Chapter 4 #2
The reason they didn’t blame me for the massacre was that Mecca often kept his street life away from Amelia, and she was pretty much in the dark about a lot of shit going on.
Mecca was good at separating business from family, all while getting his sons entangled in a world his wife couldn’t even know about.
His payback on Crew and Hov probably never reached her ears, so me letting Pernelle go and becoming an opp went unnoticed.
To them, it was a hit done by someone outside the family, and I was in California, working out west. Mecca had spread that rumor to throw people off once I was dead and gone so no one would find my absence unusual.
When Amelia looked down the hallway and spotted me coming, she walked up to me fast, Hijab flowing behind her.
Amelia was in her fifties but didn’t look a day over thirty-five.
She took care of herself more than she did the household or her kids.
It was always about her appearance and never about morals, which is why she never paid attention to the monster she was married to.
My father probably thought otherwise, but I knew even if Amelia knew all he was into, she still wouldn’t go anywhere.
Women like her marry monsters for purses, and houses, and shit.
Then lie beside the boogieman while children are scared of the ones under their beds.
“This is not right, Amir; you need to tell them this is not right! I deserve way more!”
“Amelia, what are you talking about?”
She was so upset that her lips folded into her mouth.
“Don’t act like you don’t know Amir! You probably fought for this, but know it is not over. Not over by a long shot! All of it belongs to me!”
Amelia, her sisters, and the rest of the aunties with her stormed away from me and down the hallway. Seconds later, Lane Bishelli peeked into the hallway and exhaled like he was relieved to see it was only me standing out here.
“Amir Quatar?”
“Yes?”
“You may come in now.”
I followed him into the room and sat down at the desk across from him.
“Mr. Quatar, I hope all is well with you.”
“I’m alright. I can’t complain.”
“Good, good.” He stacked and fondled the papers on his desk.
“Why was Amelia so upset? Mecca left all of his funds to the church or some shit?”
He finally settled into his seat and made direct eye contact with me.
“No, Amir. Your father actually left all of his money to you.”
“To me?”
My head jerked back in confusion.
“What? How?”
“Well, in Mecca’s will, it states that his money shall go to Salah in the time of his death. If Salah is unable to collect, it would skip you and go to Abraham. But, with Abraham not able to receive the money, it was written to go to the next heir in line, which is you.”
“Me? I’m getting all of Mecca’s fortune?”
I sat back in my seat and rubbed the hairs on my chin. I stayed silent for at least thirty seconds until Bishelli spoke up.
“Amir, I understand that this is a touchy subject, and there is a lot of money falling into your lap. But that is where financial advisors and such come into play to help you.”
“How much money is it?” I cut in.
“There is about thirty million dollars, sir, through assets like the homes, cars, and other possessions. Now the main home will go to Amelia, but the money in the bank account and the one summer home is yours as well as all of the other properties.”
I leaned forward and shook my head because I couldn’t believe this shit.
All this week, I just knew Mecca didn’t have me anywhere in his will, and this trip to the attorney would be for nothing.
But the truth of the matter is, he probably expected his other two sons to outlive me by decades.
I’m sure he never even thought to change the will between Abraham and his death.
He was most likely hanging on to the fact that I wouldn’t be alive too much longer anyway.
I’m sure he had already put millions on my head for killing his last loved son.
“So now, we can discuss the release of these funds, where you would like them wired to. Any potential selling of the property and things of that sort. Unless you want to keep them for yourself.”
“Nah, sell it all. And I don’t need all that money.”
Bishelli cleared his throat.
“So, you want to sell the summer home and other properties.”
“Yep, and do something with the money too.”
The confusion plagued this nigga’s face.
“I’m sorry, I’m a little confused, sir. The money is yours to take. Are you understanding that part, sir?”
“Yeah, I am, but I don’t want it, nor do I need it. I don’t have any children, and I like the quiet little life I live.” I stood up from the chair, looking down into Bishelli’s confused ass face.
