Chapter 10: Dealer’s Choice Tonight Baby

(For mature audiences)

(This version isn’t finalized. All writings are from its origin and unedited.)

Quinntella strolls to the next apartment and sits directly across from me. Even without looking, I know it’s her. So bold stepping. No tiptoe into an apology ready to go. I resist gazing into her eyes for another staredown that will mean more to me than it will to her. She will likely want to discuss newfound contents, of which I choose to display no interest. Promising that I wouldn’t give up on her, I’d have no choice when she does bring that up. What’s wrong with hope?

She speaks while I hold a stare down at the table, picking the dirt from my fingernails, “You mad at me?”

She knows that I am and knows that it won’t stick for long, but I like that she doesn’t rule it out.

I plainly answer, “No.”

“Look, I’ve pissed so many people off worse than this, I don’t see the big deal.”

“You seem to be pretending like you don’t know who Bruno Yigarin is and what he can do.”

“And you seem to be forgetting who I am and what I can do.”

Aware I won’t win, I sigh and argue out of courtesy to my pride, “People are afraid of you; that does not negate the fact that Bruno won’t do what it takes to keep his secrets a secret. You may not give a fuck but I do. I always have. I lost my best friend once already and you know I won’t let it happen again.”

She responds quickly, “Then don’t.”

There’s no way someone so dangerous can be so naïve. What does she really have in store? I’m familiar enough to know that she’s always got a hidden agenda for whatever she comes across. Any opportunity that landed in her lap, regardless of what it does or who it belongs to, she just plays with it. Eventually that opportunity will work for her, or she’ll just break it so it’ll never work for anyone. For Bruno to flip a colleague’s bank to Quinn, seeing only an outsider like her can deliver, important documents about his allies must be involved; something Quinn can play with.

Dammit. Justifying actions and haven’t even been asked yet. She never looks down the road, only down at her feet. Two years in juvie and seven years in prison developed actions and attitudes that I try being understanding about. Biggest badass is in favor now but won’t last forever. It can’t. Same as Quinn’s knocked people off the ladder, someone will forever be climbing up behind to take claim. She’s stared death in the face too many times that it’s built an invincibility complex. Alternatives to victory don’t exist there.

Brandon visits us with his expensive laptop and slams it on the limp table, excitedly demanding, “Check that shit out!”

His behavior doesn’t surprise Quinn nor myself, thus slamming a thousand dollar object gains no traction. Quinn examines the bright screen in the dark room, noticing me not surfing.

She requests my eyes by mocking Brandon, “Hey Jordan, check this shit out.”

She smiles. My smirk lasts a split second of false meaning, and still ultimately does what she says. The information is a transaction list of people Danielle’s dealt with in mainly money laundering. The drug front of the avenue is run by another esteemed member of the High Table. This can hurt them all without a bullet fired. As head, why the fuck would he keep this at all? Quinn takes a photo of the list on her phone.

She states, “This is like a who’s who of drug dealers and gambling fronts. We just struck gold.”

I facetiously ask, “You gonna put him outta business by flippin’ his partners?”

“Don’t see why not. Better than my idea, I was gonna go down the list and start burnin’ shit down. It’ll be much better to compete with him and bring in more money ourselves.”

I lean back and reply with frustration that she’s considering what I said, “You don’t even care about the money.”

She nods over at Brandon and confirms, “He does.”

Brandon expresses his love to me with a sweet voice, “I do. There’s no greater partner to have. I like to just be around it, hold it, snuggle and count it, take it everywhere I go. It’s a well-known fact that most people, especially men, spend more time with money than their own spouses.”

My attitude remains, “Fuck him. What’re you even talkin’ about?”

“Money.”

I explain to Quinn, “We don’t know what kinds of people work under Bruno or if we can just push them over. When– when he catches wind of what you’re considering, he’ll do everything in his power to wipe us out.”

Brandon suggests, “Not if we wipe him out first.”

I quickly raise my voice at him, “Would you shut the fuck up?!”

