Gods & Gangsters 2 Page 2

  “Mona, don't bullshit me,” he said, indulgently.

  Mona giggled.

  “Okay. I-umm- kinda… messed up.”

  “How much?” Joe cut to the chase.

  “How do you know it’s money?”

  “Because that’s the only thing you mess up. Constantly.”

  Mona could only laugh, because she knew it was true.

  At 22, she was a good daughter. Far from perfect, but definitely on the right side of the scales. She'd finished school without giving her parents grief over boys, pregnancies or drug issues. And she was most definitely Daddy’s Little Girl.

  “Wellllll,” she stretched the word out so long it nearly snapped. “Remember that money you gave me to pay my car note?”

  “I do.”

  “I sort of spent it,” she cringed, then quickly added, “but it was on this hot pair of Louboutin’s that I knew would be gone if I didn’t snatch them up on the spot!”

  “You are your mother’s daughter.”

  “And for an extra five hundred, I won’t tell her you said that,” she snickered.

  “And your father’s daughter as well,” he chuckled.

  Mona had him wrapped around her pinkie and she knew it.

  She was Joe’s only indulgence. Well, one of two, but his beautiful wife paled beside his babygirl.

  “You keep this up, you’re gonna have to get a job,” Joe said.

  “Well, you know I can always work for you. It would be cheaper.”

  “Goodbye, Mona.”

  “Love yooooooooou! Mwah!”

  Mona hung up and turned to her brother, Adonis.

  He was looking at her funny.

  “What?”

  “You actually told him the truth?”

  She shrugged as she got off of her bed, her body saying, why wouldn't she? She walked over to her vanity mirror and sat down to apply her makeup. “I never lie to Daddy.”

  “Never?” Adonis pressed, not buying the bullshit she was selling.

  She looked at him through their reflections in the mirror.

  “Well, almost never.”

  They both broke into spasms of laughter.

  “Shit, we're like, whaddya call it? That black and white swirl thing?”

  “Yin and yang.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I’m the exact opposite. I never tell him the truth if I can help it,” Adonis admitted.

  Mona eyed her older brother sadly, shaking her head.

  She knew perfectly well why Adonis lied so much to Joe.

  He didn’t want their father to know he was gay. It certainly wasn’t obvious. No one would guess from just looking at him. Adonis, living up to his name, was a woman magnet, just like his father. He had Joe’s ruggedly good looks, along with an athletic build, wide shoulders and a V-shaped back. He was darker than Joe, a trait he got from their Cherokee grandfather on their mother’s side, with good “Indian” hair, like black folks call it.

  Their father had big plans for Adonis.

  He wanted him to take over the family business when he retired, but Adonis was not cut out for the gangsta life.

  Mona sighed.

  “You’ll have to tell him sometime, Don-Don,” Mona said.

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re Daddy’s little girl,” he huffed, a hint of barely concealed resentment in his tone.

  “No, you are. Daddy just doesn’t know it yet,” she joked.

  Adonis laughed. “You’re crazy, Sis.”

  “Seriously though, it isn’t about him or how he feels. It’s your life.”

  Adonis looked her in the eyes and nodded. “So you’re telling me, if you had a secret that you knew would upset daddy, you wouldn’t hesitate, you’d just tell him?”

  “Like I said, I never lie to Daddy.”

  “Well good for you, Sis. I say be careful what you ask for.”

  “What would happen if I asked for that fine ass boy toy of yours?” Mona teased.

  Adonis grabbed her around the waist and tickled her until she was howling and begging for mercy through laughing screams.

  “Okay okay okay!”

  “That’s what,” he cackled, adding, “Speaking of boy toy, I’ve got a taste for some of that good-good right now.”

  Adonis took out his phone as he walked out onto Mona’s balcony.

  He thumbed through his contacts and called Devante.

  He picked up on the first ring.

  “Let me find out you were waiting for my call?” Adonis flirted.

  “Always, baby, but I can’t talk now. My uncle is spazzing out over Dazzle’s,” Devante explained.

  “Dazzle’s? The club?”

