Read The Cartel 4: Diamonds Are Forever Online

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The Cartel 4: Diamonds Are Forever (11 page)

BOOK: The Cartel 4: Diamonds Are Forever

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Buttons stood at the top tier that overlooked the whole operation. He stood six foot three inches and had the stature of a model. His long, curly hair was pulled back tightly into a ponytail as he slowly paced back and forth, overseeing his operation. He smoked a cigar and took his time as he deeply inhaled, letting the Cuban smoke dance on his lungs. Buttons was the kingpin of Rio and had a long history with the sale of cocaine. He had political connections and was literally untouchable inside of his country. He took a liking to Carter because of his business savvy and consistency.

Carter led the pack as they walked on to the floor and in between the long tables full of coke. Everyone seemed to be focused on their particular job and not on Carter and his crew. Buttons stopped pacing and looked down at Carter.

“Carter! Glad you could make it,” he said with open arms and a smile. Buttons made his way down the stairs followed closely by a young Brazilian gunman.

“Buttons. Thanks for having us,” Carter said as he walked toward Buttons and shook hands with him. Carter then turned around and looked at Zyir and Money. “Of course, you remember Zyir,” Carter said. Buttons nodded his head at Zyir, acknowledging him. Carter turned to Monroe and nodded toward him. “This is my brother, Monroe.”

“Monroe. How are you? I am Buttons,” he said with a heavy accent.

“I’m good,” Monroe said as he stepped forward and extended his hand to Buttons. Buttons shook his hand and was impressed with Monroe’s demeanor and fearlessness. While Zyir usually played the back, Monroe wanted to make his presence known; Buttons sensed this.

The rendezvous was about an hour, and Carter discussed a bigger shipment with Buttons, and Monroe listened closely and analyzed their business relationship. For what Carter was getting them for, Monroe used to get them for half that price when he was over The Cartel. Monroe’s mind immediately began to churn, thinking about a master plan. He saw a lot of holes in their operations and wondered why Carter was copping from a Brazilian connect who was obviously taxing him. Little did Monroe know, Estes had retired from the drug game and didn’t give his connections to Young Carter. Estes didn’t believe in connecting people who weren’t blood. So the connects ended when Mecca died. Monroe already began to make plans to return to see Buttons, but the next time Monroe would come alone. He would be coming to sell and not to buy cocaine.

As they wrapped up the meeting with handshakes, Monroe made sure he looked Button in the eyes and said, “I’ll see you soon. Very soon.” Carter didn’t realize it, but he had just introduced Buttons to his competition.

Hours later they were back on the jet, and Carter looked over at Monroe, who seemed to be in deep thought, staring out of the window while resting his index finger on his temple.

“I just brought you to the table. I introduced you to the connect. Hopefully you understand now that I want you to play the back only temporarily,” Carter said as he poured himself a glass of cognac, Louis XIII to be exact.

“No doubt. I understand now. Let’s get it,” Monroe said, but his eyes didn’t match his words. He was thinking about how he was about to box both of them out and take over the streets once again. “I am the son of Carter Diamond. Miami is mine,” he said as he sat back comfortably and closed his eyes with a small grin.

Zyir watched closely as he remained quiet. He was growing to dislike Monroe more and more by the minute.

Needless to say, when they returned to the States, Monroe turned right back around and headed back to Rio to see Buttons. As Monroe made his way through the airport, he called his grandfather, Estes.

“Papa, I need a favor,” Monroe said as soon as he heard his grandfather’s voice on the opposite side of the line.

“Anything for you,” Estes said in his usual low and raspy voice. It seemed as if Monroe could hear the cigar smoke in his grandfather’s lungs as he spoke.

“I need you to make a couple of calls on my behalf. I need my father’s old connect. I need you to make that happen pronto,” Monroe said as he made his way to his boarding gate.

“Enough said. I was wondering what was taking you so long. I will set up a sit down immediately,” Estes said as if it was a cake walk.

“Yeah. It is about that time. I’m not liking what I am seeing. A lot has changed since I was away.”

“I agree. I never extended the family’s connections because I am a firm believer in keeping the family’s name reputable. I couldn’t trust those that weren’t my blood to uphold that. You understand?” Estes said, dropping game on his only male bloodline.

“Understood. Let’s make it happen. I will be back in town in a couple days. Prices are still the same?” he asked.

“Indeed. They never change for customers like us,” Estes explained as he alluded to the coke prices that his connections offered. People like Estes had connections that never raised prices, no matter how the market was. At that level of drug dealing, bosses sold for the sport . . . not for the money.

Now that Monroe had convinced Estes to introduce him to his Miami connect, it was the beginning of Monroe’s second era. Monroe figured since Carter wanted him to play the backseat, he would just rather take over the whole vehicle. It was Monroe’s turn to take back the streets . . . his way. He was about to make Buttons an offer he could not refuse.

Chapter 9

“Let the games begin, gentlemen.”

—Monroe

Zyir rode through the city, and in a matter of weeks the streets had dried up. It looked like a ghost town. From Opa-locka to Carol City, all the way to Little Havana, all of his operations were at a standstill and nobody was getting paid.