Quinntella chuckles and says to me, “Calm down, it’s aight. Long day for everybody right? We’ll hash all this out tomorrow. Currently, we’re sitting on three and a half million dollars, so just do something with that. Go get some pussy… or dick, Brandon.”

Brandon snatches his laptop and speeds away, “Dealer’s choice tonight baby. See ya.”

Quinn raises her voice, “One bag, Brandon!” Without any eye contact, she addresses me, “You and Trane get two. I might say it to you, in particular, too much but you saved my ass today.”

She stares at her phone as I acknowledge, “If you say so. Be careful.” On my way out, I stop and get curious, “What else was in that deposit box?”

“Nothin’.”

A list of Bruno’s associates is beneficial on its own; worth much more than anything we made today, truthfully, up to this point. In my older two years under her, we’d trampled enough shit to fertilize Kansas state. Millions set aside means nothing without her; these bags just get tossed in a compartment under my mom’s shed and forgotten about until Quinn finally hits a limit. Everyone has them. I simply need to keep pushing through mine at every turn for my dream girl. That would mean I don’t? What I’ve seen her do to people and try to do, I’m not certain she has a limit either. This race gets exhausting to run. I see the finish line, and right before I cross, another lap gets added.

As much as I attempt persuasive techniques, there is nothing on this Earth I would not do for Quinntella Wallace. She used to be everything I ever wanted, and that smart girl is still in there; whenever it’s just us two hanging, doing regular stuff, the softened interior frees itself. Her normal side is as beautiful as it was when we were teens. I sit next to her and she still smiles without looking. My goal is where she wakes one morning and just can’t do this shit anymore. When will that be? Every day, it’s the same questions, and every day, the blank line waits for a written answer.

I approach the bags. My two fingers signal Trane that two are his. One bag over my shoulder then another at my side as I leave the apartment. With one bag and laptop satchel, Brandon trails behind me. Trane soon comes behind him. A strong part of me hates Brandon; an enabler and dickhead wrapped into one that’s quick to contribute and not lift a finger. His kind prefers life on the edge, bothering those who’d end it slowly. Trane and I clicked, since the beginning. I was the last entry and only to reach top in the invisible ranking system; clearly existent to everyone else except Quinn.

The elevator flinches before carrying us toward the lobby, soon occupied by partygoers. We give the joining couple room to comfortably enter. First thing Trane does is stare at the ridiculous ass on the woman that spun it to him. The elevator door closes, continuing our descent. Her date or boyfriend takes notice to Trane staring, facing forward with annoyance. His left hand raises to his chin and the stubble underneath gets a reflecting caress. Trane notices. Problem? My friends didn’t mind those, but I did. Would I jump in, if needed? Stupid.

The tired woman cuddles up to rest on her man’s shoulder. Proves ownership of who she wants. Gives him enough confidence back to side-eye Trane with a smirk. Trane smiles at the man and lifts his shirt to the waistband. Revealing his pistol stiffens the man, who looks at me side eyeing him, then faces him forward. Whatever grudge he thought was a good idea to have vanished. We’re at the lobby. Making a comment about it being cool, the man rushes ahead with his woman to the rear exit.

Brandon takes lead outside, walking backward, “What’re y’all gonna do tonight? Massive titties need to be in my face within the next twenty minutes or I’m gonna lose my shit.”

I reject his invitation, “I’m good on the strip club.”

Trane rejects him as well, “Unlike you, I had to rob a bank and break into a precinct within the same twenty-four. I’m going home.”

Brandon explains, “After what happened last time, I would not step foot in a strip club with you two again, regardless who’s at fault. I was just looking for more ideas on what I could do later. But clearly you two have diaphragms that need to be changed so I’ll be on my way.”

Brandon turns away. Bang! Bang! Immediately accepts two bullets on continued curbside approach. His body falls. I’m startled into dropping my handheld bag and yanking my pistol, shifting away during more bangs. I blindly fire across the street. Not a care about who gets hit. Two people wearing all black come into visual. Their muzzles are lighting them up in the dark. It’s hard to see. I sidestep right to prevent them landing more. Still firing.

