Heist 2 (4 page)

5

Shannon

I
was fucking sick when I finally recovered from my injuries and returned to general population and heard that Dee had been stabbed to death trying to save me from those Latina bitches that Todd had put on me. None of the other bitches I had in my crew had even dared to step up, but my main bitch Dee had lost her life trying to save mine. It depressed me to no end because Todd was trying to kill me, not Dee. She was innocent in all of this.

I had lain in my cell three days, refusing to leave for yard, chow, shower, nothing. It was all my fault that Dee was dead. I kept picturing her face and all of the things she had done for me while I was locked up. I could've never imagined that she would've given up her own life for me, though.

The depression had hit me so bad that the prison psych came by to speak to me and even that soft-spoken, mousy-faced bitch couldn't get me to utter a word. She kept whispering my name and asking me if I was okay or if I thought I needed to see a doctor. What the fuck did she think? Dee was like my little protégée and my family. I didn't know what I was going to do without her, because the rest of the bitches in my so-called crew wasn't about shit. I hadn't said two words to those weak-ass bitches since I had been back and I had something special in mind for each one of them too. Them bitches all stood around while I was literally getting the shit kicked out of me and they ain't do shit.

When it was all said and done, I had landed in the infirmary with three broken ribs, a small fracture in my skull, two or three subdural hematomas, both eyes swollen shut, six missing teeth in the front, a broken nose, a broken collar bone, two busted knee caps, a shattered ankle, and five broken fingers on my right hand. I heard I had pissed and shitted on myself during the beat-down and blood had leaked from my pussy too. I probably could never have babies again. It was really a wonder that I was still alive. Even the doctors and nurses in the infirmary couldn't believe that I had made such a miraculous recovery. I chalked it up to God wanting me to get my revenge . . . or else why would I have made it through that beat-down alive. Especially now that I walked with a limp and one of my eyes never opened back all the way. Yeah, I was all messed up and I refused to look in a mirror to see just how ugly I had become. I could feel the raised scars still on my neck and left cheek—remnants of the slicing I had taken from those Latinas. I felt like the hunchback of Notre Dame when I was going through physical therapy to learn how to walk all over again. It was apparent without even looking in the mirror that I was not the same flawless Shannon as when I had arrived. Whoever made up that saying beauty is in the eye of the beholder was full of shit. Either your ass was beautiful or you wasn't. I would never be considered beautiful again and that was final. I was used to being drop-dead gorgeous and getting what I wanted because of it. That's how I had snagged Todd in the first place . . .

“Marshall! Visit!” one of the COs yelled into my cell. I slowly sat up in my bunk, feeling too depressed to even care. I was wondering why she was even fucking with me because it was common knowledge in the prison now that I was mentally fucked up.

“I don't want no visitors,” I grumbled, killing my own nostrils with my breath. I hadn't brushed my teeth in days.

“It's your attorney, so let's go. You ain't got no choice,” the CO told me.

I forced myself up from the bunk. I could smell myself, which meant the CO and anyone else I passed could too. I didn't give a fuck, either. I dragged my bad leg as I walked to the attorney/client visit room. When I saw Mr. Kaufman, the look on his face gave me chills. I didn't know why right then, but something in my gut just wasn't feeling right about him. As usual and just like with Todd, I ignored my first instinct about Mr. Kaufman. One of the many mistakes I made that would come back to haunt me.

6

Todd

I
had convinced LaBeckie that I needed to go see one of my former workers in order to get my connection back to Abe. I had to work hard to convince LaBeckie that putting a wire on me would be a big mistake because Abe and the dudes I ran with were pros at finding those shits. When I was on the streets and I didn't trust a nigga wasn't snitching, I would even have one of my flunkies glove up and feel around a nigga's asshole looking for wires. LaBeckie finally agreed, but of course he had mad warnings about if I didn't do this and if I didn't do that. They provided me with a whip—one of my S Class Benzes that they had seized when I was arrested. Crazy, right? But I guess it was the only way to convince niggas in the hood that I had gotten my shit back and I was out for good. LaBeckie had his tech guys strap a small tracking device to the car and then came more verbal warnings about coming back and reporting everything to him. In my head I was laughing at LaBeckie because he thought he had me under pressure, but really, I had his stupid ass under the most pressure. I wasn't stupid and everything I do always has a plan B.

I drove the S Class to my old car garage and the code on the gate was, surprisingly, still the same. I thought for sure that nigga Jock would've changed all that shit. I knew LaBeckie and his crew was watching the GPS monitors so being there wasn't going to raise any red flags. They knew that on some level I had to make my old crew think I was back in business. What they didn't know was that I was two steps ahead of their asses. I parked the Benz inside the garage and went into my old office. I stopped for a few seconds, inhaled and exhaled and shook my head. “It was all good just six months ago,” I said to myself. Being there made me reminisce on how large I was living at one time. Now here I was scrambling for revenge. I quickly shook it off, raced over to the desk, moved the office chair, and pulled up a loose floorboard.

“Jock ain't find this shit,” I whispered excitedly as I retrieved two stacks of cash totaling three thousand dollars and an old .40-caliber Glock I had stashed in there for emergencies. The money and the gun were all I had left to my fucking name. I turned back to the desk, picked up the phone and, again to my surprise, it was still operational. Things seemed to be going perfectly. I called a cab and told the dispatcher to have the cab pick me up in the alley behind the garage. LaBeckie would think I was at the garage all night and even if he had a tail on me, they would all be looking for the Benz. My first stop was to see a little nigga that came up under me named Zack. As I rode to the address I had for him, I thought about what Shannon had told me about how the nigga had shitted on her when she came to collect from him. I could see the whole shit taking place.

