never leave my mother and vice versa.

I slowly worked my way up the stairs to my parents’ bedroom. Of course their room was extravagant. It was decorated in beige, dark brown and gold. My mother loved silk, so the sheets, comforter and curtains were all Egyptian Silk. The plush, beige mink carpet was soft and pleasant to my feet. I looked around and spotted the shopping bags in the corner of the studio apartment sized bedroom. My mother had very elegant taste and I was hoping for jewelry. I’d hinted around that I wanted a rare, very expensive black diamond tennis bracelet. I’d seen it online a few months ago. When I found out that my parents were going to Dubai I begged them to get it for me.

My parents would go on vacation and bring us gifts all the time. It was one of the few things mother did to show her love for us. Well, with the exception of Seandra. All of the affection that was left was all thrown on our father, her other prized possession. Dad told me the story of how they’d met a thousand times. Unlike my mom, daddy was a self made man. His parents were both born in New Orleans. They’d owned a local restaurant for fifteen years. When daddy was seventeen years old his father went bankrupt and was forced to sell his business. They were eventually facing foreclosure on their home and had to move to the worst part of the city.

Father didn’t succumb to the streets, or constant teasing of other kids like his siblings. He graduated from high school at the top of his class, received his Bachelor of Architecture from UCLA and his Masters in Business from Harvard. He was very driven and when he had his mind on something he was determined. He was also determined to not repeat the same mistakes in business that his father had made.

One day my father was flipping through a magazine on a flight to Los Angeles when he saw a gorgeous, exotic looking woman in a perfume advertisement. He was in love with this woman at first sight. He’d just been hired as one of the promising new executives at a very prominent Architectural Firm in Miami, Fla. His starting salary was seventy five thousand a year. It wasn’t much, but he was well on his way.

Two years later daddy was promoted to Vice President of the company. His salary was now one hundred fifty thousand a year. His reputation as a lucrative businessman was growing and after a few years he was ready to invest in his own business. One thing he realized was that he would need to do some major networking. He’d met some very prestigious people during his time at the architectural firm. One of his clients happened to be a famous photojournalist for CNN. He’d been doing business with the firm for a while and was a satisfied client. Mr. Robertson encouraged him to do his own thing independently and even decided to invest in the young man’s company. He would later invest in daddy’s real estate ventures and his hotel chain. Father had paid him back ten times over since then.

On the day of the grand opening of father’s first architectural firm Mr. Robertson’s daughter flew in from Milan to visit her parents. She hardly spent time in the states, but her father insisted that she meet the ambitious young man that he’d grown very fond of. To make a long story short, my mother was the beautiful model in the perfume advertisement. She was even more beautiful to him in person. Over time they got to know one another. Daddy told me that mom was very seductive and sexy back then. He said that after one night with her he was whipped. It was too much information, but I thought it was so cute. I guess all the Beauvois women had that power. Well, at least I did. About a year after they were married Renell was born.

I looked through the bags and took out every last box with my name on it. So far none of them were small enough to hold a bracelet. I was so disappointed, until I spotted my name on a box in the last bag. I tore the box open and pulled the beautiful bracelet out. Aww, she had remembered. I was surprised that she’d been able to get the bracelet in the first place. There were only three more in the world like it. I ran down the stairs to thank my mother.

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The Cocaine Princess

By Rio

Prologue

Brownsville, TX October 2010

“There were seven hundred kilos in the back of our eighteen-wheeler when my sister had it delivered to your men in San Antonio. I’m not understanding how two hundred of them suddenly disappeared”, said Juan “Papi” Costilla.

He lit a Cuban cigar and scowled at his captive, who he knew only as Salvador. The bloody-faced man was tied to a ladder-back chair in the garage of Papi’s five-hundred-thousand-dollar Spanish-style villa. Flanking Papi were his two younger siblings, Flako and Jenny, and Jenny’s two sons, Santiago and Savio, were sitting on the trunk of their mother’s sleek blue Rolls-Royce Phantom. The car was only a shade darker than the custom tailored Hartmarx suits that all of them were wearing.

“When that semi-trailor made it to us”, Salvador said through a mouthful of blood, “those kilos were already missing. You know I wouldn’t steal from you, Papi. Do you honestly believe I’d steal from the fucking Costilla cartel? I’d try ripping off the Sinaloas AND the Zetas before I’d steal from the Costillas. I’ve sold thousands of kilos for your family! If it wasn’t for me, Santiago would have never rubbed shoulders with that Big Meech guy in Atlanta. He’d have never met Reesie Cup in Chicago, or those gangster rappers in—”

Salvador’s aching pleas ceased abruptly, and he gasped as Jenny pulled a gold-plated revolver from inside her suit jacket and aimed it at his blood-soaked Gucci shirt. The mask of horror he wore was illuminated by the headlights of Papi’s eighteen-year-old daughter’s ocean blue Mercedes; she was leaning forward in the driver’s seat, her chin resting atop the steering wheel, her dreamy green eyes stretched wide with shock, her dog-eared Nika Michelle novel open and left unattended on the dashboard.

In Spanish, Jenny said, “You fucking roach! Nobody steals from the Costilla cartel!”

