The Corner III (No Way Out) (11 page)

Lucky smiled. “You’re right handed?”

“Yeah.”

“But your first reaction when you got mad was to punch with your left,” Lucky said of Jamel punching his hand.

The light turned green, Jamel gave the Escalade some gas. “I can fight right or left. My luck is that I fight better southpaw, so I’m able to surprise most fighters, and that’s what I did to that Mexican mothafuckah!”

Lucky calmly said, “Respect your fellow fighters is the first thing you should remember. Jump on the next on ramp and head south.”

“I thought you had a lunch date here downtown,” Jamel questioned.

“Change of plans, young man. For me and you,” Lucky said as he took his cell off his hip and began to dial. He cancelled his lunch date then told Jamel that they were about to head to the sporting goods store to purchase him some new training gear. Everything he needed to box. That he was no longer to participate in the street hustle.

“Man, Lucky. What’s Noonie and the boys gonna say? Man, I’m down for them niggas.”

Lucky said, “And they’re down for you, so they will understand. Anyone who doesn’t understand really doesn’t give a fuck about you. You have a gift from God. A talent and I’m not about to sit and watch you waste it. You down? If not, let me know.”

“Lucky, you’re like the father I never had, so whatever you say. I just wanna make you happy,” Jamel said. He’d been wondering what he could do to get the cancer off Lucky’s mind, and maybe this could be it. He envisioned all the men he’d dropped like a bad habit in the ring. Then a frown came over his face. Lucky noticed.

“What’s wrong?”

Jamel said, “Fight Doctor. He told me to never set foot in his gym again since I chose the streets over boxing. I have to admit, he did help me a lot, and I fucked him over by leaving like I did.”

Lucky told Jamel, “Let me handle that.”

*     *     *

Chacho held the leather leash with diamond studs as the German shepherd walked obediently by his side as he entered a warehouse. It was hot and dusty, typical for the summer in Mexico. Chacho had taken off his suit jacket and loosened his collar when he’d exited his Hummer. His main bodyguard, Trejo, was two steps behind his boss. Both men wore expensive suits, but it was the custom made cowboy boots that made their outfits. Trejo wore boots by Wheeler that where seventeen hundred dollars, and his boss wore boots that Forbes magazine rated as the most expensive cowboy boots, custom boots made by Michael Anthony of Sonoma, California. It is said that Chacho paid close to nine thousand for the boots that were made from ostriches.

“Fucking traitor,” Trejo said as they neared a man who was tied to a chair.

Chacho walked with confidence. “Well, Trejo, I am going to show you what I do to traitors. Ain’t that right boy?” Chacho said as he tugged lightly on the leash of his Shepherd.

Three men stood near the man. They looked like peasants, dressed in overalls and boots, but the AK-47s they held told a different story. They were killers for Chacho and had been tasked to catch Antoine Villarreal. A drug lord who was a main supplier for the Midwest United States and moved millions of dollars worth of cocaine, heroin and marijuana for Chacho, but was found to have been leaking information to the American government, and in the billion dollar drug trade that was something a drug lord didn’t tolerate.

Chacho stopped in front of Villarreal. He motioned with his hand to one of the soldiers. He handed Chacho a pair of latex gloves as Chacho handed Trejo the leash and the Shepherd obediently stood by Trejo’s side. Chacho snapped the gloves on then slapped Villarreal on the cheek a couple of times to wake him. The man opened his cartoonish-looking eyes and fear settled in them. He was in his early forties, but during four hours of torture it seemed as if he’d aged a thousand years. His jet-black hair was matted to his head with a mixture of dirt and blood. His Armani slacks were cut to shreds from slices that one of his captors used to slice painful, but non-lethal cuts on his legs.

Chacho barked, “My son has a baseball game, so I won’t be long. He would be very upset if his papa wasn’t at his game. He’s only eight so he wouldn’t understand me having to take care of business. So…I have a commitment.”

Chacho grabbed the horse whip from one of the armed men, then whacked Antoine across the chest. The man screamed, then begged for his life.

Chacho calmly said, “You have no idea what commitment is, do you?”

“Wha… What?” Antoine asked.

“Commitment, motherfucker. You have no idea what that is, you piece of shit!” Chacho barked. His tone switched. He calmly said, “You talked to the government, and I’ve lost millions. I need to know what you’ve said.”

Antoine was a strong man. He had been a gangster ever since he was a young boy. He was born the son of a peasant who worked as help on a farm. Antoine saw his father struggle for scraps and swore that he’d never do the same. In and out of jail since he was a teenager and that was where he met men who were in the drug trade. Smart, ambitious and ruthless, Antoine made his way up the cartel food chain and eventually became the man in charge. But what no one knew was, years ago he’d made a deal with drug agents from America. While in Laredo, Texas, he was arrested, and authorities cut a deal with him that he’d feed them information on men in the other cartels and the movement of drugs, and they’d ensure that his crew would be left alone with very few raids brought upon them. Only enough to keep other cartels from getting suspicious. But Chacho was smart and noticed that Antoine’s crew was only taking minimal losses. When a Mexican politician, who Chacho had in his pocket, alerted the kingpin that Antoine was a snitch, swift justice had to be applied.

