Chapter 3
N ick had been fearful that they were traveling to an abandoned warehouse, a remote field, a desolate edge of the Chattahoochee River—all the clichéd places that, in the movies, gangsters such as Shango employed to execute victims and dump the dead bodies.
But they drove only to their company’s headquarters in South Atlanta. They rented office space in a corporate park less than five miles away from Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport.
“You could have set a meeting with us here at the office,” Nick said. “You didn’t need to pick us up.”
Shango only smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant expression, and Nick had a pretty good idea of the intent behind it: Shango had picked them up because he wanted them to understand that he could get to them, anywhere, whenever he wanted.
“Let’s go inside,” Shango said, and opened his door.
Legacy Nutrition operated with a lean crew, either independent contractors who came to the offices only when required, or resources provided by third-party vendors.
Customer service reps in the Philippines attended to their toll- free customer service number around the clock, taking orders, answering emails that came in via their website, and logging the occasional complaint.
Their products were manufactured in China.
Product was stored in a climate-controlled facility a few miles away and distributed by a vendor that took a small cut of sales.
Usually, the only personnel in the office were a couple of assistants who performed basic administrative functions, both of whom were relatives of Omar and worked flexible, part-time hours.
Omar unlocked the door to the office. Shango’s driver waited behind in the vehicle, but the woman who’d been riding shotgun came with them.
Exotically beautiful—Nick guessed she was biracial, with Asian and African American parentage—she was as tall as Nick, about five-ten. She wore black leggings and a tight-fitting orange tank top that showed off a pair of arms more muscular than Nick’s.
“Why do I feel as if I’ve seen you before?” Nick said.
“That’s how it is?” She sneered. “You’ll have to come at me better than that if you wanna get these panties off, honey.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Nick blushed. “I’m serious. I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“If you’ve ever followed mixed martial arts, you might have seen Wanda,” Shango said. “She was a women’s heavyweight champion five years back: Wanda the Wonderful. Her specialty is Muay Thai.”
Wanda grinned at him and pantomimed an elbow strike.
“Oh,” Nick said. “That would explain why I recognized you. I casually follow MMA.”
Omar led them to the conference room off the main carpeted corridor, and switched on the overhead lighting. The room was furnished with only the basics: a long conference table, plastic swivel chairs, a small side table that held a conference telephone, and a vase of silk carnations.
Shango took the seat at the head of the table and beckoned for them to sit around him. Wanda stood on the other side of the room and watched them with a serpent’s slitted gaze.
“I see business is going well,” Shango said.
He swept his arm around them. “You’ve got modest digs here, but that’s cool.
Outside of here, though, both of you brothers have been ballin’.
” Grinning like a shark, Shango glanced at Omar.
“You bought that crib in Sandy Springs for one point three, from what I read.”
“It didn’t cost that much,” Omar said.
“Yes.” Shango raised his finger. “One point three mill. Seven cars, too. One for each day of the week, am I right? Are we big pimpin’ now, brother?”
“Damn, Omar,” Nick said. “ Seven cars?”
“So?” Omar glared at him. “I work hard; we both do. We deserve to reap the rewards.”
“I agree,” Shango said. “ We deserve to reap the rewards.” He shifted to Nick. “Now you. Nine hundred large for the swanky pad in Buckhead. You don’t have seven cars, but you’ve got three: a Bentley, a Ferrari, a Range Rover. And let’s not forget, a brand-new Honda Pilot for your moms.”
“And?” Nick shrugged. “I don’t apologize for that.”
“My brothers, I’ve got to increase my royalty to thirty percent.” Shango clasped his hands together and swept his gaze across them. “We got a deal?”
The bottom had dropped out of Nick’s stomach, as if he’d been pushed over a cliff. He couldn’t find any words in response. But Omar erupted out of his seat so violently that his chair toppled to the carpet.
“Thirty percent is extortion!” Omar said. “That’s twice what we’re giving you now!”
“Indeed,” Shango said. He steepled his fingers. “I thought it was fair. I have only two vehicles. I’ll have to ask for thirty-five percent now.”
“Whoa,” Nick said. “Come on, man. Be reasonable.”
“Forty,” Shango said. He grinned.
“Is this a joke?” Omar asked. “Because you’re out of your mind.”
“Forty-five.” Shango cracked his knuckles.
Nick felt dizzy. He grabbed the edges of the table as if to balance himself.
Omar was the numbers guy, but Nick knew their costs.
At a forty-five percent royalty, off the top, that would leave Nick and Omar with only twenty percent to themselves, after expenses.
Shango had cut their profits by more than half in a matter of minutes.
“No goddamn way,” Omar said. “No deal.”
Shango tilted his head toward Wanda. The woman smiled and sauntered around the table toward Omar.
Nick tensed, but Omar glared at her. He was six-two and in shape.
“You don’t scare me, bitch,” Omar said. “Back off.”
The blow came so fast that Nick hadn’t seen it coming.
Wanda slammed her elbow into Omar’s face, and Nick heard something crunch.
Omar gasped and staggered forward on watery legs.
Wanda looped her arms around his neck, jerked him forward, and rammed her knee deep into his kidney.
Omar let out a garbled squeak. Wanda released him, and he collapsed like a limp doll to the floor.
“Who’s the bitch now?” Wanda glared at Omar as he writhed on the floor. She swiveled toward Nick. “You want some, too, little man?”
“No, ma’am.” Trembling, Nick shook his head.
“It’s fifty percent now, family,” Shango said. He rubbed his hands together like a man anticipating a sumptuous meal. “Oh, and I’ll take a reasonable cash advance, too.”