Tabu, page 5
Before he left the club he pulled Deke aside and ordered him to tail his sister.
Deke was a great basketball player, All State in high school while rocking Rucker and other city tournaments before getting fucked up by a gypsy cab. Neither the driver nor the car had insurance. His legs were messed up and so were his chances of balling for dough.
Deke was happy to have his job off the books in the club. It was better than slanging rocks on a project bench. Because they had looked out for him when the stardom faded, he would do anything the Manns asked.
C-Mann had six crisp big head hundreds in his pocket, folded over a group of big head twenties.
He handed the hundreds to Deke. “Get a ride so you can tail her.”
“Right.”
“Call me often.”
“Right.”
“And be on the alert. We at war.”
“I got it.”
“You got heat?”
“Yeah, I got that.”
C-Mann peeled off another two hundred of twenties.
“Don’t talk to nobody about this shit. Just me.” “Right.”
C-Mann folded the rest of the money and returned it to his front pants pocket. The money made him think of his father’s reaction when the money was new in the late ʹ90s. The first time Bernie saw a big head hundred he wouldn’t accept it from a regular. He made the customer go get some “real” money before he had Lanier break his arms.
The next day Bernie received a letter from the Feds and their bank detailing the new bills. They all laughed about it but Bernie never felt comfortable with the new money.
“Find her and don’t leave her alone,” was the last thing C-Mann told Deke.
Lanier had peeped C-Mann give Deke money and the order. Lanier worried for a different reason.
“You sending Deke out?”
“Yeah, why?” C-Mann looked both puzzled and annoyed by Lanier’s question.
“Shit. I know you and your father don’t care but we are mad short on coverage. Motherfuckers are not showing up. They scared of war.”
“Don’t sweat it. The club will be all right. If they hit it, they hit it.”
“Yeah. You’ll be chilling somewhere and I’ll be on the front line, we dying.”
“Then quit.”
Lanier silenced. C-Mann moved away.
Then he made that call to his crazy cousin.
“I have a big bale of cotton that needs processing right away.”
Fingers was ready. He said, “So what you need me
to do, watch your dad?”
“No. Watch that nigga Miami. He move on dad, burn him.”
“Will be done as asked.”
“You need something to hold from me?”
“Yeah.”
“Meet me at the Jimbo’s on St. Nick.”
“Fuck yeah. I can get me a burger.”
While waiting for Fingers, C-Mann tried to take in the sight of the thugs rolling in for hamburgers and shakes, and their girlfriends, and their rides, the big SUVs, but all he could do was consider the war.
He wasn’t a thug but he used to be down like that. He was a part of his projectʹs min gang, the Young Spades, an offshoot of the Black Spades. By the time he and his boys joined the gang it was dissipating into a group of guys who hung out, got high and went to parties hoping for some shit to jump off. They weren’t as strong as their rivals: they didn’t have firepower and not many of them had the heart to be in a real throw down.
But there was one guy, Chuck Smith, who was the real thing. He was the one in the group that other gangs, other thugs throughout the five boroughs, feared.
Few people knew him well, and C-Mann was one of them. Most feared Chuck so that they were willing to pay any price to keep him clear of their lives.
Gangsters have few friends; they can’t ever trust anyone that deeply, and Chuck lived by that credo.
And although Fingers was known to have murdered over forty people, C‐Mann would like to have Chuck at his side for this conflict. Chuck had a passion for violence and a thirst for battle that were matched by few. His fists and his guns were the motor that propelled him to succeed in the only life he fully understood.
The problem with going to Chuck for help was that he was not friendly with C-Mann anymore. Chuck thought C-Mann didn’t respect him or their past. And although he was surely a strong brother, Chuck cared whether people liked him or not.
The real deal was Shirley Mann hated Chuck and the thug he became. She warned C-Mann not to be around the guy because bad things were sure to happen, but C-Mann never listened. Chuck and his boys meant adventure.
Hanging with Chuck and them meant stolen beer drunk on benches in the wee hours of another day and never having to pay for good weed.
