Angel's Revenge (5 page)

She entered the plush room and flipped on the answering machine. The first voice she heard was Young World’s.

“Don’t ever do that again, you hear me? Trust ain’t never been an issue. So don’t make it one.”

The message ended.

Lana smiled to herself. Young World was right. She knew what he was going through out in the streets. He had the usual—the
beefs, the police, the snitches, and those who wanted a piece of him. He had enough to worry about without his backbone getting
weak, and she was definitely his backbone.

“I love you, boo,” she chimed back to the recorded message. As she undressed for a shower, several messages rattled off, but
the last one caught her attention.

“Young World, look this Angel. You don’t know me like that, but I’m sure you know the name and what it’s about. We need to
talk. Call me 818-555-3879. Ask for Goldilocks. She got a message for you.”

Angel?
Lana thought as she flipped on her favorite Mary J CD and hopped into the shower.

She thought about a bath but was too lazy to clean the tub and run the water. Besides, she was in the mood to feel the pulsating
pumps of the multijet sprayers. It was more relaxing, more sensual. Lana loved to feel the warm water cascade down her five-foot-five,
130-pound, well-toned frame. The spray felt like World’s tongue all over her. The pulsating water made her jones come down
for real. All she could think of was World in the shower with her, holding her tight and keeping her close.

Young World was her first and only lover, so what she knew of love he had taught her. He knew all of her secrets. She knew
all of his weaknesses. Together, they had explored each other and learned life as one.

Lana turned off the shower and began to dry herself off, going back out the bedroom. Mary J’s “Seven Days” had just begun
to play as Lana stepped onto a carpet so soft it felt like walking on a cloud. She turned up the temperature on their water
bed then went to get some panties when she remembered World’s last words that night and decided to leave them in the drawer.
She stretched across the bed and lit up the half blunt that sat in the ashtray. Life was good.

The euphoria of the weed mellowed her out. Lana glanced at the clock: 12:27 a.m. She sighed as she snuggled into the silk
Gucci sheets bunched up in all the right places and zoned into relaxation. She inhaled the purple haze. Young World was out
taking care of business and she knew there was no telling when he’d get back. So until he did, she’d have to entertain herself.
Her hands slid lower down her pelvis.

The iron gates of the sixteen-bedroom, twenty-two-bath mansion swung open slowly to admit Young World’s CL 55 onto the private
property. The driveway led to a bridge that crossed a man-made lake framing the front of the mansion like a medieval moat.
The lights along the lake shimmered in the mirror of the water as the short bridge led him to a driveway that ended at the
front door. The mansion was built to suit Greco-Roman tastes. Four spiral ivory columns supported the curved alabaster awning
that led up the stairs to the first floor.

Duke looked at the spread lustfully. It was the exact type of place he saw himself in in a few years. After he finished his
grind, he too would live like this. From one-room, roach-infested tenements to rented condos to this. This was what the game
was all about for Duke. He had never met the connect before and wondered if he was a Tony Montana–looking Cuban or suave Sosa-type
muthafucka.

“Damn this muthafucka laced!” Duke exclaimed in a whisper full of awe, thinking of Jadakiss’s words to “Mansion by the Lake,”
and Young World silently agreed. Young World had only met the connect twice before but never at his home. It made the crib
World had just purchased look like a double-wide in a redneck trailer park.

As Young World pulled up to the awning, two burly men in dark suits wearing earpiece communicators emerged from the shadows
and approached the car.

Young World lowered his window before speaking to the dark suits. “Mr. Ceylon is expectin’ us.”

“We know,” said the taller of the two, who smirked. The CL wouldn’t have gotten in if they weren’t expected.

“Follow me,” said the shorter one.

World and Duke got out of the car as the short guard led them to the door. Before letting them enter, he scanned them both
with a hand-held metal detector. The erratic beeping blurted out sirens near Duke’s waist. Duke handed the guard his gun and
Young World did the same with his .45. Once relieved of their weapons, they were escorted into the mansion.

Inside, they were greeted by the sounds of a piano sonata that World thought was a record, but it was Ceylon sitting in his
living room playing Mozart himself. As Duke and World entered, Ceylon kept his eyes closed and continued to play. The guards
closed the door and left them alone with Ceylon.

