Tales from da Hood (15 page)

“Yeah,” Mason said, answering the phone.

“What's up, man?” Cojack asked. “I was just calling to make sure you was cool. I could tell you wasn't feelin’ the shit being called off and all.”

“I'm good,” Mason replied.

“I'm just as pissed. But ol’ dude had to leave town for a family emergency. Shit happens. But don't worry. It will all work out,” Co-jack said in an attempt to give Mason some reassurance. Mason didn't trip so he figured it worked.

“It's all good.”

“Alright then.”

“Holla.”

“Peace.”

When Cojack arrived within two blocks of the detail shop where he'd purchased drugs on numerous occasions, butterflies began to surface.

“Just stay cool, man. Everything gon’ go smooth,” he assured himself. The place was located directly across from Burger King, behind a run-down motel. Cojack parked on a deserted side street and got out. He knew his man was there because the burgundy Maxima was parked in the alley as always. He observed two Nigerians posted up at the entrance, smoking a joint and speaking a language he couldn't understand.

A seven-foot-tall black brother led him inside and instructed him to wait. Cojack took a seat with three other dudes in front of
the TV, watching soccer. Neither of the men spoke English and it kind of bothered him. He wondered what they were saying. Were they talking about him? Almost twenty minutes later, he heard his name called in a familiar Nigerian accent. He got up and trotted to the back room, where he was greeted by his connect.

Bam and another cat were seated at a table smoking weed while a money machine counted a table full of cash. It had to be over a quarter million. Cojack fumed with anger, wishing the Feds hadn't intervened and spoiled his planned heist. As Cojack handed Bam $75,000, he told him how fucked up it was that he would simply cut him off after their long business relationship. Bam laughed.

“C'mon, Cojack. I was just joking, man. You didn't take me serious, did you?” Having been in the States for so long, Bam spoke the language exceptionally well.

“Get the fuck outta here,” Cojack said in surprise. “You mean it was a joke?”

“Yeah man. How could I cut you of all people off? You one of my best customers. Just to show you everything is still love, I'm gonna match the five kilos 'cause I wanna see you get back on your feet.”

Cojack could not believe his ears. He wondered how long the Feds would wait before they picked him up. Hopefully they'd give him enough time to stack some real paper. He would definitely keep a few kilos for himself.

They started loading the bricks up when suddenly a thunderous blast sent the men careening to the floor. Bam yelled something in his native language to his partner, who leaped up clutching the longest Desert Eagle Cojack had ever seen. Bam's bodyguard let off several rounds just to let the intruders know they were packing, then slammed the door. Immediately, Cojack began to think the worst.

The Feds. Muthfuckas lied to me! What the hell did I get myself into? Cojack thought.

Slugs were tearing through the walls. It sounded like machine guns.

“Cojack, help me put the money in a bag,” Bam said in a desperate tone, his eyes full of horror. “It's a back door. We can get out through there.” They moved swiftly, staying low while clearing the entire table. They stuffed the cash in a leather Gucci bag. The Nigerian bodyguard had the door covered. Through the commotion, Bam and Cojack, with both of their hands full, broke for the back door that led to the alley where his car was parked. Cojack just knew agents had the place surrounded. His plan was to throw up his hands in surrender to avoid being killed once he was outside.

When Bam opened the door, Cojack's heart nearly jumped from his chest at the sight of the ski-masked figure standing before him. It was as though he was living in a horror movie, watching in awe as the man leveled his weapon at Bam's head and squeezed the trigger, taking the top of Bam's skull completely off.

Cojack dropped his bags and retreated in the opposite direction only to run into another dude dressed in similar attire. He stopped in his tracks and threw up his hands but it was all in vain. The first slug struck him in the chest. Another ripped into his midsection before he could hit the floor. Suddenly, the shots had came to a screeching halt and all that he could hear were voices. One voice stood out over all the rest as he ordered his men to clean the place out. At that moment Cojack realized these were the same dudes who had robbed him. He could feel himself losing consciousness; labored sounds came from his heaving chest as he pressed his hand against his torn flesh. Eyes clouding with tears, he saw one of the men stand over him and aim his weapon.

“Please don't kill me,” Cojack droned out in a weak tone as he stared down the barrel of the Glock. He begged for mercy through pleading eyes.

