EIGHT

Death-Struck

 

When Black received a call from Mr. Lewis that the FBI was in the restaurant and it was under attack, Black informed him that it was best to sacrifice himself to the gods. Because the FBI was there to take him prisoner, Mr. Lewis thoroughly believed Black and took his own life.

Black had just finished having a threesome with the Jamaican twins, Keke and Meme, when he caught the breaking news live on the television. He watched as the FBI agent who had been hunting him for ten years tried to hold off a gun fight between two rivals.

While Black was attentive to the news report, his iPhone rang with a blocked number.

“Hello?” Black spoke in Creole.

“So, we catching each other in the homeland business, Black?” Polo’s voice spilled out of the receiver. “Since when we disrespect our own establishments going at each other under Haitian territory, huh?”

“Polo, when was the last time you played by the rules?” Black asked as Meme began sucking his dick to bring him back to life.

Together the twins took turns sucking his dick until he was finally erect.

“Black, you think the gods will respect you disrespecting territory owned by the gods?”

“Listen, Polo, these restaurants belong to me. If my men catch anything from Zo’pound, I order them to take ’em down. You’re running out of time, Polo. Who’s your sacrifice? Bo-Bo? If he betrayed me, he’ll betray you. Don’t you remember anything I’ve taught you, boy?” Black asked Polo, who was upset that one of Black’s men was killed in a Haitian establishment.

“Fuck you, Black! How ’bout I tell you how you will fall. You ever been held up by a young lion? I’ma sit back and watch Chub fall, and then you’ll fall by the same lion. Then I’ll take over everything with your name on it,” Polo reminded Black of his new enemy.

“That young lion is only a pup right now. He don’t understand right or wrong. But soon he will understand the power of the gods too,” Black retorted.

“Guess who’s training that pup, Black?” Polo asked as he began to chuckle. “See, I told you. You’re too blind to see your own funeral,” Polo said as he disconnected the call, leaving Black in a furious, vagrant, and disturbed mental state as evidenced by his dying erection.

“Leave! You two did good!” Black said as he dismissed the women.

“Call us again, when daddy needs us, okay?” Meme said as she slid into a silk robe.

“Okay, beautiful.”

They were gone in no later than a minute.

Polo’s last words really disturbed Black. He knew Polo didn’t blow smoke. He was too clever to say something that wasn’t true or what he was going to do or didn’t do.

“So, he’s training the pup?” Black mumbled to himself.

You’re too blind to see your own funeral! Polo’s words taunted Black.

“I will kill the pup myself and then come and kill you, Polo, whether the gods like it or not,” Black nonchalantly said to himself, making a lethal mistake by going against the gods.

 

* * *

 

After Palehead called Bo-Bo to report the run-in with Haitian men, he was told to report to the secret location where everyone met for important meetings. It was an old, abandoned gym that sat in a very remote area of the Ever-glades.

When Palehead arrived, Bo-Bo and his entourage were present awaiting his arrival. Palehead was everywhere on the news and had been positively identified by the FBI. He cut his dreadlocks to move furtively, and was now ready to ask Bo-Bo to send word to Polo to have him sent back to Haiti. But Polo strictly had other plans for Palehead, unbeknownst to him.

The only light illuminating the gym came from four burning candles. Palehead entered wearing a black hoodie sweater, and then administered the code handshake with everyone inside.

“Glad you could make it, Palehead,” Bo-Bo said.

“Me too, man. Shit crazy out there. I can’t believe this shit is happening, man,” Palehead spoke in Creole.

“We’re all stunned about Lil Zoe’s death, but we must not forget that he is in a more peaceful place now, okay?” Bo-Bo said while squeezing Palehead’s shoulder for support. “Hold your head up, Palehead, and know that you did what you had to do, Haitian. You did your best.” Bo-Bo lifted Palehead’s head up by his chin to look him in his eyes. “Polo is proud of you. We will take care of everything. We are a nation, one together.” After a slight pause, Bo-Bo then asked, “How much does the Z-Nation owe you, Haitian?”

“The Z-Nation owes me nothing!”

