Chapter 14
Sakou and I sat in Crown Fried Chicken on Sutphin Boulevard in Jamaica, Queens. We was all out in the open like we didn’t have shit to worry about. And you know what? After a while I began to feel like we didn’t.
Suddenly I was feeling strong, stronger than I ever felt, strong enough to tell that nigga Sakou I was done, whether he liked it or not. While he spoke, I stared directly in his eye with a hate I hadn’t felt since the days of Tyrone. I was feeling like a man and had forgotten very long ago what it might’ve been like to act any different.
“Something the matter. Qui?”
“Ain’t shit, yo. I’m just listening to you.”
“Yeah? Well, you acting as if you not here with me.”
“What you want from me, man? Why you fucking with me?”
“I ain’t been being straight with you, but I’m about to.”
“I don’t even care. I just want to be done with you. You got it where I might have to leave town and shit. I’m not fucking with you, man,” I said, pointing in his face.
Sakou slapped my hand down, and we both shot up from the table ready for whatever.
The Indians behind the counter of the restaurant began lining up to watch as our angry voices interrupted the patrons trying to peacefully enjoy their lunch. An officer directing traffic happened to look over at us through the window, and the patrons rushing out the store’s single door.
“You making a scene,” Sakou said through his gritted teeth.
“Yo, I’m telling you, man, this the last time. Tell me what the fuck I got to do.”
“I’m not scared of no bitch, Quiana. Don’t let those niggas out there fool you.”
Sakou hailed a cab down through the store window. The driver stopped at the corner and waited for us to walk out.
The officer began walking toward us as we opened the back and front doors to the cab.
“Everything all right, officer?” Sakou asked, stepping down into the front seat.
“I might want to ask you the same. Miss,—The officer looked at me with concern in his eyes—“is everything all right?”
I put my head down and turned away.
The officer said to Sakou, “Please step out of the car, sir.” Then he called out a sequence of numerical codes through his radio.
“What’s the problem, officer?” Sakou stepped out of the car with an attitude. “You just a traffic officer.”
“I’ll ask you once more, sir. Is there a problem?”
Sakou stepped back inside then slammed the door closed. “Shut up and mind your business.”
“Buddy, don’t slam door please. It cost very, very much to fix.” The Arab cab driver looked in his rearview mirror. “Where to, buddy?”
After being dropped off in Flatbush, Brooklyn, we picked up Sakou’s truck from the garage of a mechanic shop that his friend owned then headed out to Danbury, Connecticut, where his wife and a three-year-old son resided.
Sakou ran inside his house and quickly returned. He exchanged his truck for the blue SLK parked in his driveway and headed right back toward the city. He dropped me off at home and was right back to pick me up at the crack of dawn. According to him, there was major business to handle, and he needed me to be there.
We stopped at the homes of well-to-do people with extravagant homes and expensive cars. Doctors, lawyers, real estate agents and drug dealers all shared their peaceful New Jersey community, living comfortably within the confines of a lower tax bracket.
Sakou and I paid a visit to one of those homes in the extravagant community. He beeped his horn at the green iron gates before us. They soundlessly opened, and we entered. We drove a little way before turning down a winding curve that soon straightened. A brilliant green wall of ivy blocked the surrounding light of the sun as we continued forward in silence. Neither one of us had said a word since the Jamaica Avenue argument.
As we approached the five-car garage of the Sicilian-style home, Sakou said, “This is what I need from you right now. You listening?”
“Go ’head.”
“When you get in here, don’t say shit.”
“I’m not going in until you tell me what’s up. Word up. You’ll just have to shoot me.”
“I ain’t got time for this right now. Bring your ass.” Sakou opened his door.
“What? You don’t understand English, nigga? What I say? I ain’t moving until you tell me something.”
“All right. If I tell you, you’re down for good, and that’s that. You really want to know that bad?”
“It can’t be no worse than it’s already been, with me looking over my shoulder and shit. Spit that shit.”
“I kill for a living. And now that you know, so do you. Let’s go, bitch.” Sakou pointed his gun at me.