Once the Manns moved out of Patterson and Bernie opened the club, C‐Mann hung out with Chuck less. Harlem and the Bronx are spitting distance but the two still drifted apart.
C-Mann’s excuse was he fell into the family business after high school.
Chuck didn’t like Harlem niggas. In his teens, he and his boys got jumped and pistol-whipped in Lincoln projects near the Madison Avenue Bridge into the Bronx.
Chuck tracked down those guys methodically one by one and got revenge. Still, to this day, he’d trust a nigga from Brooklyn before he’d speak to a nigga from Harlem.
C-Mann kept an apartment in Harlem, on 116th and Eighth. He was rarely there. It was for solitude, it was not for entertaining.
Many Blacks called that area little Zimbabwe because of the heavy amount of Africans who had migrated there. Of course most of the Africans in the neighborhood weren’t from Zimbabwe, but niggers in Harlem didn’t care about being exact when dissing someone.
A white friend bought, gutted and rebuilt a building that no Black man wanted to deal with. It had a sad rep as a drug spot through the ʹ80s where many had lost their lives and souls.
The friend gave C-Mann an apartment on the first floor in exchange for his presence. Having a man that owned a vibrant club living on the first floor brought a sense of security and nobility to the dwelling.
With all that was going on, C-Mann was a bit antsy to be home. Thoughts of being jumped, worry about being ambushed, made him uneasy as he approached the building.
While hunting for a parking space he searched the faces of the people on the street, looking for any hint of anxiety, any sign that killers were waiting for him.
It was near 6 a.m. when he finally walked into his apartment. He stood at the door for a long moment, surveying the scene for anything not right. He slowed his breathing and prayed for a sign of an ambush. Finally he shook off the fright and turned the dead bolt and twisted the bottom lock.
There was not much in the apartment, yet it was a great place to chill. The main room, the living room, was very plain, white walls and hardwood floors. He had a leather sofa, a nice leather chair and a fancy glass coffee table with magazines on it he hadn’t read. The floors were bare except for the telephone with an answering machine; its light was always blinking.
The refridgerator had some food and he kept a supply of beer and bottled water. He had a little weed and wine for the honeys. The fifth of Johnnie Walker Red and a carton of Kools were for him.
He dropped his jacket on the couch and kicked off his shoes. He let his jeans fall in a bunch and tossed off his shirt and tie. Stripped to his wife‐beater and drawers, he sat on the sofa wondering if he still had any Tylenol in the medicine cabinet yet feeling too drained to get up and look.
Exhausted as he was that night he could not sleep. He was lonely. He thought about a booty call but he really didn’t want to be bothered by female talking. Although he had a constant crave for female company, sometimes he just didn’t feel like the burden of making polite conversation.
Then the phone rang.
One of the things C-Mann hated about having women on the side was that sometimes they trip when he tells them he can’t see them.
Kamela Black was one of those females who didn’t care to understand the arrangement. He’d calmly explain that sometimes he had shit to do and couldn’t get with her. She’d break on him, cursing and shit.
She had been blowing up his cell since the funeral. And he’d been ignoring her calls.
After meeting with Fingers he answered, though. He wanted to keep the lines of communication open so in a week or two he’d be able to go there and hit it without an hour of talking about why he hadn’t talked to her.
C-Mann checked the caller ID and answered the phone with, “I’m busy.”
“I know I know,” she said.
He could tell she had been crying. She wasn’t the crying type. Kamela kept shit to herself, one of her better qualities; perfect for a chick on the side.
Fuck. “What is it?”
“I really need to see you. I bought new Vickies.” She sounded shaky, as if she had been crying, and that annoyed C-Mann.
“I’m busy. I’ll be at you when things settle.”
He hung up.
Kamela cried...She had made her own bed. She had met Tippy at the club and had bragged that she was C-Mann’s number one, just trying to scare off the new woman with the model’s height and Black woman body. Kamela considered she was fresh and nobody had hit it yet, C-Mann might want to be the first. She also knew that she was beginning to lose her hold on him.