I snapped out of my thoughts of the story Shannon had told me about Zack just as I made it to the address I had for him. Trust me, I had a renewed fever to get at this nigga thinking about how much paper he owed me and how he didn't even try to help my wife get up the attorney fees.

When I pulled up to the spot where Dugan had told me Zack was staying now, my jaw dropped. Zack had gone from little flunky corner boy and runner to the big leagues. Seeing how he was living just infuriated me more, knowing that when Shannon came to Zack to collect money he owed me to help me get a lawyer, this nigga played the fool and dismissed her like he never owed me shit. I squinted my eyes at the house as jealousy and anger cropped up in my mind. Zack had bought a crib bigger than my old crib. He was living large over in Emerald Green Estates, which was a ritzier neighborhood than where I used to live. I bit down into my jaw and curled and uncurled my fists as I sat outside and watched the house for a little while. This nigga had big huge columns outside of the house with a beautiful beveled-glass front door. I guess my mentoring had done Zack some good. I had always told my crew to buy things like property and invest some of their money so that they always had a backup plan. I guess my words of advice and mentoring wasn't good enough for Zack to look out for a nigga while I was locked up. I had been hearing that loyalty among these young niggas was dead, but seeing was believing. How did Zack think that that shit he had done to Shannon by not giving her my bread was going to come back and bite that nigga in the ass?

I waited and watched the house about forty minutes before I finally saw the front door open up, and from where I stood lurking, the female that exited looked pretty damn hot. She kind of reminded me of Shannon back in the days. This chick walked with that sexy switch of the hips and her stilettos clicked on the marble front steps. Zack was definitely living like I used to live—hot-ass house, hot chick, and hot cars—what I like to call the hood rich formula.

I watched closely as the chick slid on a pair of oversize shades, which I can only imagine was either Gucci, Christian Dior, or Prada. Those were all of Shannon's favorite brands of shades. The chick switched her ass to the driveway and opened the door to a little red sports car. The car had to be a Ferrari or something fast like that. It was smoking fucking hot. It was one of those 0-to-80-in-a-minute joints that made men into bitches when they drove them.

Zack's bitch looked hot as hell behind the wheel of that whip. I can't front: I felt my dick getting a little hard for her too. I had a thing for beautiful, well-dressed women driving expensive cars. Damn! I was already starting to miss my old life, which I had promised myself I would dwell on when I got out. It was real hard not to think about it, though.

I kept watching Zack's chick but she was so busy on her cell phone and doing something else she didn't even see me creeping. The distance from where I had been watching to Zack's front door wasn't that far. I had told the cab driver to wait and under no circumstances was he to leave. The nice wad of cash I had given him would insure his loyalty, because I knew it was more money than he would make in one day running fifty fares.

Depending on how shit went with this nigga Zack, I figured I might have to hightail it out of there and would definitely need a ride back to the garage. The green-eyed monster in me wanted to just take one of those high-priced luxury cars Zack had in his four-car driveway.

I crept up on Zack's front door like a thief in the fucking night, just like I wanted to. Catching a nigga slipping was the best way to get at him. I played the perimeter of the mini-mansion real close and since Zack had the most beautiful Roman columns out front along with expertly cut bushes that were in the shapes of animals and the most beautiful flower beds and grass, it wasn't hard to find somewhere to hide. It was hot as hell outside though so by the time I made it up to the front door, I was dripping with sweat. I figured that would just make me look even more evil when I confronted this nigga. I took a deep breath and gave myself a pep talk: “Don't take no pleas from this dude. You know the truth,” I said to myself. With my courage on 100, I was ready.

I rang the bell all bold and shit like I was a Kirby salesman or some friendly little Boy Scout selling caramel popcorn. Whoever came to the door was about to get it, so I was silently hoping that it would be Zack. I didn't really want to have to deal with no other niggas or no bitches and especially no kids.

My heart was pounding in my chest and sweat poured off my body, but I had my gat in hand ready for whatever.

“Yo . . . what you forgot . . .” Zack was complaining as he yanked back the door. He was standing there in boxers and a wife-beater, and when the reality of the situation set in on him, his eyes almost popped out of his head.

“I ain't forget shit but obviously you forget a nigga when I was locked down and you thought I wasn't coming back,” I snarled as I put the barrel of my gun right to his left eye. Zack looked like he was about to shit on himself. He immediately threw his hands up as a sign of surrender. None of that meant shit to me.

“Oh shit . . . Todd . . . man . . . um . . . what . . . what's up . . .” Zack stammered, stumbling backwards as I advanced on his ass.

“Oh, now that's ‘what's up, nigga?' You wasn't worried about what was up when you skirted on the money you owed me while I was locked up,” I growled, pressing the gun harder into Zack's eye socket. I was feeling Incredible Hulk angry at that moment. It's so funny to me how niggas be all scared and shit when you confront them, but when they think you never coming back, they living it up like tough guys.

“Na . . . nah. It wasn't even like that, man.” Zack stumbled over his words. Hearing the fear dancing around when he spoke made me feel even more powerful. I had so much pent-up anger and emotion to let out, Zack was the most unlucky nigga in the world to be the first on my list. I ain't even let him finished coping his sorry-ass pleas. I raised the gun and brought it crashing down on his skull. Zack dropped to the floor in a heap, holding his head and moaning. “Agh, man! I ain't do shit!” Zack cried out, looking wide-eyed at the blood on his hands.

“You ain't do shit, huh? Yeah, that's my point, nigga! You ain't do shit for me when I needed you after I fed your little bum ass when your moms was out there sucking dicks for crack and not feeding your little scrawny ass,” I barked with feeling. Niggas really killed me with their logic.