After Sakou rang the intercom bell attached near the front door and announced himself, a butler answered the door and led the way through the foyer, the guestroom, the kitchen, the plant room, the bathroom, and the portrait room. We walked outside through glass patio doors into Mikey Sarionni’s enormous backyard. He was floating on an inflatable cushion in his Olympic-sized swimming pool. Armed guards, associates, and other shady-looking individuals mingled about the yard, keeping a very watchful eye on the man of the hour.
“Stay right here,” the butler said. “I’ll let Mr. Sarionni know you’re here.”
Mr. Sarionni looked over at us from the pool and signaled for us to wait. Then three of his men came over and patted us down, and came up with Sakou’s gun.
We sat inside in Mr. Sarionni’s home office, where four of his guards were staring us hard. Mr. Sarionni did the whole Tony Soprano routine. He pulled a cigar from a box sitting on his desk and clipped the butt off with a cigar cutter from Cuba. He dragged it under his nose, sniffing pleasurably. He lit it, inhaled deeply, and let loose chronic coughs. “I gotta quit these things,” he stated, red-eyed and breathless.
“I know what you mean,” Sakou said. “You just can’t find a good cigar anymore, right?”
“This is not a time for jokes, Sakou. I mean, I wouldn’t be joking around if I were you. Know what I’m saying?” He looked me up and down. “Who in the fuck are you? What are you, a girl or boy?” Then he said to Sakou, “I hope this isn’t what you brought for protection, because, frankly, I’m not impressed.”
I looked over to Sakou for a directive.
“What the fuck you looking at me for? The man asked you a question.”
I rolled my eyes at Sakou. “Quiana.”
“Excuse me?” he said, cupping his ear with his hand. “You’ll have to speak up. What’d you say it was?”
“I said Quiana.”
“What are you, some kind of basketball player or something? Most of yous giants always play that shit. Fucking WNBA. I have something you can dunk—fucking Kobe Bryant, the greatest player to touch a ball since Michael Jordan. Fuck you! They pay Kobe all of that fucking money to rape white women. Get the fuck outta here.” He kicked himself away from his swivel chair. “You do know why I called you here, right?” he asked Sakou. “The shit is all over the news. .It’s just a matter of time.”
“Where’s the money, Mikey? I’m not here for your bullshit.”
“You’re not here for my bullshit? YOU FUCKED THE FUCKING JOB UP, COCKSUCKER!” Mikey banged on his desk. “HOW DO YOU GET THE MONEY IF HE’S ALREADY DEAD?”
“You wanted him gone, right? He’s gone.”
“Not before you got the accounts. You needed to know the accounts. Now what the fuck am I supposed to tell my people?”
“That’s your problem. I did my job.”
“Hey, you,” Mr. Sarionni said to me, “leave your identification here.”
I shot up out my chair. “What?”
Sarionni’s men surrounded me then fished through my pockets for my wallet while Sakou stood idly by. I struggled with them, but one of the men managed to pull my license out.
“Now I know where you live,” Sarionni said. “If any of this bullshit he got me into falls on me, it falls on you. I already know where you live. That goes for you too, Sakou.”
“The money ... you don’t have to worry about giving it to me. You know the fuck who it really belongs to,” Sakou responded.
“Yeah. You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Get them the fuck out of my house. Tony, get that briefcase from behind the bookshelf.”
Tony walked over to the shelf and retrieved a brown briefcase. He brought it back over to Mr. Sarionni and placed it into his awaiting hands.
“That’s one hundred thousand dollars in there. Do you want to count it, Einstein?” he said, holding it out to Sakou.
“I don’t have to,” Sakou said, snatching it from him.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because if it’s not all there, you’ll end up like Max. Get your bitches to walk me to the door.”
“What makes you think I won’t shoot you and your little transvestite over here before you even make it out of this office?” Mikey pulled a gun out from his desk drawer.
“Be sure to tell your bitches to give me back my gun when we get to the front door.”
As we exited the office, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Sarionni holding up his gun in the reflection of the portrait-sized mirror by the door. He acted as if he was about to take an imaginary shot, and smiled after realizing I saw him.