  “Is there any other Dazzle’s worth talking about? You haven’t heard?”

  “No.”

  Devante grunted with sassy gayness. “Hmph, this shit is crazy! They said three guys rolled up in like, some type of SUV, with big guns, big like that dick of yours.”

  Adonis chuckled.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “They forced inside everybody that was in line outside. People were going crazy, but you know how hard it is for some people to get into Dazzle’s? I’m sure they were thanking these niggas at first.”

  “Sure.”

  “But then, word is these muhfuckas locked all the doors with junkyard chains and torched the place.” Adonis couldn’t believe his ears. “Nobody made it out, man. No one. Everybody burned to death, including Big L,” Devante gossiped, breathlessly.

  “Big L? Fuck me.”

  “Exactly. Oh my God, can you imagine? Burning to death. Fuck. We got angels on our shoulders, bro. I’m so glad we didn’t go to Dazzle’s tonight,” Devante sighed, then added, “Anyway, like you might guess, the whole clan is on alert.”

  “Can’t you get away? I’m missing you like crazy,” Adonis remarked, cupping his hardening crotch. He worked his palm over it, a small sigh escaping his lips. It was completely wrong, given everything they’d just talked about, but sex and death, death and sex, they were inextricably linked. Always have been. Always will be.

  “Mmmmm, I bet you’re grabbing yourself right now. You thinking about this pretty, juicy ass, ain’t you? Well, gimme a sec to go somewhere more private, you just lay back and let mama take care of you like this….”

  The Cuban bitch was named Venus. The white bitch was named Milk, and her pussy was so sweet and came so thick, that it could make a man forget he was lactose intolerant.

  Together, they could curl the average nigga around their little pinkies.

  But not Cash.

  Viagra had nothing on Cash.

  “Nigga, you shoulda been a fuckin’ porn star,” Mac joked, and he definitely wasn’t lying. Not only was Cash one mighty fine specimen, he had a ten-inch dick that was known to put a bitch into a coma when he was done pounding it out.

  As soon as they got back to the apartment, the bitches were back on it, picking up exactly where they’d left off, stroke for stroke. Their girl-on-girl action got the party started nice and smoothly. Karma had a tongue like a lizard. As soon as she slid it up in Milk’s pussy and began to tongue fuck her, Milk did just that all over her tongue.

  Cash pulled his shirt off, then unbuckled his belt, unbuttoning his jeans, and stepping out of them.

  “Goddamn, pussy that creamy got to be good!” he said as he bent Milk over on all fours. He grasped each cheek and parted it, then plowed all ten inches, balls deep into her.

  His back shot was so good, she came a second time just off penetration.

  Mac grabbed a handful of Milk’s hair and slapped her across the face with his dick, grinning as he face fucked her until she gagged up a froth of saliva and bile around his cock, and kept on going until it sounded like she was gonna puke.

  “What’s up, Daddy, don’t you want to have some fun?” Karma cooed, unbuttoning Othello’s jeans and reached inside.

  It was the slight stutter of a pause that reminded Othello why orgies just weren’t his s
cene.

  He was a big, ugly nigga, standing 6’2, and black as midnight, blacker than Biggie, and just as ugly. But he didn’t have the type of dick you could sport. It wasn’t some little needle dick. It was just over seven inches, but in the shadow of that fine ass, big dick Cash and fine ass, good dick Mac, he knew any girl going down on him was scraping the bottom of the barrel.

  “Naw, I’m good,” Othello he said, but Karma wasn’t taking no for an answer. She had his dick out and was sucking his balls so good he couldn’t help but throw his head back and enjoy the good life that came with all that good Karma he’d been building up.

  Milk was a squirter, which scared the shit out of Cash, but once he knew what the fuck was going on, he only had one thing on his mind: making her squirt again.

  He did.

  Mac wasn’t as long-winded.

  “Besides, if I don’t get home, wifey gonna kill me,” he chuckled on his way out the door.

  Othello got head from Karma, fucked her once, taking his own sweet time to do it right, then went into his bedroom.

  He took a quick shower to wash her shit off him, then laid down on his unmade bed.