But now Tippy had her tied to a chair with a gun in her face often.
“He said he is busy,” Kamela cried as Tippy moved away with the phone.
“But you his girl, though? Why can’t you get him on the phone for more than a second?”
Kamela was mum.
She looked to the two men working with Tippy and knew after the way they had raped Debbie, without remorse, choking her and beating her up, that they were not going to help spare her life.
Tippy had wanted Kamela to watch. Debbie just kept saying no while they beat her, choked her and took turns getting up in Debbie in a rude way.
“Strictly dickly,” Tippy scoffed. “Well, then take these dicks.”
Her men moved in and Tippy got excited. Kamela cowered. She cried while they pinned her and violated her body.
“Oh yes,” Tippy fed on her fear.
Suddenly Ted said, “I am tired of pussy, I want some head.” Pulled her head up violently and gripped her hair into a fist, he demanded, “Start sucking.”
This was her chance, Kamela realized. The thought of biting his hard, erect penis and fighting her way out seemed so possible until Ted punched her in the side of her head. She couldn’t hear or think for a full two seconds.
“Fuck you waiting for? Open your fucking mouth.”
Kamela’s thoughts of resistance vanished. She just did as ordered.
Tippy sat and watched as her men silently pounded and invaded Kamela’s body, fucking her ass and mouth as hard as they fucked her dry pussy.
The sight of Kamela crying and fighting the pain was turning Tippy on. They had forced her to her knees. One guy was deep in her asshole and the other forcing oral service out of her through the sobs.
Tippy undressed.
“Lay that bitch down,” she said before squatting above Kamela’s face while she was getting pounded by one of the guys.
“Here, let me give you your first try of the taste of a woman.”
Tippy let her weight drop on Kamela’s face.
“You can’t breathe? Oh, I am sorry.”
Her men were laughing.
Tippy leaned up on one knee. “Oh, she’s good.
She’s a liar. She eats pussy. She knows what she’s doing.” “Or maybe she ain’t trying to die tonight,” one of the guys said.
“You taste me coming for you?”
Kamela closed her eyes.
“He has another woman, right?”
Kamela made eye contact.
“Another? Or are you the other woman?”
Kamela closed her eyes and nodded her head. Tippy said, “Just like his father.” She suppressed a laugh. “I am going to let you in on the big secret. I am his sister. Bernie Mann is my daddy and he fucked my mother and left her. And when she had the audacity to call him and ask for help raising me, he killed her.
“I am her little bundle of revenge.”
Kamela was trying to figure out where she fit in this crazy woman’s scheme.
Tippy explained: “You know he got you killed by not loving you.”
“Wha...I didn’t do anything.”
“Do you love him?”
“Yes. I do,” she replied with confidence.
“Right answer.”
Tippy got up and got her gun.
Kamela spun; the pain slowed her body movements. She screamed out an inaudible plea. She scrambled to her feet.
“Bitch, bye,” Tippy said and unloaded her trusty magnum in Kamelaʹs body, ripping huge chunks of flesh from her torso and splattering blood. And like every time she fired that big gun, her hands hurt and she felt good and relieved all over.
She looked to her guys; they were laughing and pointed out the splattered guts.
“Ain’t a thing funny. Clean that shit up.”
CHAPTER 10
Myers Mann was a scary type of guy. Bernie was sure that he would cut and run in times like this, but Myers would have answered his cell phone if he recognized the calling number.
Bernie had Big John drive. BJ, a six-foot-six thug who bounced at the club, was promoted to be Bernie’s bodyguard. They arrived at Myers’ ranch-style house in Westchester and there was his BMW in the driveway.
Big John took the lead, gun in hand. Bernie was preparing himself for the discovery of his brother’s body.
The door was cracked, BJ gave it a slow push and they crept in. And there was the body. Face shot to a mess.
“This has got to end,” Bernie thought aloud.
“Oh, it will soon,” a female voice announced. Fright froze Bernie. He didn’t reach for his gun. He trusted his bodyguard would save his life, and that thought brought back his courage. He turned to find a woman slowly walking toward him from the kitchen.