“Let's go!” a voice ordered from across the room.

Cojack's breathing increased and his eyelids were becoming heavier by the second. A picture of his mother entered his mind as he imagined her crying over his casket. Then he thought of his good friend Mason. He should've listened to him from the start. Was this the way he would go out? Cojack opened his eyes and found no one there. Then he passed out.

THREE
DAYS LATER
, Cojack opened his eyes in the hospital room, feeling the pull of the IV line stuck in his arm.

“Thank God, Corey Anderson,” Janice called out to her son. Cojack strained his weak eyes and saw his mother smiling down at him. She kissed his forehead. “Boy, you scared me to death. How do you feel?”

“Weak,” he replied. “I'm a'ight though. How long I been here, Ma?”

“Three days,” she leaned over and whispered. “The police been back and forth up here since you got here.”

Cojack tried to sit up but couldn't because his body lacked the strength.

“You all right? Need me to do anything for you?” his mother asked. Cojack thought for a minute, then shook his head. The door opened and a white petite nurse walked in followed by two men in suits.

“Hello. How do you feel?” the nurse asked in a friendly voice. Cojack just nodded. “I'll bring you something to eat shortly. You must be starving.”

Cojack felt his stomach turn but not from hunger; he needed a sniff. The morphine the doctor ordered him to be shot up with was
wearing off. The nurse adjusted his bed so that he could sit up and then glanced over her shoulder at the two white men.

“Looks like you have some company,” she said with a smile. Co-jack caught the men's stares and knew off the top that they weren't regular cops.

His mother leaned over, giving her son another kiss. “Are you sure you all right?”

“Yeah, I'm a'ight, Mama. Did Robbin or anybody call?”

“Sho did. She called twice and came down here when you first got shot.” His mother snickered. “Boy, you had all types of girls comin’ down here. People I didn't even know walked up and was giving me hugs. It was so crowded that the nurses started putting people out.”

“Call Robbin and have her come up here,” Cojack told his mother.

“Okay, baby. I'll go call her. I'll give you a chance to talk to these police officers.” She kissed him again and said she'd be back in an hour.

As soon as the room was clear, one of the men closed the door while the other, a chubby dude, introduced himself as Agent Tucker. He flashed his badge and nodded to his partner. “This here is Agent Scott,” Tucker said, stroking his beard. “You're a very lucky fella. I don't know if you're aware or not that you were the only survivor. Everyone else died at the scene. Guess you're the last man standing.”

Scott interjected, “Cojack, we know that these homicides were drug related.” Agent Scott looked at his partner and continued, “We need to hear in your words what happened.”

Cojack struggled to get a better position in his bed as a grimace covered his face. “Why should I tell y'all muthafuckas anything!” he growled. His response brought a puzzled look to the men's faces. “I
wanna talk to the muthafuckas that almost got me killed. Get me Agents Boston and Whitehead,” Cojack demanded. The two agents returned dumbfounded stares.

“What the hell are you saying?” Tucker asked. Cojack gazed at both men as if they were insane. He was in pain and his patience was wearing thin. The last thing he needed was more agents trying to bullshit him.

Cojack drew a long breath. “You mean to tell me y'all don't know the agents I'm talking about?” he asked, looking from one face to the other.

“We don't have anyone with those names working for our agency,” Scott answered. He saw the fire in Cojack's eyes and cut him off before he could speak. “Why don't you just explain to us what happened?”

The nurse entered with a cup in one hand and medication in the other. After he swallowed his pill and the nurse left, Cojack settled back and began his rendition of his arrest and how he was taken to a building near Staples Mill Road.

Tucker interrupted. “Where on Staples Mill?” he asked curiously.

“Man, this shit was in the boonies. It was like a warehouse or something. I'll remember it if I see it,” Cojack said. He then went on to tell them about the deal he made with the devil. The conspiracy charges, the wire, and the setup with the Nigerians. The whole nine.

“We found the wire you had on when you were brought in,” Scott said. “Mr. Anderson, it wasn't even activated.”

“What!” Cojack bolted. “It wasn't activated? What the hell that mean?”