“So, where do I sign to get ten million dollars wired to me, and fifteen sent to a charity in New York. Preferably one that feeds children and the homeless.”
“Uh, I, I, I can draw up the paperwork and get all of that to you, but are you sure, sir? More than half of your wealth is a lot to give to charity.”
“I’m positive. Now use the last five mil of the thirty that I didn’t mention earlier to hire the best private investigator you can find.”
“A private investigator to look into your family’s massacre?” he asked, eyes widening.
“Nah. That shit will unravel itself one day. I need the investigator to go and find my mother. Whether dead or alive, I need to know where she is.”
I replied, before walking to the door.
“Sir, I will need signatures on all of this. In front of a notary public.”
“Well, set that all up and then let me know when to come back in. I’m out.” I continued out of the room.
The news of all the money should have moved me more, but it was the thought of meeting the woman who birthed me one day that put a smile on my face. That sounds worth way more than thirty million dollars, especially for a man who never felt love from a parent ever before.
I often dreamed about my mama as a kid, wondering how she would’ve nurtured me had she been around and what parenting styles she would’ve had.
I wondered if my mama was around, would I be a man who could kill a nigga at the drop of a dime with no remorse?
I mean, I know bloodline goes a long way, but upbringing can take you even further.
Just spending more time with my grandma than my brothers did is why I have a moral compass when it comes to women and children.
When I left the lawyer's office, my next destination was the Juice Town smoothie shop on Maine and Hollins. I wasn’t a smoothie drinking ass nigga, and the only reason I was going there was for my street business.
Crew had sent me a name, Joey Medina, who happened to own a smoothie shop in The Bronx, two blocks from Lennox Ave.
Joey was only in trouble with Crew because word around town was that he had been solicited for a hit on Crew a few weeks ago.
Whoever reached out offered Joey a bag for Crew’s blood on the concrete, and since Crew was a family man now, he really didn’t take that shit lightly.
His main concern was that they could pull some shit on him when his family is around, or worse, pull some shit on his family.
The biggest problem whoever hired Medina had was that Medina was about fifty-five years old now, so he wasn’t that young gun slinging mutha fucka he was back in the early 2000’s.
Joey had a permanent limp in his walk from being stabbed in the calf muscle, and because of that, he put word on the streets for someone to do the job for him, and that’s how word got back to Crew.
When I walked into the smoothie shop, I smelled nothing but bananas, oranges, and shit while a blender went crazy in the back.
At the front register, there was a basket of apples with a sign reading $1.
I smacked my lips and grabbed the apple even though I didn’t agree with the price.
People around New York jack up prices on shit just because they can.
A dollar for one fuckin Apple is robbery with no gun.
“I’ll be right with you, sir.” I heard a voice call out from the back as I stood at the register, tearing into the apple.
When the Latina woman came through the swinging door, she handed the smoothie in her hand to the white lady at the pickup counter, wiped her hands down her apron, and gave me her attention.
“Hello, what can I get you besides the apple?”
“Let me get an apple blueberry smoothie with a little protein powder. Double-blend if you can.”
“Of course.”
She replied, exhaling as she blew the tiny pieces of her dark brown hair falling into her face. Joey Medina had made plenty of paper, which attracted a beautiful wife, who I’m sure this is.
I remember when my father and his right hand were talking about how Joey opened this shop to cover up all the money he was making from hits.
Anyone with sense would see that a big Italian man with tattoos over his neck wasn’t into making no fuckin smoothies.
That overweight nigga probably never touched a smoothie in his life.
I could tell that his wife was tense by the way she held her shoulders up high and the steady shift of her neck from left to right.
She was stopping after every tap on the register just to rub the back of her neck.
Stress was always clear as day on women, and I often knew how to get them out of it.
Mecca’s wife, Amelia, could never hide when she was stressed.
She used to throw fits around the house, screaming so loud we could hear her even on the opposite side of the mansion.