Antoine glared at Chacho for a moment. He knew his life was about to end and had made up his mind that he wasn’t going to tell anything. That he would go out like a gangster. He gargled his throat and mustered up the best clump of spit and mixed it with the blood that was in his mouth. He spit as hard as he could at Chacho’s face. He missed, but the phlegm landed on Chacho’s chest, sticking to his expensive shirt.

“I’m not telling you shit, you fat fuck!” Antoine said then mustered up a half-hearted laugh.

Chacho gritted his teeth. He then smiled devilishly as he unbuttoned and peeled off his shirt. “If only you were as strong when the American government put the screws to you,” Chacho said as he wagged his finger at Antoine.

Chacho was shirtless. Hairy chest and expanded waistline was exposed and he looked even larger than his two hundred and sixty pounds. He walked behind Antoine to a table. “You know when my brother, God rest his soul, was in the military, he told me of tactics they used to get people to talk.”

Antoine heard the fizz of a bottle of soda being opened.

Chacho continued, “Out of all those methods, there was one that I really liked.” He grabbed a bag of cayenne pepper. Poured some of the soda out then added a nice helping of the pepper. Calmly he walked behind Antoine who sat tied to the chair. “My brother told me that this method worked ninety percent of the time, and I think that you are going to fit in that ninety percentile.”

Chacho held the bottle in his right hand, covered the opening and shook. He put Antoine in a solid chokehold and held the man as he placed the bottle under Antoine’s nose and shot the mixture up his nose. His scream was piercing as Chacho let go. He shook his head back and forth violently as Chacho walked around him. He knelt in front of Antoine who was moaning in agonizing pain.

Chacho said, “Now, you
will
tell me what I want to know.”

4

“The dope may be gone, but you’re gonna tell me where the money is, bitch!”—Detective Rivera

Slim and Trish were walking on Oak Street Beach. They walked down the beach as the sun was setting on the eighty-five degree day. Slim thought Trish was beautiful as the orange rays of the sun hit her golden-toned skin. She wore sandals, jean shorts and a yellow tube top with a white short-sleeve shirt that was left unbuttoned.

People were playing volleyball, running, walking small dogs, tanning and swimming. To put it simply, they were relaxing and living. Trish had never been to the downtown beach, and the scenery of the skyscrapers in the background was beautiful.

As they walked along the paved walkway, two of bicyclers passed by them, a man and woman who looked to be a couple. Trish noticed the many couples who were enjoying one another’s company and hoped that one day she would have the same thing. But for now, she was enjoying the good time she was having with her new found friend.

Slim noticed the way Trish smiled when she saw the couples. He asked, “So, why don’t you have someone?”

“Huh?” she asked, even though she’d heard him clearly.

“Someone, why don’t you have someone?”

She laughed, “Guys always ask women that. Can’t a woman enjoy being single?”

Slim nodded, yes. “But doesn’t it get old? Women usually want someone. Hell, some act like they
have
to have a man.”

“Well, I’m not one of those women. I do fine by myself. But being honest, relationships are so complicated that we women sometimes would rather not even deal with men.”

“Is that when you all turn to women?”

Surprised, she emphatically said, “Oh, I don’t get down like that. Strictly the d-i-c-k.”

They laughed.

Trish had her guard up. In reality, she wanted a relationship but wondered if she knew how. She’d basically been on her own since her mother passed when she was sixteen, and her experience with men was they would sex her then leave her. She also got the wrong idea of love from Detective Styles. When she got in trouble, he acted as if he really cared about her well-being. He kept her out of jail and was nice to her. Helping her with a couple of bills and throwing some cash her way. But then she realized why he was doing what he did. He was using her for one thing—her body. She was young and beautiful with a body of a goddess. Her Black and Hispanic heritage was a combination of genes that enhanced her looks.

Slim laughed, “Strickly the d-i-c-k. I got you. I just figure no children, beautiful and a great personality.”

He stopped in his tracks, and Trish did after realizing he’d stopped. She was a couple of steps ahead of him when she turned and asked, “What?”

He joked, “You must be one of those crazy women. Uh oh, I might need to snatch one of those guys off their bikes and make a run for it.”

She stepped to Slim, lightly grabbed his light blue rayon/cotton blend camp shirt and pulled him toward her. She lightly kissed him on the cheek then said, “Pedal on Lance Armstrong.”

Trish didn’t know why she’d kissed Slim but was glad she did it. There was something about him, and she was having such a nice time that she just did it. They had been to a matinee, and the movie was great. They were now walking on the beach getting to know each other, and she was feeling him after simple things like that—simple things she wasn’t used to.

Slim smiled, held her hand, and they started back walking. He said, “I think I better stay here and keep you company. Besides, when I pick a woman up from her home, I return her there, no matter how the date goes.”

A real man,
Trish thought.

As they walked, Slim told Trish some history of the beach. He told her that the city’s park commission built a breakwater which extended from North Avenue to Oak Street, and then even farther south to Ohio Street. That the project included a new sand beach at Oak Street in the late 1890s, thus with the scenery of downtown as the backdrop, it was the most appealing beach in the city. When she asked what a breakwater was, he told her it was a wall built in Lake Michigan so when storms came it would lessen the impact of the waves that led to erosion of the land and beaches.