Tucker whispered something to his partner, who then pulled out his cell phone and started punching in numbers. “Calm down,
sir,” said Tucker. “We're trying to get to the bottom of this. Something is obviously wrong. The place you said they took you doesn't exist. I'm certain of that because it's too close to our agency for me not to know.”

Scott hung up the phone. “Davis is on his way,” he said. The agent looked at Cojack. “We're going to need you to take a look at some mug shots. I don't know what's going on but something is definitely not adding up.”

The nurse walked in with a tray in her hand. Cojack's stomach reacted instantly to the aroma of scrambled eggs and bacon.

“You put something in your stomach. We'll be back,” Tucker said. The two agents left.

As Cojack sipped from a cup of orange juice, the nurse began to talk his head off about how lucky he was to be alive. Cojack listened while trying to eat his meal. Suddenly, thoughts of the shooting started to play back in his mind. All the money and coke they got away with, not to mention his $230,000. Who the fuck were these dudes?

He was more upset with the agents than he was with the robbers. How could they send him into a situation like that with no protection? A wire that wasn't even activated? “Muthafuckas!” he shouted, losing his appetite. The connect was dead. What the hell was a nigga gon’ do now? Cojack knew Mason would have questions. He could hear him now saying, “For one, what the hell was you doing there in the first place when Bam supposed to had been out of town?”

Damn, I fucked up big time, Cojack thought. “The sweetest connect in the city. I gotta call this nigga,” he mumbled as he stretched over to grab the phone.

The door opened before he could pick up the phone. Tucker and Scott walked in followed by a short nerdy-looking white guy
who they called Davis. In his hands were two large mug-shot books. After the introduction, Scott moved the tray to the side while Davis placed one of the books in front of Cojack.

“We need you to go through these photos and see if you recognize any of the men who supposedly arrested you,” Tucker said.

“This gotta be a joke, right?” Cojack said. He observed the faces in the room. “For what? Why would ATF agents be in here?”

Scott shook his head and replied, “Look, Mr. Anderson, we have reason to believe the people who arrested you were con artists masquerading as agents.”

“Get the fuck outta here, man!” Cojack gazed at the other two agents. “Y'all can't be serious.”

“Just look through the photos and we'll explain later,” Tucker insisted.

Cojack opened the book. The room was soundless as he leafed through the pages scanning each face carefully. After five minutes, he passed the book to Agent Scott.

“Nope, they ain't in there,” he said.

Davis gave him the next one, instructing him to study the faces closely. Cojack shot the agents a curious gaze and then turned his attention to the book. He studied every face thoroughly before turning the page. “Who are these people I'm lookin’ at?” Cojack stopped and asked.

“International con artists from all around the world,” Davis said. “Keep going.”

Cojack did as he was told. Halfway through the book he blurted out, “Oh shit! It's them.”

The agents grabbed the book to catch a glimpse. “Well, I'll be damned,” Davis stated. “I knew it.”

“The Lynch Mob,” Tucker uttered.

“The who?” Cojack asked, confused. He took the book and studied the faces. It was all of them. Whitehead, Boston, the other
black guy, plus the white girl who was at the scene when they arrested him. Agent Scott spoke.

“Mr. Anderson, these four individuals are a gang out of California. They're notorious for sticking up. They travel around the globe posing as ATF, FBI, regular cops, you name it, shaking down hustlers. Law enforcement in California named them the Lynch Mob because they left bodies wherever they went.” Scott nodded his head. “When you first told us what happened, they were the first to come to my mind.” The agent put his hands in his pockets and said,

“Richmond is the last place I thought they'd come, though.”

Tucker cut in, “They're wanted on all types of charges ranging from murder, extortion, racketeering, a list of shit, you name it.” He cleared his throat. “Usually, the way these guys operate is they will come to a city targeting major players, trying to hook into a drug connection. Sometimes they will purchase drugs and often times they'll even pay some mediocre hustler to do it. Let me ask you something, Mr. Anderson. Is this your first encounter with these guys?”

Images of his mother with duct tape over her mouth entered his mind. He didn't want to give up information that would incriminate him further. Plus he didn't trust these guys as far as he could throw them. Who knows? Maybe they weren't the real deal either. Maybe the pictures and these agents were just an illusion. Who could he trust?