I always used to think that if a woman who had access to all that money could be unhappy, then that’s just how women are.
Shit, before I even had some pussy, I told myself I didn’t want a woman around me every day.
That’s why marriage is almost obsolete when it comes to me.
That was the problem that Delilah and I had.
When the doorbell chimed behind me, I looked over my shoulder, and Allah had dropped Joey right into my lap. When I saw him, it was like the bells on a slot machine were going off, but I had to keep it cool. No sudden movements because I’m sure he had a piece on him.
Joey had his head down and walked straight to the back while I looked straight forward to his wife, hoping he didn’t notice it was me. I wasn’t a famous or known nigga around every hood like Crew and Hov, but the people in my game knew who I was.
“Your total is $9.47. With that, be cash or card?”
“Card,” I replied, and she turned over her shoulder.
“Joey.” She called his name, and he looked back at her. Fuck, I thought to myself.
“Did you pick up the sweetener?” She asked him, but he didn’t answer her, looking directly in my eyes.
It was like the moment sat still for a few minutes, only it was seconds that went by before Joey took off running into the back, and my instincts told me to follow this nigga.
If he was running, he didn’t have a gun on him.
I jumped the bar and shot through the back behind him, catching up to his sloop foot ass as soon as he hit the back alley behind the restaurant.
I wasn’t here to kill the nigga just yet.
I had to find out who it was that wanted Crew dead because that person is the head of the snake.
If I shoot and kill Medina right now, the person who called the hit will just find someone else to do it for them.
“Stop, you dumb mutha fucka!”
I tripped him up and grabbed him around his collar while standing over his body.
“Alright, alright, man, please don’t kill me! I’ll give you whatever you want!”
“I need a name.”
“A name?”
“Yeah, a name and I’m impatient as a mutha fucka, so if I don’t get it. Your brain is going to be laid out on this concrete, looking like that shit your wife is blending up in that shop. Now who the fuck hired you to get after Crew?”
“Crew, Crew who?” He tried to play dumb, and I punched him in his stomach. He choked up for a few seconds, and I tried to let him catch his breath, but he didn’t do it fast enough, so I hit his ass again for wasting my time.
“Spit that shit out, old ass nigga!”
“Alright, alright. I got word that this nigga had $40,000 stashed away with his mother to take out Crew. His name is Marcus Leeland. He’s the prosecutor who was on his case that got him locked up some time ago.”
I stood up from over him, satisfied that he had given the information up that easily.
Though I had a name now, the location of the nigga made my job a little harder since this nigga was locked up.
Prison is the only place where I can know where a nigga is and have to jump through loops to get to him. I’ll figure it out, though I always do.
“Stand your fat ass up.” I directed Joey, who was holding the wall, to try to stand up.
“When you leave my sight, I don’t want you to say shit to anybody about me coming to you, and if I find out you're still soliciting for a stand-in hit man, I’m going to leak you and your bitch in there.” I leaned in closer to him.
“But, of course, I may fuck her first. I’m sure she will give me the pussy whether you're dead or alive. It won't be hard for me, trust.”
He nodded his head nervously.
“Now keep in contact with that nigga Marcus, make him think you're on the job so that he won’t try and find someone else, and then you get to live. Well, your whole family will.”
“Okay, okay, man. I got you, I understand.” He pleaded, still in my grip.
“Now get the fuck down the block, and I’ll see you again sometime.”
“Whe, when?” He stuttered.
“Whenever the fuck I feel like it. Now walk!”
Joey shuffled down the alleyway faster than he’d probably moved in years, and I walked in the opposite direction and hit the first right down an adjacent alley to get back to my car.
As soon as I crossed the busy intersection and sat in my car, I called Crew.
I’m sure this nigga was going to be thrown off to hear this shit.
Prosecutor Marcus Leeland was still after him after all these years. Shows a petty nigga never knows how to let beef go. I get it, though. I have some of those same traits, too.
When it's up, it's fuckin stuck.