Before Palehead could get out his statement, his Zo’pound brother, Snake, shoved a sword through his back that went through his heart and burst out of his chest. Palehead was dead instantly. Before his knees buckled, Snake pulled the sword out and then swiped at his head, decapitating Palehead with one artistic swipe.

“May the gods bless his soul,” Bo-Bo said.

Together, the entourage prayed for Palehead to be in a safe place with their gods.

“Snake, complete the burial. Everyone else, retire back to your own business,” Bo-Bo commanded.

All at once, the crowd dispersed and went their separate ways. Further down from the gym was a swamp, which is where Snake dumped Palehead’s body, excluding his head.

Snake was a very swarthy, old-school Haitian who had innumerable body counts. With only one eye, he still was able to defeat the best and most fierce fighters and take out the roughest killers. Snake was muscle-bound, stood six two and weighed 225 pounds solid. He was a feared man in the Zo’pound Nation, who knew rituals that would fuck up an enemy’s life, despite being limited to specific rituals. The gators came at his call and took Palehead’s body under the water.

Polo saw Palehead as a risk since he was wanted by the FBI—people who no doubt would have had him within the next forty-eight hours. The gods had called Palehead home as a sacrifice, a place where he would be at perpetual peace.

 

* * *

 

The next morning when Agent Davis arrived at headquarters in Miami, he was still upset with his partner, Agent Smalls, who he tried chewing out and blaming for Palehead’s escape. Director Tom Johnson found that Smalls was simply acting out of duty to her best interest under the perilous situation, and excused her actions.

“Good morning, Davis. Do you want some coffee and donuts?” Agent Smalls offered from her desk at her cubicle.

“No thanks, Ms. Hero,” Davis replied sarcastically as he removed his jacket and saw the brown box on his desk.

Looking at the box, his first thought was the footage of the murders from the drone that had occurred in Martin County on Spruce Street.

“I’ll handle my own coffee and donuts if I need them,” Davis informed Smalls.

“Listen, Davis,” Smalls spoke as she stood and turned around to of face him. “Maybe I was wrong in your judgment, but I only wanted to catch the same bad guys. It’s neither of our faults that the muthafucka was wearing a damn vest. You even said it yourself that you could tell he had a vest on. So why didn’t you cuff him? I didn’t raise this hell in front of Johnson, because you’re my partner. But before you try to make me feel bad, double check your missed alternatives and cast judgment on yourself. You want to be in your damn feelings. What’s done is done, okay? Suck it up, be a man ’bout it, and let’s find these muthafuckas. We find Palehead, and we may have our first break,” Smalls said as she turned back around and resumed eating her donuts. “And the donut offer is still on the table. I’m not walking to get you coffee now. That offer is gone. I’m mad now!” Smalls added.

“I’ll take a donut when I go buy my own, prissy!” Agent Davis said.

“Fuck you, Davis!” Smalls said, getting a chuckle out of her partner.

No, let me fuck you! Davis thought.

Agent Davis read an old report summary about the Martin County prison escape and then stashed it in his file of cold cases. He was a veteran and worked strategically like one. If the suspect wasn’t found or there were no convincing evidence-producing leads within forty-eight hours, then the case was considered cold to him. The only case that he refused to accept as cold was Jean Black Pierre.

After sorting through more useless documents, Davis removed a pocket knife from his jeans pockets and cut the sealed tape to the brown box on his desk. When he opened it, he became perplexed when he saw a silver pot inside.

“What the fuck we need with a pot? Are we sure this is ours?”

“Holy fuck! What’s that smell?” Smalls shouted, jumping up out of her seat at the reek of bad decomposition.

Agent Davis removed the lid of the pot and got a more intense reek from the gruesome sight of Palehead’s decapitated head surrounded by rotten potatoes.

“Agent Smalls, I think we’ve found Palehead,” Davis announced, recognizing the face of the escaped gunman.

“Oh my gosh! I’m about to puke!” Smalls said as she made a dash to the bathroom.

Agent Davis was at a loss for words as he continued to stare at the head. He was searching his vagrant mind for some clue to unbind his bewilderment. Being that Black was Haitian mafia, Mr. Lewis had killed himself, and a Zo’pound man’s head was on his desk, Davis suspected no one other than Black.

But why Mr. Lewis? Davis wanted to know.