  “Oh God oh God oh God,” Karma moaned deliciously through the walls. Her voice was as sweet as her pussy had been, and it made Othello hard all over again.

  He closed his eyes.

  It didn’t take long for her lustful cries to carry his mind to a zone and before he knew it, he was jacking his dick, imagining he was the reason she was screaming so loud.

  The feeling of staring at the ceiling, his dick in his hand, toes curled, dreaming, fantasizing and lusting, took him back a few months to the cage he had been kept in for the past four years…

  Othello gripped his dick with one hand and the booty flick with the other. The picture was of a porn star named Cherokee getting fucked doggy style while she looked back at the camera with a sexy-ass fuck face.

  It was always the expressions that got him.

  He hated the flicks where the girl was smiling like she was in a J.C. Penney catalog. He was only interested when their eyes were rolling up into the backs of their heads and they were utterly gone.

  Cherokee knew how to take him over the edge.

  Every time.

  After four years in a cage, the edge was exactly where he wanted to go.

  He came hard in the wad of tissue he had cupped around his dick, then rolled out of the bunk and dumped it in the toilet, feeling weak in the knees.

  He sat back on his bunk, hands behind his head, thinking about the visit he had just had with his two partners in crime, Mac and Cash.

  “I’m tellin y’all niggas, we been goin’ at the game all wrong,” Othello explained. “We get down with The Commission, we eat big!”

  “Man, fuck The Commission! We gonna eat regardless!” Mac boasted.

  Othello had shook his head.

  “Naw yo, you always ready to see somethin’ smoke. Wild niggas crash, smart niggas last, remember that. You know what’s the difference between a gangsta and a thug, Mac?”

  “What?” Mac had replied.

  “Thugs remain pawns, because they never see the larger picture. Gangstas become dons because they always scope shit out. I do this hit for this Commission nigga, he gonna make a move on the rest of the clans. We eliminate them and get our own clan, our own seat,” Othello stated.

  “Seats,” Mac emphasized.

  “I’m wit’ you, O,” Cash assured him.

  Othello nodded.

  The three of them had been friends since they were kids. Cash was the ladies' man, Mac was the livewire and Othello was the thinker. He was also a straight killer. They were all envious of one another, each for their own reasons. Othello envied Cash because of his looks, Cash envied Othello because of his smarts. Mac was just a hateful bastard all around, but at the end of the day, they were their brothers’ keepers…

  Or so it seemed

  2

  The Commission.

  Most people would tell you that it doesn’t exist.

  They know nothing.

  It was started by Frank Matthews right before his historic disappearance. There are those among the criminal fraternity who thought it ended with Frank’s disappearance, but the truth is he left it to Willie Simmons, who ran it ruthlessly until his death. Willie, in turn, left it to his son, Guy. The problem was, Guy was a lot of things, but he wasn't his old man. He lacked the acumen and insight to hold it all together.

  The Commission—which was national in nature up until that point—splintered, fragmenting into factions over infighting, mutual suspicion and informants. But it lived on in those shattered pieces, with regional Commissions comprised of clans, those clans made up of families. A clan could include one family, or several, depending upon the unity of the underlining principals the clan adhered to. Some Commissions spanned whole regions, others whole states, while some owned whole cities.

  Joe Hamlet was the Commissioner of a Commission whose reach and influence spanned several adjacent cities, but not quite as far as the whole state, making him a man of wealth and power. He was the top dog, the Don, the father of his clan. But his was a small Commission, relatively speaking, the whole body comprising of only five clans.

  There was Rome, who ran the Southside of The Commission territories. Don ran the Westside, Malone the Eastside and Malik the Northside. Joe presided over them all like the elder statesman he was, resolving disputes between clans, providing muscle and capital when and where needed, and reinforcing the political infrastructure of police, politicians and judges when appropriate.

  Joe received a tribute from every clan, in return for not conducting his own business on clan territory without their consent. It was all very civilized and ran like clockwork until…

  “Who the FUCK is Othello?!” Rome barked, his Morris Chestnut-like features balled into a knot of rage.