Duke looked at the man behind the piano, eyes closed like he was meditating. He was nothing like Duke expected. Instead of
a suave Spaniard, Ceylon was small, almost tiny, skinny and frail. He reminded Duke of a bookkeeper. His sharp aquiline nose
gave away his ethnicity.

Ceylon was of Turkish origin, and although he was small, his power was huge. He was a diplomat, and the man he represented
would make Frank Sosa look like a corner hustler. Ceylon himself was far from a drug dealer. His international influence merely
made it easy for men like his clients to flood the streets from New York to Frankfurt with the deadly white poison.

Ceylon dined with presidents, dictators, world bankers, and terrorists, and now here he was, meeting with two brash young
thugs from the ghetto. Never underestimate the power of the streets. He had called Young World and asked to meet him personally,
something he rarely did, and Young World knew why. World knew he wasn’t moving a fifth of what he used to move, and Ceylon’s
patience was running thin. How thin, World didn’t know. He made World wish he still had his burner on his waist, just in case.

Ceylon ended his sonata on the Steinway and sat stone still, eyes remaining closed, as the last vibration of notes dissipated
into silence.

“Mr. Cey—”

“Shhh,” Ceylon softly whispered, putting a finger to his lips. “Music is like fine wine. It must be savored, and talk is bad
for my digestion,” he philosophized in a nasal Turkish accent. He sounded like a cross between Elijah Muhammad and Einstein.

Young World and Duke exchanged glances. After a few seconds, Ceylon rose from the piano bench and approached his guests.

“Mr. Young World and Duke, I presume,” Ceylon greeted. Duke nodded.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ceylon,” Duke replied extending a hand, which Ceylon disdainfully regarded then totally ignored.

Ceylon folded his arms behind his back and responded, “It remains to be seen if it is a pleasure to meet or not.”

Duke lowered his hand, gritting his teeth on the low. Ceylon turned to World.

“I would offer you a drink but you won’t be staying long. I am a man who does not mince words and waste time, and you, Mr.
World, are wasting my time.”

World’s ego stiffened and he wanted to answer him with some fly shit but checked his tongue.

“Mr. Ceylon, with all due respect, I’m doin’ all I can but things are hectic right now. Wit’ everybody snitchin’, the Feds
everywhere and the mob—” he tried to explain, but Ceylon smoothly cut him off.

“Excuses are never good reasons,” Mr. Ceylon said with a patronizing smirk. He turned on his heel, went to the bar, and poured
himself a drink.

“I am fully aware of your current situation, painfully aware actually. You have lost major portions of your territory to rival
factions and defections from your own camp. The mob, as you call them, has muscled you out of entire cities and you appear
powerless to do anything about it.”

Ceylon sipped his drink and approached Young World.

“Do you know how much product Dutch distributed weekly? No less than twenty-five hundred kilograms of heroin. While you, his
chosen, so-called protégé, can barely muster thirteen hundred or fifteen hundred a month,” Ceylon explained, steadily eyeing
World.

“I ain’t Dutch,” World stated as a matter of fact, returning his gaze.

“This, too, is obvious,” Ceylon agreed before placing his drink on a table. “There are few men I have trusted, five… no, four,
because I can’t always include myself. Four, and I have known countless. Dutch is one of those four. Do you know why?” he
asked as he looked Young World in the eye.

Young World didn’t respond, so he continued.

“Because of the eye,” he said, tapping his eyelid and turning away. “It never lies. To know a man is to know the truth as
to what he will or won’t do, and it all lies in the eye. I have searched many eyes and read them all. Except Dutch. Do you
know what I saw in his eyes? Nothing except the reflection of myself.”

“What do you see in mine?” World asked, wanting to know where he stood in all this.

“Fear, hate, confusion, but most of all, determination to overcome all of that.”

Young World didn’t know if he had just been insulted or complimented so he thought carefully before he spoke.

“Look, Mr. Ceylon. I didn’t come here to make excuses. Like I said, shit is hectic. They bleed, we bleed, then they bleed
some more. That’s how it goes on the streets ’cause not everybody got the luxury of sitting around playing piano.”

Ceylon smirked at Young World’s snideness. “This is very true… But, I wonder, Mr. World, if you know the difference between
a goon and a gangster?”

“I suppose you gonna tell me.”