Big John pointed his gun. “Hold it right there, honey.”
He thought she smiled and he eased.
Her two friends came in the door behind BJ.
“Shoot him,” she said as casually as a mother says dinner is ready.
They shot BJ many more times than needed to kill a man. Bernie’s knees buckled. His breathing paused and his mind went blank.
Tippy laughed. “You scared now? I am not going to let you die that easy, uh uh. Not like your faggot brother who said he would do anything, anything like suck off my friends.”
“You have been in the club.” Bernie said, his eyes widened in alarm. “I recognize you. Why didn’t you just come to me? You are killing my family.”
“Right. Right. You are smart. I am killing them all. You will watch me kill your favorite child tomorrow.”
“No,” Bernie was trying to calm. “Come on, now? What is that going to solve?”
“Revenge. You killed my mother because she was not going to quietly raise me without any help from my father. You didn’t want your precious wifey up North to know you fucked your cousin and got her pregnant. Bastard.”
The men had moved closer to Bernie.
Bernie’s stomach lurched. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t kill her.”
“Liar. Shut him up before I kill him too soon.”
The men beat Bernie to his knees. He absorbed the blows to his head, all the while listening to his daughter’s sinister laughing, watching her watching him be punched upon.
She said, “Payback is a bitch, ain’t it, Mr. Mann?”
“You the bitch,” he said in a false bravado. “What? Hit this bastard harder.”
She stepped back and grinned at the brutality heaped on her pops.
Then she heard a cell phone chime. It was an old R&B tune.
“Sit him up.”
Her men dragged her father to the sofa and tossed him on it.
“I bet that is your worried bitch-ass son.”
“Let him alone...” Bernie ladbored to say through a hurting face. “You got me. That’s it.”
“Oh daddy, daddy, daddy. It’s time to tell my brother what you did.”
“You crazy fucking bitch!”
She grinned. “I know what I am.”
CHAPTER 11
C-Mann acted as if his dad not returning his calls or answering his cell was no big deal.
He had to be confident. He had to be strong. Or at least, he felt, he had to appear that way. He closed the bar as he usually did. Paid off everybody due and locked down the spot.
He got in his ride and checked for his gat. It was there. Now, things settled for the night, he had to go see about his father.
C-Mann didn’t want to go alone; he wanted to take Lanier’s thug‐ass with him or any one of the other bouncers who didn’t mind getting his knuckles bruised on drunks. C-Mann knew his dad had taken BJ with him, the only worker who would ride for the Manns. The others liked the loot they made but that was as far as their loyalty went.
He drove quickly uptown, damn the red lights. He was doing better than 100 by the needle and rolling easy.
He drove down Myers’ block in Westchester. He was looking for his dad’s SUV and anything that said clue. The thought came to mind that his dad might be hitting one of his honeys. He recalled that Debbie left the club feeling mighty neglected. But shit, whenever C-Mann called his dad’s cell Bernie would answer or get right back to him.
C-Mann parked his Caddy and went up to Myersʹ house. He saw a neighbor leaving her place, more than likely on her way to work and living a drama-free life, C-Mann considered.
C-Mann knocked for about a minute; he put his ear to the door before he gave up. Something was up and C-Mann decided to let it all come to him. He wasn’t the type to chase down trouble.
He arrived at Penny’s a little before five in the morning. He found her asleep on top of the comforter with magazines all about her. He got out of his clothes and had her join him under the covers.
C-Mann was tired but had a tough time falling asleep, too much shit to contemplate. He fell into a dream about making love to Kamela that was so vivid he could feel her thick, firm thighs.
Kamela’s bedroom had mirrors all around it. Often C-Mann would get lost in watching her perform her magic. She was damn good. She’d get on top of him and ride better than any woman before or since. She’d get it so good that her mouth would water and her eyes would gloss. That was the feeling that kept her in place; that made her freak if he was too busy to allow her to ride his Johnson. That feeling had opened many doors in her soul, allowed him to be the first man to have anal sex with her and the first to climax in her mouth.
