warned a quiet voice in the backseat as they whipped down the streets of Harlem. “There’s bound to be some dirt kicked up behind this shit.”
Mookie had shrugged. “That scheming bitch is nothing. Street grime. Just another slimy ho like all the rest of them out there.”
Reclining in the comfort of the backseat, Yoda nodded his agreement.
“Yeah. She’s dirty all right. Been that way for a long time. But she’s also something else, ak. She’s Diamond Baines, yo. Irish Baines’ daughter.”
Not a damn thing changed about Mookie’s demeanor on the outside, but inside he was silently apologizing to Capo and cursingat himself for once again losing his head and putting his whole operation at risk.
Mookie knew all about the OG Irish Baines. He had been watching Irish and all that bullshit he was conducting over at his boys center for a minute now, and his manz out on the streets had been steady scooping up all the leftover kids that Irish couldn’t rehabilitate.
Fucking Diamond up was a mistake, Mookie soon realized. It wasn’t even the money that had sent him into a rage when he found out the trick bitch was skimming. It was the loss! Mookie Murdock didn’t lose fuckin’ bets! Not on shit that he’d set up to work to his advantage!
Intuition told Mookie that trouble was coming. Diamond was a piper and a fiend, and it prolly woulda been better just to get one of his boys to give her a hot shot and be done with the thievin’ bitch. But both the gambler and the gangsta in him had driven Mookie to make a public example outta Diamond’s ass on the streets where everybody could see it. He bet the next bitch he sent to that casino on a special job would think long and hard about fuckin’ over Mookie Murdock. Those jawns didn’t realize that those faggot-ass dealers couldn’t protect they ass. Diamond had actually come out lucky. The dealer she had gotten down with had bucked when Mookie’s manz went to teach him a lesson, and ended up rotting under a piece of cardboard in a deserted alleyway.
Yeah, the bitch had been lucky indeed.
B ut luck didn’t have shit to do with the aftermath that followed. That old niggah Irish had been outta the game for so long that he’d forgotten a cardinal street code: you don’t get in bed with the Feds. That do-gooding cat had taken Mookie’s retribution personally, and a little birdie tweeted the news in Mookie’s ear that thanks to Irish he was being watched by the Alphabet Boys and investigated for illegal gambling, tax evasion, money laundering, and racketeering.
Mookie was enraged, but he felt a little remorse too. Not for hurting Diamond—he could have easily murked that bitch and thought nothing of it. Nah, Mookie was down on himself for violating Capo’s cardinal rule and blowing his fuckin’ top in public. He’d shined a light on himself and brought attention to his operations on a level that was now out of his control.
Mookie knew what was coming next, and when his manz found a bug under his couch and strange cars were seen parkedoutside his crib at all times of night, it wasn’t hard to figure out who was riding him. Them Alphabet Boys followed Mookie everywhere, and he took them on a guided tour through the streets of Harlem every chance he could. Sometimes he would order his driver to just drive around town for the fuck of it. They wouldn’t get out of the car, they wouldn’t even stop anywhere. They would just ride. Mookie was just letting those muhfuckahs know that
he
knew.
The surveillance didn’t last long because Mookie was one boring muhfuckah. He went to bed early and slept late. He seldom went to any clubs, especially those he owned, and he used his crew as a buffer between him and every kind of transaction that went down.
In short, Mookie looked real clean. He smelled clean too.
But appearances could only take you so far, and when the Feds started connecting the dots between Mookie’s preciously guarded stolen-identity ring and his
Mookie had shrugged. “That scheming bitch is nothing. Street grime. Just another slimy ho like all the rest of them out there.”
Reclining in the comfort of the backseat, Yoda nodded his agreement.
“Yeah. She’s dirty all right. Been that way for a long time. But she’s also something else, ak. She’s Diamond Baines, yo. Irish Baines’ daughter.”
Not a damn thing changed about Mookie’s demeanor on the outside, but inside he was silently apologizing to Capo and cursingat himself for once again losing his head and putting his whole operation at risk.
Mookie knew all about the OG Irish Baines. He had been watching Irish and all that bullshit he was conducting over at his boys center for a minute now, and his manz out on the streets had been steady scooping up all the leftover kids that Irish couldn’t rehabilitate.
Fucking Diamond up was a mistake, Mookie soon realized. It wasn’t even the money that had sent him into a rage when he found out the trick bitch was skimming. It was the loss! Mookie Murdock didn’t lose fuckin’ bets! Not on shit that he’d set up to work to his advantage!
Intuition told Mookie that trouble was coming. Diamond was a piper and a fiend, and it prolly woulda been better just to get one of his boys to give her a hot shot and be done with the thievin’ bitch. But both the gambler and the gangsta in him had driven Mookie to make a public example outta Diamond’s ass on the streets where everybody could see it. He bet the next bitch he sent to that casino on a special job would think long and hard about fuckin’ over Mookie Murdock. Those jawns didn’t realize that those faggot-ass dealers couldn’t protect they ass. Diamond had actually come out lucky. The dealer she had gotten down with had bucked when Mookie’s manz went to teach him a lesson, and ended up rotting under a piece of cardboard in a deserted alleyway.
Yeah, the bitch had been lucky indeed.
B ut luck didn’t have shit to do with the aftermath that followed. That old niggah Irish had been outta the game for so long that he’d forgotten a cardinal street code: you don’t get in bed with the Feds. That do-gooding cat had taken Mookie’s retribution personally, and a little birdie tweeted the news in Mookie’s ear that thanks to Irish he was being watched by the Alphabet Boys and investigated for illegal gambling, tax evasion, money laundering, and racketeering.
Mookie was enraged, but he felt a little remorse too. Not for hurting Diamond—he could have easily murked that bitch and thought nothing of it. Nah, Mookie was down on himself for violating Capo’s cardinal rule and blowing his fuckin’ top in public. He’d shined a light on himself and brought attention to his operations on a level that was now out of his control.
Mookie knew what was coming next, and when his manz found a bug under his couch and strange cars were seen parkedoutside his crib at all times of night, it wasn’t hard to figure out who was riding him. Them Alphabet Boys followed Mookie everywhere, and he took them on a guided tour through the streets of Harlem every chance he could. Sometimes he would order his driver to just drive around town for the fuck of it. They wouldn’t get out of the car, they wouldn’t even stop anywhere. They would just ride. Mookie was just letting those muhfuckahs know that
he
knew.
The surveillance didn’t last long because Mookie was one boring muhfuckah. He went to bed early and slept late. He seldom went to any clubs, especially those he owned, and he used his crew as a buffer between him and every kind of transaction that went down.
In short, Mookie looked real clean. He smelled clean too.
But appearances could only take you so far, and when the Feds started connecting the dots between Mookie’s preciously guarded stolen-identity ring and his
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