One body drops, not knowing if it was me or Trane in luck. The gunned down attacker’s screams dim to restraint. A black SUV smashes on its brakes at the curb, screeching up a whining echo of burnt rubber. The standing attacker goes to help the struck man. Machine guns from both passenger windows occupy sight. Sounds go quicker and louder. My sidestep changes into a run for cover. I retreat to a small wall near the entry doors that divide the BBQ area and lunch tables from a side entrance wheelchair ramp.

Bullets bank off concrete and spew into first floor apartments. I dive over three feet of wall onto hard pavement. Inch as close to the mini wall as possible on my stomach. A car door slams shut and screeching screams over the music from inside the complex. Absence of gunfire is brief. Trane instigates more shooting at the fleeing vehicle. Out of habit, I catch the plate number. Instead of wasting bullets, I hop the wall. Flash to Brandon. Slight movements and breath breaking the cold night that’s gotten colder.

I kneel at Brandon, whose hands are covered in blood, “Is it bad?”

I reply with uncertainty, “It’s not good. Keep pressure down.”

He grunts loud, clutching his right side, “Fuck… I hate getting shot.”

He releases another grunt and Trane tosses me keys, “Pull up, I’ll carry him.”

I leave Brandon’s sky view. Rush to get the black truck we left parked up front. If anything was planted, attackers would have waited. The engine turns over fine and I mount the curb in reverse, closing on Trane. Quinn and Warren, whom I didn’t even know were here, are carrying multiple black bags to the truck. I get out, open the trunk then the back door, going further to get the final bag that Brandon dropped. Returning to drive, I hand the bag to Warren through the front passenger window. Speed us off the curb to anywhere but here.

Over Brandon’s burning pain and outside winds, Quinn loudly asks as I weave traffic, “What the fuck happened?!”

Trane explains loud, “We walked outta the lobby and two muthafuckas started shootin’! We ain’t even see ’em! They jumped in a black truck and took off!”

Brandon’s cracking voice fades in, “Did someone get my bag?!”

I roll up the power windows and ask, “Where’re we goin’?”

Quinn answers, “We gotta take him to Doc.”

“Can’t, remember? Thanks to you shootin’ him in the leg, we’re not welcome back there.”

She responds sarcastically, “Then let us take him to a fuckin’ hospital.”

Trane intervenes, “Doc will take care of us for one of these bags. Just get us there quick.”

Paying attention to cars up front for too long, sudden silence alerts me to an accelerated engine behind us. I look in my rear mirror, not getting a good visual before the back of our truck is slammed into. Steering is temporarily stunned out of control. I try to straighten the wheel without tipping us over and sideswipe a car in the opposing lane, causing it to crash into a parked car. Fixed into my lane, I speed up. Sift traffic more aggressive to evade whoever’s following us.

Quinn shouts, “Who the hell is that?!”

I check the front plate on this black truck and answer, “Must’ve followed us from the complex. That’s not the same from before. Plates don’t match.”

Trane states, “Yeah, no shortage of these on the street.”

A gun bangs. The tinted back window shatters. Without hesitation, Warren flings his Uzi and half of himself into the back seat and starts spraying out the window. It’s so loud that’s all I can hear repeating. The pursuer swerves out of control, or in control, to avoid the bullet storm. At each swerve, more of Warren’s properly calculated bullets punch anyway. Their steering goes stiff and into the next lane. Head on collision.

Who is after us this hard? I had Brandon convince a biker gang to shoot up that police station with hefty profit in mind. Did screwing them bounce on us this fast? Shouldn’t they be chasing us on chopper motorcycles or something obnoxious in sound? Warren retakes his seat. Headlights brighten blindingly on my right through a red. I don’t have a second to think through the single honk. Beams smash into our truck, throwing it into a spin and crash into oncoming traffic. My side gets rammed into, knocking my lights out on the driver door’s glass.