  “Fuck who he is, where is he? The who don’t fuckin’ matter!” Don huffed, thinking about the message Othello had the audacity to send via Benny. That took brass balls. “This muhfucka slaughtered some of my best hitters in one shot!”

  “Some hitters,” Rome muttered darkly.

  “Nigga, I ain’t see your team doing any better!” Don shot right back.

  “Look,” Malone, the most laid back of them all, said, “I get you’re hurt. But think on this, Big L was more than my lieutenant. He was family. My friend.”

  “That he was,” Don agreed. “No one arguing that.”

  “I’ve already put the word on the streets: ten grand to anybody that bring me this nigga dead. Fifty, alive, because then I have the pleasure of killing the goddamn fuck myself. If you put in, we can offer one hundred thousand. Then he's a dead man walking.” Malone slammed his fist on the table to punctuate his point.

  Malik was the only member of The Commission who made the transition to total legitimacy. With the exception of the occasional investment in illegalities through the other clans, Malik kept his hands clean.

  Joe knew Malik had his eye on the top job, Commissioner, and he was making inroads in all the necessary political circles to make that happen.

  So, whenever Malik spoke, Joe listened; not to the words, but to the real agenda that lay behind those smooth Islamic mannerisms of his. He may have been soft spoken, but that velvety tone, like his neatly trimmed beard, hid the truth. The man had iron fists.

  “We can offer fifty. Truth be told, we can offer a million. It doesn’t matter. Want me to explain it in words you can understand? We’re asking the streets to handle our problems. That shows weakness. It's a mistake. Before you know it, one Othello becomes a hundred Othellos, and we're staring down the hordes at our gates. We need to be smart about this. Only one way it works, we bring the clans together and stamp the fucker out as one!”

  A few murmured their agreement, but others didn't bother hiding their dissent.

  “That’s easy for you to say, Malik. You ain’t on these streets anymore. You want us under one roof?
Okay, so tell me, whose roof? And before you go getting ideas above your station, don’t even begin to think you can use this to take over the clans!” Rome spat, calling out the elephant in the room. “Not while there's breath in these lungs.”

  Malik glared at the other men, but didn’t respond.

  Joe looked around the large mahogany table at the five heads of the clans. The table was round to represent the fact that there were no bosses. Like Camelot, The Commission was equal. But some folk were more equal than others, and there was no mistaking the fact that Joe Hamlet was the first amongst equals. And while he may not have sat at the head, he sat dead center, facing the door. The seat was deliberate, the meaning behind it unmistakable.

  “Gentlemen,” Joe began, “Have you ever stopped long enough to consider that whoever this Othello is, we are exactly what he wants? Arguing, bickering, dividing ourselves along old fault lines. All that does is weaken us so that he can conquer. It's an ancient philosophy, but it has stood the test of time. I should know,” Joe chuckled, and a few of the others joined him.

  “I hear you, Joe. Sincerely, I do. But you gotta face the truth, my friend. The clans have been divided for a long time,” Don reminded him.

  Joe nodded. “This I know. And I know the reason: some of you want to bring the heads of the gangs into The Commission and some of you don’t.”

  “Times have changed, Joe. These gangs are getting too powerful to ignore,” Malone said. “We can go to war with them, sure… But the question is, how much are we willing to lose in order to win?” Malone looked each and every one of them in the eye.

  “Fuck the gangs right now, it’s irrelevant to the business at hand. I want this bitch ass nigga, Othello! That’s why we are gathered. That’s the business we are here to discuss. Not some deeper theological issue. Othello. I want his head here on the table in front of me,” Rome growled. Rome was a hot head. His temper was reflected in his clan. Joe knew it was going to be a problem. He could only hope that today wasn’t the day.

  “I sympathize with your loss, Rome. You know I do. Family is family. You too, Don and Malone. Big L was my friend as well. But it is important to remember a wise man never moves out of emotion. If your mother is butchered in front of you and you are covered in her blood, you never lose your head, because if you do, the cops gun you down and then the enemy has already won twice over,” Joe jeweled him.