As he pulled up to Seventieth Street and Fifth Avenue he was more than livid. His most profitable blocks were turning no profit, and this alarmed him. He parked his black S-Class along the curb and checked his surroundings. The notorious hood was known worldwide for its ruthless stick-up kids, and Zyir made sure that he was acutely aware of everything moving around him. He pressed a button on his custom radio console, and a hidden compartment slid out. He grabbed the handgun that lay inside and tucked it in his waistline before exiting the vehicle.

He approached the small project building, and all eyes were on him. Zyir was the smallest nigga on the block, but he had the heart of a lion. Slim in stature, many men had learned the hard way by sizing him up at first glance. Zyir didn’t pop his gums, he popped his guns, so anyone he had ever caught beef with usually didn’t live to tell about it. He had made an example out of plenty since arriving in Miami, which was why as he approached he was shown nothing but respect. The littered streets were unusually quiet.

“What up, baby?” he greeted Fly Boogie, one of the young’uns who worked as a lookout. Fly Boogie leaned against the graffiti-tagged wall and was the perfect definition of a new school hustler. Fresh Adidas kicks laced his feet. He wore rock-washed skinny jeans that sagged slightly off his hips, and a white wife beater. His snap back hat, nerd glasses, and chain belt accessorized his outfit. At first glance he looked like a skater kid; one would never guess that he was a thorough shooter. His body count was official. He was never afraid of a gun battle, which was why he was the perfect lookout. He would peel a nigga cap back and ask questions later. No one was coming near Zyir’s trap spot unless they were already authorized to be there. Fly Boogie made sure of it.

“Ain’t shit up ’round here. We dry than a muuu’fucka,” Fly Boogie said in his heavy Southern drawl.

Zyir frowned because that was the exact same response he had gotten from each of his spots. Shit had slowed up, and most of his lieutenants were out of product. This was unusual when each of his spots usually blew through five bricks each week, easy. “What happened to the shipment? Shit just came in yesterday? Why that work ain’t ready yet?” Zyir questioned.

“Maannn, you gotta ask them niggas,” Fly Boogie responded. “You know I’m just the lookout. As long as I don’t see them red and blues or no niggas lurking then I’m good. I don’t worry too much about that other shit, Zy. I play my position, you feel me?”

Zyir kept his hand near his hip as he hooked his fingers in his belt loop and nodded his head. “Yeah, I feel you, fam. Keep an eye on my whip. If the police roll by here, drive my shit around the block,” he instructed as he pulled out a knot of money and peeled off a one hundred dollar bill for the young kid.

“No doubt,” Fly Boogie responded as he shook his head and pushed Zyir’s hand away. “I got you, fam. It’s not necessary. I’m sitting here anyway. It’s my job to patrol the block. Your car good, bro. Handle your business,” he said.

Zyir liked the kid’s style. Most thirsty niggas would have pocketed his money, but Fly Boogie was loyal. He felt honored for a dude of Zyir’s stature to even talk to him, let alone trust him with his car.

Zyir tossed him his car key and ascended the steps that led to the second level of the raggedy apartment building. He operated out of every unit on the top floor. There were four in all. One was where the coke was cooked; in the second unit his young’uns stacked the dough; the third served as an artillery closet with every type of automatic weapon in that apartment; and the fourth was a parlay spot for his workers.

He knocked four times on the door in a distinct rhythm, and a small rectangular peephole slid to the side. He was allowed inside immediately upon recognition.

“Hey, Zy!” the ladies called out sweetly as he walked through the apartment, headed toward the back. Ten beautiful stallions stood in high heels and nothing more, cooking up hard for the fiends and bagging powder cocaine for the free base users. There was so much product cooking in the small space that Zyir could smell the distinctive scent in the air. He walked directly toward the back and entered the bedroom, which functioned as a small office.

“Zyir, what’s good, baby?” Angel, his head lieutenant, greeted.

“You tell me,” Zyir said. “From what I’m hearing nobody’s making money. Where’s the shipment? I pay you the most because I give you the most responsibility, fam. If you can’t handle your position, it’s a lot of hungry mu’fuckas under you who would love the opportunity to step up.”

Zyir wasn’t one to raise his voice, but just from his disposition Angel could tell that his boss wasn’t pleased.

“I don’t want to have to come all the way to your side of town only to find out that my money is short. Fuck is going on, fam?” Zyir asked.

“The shipment wasn’t on deck, and we running off of last month’s product. It’s only a matter of time before this shit runs out. Plus niggas ain’t fucking with us. Some new mu’fuckas set up shop out in Hialeah. They selling the shit for dirt cheap. Niggas is selling bricks for sixteen thousand dollars. That’s them 1999 prices, you feel me? I sling these shits for that and we losing money. We can’t compete with that. So anybody buying weight is going to these new niggas. We still got the lower level shit on lock, but like I said, we almost out, and if we don’t re-up we gon’ lose our footing in the streets real quick,” Angel explained.