“Every gangster starts out as a goon. He must because power is born of force. But when a man continues to use violence, it
means he didn’t use it right the first time. He is still a goon. His power is always in question, therefore it will one day
be usurped. But a gangster, ahhh, a gangster is a man who makes his own rules and the rest are left to follow. His nod is
his gun, a mere smile seals the deal, and his word is law.”

Ceylon dropped his jaw, then added, “Now, because I trusted Dutch, I trust his judgment. So therefore I am open to trust you
because yours is the name he left. It is against my own judgment, but after all, that is what trust is about, no?”

World nodded. Duke wanted to speak but World was in charge so he played his position.

“Whatever I gotta do to rep my bloodline, I’ll do. You got my word on that, Mr. Ceylon,” World vowed, meaning every word.
“Just give me six months and—”

“Thirty days,” Ceylon interrupted.

“Huh?”

“You have exactly thirty days to double your output. After that, you shall be cut off and cut out, and please do not try to
replace us with another supplier. It would be deemed disrespectful and treated as such.” Ceylon smirked, unveiling his threat.

Thirty days? This guy is crazy
, World thought, but he held his composure and responded.

“Mr. Ceylon, I can’t—”

Ceylon’s nasal tone escalated a decibel. “Can’t is not a word men of caliber use, unless, of course, it precedes the word
fail.”

He turned away quickly and went back to sit at the piano.

“To your credit, I can see the potential Dutch saw in you. You do have determination and you do have zeal. You just lack the
audacity it takes to be our mutual friend’s successor. Good evening, gentlemen.”

With that, Ceylon began to play his piano again, and as if on cue, the double doors swung open. The guards had been waiting
to escort Young World and Duke out.

Duke was heated. He and World drove in tense silence. He pulled on his Newport forcefully, and it glowed fire-red to match
his temper. The old man had dissed World to his face, threatened him like a schoolyard bully, and talked to him as if he was
a child.

The old man must’ve thought they were illiterate, but Duke knew exactly what Ceylon meant. He had basically called World a
dumb fuck and a coward, and World didn’t even defend himself. In so many words, Ceylon had even threatened to take the streets
they controlled. Niggas bled so they could eat and World let some old man tell him to his face that he’d take it.

Duke shook his head. Young World was getting soft. He had been suspecting it, and tonight confirmed it.

“What?” World asked, glancing at Duke. “You got somethin’ to say?”

“Nothin’, kid,” Duke replied, then tossed his cigarette out the window.

“Naw, Ock. Don’t bite your tongue. You got something to say, say it,” World insisted.

“Man… who the fuck does that nigga Ceylon think he be fuckin’ talkin’ to? I don’t give a damn who he know or where he from.
Ain’t nobody takin’ shit from us!” Duke exclaimed, in his mind replacing “us” with “me.”

Young World felt the same way, but what could he do? He knew Ceylon wasn’t the kind of man you took to war with a gun. He
was above street fights. To World and his young wolves, Ceylon was untouchable.

“So what do you suggest, huh? Go back, guns blazin’, and then what? Wait for the muthafucka to send his army?” World tried
to reason.

“We got an army, too. So fuck all that shit that nigga poppin’,” Duke reminded him, then almost as an afterthought he added,
“it ain’t nothin’ but a phone call unless you can’t make the call.”

Young World had reached a red light. “What the fuck that ’posed to mean, Duke?”

Duke was fed up with the way World was running things. “Just like I said, Ock. Shit that’s been happenin’ didn’t even have
to happen, but lately you been on some bullshit and I ain’t wit’ it.”

“Bullshit like what? Ceylon? You think you coulda handled it better, huh?”

The light turned green but World was so busy defending himself he didn’t see it, and the drivers behind him started hitting
their horns. Young World shot an evil look into the rearview, then slowly pulled off.

“I ain’t even talkin’ about Ceylon. I’m talking ’bout the bullshit!”

“What bullshit?!”

“Roll!” Duke barked, and Young World got quiet.

Roll was of the team and rap group Rock and Roll, until Craze broke them up with mind games. Rock stuck to producing music
and got out of the game but Roll had become one of Young World’s chief rivals. Roll’s name had been ringing bells and he had
a team spread out as thick as World’s. The only difference was that Roll was steadily expanding and World was steadily contracting.