“Damn, son!” Davis exclaimed loudly.

“Director Johnson is on line one,” Agent Smalls said over his shoulder while holding a towel to her nose to avoid the smell of decomposing flesh and death.

 

* * *

 

When Real pulled up to Polo’s mansion, he greeted Bo-Bo and Snake. After giving them both a dap, he then hopped into the backseat of the limo with Polo.

The chauffeur pulled off, and Polo sparked flame to a phat kush blunt, took a pull, and then passed it to Real. Haitian music emanated at a low volume as they drove through the city limits of East Lauderdale. It was a beautiful sight, and the women were adorable. The limo made a left on 54th and then pulled into a Haitian restaurant that belonged to Polo and was run by a dear friend of his.

They sat at an inside table and enjoyed the delicious meal of curry goat, chicken feet, yellow rice, and fried cabbage.

“Real, you’ve been a true loyal friend, and I really appreciate you,” Polo spoke in a deep Haitian accent.

“Loyalty first. All ready,” Real retorted.

“Listen, Real. Zo’pound is bigger than what you see. We are family. We move on cause, and execute risk and failure. The FBI wants me to give up the risk and failure, something Black had already given them,” Polo explained to Real, who as always listened attentively. “We are a seasonal fraud master, drug distributor, and vacationer. Since I like you and you’re not bound to the rules of Zo’pound, I want to show you how we appreciate you. Zo’pound is moving into the season of vacation that prohibits us from doing anything other than chilling. Real, with your price at 20.5, it’s feeble once I give you half of the East Coast.”

What the fuck! He say half of the East Coast? Real thought.

“Pablo is a good man, and you’ve given him the skin off your back and gave me a pure heart. You’ve outsmarted Black and forced him to give up his own right hand. I’ma give you the secret to kill Black,” Polo said as he leaned in closer toward Real while wiping his mouth.

“Kill Big Chub, and Black will surely die. Haitian mafia will yield to Zo’pound when the head falls. He’s recruiting every day, son, and you’re still a big threat to him. The streets are yours, lion. When Bo-Bo and Snake call you, all you have to do is send your man with whatever and establish yourself. Oh yeah, before I forget,” Polo said, reaching his hand into his slacks and retrieving a set of keys, which he tossed in the air to Real.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a gift from the Z-Nation. It’s a nice beach house at 3201 Mango Street in South Beach. It’s all yours, and only us two know about it. When you need time to get away, enjoy peace of mind on the beach while staring out at the ocean,” Polo said.

“Thanks, Polo,” Real answered.

Polo was a real nigga and reminded Real of someone he really needed to go pay a visit. Being engrossed in the streets—killing, dealing, and not chilling—he barely had time for his family and his father. He was going to visit Shamoney for the first time after being cleared.

I gotta go see my father, man.

Polo saw Real lost in his thoughts. He knew exactly what was going through his mind, so he surprised Real when he spoke.

“We only have one father, Real. If you love him, just know he’s waiting on you.”

What the fuck! This man is too powerful, Real thought. “Can I ask you a question, Polo?”

“Of course.”

“Are you a believer of voodooism?” Real asked.

“I am strongly, and it’s something I was born in,” Polo retorted.

“Is it true that if I don’t believe in it, then it won’t affect me at all?”

“Real, if you have that much faith in disbelief, then you already believe in it. You’re just afraid to trust it,” Polo explained.

“Can Black do the works?”

“Yes, he can. That’s why it’s important to kill Chub. Ineffably, you’ll never understand, but trust me, you are protected by Polo gods, whether you believe or not,” Polo said.

Real was no fool. He had his skeptical thoughts that maybe Gina was telling the truth about Black casting voodoo on her. Lately, her demented mind had increased to the point that all day she sounded like a chicken if not sedated. Chantele was tired and badly wanted to send Gina off to a mental home. But she first wanted to get approval from Shamoney. She too believed that someone placed a voodoo spell on Gina.

“Black put voodoo on Gina. How can we bring her back?” Real asked.

“Kill Chub, and Black will go weak. He gave Pat to the gods as a sacrifice. Don’t let him prevail on you,” Polo warned him.

“I won’t,” Real said.