“I’ll check on the shipment. I just met with my man, so that should have been right on time. In the meantime run the competition off the blocks. We can’t compete with their prices, but they can’t compete with our muscle. They can stay, but they got to pay a tax. This real estate belongs to The Cartel, so the niggas got to pay rent if they want to hustle this way. Be diplomatic, and if they buck, then we put our murder game down. I hope it doesn’t come to that. In war nobody makes money,” Zyir stated. He slapped hands with his man and then made his exit.

Fly Boogie threw up a salute and tossed Zyir his keys as Zyir walked by. Zyir sped off and immediately called Carter. Business with Buttons had always gone according to plan. Their dealings with him were so consistent that there was never room for error. This missed shipment was no mistake, and Zyir couldn’t put his finger on it, but something fishy was in the air. He pulled out the burnout phone that he used to contact Buttons. He dialed his number from memory, knowing that the information was too sensitive to ever record.

“The number you have reached is not in service,” the operator announced.

Yeah, something is most definitely up,
Zyir thought. They had been doing square business with Buttons for too long for things to change now. Zyir immediately thought of their recent trip to Rio. The only factor that had changed in the situation was Monroe. He didn’t know exactly what had gone down, but Zyir’s hustler’s intuition told him that Monroe had fucked up the game for everybody.

Carter sat on the wooden park bench tossing crumbs to the birds as he sat in deep contemplation. His life had come full circle, and it seemed as though all the people he had thought were lost to the game had come back to him. His family felt more complete.

Carter had handed over leadership to Zyir for good reason. The streets had sucked the life out of him. After killing Mecca, Carter knew that the game had pushed him too far and that it was time to step down. He was confident in his successor, but now that Monroe was back it created confusion. Jealousy was in the air, and Carter knew that he would have to play mediator between his blood brother and his brother by circumstance.

“Look at you, big homie, out here in the open. I know retirement don’t got you slipping like that. If I wanted to get you—”

“You couldn’t,” Carter finished as he stood and turned around to greet Zyir, who had approached him from behind. He pointed his finger fifty yards ahead of him and then off to both sides, showing Zyir that he was never left unprotected. Three of his shooters patrolled the perimeter of the park, eyes on Carter at all times.

Carter moved like a boss. He knew the position that he had in the streets. He was like a trophy to thirsty young wolves. The reputation one could get from taking him out was enough to make him a target. The only thing that kept him secure was the respect he had earned over the years. Many niggas had the courage to take the shot, but very few had the courage to miss. Hitting Carter was easier said than done, and should someone try and fail, the repercussions were deadly.

Zyir smirked and shook his head. “I should have known,” he said. The two men began to stroll through the park as Zyir filled Carter in on the situation. “I think we’ve got a problem with Buttons.”

Carter stopped abruptly and turned toward Zyir attentively.

“The shipment didn’t come in. I just left from the trap and shit is Sahara dry,” Zyir stated.

“Did you call Buttons?” Carter asked.

“Line is disconnected. It’s like he cut all ties with us after the meeting with Money. I know that’s your bro and all, but I’m allergic to snakes, if you get my drift,” Zyir said seriously. “We’ve been doing square business for years, and now when Money come into the picture the shit turns sour?” Zyir looked at Carter skeptically. “That sound right to you?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Monroe’s car pull up. “Speak of the fucking devil,” he mumbled as the aura turned thick.

“I’ve got it. Money’s official. Buttons and anybody else that got a problem with him better get comfortable with his presence real quick. We’ve got to keep our circle strong, Zyir. All we’ve got is the family,” Carter said seriously.

Zyir held his tongue. He had serious doubts about Monroe, but he was aware that it was a sensitive subject so he treaded lightly. Monroe approached and slapped hands with Carter.

“What it’s laying like, bro?” he asked.

Carter noticed that Monroe never acknowledged Zyir. He glanced at his two brothers, one adopted through life’s tests of loyalty and the other blood born. He would have to fix this divide for sure, but decided not to force it. Time would cause the two men to respect each other, or so he thought.

“I’m sending Zy back down to meet with Buttons. We out of product and suddenly he’s unreachable,” Carter explained.

Money nodded and smirked, knowing that he was the reason why all communication had ceased. As long as Zyir was the leader of The Cartel then the entire Cartel wouldn’t eat. Monroe would make sure of it. A position of power like that had to be earned, and Zyir was handed the crown by default. Monroe would burn the entire kingdom to the ground before he allowed Zyir to rule. He definitely didn’t want Carter finding out he had undermined him, however.

“You want me to fly over there and make sure everything’s smooth?” he asked.

Carter shook his head. “I don’t think that’s wise. Zyir’s more familiar with Buttons. He’ll be more comfortable with him. We are easing you back into the swing of things, Money. Trust me, more responsibility will be delegated to you in due time.”

Delegated to me? I’m a boss; a nigga ain’t delegating shit to me. He want to send his mans to Rio, I’ma make sure he don’t come back,
Monroe thought angrily. He showed no signs of displeasure outwardly.

“Whatever you say. You’re the boss,” Monroe stated.

Carter turned to Zyir. “You’ll leave in the morning.”