She squeezed the trigger, and a ribbon of fire blew from the barrel of her .44 Magnum. The bullet tore through Salvador’s chest, knocking the chair over backwards.

Papi looked back at his daughter. “Go inside and make sure Rita’s still asleep. Don’t let her come out here. Tell her I accidentally fired my gun.”

Alexus pushed open her door and stepped out of the Benz, looking like Onika Maraj from the waist up and Tahiry Jose from the waist down. She had on a fuchsia-colored Valentino dress that accentuated her enormous derrière, and her diamond-encrusted five-inch heels had been custom designed by Christian Louboutin.

“I’ll keep Momma inside”, she said, grabbing the Nika Michelle novel off the dash and a Straight Stuntin magazine that had been lying on the passenger seat.

“Let her stay and watch,” said Jenny. “Show her how we deal with thieves in Mexico. It’s about time she learned the ins and outs of this business.”

Papi briefly considered honoring his sister’s suggestion, but when he glanced at Alexus, she was already leaving the garage.

He looked at his Audemars Piguet watch: 11:58 pm. She’ll learn”, he said, picking up his 24-karat gold-plated machete from the hood of his ex-wife Rita’s Porsche SUV.

He walked over to where Salvador lay, moving rather swiftly for a man in his early sixties. Salvador was gargling up blood, and his eyes were like saucers—wide, round, and glossy.

“Why couldn’t you remain loyal?” Papi asked, raising the machete. “You would have lasted, Salv. Loyalty is everything.”

He swung the machete in a downward arc, and it’s razor-sharp blade sliced through Salvador’s neck, instantly separating his head from his shoulders.

***

“We’re moving to Indiana”, Rita said as soon as Alexus pushed open her parents’ bedroom door.

Dark and lovely-faced, Rita was the epitome of “strong black woman”. She was sitting up in bed reading the Bible. The dim light from her bedside lamp revealed her troubled expression.

“I take it you heard the gunshot”, said Alexus.

“How could I not have heard it? Sounded like a cannon going off.”

“Papi accidentally—”

“I don’t care, Alexus. I really don’t care. I’m getting us out of here. We’re leaving Texas for good. Your uncle Dennis and his kids are doing good in Indiana. I’m getting us a house up there. “

“I’m not moving to Indiana, Momma. I’d rather move to Mexico with Granny Costilla. Hell, I’ll get my own place. Or I’ll stay here with Papi.”

“Watch your mouth”, Rita said. She set her Bible aside and turned to Alexus. “Your father’s family is full of criminals. People are getting killed left and right down there in Matamoros, Mexico, and I’m about ninety-nine percent sure that those mentally unstable Costillas are responsible for most of those murders. God don’t like ugly, and neither do I. That’s why Papi and I are divorced now…”

Alexus looked down at her impeccably manicured fingernails, tuning her mother out. Papi was to Mexico what Pablo Escobar had been to Colombia, and Alexus wanted to be just like him.

CHAPTER 1

“Excuse me.” Rita Mae Bishop stopped the U-Haul truck beside a boisterous foursome of young Black man who was standing next to a gray Chevy Caprice. “Would you gentlemen be so kind as to help me and my daughter gets some of this heavy stuff inside? I’ll give you all a few dollars for the help.” Her sweet, southern voice was gentle and benevolent, the voice of an older, loving mother.

“Where to?” asked a hideous-faced boy, the Ugly Duckling of the group. He stepped closer to Rita’s door and peered past her, studying her beautiful daughter with the reddish-brown complexion.

Rita Mae Bishop’s new home was three houses down from where the four boys were standing. It was a yellow, three bedroom house that sits next to a vacant lot on the corner of Eighth Street and Willard Avenue.

But the four guys wouldn’t have cared if Rita had lived fifteen states away. After getting a look at her eighteen-year-old daughter, they would have lugged every item in back of the U-Haul from Indiana to California.

Rita’s daughter was Alexus Costilla, a thick and proportionate, young woman who was mixed with Mexican and African-American, and was often compared to the rap artist Nicki Minaj. Her supersized derriere and meaty thighs had made her the most sought after girl in Brownsville, Texas. But her strict Mexican Father hadn’t allowed her to date.

“Wait until you’re twenty-one,” he once said from his seat at the dining room table, where he had always repackaged the drugs that he had smuggled in, before hitting the streets to sell them.

But Alexus didn’t want to wait. So, whenever the opportunity had presented itself, she’d crept around, meeting and seducing and sexing boys
and
girls at her school, then dropping them abruptly and moving on to the next. It had been fun, exploring her sexuality, learning what she’d liked and disliked.

Now things were different, she told herself.

Because Papi was away in prison.

Clad in a cherry-colored Fendi jacket—one of the few things the Feds had not seized, over a snug-fitting pair of Apple Bottom jeans and red-and-black Jordan sneakers, with enough layers of MAC lip gloss on her succulent lips to thoroughly coat ten sets of kissers, Alexus Costilla stood quietly as the sidewalk in front of the new house, keeping a close watch on the boys as they carried the last of her and Rita’s boxes up the concrete stairs and through the front door.